"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.