"When Camp Ends the Love Ends"

continued...


My new batch of boys are thirteen to sixteen. We're back to the beginning. Sitting in the dining hall. Their eyes wide. Taking it all in. By this time the conversations come natural. No more forced thumb wars or escaping in games (although that too has its value. We share a language, a genuine conversation, content in silence. I'm no longer grinning like a funhouse clown or a Miss America contestant.

I become particularly close with one boy- Si-Khan-yi-so- the only quiet fourteen year old in the world. Today I take him to see the doctor. He has a quarter size hole inside his lip and extremely deep. He winces in pain trying hard to keep the hole from hitting his gum. The doctor gives us pills to take for the pain and we go back to sit with the rest of the kids at lunch. He tries hard to get food into his mouth without hitting the open wound. He leans his head back and pulls his cheek to the right. I watch the others engaging around him. Laughing and singing. He swallows hard fighting to hold back the tears. His eyes become wet, he inhales deep and looks away. "Si-khan-yi-so." I say. "Can you come with me please?" As we're walking, my hand on his shoulder, I make up a story. "You know, one day I had a HUGE blister on my toe and all I wanted to do was go to my room and cry." We get to his room. "I'll be out in the hall whenever you feel like coming back out."

I sit on the floor and wait. One of the doctors passes and takes a seat on the floor next to me. "His (Si-khan-yi-so) CD4 count is 40- you know that?" A healthy count is about a thousand. "He's a walking time bomb. He basically has no immune system." The doctor tells me Si-khan-yi-so bit his lip over a month ago and now his body can't repair it. "His body can't produce tissue to close the hole. He hasn't been taking his ARV's so we're apprehensive to start him on second line. We must stress to him how important taking his medication is."

For the next few days my walking time bomb and I are hip to hip. He knows little English but I feel such a connection to him. Whenever possible he sits next to me. The doctor has given us a numbing ointment for the hole. This ointment, for something open and painful, how genius- it contains alcohol. I tell him to grab my arm and squeeze tight. He screams loud and barries his head into my chest crying. I hold him tight, resting my head on his. We do this everyday- every six hours. It tears me up how much of the camp he's missing because of the pain. He only gets four days with us. He only gets four days with me. I only get four days with him.

Before dinner, as usual, we send the kids to the dance floor. Today, however, is different. Before Patrick has the opportunity to blare Chris Brown or Beyonce, without any prompt or guidance from us, the children come together. A young girl stands in the middle of the dance floor opens her mouth and begins singing. It's a traditional Swazi song these children know. The children stop and listen for a moment and then join her. They form a circle and begin to dance. In unison their voices swell- their bodies sway. A few girls take center and perform the traditional high kick Swazi dance. The boys run up and pretend to wipe the sweat from their brow. Their grace and their unison is absolutely beautiful to me.

And then I see him.

Si-khan-yi-so takes center. I see him joining the other boys high kicking and singing loud. And then I see it. He is smiling. It's all I've wanted to see for days. It wasn't a game of soccer. It wasn't a thumb war. It wasn't a Rhihanna song that made this boy smile. It was his culture. It was his song and dance with his friends. Something none of us, counselors, could give him. I feel my heart again and the tears start to form around my eyes. I try to stop myself. I hear Mctosa. "Simphiwe when you cry I feel the pain." I need to stay strong for them. I try to hold back. I breath through my mouth and fan my eyes. I haven't cried in a long time and I realize I need to let myself sink into it. I let the sadness rise up inside me and I slip away sideways through the crowd and to the bathroom. I lean hard on the bathroom stall and let myself slide to the ground. I bary my head into my arms and let the sobs come out. My whole body contracting with it now.

These children, their parents now gone, left them with their song, their dance, and their AIDS. These children did nothing wrong. They don't deserve this. This virus is taking a face now. It is showing me it's ugly. I'm enraged. This is becoming personal. For a moment I long for that distant view of the world again. Their blank bodies and my imagination. I long for the undefined and that unknown space. Two different worlds and my ignorance. I let their faces, their song and dance wash over me and I wake up. I let them back in. I let myself feel it, sink into it, get comfortable with it. I find something pleasant in this gray light- in this complication. I return back with the group feeling even more connected than before.

It is our last night, our last mountain meeting. We ask the kids to reflect on camp. "What will you take home with you?" We ask them. Many speak of friendship and understanding. But our conversation quickly goes from reflection to gratitude. The children, instead want to tell us how thankful they are. The emotions pour in. My boys tell me, "We aren't different here. We aren't treated different. We are treated like human beings. We have each other now." Others begin to cry, "When camp ends... the love ends." We have to cut the thank yous short..it's time for bed.

I write them each a personal note. One of hope and encouragement and I sneak them into their bags. It's also my last night with Robin, Patrick, and the rest of staff. I have felt such a connection with Robin (she also was a Peace Corps volunteer)and I want to share with her the children from my health club -their life stories. I don't know why exactly but I carry them everywhere with me. Leaving them at home, or some folder on a bookshelf collecting dust- feels like abandonment to me. I want to keep them close. I pull them out of my bag and she and I sip tea and discuss horrors. My new pastime. I tell her I hope these boys have felt the love. I hope they know I love them. She says to me they do and then she shows me. We had asked the children to write thank you cards to our sponsors and Baylor Clinic. "But many of them thanked Simphiwe." Then she pulls out a card titled, "Dear Anty Simphiwe" It thanks me for listening for caring and understanding this person's pain and for never leaving his side. And then I see who wrote it. "Love, Sikhanyiso"

The next morning I am no longer tired. My body parts are returning back to their normal size. No aches no pains... my mind is clear... I am comfortable as flannel and I am vibrating along with them. Checking packed bags, giving high fives, singing and dancing back to the bus. Staff isn't allowed on the bus so we wait outside waving and shouting goodbye. I walk to the end of the bus and I see Si-khan-yiso leaning his head against the window. He notices me and places his little hand against the glass. I place my hand against his. No longer two worlds- we are on one planet together. The bus begins to move and I follow as long as I can hand to hand.


The bus moves towards that beautiful pink sun. She leans heavy against the horizon. And before I know it- my lost boys are gone. I inhale deep. My heart borrows deeper inside me. Closer to me, to my soul, or to something like it. I can feel it. I am tight. I am stoic. I am alive again.

It's the Day of The Show Ya'll

12/11/09


Over and over again we rehearse our welcome song for when the children step foot off the bus onto camp grounds. But when that bus door opens it's not us singing. The children pour out with their bags, smiles, and songs on. Some run to us with open arms while others greet us with the suave Swazi shake. We divide the children into four groups by color. I am team green, along with one other PCV, Jay, and a few of the Swazi staff. Our team consists of nine boys. The teams are divided by age and gender: older girls, younger girls, older boys, younger boys. I was blessed with the younger boys, ten to thirteen. I spot my boys with their green bandanas on. We grab their bags and the willing hands and make our way to the dining hall.

Their eyes are open wide, taking everything in. I am seeing what AIDS can do to a child. The stunted growth, the rashes, the blisters, the glass over eyes and disproportionate bodies. Their little bodies trying so hard to survive amongst the poverty, illness, and unsanitary conditions of the rural world. These little bodies trying so hard to grow in a mad world.

Camp counselors have been instructed to ENGAGE ENGAGE ENGAGE! "So have you guys ever done a thumb war?!" I exclaim. "Yes." They in unison respond. "OK...rock paper scissors?" "Yes." Well shit. Young kids are not my specialty. With the language barrier it's even more of a challenge to engage. But I continue to smile.

Before every meal we ask the children who would like to lead us in a prayer. One of my boys raises his hand. In Siswati he leads us in a lengthy prayer. I have no idea what's being said so I open one eye to watch Swazi counselors expressions. I see emotion, I see pain in their faces. It's time to eat. The children, most who have little food at home, inhale their food faster than even I could. They go on to a second, a third, a fourth helping. I lean in and ask a Swazi counselor what the boy said during prayer. "He said thank you. He said thank you for the food. Thank you for treating us like human beings. God Bless all of you."

After lunch we ask our boys to decorate name tags. "You can write any name you wish us to call you. Any name you've ever wanted to be called. Now is your chance." My boys quickly turn into little thugs. I now have a bunch of R. Kellys and DJ so and so's. I look down at the boy, who gave the touching prayer, at his name tag. He looks up at Jay smiling. His name tag reads, "Jay". I go to hug him, but he flinches. Almost all flinch when we get close.

Before dinner we have a few activities planned. In between each activity if only for a few minutes we play games or sing songs that require no resources or tools. Just clapping hands and singing loud. Each team is asked to come up with a team name and cheer. We want them to engage with each other. We want them to feel apart of something- to feel pride and support. We want them to make friends. After each meal is my favorite activity. We call it DLP. Describe. Label. Praise. Each counselor is required to DLP every camper in their group throughout the four days. We write down something special, something great the camper did. At meal time, in front of all the campers, we stand and read what "this person" did. Then we shout their name loud and ask them to come up to get their special bracelet and place their piece of paper on a wall with the other DLP's. I DLP Jay today. "For his bravery and his beautiful speech... lets give it up for.....JAY!" The kids go crazy and cheer him up to the front of the room. And FREEZE. This is the moment. This is the moment I want to take back home with me. Jay stands...beaming. He takes a deep breath and hugs me back as I hand him his bracelet. All the kids shouting his new name in unison. "Jay will Jay will ROCK US!" We all shout and clap.

After dinner is one of the most important parts of the day. Meds. Twice a day for the rest of their life. Imagine being a kid, your whole life, taking a handful of bullet sized pills. I can't even remember to take my malaria pill for two years. They are tired of the pills, of the swallowing. Most of them have poor drug adherence. Most are already on the second line of ARV's. There are only two lines of ARV's in Swaziland. The first line can add about ten years to your life IF taken correctly. The second line maybe over another ten years IF taken correctly. But after that, there's nothing. After that you wait for your CD4 count to drop, your immune system to become depleted, and some opportunistic infection to take your life. Swaziland is waiting, is praying they are given a third line soon. Most of these kid's lives depend on it. Taking ARV's, so early.. it is so important they take their meds and take them on time. So we cheer them on as they swallow their pills together. For once they aren't the only ones taking medicine. They are together. We spend an arts and crafts day letting them decorate their pill boxes. We try to make taking pills fun and a bonding experience.

After meds, there's more time on the dance floor. Then our scheduled all campers activity in the evening. A chance for them to engage with everyone and not just those in their group. Our nights end in the theatre hall where in unison we sing our "Siyabonga" song. (We Thank You). I am Wendy with my Lost Boys, exhausted, they are leaning on me. Heads on my lap, fingers laced between mine. My lost boys, without mothers, I am their's for four days. I tuck them into bed. Which doesn't last long. They don't want to be alone so they quietly flock to their neighbors room to sleep next to them. Lights stay on.

By day two they are visible to me. Those blank bodies become colored in. I know my boys now. They have evolved into unique individuals. They have evolved into my friends. What was once their blank space filled with my imagination of who they might be and where they come from. The blank space now filled with their personal stories and my personal feelings. We walk side by side, once worlds apart, but now on this planet together.

Arts and crafts today. We ask them to draw someone they love who loves them. We ask them to draw what respect means to them. Pictures of doctors are being drawn with big needles and a smiling face. I notice several pictures of a stick figure. A woman with crazy hair- Medusa like. Who is this woman with snake hair loving all of them? When the activity is over I collect their drawings to put up on the wall. I take a closer look, and I see Medusa is me. Some have drawn me with a large heart on my chest. Or holding the word "Respect". "Antie Simphiwe loves me because she shows me respect. She talks nice to me." "I love Sisi Simphiwe." My first reaction, of course, is overwhelming and heart- warming. My second reaction is more realistic. Is sadness. Where are their Simphiwes back home? Where is their love and respect on their homestead?

Onto the next activity. DANCE DANCE DANCE! PLAY PLAY PLAY! TEA BREAK! ACTIVITY ACTIVITY ACTIVITY! Each game, activity, dance, or motion is centered around bonding. As much as I want to engage with every one of them- it is more important they engage with each other. They're going back to this mad world in a few days and they need each other. I watch them grow together. A high five. A pat on the back. Even a hug.

After three days we are all tiring. The children come to us with aching body parts. Taking advantage of all the food. After the fourth helping we find them puking in the toilets. We make sure ARV's aren't coming out with it. Tooth aches, itchy skin, loss of hearing, blurred vision, hard of breathing, bone pain, and tummy aches. One of our boys goes home early, too sick to stay. This is their every day life and there's no amount of food or games or play that can make it go away.

It's day four and my little chicks are packing their bags. I sneak little notes in each bag- something to remind them of camp. Of love and respect. Camp counselors wave the the bus goodbye. Then immediately prepare for the next camp. The new batch of kids will be a few years older. We're only given a day off in between and we're slowly loosing our minds. We've reached that point of exhaustion that so closely resembles being drunk. So sleep deprived that everything becomes hilarious. Children gone, halls empty, silence. We lie on the dirty floor. String around Jay's head- I don't know why.. but we think it's hilarious. Between all of us we've endured: twisted wrists from clapping, lost voices from yelling, bruised thighs from slapping them during WE WILL ROCK YOU songs, dizzy spells, sleepless nights. We've got smoker's voices and glass rubbed eyes. The doctors have seen us more than the children. Patrick reminds us Peace Corps has their own doctor for our needs. The last time we sung the "Crocodile Song" I was seeing double and screaming like a mad woman. I can't even focus on my fifth coffee cup.

Our one day off from camp we are among other PCV's, not apart of the camp world. I keep counting heads making sure everyone is present, anticipating thumb wars, and humming "We will We will ROCK YOU!" ENGAGE ENGAGE ENGAGE THUMB WAR THUMB WAR THUMB WAR! LINE UP LINE UP LINE UP!

Back at camp tensions arise. The work "style" of a Swazi is completely different than that of an American work "style". I'll go as far as saying they're actually complete opposite working "styles". Now I'm not going to say one is wrong or one is right. But there's is wrong and ours is right.... Some of our Swazi counselors (before I go on know that a few were absolutely amazing and such an inspiration to me) some though, refused to engage with these kids. Doing sit ups on the soccer sidelines or checking their phones while I'm out on the field screaming my little soccer players on like some lunatic soccer mom. They run over and high five me when they score goals. Some of the counselors were taking showers and actually napping when the campers were. Leaving the PCV's to engage and supervise during shower and rest time. Some would even leave camp without telling anyone. It's the same complaints PCV's have of their counterparts back in their communities. One of the nicest sweetest PCV's tries to assure me, "It's just culture Mere." But where do you draw the line between culture and a universal "no no"? When it hurts someone? I'm drawing the line. Today we are all drawing the line.

Senior staff sees the tension and calls a meeting. Swazi, American, half Irish, half New York sit and hash it out. Swazi counselor raises her hand, "Well we NEED to shower twice a day. My kids get up at five to shower. So I shower with them." This culture is known for cleanliness. Showering twice a day if they can and ironing everything to a crisp clean line. Patrick responds, "I haven't showered in four days. (It was either four or two..either way it grossed the Swazi staff out) I'm up till two and then up again at 5. I don't have time. There is time to shower once the kids are in bed. Wouldn't you say showering twice a day is a luxury?" Swazi counselor stares back hard at Patrick. "Yes!" I'm screaming in my head. Many of us come from communities where people are actually dying from dehydration. Another Swazi counselor raises her hand. "I think there are spies in our group. Telling on us to the senior staff. I'm taking a backseat now. I can't work like this." Jay raises his hand in response. "I guess I'm oblivious to all this tension. But I guess I also don't really care. Everything I do, from 5 in the morning till lights out, is about these kids. Everything I do is for them. All my energy is put on how THEY are doing. I don't have time to worry about anything else." We all agree to be more open and respectful in the future.

3 hours sleep later.....

And we're back! At the front gate entrance. Wigs, smiles, name tags on. Soccer pose engaged. Ready for the whistle to blow. Ready for the bus to arrive filled with new campers and new faces.

"My Baby Chicks"

12/15/09


Growing up I never went to camp. Girl scouts was a joke- I was only it in for the cookies. I tried a drama club one summer. When I was asked to improv a food fight I responded with, "I don't get it." Tried cheerleading for two weeks only to piss off the popular girls with their matching pig tails and pink ribbon and my recently cut off hair. Tried to convince my dad to let me join the boy scouts just to say I did it. And quit band after two weeks because I got caught faking how to play Mary Had A Little Lamb on my flute.

Yes, it's safe to say I never really submersed myself in the culture of "team unity", sing a longs, high fives, fake smiles, and a jingle jangle. I hung out with the safe urban rebels. I radiated social failure. I absolutely hated singing out loud to those "everyone knows this song" songs. It has always been torture being around a group of girls belting out journey lyrics as I struggle to make myself invisible.

But when my dear friend and Season six PCV, Lisa, asked me to interview for a camp counselor position for a children living with HIV/AIDS camp in Mbabane- I apparently had forgotten my completely awkward childhood and how little experience I have actually had with the koom-by-yah's, zipp-e-di-do-da's, and balloon animals. I just trusted her when she told me, "You're an extrovert- they'll love you." A week later I found out myself, another girl from Season 7 and a few from Season 6 were chosen to join this camp. The camp would being December 9th and end December 22nd and before we knew it...it was December 9th.

For four days chosen PCV's and chosen Swazi staff would go through "camp training". A camp for camp counselors. Senior staff put us through what our campers would be going through in four days. Senior staff: Patrick. A man half Irish half New Yorker. The most intense, hilarious, outgoing individual I have ever encountered. He reminds me of the game Sonic the Hedgehog. That moment when Sonic is rolling down a hill until BAM he carelessly runs into those bars that shoot up out of the ground. It's that moment where he springs back into the air, his little arms and legs shoot up and rings pop out of his tiny body. Patrick is forever in THAT moment. It's exhausting just watching him. His work partner, Robin, a woman in her early 30's and has lived already 20 amazing lives. Her intensity not quite that of the hedgehog's, but her smile just as contagious. This camp is apart of the Hole in the Wall Foundation created by Paul Newman in 1988. A camp for children living with serious illnesses all over the world. Called Hole in the Wall because many of these children are living with illnesses that carry a lot of stigma. The camp is usually in a hidden place not advertised.

For four days PCV's, senior and Swazi staff put themselves through the schedule and routine of a camper's. Every song, every dance, every cheer, every "We Will Rock You". We are taught "prompting", how to guide the kids. Prompt them with warnings before moving onto the next scheduled activity. How to herd children. The Cesar Milan of youth. Every hour, every minute is planned with games and play. If there is time to spare, an activity runs short, we are taught quick games to play with the kids that require no resources. We are to be on 24/7. On with a smile and constantly engaging. You get up when the campers get up. You sleep after they've slept.

It's not even 8 in the morning and my cheeks hurt from smiling, my hands from clapping, my voice from yelling.

Our Camp Schedule:
6:00 Early Bird Activity- quick games
6:45 Meds
7:00 Breakfeast
End of each meal we do what is called a DLP. Describe Label and Praise. Each Camp Counselor selects one of their campers to compliment in front of all campers in the dining hall. They are given a certificate and bracelet and in unison we all sing the song "We Will Rock You"
8:30 to 10:00 Activities
10:00 Tea Break
11:00 A more serious activity. Video on Drug Adherence or Child Abuse
Noon Lunch followed by DLP then dancing on the dance floor
One to Three soccer and more activities
3:00 Tea Break
4-5 Activity
5 to 5:45 Shower
6:00 Dinner
7:00 Meds
7:30 Evening Activity- A play, stage night, or performance
8:30 Before we leave, as a group, we sit and sing our goodnight song together "Siyabonga" We Thank You
8:45 Mountain Meeting- Camp Counselors and Campers sit in a circle, lights out, candle light, a water bottle in the middle of circle. A time for campers to reflect on the days events and talk.
9:30 Lights Out
10:00 Staff Meeting

Even though the campers aren't here yet, we follow this schedule to the minute. It's an American Camp, but with Swazi Staff's help we try to make it more relatable to Swazis. We scratch the name Camp Hope and rename it Camp Sivivane. A Sivivane is a collection of rocks, a Swazi tradition. As a traveler on foot, if you come across a new unknown path you look for a Sivivane, a collection of rocks. These rocks have been previously placed there by other travelers. These previous travelers wrap grass around the rocks to let you know how long ago they passed through. The worn out brown grass indicates to the new traveler that no one has used this path in a long time and the path might not be so safe anymore. The greener the grass the more likely you'll find others along the way. A Sivivane is a safe meeting place. This camp is their Sivivane.

We want these children to feel safe. We want them to be able to be children. Swazi staff warns us, "These children get up to do chores at four in the morning on their homestead. They aren't able to be children and they're also living with HIV. They cry in the dark and they hide in the light. But they don't want your sympathy, your pity. This makes them hurt more." I remember Mctosa telling me to stop crying whenever we talk about his HIV. "Simphiwe, stop crying. When you cry I feel the pain."

During training we watch a video called, "Living With SLIM". SLIM was the name Ugandans game HIV because it caused so many to loose weight. Children living with HIV are interviewed asking them "What is it like?" Tears stream down 6, 7, 8 year old faces. "I'm tired of the pain." "No one will play with me." "They beat me." A thirteen year old girl hysterically crying, barely able to get her words out. "I'm suffering because of my parents. Because of their mistakes. I did nothing and no they're gone and I carry this secret alone." She looks at the camera, like all of them, and pleads with viewers to get tested, "Don't give this to your children. They can have a future." A young boy is shown cleaning a mat outside. His two aunties sit and laugh, "We're going to beat you once the cameras are off. Hurry up! You make me sick!" The little boy cries as he cleans under their feet. The movie ends. I look around. PCV's sniffing and blowing their nose. Beet red cheeks and blood shot eyes. I look down at my hands- wet from my own fallen tears. Zandy, Swazi senior staff, stands and tries to comfort us. "The thirteen year old girl you saw crying on this film. I met her. She's nineteen now living in Uganda working at a clinic counseling HIV positive children. Helping others understand. And...she's happy."

During camp we are always to have a doctor on board. Dr. Doug stands and says, "This is why this camp is so important. We have to keep these children alive. To tell their story. To teach others and decrease stigma." A PCV asked me before camp, "What's the point of this camp?" As an outsider, first coming to Swaziland, you want to primarily focus on prevention. You think this is the REAL and most effective way to decrease the HIV prevalence here. But the longer I'm here the more I see the connection between Prevention and Care. Care is prevention. People need to hear these children. This is prevention. This camp is prevention. We are trying to empower these kids to stand up and speak. To band together and use each other as support because their parents are gone and their relatives won't understand.

After the movie we gather for lunch. Some of us are still horror striken from the film. One PCV comes up to me, tears still in her eyes. "I don't understand. How can people be so cruel, so uncaring? I just don't understand." Then I realize, those crying during that film- were PCV's and senior staff. Most of our Swazi collegues sat, checking email on their phones or dozing off. Why? This is happening to their people- not ours. Do they not feel more of a connection? After speaking with a few of them, I realized most of this staff was born and raised in two of the biggest cities in this country. They aren't seeing what we're seeing. I tell them my stories and they look shocked. There's a big division between urban and rural Swaziland. Care is not getting decentralized. People are dying not seen heard or treated. I speak with one of the Swazi staff. She's been there and seen that. A social worker in my community. Christ what a challenge. I tell her about the abuse on my homestead and the slow to react NGO's. She tells me, "You know, I once heard of a volunteer from Minnesota. He called himself, Mctosa." I smile. "Mctosa was known for getting things done. He wouldn't knock on NGO's doors, he'd break them down. When food was delayed he would remind them of the starving children. People gave up. They became familiar with his persistance. Mctosa got what he wanted and more importantly WHEN he wanted it." I ask her what I should do about Sindiso. "Well obviously, he's been abused himself. You first need to find out who's doing it on your homestead to him. But as far as the psychosocial support for him- there is none out there. You've got to brnig him to the city." The city where the poor go for help. The poor with no money for transport or care. The city- a world away.


Four days of training over. We are counting down the hours until these children arrive tomorrow. Patrick has officially lost his voice from all the screaming and yelling but promises it'll be back and ready for the big day. It's our last mountain meeting just to ourselves0- amongst all the camp counselors. In the candle light we all reflect on training and what to expect when the kids arrive. Everyone has spoken but me. I hesitate- it'll just look uncaring if I am the only one not reflecting. I grab the fake microphone and speak,

"When I was a kid, my mother, my best friend, and I were driving along this busy road when we spotted a gathering of baby chicks in the middle of the street. Their mother was on the other side unable to get to them. My mother, of course, immediately pulls over and the three of us jump out to pick up the chicks- stopping traffic. We're in a hurry. Cars are honking and my heart is racing. My mother and best friend are grabbing chick after chick and placing them in their folded shirts. But me, the self proclaimed animal lover and obsessor, I freeze. I can't pick up the baby chick. This tiny creature. What if I hurt him? What if, in the process of helping, I accidentally squish one with my bare hands? Now suddenly I have all the power in the world. The responsibility to save this life. What if I can't do it? What if I create more damage then good? I stand and stare as my mother rescues them. She saved their lives and I did nothing. To this day I remember that feeling of fear. Fear of responsibility for another. I was so angry at myself for that hesitance. Before today, I carried that fear. Fear of the responsibility for the children. What if I say the wrong thing. What if I hurt these children? Today I let go of this fear. I'm ready to embrace my baby chicks. With open arms and love."

We wake up early. Today is the day. We set up banners and decorations. In one hour the bus full of children will be here. We go over everything one last time. Wigs, smiles, name tags on. We run down to the front gate with our welcome banner in hand and song we've prepared ready to sing loudly. It's like that moment in soccer. Right before the whistle blows. I stand, right wing, in my sprinting position. Eyes on the ball, heart racing, focusing all my energy to go go go. The whistle blows and before we know it....

They're here.

When Gogo is Gone

12/02/09

Another PCV has asked me to come and help with her community's World AIDS Day event. I will have to spend one night away from home. Which means, Shebali and her babies must be moved out of my hut. One of Gogo's sons is a carpenter. I have repeatedly asked him to fix an old dog house for me so I can get these dogs out of my hut. He has repeatedly ignored me.

Mctosa comes to his least favorite part of Swaziland- the Lubombo region- to help me build my dogs a new home. He takes one look at my face and says,
"You've been eating peanut butter again."
"Two zits.. come on Mctosa!"
"I will take a photo of your face and place it in every store reading, 'Do not give peanut butter to this umhlungu.'"

In the sweltering heat he and I hammer, hit, and nail back together the dog's new home. The kids do what he asks and bring us materials when needed. Gogo and her older children watch tv inside and refuse to let me use any of their SCRAP metal that has been lying around for weeks on our homestead. When the house is finished I grab the babies and put them inside. Shebali follows. I hand Mctosa a cold glass of water as he sits and chats with the grandchildren. I watch them cling to every word he says. They need a Mctosa. No male figure to look up to in their lives. Mndimiso looks up at me and says, "Thank you Simphiwe." I am taken a back. "For what?" I ask. "These are my dogs. Thank you for taking care of my dogs."

As Mctosa and I go to leave I ask him,
"Did you tell them to thank me?"
"No." he smiles.
"Mctosa...."
"Ah. Nevermind."

Mctosa carries his Lubombo face. One of disgust and impatience. "This place is for animals Simphiwe. Not for humans." We walk the rest in silence to the bus rank. "What is it Simphiwe?" He asks. "You're never quiet."
I tell Mctosa about the email and the "I've met someone."
"But I broke his heart first." I justify.
"So...now... he is returning the favor?"
"I suppose so."
"So...now... you are married to Africa. You can give us all of your heart. I owe him a thank you."

I shove some money into Mctosa's pocket as I hug him goodbye. "I will buy him new (his son)nappies and tell him it's from his Aunty Simphiwe."

The next day- World AIDS Day- a success.

When I return home, I go straight to the dog house. Shebali runs out to greet me. I peek inside and see only three puppies. I run around looking under every piece of trash, every corner, every crack and hole. About to give up, I notice a swarm of flies around a tire on the middle of our homestead. A dead puppy lies squished underneath. I demand answers from the kids. They start pointing to the pit latrine. The story unfolds. They played too hard with the puppies then disposed of the bodies afraid I'd get angry. I didn't cry. I felt no anger, no sadness. I've learned how to turn my heart on and off. I am becoming like them- calloused with walls. I have to be careful. Two years in Swaziland can change you- sometimes in ways you weren't expecting. A volunteer who has been here over a year tells us, "My boyfriend back home says I've changed. I'm not very nice anymore." I watch some of the season 6 volunteers interact with Swazis- short and abrupt, unsympathetic. Some who've been here longer than any PCV tell us, "What's the point. These people are stubborn and selfish. They don't want your help. Get rid of ARV's. Let them die."

On a kombi, squeezed between two men, one asks me why I'm here. I tell him Swaziland has the highest HIV prevelance in the world. He looks at his friend next to me and says, "Well atleast we're number one at something." His friend asks, "But no.. why are you here?" I explain Peace Corps.
"No no no.. why are you here? You say you aren't paid. What are YOU getting out of this?"
"Helping people." I reply.
"I refuse to believe that. What are YOU getting out of this- not others."
"OK. How about personal growth?" I say.
He laughs.
"I don't know what this helping people and personal growth thing is. You must be a spy. No one does anything for nothing."

It's not the first time I've been accused of being a spy. So many Swazis find it absolutley unbelievable Americans are here living without electricty and cars are here just to help. We are called spies because they can't imagine anyone helping just to help. NGO's in Swaziland, they see them in their fancy offices and big white vehicles. Man in kombi continues on, "You know what I hate? You people come here, work in your big offices and drive in your big cars. Waste all your money on yourselves and give us none of it." I laugh. "You know what I hate?" I ask. "When you people ask for money when you've got two hands and a brain. You have no idea how much the world is spending on this continent. I'm in this kombi sweating with you. I got no office, no car, no money to give. I'm just here to motivate you to use your brain." He laughs. "OK. I want you to come to my school and talk." The kombi stops. He turns and asks," Simphiwe I have no money, can you pay for me?" "Excactly." I say. "Exactly."

Later I meet up with my dear friend and neighboring PCV, Vanessa. She sits me down and tells me she has a horrific story to share. Much of our friendship is us just saying, "Isn't that fucked up?" Our stories of this mad world. She continues, "Over Thanksgiving three boys at Cabrini tried to kill another boy. One was eleven the other two were six and the victim was six years old. They forced this boy to start digging a grave and then asked him to lie in it. The boy pleaded with them, " Please leave me a little air hole. Please." They began to bury him. Afterwards, they collected fire wood to lie on top of the shallow grave and to start, what we think, was a fire. But before they could finish someone saw what was happening and stopped them. They got the boy out of the grave and rushed him to the hospital. He was severely bleeding from his anus. They had shoved objects up him before burying him."

Vanessa and I sit and stare in silence. Deep breath. We ask each other what will happen when these parent-less children grow up? With their apathy, anger, and violence. The only person taking care of this generation is Gogo. What happens when Gogo is gone?

I think this is why I'm here. Every volunteer finds their own way to tackle the HIV crisis of Swaziland. I see AIDS and I see apathy. Both are killing these people. This generation knows of AIDS- but nothing of sympathy. How do you force them to care? They have witnessed such horrors. Their hearts are calloused. Their walls are up. It's how you survive this mad world. They can't imagine a world in which an American comes here to help them just to help them. They know everything about AIDS but nothing of Martin Luther King, Ghandi, Mother Theresea, Nelson Mandela. I have to teach them these things. I have to show them the selfless. I have to show them those who fought for the oppressed. Those who sacrificed. It's difficult to change a state of mind where there's no food and water. I have no foundation to build on. Psychosocial support is put on the back burner until a human's basic needs are met.

Vanessa tells me something else quite disturbing. "I think there might be abuse going on at your homestead Mere. And I think it might be sexual." Someone she works with at Cabrini told her that the previous volunteer where I live had told him this. I suspected this.

I return home and ask the eldest grandchild, 13, to come inside my hut. Which has become their "safe place". I ask her if there's abuse on this homestead. She laughs, lies on my bed, and puts an opened book on top of her face. "Yes, there is." She whispers. I ask her, "Can you tell me about it?" She hesitates. I hand her a piece of paper and pen. "I'm a better writer then talker. Do you think you could write it for me?" She grabs the pen and paper and goes into the main house. Five minutes later I hear a knock on my door. "I can't write in there." I let her come inside and write. My mind wanders as I try hard not to look at her writing and give her her privacy. I'm scared it's the older men on my homestead, my age and Gogo's sons, who are sexually abusing the grandchildren. I worry about the youngest, Sindiso, he's six years old and who I've sensed might be a victim of abuse.

"OK. Finished." She lies the paper face down and turns away. I pick up the paper and read, "It's Sindiso. He sexually abused the younger kids. The three year old twins and the two year old girl. And others from sorrounding homesteads. If you have any more questions I can write the answers. I trust you."

What happens when they grow up? What happens when Gogo is gone?

Sympathy

11/28/09

Back to Lubombo where the bugs get bigger as the people get smaller. Hut again Hut again jiggidy jig...

A flock of screeching children and my pregnant dog, Shebali, tackle me. Ah- it's good to be home.

That evening, I sit on the stoop of my hut with the two eldest grandchildren, Mndimiso and Nobandile, 12 and 13. Shebali, our dog, is about to burst. She leans hard onto my side, exposing her pregnant belly. I take Mndimiso's hand and place it on her stomach. He screeches, "Simphiwe! How! What is that?!" "It's a head." I tell him. These children are sorrounded by death; it's important I show them life. My one year old puppy comes staggering towards us. He is unable to hold himself up. Open sores all over his body and he is bone thin. I have been gone for ten days. He has not eaten in 10 days. I sacrifice my last bit of matured....ahhh.. cheddar cheese to him. "Simphiwe, why are you giving that to him?!" The kids whine. "Sympathy. I feel bad for him." I explain sympathy. The little dog refuses to eat. I have seen this before, but I refuse to accept it. I let the thought quickly escape my mind. I cannot possibly have another dog with distemper (my dog on my first homestead died in my arms of distemper).

Shebali bursts into my hut and begins to scratch my cement floor. She buries herself under my bed as far as she can go. I turn to Mndimiso, "They're coming..." The children quickly run to bed. I tell them not to worry I'll document the whole thing. I sit with the soon to be mother, camera in one hand rag in other. I hold her in my arms and stroke her hair speaking to her softly as she whines and screeches in pain. She stops her panting suddenly, looks down and lets out one gigantic yelp. She quickly turns and tends to the newborn- ripping open the sac with her teeth and eating, yes, EVERYTHING. She licks her puppy clean as I hover over flashing with my camera. I am in complete awe. She knows exactly what to do. No baby books needed. Foolish humans. This is better than any surgery channel I've ever watched. I hang upside down from my bed watching as baby after baby comes out. Two hours have past and finally the runt- lucky number seven- is born. Shebali sleeps as her babies feed. All through the night, I wake up every thirty minutes to do a head count and make sure no one is being squashed.

Next day is World AIDS Day and I am extremely sleep deprived. Dumile and I planned a march and an event at her school. We spent the previous day literally running around Manzini shaking NGO's by their crisp collars yelling, "We want condoms!" "We want tiny red ribbons!" "We want speakers!" Most couldn't even spare one representative to come speak to these children. World Vision tells me, "Sorry, all cars are in use that day. We have no way of getting to you." To which I respond, "I see. They don't have kombis where you're staying? That's strange." "No they do." She assures me. Sarcasm doesn't quite fly here. "Look. World Vision created this health club, and now they are having a little event and are inviting you to come see them perform. Please come support these kids." They agree to send us a Jr. Rep. Three hours of listening to NGO's excuses and my bag now full of condoms, we finally make it back to Lubombo.

World AIDS Day- a success.

The next day, however, another story. I wake up to Gogo shouting at me and Nobandile explaining Gogo did not ask for me to live here with them. "The umphagatsi told her to take you in." It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I bite my lip and say nothing. To go from a Gogo who considers me one of her kin to....this... it's a challenge. Volunteers who knew the previous volunteer on my homestead tell me there was abuse in this family and some of it was sexual. The horrors of this Mad World are leaking into my own homestead. I don't have time to dwell on this right now. This morning, country director, is coming to my site to "talk" and I am extremely nervous. What could she possibly have to say to me? Our relationship is not a good one. I am still incredibly angry. I felt blamed and abandoned by the CD. I must choose my words carefully. Not be..me.. and think before I speak. I need to have a good relationship with the office. I have eight dogs in my hut right now, but I know she's a dog person. So I let them stay.

Peace Corps' big white fancy car made for big white fancy people arrives. CD steps out of the back. She wants a tour. "You're lookin' at it." I laugh. Big Gogo steps out of her house. She greets Country Director in Siswati who stares blankly back at her. I direct her to my hut.

We chat a bit about the dogs- making small talk. Deep breath, serious faces on. "I came here to apologize." She tells me. I begin to sweat- big gulp. "This post has been known for not supporting their volunteers. When I was assigned here, I wanted to change that. I wanted to make sure I supported EVERY volunteer. After hearing from other volunteers, I see now that I have failed." Tears collect in her eyes. Tears collect in country director's eyes in my hut. "And I want to apologize." Pause Pause Pause. "I'm sorry. When I asked you if you wanted to be here. I was not questioning your desire to be here. The last group that COSed (completed service) had a 50% drop out rate. Swaziland is known for loosing it's volunteers. But that is history. Your group is different and I need to focus on the present."

Country Director of Swaziland drives all the way from sipping lattes Mbabane early in the morning to formally and personally apologize to me.

"Now I want to pet your dog before I go." She bends down slowly and touches the mother on the head. She notices three ticks on Shebali's neck. "Oh, we'll have to get rid of these. Hand me some neusporen." I get up to grab my med kit as country director hovers over my dog twisting heads off of ticks. Is this really happening? I think. Country Director of Swaziland and I spend twenty minutes pulling ticks off my dog today. Country Director, Eileen, and I ..... friends again.

Before Eileen drives away, my other dog, the one year old pup, barley stands in front of us. He struggles to stay standing. His eyes are wide with terror and foam is bubbling from his mouth. Eileen is horrified. I tell her I've been trying to find a vet in the area. Today I will try harder.

I walk and walk. I ask and ask. Dead end after dead end. "What's a vet?" They ask me. Finally, a point in the right direction. That direction being about a 5K walk. No matter. I arrive to the "clinic" on this especially sweltering hot day, sweating and panting. My shirt clinging to my body. My sweat now glue. My thighs, like two hams wrapped in wet velvet, are raw from the journey. Inside, I find four men devouring chicken legs and licking their fingers clean. They look up at me with greasy lips and curious eyes.

"Now I know this is going to sound strange." I begin between gasps of air. "But I have a dog that needs saving." Laughter follows. After chatting a bit with these greasey lipped vets, I soon realize these "vets" do no surgery, no treatment, no lab work of any kind. "We go around collecting blood samples from dead cows to determine their cause of death." "What do you do with these samples?" I ask. "We wipe them onto those pieces of paper and send them to Manzini." He points to a piece of paper I am fiddling with in my hands. I quickly toss the paper. They offer to send me home with penicillin. I explain my fear of it being distemper. Penicillin would just be a waste of money.
"OK. Bring him to us. We will have a look." Vet tells me.
"OK. I'll just cram my sick sore infested dog onto a kombi full of dog loving Swazis." They laugh.
"What do you suggest we do? Are you suggesting we come out to your homestead and have a look?"
"Yes please." I smile big and innocently.
"All right." Older male vet continues. "How does midnight at your place sound? I can leave in the morning?" He smiles big.
"How does I sleep with a really big sharp knife under my mattress sound?" Vets laugh.
"OK Simphiwe. We'll drive you back to your homestead and have a look. How's that sound?"

On the way to my home, my phone rings. It's Mctosa. "Are you sitting down?" He asks. "Negative." He says. "My son. He is negative." I scream with joy. "Are you smiling?!" I ask him. "More than smiling. I am dancing." I ask him to come to my house tomorrow and build me a dog house for 7 puppies. "That place is not meant for humans." He whines. "I hate Lubombo. I hate dogs. But I like my Simphiwe. I will see you tomorrow."

Young male Swazi vet walks onto my homestead. Gogo greets him and laughs uncontrollably when she realizes I've brought a vet home with me. She and vet exchange Siswati words. I'm sure it went something like, "Silly white girl and her dogs. She has eight in her hut right now." They both look and laugh at me. Laughter comes to an abrupt halt when the vet sees my sick puppy.
"Simphiwe. This is..."
I interrupt. "Distemper. I know."
"He will soon die." He assures me.
"Is he in pain?"
"Yes."

I explain to the vet I will take him to Manzini to put him to sleep peacefully. "Let me atleast offer you a ride back to town to get a box so you can transport him on the bus tomorrow." Before I leave I tell Mndimiso I will be back. He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. Box in hand, I return home after an exhausting 4 hour attempt to try and save this little pup. Another dog with distemper. I am cursed. I set the box down and enter my hut. I sit with Shebali and her babies. On my burglar bar door hangs Mndimiso. He is looking down- his eyes sad. I show him the box and explain what I am going to do with our dog tomorrow. "He will fall asleep and feel no more pain. It's sympathy." He continues to look hard at the ground. "Mdimiso, what is it?" I ask. Behind him comes Tommy, the 27 year old son of Gogo. With a can of gas in his hand he asks me for matches. I hesitate, fear in my voice. "Why do you need matches?" He looks down and points to a tree. "We took care of it." He refuses to look at me when he speaks. In the distance, on this particularly windy day, I see the limp body of my puppy hanging from a branch swaying in the wind- feeling pain no more. I hand over the matches and make my way to him. A barb wired fence lines the tree and I see new gashes all over his body. He struggled. And then I ask Tommy what I ask every time I hear of death. "How long did he take to die?" "Not long." He tells me. "2 minutes. Just 2 minutes." "Two minutes is a lifetime when you're fighting to survive." I tell him as I stand on my toes, trying to pry the wire off of the puppy's neck. His body falls to the ground. I turn around and see the kids now standing behind me in this open field. The wind blows hard, the sun's one last exhale before sleep. Tears fill my eyes I stare hard back at these children. They quickly look down. I pet my puppy's lifeless body one last time and tell him I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I stand to go, tears now streaming down my face. I want the children to see, but they are afraid to look. "Vula emhelo." I say, standing in front of Nobandile. "Look at me." She can only bare to look for a moment- quickly returning her gaze to the ground.

I return to my hut, sit on my bed and stare at the ground. Mndimiso leans on my burglar bars. I can feel him starring at me as I cry.
"Did you know they were going to kill him Mdimiso?"
"Yes. But they told me they would beat me if I told you. So I didn't say anything when you left."
"Who is they?"
"Gogo and Tommy."

I ask him to sit next to me. We sit in silence. He picks up my headphones and slowly wraps the wire around his finger over and over squeezing it tightly. His nose fills with snot as he struggles to hold back. I put my hand on his knee.
"It's ok Mdimiso. You can cry."
"I cannot." He says.
"This is our safe place. In my hut we are not Swazi. We are whomever we choose to be. If you ever need to cry, I want you to come to my hut. It's your safe place."

He puts his head on my shoulder and exhales loudly. I see his tiny hand move up to his cheek to wipe something away. Is he starting to understand sympathy?

That night Shebali leaves her new litter to look for her first born. She smells the blanket he used to sleep on. She whines and looks up at me. I hold her head in my hands and tell this mother I am sorry. I could't save him.

Wondering how much more I can take today. I check my email. An email from someone back home. Four words I've been dreading. "I've met someone."

Warm tears stream down my face as I lie on my floor and place my hot cheeks against the cool cement. I look up and read the words written along my hut wall.

"Every passing moment is another chance to turn it all around."

"Hometown Glory"

11/27/09

Happy Ambassador Giving desperate PCV's food....Day!


5 months away from home so far. 4th of July, our first holiday without family was an easy one. We were all still excited- Swaziland still new. Thanksgiving stung a bit more. It'll be nothing in comparison to Christmas, but still our heads hung a little lower.

My new hero, Mr. U.S. Ambassador, however, saved the day. Ambassador of Swaziland invited every American in Swaziland to dine with him on this American holiday. Thanksgiving day marked the end of IST. The end of ten days that left us all a little bit crazier. All 62 of us try our hardest to look our best for the VIP's of Swaziland. I try my hardest to scrub the black off my feet, shave my legs (around all the cuts and scabbed over mosquito bites), try my hardest to get the dirt out from under my nails. I cover up the circles under my eyes, and put deodarant on for the first time in months. I borrow a pretty dress that isn't full of avocado and mustard stains.

A woman again.

62 big smiling faces pile into a big smiling bus. A care package was just received. A Happy Thanksgiving Day package from someone back home with two People magazines inside. We attack like lions. Pictures of the cast of the new Twilight film sends girls screeching. An article about a dog who can read, "Give me that!" I scream as I tear it from the girl's death grip. Bus stops. Magazines and mouths drop.

New life plan: Become U.S. Ambassador

The Ambassador's palace awaits. A line of who I presume to be important people wait to shake each of our hands. Out of habit, I Swazi youth shake the U.S. ambassador. He looks confused. STUPID! I tell myself. Cheese and candy coated peanuts line the tables. A bucket of ice filled with beer. Before I can notice anything else, I quickly inhale half a block of green olive cheese. GREEN OLIVE CHEESE....GENIUS! They made the wrong decision putting cheese in front of 62 volunteers before the other guests arrive.

The other guests arrive. No cheese in sight. Ambassador's people, internationals, and Country director pour in. Women with bright red lipstick and shoulder pads- babies clinging to their pantie hoes. Mommys important. Mommy gets paid to travel the world with me. I'm five and have seen more of the world than you ever will. I have pigtails and speak five different languages.

I feel uncomfortably out of place. Where's the "kiddy table" I wonder. For once it's where I want to be.

Ambassador stands to make a speech before dinner. I try desperately to push the half block of green olive cheese I inhaled to the right corner of my belly... I know there's lasagna inside there somewhere. "I'd like to read to you, Obama's Thanksgiving speech.." Ambassador says. 4th of July was the last speech I heard from our President. It moved me. Would this one do the same?


"What began as a harvest celebration between European settlers and indigenous communities nearly four centuries ago has become our cherished tradition of Thanksgiving. This day's roots are intertwined with those of our Nation, and its history traces the American narrative.

Today, we recall President George Washington, who proclaimed our first national day of public thanksgiving to be observed "by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God," and President Abraham Lincoln, who established our annual Thanksgiving Day to help mend a fractured Nation in the midst of civil war. We also recognize the contributions of Native Americans, who helped the early colonists survive their first harsh winter and continue to strengthen our Nation. From our earliest days of independence, and in times of tragedy and triumph, Americans have come together to celebrate Thanksgiving.

As Americans, we hail from every part of the world. While we observe traditions from every culture, Thanksgiving Day is a unique national tradition we all share. Its spirit binds us together as one people, each of us thankful for our common blessings.

As we gather once again among loved ones, let us also reach out to our neighbors and fellow citizens in need of a helping hand. This is a time for us to renew our bonds with one another, and we can fulfill that commitment by serving our communities and our Nation throughout the year. In doing so, we pay tribute to our country's men and women in uniform who set an example of service that inspires us all. Let us be guided by the legacy of those who have fought for the freedoms for which we give thanks, and be worthy heirs to the noble tradition of goodwill shown on this day.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, BARACK OBAMA, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim Thursday, November 26, 2009, as a National Day of Thanksgiving. I encourage all the people of the United States to come together, whether in our homes, places of worship, community centers, or any place where family, friends and neighbors may gather, with gratitude for all we have received in the past year; to express appreciation to those whose lives enrich our own; and to share our bounty with others."

I'm moved. It's during these moments when we ban together- all Americans in one room- not a mhlungu, not a foreginer- but an American, trying to do good and what's "right" for the world. It's these moments that I feel truly apart of something bigger than myself. I belong. It's a rare feeling for me to have. It's truly inspiring. We all pause for a moment after the speech. My tilted head, twinkling eyes, and feeling of awe quickly vanish when I hear my two favorite words, "Lets eat!". Internationals, Ambassadors, country directors...all the VIP's aside...I'm still first in line.

I need a third plate. I need another hand. I know every PCV is kicking themselves for not bringing tupperware, or lining their purses with tin foil. The last thing I remember before blacking out is shouting, "I LOVE FOOD!" with two large plates in front of me. I definitely don't remember the food going in. Black out. Next thing I know I'm lying on the lawn amongst other digesting volunteers grabbing my belly shouting, "I'm never eating again!" Friends roll their eyes, "By 6 tonight Mere, you'll be stuffing your face again." I crawl my way back to the table, suck in my gut, focus on breathing, and try to act at least semi professional amongst the VIPs of Swaziland. One of the ambassador's minions, a young man in his thirties- attractive, comes over and sits next to me. He introduces himself along with some title of importance- that quickly leaves my brain- something to do with traveling, learning lots of languages, and a big fancy pay check. He has two little ADORABLE girls with him. "Their MOTHER is back in the States. It's JUST me and them." I think he mentioned "their mother" back in the States three times in five minutes. We get it, you're single.

I realize he chose the only table full of young ladies. "You ladies are welcome to come over anytime- my home (mansion) is close to here. I have wifi and I can cook..... I go ball room dancing during my spare time.....OH I need to go change my daughter's dirty diaper. I'll be back." Female PCV's heads huddle together . "Oh my god Vanessa! We are so hooking you two up. He is pretty cute. And his girls.. ADORABLE! Not afraid to change a dirty diaper..."

I'm making this guy out to be a total schmoozer (one who schmooooozes over the ladies) but I do appreciate one thing he said. "You know I spent a few years in Germany... I was all about integrating, wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with Americans. But you know, it's ok to hang out with people from America. You're a PCV in Swaziland, yes, we get it. But you don't have to be Swazi..." It made me think of how overly dedicated a volunteer can get to integrating and "roughing it". During IST so many of us were complaining we just want to get back to site. Sometimes it's hard for us to admit- we enjoy a warm shower, mansions with pools, and talking with Americans. As "soft corps" as that sounds.

Our overwhelming ten days are over. I don't even remember saying goodbye to anyone. We were free to go and suddenly we were gone. I hadn't really slept in ten days. Ten days of I can't miss anything, people are talking till 2 in the morning so I must join them. People are up at 5 in the morning talking, I must join in. I can barely keep my eyes open now. My heart beating slowly beating loud inside my chest. The hustle and bustle of Manzini is in slow motion now.

And it's the end of the month. The last weekend, the last bus. And I don't care. Gogo's and babies run to get on. I slowly drag my feet towards the bus, bouncing off of others. I'm herded and jostled inside this big machine. I have a seat next to the aisle. Next to big Gogo by the window. She'll be safe there. My head falls foward then back. My eyes open then close. People keep piling in. A mother with a baby on her back, a bag of rice in one arm, a child in the other. There might have been something large balancing on her head- I don't know. Without even thinking or looking up, I grab the toddler and place him on my lap. She thanks me. Sweat pouring down my face and back. Shoved close to fat Gogo. I lie my head on her shoulder, or is it a breast? I can fight it no longer. My eyes close. Toddler sucks on his thumb and plays with my hair. Wrapping a braid around his fat little finger. His eyes shut. We doze off together. I hear chickens screeching, babies cyring, men shouting, 150 people are being josstled around as I sleep now on Gogo's breast and a toddler on mine.

Next thing I know, I feel a nudge on my shoulder. "Simphiwe, wake up. You are home." Gogo next to me laughs, "You are Swazi now."