"The Fire Inside."

1. What evidence is there that there was a big hot balloon that burst and all creation was created?
2. What makes another planets to appear on the sky of the planet Earth while they are supposed to have their own sky on which you can find their planets starts and moon?
3. How were the other planets created because in the bible it is only written about Earth only?
4. The Earth is round and the countries are shown on the edge of the Earth. So how come there is no end of the Earth
5.According to the scientific explanation of creation what made people to speak different languages?


I sit outside with Nobandile, her paper of questions in hand, struggling to answer them as simply as possible. “Well the evidence of the Big Bang Theory is observational- it‘s what we have seen and calculated. I mean… the universe is slowly expanding and always has been....OK....So…it began with just this tiny piece of matter and.. Well I think… Yeah, I mean...” Nobandile thinks for a moment. She crosses her arms, rolls her eyes and asks, “Well then where did that piece of matter come from?” Ahhhhhh….

As challenging as it is answering a teenager’s why and how questions; it’s a nice change from the struggles I have been enduring with my Primary level students the past few weeks. I’ve taken over Madleyna’s Health club after school each day. It was Dumile’s project but she has been transferred to another school. The head teacher has yet to give me another teacher who can assist me with the lessons. I cannot teach students about healthy living, growing up, and HIV when they don’t understand English. “How can a person get HIV?” I ask the 9 to 13 year olds. “Seminal Fluids” “Vaginal Secretions” They shout. “And what do those mean?” I ask. Blank stares follow. From grade 1 most Swazi children are taught in English. Swaziland is determined to have English speaking citizens. They assign a few students from each class to be what they call “Prefects” (which if I recall is a reference to the poorly made film “Minority Report” but not a reference from them- just my little observation) These “Prefects” tell on children who are caught speaking Siswati amongst themselves. I’m guessing they have very few friends. This system is nation wide. I really don’t have an opinion on the matter- weird, I know. All I care about is that these children understand HIV. They MUST MUST MUST understand- it‘s a matter of life or death. They cannot just memorize textbook definitions. I believe this is why so many students fail. So many students at the age of 18 can’t write a simple composition describing an event or photo. Why so many students don’t quite understand what HIV is. Why they can’t think critically or creatively or problem solve anything. Learning has become simply memorization. HIV has something to do with the words transmission and fluids but what do those words actually mean? Children aren’t getting an education and they aren’t comprehending anything because it’s being taught in a language they don’t fully understand. They’re being taught empty words in a loud voice. A stitch in time saves nine. A penny saved is a penny earned. They LOVE learning our expressions and are even forced to memorize them…but have no idea what they mean (neither do I really). Again, as a volunteer, this is an issue out of my reach. I do the best I can with exaggerated hand gestures and drawings to show these children what seminal fluids are. What a fluid is. What transmission means. I need a translator and it’s pissing me off that not even one teacher can take an hour after school to help me. My club is on school grounds and that’s where these teachers live.

The head teacher asks me to create an exam about HIV for her grade seven students. The last grade before going on to high school. I ask the receptionist to show me previous exams given to these students. All are multiple choice or true or false. Perfect for children who aren’t actually understanding anything they’re being taught. But this is my exam, and I have a point to prove. I ask the usual questions that are followed with textbook answers. Be faithful. Use a Condom. Abstinence. What does AIDS stand for? Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome. Human immunodeficiency Virus. OK….. “What is a fluid?” They write, “A fluid is a germ that causes HIV” “What does your immune system do?” They write, “My immune system eats the blood in my body.” “My immune system digests my food.” Not a single person knew what the word transmission was or understood the difference between HIV and AIDS. Most thought brushing your teeth was a way one could get the virus. And I found this out by asking them to put their own knowledge in their own words. I hand the graded exams to the head teacher. Every single person failed. She gasps. These students are about go to go into high school. She is outraged. “If you’re going to insist these children are taught in English then make sure they understand the English words you are using. This is Life skills we’re teaching. We’re trying to teach them how to survive.” She nods her head in agreement. I gave this exam to her seventh grade social studies class which are divided into two different classes. “I would appreciate the opportunity to teach them this subject myself next week then give them the test again. I’m going to ask them the why and how questions. I’ll make sure they don’t go on to high school without first understanding HIV.” Head teacher wants me to come back Tuesday. “Do you think you could talk about sexuality on Wednesday as well?” She asks me. I agree. “And a few of the social studies classes?” She pleads. I smile and nod. “OK Sisi, how would you like to be my seventh grade social studies teacher?” “I thought you’d never ask!” I laugh. A chance to talk about the world and how people interact in it. Different cultures and beliefs, human sexuality, taboo subjects and embarrassing discussions. I can’t wait! Little guy on my left shoulder reminds me….you’re supposed to be doing SUSTAINABLE work! Oh hush….I’ll do some sort of workshop for the teachers later. That’s a bit more sustainable right?

My schedule now: Tuesdays and Wednesdays I teach Seventh graders “Social Studies”. Tuesdays and Thursday’s I teach a Health Club from 2-3 then a drama club 3-4. Mondays and Fridays I teach highschoolers “Life Skills”. But soon will be meeting after school for a debate team I’m starting. I don’t know much about acting, singing, sports, or art…but I know how to use my voice. That will be my biggest challenge. Teaching these kids to speak out. Primary level students, especially the girls, can be incredibly shy. I’ve enrolled my Health Club in a drama competition in a few months. They will be the youngest performers and I had to convince to get them in there. So they need to shed their quiet voices and their hands over their mouths. I bring bags of candy, popcorn, and tortillas to the club every Tuesday and Thursday. The carrot dangling in front of a donkey. Before we begin, everyday, I have them stand in a circle. I walk up to each student. “What is your name?” I ask. A young girl covers her mouth, looks down and whispers… “Zodwa.” “What is your name?!” I yell. She whispers, “Zodwa.” I run and jump onto a large rock and scream, “MY NAME IS SIMPHIWE! SIMPHIWE!” The students laugh. I stand in front of her again.
“I want the Universe.. God.. Clouds.. The birds and the skies to hear you.”
She loudly replies, “Zodwa.”
“Hands down!” I shout.
“Zodwa!”
“What?” I scream.
“ZODWA!” She tilts her head high, bending her knees, hands down at her side.
“Good. Now you can take a handful of candy.”

I move to the next person. I move to all 40 students until every person has found their voice. I hear my old dance instructor inside my head. I’m 11 years old, the only white girl in an African Dance ensemble. I cross my arms across my chest and cower in the back. Flamboyantly “something” dance instructor struts towards me. “Na ah honey. You NEED to put those arms down. Don’t no one want to get to know you when you’ve closed yourself off like that. You are a dancer. You need to make people interested, curious, with your body. You need to be PROUD. Stand tall girl. You are SO beautiful.” To this day, you will never see me stand with my arms crossed. They ask me why I look them in the eyes. They tell me they aren’t allowed to- it’s disrespectful. I explain my culture. Direct eye contact means strength and confidence and as a woman this is important to have. I encourage them to look me directly in the eyes when speaking to me. I’m breaking a cultural norm but their body language reeks of low self-esteem and lack of confidence. And that is what abusers look for. This is one cultural norm I’m ok with breaking.

I loosen them up before each class with one song. One of my favorite songs and yes- I have it on my I-pod. I have them stand behind me in three lines. "Now follow me. Do as I do!" 5.6.7.8....."MORTAL KOMBAT!" The theme song to Mortal Kombat blares out of my little speakers. A shuffle here a jive there...everyone's laughing. I'm trying to shake them up. Break down walls.

40 students. 40 students stay after school because they want to be there- eager to learn. Everyday, after school, they sweep and clean out the classroom. Right now we focus on self esteem, finding our voice, and team building. This generation needs to be there for each other because no one else will. By the end of the day they’re mocking my constant, “Find your voice!” “Let me see your beautiful faces!”

Madleyna is too far from my home to walk and it’s easy to hitch a ride in that direction. I find even in the back of pick up trucks and inside stranger’s cars I am teaching.

A man pulls over. He asks me where Madleyna is. He offers to give me a lift to school. He’s a soldier along the Managa Border. While he talks, I pay attention to his sunken in face, enlarged cheek bones, and a pack of ARV’s next to the stick shift. He’s telling me a story of a girl he met at the border. “She is beautiful. A beauty. I am on my way to visit her. I think I will love her.”

I look around his car, “Then that means you’ve brought her flowers yes?”
“No. I did not. Should I?”
I point to a store on the right, “Well you need to get her SOMETHING. Stop here.”
We go inside.
“In America, men like to give ladies chocolate.”
He laughs, “In Swaziland. We like our meat.”
“Buy her a chicken.” I laugh.
In the end, we go with old reliable: Cadbury Chocolate.

We get back in the car and I point to his tablets.
“Will you tell her?” I ask.
He sighs for a moment. He jostles the packet of pills around then puts his hand back on the steering wheel.
“Yes. I will tell her. It’s important she knows. So then she can get tested like I did. But these tablets,” he points to the packet of pills. “ Eeesh....these ARV’s. Should I be taking them? I haven't started yet, but the doctor tells me my count is too low. What if I start taking them and then Swaziland runs out of ARV’s? They say you cannot stop taking them once you start. “
The car stops and we’re outside my school. I sit and listen to his concerns. I give him the best advice I can and try to reassure him to take the medication. A moment of silence, his turn to argue with me again why he should not take them. He stares into my eyes though- looking for something. Questioning… do I really know what I’m talking about…little white girl. I hear his thoughts. I stare back. I always stare back.
He sighs, “OK teacher. I think I will start the ARV’s.” I encourage him to talk to his doctors more and only to start if he’s REALLY ready.
“And tell her she has a beautiful smile….girls love that.”
“I will tell her. And I will give her the chocolate.”
I shut the door and wave goodbye.

Health club is over. With no teacher to assist me and limiting resources, today I spin straw into gold. The kids left smiling and still singing the songs I taught them. Bags and flip charts in hand, I wave down another trucker. The usual introductions. The HIV topic has wiggled it’s way into all my introductions now.
The trucker points his big finger in the air and asks, “Why is it you think women with HIV live longer than men?”
“Because women go to the clinic and seek help. Therefore they live longer.”
He laughs, “No no no.. Actually it’s because they menstruate. They loose a little bit of the AIDS every month.” The man laughs a deep bellied laugh. We reach my stop and he continues to laugh as I shut the door and thank him.

I’m starting to love these funhouse turns. I never know what’s going to happen next or who I will meet. My days are still filter grey but punctuated with these tiny bright moments that keep me smiling. I’ve been having these amazing conversations with the Swazi people that leave me with a fire inside. A deep body shiver and a warmth and a glow. I used to get this feeling talking about religion with my step father. Like we’re both detectives and we’re on the edge of discovering something true real and revolutionary.

I meet a new man today. He calls himself Justice. He was a counterpart to a previous volunteer and he was given my phone number. He wants me to help him with his youth center. Justice is incredibly motivated and dedicated. I’m in complete awe at all the work he’s done and of course without pay. Every caregiver, every teacher, every cook, at these Neighborhood Care Points don’t usually get paid. If they do, by the government, it’s pennies. Pennies. I ask him, “What exactly does the government do with their money as far as social welfare goes?” We take a seat and talk about the fucked up world. “I don’t get it Justice. How can you live in a country that you know has the highest HIV rates in the world and still choose to have sex without a condom. How?!” He tells me they don’t see it that way. “Ten years ago when people got HIV, they died. People weren’t living long. And they certainly didn’t look healthy if they had the virus. ARV’s are keeping people alive and looking healthy. So people say oh that beautiful one she surly doesn’t have it. I can have sex with her without a condom. They don’t know how severe HIV is here. They don’t see anyone dying.”
I disagree. “But the bomake and the bobabe. Child headed homesteads. The parents, a whole generation, is dying, is gone, because of AIDS. How can they not see that?!” He shakes his head, “And when you ask these children, their neighbors, and their friends how these people died….what do they tell you?” I look down and sigh, “A stomach ache.” Justice laughs, “You and I both know…it was NOT a stomach ache. They keep it secret and nobody knows just how bad it really is.”

People are blaming the new king for how bad HIV is now. They say when the old king was here HIV was not so bad. But it has nothing to do with the king (to an extent). A new culture is being formed here. One that is waving the flames of AIDS. I ask Justice if he’s married. No. But he has a child. Just like everyone else. And that’s just it. Years ago you wouldn’t dare have a child out of wedlock. And many more people had multiple wives. Now it’s multiple partners. I believe, because of poverty, these people can’t afford to have multiple wives- let alone one wife. But they are continuing to have multiple partners. As a man, you don’t have to pay for multiple partners. Multiple partners is free and lots of sex….perfect environment for this virus to survive and grow. If you have multiple wives and everyone is faithful to each other…no AIDS. And I believe that is how it used to be. “Where is your counterpart?” Justice asks me. “I don’t have one. Never did.” Justice smiles, “Well…now you do.” I smile back, “It’s probably not culturally appropriate..but can I hug you Justice?!” We hug and laugh. Justice and I, on the edge of something real and revolutionary…. And we can feel it.

I have lunch with two volunteers who last week held a MCP, Multiple Concurrent Partners, workshop. They wanted to ask people why they were cheating. What did THEY think were the problems. The men all agreed, “When my wife refuses me in bed one night, I have every right to seek out someone else who will pleasure me.” They also mentioned one of the biggest problems was having sex with their wife in front of their children.

Is this a nation of 15 year olds? This pornographic world with no real people just simple bodies. Just holes to fuck. It’s come down to food and sex. I look around the restaurant as I talk with the other volunteers. I watch “them” eating. Tearing apart their chicken. Their greasy wet lips sliding over the bubbly flesh. Even the way they eat is almost pornographic. I pull my skirt down to cover an exposed knee. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not fear being wanted. To embrace and be flattered by the attention of a stranger. As a white woman in Swaziland you distrust the sexual aspects of your body. You hide them in loose clothing. I remember being breasts, ass, and soft delights once. Now, just meaningless elbows and ankles.

Volunteers bring their heads in. We are whispers now. "We’ve wondered if there would be political instability while we were here.” The PCV’s whisper to each other. Disease and poverty seems like a decent explanation for all that is wrong here. A revolution of souls is what they need. Is what we all hope for while we are here. But it won’t happen. They’re producing robots and soldiers. Creativity and speaking out is discouraged. The teachers are just government’s worker bees, hating their jobs. And the students are just a knot of embarrassed sheep. No one will die courageously. Not like my Proud African. Even he won’t. Their eyes are closed.

I am teaching high schoolers now. I've been waiting for this moment a long time. They're brats at first. I am feeling what a substitute teacher goes through. Right now, to them, I am just an American sickness: porn, 50 cent, guns, fancy white cars, gas stations and strip malls.... Budweiser. I’m nervous. I feel the sweat start at my scalp, my inner palms moisten. "Do you like sexxxxxxxxxxxx!?" One boy screams from the back...it's always the boys in the back.... I walk over and open the classroom door. "Get out." I look at him and say. He cowers and walks out. My brats quickly become sheep again, and I am a teacher. They're in high school now. From birth, AIDS has been crammed down their throats. They are suffering from severe AIDS fatigue. I stand before all of them and begin, "I am NOT here to teach you AIDS. If you don't know by now.. that's your own fault." "How..." They whisper to each other- confused. "Instead. I'm going to have you teach me. I want to know why the HIV prevalence is so high in Swaziland. Why the average Swazi lives to be 33 years old." "How...." They whisper again. "They haven't told you this?" I point to one of the cool kids in the back.
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Twenty- two." He says.
"Eleven more years.......huh....No. I'm here to help you understand, comprehend, think for yourselves. I want you to challenge me. I want you to raise your hand and say, 'Simphiwe- I disagree! Simphiwe no..that's wrong.' I reward those who ask questions with a loud voice and direct eye contact."

Each day, before class, I write something controversial on the board. I want to talk about condoms today. I write, "You can't eat the emasweeti (candy) with the wrapper on." What Swazi boys tell each other and girls when they don't want to use a condom while having sex. They walk in and immediately start talking about it. It begins a discussion. The next day I write, "HIV effects women more than men." I ask them, "How does this statement make you feel?" The next day, "People living with HIV should be branded." I'm preparing them for what I hope to start... a debate team centered around topics such as: Sexuality, HIV, and Gender. A chance to be heard.

After class, I stop by the police station to check on Nonjaboliso's case. The police officer who helped me with her has left. No one sticks around the rural area too long. There's a new woman in charge of Child Protection Services and Domestic Violence. She's heard of me and asks to speak with me. We take a seat. "Simphiwe, I have so many cases." She spreads files across the table in front of us. "And I don't know what to do with these kids. One girl, puss coming out of her vagina. We think it's gonorrhea from her father. Four children abandoned by their mother under a tree. A young boy, his father dies, his mother remarries his uncle (custom here). His uncle refuses to feed him or his siblings because they are not his own. He won't pay for their school fees. The boy wants to kill himself. What is a child to do here without an education? He's been sleeping here.. let me go get him so you can meet him." I grab her arm, "No no no.. that's not necessary." I know if I see his face.. it'll only hurt me more. She gets him anyway. He looks down and whispers when he speaks. "Simphiwe, I've been calling SWAGAA and they have not returned my calls.. please can you try them?" She asks. I agree. I was planning on visiting this NGO tomorrow anyway.

SWAGAA, Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse. One of the biggest NGO's protecting Swaziland's youth here. In the late 90's, SWAGAA conducted surveys that found the Social Welfare Department (government agencies) were not doing their job. They didn't offer counseling to victim's of abuse. They didn't protect these children in court. And most cases were lost. I meet with Xolili. A young beautiful woman with a South African accent more than willing to meet with me. We talk for hours about "the system." "What exactly does Swaziland's governmental organizations do as far as social welfare?" I ask. There is one tiny home that the government pays for, for children to go if they don't have parents or cannot return home. It's the home I took Nonjaboliso to. It holds around 12 children and if they're over 14 cannot stay. And the stay is temporary. Every other orphanage, service, and donation is provided by OUTSIDE help. I am realizing more and more how little this country provides for its people. I can't imagine what would happen if the outside world pulled out. She tells me everything SWAGAA does. I'm astonished. No one is taking advantage of these services in the rural world- because they don't know about it. "Yes, we're having trouble with those in authority out there. You'll find the police don't bring the women who are being beaten by their husbands to us. They know we can provide a safe place for them, but they don't bring them here. The chiefs and the inner councils won't work with us. They don't consider child abuse to be a priority. Land disputes are more important." I remember Vanessa, PCV, telling me the other day she got some new kids, at an "orphanage" she works at, from my chiefdom. "They were living alone under a tree." She tells me. "So what.. there are hundreds like that." I say. "Yes, but these children lived close to the umphagatsi and the Chief didn't want them there. It made him look bad." I laugh, "Oh you mean the chief who, when I told him horror stories of the kids in this area, told me he had no idea kids were being abused and abandoned in his chiefdom..."

I ask Xolili, "Why someone who works for Child Protection Services at the police station is coming to me, an outsider, for advice on what to do with these children? Why aren't they being trained?" She tells me no one sticks around long enough to be trained. I'm realizing more and more the lack of connection between organizations. I want to find a way to connect the parents, the teachers, the caregivers, the NGO's, to these children. It would not be something I could conquer as a volunteer right now. I daydream about extending another year here and working directly with SWAGAA, helping to decentralize their services.

I notice a scar on Xolili's neck. Puffed, light in color. "Is it dangerous pulling these children out of homes and challenging authority figures in communities?" She stares for a moment. Searching for the right words. As she speaks she brings her hand up to her scar and feels it... a constant reminder to her. "It can be very dangerous. I get threats all the time. Occupational hazard." She laughs. She promises me she'll send someone to my schools to talk.

"Abuse is incredibly high where I live." I say
"Oh Simphiwe, it's high everywhere." She responds.
"My high school. I've gotten close to two girls. They are telling me horror stories about the head teacher there. He bribes the girls with money..a thousand Rand to sleep with him. He impregnated one girl. Then paid a male student to say the child was his. He sent the girl to another school, when she graduated he took her on as his second wife. He only comes to school to beat the children. And I believe them. He has that certain vibe. His gaze always a little too low for my liking."
"That happens a lot in schools these days." She tells me.

We talk about inspiring the youth. We talk about speaking out. Events and marches. I'm getting that fiery feeling inside me again.

I leave Xolili uplifted and colored in. We told our horror stories, but we still had hope in our voices. We shared an excitement for change and for the hope that change is within reach. For so long, so much has been out of reach for me. So many ideas, so many in need of help, so hard to keep track of. I was bleeding like ink on a wet page. I'm starting to see direction now. The path...

I walk back home. The split dead trees are showing me their green hearts. Life is still within these dead trees. I am seeing life underneath all this death. A secret I wasn't meant to see. There is good here.

There are still good people out there. There is still hope...and the fire inside me is growing.

Wish You Were Here

2/1/10

I open my hut door as quietly and slowly as I can, holding on tight to my keys as I lock my door shut behind me. Did she hear that? I wonder. She knows the sound of these dangling keys. I turn and grab my bag and make my way toward our front gate. I struggle to unlock the chain while scraping the biting ants off my legs with my feet. Walking as fast as I can now with a quiet toe ball heel I don’t look back. Locking eyes with her will only encourage her to follow. Deep exhale now, I am sure I am out of sight. I take the back way to town. My morning walk to Siphofaneni is MY time. Less people use this route. Less “How are you’s!” “I want to marry you!” and “Please may you borrow me’s”. More of my thoughts. My daydreams. A rocky terrain, I hear footsteps quickening behind me and a heavy panting. Shit. I turn.

She found me.

She wags her tail hard while looking up at me smiling big. So proud of herself. I do what I can throwing rocks shouting “Hamba!” “Suka!”. She cowers and continues to follow with her head down and tail between her legs. But soon we are walking side by side. Our heads up starring at the bright light streaming between the leaves and that crisp golden wind kissing our faces. She takes in the smells and all the surrounding stories. All the stories I’ll never know. Her secret.

It is our routine every morning. I don’t like her following me to town. Shebali is not good with cars and people are not good with her. But they are starting to get used to her and she is minding the “traffic“. Every person that passes gawks, laughs, or stares. Even to community gatherings she is by my side. I walk into a meeting head down and hands up showing my utmost humility and respect. I sit on a cinder block with her head on my lap as community members ask for help. I stroke her head as she looks up at me smiling. Another chicken project idea another business plan thrown at me. Another one of my, “I’ll see what I can do.” And we leave. So many times she has scared off mentally ill man for me and any other man brave enough to approach me with her by my side. I carry rocks in my pocket as we enter new territories. She knows when we are not on our “grounds” anymore. She lowers her head, slows her pace, and is glued to my side. Dogs begin to bark and chase. I stand my ground as she whimpers and I throw my rocks, chest raised.

We take care of each other.

This is the season of no school and a Peace Corps Volunteer’s loneliness. The loneliness of the bare trees and the bare branches encircles you. You are alone standing in the dead grass. Your eyes close as you walk through it tearing off the browned tips of this tired tall grass. An audience is always starring. You’re public property of Swaziland, what did you expect. School is out and work is scarce. My outlet of being with children and working in schools has been absent since November. But it’s OK. Shebali and I have our small enclosed world. A warmth between us. The dead empty branches in the low veldt become more beautiful to me when I have her by my side . My little hut is our breath and light, the two of us in it and the big hot world outside.

Another long tiring day. Another cancelled meeting. On the way home a group of old women laugh at me for knowing so little Siswati as I allow them to drink out of my nalgene. Shebali and I lie on the cool cement floor of my hut. Tongues draped out of our mouths panting hard and our heads leaned in together. I complain and she listens. She listens as I tell her about this place called America. My plans to bring her home with me. The dog parks. The changing seasons. The color and smells. You know, the things a dog would notice and appreciate.

At night we sit on my stoop starring up at the stars. Her three puppies try hard to suck at her breasts but she is weaning them off now. She looks up at me annoyed. How cute it would be if dogs could roll their eyes. I grab the little buggers and try to distract them so she can rest. She breaks up the food I give her and encourages her little ones to eat solids. She has given them all her milk and is loosing too much of her weight. I try hard to feed her as much as I can. She and the pups.

Today we walk along the narrow bridge to Siphofaneni. Her least favorite part. Only a small edge for people to walk on as large buses pass. A tight rope in a circus and a rushing river below. There have been times I have literally had to carry this large animal across. I tell her if she is going to live with me in The States she has to get used to this. We find a little piece of concrete sticking out over the water. We take a seat and watch the water flow. A gathering of cows are crossing the high sand bar today. We watch them push the little calves on through the deep parts. People walk by laughing and starring. I have never seen anyone stop and sit on this bridge. I have never seen anyone sit admire the beauty here. They rush to Siphofaneni. This bridge only a way to get them from here to there. Siphofaneni is shit. Shouting kombi drivers, cows eating trash because there is no grass, the stench and smell of sweating, that complicated human smell. But this river, she is talking, on the edge of something beautiful, important, and real. Are Shebali and I the only ones seeing this? For now, its ok. We prefer to be alone in our spot in our amazement and awe.

We return home to our shared hut and our shared routine.

But I knew better. I knew this was temporary. The big hot world outside was just waiting to swallow her whole. Waiting to dissipate our hut, our friendship, and our bond. I always knew she’d never make it home with me. She wouldn’t survive the next year and a half. Not here. Not on this homestead. It was all just too good to be true.

I open my hut door as quietly and slowly as I can. I hold on tight to my keys as I lock my door shut behind me. Did she hear that? I wonder. She knows the sound of these dangling keys. I turn and grab my bags and make my way toward our front gate. I struggle to unlock the chain while scraping the biting ants off my legs with my feet. Walking as fast as I can now with a quiet toe ball heel I don’t look back. Walking as fast as I can…

But of course, a few minutes later, quickening steps and a heavy panting. She is behind me. I have given up trying to convince her to stay. She follows me to my bus stop. A pick up truck slows down and pulls over . I jump in the back. She follows for as long as she can smiling the whole way. I wave goodbye. And soon she is out of sight.

Two days later. I return home. Like every time I leave site I cannot wait to return to see her smiling face. My favorite moment rounding that corner right before our homestead. Seeing her look up and howl loud wagging her tail running towards me. Her pups trying hard to keep up. I round that corner and look for her smiling face today. The children get to me first and grab my bags. The three pups bite my ankles as I walk onto the homestead. Sakhile looks at me and says, “Simphiwe Shebali is finished.” She laughs then drags her index finger across her throat and rolls her eyes back with her tongue sticking out. “Unamanga.” I say. “You lie.” I walk to the main house. Nobandile (the eldest on the homestead, 14) walks out to greet me.

“Where is Shebali?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She replies.

I ask her to ask Sakhile what happened. Nobandile quickly tightens. Grave concern covers her face now. I brace myself.

“She says they beat her to death.”
“WHO. WHO beat her to death?!” I yell.
She looks down, “Tommy.”
Tommy. One of Gogo’s children, in his thirties. The one who hung Shebali’s first born from a tree because he was sick. The one who waited until I left the homestead to kill him. The one who has watched me for months hold Shebali in my arms. Walk side by side with her. Feed her and care for her.

“WHY Nobandile! WHY!” The tears start to collect as I ask these painful questions.
I see Gogo sitting fat on her couch through the open window. The folds of her body shine and sweat. You get lost in her angles. Which of these curves was her breast? TV on in front of her. Like always. She talks to Nobandile.

“She says she and another dog ate some goats.” Nobandile translates.
Tears streaming down my face. I look at Gogo and ask again “Why?” She looks back at me and laughs hard. A flash of real anger pure and unreasonable. My fists tighten. I am being made fun of. Left with a bitter aftertaste I wobble slowly back to my hut trying hard to find the rhythm of my feet again. I close my door, sit on the edge of my bed and weep hard. The tears, sweat, and sunscreen burn my eyes. I look into my broken pieces of mirror. My eyes deep and dark rimmed- injured. My face- sweat and swollen. I am aging. Was this wrinkle here before? This line, this crease? Are these the lines of a 26 year old? Or a volunteer heavy with the little tragedies Swaziland has to offer?

I open my door again. The sky is a faded maroon, bruised like me. I am public property again. I stay quiet with my sorrow. I am stripped and empty with an audience of confused children. The little one runs to me. He wraps his little arms around my leg, “Pee-whey, sorry Pee -whey.” The noon sun is leaning heavy against my head and the puppies complain of thirst. I walk over to the JoJo tank and pour water into a bowl. I sit and stare. Setsabile asks me, “Simphiwe. Why do you always sit like a man?” I turn my head and ignore. Nobandile walks over to me. Her face is heavy with pain also. I am surprised. She hates dogs. I wonder if the pain she is feeling is because of the pain I am feeling. In some way- this comforts me. She slides down next to me and we sit in silence. There weren’t any magic words that were going to make any of this better. We both knew this.

She tells me she’s sorry. She tells me she didn’t know.

Today was her first day back to school and I’m ready for a new subject.
“How was your first day back Nobandile?“ I ask.
“It was fine.“
“Are you happy to be back with all your friends?“
“I am happy to be back. But I don’t have any friends.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I am number one in my class. They are jealous of my marks. I am the smartest.”
This I believe. Nobandile has always amazed me with her thoughts and questions.
“But I don’t need any friends.” She continues.
“Well. Shebali was my friend. I lost my best friend today.” I extend my arm out towards hers, palm facing upwards. “Would you like to be mine?” I ask.
“Ok.” She smiles back. And grabs my hand.

We sit on the side of the house, the puppies playing, alone in our thoughts. Two friends now. “They” tell me she is my “sisi”. My sister here. But this new family of mine… calling them my “family”. The word is like a blanket. Covering up rather than showing what is really underneath. Two cultures colliding. A family told by their chief they had to take on another volunteer for sake of the community‘s needs. My “family” is a given term and certainly not an earned one. Nobandile has earned her title friend. I am happy to be her friend now.

Tommy returns home. I stare hard as he walks by and does his usual insincere greeting.

“Where is Shabli?” I ask.
He refuses to make eye contact. Like last time I asked where a dog was that he had killed. The fear in his eyes comforts me.
“Ah, she left. She is gone.” He says with a flicker of his hand.
“Gone? Where?” I push.
“We had to kill her. She was eating goats. We put a rat poison in the goat meat she had killed. She died day before yesterday.’

I am familiar with this death. While in Thailand I found a dog that had been poisoned. Foaming out the mouth and sitting in it’s own shit convulsing and panting heavily. I struggled to find someone to help me take him to the nearest vet (the only vet on the island). The Thai laughed at the silly white girl running around throwing money at any taxi driver who would agree to ship this shit covered creature to a clinic ten minutes drive away. “OK…. 200 Bhat!” I yelled. The owner of a pick up truck agrees but refuses to help me lift the large dog into the back. I find some Canadian surfers playing cards. I beg them to help me get the dog in the truck.
They shrug and complain, “We’d rather not.”
“Well I’m not leaving until someone helps me.“ I cross my arms. “I’ll grab the shit end. Come on.” One dread locked gypsy pant wearin hipster finally agrees. Ten minutes and a new white dress covered in feces later and I am helping the vet (British woman) lie him out on the surgery table. We proceed to pump his stomach with a black charcoal substance. She gives him something for the pain. An hour later and he’s going to be ok. She looks up at me and says, “A few hours later and this poor guy would have died. You saved him from what could have been the last and most painful hours of his life.”

I was unable to save her from her last and most painful hours of her life.

Tommy still refusing to make eye contact with me continues on. “But I think she was sick with what the other dog had. She was foaming at the mouth.”
“It wasn’t distemper that killed her Tommy. The poison you fed Shebali had moved to her brain causing her organs to shut down. Her nervous system was shot and therefore causing her to foam out the mouth and seizure. It’s a slow painful way to die. And it can take days.”

The sun is setting and it‘s taking everything in me not to explode. I stand and walk past him.
“Where is the body?” I ask.
He points, “That tree there. The third tree down. She is under that one. I buried her.” Buried her. The most humane thing he has done yet.
The three puppies follow and we make our way towards the third tree down.

It’s clear where her body lies. A shallow grave. The flies are swarming close to the dirt. I take a seat next to her. Her babies walk through the flies and begin to dig. They whine and bury their noses in the fresh soil. They soon tire and take a seat next me.

Right now, I long for live music, a symphony of violins and sad instruments playing my emotions. I long for the company, and a hand to hold. I close my eyes and see a museum full of confusing paintings. I’m eight years old again, with my father, and I find my favorite one at the bottom of the stairs. A painting of Armageddon and soldiered demon pigs dragging the unfortunate ones down down down. God with his arm outstretched and his little baby angles saving all they can. I keep my eyes close to the ones suffering at the bottom of the painting. I like the look of agony. True and real. I close my eyes and see gardens and labyrinths of green. Buddha statues standing in pools of water in Thailand. The sunshine and a cool breeze breathing on the back of my neck and my once short hair . I close my eyes and I think of all the things I’m walking towards. I think of the future.

I feel like I’ve been traveling upside down lately. Lost in this cultural labyrinth. Schools out and this has been a season of dead batteries, never-ending dirt filled fingernails, the same song over and over again, eating handfuls of popcorn on my dirty cement floor, once white t shirts gone brown, long walks going no where, hanging upside down from my bed wondering why why why. A cow’s life, a pig’s life, a dog’s life are they worth more than my own? Than a person’s? Shouldn’t they be the little things that don’t matter? I’m here for the people not the dogs. I want to feel close to humanity again.

I tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let her down. I left her, she got hungry, and now she’s gone. I promise her I will take care of her babies. Not even two months and six dogs on my homestead have died. A volunteer reminds me, “When Peace Corps asked you what you wanted from site. You didn’t say anything about electricity, location, family, or NGO’s. All you said was you didn’t want to be on a home that hurt dogs.” It’s ironic, but impossible for Peace Corps to predict or prevent.


It’s getting late. We stand to go. I slowly find my pace again. A rhythm to this lonely walk. A kick. A glide. A rest I think I can settle into. My hut, blue depressed and half lit now. My “family” and I, we are OK. We are going to be fine. This is never going to be perfect. Volunteers urge me to talk to Peace Corps and ask for another family. But I can’t leave them.

That night I grab a ball and ask the kids if they’ve ever played the game 500. The sky lights up and a storm is coming. We continue to laugh and play as lightening branches her way up through the black sky. I’ve never seen anything like it. Normally Shebali would be running between us jumping and trying hard to catch the ball. But not today, or ever again. The wind is blowing hard now and I pretend it’s her still trying to run through us and catch that ball.

I lie in bed trying again to stay away from my thoughts. I’ve never been good at it. It reminds me of that scene in Ghostbusters. The Devil wants them to choose their destructor. They try hard to clear their minds, which the Devil can apparently read. But one, Ray, fails. He’s unable to think of nothing. He chooses the sweetest destructor of them all. I am thinking of my destructor. Her last moments. Her last breath. Alone. Suffering. Scared and confused. I jump out of bed. I tell myself. I need to bring myself closer to the people again. I pull out flour, butter, salt, and oil. I mix it all together. With an empty wine bottle I flatten them out. I work out my anger and pain. One after the other I roll and knead roll and knead roll and knead. Tears and sweat. I make 40 tortillas.

The next morning I grab 40 tortillas and make my way to the front gate. I scrape the biting ants off my legs as I struggle to open it. I take a few steps and stop. I turn back and look. No quickened steps. No heavy panting. I am alone.

I continue to walk and try to move on without her by my side. Moments later, however, I hear many footsteps behind me. I hear a whimper and I turn. Three mini Shebali’s follow close behind smiling up at me. No longer alone, we walk together. They weave in and out of my footsteps causing me to nearly crash over and over again. It’s pathetically sweet.

Finally, we are here.

I struggle to open another front gate. The ants biting. The dogs whimper and roll in the grass trying hard to brush the little bastards off. We make our way to the center of the homestead. A gogo is sitting with her maize. She smiles. She remembers me. She stands to shake my hand. Behind her sit’s the woman I had visited weeks and weeks ago. The woman living with AIDS, cancer, two deaf ears, and nine children with no father. Again, I am lost in her eyes. The curiosity has left them though. She smiles at me today. This family only knows Siswati. I speak with the few Siswati words I know. I struggle to find something to say. I hand over the tortillas. They are more than gracious.

I pull out my computer and ask the family if I can show this Mother a movie. She, her children, and her mother gather around my computer shoving tortillas in their mouths. But she is not hungry. Polar bears and penguins birds and waterfalls…..and her children only care about the tortillas. They fight over who gets the last one. I look up at her. Her eyes only on me. She doesn’t care about the penguins and the waterfalls. But I’ve brought you the world I think. I don’t understand. I help her back outside to sit on her mat and see she has urinated all over herself and there is feces on her skirt. I see Gigi in her. I lie her down and ask one of her children to get me a new diaper. She never takes her eyes off me as I struggle to push aside her folds and parts and bring the diaper between her legs. “All better.” I say with a smile. She looks at me with those eyes. Those haunting eyes. An emotion in them I cannot translate. It’s not a look of shame or anger or confusion. She is trying to tell me something. The only way she can. I tell them I’ll be back in a few days. Maybe next time I’ll try music. I am told she can hear a bit.

That night, I celebrate Nobandile’s birthday with her. We eat cake and sit outside on my stoop. Most of the children here don’t know their birthdays. I ask them to make one up. “Pick a day and we’ll celebrate it.” I tell them.

“Kusasa!” They yell. “Tomorrow!”.

I tell them my birthday. “OK. Eleventh of September!” They shout. I’m used to sharing my birthday so I don’t mind. Nobandile asks me about the universe, about God, and the rain. I explain best I can.

“So how do you know teachers and textbooks are telling you the truth?” She asks me.
I laugh. “Well. It makes sense to me I suppose. And I guess I have…..faith.”
She crosses her arms, “But you are not religious. And you have faith?”
“We all have faith in something.” I explain.
“Well not me. I have too many questions and secrets. I can’t go to anyone with. Not even my mother.” “What about Gogo?” I ask, knowing that her mother left her to live with Gogo when she married another man.
Nobandile laughs, “Telling Gogo your secrets is like telling them to a crocodile. She’ll just chew them up and spit them right back out at you.”
“Well, since we’re officially friends now. You can always ask me. Or tell me anything. And if I don’t have the answer, I will find it for you. Best I can.”

We make a deal. Every time I go to town she writes down five questions. I am to research and find her her answers. I hug her and say goodnight. She gets half way to the main house and stops. She turns back, “Thank you. For today. For my birthday.” She lets down her wall, her 14 year old sass, and smiles.



I wish you were here. I don’t want to be here anymore without you. But I have a family that needs my help. School starts tomorrow, and there will be more…so many more.... that need help.