"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.