A
story for Luke (10), Anna (8), and Natalie (4) about what happened to
Grandpa while he was a Peace Corps volunteer in 1971 in Swaziland, as
told by Nana.
When
your Grandpa Jack was a young man, he lived for 2 ½ years in
another country far away in Africa. One day he was busy preparing for
a two-week water project in the bush. He also was expecting a package
of work boots from his sister in the USA, and he hoped to get them
before he left. The project involved stomping through grass with
snakes like deadly cobras and mambas and walking across low streams.
Parasites lurking in the water could burrow unseen into his skin and
make him sick. The boots would help protect him.
When
the box arrived in the mail, he was disappointed to find only one
boot. His sister was supposed to send him a pair! Your grandpa
laughed when he realized she had thought of a way to prevent his
boots from being stolen. Mailing them in separate boxes at separate
times would be a good way to make sure he got both of them. Since one
arrived ahead of the other, he had to begin his first week in a rural
community called Jacks, without them.
On
Monday, he was able to get a ride in a government Land Rover to the
project location. The Land Rover inched along bumping up and down on
the narrow washboard dirt road. More than once, he quickly placed his
hand on the ceiling of the Land Rover to keep from bumping his head
as the Land Rover hit potholes and ridges. Dust swirled out behind
the vehicle, and he was constantly tossed back and forth during the
long, tiring, 5-hour drive to Jacks. Eventually, the village of a
small cluster of huts constructed with wattle and mud and plastered
with cow dung came into view. A few chickens ran around pecking at
bugs in the dirt. Nearby was a small community store with limited
supplies like eggs and canned sardines. A small concrete block
building nearby housed the elementary school. He planned on staying
in a government owned house above the village.
In
a previous year, the government had installed a sand filter at the
top of the hill to provide safe water for the village. There was a
convenient, but untreated dirty stream that flowed along the bottom
of the hill near the village and the school. The people preferred to
use the dirty stream for their water source rather than climb the
long, long hill to the cleaner water of the sand filter at the top.
Grandpa’s job was to survey a path down the side of the hill,
about ¾ mile in distance, to determine where to lay a future
pipe. The goal was to connect water from the sand filter at the top
through a pipe to faucets at the bottom of the hill, which would
provide a more safe and convenient water source for the people.
The
concrete block house where he stayed had originally been built for
the agricultural extension officer. A thick layer of red dust coated
the outside, and it appeared to have been vacant for some time. The
view stretched far out over the low veldt, and every evening Grandpa
enjoyed the scene while relaxing on the front stoop. He had brought
propane for the stove, cooking utensils and food: Spam, canned
meatballs, an onion and some bread. No electricity, of course, but
there was running water, which he boiled before drinking, just to be
safe. He was pleased to discover a real indoor toilet, but quickly
realized it had no innards. He had to pour a bucket of water in it to
make it work, which was annoying. An outhouse sat a short distance
away, facing west. Fortunately, inside the house was a cot with a
mattress on it, but everything was dusty, so he put his sleeping bag
on top of the mattress. There was a bit of furniture here and there;
a wood table, a couple of chairs. It obviously hadn’t been
lived in for quite some time, as there were no cooking utensils or
supplies.
The
first week, as he began the survey, he realized that he was having a
hard time seeing down the hill with his survey level mounted on a
tripod, because of the tall, thick brush that covered the steep
hillside. One of the teachers suggested the young school children
could help. Over the next few days, for one hour at a time, your
grandpa watched as a class of young children, dressed in navy blue
and white school uniforms, chopped at the brush with machetes,
swinging them high and wide. After cutting down the brush for an
hour, they would return to their classroom and resume studies.
Promptly, another class would come out and continue the project,
swinging away, eventually opening up a path all the way down to the
bottom of the hill. And yes, they ran into a few snakes, all of which
managed to escape those swinging machetes.
After
a week of surveying, your grandpa managed to get a ride back to the
capital, Mbabane. To his delight, the second boot had arrived. They
were made of sturdy leather and would protect his feet and ankles. On
a late Sunday morning, he was ready to return to the village, so he
began hitchhiking on the road out of town. Soon, he was picked up by
two young white men who had traveled from their home in South Africa,
a country which was known for a racist policy at that time called
Apartheid. They were on vacation in Swaziland, and Grandpa was
pleased to hear they were on their way to a town in the northwestern
part of Swaziland and would pass right by his turnoff to Jacks where
they offered to drop him off. They were quite friendly and told him
all about their vacation. After a while they asked Grandpa why he was
headed to Jacks, and he told them that he was a Peace Corps volunteer
working on a water project in the village. Grandpa told me they
suddenly became strangely quiet and then started talking to each
other in Afrikaans, a language he didn’t understand. When they
came to a cross road and stopped, they explained to him that his
destination was straight ahead, while they intended to turn right.
Grandpa was puzzled that they would be turning and not going as they
had originally told him. With his backpack in hand, he climbed out of
the car. To his surprise, he watched as they drove straight ahead,
not taking the right turn after all! They had dumped him in the
middle of nowhere, a cloud of red clay dust from their vehicle slowly
settling on him, as they disappeared from site. Your grandpa was at
least 20 miles from where he needed to go, and not a soul was to be
seen. Standing there, it gradually dawned on him that maybe being a
white Peace Corps volunteer working alongside the local Swazi people
did not sit well with those two young men. He was only guessing, but
racism was what he suspected. It seemed very strange to him that they
would leave him in the middle of nowhere without any transportation.
Since it was Sunday, there was no traffic at all, so Grandpa began to
walk, and walk, and walk. The hot sun beat down on him, and he was
glad he had his hat and water. After six long hours of walking, he
finally made it all the way to Jacks by evening. His backpack felt
like a ton of bricks, and he was limping in his new leather boots.
The journey for him wasn’t over, though. After a brief rest to
prepare for the next ordeal, he proceeded to slowly climb up the long
hill, one heavy step after the other, first passing the small
elementary school, followed by the little community of thatched huts
with the small store. Finally, he dragged himself all the way to the
top of the hill, to the unoccupied house where he had stayed the
first week. His legs felt like floppy noodles, and he was exhausted.
All
Grandpa wanted to do was drop his gear on the table and prepare to
settle in for the night. He told me he doesn’t even remember
eating dinner that evening. Before climbing into his sleeping bag,
and to avoid carrying a heavy bucket of water to flush the toilet, he
opted to use the outhouse. It consisted of a small wood building with
a wooden bench to sit on, its hole over a deep dark pit. There was no
door, so as he sat there relaxing after an exhausting day, he noticed
the colorful sunset. A peaceful feeling settled over him. He thought
there was nothing like being treated to a view of the setting sun,
while sitting in an outhouse. Who else in the whole world could be so
lucky? As he sat there staring at the pink and orange colors, he was
startled out of his reverie by the fluttering of wings. His heart
jumped in his chest, and a whisper of air fluttered against his bum.
He leaped off the seat and ducked down as several bats flew out of
the hole! Obviously, they thought his bum was the setting sun, and
night had arrived, so they took off to catch the night bugs. He
almost fainted with fright. Pulling at his britches, he stumbled to
the house to look for his shaving mirror. Had he been scratched by a
rabid bat? Was he going to die of rabies? Would he have to go through
the painful rabies injections? As hard as he tried to twist around
with that little 2-inch mirror in one hand and his flashlight in the
other, he could not see if there was a scratch.
Yes,
Luke, Anna, and Natalie, the panicky feelings finally subsided, and
Grandpa eventually calmed down. He did not get rabies or even have
the injections. He finished the surveying project that week and
headed back to his house in the capital, Mbabane. Your grandpa
returned to the village several times over the next few months, but
he told me he never used the outhouse again. Instead, he was quite
willing to carry a bucket of water every time he needed to flush that
toilet.
Even
today, your grandpa is not a fan of outhouses. Or bats.
