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.