Somewhere Between Life and Death

8.08.09

Day Two OJT

It's early- I hear "Shaya Toady! Shaya!" She's after the chickens again- pants off. I then hear the put put of Babe Shongwe's little red jetta. Hat off, he greets me. "OK sisi- time to go, here are the car keys." Always testing me.

Today we go to the secondary and primary schools. Babe will introduce me to the headmasters and head mistresses. I realize teaching in schools is not the most sustainable of projescts- but it will be my in to the youth community- I can branch out from the classroom later. After the schools, we make our way to the local clinic. After each stop I high five him and he tells me, "OK sisi- you pass." I exclaim, "Yebo- Babe Counterpart!" "Sisi, why do you keep calling me that?" He asks. "I tell him we make a good team- that he should be my counterpart. "No Sisi, I cannot- I am too busy, please sisi, do not tell the chief how good of a job I am doing. I cannot be elected for this- too much hard work."

We abandon the car- the road now too bumpy to drive on. As we are walking, Babe Shongwe, like so many Swazis, complains, "Sisi- you walk too fast. Too fast Sisi!" I apologize, "Ncesi Babe, I am American. We Americans always have somewhere to be- always in a hurry." Like so many Swazis, Babe says, "There's no hurry in Swaziland."We have arrived to a very old Gogo's home. She used to be an RHM (a Rural Health Motivator) in the area. She had her own running clinic in her home. We reach the gate. "OK sisi, I go first. You cannot lead anymore. I am the man here." I notice the heavy tall grass that lies ahead. "OK Babe, you lead. You'll just be the first to get bitten by a snake, or bitten by a protective dog. You're doing ME a favor Babe." He stops, he pauses, " OK Sisi- YOU go first." He smiles. "No no no, it's a man's world here. After you- Babe Counterpart..."

Old Gogo reaches her hand out to greet us. Babe Shongwe does the routine introduction of me, I follow. Old Gogo is eager to complain to me about her home. "When it is raining, I go outside!" Im not really sure why we are here. It is important I meet everyone- I suppose. Before we go, old Gogo insists we eat some sour pouridge. Two months in Swaziland- and I have yet to try the staple food- sour pouridge. In America we use descriptors like "sweet" to describe something that most Americans would agree- tastes good. Here in Swaziland- sour, like sweet, is a good thing. Babe Shongwe rubs his hands together in excitement before digging in to his pouridge. So far I have liked everything a Swazi has fed me. They pat me on the head after I finish my second helping of food before grown men have even finished their first helping. I've always been a "good eater". I take my first bite of sour pouridge. It introduces itself to my taste buds, it tries to continue on- sliding down the back of my throat- eager to meet my stomach. I squint my eyes. My taste buds go into shock. My throat refuses to let this vile weed intoduce itself to my stomach. I cannot! Finish it Mere- Finish it. I yell at myself. Dont' be rude- swallow! I swallow. I guess I would say it kind of tastes like- rotten baby flesh with a hint of egg. What genius came up with the idea of eating something that literally was- rotten. "I know.. I got it I got it guys- like Maize is cool and all- but like what if... now now now.. bare with me here.. we let it ferment. I mean not rotten- but you know.. ALMOST rotten."

With a bowl full of sour pouridge (how the f do you spell pouridge- am I getting it right? pourridge?) in front of me and a very hospitable old Gogo behind me- starring. I do what any decent American would do. "Babe- could you please pass me the sugar?" Babe and Gogo stare as I pour.. I mean pour the sugar onto the rot. Glistening sweetness in my bowl. Unfortunatly no amount of sugar could mask the disgust. Babe finishes- smile on his face- he tells me we cannot go with food still on our plates. I slide him my sweet rot. "You arent going to like it Babe." I warn him. He takes a bite. "Sisi! You ruined it! Oh shame!" He pours more sourt on top of the sweet. My stomach starts to turn. Muscles are beginning to move around- preparing for rejection. I hold it together. I will NOT throw up. We thank old Gogo and walk back to the car. I move slowly behind Babe Shongwe, holding my aching belly. "Ah sisi!" he turns back and says, " I think I have figured out how to slow you down and keep you walking BEHIND a man!" He laughs loudly then begins to whistle. I shake my fist in the air.... victory- he has found my chriptonite.

On our way to other RHM's we pass old crumbled buildings- Babe explains. Abandoned Peace Corps projects from former volunteers years and years ago. The unsustainable in front of me.

We arrive at the home of another RHM. It's noon now, she is eating under a tree- a patient dog at her feet. Babe gives the introduction speech- I follow. I joke to him I am now timing our speeches, a contest- who can do it faster. " You love time sisi" He tells me. Gogo leans back, unamused. Why hasn't she grabbed my hand in excitement. Why hasn't she asked me to be her daughter in law- like the others. She crosses her arms above her now gravity driven breasts. In English, she asks me, " What promise are YOU going to break to me- like all the others?" Damn previous PCV's. These people do not forget. I laugh, "Gogo, I don't ever give promises. Thats a promise. I am a learner. I am here to learn from you- and I hope over the next few months you will allow me to follow and assist you and learn from you." She smiles. Babe Shongwe leans over and whispers, "You pass."

Day two of OJT is almost over. Tomorrow he will take me to Manzini to meet the entire Manzini police force- I have no idea why.

I spend the evening with my new Make and Babe, Bhutis, and sisi's. They ask me to come and pray with them before dinner. The kids and I shuffle into the living room. The parents sit on chairs. The kids and I on the ground. Babe asks Bongiwe to read a bible verse in Siswati and for me to read it in English. I read it out loud in English to the family. He then asks me, "Simphiwe, what does that mean?" What does that mean- I ask myself. I was not prepared for this. I look down at the verse again. blah blah blah they blah blah blah thou blah blah TRUST IN THE LORD. "Trust in the lord?" I ask with zero confidence. "No, no, what does it mean to YOU!" He demands. Ten pairs of eyes on me, mouths open in anticipation. Four years of college you'd think I'd be able to bullshit my way out of this one. "I dont know Babe." I exhale loudly with discomfort. Sorry Babe Shongwe- I failed this one. "It's time for prayer." Babe exclaims. Everyone, including make and babe, place their foreheads on the ground in the "craddle pose". They all are praying out loud to themselves. Siswati is all I hear. My name occasionally said. My forehead too on the ground, just trying to integrate- I open my eyes and look behind me- I see Tabisoe, the 12 year old trouble maker, sticking his toungue at me and giggling. We end with a praryer that everyone recites together in Siswati. I recognize the rhythm, the flow, I ask, " Did you just recite the Lord's Prayer in Siswati?" Babe is pleased I know this. He beams.

I pass.

After dinner, I invite Simone to my hut to drink wine and get to know each other. Toady is winding down finally. her mother cradles her in her arms- Toady's eyes become heavy- thumb in her mouth- her other hand inside her mother's shirt, holding her breasts. It was only two weeks ago when Simone weened Toady off breast-feeding. The breast still a source of comfort. Toady turns her head, she looks at me lying on my bed. She unlatches herself from her mother and walks over to me. She climbs into my bed- wiggles her little body into my arms, facing me, thumb in mouth, she looks into my eyes- she says, "Ma." (Short for Make- Mother). She then digs her arm into my shirt searching for that comfort. At first I try to grab her arm out- I mean I cant recall experiencing a child digging into my shirt to grab onto my breasts- ever. Simone laughs, "It's ok- she'll fall asleep faster that way, and she won't stop until you let her." I let her. I think how pathetic- I've gotten more action from a two year old over the past few months. As Toady looks into my eyes, sucking hard on her thumb, I think- I am about to watch this child grow up for the next two years. What impact will I have on her life?

I ask Simone what it was like to give birth. She pauses and thinks, "You feel like you're going to die- you know you are about to die- but then life happens. It comes out between your legs and nothing else matters. Nothing else is around you. You hear life and that is all that matters now. Giving birth is somewhere between life and death."

I hold this tiny life, asleep in my arms. Maternal instincts kick in, and I think..someday, someday I will know.

I Am

8.06.09 Continued...

As Babe Shongwe and I walk away from the Umphagatsi- headed towards the car- he leans over and whispers to me, "Sisi... you passed."

We are headed to my permanent home now. When we arrive, Babe takes off his ball cap and shouts, "E- khaya!" He explains when a man enters a home he is to take his hat off and shout ekhaya, a friendly warning that he is entering someone's home. "But you sisi, you do not have to. Women are no threat." I joke, "Well- they must not know me yet." Babe laughs. A young woman steps out of the home. She is wearing tight jeans, a sparkly hoodie, and a smile on her face. She embraces me tight and says, "Sisi!". A teenage girl- my in. Three boys step out, we exchange greetings and a shake. Teenage boys- my in. I hear shouting. A mother calling her child. A naked two year old runs out to me. Food all over her body. Her mother's high heels on her feet. She grabs my hand and laughs. Her mother, exhausted and winded, hugs me. Babe Shongwe tells me it is Saturday so my new Babe and Make are away at a funeral (Saturday- a day of funerals. So many people die here that is almost an automatic thing that someone in your extended family will have a funeral each and every Saturday). Babe tells me the children will take care of me tonight.

I watch him drive away in his little red jetta. The teenage girl helps me with my mayonnaise bags. Her name is Bongiwe. (Beau-knee-whey). Bongiwe has just turned 17, she loves Kanye West, tight jeans, boys and booze. She likes to do hair and dance. Bongiwe dreams of getting out of Nkiligi, of independence. She is Swazi girl youth.

Outside my hut I hear "Ngitawashaya Toady! Ncka! Shaya! Shaya!" (I will beat you Toady, beat, beat, beat!) Naked two year old runs past my door, broom in hand. Her name is Toady. Toady is two years old. She loves to take her clothes off when she gets angry. She likes to beat chickens and dogs with broomsticks. Toady dreams about independce and a world with no rules. She is a Swazi terror.

Her mother is yelling at her for beating the chickens in the trees. Her name is Simone. Simone is twenty one. She loves her two year old daughter. She likes to wear jeans in town, away from disapproving Gogo's eyes at home. She likes her independce away from Toady's father. Simone dreams of going back to school in South Africa. She is a Swazi mother.

Simone is living here with Toady's father's parents (my new make and babe- mother and father). She says maybe someday she will marry Toady's father- but she enjoys her indpendence too much. Since they are not married she is to live with HIS parents while he works in South Africa to support them both.

I look past Simone. I see someone I did not see before. It is clear she is mentally and physically disabeled. She is sitting on a large tire. Her barefeet, white and calloused, are curved inwards. I doubt she is able to walk. With only two teeth in her mouth, the drool pours out continuously. Her dress is stained with avacado, piss, and shit. Food all over her face.

Her name is Gigi. Gigi is 45 years old. She is my new sisi, Make and Babe's daugther. She is "mentally disturbed", as they call it here. She can barely walk, falling HARD constantly. She can barely feed herself, the dogs stealing her food. I don't know what Gigi likes, I don't know what Gigi dreams of. Barely speaking Siswati, and speaking no English. She is ignored by her family. She is Swazi disabeled.

I am looking into buying her a walker. With support she is able to get around. But I cannot be that support for the next two years. I lead her around- to the bathroom, to her tire- getting piss and shit on me in the process. I want to teach her to use a walker. I also plan on buying her a squirt gun, filled with water and citrus, to keep the dogs away from her food.

That night, as promised, Bongiwe wants to show me the local brewery behind our house. It's now dark out - so I insist one of our bhuti's comes along. I have on average four bhutis. This is a family that grows and shrinks weekly. The four boys are: Chief, Menzie, Sam, and Tabisoe. They are the grandsons. The boys are not brothers, but cousins. Their parents either divorced or mothers dead. In Swazi culture- when there is a divorce or the death of the mother- the children go to the FATHER'S mother. A man cannot raise a child alone, and a woman's children belong to the father's side. It is, of course, a patriarchal socie


ty.

Chief volunteers to come along. Chief is twenty years old. He likes to drink with his Indian friends in town and play soccer. He likes Beyonce and Akon. He dreams of graduating high school and going to university to study the weather. He is Swazi boy youth.

Chief leads us to a brewery, which is really just a home that sells Amstel beer where rowdy drunk teens hang out. As we're walking home, a group of young men walk past. One knocks his shoulder into chief's. Bongiwe begs him to just keep walking. The other young man is now standing in the middle of the street waiting for some response from Chief. Chief says to me, "He is challenging me." "No." I say. "The beer is challenging you." We are sorrounded by glassy eyed young men, loud music coming out of a crackling speaker. An atmospher of absolute oblivion. I turn to continue on, but in front of me now stands a very large man. I run into very large man's chest. I look up. His chest puffed out- I step back. I inhale deep, chest out. I look into his eyes. I extend my arm and say, "Unjani Bhuti?" I get no response. Bongiwe grabs my waist, pulls me aside. We walk back together, Chief close behind.

Returning home, I am offered dinner- chicken intestines. I go to bed, stomach empty- my mind full. They have put me in teen hell- like Michelle Phiffer, "Dangerous Minds", like my mother in Inner city schools. It's time to jump onto some school desks, its time to sculpt the youth, it's time to be a role model.

I am Simphiwe Dlamini. I am 25 years old. I love dogs and flannel. I dream to be a teacher to the youth, I dream to inspire a community. I am a Swazi Soul-dier.

(pun for Morgen)

"Gary Indiana Gary Indiana Gary Indiana"

8.06.09

The next day emotionally and physically exhausted we are to finally meet our counterparts fr0m our soon to be permanent sites. I place Tfoliwe's body in a box and walk her to the training site- they will need to examine her brain. As I predicted Washington, CDC, Regional Director, country director, safety and security, are all discussing what to do with me and how many post exposure shots I am to be given. Myself and three other people I had exposed.

Peace Corps Swaziland- I am sorry.

Of course I am the first to get treated for rabies in the group.

Barely awake- we meet our counterparts. We are seated in rows not organized in any particular order and given name tags- I am Meredith Brooks again. "Meredith Nkiligi" (my new village name) Name tag reads. Seated all around are our future Swazi counterparts. We dont know who we belong to yet. We have a seat. Musa asks each of us to stand- say our name and our permanent site. He asks the counterparts to stand and identify themselves when they hear their sites called by us. From this point on we think in terms of two years- this will be our school, our clinic, our town, or home, make, babe, sisi, dog, our counterpart for the next two years...

It's my turn- I stand- "Meredith Nkiligi". In the very back- he stands. "Bekethemba Shongwe Nkiligi." I point and smile. Afterwards we find our counterparts and sit next to them. We go through a series of intoductions. Babe Shongwe informs me he will not be my counterpart. It is very likely I will not get a counterpart. A huge HUGE disappointment. Having a helpful counterpart can make a world of difference on how effective you are as a volunteer. Babe Shongwe is the secretary of the inner council in Nkiligi. The inner council is part of the Umphagatsi. The Umphagatsi is where the chief lives. The chief is like the king of a village- the inner council like parliament. Babe Shongwe acts as the secretary and the community police officer in this village. He knows everyone and everything in Nkiligi. He would be a great counter part to have.

He tells me, "Dont worry sisi- I will find you a counterpart. We want you to work with a teen. He will give you insight, an in, into the teen world. Sisi, we have a big problem with our youth in Nkiligi. They are stealing and raping from the elders. They are drinking everyday and skipping school. There are gangs and these children have nothing to do."

The rest of the day we are led in discussions of cultural differences. But for once it is not us who are being lectured on cultural tolerance and understanding. Peace Corps briefs our Swazi counterparts on what Americans feel is inappropriate culturally. Its strange and amazing to hear someone else talk about the oddness of your own culture. It's not until you leave your culture that you truly see it. A counterpart raises his hand and asks, "Why is it rude for us to ask a woman why she is not married or assume that she is?" I raise my hand and explain that assuming we are married or wondering why we are not is, in a way, implying we SHOULD be married or we are lacking something. I explain that an American woman more and more is becoming more than just the role of a wife. To assume we should be married is implying this is the only role in society we should possess- that of "wife". One of the volunteers stands up to write some key points we have addressed on a flip chart. She is left handed. The Swazis begin whispering amongst themselves. "She is using her left hand... .." "Why is she writing with THAT hand?" A counterpart raises his hand, "Excuse me, someone should tell this sisi what it means to write with your left hand. You should not be using your left hand sisi." Peace Corps explains. In American culture the left hand is not a dirty hand. They encourage our counterparts to go into our communities and explain to the Swazis the differences in our cultures to help promote tolerance and understanding of differences.

And here we sit, 66 of us seated in rows- side by side. I look at the back of PCT's and their counterparts. I look at myself. How strange to think of us as a resource- a tool for 33 different villages.

The next day, Babe Shongwe takes me and my bags to begin 5 days of OJT (on the job training) at my soon to be permanent site and my soon to be permanent family- for the next two years.

Day 1
Some how along the way mayonnaise bursts open in my bag- mayonnaise shoes, mayonnaise alarm clock, clothes, can opener, book and journal. I don't know which is more embarassing. Admitting I once again carelessly packed my bags (this time, however, it wasn't icy hot or toothpaste) or admitting I now like mayonnaise.

As Babe Shongwe and I are driving along maybe the bumpiest road I have ever been on, he asks me, "Sisi- would you like to drive?" I respond. " No Babe, like I have said before, I cannot- Peace Corps rules. I cannot drive any vehicles for two years- too dangerous." "But what if I am sick?" He asks. "And I need you to drive me to the doctor?" "Then you don't call me for a ride." He laughs. "OK sisi, you pass the test." "You were testing me?" I ask. "Yes sisi- good job."

The little red jetta stops in front a series of red bricked homes. I look out the window. I see around 50 people sitting under a tree. "OK sisi, let me introduce you to the chief, the inner council, the bucupho, the invudnda." All the important people of a village. "WHAT" I exclaim. We have just arrived to Nkiligi, I have not even met my family. It's day one. But he tells me today I am fortunate- there is a big meeting today amongst the inner council and the chief and everyone will be here to meet me. The bucopho, an important figure in the inner council, approaches me. "Are you comfortable speaking to a large group of people? Introducing yourself, explaining why you are here and what you plan on doing?" I tell him with confidence, "Yes, and I can even do it in Siswati." Im screaming in the inside.

I sit with the people, under a tree, as Babe Shongwe introduces me in Siswati. Occasionally the audience will look at me smiling and laughing. I have no idea what he is telling them. I hear him go on, "fjkdfjkdjfkdjf TSANDZA dfjkdjfdkfj". Tsandza- meaning love. A gogo leans over to me and whispers, "He is telling them not to propose love to you. That you are too busy and too expensive. He is warning us it is not polite to ask if you are married." He looks down at me smiling, extends his arm out, "OK sisi- your turn." I whisper, "Thanks for stealing my introduction man."

Afterwards, Babe takes me to meet the chief. How will I know which one is the chief? I remember asking the same question to a family friend of mine in the States. A veternarian who is coinincidentally here in Africa for the same two years I am. In Uganda, Rwanda, and the Congo she is studying mountain gorillas. Before she left, she told me before she could work on these gorillas she had to find the head mountain gorilla, submit, and in a way, ask his permission to come into his community and work with his gorillas. "How will you know which one is the head one?" I asked. She replied, "Oh you'll know."

On a bench under a tree- a man, I am guessing, in his mid 50's sits before a dozen people seated on the ground. They speak to him, head down, they raise their hands, they thank him repeadtly as he listens to their problems. I know, this is the chief. Before sitting amongst the others Babe leans in and whispers to me, "Are you scared sisi?" "No Babe, I got this." I am screaming in the inside. It is now Babe's turn to introduce me to the chief. The chief listens, he does not look at me. Then he responds in a very low calm voice. In fact- not once has he really spoken over a whisper. He almost looks and sounds like the God Father. As Babe Shongwe is rambling on about how.. awesome I am- in Siswati, ADD grabs a hold and I start to focuse on a rooster going to town on a chicken behind Swazi God Father. The idea of sex in the "animal" world is rape in ours. How strange. How can this be beneficial for evolution? This rooster spent almost twenty minutes chasing this poor chicken around. Why not give the hen a clitoris? Less work for the rooster... life becomes so much easier. It's a win win. Wait, does a chicken have a clitoris? I mean I've never really asked or thought about it... I wonder.... "Sisi....sisi....sisi. Your turn." I snap out of it and introduce myself in the little Siswati I know...again. Silence follows.

The chief looks down at the groud- he's choosing his words carefully. Im fearing he knows no English. But then he looks directly at me and says/whispers, " We thank you for coming here and helping us. Swaziland is in trouble. We are at war here. An invisibile battle. AIDS is fighting us." He looks off into the distance. "You and your people are like soldiers. Here to help us. Our youth is wreckless. They are destoying themselves and others. We need someone with a new voice- a new perspective to talk to them. They are not listening to us. We thank you, we hope you can help us." Hands up, head down- I thank him. I could have remained silent with only a thank you to give- but instead I wanted a dialogue a conversation with this man. I continue on. I explain what I've observed over the past 8 weeks. I explain the youth knows more about HIV/AIDS than I do. That my job is to not only to educate but to motivate. I want the youth excited about life. I told him my job was to learn from him to learn from Nkiligi for the next three months. And somewhere someday, together we can start to open some minds. He responds, "Yes Simphiwe- I think you are a gift. (simphiwe literally meaning "a gift from God"). I think you shall keep your name at your new home." A sigh of relief. PCT's have all become attached to their new Swazi names our training families had given us, but we were warned our new families would want to rename us.

He asks me to get up and walk with him- leaving Babe Shongwe for a bit. Babe waves and whispers to me, "He will ask you to be his wife." He laughs. Chief asks me where in America I am from. In Africa I am from Washington- Africa does not know Indiana. They know Washington. I tell him Washington. He tells me he went to a University, Vincennes, in Indiana. He tells me he has two children living in Gary, Indiana.

He asks me if I know Indiana.

I am a Weeping Willow

8.05.09

Her name is Tfoliwe Calisilwe. (Full-e-whey) (click-a-lee-seal-whey)

It means- I have found you- you are now the first of many to come. Truly a daugther of mine she ignores the bed I have made for her and all the blankets I have lied out- she goes straight for my extra large flannel and curls up inside the sleeve. I worry she'll chocke herself trying to come out the other end of it- so I tie off the ends. She whines from inside the sleeve demanding I untie it. She always gets her way. At night she cries until I pick her up and let her sleep with me. She sleeps under my chin, curled up around my neck. Surprisingly I sleep well like this.

Meanwhile at the training site- fast forward more, "Are you scared? Not nearly frightened enough."Lectures. Word is out- Mere has taken in a puppy. PCMO and current PCV lecture us on the dangers of having a pet here. Worrying everyday if someone has stolen it while you are away, or if Mkhulu next door is beating it. The costs of vaccinations and do I bring this dog home with me or leave it after two years. Blah blah blah. Look I didn't ask for this. Im not some moron- like so many out there who seek out a puppy to fill some void in their life- afraid to to be alone. I'd rather not have a dog for the next two years. Just like i'd rather not watch a movie with a dog in it. It's like welcoming dog tragedy into my life. There's a reason I never saw Old Yeller. There's a reason I can't watch 60% of the series Planet Earth. Anytime a dog is introduced into a story my heart pre emptively aches. You get the audience attached- then BAM next thing you know you're taking the rabid dog outback and shooting it in the head, or an alien is bursting out of its rib cage, it takes a bullet for the main character, gets hit by a car, some crazy lady is trying to skin its fur for spots, it turns into a zombie and will smith is breaking its neck.

I dont want this! But I can't leave her.

Current PCV tells me she may have rabies. I roll my eyes. "OK- cat lover..."Im warned I wont be able to find anyone to watch her during OJT- PCV's are afraid she may have some disease. I offer to pay Thabeela to watch and feed her. I show her how to use a syringe (actually meant for enemas) because she is not drinking on her own. Other PCT's show concern. They ask me everyday how she is doing. PCT nurses offer me advice on what to give her.

That night I return home.

Tfoliwe is where I left her, asleep in my flannel. I get the syringe. I squeeze sugar water into her mouth. It shoots right back out. Her teeth are clinched hard. As I move her around her eyes go blank. Her head tilts to the right- she starts spinning, like a crocodile feasting on its prey in water, her upper torso spins to the right. I have to hold her still. It stops. A few minutes later her bottom lip starts to move up and down, her arms are twitching, her chin held high.

I start to weep. I panic. Things are now lining up in my head. Days of not eating and drinking- upper body paralysis and seizing. Shit Shit Shit.

It's August 5th- I had asked my mom to have Helen call me on her birthday. Phone rings- I hold back the tears. Helen keeps telling me how different I sound. I swallow hard- I ask her to put mom on the phone. Mom googles symptoms and sign of rabies in a dog. "Refusing water, upper body paralysis, seizing, stiffness in the neck mouth and arms..."I ask her what to expect next... "She's going to start foaming at the mouth, she''ll start to bite, seizing will continue until she falls into a coma- death in a few hours... Mere promise me you will keep your hands away from her mouth and see your doctor tomorrow. Please Please Please!"We talk a bit more- but I need to be there for Tfoliwe now. We hang up.

It's nearly midnight and I try not to cry- but she is still coming in and out of seizures. It's been over 4 hours now. I sit with her- in my arms, blankets between us. Like a zombie film- I sit and wait for her to turn.

Then it happens. The foam bubbles out. Her snout rolls up exposing her teeth. She starts to bite the blanket. Too weak to really puncture anything. She looks me in the eyes. Her mouth is dangerous but her eyes innocent. As she bites- they tell me she's sorry- they ask me to make it stop. I ignore the rabid mouth, I look at her and I beg her to forgive me. I tell her I'm sorry I couldnt save her- I'm sorry I couldnt take away the pain. I'm sorry I couldnt show her how beautiful my world back home is.

I look past her and see my left over bath water- still in the basin. I could end her pain right now. I could end the suffering. I walk over to the water, I kneel down, she in my arms... I hold her over the water, tears streaming down my face... I can't bring myself to do it.

I am weak. I am weak. I am weak.

Instead I speak to her. I tell her about our home I will bring her to in Seattle. I tell her about our perfect day. "Tfoliwe, we'll wake up together- you in my bed of course, we'll have breakfast, we'll pick up Brophy (because the teal mobile will be no more by then), we'll get X teen and Morgen who will be all tan from South America. We'll meet the whole gang at the most amazing place in the world- Magneson Dog Park. You'll meet Rumi- you two will discuss being a dog in Africa. She'll tell you everyone loves dogs here! They wont Shaya (beat) you. And you'll see Tfoliwe- you'll run free with them. We'll walk my usual path together. We'll reach the water- i'll force you in with me. Then we'll go to the "Rumi Spot". You two will run laps around us. We'll walk up the grassy hill just in time to watch the Seattle Sun set. You'll feel the cool breeze seperate through your hair- hold your head high- close your eyes and take in all the stories- all the smells around us. Eyes closed you'll think how all this almost didn't happen. You'll be the happiest dog in the world. I'll hold you in my arms as the sun sets behind the water. Together- souls filled with happiness..."

I hold her close now. I let her feel my heart beating. Then I watch her take her last breath... tiny waves of shivers. "Wait for me on top of that hill Tfoliwe. I'm there waiting for you."

Crumbling walls, I am a wallowing weeping willow. My heart bursts open. The weakest muscle in my body. I look at her still body in my arms, she is gone gone gone.

Lesson Two: Death is all around. Death is apart of life.

A child again at 25. My heart is weak- always has been- in two years will it callous over? One evening Nelly grabs a chicken, she holds it in her arms and as she's petting it she says to me, "We are going to slaughter and eat this chicken tonight."I put my hand on the hen-I touch her- I feel her heart racing. My eyes tear up. "Why are you sad Simphiwe?"She asks. I explain to her- the chicken does not want to die. I am being empathetic. I am feeling the chicken's pain. She laughs- what a foreign idea to her, she can't imagine feeling an animal's pain. A blessing or a curse- I do not know.

Gogo's here like to point at chickens and say "DINNER! TONIGHT! Pick one- we'll eat her.."As they cackle the American whimpers and walks away. We grow up in a world with no relationship to what we eat. In two years will I have a better understanding of this relationship? In two years I hope to slaughter a chicken. To hold her in my arms, to thank her, to know she's lived a good life and died a good death by my hands.

I fall asleep, Tfoliwe in my arms. The next day my Gogo wants to buy me a new puppy. I explain I don't need another one. Even with death Tfoliwe was the pefect storm. I am glad I found her. I know I gave her a happy 4 days and a good death. Her name was right- the first of many.

In the bigger picture- her death has shown me the importance of embracing death here. I came only wanting to be the educator- the preventor. I wanted to leave the care of the already sick for the medics. But now I see how important it is for me to see it. To have a relationship with it. My heart- a muscle- needs to be exercised.

My grandmother has told me an expression her mother once told her. "There are two kinds of women in this world- the clinging vines and the sturdy oaks and you do not want to be a clinging vine."I used to think this to be true. But now- I see- how important it is for me to let in the pain. To let in death. A weeping willow- when hit hard- she bends, she falls... a weeping willow- when she falls- she always gets right back up..

Me- a wallowing weeping willow- I am bent- but soon i'll be up again.

The Perfect Storm

8.1.09

Its permanent site announcement day! Its permanent site announcement day! Where we are to be placed for the next two years is to be announced- location- family- picture of our hut. Make Stella stands up to lecture us. I love Make Stella but this woman knows how to make anything last about 2 hours too long. We're all restless.. tapping our toes.. our fingers.... even i am making repetitive noises. Just as I am wrapping my fingers around one of the boy's necks in frustration Chad (assistant country director) stands up and says.. ok go outside. I leap out of my chair- the boys try and stop me from getting outside. We run.

On the ground outside is a map of Swaziland in ropes. 4 regions roped off (Hhoho, schilsiwani (sp?), Manzini, and Lombombo). Tiny numbered flags scattered throughout the regions.

Current pcv's and chad stand together our files in their hands. They shout out numbers and we are led to our numbered flag. Number 17 is called out- I close my eyes and hope this one is mine- 17 my favorite number. Meredith Brooks! I find my flag- I find my region. I am 17. I am Manzini region. I am Nkiligi village. I look around- we all seem so close. Throw some mountains and dirt pathed roads and suddenly we are so far apart. We've spent everyday together for the past 6 weeks. It will be a challenge to give up our routine- each other.

Chad walks over to me- im beaming. "You look happy."He says. "Eight of us spent about 4 hours in a tiny room trying to place all of you. Based on what you asked for and what we think you'd be best at. You told us you wanted to work with teenagers. We agree this is best for you. So your family is quite large- full of teens. The area- Nkiligi- has many many problems with the youth. Gangs, violence, theft, rape. They need your help."Im beaming even more now. " Oh and we tried to find you a homestead that didn't beat their dogs. I hope it works out."

I look out into the woods- I see a season 6 volunteer wandering around- trying hard not to be seen. Every once in a while you see season 6 when they are not here to lecture or mentor us. I ask him why we dont see more of them around. He explains Babe Musa would get angry if current pcv's were hanging out with us before our swear in. "At the one year mark- a lot of us become depressed- frustrated- peace corps is afraid we'll taint your view on the experience here. We are asked that we stay away until you are officially peace corps volunteers."He then asks me about these "" I Phones ". I wonder what technological nonsense i'll miss out on.

Season 6 has told us how close our group is. We don't have cliques- we're one happy family. All incredibly diverse but fitting each other so well. We're all already so sad- knowing in a few weeks we'll be leaving each other.

We are briefed on what to expect the next two years after swear in. The depression, the anxiety that will follow after the first three months. The everyday embarassment and pain of trying to communicate with the Swazis. Swaziland doest not adjust to you- you adjust to Swaziland. After a year adjustment finally sinks in- then you enter the anxiety and depression of re entering the world you left behind. People magazine won't make sense to you anymore. PCMO- who has been here for 9 years- tells us about this wonderful thing where you can sit outside a restaurant and check your email.

There's no employee of the month here- no stars, no promotion, no pat on the back, no bonus at the end of the road. Every mistake, every regret, every concern or worry- every wrong you did to someone- you'll go over and over in your head, you'll pull it all out explore it more analyze it- alone in your hut- you're going to come out of this knowing more about yourself than ever before. A different person.

My biggest fear- isloation-alone.

In a couple of days our counterparts are arriving at our training site. These are Swazis from our permanent communities (Nkiligi for me) that will help plug us into the community. Introduce us to headmasters, the chief, schools, clinics, NGO's, RHM's, Caregivers, etc- It's a very important relationship to have. Your counterpart can make or break your experience based on how motivated they are. After we meet our counterpart we are to go to our permanent site/village for five days to meet our new family and be introduced to those who are important in the village. It is called OJT- in just a few days.

After a long day of "You will be stressed!!!!!!! You will be depressed!!"Some friends and I decide to share a bottle of wine and sleep at their home.

Around 5 in the morning, I get up to do my routine pee break. As I sit/squat, I hear this high pitched sqeeling. I ignore it and think, well this is nature. As I walk away something stops me. It's still dark, im exhausted, cold- but for some reason I turn back. I realize the squeeling is coming from the trash pit. I look down, and there I see the tiniest puppy struggling to be heard. I grab some trash as a barrier and pick her up. I hold her close to my chest to stop her from shivering.

It's still dark and potentially dangerous- but I decide to walk her to my homstead to feed her milk and not wake the others. I reach my house, I walk inside.

Just as I am closing my door, it hits. Enormous balls of hail pour down onto my tin roof. I've never seen hail this big. It's ridiculously loud falling onto the tin roof. The puppy barries herself deep into my arms now. I get into bed, I cover ourselves with blankets. As I lay there craddling this little life- for a moment I realize how perfect this all was. Had I not gotten up to pee at the exact moment I had- the hail for sure would have killed her. Or she and I would have been caught in a hail storm in the dark walking home. Why did it wait until the exact moment when I shut my door?

I layed there with her in my arms. I fantasized- me and the puppy for the next two years- then home together in the States. Suddenly, for a moment, upcoming anxiety depression and isolation didn't seem so bad.

For a moment there- I thought this just might work.

Cauliflower on The Side

LPI Language proficiency is now over. (on a sidenote these keyboards have no shift button- so everything is in lowercase- my apologies english teachers...ahem.. mom)

a series of tests and stations. pc teaches us to be self sufficient- we teach swazis to be self sufficient. after being teased by my gogo about the horrors of our handi gas stoves- her screaming BOOM everytime she sees it- i am now concerned with passing the assemble your own gas stove station. i sneak into the tent- i observe others assembling their stoves- i am soon kicked out of the tent. "simphiwe! no cheating!"I successfully assemble and disassemble the stove as well as the water filter. I move on to the cross cultural test questions on how to respectfully enter someone's ekhaya (home) as a woman. How a woman mourns death- which hand to recieve things with, to hand over things with, and to shake with. This would be the right hand. the left is considered the one you wipe with and the dirty one. jokes on them- i wipe with the right. onto technical questions with simon where all the acroynms we have been learning are now being tested- as well as defining our roles as a pcv. then language- i hate siswati.

LPI over- 33 relieved pct's.

our next lecutures are filled with actual information we can eventually use. statistics, bar charts, graphs, pie charts- hiv explained on power point. why is hiv the highest in swaziland. lesson learned- stay in school. keep these kids busy/distracted/focused. the speaker is swazi- making it hard for us to understand when he is joking (swazis are the worst at telling jokes). at one point during the lecture he says," i guarantee 90% of the swazi men in this room (pointing to our teachers) has had msm (men having sex with men)."swazi teachers laugh shaking their heads no. the speaker moves on to talk about something else. "ahh.. what excuse me... what" I shout." is this not the country that generally not only disapproves of homosexuality but does not even think it exists"."He explains, "I said msm. Boys will have intercourse with younger boys to break them in or prove themselves- sometimes using the theighs. or sometimes using a goat or pig or even a dog." 33 mouths drop- we're exchanging looks of confusion.

it's incredibly frustrating the lack of information specifically pertaining to hiv and sexuality that pc is giving us. culturally and language a plus- but we're thirsty for what we came here to understand. i ask about masterbation. " can i talk about this with my students?" im told the boys will know- even though masterbation is not that common amongst them. the girls wont understand at all. i fantasize- a year from now- creating a young women's masterbation workshop titled - "masterbation: the left hand just got a whole lot dirtier".

later we are lectured on rape and sti's by our pcmo. we are shown videos and written handouts of those women who have been raped while a pcv. pcmo asks the few men in our group to watch out for the female pcv's. "walk them home at night, if they're being harrassed- say they are with you."i think about every kombi ride i have been on. smashed against the window a bad breathed swazi man leaning hard against me- starring at my chest too afraid to look me in the eyes. "blah blah blah tsandza blah blah blah..."tsandza means love- i gather- i only recognize verbs right now- he's professing his love for me or asking my hand in marriage. "anigva."i say (i dont understand you). he explains in english now, "hello. i love youiwanttomarryyouyoupleasebemineyouarebeautiful"in about one breathe.

in class we are shown rape kits. or what i like to call- "raped twice" kits. cause if you didn't feel violated enough the first time- here's your second chance to. we're warned by current pcv's- "you are fresh meat. south african soccer/rugby players frequent backpackers here. you'll get lonely- really really lonely... you'll meet a white person. and just remember- they've 'met' a lot.. a lot of people already."

transition into sti lecture. full of gooey pictures and disturbing descriptors. i lean over to a pct- "god i hope they don't serve us cauliflower for lunch today."

a condom relay follows. 2 enormous black dildoes and about a hundred condoms. how comforting to know dildoes on the united states governemnts tab- pc swaziland- thank you.

during all the commotion.. condoms flying...i hear a few people discussing their blogs. then someone shouts, "yeah- who is this poet from seattle?!"i feel my cheeks turn bright red. "Meredith our parents are following your blog they love it.""Yeah my daughter has been following it.""My mother follows it- you must LOVE dogs."i didn't post my blog on the pc website- i wonder how people are finding this if they don't know me already.

if anyone's parents, friends, or children of the pct's in season 7 are reading this- know that every one of these people alongside me is absolutly an inspiration to me. it's an overwhlemingly wonderful feeling to be assured everyday that there are good people out there. to end up at the same point as them at different times in our lives- i know i must have done something right along the way. i hope you are proud of them.

condoms are successfully put on the tax payer's dollar's dildoes. it's lunch time.

for lunch- steaming hot chicken, rice, salad... and cauliflower on the side.

Life Ends Today

7.13.09

When I put myself in the desperate's shoes- the poor- the sick-the horny teenage boy- I realize it is not I who can convince these boys what is best for them and everyone else. Either these men are not thinking long term or they just don't care. It is the women who can make them change. It is the girl who demands her boyfriend wear a condom. It is the wife who demands her commuting husband get tested- frequently. Because the desperate, the sick, the horny- will take and take as long as it is allowed.

The mothers need to educate their sons their daughters. Women are internally angry here- but most do nothing.

No one is seeing the red ribboned billboards buses and buildings. The awareness is out there. The faded red ribbon- no longer stands for anything.

Today we were given our first community project- to work in three different groups at three different schools. I jumped on the opportunity to work at the high school. It's interesting how diverse our interests are in this group. There are those who are hoping to work with the orphans and children, those who want to work in the clinics, and those who want nothing to do with schools and children. I prefer the teenage years- hoping to get a chance to work with the teen girls- especially the boys.

No matter what age level- we are all ready to finally get out there. If we have to sit through on more lecture one more 45 minute discussion about diarrhea- there will be homocide.

We divide ourselves into those that would work with the headmasters of a school- the teachers and the students. We are given surveys asking typical questions about HIV and their experiences with it. Each group would be given the same survey. This survey will help us decide what our community projects will be based on. What our communities need.

I walk into one of the classrooms two of the PCT's are teaching in. I hear the students shout "Simphiwe!" "Simphiwe!" Thabeela had warned me they all know my name. I've made it a point to walk everywhere and say Sawbona to every persoin I pass. I'll run by a group of high schoolers walking home and do the soccer high fives as I pass. I'll shout Sanibonani! to a group of gawking high school boys. If I see a young girl carrying a huge jug of water home to her family, i'll hand her my bag and carry it for her. I tripped in front of some primary school kids- turned it into a summersault kartwheel followed by a bow. I make a complete fool of myself everyday- and it works. They know me. Everywhere I go I hear my name shouted. I introduce myself to people and they say, Simphiwe- I know you. They, for now, love me.

After class a young man walks over to me- reluctantly- his friends giggling huddled together behind him. His voice shakes, "Simphiwe I am scared to meet you." My PCT's laughing behind me now. I grab his hand- swazi shake. "Yebo yebo bhuti. Ugubani ligama lako?" He tells me his name- ignorantly infatuated with me.

I think I'm at about two proposals a day. It's up to 25 cows. In a bad mood- one night- I am hasseled again for marriage by a passing man. I demand that he come closer- so he can hear me clearly. I ask, "Do you ACTUALLY think I or any American woman is going to say yebo?! That we'll whisk you away to America where money grows off trees. We'll hang out with my dear friend Oprah, have some drinks with R. Kelly and Jay Z? Do you you really think this will happen?" Smiling he responds, "Yebo."

Next stop- the Umphigatsi- the chief's home- the meeting place of all those in the medical and education HIV prevention fields. There we are accompanied by the Swazi Red Cross, some RHM's, (rural health motivators), and clinic workers. Chairs are outside under a tree and matts on the ground for the women. I sit down, properly, knees first- then bottom, pull legs forward. It's hot- my back hurts.

Red Cross woman steps up to present to us what it is she and her staff teach kids in the area- abstinence Swaziland. We are sorrounded by caregivers, chiefs, men and women- the young the old, the breastfeeding the not breastfeeding. Swazi Red Cross stands up- she holds up a flip chart. A cartoon of a woman with jeans on arrows coming out from her pointing to three different men. It's clear this picture symbolizes a young woman who is sleeping with three different men. "What do you call this woman?" Swazi Red Cross asks- giggling behind the illustration. Swazis are shouting out responses in Siswati. Laughter follows each shouted response- they look our direction smiling to see if we are understanding what it is they are shouting. This can't be good. Then I hear it. A man shouts, "Bitch!". We look at each other with disgust. Most of us are too busy wipping off the colony of ants climbing up our legs into our skirts up our backs. They have placed the women on an ant colony.

The final illustration. A woman embracing her husband, long skirt on, "What do you call THIS woman?" A good one.

The most disturbing part of all of this was this woman encouraging these men to call this woman a bitch. Swazi Red Cross- a huge disappointment.

Afterwards, we sat with a few of them to ask questions about what it is like doing HIV prevention in Swaziland. They laughed at our questuions. They hardly made eye contact. They buried their faces when they softly spoke to us, their mouths hidden behind their hands. This is Swazi women.

Our translator explains- these women are nervous- embarrassed to talk to you about sex. They are not professoinals. I respond, "This is the Red Cross." These are the educators laughing with their hands over their mouths in embarrassment. I look at one of the PCT's with me. She's one of the kindest in our group. Excited to work with the orphans- the type of person that melts your heart, makes you smile. Makes the mountains sing when you are near her. I watch her, pen and notebook in hand- she is ready- excited to get in there and ask questions. She asks them about condom distribution and rural HIV care. She tilts her head, soft spoken words come out- a warm gooey smile. I watch the smile fade away- her pen drop. Swazi Red Cross could give a shit about this heart warming PCT. They laugh at her questions, they whisper in Siswati amongst themselvses. Swazi Red Cross then moves her hand from her mouth- giggling subsides- she looks directly into my eyes now and says,

"Life ends today. People here assume AIDS- people here do not care- We are selfish- we assume death is near- life ends today. Nothing else matters."

Mountains aren't singing anymore. Bubbly loving PCT- her heart is broken. And me- I arrived assuming the worst. I thank them, stand up and walk away- heavy hearted but I can handle it... for now.

We came here embracing the title, "HIV Educators". We realize now we are "Life Motivators". Which is the biggest challenge of all. With hard work- anyone can be educated- with a miracle a group- a country can be inspired- to hold on- to live. That life doest not end today.

I've asked myself how did Uganda win? A country that was taken over by the AIDS epidimic- Uganda won. They lacked the education- not the motivation.

We will have to build a suit of armor for the women. But first we will have to build a suit of armor for ourselves.