IST: Penis Doodles

11/26/09

Six days of IST go by. We are dropping like flies. I sneak pictures of everyone sleeping during lectures. Their bobble heads and the loud inhale that wakes them up. Followed by a look around...did anyone just see me doze off? Our tired brains can't take much more. The penis doodles, STI monsters, and dinosaur doodles saturate our notes.

Season six volunteers are here now. It's been the first time for many of them to see each other in months. First time for most of them to be together since training a year ago. And it is the first time for season six and season seven to be together. It's insanely hard for me to put into words what this was like. Going from no one for three months, to thirty three people for six days, then to sixty two for four more days. All crammed in one classroom, one dormitory. Season seven is slowly loosing their minds. We've forgotten how to interact. We're overwhelmed. To say the least, it was painful for all of us to adjust- and keep adjusting.

In the classroom, all sixty two of us together now, I watch people's eyes drift and linger. I'm completely fascinated watching season six and seven interact. Imagine being a twenty-something year old in isolation for a long period of time then abruptly put around new people of the opposite sex that aren't Swazi....but like...you. Any sexual frustration you were feeling before becomes incredibly inflamed. Sexual frustrations can mean anything from missing the act of sex, flirting, holding, or just looking (in case you've never experienced it.. you lucky bastard). We're all sexual beings- especially as twenty something year olds. I watch the few men in season six stare at the beautiful bleeding heart babes of season seven. Feet are tapping, pens are clicking as the opposite sexes from opposite groups stare from the opposite sides of the room, ignoring the mundane lectures. I start to tally how many times one person stares at another. No penis doodles anymore- this game is much more fun. We are sexual tyrannosauruses. If young male international presenters speak on an NGO's behalf I watch the ladies in the audience take notice to his left hand ring finger. Fantasies are blossoming. AIDS what?

Not to say Peace Corps turns you into a sex hound. Most wouldn't act on these impulses. Traveling and being alone... you long to connect with anyone you don't have to fight the cultural and language barriers with. Ten days of presenters dancing around our questions and throwing out statistics on flip charts......... your mind is mush! You're starting to loose perspective, your grip on reality gone, and you're forgetting who you once were. The solution?

Penis doodles.

All trash talking of IST presenters aside..there were a few lectures I did enjoy. PSI came to speak. PSI one of the main distributors of condoms in Swaziland. They're in the marketing biz. So unlike myself, they know how to sell the idea of condoms. They know you have to work with Swazi men, not against them. Whereas I just want to shake them and shout, "Fusake!". Their new condom slogan: "A man knows he should ALWAYS be right. And he's not a man unless he tests." Their new condom, billboard reads : "You'll last longer." A picture of a smiling man and a very satisfied beautiful young lady. You have to make him WANT it. They hold soccer tournaments telling young men they cannot join unless they test.

The ABC's (abstinence, be faithful, condoms) of AIDS education doesn't fly anymore. It's a broken record. A campagain, "One Love" does what they call, "Ambush Theatre". Actors go into communities. Into kombis and restaurants and act. They pretend to be part of a love triangle- showing the consequences of multiple concurrent relationships. The dangers of cheating. Actors showing the pain of what's really going on "on the ground". Their hope? This will discourage unhealthy behavior.

These strategies all here as a result of AIDS Fatigue. The people don't want to hear it anymore.We must look at AIDS culturally and through the complexities of Swazi gender.

We must see AIDS their way.

IST: Our Family is Back Together Again

11/17/09

IST

In Service Training. We are called. From all four regions of Swaziland. From the deepest valley, from the tallest mountain. From Hhoho to Lubombo. From Mbabane to Manzini. Volunteers meet in a Catholic convent in the city Manzini. We leave behind our newly established ebb and flow. Our world of pee buckets and candles. Our solitude in our roundavel huts. Integration now over. It has been three months since we've seen each other. We are all anxious to be back together in a classroom for the next ten days.

Back to our familiar routine: flip charts, power points, technology failing, butts and brains going numb. Eight hours in a classroom. Our days broken up by meals. Like the carrot dangling before a donkey. "Just gotta get to lunch" "Just gotta get to dinner" "I wonder what they'll serve for breakfast tomorrow." The comfort of meals at the end of each exhausting lecture.

All day volunteers pour into the convent. We embrace each other. I am Meredith again. We are mostly girls in our group. One can hear the high pitched embraces from kilometers away. As stories are being shared on the lawn (ah, a lawn), I lie on the grass and take advantage of our free to be environment. I pull up my shorts a bit and let the sun bleed between leaves and onto my white white thighs. The jacuranda sways in the wind. Questions are asked about my three months of integration. "What happened Meredith?!"

"Mere, you're like a lightening rod for crazy."

I notice the Swazi mannerisms and expressions we have all picked up on. We have integrated. Each time we reunite, our hair gets a little longer and our clothes a little less white. Hair cutting scissors are brought out and the token hair dressers in our group begin their performance- maintaining our appearance every three months. Our family is back together again.

In the classroom, IST is some review on HIV/AIDS and some review of Swazi culture. But it primarily becomes an introduction to the NGO's in our area. During integration we were forbidden to start any projects. After IST we are free to begin. To begin though, most "projects" will need funding. Peace Corps is here to show us how to write those mini vasts and grant proposals. Yawn... 6 hours of how to write grants, a lecture on ARV adherence, more proposal writing, another lecture on sustainable gardening. Is any of this actually sticking? They are trying so hard to sculpt us into better resources for our communities. But I am forever struggling with ADD which is inflamed when it's ten six hour days of flip charts and graphs. And my group knows me so well. I raise my hand, "OK. So I just zoned out.. but did you just say 1 in 50?!" My group laughs- not surprised. Hand up again, "Yeah... I definetly did NOT get that form." "Meredith, you probably lost it. Don't loose this one." Peace Corps says. Country Director goes over protocol if we need to evacuate Swaziland. Where to go and what to bring. "And don't even think about bringing any cats or dogs with you." All eyes turn and look at me. "What?"

Yes. our family is back together again.

Our lab coats are back on and we are pulling back our look at AIDS now. What was an individual and sometimes personal view on AIDS is now a statistical one. We are talking about "them". We are studying "them". Mctosa, Proud African, a test object now. Our classroom is in the middle of Manzini. I watch outside the window at the hustle and bustle of this grimy city. Strange to watch Swazis while studying "them" on paper. How would it feel for Swazis to know all of us were in this room studying and analyzing how to help. People from all over the world just trying to figure out how to help.

CDC and NGO's ask us, "Are these statistics true? Are you seeing this out there on the ground?" A term office people LOVE to use about where our work is.

UNICEF comes in and lectures about the improvements they plan on making to the NCP's of Swaziland. Neighborhood Care Points. Swazi Government's solution to the growing number of OVC's. Orphaned Vulnerable Children. Children with no parents and no food flock to these huts often made out of nothing but stone and mud. One "caregiver" to each NCP. Sometimes only given a stipend to feed these children. UNICEF, "We want to build better ones where existing NCP's are now but falling apart. We want caregivers to provide more than just food, but also psychosocial support, two meals a day, and pre school." My Lubombo neighbor and I exchange a look of doubt. Lubombo a different region. A different world. NCP's are a joke, and most volunteers know this. This idealistic goal in these NGO's minds makes us all shift in our seats and hold our tongues.

I understand the idea of an NCP. I see why they were established. A child looses both parents and is left with a few things and a house. In a world where no wills are written or if so aren't considered, a child only has it's home and must stay in it to keep it. Lingering relatives come by and take whatever belongings they can from these children. Orphanages are few here. They cost the government money. Caregivers at these NCP's are given a small amount of food as payment to care for thirty to fourty children everyday. With hardly any food and structure how can you expect these women to teach and provide psychosocial support to them as well?

Who will raise these children? Who is raising these children? No one.

These crumbling existing NCP's UNICEF wants to replace are crumbling for a reason. No one is maintaining them. What will happen to the new buildings they put in? Is this sustainable? Lots of meaningless words are used to answer our questions but we are still left scratching our heads.

WFP comes in. World Food Program. We have all been waiting for this one. WFP is going bankrupt and we're all seeing it..."on the ground". The new director of WFP comes to speak. She's bubbily and animated. She's new. WFP is giving food to schools and NCP's all over Swaziland. We ask, "What about the communities that don't have an NCP?" Her reply, "Well, just pull your community together and build one." I try to cover my mouth before it leaps out. Too late. I burst out loud with laughter. "Any questions?" She naively asks. About 20 hands shoot up into the air. She steps back. I see the bit of fear in her eyes. "WFP gives us un-milled maize. It costs money for these people to mill it. What are they going to do with un-milled maize?" "My NCP is constantly running out of food at the end of each month. Is anyone actually monitoring these NCP's and how much food the caregiver takes for herself?" "My NCP was given food but has not kitchen." "My school is getting half rations now, what are these kids to do when they aren't fed at home and now school?"

Director becomes nervous and defensive. She knows we know she doesn't know...(?) the answers to our questions, but yet we keep asking them. I wait for her Swazi counterpart who has been working for this organization for 9 years to speak up. Director doesn't once ask for her input. Peace Corps Programming Manager stands up and tries to calm the sea. "We just want to thank you for coming again. We all are aware you are new and well we really do appreciate you coming." She looks at us to start applauding. Volunteer leans in and whispers to me, "Man are we gonna get it from the country director for this one. We were pretty rude."

And I feel no pity. We are the voice to many who don't have one. We are our community's ambassadors. We are the voice of these "lab rats"...of our Proud Africans.

Our next lecture is a somber one. PCMO, our doctor Day, wants to know how we are coping amongst all the tragedy of this world. Her flip chart reads: Grief and Loss. "What are you seeing out there?" she asks. Hands go up. "Last week I lost my bhuti." "My sisi was murdered." "My little sisi is sick." "My babe from our training family died." Volunteer tries to hold back the tears. She takes a moment to collect herself before finishing. "I never made it back to see him. I promised him that I would come back, and I didn't." Day asks us how we're coping leaving our loved ones back home. "You are all nurturers. How are you dealing not being able to be there for those back home?" A volunteer gets out of her seat and leaves. I follow. I hear her crying in the bathroom stall. I let myself in and take a seat with her on the dirty tiled bathroom floor. "They are going through this alone." She tells me. "I can't be there for them. I could kill him for what he's doing to my sister and brother. I can't protect them anymore." We share tears as I relate. Unable to be there for my sister back home. Alone going through the awkward steps of adolescence. Not able to tell her none of this won't matter in a few years. You'll have the last laugh. Your uniqueness is absolutely beautiful and one day...you will see.

Sometimes the absolute insanity of this Mad World is comforting. It helps us forget those who we have left. The connections and control we have lost back home.

Surprisingly not much was said between volunteers during this session of competition. You loose perspective as a volunteer amongst other volunteers. Who is the most HARDCORPS volunteer. Those privileged to have electricity or even a toilet are made fun of. No volunteer spoke of maybe wanting to go home. Which is just unrealistic. The fact that all of us are still here through integration- is rare. To leave now, for some, would be bruising their pride. Volunteers are scared to hear other's HARDCORPS stories and all the crazy intense things they are doing everyday. Afraid to say, "I'm not adjusting so well. I miss home. I don't really do anything in my community."

That evening we go out. We meet up with beer and pizza. As soon as I finish my entire pizza in record time, my phone rings. It's Dumile. "Simphiwe, the 5 children living in the UNICEF tent have been robbed. Their tent was sliced and all their food taken." My pizza and beer turn in my belly. I feel guilt. This is why NCP's are NOT the solution. These children need guardians, an orphanage, a protector. I go back to sit amongst friends- detached again. Neighboring PCV, my "bright light", sees the distraction in my eyes. She grabs my arm. She knows. We share similar experiences- we're in "it" together.

You Have to Remember Their Happy Stories

11/13/09
Next morning.

Dumile and I meet on royal grounds. Long skirts and tail between our legs. Submissive and ready to speak with the chief. We get seated on a mat next to chief Gamedze. I wait for Dumile to speak. The chief stares. She gives me the "go on" look. Head down, eyes on the ground hands up- humble and respectful- I go on.

"Chief Gamezde, there are four issues Ms. Mkhetshwa and I would like to discuss with you. She and I have been going from homestead to homestead checking on the OVC's in the area. We have found very VERY severe instances of abuse and neglect." I tell him Jaboliso and Bhule's story. He turns and speaks with Dumile in Siswati then turns to me and says, "Simphiwe, this homestead is not part of our chiefdom. You will have to address this to the chief of that chiefdom. As for the other homesteads, the problem is no one reports the abuse to me."

What does he think I'm doing now? Silence follows.

"Okk... The other issue is the workers camps. S&B has placed their camp right across from our primary school. Girls are being seen from coming out of their at night and early in the morning. I went to the site and there are big block letters on a building that say No Women Allowed. There is a guard, but no one is actually monitoring this. There are no consequences. There needs to be consequences. Maybe if you talked with them." He tells me I should make an appointment with S&B. I should hold a workshop on their site and explain the consequences of satitory rape.

"Our other issue Chief Gamedze, is WFP. They're pulling out- leaving schools with less and less food each year. They have given us 22 bags of maize for the entire year, for 450 students. We go through two bags in one day. The students aren't eating at home. Most rely on school for food. We need land. The umphagatsi has a lot of land, and you're close enough to the school we could easily transport the crops to the kitchen. The children have an agricultural class where they are required to maintain a garden. The children would maintain the land- plowing and harvesting it. SWADE has provided water, all we need is land." Chief responds, "You and Ms. Mketshwa are new to this school. Even your head teacher is new to the school. There is a plot of land across the street from the school. It used to be maintained but over the years no one has used it. It's there, but unfortunatey now it's in the bush and must be cleared. But it is for the school."

God Dammit! I'm so tired of the solutions being right under these people's noses. Children are starving and there's land right across the street. People need to start speaking out. Why am I the one requesting land for the school? Shouldn't the head teacher be doing something?

"And last, Ms. Mkhetswa and I are having an event at Madlheyna Primary school. She got World Vision to donate a tent and PA. We'll be having poetry, drama, and a march raising awareness on child abuse and AIDS. We would love it if you came." Chief Gamedze would love to...BUT.... he'll be in the Philippines in December. BUT he'll send someone to our little event. And it's the same story with many chiefs. Being a chief, a pastime to most. They're NEVER around. Homes in Mbabane, a vacation in Thailand, and a newphew to the king. Detached and uncaring.

LET ME BE THE CHIEF. PEOPLE ARE DYING.

Defeated, Dumile and I walk back to her place. "Looks like we're on our own." I say to her. We hug goodbye. I promise to keep in touch with her over the next ten days.

Nkiliji, close to Manzini, I stop by before heading off to the 10 day reunion. My first stop, as usual, the carp shop. I find the boys keeping warm around a fire, Mctosa is outside talking with someone in the rain. I take a seat. As I'm trying to explain to them what a marshmellow is, Mctosa walks up to me and whispers, "We need to talk." We go to sit in a private room next to the shop. He has a seat on the bed. I sit in a chair across from him. "Things are bad." He says. I can handle anything at this point. I'm ready. He stares at the ground.

"She's positive." I say nothing. "She is positive." He tells me again. I clinch my jaw, barely open my mouth, and mutter, "fucking window period." The mother of his newborn child had tested throughout pregnancy, as all Swazi women do, and was always negative. We weren't worried. We should have been.
"And him... your son?"
"We'll know in a month. He's had a fever for a while. His body is so hot."
We look at each other now. He whispers, "Yeah. Things are bad." His hands rested on his knees, his head looking down at the ground. I grab both hands and lean my head in. Forehead to forehead we look down at our hands. He exhales loudly and I feel a tear. But it's not mine this time.

I look hard at him, and like he once said to me, I tell him, "You need to remember your name. You are Mctosa Mtetwa. 'Strength'"
"Proud African" He whispers.
"Mcotsa, I have seen parents dying and leaving their children behind with aunts and gogo's. I've seen what these family members are doing to these kids. Only taking them in to use them as cattle- as slaves. You promise me, if something happens to both of you, you will KNOW, you will KNOW, you're leaving him with someone who will love him unconditionally. Every part of him. Promise me."
"I promise."
"Do you have someone you can trust?"
He smiles."The lady that sits before me. She calls herself Meredith Brooks, 'The Protector'."
" Mctosa you have to tell your girlfriend your status. She needs to know."
"Yeah, this week. She asked me to go test. She and I will go to the clinic and I will have the nurse tell her. I don't think I can. I can't say it out loud right now. I will ask the nurse to."

Next stop. Bongiwe. I find her at Sebe's homestead. Sebe, the teen mother and my good friend. Bongiwe with her new hair and new clothes- is bouncing around telling Sebe stories of wild parties she's been to. The boys. OH...and the boys. Sebe is holding her coughing child. Her hair is matted and a mess. Her clothes are torn and deep circles are swallowing her eyes whole. She stares off into the distance hurting inside, Bongiwe oblivious to it all. I ask to hold the baby. Her body squirms. Her tiny feet push hard against my hands as she tries to cough out whatever is inside her.
"How long has she been coughing like this Sebe?"
"Two weeks."
TWO WEEKS. My first thought naturally, TB. I urge her to go to the clinic.
I tell Sebe about the health club in my new village. I ask her if she would come and speak with the girls about being a teen mother and the challenges. She smiles big, honored that she can do something Bongiwe cannot. She agrees. Bongiwe shouts, "What about me!? I'll come talk to them." "What about you?" I ask. " You can explain to the class where you got those new clothes and the money for that hair. I taught them all about transactional sex- the 3 C's Bongiwe." Sebe tries hard not to laugh. "Simphiwe!" Bongiwe shouts.


That night I have one of the most lucid dreams I have ever had.

My feet are soaked in water, but I am safe in an old beat up motor boat. The white paint chipped off. I am safe though. We are safe, going far away from this place. The early fog still clinging to the dark ocean. I know this scene. It's the last scene in the film, "Children Of Men". I look down in my arms. A bundle of blankets and a tiny child crying inside. He's not mine. He's Mctosa's son. I turn around. Mctosa and his girlfriend stand on shore, hand in hand, waving goodbye to us. The forest behind blazes on fire. A storm without rain and lightening striking all around. With each strike, Mctosa and his lady in hand, turn to skeletal figures. A familiar voice inside the boat with me now. I turn back around. A man seated before me, his head wrapped in fog.

"What became of your lamb Simphiwe?" He whispers to me.
"What?"
"You still wake up sometimes, to the screaming of the lambs don't you? And you think if you can save just one, the screaming will stop?"
Silence.
"Look down Simphiwe. Vula emhelo."

The crying stops. I look down into my arms and the child is gone. Blood pours out of my stomach and the boat is filling up with water. He whispers again, "Vula emhelo."
Open your eyes.

I wake up.

The next day Mctosa and I go to Manzini to meet Dumile and discuss him working with the youth. We go to our usual restaurant. Away from the white faces and expensive "American" food. I pull out my bag and hand him the Life Stories of these children. After reading all of them as I inhale my food, he pulls his head up and asks,
"Is there lots of sugar cane in your village?"
"Yes."
"HIV is very high in the factories working with sugar cane. That's why these parents are dying."
He pulls one story out and says, "They aren't all sad Simphiwe. Read this one. This boy is living with a Gogo he likes and she's feeding him."

My home. Here where an eight year old child with no parents but is fed by his grandmother is considered "Lucky". Here where the abnormal becomes normal. Where the people are desensitized. The abused and the starving are not a priority. Here where the secretary to the chief tells me, "Simphiwe, I want to start a band. Can you get us instruments from the U.S.?" Where there is no food, no shelter, and instruments are asked for.

This is the ugly side of mankind and I don't know how to turn away. The nightmare is their waking life. I ask my friend who documented child soldiers in Uganda, "Why do we want to be punched in the face? Why do we do this to ourselves? Watching the horror?" He says to me, "You want to see all the ugly of this world before you die. You only live once. You want to see the horror."

I remember the Welcome to Swaziland DVD sent to us while still in the States. I remember the bubbily excited smiling PCV's explaining what they're doing in Swaziland. I had forgotten about the one not smiling. He sat and stared as they asked him questions. What happened to him? I ask Season 6 volunteers his story. They tell me, "He saw a lot. He did actual counseling with people who were HIV positive. He saw A LOT."

I need to be careful. I need to be effective. I cannot let the Mad World swallow me in. I want to expose myself to everything but I don't want to break down. I have to remember their Happy Stories. I ask Dumile,
"How do you do it? How do you not throw in the towel and say screw mankind?"
"I don't Simphiwe. I can't. It's not an option."

And I'm glad she hasn't.

The volunteer at Cabrini phones me today. "I think we can get Jabaliso out of there. We're going to go in and ask the grandfather if we can take her away. We'll get the rest of her story and hopefully press charges."

Maybe, because of us, Jabaliso can live up to her name. Jabaliso: Happiness.

And maybe one day, she'll smile again.

His Voodoo Magic

11/12/09

"Simphiwe, we must be strategic- we must be smart about this. Last time I tried to get these girls to talk to me- I failed. This old man is verrrry clever. We must be careful."

We arrive at their homestead. Sticks, mud, and stone hold this family together. Two babies wander naked. A young girl in dirty jeans and no top runs up to us- smiling. Not the greeting I was expecting. "This is Bhule." It means beautiful. Behind her stands a tall, lean girl standing in a doorway. She watches with her big brown sad eyes. "And this is Jaboliso." It means happiness. But she is anything but.

Bhule brings us a mat to sit on. We sit. Dumile asks them where they sleep at night. Bhule points to a small one roomed hut. "And where does Mkhulu sleep?" She points to the same one roomed hut. Bhule tells Dumile they share a mat with the old man. She asks them why don't they sleep in the empty hut behind us. She tells her that is where the mother died and they believe it to be cursed. Jaboliso says nothing. She is withdrawn she is scared. Dumile translates as I explain to them that I have asked other students to write me their sad stories. I give them examples of the abuse and the neglect. I hand them pen and paper. "I would like to hear your sad stories." Dumile and I sit and watch the two girls write down their sad stories. Bhule, still smiling, is writing quite a lot, but Jaboliso- she's stuck. Still on the first sentence and it's been ten minutes. Something's not right between these two girls. I could sense it even when we arrived.

Bhule doesn't want to write anymore. "It makes me sad." She wants she and Jaboliso to talk instead. I agree. "But separately." Jabaliso leaves while Bhule talks with us. In Siswati she describes how happy she is at home. In English she says, "I am happy here. I am comfortable." It's now Jaboliso's turn. Bhule goes to get her.
"Something's not right." Dumile whispers to me. "Those words are too big for her vocabulary. The Mkhulu must have put those words in her mouth. He's telling her what to say to people when they ask."

Jaboliso sits next to us, paper in hand. Her paper is full of writing now. She sits and stares at the ground- not making eye contact and hands Dumile her paper. Dumile reads her story. Jaboliso's eyes still focused on the ground. Dumile's eyes widen. She quickly folds the piece of paper and shoves it into my hand.
"Simphiwe, quick. Put this in your bag."
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"She's going to be victimized if we push any further- we must go." As we're getting up to leave Bhule comes running up. Dumile tells Bhule, "Jaboliso is going to walk us to the neighbor's house." The one who feeds them when there is no food. Bhule insists on coming too. "No Bhule. Stay." She tells her.

The three of us walk to the neighbors, Jaboliso walking behind- her eyes following the gravel road. We ask her if we take her somewhere private if she would finish her story- she agrees. We ask her if she wants to leave the homestead- she says yes. Dumile tells me, "Jaboliso spoke of taking care of her dying father. Her father is Mkhulu's son. She wrote about the maggots in his mouth that she would have to wipe away. When he was close to death he asked Mkhulu to take care of Jaboliso. Mkhulu promised he would treat her like his own and give her a good home. She writes that Mkhulu did not do this. She talks about Mkhulu chasing her mother away and leaving her behind. From the neighbors, I have heard that he chased her away because once his son died he tried to get Jaboliso's mother to sleep with him. She refused him and therefore was sent away. Jaboliso goes on to talk about Mkhulu forcing her to fetch water late at night. Her last two sentences she writes how he grabs her hands and forces her to kiss him. And then she writes..."don't trust Bhule."

We hear Bhule yelling and running towards us. "Bhule I told you to stay." Dumile yells. Bhule shakes her head no. The four of us now walk together in silence to visit the neighbor. When we arrive, we ask the two girls to wait at the entrance. I walk past Jaboliso and whisper, "Ngitawubuyala wena sisi." I'm coming back for YOU. Dumile, neighbor, and I huddle together and whisper. We think that maybe the Mkhulu is sleeping with Bhule too. "This is why he asks Jaboliso to fetch water at night." Bhule is straining to lean forward and hear our whispers. "And don't trust that one." The neighbor tells us of Bhule. "I think the Mkhulu is using her as a spy. To tell him if Jaboliso speaks to anyone. She reports everything back to him." I ask the neighbor how she knows what she knows. She points to her neighbor. "Jaboliso confided in that neighbor there. She is part of Lihlombe Lekukhalela- Shoulder To Cry On. These women are trained what to do when they hear stories of abuse." "And what did she do with this story of abuse?" I ask. "Nothing." "WHY!" I exclaim.

The neighbor yells to the two girls to go back home. Once they've gone she leans in and whispers to me.
"Umtsakatsi."
"What?"
Dumile pulls me aside. "Simphiwe, do they have witchcraft in America?"
"Oh you got to be kidding me!"
Neighbor leans in. "Simphiwe, people around here are scared of this Mkhulu. He does witchcraft. You should be careful. You might come home to a snake in your hut, or lightening might strike your hut down. We are afraid to get involved."
"Well you can blame the white girl." I say. "He can do his voodoo magic on me behind bars." Volunteers who have been here for over year- most have never even seen a snake. And there's a lightening rod on my homestead- I'm not worried.

The two women continue to talk in Siswati to each other. Im starring at the ground, making shapes with my feet in the sand. "Simphiwe...here he comes.. Simphiwe. Pretend to talk about food." The two women speak louder now....about food. Dumile and I had made a point to convince Bhule we are only here to find out what the homesteads in the area need. I am a volunteer trying to understand the food situation in this homestead and how many have died. The Mkhulu walks up to us. "Sanibonani." He says. We reply. My hands in my pocket trying desperately not to claw his face off. I grind my teeth hard. Mkhulu goes to shake our hands. Both women laugh and shake mine instead. They are afraid to shake his hand. I'm wondering if it's because of the whole witch rumor. He looks at me, his arm extended. I shake his hand hard. He asks Dumile why we were at his house talking to the children. Dumile tells him our made up story of food. As they talk amongst themselves Mkhulu looks hard at me. He pulls out an old shampoo bottle and sprinkles some sort of soil and herb into his hand. He separates it as he stares at me.

The conversation is over and Dumile and I are free to go.

"Did he buy it?" I ask Dumile.
"I think so."

Our next step is to contact the aunt who stays there sometimes. Dumile is convinced she will open up to us. We need Jaboliso to confide in the authorities. We need to figure out who these authorities are. But we also need to find a home for her. It isn't safe for Jaboliso to be there if Mkhulu knows what we are up to. We need to be careful and we need to be quick. Dumile and I take refuge from the midday sun inside a little shop. I call neighboring PCV who works at Cabrini. Cabrini- an orphanage and school set up by two American nuns. The reception is poor and I have limited airtime so I'm quickly throwing out what I need from this PCV. "I need you to contact the nuns. I need a safe place for one double orphan and possibly a single orphan. Mkhulu might be sexually molesting the children and I'm sure he's positive. Can they help us?" As I'm shouting out acronyms and peace corps jargon a South African walks into the shop. A huge smile on his face he asks for a coke. His upbeat attitude is inappropriate in my world right now. He walks by me. He stops and turns around. "It's you!" He shouts. "The little girl I see walking the streets everyday." I'm trying to listen to PCV on the other end tell me what she needs from me before Cabrini can act. "I see you all over and I tell myself- this girl...she's not just anyone. She's with something..something BIG."

"WHAT!?" I ask.
"Who are you with?"
"Peace Corps."
He says ok and goes to leave. He shouts one last thing to me but I don't hear. I continue my conversation. I feel a hand on my shoulder. He's standing right next to me now. "I said, take care of yourself ok kid?"

PCV talks with the nuns and she thinks they can send someone from Cabrini to talk with Jaboliso during school Monday. Dumile and I have tracked down the aunt and the three of us agree to meet in Manzini and talk. "But we need to talk to the chief Dumile." Dumile tells me we need to talk to him WITHOUT the inner council. "They are corrupt and won't let us talk to him. We have to get at him without them knowing." She calls the sister to the chief who convinces him to meet with us tomorrow morning. "We will tell him EVERYTHING." I say.

I return home. By the heat I know it's noon, but my body tells me it's evening... time to sleep. I pour myself a nice cold bucket bath. I take off my skirt and top. Only in my undies now I step into the bucket. I look up. And there, in my hut...is a large bright green...snake. I run outside, trip and fall to the ground. In the middle of my homestead, in my skimpies, I sit and remember:

"Simphiwe be careful, you might find a snake in your hut or lightening might strike your hut down."

"I Don't Like This Story"

Nakiwe Dlamini

My life story.
I was born in 1993. I am in grade four. I come from a child headed family. My mother died when I was eleven years old. She became sick and died. My father died when I was two years old. He also became sick and died. When my mother died I became worried. I was frustrated. I needed a mother like others. I wanted her in my life. It became clear to me that I had no parents. I used to cry everyday. There is no one to buy me food, clothes. I even have no shelter.


Nokulunga Dludlu

My life story.
I was born 19 March. I am grade four. I live with my brother and my sister. My father died when I was five years old. He became sick and died. Many things I given by UNICEF. I am happy to much to help us give food. When I was in school I was happy because I was reading books. When I read books I am very happy because the books tell me stories and give me many things. The things stay in my head. No one can take them things from me. When I remember some things I start to cry. I want my father back. When my father is not dead he buy me food- now there is no one to buy me food. When my mother was alive she buy me food. Now there is no one to buy me food.

Nonsikelelo Matsenjwa

My life story.
I was born in 8 April 1999. I live with my father, grandmother, grandfather, and aunt. My mother died when I was still a baby. When my mother died I used to stay with my grandmother. I enjoy staying with my grandmother. She did not beat me. When I was in grade one my grandmother died. She became sick and died. I was hurt. I miss my grandmother's folktales. I miss my grandmother.

Tibuyile maksenjwa

My life story.
I come from a child headed homestead. There are eight people in my family. My mother died when I was still a baby. My father don't helps me with anything. My grandmother helps me. When I was in grade one my sister say to me please go to the shop for me. A man saw me. He came and forced me to sleep with him. The road in a bush. A woman came and he ran away. When I be old I want to be a nurse. And I want to get married like my sister.

Nomphumelelo Nblovu

My life story.
I was born in 1995. I am in grade six. I live with my parents. There are thirteen in my family. I am happy because I go to school and I am not happy because my skoni (sister in law) at home she cooks and eat with her children. When I cook she takes my food and says she will beat me and not give me food.

Wendy Nellela

My life story.
I was born 2 May 1998. I am grade four. I live with my aunt. I come from a child headed family. Both my parents are dead. My mother died when I was five years old and my father is dead. I never knowed him. When my mother died I stayed with my grandmother. I was happy because she took good care of me. My Uncle Sipho bought me clothes and my school fees. My other uncle used to send me to the river at night and not give me food. I think it is because I did not have parents. I don't like staying with my aunt. She doesn't give me food. She says mean things to me. Sometimes she throws me outside at night with my clothes. I don't like her. She's mean to me. At school I am happy because I play and I laugh with my friends and my teacher. When I grow up I want to be a police. I will buy Uncle Sipho a good present.

Siphesitile Mamba

My life story.
I am 12 years old and I was born 4 April 1997. I live with my mother, two sisters, brother, and father. When I was seven my mother fall sick. She had malaria. Me and my brother tried to make things to help mother. My brother ran away to the neighbours and got help. We helped my mother. Now she is alive. But there is something that makes me not happy. My mother have tuberculosis now. But I dont have problem because she is alive. I thank God she is alive. I don't want her to die. One day walking only one. I see two boys. One boy came and abused me. At home my mother asked and I did not tell her. I was scared to tell my mother because the boys tell me not to tell my mother. I was six years old. I told my mother and she take me to the hospital. They check me and they find that I do not have HIV/AIDS. My mother tell me if I see people that I run the other direction. I run home. I do not feels happy. Yes I do not have AIDS. But I don't feel happy. I don't go anymore. I don't want to repeat it again. That is my life story.

Buhle Vilane
My life story.
I am nine years old. I am grade three. My mother died when I was six years old. When my mother died I was not sad. I became sad when they take me to the coffin. They make me look inside. I became sad because I thought she was alive. She was dead. Three of my brothers die. One sick. He has maggots in mouth, one cough, and other sick. This is making me sad. I do not want to write anything more.

Nomcebo Mamba

My life story.
I am fourteen years old. I was born 1995. I have both my parents. My mother decided to go with another husband. My father too another wife. My step mother is not good just because she is jealous she doesn't give me food. She said she would punish me for nothing. I don't like this story.

..............................................

My last night home before I leave for Manzini- 10 days with volunteers- IST. The eldest girl in my family, 13, knocks on my door. I see just a hand come through the burglar bars. A letter with the name "Meredith Brooks" on it. Who is that I think. I sit on my bed and read:

To: Meredith
I write to say I don't know what these ten days without you will be like. Sometimes I feel like you can help me in my personal issues that nobody knows about, but only me. All these days I have been waiting for a day in which I would like to tell you about these issues. But I haven't found a way. When I sometimes feel like tell you it is hard because I'm not used to telling people about myself. I want to tell you these because I feel I can find the best advice from you because there's nobody else who I can tell. So back to the subject I will like to say that I will miss you and I love you.

I wish you all the best during your ten days in Manzini as a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV)
Hope when you come back I will be able to tell about a clear picture. I wish you all the best during your two years course as your work as a volunteer of the United States Peace Corps. I believe that it's hard to stay away from your family and your country, but you have to be strong and tell yourself that you are going to do it. Everything is Possible. Tell yourself that everything is possible. If you can say it in your heart, but not using your mouth. We are going to do everything we can for you to have two memorable years in Swaziland. Know that as you leave your house you are going to help people in this country and that we are grateful to have you in this homestead. WE LOVE YOU.

"It's A War Outside"

11/11/09


Her name is Dumile. She calls today to remind me that I am to come see her health club at Madlhyena Primary school. I'm impressed. Normally I do the confirming- tired of spending two hours to get some place, and an hour of waiting, only to realize no one is coming.

I had discovered Dumile's youth group after some interviews with the head teacher at Madlhayena Primary. I was excited to hear UNICEF had trained one teacher (Dumile), a parent, and a student of this school on Life Skills, Peer Counseling, how to spot an orphan, what a balanced diet is, and how to live a healthy life. NGO's are leaving and realizing you cannot just educate one role player in a community. You must bring the parent, the student, the teacher, the caregivers together. Like I said, there is a lack of communication that is killing these people.

With this information Dumile has formed a health club. They discuss growing up, life skills, HIV, STIS, teen pregnancy, counseling, defining child abuse. Everything a parent should teach a child. But there are no parents anymore. Now they are preparing for World AIDS Day. They want to hold an event at school. They've prepared plays, poetry, and dances. Dumile wants them to march. March with banners spreading awareness about HIV and child abuse.

"So many have come to me you see." She stands in front of the class now speaking directly at me. I'm seated amongst the children. "So many with stories of abuse. And I don't know who to turn to. Who to tell. I'm all alone here. So many children living alone in this area. So many children without food, clothes, and shelter. Two children, the eldest is 15 in a child headed homestead, their home fell apart. I got them a tent to sleep in for now. I buy them what I can. Some maize, some bread and beans. Out of my own pocket. We need help."

After the kids perform a skit on peer pressure and teenage pregnancy- it's time for them to go "home". But they don't want to. They stay seated. All eyes on me. I walk up to Dumile who is now gathering her things behind her desk.
"I've been looking for you."
"Me?" She asks.
"Yes. The motivated one. It's been hard finding one- but I think together, we can make a difference." I can't stop smiling. My heart pounding- daydreaming of all the things we can do together.

Dumile invites me to come with her to World Vision. There is a meeting with other teachers from all over the area. On the way she tells me what she's seen. Horror stories. Absolute horror stories.

"Two months ago, one of the children came to me. A fourteen year old girl living alone with 4 other children- an eight year old, a six year old, a four, and a two year old. Her parents had died and her aunt left her with her four children. Their house recently fell down (sticks and mud) and they had no where to go. I told UNICEF and they gave us a tent- a large tent. Myself and another teacher went to their homestead and put the tent up. It was very difficult- there were no instructions. We dug a trench so the water would not get in. As we dug and dug in the heat so many people passed and neighbors watched. No one offered to help us. These children have no food- nothing. They're dying as people stand by and watch. Another child, she is eight years old and both her parents are gone. We started noticing she was wrapping porridge from school into the bottom of her shirt and taking it home with her. We followed her home one day. We found a little baby boy wrapped in a blanket under a tree. Her brother. It was only this eight year old child and this baby boy at this homestead- all alone.

Another child, her parents died leaving her with her auntie. Her aunt had no children of her own so could afford to take care of this child. However, she has been abusing her. She refuses her food then throws her out at night when it's raining. She tosses her few belongings at the child and screams, 'I don't have a child!' When it's raining outside, she sleeps outside. A workers camp right across from our school. It's called S&B. You will see Simphiwe, I will show you. Tomorrow morning you will see students, young girls coming out of their camps in the morning. And next to them......their mothers- with cash in their hands.

And lastly. Two girls living with their grandfather. The nine year old is the daughter to the old man, and the eleven year old is the granddaughter. The homestead consists of him, the two girls, and his eldest daughter- she is our age. She's often away working though. The old man's wife just died of AIDS- so I am sure he has got it too. The eleven year old took care of her father and mother until they died of AIDS. Her father was the first to go. She had to scrape off the maggots from his infected thrush in his mouth. Then it was just her and her mother on the grandfather's homestead. The grandfather was her mother's father in law. Now I was told he chased her away because she refused him in bed. So she ran away to her parent's homestead and eventually died. The grandfather made her leave the eleven year old girl however. Her name is Jabolani. The daughter to the grandfather, the nine year old, is Bhule. Are you following?"

"Yes."

"Since talking about child abuse in my class I have noticed the two girls acting very strangely. They become very uncomfortable. So I went to their homestead to investigate.The neighbor told me she thinks the old man is sleeping with these two girls."
"So how do we get them out of there?" I ask.
"We must first get them to admit it to us. Can you come with me tomorrow Simphiwe?"
"Of course."

Dumile introduces me to the other teachers during the World Vision meeting. They are discussing a shortage of money. What a surprise. One man looks at me and says, "So Simphiwe. What are YOU going to contribute?" I laugh, "How's two years of my life?" They laugh. I drop by Save The Children that afternoon. I haven't been yet. I enter the building, clap my hands, and say, "I got some kids that need saving!" They tell me I need to get them to talk before anyone can take action. "You got it." I hitch a ride home with one of SWADE's trucks passing by (who also have workers camps full of men sleeping with young girls) and I get the driver to tell me where S&B's head office is. "I need to speak with SWADE and S&B about your boys sleeping with my students." Driver laughs, "Yes. It IS a problem."

The next day I meet Dumile at her house on school grounds. We talk about how we're going to get these two girls away from the grandfather tomorrow.

I tell her the story of how I used to live in Nkiliji but the harassment was too much so they moved me here. She laughs. "I used to be a teacher at Nkiliji high school. I was harassed all the time. Then my home was burgarlized while I was in it. They tried to break into my bedroom where I was hiding. I was so traumatized. I resigned and came here. Nkiliji is no place for a woman. Did you know Vusi? He is also a teacher in Nkiliji." "Yes." I respond. "He is the reason I am here. He tried to shove his tongue down my throat." Dumile has a hard laugh. "Oh I'm sorry Simphiwe. He is my cousin, and quite the drunkard."

She continues. "But this place really needs you Simphiwe. These people have been spoiled by hand outs and NGO's. They don't want to do anything for themselves. I say you've got two hands and a mind- what's the problem? NGO's are pulling out. They're telling us to think for ourselves. This is why UNICEF trained me, a teacher and a student. They're giving us knowledge and skills and it is up to us to spread it to the community. You can't just walk by anymore. We must come together. I always say. If you have two of something...share."

We are both now seated on her front porch- looking out at the dry flat plateau. I turn and tell her, " I think you're amazing." She looks down now. Just when I think the moment is about to entirely pass by without her saying anything. She says to me, "My sister died of AIDS you know. It was six years ago. She left her son behind. He is living with our mother. He is thirteen now and he is HIV positive. This is what motivates me. I've seen AIDS. I don't want anyone else to."

I dig through my bag and pull out two beers I saved just for this moment. I hand her one and raise my bottle high. "What shall we drink to?" She pauses and thinks. "To Vusi." I say. Confusion in her eyes. "If it weren't for Vusi's attempt at a tongue in my mouth- I wouldn't be here.....Yes...to Vusi. For bringing us together." We clink our bottles together. And there in the middle of Swaziland, during the hot midday of the Lubombo region, sat two women sharing a luke warm beer. Both from two different worlds, still young, with dreams and plans. With hope in their hearts.

That night I sat in my hut reading the "life stories" I had asked the students of this club to write me. It's important they know their life story is important to them and to me. Almost all of them spoke of their parent's death. About a third spoke of abuse, neglect, hunger, and rape. Tears fall from eyes onto the pages and the wind blows hard outside.

IST is coming up. In Service Training. Ten days in Manzini with all the other PCV's. Peace Corps will train us on how to write grants, mini vasts, and proposals. How to suck the NGO's and loved ones back home dry. Volunteers all hard at work writing their Community Assessments of their villages. I get an extension because of my "situation". I am still new to my community. PCV's have been slaving over them for three months now. Filled with census, surveys, charts, and graphs. A picture of their community in numbers. "I heard so and so's assessment from Group 6 was 60 pages long!" "I bet so and so surveyed over 200 hundred homesteads!" I don't understand charts and graphs. I don't understand numbers. I never have. What I do understand is sitting alone with a dying woman- holding her hand. Watching a shy girl light up in my class as she watches me bounce around in front of fourty students. She asks me later, "How do I tell him 'no'?" Peace Corps gives us Siswati homework and book reports to do over the past three months- due at IST. Are you kidding me? Volunteers biting their nails. "I haven't read it all. I barely got any of the Siswati assignment done!" While I sit on a stoop and plan out how to pull an abused child out of her home.

I by no means am saying one is better than the other. Or that other PCV's aren't doing this. I'm saying Peace Corps causes you to loose perspective. I have heard volunteers complain, even myself, that their community is too "active"...they aren't needed. Since when is it a "bad" thing that your community is being self sufficient. I'm about to spend ten days with people I used to spend every day with but now have been the last thing on my mind for the past three months. All eyes will turn to me and ask, "Why did you move communities Mere? Whats been going on?!" Where do I even begin? Do I even want to begin?

Where's your homework? IT'S DUE!"

I don't know how to let go of the grasp of the personal. This is who I am. Peace Corps wants numbers- crisp clean paper full of acronyms. Let me turn in these children's stories. Let me take you to their fallen down homes. Let me show you the face of the abused. I don't know how to step back. I don't know how to stop myself. "When you have two of something- share." I think about a dress I bought two months ago, the beer I bought Dumile and I, the things I have been given from home, the food I feed my dogs every night. There is so much more I can give and do. And I will. I've decided I will.

December volunteers are allowed to FINALLY leave this country. Most are planning a trip to Mozambique. OCEAN! I had planned on going- but now, I think I will stay. Youth will be out of school December and January. This is the time they are having sex and drinking. They don't want to go home. They have nothing to do. Dumile and I will give them something to do. I'm not sure what exactly. But I'm staying.

The wind is blowing harder now. I put down the Life Stories and stand in my doorway. Lightening so hard it looks like day outside. Thunder so loud, from every direction, you can feel it deep inside your body. It's a war outside. I think about the young girl living with her aunt. Is she outside right now? I think about the six children in their tent. Is it holding up? I think about my life story. My privileged life.

These children were born on the wrong continent.

"Lost in her Eyes"

Yeah but, what do you DO?

My typical day?

It's 4:30 in the morning- the cheapest time to call someone, and my phone rings... AGAIN.

"Simphiwe! How are you?!" I try to hold back the anger. "Ufunani?!" What do you want?! "Nothing. I'm just greeting you." I respond, "If you EVER!" Phone hangs up.

I roll over. I stare at my dogs, who unlike me, are able to ignore the mooing, the crowing, the screaming of children. One eye open. One eye shut. One eye open. One eye shut. Five thirty now. I roll over, slap my disc man on. I bounce my head along to Seu Jorge. Inhale and stand. I pick up my bones of a puppy, spin him around and then stare at my umgibe (large piece of wood) that holds the hangers of my clothes. I ask the little one, "Which flannel will it be today?"

I pull out my planner. I organize five things in a day and hope one will actually work out. Swazi's feel no shame in cancelling or showing up a few hours late. Today I will visit a few schools. I invite my neighboring male PCV to join me. I check my hand bag. Two sandwiches. One tuna. One peanut butter. Bottle of water. Notepad. Pens. Toilet paper. Book for when I'm stuck waiting a few hours. I'm ready.

I begin the walk. It's been about a month now and I allow drivers to give me rides into town. This too is another opportunity to meet people. Truck stops, I jump out the back and hand the man a few coins.
"No Simphiwe. It's my pleasure."
"You know me?"
"Yes. We've been looking for you. I run the youth club behind the inkudla."
"No no no. I have been looking for YOU." I smile.

I walk along the bridge, over the water, to Siphofaneni. The widow stops me. She asks me to come see one of the people dying at home. I tell her I can after school.

PCV and I arrive at the school, and as usual, by American terms, I am rudely approached. A male teacher gets in my face, "I don't see a RING!" He shrieks. Another male teacher, his first words to me, "Utsandza JESUS?!" His words squirt in my eyes. I pretend not to understand, wiping the spit off me.

I ask the headteacher. "Are the girls in your high school allowed to come back once they have given birth?" "No!" he shouts. "And the boy who impregnates the girl?" I ask. "He stays." He responds. I write in my notes. OK...boy who threatens to punch girl in face if she refuses to have sex without a condom can continue his education. I more politely describe this to the head teacher. He politley tells me this isn't America. We don't have perternity tests. "When were teen pregnancies highest?" I ask. "Has it gone down?" I notice SWADE has just been through this area. Swaziland Agriculture Development Enterprise. Here to put in canals. Here to give water. Because, as the Swazis tell me, "Water is life." A worker's camp was set up near their school. I suspect. "Did the pregnancies go down once SWADE left?" The headteacher tells me they did impregnant and sleep with their school girls. I wonder how many got sick from them. Another volunteer and I want to start some workshops at these worker camps. Educate these men as best we can and give give GIVE condoms.

Or.... my other idea is to put me in a room with them for just half an hour. I'll shout..."OK fellas. If you would please- drop your pants! Dicks out!" With knife in hand.. WACK...WACK.. WACK.. I hold their disease in my hands.. wave it in their faces and say, "And you get these back once the job is done." Problem solved.

I can go on and on with life skills and statistics I tell the headteacher. "But what I want to give these students is a visual." Swazi youth is not seeing the bigger picture. Or any picture. To them the world is as big as Swaziland, and their life as big as today. The future- uncertain. "I want to bring in two people who've been there." I propose bringing in Sebe and Mctosa. Sebe, a teenage mother I've become close friends with. She asked me to name her daughter. The father of her baby calling me Sibali. A family term. He considers me part of the family. I want her to tell her story to these girls. I want Mctosa to tell his story to the boys. Head teacher thinks this is a wonderful idea.

I go into the classroom to "lecture". "And ladies...you need to start DEMANDING he use a condom. And boys.... so help me god...if you threaten to beat her for demanding this....SHAME!" I explain a girl has the right to say no. (which always seemed obvious to me). "This is your body and you are allowing his penis inside of you. You are allowing disease and god knows what else. It's not just HIV you have to worry about." They laugh everytime I say vagina. "Everyone say it with me!" I shout. Yes...today 40 students and I shouted Vagina. A girl in the front is hesitant to ask a question. I whisper to her, "Write it down." After class I read the note.

"Now that I know. How do I tell him no?"

She and I talk after class. It's possible I may...just may...have made a difference to someone...today.

Second half of my day. HIV Swaziland: Prevention and Care. You cannot have one without the other.

I meet with widow, Make Dlamini. She takes me to the homestead of a woman dying of AIDS and now cancer. Some PCV's choose not to go to funerals. Not to go see the sick and dying. I feel obligated. I have to. I must. I compare it to when I force myself to watch my family cut the head of a chicken off (almost every night. In Swaziland- I eat meat. I feel it my duty then, to have a relationship with it. I need this little beating thing inside my chest to be stronger.

We walk, walk, and walk until familarity sets in. She points to the homestead. "My neighbor?" I ask. "Yes- she is your neighbor." On the homestead I find a girl in her late teens separating maize. A Gogo seated on the ground smiling up at me. her high cheek bones and large eyes- shows me she was once a beauty but now covered with the age of being a Swazi woman. I keep my eyes open for the sick Make. The Make- mother of 9- now dying of AIDS and Cancer. Her oldest daughter pulled out of school. They could no longer afford it and someone must stay home to take care of her dying mother. She only had one year left before graduation. We sit and talk. It's gogo, nine children, and a make waiting to die. How horrific I think. Then why is this Gogo smiling? It's unbearably hot today, I'm seated on a pointy rock, my temples are pulsating. Let's just get this over with.

"Would you like to meet her now?" Make Dlamini asks me. We walk to a tiny hut. Door open, I see the sliver of a skeleton hand. I brace myself. Alone in a low dark room, the sun light pouring in from above revealing all the grit and grime. Alone in a low dark room, a woman waits for a stranger.

Not reading, not cooking, not looking at anything really. White faced and bone thin. Breathless and emaciated. Her eyes. Her fucking eyes. Haunt me still. Some people seen only once, live forever in your memory. Her face, hallow, and her eyes- so full. Full of everything. Her eyebrows squeeze hard together. A curious scowl. Chin raised high- still proud. Proud, but weak.

They pull up a chair for me, but it's too late. I've locked eyes with her and I prefer to be eye level. I sit on the ground with her.. face to face now. She says nothing and not once does she take her eyes off mine. Not at my gauged ears, my colorful scarf, my white girl braids...all the things that Swazis love to gawk at and touch. Does she see everything in my eyes too?

"So what do you do when you're not waiting to die?" I want to ask her.

Make Dlamini begins to explain. "She was born deaf and dumb. She can't hear you, she cant speak, she can't read." I'm unable to remove my eyes from hers. Like the night I learned of Mctosa's status. The moment on that soccer field- the rain blowing- the boys buzzing...his eyes and mine- our moment. The only two people with this realization. This world is fucked up. She's telling me the same. She's telling me, these people are waiting for me to die. These people who dressed me in clean clothes only because they knew you were coming today. These people who are tired of changing my diapers and spoon feeding me every night. These people are waiting for me to die. Yes. This world is fucked up.

And some how I know her story. Born deaf in a Mad World. Not allowed to go to school. Not warned about HIV and men. Born in a world where parents don't show affection to their children- especially the disabled ones. A woman in a Mad World- wanting to feel a connection with someone..anyone. Men took advantage of her longing to connect. Now dying of AIDS alone.. with 9 children..and a dirty diaper at 32.

Yes. This world IS fucked up. I watch her arm shake, struggling to hold herself up. Her other hand shaking as she scratches her face- eyes still locked on mine.

"Take a picture Simphiwe!"
"No. I cannot."
"Yes you can. Add it to the grant proposal you will write to get us money for a garden." Make Dlamini has worked with PCV's before- shit.

"Make, I don't feel comfortable taking her photo."
She puts the ARV's in front of this woman.
"Get these in the shot too."

I swallow hard. As if she didn't feel like a freak everyday already. I quickly take three photos.

I'm an ASSHOLE.

But then I remember. I remember everytime I've taken photos of a Swazi and shown them their photo. I remember the smile that follows. This woman has probably never seen her photo. I turn the camera around... and I show her the beauty I see. For a quick moment she takes her eyes off of me and onto herself. And then there.... right there...it happens. The left corner of her mouth starts to move up. She smiles. She returns her gaze at me but leaves the half smile in place. I shake her hand goodbye. Her eyes still in mine, her smile still on. Even as I walk away....walking backwards now.. we are still in our moment.

"I want to come back and help." I tell Make Dlamini. She laughs.
"What Simphiwe. Are you going to come here, fetch them their water...put firewood on top of your head?"

I return home. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare. I can't read to her- she can't hear. I can't bring her music. She can't hear. No. I must give her something to do with her hands. I will learn to knit (from another PCV). I will visit her every week... and I will teach her to knit. Phone rings. It's Make Dlamini.

"Sisi. The other woman I wanted you to meet tomorrow.. the one dying of AIDS too. She's dead now. So we don't have to go tomorrow."

Yes. This world is fucked up.

Mad World

11.03.09

I would like to start this entry simply by describing the things I have seen while writing to you.

On a kombi, in Manzini, trying to jot down a few thoughts in my notepad, outside my window a young man gets hit by a car. The car continues on. I watch people pass by with no reaction as this man lies on the pavement in the middle of the road unconscious and bleeding from the head. Two young men walk to him, lift him up by the arms and drag him away- laughing. A trail of blood left behind.

In Siphofaneni, at the restaurant I go to EVERY morning to drink coffee read, write, and be approached by the obnoxious, a man puts down his fork in the middle of his meal and runs to the young lady behind the register. He starts screaming in some made up language- I mean tongues. He's shaking the woman, spit is flying out everywhere and she and I are trying hard not to laugh. A few minutes of shaking, screaming, and spitting- he goes back to his seat, picks up his fork and finishes his meal.

In Manzini, while pounding out these stories I write to you in my computer lab, BAM! The large window wall in front of me- a man's head being smashed into it. Blood bursting and the right side of his face already starting to swell from previous blows. A crowd has formed- the mob is shouting and aiding a large woman to beat up this young man. So of course I do the right thing. I stay seated. I stay safe.

A PCV once told me, "Mere when you see a bomb- you do what everyone else doesn't do. You run towards it."

I jump out of my seat and join the thickening crowd. They take turns throwing punches at this man. He's being jossled around like those punching bag clowns that never want to stay down. I try to push my way forward- maybe there is something this white girl can do. Someone grabs my arm. The owner of the internet cafe says to me, "Simphiwe, no. He tried to steal this woman's purse. This is justice."

This is Swaziland.

I'm in Swaziland and I must see it their way. If I don't, the anger and the frustration will consume me. Getting angry at their apathy- is this not apathetic of me? I need to understand where this apathy steams from.

This is Swaziland.

Children raising children. One volunteer lives in a community of 1900 people. 1450 of these people are children- under the age of 15. Sometimes you walk into a village and go a whole day without seeing more than one mother or father.

Swaziland has lost a generation- like the aftermath of a civil war. My homestead now? Nine children and Gogo. Where are their parents? They're getting infected between the ages of 15 and 24. But they don't know it. They have their children then die. Leaving them with the gogo's. This is why NERCHA has come up with neighborhood care points (NCP's) for orphans and vulnerable children (OVC's). They offer food and sometimes a bit of schooling. A one roomed building sometimes made of brick and sometimes made of sticks and mud. Many abandoned though- and no one there to take care of the children. It is my job to find the ones that are not functioning and find out why. Sometimes they need water to start a garden to feed the children.

I may not have fish. I may not know how to fish. But I know those who do. I'm a social networker. This is why I sit at the SAME restaurant every morning. People know where to find me. And they do. This morning a man approaches me. A man i've never met. He says to me, "Simphiwe. We have a support group meeting tomorrow. We would like you to come." He was sent by someone I do know. The people know where to find me. This is important.

A woman approaches me. She tells me her story. She and three widows go to homes to find those dying with AIDS. Too sick to make it to the clinics. These women are not paid. I ask, "Who are you with?" "No one Simphiwe. It's just us. Can you help us start a garden for them?" I ask her to take me to these people. Just as it is important for the people to be able to find me- I need to know where to find them. Once I track down the RHM's (Rural Health Motivators) in the area- I can tell these gogo's where the sick are living....trying to live- waiting to die.

I go to every school within reach. I shadow, I survey, I interview. I see how they do things. I take their ideas and I spread them to other schools. I'm asked every day, "Do you have this?" And I respond, "No. But I know who does."

There's a lack of communication that is killing these people. So many have given up. Rightfully so. I watch a woman crawling to town on her hands and calloused knees. Her crooked legs dragging behind. People pass- uneffected. This is everyday life.

I stand in front of an entire high school during assembly. The first part of school when teachers give their announcements for the day. I introduce myself. The head master follows with anger in his voice. An alarming message. "20 of you did NOT pay your school fees! This means the rest of the students have been paying for your meals! Shame! I told you. I warned you." I watch a teen boy in the back covering his head as he cries. "Now GET UP HERE! I want the school to see those who did not pay!" It's hard enough being a teen. But a teen in Swaziland?

As an outsider, you get angry at the abuse. The neglect of the mentally and physically disabled. The Swazi women and children being treated like cattle. The stigma and discrimination. I ask my class, "Can you get AIDS from buying food from a grocery clerk with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Can you get AIDS from sitting next to someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Can you get AIDS from sharing a meal with someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Would you share a meal with someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!"

It's incredibly hard, especially as an American woman, not to get angry. Previous volunteers have thrown in the towel- hating male Swazis. And I understand. More than anyone really. I have spoken with the women from my group and the women from the previous group. What I have endured certainly tops it all. But I can't get stuck in my anger.

My bhuti, his mother in jail. She shot and killed his father. You read about the domestic assault and murders weekly. Pouring hot oil, boiling water, a bullet to the head of your partner and then to your own....all headlining the papers every week. My bhuti learns that I am trying to get Gigi a wheelchair. He sits down next to me and asks, "So if I broke my arm....you would go with me to the hospital?" I tell him of course. "You would pay for it?" I tell him I would do everything I could. His eyes open wide- stunned. You see little African babies running up to the white people. Grabbing their hands, looking up and smiling. But the teens. They stay back, confused when you greet them. Hands cover their mouths when they respond back. The babies haven't been burned yet. The baby walls aren't up- ignorantly going through the motions of their African baby life.

How do I break down the teenage walls? The defense and the callouse that these children have worked so hard to maintain in a Mad World.

So how do I get angry at the apathy? Who is here to teach them otherwise? These people have been pushed to the edge. How can I blame them for giving up? I must see it their way. I must understand the apathy and teach them empathy. They must
vula emhelo- open their eyes.

"New Beginnings"

10.27

Lunch in Nkiliji- chicken and porridge. Babe says to his family, "I am certain. The world. Is flat!" I choke on chicken and porridge. The youngest boy laughs at my reaction from across the room. "I mean, how is it, if the world is round would we not all be just floating around?" He continues. "No. No. No. It must be flat." I whisper to Bongiwe....."Graaaaaaaaavity." The discussion quickly moves to the Bible. I tap my foot with frustration. I can only say so much to Babe- risk loosing his respect. Make speaks in Siswati to the family. ".......Simphiwe.......Bible....contradictes itself......." Her only words in english.
"Make, where did you get that from? Who told you this?" I ask.
"You did Simphiwe."
"Ah- no.... I wouldn't say that."
Bongiwe shaking her head in agreement with Make. Oooooops. Bongiwe explains, "No. Make respects what you said. She's not angry."
We talk religion for a good three hours until I excuse myself to go on a walk. I find Mctosa at his carp shop talking AT his colleagues while they're hard at work making them laugh and shaking their heads. I have yet to see him work anything but his mouth at talking and feet at soccer. We greet, male Swazi youth shake. I greet the carpenters- my friends now. Proud African and I walk the path to his hut. Along the way he greets every person that passes- loud and booming- leaving each person with the same reaction.. laughing and shaking their heads.A man walks by in his Sunday suit. "Amadota!" (Oh my god!) Mctosa exclaims. He drops to his knees, takes off his beanie, and puts his hands in prayer position shouting up to the heavens. Man in suit is laughing, a crowd emerging. Then, as quick as he had dropped to his knees, he stands and continues to walk on.
"What was that?" I ask.
"That was the first time I have seen this man go to church."
"Mctosa. YOU don't go to church."
"I'm the Black Jesus remember?"
I roll my eyes.

He asks me about my new family. I vent as I usually do- words tumbling out..."AND THEN!" How he can understand my word vomit in a second language to him- I'll never know. "Babe's dead?" He asks. "Yes. I dont know how. He was 'Sick for a while' then died." He's catching onto the appropriate usage of air quotes. "So it was AIDS?" He asks. "I'm assuming." Proud and booming Mctosa says, "Not me! When I die- they will know. And if they don't know- you make sure they do." He turns to an imaginary crowd, arms extended in the air. "Mctosa Mtetwa! Proud African! He died of AIDS!"

For an hour we sit and read. I found him a copy of his favorite novel, To Kill A Mockingbird. Whenever I visit, we sit and read out loud. He likes when I do the voices. I alternate between turning the page and scratching my belly.
"No sleeping with dogs anymore Simphiwe."
"Huh?" I say.
"Fleas."
"Spider bites." I correct him.
He grabs my arm and tilts the underside into the light.
"Fleas." He repeats.
"It was just one night! They looked so sad on the floor."
"These are African dogs Simphiwe. Not...what do you call them? Gold Revers?"
"Golden retrievers. Or what my dad likes to call- dumb blondes."

Before I go, I ask Mctosa's best friend, Dry Man, and Mctosa to take one of the surveys I give my students- testing their knowledge and attitudes on HIV. "It'll be fun...." I assure. The last page of the survey. "Would you buy groceries from someone with AIDS?" "Would you shake hands with someone with AIDS?" "Would you take care of someone with AIDS?" Dry Man answers "Yes" to all of them. Im proud of him. I hug Dry Man goodbye- leaving Mctosa and I alone.
"Why did you have us fill those out Simphiwe?" I hand Proud African Dry Man's last page of the survey. "Would you take care of someone with AIDS?"....Yes. He says.
"Because I know you're scared to tell him. I wanted to make sure when I leave, someone will be here to take care of you. It looks like someone will."
"Why are you so sneaky?" He asks.
"Peace Corps tells me, 'Swaziland doesn't adapt to you- you adapt to Swaziland.' I'm learning how to work with Swaziland- more imporantly- Swazi men."

As I leave, Mctosa shouts, "No more sleeping with dogs!"

Driving away from Nkiliji, in the back of Babe's truck, I wave to people, my connections, my friends. I pass Mctolisi, my khombi angel. I see Jean, a teacher at Nkiliji high school.

Jean, always dressed his best. Silvery shimmery ties, snake skin pointed tipped boots, and crisp edges along every corner of his suit. When I first meet Jean I ask, "You aren't Swazi are you? Your accent, your mannerisms...completely different." He smiles. "No. I'm from Rwanda." Jean, in his early thirties.

Jean was there.

I step back and look down.
"So you were there?" I ask.
"Yes." He says.
"Is it just you left?" I ask.
"Me and my brother. Parents and seven sibilings- gone."
I ask his story. How did he get here? He was a professor during the genocide. He hid at his school for thirty days with staff.
"For thirty days? Thirty days without food? How did you survive?" I ask.
Jean stares hard at the ground now, no longer into my eyes. He clenches his jaw.
"You SURVIVE."
I keep quiet- hoping for something more.
"I watched my friends turn on their parents. Neighbors on children. I had shelter for 30 days. For 30 days we waited. My good friend, a professor as well, she was British. She got me out of there. She paid for everything. She got the papers and she sent me here. I'm safe now. I'm alive because of her."

I remember when my father told me about the genocide in Rwanda. Twelve years old and I hear him say, "Machetes and children." Two words that should never be in the same sentence. I would listen to the song The Feeling Begins by Peter Gabriel everyday for the next six years- envisioning and trying to imagine the horror. I took courses in college touching on the Rwandan genocide- which didn't give me much. But one day, my professor put in a video that forever changed my life. Footage of machetes and angry people on the streets. I thought, "How do I get there?"

Holding Jean's hand now.
"Your pain is what inspired me to come to Africa. I am so sorry we took so long to help."

On the bus home to Siphofaneni, I look down at my phone. A text message from another PCV. "People in my community are asking if I am Simphiwe. If I know Simphiwe. You're spreading!" Another text. "We would like you to interview for a volunteer opportunity to work at an HIV positive kids camp in December." Im honored. I can't wait. Things are coming together- I feel hope again.

BUT. It's the end of the month. It's the weekend. It's the last bus to my community. Which means the cities are bursting with people. They've just gotten paid and are returning home. The end of the month. The last weekend. The last bus home- IS AN ADVENTURE. It's an environment you want to stay the hell away from. A bus made for 65 people- now holding around 150. I sprint to the bus as it pulls up. Your goal? Get to the front of the bus and get seated! And you run because if you don't- every damn Gogo within arm's reach will knock your ass down to get that seat. I speak from experience. I dive into the second seat and brace myself. Like an astronaut waiting for lift off.

It takes a little over an hour to cram squeeze push every single person onto this thing. Heads are sticking out windows, bodies dangling out the door- unable to shut. Chickens under feet- babies spilling out of mamma's fat folds as she shifts in her seat. People in the aisle bracing themselves against opposite windows. Armpits in face.I squeesh next to big mamma in the window seat next to me. Our cheeks mooshed together. I turn to the right- facing the aisle now- Gogo tits, fallen victim to gravity, now in my face. Or maybe on? She keeps shuffling down the aisle. Now I'm face to face with man crotch. I inhale and turn back to my left- cheek to cheek with big mamma. Bags of rice take up part of aisle so legs of those standing in the aisle extend up onto my lap. Babies on backs of mamma's seated- come up for air as she leans forward. Coughing, scratching, sweating- we embrace each other as the bus moves forward. We're in this together. Will we survive? Our first stop, FIVE MINUTES into our journey. People IN THE BACK need to get off. Bodies inhale, bodies adjust, unfold, and climb their way out. Ten minutes later we fold back into position.

My stop. Through legs, arms, tits, and crotch I shout...."Steash!" (Bus Stop!)I gather my freshly squeezed tomatoes and wait for people to move. Nobody moves. I climb, literally climb over Gogo's and fat mammas. An arabesque here, an arabesque there. Arms swimming in between bodies. I shout, "THIS IS INSANE!" A hundred plus people echo this silly mhlungu girl. "THIS IS INSANE!" I jump over someone and land on my feet on to solid ground. I brush myself off, pay, and laugh. "All right, same time next month?" I say to the conductor. "I'll make popcorn!" They stare confused. Seriously- next time I'm bringing my camera.

When I return home- kids hands are extended trying to push their way into my hut. A big blanket on my hut floor. "OK. You are only allowed on THIS BLANKET. If you step off the blanket.. I am afraid. I am going to have to kill you." If fake tits octo- mom can do this- I can right?

Kids out...my time now. I put on The Smiths (Yes Christine, The Smiths) I begin to paint my new home. I wanted deep red (too expensive unfortunatly) I have always dreamed of a house with one bright red wall, or ATLEAST a bright red door. I go for a light seafoam green that I soon learn to hate. I paint over the traces of the previous volunteer. Her quote, her drawings, her two years, her home. This is MY home now. I need to embrace it.

How fitting, the name of my new sea foam paint..."New Beginnings".