Smiles make up for my terrifying commute Every day, on my journey to work, tracing the spaghetti roads and navigating the haphazard hairpin bends, I approach the school from below and from quite a distance. Usually it is cloaked in thick, early morning mountain fog. In my beat-up Opel Corsa, which leaks in the rainy season, currently has no front number-plate and at any given time holds the majority of my wardrobe, I dodge the potholes, which, like miniature mine-shafts, appear overnight. I am rarely successful. Even in the affluent suburban areas, where middle-class Swazis drive VW Golfs and build monstrous houses before considering what to put in them, the roads can resemble the Somme. My Corsa barely stands a chance against such sink-holes, which could easily, it seems, swallow an entire tyre, or inquisitive stray dog. Yet the taxless, rusty little machine prevails and I drive on, past pint-sized school children, no older than six or seven, their school bags half their size again and hoisted high on their backs. Their uniforms are distinct and immaculate. With one foot on a railing, they polish the mud from their shoes before school to avoid punishment from their over-zealous teachers. They laugh and run happily as they shimmy along the edge of the road and even the bow-legged little girl who walks on her ankles and the albino child with his umbrella look happy, despite this being a hard country for both disabilities. There are children everywhere. Making up over half of the population, minors fight for space in dark, cramped classrooms of at least 50 students and do their homework by gaslight to compete with each other for the few jobs that are available when, and if, they finish their education. The government cannot fund such a deluge through school, and state school fees cripple families. Many do not complete the school-leavers' S-GCSE and those that do are often far older than 16. Waving at a friend and fellow mentor from my mentoring project, I drive on. Swaziland is so small that you sometimes feel like you're in a long Emmerdale omnibus and one arm gets stronger than the other from all the salutations. Last year, I and 17 other men, both Swazi and expat, established a mentoring project to offer some support to boys of a local community who have no positive male influence in their lives. Eight months later, Kwakha Indvodza is now a trust and we organise weekly positive activities that range from film-making to community service projects, allowing these lads to express themselves and achieve in a threat-free male environment. With over 100,000 Aids orphans, many of whom suddenly become head-of-household, it is hard to find a family in Swaziland that hasn't been touched by the disease. With 26 per cent of the active population still carrying the syndrome and upwards of 45 per cent of 35-39 year-old-men, the typical age of fatherhood, the need for male mentorship is dire. Most of the previous two generations are no longer with us and it is still rare to see a Swazi man in his sixties, while parenting is commonly thrust upon the very young and the increasingly few elderly ladies that remain. A honking brings me back to the road and I swerve sharply left to avoid a mini-bus driver with a death wish. Looking through the rear-view mirror I see the private mini-bus taxi, called a Kombi, haring off down the road like an Acme cartoon vehicle, "IN GOD WE TRUST" boldly printed on its rear-windscreen. Never was there a truer statement. All such Kombis have mottos and messages printed on their flanks, by which they are often identified. As for a specific location and a Swazi might tell you to get the 'Hold on Tight' to Gwamile Street and connect with the 'Early Bird'. Occasionally, as I reach the end of my journey and begin the ascent of Waterford Hill and into brilliant sunshine beyond the fog, I am forced off the road by a bullish motorcade of dark-blue Sedans with a BMW X5 at its centre, the plates of which simply reads 'M1'. Even His Majesty has to begin his day at this early hour. The world's media briefly turned its gaze to Swaziland during North Africa's recent Jasmine Revolution, but they soon realised that there is not the tinder, let alone the spark of change here, and they moved on to hotter climes quite quickly. His Majesty King Mswati III continues to reign and is revered by the majority, who are fiercely traditional and protective of the customs that dominate Swazi society. Surrounded by traditionally-dressed, burly praise-singers whose role is to exult the man in every context and in extremely loud voices, His Majesty is ferried from place to place where he gives scripted speeches and signature waves, shadowed by people who lurk behind him and make the decisions. When he last came to Waterford, to celebrate the school's 50th anniversary, he was accompanied by police roadblocks at every intersection on his way, around 300 armed soldiers and police, two water-cannons and snipers on the roof of the sports hall. Internationally, Swaziland is known for three things: its HIV/Aids and TB prevalence rates, which stand at the highest in the world, its absolute monarch, who stands increasingly lonely as one of the world's last, and, in certain circles, for a particularly mellow strain of marijuana, after which, I'm told, you don't stand at all. And that distance from the rest of the world is reciprocal. The national newspaper has its international news on pages 15 and 16, after the celebrity section, advertisements and the weather. When telling people that I live in Swaziland, I am now prepared for that revealing blank look of incomprehension. On more than one occasion I have been asked how South East Asia is as a place to live. But all this is understandable. With a population akin to Kidderminster, and with a tenth of the nightlife, the capital Mbabane is hardly a place you hear about very often and hardly a place you expect a 20-something to settle for long. And yet, after two car accidents, flood, fire, break-in and break-up, I am still here. I know it's cheesy but there's magnetism in the boulder-strewn rivers, the granite and grass-covered monoliths and the smiles and good natures of the people who live here. Just like you would miss that little toe, were it removed, Swaziland has its own endearing character, charm and function. I guess I still have a few romantic notions of Africa after all. Read more about the school at www.waterford.sz