"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.