After being at my school in bushveld Swaziland for about a year and a half, I finally had the chance to move out of the teachers quarters and on to a Swazi homestead. I was invited by a man who taught woodworking at the nearby Adult Education Center, Musa, with whom I had built a good friendship, and he invited me to come and be a part of his family. I had mentioned my desire to live on a homestead to Musa, in passing, one day while eating lunch together. I really had wanted to do this, not the least, because it would help me improve on my fragmented and clumsy siSwati, but also to get out of the fishbowl that life at school was like.

Musas homestead was about a two hour walk across the bush from my school. Or, if I was in a hurry, I could take the bus south for about 20 minutes, and walk across the bush for 40 minutes, and arrive there. I would take the bus route when I had stayed at school late and did not want to be caught walking across the bushveld in the dark. If I chose the bus route, and walked the 40 minutes, just before I arrived at the homestead I would come along a row of trees, take a left at the opening, and walk across a large field that was the community garden, and just on the far side, come out within sight of the homestead.

Because it was so hot in Swaziland, late afternoon was a time when the local women would be working in the garden. It was marginally less hot in the last hour or two before sunset. When you live in a hot climate, marginally less hot is almost like being cooler. Almost.

I had noticed that every time that I got to the community garden, and came out of the tree line to cross it, my sudden appearance would cause the women working in the garden when they saw me, to drop their hoes, and scurry over and grab their shirts from where they had hung them, and put them on. I had already learned that bare breasts in Swaziland were not considered anything of note, and the women had removed their shirts while working the garden because it was hot. Women had commented to me several times in conversation that they were confused by the American women, who went to great lengths to hide their breasts, which were just for feeding children anyway, but would walk around in short pants, with their legs exposed, just like a common prostitute, shame, shame.

One day I was walking home from the bus stop, and was about a hundred yards behind a Swazi man, who had turned into the field at the opening, by the time I got there, he was halfway across the garden. As I came into view, the women hurried to put on their shirts as usual, and I wondered why they had not done that when the man ahead of me walked across. This had happened several times since then, and it bothered me, so one day I stopped to chat up the women, who knew me by then, and were always happy to stop working and talk to me.

Me: Mother, I am confused by something, and maybe you can help me understand.

All women in Swaziland were addressed as Make, (mah gay), which meant mother or Mrs.

The mother: Yes, Maseko, I would be happy to help you. What is it?

Me: I have noticed that whenever I come across the field, the women working here always hurry to put on their shirts, but when a Swazi man crosses the field, the women pay no attention. Have I given offense in some way to cause this different behavior?

The mother: Oh, no, Maseko. It is out of respect for you that we put on our shirts.

Me: Out of respect? If I can be honest with you, I am a man who loves looking at women’s bodies. They are like beautiful snowflakes or flowers, each one different and beautiful in its own way. I love women. When you interrupt your work to run and put on your shirts, it makes me a little sad. I like seeing breasts. It makes my day happy.

By then, several other women had come over to listen and find out what we were talking about. They all laughed when I said that. It caused a lot of joking between the women, and they thought I was just too funny. And I realized that when this got around, as it certainly would because people love to gossip, I was going to have a new facet of how people saw me.

I was seen as an American first, because of the color of my skin. There were essentially no other white people out there in the bush, and in fact, I was the first white man many of the people in my community had ever seen up close and gotten to know. Second, I was seen as the white teacher at the school where all their kids went. People always knew who I was when they would see me passing. Many people also knew me through my work on my secondary projects, the most recent of which was writing a grant to rebuild 5 pre-schools that had been damaged in the cyclone that had blown through there a couple years before I got there. I had gone into the communities and walked door to door, recruiting people to come and help rebuild the pre-schools that were of direct benefit to their families. And I was also known as a man who would stop and talk to people, and never talked down to them. I was always friendly and animated. And now I was going to be known also as the American teacher who liked looking at womens breasts. Great. You can never predict what influence your words might have on others.

The mother: It is something that we learned from the preacher at the church, Maseko. He told us that exposed breasts were offensive to good Christian white men, and that we should always keep our breasts covered when around them. So out of respect, and not wishing to offend you, we run and put on our shirts.

Another mother: Yes, and as soon as you have passed, we take them off again, because it is hot.

They all laughed at that.

Me: Well, let me assure you Mother, that I, Maseko, do not find breasts to be offensive. On the contrary, I like seeing them. You need not put on your shirts for me. Thank you for helping me to understand.

And I went on my way to the homestead to fix supper and grade papers. As I walked away, the women were all laughing, and telling the others who had come over, what I had said.

The next time I took the bus route home, about two weeks later, when I came into the field, the women looked up and waved at me, and did not scurry for their shirts. A couple of them shouted “woo woo!” and shook their breasts at me and laughed. Word had gotten around. I was often the subject of much laughter and comments. I was ok with that. I didn’t look like or act like anybody they had ever known.

Boobs.  

Being the subject of humor is the perfect opportunity to make new friends.