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?