Women in Trousers

It is well-known to backpackers the world over that a hostel is not only a cheap place to sleep on a dirty bunk and take a much-needed shower, but also a handy party spot when the sun goes down and the Cultural Attractions close. C. assures me that this awkward mingling usually begins a full night of revelry at the frenzied discotheques of Europe's sleepless capitals. In rural Swaziland, where the sun sets early and the Sabbath is actually observed, the hostel's courtyard itself must do.

(My mother reads this blog, and who knows who else, so here I must note that the drinking age is 18 both in South Africa and in the tiny land-locked kingdoms cut away from its preindustrial heartland.)

But all of this is a long-winded introduction to the tragic scene that befell us Sunday night: at 5:28 pm, less than half an hour after the liquor store had closed, we realized that our new German-Afrikaaner friends from Pretoria hadn't picked up beer for the braai, either.

Given that a braai without good South African beer is like a wedding without champagne -- that is, beside the point -- this was a problem indeed. As a couple of the Pretorians built up a blaze in the open charcoal stove, R. and C. interrogated the Swazi hostel manager: Was he sure that there were no liquor shops open? Any bars? What about -- and here R. paused briefly -- any shebeens?

A shebeen is a bar, but the kind most often frequented by black African men -- locals -- and traditionally without any frills of "white" bars: glasses, napkins, tables, or roofs. Shebeens sell alcohol and the rest is optional.

At this request, then, the manager could only grin. You want to go to a shebeen?

Anywhere, R. said. We're desperate.

We'll go to the King's Palace, said our guide. He glanced at C., and at me, and at the two German girls from Pretoria. But no women in trousers allowed.

The blue jean-clad German girls shrugged and promised to stay in the car. I stood up, delighted to be wearing a skirt of grey plaid that just skimmed my knees. You know what that's code for, right? R. asked me, frowning. It means, dress like a slut.

More worried than I wanted to admit, I sat down again. The group departed.

Later, over Hansa lagers and roast beef, I heard the story of this King of Swaziland: of his fourteen wives, and of the hints that a fifteenth might soon be found. But also: that the king himself could not choose his heir, that a son would be chosen from the most virtuous and worthy wife, and that she would one day rule together with her son.

This queen-mother, the Grand She-Elephant of Swaziland, is a woman to be feared and idolized; twenty thousand or more young virgins attend the annual Reed Dance in her honor, and in hopes of becoming her successor in time.

The shebeen, I learned, was a dank gymnasium in an army barracks. And on the parade lawns, the Swazi virgins wear only miniskirts and smiles. But I imagined that the proud matron who watches their gaudy dance, the true Queen in her Palace, laughs and drinks among the men. She claps her bangled hands in mockery or in glee. And if she does wear trousers, who would dare force her away?