The Swazi, Zulu, and Drakensberg circle

Roadtripping and camping with Carla is a great way to experience South Africa. We’ve just returned from an eleven-day trip that took us east to Swaziland then south into KwaZulu province and then back to Johannesburg by way of the Drakensberg Mountains.

We went to Swaziland to visit some friends of Carla’s and just to look, hike, and camp. It takes only five hours to drive from Johannesburg to Mbabane, the capital of this small, independent country – actually a Kingdom ruled by a Swazi king and his mother – located entirely within the borders of South Africa. We stayed in the Malkerns Valley at a place called Nyanza Cottages but we preferred to camp rather than stay in a cottage. We had a whole meadow with jacaranda trees and hibiscus and a view of the mountains, and peacocks wandered in and out of our area and sometimes perched in the trees above us. In the morning, as we ate papaya and Tia’s muesli with rice milk, a whole clan of vervet monkeys came into the orchard next to our campsite and watched us through the branches.

The last time we had pitched a tent together was on the Nebraska shores of Lewis & Clark Lake when we were teenagers. I’m not sure if we’ve changed much since then but our eating habits have definitely improved. In those days we kept our six-pack of Coke chilled in the lake, and if we cooked it was probably hot dogs over a fire or a Girl Scout foil pack. I also remember that it rained hard one night while the two of us were camped at Weigand and Carla suggested we dig a trench around our tent to capture the rainwater and keep ourselves dry. The trench plan didn’t work very well but we had fun digging it in the middle of the night and laughing so hard it didn’t matter that we got soaked.

Last week we spent two nights in Swaziland and both nights it rained. But we were cozy and secure in Carla’s big tent with a fly that kept us and the whole tent dry. There is nothing more wonderful than being snug in a sleeping bag and listening to rain on a tent roof. By morning the thunder and lightning and wind were finished, and the roosters and hens and chicks were crowing and pecking and running around the yard. The sun rose from behind the mountains and by afternoon it was bright and dry.

Carla’s friends told us that Swaziland was settled by people coming north from Zululand seeking a peaceful kingdom. Somehow the mountains and broad valleys exude a sense of restfulness even to one just passing through. We spent some time having coffee and seeing the art work sold at a place called Gone Rural, which markets crafts made by Swazi women and employs lots of local people in a restaurant as well. We also drove through a little game reserve, but it was so hot we just pulled over and sat back and ate our avocado and corn cakes.

The middle part of our trip was the basket buying in KwaZulu. Carla has been buying baskets from Zulu weavers since 1994 and selling them in Johannesburg. Before we ever left Jo’burg, she described the roads she drives when she makes these trips and the weavers whose work she markets. But I continually had an “ohhhh, that’s what she meant” sensation as the experience actually unfolded. She had told me there was one time when she drove to KwaZulu, bought a whole load of baskets, and drove back to Jo’burg the next day. But she said it usually takes two or three or maybe even four days. I didn’t understand how it could take that much time. In my image of the process, Carla simply made the purchases from a large group of women, like at a marketplace where everyone has gathered to sell their wares. I was soooo mistaken.

The first morning we left just after sunrise and drove an hour on a tarred highway before turning off on a little road that was scarcely discernable from a trail. When we got to a rickety set of sticks strung together with wire and stretched across the roadway, Carla stopped so I could hop out and open the gate. This brought us to the homestead of Rosalia, who came out to meet us carrying a large bulging shape wrapped in a blanket. She pulled off the blanket and handed Carla a beautiful basket, saying how much she wanted for it. They agreed on the price and Carla handed me a notebook to start recording the transactions. Rosalia also produced a basket made by a neighbor who was hoping to sell it to Carla, and a third woman showed up with some baskets she had made as well. Carla knows just enough Zulu (and Rosalia just enough English) to communicate the basics. The rest, as far as I could tell, is understood more by relationship and tone and mutual intention than by actual words.

The stop at Rosalia’s was just the beginning. Later that morning we were high in the hills of KwaZulu on a clay road bed that curved alongside gullies and eucalyptus trees and ascended into thick fog that made the distant hills disappear from view. This was the one time we got stuck. We were on a steep stretch and the road was muddy from all the recent rain. But with Carla’s driving and my pushing and a bunch of sticks under the tires for traction, we managed to get unstuck. Carla called one of the weavers who has a cell phone and the word went out to find us atop this ridge. So we sat there in Carla’s Toyota Venture for about an hour before weavers began to arrive, first some young girls with their mothers’ baskets and then some older ladies and then another and another, all carrying baskets in bags and blankets atop their heads and hoisted at their sides. One by one, they showed their work to Carla. For every purchase, I wrote the weaver’s name and the size of the basket and then I counted out the payment for each happy weaver.

We finished on the third morning. In all, Carla bought enough baskets to fill every cranny in her vehicle and I met several groups of weavers who came out of the hills, literally. Wherever Carla stopped, women would emerge from distant houses. “Cahla!” they would call, as though they’d been expecting her for weeks, even if some of their baskets had long strands of ilala palm still sticking out from the rim. “Tomorrow! I will finish tomorrow. What time will you come back?” When Carla introduced me as her cousin, someone always grabbed my hand to greet me with the same triple handshake that so many east Africans use, but the Zulu names were new for me – names like Zandile, Tholi, Phindile, Thandi, and Sibongile. One girl introduced herself as Beyonce, snapping her fingers and doing a little dance move as she spelled her name for me. Carla told me it was a new name since her last trip.

Most of the time I had no idea where we were or which river we had crossed, but Carla seems to know by heart the remote, beautiful land where Zulu homesteads and gardens are scattered amongst a network of winding roads. The one route I did learn was the corridor road through Hluhluwe and Imfolozi game parks that we drove each day as we came inland from the St. Lucia wetlands where we stayed. “Keep your eyes open for wildlife,” Carla told me as we drove to the weavers. One morning a couple elephants were visible from the road, then buffalo, then impala. One late afternoon driving back we came upon five rhinos just beside the road.

We decided to spend a night in the Hluhluwe game reserve when our basket work was done, so we stayed in a rondavel at the Hilltop rest camp. That afternoon we drove leisurely through the park. It was fun to round the first bend and come upon two elephants doing some serious tree munching. We sat still and watched them reach their trunks up into one tree after another. Huge branches came crashing down, and those elephants curled their trunks around those leafy branches and scooped them up into their mouths like candy. Later, all the warthogs we came upon were skittish and ran off before we got close. We saw zebra and impala and other kinds of antelope, and guinea fowl in the low grass along the road. In the early morning as we drove slowly out of the park, several groups of giraffe were grazing near the road, and we saw more elephants and zebras as well. But my favorite sight was a dung beetle pushing its little round prize across the road right in front of us.

We drove south along the coast and buzzed right through Durban with one stop (at a great crafts place on the harbor called the Bat Centre) then we turned inland again toward the Drakensberg. I remembered this range from a trek I did in 1973 – somewhere in these mountains though I have no idea where exactly – and Carla has spent some time here too. We found a lovely campground near Cathedral Peak which we made our “base camp” for a little exploring and hiking. We had a wonderful hike to some waterfalls and a pool that reminded me of Hawaii (so of course I went in) and we also saw San Bushmen rock paintings. So exciting to find depictions of eland and hunters leaping with their bows.

So Carla is reintroducing me to South Africa and reminding me of who we are. It amazes me how she speaks like her mom at times and makes faces that look just like her dad. The same goes for me, of course. One time I made some remark and Carla exclaimed, “You sound exactly like your mom!” And then the last time we were setting up the tent, I went up to Carla with some serious comment that made her bend over with laughter. “The way you folded your hands in front of your waist when you said that! That’s exactly what Donnie does!” Hmmm, I don’t know what possessed me to take that pose, but I had to admit she had a point. My dad does stand like that sometimes. Carla and I may be on the other side of the earth but we’re still two girls from Wausa.