Lost In Translation

His tongue glides across the bottom of his lip. His belly smiles big underneath his tiny polo. "I like your structure." He says looking me up and down. Another feast for the predator. I am gazelle again. He leans hard against the post next to my head and I am smelling his warm whispers. "I'm a musician." He tells me. I lean my head back- cautious but curious. He continues, "I sing with only the best." He tells me his name, smug and proud and I almost choke on my sandwich in hand. I know him. Well of him. I've read about him in the paper. Not for his musical talent but for his thirst in fifteen year old girls. Another one knocked up. Alone. Pregnant. And he's again, denying it's his. "Oh I know you. " I burst out. He smiles. "Of course of course. Im a famous gosspil singer. I sing with many in South Africa." Hands on his hips now. Pleased with himself.

"No. No.I don't think that's it." I say. "Something about a 15 year old pregnant girl and a famous gosspil singer swearing he didn't impregnate her." His smile fades and his body tightens." ‘Gosspil singer impregnates 15 year old girl.’ Yeah. That was the headline." I smile. His friend, busy juggling two young girls in the corner, puts his game on pause to defend his friend.

"These people," He begins. "They're just trying to make a bad name."
"So you didn't have sex with a fifteen year old girl?" I ask the singer.
"Now, this is my friend!" He says, slapping the notorious gosspil singer on the shoulder.

The employee of this establishment, and a friend of mine, pulls me aside. I can’t upset his costumers. His costumers: the cheaters, the married, the unfaithful, the religious, the parliament, the teachers and their students: all with their secrets looking for some place to hide. “I watch them.” He tells me. “A wife pulls in with her lover. An hour passes and then they go. Thirty minutes later her husband arrives with his secret lover. One of these days they’re going to arrive at the same time. And it’ll be a shit storm.”

And you read about these shit storms every single day. In the papers, at least six horror stories of shit storm relationships gone wrong. “Man Saws Off Girlfriend’s Head with Bush Knife”, “Head Teacher Has Sex With Pupil”,“Husband Watches Wife Have Sex in Bushes With Other Man”, “Two Year Old Beaten with Thorn Bush Left for Dead for Eight Days by Step Mother and Father. Dies of Starvation”, “Baby Beaten with Whip Aunt Rubs Salt in Wounds”, “Girl Whiped by Uncle. Tied to Tree For One Week.”, “Professor of University Sex Bribes Pupils”, “15 Year Old Boy Rapes Grandmother”, “75 Year Old Man Catches 20 Year Old Wife Sleeping With His Son”, “Wife Shoots Cheating Husband in Front of Children”. “Gosspil Singer impregnates 15 year old girl” And I, like them, no longer react to the horror. Just another story about someone you know.

These aren’t just headlines to us. These are our neighbors. Our students. Our family. In a country of a million people we’re all neighbors and we’re all killing each other.

I sit in the back of a restaurant where I usually go to write. A nice hiding place, far from the main “road” in Siphofaneni and won’t attract a crowd. A perfect storm for those who don’t want to be seen. A young girl sits at a table. Her breasts ooze out from her hot hot tank top. She nervously plays with a cell phone. A man, in suit and beer in hand, takes a seat next to her. He slides her a drink and kisses her on the neck. I watch him force himself in as she folds herself inside. A tight knot and he’s trying hard to undo it. I stand to intervene. Unsure what to say but hoping to prevent another headline in tomorrow’s papers. I push my chair out and stand to go.

“Ubuntu.” A young man calls from behind me. Sometimes I forget the written messages tattooed on my body.
“How do you know Ubuntu?” he asks me.
“I’ve lived here a year and a half.” I tell him. “I guess I’m still looking for it.”
He smiles.“I’ll tell you what Ubuntu is. It’s Nelson Mandela shaking the hand of F.W. de Klerk.”
“Who is that?”I ask.
“You Americans.”He laughs.“The president who supported the apartheid and segregation for so many years. Who finally backed down and turned it over to Mandela. Mandela openly shook hands with this man- the enemy. Now THAT’S Ubuntu. That’s forgiveness.”

I’ve never heard it described this way. But suddenly I felt warmth at the idea. Ubuntu is forgivness. As I read all these headlines, watch them play out in front of me, I become consumed with rage. I no longer want to help “these people”. Why should we help if they can’t even help each other. But I’m being reminded how un- Ubuntu-like that would be. It will be difficult, but I need to forgive.

Back in the city, another Peace Corps workshop. Group 8 has just finished their four day IST (In Service Training). If you recall over a year ago I wrote about this workshop, titled: IST: Penis Doodles. I wonder what kind of doodles they have drawn. How many notes have been passed. How any times they’ve been asked to count off into groups and write things on flip chart paper. Charts and graphs. Being talked at for four days. And now we’re here to join them at ‘All Voll”. All Volunteers Conference and end it with a Thanksgiving feast at the American Ambassador’s mansion.

Our Country Director, Eileen, opens All Vol with a brief break down of what’s going on “out there” in Swaziland right now.

40% of Swazis are unemployed
70% live on less than a dollar a day
1-5 billion in debt

“Soon the country won’t be able to make pay rolls or pay contractors.” She tells us. I am remembering reading it in the papers. New international airports being developed. Construction being put on hold because there no long is any money. Conflicting articles, “MP’s Getting Increase in Salary for Car and Phone Allowances”. Money going into the wrong pockets. Corruption all around. “Swaziland has the highest percent of civil servants in the world. Most countries are at about 8% where Swaziland is 18% of the population in civil servant jobs. Most are military related.” I turn to a Group 6 volunteer who’s been here longer than me. “So what does that mean?” I whisper to her. ‘It means corruption. People in power are giving these jobs to friends and family members and paying them to essentially do nothing.” And there isn’t enough revenue to spoil those in power’s friends and family. “IMF is telling them they must lay off 7-10,000 civil servants if they want the loan. Swaziland has promised this won’t effect the Ministry of Health or Education.” We all know it will. And we all know the wrong people are going to get laid off.

“The country is turning to IMF for help.” She continues. I look around the room. We’re all shaking our heads. I bang mine on the table in front of me. No. No. No. More donations, loans, hand outs are not the answer. Swaziland needs to increase taxes on things people with money can afford: cigarettes, booze, gambling, etc. We need more than one cell phone carrier in this country. We need to work with what we have instead of automatically looking overseas or South Africa for help.

The next day I open the paper. “The Director of NERCHA (National Emergency Response Counsel to HIV and AIDS) Derek Von Wissel is told to cut back on spending and lay off workers.” NERCHA is not an NGO. It’s one of the very few governmental organizations working on prevention in this country. I continue to read, “New Perks for Top Government Officials: Car and Cell Phone Allowances Doubled.” I turn the page. “Swaziland is rich and we should not be where we are today had it not been for corruption.” A quote by the Minister of Finances.

How did this country come to be so corrupt? So desperate? So co-dependent? I strongly believe its donations and hand outs that has brought this county to its knees. It has caused corruption. I recall reading Mobo’s words in “Dead Aid”.

“The trouble with the aid-dependency model is, of course, that Africa is fundamentally kept on its perpetual child like state.” Donations mean no accountability. No accountability means corruption.

“You could throw a billion bucks at this country and it’d never hit the ground.” Group 6 volunteer once told me.

Our world wide pity is retarding this country’s development.

“African governments view aid as a permanent reliable, consistent source of income and have no reason to believe that the flows won’t continue into the indefinite future. There is no incentive for long term financial planning no reason to seek alternatives to fund development, when all you have to do is sit back and bank the cheques.”

“Another NGO is pulling out of our region.” I tell the caregivers at my neighborhood carepoint. “What will you do?” I ask them. “We’ll find someone else to donate food for us.” They tell me. Instead of figuring out how to feed themselves. What Moyo is describing, I am seeing on a smaller scale. NGO’s dumping food off at NCP’s and warning the caregivers that soon donations will be cut off and they need to “make a plan”. Their way of thinking reeks of dependency. But it’s all they know. NGO’s should be throwing out the expensive fencing, and teaching sustainable agriculture..water management. The idea of self-sufficancy is foreign to them. I am constantly screaming, “This is a nation of 15 year olds!” Are you starting to see why? Treat someone like a child, and they’ll act like it. We have created this culture of aid dependency and stunted their growth.

And other volunteers are seeing it. “The reality is, while some aid is well done, the vast majority is just making the situation worse. As distasteful as it may seem, the best long-term solution is to pull out aid. Swazis need to start expecting more from their King and less from NGOs and foreign aid.” Writes one volunteer.

“Aids tends to increase corruptio.It reduces public spending and aid programmes lack accountability and checks and balances.” Today we’re being told IMF wants to hand out more money. More debt. “Donors have the added fear that were they not to pump money in poor countries wouldn’t be able to pay back what they already owe and this would affect the donor’s fiinancing themselves. This circular logic is exactly what keeps the aid merry-go-round humming.”

Vula emehlo. Open your eyes. This is the vicious cycle of aid and we’re seeing it all- here and now. But the money holders are blind to it.

Increase tax revenues. Fuel. Gambling. Alcohol. Increase competition in business. “African countries need a middle class that can hold its government accountable. But in an aid environment governments are less interested in fostering entrepreneurs and the development of their middle class than furthering their own financial interests… The middle class pays taxes in return for government accountability. Foreign aid short circuits this link because the government’s financial dependence on its citizens has been reduced. It owes its people nothing.”

Read the papers, talk to the people, live here, with the people, for a year and a half and you will begin to see.

“If the world has one picture of African statesmen, it is one of rank, corruption, on a stupendous scale. There hardly seem any leaders who haven’t crowned themselves in gold, seized land, (the papers report everyday of the land their King is taking back from the people, “his land” kicking them out), handed over state businesses to relatives and friends, (18% civil servants- most military working for the King), diverted billions to foreign bank accounts (we’ve all heard about the account his Majesty opened up in Switzerland in case shit goes down), and treated their countries as personalized cash dispensers. (Beemers for all his relatives and his own private jet).

It’s happening here.

Aid should not be stopped- but changed.

Our next lecture of the day: Circumcision. It’s EVERYWHERE. The world wants your Swazi foreskin! The Swazi man is panicing. “I won’t get an erection anymore!” “I won’t go to heaven!” “You just want to decrease our sex drive so we will stop having sex.” “You’re trying to take away our culture and bring yours.” “You Americans are trying to make a profit off of our foreskins.” “You’re stealing our foreskin to use as spices for the rice.” (I’m not making this up.) This is what they’re whispering amongst themselves.

The over-eager funders behind this campaign come to preach circumcision at All- Vol and ask us.. how can we convince “them”…the Swazi man? An American woman jumps out. She bounces off the walls with excitement. I never knew circumcision could be so….. exciting? She raises her fists in the air jumping up and down shouting, ‘We can do this!” I feel like I’m in a beer commercial. “I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be a Peace Corps volunteer.” She tells us. “I am in awe of you guys.” The words every director of some NGO tells us. So do it, we think. There’s no expiration date and you people sure could us a trip out from behind your desk and get an education on what it’s really like “out there”.

“We’re excited about this new campaign!” She shouts at us. We sit and listen- doodling a foreskin gobblin with an American Flag banner around his sagging foreskin body. “Give me your foreskin!” The goblin shouts. She continues, “PEPFAR, USAID, the CDC, FLAS,PSI, we’re all dedicated to this cause. There are 240,000 men aged 15-49 years (this is the age range when most are getting infected or transmitting HIV to others) in this country of a million people. By 2011 we want 152,000 men circumcised.”

Insert cliché “cricket cricket” noise. She stares and waits for our reaction. I lean back in my chair, hands behind my head, a tiny burst of laughter slips out. We’ve become a chorus of laughter and doubt at these workshops. ‘Well why not?!” She shouts back. “We’ve already done 20,000. We can prevent 88,000 new HIV infections. Reduce the HIV incidence rate by 75%. Save 650 million USD in HIV care and treatement. Identify 20,000 clients living with HIV already by encouraging them to test before they are circumcised.”

Statistics have such a graceful way of making everything sound so…..easy. It sounds wonderful on paper. Which I’m sure is all she knows. We’ve circumcised 20,000 in just two years. However, I guarantee..most of them were under 19 years old. The younger they are, the easier they are to convince. How do we convince the MEN?

A group 8 volunteer raises her hand slowly- unsure- she’s only been here 4 months. Don’t worry, I think, I guarantee this lady has only been here for 4 days, in the city. “This is probably a stupid question, but how are we going to convince them- especially as young foreign women? I mean do you guys provide prizes for the boys who circumcise? A hat or t-shirt?” The volunteer asks. The woman presenting laughs. “Why would we need that?” She asks “We can convince them through knowledge. Making them understand.. this will save their life, and others. That alone should get them in the clinics.” Again, a chorus of laughter and doubt. I whisper to a fellow PCV next to me, “She doesn’t know Swazi. You give every man an autographed soccer ball with Rooney’s signature on it or a plate of meat for their foreskin (meat for meat you could call it.. come on- now that’s funny) I guarantee they’ll bring in their foreskin and all their friend’s to the chopping block.”

I remember going to Simunye to interview the African doctors and nurses cutting off young boy’s foreskins. I asked every man there, working with PSI and preaching the circumcision message, if they were circumcised. “Of course not!” They’d yell. ‘Why would I do that? This job pays me three times as much as my last job did.” NGO’s pulling out the skilled from where they are needed- paying them triple to do something they don’t believe in. Who’s filling in for these nurses while they’re away? If we can’t convince them, the King, the ministers of parliament, the chiefs, hell.. even the soccer players… how are we going to do this? You cannot walk into a country, especially one as proud as Swaziland, and just say “Circumcision will save your life.” Because if you do, you will get most shouting what they have been shouting to me and others in the education field. They’ll come up with ridiculous answers and conspiracy theories. Fund it. Fine. But it’s the King the MPs that need to spread this message- not the foreign aid. I’m constantly telling them, “I don’t give a shit about your foreskin. Keep it if you want. But here’s the facts. THIS IS OUR LAST RESORT. NOTHING ELSE IS WORKING. We’ve tried the ABC approach. We’ve tried the Ugandian approach- zero grazing. We’ve tried empowering young girls. Nothing seems to be working.” But facts don’t work here. The logic we have back home- does not exist in this country. They’re wanting us to talk to them like they’re American. These are Swazis. This is why understanding the people and the culture is the FIRST STEP.

Again, it’s not the idea of circumcision or “aid” I have a problem with it’s the way it’s being rolled out. Foreigners from a country where they culturally circumcise should not be the ones convincing. Otherwise you’ll get them all of a sudden claiming they have a “culture of foreskin”. (When in reality the Zulus used to cut. Because, oh yeah, cultures change.)

“I’ll come to each of your villages and help YOU convince if you need me to!” She tells us. I commend her enthusiasm. And I appreciate that they have come here to ask us what they should have asked a long time ago…. “Who is the Swazi man?”

“We want you to portray the average Swazi man. The young and the older Swazi man. The Swazi woman and the Swazi child. How would you convince a mother, a school boy, a factory worker, his employer, the farmer in the rural world?” She asks us. They want us to let go of being “culturally sensitive. “We want one of you in each group (because we had to count off by four again) to act out each of these characters and how they would respond to being told about circumcision. My group: the 45 year old man, some what educated, and the boss of a factory. My group nominates me to be the dude and I can’t wait because this one is the hardest to convince. And I’m not going to sugar coat it for her. I stand up in front of my PCVs, peace corps staff, NGO people, and actual 45 year old educated city Swazi men. I put on the accent, the mannerisms, and play out every conversation I’ve ever had with this man. Every other person ends their skit with their Swazi character saying, “Wow. OK. I think I’ll get circumcised.” I say, “There’s no need for me to get circumcised. I’m not like them.. those in the rural area. I’m educated. My wives are faithful to me. The young school girls I sleep with are too young to get infected. You’re just here trying to brainwash us. Tying to get Swazi men away from sex! Eeeish. No. I won’t. I won’t get circumcised.” Surprisingly it was the Swazi men in the room laughing and agreeing. “She’s right. That’s how it is.” They mumble.

Foreskin gobblin doodle completed. I’ll add it to my collection of “workshop art” created by PCV’s boredom during lecture after lecture. (I’ve saved it all).

Unlike our visitors, the outside foreign aid eager to throw out money at another expensive preventative procedure, upbeat energy and grace. Group 7 is dragging. There’s obvious tension and the air is thick with distain. Our faces, we look like we’re all suffering from indigestion. We’ve been here 17 months (almost a year and a half) and we’ve taken a huge bite out of Swaziland and it’s taken a huge bite out of us.

We sit in the Peace Corps office, resources surrounding us. Books, flip chart, computers, discs on sustainability: agriculture, teaching with soccer, magazines, teaching aids, pamphlets, books: our weapons in this battle. Once reading through it all, shoving items into our bags, eager to unfold them in our little huts in the middle of no where. Now we sit and stare.. in silence. Tired, unphased, we can portray the average Swazi for you, we can tell you what it’s like “out there”. What’s ‘working” what’s failing. We’ve got so many stories but we don’t feel like sharing them anymore. One volunteer, sits at the computer writing her recommendation letter- looking forward to grad school after two years of.. this. Structure and routine awaits. She slams the keyboard in frustration. “Ah! I can’t even write English anymore. My brain has turned to fucking mush being here this long. How the hell do they expect us to get into grad school after this?!” The rest of us lie on the floor in a daze. We laugh at nothing. Another volunteer picks up a large stack of circumcision pamphlets we’ve been asked to hand out. She giggles to herself and chucks them into the air laughing harder. She grabs flip chart and throws it across the room. Suddenly, a giant educational material aid fight breaks out. We’re throwing our useless weapons across the room. We don’t care anymore. Finally, we come to a still. We exhale low and long. We no longer dialogue. Some of us tear up. We look into each other’s eyes and know what point we’re all at. We’re wading knee deep in it, the finish line isn’t quite visible, but we know it’s just up ahead. It’s there waiting for us.

And today, to make matters worse, we’re saying goodbye to two people in our group 7. Sus and Chris Kramer: the cute young married couple, chaco wearing and patchouli smelling, our bright lights in this thick forest of contempt. Today- they’re going “home”, and without us. 8 months early. We all received the text. Just two days prior our phones read, “Sus and Chris Kramer will be ringing out if you’d like to come and say goodbye at the office.” Ringing out: a tradition our new country director, Eileen, brought to Swaziland. A large metal, motorcycle wheel hangs outside the deck of the office. On it are signatures of all previous volunteers who have COSed (Completion of Service) and returned home. A ceremony where those leaving (because in our final weeks we leave in 5’s every day until we are no more) stand inside a circle of all us while all of us, staff included, say something nice about this person. We hold a metal rod in our hands and speak, then pass it to the next person. The last person will hand it to those leaving who then say a few words about their service. They walk over to the wheel, rod in hand, and sign their names. Deep breath, they hold on tight to the rod and bang the wheel. They’ve ringed out and their service is complete. Then, we all say goodbye.

But today- we don’t want to say goodbye. We’re all in shock. The Kramers are leaving us so soon. A decision made by Washington Head Quarters over Eileen’s head and our hands are all tied. The moment has come. We stand in a circle outside, Sus and Chris in the center. Staff starts, rod in hand. Eileen is trembling. Our country director is crying. Tears stream down her face as she speaks to them. I look around. We’re all suffering. Tissues are being passed. I lean hard on my closest friend who ia very close to them. I feel her tense up- trying hard not to cave into the overwhelming emotion. Staff finishes and the rod is passed to us now- volunteers- friends. Some can’t even get their words out. We lean into each other hand in hand- shoulder to shoulder. We bury our faces into each other. The rod is passed to me and I am trembling. I try to speak. “Tomorrow we’re celebrating Thanksgiving. A family tradition for many of us. But tomorrow we will all feel an incredible void. During the rest of this workshop, we will feel an incredible void. And we are all ready to COS and say goodbye to this country, we shall feel an incredible void. Because we are a family and today we are saying goodbye to two of our family members. It just won’t be the same without you guys.” I’m trying to continue without breaking. The tears stream down my face and I feel the hand of another volunteer holding onto mine.

The rod is passed to them. We are ready to listen. Sus looks around at us. We all came here today for the. She trys hard to collect herself, “You know. When we arrived here in Swaziland, 17 months ago, we were told to integrate integrate integrate. We knew we could never fully integrate. But going back now- I feel like we’re not quite American anymore either. Now we have two homes. Just as we have gained two new families. And we’re grateful for that. When I first arrived here I felt such a vulnerability. I came here with my wounds open. And it was so hard to accept the things we have all faced here. But I’d like to end my service with my favorite quote from the Indigo Girls, ‘We’re better off for all that we let in.” She says with a tearful smile.

It’s coming to an end now. The Kramers walk to the hanging wheel. Eileen whispers to a woman from Washington Head Quarters here to visit for a few weeks, “I’m glad you’re here. Washington needs to see what happens when they make a decision an ocean away and how it effects people.” Sus holds on tight to the rod in her hand. I watch her take a deep breath. And then just like that. They ringed out and added their names to the wheel.

They gather their belongings and shove them, once again, into the great white chariot that awaits to take them to the airport. Hugs are being shared. I wait for my turn. Sus turns to me and we embrace. I bury my face into her arms, the tears won’t stop. “Thank you.” I tell her. “For sharing your vulnerability with us. Everyday I feel it too.” She holds me tight and looks into my eyes. “People are attracted to you Mere. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Keep your wounds open. It’s ok to be vulnerable.” I nod my head. “Sometimes. I feel like. I just can’t take it anymore.” I reply. “You’ll be fine. And we’ll see you soon, on the other side.” She says smiling. She’s always smiling.

And then. Just like that. They were gone.

A volunteer turns to me and says, “In just 8 months, we’ll be doing this again. In just 8 months we’ll be back to our worlds. Can you imagine?”

“No.” I tell her. “I can’t.”