Africa's not for Sissies

Chapter 10: Revenge of the Warthog

"Swazi women will no have sex with you."

I received this grave warning from a random Swazi guy as I was waiting in the customs line to enter Swaziland. I took this as a backhanded compliment, as it implied he believed that non-Swazi women would, but sadly this was true for more than the usual reasons women won't have sex with me. The King of Swaziland had invoked the umchwasho – a traditional chastity rite that prohibited all women under the age of eighteen from engaging in sexual activity and required all unmarried women to abstain for five years, under penalty of a one cow fine. It was a drastic attempt to curb the spread of AIDS. Like most of sub-Saharan Africa, Swaziland had been hit hard by the AIDS pandemic with at least one in four people living with HIV/AIDS, most of them undiagnosed.

Soon after invoking the umchwasho the thirty-three year old King took his ninth wife – a seventeen year old girl. This apparently angered the villagers who claimed he was violating his own edict, so he promised to abstain from sex with his new wife until she was eighteen. A few days later he donated a cow to the villagers. It was barbecued and eaten. The villagers were apparently appeased.

I'd also been told the Swazi's were more laid back than their South African neighbors and if the easy-going manner of the border official was any indication, this appeared to be true. After a brief stop at the border, we proceeded to the Sondzela Backpackers. Jerry and I got off the bus here as it seemed to be a popular choice. It was situated on the Milwane Wildlife Sanctuary, nestled in a bowl of grassy meadows surrounded by green rolling mountains. We checked in and made our way to the large upstairs dorm to drop our packs, and I do mean large – it must have had thirty cots, but at least they weren't bunk beds. The place reminded me of a summer camp.

Jerry made his way downstairs, but I stayed behind to make up my cot. A few minutes later, I joined him by the pool. He introduced me to a couple he'd just met who were also from Holland. They'd been chatting in Dutch, but immediately switched to English when I approached.

"Are you Canadian?" the guy asked.

"Yes," I said in surprise. Although I can sometimes differentiate a Canadian accent from an American accent, especially if they're from the Canadian Maritimes or American south, I assumed most people could not. I guess I expected him to assume I was American. "How did you know?"

"I didn't," he said. "It's always better to guess Canadian. Americans don't mind being called Canadian, but Canadians hate being called American."

"We do?" I said.

"Isn't that why every Canadian sews a Canadian flag on their backpack?"

I had been cautioned to do this by people back home. Usually by people who had never traveled overseas, yet told me with complete authority that this was something I must do. When I told them I wasn't planning on doing this, they'd give me a grave look and say, "You don't want to be mistaken for an American do you?" To which I'd usually shrug and say, "Why wouldn't I?" And then they'd typically launch into a rant that went something like, "Even American's sew Canadian flags on their backpacks. Americans aren't liked overseas. Trust me – you don't want to be mistaken for American."

"I didn't sew one on mine," I said.

I actually went out and bought a flag before I left home, but I was too embarrassed to sew it on and so tucked it into a little pocket inside my backpack, in case I changed my mind later. I also had a pair of boxer shorts that looked like they'd been made from a Canadian flag. My aunt gave them to me as a going-away present, and they were good quality, so I brought them along too. It wasn't that I didn't want people to know I was Canadian, I just preferred not to flaunt it in people's faces.