"What's the Solution?"

8/28/10

Gone a month. I try to find the rhythm of this world where I used to live. I follow the current. I am silent. Attentive. I make a conscious effort to smile. Nod. Stand. Perform the millions of gestures and sometimes insincere kind words that constitute a Peace Corps volunteer in Swaziland. I study these gestures, these words, until they become reflexes again. But I am still haunted by the idea that life goes on back home.

My first week back in Swaziland, school is out, and I find myself with nothing to do. I feel uncomfortable. I feel alone. I’m trying to latch back onto this world but it’s difficult and the anxiety builds. Like going back home, coming back to Swaziland is a challenge after being in what seems like a dream for the past month. A dream filled with love, family, and friends. Back to the stares, the shoves, being naked in a crowd again. I walk along the tiny “bridge” that connects my community to Sphofaneni. The King Fisher is still hanging onto the phone line looking down at the watery dinner below. Jealous of his simple life. Eat. Fuck. Sleep. Samsara: Live. Die. Rebirth. I want someone to reach out to me. I need something. A young girl passes, a young boy by her side. She stops and whispers, “Simphiwe.” I look down. “Buhle!?” The girl that lived with Nonjaboliso. Both girls suffering from the old man’s abuse. Raped by her father and brainwashed to accept it. I struggle to ask her how she’s doing. Where she’s living. I ask her to follow. We find someone to translate.

“Can you ask her where she lives?”
“With her aunti.” The woman tells me.
“And where is her grandfather?” I ask.
“She says he is in jail.”

My caring heart is happy the two girls are alive and well. My vengeful heart smiles that because of me he is in jail. I am starting to feel complete again. Have I become some vigilante/ Peace Corps Volunteer? Where’s the sustainability in that?

Back in action again. I have made friends with a nurse from Ghana. For three weeks he is working up north with doctors from all over the world. Here to take Swazi foreskins. 15 billion in US AID to take off every man’s little sheath of skin in this tiny country. It’s been interesting for me to study all the different solutions people in the outside world with money have for this HIV problem here in Swaziland. The UN thinks condoms and antiretrovirals are the solution. The Christians want chastity and fidelity. The Ugandans and Kenyans claimed they lowered their rates by what you call “Zero Grazing.” Don’t preach the unrealistic goal of abstinence, they say, just simply sleep with one person. The Christians, of course, hated this idea.

Since the 1960’s, money has been thrown at this continent, mostly by the American government, in very ineffective ways. With the question and aim, what’s fast and easy and requires billions of dollars? You have authors like, Dambisa Moyo, with her PHD in economics from Zambia asking non Africans with money to let the actual Africans figure it out.

“It has long seemed to me problematic, and even a little embarrassing, that so much of the public debate about Africa’s economic problems should be conducted by non-African white men. From the economists of Paul Collier, Jeffrey Sachs, William Easterly to the rock stars like Bono, Bob geldof, the African discussion has been colonized as surely as the African continent was a century ago.”

“In the past 50 years over US 1 trillion in development –related aid has been transferred from rich countries to Africa. The state of Africa is a scar on the conscience of the world. Aid has become part of the entertainment industry. Governments respond in kind, fearful of losing popularity and desperate to win favor. Aid has become a cultural commodity. Millions march for it. Governments are judged by it. Aid has been and continues to be an unmitigated, political, economic, and humanitarian disaster.”

In a similar corner of this debate, you have Helen Epstein who wrote “The Invisible Cure.” Whose book I still stand by. She asks the question, Why is HIV spreading so fast in eastern and southern African countries? She blames two practices that both regions have embraced. One, boys are not circumcised in these regions. Two, most of the populations there are engaging in MCP’s (Multiple Concurrent Relationships) or informal polygamy. HIV is more easily transmitted in the first few weeks of someone becoming infected. If this newly infected person has casual sex with anyone in this sexual web between people, the whole network will rapidly contract it. In the States we are seeing serial infidelity as well. However, the rate is much lower. If one person gets infected, in the States, it is likely they will pass it on to their partner but less likely they will pass it onto anyone else because by then they are less infectious. (Keeping up?) Her suggested solutions aren’t as sharp and painful to hear as Moyo’s (maybe because she's not actually African) but she too gives more responsibility over to the actual benefactors of this aid money: the Africans.

She gives example after example of the countries in Africa who have received expensive fancy free medical facilities and free antiretrovirals AND condoms that still suffer with incredibly high HIV rates. Higher than those in more impoverished areas and receiving less aid from the outside world. She preaches Ubuntu and explains the countries that helped themselves, that communicated, and spoke out about the problem of AIDS, are the ones that are surviving.

And now the outside world is singing “Circumcision for everyone!” in southern Africa. At first, I was skeptical especially when I heard the words 15 billion in AID. I worried if preaching, “Circumcision will lower the chances of a man getting HIV by 60%!” would encourage young men to forget about the condoms they don’t want to use anyway(which are higher in preventing transmission than wacking off the foreskin). Would people start to get offended by this message? Would they tell us their foreskin is part of their culture? Would they tell us American men with our circumcised penises and women who know nothing about the uncircumcised penis to FUCK OFF?

But I know why we were singing this tune. Because nothing else seems to be working. You can preach abstinence all you want but they won’t listen. They're poor, desperate, nothing to live for, "LIFE ENDS TODAY" and all they have is their personal relationships: their sex and greed. You can put free condoms in every shop every clinic every restroom and NCP but they’ll just use them as water balloons. "You can't eat the candy with the wrapper on it." You can encourage women to take matters into their own hands and use a female condom. But her lover will only accuse her of cheating or being untrustworthy and either be beaten or left behind. In some African countries women have taken these free condoms, taken out the ring, and actually sold them as bracelets. You can build your fancy free health clinics but you still won’t see a single man in there getting tested. Just a sea of pregnant scared women. You can hold soccer tournaments and demand these young men have to get tested in order to join but their actions won’t change whether positive or negative they will still fuck without protection. You can start girl empowerment clubs. Teach them the thrill of kicking the soccer ball around, knitting a scarf, drama classes, or pottery making. But at the end of the day, they're going home. Home: A male dominated society. And it doesn’t matter how much they love to dance, sing, or play soccer with you. In this world, it’s all about marriage and babies and what the man says goes.

So we must look at the facts. Southern and Eastern Africa has more AIDS. Why? These are countries where circumcision is almost unheard of. (Well they used to practice it but they don't remember anymore and you can blame "Christianity" for that one). It has been proven that being circumcised does lower your chances of getting infected. The foreskin carries receptors that actually attract the HIV virus and once the penis becomes flaccid, post sex, the virus becomes hidden inside the sheath sitting there for maybe days.

The outside world is shouting, Behavior Change! A workshop here a workshop there. A workshop on "Behavior Change"? When really they should be shouting, Culture Change! I mean that's what we're talking about here but no one wants to say it. We all know it takes TIME. So let them keep doing what they’re doing, having unprotected sex with EVERYONE, and all we ask is 15 minutes to take off your foreskin. Because we all know Cultural Change/Behavior Change is an unrealistic goal. But a procedure that takes only 15 minutes, come back two days later for a check up and you're done, that only costs 15 BILLION. Now THAT the money makin western world can do.

My Ghanian friend invites me to spend two days with him and the crew. There are 6 different stations throughout Swaziland performing these circumcisions during the school break. And their goal is to do 6,000 in just three weeks. I arrive in the evening to the Simunye Country Club. An oasis, mirage, of northern Swaziland. Full of color, grass, and greenery. Oh, and a POOL. A circle of introductions and we’re seated around picnic tables eating dinner and drinking our red red wine. I meet one of the American doctors, Jim, a urinologist (doctor of the pee pee we shall call him). Jim, middle aged with two kids back home. One of which is studying to be a doctor. “After paying thousands and thousands of dollars for that girl’s education, she’s going to go and blow it on something like Doctors without Borders. Making nothing.” Jim and I fundamentally disagree on a lot. However, we’re both here trying to do the same thing.

I listen to his stories after being here only a week and a half. Excited and curious. “Man. This place sure is every man’s dream. Men live like a King here. What they need is to switch out these Swazi women with African American women. Can you imagine the war?!” But soon Jim sings a different tune. He’s outraged at an article that made the cover of the Swazi Times. The headline read, “PSI (the organization performing all these circumcisions) Goes Wrong with Circumcisions!” He yells, “6,000 men circumcised and in 6,000 only four young boys were left at the bus rank and we were unable to see them that day.”

PSI not only circumcises for free but they provide free transport to pick up the patients at bus ranks. They provide a free emergency line to call if there are any problems. And even provide free house calls to check on them if there are any problems in the middle of the night. “6,000 men and only four we forgot to pick them up the following two days. We forgot to pick up four boys to bring them to a clinic built by US grants. To doctors brought over from across the world by US grants. Driven out to the clinic by US grants. Provided free medical care at their homes by US grants. And they have the right to bitch? Is any of this coming from their national budget? I don’t think so. Every dime from the US.” I laugh and say, “Welcome to Swaziland. In many ways, a spoiled child.”

I show him a different article that pissed me off. A reaction I feared would happen. Princes and leaders in the area questioning the motive of us outsiders and our call for circumcision. Claiming we're doing this only to make a profit. Theorizing if we provide free clinics and doctors, Swaziland will have to then purchase the equipment to do the procedures from America. When actually EVERYTHING scalpels and all, are free. The idea of doing something out of your heart is foreign here I tell him. “Why are you in the Peace Corps doing what you do?” They ask me. “Is it for the pay? For a job back home? Had nothing better to do?” They don’t believe me when I say, “It’s out of the kindness of my heart. I was given everything growing up and I want to return the favor.” “You must be a spy!” They scowl.

“A certain part of our national budget goes to making this world a better place.” Jim continues, “That’s all we want. 100,000 circumcisions means 25,000 people don’t get HIV. It’s about math. It’s about logic. It's about Reason.”

“This is Swaziland.” I tell him. “With all due respect, we don’t live in THAT world Jim.”

Dinner and serious discussions over. The wine is getting to our heads and I ask the Swazi nurses if they’ve ever skinny dipped. “Skinny what?” They ask. I explain. “But Simphiwe, it’s too cold. It’s winter.” They say. I tell them, “That’s the best time to do it.” One brave girl agrees to do it with me. Surrounded by all the nurses and doctors, with their wine in hand, a young brave Swazi woman and I take off our clothes (undergarments left on- come on now i'm not THAT bad) and jump into the freezing pool. She screams and runs to get out. "Just wait." I tell her. "Don’t get out, once your body is completely numb, lie on your back and stare at the stars." We studied the southern stars salting the night sky, imagining we were floating up above with them. Our breath circling around us and about a dozen eyes starring and mouths dropped.

The next morning, my body hates me. Hung over I make my way to the clinic to witness my first circumcision and interview some of the young men going under the knife. You can tell which ones have not yet gone, fear in their eyes. They look down holding on tightly to their file. Other boys walk around limping, walking proud, encouraging the scared ones it doesn’t hurt. I run down the halls high fiving the brave young boys. “You guys rock!” I shout. One of the nurses walks over to me, “Simphiwe, put these on.” He hands me scrubs. “Today you’re going to be a runner. You’re the nurse’s assistant.” I think I’m still seeing double at this point unsure which end needs to let something out. But I agree anyway.

Scrubs on. I feel ridiculous. An assembly line of cots around me. Four stations in two rooms. A nurse at each station and two doctors going from cot to cot. Jim tells me to come closer to watch. A young man lying there. He doesn’t seem to mind I’m standing there hovering. He tells the boy to keep his head down and not look. After numbing the area he grabs the foreskin with a clamp-like instrument and with his other hand he holds what looks like a box cutter. I’m starting to feel REALLY hot. My head is on fire, my palms are sweating, and I try not to show how much I need to gag. One quick swipe and it’s gone. The nurse comes in does a few stitches and he is done.

And then, just like that, I’m done. I’ve had enough with the circumcision witnessing. I got my interviews and I hope to properly debunk these articles in the paper.

What’s even more exciting however…. Group 8 is here. Officially. And today they are being sworn in as OFFICIAL Peace Corps Volunteers. It was incredibly surreal sitting there in the audience watching this time. Their faces, excitement, standing, taking oath. I was there, just a year ago. Everything just seems to be falling right into place. Unlike our Swear In, they have managed to get the Prime Minister to come and speak. The King’s right hand man. And there he was. You see him all the time in the papers. But there he stood. At the podium. Welcoming this new group. And just like every other Swazi speaker at these events he spoke of how important our American Swaziland connection is. How friendly and welcoming Swazis are in this country. After each comment I knew who to look over to and subtly give a look. And that was the theme of the day. Subtle. I tried to keep everything subtle. These new kids (I say kids because everyone, no matter what age, is a kid when they first arrive to Swaziland) need to figure this puzzle out on their own. It’s important. And they will. Just as I did.

Then the head of a very important NGO stands to speak. He spoke at our Swear In last year. I watched him sit there on the panel waiting to speak last time. His head down, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. I know he too wants to roll his eyes at the things said from others.. the sugary lies they tell.. but he can’t. He, like me, is not very good at faking the looks. Last year he stood up and gave one of the best speeches that day. “You’re going to see the worst. You’re going to witness the worst of mankind. You’re going to hate it at times. You’re going to come to my office and you’re going to ask me, ‘Why isn’t the government doing anything?!” Just wait.” And that pretty much summed up his speech. His words and our gulps of fear. This year, the same speech provided. However, because of all the circumcision hype, and the Prime Minister being there, I guess he felt it necessary to take advantage of the spotlight. “And if you don’t know anything about science or circumcision," He shouts. "Just SHUT UP!... Thank you.” I watch the Swazi Times and The Observer reporters scribble down these words. Oh boy, I think. What WILL the papers say tomorrow?

“Head of NGO says SHUT UP!” Titles tomorrow's paper that BRIEFLY mentions the new volunteers in this country. Inside a direct quote of him saying, “If you DO know anything about science or circumcision, SHUT UP!”

Like I said. This is Swaziland.

After having a few conversations with the new group I realize they are going through the same struggles I went through as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the beginning. Things they shouldn’t be battling. Things that have nothing to do with what’s going on outside but what’s happening WITHIN Peace Corps. That night I break down, finally, to MY group. “I’m sick of it! Sick of it! Something needs to happen. This isn’t right.” I shout. The room divides, and those who have had bad experiences agree, and the others, not so much. And all I can do is cry. As much as I HATE doing it in front of friends. (Family is another story. You take the best bite of my sandwich, and you’re family, I’ll cry) But friends. I don’t want to put them through this, it’s my job to comfort them.

I go and lie down, away from everyone. Another volunteer follows and sits next to me. She runs her fingers through my hair. She tells me she gets it. She and I both know so many back home won’t, Swazis don’t , the Office doesn’t, and sometimes even other volunteers don’t. “This culture is killing itself.” She says. “And we don’t know how to stop it or even know if it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s hard enough feeling that this culture and these people are against us, I don’t need to feel it from our employers and co workers.” I tell her through my boogery sniffles. I know this reaction is just all part of coming back from home and reintegrating. Taking your head out of the muck for even a few days and then coming back to the muck… sometimes you don’t want to open your eyes to the outside world. Sometimes you just want to sit in the filth without knowing it’s filth.

Another PCV friend of mine,she went home when I did,sits with me on our stoop, watching the sun go down.

“Sure missed that African red sun.” I tell her.
“Yeah.”
“It was hard being home.” I say.
“Yeah. It was.” She says.
“They don’t get it.”
“No. They don’t”
I look down at the tattoo on my arm which reads, “Vula Emehlo”. Open Your Eyes.
“I want to make them get it." I tell her. "Everyone. I want the whole world to see.”
She leans her head on my shoulder and exhales.
“Good luck.”

"Over There"

7/30/10

Home. Even the word sounded strange to me. How unfamiliar would it be? How long had it been? Did it matter? Would it matter?

I soar up the green glaciers of Africa. Splinter past the tropical sun, past the jumping Massai in Kenya, through the pyramids of Egypt. My feet dangling over the African world below. Then, over the exotic taste of the Medeterranian, until finally I land into the heart of Italy: Rome.

I hadn't taken a vacation in over a year. The last volunteer to leave Swaziland. I can't recall the last time I had stayed put in one place for so long. Just a few moments ahead, waiting for me, my mother, Jesse, and little sister, Helen. But I had forgotten that also ahead of me was Italy. My life dream had always been to wrap myself in the shade and seduction of this country. The history. The beauty. But all I could think about was their faces. To smell and touch it again. Home home home.

I stand outside the hotel waiting for the airport shuttle to drop my family off. Anticipating.. waiting for our first embrace. Two hours pass and my tiny pea size bladder can't hold it anymore. I move from my spot and hope I don't miss this soon to be epic arrival. I round the revolving door starring down at the fancy tiles along the floor. The door circles round and I am pushed into the hotel lobby. My gaze moves upward and there in front of me I see myself. I see my home. I see my mother. At first I feel nothing. But as she holds me tight in her arms I begin to feel everything again. I feel the fall breeze and the turning leaves of our Indiana autumn. I hear Paul Simon's Graceland playing on our record player in our living room. I feel the wind blowing through my hair as I make the drive down the country roads to my father's house in our convertible. I feel and therefore I am home. The tears stream down my face and an audience gathers. People stare and tilt their heads in sympathy. Stares and curiosity are nothing new to me anymore. This is MY moment.

Inside the streets of this Gucci, Avante Garde city, in my avocado stained jeans, I round every epic corner, pass every epic building. Every inch is art. Instead of Starbucks on each corner there stands a museum. The cobble stone streets, the gargoyles, the weinerless naked man statues, gelato, pizza, pasta, Armani, Gucci bags and toy poodles in every woman's grasp. The beautiful men and women. Suits and heels riding little vespas around town. Their language flowing up and down. Traffic is no headache. Just tiny cars playing with each other. Women begging for change in Chanel. I wait and anticipate the culture shock everyone warned me about. I struggle to look inward this time. Is it effecting me? Am I still human or just another walking zombie, another product of Swaziland? One foot here in Rome, the other still in Swaziland. Two complete opposite worlds. Feel something please. Anything. I need to feel alive again.

I continue to walk up and down these streets, my neck in pain from staring up at the flying buttresses above. As I lower my gaze I am stunned and absorbed by something unfamiliar to me. Something I haven't seen in over a year. An old man stands talking with friends. His overweight yellow lab at the end of his leash struggling to grab a floating plastic bottle in the gutter beneath him. He pulls and stretches. His paws struggling until finally the bottle lands in his mouth. Success. He looks up at his owner, smiling and wagging his tail. The old man pets his proud pup and smiles. I steer off course to follow this smiling pair. Intrigued. People pass and smile. Some stop to pet this chubby lab.

Something begins to move inside me. My heart moves upward and presses against my throat. I struggle to hold back the tears. I am affected. People are happy at this dog's happiness. Connected. I am once again connected. I am feeling again.

My shock didn't come like Tom Hank's in "Cast Away": turning on and off light switches, fascinated by the ease of a lighter. It certainly wasn't the material and ease of Rome that shocked my heart. It was love. Simply love that brought tears to my eyes. Love between a man and his dog. Most of us have gone a long time without seeing love. To go from a country that has found survival in apathy, that literally has no word that distinguishes like from love, to a country that is written about in books and film for its passion, love, and grace. To me, this was the shock. This was that moment. And I allowed myself to sink into it, get comfortable with it.

Suddenly home again. As if I had never left. Swaziland. Peace Corps. Some weird lucid dream I've awoken from. My once 11 year old sister now 16, with a license, bra and attitude. No longer thinks I'm the coolest, smartest, person on the planet. The rest of the world, however, jaws drop when Peace Corps is mentioned. PEACE CORPS AFRICA?! "I can't believe you're over there. They got libraries over there!? And roads too?!" People ignorantly impressed by another charitable organization and your under qualified overachieving work of the past year. You hang on and try to endure the "they got that over there?!" questions. You skim over your experiences over the past year. You take a deep breath when they ask, "What's been your favorite part so far?"

"You know, the other day, I read somewhere that babies can be born from an HIV positive mother without getting it." You think, well duh obviously, when they share facts with you about HIV. But you have forgotten what you once knew before you started this journey. You have forgotten this isn't an AIDS world over here. You go through your old bedroom. Your closet. Your journals. You try to remember who you were before you left it all. It's been a year and you're bitter, angry. Things aren't easy. You realize there is no magic bullet way of fixing anything "over there". People hear the frustration in your voice and struggle to relate, to try and comfort you. But that's not fair, and that's not what you're looking for. You just want to be heard when you haven't been heard in such a long time. "We need to quit blindly throwing money 'over there'." I explain. "Swaziland is AID addicted and we're only making matters worse." My parent's biggest fear. They ask me, "Have you gone republican Mere?!" I could live my life penniless, a lesbian, a pot smoker. "Just don't kill anyone and for gods sake, don't become a republican." They mistake my realistic words for cold, callous, uncaring. When really what anyone who has been 'over there' for more than a few months living IN it will tell you the exact same thing. Our actions need to change because it's not working.

I try not to go into it with anyone beyond the parents. I tap into the bitterness a bit when friends and family ask. I watch their reactions, their faces carefully. Their eyebrows turn in, begin to un-soften and cringe downward. Their lips tighten and their gaze slides off my trailing words. Searching for what to say. Uncomfortable silence. I wrap it up with a quick, "But I'm learning so much over there...." OR "But its been an interesting year and looking forward to the next one." A quick but something.. to give this twisted tale a happy ending for their ease.

My friends embrace me,I hear them exclaim, "MERE!" Something I've waited a long time to hear, fantasizing about it in my hut night after night. I fear they will just be strangers with familiar faces to me. Awkward moments and interactions with x boyfriends. Hugs turn into side hugs. We try to keep it short and simple. Home for a beautiful wedding to tie us all together.

To remind us what we have all been through: the beauty and the pain of growing up together.

The things you regret doing, the things you WILL regret saying once you get back, the break ups, the fights, we have to put those aside for two people’s love. I sit and take stock. They haven't changed in so many ways but in so many ways they have. I fit right back into this puzzle of ours. We sit around the table sharing stories. Sleeves roll up and shirts are lifted. We show off our new tattoos. Like my favorite scene in the movie Jaws. Men bonding over their scars. Do they notice a change in me? Will they still be here when I get back? How much have I missed?

It's the evening before I go back to my world and that last light of the sun smolders blood red against the tops of the green green trees. Their after images are burning blue and black. I think back. This past month feeling so apart of something so familiar and yet, at the same time, so alone, so isolated, so ignored by relation. Sometimes incapable of entering into communication with anyone here. I fear going back. I remember the others telling me they could never go back home in fear they wouldn't return to Swaziland. I reach the deepest animal stages of exhaustion. Non stop going all month. In fact, non stop going since college. I have yet to just be home with my family. Traveling, searching, wanting to connect with every corner and person of this world. Trying to reach out the only way I know how. Finding myself through others.

And we're back. We're back in that moment again. Security and bag check ahead of me. Passport in one hand, carry on in the other. I have to branch off and leave my parents behind, one more time. It's hard for me to look into my sister's eyes. If she sheds even a single tear, I don't know how I'll get back on that plane. I want to tell her I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not here holding your hand while you grow up. I'm sorry I've chosen to be with people who most often don't even want me around. Who don't appreciate. I want to tell her I'll always be her Sissy. I would die for her. I would kill for her. She is my everything. I want to tell my mother that I DO need her. I DO miss her. I am still her little girl. I want to tell my step-father thank you. For EVERYTHING he has EVER done for me. And there's no way I can put any of this gratitude into any sort of audible word. I know if I do i'll collapse and I need to be strong for her, for Helen.

It's harder to leave them a second time. This time I know what I'm getting into. There's no exotic mystery up ahead for me. It's going to be a struggle. And I know it. We hug, and I see them fighting the tears back. I quiver as I try to keep the tears in. We hug. I turn to walk away. I let the tears loose. My mother shouts behind me, "When you come back.... You're back for good!" I turn to her and say, "For good. I promise."

And just like that, their faces were gone. And I was back on that plane. Horrible turbulence. A tiny plane. The irony is, I am horrified of flying. I hold onto the arm rests, I close my eyes, I hold my breath and count as I usually do letting out slow exhales through my mouth. A sweet southern savanna speakin woman pats me on the back. "It's going to be all right suga. We'll get you there. Don't you worry." She asks me where I'm from and where I've been. I don't mind the little conversation this time. I need the distraction. "Peace Corps Africa?! Well God Bless your little heart. Aren't you somethin." She asks me what they eat 'over there'. "Lots of Maize I tell her." She looks confused. "Corn." I say.

"Well goodness me!" She shouts. "They got teeth over there?!"

I land in South Africa. Here we go... I think. "Where are you going?" The man behind the glass asks. "Swaziland." I say. "Swaziland? How long are you visiting?" He asks. "Two years." I tell him. He hands me back my passport. "Well Ms. Brooks. Welcome home."

Shoved, pushed into the back of another kumbi (mini bus). Pressed up against the window, no matter which way I turn uncushioned bone pressed against me. The groaning soundtrack begins and is surrounding me again. The subcontinent's most distinctive gestures follow. "Ahhh wena!" "EEEshh!" They yell. A young man snuggles unnecessarily close to me. I'm missing the decent snug of humanity back home. I'm back in the scent of unwashed humanity after feeling the sterility of the altitude up above. Lost in contemplation. I want it back. I want it back. How am I going to do this?! I snap out of it. I have to. I need to keep moving. I need to be me again. Within twenty minutes I've made friends with everyone on this kumbi. I'm putting myself back together again. "Is polygamy Christian?" I shout. Not that I have a problem with either, just a question to get the ball rolling. Solomon, from the Bible, as usual, is brought up. The same arguments. The same mannerisms.

"What is that written on the back of your neck?" The young man asks me. "Ubuntu." I tell him. They are familiar with this Zulu word. Communal Harmony.Interconectedness. Working together to help each other. "I try to live by it." I tell him. "Well it doesn't matter what it says." He tells me. "You're still going to hell." I laugh. "And all that drinking and screwing around you just told me you do?" I ask. "Well of course, I'm going to hell too. We all are."

I've spent over a year trying to understand and study this culture, these people. I live in constant frustration trying to solve this puzzle with the rest of the world. Keeping this separation between me and THEM use to make it easier. However, being away for a month has made me realize I need to slow down and just appreciate what I'm "studying". I need to stop studying. I probably won't ever solve this problem. But I'm here and I can no longer look at these people as goals, as problems to fix. For the first time, crammed in this kumbi together, shoulder to shoulder with them, I simple saw them as they were. And it was overwhelmingly beautiful.

I said goodbye to my grandfather before I left. In his old age and diminishing health, I worry, will I see him again? He hugs me goodbye and thanks me for my writing that my father shares with him every Sunday morning over breakfast. Before I go he grabs my arm and say to me, "I know you're struggling over there. I know it's hard. But you're learning so much. Don't quit. Don't you dare quit."

I've got another year to go. For my grandfather, for these people, and most importantly, for myself, I know I can't quit.