There’s much more to Swaziland than jackpots and birdies, as Alex Sudheim found at the Siyavuka festival last weekend
It really was high time that Swaziland celebrated itself with a national arts festival. The country turns 30 this weekend, and over three centuries as a distinct and separate people preceded their formal recognition as an independent monarchy in 1968. A rich and unique culture attends the Swazi nation, one which up until the inaugural Siyavuka festival had not experienced the benefit of being showcased in a structured and coherent formal event.
The aptly-named Siyavuka (”we are awakening”) is essential to the country because it provides a lyrical counterpoint to the prosaic casino- culture which is more closely associated with Swaziland’s identity. Every weekend the Ezulwini Valley swells with an armada of South African suburbanites crossing the border for a weekend of golf and gambling, yet few ever leave the hotel pools or driving ranges to taste the flavours of local life. For most visitors the day consists of a huge breakfast, followed by 18 holes and a night of slot machines, blackjack and depressing renditions of Hotel California by aging one-man-bands.
It is ironic, because politically Swaziland is admired and envied for its sophisticated integration of traditional tribal values with modern democratic ideals. Yet on the cultural front, the more egregious excesses of Western civilisation seem to loom larger in the outside world’s general perception of the country. Thus the need to redress this imbalance became imperative, and the germ of an idea born two years ago came to fruition last weekend in the form of the first annual Siyavuka festival in Mbabane.
And despite the odd minor birth pain, Siyavuka convincingly demonstrated that there are many more alluring reasons than jackpots and birdies to visit the kingdom.
Chief among these is the laid-back, relaxed atmosphere of the country itself. Roughly the size of Wales, Swaziland is no swaggering industrial giant, and the capital, Mbabane, is a cosy, easy-going town devoid of big-city tension and claustrophobia.
Swaziland is also mercifully less haunted by a traumatic history such as South Africa’s, and as a consequence racial blending seems to be a more natural, organic affair without any of the loaded political implications it carries back home. One night, knocking back the Sibebes in the crowded Theatre Club – the most happening aprs-arts dive in town – it suddenly occurred to me that the place was packed, rockin’ and untainted by that familiar racial self-consciousness I know too well from South Africa. And I state this as a mere observation by a first-time visitor, not to bully some feelgood liberal sentiment onto the agenda.
During the day, the Theatre Club is also one of the festival’s primary locations, and serves as a kind of metaphor for the entire event: a somewhat ramshackle and dilapidated building housing some exceptionally fine dance, drama, music and spontaneous outbursts of creative energy. On Saturday afternoon in the club’s foyer, Swazi quartet Jiggs & Friends provide some slow-grooving beat poetry: ingenuous oral fables of local life’s lazy bounty set to jaw harp, drums and a stoned guitar.
Soon afterward Theatre for Africa appear in the main theatre, and their show is nothing less than astounding. The sheer physical energy poured into the performances lends Mountain People and Urban Expression a breathtaking visceral intensity unmatched by anything I’ve ever seen on stage. There are no words in these explosive dance pieces, but the raw, primal abandon of the actors/dancers conveys far more eloquently through rhythm and movement the thrust of the story. Everything the dancers lay their hands upon is transformed into an instrument of percussion: brooms, rocks, rubbish bins, hammers, pots, mugs and plates are all used to devastating effect.
For the still-reeling brain, a leisurely stroll through Coronation Park in the warm Swazi sun is in order. Several other interesting aspects of Siyavuka take place here, such as the African Eye movie tent. In a small marquee, festival patrons can catch free screenings of African films – an inspired idea since you don’t have to feel guilty about sitting indoors watching videos while its a beautiful day outside. Even though the sound of the generator almost drowns out that of the film, the place is packed with an audience glued to the hilarious Zimbabwean movie Jit.
Also in the park is the Amphitheatre, where the Mlilwane Surprise Band perform a rousing rendition of Chicken Rolling in the Oven, a quaint love song with the chorus: ”I remember the first time you kissed me / nice nice like a chicken rolling in the oven / your body wriggled like a snake / your taste is like a dumpling”. Beat that, Bob Dylan.
It has to be said that the sound here was rather abysmal, and in other areas too the festival fell prey to the odd organisational mishap. The Jazz Festival, for example, which was supposed to have taken place in a Mbabane restaurant, appears to have remained mysteriously absent. I also felt the organisers could have done a lot more in the way of exposing authentic local arts and crafts, for the exhibitions were rather sparse and small. Yet these were minor foul-ups in the overall scheme of things, and in a way added to the rustic charm of the festival.
In 10 years’ time Siyavuka might occupy the inflated commercial realms of Grahamstown, in which case I’ll be looking back to the inaugural event with wistful fondness. The night concerts in the Prince of Wales stadium were impressively rigged and attended, with South African stars Ringo Madlingozi and Juluka – complete with Johnny Clegg in flash Vegas suit – clearly big favourites among the 2 000-strong crowd braving the cold.
The locals also need no lessons in partying, for when I finally stumble out of the Theatre Club at an abominable hour, the place is still seething. The next day, while exchanging the last of my dubloon-like Elilangeni for some hair of the dog, I catch the People’s Educational Theatre’s production of Three Suitors & One Husband.
The tale – of an educated young woman’s battle to prevent her father from selling her as a bride to a civil servant – is told with heartfelt sincerity, and despite the actors’ shyness and clunky delivery, is a brilliant satire of culture-clash in contemporary Swazi society, which had the audience hooting with derision and delight.
With that, it’s time to slowly wind down the rolling hills of Ezulwini, trundle across the dusty prairies of Swaziland and bid farewell to the calm kingdom as we return once again to our rapid republic.