Our man in mbabane, p.14
Our Man in Mbabane, page 14
“Point well taken,” I responded, having no intention of paying him any mind.
The evening progressed with everyone enjoying themselves, And then many of the expats began to filter out. Eventually, I was so crocked that I went upstairs and hit the sack, leaving only a few Swazis I didn’t know to shut the door after themselves.
In the morning, I descended into the chaos of the afterparty disarray. I noticed a few of Steve and Joy’s records were missing. This odd petty theft was something one came to accept in Swaziland. At a later date, someone entered my apartment and took a few small things. To me, the stealing was puzzling and made me profoundly sad.
CHAPTER 14
The South African Customs Union meetings were looming. In the fall of each year, the four SACU countries met to divide the revenue from import duties. This autumn, there were to be two meetings. One to share the preliminary data and one to assess any data updates and divide up the funds. After allocating the monies to the three small countries, South Africa would keep the remainder. All of it. Every extra rand we could obtain for Swaziland was one less rand of revenue to support apartheid. As usual, there was a lot of back and forth in setting the dates. Each of the smaller countries needed to have their import data finalized. Stephen always prepared Swaziland’s figures at the last minute but finished at the deadline.
The looming customs meeting dates, which were only settled in early September, conflicted with my sister’s marriage date in the US. I pressed Mr. Ajibade on the issue, but he was adamant; I had to attend. These were the crucial consultations for my training to be head of the external trade section. I needed to learn how this process worked, and these were the last conferences Stephen would attend before the end of his assignment in late 1978.
Once it was clear I wouldn’t be able to take time off to attend my sister’s wedding, I sat down at my dining table and wrote to her.
2 Sept. 1978
Dear June,
I’m pretty depressed today. I had thought I could still make it to your wedding, but the boss said I couldn’t have the time I wanted. He wants me to be around while my immediate supervisor, Stephen, is in the country training me. Stephen, meanwhile, says I couldn’t have picked a more unsuitable time to leave during the year: after the second customs union meeting on October 20th would be OK, but between these meetings: No! Such is life.
Not much happening here. I did have a nice weekend a couple of weeks ago. Judith, some other friends, and I went to see the king’s birthday celebrations, and then we camped out in the Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary, a pretty place we like to visit. We saw a couple of rhinos, a first for me in Swaziland. The giraffes were there as usual but a little skittish. We watched some impala leaping thirty feet or so as they dashed away from something. A very graceful creature.
I managed to get your wedding gifts off yesterday. I hope you and Dan enjoy them. I was thinking at the time I would probably make it to your wedding but that it couldn’t hurt mailing them in case something went wrong, which it did. So it goes.
I hope the wedding arrangements are proceeding satisfactorily. Mom says you are arranging everything yourself. I wish you and Dan the best of luck and all the happiness in the world. I’m sure everything will be great, though, since everyone says how well you get along.
I haven’t heard from Anne for ages. She’s in Hong Kong (since mid-May), and the only communication I’ve had from her is a postcard with no return address. The card traveled here via Switzerland; a postal clerk must have misread the address.
Things are frantic at work now. We are rushing to prepare for the September meeting, where we present Swaziland’s import statistics to the South African authorities. I’m sure the figures will be OK after some vigorous follow-up of nonrespondents. However, the South Africans may dispute them. Also, we are shifting to a new data collection system, and something is sure to go wrong in the first few months. But let’s hope not.
Best wishes for a fabulous wedding!
Love,
Frank
In preparing the numbers for the September meeting, Stephen and I could get sufficient information from the local businesses to estimate Swaziland’s imports for 1977. When we couldn’t get the latest year, we used 1976 as an estimate and would need to follow up when we returned from the September meeting. Whatever adjustments we might have in October, they would be the final numbers, according to the terms of the SACU agreement.
On the September trip, I traveled with Stephen to the customs meeting at the Royal Swazi Spa and Casino near Lobamba. I only observed and met everyone on all the other delegations; Stephen presented the Swazi data.
The meeting was preceded by a coffee break, during which Stephen introduced me to many attendees. Everyone in the South African delegation was an Afrikaner. During my stay in Swaziland, I never met a South African government employee who wasn’t an Afrikaner. After winning the 1948 election, the National Party, representing the Afrikaners, controlled the government jobs. As a result, working in the public sector became a way for Afrikaners to get ahead. The English-speaking South Africans remained dominant in business, so they generally sought employment in the private sector.
The Swazi delegation’s principal people were the chief customs officer, Albert Dlamini, a Swazi; Finance Minister Coetzee, a Swazi of mixed race; Stephen; and me. Coetzee is a common Afrikaner surname. The South African delegates were much more cordial to our minister than to the rest of us—as if he was one of them, despite his light-brown skin. He did have the advantage of speaking Afrikaans.
The Botswana delegation had an expat as the CCO, and the rest of the group were “Tswana,” which is short for the people of Botswana. Unlike the Swazi and Botswana missions, with their expats, the Lesotho delegation was made up entirely of Sotho people, short for Basotho. They also had one female member, while none of the other groups had any women.
The meeting was unremarkable for Swaziland and Botswana, but the Afrikaners questioned the Lesotho delegation vigorously. The South Africans didn’t trust their numbers. But the Sothos defended their data energetically, and the confrontation ended in a stalemate. The South Africans couldn’t prove anything because they had insufficient information. To refute the Lesotho statistics, the South Africans would need to set up an entire system of controls at the border with Lesotho, contrary to the SACU agreement of free trade between the four countries. I couldn’t help but wonder if the lack of expats on the Lesotho team caused the Afrikaners to question their numbers. Stephen and I used many estimates to develop the Swazi data, so our statistics could also have been challenged. We believed our estimates were reasonable, but we ensured they were as high as possible to benefit Swaziland. I would guess the Tswanas and Sothos constructed their data similarly. However, the Swazi and Tswana numbers were never contested.
At 1 p.m., the meeting adjourned for lunch at the hotel’s restaurant. We ate in an elegant private room off the main dining area, with ornate gold fixtures and a few mirrors. White tablecloths covered the tables, and the heavy silverware included steak knives, so we knew the main course in advance. The food was served to us by a slew of waiters, all in uniform. And, yes, the steaks we ate were mouthwatering and tender as unripe brie.
I think I can get used to this life, I thought after eating my first meal at a business-type conference.
At the end of the meal, the South African delegation head, Mr. Strydom, stood up and clinked his glass to make an announcement.
“Lady,” he said, nodding to the Sotho woman, “and gentlemen, as you know, the next meeting will be held in Pretoria on October 20. We have prepared something exceptional for you. Instead of having our usual buffet-style meal in the meeting room, we will take everyone to an excellent local restaurant. The government has granted special one-day permission for us to host you, our African colleagues, at this restaurant.”
There was a brief stunned silence, but our Minister Coetzee recovered quickly and said, “Thank you. That will be wonderful, I’m sure.” He then began applauding politely, and we all followed suit, though without much enthusiasm. The South Africans all smiled broadly. They knew it was unusual to be granted such permission, so they were very proud to have obtained it. The Africans, on the other hand, were perplexed and annoyed but understood. In all three of their countries, Africans and Whites could mix freely in restaurants and elsewhere. Thus, it hardly seemed like eating in a restaurant in South Africa should be a noteworthy achievement.
The meeting adjourned shortly after lunch, and Stephen and I headed back to Mbabane and arrived in time to stop at the office for an hour of follow-up calls to the late respondents of our survey. We completed all the questionnaires between the two meetings, so our numbers were final by October 20.
To save money on transport costs, I was assigned to travel to Pretoria with the minister of finance and chief customs officer in the CCO’s Mercedes. On the nineteenth, they picked me up at the government offices where I worked. I had my overnight bag, and they would drop me at a hotel in Pretoria while they would stay with friends outside town. Unfortunately, the hotels were for Whites only, so my colleagues couldn’t lodge in standard accommodations, even though they were foreign dignitaries.
Worse, there were no toilets for Africans on the road to Pretoria from Mbabane, a four-hour drive. Further, there were no restaurants where we could sit down for a meal. We would need to stop at a take-out window, order our food, and eat in the Mercedes. For me, the contrast of riding with senior government officers in a luxury car to an international conference was shocking. Both the CCO and the minister had a few sarcastic comments about the situation as they explained it to me, but they took it surprisingly well. The CCO, a tall portly man, would stop at his favorite chicken shack to pick up our lunch, and he was looking forward to it. The minister was anticipating a fun evening with his friends in the Pretoria area. But the outrageous insult to these fine people was astonishing. They were both used to being treated with great deference in Swaziland and other African countries. However, in South Africa, they needed to order takeout to eat in their private car and pee on the side of the road, which was the only place they were allowed to relieve themselves.
Because this was the meeting that shared the revenue, the South Africans were magnanimous from their point of view and didn’t challenge any of the statistics provided by the other three countries. The data was similar, only slightly higher, than at the September summit. The funds passed to the three small countries would form the majority of each of their government’s income but were a pittance to the South Africans, whose economy was huge in comparison. Of course, to the Sotho, Tswana, and Swazi delegations, the revenue was their rightful and fair share of the customs duties. They felt no obligation to thank the Afrikaners for the monies, only for sponsoring the meeting. The South Africans seemed to view it more as an international foreign-aid grant bestowed on three of their immediate neighbors, which recognized South Africa as a nation. Most African countries didn’t view the country as a legitimate state and had no diplomatic relations with the apartheid regime.
With the business part of the meeting accomplished, we boarded a bus for the short trip to the restaurant. We must’ve been an interesting sight; people on the street stared at us. The bus, a luxury model conveying Africans and several Whites, presented pedestrians with an unusual sight. Touring buses in South Africa would typically have only Whites riding in them and, most likely, a White driver. The buses for Africans were generally crowded-to-overflowing, dilapidated minibuses.
After we arrived at the venue, we were escorted to a “special” entrance—the back door. We reached the sitting area via the kitchen, where all the African staff gaped at us while the chefs barked at them to keep working. Special entrance indeed.
We entered the restaurant and spied our tables, which had a lovely view of a partition of what looked like bedclothes strung up, dividing the room in half. The tables on our side had white tablecloths, set with flatware. I couldn’t help but think back to our recent lunch in Swaziland, with an actual separate room, fine tableware, and ornate but tasteful room fixtures. The few pictures on the wall were obvious reproductions in cheap frames. The setting could only be described as tacky. But then, Afrikaners were never accused of setting a high cultural standard for the world.
“Come in! Come in!” said Mr. Strydom, the head of the South African delegation. “We have this barrier set up to provide us some privacy, and we’ll be able to eat without being disturbed.”
We attendees from the African countries knew precisely why the barrier was there; the sheets ensured that the Whites on the other side wouldn’t have to look at us. God forbid we offend them by making them watch people of mixed races eat together. Apartheid stipulated a separation of the races, so this was a violation of the convention.
Before we sat down to eat, we were offered a glass of wine. With the work over for the day, we could relax and be sociable. As I was a relatively new face, a South African delegate, Johan Joubert, approached me.
“So, Frank, you will be taking over for Stephen, yah?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s returning home to the UK in December since his assignment here has ended,” I replied. “But the unit is in excellent shape. So, I’m sure we’ll be able to produce the trade statistics promptly and accurately.”
“That is good to hear. We have confidence in your numbers, but we often find the Sothos have implausibly high numbers,” he said, probingly.
“I’m glad to hear you have confidence in our numbers. We give them a great deal of attention,” I responded, letting the comment on the Lesotho delegation slide.
“You are a young person to be doing this job, eh?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know. All I can say is that I have a master’s degree from the London School of Economics and the work seems straightforward to me,” I commented.
“You are an American?” he queried.
“Yes. I grew up in Oregon on the West Coast. After getting my first degree, I moved to London to attend the LSE and worked for a couple of years before obtaining this position in Swaziland,” I answered, feeling on my chin the steam rising from my sweating chest.
“You are not working for any aid agency like USAID?”
“No, I just applied for the job, and they hired me,” I said, leaving out the part about “just traveling around as a tourist.”
“You know, we feel the Americans do not understand us and our way of life here,” he said.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“We are not racist like your people seem to think,” he said. “We have set up a system for all the races to live together peacefully and without friction. We keep the races separate because we have found that mixing races causes problems and discord. We have given the Africans their own countries where they can do as they please, the Transkei, the Ciskei, Bophuthatswana, and the rest. They have passports and can farm or create businesses. In Bophuthatswana, Mr. Kerzner is building a large resort, Sun City, that will provide many, many jobs for the African people there. And yet, you Americans do not recognize these countries. You should, and you should also invest there to help our African friends.”
“The homelands you’ve created for the Africans don’t have the most fertile farming land in the country,” I countered. “The best farmland seems to be owned by the Afrikaners.”
“That’s because we make such good use of the land. Like this wine we are drinking,” Johan replied.
“You do make good wine,” I confirmed. We could at least agree on that.
“You Americans also believe we are…how do you put it? Sexist?” he persisted. “We are not sexist; we have some very senior women in government. Just the other day, I met one. She is a senior computer programmer and has worked in our technical department for ten years.”
“Is that so?” I inquired.
“Yes. And she is not alone. We have others also.”
I mentally noted he couldn’t name any others but said nothing and just nodded.
As luck would have it, the minister of finance of South Africa arrived at that moment. Mr. Strydom introduced him to all of us in general and then specifically introduced his three counterparts in the room, the finance ministers from Botswana, Lesotho, and Swaziland. This was the first time I’d seen the minister, since he hadn’t attended either of the two meetings.
“Well! We should get seated. I see the first course is about to be served. Shall we? There are place cards for each of us,” Johan said, motioning with his hand toward the tables. I looked around and found my card at the back, which was appropriate since I was essentially an observer at this conference. Stephen was placed with his peers while our minister sat at the head table with the South African minister, his deputy Mr. Strydom, and the Botswana minister. I couldn’t help but notice that the Lesotho minister of finance was placed at the chief customs officers’ table. The Lesotho minister clearly understood the slight, but after an initial scowl, he began to enjoy himself and his discussion with the CCOs thoroughly.
I got lucky with my assigned seat. There was no need to pretend to be a diplomat and no one to restrain my wine drinking, and I was at the only table in the room with a woman. Sesi Mohale, like me, was an understudy to the head statistical officer of Lesotho. We also had our peer from Botswana, Neo Modise, and Johan. As the host at our table, Johan didn’t bring up any political issues. I was sure he knew the views of my Tswana and Sotho counterparts regarding apartheid, and with Sesi at the table, he was astute enough not to bring up how nonsexist the Afrikaners were.
