The trip here was interesting yet uneventful, as everything went pretty-much according to plan. I met Walker, the print intern whom I was paired with for our six-week tenure in the Land of Swazi, at LaGuardia, from where we flew to Atlanta to catch our 15-hour, nonstop flight to Johannesburg, South Africa. The flight went by pretty quickly, thanks to Delta's extensive on-demand movie catalogue and some Tylenol PM (thanks Clara).
Accelerated by the six-hour time warp ahead, we arrived a whole day after we left New York and took a cab to our pre-arranged hotel, a weird safari-themed, faux resort kind of place where I took a shower at 2 a.m. because I forgot to change the time on my cell phone/alarm clock.
In the real morning, we caught the shuttle to the taxi rank where we would catch a minibus to Swaziland. The place was swarming with transports to various locations and hawkers peddling everything from candy to vanity cell phone faces. From what I saw of Jo-burg, there is still a sort of de facto apartheid in effect in many places, including the taxi rank. But despite being obvious foreigners, we weren’t targeted by the hawkers any more than anyone else there, which was surprising then but makes sense in retrospect because it’s not exactly a tourist destination.
Our 12-seater minibus came and we tossed our luggage into the trailer hitch and climbed in with the 10 Swazis heading home – at least I assume they were Swazis because I don’t South Africans really benefit from the Swaziland/Johannesburg commute. I got stuck with one of the fold-down seats with no padding left and my butt was numb from sitting on the metal frame of the seat. But the real pain-in-the-ass was listening to Phil Collins’ greatest hits on a loop for the majority of the four hour ride. These are the charms of international journalism.
After a smooth and surprisingly informal border crossing and a brief stop in Mbabane, the capital city, to drop off some folk, we made it to Manzini and were greeted by Gugu, one of the IBJ Team Swazi members. She took us to the guesthouse that was arranged for us, which is much nicer than I expected and in a good location. The lady of the house wanted the first month’s rent up front, so we had to go withdraw 3,000 Emalangeni, which is roughly $360. At any rate, more bills with "100" printed on them than I'm ever likely to hold again, so I documented the occasion.
Accelerated by the six-hour time warp ahead, we arrived a whole day after we left New York and took a cab to our pre-arranged hotel, a weird safari-themed, faux resort kind of place where I took a shower at 2 a.m. because I forgot to change the time on my cell phone/alarm clock.
In the real morning, we caught the shuttle to the taxi rank where we would catch a minibus to Swaziland. The place was swarming with transports to various locations and hawkers peddling everything from candy to vanity cell phone faces. From what I saw of Jo-burg, there is still a sort of de facto apartheid in effect in many places, including the taxi rank. But despite being obvious foreigners, we weren’t targeted by the hawkers any more than anyone else there, which was surprising then but makes sense in retrospect because it’s not exactly a tourist destination.
Our 12-seater minibus came and we tossed our luggage into the trailer hitch and climbed in with the 10 Swazis heading home – at least I assume they were Swazis because I don’t South Africans really benefit from the Swaziland/Johannesburg commute. I got stuck with one of the fold-down seats with no padding left and my butt was numb from sitting on the metal frame of the seat. But the real pain-in-the-ass was listening to Phil Collins’ greatest hits on a loop for the majority of the four hour ride. These are the charms of international journalism.
After a smooth and surprisingly informal border crossing and a brief stop in Mbabane, the capital city, to drop off some folk, we made it to Manzini and were greeted by Gugu, one of the IBJ Team Swazi members. She took us to the guesthouse that was arranged for us, which is much nicer than I expected and in a good location. The lady of the house wanted the first month’s rent up front, so we had to go withdraw 3,000 Emalangeni, which is roughly $360. At any rate, more bills with "100" printed on them than I'm ever likely to hold again, so I documented the occasion.
We had a brief meeting with (most of) the team, led by our fearless leader, Bhule Dube (fare left), a law professor at the University of Swaziland and an all-around awesome guy. He said our obligations were so-far limited, so in many ways this internship is what we and our enterprising spirits make of it.So far we’ve done a lot of acclimating, which has, admittedly, been hard for me. It’s sappy but I miss my girlfriend - and everyone else, of course. For me, this internship is not just about doing cool and exotic things overseas. It’s about getting used to this kind of work and being separated from the people closest to me – and if it’s worth the sacrifice.
Despite the difficulties, I’m glad I’m here. I’m sure it will be like summer camp. This first week, all I want to do is go home, but I’m sure I won’t want to leave by the end... maybe. We’ll see.
Take care,
Nick
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