12/22/2010
It’s my last day at camp and a young woman working with the center approaches me. She grabs my arm and pulls me close. “Simphiwe. Go to Nkiliji. They need you.” “How do you know I used to live there?” I ask her. (Nkiliji my first village I was moved from because of the harassment.) “I am friends with your sisi, Thobakile, and I was just there. They love you. Go see them.”
I haven’t been “home”, Nkiliji, in almost two months. Every time I go it’s as if I never left. The love and connection I was looking for in a host family is still there. They, unlike my Siphofaneni host family, consider me family. I grab my bags and a few Christmas presents and make my way North to Nkliji. I find Babe (Father) where I left him last time I was back. He sits in the living room, a plate of meat on the coffee table, and the cat below. “You know Simphiwe.” He always tells me. “This cat is VERY clever. She walks by and drags her tail on the edge of my steak. She knows that I now have to rip off that corner of my steak because she touched it, and then I give it to her. She is SO clever.” He laughs. I find Make (Mother) outside. She’s digging up her sweet potatoes she had buried months ago. They are ready to be eaten. She holds one into the light, examining its beauty. She catches me in the corner of her eye and drops her elegant potato. “Simphiwe!” She exclaims. “Swani! (baby) My Swani home!” All 5 feet and one inch of her comes barreling towards me. She holds me tight and leans back to grab my breast rubbing hard. “Swani! Swani!” She continues to call out. I hear a familiar voice of a young woman, deep and sassy, behind me. “Well hello…” The young lady says. It’s my sisi, Bongiwe, her hands on her hips, happy I’m home but pissed it took me so long to come back. But she can never stay angry. We run towards each other laughing. The boys come up to greet me- always growing- they keep it cool and give me the Swazi shake. “Where’s Gigi?” I always ask. My other sisi has gotten herself a wheel chair FINALLY. She sits in the kitchen trying to feed herself porridge. She cries out. Only family members can understand her slurred speech but now I’m catching on. I wrap my arms around her and give her chocolate.
After an hour of catching up Bongiwe tells me to tell Babe we want to go for a walk. With this family, you report everything to Babe. He allows it but tells us he is going to put a drop of water in his hand and we had better be back before it disappears in this heat. Bongi must look her best when we go on our walks through the village. She puts on an outfit I bought her during the World Cup- a South African soccer jersey. And so we begin the walk. Unlike my family in Siphofaneni, Bongi is proud to have me by her side- not embarrassed. We hold hands and talk. She’s gotten kicked out of school again.
People pass shouting my name. They remember. I’m seeing old faces- everything is just where I left it. I walk pass the carpenter shop and I’m looking for my Proud African- Mctosa. We haven’t seen each other in almost 6 months now. Last we spoke was in anger. It was raining outside and he was drunk. He told me he was in love with me and I told him to go back to his newborn baby and his girlfriend. I wonder if he is still struggling with his status. I know he has told no one. I know I’m the only one who knows he is living with HIV. I was there when he got the results. I was the one who told him to test. And I still have the image of finding him alone in his hut sitting on the edge of his bed and a long rope hanging form his ceiling. It will always haunt me.
I call him.
On the 5th ring he answers. His voice has changed. Deep, muffled, raspy, and almost on the verge of pain he says, “Hello?” I greet in a way only he and I would understand- hoping he will recognize who this is. He doesn’t.
“It’s me. How is my Proud African?” I laugh. “Are your eyes open yet? Vula emehlo.” I remind him.
“Simphiwe…..” He draws out like he used to.
“I’m back. I want to see you.” I pester.
“No Simphiwe. I can’t. Not today. I’m busy.”
“Mctosa. I leave early tomorrow morning. Please. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I want to show him my arm. Vula emehlo I’ve tattooed onto it.
“No. I can’t. I am working.” He’s loosing patience.
“It’s Sunday. I know you don’t work on Sundays.”
“I have to go Simphiwe. I will see you another day.” He hangs up.
I’m stunned. I know he’s hiding something. I ask around to see if anyone in the village has seen him lately. I run into his “boys”. They stagger over to me with their proud manly gangster walk. “Hows your Proud African?” They ask laughing. I ask if they’ve seen him. “We don’t see much of him anymore. He doesn’t come out a lot.” I fear he’s gotten that sick. When I first met Mctosa I found a photo of him buried in between his stacks and stacks of already read newspapers. I refused to believe it was him. He was a lot heavier - his face wasn’t sunken in and he had a lighter tone to his skin. That was the moment Mctosa realized he was sick. He grabbed the photo from my hands and sat down on his couch (a row of seats taken out of a van). He rubbed his brow and let out a long sigh. “I don’t wan to see this photo again Simphiwe. I want you to have it. But promise me you won’t show anyone.” “Why?” I asked. “Because then they will know. That I’m sick.” In a village so small any weight gain or weight loss is noted and AIDS is usually the theory. Some refuse to take ARV’s because they’ll become healthier and start to gain their weight back. People will notice they’ve put on weight quick and will come to the conclusion that this person in on ARV’s.
My heart sinks thinking of him all alone. In pain. Refusing to see me. How sick he must think he looks.
His best friend, who he calls Dry Man, is asking me questions about my new village. The boys start asking me the same questions I’ve been asked for the past 19 months. “Why aren’t you married?” “Why are you here?” “Where are your children?” The same assumptions and jokes. The boys are laughing at my responses. I no longer give into their ignorance. I play back. I’m being myself. Dry man stops the others from laughing. “Wait a minute.” He looks at me. “You’ve changed.” “What do you mean?” I ask. “The way you talk and your answers. I believe you now.” I laugh. “Thank you.” We’re stopped right outside my homestead, at my bus stop.
Dry man turns to me, “Simphiwe. Do you remember this spot?” “ It’s where we all first met.” I tell him. I did remember. I was standing right here in this spot, my first morning in my new village. Peace Corps had said goodbye to me just the day before. I was going to town on my own and I was horrified and excited. The very end of my knee cap was poking out of my skirt and my white tank top was actually white back then. I look out and see a gang of young men walking towards me- their swagger. Oh shit, I think. Here we go. I pull my skirt down a bit to cover the sin and get in my battle stance. The gaggle of young boys have circled me now and there is a chorus of laughter. The laugher quickly stops when I notice a very tall dark man push his way through the crowd. The boys put their tails between their legs. “And what’s YOUR name?” I ask the tall dark man. “You can call me Proud African.” He grins and the others laugh.
That memory seems so long ago, and to think all the memories I’ve acquired since then. Now I stand with the same people. Everyone the same- but me. My once white shirt now egg tan white. My pants torn and dirty. I’m comfortable for the first time in Nkiliji. I am myself.
I don’t want to, but it’s time to go back to the colorless, lifeless, asshole of Swaziland: Siphofaneni. Babe drives me to town in the back of his truck and I say goodbye to my rolling green hills. I say goodbye to the wrinkled white haired old man who is always leaning against his turquoise door underneath the only coca cola sign in this country that is still red and not sun baked orange. Babe drops me off at a village neighboring mine. I’m visiting a friend. I walk with my head straight forward and my chin slightly raised. Always a stern expression. The don’t fuck with me look. There’s a slight swagger in my walk. Manish I guess you could say. It’s what I’ve adopted to discourage Swazi men from approaching me. I dislike the role of tyrant but have to put on the act to avoid any harassment. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to get so lucky today. I spot a drunken man about 50 feet from me. I’ve become an expert at spotting this species. He notices me and I know to get through this I need to avoid eye contact at all costs. He shouts at me. His legs move forward but the upper half of his body leans hard to the left. He reaches his arms out and I keep moving as if I don’t even notice he’s there. He grabs my arm and I pull away, aggressively, knocking him over slightly. “You fucking white bitch!” He screams. I’m actually impressed with his usage of the word “fuck”. Most don’t know where exactly the fuck goes in a sentence. If he had said, “You bitch fuck white!” Then I wouldn’t have been so shocked. People are staring but no one stops to help. To get to my friends I have to walk a long isolated path alone and this man is following me. I need to shake him off. He continues to scream his smart profanity at me. He tries hard to reach for my arms but I’m too quick for him. Again, no one is helping. I ignore I ignore I ignore. Still trying to avoid eye contact. He becomes more aggressive- and I realize my passiveness won’t help. I stop, drop my bags to the ground, look him directly in the eyes. He screams, “FUCK YOU!” I grab my hair and bend half down in rage and scream back, “FUUUUUUUCK YOOUUUU!” He is shocked. Stunned. He stands staring. For a moment we stand staring at one another. I pick up my things and continue my walk. He stays put and all are gawking.
I make it safely back to my community and today I’m working at my youth center. I sit outside waiting for the girls to arrive. As I sit eating another hard boiled egg (my diet these days: eggs and nuts) a young man takes a seat next to me. Inside I’m rolling me eyes but I keep a friendly face. We introduce ourselves and I answer his questions of what I’m doing here.
“But I’m leaving in 7 months.” I tell him.
“So soon?” He asks.
“I’ve been here a long time. It’s not soon.” I laugh.
“We’re still in the forest Simphiwe. We can’t see pass the trees. We still need you.” He says looking down.
I walk back home, sweating dirt down my body. I take shelter inside my shaded hut. It’s the rainy season, which brings us sharp sunny months. Following the extreme heat, rain ends these airless December days. I step outside my hut. The dust is thick and the soft light begins to shift. It’s going to rain soon. This is my favorite time for a walk with my dogs. Everyone preparing for the rain- taking cover. The roads are ours. The air begins to move but the sun is still white hot surrounded by electric polyester pink. One last bang before the darkness settles. My dogs follow, as always, and we make our way to the back of our property. Here, the only place where I feel a sense of great stillness. A field of stunted trees and the bones of eaten cows-not a person in sight. In between the trees I imagine shadows of the gods. Silent and watching. Sometimes my dogs will bound off into the brush. Something unknown to my senses is calling. The gods are playing with them.
I stand next to Shebali’s grave- their mother. My dogs, now over a year old, no longer dig above where their mother lies. They probably don’t even remember her. I sit on the rock I once placed next to her grave and look out at the mountains. The bald blue sky is now becoming pregnant with perspiration. Dreaming clouds. Dark and angry. Across the mountains the last of the sunlight sings a tune. Falling into the dark eternity, I watch and listen. The pale yellow Lancashire sun sinks down into these mountains. Behind me, I can smell the fires being started for supper. Smoke blows our way. The rain is just about to hit and I look down at the ants taking cover. I know they’ll be back. After the rains the ants always run out one by one from their earth-holes- angry that their work has been interrupted. They now need to double their time and they have little tolerance for my interfering footsteps. They climb up my ankles and bite hard as I walk past quickening my pace. My dogs roll around the ground crying out as the little monsters climb up their bodies. There has become a wonderful sense of closeness between myself and this earth. A new conscious of cycles, rhythms and patterns. Earth and human.
I stand on my rock as the wind blows pass. Just as time has always been passing me. I can feel it now running through and within me. I see that now. The trees are waving in the cool moving air. I raise my arms up high and take it in. “Liyahuuuuuuuuuusha.” I call out. My dogs stand stall, ears flapping, their faces directed into the breeze, eyes closed, smelling all the stories from far away.
The rain begins and soon the land will seem refreshed and newly washed. The heat turns down and I feel damp and sticky. Sheets of rain unfold onto us. It streams from the dark sky. The wind is flying fiercely at all living things. Lightening breaks the sky in half. Metallic metal sounds. Cracking whips above. Gods and dogs by my side. I’ve dreamt this life as I walk this world.
Sometimes I feel like I’ll never come out of this forest the people here find themselves trapped in. I think its deeper darkness might consume me. Or feed me to the gods. I’ll loose myself in this journey. I’ll return home- a stranger.
And home.
Homesickness- has taken on a new meaning now.
I miss my family. I miss home. I miss the routine and certainty. A world of divorces, of options, open gay and lesbian couples, vegetarians, humanitarians, celebrities saving the whales, ecologists, tree huggers, artists, massage therapists, starbucks employees, the humming cicadas. People in recovery. Rehab. Signs of protest. The hipsters into crystals, rekai, and tantric sex. Those in search of enlightenment and personal growth. A world filled with people searching for happiness and settling for therapy and Prozac. Plump pugs. Maple leaves. The crimson ruby reds and crayon yellows of autumn. The direct approach of Americans. Their sarcasm and wit. I miss being acquainted on a first name basis with every dog at the dog park and never knowing their owners by name. I miss the vegetables and herbs from the farmer’s market on Saturdays. Fathers playing catch with their sons in their IU t shirts. The employee behind the cash register cupping my palm tenderly as she hands me my change. I miss auto flush toilets. Department stores would be paradise to me now. White. Sterile. A wave of concrete and plastic. I ache for all these American props.
The sky turns earl grey and I watch the birds fly high. I wish for their wings. Homesickness has never been sharper. Reminders make it difficult to breath. I try to escape. Like Alice and her Rabbit Hole, or Narnia through the wardrobe.. I fall. Suddenly I’m in my fantasy world. My happy place. Ayub Ogada’s African song is playing in the background. I walk through the thick dark grove of trees. I’m inside another country. Not Swaziland. Not home either. All shades of green surround me now. Green rice paddies shine in the blue sky morning. Worn down Buddhist statues lean into weeping willows inside these flowing rivers filled with coy fish. Graceful still in their presence. They’ve been standing for hundreds of years. Now leaning with beautiful curves and lines. It begins to rain and I’m in my bright yellow canoe. But I don’t mind. I drift with the current trailing my fingers in this warm water. I tilt my head to the sun. I close my eyes. Cat-like. I feel safe in this small community ringed by green tumbling hills. I walk these silent village streets. Not a man in site. No stares. No questions. I am accepted. I am native. I am- them. Two story wooden homes. Flowing magnolia trees. I’m greeted by an old woman. Her eyes smile back. She hands me my favorite flower- a zinnia- and points to the old cobblestone steps sunken into the side of a mountain. Were those there before? I begin to climb. I climb and climb. I can feel the acid pain run through my legs. I ignore it. Paradise is just ahead. As I turn to look down, this hidden world falls behind me. And I wake up.
Swaziland no longer seems like some enchanted place. I remember a time when I used to dreamily peer out the bus window. In awe of the scenery. Africa, I thought. Wow. I’m really here. The women walking by carrying things on their head. The cows in the street. The little naked children running behind you. Vegetables and fruits old on every street corner. It’s as though you’re on some “African” movie set. Zimbabwean music and drums are playing in the back of your mind, like in every movie about Africa. Tropical. Exotic. You feel as though everything will be fresh and strange forever. Or at least for the next two years. Those sweet moments of delight. You see it now as self delusion. You don’t see Africa anymore. There are no more surprises and after 19 months you struggle what to talk about. Your parents call and ask you about your life about your work.
“I never know what to say to them anymore.” One PCV tells me. “I mean they ask these questions and it’s the same response I’ve had for the past year. And they’ll never understand.”
I wish my writing was that of movement, excitement, and change. However, writing about staying put has its advantages too. There’s a deeper anthropology and understanding of the people around you. There’s a deeper connection. You eventually realize the only way to really peer into the heart of your new home is to simply stay put. Miscommunications will occur and keep on occurring but word by word, phrase by phrase, your confidence and your knowledge will grow. And eventually you’ll have those light bulb moments of realization.
Out to dinner with the new group of volunteers, here 6 months now, one of them says to me, “I want to tell you about my light bulb moment.” I ‘vet had so many myself and I always love hearing about other volunteer’s realizations. To realize you aren’t crazy after all.
I silently listen. With any new volunteer I try not to preach my knowledge of Swaziland and smother them with bitter opinions. They need to put this puzzle together on their own. But I can help and maybe point out a few of the curved pieces.
After visiting with Peace Corps Volunteers from South Africa this new volunteer has realized what Peace Corps needs to change here in Swaziland. She leans in, talking fast skipping over words trying hard to get out her light bulb realization before she looses it. “When we all got our packet of information about serving in Peace Corps they told us we’d have a primary project. Something or someone to work with. A specific narrowed down project. But, here in Swaziland, it’s “HIV prevention”. You can’t just shove a volunteer into the middle of no where and tell them, ‘OK. Now. Go fight AIDS . This is not realistic. This is not how it is in other countries. This is not what we signed up for.” She takes a breath and I’m nodding in agreement. “Our first three months of preparation is mostly about the culture and how to be Swazi. I am never going to be Swazi.”
Her last sentence resonates hard with me. It’s as if that one part of the jigsaw I never considered before or even thought of was just handed to me- and by a new volunteer. And now that I have it, 7 months left, it’s almost too late.
Like your family, you discover this place is something you cannot change. I’m hearing my African Queen. Her words spoken over a year ago, mean more to me now. “All you can do is show them who you are.”
The guilt I have felt, like many others, for so long- for not being “Swazi” or not trying hard enough to fit in. Peace Corps tells us to keep our religious, political views and sexual orientations to ourselves. We are taught ways not to fight back when being harassed. That we need to give into their culture. A whole culture that is willing to lie down in its grave and hide behind their beliefs and values to justify the bad things they do and now accept.
Sometimes I feel like Pooh Bear- lost- following his own tracks in the snow. Carefully, like two porcupines sharing a room, we need to find a happy symbiosis. Swazi and American. There needs to be less acceptance and more exchange. There is a way for us to show them who we are in a respectable manner. You do not have to become a solidified obedient body like the rest of them. Walking zombies.
I sit outside my favorite café in town. Double espresso, hard-boiled egg, book in hand I’m greeted by a volunteer from the new group. She’s looking for advice on how to deal with the everyday harassment from men. I’ve become the go to girl when it comes to questions on this topic.
“At this point Mere, if this continues I am going to go home. I just can’t take it. But I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to quit.”
Peace Corps life can become a sacred duty and your pride will always get in the way.
As my second year in Swaziland is drawing to a close and I m thinking about what is next in my life, I see now that I could never fit in here- at least not in anything more than a superficial way. My appearance and nationality will always mean I am either privileged as a guest or exploited as an outsider. This is something Peace Corps never told us. We were taught how to be “Swazi”. We were taught the norms, the laws, the religion, and beliefs. We were taught to accept these things outwardly to gain acceptance. But this deception was never for me. I was born into this different world, this I could not change, and for the first time I am no longer denying it. For the first time, after our light bulb conversation, I can let go of the guilt. I refuse to loose myself again and I’m proud to show them who I am- everyday.
Nobody has more pleasure from traveling than I have. Nobody pushes more eagerly to see more and more of this world. Somewhere far away. Somewhere uncomfortable and challenging. Yet, there’s always this sensation nagging at me. Part sweet part sad. Some days the homesickness is unbearable. Some days the wind carries a familiar scent. A friend uses an expression your father used to say. Something glitters in a store window that you just know your mother would love.
I long for color in my life. The Siphofaneni ash grey world and the sun baked plain has edged out any traces of green and has sucked out any warm light I once carried inside me. As a volunteer in a foreign place, it seems like nothing is yours. The only space you have- your only privacy and comfort is inside your hut. You try to make it your own as best you can. I’ve covered every inch of my hut with magazine cut outs. Pictures and images of the world. Portraits and landscapes. I am surrounded by the outside world. I forget how strange it probably looks to someone at first. Other volunteers visit and gasp. My collage has taken over. I lie in bed at night and stare. Every time I look I see a new image. I pretend to be there. Just above my bed is my favorite place to escape. Pictures of my father’s home. Pictures of my family and friends. Smiling back at me. Waiting for me to come home.
Always in the back of my heart- no matter where I am. I am homesick waiting to return home.
The renovation of my hut, the evolution of my village will never be finished. The only constant is change and connection. It’s what brought us all here. Traveling the globe, as much as I see our differences across the oceans. I am always searching for the commonalities between us all. I still have this growing sense and hope that we live in a world that’s singing the same song in a thousand different accents all at once. That every person in this world is looking out for each other. For someone who does not exactly believe in God- I need to believe in people. That there is still good in us all and there is still good here- worth fighting for.
This is my hope and continues to be my dream.
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