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"The Small Things at That Right Moment"

1/15/10


“Simphiwe, have you thought more about my project?” Make Dlamini asks me.

Make Dlamini, a caregiver in my community, working hard to take care of those living with HIV. Unlike the RHM’s (Rural Health Motivators or umgcugcuteles) Make Dlamini does not get paid by the Swazi Government. She came to me weeks ago to ask if I could help her with a Vaseline project she wants to start. Every Peace Corps Volunteer’s worst nightmare. I would be shocked if any PCV in Swaziland could serve their two years without being approached about a shoe polish or Vaseline project. Which is why these projects fail. It’s every Swazi’s idea. Where there are no jobs there are these little income generating projects. Businesses run by those who know nothing about business. They need these businesses (income generating projects) to get funds to buy supplies to feed themselves or others. They hear so and so is doing it down the street and think, “Hey that’s a great idea. If Babe Themba can sell vaseline I can too.” This of course means there is no demand for Vaseline. Everyone’s doing it. And lets not forget, one of the main ingredients to make Vaseline is….Vaseline. So they’ve come up with a more expensive way to make something that EVERYONE already has.

I explain this to Make Dlamini. But she insists that I help her write this grant to get the basic supplies she needs to begin her business. Peace Corps Volunteers: Closing the gap between those who need money and those who have it. They come to us to write these grants to start the projects that never last. I explain all of this to her as I wait outside the inkudla (formal meeting grounds of the sorrounding communities) with another PCV to speak with SWANNEPA, a national support group for those living with HIV. I ask Make to write everything down for me. What she needs, the exact amount, who it will be benefiting, and how she plans to do it. She thanks me and leaves.

PCV and I are greeted by one of the chairpersons of SWANNEPA- Lucky. SWANNEPPA's support groups normally consist of those living with HIV. These groups are supposed to give them resources and skills to lead a healthy life. They are supposed to teach them to be counselors and peer educators. Unfortunately, these support groups get side tracked and wrapped up in the push to make a quick buck. They have asked myself and another PCV to meet with them today and I am worried it will turn into a similar conversation I have had with Make Dlamini.

For about thirty minutes we introduce ourselves and talk a bit about who we are. Lucky then turns to me and says, “We have asked you here today to talk about a project we want to start. We want to start a Vaseline project to feed and take care of those living with HIV in our communities.” A heavy sigh from me. My fellow PCV takes out his planner and begins doodling. He has officially checked out and they are slowly loosing us both. But I stay focused and listen as they go on and on and on…. For almost two hours (not to mention they had told us to meet them at 11 am and did not contact us of the schedule change. The meeting began at one. We have now been here almost five hours.) They speak and I listen. PCV next to me doodles and dreams of upcoming play dates with other volunteers. I’m blunt. I’m direct.

“Look. I have to warn you. This is every Peace Corps Volunteer’s nightmare. These projects never last. There is no demand for Vaseline in this area. It’s expensive.” I say.
They assure me they’ve found a place in another town that has a demand for Vaseline.

“Who is going to benefit from this? Who are you going to give the money to?” I ask.
“Those living with HIV.” They say.
“Who is going to be in charge of the money?”
“I don’t know.”
“How are you going to decide who gets the money and who does not get the money. What are the requirements in order to receive this money as someone living with HIV?”
“I don’t know.”

Hours pass and we’ve really gotten no where. I need more information and organization from them before I start asking people for money. Ideas spin inside my head on how to handle such a big project.

“So we have found a woman who is going to pay for all the supplies we need to start this project.” They tell me after two hours.

Are you kidding me?! We’ve been sitting around discussing for hours and they just now tell me this?

“So what do you want from us?” I ask struggling to hold back the frustration in my voice. Fellow PCV is still checked out. Wish I could do the same.
“Well we need to hold a workshop. This person has arranged to give us a teacher to teach us for a day how to run this business. But we need food at this event. Can you write us a grant to get the money so we can have food at this workshop?”
My mouth drops. After all that. All they need is food. They tell us a previous volunteer (I call her The Legend) has cooked them muffins and cookies for their workshops before.

“Well I don’t cook.” And I’ve just shot myself in the foot.
“You don’t cook!? How!” They gasp.
“Yes. And I’m a woman. I know.”

And this picture I have just painted for you is a typical meeting here in Swaziland.

So I’m home now. I’ve returned from the Baylor camp with the plan to start this health club with Dumile, the school teacher, for the students during the holiday. Day 1 of camp I sit alone on school grounds waiting for her. I call her 22 times. On the 23rd time she picks up and tells me she cannot come today. She has a doctors appointment. Why she couldn’t call or pick up my calls to tell me this is beyond me.

This club is for primary level students and their English is not good enough for me to teach alone. I stand to leave. The students that show beg me to stay. The ones who know enough English will translate for the others. I wing it.

Day 2 of camp Dumile tells me she cannot come till next week. She is busy renewing her teaching contract in Mbabane. The next week she tells me she is still waiting to hear back from the Ministry. By the end of week two she no longer picks up her phone. I am extremely disheartened. She was my bright light. We planned to do this together.

During the school year, I had selected two children in my club to go to a workshop led by another PCV. A workshop teaching these children about abuse, peer education, HIV, and healthy living through drama and skits. After a week long workshop these children are now peer educators and are to go back to their communities and teach the children in their clubs what they have learned. Sustainability. Dumile knew where these children lived. Since she is no longer picking up her phone I struggle to find their homesteads. I find the girl’s, Tandzile‘s, home first and speak with her parents. Her father is weary to send her. She failed the sixth grade (which is common here). I explain I chose her because her English was amazing (what the workshop is taught in) and her theatre and public speaking skills were some of the best I have seen here. I’m truly feeling like a teacher now. Talking with parents of students. Pleading with parents of students. Together trying to better their kids. He allows her to go and I hear Tandzile scream in the background. She hugs me hard before I go.

I take the two selected children to Manzini to begin the week long workshop. To be in town, with prepared meals, comfortable beds, and no chores- they are ecstatic. Before I return home I hear that one of the children from the HIV Baylor camp has passed away just a few days before I am to return to Baylor to visit the children. And Im scared it’s one of the boys from my group.

It’s one of the boys from my group.

He called himself TI. One of the most mischievous outspoken kids I had ever worked with- severe ADD. We had a lot in common. The bus ride back I remain sullen. My fall out with Mctosa then Dumile (my bright lights) and now TI’s death. I’m tired of putting in the work to be friendly and understanding today. I ignore all that I can. I sit in a packed kombi waiting for it to fill up. I put my headphones on and drown out everyone and everything. I think of TI. What was his last breath like? Did he have someone there to hold his hand? Was he scared? Was it peaceful? Did he suffer?

I look up and see “mentally ill man”. I quickly duck down inside the kombi. Mentally ill man loves to harass me and any white person I may be with. Which is no shocker. I am known as the PCV who endures the most harassment no matter where I go. Other volunteers dread going anywhere with me. Something about me attracts the attention and harassment. I’m constantly hearing, “This never happens unless I’m with you!” Mentally Ill man, however, loves anyone white, I‘m nothing special to him. There have been numerous times while I have been speaking with another PCV at the bus rank where he has stood literally nose to cheek to me repeating random English words over and over in and to my face. “Babes.. Sweety babes… trash can.. Dog.. Hello.. Babes.. Sweety babes.. Sweet babes… Sweety babes.” There is no amount of “Fusake!” or “Phumas!” or “I’m going to punch you in the face.” You could do to get this mad man to go away. And believe me, I’ve tried. He reacts with a high pitch giggle and occasionally tries to grab your arm or breast.

He’s become a problem. Today I am in no mood to deal with this problem. I fear how I will react to his “sweety babes“. He notices me inside the kombi. This kombi won’t go until it is completely full. I’m stuck. My window is open. Before I can slam it shut he runs over and shoves his arm in grabbing my breast. I slam it hard but he quickly removes his arm. He stands with his lips pressed against the glass, “Sweet babes.. Sweet babes.. Babes… babes…Sweety babes.” I stare forward. I focus on the back of someone’s head and try to find a happy place. I will not wig out in front of all these people. Frustrated by my lack of reaction he turns around and grabs a large rock. I mumble to myself, “See what happens.. Just see what happens… come on.. See what happens.” He lifts the rock high above his head and is about to bash in the window.

I loose it.
I absolutely loose it.

I jump out of my seat. Leap over a bag of rice and onto my feet outside. He stands stunned, rock in hand. I run to him and shove him as hard as I can knocking the rock from his grip. I grab him by the collar before he falls to his feet. All the while spitting the words, “See what happens… come on! See what happens!” into his face. I make a fist and go to swing grabbing his collar tight with my other hand. I’m tired of the disrespect. Maybe my fists will earn me some. I hear my name. I look to the right. A woman gasps, “Simphiwe.” I look beyond and through the windows of the kombi. A family of white people are starring at me inside a restaurant. “You came with your cameras and binoculars to see the animals. Who needs the game reserves when you can watch them fight right here. Vula emehlo. This is Swaziland.” I want to tell them. All of them. I let go of his collar climb over the bag of rice again and take my seat inside the kombi. I put my headphones back on. I let The Smiths carry me away.

The longer we’re here the more we think it. This underlying tone is amongst many of us now. And it sounds like this, “What’s the point.” “What am I doing?” “Am I really being effective here?” “What can I seriously do as a woman?” Volunteers hang out afraid to speak it. Like being in Antarctica afraid to say the R word. A bunch of hippies working for RAYTHEON. Shhh don’t tell anyone. You work for one of the biggest US defense contractors. Vula emehlo hipsters.

To sum up conversations I‘ve had with other female volunteers:

“I hear they’re pullin in a lot of old married couples for the new group coming in.”
“Yeah.” I say.
“That’s good I think…..I mean.. how effective.. You know… as a woman.. Are we really? I mean.. it’s just so hard.”
“Yeah…. I know.” I sigh, sipping on my third orange fanta of the day.

Our meeting grounds in town, a “Portugeuse” restaurant. We sit around and vent.
“Come on guys! Let’s try and be positive here!” A volunteer shouts.
“I’m just saying. I’ve got 6 months left here, what can I really do?” says a season 6 volunteer. “Actually…what have I even done in two years?”
“Thanks for the inspiration.” I mumble.

“Look. I didn’t join the Peace Corps with the expectation to change others. I came to be changed. To grow.” Says another volunteer.
“Isn’t that selfish?” I ask.

I’m not saying, we’re not saying, we aren’t changing anyone. That we aren’t helping anyone. We are. And it’s worth us being here. However, the longer you stay the more you see that big ugly picture. The longer you stay the more you see how out of reach things are as a volunteer. And as a Swazi citizen. You become aware of this vicious cycle that is entrapping this warless, friendly, tiny country. This isn’t Rwanda, this isn’t Sudan, this isn’t Sierra Leone. There is no war here. There are no feuding tribes. This is one million people we’re talking about. One tribe. This shouldn’t be happening. But we’re beginning to understand why it is. We’re realizing where this lack of motivation wrapped in ignorance stems from. There is no foundation and none of us, none of them, can get a firm grip on anything to pull ourselves out. We need traction. We need glue. So how do we build? How do we build when half the students fail in rural Swaziland. When every teacher you ask, “Why did you want to teach?” says to you, “Because there are no other jobs.” Students are failing because teachers are failing. Teachers are failing because there are no real jobs. Education is falling through the cracks. Poverty prevents this country to grow. I can teach a few students- Yes. But I can only reach a few students. The entire educational system is fucked. The good schools are in the city. Teachers in rural areas come to Peace Corps volunteers and ask us to teach their students math or English because they don’t feel like it. Some will teach a quarter of the year then leave without a word because they’ve gotten a job in the city. Swaziland has given up on the rural world.

The director of Save the Children, in my region, says to me, “We (Swaziland) need to decentralize. We are suffering here. We need more from the cities.”
I ask him, “Are your children going to school here?”
“Of course not. There is no good education here. I send them to the city.”

And this is where I am today. Unraveling. Spending my time writing about other people’s pain. Their “Life Stories". Who am I to do that?

It’s shit.

Exploiting their grief. Like those stupid commericals selling African babies with bloated bellies wiping the flies from their eyes. I’ve got a girl being raped by her grandfather. I’ve got Mctosa, Proud African, struggling to stay Proud with AIDS. I’ve got a six year old sexually abusing children. I’ve got an HIV positive mother trying hard to keep a secret and stay strong for her children. And it’s nothing new. These stories might be enough to make someone back home cry or throw money at those suffering But it’s nothing new. And it won’t ever be enough to make it stop. Is this what I do? Write about victims all day long?

Maybe I need to open MY eyes.

I sit outside my school thinking these thoughts. Outside, sweat dripping down my legs, sitting on a rock waiting for the head teacher. Who, of course, lives in the city. I call her. She is not coming today despite our arranged meeting.

A friend writes me. “Sometimes the small things are much bigger than the big things when they happen at that RIGHT moment.”

As I sit and pout, three boys walk by not speaking. It looks to me as though they are signing. I think they are pulling a trick on me and I ask, “What are you doing?”

“We are signing.” One boy responds. They stop and look at me.
“Sign language?” I ask.
“Yes. This one cannot speak. He is deaf. So I learned sign and taught it to his friends so we can all communicate.”
My mouth drops. Here where they call deaf people dumb or mentally disturbed and leave them behind.
“That’s beautiful.” Is all I can quickly think to say.
I watch them continue to walk down the hill signing and laughing. They have no idea what that small moment has just done for me. They have no idea how much I needed that moment.

Suddenly things become clearer. This is a land I don’t understand. But this place, at times, can be culturally inspiring. I need to focus more on the beauty and less on the hardships. This is a lifetime opportunity for me. I’ve said it a million times. This is my life dream. And possibly the biggest adventure of my life. Nobody said this was going to be easy. And I never thought this adventure would be easy. I’m going to carry on. I’m going to open my eyes to what’s around me. I’m going to pull back and not look so far ahead. One foot in front of the other. This mzungu isn’t going to walk in circles anymore.

No more superhero complex. No more pushing mentally ill man. And maybe I’ll finally take up yoga.

I have a long way to go….but I’m starting now.

The Donkeys are Rolling

1/1/10

It’s the holidays and I want to visit my old village one more time before 2010. I’m running late this evening so I decide to stay the night in a neighboring community to my old village. A volunteer/friend lives here and she invites me to stay the night. I call Mctosa (who happens to be in this community today) to tell him I’ll be arriving late. “Don’t worry.” He says. “I’ll be there with a car. I can give you a lift to your friend’s house.”

When I arrive, the sun is about to set, and I see Mctosa is standing tall against it. It’s evening, things have cooled down, which means the people are out drinking. Before he says anything, I can smell the booze on him. “You’ve been drinking.” I say. “Ah. never mind.” He replies. He asks me to take a seat with him outside a store. This town is a town with only one street lined with shops. You step off the kombi onto the road and immediately all eyes are on you- the white person. I’m getting tired of being the naked one in a crowd everyday. I start talking, as I do, to Mctosa about the camp and Nonjaboliso. He interrupts me and points at two “hoochie coochie” women walking by. One is glaring. “That’s my x.” He says to me. “Oh, the one who thinks we are together and you are HER husband? The one who called me months back and told me to stay away from you….that x?” I laugh. “Yes.” He says, I tell him I’m leaving. He grabs my arm before I can collect my things. “Wait wait wait.” He says slowly- knowing full well I’ll listen. She walks over-she slinks over to me. Her head sways back and forth. I fear this may turn into a “weave off”. I have become a woman of accessories and extensions-there are many things a woman could easily yank off during a “cat fight”. She bobbles her head and looks to the side pursing her lips, “Saaaaaawboooona.” She says to me. “Yebo.” I reply. She asks to speak with Mctosa alone. They walk a few feet away. She speaks and points at me- he half listens. She walks over, finger in my face now. Then points to Mctosa who, for the first time in his life is silent and sits back almost amused, “THIS IS MY HUSBAND! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” She stands closer. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!’ I stand closer, face to face now. “I’m leaving.” I grab my things and begin to walk towards the tar road. I will not be stuck in the dark. It’s about to rain. I will not be stuck in the rain. I pick up my pace. A man stops me. I don’t recognize him. “It’s me Sakhile. I work with you at Madleyna Primary School.” Someone from MY community here. Had he seen a weave off between me and hoochie coochie. I’m fuming now. How dare Mctosa put me in this position.

I huff and puff my way down the tar road trying hard to beat the sun. The rain begins and long lazy drops hit my head. A truck pulls over and Mctosa gets out. His friend is driving. “Simphiwe wait. Simphiwe!” I walk on by but he is soon standing in front of me. I push him hard in the chest….done with everything…done with everyone. “ I am NOT your fucking trophy!” I shout. “You wanted her to see me with you!” He tries to speak while I rant. I don’t even know what the words are that are coming out. They tumble and spill out….months of frustration…of harassment… abuse…cultural frustrations..language barriers. I let him have it. He interrupts, “Stupid American women! Always talking! Never listening! So stubborn!” I shout back, “Stupid Swazi men! Always know everything! Always know what’s best!”

And there we stood, face to face. Enemies. American woman vs. Swazi man. The incompatibility. Our two different cultures finally at war. "You're just like the rest of em." We're thinking. The rain falls down and around us. It sneaks inside our open, vulgar, mouths, filled with anger, filled with frustration, filled with nothing at all. Mctosa looks down at the ground, the rain rolling forward off his head. He steps closer and whispers slowly, “Simphiwe. I’m in love with a whiiiiite woooooman.” He looks into my eyes. His stupid drunk red eyes waiting for me to say it back. “Go home Mctosa. Go home to your baby. To Tenele (his girlfriend).”
“So because I am positive? Because of my status you can’t love me back?”
“That’s not fair. I will see you tomorrow Mctosa.” I walk around him.
“But tomorrow I’ll be dead.” He mutters.
“No. Tomorrow you’ll be hung over.”
I leave Mctosa behind as he shouts out, “Mctosa Mtetwa. Proud African! Thank you and goodnight!”

I see my volunteer friend approaching her gate and I worry how much she has seen. It’s strange and difficult to talk to most volunteers about the connections you make with the Swazis. Some think it’s weird to have actual friends that are Swazi. And most will tell you, as a woman, not to befriend a Swazi man at all. It’s ok if you get a Swazi to test at the clinic, to translate for you in the classroom, or to call them your counterpart at some meeting with an NGO. But call them your “friend” and bring them to meet your volunteer friends at lunch- it just doesn’t happen. And that’s who Mctosa is to them.
“Who was that?” My friend asks at the gate. “Mctosa.” I say. “Oh the one you got to test?” She asks. “Yes.”

And that’s where I leave it.

New Years Eve with other volunteers at a place they call House On Fire. Michael Jackson music and cold beer. Much needed. And apparently a conversation with Kathy. The Legend. Who I ran into. A conversation I have absolutely no memory of having. My friend tells me it must have been an engaging one. I had her laughing and seemed intense at times. He claims he’s never had such a conversation with her before. But he too doesn’t seem to remember what exactly was said. I worry I may have said too much. I worry she may have given me the answer I’ve been seeking, and due to alcohol is now lost forever. Shit.

I finally arrive to Nkiliji. The dogs have had their puppies, the fields have been plowed, and the barrels are full of rain water now. Nkiliji is lush with life. I find Make and Babe in the fields working. Make holds me tight, “Swani child! Swani child!” She rubs my breasts and kisses my chest for a good minute. The most action I’ve gotten in a long time. Babe steps forward holds my face with one hand, squeezing my cheeks together. He kisses each one. I leave the field and find EVERYONE at home. Make and Babe have six children: three boys and three girls…all a little older than myself and all with children. What was once empty homes on my homestead are now filled with people. Home for the holidays. Most rural Swazi homesteads will have gogo and mkhulu in the main house and many huts for their children. However, it is the wife and the children who reside in these homes while the men are off living at work. But because of the holidays, everyone is home. Bongiwe is at a friends braiding her hair. Chief is out drinking. Menzi is playing football with his friends. The elder children to Babe and Make are cooking and working the fields. Everyone and everything is as it should be. They tell me, “Simphiwe, you are HOME.“ Sibongile’s daughter, Andiswa runs up to me saying “umgcugcutele” over and over again. Umgcugcutele, the word that makes her laugh every time I say it. I turn to Bongiwe’s mother, Thembi (daughter to Make and Babe), “Thembi. Is Simone here?!” If you remember, I last saw Simone before I moved away from Nkiliji. The mother of the terror child, Toady, and girlfriend to Make and Babe’s son. “Yes. She’s in her hut.” I sneak towards the hut- my heart racing. She was my closest friend and I haven’t seen her in three months. I walk inside and see a body hiding behind a door. She steps out and we scream embracing each other. We pull back for a moment, in silence holding hands, and take each other in. We laugh and embrace one more time. I hear the sweetest voice. “Pee- whey! Pee- whey!” Naked Toady runs to me and grabs my legs. Simone tells me for months all Toady did was stand in the yard yelling, “Pee whey! Pee Whey!”

Simone and I take a seat- not really knowing where to start. I begin. I start with Alexander. I start with Mctosa. I go on with Babe Shongwe. I continue with crazy drunk man and moving. I explain Peace Corps’ mess ups and my frustrations. My new family, snakes, bats, and scorpions. Dead puppies and abuse on neighboring homesteads. Dumile and Nonjaboliso. Witchcraft, health clubs, and HIV camp. I take a breath. Silence. She’s not really sure what to say. She slaps my ass and shouts, “Well looks like your butt is becoming more and more Swazi! We need to work on this. Lets go fetch water.” And just like old times, I haul 4 barrels of water on our rickety old wheelbarrow as she follows close behind shouting, “Hurry Hurry! Your Swazi husband is hungry! He wants his dinner!” When we return I ask where Gigi is.

“You won’t find her well.” Simone warns me. I walk into her bedroom. The stench of urine punches me in the nose. I find Gigi on the floor, lying on her side, a few blankets underneath her. I kneel by her side and hold her hand. Bone thin. She is wasted. “She stopped eating a week ago. No one can get her to eat. We don’t understand. She’s not sick and her broken arm is healing.” They go on to tell me Gigi spends most of her day in this room alone. They try to bathe her once a day and then put her back in isolation. To me, it sounds like she’s given up. I walk her outside to her favorite spot. The tire on the middle of the homestead. I sit with her. She squints, her eyes not used to the sun anymore. Make thinks I’ll be able to get her to eat. She hands me a bowl of torn chicken pieces and porridge. I ask Make to leave us. I have a feeling Gigi is punishing Make by not eating. I hold the spoon up to Gigi’s mouth and tell her how important it is for her to eat. And just like that. She begins to eat. For the next few days it is my job to feed her. I’ve got to find her a wheelchair. She’s dying in that tiny room all alone.

The next day I leave home and pay Mctosa a visit. His door is open and I see two tiny feet dangling off his bed. Tenele is there and they are playing cards. Their baby, Seven ,lies sleeping next to her. Tenele is comfortable with mine and Mctosa‘s friendship now. He has told her his status and that I was the one who encouraged him to test and have been helping him through it. She is comfortable with me now. We sit in silence playing cards. Mctosa shows a different side. Soft and caring. I watch him watching her. I see that he really does care about her. I pick up tiny Seven and hold him in my arms. He looks nothing like Mctosa. He has the balding head of an old man and his mother’s fair skin and tiny lips. He yawns and opens his eyes. “Oh there you are Mctosa. S you gave him your eyes. Big and wide- taking it all in.” Mctosa looks proud. I tell them I have to go. Mctosa puts down his cards and walks me home. We don’t speak of the previous night and our shared rage. I don’t expect an apology. We walk along the dirt road noticing the curved swirled marks of what Mctosa has always claimed were the imprints left by donkeys. “You’ve never seen them roll on their backs?” He always asks as he imitates what they look like. I hug him goodbye and tell him I’ll try to visit more often.

Back on the homestead, Menzi and I discuss the universe and PUDEMO (an organization against the King) while Bhule stumbles around singing loudly- drunk. But soon it is time for me to go. I ask everyone to meet me by the tire. I want to take a family photo. Babe and Make hold their children tight while the grandchildren play in front. I ask where Sibongile is. If you remember, Sibongile is the wife of Babe and Make’s son. She confided in me about her status when I first arrived to the homestead making me promise I would not tell anyone. “She does not want to be in the picture.” They tell me. I run down to her home and beg her to come. “You look beautiful! Please come be in the photo! You are my family too!” She is hesitant but finally gives in. She follows me to the rest of the family waiting. She stands behind trying to hide. She turns her back to me and begins to cry into the tree. I quickly take three photos trying to move on so she can go back to her hut. As I’m showing the family their pictures, Sibongile walks back down the hill. No one seems to notice or care.

Before I leave for town. I walk down to her hut. I knock on the door and she’s asks me to come in. I sit on her bed as she bucket bathes. Nudity means nothing to me anymore.
“I’m sorry Sibongile if I hurt you in anyway. I did not mean to force you into being in the family photo.”
“It’s ok Simphiwe.” She says. “I am not angry. I am different. Different than them. I am not like them. I should not be in a photo with them.”
“You aren’t different Sibongile.” I assure her.
“I’ve accepted it now. I am different. You know what I have. What I carry inside me. I am not like them.” She begins to cry.
“I know you carry a secret. I know you carry pain. But you know what. We all do. We’re all living with illness, regret, and pain. Every one of us. Even I. You are no different.”

She continues to bathe and cry as I look hard at the ground. How do I make her believe me? These stupid fucking support groups in clinics of the rural areas for those living with HIV don’t provide any psychosocial support. Just meetings on how to make money. She’s so beautiful. Inside and out. I am looking at a beautiful body, a beautiful mother, wife, and friend. She stands and we hug. Her wet, naked, skin on me. I hold her head, “You’re beautiful.” I say.

On the bus ride back to Siphofaneni. Back to another family with other problems. I am thinking about Gigi. I am thinking about Sibongile. How am I going to pull them out of this. Im crammed next to a big mamma, my body pushed up against the window. I lean my head against the glass and look outside. And there, for the first time in 7 months, I see it. Three donkeys rolling on their backs on the side of the dirt road- smiling. I turn back and watch for as long as I can. Mctosa was right. I turn back around and smile. Big mamma leans in and says to me,
“You are happy Sisi.” She smiles.
“Right now Make. I am.”

Still Looking for the Answer

12/26/09

Its been almost a month- and im home.

Almost a month from site and my bags are bursting open as I walk from the kombi stop. I round the corner. A left turn, onto my path now and my hut is in sight. I see seven children playing in a huddle in the middle of the homestead. They turn and see me. “SIMPHIWE!” They shout. They drop what they’re doing and run towards me. Hands out and wide smiles I am tackled to the ground. They quickly grab my bags and my now free hands as we walk down the long path. Shebali lovingly bites my ankles, her now rolly polly puppys follow close behind. The cows have recently given birth to their calves, the fields have been plowed, and the green is beginning to grow.

I worry about the condition of my hut. Unfortunately my thatch roof and circular wall don’t ever meet- leaving a huge gap between the inside of my hut and the outside world. Which means I have around five lizard pets, bats, beetles, a snake, and an assortment of hard shelled insects often the size of a candy bar. I quickly, and cautiously swing open my hut door and stand in attack pose, stick in hand, in the doorway. Nine children huddle behind me. They peak in through my legs and around my arms. They grab long sticks and run into my hut poking underneath my bed and behind shelves. One shouts out, “Simphiwe look!” A large snake skin dangles from the gap between my wall and roof- dangling onto my mosquito net above my bed. “Ah Simphwe! Looks like he left his clothes here!”

All is clear. No snake. I ask the children what they did for Christmas.
“We cooked and ate dinner together.”
“Where is Gogo?” I ask.
“She has been gone for weeks.”
Nine children. Alone on Christmas. I’m sad I wasn’t here.
“So I ran into Santa in town. He told me to come home and give you your presents immediately!” I exclaim. They run in and circle around my box of goodies. I’ve never seen such a reaction to a bag of marbles. The finale: A bottle of Nutella sent to me from home. We share spoonfuls until there is no more Nutella in sight. Mnotfo leans on my door giggling. “What is it Mnotfo?” I ask. “I am so filled with joy.” He says. “You’re home.”

10 tummy aches later…we drag ourselves to bed. I let Shebali and her pups sleep with me tonight.

It’s over 100 degrees, ten o’clock at night I’m sitting still in my undies- and sweating. Jesus. My phone rings. It’s Dumile. The reception is awful. All I can make out is, “Simphiwe…it’s Nonjaboliso…she’s in trouble…the abuse is worse…we need to get her out of there tonight. She tells me he’s going to abuse her.” Nonjaboliso: Her Life Story: the one living with her sexually abusive grandfather and his eleven year old daughter. The one we have been trying to get out of that homestead for over a month now. My phone, of course, cuts out. I have only a few minutes of airtime left on my phone. I call back to clarify a few things before I act. Dumile sounds frantic and I think what is happening is Nonjaboliso has escaped her homestead and is fleeing from her grandfather. I hang up and call the local police station. At this point I’m wandering around my homestead shouting English slowly and loudly into my phone. My family, my constant audience, starring and gawking as I shout words like RAPE GRANDFATHER HIV POSITIVE HELP at the police. They tell me to call the toll free line. The toll free line hangs up when they realize I am speaking English. Before I am able to throw my phone at a wandering cow I beg my bhuti (brother) to talk to the toll free police for me. The line is busy for almost an hour.

I make one last desperate call. Stella. Peace Corps Programming Manager. She’s Swazi and has amazing connections. She’s also been there for me throughout all my obstacles. She calls a woman she knows in Manzini who runs a halfway house. I wait for her to call me back as she organizes and plans with this woman. My phone battery is about to die and I am pacing. Stella calls back. She’s winded and frustrated. She tells me she got in an argument with the lady and the lady was very rude to her, but she thinks the lady will come out and get Nonjaboliso tomorrow. I find this all very hard to believe. City support and care coming to rural Swaziland- I doubt it. I don’t have time to question. My phone dies and then suddenly the power goes out.

It’s over 100 degrees, midnight, I’m sitting still in my undies- sweating. Jesus. Shebali’s growling. She’s scratching behind my bookshelf. Shit- I think. It’s late at night, everyone’s asleep now, I’m in my sweaty undies and there’s a snake behind my bookshelf. Going to have to tackle this one alone. I grab the curious pups and throw them behind me. Shebali doesn’t stand down. She tries hard to get at it. I pull her by the scruff of her neck and drag her back. Again I stand in attack pose, sweating in my undies, frying pan raised high over my head. Batter up! I kick the book shelf over and scream ready to strike. I look down and there was the little bastard.

It was big. It was black. It was just a scorpion.

It’s been almost a month…and I AM home.

The next day, I take a long walk. I remember Sisana (the Swazi woman at the camp who told me about the Mctosa volunteer she met). “He didn’t knock on doors to get things done Simphiwe. He broke them down.” It was time to break down doors. I am walking to the police station today.

When I arrive, child protection services is busy. Good to know they’re taking care of some of these kids on their own. An hour of sitting in the waiting room- listening to people laugh as I tell them my Swazi name, asking if I’m married, WHY am I not married, why don’t I know better Siswati- an hour later- I’m seated before the Child Protection Officer: Smomo. She leans back, arms crossed over her chest, her lips are pursed in that “Who does this white girl think she is” sort of way. I ask her name. She says her first and last very quickly letting them run together- hoping I won’t catch on. Hoping to get a kick out of this white girl unable to pronounce Swazi names. “Oh. I used to be a Dlamini when I lived in Nkiliji.” I say. It’s important she knows I’m trying. I’m always trying. I tell her what I know. I start from the beginning. “It started with the Life Stories. No. It started with Dumile.” Smomo realizes my testimony is not good enough. Even though I carry Nonjaboliso’s written life story which speaks of her grandfather kissing her- it’s not enough. Smomo wants to speak with Dumile and the neighbor Nonjaboliso confided in about the abuse.

“Well, that could be a problem. I’m the only one not scared of this man. Even Dumile doesn’t want to go on record. He has convinced everyone he is a witch.” Smomo crosses her arms again, purses her lips, “No matter.” She says. “They cannot defeat us! We will get them to talk.” Smomo tells me she is going to go talk to Nonjaboliso and Bhule tomorrow. I try to keep my respected tone but really I’m absolutely annoyed. “Oh please don’t do that! We cannot let the grandfather know Nonjaboliso has said anything. You go in there questioning the children in front of him- and he will know. This puts their safety at risk. They won’t say a word to you. This is sexual abuse. These are children." I plead. "Then what do we do?" She asks me. "Before we do anything we need to have a safe place for them to go. Please give me a day to find a place.” Smomo agrees.

Next day, in Manzini, I meet Dumile to discuss Nonjaboliso and the upcoming club she and I are starting in just a few days. My phone rings , it’s Smomo. “Simphiwe. We have Nonjaboliso. We need to speak with you and Dumile. Meet us in Manzini.” Dumile and I wait outside by the curb. A police car with two women in front and Nonjaboliso in the back pulls up. “Get in.” They tell us. I sit to the right of Nonjaboliso, Dumile on her left. The two police women turn around. Their police faces on. They are stern. They are serious. They mean business. They look at me. “What did Nonjaboliso tell you?” I can’t believe they’re doing this right in front of the child. The three of us, shoulder to shoulder, squished in under the spotlight in this tiny car. “I think it is Dumile you should be speaking with. She was the one that noticed Nonjaboliso's behavior changing in school.” I say. "Who is Nonjaboliso?" One of the officers asks. "You're kidding right?" I ask. They turn to Dumile and speak in Siswati. When you’re constantly around conversations in a language you don’t really know, you become very familiar with body languauge. You learn to read it quite well. Dumile’s is telling me she is unhappy. She is uncomfortable. The police women don’t care. They continue to interrogate her. “You WILL testify. How can you report such things to us and not go to court? You are a teacher! Your job is to protect children. This man needs to go behind bars!” They wanted these words to be spoken in English. They wanted me to hear this. Dumile is meeting a friend in town. The police let her go while we drop Nonjaboliso off at the halfway house. "We WILL be back for you." They tell her.

As we drive they express their frustrations to me. “Who does she think she is? Hoping you could take all the blame and then she wouldn’t have to testify. She won’t tell us who this neighbor is that Nonjaboliso confided in. You must help us get it out of’ her.” They tell me they took Nonjaboliso to the hospital. “She tested positive. She has definitely been raped.” I ask if they found blood, semen, or hair. “Screw the testimonys. We won’t need them if you match his with what you found.” I say. “No. We didn’t. Only her hymen was broken. She says he hasn’t raped her since August.” They start writing a report with my name on it. They want me to sign what I have told them. A flashback, a hazy memory of training. Safety and Security officer- another boring lecture- “You are not to sign anything without me being their first!” Is that what they told us in training? I can’t remember. I call country director. “I want you to stay out of this Meredith.” She tells me. “I know that’s hard for you. But I don’t want your safety at risk again. I do NOT want your name on anything. I am afraid these police officers will tell the grandfather a volunteer was involved in this. If you feel unsafe AT ALL. Contact us. We can have you stay in Mbabane until this gets cleared.” I assure her he lives a neighboring village. He doesn’t know where I stay and when I was on his homestead talking with Bhule and Nonjaboliso he was convinced I was only there to survey his homestead’s shortage of food.

I tell the police I can’t sign anything or testify, as much as I’d like to, but will help convince Dumile to convince the neighbor to step forward. Nonjaboliso we can get out of there. She has come forward. But Bhule is brainwashed. She won’t say anything. So we need to use Nonjaboliso’s testimony to put the old man behind bars and then we can get Bhule out of there. I explain all this to the police as we drive. I ask them how long the half way house will hold Nonjaboliso. “I don’t know.” They say. I ask them what they plan on doing with her once this investigation is over. “We don’t know.” They say. I ask them what they told the grandfather when they took her from the homestead.
“We told him nothing. He was not home. We told Bhule to tell him we have her and if he has questions to come to us.”
“So you just took the child? Without getting the legal guardian’s permission first?”
“Yes. What do you think we should do with Nonjaboliso?” Child Protection Services asks me. I can’t tell you how many times a Swazi in authority, with a badge, with a certificate, a degree, an oficial stamp of approval has asked me the question, “Well, what do you think I should do?”

We arrive at the half way house. I haven’t really had time to look at Nonjaboliso. She steps out of the car. She has her usual face on. Everytime I see her, even on her own homestead, she’s always wide eyed- curious- lips slighlty parted and looking around. But not once has she ever looked sad. When writing her sad story. When telling her sad story. Her story of taking care of her sick father. Wipping maggots away from his mouth as he lied dying in bed- his thrush so badly infected inside his mouth. Loosing her father, then her mother being chased away by her grandfather. Her mother eventually dying. Then her grandfather- that sick bastard. But throughout it all- it’s the same face. I see no sadness. I grab her hand and we walk inside. Children ranging from one to twelve run around the house half naked. The police officers, Nonjaboliso, and I take a seat.

Smomo fills out some paper work for the woman who runs the halfway house- Maureen. For the next twenty minutes Maureen interviews me. Where I’m from. What I’m doing here. Will I marry a Swazi. What do I cook. What do I eat. I try to steer the conversation towards Nonjaboliso. I tell her about Bhule. I ask if I can visit Nonjaboliso. But I’m also curious about this place. There are many children in my area who need somewhere to go. “What is the age limit here?” I ask. “The eldest is fifteen. But the limit SHOULD be ten.” Maureen tells me. The adult age…..10?

The police officers speak to Nonjaboliso as we get up to leave. Nonjaboliso stares hard at the ground, twisting a teddy bear’s ribbon tightly around her index finger. She looks up and I see it. Tears pour out from her eyes. I see her sadness. I grab her hand and tell her I WILL be back.

We pick up Dumile on the way. Dumile signs her testimony. But she doesn’t want to. She gets out of the car quickly. I ask her if everything’s all right. “We will talk.” She tells me. The police got the neighbor’s name out of her. They plan to blame Nonjaboliso. Say that it was she who told them the name. I ask them to keep me informed and we say goodbye.

The following evening Vanessa, PCV friend and neighbor. Comes over. She brings tuna. She knows me so well. We sit on my hut floor, tuna, cheese, and crackers.. and a bottle of wine. We vent. We talk about the volunteer from our group that just went home. Our first one. Like loosing a family member. I had recieved a text from Vanessa while I was at camp informing me she had left. Tears filled my eyes as I told the volunteers I was with at camp that she was gone. This volunteer endured harrasment in her village like I had. I tried to bond with her. I tried to help her. But not enough. I had been there once too. But she couldn't take it anymore. I'm angry with what female volunteers have to endure here. We're trying to help while these Swazi men walk around with their dicks on their foreheads. It's not fair.

I'm angry. So I have Vanessa over so we can vent. Work through the anger. Recognize that it's not ALL Swazis. It's like a carton of curdled milk. You gotta shake it up, see that there are individual pieces. That's how you get through this. You gotta shake that carton.

We haven’t seen each other since the camp. “Where do I start?” I ask. “From the beginning….the middle.. how about the end and work your way to the beginning?” I envy Vanessa’s ability to put up with my stories. The content is always so dramatic and hard to handle. And my ability to tell it….like a six year olds. She’s constantly having to ask, “Ok..who? What? Wait back up….Oh….ok!” I rant about the Swazi staff at the camp- some of their incompetence and apathy. I rant about the police officers inability to figure things out on their own. She shares my frustrations. I ask, “Are you worried that we’re on our way to becoming like some of those…many of those…in season six…who are constantly trash talking the people and culture here. Who are constantly on the verge of throwing in the towel and shouting…WHAT AM I DOING HERE?!” I ask because I know she will say no. I know she will give me assurance and hope.

“Yes. I am.” She says.

Well, shit. “I AM becoming less sympathetic. AND more annoyed.” She tells me. She says she had to spend four days at Cabrini, where the American nuns work and live, to “get away from it all”. “Swazis don’t know how to problem solve." She continues. "They were never taught it in school. I’m seeing the same things where I work. The schools don’t believe in participatory learning and they get in trouble for asking questions. A student asking a question means the teacher most have taught it wrong. This is defying authority. My students, teenagers, ask me how to write a composition. I tell them you need a teaser. A beginning middle and end. They say ok thanks. I tell them now write one for me. And they can’t. Learning to them is just being told how but not actually doing it. This leaks into their adult life.”
“Is this why the police officers ask ME what THEY should do?” I interrupt.
“Yes.”
“So doesn’t this make you less bitter Vanessa, less jaded? It’s not their fault. It’s what they learned. Its culture?” I plead.
She exhales slowly.“Not really. It can just as easily be unlearned.”
This isn’t just Vanessa talking. She works with two American nuns who have been here for years and years. They know. And they haven’t given up. I need to speak with these women. I need to speak with those who have been here for years and are still going to be here for years. Like Kathy. My woman who owns the world that I met in training and who I still hear such tales about. Someone asks me the other day, “Have you heard about this Peace Corps Volunteer here in Swaziland, back in the 80’s. One day a man shows up at her doorstep with a child. He claimed they were both refugees. He asks this volunteer to watch his daughter for one night- he’ll be right back. He never returns. The volunteer does everything she can to find a home for this girl. But no one can take her. So what does she do? She ends up taking the girl and raising her. And now this child, who once had nothing, travels the world with her Australian husband.” Another person interjects, “Yeah. That’s Kathy.”

Kathy: The Legend. I fantasize what her house looks like up north. Her three dogs. I’m sure there’s a record player somewhere in there, on a table, in a corner. I come over. She puts on Billie Holiday as we eat sharp cheddar cheese and sip on red wine. I lie on the floor with her dogs as they eat the crumbs off my flannel. I ask questions and she gives me the answers.

“And that’s the key." She says to me. "That’s what you gotta do Meredith.”

And I walk away feeling more connected. More apart of this mad world.