I recently listened to an excellent BBC Food Programme podcast on the topic of food and cult fiction. It was fun listening to all the food stuff from Jack Kerouac’s On The Road, A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, and a writer I hadn’t heard of before (to my shame, it now seems), Colin MacInnes, who authored a trilogy about London in the mid-20th century, at least one of which apparently contains excellent passages about working class “mods” eating smoked salmon sandwiches while admiring fabulous views of London from some rooftop.
Swaziland is a shithole. With more than 28% of its population positive, it has the highest prevalence of HIV in the world. (Male) homosexuality is illegal (LGBT+ does not exist in the Swazi lexicon). The king is currently trying to ban divorce. He would also like everyone to just forgive Zuma for Nkandla. He currently has 13 wives (don’t scoff – his father had 70).
It’s also the country I grew up in, and from the age of 5 to 18, I had no idea it was such a shithole. Not (I like to think) because I was stupid, but because it was a wonderful place to be a child. It’s beautiful, with rolling hills and majestic mountains, and people who seemed cool about everything. My parents’ friends lived in cool houses built into the mountains, and on Sundays when we came to visit they’d pad around in kikois smoking joints, and then we’d go swim in a river. My parents wore kikois too, and when we had people round, they would assemble around a big fireplace my father had fashioned out of an old tractor tire rim in the garden, and my mother provided roasted peanuts, marinated fillet for the braai, and Keith Jarrett or Dave Brubeck booming through the speakers perched on window sills inside the house. (They also had a live recording of then Dollar Brand playing piano at another house they lived in down the valley before I was born.)