"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."