A Girl in Search of Her Belly-Button

5/15/2011

“Do you believe in God?” I ask Mamba jumping on the back of his bike.
“You’re asking me this now?” He says revving the engine. “I believe in ancestors.”

I feel the heat of the exhaust pipe and I hold tight. We ride through the usual theme of smooth hills and deep valleys that surround this peri-urban world just outside Manzini. The uncut grass blows back against my legs and the cool air spreads its fingers through my hair. Mist still clings to these mountains and my legs itch with dew. We slide pass crumbling concrete homes that flash silver against brilliant green mountains. I try to see pass Mamba’s medusa dreads slapping my face. “It’s so beautiful.” I tell the locals time and time again. “Beautiful?” They always ask. One good thing about being an outsider, you see the beauty that blinds the locals every day.

“Do YOU believe in God?” He asks as we come to a stop.
“I don’t ‘believe’. I guess I go with what makes sense. And that’s FOREVER changing.”
“What do your parents believe?” He asks.
“Well, my mother identifies as Catholic and my father, well I’ve never gotten a straight answer out of him, but I would imagine he’s atheist. But they basically believe in the same thing. Helpin' a brotha out. It's just she calls it religious and he calls it patriotic.”
“And what do you believe?” He asks again.
“I prescribe to helpin’ a brotha out. Now, what do you mean ancestors? They can influence you? Like your father becoming a traditional healer?” I ask.
“Kind of. I believe they’re always watching. Looking down on us.”
“Well thanks for ruining sex for me.”
“Not that literally. But there’s a connection between you and your relatives. Take for example the way you crack your knuckles and shift in your seat constantly.”
“You think that’s my ancestors doing?” I ask.
“In a way, yes. A connection.”
“I crack my knuckles because I watched my mother do it and at twelve I told her if she didn’t stop cracking I’d start. She didn’t stop. And my step- mother would tell you I’m unable to sit still because of all the synapses firing and bouncing around in my head. We don’t call it ancestors. We call it ADD. And I blame my father’s genetics not ancestors.”
“And you told me about your step-father.” Mamba insists. “He met his father for the first time in the airport, wearing the exact same hat as him.”
“Well you got me there. I think the scientific term is coinincidence.”

Later, Mamba asks, “What did your parents do with your umbilical cord when it fell off?”
“I don’t know. The cat probably ate it. Why?”
“Traditional Swazi belief is about the connection between the earth, your family, and your home. When a child is born, Swazis bury the infant’s belly button at the father’s homestead. This way, when the person dies he or she’s soul will know where to return and where to find their real home. They look for their belly button there. This is why home is so important to us.”

In the car with Mamba’s father, Sipho, we wait while Mamba looks around for a new car for his new business. “I’ve noticed,” I say to Sipho. “Older Swazis with big titles: Ministers, Ambassadors, and Lawyers, once retired they all seem to leave the city life and go back to the rural world. Why is that?”
Sipho smiles proud, he knows I’m talking about him as well. “We all do it. It’s our HOME. We always return back to our home.”

Just two months left of service and I’ll be making my way home. Peace Corps volunteers are on edge. They see the finish line ahead and after two years stuck together we’re all at each other’s throats. We’ve turned new friendships into solid, agitating, sibling ones. “I think she’s mad at me. Could you ask her?” One volunteer writes. “You know how she is.” I say. “She blows up and then she’s fine. Just give her space.” I run into another volunteer in town and run to hug her, she pushes me away and rolls her eyes. “Ignore her,” Another says to me. “You know how she is. Always on the verge of crying.” Swaziland had taken its toll on us all and we weren’t afraid to take it out on each other. But now we are reuniting for the last time. We meet at a fancy hotel for out last workshop: Completion of Service.

PCVs were swallowed whole by the beauty this Mediterranean fantasy had to offer. Beautiful pink flowered vines spilled over old rustic brick walls and comfortable gum trees surrounded us in gardens of bright orange sunbursts. This was a place I could easily hear, smell, and feel my way around. Like kitchen marble counter-tops I just wanted to rub my face against it.

The first hour we meet and greet, the usual cookies and tea are set out. We munch and crunch playing catch up. The boys hug and twirl me in the air violently rubbing my head. “Always the hair!” I shout. “Do you know the work I put into this?!” As I grab my hair spray. “How many times do you actually spray your head with that stuff?” One asks. “Art takes time.” I say squeezing his cheeks. “Not all of us are as naturally adorable as you are.” Inside the lobby, the single boys huddle together with a Mac seated in front. They pull out a hard-drive of porn an old volunteer mails to them every 6 months, and this one has just arrived. “Bed-post porn?” I say out loud, reading one of the titles. “That can’t be comfortable. You realize how many of these women are faking it, no woman shoots out like that.”
“Shut up!” They shout, as if I’ve just told the children Santa Clause wasn’t actually real. The girls gather around the menu to see this evening’s meal. “Pesto bruchetta and Cajun salad!” They shriek. Workshops: where we look forward to fresh salads, hand-washing, and I guess the trading of externals full of new porn. The husbands play Donkey Kong while their wives talk capacity building.
“And I think WFP is finally going to recognize our NCP.” The wives say.
“Swim monkey! Swim!” The husbands shout. “Hey Link, don’t you have some rupees to go collect?” They ask me. " I look NOTHING like Link!" I protest back.

Before our first meeting, we walk around with zebra, bear, and elephant masks scaring Swazi staff and tricking them into trying Pop Rocks for the first time. Everyone is exactly where I left them 6 months ago. And I love it. Our training manager, Musa, who’s been like a father to us all, raises his fist in the air as I shove three cookies into my gullet and two more in my pocket. I pretend to run away when he shouts my name. “Mer-a-di-t-h….” He laughs. “You are like my first child. The black sheep. Trouble maker. So naughty.” I run to our lovable Swazi Bear (a nickname that he detests) barreling towards him with cookie crumbs flying out of my mouth and give him a big hug.

Then the big boss, Country Director: Eileen, walks in. “Can everyone take their seats please.” Another conference room, another conference, pens and paper laid out for taking notes. The penis doodles begin and so does the CD, “Almost two years ago…” She stops, now facing us. We sit silently with our animal masks on. “All right guys…” She tries not to laugh. “Like I was saying, almost two years ago you didn’t know what you didn’t know and now you know what you know you didn’t know… and even more.”

Huh…

“What an opener.” I whisper.

“You thought it was hard getting in?” She continues. “Now…blood and paper-work. We’re going to go over health insurance, re-adjustment allowance, resume writing, your Description of Service, and leaving your family and returning back home. You’ll soon be on your own again. You thought integrating into your community was rough. You’ll see what it’s like re-integrating back home. Remember. Home. You’re going to feel a loss of your community role. Loss of status. Loss of support network. The power point screams back at us. Volunteers say THIS is the hardest adjustment for ANY volunteer.”

I swallow hard. “Jesus.” I whisper to Brook next to me. “It’s like the trailer to Lord of the Rings,’ Are you frightened? Not NEARLY frightened enough.’ OK. We get it, Be Scared!”

“Do you remember, years ago, all the paper work you had to fill out to get into the Peace Corps? There was one document we asked from you, an aspiration statement. An essay on why you wanted to join the Peace Corps.”

PCV shouts out, “Back when I had aspiration.” Another responds, “Back when I had optimism. BEFORE I saw Dexter.”
“I think I mentioned Carl Sagan or something about astronomy.” One whispers to another. “I tried to throw in two or three GRE words for effect.”
“We have them here today.” CD continues. “And we’d like to pass them back to you.” CD continues.
I’m horrified to read Meredith two years ago.
PCV laughs, “Mere looks horrified.”
“Well Meredith wrote the longest aspiration statement of all of you.” CD hands me mine. Four pages long. That’s a lot of aspiration.
“Now I’m not going to ask you to count off by three, I know you guys by now. But just get into groups and talk about what you have personally gained and what you have professionally gained. We want you to identify your skills. Development work we lack legacy. We try to leave something in the people here. But what skills are we bringing home with us?”

We break off into groups.

“I touched a dolphin.” Another volunteer says serious- faced.
“OK.” I say. “Now. What have you PERSONALLY gained?” I smile.

The next few days they find creatively clever ways to help us process these past two years and prepare us for what’s ahead.
Outside now, “Everyone take a piece of PVC pipe.” Musa shouts to us.
“You’re going to take this marble and it has to pass through everyone’s PVC pipe to the next location. You’ll have to work together to get the marble from point A to point B ONLY using your PVC pipe and no talking please.”
We stand in a line and pass the marble from person to person. “If the marble drops, you start over again.” Musa explains.
The marble continues to drop and we go back to the beginning.
“Wait a minute is this supposed to be symbolizing how we all had to work together to get through these two years?!” I shout.
“We’re doing this exercise silently Meredith.” Musa responds.
An hour later, “As you can see, you all have learned to work well together over the years.” Musa shouts.
“He could have just told us that.” I whisper.

“Next, we’re going to prepare you for the questions.” Our APCD, Brian explains.
“Each person will toss this ball, under-hand, to someone new and then that person has to pull out a question from the hat. You have one minute to answer.”
“What was your favorite part about the Peace Corps?”
“Do they have libraries over there?”
“Should I join the Peace Corps?”
“Were you scared of getting AIDS?”
“Can you speak African?”

“Now. We’d like you all to share with us your favorite moment in Swaziland.”
We all moan. Anyone who’s traveled for more than a few months LOATHES this question. And now I had to answer it on the spot.
“Working at a shelter, there was this one woman.” A volunteer explains. “Her family had abandoned her. She had AIDS and now multi-resistant TB. She was bone thin and her CD count was less than 16. We all waited for her to die. All you could do was sit by her side. There was nothing really to say. But then one day, she got out of bed. She fought back. And I watched this woman come back to life.” Volunteer wipes the tears from her eyes. “Seeing life come back, was my favorite moment in Swaziland.” Others talk about their projects and the Swazis who learned to work with them and not depend on aid. The children who had no boundaries and would run up and grab your hand, laughing and smiling. The success story of convincing someone to finally get tested. The NCP they helped build or the bus stops they painted. All of us told stories of connection and finally, acceptance.

Next on our agenda. “Resume Building”

“Nooooooooooooooooooo!” I shout.
“We’re going to give you examples of good resumes and what they’re going to look for in yours.” APCD tells us. “Here’s a list of Action Verbs.” He hands us verbs.
“What will you do after the Peace Corps?” Our second least favorite question.
“Grad-School.”
“Grad-School.”
“Grad-School.”
“And you Meredith?” He turns my direction now.
“Plumber.”

Those extending another year in country say, “We’re trying to avoid growing up for as long as possible.” Avoid the Rat Race, plugging back into the machine, marriage, 2.5 babies and all. Other volunteers who’ve left us write and say, “Don’t come back. The economy is still shit.”

Our day is almost finished and we take our fifth tea break of the day. Our Peace Corps Medical Officer, Day, arrives with boxes of paper sacks full of drugs. “Who ordered meds?!” She shrieks, as she always does. Volunteers needing ointments for foot fungus, yeast infections, weird rash behind the ears, ORS for diarrhea. I’d been sick from all the food for the past two days and was convinced I had worms. I run over to Day.
She’s busy greeting everyone by name then turns to me with a stunned look on her face.
“Meredith?!” She yells. “What are YOU doing here?”
“Well, ah, this is kind of the finish line. We’re all here.”
“Yeah. But I didn’t think YOU’D be here.”
Surrounding volunteers’ mouths drop.
“I mean. With everything you’ve been through over the years and ya know we haven’t heard from you in a while. You kind of went off our radar.”
“Yes well, I’m an adult.”
“Well. You said you were gonna stick it out these two years. And you did.” She ignorantly smiles.
I wanted to smack her smug smurk off her face. I didn’t stick around to finish some marathon. This wasn’t about pride. I WANTED to be here.
“Flu shots for everyone!” Medical Officer shouts.
“Yeah. About that. I ah..” I whimper.
“It’s in your contract. You WILL get your shot.”
Property of US government.
I read over the waiver as she wipes a patch of my skin with an alcohol swab. “Looks like we’re going to need more swabs. You volunteers are always so filthy.” She amuses herself.
“Day. I was trying to tell you, I had a fever two days ago and it says here…”
“What did I say?!” She screams down at me.
“Sign the waiver!”
Other volunteers stand stunned.
“Oops!” She shouts laughing again, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde like, “That one was just saline. Forgot to mix it up. Let’s try that again.”
If I had a quarter for every time she injected us with the wrong shit, forgot who we were, accidentally told confidential business to another volunteer, or almost gave medication to someone who’s highly allergic to that medication.. well you know how the saying goes, I’d be a rich woman.

“Next,” Country Director shouts, “We have our Panel of RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers) here today to talk to you about what it’s like to return home.”
I find it interesting, a panel of Returned Volunteers, who haven’t actually returned. All are now working in Swaziland. They ran back to Africa the first chance they got. What did they really know about re-integrating? And even worse, WHY did they flee back?

Their eyes glowed blood red. They’ve come for our tears.

“When I went to the grocery store,” One begins. “I had to leave. The bread aisle alone was too overwhelming.”
“Lots of things will disgust you.” Another says. “But don’t preach.”
“ I Haven’t even been home yet.”
“ I suffered 8 months of depression. Take the 3 free counseling sessions Peace Corps offers you after service.”
“I went through PTSD. Post traumatic stress syndrome. I served in Lesotho, and like you, the death rate was incredibly high. You accepted life as it is was while you were here but you never realized the trauma you had been experiencing over the two years.”
“And nobody cares.” One adds.
“Well actually, they just can’t contextualize it, just be patient.”
“Back home is a cold culture where no one picks up the phone. Now they only respond through text.”
“Stay away from the news. Terror! Terror! Terror! Arg!”


Now, we’re all frightened. And of course, the volunteer who's always on the verge of tears, is a hysterical mess in the back of the room.

Coming to a close of our Close of Service we are asked to sit on the ground in a circle. If we sing kumbay yah (sp?) I’m going to shoot myself. Swazi and American staff hover over us and I know this is going to be good. Our country director is known for her emotional ceremonies. “It’s important,” She beings. “To make transitions. We have to make transitions.” We had all become accustomed to two years of discomfort and disappointment. But now we were transitioning to going back. Would life go back to fabric softener cotton white? My mother’s tuna salad with pickle and egg on lightly toasted rye? All quiet. All normal. Or would I return home and find myself depleted? I had this thought for a moment. I tried to crush it. Ignore it. But I briefly wondered, could these have been the best days of my life? “You’ll spend the rest of your life trying to get back what you lost.” One RPCV had said. Our CD holds a spool of string in her hands. She tells us to wrap the string THREE times around our wrist then pass it to the person on our right. “Don’t tear it off just yet.” Soon all 32 volunteers sit facing each other with one spool of string connecting us all. We had all been stuck in this experience together. We each had our own story to tell but through it all were these faces surrounding us. It horrified me, the reality of how easy it is to loose someone in this big ol’ world.

Most of us here, women, have turned into hypochondriac drama queens. The atmosphere surges with estrogen overload and for most of us, our vaginas had all synced up. I look around and see the tears collecting in our eyes. We were a collective mess. And I couldn’t settle on any accurate emotion I was feeling: shame, guilt, defeat, anxiety, fear, collided with relief, excitement, joy, and accomplishment. Nothing truly accurate though. I just looked around and thought, How am I going to write about all this?

Country Director asks us to lift our right hand in the air and we all feel the tug of each other. We had came here looking for connection and we had definitely found it. We didn’t need a piece of string to show us. “Thandi is going to walk around and cut you all apart. I want you to find someone to tie the knot around your wrist for you. This person will give you a blessing, a wish, and a farewell.” I knew immediately who I wanted to tie my knot. Someone who would be there with me after the knot has been tied, after the string had finally frayed from my wrist, someone who’s wedding I’d speak at, whose children I’d watch grow up. But, in all the chaos of people moving around we some how got lost in this big ol’ world. I walk over to Vanessa instead. Vanessa is a volunteer who embodies everything I am not. We were yin and yang and over the last two years we had drifted apart. I walk over to her and she looks stunned I hadn’t chosen Brook. With my wrist in her hand she says to me, “To the girl who said Peace Corps was her life dream. I hope it was everything you hoped. You’ve been through a lot. I wish you happiness in your next adventure and I hope you find the kind of people you’ve always been searching for. Oh, and also, that perfect bite.” She smiles and begins to tie my knot. “Meredith you tied it more than three times! Hold still! Now, which way do you want this. A knot this way, or this way.. I think this way is better. It'll hold stronger, but if you want it like this then....” And I laugh at the obvious representation of this one momentary gesture that symbolized our friendship.

I had gone over the list of options in my head and the list was short: Leave Swaziland, go back to school. Indecision paralyzed me. These two years I had become disturbed by curiosity. I was fascinated by Swazi’s rude exposure. They still had a story to tell me. I wanted an excuse to look a bit closer. This place was becoming more and more spectacular and I had fallen in love with its agony. I had shared these two years not only with my volunteers but with Swazis. I enjoyed not only the experience of looking at them, but KNOWING them. They were born here. They would die here. And on July 20th, I would leave here.. without them.

You hope for some understanding, some insight, a spark of realization, a moral lesson or a clue about how this big ol’ world works. But in the end, you’re left with just as much curiosity and a thirst for more. Had you imagined yourself this way two years ago? Had you imagined the world in this manner before? I had never felt so vividly alive and aware. I seemed to have floated my way through high school, through college, to Seattle, down to Antarctica, and bouncing around the world without a care. These were never MY decisions. But this, Africa, I was actively apart of this decision. This was mine. All mine. I was here because of me and me alone. And I could feel myself growing. I worried, would I loose this child like wonder and passionate drive for more?

Outside our Peace Corps office, it’s time to say goodbye to Eileen, our Country Director. We call it the "Ring Out". A large metal wheel hangs outside the Peace Corps entrance door with all the signatures of previous volunteers and staff. We stand in a circle and pass the metal rod from person to person speaking fondly of the person leaving. Then, it’s Eileen’s time to speak. She squeezes the rod tightly, her knuckles turn white as she tries to hold back the tears. She begins to cry and the rest of us follow. And then, just like that, she hits the wheel as hard as she can and she has officially Ringed Out. She is no longer our Country Director. We finalize it all with a group hug and then say goodbye.

The next evening Mamba sits and listens as I freak out on him. I wipe tears from my eyes, blow snot buggers into tissues and my sleeves. I try to speak on each inhale as I cry out on every exhale. I haven’t cried like this in a long, long time. Poor guy. “I’m SO scared to go back!” I shout. “I have no idea what I want. Where I want. Who I want. I feel like a goddamn teenager again! What if I go my whole life never hearing someone call me ‘Simphiwe’ again?! They all think it’s “Simphiwe” back home and not Sim-Pee-Way.” Mamba laughs and hands me another tissue. He holds my snot infested hand and whispers, “It sounds like you’re just a girl in search of her belly-button.” We both laugh, and like a moth to light, it hit me. At first it was like flames shooting up my throat and out my mouth. But then I got this amazing trembling feeling, smooth and warm, bubbly butterflies inside my chest. “It’s going to be OK.” I said to him. “I don’t have to know who or what I am. I’m me and I know there’s plenty more adventures to come.”

I think back to a few weeks ago when my Head Teacher pulled up my sleeve, like he always does, reading the SiSwati tattoo on my forearm and the English text on my upper arm. “Simphiwe. You’ve got SiSwati down here,” He points, “And English up here. What does that mean?” He asks. I smile, “I guess it means I’ll go home, half Swazi and half American.” He slaps my back and grins, “That you will Simphiwe. You will always have two homes.”

Mamba continues now, “I know what you need. Lets go for a ride.” I climb on the back and hold on tight. Midnight is drifting towards us, like a jellyfish on top of a wave, we can’t escape it. He rides fast into the night. I lean back against the blowing night air and raise my hands up to the Heavens. I tilt my head back and look up at all that moves above this planet- looking back down at us. I wave to the shimmering and pulsating world above. I smile and say hello to my ancestors. I wasn’t sure if I believed in God or even my ancestors, but I just knew, deep down, one day- I’d find my belly-button. And eventually, I’d find my place in this big ol’ world.

A Wrecking Ball With A Heart Of Gold

5/1/2011

“You’re using your vagina for research?!” Peace Corps volunteer friend squeals at me while shoveling chunks of cheese into her mouth.
“Jesus ew. No. I’m just saying.” I defend. “I’m starting to understand this tangled web of sexual relations between the people here.”
“Oh really?”
“Their lack of getting to know each other. This segregation between the genders, it all causes people to cheat. And now I’m thinking its being born into a world of tragedy that causes them to close up and live behind these self protecting walls. ROMANCE IS DEAD IN SWAZILAND. And I’m starting to understand all this because well, I’ve dated “them”. Men who grew up with ambassador fathers or infamous lawyer dads who stayed out all night fucking other women while their mothers sat at home crying to their ten year olds about their cheating fathers. ‘I promised my mother I’d never be like my father, but it’s exactly who I am today. It’s all I saw growing up. I don’t know how to NOT be HIM.’ They’d confide in me. I mean take this one guy for instance….”

“At eleven I said, ‘Fuck dogs’.” My new Zimbabwean friend tells me over dinner.
“At age eleven you said fuck dogs?” I laugh. “I’m impressed. But not surprised.”
“Why aren’t you surprised?” He asks.
“Because….” I lean across the table and whisper now. “Let’s face it. You’re African. Way to fulfill THAT stereotype.”
Zimbabwe begins to tell me his story. He doesn’t hate dogs but rather no longer desires them in his life. Growing up, his best friend was his dog and at the young impressionable age of eleven, his best friend died on him.

“And now. I say, fuck dogs. I gave it a shot.” He smiles. I think about all the dogs I’ve buried this past year. I could never say, “Fuck dogs”.

“Same goes for love. Why risk it when you know it’s only going to end in tears, pain, and unbearable anguish?” I can’t help but shoot my crooked finger in the air and protest, “Wait a minute.” I say. I’ve heard this before many times and I still struggle to understand how someone can so easily just give up on love. I shift in my seat, preparing to talk about myself, again.


“I mean I’m someone whose been falling in love since before grade school.” I tell him. Let’s see. Kevin Easterday. Kindergarten. Showing him how to kiss in the closet. Caught by the jealous Jessica who told the teacher. Then there was Chad in the third grade and the love letter I wrote Toby in yellow crayon in case someone else found it. In my mind, only Tobey had the ability to read yellow. Unfortunately, so did Mrs. Sprecklemeyer. Then there was the blue eyed Jesse James Gerrard. The rebel who no doubt gave my mother panic attacks. Then came the peer-proclaimed dyke phase. Thank you Katie Hamilton. Quickly proved them wrong when I started dating a man four years older than me and of course gave my mother more panic attacks.



No. Falling in love had never been hard for me. And how many times I ended up hurting myself- was uncountable. Heartache so bad it moved you to listen to Coldplay for pete’s sake. COLDPLAY. And yet, I always bounced back, ready to do it all over again. So I smile big and tell Zimbabwe, “The sweet ain’t as sweet without the sour baby. Or at least that’s what Jason Lee said in ‘Vanilla Sky’.”



Yup. It’s always been worth it for me. But why. Why had it always been so easy for me and not for others? In High School, my best friend catches her father cheating on her mother. Ten years later and still it’s, “Fuck men.” Another friend, grows up watching the boy she loves fall in love with every friend that surrounds her, but never her. To this day, can’t seem to put her safety wall down and let a man in. Sometimes I envy their lack of emotional ties whereas I feel pulled from every person every which way. But again, I ask myself why. Maybe they had never experienced REAL love? Maybe their heart vessels were smaller than my own.



“At 34 and you’ve never been IN love?” I ask Mamba.

“Nope. I don’t know. Lack of options maybe. They all seem to fall for me and I just end up hurting them.”



This is blowing my mind.



So I ask Zimbabwe, “Have you ever been in love?”



He thinks it over. He ponders a bit then says, “I think so. Yes. Maybe. No? I don’t know. How do you know?” And like I once told my best friend, raised a Southern Baptist, when she asked me in High School, “How do you know when you’ve had an orgasm?”

I replied, “When you know you know. And if you aren’t sure then as my favorite ancient guru, the eight ball, so eloquently puts it ‘Outlook not so good.’ Or ’Try again later.’”



“So you go on dates with men to understand them?” Peace Corps friend clarifies.

“Well that certainly sounds better than, ‘Using my vagina for the sake of research’.” I smile.



An RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) who served in Lesotho and is now working in Swaziland, with Baylor, came here to conduct surveys and interviews with the Men Having Sex with Men (MSM) and sex worker population. Our country director tells us, “So if you have any questions for him he’ll be holding a conference at our office next week.” Myself and 4 other Peace Corps volunteers arrive early that morning. I’m the only “straight” one in the bunch. Question after question is asked and I find myself slowly taking over the discussion. I hadn’t realized how much I already knew about the relationship dynamics in this country.



But it wasn’t just the few men I’d been on dates with that I learned from. It was the sex worker whose hair I held back as she puked guts into the toilet. She wipes her chin and pulls out her wallet filled with pictures of all the children she never sees. Or the pub, Mario’s, that the homosexual population considers their “underground gay bar” but the rest of Swaziland has no idea the entertainment being delivered to them every Thursday night is really Gay Karaoke. Or the Chinese Bar in Manzini, that attracts sex workers. I wait for the drunken man talking to the two prostitutes, who sit at their usual booth, to leave then watch as they signal other customers over. I pay close attention to these signals and the ones used by the gay community. Sign language to let a person know, you’re game. Then there’s the very direct and simple Afrikaners I’ve met over the years. Dancing at a club in Ezulwini with friends, a tall and lean young man swoops me off my feet and begins teaching me how to do some ballroom shuffle. His head looks down on mine, and I can hear him breathing. He places is hand securely on my lower back, guiding me where he wants me to go. It was the first time I’d allowed someone to guide me in such an assertive manner and it was the first time I’d felt like a lady in quite a while. Afterwards, I tell him I’m dating Mamba and he says to me, “Well then, I’ll stop trying. I’m not racist but I don’t share a woman with a black man.” Or the other Afrikaner I fought with who drunkenly yelled at a young and very frightened bartender. He demanded she give him her name. You’d be surprised how much power these white supremacsts have and I didn’t want her to loose her job.

“This is Phindile. We’re good friends.” I lie to the Afrikaner.

“Hey. Little girl. Stay out of this.” He grunts back.

“Hey neandrathal. Evolve.” I hiss.

Now, towering over me, this one isn’t in the mood for a dance, he shouts, “Fucking Americans. If you don’t teach these monkeys how customer service is done, they’ll never learn!”

“He buddy. Apartheids over. Why don’t ya go throw a football laterally you jock!” My Peace Corps friend holding me back.

“But I wanna Dexter style head butt this a hole!” I shout.



A few months later, out with Mamba and co., he introduces me to a new set of friends of his- the biker guys. And there sat tall neandrathal man glaring back at me.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” I smile smug with my arm extended.

Mamba later asks, “Did I miss something?”

“I might have shoulder-shoved him a few months back.”



“Dammit Mere. Afrikaners are not afraid to hit their women. They’re very deeply troubled people.” He points to a man standing at the back of the bar. “See that guy. He found out his wife was cheating on him so he stood under a scalding hot shower for thirty minutes.” The man turns his head our way and I notice the whole left side is almost melted off. “Then he took his wife and son for a ride and drove everyone off a cliff. Thankfully, they all survived.”

“Jesus. So what happened?”

“They’re Afrikan. They don’t divorce.”

The family walks over to greet us and I shake their hands. They seemed ridiculously happy, as if I’d seen them on some Quaker Oats commercial.

“You think they’re bad. Try the second -generation coloreds. (Bi-racial). You find that colored people only seem to want to be with other colored people and hang with only colored people. So naturally, they procreate and have second generation colored babies. These children grow up not really knowing what they are, white or black, and become very angry and violent.”



I wonder who would win in a fight, an Afrikaner or second generation “Colored”?



I was beginning to think Swazi.


Then there’s all the hours added up in the bathrooms of bars I’ve spent with drunken girls touching my hair in awe and talking about their cheating boyfriends as they lean their beer heavy bodies on me. “Doesn’t matter. I’m gonna fuck that guy outside anyway.” They laugh. “These guys have a different sim card for every woman.” They laugh. Sim card is a card you put in your phone with a registered number. Do we have these back home? I can’t even remember anymore. Mamba waits outside the ladies room impatiently. He rolls his eyes when I finally come out, holding another drunken one up.“Can’t take you anywhere.” He groans. “We can’t leave her like this.” I protest. “Dammit woman. Not again.” He moans. And we can’t forget the drunken men, cops and lawyers, at the shady sheebeens I share drinks with as they ask me about oral sex and how to keep a woman interested. Mamba again, shaking his head in the background. Or the older ladies in the locker room who tell me what the sex life is like for a Swazi woman over the age of thirty. Or the camp counselors I’ve worked with who keep me up all night asking questions about a white man’s penis and telling me what kinds of “foreplay” is appropriate in their country.



And my students. Who bare it all everyday to me. Debates and discussions in the classroom about relationships and sexuality. “If my girlfriend is gone I’d have sex with my best mate.” But this isn’t gay, to them. And then there’s the young girls who finally work up the courage and whisper to me after class, “Simphiwe. Can I ask you something?”



Today, one finds me in the library, surrounded by books.



“Is it true what you said about checking someone’s virginity? That you can’t?” She asks me looking down.

I pop up from off the floor, “You mean the hymen?” I clarify. “Most girls have already broken their’s even if they haven’t had sex. You can’t really check that sort of thing.”

“So, let’s say.” She continues now, tears fill her eyes and she continues to look down. I grab her hand and lead her to a chair.

“It’s OK. You can ask me anything.” I say.

“Let’s say you were raped when you were five. And you haven’t had sex since then. Will your future husband be able to tell you have had sex before?”

I explain the vagina as a muscle. Muscles stretch and muscles go back.

“One day.” She continues, tears streaming down her face now. “I was late returning home from school. I missed the bus. My step-mother didn’t believe me. She accused me of having sex with the boys in the bushes. So she told me she was going to check to see if I was still a virgin.”

She holds on tight to the bottom of her chair, trying hard to hold back the tears.

“She held me down. She AND her friends, and.. ah…. they checked. They shoved their fingers inside me and told me I wasn’t a virgin anymore. They laughed and said they were right all along.”

“So now you’re afraid your future husband will say the same thing to you?” I ask.

“He won’t want me anymore Simphiwe. He won’t understand.” I struggle to find the right words. Now is not the time to bash her step-mother.

“I don’t have sex because I’m so scared. My step-mother says all men are pigs. And what if she’s right? He’ll never understand.”

“Why did you tell me about this?” I ask her. “Why didn’t you go to the other teachers?”

She lifts her head and looks at me, “Because. They’ll talk about me to the other teachers. They all gossip and judge. They won’t understand either. I know you won’t say anything. I know you understand. That you care.”

“So now you know what to look for in a partner. (Seems obvious to us, but for these girls identifying these qualities in a person is not easy. Most don’t know these traits are possible in a person.) These are the qualities you need in a man.” I tell her. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with someone you can’t open up to? To someone who won’t understand and only judge you?”

“No.”

“Here. Help me get these books inside here. I’ll teach you how fiction is organized.”

(I’ve learned when someone has a hard time opening up, keeping their hands busy while they talk is a good way to relieve the nerves.)
“Fiction?” She asks.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays. My library club. You must come.” I smile.

We sit together, organizing fiction by the author’s last name.

“Your step-mother was wrong to hold you down like that. What she did was abuse. You need to know that. And she was wrong to tell you ALL men are pigs. You’re doing the right thing and waiting. Don’t ever settle. OK? I promise you. Men are like wine. They get better with age. MUCH age. You’re in high school. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“OK.”

I hold my hand out. She puts Judy Blume down and puts her hand in mine.

“We’re in this together.” I tell her.“Women. It’s never been easy for us, especially here, but you’ve shown me today how brave you are.”

“I want to tell her my uncle raped me. I want to tell her I forgive her for what she did and I love her for putting me through school and taking me in when my parents left. Church tells us to forgive. I forgive her. I forgive my parents for leaving me. And I even forgive him. If I ever saw him again, I would tell him just that. I forgive you.”



Swaziland, as I’ve stated before, has been torn apart. Families and relationships are destroyed, leaving behind thick trails of dishonesty, jealousy, betrayal, unimaginable cruelty and apathy for the children to learn on their own. There desperately needs to be a study done to understand the root of the problem in this country. What is causing such a stunt in their social growth? If only Kinsey were here with me now. We’d interview, survey, seek to understand why it is they do what they do. We’d write books, journals, articles- all would be published. We’d eventually win a Pulitzer or whatever prize it is a good little writer wins. He’d pat me on the shoulder and say, “Well done my friend. Well done.” I’d look up at him and say, “Now, seriously man, can you loose the stupid bowtie?” He’d respond, “OK, Justin Beiber hair-cut.” And I’d say, “Touché my friend. Touché.”



But there’s a fine line between reporting and helping people. I’m constantly torn, trying to do both. All the stories I’ve heard and seen. All the times I’ve been told, “Stay out of it.”



At a backpackers, volunteers and I share a meal with a man. Middle aged and white South African.

“I’m a photographer.” He tells us.

“We’re Peace Corps.” I say back.

He laughs, “All those bloody rules you have to follow. How do you do it?”

“It keeps me here without having to pay.”

He continues to tell us stories of shooting pictures during the apartheid. “It’s incredibly challenging to stand back and shoot photo after photo of people dying right in front of you, and not being able to do anything. People scrutinize, and you start to feel the guilt.” He says cool and cavalier. “My best mate couldn’t take it. He ended up killing himself.”

Turns out, his friend is the one who took the famous shot of the vulture stalking the Sudanese child. I remember seeing this award-winning photo years ago.



“Things start to come into perspective when you’ve been shot yourself.”

“You were shot?” I ask.

“And I watched my other buddy die. We called ourselves The Bang Bang Club. We were constantly being shot at.” My friend grabs my hand under the table, and whispers through the left side of her mouth, “Holy shit. This is Greg Marinovich. I’m reading his book.”

“Can I just say, it’s an honor to meet you.” My friend says. “Your book is on my nightstand table as we speak.”

“You have a nightstand?” I joke.

“They’re actually making a film about it.” He says.

“And who will be playing you?” I ask.

“Ryan Phillipe.”

He looks nothing like Ryan Phillipe.

“So what’s the secret?” I ask. “To keep traveling and have a family.”

“You marry someone else who understands. My wife travels for her work as well. We take shifts watching the kids. Or they come with us. We have an understanding.”


The next few days, I thought heavily on his words, “It’s incredibly challenging to stand back and shoot photo after photo of people dying right in front of you, and not being able to do anything about it.”

I couldn’t help but feel incredibly self-righteous every time I wrote.

About a year ago, things began to change for me. Once these people seemed like animals at a zoo. Not the usual black bear or red fox- but the rare and new meer cat all the way from Africa. I was mesmerized. But from a distance, a far far distance, I thought, I could never be like “them”. And around a year ago, I had gone from taking notes and photos and living amongst this crowd to becoming one of them.

“You volunteers thinking you’re better than us.” Mamba once told me. “It’s always us vs. you guys. Like we’re so different.”

At some point, during my service, some part of my lower brain stem had started to understand and recognize the way they did things. My understanding led me to start doing them myself. My thoughts became more, “Swazi”. I may never be “them” on paper, or really anyone other than myself- but my behavior was becoming more and more like “them” and I didn’t know if this was a good thing or bad thing.

“We need to talk.” I tell Mamba at our usual restaurant.
“Ah oh. Four words anyone in a relationship hates hearing.” He says to me.
“Is that what this is?” I ask.
“Well. Yeah. I mean. You’re my girl.” He laughs.
“Yeah.” I exhale. “I guess. I don’t know how comfortable I am with that.”
His eyes no longer twinkle with playfulness.
“What did you do Mere?”
My razor stubbled legs, crossed together, rub and burn with sweat. I tap my foot in the air nervously. You’ve got the wrong girl. I think.
“Tell me.” He says dis-alarmingly.
My lips are numb with wasps squeezed between them, afraid to let these wings out.
So. I tell him a story that went something like, one thing led to another. Yadda yadda yadda. “And I just thought you should know.”
His once sparkling eyes now look down on me.
“So. Now you’re the people you call THEM.” He says.
A long and as to be expected pause.

“You wanna know why I’m 34 and single.” He continues. “Because I CHOOSE to be. I could easily be married with children by now. But I don’t want to be apart of this. This sexual network that YOU are now apart of.”
I hold back emotion. Which has never been easy for me.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like? You go to Brook’s homestead ‘sister’s’ funeral and think you’re Swazi now? Think you know? They call you Simphiwe. They call her Fikile. Your Peace Corps made up names. I’ve buried so many because of this disease. I watched my cousin waste away. And so many others like him. I LIVE this.”
“I know.” I whisper back.
“Am I just research to you?”
“God of course not.” I plead.
Welcome to the wonderful world of multiple-concurrent partners, starring: Me.

“Do you remember what you said to me the first time we met, almost two years ago?” He asks. “You told me, ‘Not a chance.’ And walked off. You assumed that’s all I was after. That I was just like them.”
“I’ve changed.”
“You’ve grown, and that’s what I like about you. Your ability to grow, learn, seek out answers, even when it gets you into trouble over and over again. How many times has Brook gotten drunk and yelled at you, ‘Everybody just LOVES SIMPHIWE. It’s always about SIMPHIWE. SIMPHIWE. SIMPHIWE. SIMPHIWE!’Every place I take you two, people just flock to you. People are naturally attracted to you. You’re open. You’re willing to hold anyone’s hand no matter what. You don’t roll your eyes and set us apart like other outsiders. But you still have SO much to learn. You judge me for never being in love. You judge Brook for being too scared to fall in love. But it’s all shit Mere. You’re the one who’s too afraid to fall in love. You talk about that guy back home that you loved for so many years. The men you’ve dated since then and every time you start to get close, to feel something you fuck it up. Run away and hurt him. You hide behind other people’s suffering. You write their stories. But YOU are the one who’s too scared. Too scared to look at yourself.”

Mamba stands to leave. “I’ve never read your blog. Nor do I want to. But I’m sure you write about everyone and their flaws and how they must change. But do you have the strength to do that to yourself?” He grabs my arm and turns it over, “Vula Emehlo.”

He walks out the door. And this time, I don’t stop him.

I sit at our table. Alone now. The chicken mayo sandwich looking back at me. Watching. Judging. I listen to the dim electric buzz of the clock overhead. Watching me. Judging. Loudly counting the seconds, minutes, hours, until I’ve figured myself out. Or at least, grow the fuck up. My paint was beginning to chip off and exposing veins and insecurities now bled through. Patches of bare bone stuck out. An explosion has gone off inside me, leaving a clean flattened area for room to grow. Or so I hoped. I’m stuck in this moment of realization. His ability to hold up a mirror and show me my inner-self was completely necessary and truly un-nerving.

“Fuck.” I exhale kicking a chair. I stand to go, leaving an un-touched chicken mayo behind. Which has never happened. Those around stare, as they always do. I shout back, “Ubuka ini?!” (What are you looking at?)

The synapses keep firing away inside my head. I’m outside and people pass greeting. As they always do. I entertain them with a fake look when really my thoughts are with him. I curve my lips upwards to squeeze out a smile, but my eyes remain the same: sunken, sullen. I keep going over the last 30 minutes in my mind.

“You write your stories about us and you think you’re so different.” He said to me.
“This isn’t about ME. My blog isn’t some journal or diary. I write about what I see.”
“No, it’s always been about you.”
“Fine. You want me to write about myself. I’ll write about myself!” I shout at him inside the now echoing restaurant. “I’m fully capable of judging myself. To be judged by others.”

A borderline psychotic and narcissitic confessional if you ask me, but if that’s what it takes. I can do this, expose myself. Other Peace Corps blogs of projects, workshops, the weird fungus growing between their toes, the shouts of frustration about the apathy here. Their thoughts and opinions on these “Host Country Nationals”. What crazy thing their host brother said today. Living in a country with the highest rate of HIV, where everyone is casually fucking. Why?! Little PCV’s scream Why?!

I, a Peace Corps Volunteer, had casual sex and I hurt someone. Peace Corps Volunteers aren’t the saints that everyone (back home) makes them up to me. I can’t go home with this false identity.

And now I stand in my neighboring PCV’s hut, pacing, mumbling. “Just tell me.” He pleads. “It can’t be THAT bad.” I look down and whisper what it is I came here for. “You need PEP?” He repeats. “Yes!” I screech. “You mean the drugs I brought from the States that you made fun of me for carrying?” Two years ago, my neighboring PCV and friend declares to the rest of the volunteers during training, “Now if any of you think you might be at risk of exposure to HIV, just so you know, I brought along PEP.” Back when we didn’t know what PEP was. Back when this volunteer confessed his feelings for me. Ignorance. He explains, “Post exposure prophylaxis. One pill everyday and it pretty much decreases chance of transmission to 0.” I shouted back, “Nerd alert!”

But now I speak weak, “Yes. Ironic. But still. Can I have it?” I ask again.
“Before you can start it, you need to get tested. Which means Peace Corps would be involved.”

We walk to the nearest clinic instead. “I think it’s ridiculous.” He tells me along the way. “Peace Corps doesn’t let us test for HIV on our own. That we have to go to them.” I nod in agreement. “And that they don’t encourage us to come in and get tested during our medical evaluations throughout the two years.” I laugh, “Well if any of us DID contract HIV while serving, it’d be on Peace Corps dime. They don’t want that. But I could never go to them for help. Asking the Peace Corps Medical Officer to be tested and to get on PEP could get me sent home.” I tell him. “I don’t want to risk going home with only three months left. I shouldn’t have to risk my safety in order to stay.” I remember back to a previous volunteer who asked to be tested and put on PEP. The Peace Corps Medical Officer let it leak to other volunteers about her “high risk behavior” and soon everyone knew. This volunteer became outcasted, and threatened to be sent home. People still talk about this “deviant” volunteer. “Condoms break. Your service shouldn’t be threatened because of this.” My friend tells me. “Even if I were raped.” I say. “I’d never go to them. They blame us too often. You remember how they treated me last time. I wouldn’t risk it again. And I know so many others who’d rather keep quiet.”

My friend and I, the only one I can trust, walk to the nearest clinic to ask for two rapid tests.
“Two?” I ask him.
“Yeah.” He smiles back. “I can’t let you test alone.”
“But you could get into trouble for testing outside of Peace Corps.”
“I’m playing pharmacy and giving you PEP, I could get in trouble for a lot of things today.”
“Thank you.” I whisper, holding back the tears.

Back inside his hut, he lays the two tests out on the table. I pace back and forth. My heart skips every other beat as I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans. “I can’t do this.” I tell him. “Everyone is nervous, no matter what they did, to take an HIV test. It’s completely normal.” He grabs my finger and pricks the side. Blood oozes out onto the tiny strip. He does the same to his. “Now. We wait.”

“FUCK. This is worse than a pregnancy test.” I yell. I continue to pace, shaking. My head burns hot and I’m feeling light headed. “Here.” He hands me a shot of vodka. “Take…” Before he can finish I down it. “Ooookkkkk. Well, One more for good measure.” He continues. Two shots later and he’s hovering over our blood strips. My future, I think, lies on one little strip. All of a sudden a masters, a marriage, and babies didn’t seem so bad. I just wanted a life a head of me. Again, now I know why it’s so hard for “them” to test.

This is my close up. And I’m sharing it with you.

PCV friend smiles big. “We’re not pregnant!” He laughs. I raise my hand, about to hit him. “Relax. It’s negative. It’s negative.” He rubs my hair, as if I were some cute little puppy he just rescued, and hands me the PEP. “This shit is very toxic. Are you sure you want to take it? Once you start you can’t go back.” I grab the bottle, pull out a pill and swallow. “Now I spoke with one of the doctors from Baylor and he says to take one everyday at the same time until it’s gone. There are a few side effects. Depression. Anxiety. Acid reflux. Nascia. Don’t take any other medication while you’re on this or drink alcohol. Just to be safe. And for god’s sake, if anyone asks, especially Peace Corps, you didn’t get this from me.”
“Thank you.” I say to him.
“You doin’ OK Mere? You can tell me.”
“Yeah.” I say. “I’m good. I’m always good.” I smile and quickly punch him in the gut to lighten the mood.

I arrive home. No dogs to greet me now. I walk alone. I sit on the edge of my bed waiting to hear the banging of my burglar bar door as my dogs come barreling in for a landing. Silence surrounds me. I can only hear Mamba’s words.

And he was right. Zimbabwe says fuck dogs. My friends say fuck men. Mr. Bang Bang Club tells us about the fine line of us and them. Recording or helping. And I sit here, guilty.

I’m not really sure why, but I had learned to keep any real emotion towards another person as superficial as possible. I’d rather talk about other people’s tragedies, than my own. As much as I was afraid of getting hurt, I was just as horrified at the thought of hurting someone else again. Rather fuck it up in the beginning. Skip through all the mushy bits. I never wanted to fuck it up with a title or some stupid term of endearment. He’d call me sweetie and I’d respond with a punch to the stomach. “Don’t call me that.” I’d say. And even still, I’m unable to listen to the sappy tunes of Mr. Coldplay.

I never told Mamba how much he meant to me. How much I appreciated him. That unlike the rest, I noticed, he liked me just as I am. He didn’t hold me up to the light like some Polaroid picture, waiting and hoping for me to develop. To become what they wanted. Hoping someday I’d be the marrying kind, or someday I’d decide I don’t want children either and live on some hippie commune. Be scolded for eating tuna fish in the closet because “WE’RE” vegetarians. I had room to grow into my OWN shoes instead of pretending to wear someone else's. I didn’t feel so small and insignificant.

I made it quite clear to him in the beginning about the previous cheating and lying I put others through before him. And still he didn’t judge. I didn’t pretend not to enjoy People magazine because then he might think I wasn’t as sophisticated as him. I went on and on about how much I tried to live a “cruelty- free life” and he’d just laugh and ask me how my chicken mayo sandwich was treating me. No lecture would follow. “Aren’t you going to call me a hypocrite?” I’d ask.

I was still figuring myself out. And he seemed to be Ok with that.

And I love how he didn’t care what others thought of him. Walking around, confident, in his torn camouflage cargo shorts and his sleeveless sweatshirt (that I continue to make fun of) amongst his North Face polo-wearing buddies. Even when we’re at a restaurant, eating dinner, and he takes off his dirty shoes and sweaty socks and lets his feet air out, as grossed out as I am- I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d pull his hair back in Princess Leia buns inside fancy places and he’d walk around without a care at who all was staring. I love our ridiculous debates. The things he says just to piss me off. I say one thing, he says another, and sometimes I feel like I could be stuck in the middle of this conversation for the rest of my life and be happy.

I pick up the phone and call him.
“I’m sorry.” I say.
“I know.” He says.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
“Make the best of your last few months here I suppose.”
“OK. I think I can do that.” I tell him.

People ask you about the Peace Corps. The things you've done. The people you've helped. But in the end, it's about YOU. You fall apart every day and put yourself back together. And each time you hope that this time, you'll get it right.

I say goodnight and I think, where do I fit in all “this”. Do I write about it? Ah. Better not.

I turn out the light, roll over, grab my i-pod, and put on some Coldplay.

My Winter-Song to You

My Winter-Song to You

4/30/2011

The air began to move today in stagnant Siphofaneni and the heavy rains slowed down. I didn’t have Indiana maple leaves to warn me but I just knew- autumn was finally here. And winter, just around the corner.

The nights quickly become cold and I dig out my old hoodie. I find it absolutely thrilling to wait for the sun to lie her head down; then I throw on a hoodie, jump into bed, with four or five crackers in my grasp, wrap myself into a blanket cacoon and listen to the nocturnal world come to life. My curtains slap and flap as cool air passes through my tiny hut. The candle light dances with each breath this earth takes. I roll over and look at my phone. It’s midnight. For some reason, I’m awake. My phone rings.

Brook shouts through the phone, “Polile is dead Mere! She’s dead!”

Polile, Brook’s host sister we visited a month ago in the hospital. Sick with TB and AIDS. I tell Brook to hold on, “I’ll catch the first bus tomorrow. I’ll be there in six hours. Just hang on.”

The funeral is that Sunday, so all weekend we prepare the homestead for the hundreds that will come. Unfortunately, it’s Swazi custom to cook food for those that attend a funeral. So most who attend a funeral don’t know the deceased but rather enjoy the social aspect: drinking alcohol, singing and dancing with friends, and free food. Her family shrieks and holds me when I arrive. They’ve been more to a family than me than anyone. The father, who usually grabs my hand and pulls me into his arms laughing, sits on a chair in the middle of the homestead. Polile’s two year old son, Mahle, sits on his lap while his grandfather strokes his back staring into the distance, tears collecting in his eyes. I’ve never seen such emotion from an older Swazi man. I hug the sisters and mother, who are busy preparing the food inside.

Brook and I follow the neighboring women to the fields to cut grass for people to sit on during the ceremony. The men put up the tent and sit and wait for the body to arrive from the hospital. They’ll be the ones digging her grave behind the house. A graveyard already full with four, five, maybe six, other bodies and one child. But everyone seems to be in good spirits. The women joke in the kitchen and the children are playing and laughing. Mahle runs around the homestead half naked. His small uncircumcised penis shakes underneath his sweater while his laughing mouth, ringed with yogurt, yells at the other children. He has no idea his mother is gone. Will he even remember her? Her other two children, nine and eleven year old girls, will remember their mother. But the boy remains blissfully ignorant.

When the body arrives, people line up to view. Brook turns to me, “Now people are going to start falling to the ground screaming and crying. I just want to warn you.” She’s been to one of these before. And just as she predicted, like a light switch turned on, laughing immediately turned into screaming and the youth fell to the ground. It almost seemed theatrical. I’ve seen children cry in this matter before when they aren’t really crying. They raise their arm over their eyes, half bent, and shout out. Her two daughters cover their faces and cry. Brook holds them in her arms and two women quickly wisk them away. It’s not appropriate to cry in public. A lesson learned at an early age.

As Brook and I approach the body, I grab her hand. A large wooden box with a glass window to view the head, stares back at us. A tiny shrunken body, with shriveled body parts lies motionless. I don’t know this person. My brain can’t connect emotion to this unknown body. The floodgates open but nothing comes out. No tears. I look at my friend, nothing. I was expecting something, but there was nothing.

All night, until sunrise the people sing. And at seven in the morning we bury a body that only lived to be 28. My 27 year old self reaches out to her. We walk back to the homestead and serve the hundreds their chicken, lipalishi, and spinach.

When I return home my dogs aren’t there to greet me. Maybe they’re off getting into other people’s trash again. I think. When I take my keys out, no matter how far they are, this is the moment they come gallivanting towards me at the cling clang sound of opening my door. But still, nothing. And then I see Ninja in the distance. I call out his name and he stares back at me. I know these eyes. I’ve seen them many times before.

He’s dying.

I run to him and drop to my knees. He struggles so stand still, swaying, drunk- like. He looks at me as if he doesn’t know who I am then falls to the ground. His body convulsing and drool dangling out the side of his mouth. By now, I know, either he’s been poisoned or it’s distemper. I recently vaccinated him so I know either someone fed him poison or he ate something poisonious. I run to town and grab the only two “vets” in the area who specialize in vaccinating cows. They know me by now and have been dragged to my homestead many times before. When we return Ninja is exactly where I left him, trying hard to get up. The two men stand back.
“I think he has rabies.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I vaccinated him less than a year ago.” I say.
“His lower half is paralyzed Simphiwe. That’s a sign of rabies. We suggest you stay away and tie him up.”

After the two idiots leave I grab a blanket and carry my Ninja inside. I know he’ll be puking and shitting all night so I put down newspaper underneath his body and for the next few hours I lie next to him playing ambient music. His muscles begin to convulse again and he looks at me with horror. He’s confused. Why is my body doing this to me? He wonders. His brain is telling his muscles to move a certain way but they won’t listen. His brain is on fire. The left side is pushing up out of his skull and I hold it down as I talk sweetly to him.

“Get through today baby and I’ll find a way to get you to town tomorrow. I love you Ninja.”
I repeat his name like I always do, in my dog voice. “Ninj. Ninj.” I say, trying to fight back the tears.
And for a moment he hears me. His tail slowly moves up and down.

The shitting is becoming unbearable so I carry him outside and lie next to him. The dark wind blows and clouds cover our heads. I cover him up and decide to take a one hour nap inside.

My alarm goes off at eleven and I can hear the tiny patter patter of rain overhead. I run outside to bring Ninja in.

I don’t need to touch him to know, in the hour I left, he had passed. The clouds above open and let down on us. I lie next to him, holding him in my arms one last time. “I’m sorry.” I whisper to him. “I was supposed to protect you from all this.”

As much as I thought Ninja and Sarah needed me, I realized how much I needed them. I didn’t want to be alone on this homestead. I couldn’t bare coming home to no one. I couldn’t bare not having someone needing me. And now I was alone. No one needed me anymore. But unlike the others I had lost, this time I knew I’d be OK. “I’ll be OK.” I whisper. I thanked him for the two years we had together and I covered him with his blanket.

The next morning, I awoke with the sun at five in the morning. I knew burying my dog would be an exhausting task and I needed to get it done before the heat wave came around ten. Winter hours give way for more time in the morning to do our manual labor.

I grab a wheel barrow and push him out to our spot behind the homestead. I stand, again, under the tree that bends over his mother. Pick and shovel in hand I begin to dig. Siphofaneni soil is concrete and rock and I chisel away at this earth only putting tiny dents into the stubborn ground. I twist the heavy pick in front of me to gain momentum and swing high using my entire being exhaling loudly making awful grunting noises. Fuck. This is hard. I hammer until callouses burst open and bleed. I hold the tears inside my throat. But it feels good. I keep at it. A femur pops up from the ground and I know it’s his mother’s. I’ve dug too close to her grave.

Three hours later and I’ve digged my first very shallow grave. I put him inside, say a few words, and throw earth between my dog and I. Afterwards I sit on the rock that I used to sit on every evening, with my pups by my side. Not sure if it was for dramatic effect or just my deviant side, but I pull out a cigarette, I had found in one of my bags, and light it. I inhale slowly and exhale looking out at this flat barren earth. My sweat turns cold and tiny dust tornados twirl around us.

I walk home, alone. My sconi (A new person on our homestead. My “sister-in-law”) walks over and says to me, “I’m sorry.” I almost burst into tears. No one has ever said I’m sorry here. They usually laugh when one of my dogs die.

But today, on our homestead, a baby is born. Our cow gave birth to a beautiful male calf. He wobbles and sways with his new legs and sucks on my fingertips hoping they are the tits he seeks.

“With death comes life.” I say to Ndimiso.

I never saw Sarah again.

“We saw him Simphiwe.” The kids on my homestead tell me a few days later. “He was here yesterday while you were at school. I think he doesn’t want to come back now that his brother is dead. I think he has joined other dogs.”

Without my dogs, I become closer to the children on my homestead who were once afraid to approach me with my very extroverted dogs by my side. My door can now stay open and the children and I sit on the floor playing games instead of constantly yelling at my pups. I feed the new calf milk from a bottle and sit by the fire as my new sconi cooks. Things I could never do before.

But at night, I lie in bed thinking of them. I look over to the left of my bed. Only two years ago where their mother gave birth. I remember holding them in my arms with such pride as if I had brought life to this earth. I watched them grow up and turn into some of my closest friends here.

I listen now and I hear something familiar. It’s on these cold winter nights that I hear him calling. I listen to the pack of dogs across the canal crying out but one sticks out from the rest, and I know it’s my Sarah. And I can’t help but smile.

Winter is finally here and my dogs aren’t with me anymore, but they’re free, and maybe I’m a little bit freer as well.

This is my wintersong.