It's a Sunday morning, and you are up on a hill. But this is not just any Sunday, you know, a back home kind of Sunday. Or any kind of hill for that matter. This is a Kosi Sunday and the hill overlooks the Kosi river estuary which spills into the Indian Ocean. The hill is on the south eastern edge of Africa looking towards Madagascar some 400km out across the horizon line.
Your Landcruiser is parked behind you, standing up to her runner boards in red grass. A species of veld grass known to grow well on these well-drained fertile soils, which when subject to the comparatively light rainfall of this region, is celebrated for its sweetness and called sweetveld. Known by the Tsonga pastoralists to please their grazing Angoni cattle.
A line of Tsonga on the hill, dressed in their Sunday best, walk briskly towards you. They greet you, and then, continue towards their small wooden church and chapel on the edge of the hill. A rudimentary place of worship with views outside to die for, and a cool dark interior to prey.
You watch this congregation of immaculately dressed worshippers, some with gay coloured brollies, others without shoes, saunter the sweetveld to their bushveld house of God. And you think to yourself. You'd rather be here right now than anywhere else in the world.