Kalyna's Song

by Lisa Grekul

  I see what he means – about everyone knowing that I’m a foreigner. It’s thirty degrees Celsius outside, and at least thirty-five degrees inside. No one else in the airport is wearing corduroy slacks or a heavy wool sweater. No one else is carrying a winter coat, lugging hockey bags across the floor of the airport.

  No one else is so white.

  There are dozens of other Caucasian people milling around me. The flight from Johannesburg was packed full of South Africans, all destined – according to Siya – for the casinos of the Ezulwini Valley. But the Caucasian South Africans aren’t white. Each is tanned to a particular shade of brown. Deep bronze-brown, dark olive-brown. Golden yellow-brown. My skin hasn’t seen the sun for months; it looks more blue than brown.

  At the airport in Swaziland, it’s me who needs help now, not Siya. I need help carrying my hockey bags; help understanding what the Swazi officials say as they examine my residency permit and stamp my passport. Their accents are so thick, they might as well be speaking another language. Siya translates for me. He shows me how to shake hands properly with Swazi people, according to their custom. As I extend my hand, I’m supposed to clasp my left hand around my right wrist.

  Siya has his own driver. The driver is waiting for him in the parking lot near the airport in a shiny new black Mercedes. Siya teaches me that it’s called a car park here, not a parking lot. He sits in the front seat of the car, on the left side, because the steering wheel is on the right. I sit in the back. As we ease out of the car park, I pull out my camera. And, on the way to the college, I shift from side to side, camera poised so that I don’t miss a shot. This is my first real glimpse of the Swazi countryside. I want photos of everything. Women walking with baskets on their heads, babies tied to their backs with blankets; groups of schoolgirls in uniform, chatting on the shoulder of the road. Men in traditional Swazi dress, and little boys herding goats along the ditches.

  By the time we reach Mbabane, though, forty-five minutes later, I’ve taken a dozen photos of cows. Cows grazing in the fields beside the road, cows walking along the shoulder of the road. The cows are fascinating. They’re so skinny that I can count protruding ribs, and they have abnormally long, twisted horns growing out of their heads. Three times, Siya’s driver comes to a full stop to avoid hitting a cow. I think that maybe he should plough into the poor animals, to put them out of their misery. Around Mbabane, the cows finally peter out, and then the shopping malls start, complete with supermarkets and gas stations and hamburger joints.

  As we approach Mbabane, Siya decides that a tour is in order. He says that I’ll be spending a lot of time in Mbabane, and I need to know my way around – where to open a bank account, who to see about cashing travellers’ cheques. I need to become familiar with the South African Trade Commission, so that I know where to apply for my next transit visa. He wants to show me the Ekhwezi Bar and Grill, a good place to hear live music, and Marco’s Restaurante, the best place in town for pizza.

  According to Siya, it’s easy to find your way around Mbabane – though I’m not convinced. I think it’s going to take time for me to get used to the place. He shows me Allister Miller Steet – the main street of Mbabane, home of the Ekhwezi and Marco’s, and Barclay’s Bank. He says that Indingilizi, the only art gallery in town, is nearby. Allister Miller is the centre of all the action; at the south end of it is the Mbabane Market, a great place to buy cheap local crafts – soapstone carvings, wooden masks, swatches of the brightly coloured fabric – and west of the town centre are the two shopping centres, The Mall and the Swazi Plaza, with supermarkets, drugstores, ice cream shops, and clothing stores. Siya says that I should check out the shops in The Mall for upscale, locally made souvenirs – handbags, jewellery, t-shirts, and ceramics.

  Siya points to all of the places he talks about, but they pass by so quickly – and there’s so much to see – I’m not sure that I’ll remember anything from our tour. Oncoming traffic makes me squeeze my eyes shut constantly because I feel like we’re on the wrong side of the road. Our driver seems reckless the way that he takes corners, ignoring pedestrians who are trying to cross the street. I see poor people everywhere, many of them old and crippled and begging. I know that Swaziland is a Third World country. Somehow, though, this isn’t what I expected to see. They’re dressed in rags. They have no shoes. Some are children who couldn’t be older than seven or eight.

  As we make our slow ascent to Waterford, along the narrow road that winds up and around the Waterford hill toward the college near the top, I spot a mud shack with a thatched roof, an open cooking fire, two children chasing each other around their mother. My camera is lifted and I’m ready to take the perfect photograph – a bit of Swazi shrubbery framing the scene, the African sun setting in the background – but I just can’t snap the picture. The woman looks up as our Mercedes passes by; her children wrap their arms around her legs and stare at us. I feel ashamed, pointing my camera at them as though they were animals in a zoo. As though their poverty is something fascinating for my scrapbook.

  Welcome, says the sign at the gates of the college.

  WELCOME

  Waterford Kamhlaba United World College of Southern Africa

  we are all of the earth, which does not see differences of colour, religion, or race. we are ‘kamhlaba’ – all of one world.

  King Sobhuza II

  But the earth does see differences. It sees differences all the time. I’m seeing them too, for the first time.

  •••

  There’s nobody at the college gates to greet me, and nobody at the main office – except for a night watchman who says that everybody else is at dinner, and that I should make my way over to the cubies straight away. He’s not particularly friendly. I tell him that I don’t know what the cubies are, let alone where they are. I ask him to show me. But the watchman doesn’t seem too thrilled about the idea. He pretends that he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

  So I walk back to the car park. Back to Siya, who is waiting for me in the car for the word that everything is all right. Everything isn’t all right. I’m starting to dread the moment that Siya drives away. What will I do without him?

  Siya talks to the night watchman himself, and he promptly finds out exactly what and where the cubies are. Cubie is another word for room. It’s short for cubicle. My cubie is in the senior girls’ hostel, not far from the main office. The watchman says that Siya can’t help carry my bags there, though. Unless he’s a student or a teacher, Siya isn’t allowed on campus. We have to say our goodbyes in the car park.

  I feel my heart race. I don’t want him to leave. I’ve gotten used to him. I like him. How will I carry my bags by myself? How will I know where to go? How will I understand what people are saying?

  After Siya arranges for the night watchman to help me with me bags, he gives me his phone number in Mbabane. Pressing it into my hand, he says that I can call him anytime. “We should get together sometime,” he says, “downtown.” He says that he’ll pick me up at school, anytime.

  And then he shakes my hand – the Swazi way.

  “Hamba Kahle,” says Siya. Goodbye, in SiSwati. And then, with a grin, “Do pobachennia.” Goodbye, in Ukrainian.

  I throw my arms around his neck and thank him for everything.

  “Thank you, Siyabonga. Siyabonga, Siyabonga.”

  If I weren’t on the verge of tears, I’d probably find it funny.

  •••

  It isn’t hard to find my cubie once I know where the senior girls’ hostel is. Every cubie has a name on it. Inside my room, I find a copy of Official Rules and Regulations, a timetable, all of my textbooks, and a letter that tells me what to expect over the next few days. I’m welcome to spend this evening exploring the campus, figuring out my way around. First thing tomorrow, though, I have to be in the assembly hall for the headmaster’s opening remarks. Then classes begin. They don’t waste much time.

  Or much space.

  Each cubie is five feet by six-and-a
-half feet, with a cement bed built right into the wall, and a mattress on top of it. Across from the bed, there’s a desk; beside the desk, a cupboard, also built into the wall. The cubie door doubles as the cupboard door, so that when the cupboard is open, the cubie is closed, and vice versa.

  Settling into my cubie isn’t my first priority. Showering is. I’ve been wearing the same clothes since I left home. Shower first, unpack later. I can almost feel the water pelting my shoulders and back, rinsing away the last three days of traveling.

  Are there rules against showering at this time of day?

  Flipping through Official Rules and Regulations, I hear water running, voices echoing against tile. It must be all right.

  But it isn’t all right. It isn’t all right at all. Two steps into the bathroom – soap, shampoo, conditioner, and razor wrapped inside my towel – I realize that I’m in trouble. There are no walls between the shower heads, and no curtains. Nothing to divide the shower area from the toilets and the sinks. Just one, big steamy room filled with wet, naked bodies. Three girls stand side by side under three jets of water, chatting as they lather their armpits and crotches. At the sink, two girls brush their teeth, bare-breasted, towels wrapped around their waists.

  My heart races as I slip back into my cubie, shutting the door tightly behind me. I’m a private person. Showering is a private activity. What if I have my period? Other girls will see me. They’ll stare at my nude, menstruating body. I won’t do it. I won’t shower in a group. If I have to, I’ll get up in the middle of the night. I’ll shower at four in the morning, if that’s what it takes.

  For now, a change of clothes will have to do.

  Of course, nothing is left unwrinkled in my hockey bags. I packed my bags well over a week ago, so all of my clothes are creased. I pull out a pair of brown walking shorts, a white cotton t-shirt. The girls’ hostel is split into two corridors, connected by the bathroom, and each corridor, I discover, has a communal iron and a communal ironing board. Shorts and t-shirt in hand, I head down my corridor to press my clothes.

  Another girl has beaten me to it. A girl in a beige bra and a long, black skirt. A black girl ironing a blouse with black-and-white polka dots.

  My first new friend.

  I decide that while she irons, I’ll introduce myself – find out her name, where she’s from. Then I’ll ask her if she wants to come with me to find out where we eat, and whether dinner is still being served. I’m starving.

  Except that, by the time I reach the ironing board, the girl is walking away. She’s walking away quickly, though I can see that she hasn’t finished. Half of her blouse is still criss-crossed with sharp creases.

  “Hang on!” I say. “Come back!”

  The girl stops dead in her tracks. Slowly, she turns back toward the ironing board.

  I point to the ironing board. “You can finish.” I smile.

  The girl doesn’t smile back. Without a word, she lays her blouse again across the ironing board.

  “Are you from here?” I ask, trying to be cheerful. “From Swaziland, I mean?”

  The girl shakes her head as she passes the iron across her blouse.

  “From South Africa?”

  She nods, her eyes focused on the blouse in front of her. She’s shy, I think. I’ll have to do the talking.

  “I’m from Canada. My name is Colleen.”

  I wait for the girl to introduce herself. She keeps her head down, keeps ironing.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, after several moments have passed.

  “Thandiwe.”

  “Thandiwe. What a nice name. Well, Thandiwe, I’ve been travelling for the last three days. My clothes are so wrinkled. Just look at these shorts. I don’t know how I’ll ever get them straightened out.”

  Thandiwe looks up from the ironing board. “Shall I press them for you?” she says, quietly, whispering almost.

  Why would she press my shorts?

  “If you want,” she says, “I could show you how to press them yourself. It’s not very hard once you get the hang of it.”

  “I’ve got the hang of it thank-you-very-much,” I say, laughing. “Who do you think has been ironing my clothes all my life?”

  The girl shrugs. I stop laughing.

  “Me!” I say. “I have. I’ve been ironing my clothes all my life!”

  Thandiwe doesn’t seem convinced. She looks at me as though I’m lying. She must think that I have servants at home to do my ironing. I’m sure of it. But not all white people grow up with servants. We don’t all have nannies and maids and housekeepers.

  Making friends here is going to be tricky, I see. Trickier than I thought. I’m going to need time to come up with a strategy.

  I apologize for disturbing Thandiwe. I tell her that I’ll come back later. Slowly, I walk back to my room.

  Staring at the walls of my cubie, I open a Mars bar. Thank God for the Mars bars Mom bought me. I start to plan where I’ll hang my pictures, and where I’ll set out the odds and ends that I brought from home. Above my bed, posters of my favourite singer, Joni Mitchell. Joni Mitchell in blue jeans and a tie-dyed shirt, sitting in a pile of straw next to her yellow acoustic guitar. Joni Mitchell close up – pensive – her hair long, hanging limp and straight. Joni Mitchell live, in concert. Eyes closed, mouth open.

  On the back of my cubie door, with thumbtacks, I’ll pin up my print of Picasso’s “Three Musicians.” Beneath the Picasso, I’ll tape up the small paper Canada flag that I saved from last year’s Canada Day celebration in St. Paul. And around the burglar bars in my window, I’ll wind a red and green flowered scarf. The kerchief that I wore during my last year of Ukrainian dancing.

  Unrolling my close-up of Joni Mitchell, I hear voices nearby. Voices chattering and giggling; girls on their way back from dinner. When I open my door, I see three girls walk into the cubie across the hall: three Indian girls in brightly coloured saris. I watch them settle onto the bed together, and light a stick of incense. Ribbons of smoke drift out of the half-open cubie door. It’s not like Father Zubritsky’s incense, though. The Indian incense is rich and spicy. I inhale deeply.

  For a moment, I hesitate. I can’t just barge in, and push myself on them. I can’t exactly force them to be my friends. I could ask to borrow masking tape for my posters. A tea bag maybe. Some sugar? Then I remember my Canada pins. The tiny plastic Canadian flags that Mom gave me for Christmas. Gifts for the girls, icebreakers. Conversation starters.

  Pins in hand, I knock on the half-open door. “Helloo-oo. Saweboooona!”

  The giggling stops. One of the girls pokes out her head.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m your new neighbour!” I reach out to shake her hand. “Colleen Lutzak, from Canada.”

  The Indian girl gives my hand a polite squeeze. Her name is Preeya. Inside her cubie, I meet Vijia and Samina. After the three girls thank me for the Canada flag pins, the four of us sit together.

  I ask questions – “Where are you from? How many years have you been at Waterford? How many years have you known each other?” – and they give one word answers.

  “Botswana.” “Seven.” “Seven.”

  A few minutes later, I excuse myself, explaining to Preeya, Vijia and Samina that I’ve got bags to unpack, posters to put up. Back in my cubie, I hear one of the girls mimicking my voice with a thick drawl – “I’m your new neighbour from Canada.” Another girl says, “Shhhh.” The giggling resumes.

  I try not to let the Indian girls bother me. I try to concentrate on decorating my room. But tears come to my eyes as I stare at my empty cubie, my blank walls. Up the corridor, girls gather outside their rooms, talking and laughing. Down the corridor, someone turns on a stereo. Outside my cubie door, two girls reunite for all the hostel to hear.

  “I’ve missed you so much!”

  “I’ve missed you, too!”

  The two girls gossip about their travels over the Christmas holidays, they share news from home.

  It doesn’t take me lo
ng to figure out that most of the girls have been going to Waterford for years. They all know each other. They’re old friends. For all I know, I’m the only new student in the senior class. I’ll never make friends here.

  With tears in my eyes, I plunge my hands into my hockey bags. I pull out all of my jeans, t-shirts, shorts. My one-piece bathing suit, my two-piece bathing suit. Socks, panties, bras. Flannel pyjamas. In one of my bags, there’s an envelope of photos taken at home over the last year. I’ll put the pictures up around my bed, above my desk. In the spaces between Jonis, between Picasso and the Canada flag.

  I know that I packed them. Photos of Mom and Sophie in the summer – Mom lifting her first batch of pyrohy from the outdoor clay oven that Dad had just built; Sophie at Mom’s side, holding back our dog Ralph as he jumps at the loaves of bread. Photos of Sophie, Wes and me posing one Halloween in matching green costumes. We went as three peas in a pod. Dad and Wes ice fishing at Blacket Lake in red and black Merc snowmobile suits, the two of them holding up thermos mugs of rum and coke, saying “Cheers” to the camera.

  Where are the photos?

  Panicking now, I turn the hockey bags upside down, shaking their contents onto my bed. A box of Tampax drops out, scattering tampons across the floor. Plastic cassette cases crack against the cement; my hardcover copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude drops onto Joni Mitchell’s torso, ripping a hole in her guitar. I don’t care.

  When I finally find the envelope, I ruin half the pictures inside. Tears drip onto the photos, onto Ralph’s nose, onto Mom’s bread. Onto Sophie’s green hands.

  My first night at the college is a rough one. I see every hour on the clock, hear every strange noise outside my window. I consider showering at three in the morning, but I don’t want to wake up the hostel, and I’m scared to walk around in the dark.