7/10/09
“Everyone seems to know what Africa needs, but sometimes I think our minds are not really on it. Most of us see only Africa’s contours, and we use them to map out problems of our own. Africa is a career move, and adventure, an experiment. It fades into an idea.”
I’ve entered a different world. I must follow its rules- its logic- and forget my own. I must see AIDS their way.
How frustrating it is for me when Africans ask, always asking, “Where did it come from?! Did Americans invent it to kill us off?” It’s an ongoing belief here. And my reaction is always the same- a rolling of the eyes and “ah!” But now- I must ask myself- what if my whole life everyone had told me Africans came up with a virus to kill us off. Then one day I meet an African. Im sure it would be the first question I ask.
I’m trying to look at AIDS through the sick- the desperate- the angry eyes of an African. I must see AIDS their way.
Finally a moment- a fee moment- I spend my Saturday at the salon getting braids. Always a 5-8 hour adventure. As I’m sitting there sandwiched between two women- one literally straddling me, my body in between her two legs- thank god she’s wearing pants today. The other hairdresser asks, “Simphiwe, do you smell something?” I know where this is going. “Do you smell….(laughter) fish!?” So comforting to know the vagina fish joke is an international one.
A skinny woman wearing tight white jeans, a sparkly halter top- breasts oozing out- walks into the salon. It’s clear she’s friends with the hairdresser. She Nelly and the hairdressers are gossiping in Siswait for a few hours until a man walks in .The white jeaned woman leaves with him. I suspect, but I don’t ask.
Later that night in our outdoor kitchen we’re discussing HIV again. Nelly tells me about the white jeaned woman. “She’s selling herself and she’s HIV positive.” Im outraged. They explain they all know her status but her clients never do. I exclaim if I had known I would have tried to intervene- warned this man. “Simphiwe no. It does not matter what you say. Swazi’s don’t care. They figure they’re going to get it anyway- so live life the way you want to live it.” I ask, “Will he atleast use a condom?” They laughg. “The candy don’t taste as sweet in the wrapper. Swazis figure they weren’t the first to get HIV and they won’t be the last. They don’t want to die alone.”
I remember a PCT telling me about her aunt who works as a nurse in Africa. She cares for those dying of AIDS. She and her co-workers are taught how to quickly and effectively take the blood from the sick. Many of the dying will try and grab the needle and puncture the nurse. They don’t want to suffer alone.
I am trying to see AIDS their way.
Prostitution is among the desperate everywhere. It’s called the 3 C’s (Car’s, Cash (for school fees) and Cell phones). This is why women are selling themselves. Today Thabeela tells me he was going to see her friend tomorrow. “I want to tell you a secret. My friend just had a baby. She had to drop out of school. The father of the baby is an old man. Maybe over 60. He is married with children of his own. My friend’s mother is dying of AIDS. She has four sibilings and her mother is pregnant with another. My friend needed money for school fees or else she would have to drop out. This man told her he would pay the fees if she would allow him to sleep with her for a while. My friend asked her mother is she should let him. Her mother told her to. She slept with him to pay for school. And now she has another mouth to feed and had to drop out of school. He is gone.” She sees the tears in my eyes that I am trying desperately to hold back- swallowing hard and tapping my foot. “I told you I was stronger than you Simphiwe. You have to be strong. You have to keep going on. No point in being sad- this is how it is. You can’t cry- there’s no time to cry.”
I know throwing out condoms and empowering women will help control this epidemic. But to change the men- can you imagine? I’m aware this idea is somewhat of a romantic, and even a naïve mission that probably won’t work. But I have to try.
Will I be able to endure the struggle?
Im starting to see AIDS their way.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Unsustainable Suit of Armor
7.8.09
Her name is Thabeela (Tab-ee-la). She is 18 and reminds me everyday she is stronger than me. She is Nelly’s niece and one of my closest friends here. My homestead is one of the farthest from any other volunteer’s- which I am grateful for- it allows me to be closer to my family. I unlike most of the PCT’s, spend almost every moment with my family. I have heard so many horror stories from other PCT’s. Gogo’s screaming when women pull out their pants form the suitcase. Mkhulu’s screaming at the PCT wife handing her huband juice, “You will kneel and bow when you serve your husband!” Some slaughter on their homesteads. Their families hassle them everyday for money and either ignore or demand all of their attention. “Dance little white girl dance!”
My family and I stay up until ten at night in the outdoor kitchen- just me and the ladies laughing and dancing. “You look so smart in pants Simphiwe!” They apparently like how loud and engaging I am- love how much I eat. Other families have told mine they wish they had me. I wish this would be my two year family. But this is only the 9 week one. It will be so hard to leave Thabeela in August.
One night Thabeela and I sit at the kitchen table having another one of our heart to hearts. She tells me her mother left she and her brother here with their Gogo- a year ago. Her mother didn’t say goodbye- just dropped them off. When she asked her Gogo where her mother was she told her she went to look for work in South Africa. Thabeela has not seen or spoken to her mother since. Looking away from me now, her voice cracks, tears collect in her eyes. She looks down and whispers, “I will forget her now. There is no point. No point in remembering her now. It gets in the way of school. I want to forget her. Will you forget your mother Simphiwe- after two years?” “No. I wont Thabeela. I don’t have the anger you have. My mother is very much apart of my life- even when I am not with her.” She responds, “This is good” Her eyes tear. “This is good.”
I ask Thabeela about the Peace Corps Volunteer doing HIV education in her school. I ask what is she teaching you exactly? “Seminal fluids, transmission, prevention, breast milk, contraction.” Thabeela just re-sighted the first chapter of HIV 101. But does she know what any of those words mean? Turns out she didn’t. It’s pretty entertaining watching the face of a 17 year old virgin (we’re talking the utmost virgin) when your describing what semen is and how it comes to….well be.
But why are we even teaching the technicals of HIV when it is the relationship dynamics of Swazi culture that is causing the virus to grab ahold of them? I ask her, “Do Swazi boys and girls know HIV is out there?” “Everybody knows. Only the girls are scared. Their boyfriends threaten to beat or kill them if they do not sleep with them. We hear stories of girls bodies found in the mountains- who said no.” Sex is everywhere in this country. Many are not married with out children- multiple partners. Teen pregnancies- drop outs.
In class today we are told to come up with a small problem in our community and to solve it together. It’s just an exercise to get us thinking about the appropriate steps. Me always jumping ahead- I find it a waste of time. I distract my group with questions such as, “So what are we going to do about the ‘men’ problem?!’ “I mean I know Peace Corps is all about empowering women, soccer clubs, sewing clubs, giving them the skills and the courage to be independent. HIV theatre and HIV camps. But who is out there talking to the men?! I mean it brings me back to my high school experience. During PE all the girls had to leave and be taught how to scream effectively and quickly get away from a rapist. While the boys continued to play kickball for the hour. WHO’S TALKING TO THE MEN. I can help build these suit of armors for women- but I wouldn’t have to build them if the men would just wake up. Let’s go straight to the source here. I want to have a conversation with them.” One PCT looks at me, hands in the air, and says, “Wow Mere- if that’s your goal for the next two years- you’re going to be sadly disappointed. Im not even going to try and approach that subject. It’s a loose loose.” And this is sad. Think about how many more men he could reach- as a young white male. Wishing I was man.
Im not trying to change a culture into a more American one here. This is not about women doing all the dishes and men sitting at the head of the table. What is happening here- is a universal wrong. The idea of universal anything- is one that bothers me. I remember having a conversation with my step father- Jesse- about it many times. The topic was female circumcision. I explained to him the idea of female circumcision is not ultimately an immoral one. It is tradition and I tried to look at it from all angles. As a woman, this was especially difficult. I am always in fear of imposing my cultural beliefs onto anyone. Jesse believed there was a universal morality- whereas I did not. It was up to each community to figure out collectively what was “right” or “wrong”.
Swazi morality is what a man says is right or wrong. So if there is no universal morality- the Swazi “Right’ must be the moral one and no need for us to intervene. But this belief is causing almost half of the population to die before the age of 32. This cannot be moral. This is not about politics- people are dying.
I cannot just empower women with sewing machines and condoms. I want to start a conversation with these boys. But how do I do this as an outsider- and even worse- a woman.
After dinner Thabeela wants me to help her with her homework- away from the others. She tells me she and her friends believe I am easy to talk to. They want me to come to their school- to talk. I explain, as soon as I have a free moment, and given permission- I am there. Her assignment, “Why is the HIV rate so high in Swaziland.” In my head im screaming the answer. It’s a controversial answer. So I let her answer.
The sun is setting now. My hut door is open and I am writing by candlelight. I hear Gagash whistling and ticking at his cows. Everyday, 5 pm, he herds the free ranging, free grazing beasts into their sleeping pin right outside my hut. I can hear the cows one by one slowly walking up the hill, brushing against the tall dry grass- obeying little man whistles. Turing right- turning left- in unison- until they are fenced in ready to sleep. Gate closed. The African sun gracefully puts herself to sleep. She whispers to me, “Welcome back home Mere.” A brush of wind slides over me as I breathe in Africa. I look down at the red soil underneath my barefeet- the southern night sky above my head. Always the same- like a crystal ball shattered into a million pieces lingering above- twinkling secrets of a time when they too were once apart of something bigger.
It’s a harvest moon tonight. My favorite moon. Everytime I see her warm face I remember being six years old- away from my mother. She would tell me whenever I missed home to look up at the harvest moon and sing our song, “Shine on Harvest Moon”. That she would be doing the same wherever she was. On the other side of the world though- she wouldn’t be tonight- at this moment. So I sing solo tonight mom.
“For me and my girl…”
Her name is Thabeela (Tab-ee-la). She is 18 and reminds me everyday she is stronger than me. She is Nelly’s niece and one of my closest friends here. My homestead is one of the farthest from any other volunteer’s- which I am grateful for- it allows me to be closer to my family. I unlike most of the PCT’s, spend almost every moment with my family. I have heard so many horror stories from other PCT’s. Gogo’s screaming when women pull out their pants form the suitcase. Mkhulu’s screaming at the PCT wife handing her huband juice, “You will kneel and bow when you serve your husband!” Some slaughter on their homesteads. Their families hassle them everyday for money and either ignore or demand all of their attention. “Dance little white girl dance!”
My family and I stay up until ten at night in the outdoor kitchen- just me and the ladies laughing and dancing. “You look so smart in pants Simphiwe!” They apparently like how loud and engaging I am- love how much I eat. Other families have told mine they wish they had me. I wish this would be my two year family. But this is only the 9 week one. It will be so hard to leave Thabeela in August.
One night Thabeela and I sit at the kitchen table having another one of our heart to hearts. She tells me her mother left she and her brother here with their Gogo- a year ago. Her mother didn’t say goodbye- just dropped them off. When she asked her Gogo where her mother was she told her she went to look for work in South Africa. Thabeela has not seen or spoken to her mother since. Looking away from me now, her voice cracks, tears collect in her eyes. She looks down and whispers, “I will forget her now. There is no point. No point in remembering her now. It gets in the way of school. I want to forget her. Will you forget your mother Simphiwe- after two years?” “No. I wont Thabeela. I don’t have the anger you have. My mother is very much apart of my life- even when I am not with her.” She responds, “This is good” Her eyes tear. “This is good.”
I ask Thabeela about the Peace Corps Volunteer doing HIV education in her school. I ask what is she teaching you exactly? “Seminal fluids, transmission, prevention, breast milk, contraction.” Thabeela just re-sighted the first chapter of HIV 101. But does she know what any of those words mean? Turns out she didn’t. It’s pretty entertaining watching the face of a 17 year old virgin (we’re talking the utmost virgin) when your describing what semen is and how it comes to….well be.
But why are we even teaching the technicals of HIV when it is the relationship dynamics of Swazi culture that is causing the virus to grab ahold of them? I ask her, “Do Swazi boys and girls know HIV is out there?” “Everybody knows. Only the girls are scared. Their boyfriends threaten to beat or kill them if they do not sleep with them. We hear stories of girls bodies found in the mountains- who said no.” Sex is everywhere in this country. Many are not married with out children- multiple partners. Teen pregnancies- drop outs.
In class today we are told to come up with a small problem in our community and to solve it together. It’s just an exercise to get us thinking about the appropriate steps. Me always jumping ahead- I find it a waste of time. I distract my group with questions such as, “So what are we going to do about the ‘men’ problem?!’ “I mean I know Peace Corps is all about empowering women, soccer clubs, sewing clubs, giving them the skills and the courage to be independent. HIV theatre and HIV camps. But who is out there talking to the men?! I mean it brings me back to my high school experience. During PE all the girls had to leave and be taught how to scream effectively and quickly get away from a rapist. While the boys continued to play kickball for the hour. WHO’S TALKING TO THE MEN. I can help build these suit of armors for women- but I wouldn’t have to build them if the men would just wake up. Let’s go straight to the source here. I want to have a conversation with them.” One PCT looks at me, hands in the air, and says, “Wow Mere- if that’s your goal for the next two years- you’re going to be sadly disappointed. Im not even going to try and approach that subject. It’s a loose loose.” And this is sad. Think about how many more men he could reach- as a young white male. Wishing I was man.
Im not trying to change a culture into a more American one here. This is not about women doing all the dishes and men sitting at the head of the table. What is happening here- is a universal wrong. The idea of universal anything- is one that bothers me. I remember having a conversation with my step father- Jesse- about it many times. The topic was female circumcision. I explained to him the idea of female circumcision is not ultimately an immoral one. It is tradition and I tried to look at it from all angles. As a woman, this was especially difficult. I am always in fear of imposing my cultural beliefs onto anyone. Jesse believed there was a universal morality- whereas I did not. It was up to each community to figure out collectively what was “right” or “wrong”.
Swazi morality is what a man says is right or wrong. So if there is no universal morality- the Swazi “Right’ must be the moral one and no need for us to intervene. But this belief is causing almost half of the population to die before the age of 32. This cannot be moral. This is not about politics- people are dying.
I cannot just empower women with sewing machines and condoms. I want to start a conversation with these boys. But how do I do this as an outsider- and even worse- a woman.
After dinner Thabeela wants me to help her with her homework- away from the others. She tells me she and her friends believe I am easy to talk to. They want me to come to their school- to talk. I explain, as soon as I have a free moment, and given permission- I am there. Her assignment, “Why is the HIV rate so high in Swaziland.” In my head im screaming the answer. It’s a controversial answer. So I let her answer.
The sun is setting now. My hut door is open and I am writing by candlelight. I hear Gagash whistling and ticking at his cows. Everyday, 5 pm, he herds the free ranging, free grazing beasts into their sleeping pin right outside my hut. I can hear the cows one by one slowly walking up the hill, brushing against the tall dry grass- obeying little man whistles. Turing right- turning left- in unison- until they are fenced in ready to sleep. Gate closed. The African sun gracefully puts herself to sleep. She whispers to me, “Welcome back home Mere.” A brush of wind slides over me as I breathe in Africa. I look down at the red soil underneath my barefeet- the southern night sky above my head. Always the same- like a crystal ball shattered into a million pieces lingering above- twinkling secrets of a time when they too were once apart of something bigger.
It’s a harvest moon tonight. My favorite moon. Everytime I see her warm face I remember being six years old- away from my mother. She would tell me whenever I missed home to look up at the harvest moon and sing our song, “Shine on Harvest Moon”. That she would be doing the same wherever she was. On the other side of the world though- she wouldn’t be tonight- at this moment. So I sing solo tonight mom.
“For me and my girl…”
When the Abnormal Becomes Normal
7.4.09
“Maye Kuhlupheka kuyevana.”
Misery strikes where there is poverty.
I am awoken by a woman singing these words outside our homestead- crying and screaming.
Here it is common knowledge. Here where there are 70,000 orphans living in Swaziland another 60,000 living in sickness, poverty, and food insecurity. “10 percent of this nation will be orphaned- a first in history.” Children are forced into parenting sibilings and families are forced to care for other people’s children making their own poverty rise. My family included. Swaziland has the highest HIV rate in the world. “16,000 people die as a result of HIV each year- 45 people a day. Life expectancy has dropped from nearly 60 years in the 90’s to just over 30 years today. Each weekend people are buried.” The desperately ill are sent home to suffer and die with their poor families who have no knowledge of how to care for the sick. “70% of this population live below the poverty line.” The norm is poverty. The norm is violence associated with sex- with innocent children. Men believe they own these women as property- disposable goods. Young girls abused.
They are accepting the unacceptable and the abnormal has become the normal.
When all these statistics are thrown at us in class my fellow PCT’s are wanting to discuss in agonizing length about how horrible their new host families are treating them. What they have to eat, never any alone time. Granted my family is absolutely amazing- leaving me time to think about more important things. I raise my hand, “I’ve been speaking with young men and married women and I am realizing more and more why this disease is punching a hole through the Swazi population. Men. They’re commuting for work- they’re sleeping around- they’re bringing it home to their wives. They’re beating their wives if she goes and gets tested behind their back. They’re refusing to get tested themselves. How do you convince how do you force a man to get tested- to care. I know I cant convince. But can you imagine- if the King- publicly went and got tested. Telling the young men of his country that it is not taboo and that you should get tested.” My group is silent. Did they too just realize all this educating,convincing, and prevention work we are about to embark on for the next two years could be avoided if the King would just give up a little bit of his blood- a message that could save his country.
It’s July 4th. Peace Corps has arranged a ceremony for the PCT’s- an introduction to Swaziland hosted by PCV’s, LCF’s, our country directory, ambassadors, and ministries. We sit and listen to lectures, “We need your help.” Sarah Morrison (standing U.S. ambassador here in Swaziland) stands up. She begins, “At 36 I had realized I needed something more to my life. So I joined the Peace Corps.” She begins to cry. She pulls it together. “I promised myself I would not cry. Ah- OK. Peace Corps in Liberia, changed my life forever. What you are about to experience will stay with you. But it’s not I who can really tell you what your work will do for others- I brought my dear friend from Liberia with me. He has asked to say a few words to you all.”
Sometimes it amazes me how different Africans look- country to country. He stands and addresses us. “I am here today to tell you a story. A long time ago- there was a boy in a small town of Liberia who spoke very little English- who was so afraid of the city and people. He hid behind his classmates- he did not think he would ever graduate. But then- one year- a Peace Corps volunteer came to his school. She taught this boy how to use a computer, she taught him English, she brought him to the city. This boy graduated- he went onto University. He left the slums of his homestead. He became a representative of his town, his city, his country. He is now leader of foreign affairs in Liberia. He is internationally speaking out for those Africans who cannot. I am here today because of people like you. This Peace Corps volunteer, she saved me. Just as you will save others. And most the time- you won’t ever know it. I am convinced that Peace Corps is the best foreign international policy there is. Sometimes I go back to my village to visit. I realize how far I have come. How uncomfortable I am now without electricity and running water. No sanitation, poverty and sickness all around me. To think all of you have chosen to come to this. To give up everything for the next two years- ohhh we thank you. Don’t ever forget you are making a difference. You are our eyes and ears on the front lines. You are the ones living it- understanding it. We thank you.”
Sarah closes with Obama’s speech he had written for our Independence Day. It’s only been a week and already we feel so disconnected from our country. As I wipe the tears from my face I look back at the rows of volunteers behind me- those who will be with me on the front line- my fellow Americans- all here to make a difference.
Finally, I belong.
We are the Peace Corps.
“Maye Kuhlupheka kuyevana.”
Misery strikes where there is poverty.
I am awoken by a woman singing these words outside our homestead- crying and screaming.
Here it is common knowledge. Here where there are 70,000 orphans living in Swaziland another 60,000 living in sickness, poverty, and food insecurity. “10 percent of this nation will be orphaned- a first in history.” Children are forced into parenting sibilings and families are forced to care for other people’s children making their own poverty rise. My family included. Swaziland has the highest HIV rate in the world. “16,000 people die as a result of HIV each year- 45 people a day. Life expectancy has dropped from nearly 60 years in the 90’s to just over 30 years today. Each weekend people are buried.” The desperately ill are sent home to suffer and die with their poor families who have no knowledge of how to care for the sick. “70% of this population live below the poverty line.” The norm is poverty. The norm is violence associated with sex- with innocent children. Men believe they own these women as property- disposable goods. Young girls abused.
They are accepting the unacceptable and the abnormal has become the normal.
When all these statistics are thrown at us in class my fellow PCT’s are wanting to discuss in agonizing length about how horrible their new host families are treating them. What they have to eat, never any alone time. Granted my family is absolutely amazing- leaving me time to think about more important things. I raise my hand, “I’ve been speaking with young men and married women and I am realizing more and more why this disease is punching a hole through the Swazi population. Men. They’re commuting for work- they’re sleeping around- they’re bringing it home to their wives. They’re beating their wives if she goes and gets tested behind their back. They’re refusing to get tested themselves. How do you convince how do you force a man to get tested- to care. I know I cant convince. But can you imagine- if the King- publicly went and got tested. Telling the young men of his country that it is not taboo and that you should get tested.” My group is silent. Did they too just realize all this educating,convincing, and prevention work we are about to embark on for the next two years could be avoided if the King would just give up a little bit of his blood- a message that could save his country.
It’s July 4th. Peace Corps has arranged a ceremony for the PCT’s- an introduction to Swaziland hosted by PCV’s, LCF’s, our country directory, ambassadors, and ministries. We sit and listen to lectures, “We need your help.” Sarah Morrison (standing U.S. ambassador here in Swaziland) stands up. She begins, “At 36 I had realized I needed something more to my life. So I joined the Peace Corps.” She begins to cry. She pulls it together. “I promised myself I would not cry. Ah- OK. Peace Corps in Liberia, changed my life forever. What you are about to experience will stay with you. But it’s not I who can really tell you what your work will do for others- I brought my dear friend from Liberia with me. He has asked to say a few words to you all.”
Sometimes it amazes me how different Africans look- country to country. He stands and addresses us. “I am here today to tell you a story. A long time ago- there was a boy in a small town of Liberia who spoke very little English- who was so afraid of the city and people. He hid behind his classmates- he did not think he would ever graduate. But then- one year- a Peace Corps volunteer came to his school. She taught this boy how to use a computer, she taught him English, she brought him to the city. This boy graduated- he went onto University. He left the slums of his homestead. He became a representative of his town, his city, his country. He is now leader of foreign affairs in Liberia. He is internationally speaking out for those Africans who cannot. I am here today because of people like you. This Peace Corps volunteer, she saved me. Just as you will save others. And most the time- you won’t ever know it. I am convinced that Peace Corps is the best foreign international policy there is. Sometimes I go back to my village to visit. I realize how far I have come. How uncomfortable I am now without electricity and running water. No sanitation, poverty and sickness all around me. To think all of you have chosen to come to this. To give up everything for the next two years- ohhh we thank you. Don’t ever forget you are making a difference. You are our eyes and ears on the front lines. You are the ones living it- understanding it. We thank you.”
Sarah closes with Obama’s speech he had written for our Independence Day. It’s only been a week and already we feel so disconnected from our country. As I wipe the tears from my face I look back at the rows of volunteers behind me- those who will be with me on the front line- my fellow Americans- all here to make a difference.
Finally, I belong.
We are the Peace Corps.
We Are Music
7.2.09
Like a tidal wave- we see it coming- we are warned- we are wanted.
Our families are here to collect us. We’re all terrified we’ll say or do the wrong thing. I write an entire set of questions and greetings on my palm- just in case my new make (ma-gay ‘mother’) and babe (father) do not speak English. We walk to the top of a hill- all 32 of us. We are now face to face with a crowd of over-eager makes and babes. I shout, “Sanibonani bo make bami!” Hello my mothers. “Ahhhh yebo yebo yebo sisi!” They shout.
I look down at my palm- my nervous sweat has rubbed off the ink on my palm. Shit.
Musa (big poppa- our training manager our father away from fathers the man you just want to hug when having a bad day) grabs my hand and walks me over to a woman standing tall all alone, her head held high. She extends her tiny arm to me. We share a Swazi shake- a serious of repetitious movements grabbing the thumb then the hand then the thumb then the hand. “Sawbona make.” “Sawbona sisi.” She knows English but Musa tells her to try and speak only in Siswati with me.
Her name is Nelly.
Nelly is 34 with two girls. She is not married and the father of her children died from AIDS. Her eldest does not live with her. Her youngest is 14 and they call her Fati. They live with Nelly’s make and babe. Her niece and two nephews.
Our home is one of about 10,000 homesteads in this village. I have my own little hut next to theirs. On the way “home” Nelly tells me she has two dogs and an avocado tree. I tell her “this is fate”. I have to explain "fate". She tells me her daughter knows traditional Swazi dancing and this is part of the reason they linked me with this family. I had forgotten I had filled out paper work months ago stating I enjoy African dance.
My gogo (grandmother) looks exactly how you would envision a seriously old African woman to look. As she lays her worn out and calloused fingers on my shoulder- she tells me- “Ngikutzandza gogo.” I love you granddaughter. She has renamed me. I am Simphiwe (Sim-pee-whey). Simphiwe Shongwe. All Swazi names mean something. One of the nephews is named Mzawo. The last one of eight- his name literally means, “What am I going to do with this kid?” Simphiwe means, ‘beautiful gift” gogo tells me as she slaps me on the back smiling and laughing. “Oh Gogo- im sure that’s what you call all your volunteers who come and stay with you for nine weeks.”
Its finally time for me to meet the big Mkulu (grandfather). The head of the family. They pull me aside- wipe off the food crumbs on my shirt. They instruct me what to say in Siswati. They’re making me nervous. The niece- Thabeela (Tab-ee-lea) translates for us. Mkhulu and I are discussing the usual- Obama, Michael Jackson’s death (why did he dye his skin white?) and 911- he interrupts to go and fetch his rifle. He explains that I need not worry- the community knows he has a rifle and that he protrols his homestead every night with it .They will not harm me.
They make the 17 year old nephew sleep in a hut next to mine.
His name is Gagash- my new 17 year old bodyguard. Gagash is incredibly shy and an orphan who lost his parents to HIV. (they say TB here- but most often that’s code for HIV- people with HIV often get TB they only admit the lesser of two evils- TB). They pulled him out of school because they couldn't afford it and he was not catching on to what was being taught. He doesn't know English. They felt he was better at taking care of the cows. He lives with all women (except Mkhulu) who are constantly laughing at him. They renamed him Gagash after a character in a movie everyone seems to know here. Gagash is some sort of jokster or clown in this film. I have been trying hard to get Gagash to open up around me. We both share a love for the two dogs and one night as we were feeding them together I look at him and say, “Gagash- we are bonding.” He responds, “Bond? Gun?” James Bond. He looks out for me. Our classes ran late the other night- I did not get home until after dark- and NO ONE especially a white woman is to be walking around alone at night. On my way home, he found me and walked me back. I roll up my sleeve and flex my arm, “Don’t worry Gagash I got these babies.” He teaches me how to heard the cows into there sleeping pin at night- I hear at our gate young men whispering. “Simphiwe…come here..” (everyone seems to know my name). He grabs my arm..firmly says, “No.”
My first night after dinner Gogo says to me, “Simphiwe SMACK DOWN! Television.” I ask Thabeele, “Did Gogo just say ‘smack down’ ?” “Yebo yebo- we love Jeff Hardy!” So here I sit in a hut made out of mud, in one of the most povery striken areas, AIDS all around, women serving men, cows peeking through kitchen windows, and I hear Jeff Hardy screaming, “I didn’t put you in a ladder match in extreme rules- for nothing!” right before he cracks a chair over some spandex wearin man’s head.
Every night the women and I go to the outdoor kitchen to prepare dinner on the wood burning stove. We prepare different variations of maize. They won’t let me help cook so I sit on the ground with Gogo (where most Gogo’s sit) I pick up a husk of corn and mimic Gogo. Everyone stops what they’re doing. “Simphewe! You can’t sit on the ground. You’ll get dirty. And You cant ukhutula ummbila. (the process of removing the kernels from dried out corn). Your hands will be so sore!” After 30 minutes of mimicking Gogo- I begin to regret my decision.
I remember Nelly telling me about her 14 year old daughter who knows Swazi dance.
Her name is Fati. Her actual name is Noctunda- but because of her portly stature and her eating habits (this girl can out eat me-honest)- they have renamed her Fati. Umfati means wife or big woman. Fati does not know English and struggles with Siswati. She’s fourteen and still in primary school. Nelly blames the “fits”. I later find out she means seizures. They don’t realize Fati has epilepsy. Her “fits” last about 40 minutes and she has had about eight in her lifetime. I express my concern when they tell me she is no longer on her medication.
Fati is always smiling- always happy. Her laughter is contagious. I ask Nelly if she would ask Fati to dance for me. “I have music and speakers I could play for her.” Nelly looks at me- confusion in her eyes. “But Simphiwe- we are music.” The women start singing and clapping in unison. I watch Fati grow. She comes out of herself. I realize it doesn’t matter she doesn’t know English- it doesn’t matter she and I cannot communicate through words. Right now she is communicating everything. To her family she is slow- dumb. I find her beautiful. When she dances- she’s in that moment- I've been in that moment before. The moment where all your frustrations come out in beautiful waves of grace. The world becomes surreally beautiful. She smiles turning her head, stomping. She has one of those smiles that lie in the eyes. I see absolute beauty.
I pull out the ipod and speakers. I ask Gogo if she’d like to listen to some Al Greene, Ray Charles…. The kids interrupt- they want Timbaland Apologize and Alicia Keys No One. I turn up “No One”. The girls are dancing and trying to sing along. I grab a shoe and serenade Gagash in his chair.
My new routine- its wonderful.
Am I really here? In this moment? Wake up Mere- Wake up Simphiwe.
Like a tidal wave- we see it coming- we are warned- we are wanted.
Our families are here to collect us. We’re all terrified we’ll say or do the wrong thing. I write an entire set of questions and greetings on my palm- just in case my new make (ma-gay ‘mother’) and babe (father) do not speak English. We walk to the top of a hill- all 32 of us. We are now face to face with a crowd of over-eager makes and babes. I shout, “Sanibonani bo make bami!” Hello my mothers. “Ahhhh yebo yebo yebo sisi!” They shout.
I look down at my palm- my nervous sweat has rubbed off the ink on my palm. Shit.
Musa (big poppa- our training manager our father away from fathers the man you just want to hug when having a bad day) grabs my hand and walks me over to a woman standing tall all alone, her head held high. She extends her tiny arm to me. We share a Swazi shake- a serious of repetitious movements grabbing the thumb then the hand then the thumb then the hand. “Sawbona make.” “Sawbona sisi.” She knows English but Musa tells her to try and speak only in Siswati with me.
Her name is Nelly.
Nelly is 34 with two girls. She is not married and the father of her children died from AIDS. Her eldest does not live with her. Her youngest is 14 and they call her Fati. They live with Nelly’s make and babe. Her niece and two nephews.
Our home is one of about 10,000 homesteads in this village. I have my own little hut next to theirs. On the way “home” Nelly tells me she has two dogs and an avocado tree. I tell her “this is fate”. I have to explain "fate". She tells me her daughter knows traditional Swazi dancing and this is part of the reason they linked me with this family. I had forgotten I had filled out paper work months ago stating I enjoy African dance.
My gogo (grandmother) looks exactly how you would envision a seriously old African woman to look. As she lays her worn out and calloused fingers on my shoulder- she tells me- “Ngikutzandza gogo.” I love you granddaughter. She has renamed me. I am Simphiwe (Sim-pee-whey). Simphiwe Shongwe. All Swazi names mean something. One of the nephews is named Mzawo. The last one of eight- his name literally means, “What am I going to do with this kid?” Simphiwe means, ‘beautiful gift” gogo tells me as she slaps me on the back smiling and laughing. “Oh Gogo- im sure that’s what you call all your volunteers who come and stay with you for nine weeks.”
Its finally time for me to meet the big Mkulu (grandfather). The head of the family. They pull me aside- wipe off the food crumbs on my shirt. They instruct me what to say in Siswati. They’re making me nervous. The niece- Thabeela (Tab-ee-lea) translates for us. Mkhulu and I are discussing the usual- Obama, Michael Jackson’s death (why did he dye his skin white?) and 911- he interrupts to go and fetch his rifle. He explains that I need not worry- the community knows he has a rifle and that he protrols his homestead every night with it .They will not harm me.
They make the 17 year old nephew sleep in a hut next to mine.
His name is Gagash- my new 17 year old bodyguard. Gagash is incredibly shy and an orphan who lost his parents to HIV. (they say TB here- but most often that’s code for HIV- people with HIV often get TB they only admit the lesser of two evils- TB). They pulled him out of school because they couldn't afford it and he was not catching on to what was being taught. He doesn't know English. They felt he was better at taking care of the cows. He lives with all women (except Mkhulu) who are constantly laughing at him. They renamed him Gagash after a character in a movie everyone seems to know here. Gagash is some sort of jokster or clown in this film. I have been trying hard to get Gagash to open up around me. We both share a love for the two dogs and one night as we were feeding them together I look at him and say, “Gagash- we are bonding.” He responds, “Bond? Gun?” James Bond. He looks out for me. Our classes ran late the other night- I did not get home until after dark- and NO ONE especially a white woman is to be walking around alone at night. On my way home, he found me and walked me back. I roll up my sleeve and flex my arm, “Don’t worry Gagash I got these babies.” He teaches me how to heard the cows into there sleeping pin at night- I hear at our gate young men whispering. “Simphiwe…come here..” (everyone seems to know my name). He grabs my arm..firmly says, “No.”
My first night after dinner Gogo says to me, “Simphiwe SMACK DOWN! Television.” I ask Thabeele, “Did Gogo just say ‘smack down’ ?” “Yebo yebo- we love Jeff Hardy!” So here I sit in a hut made out of mud, in one of the most povery striken areas, AIDS all around, women serving men, cows peeking through kitchen windows, and I hear Jeff Hardy screaming, “I didn’t put you in a ladder match in extreme rules- for nothing!” right before he cracks a chair over some spandex wearin man’s head.
Every night the women and I go to the outdoor kitchen to prepare dinner on the wood burning stove. We prepare different variations of maize. They won’t let me help cook so I sit on the ground with Gogo (where most Gogo’s sit) I pick up a husk of corn and mimic Gogo. Everyone stops what they’re doing. “Simphewe! You can’t sit on the ground. You’ll get dirty. And You cant ukhutula ummbila. (the process of removing the kernels from dried out corn). Your hands will be so sore!” After 30 minutes of mimicking Gogo- I begin to regret my decision.
I remember Nelly telling me about her 14 year old daughter who knows Swazi dance.
Her name is Fati. Her actual name is Noctunda- but because of her portly stature and her eating habits (this girl can out eat me-honest)- they have renamed her Fati. Umfati means wife or big woman. Fati does not know English and struggles with Siswati. She’s fourteen and still in primary school. Nelly blames the “fits”. I later find out she means seizures. They don’t realize Fati has epilepsy. Her “fits” last about 40 minutes and she has had about eight in her lifetime. I express my concern when they tell me she is no longer on her medication.
Fati is always smiling- always happy. Her laughter is contagious. I ask Nelly if she would ask Fati to dance for me. “I have music and speakers I could play for her.” Nelly looks at me- confusion in her eyes. “But Simphiwe- we are music.” The women start singing and clapping in unison. I watch Fati grow. She comes out of herself. I realize it doesn’t matter she doesn’t know English- it doesn’t matter she and I cannot communicate through words. Right now she is communicating everything. To her family she is slow- dumb. I find her beautiful. When she dances- she’s in that moment- I've been in that moment before. The moment where all your frustrations come out in beautiful waves of grace. The world becomes surreally beautiful. She smiles turning her head, stomping. She has one of those smiles that lie in the eyes. I see absolute beauty.
I pull out the ipod and speakers. I ask Gogo if she’d like to listen to some Al Greene, Ray Charles…. The kids interrupt- they want Timbaland Apologize and Alicia Keys No One. I turn up “No One”. The girls are dancing and trying to sing along. I grab a shoe and serenade Gagash in his chair.
My new routine- its wonderful.
Am I really here? In this moment? Wake up Mere- Wake up Simphiwe.
Lesson One: You Will Fail
6.26.09
One stolen Nikon Cool Pix 180 brand new camera later… We are in Africa.
Peace Corps Swaziland.
We are introduced to our staff, our financial assistant, our teachers, our cooks, our drivers. When introduced they say, “Welcome home.”
Our training site- full of beds, electricity, teachers, hot showers, a flushing toilet, and a drunken confused rooster who is up at midnight every night – wandering the streets shouting obsceneties- the village drunk.
But soon it wont be a hot meal and a shower everyday. Wednesday we move out of our training site into our first host family. We’ll spend our time there until we are done with training August 26th. From there we are sworn in as actual volunteers- shedding our trainee skin. We go on to live with our second and final host family.
As a volunteer in the peace corps, our job is not clearly defined “HIV prevention and impact mitigation”. We must learn before we can do. Peace Corps takes assessment and integration seriously. This is what makes us different from other NGOs. We are the feet on the ground- in order for our work to be sustainable- it must start with 3 months of integration and assessment before we can even began our work- our projects. I must focus on what they feel they need- not what I think they need.
In six weeks Peace Corps will be dropping me off at my permanent site- a village away from any other volunteer. I will watch them drive away with only the resources on my back. With little guidance I will have to be patient for the next three months- then seek out local NGO’s, schools, chiefs, RHM’s, Caregivers, clinics, NCP’s, and kogogo centers.
We are debriefed on the umphakatsi meetings- the chief’s homestead where many local meetings are held. Women are expected to sit on the ground, long skirts and if I am to speak- I must kneel as a sign of respect. Respect is something I am constantly aware of here. I can just hear my father now, slapping me over the head shouting, “Think you twit!” Everytime I forget to properly address an elder.
This is why they have hidden us from the Swazi public until we have grown into proper Swazis. We are away from Africa- a reservation of training. My routine keeps me going. Wake up with the roosters- 5:45- I run around an old soccer field accompanied by a few grazing cows. The African sun begins to rise behind the mountains separating us from South Africa. I hear giggling behind me – a little boy trying to keep up, spinning an old bicycle wheel laughing as I run laps around him. Breakfast at 7- in line at 6:55. Always the first in line. Then cultural analysis, a vaccination here a vaccination there, safety and security, transport, NGO’s, spitting cobras, black mambas, guinea worms, first aid, cooking, project analysis, a video, another lecture about diarrhea. You WILL GET IT. We are taught how to filter how to boil how to bleach our water. 2 years of malaria drugs and bleached water.
We are told horror story after horror story of those who did not listen to these agonizing lectures. Acronyms are flying out of pages- LCF, OCT, CBT, LFTC, COTE, PCV, OJC, RPCV, acronyms of every NGO in the area. My head is about to explode when finally it is time for dinner 6 PM. 5:55 first in line.
We are finally allowed to visit town. We head for the internet café. Two very slow moving computers and 32 volunteers. We wait.
The next day I ask our PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) why it didn’t seem like half the population in this country was living with AIDS. I saw no one with sunken in faces- the bloches on their skin-wasting away. She says, “Right now- you are in one of the nicest parts of this region. You’ve been off this homestead once and into a very small town. You are not going to find the sick in town- ok? This isn’t like the U.S. where those living with HIV are still working and walking around- grocery shopping amongst us. HIV in Africa hits hard. You’ll find the sick hiding in their homes- dying- unable to leave. They’re all there- awaiting death.’ She points to two volunteers who have been here a year. “Ask these girls what they’ve seen. Because that’s where you’re going to be soon.” One stands up, “I go to a funeral every week. It’s what people do on their Saturdays here. But I normally stay away while they’re dying. It’s my choice to stay away. It’s too much to handle for two years. But you can do homecare if you’d like.”
I feel so far away from all of this. Peace Corps has kept us trainees hidden.
But we are leaving our reservation. We are being adopted soon and soon I’ll have a different routine. Nomfunda warns us about are new families coming to collect us. “They will treat you like children- they will think you cannot do anything for yourself. But you need to do it yourself- because soon you will be cooking for yourself with your own gas stove. They will feed you Swazi food- and you may not like it. This is why in your med kit- we supply you with peanut butter and cornflakes.” She warns us dogs on the homestead are not pets (everyone looks my direction). “They do not feed them- they eat scraps and they would be offended if you gave the dog the food they prepared YOU. You can give the dog your scraps and if there are no scraps he will not eat that night.”
And don’t worry- the dog knows there are starving children in Africa.”
One stolen Nikon Cool Pix 180 brand new camera later… We are in Africa.
Peace Corps Swaziland.
We are introduced to our staff, our financial assistant, our teachers, our cooks, our drivers. When introduced they say, “Welcome home.”
Our training site- full of beds, electricity, teachers, hot showers, a flushing toilet, and a drunken confused rooster who is up at midnight every night – wandering the streets shouting obsceneties- the village drunk.
But soon it wont be a hot meal and a shower everyday. Wednesday we move out of our training site into our first host family. We’ll spend our time there until we are done with training August 26th. From there we are sworn in as actual volunteers- shedding our trainee skin. We go on to live with our second and final host family.
As a volunteer in the peace corps, our job is not clearly defined “HIV prevention and impact mitigation”. We must learn before we can do. Peace Corps takes assessment and integration seriously. This is what makes us different from other NGOs. We are the feet on the ground- in order for our work to be sustainable- it must start with 3 months of integration and assessment before we can even began our work- our projects. I must focus on what they feel they need- not what I think they need.
In six weeks Peace Corps will be dropping me off at my permanent site- a village away from any other volunteer. I will watch them drive away with only the resources on my back. With little guidance I will have to be patient for the next three months- then seek out local NGO’s, schools, chiefs, RHM’s, Caregivers, clinics, NCP’s, and kogogo centers.
We are debriefed on the umphakatsi meetings- the chief’s homestead where many local meetings are held. Women are expected to sit on the ground, long skirts and if I am to speak- I must kneel as a sign of respect. Respect is something I am constantly aware of here. I can just hear my father now, slapping me over the head shouting, “Think you twit!” Everytime I forget to properly address an elder.
This is why they have hidden us from the Swazi public until we have grown into proper Swazis. We are away from Africa- a reservation of training. My routine keeps me going. Wake up with the roosters- 5:45- I run around an old soccer field accompanied by a few grazing cows. The African sun begins to rise behind the mountains separating us from South Africa. I hear giggling behind me – a little boy trying to keep up, spinning an old bicycle wheel laughing as I run laps around him. Breakfast at 7- in line at 6:55. Always the first in line. Then cultural analysis, a vaccination here a vaccination there, safety and security, transport, NGO’s, spitting cobras, black mambas, guinea worms, first aid, cooking, project analysis, a video, another lecture about diarrhea. You WILL GET IT. We are taught how to filter how to boil how to bleach our water. 2 years of malaria drugs and bleached water.
We are told horror story after horror story of those who did not listen to these agonizing lectures. Acronyms are flying out of pages- LCF, OCT, CBT, LFTC, COTE, PCV, OJC, RPCV, acronyms of every NGO in the area. My head is about to explode when finally it is time for dinner 6 PM. 5:55 first in line.
We are finally allowed to visit town. We head for the internet café. Two very slow moving computers and 32 volunteers. We wait.
The next day I ask our PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) why it didn’t seem like half the population in this country was living with AIDS. I saw no one with sunken in faces- the bloches on their skin-wasting away. She says, “Right now- you are in one of the nicest parts of this region. You’ve been off this homestead once and into a very small town. You are not going to find the sick in town- ok? This isn’t like the U.S. where those living with HIV are still working and walking around- grocery shopping amongst us. HIV in Africa hits hard. You’ll find the sick hiding in their homes- dying- unable to leave. They’re all there- awaiting death.’ She points to two volunteers who have been here a year. “Ask these girls what they’ve seen. Because that’s where you’re going to be soon.” One stands up, “I go to a funeral every week. It’s what people do on their Saturdays here. But I normally stay away while they’re dying. It’s my choice to stay away. It’s too much to handle for two years. But you can do homecare if you’d like.”
I feel so far away from all of this. Peace Corps has kept us trainees hidden.
But we are leaving our reservation. We are being adopted soon and soon I’ll have a different routine. Nomfunda warns us about are new families coming to collect us. “They will treat you like children- they will think you cannot do anything for yourself. But you need to do it yourself- because soon you will be cooking for yourself with your own gas stove. They will feed you Swazi food- and you may not like it. This is why in your med kit- we supply you with peanut butter and cornflakes.” She warns us dogs on the homestead are not pets (everyone looks my direction). “They do not feed them- they eat scraps and they would be offended if you gave the dog the food they prepared YOU. You can give the dog your scraps and if there are no scraps he will not eat that night.”
And don’t worry- the dog knows there are starving children in Africa.”
Sunday, July 12, 2009
We Got Soul But We Aren't Soldiers
6.23.09
"You are now property of the U.S. Government."
My attention wraps around these words- no longer am I sitting in agonizing pain repeating over and over "Tomorrow you will be in Africa Tomorrow you will be in Africa." My two year journey begins with a 7 hour lecture.
Peacecorps D.C.
I arrived alone at our nation's capital- the most America of America. A movie set- surreal full of history. The architecture, the statues, the monuments, the catherdrals, the art, Abraham- Obama. To be here- alone- magnificant. Capturing moments with my new camera.
As I neared the Washington Plaza- the meeting point for all the PeaceCorps Trainees (PCT's). I studied every person walking my way. Wondering if we were about to spend the next two years together. How did you get here at this moment? When can we bond over all the PC BS. When can we discuss our family and friends similar reaction when we told them we were going to Swaziland.
I head to the lecture hall to being the bonding and the lectures of the What to Expects and What not to Dos. At each table, an "icebreaking" booklet to make the getting to know your fellow PCT bonding experience go a bit more smoothly. As if a bunch of liberal arts majors needed guidance in socialization. I close the book. Just as I'm about to dig myself into the socializing- I have a memory. My mother saying to me, "Now Mere- Don't go bashing Peace Corps right when you meet everyone. First impressions are everything."
"So how about that intro to Swaziland DVD they sent us?! Huh- anyone?!" I exclaim. "Oh my god I know!" They shout back. Suddenly we're bond bashing- nice.
Story after story flooded in. People have been jerked around and waiting 6 months, a year, a year and a half, two years, over two years. Someone finally tops me. First it was West Africa for us- now South Africa. First June, August December January then March now June again. Some, including myself, given a month and a half notice. We all wanted this bad.
7 hours of you WILL wear this, you WILL hate this at some point, you WILL be careful, you WILL take your malaria drugs, you WILL listen to your PCMO (peace corps medical officer), you WILL stay out of politics, you WILL look right THEN left, you wont travel alone LADIES, you wont travel at night LADIES. If for any reason any of us feel we have been at risk of infection Peace Corps has a supply of PEP (post exposure prophylatic) on hand. 100% effective when taken within 72 hours of transmission with HIV.
So im gathering- if im a woman, single, young,opinionated- especially on politics and gender equality, talk before thinking...me me me. This will be a challenge.
This will be a challenge for us all.
I am with like minded people here. Sociology, anthropology, communications, theatre, psychology. We've all acquired the kind of majors that make your parents laugh and ask you- ok now what- once you've graduated. We want to help.. MOM. We want to understand.. DAD. Humanitarians I suppose.
Humanitarians who haven't a clue how to pack. I brought the least here. I could carry on my pack. Mouths dropped and people got that frightened look of, "I think I misread the weight limit email." on their face. Suitcase after suitcase- some bigger than me. Full of high tech sexy gadgets- nano giggabite nonsense. Solios, solar chargers, tiny $300 dollar lap tops, wind up solar panel things, electronic books (kendels?), fancy international cell phones, solar showers, speakers, fancy sleeping bags, multi purpose everything, toothbrushes that turn into binoculars. An REI MAC store marriage- a Mere night-mere. Humanitarians or a bunch of weenies?
There are 32 weenies (including myself- Im a huge weenie), in Swaziland Season 7 (they call us groups- I think season is a bit more clever). 14 of us are married. Seven couples in our group and most are younger than myself. I later found out most couples were in long relationships- wanted to do Peace Corps- decided to get married so they could join.
I heard Peace Corps has decided married couples are best for Swaziland. One woman told me it's easier for married women here. She thought I was married I think. Ironic- the one time I am single- it'd be easier if I wasn't.
The rest of my group consists of single ladies and two very lucky young men. I couldn't help but jokingly high five them and exclaim, "Yeah PC Swaziland!" They pretended not to know what I was referring to- I said, "Oh like you haven't already written home telling your friends- 'Dude, Peacecorps is where it's at.' A bunch of beautiful intellectual traveling bleeding hearts- jack pot."
Our last night in the States we walked the streets of D.C. We said goodbye Obama, take care of our country while we're gone. We know you'll do a great job.
For the next two years I will be a quiet little American girl- refraining from debate and unconditional love for King Mswati III.
But I won't be filler. We are all here- eager to get our hands dirty. We will see love and we will see pain. We are Peace Corps Swaziland Season 7. With our idealistic minds, our solar showers, our hand sanitizers and malaria drugs- we are all determined to make a difference. We got i pods and we got soul- but we are not soldiers.
"You are now property of the U.S. Government."
My attention wraps around these words- no longer am I sitting in agonizing pain repeating over and over "Tomorrow you will be in Africa Tomorrow you will be in Africa." My two year journey begins with a 7 hour lecture.
Peacecorps D.C.
I arrived alone at our nation's capital- the most America of America. A movie set- surreal full of history. The architecture, the statues, the monuments, the catherdrals, the art, Abraham- Obama. To be here- alone- magnificant. Capturing moments with my new camera.
As I neared the Washington Plaza- the meeting point for all the PeaceCorps Trainees (PCT's). I studied every person walking my way. Wondering if we were about to spend the next two years together. How did you get here at this moment? When can we bond over all the PC BS. When can we discuss our family and friends similar reaction when we told them we were going to Swaziland.
I head to the lecture hall to being the bonding and the lectures of the What to Expects and What not to Dos. At each table, an "icebreaking" booklet to make the getting to know your fellow PCT bonding experience go a bit more smoothly. As if a bunch of liberal arts majors needed guidance in socialization. I close the book. Just as I'm about to dig myself into the socializing- I have a memory. My mother saying to me, "Now Mere- Don't go bashing Peace Corps right when you meet everyone. First impressions are everything."
"So how about that intro to Swaziland DVD they sent us?! Huh- anyone?!" I exclaim. "Oh my god I know!" They shout back. Suddenly we're bond bashing- nice.
Story after story flooded in. People have been jerked around and waiting 6 months, a year, a year and a half, two years, over two years. Someone finally tops me. First it was West Africa for us- now South Africa. First June, August December January then March now June again. Some, including myself, given a month and a half notice. We all wanted this bad.
7 hours of you WILL wear this, you WILL hate this at some point, you WILL be careful, you WILL take your malaria drugs, you WILL listen to your PCMO (peace corps medical officer), you WILL stay out of politics, you WILL look right THEN left, you wont travel alone LADIES, you wont travel at night LADIES. If for any reason any of us feel we have been at risk of infection Peace Corps has a supply of PEP (post exposure prophylatic) on hand. 100% effective when taken within 72 hours of transmission with HIV.
So im gathering- if im a woman, single, young,opinionated- especially on politics and gender equality, talk before thinking...me me me. This will be a challenge.
This will be a challenge for us all.
I am with like minded people here. Sociology, anthropology, communications, theatre, psychology. We've all acquired the kind of majors that make your parents laugh and ask you- ok now what- once you've graduated. We want to help.. MOM. We want to understand.. DAD. Humanitarians I suppose.
Humanitarians who haven't a clue how to pack. I brought the least here. I could carry on my pack. Mouths dropped and people got that frightened look of, "I think I misread the weight limit email." on their face. Suitcase after suitcase- some bigger than me. Full of high tech sexy gadgets- nano giggabite nonsense. Solios, solar chargers, tiny $300 dollar lap tops, wind up solar panel things, electronic books (kendels?), fancy international cell phones, solar showers, speakers, fancy sleeping bags, multi purpose everything, toothbrushes that turn into binoculars. An REI MAC store marriage- a Mere night-mere. Humanitarians or a bunch of weenies?
There are 32 weenies (including myself- Im a huge weenie), in Swaziland Season 7 (they call us groups- I think season is a bit more clever). 14 of us are married. Seven couples in our group and most are younger than myself. I later found out most couples were in long relationships- wanted to do Peace Corps- decided to get married so they could join.
I heard Peace Corps has decided married couples are best for Swaziland. One woman told me it's easier for married women here. She thought I was married I think. Ironic- the one time I am single- it'd be easier if I wasn't.
The rest of my group consists of single ladies and two very lucky young men. I couldn't help but jokingly high five them and exclaim, "Yeah PC Swaziland!" They pretended not to know what I was referring to- I said, "Oh like you haven't already written home telling your friends- 'Dude, Peacecorps is where it's at.' A bunch of beautiful intellectual traveling bleeding hearts- jack pot."
Our last night in the States we walked the streets of D.C. We said goodbye Obama, take care of our country while we're gone. We know you'll do a great job.
For the next two years I will be a quiet little American girl- refraining from debate and unconditional love for King Mswati III.
But I won't be filler. We are all here- eager to get our hands dirty. We will see love and we will see pain. We are Peace Corps Swaziland Season 7. With our idealistic minds, our solar showers, our hand sanitizers and malaria drugs- we are all determined to make a difference. We got i pods and we got soul- but we are not soldiers.
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