Googled Nkiliji- This is what I found...Huh?

http://www.dod.org/Products/Nkiliji--My-Heart--Part-I__DOD1947.aspx



My old village. First time I've seen a documentary and could accurately say, "um. that's not true...."


longest 26 minutes of my life.

"Starting To Fit"

10.25


"Let them know you realize the sun doesn't go down. It is just an illusion caused by the world spinning round." Words Fikile had written along the top of her hut. Words I have been trying to wrap my mind around for a week now. What on earth was she talking about. Today it clicked. A motivational statement- stay positive- keep going-you can do this. I can do this. A letter from Carl, reminds me of the words once spoken by our friend when times were rough- dish pit in Antarctica. "The weather will do what it wants regardless of your plans. Enjoy when the sun comes out."

A memory. My step mother, summer vacations as a child. Four whinning brat children, one camper, dad driving, we're lost again. Donna, whenever there wasn't a good side in sight would exhale loudly, clap her hands together and yell, "Well! It'll be an adventure!" As she herds us kids back into the car, hoping her upbeat call will bring us together and take on life's discomforts. This will be an adventure I tell myself. The door to my new hut, that once seemed so far away as I told myself "God I have to do this again." Face the glued eyes and gawking mouths all over again. My new hut door- now is within sight. I pick myself up, out of bed and open the curtains. I stare at the new lists of "Important People" along my walls. Reciting, memorizing, and visualizing their faces with names. I add on to my IDEAS FOR LUKHETSENI list. I keep a photo of Nkiliji though, along with my lists. I open my door, I step outside, and I begin.... the walk.

Integration for each volunteer is different. The dance of integration begins, for me, with a simple walk. From my hut to the nearest school. I line up my departure time with that of the students. I begin to make myself available. For the first month I will turn down all the rides I'm offered. "But Simphiwe, it's too far. But Simphiwe, it's too hot, But simphiwe, it's too cold." Swazis- its always too much with them. You'll never hear them say, "Man what a gorgeous day! No complaints, this weather is perfect and just right." It's important they see me. I wait for the Lubombo strangers to come crawling out of their bushes, their homes, their farms- hesitantly approaching this new mhlungu in Lukhetseni. A grocery clerk, "Can you look at this rash on my leg?" A caregiver, "Can you come to our NCP on Tuesday?" A single mother, "Can you help me start a business?"

NERCHA, SWADE, Save the Children, World Vision, ICAP. Swaziland acroynoms drive by. Whites on their way to the nation's game reserves. White South Africans and their big trucks- water irregation projects- canals and dams- all stop and ask. "No thanks, i'll walk." The best part though. The soundtrack. The playlist depends on the day- the weather- the time- the mood. Lately I have needed my saving grace. If you don't already know the band- download it right now. Beriut, "Elephant Gun". Just try not to dance along with it. The music video inspires me to dance again. I walk the dry jagged roads of dry jagged Lubombo- and I am alive again.

I set interviews up with caregivers, teachers, nurses, social workers. On my own of course, without a counterpart AGAIN. They all ask, "Simphiwe, how did you get my number? How did you find me?" I call PCV's in the area who have been here a year. I shadow their youth groups, their classes. PCV i'm "sharing" Siphofaneni with comes with me to interview career guidance teachers. I sit on the edge of my seat and throw up my words at them, "I have ideas for a school newspaper. They'll be an HIV section of course. I'd like to put a question box in the library for my shy students in class who are too afraid to ask questions. I can address these questions in the paper. I have made a contact with someone from the Swazi Times. I was thinking they could help with funding- I'm sure they put aside yearly charity funds. We could set up field trips to those young aspiring to be journalists at your school. My mother in the States works with a school newspaper. We could connect the papers some how. I also have ideas for an HIV/Sexuality/Gender debate club. We can start championships with other schools..." Im interupted. "Ok. Ok. I just got here- I'm a new teacher here, but I will think about these ideas. Thank you."

I feel foolish. I can't just smother them with my words. It's incredibly challenging to be sustainable in schools. You have to inspire the teachers to carry your work on. I need to find the motivated one in the school and lock on. PCV and I survey some of the kids on their HIV knowledge. At the end I ask them if they have any questions. Silence follows as usual. "Oh come on. I come from Rhihanna, Chris Brown, Obama, and WWF... and you're telling me you have no questions about them?" The questions flood in. Getting kids to ask questions- no im sorry- the right questions.. is like a dog herding cattle. As expected the questions move to personal ones about me. I answer as boldly as I am allowed to- I won't lie. "Are you Christian?" "Are you married?" "Why not?" Two girls, always in the back, stand up and ask more ridiculous questions... I am their entertainment- but little do they know, they are mine. We play a game of tennis with our questions. They soon realize- I can't be embarassed. I steer the game to a more serious note- we start talking about HIV. I tell them I want to start a girls club. They cheer and clap. "You have to come back!" They remember I told them I was once a dancer. Brave girl in the back stands, hands on hips, "If we join this club- will you dance for us?!" I promise them I will.

Male PCV and I continue to interview teachers and headmasters. Everyone of them thanks my male PCV saying his name over and over. It has been me talking the entire time. It has been me throwing ideas out. It has been me starring deep into their eyes trying to direct their gaze on me as I speak and not my male volunteer. We go to leave. "What was your name again?" SIMPHIWE.

I return home, keys out. I walk to my hut- as usual, nine giggling children and two barking dogs try desperatly to push themselves in with me. I start to create a routine. I allow hang out time until the sun is about to set. The sun set is mine and mine alone.

I walk alone to my spot. My two loyal companions following close behind- weary of the other dog's territories as we pass. I keep a rock in hand to protect them. With no glued eyes, no gawking mouths, apple in one pocket, banana in other, I find my "Where The Wild Things Are" dried up river bed. A large bloated tree, over sized low hanging branches awaits me. I climb. I sit facing my African sun as she lays her head down to sleep. My feet dangling, I let my flip flops (now held together by a screw and wire) fall to the ground where my companions lie- waiting for an applecore and banana peel to follow. The skyline is on fire. Her colorfully twisted hair stretching upwards washing everything in a thin orange haze. Before she goes, I tell my sun, "Kiss me you're beautiful."

She grabs my hand and we fall into it. Like a daydream- we fall into it- a memory. I'm lying on a hammock watching our Magnolia on Broadway- pink petals washing my face. My favorite unicorn folder, her unicorn tail painted in a way I can feel it blowing in the wind. The salt air of Cape Cod and the wind blowing inside my aunt's torquoise jeep along the beach. Pine Crest- lost again in a corn field and I can hear Mr. Anderson's tractor getting closer as I run. Baby Helen's pot belly- and her deep belly baby laugh. The softness and the smell of my mother's cream and yellow flower printed sheets. Running my wet freshly sucked thumb across the edges of her bed. Lying under white Christmas lights in his backyard- thinking...he did this for me? Wanting to be in his arms, afraid he'll feel my heart racing. Teenage hesitance. The absolute and extreme of being in love. My three favorite freckles on his neck. A contraction, a pull, a breath, dancing, organizing every silly adolescent emotion with a graceful step. Born with my grace- no one can take it from me.

All these moments have made me who I am and I am exactly who I should be.

The dark wind blows....I return home. Nine giggling children who I'm learning to embrace- or rather- to control. Still untouched by the retardation that America's entertainment brings to these "Underdeveloped" countries' youth- I break out the classics and for once.. my audience is smiling. Eric Clapton, "Motherless Child". We jump on my bed-"microphones" in hand. Brenton Wood "Oogum Boogum", Raphael Saadiq, "Big Easy" Paul Simon "Graceland" Seu Jorge "America De Norte".

Lukhetseni, my new home. This new shoe is starting to fit- blisters healing. Phone rings- it's Make in Nkiliji. "Sisi, it's Gigi- she's hurt again.' "I'll come tomorrow Make- I'll be right there."

"Fake Plastic Trees"

10.22

Hulled down in my cell, curtains closed, I'm lying in bed starring up at my new thatch roof. I try to bring it tumbling down around me so I can see the clear sky and clear my head. "Why?" I ask myself. "Why has Peace Corps put me here?" I tell Stella, "No teens. No conterpart AGAIN. One high school. A thousand NGO's and electricity- what I did not want." No jacuranda's a ton of current and recent PCV's and so many so many.. so many NGO's. I was literally put right on top of two other PCV's in my group who have politely asked me to stay away and not to take all their work. I walk to my dirt road outside my homestead, to the right- one volunteer, to the left- another. I am constantly watching my step and trying to understand what is exactly MY territory. It's particulary challenging that my homestead just had a PCV from group 5 and many others recently. A PCV and I go to the ONE high school in the area to see what exactly they need help with. Blank stares follow. Help? They tell us of the volunteers who were just here, "Put in that library over there. They helped us so much."

You can't imagine how frustrating it is to everyday get phone calls from my old community asking me where I am and for my help- while I'm stuck in a community that is being served left and right by NGO's and Peace Corps.

Peace Corps Swaziland- We'll burn that bridge when we get to it.

I ask current PCV, "OK. Surveys, assessments, interviews. What have you done at this school?" I throw some ideas at him. "Wow Mere. I think your motivation can help me with mine. Please don't take all my work though." I assure him I'll be serving Nkiliji as well, "I'll be busy with them too." He exhales with relief.

Day 2: Lukhetseni
I email Stella. "Please consider how unfair it is that every volunteer was put at a site based on what they had asked for. I understand you thought putting me in a home that just had a female volunteer would be safest- but everything else that makes up a site was not considered. A volunteer's happiness is crucial to their effectiveness. This is not only the next two years of my life- but my life dream. I didn't come here to analyze data with NGO's or fight over the youth of the ONE high school in the area with other volunteers. I did not want to be put somewhere I am not needed- fluff and filler." I won't be the Princess Diana of the African Poor. Peace Corps for me- not a reume booster filled with inflated facts. I didn't do Peace Corps for John fucking Hopkins University- they love PCV's. This is it. This is it.

Stella hears and agrees with what I have to say. But assures me if she shares this with the CD- she'll send me home. "But my heart is with you Meredith."

So here I lie in bed- thinking of all the communities in Swaziland- who have never seen an NGO or a PCV- who actually need me- and not this homestead that JUST had a volunteer. "Fikile!" "Fikile!" The kids shout. Previous peace corps volunteer's name. I see the tally marks on the doorway inside her hut. Showing the growth of her little "chickens"- what she called the kids i'm guessing- over the two years. I'm constantly called and compared to her. I'm an imposter. Her hut, her children, her family, her community. Her memories. Her two years. The eldest girl, Nobandile, my first night there, laughs and says to me, "You won't last the two years..." Nine giggling children in my hut constantly. Rooting through photos and journals with their fingers that have just been up their noses. Filthy feet on my bed. My favorite photo of my mother- in her twenties sitting on top of an old cadillac- I hear it tear. I jump into panic mode. "OUT!"

Day 3
I break out the cards and homemade popcorn I learned to make when I was vegan for about thirty minutes. I decide to minimize destruction by keeping their hands and mouths busy. I swagger over to the eldest girl, Nobandile, and say, "Bet Fikile didn't make you popcorn." She smiles a smug smile. "No. She microwaved bagged popcorn for us everynight and we watched movies on her lap top. Where's your lap top?" "I don't have one." I say defeated as I walk away.

Day 4
Nothing like hand-washing diry period underwear with nine giggling children watching and hovering over you.

Day 5
I take my bag of trash to the trash pit- to burn it. Nine giggling children follow close behind. One grabs it from me. I watch nine children tear open my trash and root through it like a pack of dogs. Eating bits of not so rotten perishable items. Old batteries and pens go into pockets. A girl pulls out a scraped out bottle of mustard. I know where this is going. I watch fingers go into it. I don't warn them- I'm going to enjoy their discomfort. Fingers in mouths.. quickly retreat and spit.. "Blah! What is this?!"

Day 6
I sit, exhuasted, staring at them wrestling on my hut floor. Catching their breath only to ask me for things. But Fikile bought us this.

Day 7
I visit other PCV, who I'm rubbing territory corners with. She shows me her work at Cabrini- an orphanage/clinic/school run by two American nuns. Fikile used to work there a lot. PCV shows me all the assessments, surveys, home visits she has done. She is an incredible hard worker- I feel like a fucking joke compared to the work she's been doing. Her work and the work of these nuns. What they've seen. PCV tells me about the home visits she and Cabrini have done to those living with TB and HIV- too sick to come to clinics.

There are some people seen only once, that live forever in your memory. PCV tells me, "I get to one homestead. A woman, a skeleton, lying on the floor. Every bone shooting out. My arms the size of her theighs. She has become drug resistant- living with TB- and of course AIDS." God this PCV has been doing REAL work- she is in it. She continues, "This is Lubombo. The poorest of the poor come here. Here where homesteads are made of stick and mud. Here where the HIV prevelance rate is over 50% Where HIV positive women tell us they cannot go on ARV's because their husbands want them to die and want to marry another. They are their husband's property. Where a child with a clubbed foot is tied to a tree and left to die. A Swazi child- the property, the cattle, of a family with a farm." I can't finish my sandwich. She goes on, "The self entitlement here is outrageous. A culture soaked with NGOs for so long. Giving them everything. A PCV works hard to get the funding to build the community a new NCP. She gives the materials to the community and asks them to build. There the materials sit, in a bundle for a year. Someone else comes along and takes them. Then the community asks the PCV if she can get the funding to get them a new NCP and new materials."

We come to the end of the tour at Cabrini. PCV wants to introduce me to an Australian volunteer. An accountant here to train a Swazi to be Cabrini's accountant. The Australians have an organization, similar to Peace Corps, that brings in professionals to train Swazis- sustainabile. "He's here for two years like us. But I wouldn't compare him to the Peace Corps- he doesn't like that." She explains that he and the nuns feel Peace Corps is kind of a joke. "Sending untrained kids into areas of crisis." Australia- sending trained professionals into areas of crisis. I walk into his air conditioned office. I shake trained professional's hand, at his computer sorrounded by the comfort of his numbers. I pull out my avacado sandwich from my ziploc bag and begin to munch. Mouth full, legs spread out- sitting in very "dude" manner, I shout to him, "So you're here for two years eh? Just like us?!" Bits of sandwich fly onto my shirt. "Oh, ooops- didn't mean to compare you to us." I wipe the avacado off my fingers onto my pants. "You, trained professional and me- hugging orphans and handing out hershey bars..." I decide to stop being a dick and brush off my rudeness with a "just kidding".

Day 9
Curtains drawn. I'm trapped in the belly of this machine. Aid work is about effectiveness. Compassion- a given. Compassion- easy. Am I effective? I'm afraid my Australian professional is right. I'm wasteful overlap on my sorrounding PCV's turph. Turning Lubombo into competition.

Is this my last straw I think. What more has to happen before I open this window and jump. Peacecorps/Swaziland: taking me over the edge and you won't come with me. I'm walking in water today. A devil driving me. I step outside and push my way through the extended hands and gawking eyes. I start to run. Why am I here? PCVs have told me, "No one else was supposed to be put in Lubombo- they don't need the help." Fikile wrote me, "I told them not to put anyone else at that site." But why are any of us here? What are American 20 something year olds doing here exactly? Fetching water, bowing to chiefs, watching the sick die. Wanting to be punched in the face. Wanting to feel something again. An escape from our mundane lives. Bringing ourselves closer to our feelings. Alive again.

I run faster.

A bankrupt country. A crooked King. Tourism and wildlife cornering welfare and neglect. This is the every day they have tried to escape and you mhlungus want this?

I hear my name called. I can only ignore and continue to run. What can I, the untrained the untalented, this 20 something year old American do?

Blood fills my head and I can feel again. I'm on fire. The fat Lubombo sun, his round face wheezing with his smoker's laugh, lingers up above. He tells me, "This is Lubombo Meredith- open your eyes." Sweat climbs down my ribcage like fat beetles- resting on the lower part of my back. I'm a god damn joke. What did I think I could do with my little youth clubs and support groups? I hold back the tears as I continue to run- making it difficult to breath. Head down- defeated. I'm walking through water today.

I look up. Where am I? Like something out of "Where the Wild Things Are"- I am deep in forest. A dried up river bed filled with low hanging bloated trees. My feet drag my body back "home". I push past the "Please may you borrow me's" and the dangling children on my hut door. I fall fall fall into bed. I look up at my new thatch roof and wait for it to fall down around me- showing me the clear sky and clearing my own head.

Dad says to me, "So you're learning something about beuracracy." This grasshopper- always learning.

I roll over, close my eyes- sleep to look forward to. Eyes open- shit, I forgot to take my malaria pill.

"Take Two"

10.12

I wave goodbye to PCV's, at the backpackers, from the back of my Peace Corps' white chariot. Without the support of my volunteers each step would be so much harder for me to take. Bongani (driver) and Peace Corps programming Swazi staff (Stella and Samu) make our way to Nkiliji.

At home I find Bongiwe and her girlfriends studying for exams. I am tackled as soon as I step out of the car. We walk to my hut, hand in hand, and begin to pack as Stella speaks with Babe and Make.

A difficult game of tetrus- my belongings are all packed in my tiny Peace Corps vehicle. As I sweep my now empty home, the girls wiping off dusty furniture, they begin to sing together. A "Goodbye Song" they learned in Pre School. Their rhythm and song swells as I get closer and closer to leaving them behind. I can barely hold back anymore.

It's time to say goodbye to my Sisi- Gigi. I find her sprawled out on the kitchen floor, skirt soaked in urine. Gone only a week and she's broken her arm and hit both sides or her head leaving large swells on either side. Two dogs bursting with pregnancy and Gigi now in her own urine. I pick her up and take her outside to her favorite spot- the tire in the middle of our homestead. I bring her fresh clothes and wipe her down. It's especially hot today. I sit next to my sisi on our tire, like we have so many times. Watching the chickens fuck, the donkeys roll, and the trees blow. "Ngiyakutsandza sisi wami." She puts her hand on mine as I rest my head on her shoulder. And I wonder- has anyone ever told her they love her as I have?

Make returns home, carrying a large bundle of firewood on her head. As I take off her load I tell her I'm going. She grabs my hand hard. I see Bongiwe behind, friends around her. The tears start to collect. She sees my sadness and quickly turns away. I walk over, turn her around, and in between sobs tell my sister, "Swazi men don't cry Bongiwe."I hold her shoudlers then draw her against my chest, her clenched jaw resting on my shoulder. We hold each other- strong Swazi men- and we cry. Her friends gather around...."Shame...". They place their hands on my back- heads down. I assure them I will be back often. "I'm not done with Nkiliji." Make grabs my hand and walks me over to the Peace Corps chariot- inside is Peace Corps staff hiding from the heat. I turn to my make (Ma-gay) and thank her and Babe (Ba-bay) for everything. "It is because of you- volunteers are able to help. You have given me a home and a family. This is something that will forever stay with me. I am forever endebted to you. You will always be apart of my life." Babe holds my shouder, "Always a Dlamini?" He asks. "Always a Dlamini." I say. Make grabs my other shoulder and pounds my chest hard as she gives her speech in Siswati to Peace Corps staff. I can understand enough to know she thought I was doing wonderful things in my village- a hard worker and a good daughter.

I pile in with staff and watch my dogs, my family, my homestead get smaller and smaller. I ask one last favor of Peace Corps. We pull into the local clinic. I have a book to return to one of the nurses. I leave it and my contact information with a woman from Mothers2Mothers. (An HIV positive mothers support group) Just as I'm about to walk out the door I hear a familiar voice, proud and booming.

"What are you doing here?" I ask Mctosa. He pulls me aside, away from the glued Swazi eyeballs always on me. "690." He says smiling wide. "Your CD4 count?! No ARV's!?" "No ARVs." he says. "Mctosa! This is good news!"

Swaziland AIDS. You wait till CD4 count is dangerously low- 250- then are put on antiretrovirals. In the States it's something in the high 300's. You get two trys with Swaziland drugs. Once the virus mutates on one kind of ARV you switch to another. After that- you wait to die of some OI like meningitis or TB. This is why average life span of a Swazi on ARV's is only 5 years. You want to stay off them for as long as possible.

I want to hug my Proud African, but the glued eyes deprive me of this tender moment. We stand face to face, like dancers onstage, waiting for the music to begin. I recover and return to my practical tone. "I will see you soon....and" He interupts my words by going to, what I think is, hug me- I stop him. But it's too late. He's put something in my pocket. "I'll see you again." He whispers in my ear.

Back in my chariot, I quickly pull out the sheet of paper. Written are these words:


"No longer scared to live. No longer scared to die. I have my protector.
The Guardian of the Sea- dwells inside of me. Thank you Meredith."

I fold the paper hard and bury it deep inside my pocket. As we pull out of the clinic I look out the back window. I see Mctosa standing outside, matchstick in mouth as usual. He points his index finger up against his chin raising it up high. Peace Corps staff- having heard that I managed to get Swazi young men to test- ask me, "Is that him? The one you got to test? How did you do that Meredith?" With a flick of my wrist I respond, "Ah nevermind."

Driving down down down to Lubombo region, I watch the thermostat rise as the mountains around me descend. I watch the trees become dry and stunted- bush like. I watch the rich red soil turn dry and colorless. I watch the jacurandas wave goodbye. The tide is out- and the colors are being taken with it. A cliche African scene. Dry dust and desert- we arrive to Siphofaneni- the closest shopping town to my "town" Lukhetseni. A river lies between Siphofaneni and Lukhetseni. Filled with worms and crocs- a shinning shimmering tease on a hot hot day.

It's getting late and the heat has not subsided. Peace Corps quickly introduces me to Make who speaks no English and 9 children under the age of 13. "And my counterpart?" I ask. Peace Corps says to talk to my new Make about it. "You mean the one who speaks no English?" Stella grabs my shoulder, "Meredith, I know you can make this work."

I watch Peace Corps chariot drive away for the second time. Leaving me with a whole new set of glued eyeballs and gawking mouths- tiny hands digging through my pockets. Make, built to be a linebacker, and her death stare. Stella rolls down the window and shouts, "The NCP (Neighborhood Care Point) tells me they don't have any food....that could be your first project." She laughs- she's joking.

"Yeah. I'll get right on that."

"You Can't Take the Nkiliji out of Simphiwe"

10.05.09


Banned from Nkiliji until Peace Corps can escort me back home to get my things on Tuesday. Then,straight to Lukhetseni (Siphofaneni).

So, sipping lattes in Mbabane I must wait.

This is not good enough.

I need the chance to explain to my family- more importantly, Bongiwe, why I'm going. The past week I have been getting phone calls from them- underneath their school desks whispering, "Simphiwe..where are you? When are you coming home?" I need the chance to explain. Tuesday they'll be in school and I'll be unable to talk to them.

Peace Corps allows me to go on Sunday only if I allow them to take me. Despite how ridiculous I believe all this to be- I can't turn down a free ride. Peace Corps picks me up in Manzini.

Driving back, the familiar roads and faces. The cool green valleys, the white haired old man- eyes aged with blue-looming in the doorway of an old building. A washed out coca cola sign painted above. He never fails to wave as I pass. A creek filled with naked children and that scent of warm sweet grass. I can hardly keep still in my seat.

I'm greeted first by my pack- 7 smiling dogs. The black one, they call Baby and my constant shadow, wraps his legs around my thigh. I walk into the house, Baby walking on his hind legs while the front legs are still holding on tight. Make (Ma-gay) is polishing the hallway. She looks up and screams, "Swani! Swani!" (Baby child) I embrace her as she continues to yell, "Swani!" rubbing my breasts for a good minute. Sibonile's daughter runs up to me. Hands on her hips she says in her high pitched voice, "Umgcugcutele". Behind Make (Ma-gay) stands Bongiwe. She hesitates to approach me, turning away when I make eye contact. I pry myself from Make and Baby's grip. I walk over to my sisi, turn her around and hold her tight. Tears streaming down both our faces.

A month ago Bongiwe, Mctosa, and I watched a soccer game. For an hour we listened to Mctosa share all his expressions and idioms in English. Bongiwe's favorites were: "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." Which she would always mess up and ignorantly say "Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder." I'd laugh and tell her both work really. Her other favorite, "I miss you like the cool shade of a tree that has been cut down."

I pull away from Bongiwe's embrace. Hold her her head in my hands and say, "Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder." Which she replied with, "I'll miss you like the cool shade of a tree that's been cut down." "Where's Gigi?" I ask. She points to the kitchen. I walk over to Gigi's bench. As I go to shake her hand, she pulls me in hard. I had no idea she had such strength. She speaks in her low drawn out Siswati to me. Most Swazis don't even understand her speech. With her tight grip and smile I can understand what she's saying."I missed you too Gigi."

Before Peace Corps driver leaves he explains to Babe (Ba-bay) and Make (Ma-gay) what exactly is going on with my move. Once he's gone, Bongiwe (Boe-knee-whey)and I walk to the shop as we always do. Singing a Black Eye Peas song with our little dance stomp walk. I pass miss Jacuranda- dancing along. "Simphiwe you will be so sad. Manzini is jacuranda region. There are very few in Lubombo." Bongiwe tells me. I see Chief ahead. I know it's him by his swaggering walk and beanie leaning to the side- Swazi male youth. He's smiling big. He pulls me in for a hug. "Simphiwe. We will hide you. You cannot go!" He shouts. I tell him Peace Corps is putting a male volunteer in Nkiliji next year. Peace Corps Swaziland Season 8. "You always asked me Chief- to bring over my male friends from Peace Corps. Well, now you'll have one all the time." "No Simphiwe, we want you. What if next year you come back here and he goes to Siphofaneni?"

Ahead, I see Proud African with his closest friend, Dry Man.

"Why do you call him 'Dry Man' Mctosa?" I once asked him. "Because the way he moves. So dry...so stiff. A lazy lazy man. Even his girlfriend says he's lazy in bed." Mctosa laughs.

"UUUUUUUUUUUUUUnjan (sounds like, goo-johhhhhhhhhhn)....Dry Man?" I mock the way Swazi male youth greets.Swazi male hand shake follows, thumbs greet and glide pass each other. I make limited eye contact with Mctosa whom Bongiwe says I should not be hanging around with. Bongiwe, Chief, and I continue to walk pass when Bongiwe stops and turns. In Siswati shes says, "Mctosa! Come by tomorrow- we're reading Lion and the Jewel. We need help." She notices the bewilderment in my eyes. "Mctosa is tutoring my friends and I in our studies- exams are next week. He's really smart you know." "Simphiwe stay away from Mctosa." I believe those were the words you told me. "I didn't want you to be his girlfriend. He's been helping us out a lot." She defends.

Before I go, stressing to family I will be back Tuesday to get my things, I stop by Proud African's to say goodbye. His door is open, but he's not in. I walk in. I run my fingers over the piles of newspapers and books, dust collecting on my fingertips. Pages of notebooks open, his scribblings. New expressions and phrases he's pulled from books. Random sentences hes copied from novels. "I like to play with the words." He once told me of English.

I look up and see him standing in the doorway. Bright blades of sunlight thrust their way around him. Although backlit and unable to see his smile- I can hear it in his voice.
"Unnnnnnnnnnnnjan- Tessa?"
"I told you, you should be a teacher. Teaching Bongiwe and her friends now."
"Ah Nevermind." He replies, always with a flicker of his hand.

He reaches past me to put on a shirt. "The youth" he continues, "They read these novels. But to them- they're just reading words on a page. They aren't understanding the words. Give them Rihanna and Chris Brown- they'll understand they're words. But words in a book- are just words in a book."

I ask Proud African to look after Gigi's walker, Bongiwe's behavior, and the clinic's support group. "I'll be back Tuesday." As I go to leave Mctosa stares hard at me,
"You were safe Simphiwe."
"What?"
"Here. You were safe here."

I return to Mbabane, the backpackers, where other volunteers are here to celebrate a PCV's birthday. Most of the night I stand and stare. I don't connect with anyone. PCV's don't understand, "Where's the Meredith we know?" My heart is heavy, and there's this ever constant lump in my throat. I'm going through a break up with Nkiliji- heart broken. I decide, here and now, I can't just abandon this village. I will do what I can from Lukhetseni. I will help two villages- best I can.

Peace Corps drops you off with a community, the only white in sight. They leave you with a new family, a new name. They tell you, "Integrate. Integrate. Integrate." You become this new village, this new family, this new person. You are someone else. How do I shake off everything I've absorbed in the past three months?

PCV nudges me in my side and says, "I guess Mere. You can take the Simphiwe out of Nkiliji, but you can't take the Nkiliji out of Simphiwe."

"Guardian of the Sea"

10.01.09

(This entry only reflects my Peace Corps experience and my silly opinions. It is not an accurate representation of Peace Corps.)


The Final Straw.

PCMO, Day, is doing site visits. Visiting each volunteer’s homestead asking a serious of routine questions to insure Peace Corps we are adjusting well. And more importantly, to make sure our mosquito net is over our beds- the illusion of safety in a country that really has no malaria. We’ve been warned by group 6, “She’ll ask you about your sex life.”

I tell Day my ideas for my schools and clinic- school newspaper, expanding the support groups in clinics, a big brother big sister project. “I’m starting to see the bigger picture here. What they need. How I can make it happen. Everyday people are coming to me. A dialogue has begun. I’m excited.” I tell her how happy I am with my family. “They’re perfect- we really are a family.” I hesitate. “But…. Well…” I tell her about the harassment. The whole office already knows about crazy drunk naked man (as they refer to him- apparently even in Washington). I hesitate some more. I tell her about the latest incident- the teacher- the attempt at a tongue in mouth greeting. “OK. That’s NOT normal.” She says. Her smile fades. She makes note of it in her notepad. I swallow hard- maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I might have just risked leaving my family. Day shifts in her seat, smile back on- my buddy again.

“So you havin’ sex?” She grins.
I laugh. “Yeah- Swaziland rampant with AIDS and gender inequality- I’m constantly turned on here.”

Next day, I get a call from my favorite Swazi- Mfanafuthi, head of Safety and Security Swaziland Peace Corps (Seriously, I love this man). “Meredith, we’ve heard about your incident with the teacher.” I tell him the story. “But I’m OK.” I try and reassure him. “Yes. But I’m NOT ok.” He responds. Later, country director calls. “Meredith, I heard about your incident with the teacher.” I tell her the story. “But I’m OK.” She tells me to pack for what could be a week. I am to come to Mbabane and stay at a backpackers while Peace Corps “investigates” my site. “We don’t feel you are safe there. Especially with the weekend coming up. They will be drinking and these incidents have all occurred on the weekends.” She continues to tell me I must have done something. There must be a rumor going on about me. I must have done something to cause this harassment. I don’t like her tone or the sound of this. I pack for a week and prepare for the worst. Bongiwe hovers over me as I pack. “I’ll be back in one week- tops Bongiwe.” She’s giving me that doubting look she reserves only for when I tell her things like, “Don’t worry- I can handle it.” I hug her tight- knowing full well they’re probably taking me away, but keeping my concerns to myself.

I stop by Proud African’s home to say goodbye. I tell him I might be leaving for good. He says nothing. He hands my my copy of Constant Gardner.
“Did you hear me? They might be moving me to a different site, a different region, a different family.”
“What do you want me to say Simphiwe? What do you want me to do? Cry?”
“I wouldn’t expect that from Proud African.”
“I’m Swazi. A man. We don’t cry. But know, inside, I am hurting."
I turn to leave. He grabs my arm, pulls me in, and hugs me tight. Mid embrace I tell him, “Go see your baby boy as much as you can. And the walker I had made for Gigi- please deliver it to her ASAP. She’s fallen many times- her arm and head are swollen from injury. And don’t forget to go to the doctor on the 15th to find out your CD4 count and start the ARV’s.” I pull away and look into his eyes. “And Mctosa, you have to take them on time everyday. And they may make you sick at first.” I had him one of my books. Pointing to a page, “If you get any of these symptoms- go see your doctor. AND I’ll know if you are taking your tablets. If you’re doing it right, you’ll start to gain your weight back. Promise me. Promise you’ll.” He interrupts, “I promise Simphiwe.”

Before stepping onto the kombi to town, I look over at my favorite jacurranda. The wind brushing through her purple petals, she sways and waves goodbye.

I arrive at the backpackers. Electricity, toilets, microwave, shower, a pool, oh my god- a pool, tv and movies. Yesterday I spent thirty minutes fetching water and fourty minutes trying to pet a donkey. Now I am microwaving my dinner, clothes are washing themselves while I’m watching 300. In the next room, white Swazi born men drinking and smoking. Born into privledged familes in a shit country. Sporting Swazi flag tattoos- showing them off to traveling confused white girls. They've grown up in a country they know nothing about. I speak more Siswati than them. One evening I was invited to watch them play cricket. The most boring sport in the entire universe. I am surrounded by Swazi born whites. South African accents, fancy cars, and men in short shorts. How did I stumble across this bizarre subculture? This transition is becoming a total mind fuck.

I enter country director’s office. Together we are analyzing MY behavior. My knowledge, skills, and attitudes- Peace Corps’ theme of training. I am given a test with Papa Bear, training manager, Musa. Scenerios are thrown at me and I’m asked, “How would you handle this harassment?” I respond, “Well, is the harasser drunk? How old? Am I in an environment I can easily get out of? Or am I say in a kombi? Am I alone? Does the harasser have a weapon? Is he threatening me? Please be more specific with your scenerios, because my actions would change according to these specifications. How about I tell you what I would do in each scenario, or rather- what I have done in each scenario.” Training manager laughs.

Back in Country Director’s office- she tells me, “You need tougher skin.” I laugh. I’m remembering a recent incident in a small town- with two other PCV’s. In a restaurant, I’m expressing to them the on going harassment I’ve been enduring. During this discussion, two men approach me and ask me to be their wives. They continue to linger and persist. “I want to taeke you!” One PCV starts yelling, “WHY DON’T YOU GO SEXUALLY PLEASE YOUR OTHER WIVES! IM SURE YOU AREN’T.” I ignore. I ignore until I absolutely cannot no more. We finish eating and go outside. Outside, two different men circle around me. One is glassy eyed with drunk. This will require a different reaction from me. PCV starts yelling at him in English. I ignore and walk away. Man goes to touch me. Drunk and touching me gets this reaction: I push his hand away, raise my finger and point in his face yelling, “Fuseki! Hamba! Suka! Ahhhhhhh…wena. Ngitakushaya!” Bomake (women selling fruits) in the background start laughing hysterically. And as usual, drunken man gets the most confused look in his eyes, steps back- dumbfounded. Walks away- trying to shake the shock off.

But apparently, Mbabane Peace Corps- sipping their lattes and mochas-thinks I need “tougher skin”.

Country director asks me, “Do you want to be here Meredith?” Do I want to be here? “WHAT?!” I exclaim? How did it go from questioning why I’m being harassed to questioning if I want to be here. I want to just rip my skin off- the audacity of such a question. “I don’t want you to answer now. I want you to think about this. Re-integrating is an incredibly hard task. You don’t have to stay here. It’s ok if you want to go home. It’s not a failure if you decide to go. Just think about…” I interrupt, “I’m not going anywhere.” “I want you to sleep on it and tell me tomorrow.” CD says. “Today Stella (Swazi Peace Corps cross cultural integration staff) is talking with your chief, village, and family. I’ll discuss with Musa about the test you took with him and see if you are able to go to another community, another country, or home.” “WHAT?!” I exclaim again. “Swazi staff is convinced that you’ve somehow brought this on yourself. Washington is asking me why I am allowing you to stay. We need to know you can integrate Meredith.”

Fuck. I’m crying. “Why are you crying?” CD asks me. “You just told me Peace Corps is basically against me. I need you to have confidence in me. I need you on my side.” I explain. “You need to prove to us first. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I shut the door. Lesson Four: Don’t report harassment- It is your fault.

Next day, country director’s office. “So did you think about what I asked you yesterday? Do you want to go…” “I’m not going anywhere.” I interrupt.

Stella comes in. Stella, my Swazi Savior, tells country director and I- everyone in my community liked me. I was a hard worker she says. “At all the meetings. You met a lot of people despite not having a counterpart like everyone else. They said you were incredibly friendly..” CD interrupts, “Too friendly.” Stella continues, “ You have to be careful not to be too friendly Meredith. People, especially Swazi men, take advantage of this.” She is making a very valid point. “You need to FIRST make close relationships with those in your community who have the most respect. You cannot start with the youth.” Then, I make a very valid point.

“You put me in a community with no counterpart- no gogo clerk manager. No one to plug me in to help me to connect with the elder respected members of this community. So. I make my own connections. I find my own counterparts. I worked with what I had. Regardless of who I worked with, you put me in a community that has no respect for their chief. I was harassed at the umphagatsi- IN FRONT OF the chief. While being threatened by drunken naked man on my own homestead, shouting I will shoot you both, two men just walked by and did nothing. No counterpart. No respect. I agree I need to be a bit more hesitant who I am friendly to. But I came here to make connections- to start a dialogue. Already I have gone with three people to get tested. Everyday strangers confide in me their stories. Just having someone to talk to alleviates so much pain for them. Other volunteers are hearing my stories and asking me how do you start these conversations. I'm just walking down the street smiling and greeting. And if someone wants to talk- i'll hold their hand and talk. If it means I get harrassed more- then I get harrassed more."

Stella nods.“There were a lot of factors in this. Your community is ashamed and very sad to loose you.” I begin to cry again. “I let my community down.” “No. They let you down.” Stella adds. CD explains they are putting me in a community, a homestead that has housed a group 5 female volunteer. “This community will know how to handle a white outsider female.”

I leave to speak with other PC staff- all incredibly supportive. I speak with Musa. "Musa, I hope you remember that now I am a month and a half behind all the other volunteers. Our assessment is due in one month. I will try my best to gather as much information as possible in such a short period of time." Musa smiles. "Meredith, you're always moving, shaking hands, greeting people, and eating- I know you'll catch up just fine."

Two of the Swazi women staff, including Stella, will escort me on Tuesday to Nkiliji. They will be with me as I say goodbye to another family and hello to a new one. It’s still secret what region I am going to. I try to shake it out of Stella. I joke, “Well as long as it’s not Lubombo. The hottest place on Earth- 120 degree heat, black mambas and severe poverty.” Stella looks down. I laugh. Remembering my training family in Ngonini who told me, “Simphiwe, those people moving to Lubombo……THEY WILL SUFFER.” I clap my hands together. “Well.I came to Africa to experience Africa. Being in Manzini- a vacation. Saying goodbye to another family will be hard. But now I can say I have three families in three out of the four regions in Swaziland- that's a lot of love..." An awkward pause- I look down and exhale loudly. I'm trying so hard to be upbeat about this. If I allow my real emotions to soak through- I know I'll crumble. I can't in front of Peace Corps. I can't.

Stella must have picked up on my bluff. "I really admire you. What you've endured and will have to endure again... I want to be there for you during this transition." I hug Stella. I hug Nicole. I hug Musa. I hug the lady behind the desk- the guard outside...I hug Peace Corps again.

Mctosa meets me in Manzini. I am not allowed to visit Nkiliji without Peace Corps till Tuesday. Tuesday Peace Corps and I will go to my home- collect my things- say goodbye- then straight to my new home, my new family. To be back in Manzini though! Familiar faces talking to me- kombi drivers shouting my name as they pass. I'm Simphiwe again. It's Monday and my phone is ringing non stop, schools, students, youth groups, "Where are you Simphiwe?! We miss you!" Bongiwe and bhutis calling, crying "Why Simphiwe, Why?" With their limited air time I only tell them I'll be back Tuesday. I've written letters. Make, mother, calls me- it's Gigi. She's fallen again on her arm and face. It's been days and the swelling is getting worse. I tell her I'm in Manzini, to meet me at the hospital.

I see Mctosa's face- waiting for me at the kombi rank. My anxiety now replaced with a familiar warmth of comfort inside. I hide my excitement. Arms raised he greets me with a different name today (To him I am many different characters in the books he reads)Arms raised he says, "My Florence Nightingale- you've been eating peanut butter again haven't you?" He laughs. I swat him on the arm. "Where is Gigi's walker I paid for?! It was supposed to be delivered last week. She keeps falling and hurting herself. And don't give me that 'there's no hurry in Swaziland' bullshit." "They're working on it. I promise i'll get it to her tomorrow."

Proud African and I walk the grimey streets of Manzini- my favorite city- rugged, torn, and busy. Unlike manicured Mbabane- I miss my home. As usual, Mctosa turns to me and asks, "OK- where's the police station?" I point in the wrong direction..again. Five minutes later, "OK- where's the post office." This time I get it right. He knows I'm lousy with directions- always testing me. We walk past a park. "Let's sit in the park and talk." I say. "They call it a park, but I don't see a park- just a smelly place to sit." He says this everytime we walk past any Manzini park. We sit on a pile of bricks. I give him letters, books I've borrowed. I hand him brochures, phone numbers, and information I've gathered while in Mbabane about NGO's that can help Nkiliji's clinic with their little support group. "I went to the group last week, but no one was there." he tells me. A look of shock on my face. "What? You're attending the support groups now?" Proud African, a Swazi young man keep in mind, is going to an HIV positive support group. He tells me soon he will come out and teach others. Swazi young man going to support groups, open about his status- almost unheard of.

Imagining him and all the others I've become close to- the HIV positive in Nkiliji- now without me. Tears begin to fill my eyes. "Simphiwe, I told you. Swazi men don't cry." I wipe away the tears. "I'm Swazi man now huh?" Mctosa wipes off some tomato seeds and bits of avacado on my shirt collar. He points a finger at my face."You need to remember your name." "Simphiwe?" I laugh. "Some gift I was for Nkiliji."
"No, your REAL name...Meredith. Guardian of the sea. You are a guardian, a protector of others. Like this necklace you wear everyday 'St. Christopher Be My Guide'- you too are a protector. Your name is strong. Like mine, Mctosa. Strength. Don't ever forget your name."

Swaziland, full of meaning. A bracelet, a piece of cloth..I'm always asked, "What does it mean?" It's just decoration I explain. Swazis always asking, "Do you know what your name means?" Americans- we wear our empty names our clothing- with no understanding, no depth. But when you live in a world of tragedy, of emotion and wonder- it's important to have meaning. You must raise your newborn child into the air and shout to the heavens, "Universe! I give you- Kunta Kinte! I give you Mctosa. Simphiwe. Lungile." Your name is the beginning of your story.

Proud African is right. I must always remember my name.

"God MUST not be crazy- after all"

09.25.09

“Simphiwe! We’ll be boozing like nobody’s business! You MUST come!” Kukucayenne teaching staff shouts to me from their car- literally filled with 40’s of Castle and Amstel. “Ah, maybe another time.” I reply. I want to make nice with the staff- I soon will be staff, but I know I must remain a role model for the students and now- the boozing staff. I will have to find a balance between teaching the staff and not insulting them. What I really want to ask them is, “So about how many children’s lives have you negatively affected because of your ‘boozing like nobody’s business’ with them? The students continue to drink which leads to stupid decisions, such as sex without a condom, and then HIV and then death. About how many would you say you’ve influenced now?

No. I’ll save the insults for the end of the two years when I realize you can’t REALLY change anyone. For now- I must try though.

Next day. Six in the morning. I walk to the umphagatsi. A familiar car drives past. Stops. Reverses. Rolls down the window. It’s my teaching staff again, beers in hand, the men wearing dangly earrings laughing. Loud music. “Uyaphi?” They ask me. “Im going to the umphagatis,” I respond. “Uyaphi?” I ask back. “To get more BEEEEEEEEER!” They laugh. Still boozing like nobody’s business.

When I arrive to the chief’s home, umphagatsi, men are butchering a freshly killed goat. A man sits next to me asking how he can get to America- VEGAS! He says with a smile as I watch a goat’s head, eyes rolled back, tongue sticking out, flop around on a piece of metal as the men try to chop off the horns. Opening the mouth, they cut the head in half. Everything but the horns- teeth, ears, eyes, and all, goes into a kettle to be eaten. For someone who enjoys watching the surgery channel- surprisingly- I may vomit.

Behind me, the chief’s soon to be wife is being walked around the homestead by elder women singing. She’s topless. They are to put her in a crull (where the cows sleep at night) and insult her until she cries. She must cry for marriage. To signify that marriage for a woman is hard and you will cry many more times while married.

I am meeting with the bucopho to kind of give him an overview of what I’m seeing here in Nkiliji.Bucopho, Bongani, unlike most Swazis, is good at seeing the bigger picture and recognizing the gaps in his community. I go over the strengths and the weaknesses in Nkiliji. “Which brings me to the schools. Unfortunatly, the biggest problem I’m seeing so far is the staff, not the students. They are drinking and sleeping with the youth. When I ask the students when do they not use condoms- they tell me it’s when they are too drunk. They are drinking with the staff. Girls are sleeping with male teachers for cell phones and clothes.” Bongani interrupts. “Yes. Yes I know. I am a product of that school. I know what goes on there. Ten years ago, the old staff eventually retired and new young teachers were hired. Last year, rumors spread about the staff. The staff impregnated three girls at the school. The headmaster hired SWAGA to come in and investigate. As a result, one teacher hung himself and three fled. So you can see why the headmaster is reluctant to intervene again.”

Yesterday’s paper read “Professors Giving Good Grades to Female Students for Sexual Favors.” This is Swaziland. Sex is power. Bongani says to me, “I guarantee, your sisi will pass and graduate. And it has nothing to do with how well she’s actually doing in school.” I explain to him in one month I am to write an assessment on Nkiliji. I am to give it to Peace Corps and the umphagatsi. I want to put this information in this report. I believe the staff’s behavior is indirectly contributing to HIV.

He agrees.

Today, back to the clinic to fill bottles with tablets and count pills while I continue to ask these nurses the ever nagging question they hate, “But ….why?” Mctosa accompanies me. Today he will give blood to test his CD4 count and see if it’s low enough to start on the ARV’s. More importantly, today is the first time he will see his newborn son- who with his mother- is at the clinic. Proud African these days, has become- Sad African. “I’m a dead man walking.” Still refusing to tell anyone. Remember, he’s Swazi after all.

I was not there the moment he first saw his son. But I was with him on our walk home from the clinic after seeing his son. Greeting and shouting to anyone that passed us. Smiling and beaming. Proud African again- turns to me and says, “I am not a victim, but an ambassador of AIDS…..Nelson Mandela.” Mctosa stops walking- looks up at me, “Simphiwe I have been testing you. I doubted your for a long time and I’m sorry. You see, nothing is for free and nothing good can come from getting something for free. You know, few years back, World Vision decided to bring to our small village bags of milley mill, oil, rice and maize. Free for all that just signed a piece of paper. But I never signed. I never took when everyone else did. We have to help ourselves Simphiwe. We learn nothing by getting things for free. No. I’d rather suffer than take. Then you came along. You find out my status- and you’re still here? Why? Are you using me for information? I don’t understand why. What is going on I ask myself. Nothing is free and nothing good can come from something that is free. But you- you proved me wrong. I can see now, you’re genuine and thank you for that.”

I smile. “So, my Proud African, I am Simphiwe- Gift from God- Do you STILL think God MUST be crazy?” He laughs. “No. I don’t think so anymore.”

Walking home, another graceful African sun set, car drives past. Stops. Reverses. A car full of new faces. A man steps out. He shakes my hand. “Unjani?” He asks. We exchange greetings. The shake continues, continues, continues. I go to pull away. He pulls me into his arms and well- attemptes to shove his tongue down my throat. I push him off. “I’m a teacher at Nkiliji schools.” He says grinning.

“Of course you are.” I respond.