"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".