They Should Have Sent A Poet

2011-07-26T08:10:00.000-07:00

7/22/2011

Back into the wet and green of Mbabane. My white chariot, driver, and I cruise pass Swazi Times headlines on every telephone pole. They shout, “Schools to Shut Down! No Money!” “No More ARVs” “NERCHA Looses Funding” “King Encourages Swazis to Stop Pointing Fingers at Government” “Ministers of Parliament Not to Get Paid” There were becoming more and more planned protests and more and more police officers readying for battle. These days Swazi world was very much in limbo. We all knew people weren’t going to get paid. Requests for loans were being rejected. People who had already been suffering were going to suffer even more. The very few who had jobs were about to loose them. New Peace Corps volunteers were about to be amongst a torrent of suffering humanity that would sweep pass them. They would be trampled, smothered, inhaled, and then spit back out into the outside world. This new group has NO idea what they were in for. The canoe was going over the waterfall and I wouldn’t be here to see it.

But so much of me wished I was.

Instead, the dream of return was finally coming true. I would have to step back into my world. I had to realize the cold harsh truth that I am, once again, on my own. Peace Corps Medical Officer lays down all the details, rules, confusing brochures, and complicated jargon of the health insurance world. “As of tomorrow,” She says. “After midnight, you are no longer our responsibility.” Staff goes over how to build resumes, action verbs, and how to “utilize our skills”. We are told, “You will write your Description of Service for us. It is everything you have done in the past two years. “ Where do I even begin? I thought. Papers, brochures, websites, and instructional DVDs on how to integrate back into our world are all being flung at us.

And then there was us. We scramble around trying to get everything in order here and there before we go. We want to make sure we fall on our feet when we return home. We become so distracted with the technical and the mechanical- we almost forget- we have to say goodbye to each other. How do you say goodbye to someone you’ve grown into? We hold each other in our arms and we haven’t a clue how to do this. No one gave us a manual for goodbyes.

I was beginning to feel emotionally constipated. With every volunteer’s ring out, staff, other volunteers, and I say tearful goodbyes. But I couldn’t cry. In fact, I had yet to cry. I wanted so badly to cry.

We depart in chunks every week and I didn’t know how much more I could take. After each person left I went home feeling a little emptier than before. At night I would lie in bed and imagine them flying over the world we shared. Their legs dangling over Mali, up to Egypt, and over to Atlanta. Flying further and further away.

Until it was my time to ring the wheel and mark my closing of service. I had to transition with the rest. And so I did. For days, afterwards, I couldn’t sleep. Words kept reappearing in my mind. It was one thing to sum up two years of work, but to sum up what someone meant to you in a matter of minutes- was almost impossible. But we all tried and we all had something to say.

“You don’t really know who you are until you’ve connected to others.” I tell our new Country Director during my exit interview. It was the only response I could come up with when he asked me the dreaded question, “How was your service?” There was an awkward pause. He sat with his legs crossed, leaned back in his chair, and began clicking his pen. As much as I wanted to ride this awkward silence out, see who was going to break first, I absolutely could not stand clicking pens. So I continued. “The other day I was talking to another volunteer and she was crying. Which was no surprise to me, she’s always crying. But she said something that made me realize something I had already realized months ago- but kind of forgotten. She told me during one of her chief’s meetings with the inner council he had asked them where she had been for the past two weeks. She was in the hospital and she made sure the inner council knew this. But when the chief asked the inner council where she was, they told him they didn’t know. And so, this volunteer was crying because she was upset that no one recognized her work. She was worried what her chief thought of her and she was tired of never getting any recognition. So now, you ask us how our service of two years has been and you’ll probably get a lot of similar stories. But my story is pretty simple. My service was everything I hoped it would be and that is, quite simply: personal growth.”

Our last night in country, I pull out journals that have covered three years worth of writing. Letters I never sent, apologies I never said, my fuck ups, and my regrets. I once thought if I put it all down in writing then I would no longer have to carry it inside me. But I have. I was never ready to let them go.

I start a fire at the backpackers and bring pages and pages in trash bags outside. They deserve better than this I thought. This is my history. I try to linger, afraid to read them again. Brook tears open the bag and looks through my journals. For once, I didn’t mind someone reading them. I’ve never felt so distant to my writing. “That’s not me.” I tell her. “I know.” She says. “I know once I get home all I’m going to do is sit on my bedroom floor and read this stuff. I won’t be able to move forward.” She stands up and hands me the journal. “So lets burn them. No more apologizing.”

We rip out page after page after page. My words burn blue and red. They float up into ash and glide back down onto us. Penis doodles from all our workshops, scribbles from Antarctica, stories of family members, Eli and Ry, Seattle and Thailand. I wanted nothing to do with them anymore. Brook hands me the last page in the last diary and I decide to read this one before destroying it. “She’s 15 now. In two years she will be 17. Can you imagine? Who will be there to help her? High School isn’t easy. I never had anyone. Will she forgive me?”

For two years, these words have been my diary screaming out loud to you. Whoever you are. I’m not even sure if anyone is listening anymore. But this will be my last post- from Swaziland- and I have no idea how to end it.

“How the fuck am I supposed to end this blog post?” A volunteer once asked me. “I mean do you end each post with a cheery note? I’m trying to tell the world how fucked up it is over here but I don’t want to depress the shit out of them either.”

Peace Corps forced us to face this world. We have seen the most apathetic and the most sympathetic. We’ve seen that even we are capable of both. Nothing will ever be the same again. And I think, if anything, sharing this realization is ending things on a good note. Don’t you?

My last moments inside Swaziland, I stand by the kombi that will take me to South Africa. Like Antarctica, I wonder will I boomerang back? Will I ever see this place again? Mamba stands beside me. The conductor says its time to go and so we pull each other closer.

“Will I ever see you again?”’
“Of course.” He says.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Did your ancestors tell you that?” I laugh.
“No asshole. I just know.”
He holds me tight and the tears finally come.
“I have to go.” I whimper.
“I know.”
We let go and as I start to walk away he pulls me back in and whispers, “I love your hands too.”

For a culture that has no word for love- I had found it. I will miss sitting next to him and have him answer my questions for two or three hours at a stretch. Telling him how HIS country and HIS people are. And he would put his hand in the air and so cooly respond, “Hey asshole. Let me tell you how it is. Let me tell you WHY we do what we do.” I will miss how he laid out all the problems of his corrupt little country piece by piece. He was ready to solve these problems because, unlike many in his position, he still had pride to BE Swazi. And I know he would continue to try to straighten all that is twisted and turned upside down in this country. Where others saw defeat, he saw a chance. He was born into a history and a culture that I struggled to understand and wished so much I could stay behind and continue to put together.

Maya Angolou once wrote that Africa was “The Source”. It was where we all came from and we should all return to it. I have always been drawn to this source. I remember being 12 years old and my father turning up his car radio. He said to me, “There are two tribes in Africa that are killing each other right now. The Hutus and Tutsis. They’re killing women and children with machetes.” At 12 years old I wanted so badly to be there. To bear witness to tragedy. I imagined and dreamt about this tragedy. The older I got the more tragedies I heard about our source.

And so many tragedies I’ve shared with you over the two years. Will you remember them? Will I?

I imagine, I’ll return home late at night. The rain will follow my mood as I lie down in my bed. I’ll watch the headlights of cars turning around in our court yard slide down my bedroom walls and speckled rain will travel down my bedroom window. I’ll listen to the comforting sounds as my step-father turns in his squeaky chair next door and listen to the slow mumbles of the TV downstairs stirring my night air like a fan. Our cat will purr in my sister’s bedroom. Our dog will snore in the hallway. Everything will be as it was- two years ago- before I left this place. I’ll lay nearly asleep. Almost dreaming. Almost alone. Almost gone. In between here and there. Unsure where I’m supposed to be. Where I want to be. I’ll dream of Swaziland and the two years that flew so fast. And the nights, like these dreams- like Swaziland, will disappear and become only a memory.

I’ll rewind all these moments and all the people: Citizen of the world, African Queen, Nonjaboliso, Thuli, Nobandile, Bongiwe, Proud African, the ladies in the gym, the boys in the back of the classroom, Justice, Mamba. All these people, these moments, and faces I’ve never been able to describe to you. Their mannerisms- their wit. Their strength. The people I watched drown. The people I could never take my eyes off. The person who stuck out in a crowd. Shuffling along with the masses of Manzini. The moments when I only wanted to take photographs. The real images of Swaziland you will never see. A skeleton gets out of a kombi. Sores cover her mouth. Her hands tremble as she tries hard to get the money out of her wallet. She pulls out a bill and hands it to the conductor who refuses to touch her. Instead, he leaves her, bill in hand, and we drive off leaving her on the side of the road. I don’t know if I could ever forget her face. Her large eyes. Horrified. Confused. Rejected.

These moments exist now only in my memory. Photographs have a way of taking a person along with you. For two years I have been examining atrocity after atrocity. When you’re staring at it for so long it becomes unreal. Movie-like. You find yourself moving away from it- detached. A photograph forces you to see it. It’s all you have concentrated in tiny pixels that shout back at you, HERE I AM! Feel something! If I had a picture of all these people would it appeal to your sympathies better? Would you feel the outrage I’ve felt for so long? Would you begin to understand Swaziland as I have?

How do I paint that picture for you?

Sipho once said to me, “Life is about the universal human.”

It’s human to dream of change. All of us dream of love. We dream of death. We struggle to solve our world’s problems. We struggle to find meaning in it all, to find out what our purpose really is. We struggle so much to find that connection. Only the lucky ones do.

And I found mine here.

Soon I’ll be home. And you’ll ask me, “What was Swaziland like?” “What were the people like?”

Overwhelmed with questions, I’ll realize that words can be meager things. They often fall short. And I won’t be satisfied with my reply. My little words. Like these words now. Small and barely there.

I’ll take a deep breath and won’t know where to start. Or even how to. You’ll ask me how beautiful it was, and I’ll pause for a moment and then I’ll say, quite simply,

“They should have sent a photographer.”

~The end.~

They say a photo is worth a thousand words. Here's a few thousand of the people/things that were apart of my life these two years.

Ntsikelelo and Lucky. The two boys who helped and continue to help with the set up and organization of the library,

The owner of the infamous Backpackers.

Ninja and Sarah. My babies for the last year.

Siphofaneni Kids on homestead.

Justice

Dorthy The ugliest cow to walk the earth. And my best friend.

My Siphofaneni Girls

Shebali. My best friend.

My Siphofaneni Boys

Peace Corps Group 7 and 8

Cameron

Mamba.

Brook and I

Traditional Swazi Dance

Simphiwe.

A Box Full Of Stories

2011-07-20T03:06:00.000-07:00

7/19/2011

The only two things I really remembered about school were the things that horrified me. OK, there were three. The first was the Super Volcano. And the Super Volcano story went something like this. My 7th grade teacher leans against his desk and begins to roll up his sleeves. He whispers to us, "It lies in Yellow Stone." We lean forward to hear more. "And it's over a thousand years over due to explode. It will be the end of mankind. And it will all start in the US." That year my father decided a family trip to Yellow Stone would be a good idea. I thought otherwise. The second horrifying memory I have was Ntzchi. Junior year in High School my Philosophy teacher relished the idea of tormenting us just before spring break. "What's the point of anything? Of life?" He asked us. I remember sitting back and letting that question seep into my naïve, little, brain cells. What IS the point? I thought in horror. Suddenly my 11th grade crush didn't seem to matter anymore. My dreams of making the world a better place seemed pointless now. He had destroyed any optimism I had left in my angry adolescent teen years. "Now, enjoy your spring break." He laughed rubbing his hands together. And finally, the last BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST, there was Stacey Davis. Stacey Davis was the epitome of cool, and of course, I was not. And for any teen, not being cool, was worse than any super volcano or bitter philosophy teacher.

To sum up school for me- I HATED it. I hated the teachers. I hated the students. I hated the hallways that reeked of sterile BO. I hated the fat secretary who wore rings on every little fat finger and greeted every student with the most insincere smile. Where the Red Fern Grows, Catcher in the Rye.. all may be wonderful memories for you- but there was something about reading them inside a gigantic textbook that told me to just skim and scam and watch Saved by the Bell instead. And now, ironically, today I am here trying to teach students to appreciate a school library, asking them to question their surroundings, to open their eyes, to wonder about the world and how it works.

Two years ago I asked them, "What do you want to see change in your country? In your culture?" They would respond, "Simphiwe, how can we question the only thing we know? What else is there?" I have tried to teach questions more than answers. We read newspapers, books, watched documentaries on civil war, animals, tribes and cultures all over the world. But how do you instill curiosity in a culture of obedience? How do you wake a zombie?

And today, with the last class I will teach at Siphofaneni High School, I again ask them, "What do you want to see change in your country? Your culture? They hold their hands high, "We want to be heard." "We want to look our elders in the eye." "We want to be able to elect our MPs." "No more Dlamini power." Suddenly, they had answers and even more importantly, MORE questions. People ask me, "Simphiwe, what do you teach? Are you teaching Life Skills? HIV prevention?" I correct them, "I try to paint, as best I can, an unbiased picture of the world for these students." I wanted everyone to realize that we are all connected. I beg them, encourage them, annoy them until they ask the question, "Why?" The more new things I threw at them the more I saw curiosity come out. Which eventually, I hoped, would lead to growth, understanding, tolerance, and eventually compassion. Peace Corps told us to keep our politics, sexuality, and religion inside. We had to memorize the THREE GOALS OF PEACE CORPS. 1. Sustainable development 2. Share your American Culture 3. Learn their culture and bring it home to teach others. But when talking with staff, goals 2 and 3 never got much attention. Instead we were encouraged to work with numbers, flip charts, power point presentations, NCP buildings, and libraries. But this was never me.

"Simphiwe, are you a Christian?" They ask me. And I tell them- always, "I don't know what I believe." To which they always respond, "But how? Why?" And then I explain. I explain with pictures, films, books about OTHER religions- other ways of living. Peace Corps would tell me to keep this inside." You have no opinion Simphiwe. You are Simphiwe. You are NOT controversial." But I am. And so- I show them. I may never be Swazi, they may never be American. But there is a commonality between us. We can be atheist and still be good. We can be gay and be great. I watch my male, PCV, gay, friend withering away. “I hate keeping this a secret. It’s killing me. I don’t like pretending. Living a lie. I’ve done that enough in my life.” He says to me. "Can you imagine?" I ask. "For two years you have established great relationships with your host family and Swazi friends. They see you and respect you. Now can you imagine right before you leave- you say to them that you're gay?" I understand the security risk, but the only way to grow and learn is to be around something new.

I fear for this generation of Swazis. They have all the ingredients for a very messy, violent, and chaotic rebellion. Extreme poverty alongside extreme wealth, an economic collapse, high rates of alcoholism, the indifference of the outside world, extreme jealousy of the successful, the lack of trust in relationships, a parentless generation, hierarchical centralized power, entitlement based on surname, and a generation of defeat and blind obedience. All it takes is for one brave, charismatic, lunatic whispering into the radio and the zombies would follow.

Yes. I thought, spoke, and communicated in controversy. I pushed, questioned, and demanded from these students. I tried to wake the zombie. But I was good at it. I had a way of understanding a groups' thoughts, gestures, and comments. I knew how to move them from topic to topic with ease. I understood where the line was and how to avoid it. Over the past two years I have watched their hands move away from their mouth as they spoke. The girls raised their chins and began to look directly at me. We no longer feared each other.

I return home to Mamba. With just a few days left we try to see as much of each other as we can. Today, he takes me back to my first family in Nkiliji. Its been months since I've seen them. Make ("Ma-gay"- mom) grabs my chest and kisses me on the neck screaming, "Swani (baby) Swani!" As she always does. She embraces Mamba and he shakes Babe's ("Ba-bay" Father) hand with the utmost humility. We take a seat in the living room and the three of them speak their language as I speak mine (playing with and talking to the cat). Mamba looks my direction and asks, "Do you know what they just asked me?" After two years I still don't fully understand SiSwati but instead have learned to read gestures and mannerisms. "They just asked you how many cows you will give them for me." I answer. Make and Babe laugh. "15?" Babe asks. I nudge Mamba, "Come on. You can do better than that." For three hours, we take advantage of Mamba, and speak effortlessly together with him translating. But the sun is setting and we have to hurry back to Siphofaneni to spend my last night with the children on that homestead. Tomorrow Peace Corps will pick me up in their white chariot they once dropped me in. They will take me to Mbabane to begin the closing out process during my last week in Swaziland. In just a week I will no longer be a volunteer.

Nkiliji Make leans her chin into my chest and I embrace her tiny body. "I love you Swani." She tells me. Tears collect in my eyes. "I love you Ma." Babe grabs my hand and holds it to his brow. "Thank you Simphiwe. Thank you." He says to me. I turn to Mamba trying to speak without tears. "Please, can you tell them how much they mean to me?" Make holds on tight to my waste, swaying back and forth repeating, "Swani. Swani." Mamba smiles back and says, "I think they know Mere."

We drive back to shitty Siphofaneni and I try to keep it together. "Do you understand now why it was so hard for me to go from THAT family to the one in Siphofaneni?" I ask.

After saying goodbye to the kids in Siphofaneni, I tell Mamba, "I'll be right back." I walk back to the spot I've come to fall in love with over these two years. Tucked away in our backyard, a tiny rock sits and waits for me to say goodbye. Normally, my dogs would accompany me but not anymore. In fact, I haven't been back since they died. I sit on my rock now, for the last time, watching the leaves tickle each other, as I've always done. I watch the cows follow the herd boy home. I listen to their exhales of annoyance- like a seal coming up for breath. I realize now, more than ever, the comfort of an exhale. And this was where I had come to do it for years. How many times I’ve exhaled on this rock after a long day. The blood red sun would set and my two dogs would sit alongside me scratching and sniffing. But tonight, I stand here alone- just as it should be- telling myself, "This will be the last time." And this is how it goes for a traveler who's been stagnant for so long. Everything you do, you say to yourself, "This will be the last." So I say goodbye to this spot. To the ghosts of my dogs. And to this rock, "I thank you."

These short, winter, hours come fast and suddenly its dusk. The sun squeezes its way between the leaves screaming at me to hurry home.

I return to my hut to find Mamba lying on my floor. No bed. No chair. Nothing that said I was here. These hut walls once carried images to remind me of the outside world- that it was still there. Walls that carried warm smiles of friends and family waiting for me to come back home. A reminder that I still had a home. But now, cold barren walls surround us. The only comfort lies on a blanket on my hut floor. "Come here." He says to me. He holds me in his arms and we stare up at thatch and again I think, “This will be the last.” He exhales loudly and whispers to me, "This will be the last time you have to stare up at this thatch roof." I roll onto my side facing him now. Surely he can hear the beating of my heart. He smooths back the chunk of hair I always keep on the right side of my face. "There you are." He says. "Why do you always do that?" I ask- annoyed. "Because. I'm absorbing you while I can. As much as I can while I have you." Waves of awareness fold onto me and his lips find mine. Stop thinking- I tell myself. Only feel. Try to just feel. But how can I trust my feelings when they can just disappear like that? When they have hurt so many? I hold on tight to his hands running my fingers across his scars. “I hate my hands.” He says. I open my mouth to say, "I love your hands." My lips ignore my brain and instead whisper, "I love you." My body tenses and I shoot up. "I meant to say I love your hands!" I shout. Bursts of laughter below me, Mamba holds his side laughing. "I hate you." I remind him.

The next morning I run to school to say goodbye to my students. The teachers have yet to acknowledge I'm leaving and when I tell them, they respond, "What will you leave us then?" To which I laugh and ask, "How's a library sound?" Annoyed, defeated, I stomp off. Other volunteers might think of my library attempt as a failure, but I stopped thinking this way a long time ago. I stopped checking boxes and counting numbers- instead I focused on the individual. For weeks up until my departure, after the students had found out I was leaving, child after child had approached me. "Simphiwe, I heard you helped a student. Can you help me?" For years, I had taken them to doctor appointments, connected them with agencies that could help with food, clothing, school fees, and brought all that I could to school with me. I held their hand as they cried to me, "Simphiwe, I don't mean to be a beggar. But I am a parent to my siblings. We need help." So today, my last day, I ask the deputy head teacher to give me 5 minutes, during assembly, to say goodbye to 500 students. I try to keep the tears in when I say how proud I am of them. They've changed my life. I hope they believe me when I say they are not beggars- but survivors. I leave help line information, NGOs numbers, and my personal contact. "To you I am Simphiwe.” I shout. “But the outside world only knows me as Meredith. It has been an honor to be Simphiwe for two years with you."

I know, Simphiwe is no one to you, to other volunteers, or even Mamba. But she meant something to these children- even if it wasn't for long. She tried to be a friend, a teacher, and a parent to those who didn't have any.

Afterwards, I try to leave but student after student approaches me. Every goodbye my heart sunk further and further.

I hope I never forget their faces. I hope they never forget mine.

I only have an hour left before Peace Corps picks me up in Siphofaneni. I open my hut door and see that I've left a tiny box in the middle of my floor. Inside, two years of stories. "Tell me your story." I have asked a thousand students- if not more. And they were all here, in this box. For weeks, I have parted with a lot of things- a lot of people- but this box I couldn't leave behind. I wanted to keep their stories. Forever.

My white chariot arrives to take me back to Mbabane. “Meredith. Are you ready to go?” The driver asks me. “I’m ready.” I say. I pick up my two backpacks, a purse, and one large box full of stories. Here we go, I think.

"Fucking Americans."

2011-07-04T05:06:00.001-07:00

(Cameron on left with blown up condom. Brook in middle using my back as an arm rest as she drinks. Me trying hard to be the center of attention. And the rest- well you get it.)

At first, I could only see. I remember, I couldn’t really hear anything. I know, I could move. I know, I could touch but I couldn't feel anything. I was just a body without a heart beat, floating above trying desperately to put the pieces together. Tiny crystal ornaments hung from the ceiling above and I watched pink and purple make shapes in the shifting light. It was autumn and the sun was, annoyingly, always in my eyes. I looked out the window and something felt right. I realized I knew this place. I began to become aware of my body. My hands. My feet. I felt the warmth of familiarity inside me. Like Christmas morning, or riding a bike in the sprouting spring- I was overwhelmingly comfortable. I felt rays of sun hit my cheeks and bounce into my eyes. I wiggled my toes in the deep dark carpet below and turned to my left. A worn out record player played tunes I couldn’t hear. But there, lying on top was Paul Simon’s “Graceland”. And I quickly realized I’ve been here before.

I was home. Sort of.

My step-father walked pass me and I grabbed his arm to see if this was all real. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and I quickly rolled them down as I always did. “Let’s build something!” I shrieked looking up at him from what seemed like a very low angle. “We can’t” He told me. “There’s no more legoes to play with.” He pointed to the window sill behind him at 5 large legeo homes. “Can’t we take them apart and start again?” I asked. “No.” He said with annoyance. “We already built the homes. We can’t build anymore EVER again.” And then I heard a familiar deep bellied laugh behind me. I let go of his arm and walked inside our living room. My sister Helen, sat in diapers. What? I looked up and see my brother twirling in circles above the ground. He held on tight to the fan above and his eyes were wide with excitement. My step-mother appeared next to me and mumbled, “He’s got the demon in em.” Since when did she have a southern accent? More importantly, when did we become a religious family? Then I heard a knock on the door and my best friend stood with her arms outstretched and tears in her eyes. She was covered in her own blood and a box cutter dangled in her loose grip. She said to me, “I’m sorry.” I told her, “I thought I hid all the razors.” A line of people, I knew, stood behind her. “Why did you leave?” They ask me. “Why did you run away?”

The phone rang, and I woke up. Relieved.

“Mer-a-dit?! Mer-a-dit!” The African voice yells.
“Yes?”
“It’s me!”
“Me.Who?” It’s 5 in the morning and I am using my ‘Why did I give this person my cell number only to have him call when there’s 90% discount to call me at fucking 5 in the morning’ voice.
“It’s Justice!”
Justice has been in D.C. for 10 days at a workshop and it’s his first time to be in MY country.
“JUSTICE!” I shriek back.
“Yes Mer-a-dit. I’m in D.C. YOUR country. Oh my God Mer-a-dit. Oh my God. God must have been HERE when he created Heaven and Earth. Because this is absolute perfection! Heaven IS on Earth. And it’s YOUR country!
“D.C. is a beautiful place.” I tell him.
“Not just that. I was standing outside the White House yesterday and there were people shouting at Obama angrily. They were shouting, ‘Obama! Obama!’ They were yelling at him! And no one stopped them. One little old lady told me she had been there protesting for 35 years. Such freedom you people have. HEAVEN ON EARTH!” He exclaims.

We say our goodbyes and I decide to just get up and get on with the day. I make my way to school.

“YOU Americans.” Maziya, another teacher, shouts across the staff room on this slow moving morning. “No culture! YOU Americans!” He continues.

Maziya had a passion for busy ties and suit jackets that carried special buttons. He loved bold colored shirts that said I’m here world and always moved and spoke in exclamation points. His collars were stiff with starch and he paid particular attention to how he rolled up his sleeves when he had something controversial to say. Which he always did, and I was his new shiny toy. I wondered if he purposefully placed my desk on the other side of the staff room so he could shout out at me, letting the whole world hear his ridiculous opinions of the day.

“You know what your problem is Maziya?!” I shout back from my tiny desk. “You think culture is all traditions and ceremonies. Leopard skin attire and coming of age rituals. Women over here, men over there. Old men smoking pipes under a tree and young ladies collecting reeds for the annual Reed Dance. There’s more to culture than what you see. It’s written down. It’s subtle. It’s tiny mannerisms or what we call norms. Our culture is a bit more practical and less decorative than yours- yes. The mere fact that you say ‘YOU Americans’, though, is proof in itself that we stand apart from the rest in our own way, our own CULTURE.”

“No culture.” He continues as if I had said nothing. Swazi men had a knack for doing this. “You’re a country with people from all over the world and YOU Americans get confused. You have no sense of identity so you come here trying to find it or latch onto ours. You're all running away from something.”

I pick up today’s paper and the headline reads, “Mamba King, King Maja Loses Speech”. And there it was, page three of the Swazi Times, the entire family lineage of the Mamba clan. Mamba was right. Everything from King Sohlolo being kidnapped by the Basetho to Maloyi rescuing him and being offered the throne. The dual Kingship was printed out for all to see. A teacher, from Zimbabwe, walks pass and points at the photo of King Maja, “He’s the REAL King.” He says surprisingly loud.

“Why doesn’t anyone else recognize that?” I ask.
“Oh they do. You know Swazis. They know how to keep quiet. Everyone knows HE was supposed to be King.”
“So why not do something about it?” I ask.
“They like to keep things quiet and peaceful, but soon something will happen. Just like it did in history.”
I walk over to Maziya and hand him the article. “What do you think about this history?
He stares for a moment, carefully adjusts his sleeves, and says, “That’s not history.” He points to the photo of King Maja. “THAT’S politics.”

Another Peace Corps party at our usual backpackers, shouting voices, drunken eyes, girls grinding on each other, talks of what our shit looked like a week ago, volunteers running up to me and screaming, "I heard you got the schisto!" as I lift up my shirt and show them the bloated belly. (A volunteer's two worst fears: AIDS and parasites). I sit with the only non American- an Irish-man outside. Sean used to be a volunteer but after a few years he went back to get his masters in International Development Aid Work or was it International Humanitarian Aid? To be honest it didn’t matter to me, and it didn’t seem to matter to him much either. “Sounds like a fucking joke doesn’t it?!” He laughs. “What did you all major in?” He asks Brook and I. “International Studies.” She says back blowing smoke from her cigarette in his face. “Sociology” I mumble back. “Ha!” He shouts. “Of course you did. It’s all the same. When you get your masters it just sounds fancier. Like we’re in some fucking comic magazine. University trained superheroes! We jump out of helicopters with our capes and wands out. BAM! BAM! Fixing the worlds problems.” He shakes his head and looks down exhaling, “If only…” He continues to jabber on and I’m wishing I hadn’t had that second glass of wine. His economic mumbo jumbo and how it pertains to the development of international aid in THIS country hits my interest but I just can’t follow it tonight. He lost me at ‘deficit’. “You talk prettty.” I drunkenly laugh, interrupting his rant. “You have no idea what I just said do you?” He responds. “Nope!” I laugh back. “Fucking Americans.” He says. And suddenly, without realizing, I jump out of my seat. “WHY?! WHY DOES THE WHOLE WORLD SAY THAT TO US?! WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH THE AMERICANS! Why isn’t it the fucking British or the fucking French?! What about all the crimes against humanity that caused EUROPE’S progress? It wasn’t US who drew those naïve, ignorant, and backwards lines in this continent. We didn’t divide tribes, people, and communities. We’re not the only ones pissing on Gaddaffi! Fighting over petrol! It’s like our nationality should be ‘You Fucking Americans!’ I’m a ‘You Fucking American’.” I shout out to the void.

“Look.” He laughs. “The bloody British and French are to blame as well. The problem with Americans is not that you’re American but that you THINK like an American.”

I take my place back inside and watch the white Swazis surround and stare at the swell of Peace Corps Volunteers gyrating in a circle like penguins in winter: 99.98% of them drunk women, and like most drunk women, they only dance with their girlfriends in a messy huddle. "I call them the heavy breathers." I say to one of the male volunteers pointing to the outline of White Swazis glaring at the penguins. "They're like the lionesses, crouched down hiding in the bush watching the tiny gazelles. You can only hear their heavy breathing as they pant and wait for one of the injured fawns to slip from the pack. And then- they make their move."

I move around the pulsating gazelles and accidentally bump against one of the white Swazis playing pool in an American jersey. “Nice jacket.” I tell him. “Fucking Americans.” He mumbles back.

I was beginning to put together these two words. “Fucking Americans”. At first I reacted defensively. I compared every country I’d been to, to my own. I focused only on the lacking. But after sometime I began to look further, deeper and finally, I was beginning to understand.

The next morning I sit down for coffee with some other PCV’s.
“You guys ever notice how many people roll their eyes and tell our nationality to fuck off?”
Everyone nods in agreement. “They’re just jealous because we have everything.” They say. “Because we’re a super power.”

But I knew there was more to it.

That night, Mamba comes over and I make us some good ol’ American tuna melts while he sits and talks politics. AGAIN. He walks over to my table and picks up a pair of earrings I got from a concert we recently went to. Earrings that were being passed out by NGOs that read, “Soka Ngcobe!” “Circumcise and conquer!” I had no intention of wearing them but I thought it was ridiculous how the outside world was turning this circumcision campaign into a fashion show. From the beginning I had questioned the logic of getting 152,000 men circumcised by 2012.

“Fucking Americans.” Mamba says putting down the earrings. Most of the funding was coming from America, through PEPFAR, so this time I could understand his ‘Fucking Americans’ comment. “We’ll see where these people are in 5 years.” He says. “We’ll see how long this circumcision fad lasts.”

And I completely agreed. Even before this proud Swazi came into my life, about a year ago Futures pulled PCVs aside and sold us the circumcision idea. It was like one giant Budweiser commercial. Who knew foreskin removal could be SO exciting. But, at that point, I was beginning to think like a Swazi. I knew any man would hold onto the fact that circumcision reduces the chance of HIV transmission by 60% and would hide behind this statistic saying, “Now we DEFINITELY don’t have to use condoms!” I mean it's called, "Circumcision and Conquer!" Swazis interpret this as NOW I've conquered AIDS we don't need any other protection. "But we counsel them before and tell them they still MUST wear a condom." It's amazing what the power of denial can do.

I we could get the school age children to come to clinics during school breaks. Peer pressure would prevail. And as an added bonus NGOs were now telling them, “Circumcision prevents genital warts in women.” Circumcision, ultimately, is more hygienic and therefore helps protect you from MANY STIs. But I wondered why were they pushing this one STD? They were trying to get the women to care and to pressure their men into circumcision. “You’ll get HPV if you don’t!” But those out of school. Those from the city. People like Mamba. A man's foreskin became a matter of pride. Culture. Who are you to tell me what to do with my dick? Are you telling us we don't know how to clean ourselves? Fucking Americans.

When Mamba says to me, “We’ll see where these men are in 5 years.” He means this solution is not a sustainable one. When these men grow up, every Swazi knows they won’t be circumcising their children. When these men have sex they won’t be using condoms.

I once wrote, “I need to see AIDS their way.” But now I was seeing, I needed to see aid THEIR way.

“When I went to Simunye, where many of the first mass circumcisions were held, I interviewed all the nurses circumcising these young men.” I told Mamba. “And I asked, “Are you circumcised?” And they all responded, “Why would I do THAT?! This is just a job. And I’m getting paid a lot to do it.” Not one of them was circumcised themselves. It WAS just a job for nurses who were promised, by NGOs, higher wages if they left their clinics for three weeks to circumcise in these tiny camps outside hospitals. ‘Why would we circumcise?! That’s ridiculous!’”

“And the doctors were American?” He asked.
“Of course.” I said. “Are there any Swazi doctors?”
“Of course there are! Fucking Americans. Aid money being pumped back into America. American doctors. Why not employ Swazi doctors? That’s got to be a lot cheaper than sending your doctors over here. NGOs brining in OUTSIDE workers paying them ridiculous amounts of money when they could be paying OUR doctors. Circumcision. See where they’ll be in 5 years. We don’t need to use condoms. We’re circumcised. That’s our logic. That’s our defense. That’s our last resort. We’ll do anything, not to have to actually change our behavior.”

I remembered Jim, the American doctor I spent four days with while interviewing his clients. “They’re giving me SO much money to cut foreskins over here for three weeks. It’s insane how much I’m getting paid!” He says as he yells to his nurses in the bar, “Drinks are on me boys!” He shouts as the male nurses raise their glasses and glance dirty glares my way: the outsider with a notepad. He tucks 200R in my pocket and whispers, “I know if your parents were here they’d do the same. Since they’re not—I can.” I tuck the money back into his shirt pocket, “Hand outs aren’t the answer Jim.” And because he thought like an American, he had a hard time understanding what I meant.

Swaziland has manipulated us. Their victory lies in their ability to manipulate our anguish, our white guilt, our naïve conscience. It’s a monopoly on our pity. And man do we have a lot to give. The entire world is here to save these poor, helpless, Africans as if they didn’t have the thumbs to dig their way out of their own mess. But it came with a cost. We’ll save you- OUR way. We told them. With OUR doctors. OUR way. You won’t change your behavior, fine then, we’ll put a band aid on a gushing bloody stump. A temporary fix to ease the bleeding hearts of the public eye. We’ll hold “Behavior Changing Workshops” and hope you listen because we’re throwing meat and food at you. Listen to us and you get chicken and lipalishi. That’s “Swazi” enough for ya. Give us your foreskin and you’ll live longer.

NGO’s diet of: circumcision, abstinence, be faithful, use condoms, orphanages, donate library books, behavior changing workshops. This is not the menu of a Swazi.

“I’d love to talk to your father about what he thinks.” I tell Mamba.
“You wouldn’t like to hear what he has to say about the outside world and OUR HIV problem.”
“Go on.”
“He would tell you that ARVs were a BIG mistake.”
“What just allow people to die?!” I shriek back.
“No. Allow people to live. We’re not a pill taking country. We need to see our problems to understand them. You cannot tell us 32% of our country is positive and expect us to believe you. People are living longer with ARVs now. 10 years ago when we didn’t have a steady supply I was going to at least four funerals a weekend. We KNEW AIDS was there. AIDS was the cause. But now, people come in talking about pills that save your life and now it’s not AIDS that kills you it’s opportunistic infections. That’s why these people tell you, ‘He died of stomach ache.’ We no longer have to fear AIDS. We don’t have to change our behavior because we aren’t seeing AIDS like we once were. We need to SEE AIDS to change the way we behave. ARVs have taken the fear and the fear is what would have changed us. Now we just circumcise. Now we don’t have to change anything. We don’t have to be faithful, abstain, or use condoms. You see, the answers are not about what all the Hillary Clintons and ambassadors are saying. They’re giving us Western solutions but what is the African solution? Have respect for our culture. Only his Majesty has the power to say ‘Circumcise’. He did it in a western order. Not a national order.”

I was beginning to see, we had an American way of dealing with Swazi problems.

“So it’s money in exchange for white guilt?” I ask.
“No.” He says. “Nowadays it’s capitalist guilt. America is where it is because it pisses on other people. 15 million for circumcision you tell me? Well, now your little capitalist brain can sleep better at night.”

Another conversation about Libya. "We all know why you're there. What about Darfur? Somolia? Saddam? Israel? How long did it take you to protect the million that died in Uganda/Rwanda/Burundi? It's about America's personal gain. And now Gadaffi is threatening to give oil to the East. Americans the British- you guys CANT have that. You hide behind the word 'defend' but it's an 'invasion.'"

I couldn't argue with Mamba's opinions on America and our politics.
"But what about our character?" I ask him. "You say Swazis are communist by nature. Swazis take care of each other and they don't put your elderly in homes for someone else to take care of. But I can't tell you how many child-headed homesteads I've been to. Neighbors robbing these children. Aunts turning their nieces and nephews into slaves, beating them and taking their dead parent's money. Your culture is adjusting to AIDS and it reeks of apathy."

American volunteers in Swaziland are constantly laughed at for their accents and the way they cringe when they see a dog beaten or a chicken beheaded. "Your people live in a landlocked country with little diversity." I tell Mamba. "One tribe. When Americans of Indian decent, Asian, or Latino come to your country to volunteer Swazis are shocked to see such a mixture of races. We are one country but we strive hard to live harmoniously together. We know not to make fun of people's accents. We understand what it means to respect a different culture. We come from a history of change because we are trying to meet the needs of every person despite our differences."

As Peace Corps Volunteers we try hard to integrate. We take on a new name. We sit for hours at umphagatsi meetings and try to respect the culture where time does not matter. We are called weak for not being able to slaughter a chicken so we swallow hard, hold back emotion, and slaughter one ourselves. We turn the other cheek when we see a dog being beaten. We carry wood on our heads. All to prove a point: we are not weak. My family laughs at me when I bury another dog and cry. My mother tells me, "Don't show them your tears." But I'm proud of my tears. Yesterday a dead calf lies in the middle of the road while its mother hovers over her child licking the dead body and crying out. People carried on as I sat down next to the calf and stared. Sure they laughed at me, they pointed fingers. Just as they do when I sit on my Siphofaneni bridge looking out at the sunset.

Mamba can write off Americans and their politics but we are people who respected and appreciated things in a different way than Swazis. And I was proud of that.

I introduce Mamba to some of my friends ‘extending’ (those that finished their two years in the rural communities and are now extending for another year working with an NGO in the city.

"This is Laura. She'll be working with WFP this year." I tell him.
"Oh nice. Tell them thank you for putting me out of business."
Laura looks angry. Confused.
I pull Mamba aside. "You can't do that. This is a person who WORKED hard to get this position and NEEDS to believe in the organization she's working for. It's what gets us through this."
Mamba smiles, "Food production in this country is now down 40% because of all their handouts. Why not pay Swazi Farmers. You have to use what we have in a way that is culturally acceptable to solve OUR problems.”

“Same with PUDEMO.” He continues. “The outside world wants democracy for Swaziland so they back this VERY loosely organized organization that shouts ‘Democracy for Swaziland’ but they have no intention of getting that. They have no notion of the future. Nihilists. PUDEMO was created by jealous princes who wanted the throne for themselves. It’s all about power. We have no intention of democracy. Just grabbing power from those who have it. Democracy cannot work without economic stability. You can't think like American when you go into a country that is not American.”

I think of all the books, buildings, THINGS donated to Swaziland that lie in ruins now. Our idea of giving. Commercials showing images of bloated baby Ethiopian children. "Save this child. Give her money." And now, this:

This volunteer had gotten 1500 books from America for this school and a few months later all of the teachers ripped out the books from the boxes and threw them onto the floor. They continues to sit here for a year despite the volunteer's pleads for help. And this is one example of MANY. Or I'd say MOST.

I wanted to explore how the American campaign of circumcision and PEPFAR’s blind spending related to America’s place in this world historically and currently.

I tell Mamba the story of Sikhanyiso at the camp for children living with HIV. “He suffered for days with this gigantic open wound on his lip. I would stay up all night with him as he cried. I tried game after game to get him to smile. But in the end, it was his culture that brought him out of his misery. A young girl stands to sing a Swazi traditional song and all the children follow in unison. Sikhanyiso takes his place alongside the other young men and smiles big. It wasn’t the thumb wars of America or the Macarena he needed. It was Swazi.”

That was almost a year and a half ago and I realize how far I’ve come. How much more I’m beginning to see. I think about all the volunteers who signed up to stay in Swaziland another year. Who will be working alongside the NGOs in this country.

“They’re fucking CRAZY.” Other volunteers tell me. “Seriously. I can’t wait to get out of this fucking country. I’m never looking back. I hope this country bursts into flames. And it will. Our community alone has lost almost 20% of its population in just two years. And nobody cares.”
“Then why are these volunteers staying?” I ask. “They hate it here just as much as you do.”
“For Johns Hopkins. For the resume. They want to be doctors and aid workers. This is a direct in. Peace Corps isn’t enough these days. You need that NGO on your resume.”

Most extenders didn’t want to stay FOR Swaziland. But all of a sudden I did. I had this urge to stay. A rush of excitement. I was excited by fear, compassion, anger, and simply my ever growing morbid fascination for being around pain, love, and the unknown.

Riding one evening with Mamba, my three friends crammed in the back of his truck, he talks about how, economically, Swaziland has actually grown in the past 10 years.

“There was no Siphofaneni ten years ago." He says. "Come back in ten years and you will see how far we’ve come.”
Brook laughs in the back, “Yeah right. You can say that about ANY country. You guys aren’t special.” It was one thing for someone to bash this place to me, but to hear my friends bash it to Mamba I wasn’t going to sit back and take the disrespect.
“It amazes me, Brook, how you can just take any positive thing about Swaziland and turn it negative.”
“It amazes me,” She shouts back. “How fucking naïve you are about this country!”

Brook and I were fighting. Again. And everyone sat and listened- as they always do.

This was something I was used to. I’ve gotten in countless fights with other volunteers who roll their eyes when I try to talk about Swaziland and the things I’ve learned. Or I continue to ask, why? And tell them there MUST be a reason. Or when I stop to make friends with a beggar on the side of the road.

“He just wants your money! Keep walking!” They’ll shout.
“He isn’t really asking for money though. It’s his way of bridging the gap between how are you and I want to know more about you. It’s the only way they know how to communicate. It’s our job to show them there are better ways to achieve this. Sharing is a huge part of this culture. If you have money, you share. Watch these children break off a piece of maize and hand it to their friend. How many three year olds back home do you know that would do that?” I ask.

I can’t talk about Swaziland to anyone anymore. Most volunteers are consumed with the apathy they once judged. They have completely detached themselves from society here.

“Why do you like Swaziland?” My Head Teacher asks me one day. “Why do you think you’ll come back?”
“I suppose it’s because I feel apart of something when I’m here. Back home, I have no religion. No political party. No box I can check. I don’t really feel like I belong to anything. It’s easy to get lost in such a big country like America. But in Swaziland, I’m an American that doesn’t feel so lost.”
My Head Teacher rubs his big, bulbous, belly and sighs back, “Wait. You don’t have a religion?”

Last week a volunteer approaches me, “He is loosing his mind Mere. He freaked out on a kombi conductor the other day. He flips out at the littlest things now. We’re so done with Swaziland.” She tells me about her husband.
“He should talk to Mamba.” I tell her. “Mamba has a way of making you understand why it is ‘they’ do what ‘they’ do. And once you understand you become more at ease. You no longer see things in such black and white matter. He has a way of making you pick away the individuals and pull back all the layers- the history and the culture. It’s very humbling.”

That night we sit at a tiny bar in the middle of no where. Mamba is amongst all my Peace Corps friends and I can see he’s used to this scene. He’s been around “my kind” for years now. I look over at my friend’s husband who sits in silence next to Mamba. The ladies around them gossip about other volunteers while he fiddles with his phone or pretends to be interested in the rugby game, I mean “match”, on the television above, occasionally glancing over at the screen.

“Watch and learn.” I whisper to his wife.
I take a seat next to the two men and simply, plant the seed.
“Man- what do you guys think about this whole, the government has no money thing, Crazy eh?!” I shout over the ruby commentators.
After a few minutes, I gracefully slip my way out of the conversation and sit next to the wife. And just like that, for the next two hours her husband and Mamba talk politics. I watch both their faces light up. Hand gestures are flying, heads are scratching. I know what the husband is thinking, “But he’s SWAZI. How does HE know so much?!”

The next day the wife texts me, “He LOVED Mamba. I don’t know what he said to him but I’m so glad you got those two to talk.”

I look at Mamba now, handing him his tuna melt, and I realize how much he’s given me. An understanding and a deep tolerance that I truly needed a long time ago. How many months, hours, minutes we wasted watching Peace Corps staff re-enact how to act at Swazi funerals, how to act at Swazi umphagatsis, how to shake in the proper manner, or sit at the dinner table. A fucking movie. Just entertainment at best. Peace Corps, AMERICAN staff, training Swazis how to talk to Americans. But it only set the stage of the over-riding them, “Us vs. Them”. Mamba had closed that gap for me, and I don’t think he knew how grateful I was for that.

“I know that’s what all your Waterford friends think of me.” I tell him in between bites. “Just some silly little American volunteer, trying to save the world with band aid solutions.”
“And what,” He huffs back. “Your friends don’t just think of me as some Swazi? They talk to me like I’m retarded. With that ‘Swazi voice’ they use with Swazis. I’m Swazi so you must speak to me like I’m an idiot. It’s completely condescending. This is where they fail to integrate. I am Swazi therefore I am stupid. You have to see pass the language barrier. Even you. When we first met you told me, ‘Not gonna happen.’ as if I wanted something from you. You throw me in front of your friends and say, ‘See! Swazis are just like us!’ Trying to prove to them. You don’t need to do that Mere.”
“I just want them to see what I see. Why don’t you tell them to stop talking to you like that. I have countless times.” I tell him.
“They must figure it out for themselves. Just as you have. I don’t need to shout back. As you get older Mere, you will see and understand the urgency for calmness. That’s the only way change will happen.”

And he was right. It amazed me how many American volunteers swooned over Mamba. "He's SO interesting. SO smart. SO....cool!I love his hair!" They shriek in surprise- almost shock. Our expectations, our judgment, has been holding us back for so long.

“I'm having a really hard time leaving.” I say to him. “What if I told you, I don’t think Swaziland is done with me? That I think I have a purpose here?” I ask.
“Well I think I’d tell you, it’s because you’re beginning to understand. That’s all.” He smiles back.

I hand him his tuna melt and wait for him to take the two corner bites leaving a peninsula of oozy cheese and mayoey tuna in the middle.
I make my move. He turns back around and sees that I’ve eaten the best bite. “Fucking Americans.” He sighs.

One morning I speak with another volunteer, Katie, about Israel and Palestine for about....THREE HOURS, She says to me, “After four years of studying in school and my whole life growing up Jewish just observing Jewish life custom and beliefs, I realize, the more I know the less I actually know.” And this struck something inside me. A realization. Having a true knowledge about something keeps you humble, wiser, and leaves you with a sense of humility, and a desire to keep trying to understand. It’s never black and white. You see both sides. Mugabe vs. The White African. The Hutus vs. The Tutsis. The Dlaminis vs. The Mambas. The Palestinans vs. The Israelis. American vs. Swazi. We need to understand WHY.

I recall back to our Country Director’s first lesson. Her first lecture to us trainees was, “You Will Fail.” As a volunteer in Macedonia, she got funding to build a school for the mentally and physically challenged people in her community. But as soon as the building was built the community destroyed it. They wondered why this little American came to their desperate community to help the disabled, whom they did not value, and not them. Her story of failure was her attempt at comforting us for when we would fail. But you cannot look in terms of accomplishment in this line of work. It’s not about change. It’s about understanding. “Peace Corps Volunteers spend two years sitting on their homesteads knitting hats for themselves and creating art out of trash. Sheer boredom.” Other volunteer agencies will joke to each other. I was beginning to realize everyone was looking at it all wrong. "My chief hasn't seen me at the royal grounds in so long." A Peace Corps Volunteer complains, "He thinks I'm not doing anything in my community! But I am! I am!" She tears up. It wasn't about getting that golden star on your A+ paper. It's about understanding. But we weren’t given the tools for this understanding. We weren’t given the tools to keep our awe and hope surviving within us. And this was crucial. Without awe, without curiosity, how would we understand? Without understanding how can we move forward together?

“It’s interesting Mere.” Mamba says.
“My sister is an LCF with Peace Corps, a language tutor, and she says to me that all of you seem to come from broken homes. You come here hoping you can fix problems. Fix people. Because you weren’t able to back home. So you come here and hope you can fix us here. And you get so angry when you realize you can't.”

And this is where we fail.

I think about my haunting dreams over these few weeks. A ticking clock until I am home. Home, around the people I could never fix and the hearts I broke and were no longer my place to fix.

“I wonder what will happen to her when you leave?” A friend told me of our other friend. She had been suffering for years and I tried hard to help her. "I don't think I can be there for her like you were. I don't think I can do it. She tells me, two years ago just before I stepped onto THAT plane. Just after a sob fest in the airport of 10 of my closest friends who held my hand and said, "You've been there for us Mere. But now- we gotta give you up to the world." A year later the friend she spoke of, tried to kill herself and I had to hear it through email. And I ask myself over and over- why couldn’t I have helped her? Why did I leave?

This is no longer just another sad African story. This is OUR story. American volunteers in Swaziland.

After our night of gossip and lousy beer, at the tiny bar in the middle of the desert, Mamba drives all the volunteers back to their homesteads. When I get depressed in Swaziland, which was often, I always liked to sit in the back of his truck watching humanity whirl pass me. Some days I just needed to smell and feel the earth around me. Some how all my worries would resolve themselves on these open roads. This rugged scene didn’t seem so rugged when I could move freely pass it. All I would see is the people and THEIR landscape, so I hopped into the back.

“There’s enough seats inside.” Cameron tells me.
“I like it back here.” I respond.
Kris and Cameron look at each other and jump in the back with me. “We’ll stay with you.” They say.

We drive across tiny slits of savannah broken by volcanic points and canyon dents with their jagged rusty teeth. The roads presented us the familiar African backdrop: women with babies strapped to their backs, old men in traditional animal skins with suit jacket tops and cell phones pressed against their ears, cows weaving down these gentle golden lanes, the assembly of barefooted children running on the crumbly rock below. I remember a time when I used to look at them differently. I looked at this world as an American crammed full of statistics. I saw these people and I saw AIDS. But now, I see life.

“This place used to be covered with game.” Mamba once told me pointing out at the barren Siphofaneni terrain. “Trees, long grass, and vegetation once grew here. Now, because of Swazi nation land people are just given land without having to work for it- they abuse it. Swazi nation land has caused over-grazing and no one cares. Every patch of land has been overworked.”

This scorched earth quickly coats Cameron, Kris, and I in dust and we crunch down on the grit between our teeth. It tastes almost metallic. Giant aloe cactus trees push pass us and the familiar achea leans heavy against the setting sun. The dust whirls up towards the sun turning her ends into a deep purple haze. Tonight, it’s an Arizona Western sun. The dark air is cold and I watch Cameron, one of the volunteers staying behind another year, looking out into the distance. He watches these yellow lines along the tar road, wondering will they take him home? He holds on tight to his fedora hat and shivers hard. Kris leans against the truck rocking out to Kanye, Metallica, or some other stupid band- like he always does. I curl up in the middle and lie down against the back. "I think I'll cry when you leave." Cameron says to me. "It just won't be the same without you here." He looks down sighing heavily. I pull Cameron close to me and grab Kris by the arm. We lie together, spooning, trying to keep each other warm. I smile and watch power lines tower up above as we fly down these roads.

We once were strangers in this country, but now we’ve wiggled our way into each other’s lives. Into a story. Over the years, we’ve shared our tales of who we were in America and the people we left behind. We cried and talked about the people we lost. One volunteer's story: "I think the hardest moment in my life was not the day she passed away but a week later when I went to grab the shawl she always wore. I often smelled it to remember her. But this day, it no longer had her smell. And it wasn't until that day that I broke down."

Maybe Mamba's sister was right. Maybe we all did come from some sort of broken or split family. Maybe part of us came here to fix those we could not back home. Maybe something was even broken in us all that we desperately were trying to fix. But together, we found something in this place. As much as we claimed to hate Swaziland we found something here. And I just knew, we were all afraid of loosing it. But equally we were afraid to face what we may have lost back home. Were there still Legos to be built? Would they see me in the same light? Would they still NEED me?

Justice tells me, Heaven is in America and the rest shout out, “You fucking Americans!” But where was I in all this? My father will ask how much more I like America now. But it’s never been about that. It’s about understanding. The more I travel, the more I see this universal connection. I realize, the more things change the more they stay the same. And the more I understand, the more I am aware of this overwhelming theme that I don’t think I could ever put into words for you to read.

You probably have no idea what I’m talking about. But you, American, I have hope that one day, you will.

"The Perfect Bite"

2011-06-13T01:18:00.000-07:00

6/01/2011

“ ‘She must be a white woman,’ the pygmy said. ‘Only a white woman can understand my universal principle of Homo sapiens. I must not marry a Negro. How am I to attain this goal? You have the opportunity. I have not. How am I to meet the white woman? How do I find the white wife?’”

I laugh to myself as I read this paragraph in Philip Gourevitch’s book "We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families". Philip was going through the exact same shit I was, just in a different country- Rwanda. And as a man, instead of being proposed to he was being asked how to get the white woman to propose to. I sit in the back of a bar, sipping Stout watching the drunken young play pool and watch football, when a middle aged Swazi man walks over and takes a seat next to me.

“I like you.” He says.
I stare back waiting for the proposal.
“You must marry me.”
“Why?” I ask as I always do.
“Because I must have a white wife.”
“Why?”
“Because the white wife has a big heart and a big brain. She will be kind to me and my children.”
I laugh and slide my book across the table to this Swazi suitor.
“Second paragraph page 6. Can you read it out loud to me please?”

He reads out loud:

“ ‘She must be a white woman,’ the pygmy said. ‘Only a white woman can understand my universal principle of Homo sapiens. I must not marry a Negro. How am I to attain this goal? You have the opportunity. I have not. How am I to meet the white woman? How do I find the white wife?’”

“It seems you’re not the only one.” I laugh.
He stares back. Humorless and astonished. I am sure no white woman has ever responded in this manner to him before. He sits stiff with his arms folded across his chest.
“Nah! No! I am not THIS man!”
“He’s from Rwanda. And yet, he wants the same thing you do. Can you explain to me why?” I ask.
My suitor begins to get angry. And I know why. Swazis are proud to be SWAZI. They will tell you they aren’t like any other African person. They are the only African country not colonized by the Western world. They are the only African country that has never encountered a civil war. They talk proudly about their lighter skin complexion. They enjoy being smaller and shorter than other Africans. They are proud not to look like the West Africans with their dark skin and bulging body parts. This is what many will tell you.

And I just compared this man to someone he defined himself as NOT.

After I managed to calm him down I asked him to again, explain to me why he thought a white wife would be better than a black one. His answer was simple. He used to work for a hotel that had many white guests and he watched as these white women tied the shoes of their children, wiped the food off their sticky mouths, held the hands of their husbands, and smiled and said thank you to all the hotel staff.

“Our minds our different.” He explains. “Our hearts are smaller. Our brains are smaller. We are dark. The white people you see are always helping people. They are so active. This is why I want a white wife.”

I was curious why they imagined themselves in this manner- as just another one of Africa’s “primitive races”. I questioned their belief in human inferiority. I wondered why they thought who they were and where they fit in this world in the manner they did. How could they so easily just accept this outlook? To be lesser than.

I saw this in every part, every sub-culture, every corner of Swazi life. From the very bottom of the social class to the very top, they made a point of standing apart from someone they considered lesser than. The rural Swazis will tell you they are NOT like the Western or Eastern barbarian Africans.

I witnessed this while dating a Ghanaian here in Swaziland for a few months. Swazis walked by gawking. Swazi male friends would judge, “How could you be with HIM when you could be with one of US? Can you even see him in the dark?” They’d laugh. Emails from strangers told me to watch my back. “You come to Swaziland and start fucking the dark one! I will fuck you. You better watch your back!” Even the Ghanaians tried to stand apart from Swazis. “We don’t cheat on our women.” They’d tell me. “We are romantic.” Swazi women say, “You’re dating a Ghanaian? He will love you Simphiwe. He will take you out, and buy you flowers. I won’t date Swazi.”

Then you had those in the city: Swazi women refusing to date Swazi men and Swazi men refusing to date Swazi women. Even Mamba himself says to me, "I probably wouldn't date a Swazi woman." And Mamba was one of proudest Swazis I had ever met. It seemed if you had an education you knew better than to date your own “kind”. They were torn between having pride in their own country and being ashamed of it.

You began to understand why these privileged Swazis opened backpackers. The floodgates would open and women who are NOT Swazi would flock in. Mamba tells me stories about Swazis who would buy the backpacker’s props (backpacks, sleeping bags, etc) then move from backpacker to backpacker picking up different women. “It’s quite easy. You don’t shower for a few days and google some place you say you just came from. The ladies love it. And you don’t have to worry about relationships or AIDS.”

At a party I ask privileged Swazi number 2, “What’s with the tattoo?” I roll up his sleeve to get a better look.
“It’s my surname. Dlamini.” He says.
“I know, but why put that there?”
“Because I’m royalty. I’m proud.”
“So why not roll up those sleeves and act proud?” I ask.

Privileged Swazi goes on to tell me he’s not like “Swazis”. He’s smart and educated.

“Swazis can’t think for themselves. They’re naturally dumb. THANK GOD my mother is from Botswana. I’m not full Swazi.” He boasts.

THANK GOD his father was once ambassador, MP, and a lawyer providing this young man an education in New Zealand and a chance to see the world. But unfortunately the chance to step outside his own country and into a world that considered his country and continent as less than gave him a similar perspective. Now he has become so ashamed of his own people. I have a feeling however, in New Zealand, this Swazi wears his sleeves rolled up and proud. "I am Dlamini! African!" He shouts to the pale and doe-eyed Kiwi ladies. All the stories I've heard from these privileged Swazi men who get the chance to travel abroad, “I tell them I am SWAZI. And they have no idea where that is. I’m not just African. I am SWAZI.” They carry such pride to be Swazi in the UK. To be Swazi in Finland. To be Swazi in New Zealand. But the sleeves are rolled down when a Swazi is in Swaziland.

Could you blame them? Could you really blame these Swazis for the way they viewed themselves and where they fit in this world? You wonder how a man older than yourself can ask you for money every single day. How it becomes tucked into a Swazi’s greeting so easily to every outsider they pass. How they’ve trained themselves not to care. How they, without shame, demand and expect from us. And how so obediently they follow our instruction.

“The white wife has a big heart and a big brain. She is always so caring and giving.”

Swazis grow up seeing us in this manner. As givers, providers, nurturers for the needy. Fixing their problems with the flick of a pen and a check book.

“Where does your country get its food? Who gives you food?” The students ask.

We tell them to circumcise and they do without question. The white man has a bigger brain, why question. Why do anything for ourselves when they will for us?

This has become their reality. We are stupid and we need the white man to save us. It is because of US that they think this way. It is because of us that I am harassed everyday. It is because of us that I struggle to get my teachers involved in this damn library project. It is because of us that so many Peace Corps projects lay in ruins years later. It is because of us that we are still here trying to help a desperate country that will remain desperate until we are gone.

My Head teacher hits on me for the kagillionth time, inviting me to his home in the city.

“I have a boyfriend.” I tell him.
“A Swazi?!” He shrieks back.
“Yes.”
He shrugs back, “We don’t like to see whites suffer. It is US who are supposed to suffer. We don’t want you carrying things on your head, fetching water, and chopping firewood. You should not be with a Swazi from Siphofaneni.”
“He grew up in Mbabane.” I assure him.
“Good. Then he will build you a house in the city and a house on his family’s homestead. Then you can go to that world whenever you like. But in the city you shall stay.”

Swazis imagine themselves because of how WE imagine them. The poor Siphofaneni Swazi. He is unable, uneducated, and without. Peace Corps volunteers shift in their seats with a look of comic astonishment, unsure what to say when they find out I’m dating a SWAZI. “Mere. Be careful.” They tell me. I know these thoughts running through their minds because I too once thought this way. So desperate she must be. Idiot. I break up with a PCV (An American!) and start dating a Swazi. I know what they're thinking. A Swazi over an American?!

I don’t want to say it but I do it in his defense, “He went to Waterford.” I tell them. (A prestigious, international, school in the city). A look of relief in their eyes, “Thank God!” They shriek back. Even though, deep down, they know a man from America would be better.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. And I try to teach my students this.

I want them to have pride in their culture but at the same time be sensitive to other's. I try to open them up and encourage them to discuss their own beliefs about themselves and their social universe. These are rural Swazis in Siphofaneni, so for them it’s enough just NOT being any other type of African. Living in a landlocked country with only the outside influence of NGO’s, Rihanna, and WWF, I decide to play them a film that changed, rocked, and shook my world. It opened my eyes, gave me the thirst for travel, and the appreciation to try and understand the people in it.

The title of the film is “Baraka”. A Ron Fricke documentary which literally translates to “Blessing” or “Interconnectedness”. No dialogue, no plot, no actors. It’s a series of still shots from all over the world. “Everything that happens in the world in one day.” My mother told me. It was my 15th birthday and I wanted to take my friends to see it at the artsy Indy theatre in Dayton Ohio. “Make sure to lock the car doors when you’re down there.” The suburban housewives told their daughters as they went down to the city full of black people with my mother and I.

I sit with 5 of my closest friends as Whirling Dervishes twirled on screen, Buddhist Monks sat silent surrounded by thousands of lit candles, tattooed children in South America dance in ceremony, the screen lit up with fires still burning in Kuwait, the Western Wall in Jerusalem, Maasai men jumping high into the air as the women looked on, Navajo Native Americans danced in circles on reservations, Aushwitz in Poland, old men in Southeast Asia grunt and moan while performing cleansing rituals in tropical forests, women in factories stuffed like chickens in a hen house cut and shuffle cigarettes, a thousand year old statue leans heavy into the rivers of eastern Asia, an ancient Chinese emperor lies underground amongst all his soldiers and horses in the after-life, monkeys in hot springs, solar eclipses, concentration camps of the Japanese, and twirling baby chicks spinning down factory pipes and tunnels to their inevitable dark and gloomy cages that await them for the rest of their life.

At fifteen years old I sat in awe at all these images floating past. It evoked something real and alive inside me. For the first time in my life I got a sense of how big this world really was. I began to understand the similarities between us all. Without words I knew there was a connection and I wanted to plug into it- into this world. I was blown away as my friends sat horrified. Why hadn’t I gone to Leaps and Bounds like every other 15 year old celebrating their birthday?

“If you allow it.” I tell my students. “This world will blow your mind!”

They laugh at the attire, the ceremonies, and customs of all these people around the world. I show images of the Reed Dance and Incwala ceremonies in Swaziland. “Where I come from, people may laugh at YOUR culture. They don’t understand it.” I write down words like cultural universals, cultural respective, and ethnocentrism. “Every culture, every society, has a way of expressing itself. It’s important we try to understand and above all- respect it.” I encourage them to ask questions and speak their mind.

The two main themes in this country, especially for the youth, are conformity and obedience. With a fear of standing out it is hard for curiosity to develop. Question and awe are smashed into little bits and blown out the window. “What do you mean talk about my culture? Its all there is. I don’t know how.” They respond. Their view has become so limited it was hard for my students to talk about Swazi when they had no idea what to compare it to. All they knew was Swazi.

I had wiggled my way into this Swazi vein and I wanted to understand how they thought. How they loved. How they viewed the outside world. Did they even know it was there?

Sometimes, being in a country where teachers didn’t care to teach had its advantages. I could teach whatever I felt like teaching. No one questioned. No one cared or noticed. Twice a week we sat together teaching each other about our ways of living without judgment. They laughed and awed at all the BBC documentaries I shared with them. I showed films about the South Pacific islands. 100 people living on tiny pieces of earth burying most of their food to save from cyclones. People so adapted to water they fished without boats. I showed the ice and penguins of Antarctica. The pyramids of Egypt. The overcrowded streets of India. The brothels in Thailand. The street worker in Eastern Europe. Then I asked them why? Why were 7 year olds in India sold away to marry? Why were Chinese women discouraged from having more than one child? Why were these young girls in Thailand selling themselves? Why did Swazi mothers abandon their children? Why was all this normal to this specific culture? Who knew what was getting through to them but I was determined to shovel as much as I knew about the world into their minds before I left. To get them to critically and creatively think with an open mind.

And this was all I had. I could throw AIDS statistics in their face. I could look over all the manuals Peace Corps threw at us. “Teaching Self-Esteem and Peer Pressure”. Instructions that read: “On flip chart draw a river and cut out stones. These are the stepping stones of life and teenagers are trying to cross the river. Now, draw crocodiles. These crocodiles are Peer Pressure trying to prevent them from crossing that stream of life.”

Are you kidding me? You don’t teach self-esteem. You show it. You don’t use numbers to teach HIV to children, you show it. You ask them to dig deep. Where are your parents? Where are your uncles? Your cousins? Now write it down. Tell me a story. Tell me their story. Tell me YOUR story. We read the papers together. “The government is telling you there is no more money. The cabinet is saying they are corrupt. Tell me, what do you think about all this? How do we prevent such corruption? Why did this happen?” I try to get them to think about their world. You find all the ways possible to open their eyes to what’s around them.

Man did I try.

The APCD of Peace Corps calls me, “Meredith. I know you’ve been teaching Life Skills at schools a lot and CARITAS would like you to come teach Life Skills for one day next week.” We use certain words so much in this line of business you forget how ridiculous it all sounds.
“You’d like me to teach Skills about Life in one day? What is the age group?” I ask. APCD clears his throat, “Well ah, 8 to 20 years of age.”
I laugh, “And what’s the topic?”
“Well you’d be teaching peer pressure and self esteem.”

CARITAS wanted me to talk about peer pressure to eight year olds alongside twenty year olds.

“I don’t teach that.” I say.
“I thought you teach Life Skills.” He responds.
“No. I teach about the world.” I say.

All our report files and routine meetings with staff, all want to hear us say we teach “Life Skills”. No one ever asks, “What does Life Skills mean?” They follow a manual. How many students did you teach? How many do you think you affected? How many do you think will prolong sexual intercourse now?

If you had to narrow what I taught down to something, I suppose I would say I teach the understanding and acceptance of sexuality and culture and in a way that forces you to think creatively and critically. Swazis are raised without comprehension. Problem solving, and critically and creatively thinking is foreign to them. Teachers stand in front of a classroom reciting off textbooks and teacher’s manuals in a language they don’t fully understand. The students memorize key words to barely get by. I ask them questions and they all answer in uniform. I ask them to explain. The zombies recite the approved definitions. “Don’t give me that memorized bullshit. I want you to explain to me WHY!” I shout. “I don’t care if it’s in SiSwati. I want you to understand. Understand it in SiSwati for all I care.” I ask what they think the HIV rate is in Swaziland. “70%.” They tell me. “80%!” Some shout, “90%” Others argue. Remember, they live in a country that shouts AIDS at them from birth. AIDS is everywhere. So, of course they'd say 80%. But this next part baffled me.

I go on to ask, “So, what age does the average Swazi live to be?”
“75!” They shout. “No. No. It’s 65!”
“You mean to tell me, you think the HIV rate in Swaziland is 90%, which means you’re all almost dead, and yet some how the average Swazi lives to be 75?!” I shout back. “The average Swazi lives to be 33. Ten years ago it was 62.” I explain.
The students shake their heads in disbelief and one raises his hand, “But my grandmother is 75.” I throw my head down and bang it on someone's desk. They all laugh but they're killing me. These are 19 and 20 year olds we're talking about.

“This is why we can’t have democracy right now!” Mamba shouts at me.
“In the paper the other day,” He continues. “One of the chiefs, running for MP, was quoted as saying that all private land should belong to the people. All those sugar cane fields in Malkerns and the maize in the low veld should be given to the people.”
“That’s absurd.” I say. “I mean you wouldn’t have any exports then. This country wouldn’t make any money. How does he expect the country to survive without exports?”
“Exactly. See you aren’t thinking Swazi. He wasn’t thinking ahead. Swazis are communist by nature. He didn’t think ahead. He just wanted land for himself. This is how they think. This is where we fail.”

Swaziland has become a country without parents and a school without teachers. What happens when these students grow up? No one has taught them what we take as “common sense”. I try to encourage teachers but they show me even more disrespect. Not once have I ever been told about a staff meeting during the week. How many times I’ve walked hours to school in the sweltering heat with all my teaching aids in hand to find that there is no school today. “Today is sports day.” They say. “I thought yesterday was sports day?” I ask. They laugh. I get angry, “You know if you put as much energy into teaching as you do beating kids and SPORTS DAY half of your form three wouldn’t have failed last year!”

I’m bursting at the seams here. I ask why, but I’ve gone about it all wrong. I have DEMANDED their respect. And it didn’t occur to me until recently that this lack of respect is just as much my fault or Peace Corps’ as it is theirs- if not MORE. Peace Corps has taken a handful of twenty something year olds with no teaching or nursing degrees and told them to go into clinics and schools and “help”. “How are we going to teach in schools and work in clinics when we don’t have the experience?” We asked. “Oh don’t worry.” They assured us. “You’ll have this paper stamped from the Ministery of Education and the Ministry of Health saying you’re allowed to. Just wear a skirt, you’ll be fine.” We nodded our heads in ignorance. We handed Head teachers and nurses these stamped letters and got annoyed when nurses would ask us “Are you a nurse?” When Head teachers would dare ask, “Were you a teacher back home?” We weren’t given the credentials back in the real world, but here we got our official stamp just for being Peace Corps. But again, blind faith of the white comes into play. Only now do I see just how insulting that must have been. But so many teachers accepted our presence for sake of a break, hoping we’d agree to teach English as well while they sit stupid in the staff room. Our only welcome was to take their hours.

And now after thousands of dollars and the hours and hours of hard work a previous Peace Corps Volunteer put in, an extremely large library sits untouched at my school. 1500 books from the US sit untouched for over a year. Termites and mold eat away at the boxes filled with books as the teachers sit in staff rooms sleeping and gossiping. It’s the same story of what happened to me almost two years ago at my primary school. I had to abandon all my hard work because no one would help me. And this is the story of almost EVERY school in rural Swaziland. I run around the city trying to find someone to donate bookshelves before I go. I give them money from family and friends to start the bookshelf project. And no one will help me. A teacher from Zimbabwe walks over and asks me how the library is doing. “You’re the first teacher to ask me that.” I say. We sit and watch as the Head teacher herds all the students into a group outside this morning. Again, I’m told I can’t teach today but this time because tomorrow the REO (Regional Educational Officers) are coming to inspect the school and staff. The Head teacher pulls every student from class and yells at them to start cleaning the entire school. I imagine, if only he would do this for one day to get the library organized and in shape. With everyone’s help, I’d only need one day. Instead I’m alone while the students frantically clean all day before the investigators arrive.

“I’m glad you guys have your priorities in order.” I say to Zimbabwe. “ But again, I’m happy you asked about the library. Most don’t even know what I’m doing over there. No one cares.”
He laughs, “Oh. They care.” He says. “They care enough to turn it into an examination room once you leave.”
My mouth drops, “WHO wants it turned into an examination room?!”
“I’m just saying Simphiwe. There are those that don’t want your books or your library. They want it for themselves.”
“Then I will get the extra funding to cement those shelves to the ground!” I shout. “Who said this to you?”
Zimbabwe looks down and refuses to tell me. But it doesn’t matter. Students aren’t going to be interested in a library if the teachers aren’t. Over and over I try to start a library club. The first day 20 show. The second day 4. The third only 2 remain. And it’s like this every time. I can’t compete with after-school sports or chores at home.

“What will you do when you return home?” My head teacher asks.
“I guess I’ll go back to school. I want to do something in the education field I know that.”
“Good.” He smiles. “Then you will come back to Swaziland and we can then dissolve your talents. You will be of use.”

I laugh, but he was right. I will be “of use”. Look. You can tell me all you want that I’m “making a difference” But let’s be honest, how much more difference would I had made had I actually gotten a teaching degree? Had I actually worked alongside NGOs before? Peace Corps in Swaziland is all grassroots. There are no specifics here. They throw kids fresh out of college into rural areas and call us Health Volunteers. They latch us onto some shady Swazi who is never around, gave up on his community years ago, and tell us to do sustainable work. They say to us, listen to the community’s needs and go from there. When these people don’t even know what they want or how to get it. And the NGOs are just as bad. “They should have attached us to an NGO after a year.” Volunteers say. “So many NGOs are ignorant to what’s going on out here and they end up wasting thousands and thousands of dollars. It’s absolute chaos because no one wants to do the research and take the time to actually get to know the situation down here.” Volunteers, staying in country, after TWO years, have the option of working with an NGO where they will live and where their work will remain. All they did for their communities will be slapped onto another new and confused volunteer or become forgotten.

There is no structure and we end up blaming ourselves for it. We run around for two years refusing to give into the people’s demands. We refuse to just build a building or throw money at a chicken project because we are determined to do sustainable work here. We try to teach teachers. We try to inspire students to get involved in our after- school clubs. We try to convince Head teachers to help us with the library. And yet we fail. I can’t tell you how many volunteers have felt this guilt of failure for the past two years. The guilt brings us to our knees and in the end we go ahead and raise money back home or from our own pockets to throw some sort of structure at the people here just before we leave. “There!” We’ll shout. “NOW you can’t say I didn’t do anything.” And there it will sit, unused, unloved. Sure, the Swazis will throw you a party for the thing you paid for. Maybe even slaughter a cow in your behalf. But years will go by and then another volunteer will arrive to your old community. The locals will speak of you so highly for getting them something and then they’ll point to it and show this new volunteer what you had gotten them. The new volunteer will scratch their head in confusion.

“You mean that abandoned building that’s falling apart over there? Where the chickens are sleeping?”
“Yes.” Their new they will smile back and say.
“But what is it?” They’ll ask.
“Oh. It USED to be a library. But now we need a better one. Can you get the money to build one for us?”

This is our only legacy: a worn down building and a cycle of dependency.

There’s so much more I still want to do here. There’s so much more I first need to learn. I’m not done with Swaziland and I have a feeling it’s not done with me.

And it’s on this particular warm winter morning where I have this realization. I sit with my friend, Vusi, watching the sunlight squeeze its way through the clouds onto our faces and we breath it in deep into our bellies. Something was alive in the breeze today. We sit outside the grocery store in Manzini and eat our chicken mayo sandwiches. Vusi was a retired butcher in his late sixties and he was dying of AIDS. Some days he looked alive and other days I didn’t know how he could even muster a hello to me as I passed. This was one of those days. He had been mugged the night before and he carried a bloody cloth around his right arm. I tell him to go to Hope House.

“They’ll take care of you Vusi.”
“No Simphiwe. There are people in a lot worse shape than myself that deserve their attention. I wait till it REALLY gets bad before I go.”

Vusi lost his wife to AIDS in 2004 and then his job. He was a butcher and butchers have to take mandatory HIV tests. One day Vusi’s came out positive. With no job and no money he found a Catholic missionary to take his children while he wandered the streets of Manzini. Waiting for death. For almost a year we passed each other every time I came to town and he would joke, “Little lady I promise, I’m not following you.” He never once asked me for anything. We’d just sit and talk. But the days he looked extra bad I’d make sure to give him money or a meal. I wanted to give him something more than death to look forward to. “Don’t do that Meredith!” Volunteers would yell. “Now he thinks ALL white people are going to just give shit away.” But not this one. Vusi was more than that. He was more than that to me.

I tell him I’m leaving in July.
“But you’ll be back Simphiwe.” He smiles.
“How do you know Vusi?” I ask.
“Because.” He grins. “Swaziland has a way of taking a bite out of certain people. Not all. But some. And I can see, she’s taken a bite out of you. And they’ll come the day, someday, when you’ll come back looking for that bite she took out of you. And then, just maybe, you’ll take a bite out of her.”

*Sometimes I think people like Andy or Mamba are right. That there ARE ancestors or God or SOMETHING looking down on me. Just as I hit "Post" on this blog an old man taps me on the shoulder and whispers, "I thought I was dreaming. Is it really you?"

It was Vusi. I haven't seen Vusi in over two months and to be honest, I thought he was dead. I got teary eyed just writing this post because he meant a lot to me. And just as I sent you his story, there he was. So now, I'm going to leave you and go share a sandwich with my dear friend Vusi. I think today I'll teach him about that perfect bite in a sandwich.

Till next time.

mere

Return of the King

2011-06-06T00:35:00.000-07:00

A Girl in Search of Her Belly-Button

2011-05-19T03:12:00.001-07:00

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

2011-05-13T22:58:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-13T22:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Practice Makes Perfect

2011-04-20T04:24:00.000-07:00

March 19th 2011

Peace Corps, or Chicken Little, as I like to call them these days, has turned paranoid once again. Constantly clucking, “The sky is falling!” “But you said that last month.” We respond. Go home. Have a beer. Masturbate. This will all blow over soon. Nothing is going to happen. I think. But Chicken Little kept on nagging. The sky is GOING to fall! “The Swazi government has no money. People are going to loose their jobs. Workers are going to return home to their villages. They’re going to harass you even more for money. You WILL become even MORE of a target. Civil servants aren’t going to get paid for three months. Stay vigilant.” Some of us started to believe it. Some of us started to become scared. We were told to hide in our huts, or bunkers, designed to protect us from the outside Swazi world. Bunkers built to prevent us from getting smacked on our little heads by pieces of the falling sky.

“You’re going to be on Standfast.” Country director tells us. “Steadfast?” We turn to each other and ask. Chicken Little rolls her head, “Don’t you remember training?! STAND FAST! You will stay in your communities for the week of March 18th. You will NOT leave. You are NOT to take public transport. And you are NOT to talk about these politics or any of this with your Host Country Nationals.” PAUSE. Allow me to take a minute to tell you how much I LOATHE. DESPISE. SHUTTER at the words: Host Country Nationals. Another bullshit term. Another term that separates US from THEM. Host Country Nationals are people you have gotten to know in your community over the years. Oh you mean, friends? You ask. Yes. Any normal person would dare call them, their “friends”. But you’re Peace Corps and you can’t just say friends. I mean they are SWAZI. And you, YOU are not. So we call them host country nationals. People we “interview” to understand this sticky Swazi world. Boss leans in, whispers to us now, “We will stay in touch and let you know what’s happening during this week.” She pauses. Swazi staff walks by without a clue. “But be prepared. We don’t know what’s going to happen. STAY VIGILANT!”

Their warnings all preface the headlines a week later. Nurses go on strike, leaving the sick unattended. The headlines read, “Sick die in hospitals while nurses refuse to work.” I walk into my school, “We aren’t teaching today!” They cheer. “We’re on strike.” Newspapers shout out, “The Government Has No Money.” IMF declares, “Cut back wages of Ministers of Parliament or fire civil servants.” The Minister of Finance confesses, “80 million Rand a month (10 million USD) goes missing due to corruption.” Everyone is surprisingly shocked. How can that be?! It’s the civil servants against the MP’s now, whose going to take the pay-cuts? The Cabinet certainly isn’t going to fire each other or take away THEIR money. It’s the people who will suffer. The people begin to question and the King and his government keep quiet.

Days pass, and they’re all starting to point fingers at the Prime Minister now. “He’s too blame for all the lost money!” The people had once forgotten, not too long ago, the PM was fired for millions gone missing. Then returned to power when it miraculoulsy returned. But people always forget and move on to bigger headlines. What’s going on in Libya and Tokyo right now? They have no idea anymore.

And then it was the IMF’s fault. “They’re to blame!” The people shouted. “Every time the IMF enters a country it leaves it in worse condition than it was before.” People wrote to the Swazi Times. “Who are THEY to tell us that the government MUST fire its civil servants. THEY are not Swazi!” The IMF writes back, “We never said fire civil servants. We said to cut wages from civil servants or the Cabinet. We are only making suggestions.” People shouting back and forth, and still the government kept quiet. People were starting to freak out.

Volunteers, now rubbing their hands together. “Yes! Finally! The revolution we’ve all been waiting for.” They shout. “Down with the King.” They think. “Democracy for Swaziland!”

March 18th, the teachers and nurses take it to the streets as we volunteers hide under our blankets inside our little, country, bunkers. 8,000 protesting in the capital. Toy-toying as they call it. Derived from the South Africans: Dancing and singing in the streets. Our version of “Hell no, we won’t go.”

The South African news, in between broadcasts of Tokyo and Libya, covers what’s going on in the capital of Swaziland. “8,000 civil servants protesting in the streets. Demanding to get paid. They are giving the King one month, until April 12th to step down.” A voice inside South Africa says, his picture on the screen. (April 12th 1973 the year the date the month the previous King banned all political parties in this country.) How, you may ask, did I know what was being televised on this day, March 18th, the very day we were supposed to be taking cover awaiting the Swazi bombs to explode Swazi shrapnel over our little American heads? Well, you don’t seriously expect me to follow rules that don’t make sense do you? That just wouldn’t be….me. No. I needed to know. I wasn’t about to sit in my hut and just wait it out while the fireworks were exploding in Mbabane. But I also wasn’t about to travel to the capital where all American authority would be. Big Brother would spot me with their big telescope lens. Alarms would sound because of the microchips they’ve implanted in our little Peace Corps brains. Warning Warning! PCV on the loose! They’d seize me with their spindly fingers and squeeze me until I pissed blood. They’d shout from the top of their lungs, “You didn’t stay vigilant!” And I’d shout back, trying to free myself from their tight grip, “Don’t you own a thesaurus?! Quit saying that word!” And after a good shaking, they’d kick my little defiant ass back home where our economy is in equally horrible shape. I’d return to Indianapolis and knock on any number of international aid agencies’ doors with my new and improved resume and my new and improved smug attitude. “Two years in the Peace Corps?” They’d smile back. I’d shift in my seat with excitement. Yes! “Well isn’t that precious. You must have a big heart.” They’d say. “And no Masters? Only an undergraduate degree? I see. In…..Sociology?” I’d swallow hard and say, “Yeah. But I’ve got a big heart, remember?” And they’d point to the door. Ten years ago sure, that would have been enough. But you’re back in America now. Where days fly by like minutes, never a moment to stop and take a breath. Time is money. America. Where your once black sheep aunts and uncles who got their GEDs in the 70s are now getting their Masters. Two years later and you’re jobless. Pennyless. Working at the Shoe Carnival for Christ’s sake! No. No. No. I can’t go back. Not yet!

Instead, I phone Mamba. “Come pick me up! We’ve got a revolution to witness.” He rolls his eyes, and like every other nationality in this world mumbles, “You Americans….”

He picks me up and I find myself a nice restaurant. I order the usual: the over-priced Greek salad, with the over priced extra olives, and the over priced extra feta cheese, and a reasonably priced horrible sweet glass of “dry” chardonnay. The TV talks. “Turn it up!” I shout to the waiter. “We’re on TV!”

“8,000 civil servants protesting in the streets. Demanding to get paid. They are giving the King one month, until April 12th to step down.” I stand next to a Swazi waiter shaking his head and we share a laugh. “A regime change? Really?” I say to him. “I thought you guys just wanted to get paid.” He laughs, “They got it all wrong. News is news. We don’t want the King to go. No one is saying that. We call our King ‘Umftwana’. Literally meaning ‘child’. It’s not his fault things are the way they are. He was born into this. He can’t help it. It’s the people he surrounds himself with. The Cabinet. THEY must go. South Africans just want us to be like them. A Republic. No way. No way am I going to be South African. That place is corrupt and violent. The only place I’ve ever felt a gun pressed to the temple of my head in broad daylight is in South Africa. And full of racists. If they ever tried to absorb us, I’d leave. Hell no. I’m Swazi.” He fluffs his feathers. This peacock holds his head high. Proud to be Swazi. Like having “faith”, this is something unknown to me. To be apart of something so small, well, I guess you’d have to be.

8,000 civil servants came and 8,000 civil servants left. Teachers and nurses eventually went back to work. Mamba laughs, “This happened once a few years ago. People REFUSED to go back to work until their demands were met. But eventually, they got hungry and KFC re-opened. I keep telling you. Swazis can’t be bothered.” But April 12th still lingered in the air. The word uprising became the new catch phrase. The newspapers had a field day with it. “Facebook Group Demanding Uprising April 12th!” The Prime Minister began to get scared. “Swazis have freedom of expression. But once that expression threatens the citizen’s security and safety you will be treated as a terrorist. If you join this uprising you are against the King. And we will take certain freedoms away.” Very patriot act of His Majesty. However, the King stayed silent.

Life Skills lessons in my classroom became discussions and debates on what’s happening in Swaziland. “What do you guys think?” I ask. They keep quiet. It takes weeks of me prodding and poking to get them to open up. For months we’ve been discussing Libya. Revolutions. Uprisings. Rebellions. Protests. Activists like Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Malcolm X, and Gandhi. The American Revolution and the Boston Massacre. My Form 4 and Form 5’s seem relatively intrigued with their questions and shared words of dissatisfaction towards their “system” of governance. (Juniors and Seniors).

And then one day, all this protesting and uprising talk becomes personal. One morning, just like every morning, the 400 students of Siphofaneni High line up outside for assembly. They begin to sing their songs of praise to the Highest. (Which is one of the most fascinating improvisational and collective acts I have ever witnessed here. It begins with a child, any child randomly, will break into one of the million songs they have about God and the rest, simultaneously, follow in unison. Melodies that bring tears to your eyes. You begin to sway your hips along side them. You start to memorize the chorus and whisper along hoping no one hears you. But you can’t help it and you can’t hold back any longer! You drop to your knees and kiss this earth. Chills run up your side and move you to run to the nearest church and thank the almighty father for all the beauty in this world. This coming from me, a what the believers like to call “non-believer”.) But soon, all the grace inside these souls are quickly quieted and a teacher walks out with announcements. Graceful souls go quiet and they are back to being zombies.

However, after announcements, on this day, the Headmaster comes screeching into school in his tiny blue car. I used the word tiny to describe this car. But really, the car alone, isn’t so tiny. However, when you put someone who so closely resembles Baloo the Bear (Come on, that’s not racist. White people can resemble bears too. I think it’s his eyes. So close together. And I’m sure his weight has something to do with it.) Next to this man the car begins to loose inches.. even feet. How DOES he fit into that thing? The students, teachers, and I look at each other in confusion. Why? BECAUSE THE HEADTEACHER IS NEVER AT SCHOOL. Sorry to shout at you, but I have a deep seeded hatred for this man. This, coming from a woman who was raised by a mother who liked to cheer, “Meredith, hate isn’t in the dictionary.” While growing up. Back when everything pissed me off and there was only HATE and LOVE. No messy in between. Imagine every opinion and belief, and I have many, I have about this world and think about what the opposite opinion of my opinion would be. This man encompasses all of this. The anti-Meredith. I know right, a disgrace.

Anyway, anti-Meredith stomps onto the deck before his students. Pushing aside the feeble teacher giving her weak announcement, and he begins like this. “For weeks I have kept quiet!” I wonder. Why is he addressing them in English. He looks my direction then glares back at the students. He’s shoving, cramming, his words inside their wide open zombie mouths. Feed us your bullshit. “But I can’t keep quiet anymore!” He shouts. “Why are YOU complaining that WE beat you?! We give you strokes because we are trying to teach you. Most of you are orphans. You don’t have parents at home to raise you. So it is up to us to raise you. I am the man I am today because of beatings. We give you strokes because we want you to become our future doctors, nurses, soldiers, and teachers.” I lean against the doorway and snicker, the only professions out there. “And STILL you complain. Not to us. You go to the Ministry of Education and complain to THEM! Why? Why not come to us?! No. This is not right. What do you want to start here?! An UPRISING! Do you know what happens if you uprise against me?! You will go straight to jail. You cannot beat me. I am the powerful one. And you!” He turns to my Form 5s. “I know you were the ones who wrote this letter to the REO and the Ministry (REO: Regional Educational Officers). Yes. I know. They showed me the letters. And I know one of them was written by a girl. I can tell. And I will find out who is behind this! You ungrateful…..” Head Cock and Balls steps down and Form 5s look defeated. They are dismissed.

I run to my dear friend, the deputy (Vice Principal) Mrs. Masugo. She grabs my hand and we hide ourselves in her office. Allow me to give you the long and short of my friendship with one of the most big hearted women I’ve ever met here. We met in the locker room of the Manzini gym almost a year ago now. Just out of the shower, the only one covered up as usual, and the other Swazi women are busy asking me to show them what a white sibombom looks like (Yes. That is correct. Sibombom is Siswati for vagina.) All black bushes out. The ladies are lotioning themselves up and after the oooooooooh’s and ahhhhhhhhhh’s of my audience’s fascination that yes you can shave hair anywhere (Swazi women love hair and wish for more of it, whereas white American women tend to curse it, laser it, and wish it upon those they despise.) Mrs. Masugo walks over and introduces herself. “You’re a teacher at my school.” She says to me. I quickly pull my pants up, dear God, I didn’t even recognize her. Talk about a first impression. “You’re the deputy! Where I teach!” I shout back. From there on, from the moment she found me with my undies at my ankles to her office at her desk, we were the best of friends. We shared our stories. “I am who I am today because of a little old British lady who paid for my education. My husband died, leaving me with four children to raise.” She tells me one day.

“Well you had your mother and sister to help you with the children yes?”
She laughs, “Oh no. See when Swazi women marry, we move to our husbands homestead and if and when he dies we stay on our husband’s homestead. And his family didn’t feel the need to help me raise my children because they were not theirs to raise.”
“Why not move back to your mother’s homestead?” I ask.
“If I had left his family would have thought I was some sort of prostitute. They’d think I was leaving so I could sleep with different men. So there I stayed. Four children and a very demanding job as Deputy Headmaster.”

Throughout the year Mrs. Masugo has let me in on all her little secrets. She knows the Headmaster is corrupt. Last year when the children complained of the little food they had to eat at school and crumbling concrete walls he called “toilets” they had to shit in, Mrs. Masugo was quietly on “their side”. “Simphiwe.” She told me. “Do you know how much money each student pays for food at this school? 200 R. And the food the Headmaster gives them, porridge and beans, is all donated. You do the math.” She holds up a calculator. “That’s 99,000 R a year that goes missing.” For over a year I’ve watched as the students complain to the Headmaster. I’ve heard about the beatings so hard that it sends students to the hospital. I wait for the crumbling walls surrounding the toilets to sink in and collapse on these children while the Headmaster flushes his toilet. Only coming to school to beat the kids, demanding school fees and locking their desks and chairs inside a room until they pay him.

And today, he has the audacity to ask these children, “Why have you not come to ME with your complaints?! Why the Ministry of Education?!”

“He’s scared Simphiwe.” The deputy leans across her desk and whispers to me now. The wind moves the door just a bit and we both hold our breaths. She continues more quietly, “The REO is on their way now to investigate him. Why do you think he came today? The children did the right thing. Myself and the rest of the teachers all know this. We’re all against him.”

“Why don’t you speak out?” I ask her. “Why don’t you tell the REO what you know. Tell them about the missing money. The toilets. The rumored girls he’s supposedly slept with. You can help these students.”
“Simphiwe. You don’t understand how politics works in this country. They will assume I am jealous as second in command and only out to get his job. This is how people think. It cannot come from me. This needs to come from THEM.”

She had told me this before, when it first came to light the corruption of the anti-Meredith. Which is why I felt it even more necessary to teach my Form 4s and Form 5s about activism a few months ago. “It begins with a voice.” I told them. “Then a few voices and a few more. Then those voices come together and put it down in writing. And they send their complaints to those that will listen.” I think back to the things I’ve taught. Were they actually listening to me? Had I started something? Had I planted the seed?

“The Headmaster thinks it was me who got these kids to write these letters.” My dear friend tells me. “He’s trying to intimidate me. I had no idea about these letters until today. Just a few weeks ago, a police officer came to me. To this very office and demanded I give him ‘the letters’. I wondered, what is this man talking about.? Letters? He told me he knew it was me and he needed the letters. I know the Headmaster sent him. You have to be careful Simphiwe. He has spies you know. Two of the teachers, Gazagaza and Dlamini. They are his right hand men. He sends them into the staff room to listen to us as we teachers talk and then they report back to him.” “Do the other teachers know this?” I ask her. “Of course. You will notice, they’re never really conversing with any of us.”

I walk to my first class of the day, Form 5a. I sit on a desk and ask them to gather around. Again, they all stare. No matter how many times I ask them to break routine, stand, walk, get into groups, speak, or “gather around” they always sit in bewilderment for a few moments. Just the other day, I had them working in pairs, another teacher walks by, “Simphiwe, how did you do that? They aren’t seated in lines. Working together? That would be so chaotic. It would take too much time. How did you get them to come together?” “Practice makes perfect.” I smiled back and told him. The students pick up their chairs and sit around me. I lean in, “I’m proud of you.” I see their confusion. “You did EXACTLY as you should have. You wrote a letter to those that would listen and today the investigators and the Ministry are coming. THIS is activism. This could be the beginning of change. Change in the direction you want it to go. Like I told you, It’s all about communication. You are beginning a conversation. A dialogue has begun, and I am so proud of you.”

Communication. The root of all problems in this small country. A teacher holds a stick in his hand as assembly continues.
“Whatcha gonna do with that stick there Thulani?” I ask as I chew on a straw.
“I’m going to BEAT them.”
“What for?” I laugh.
“Look at some of them. Their hair. It’s messed up, and their shirts are un-tucked. They do this on purpose Simphiwe. They are always against us. They are just trying to provoke us.”
“Thulani. Have you ever stopped to ask them why their shirts are un-tucked or why they are late for school?”
“I don’t have time for that Simphiwe. I KNOW why.”
“Well I have. Most of these kids ARE orphaned and you know what, they’ve got younger siblings. So not only are they orphans, but they’re mommies and daddies. Mommies and daddies that have to get their ‘kids’ ready for school. They rush their tired behinds to school and when they get here you ask them to turn around and you wack their little tushies till tomorrow. Maybe they’re trying. Maybe you should first, talk to them.” Thulani laughs and shakes his stick at me, “Simphiwe. You are something else.”

Thulani, the very teacher that got a fist to the head when he told one of his students to leave the classroom. The next day, he walked around with a black eye and the other teachers told him he should leave the school due to embarrassment. He eventually chose to stay.

My students complain to me, “They like beating us.” The teachers complain to me, “They like provoking us.” The husband complains to his friends he isn’t satisfied but he’s unable to tell his wife, so he cheats. The wife doesn’t want another baby, so she secretly aborts and it goes horribly wrong. The people complain, they want to know if they’re going to get paid and the King keeps quiet, so they protest. The girlfriend wants to know if her boyfriend has HIV but she’s too scared to suggest a test. The gogo is mad at the volunteer whose been sent to live on HER homestead, AGAIN. But instead keeps quiet. The ignorant volunteer continues to do whatever it is that is pissing off the gogo and secretly hates the gogo but wouldn’t dare tell the gogo because finally she is starting to understand, to realize, why communication is so difficult in this country. Beyond language barriers. It is deeply deeply seeded in this culture to keep quiet, and it’s killing everyone.

“Kubindvwa kubukwa.” A Siswati expression. “We see corruption and yet we keep quiet.”

Communication. Communication. Communication.

“I’m proud of you.” I tell my Form 5s. “Instead of rioting and beating up the teachers (which students in other schools have done) you were heard in the most civil way possible. You were Martin Luther King today, without the Malcolm X violence.” The students applause, “We knew you were behind us Simphiwe.” They say.

I look to my left, out the door, and I notice the Headmaster walking by, glaring. My head turns white hot. I dismiss the students and my co-teacher, volunteer friend, walks over to me, “You think he heard?” He asks. I try not to show my friend that deep down, I’m scared he might have heard. I don’t look up and continue to organize my papers and casually say, “If he tells us to go. Fine. We go straight to the Ministry. It would not be in his best interest to do that.”

“One of these days, these orphans are going to fight back. They’re going to grow up with absolutely nothing and they’re going to demand change. A whole generation of orphans. Of survivors. One of these days they’ll take it back.” I tell another volunteer.

My students, shared their stories of HIV affecting their lives. Their tragedies and loss of hope was beginning to unfold onto me. I tried to throw encouragement over them like rice at a wedding. I got them to open up to me. To set themselves apart from the rest. “You are special.” I tell them. For so long I couldn’t tell them apart. For so long, they couldn’t tell each other apart. Male. Female. Is all they knew and needed to know. I want them to know there’s so much more. So much more worth fighting for.

“Now, enough of this ‘uprising’ talk!” I jump off my desk and shout. “Lets get back to our debates on oral sex, homosexuality, and abortion!” They laugh. (Don’t talk about religion, politics, or controversial topics with ‘them’ Peace Corps once warned us. Don’t cross the streams. Why Ion? It would be bad. But in the end, the Ghostbusters win ONLY by crossing the streams. Everyone knows that.) I put two signs up. One reads: Agree. The other: Disagree. “It is wrong to have sex before marriage.” I shout out. All walk to the agree side and a few brave MALE individual s walk over to disagree. I ask them why they feel it is OK to have sex before marriage. “Because practice makes perfect!” Menzi, the class-clown, shouts. The rest laugh. “Because we need to know if she is good in bed before marrying her.” “OK. OK.” I nod. A few from the agree side now walk over to the disagree side. The students laugh and try to hold them back. “No no no. A wise man always changes his mind.” I tell them. Words once spoken to me by Proud African. All agree that WOMEN should wait for marriage to have sex. “I could never marry a woman who had sex before me.” The boys shout. The girls get angry. “We can’t have sex before marriage. He will know.” I prod, I ask how. “The skin. It will be gone.” They say. “The hymen? I promise you ladies. I doubt there’s a girl in this room who still has her hymen intact. Sorry to burst your.. hymen (this is where I laugh at my own jokes that no one else gets) but girls can loose that from all sorts of different physical activity. None of which has to be sex.” I turn to the boys. “Sorry boys. No virginity tests for you. However, you do see the contradiction in both statements you’ve just made don’t you?” I ask. They begin to scratch their heads and the girls begin to open up and their heads begin to bobble. “We don’t like when you propose love to us everyday!” They shout. The boys stand silently confused. “Let us come to you!” they say. “Moving on.” I say with only ten minutes left of class. “Masturbation is wrong!” They look confused. After a quick explanation all move to AGREE. Liars. I think. Menzie, class clown, dashes over to the agree side and I shout, “Menzie! I thought practice makes perfect?!”

Peace Corps threw book after book at us. Get to these AFRICAN kids through soccer. Africans love soccer right?! Try to tie soccer and AIDS together. Teach those girls to make jewelry. Throw your colorful beads at them and we’ll call it empowerment. Maybe if they’re distracted by the alluring beauty of art and craft work they won’t fuck their teachers. Show the dying youth this claymation video of a giraffe and an elephant falling in love and getting tested together. That’s how you’ll get to them! Peace Corps cheered. Yeah and Girl Scouts and DARE really keeps a teenager off drugs.

It’s taken me two years, but I’ve finally found my OWN path in this teaching labyrinth I found myself lost in. Unlike most of my students, I was given a voice. I’m not sure who gave it to me, mom or pop, but both have encouraged it. (So you can blame them. In fact, blame all FOUR of my parents) Fourth grade gym class and my Neanderthal teacher was obviously a sexist. When it was “pick your sport day”, the boys always got first pick. When girls came to class with jeans on they were punished with detention but boys with their jeans on were only doomed by the knuckles a good ol’ fashioned noogey. One day, like many days, the teacher made the girls sit on the sidelines and be “cheerleaders”, if they so wised- which they did- because I was living in zombie-land suburbia Beavercreek, Ohio, while the boys played kickball. So tied up in the game, the sexist pig didn’t even notice me defacing his office and tearing down every “There’s no I in team” poster. The other girls sat and glared and when Mr. Beavercreek FINALLY noticed, I sat with my head held high as he screamed and demanded we tell him who did it. Of course they did, we were like 11 and I almost peed my pants when I was called into the Principals’ office and found my mother sitting there with that look that only a mother can give. I know I’m biased here. But hers is ESPECIALLY eery.

“This is not the way you do things Meredith.” Parental figures would continue to tell me. That’s what anyone would tell you about me. I had a voice, but I needed to learn to grow into it. Even still, I’m learning. My voice can be so greedy at times. It wants a quick fix. A reaction. It wants more and more. It wants change NOW. And it won’t let go of me easily. “Homosexuality is a sin!” My students will push my buttons. My voice starts to climb up inside my neck like the ugly green vine it is. It wants to balloon out in front of me and throw up greenish fungi shit onto them. I swallow hard. Push it down into my belly. It scratches turns and rolls. I stay objective. I follow the ignorant statements, with questions instead of opinions. I tell them how sexuality is portrayed in other parts of the world. How holding a man’s hand and casually having sex with other young boys at an early age would be considered “gay” where I come from, but deemed the “norm” here. I explain sexuality has evolved over time. “The early 20th century they would tell young men and women if they masturbated they’d get hairy palms.” I laugh and show them mine. “Do you see any hair?” I explain sexuality norms change depending when and where you are on this planet. That I am sure even I would be against homosexuality had I been raised to believe so. Had I been raised in a country where it is illegal, like Swaziland. Hands raise, “Simphiwe. Do you have sex?” “Simphiwe do YOU masturbate?” As much as I wish I would like to take credit for this line, in the words of our Peace Corps Medical Officer when warning us of the dangers of having sex with ‘them’ and to continue to do what Americans do best, “Masturbation is the heartbeat of America.” I tell them.

And I have no regrets talking about such controversial topics with these children. Swaziland is turning. There is a huge divide between the old and the young. The abandoned youth are being forced to make their own decisions on life. They have MTV’s screeching voice on one end and gogo’s old and tired withering whispers on the other. They are starting to re-think their own culture. Their beliefs, their politics.

The people are going two different directions. The un-educated keep mute and hold back the people in the city protesting. The country folk lack the knowledge to demand more. A democracy cannot happen in Swaziland, for now. Yes. There I said. I am the anti-American I suppose. Democracy is not the cure all. And I see that now. The majority of the people live “out there” and the majority of them are politically illiterate. There is no power of the people where there is no education. Our revolution was possible because we were educated. If people are given a vote who don’t care or know who they are voting for, corruption will continue. There needs to first be economic stability before you can have politics. There needs to be accountability, checks and balances in place. If politics doesn’t affect someone they will not care what bill, act, or law, they are voting for. Which is why the government not paying the people “out there” could spark something big. Finally. Before teachers and nurses were abandoning everyone, because of their politics, my students yawned as I read them the paper. But now, heads are starting to turn. Their parents, their neighbors, the generation before them is tossing and turning and they are seeing that opposition IS possible.

“Stay out of this one peanut.” My father writes. I know if he were here he’d swat me over the head and tell me to keep my mouth shut and my ears open. “Just continue writing your blog.” But I know, I can do something, even if it is in the background.

I want to teach these children to have a voice. They are more than just another brick in the wall.

Orphans of this AIDS war. One day they will start banging their cheap tin spoons on their cheap plastic plates. One day they’ll think for themselves. They’ve been told to be grateful, to be thankful. But one day they’ll realize they want more. No. They want just enough. The surviving adults don’t know their names. Their names are all the same. Now. To them, the roads are not open. Dead ends. But soon. They will find their path in this murky water. They will find their way. They will find their voice. A revolution is not in my hands, but in theirs. Emptiness is all they feel now. Emptiness is crushing them. A door needs to open. Their step mothers, their sister in laws, demand their tongues on a plate. They crush them, weld them into good little zombies. Their uncles come into their bedrooms at night and smother them with pillows.“Give me what I want.” They whisper. They open their legs and turn their head. Their voices trained to be weak. Small simple voices, like the rustling of dry corn husks in the autumn breeze. But one day, I just know, we will hear them rise. April 12th! The paper shouts. The UPRISING BEGINS!

I wonder, has the door finally opened?

“HIV affected my life by making me to be one of the orphans that are in Swaziland because it took away my beloved mother. So now I am growing without feeling the comfort of being raised up by my own mother. This is so much painful to me expecially when I see children walking with their own mothers.”

“HIV affected my life in such a way that I am in fear that I will die very soon. I will not live longer life as I was expected to live.”

“HIV has affected my life through low self esteem because if I do tell people that I am HIV positive this will affect my life because they will not want to share my life with me.”

“When I grew up some people where insisting that I have HIV. So I go for testing and I told my mother that I will go for testing. When I reach there I got tested and my result comes and they tell me that I am HIV positive. They continue to tell me that I get it from my mother’s pregnancy. They advice me about what can I do to live with this disease and what must I do to other people to prevent them from getting infected by my disease.”

“I thought that HIV was only going to affect my neighbors. I saw them become very sick and then they died. I saw their children starve with no food to eat because there was no one who was going to help them. Then they followed their parents and they died because they were positive also. Then my own parents got HIV and AIDS and I was not able to help them because I was the only girl in the family. My parents died when I was doing Form 1. Since they died I have not lived a better life. My future is now affected. I am the eldest in my life. The children my sibilings are now mine.”

“HIV has affected me from the time I was still young. It has affected me on my studies because when they tell me that I am HIV positive I was surprised because I wasn’t sleeping with anyone for a while. My life was full of question that how am I going to share my sickness with my friends because they will ignore me when I inform them about my disease. My whole life was painful to me. Even in my home I am scared to go home because the people will laugh at me when they see me with this kind of disease. And now I live a miserable life because I don’t have freedom in my life.”

“HIV has affected my life because I know of one lady who got it because she was uneducated. She further transmitted the disease to her unborn baby who is now staying with her grandmother because she has gone to look for a job. She got the job and her baby is now taking ARVs. This makes me feel unhappy because the baby is too young to have this. And it makes me to think that how many years will this child live? It is so hurting to see a baby this young on ARVs. Even her mother is on ARVs. How is the grandmother going to feel when she looses both her child and grand-daughter? This is a killer disease that is killing the youth. How is this country going to be economically strong?”

“It has affected me because many people have died of this disease called HIV and AIDS. There are many orphans especially in our country (Swaziland). Children who lost their parents because of HIV and AIDS. I can briefly tell you a story about my brother who dies of HIV and AIDS and he left us with three children. These children are suffering because there is no one who is taking care of them. Their mother abandoned them. They are now only staying with my grandmother who can’t even have enough effort to support them. This disease is very bad and it is not good in our life cause it affect me so much. People who have this disease are suffering. Some they don’t have even someone to take care of them. Some are lying helpless in their beds at homes and they don’t have food to eat.”

“A stream of tears just fall in my eyes when I think about HIV. It has affected me so much. I lost a beautiful cousin because of HIV and AIDS. I lost a lot of relatives because of HIV and AIDS. This virus has demolished my country and a lot of orphans are left without parents. The hatred of this disease melts in my veins and I have become angry with it. My favorite friends are dead and I am lonely. The pain caused by AIDS and the hunger that is in this country is affecting teenagers who are dying like flies. This affects me because I am one of them. People’s future are in the hands of HIV. But whether death or living the stigma is there.”

“HIV has caused a mess in our country Swaziland because of it we have so many orphans. Children who have no one to run to. We have child-headed homesteads. They are living alone at home and dying of hunger. Some of them end up living on the streets in order to make a living and support their brothers and sisters. Poverty is causing HIV because the breadwinners are dying. There is no longer anyone to bring dinner to the table.”

“For a period of 8 years, since my parents died of HIV and AIDS, I have been facing some difficulty paying school fees. At home it is my duty to look after my brothers and sisters. Economically we are poor and we have some difficulties providing food and clothing for ourselves. While growing up there are times when a parent is needed just to give us a word of advice. In the community, our fields which our parents used to grow maize on are now taken by unknown people claiming that it was theirs. And we go hungry.”

“I have lost my parents because of HIV. HIV left me struggling by looking after two young brother and one young sister. If I went to school I have to cook for them before I went to school. If one of my siblings is sick I have to absent my self from school and take him or her to the clinic. And when I went to school I have to travel by bus and no one give me the bus fare I have to go and fetch firewood and sell it to my neighbors so that I can get the bus fare. And sometimes I find myself absent at school because of not having the bus fare because no one can give me the money. HIV have been affected me because now I am struggling to take care of us.”

“HIV virus has affected myself by making my family to be left as a orphan. And we end up begging an organization for us to come to school. And we struggle in life because there is no much help for us. Even the organization now think about not bringing us back to school. They are responsible for our education. The organization end by saying it could only afford to pay for once child. Me. And the rest stay at home. And that has led my younger sister to become pregnant just because she was trying to earn a living. And it brought us a lot of trouble.”

“I feel the pain that most people do not have enough money. As sickness needs money. More orphans are left behind as a result of HIV. This made me aware of the disease and it has made me to take it serious. It really hurts to see your relatives or neighbors dying of AIDS. But people don’t understand they are busy with culture as it says a real man must have as many wives as he can. Not aware of the difficult life he is creating for his children. I decided not to have sex until I get married as I want to achieve my goal. Sex must wait as it is a major cause of HIV and AIDS.”

“It first killed my father who was working for the government offices in 2001 when I was very young. He left my mother sick with my two little sisters and one brother. In 2002, my mother died leaving us alone and we are all now double orphans. My aunt came to stay with us because we were very young. I am the eldest in the family so I had to take the responsibility of being a mother and a father and I was only 9 years old. I am the one who is supposed to look after the children even when coming to school. I have to make sure that they are well fed because my aunt can’t bother herself much about us anymore. This is how I grow up and become what I am today.”

*I teach about 120 students. And out of 120 letters titled “How HIV Has Affected My Life” almost all of them has lost at least one parent to AIDS. Almost half have lost both of their parents. And all of them are affected by this disease every single day.

Every one of them has a story.

You just have to ask….

Watching Simphiwe Grow

2011-03-23T02:16:00.000-07:00

3/23/2010

Four months left of service, and I begin the cleaning out the hut dance. Books, stacks of paper, who I was two years ago all over the place. Hidden, covered in dust and web. All the letters I wrote loved ones back home and never sent. I read outlines and proposals I once wrote. “I’m going to change the world!” Family trees. Line after line organizing all these strange faces. Connecting the dots. I had a plan. I had hope. Self-delusion. I didn’t know how this world worked back then, but I was determined to put it all back together. I thought I was fixing things. Some may have thought of it as meddling but I liked to think I was valuable. A resource, if you will. But I thought I knew everything back then.

No skills, no practical talents to help the people here. All I had was my voice. And an untrained one at that. I had a message to tell.

But they didn’t know that at first. Here I came, almost two years ago, floating down in my white cloud, glowing like some fairy like firefly. Feathered wings came out from my shoulder blades. Rays of light surrounded my head. Silver and gold confetti shook from hair, and followed my heavenly path.

We volunteers weren't born again. We were hatched. It was clean. It was smooth. We were beautiful eggs in each region of this country. Young and tender. Untouched. Innocence. We avoided that mess of being born. We were hatched and put here. We didn't have the wings to fly. To see the bigger picture. We had an infant's expected excitemnent. Ready to start life all over again with people who knew nothing of who were were back home. The mistakes we made. The people we hurt. We were given a key to this world. A connection and bridge to help us through the many hard passagways ahead. We are named. What shall they call me, I wondered. Tragedy? Confused? Will they call me Grief? A new beginning.

“You’re a gift.” They told me. “Simphiwe. We shall call you Simphiwe.”

It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I was covered with tiny fish hooks; worms dangling from the tips. I became bait. I became sex. I became bank deposit slips. I was an answer to their prayers. And I had no idea.

Their curiosity becomes obvious. It's in your face constantly now and you are aware you're prey. Fear always in the back of your mind. Will the predator come after you? Gazelle. Like a pack of wolves, will they howl in celebration over you and devour you alive? You are too clamarous. It's too late, you've given yourself away. They see your flaws now. So you pull out your wand. A whisk here, a flick there and the corruption would be gone. Eyes would be opened. And you have proven your name worthy. I am Simphiwe! You will shout.

Voila! I’d say. 2 years later and my debts will have been paid. My emotional problems solved. The boyfriend I once cheated on. The shirt from Lazarus I stole. That math test I cheated on. OK. All of the math tests I cheated on. All forgiven. Not only that, but my childhood sorrows, the ones that held me back,have been erased now. Now I can just get on with it.

But what is this “it”? What am I supposed to be getting on with? My life? Aren’t I living it RIGHT NOW.

My motives aren't as pure as they seem on here. They are darker. They are gloomier. I catch sight of myself, in that inward eye. I’m not so innocent. They’re in this forest and I just want to give up. Hide in the forest with them. Tune it out. Drink. Watch movies. Fantasize about what’s next, after these four months.

Why do you think YOU are now lost in this infinite forest? I continue to ask myself. Get on with “it”. This is IT. This is the path you’ve chosen. Live these next four months to the fullest. Don’t rush it. Just be. Live. And see. Vula emehlo. You still have a long way to go.

And now, no longer the answer to their prayers, I escape to town. I return to my community only to teach and work with the kids. I step foot on my homestead only to grab cleaner clothes. I want no part of this anymore. But the longer I spend away the more guilt I feel. The anxiety builds. The bus ride back to Siphofaneni, to the destination of drained trees, and I begin to panic. I always panic. What will gogo think of my absence? Will she say something? Will she call Peace Corps. Peace Corps rules. Only allowed away from site two consecutive days a month. I am a failure. I tell myself. I’m tired of this routine. I need to stay put. I know other volunteers judge. Meredith. The rule-breaker. Meredith. The socialite. Meredith the partier. Meredith. Friends with the locals.

My neighboring volunteer friends visit my homestead. They’re the ones who see. They meet my gogo, the children there, the homestead. “I don’t know how you put up with this.” They tell me. Partly easing my guilt. I’m not the crazy one. But the reassurance causes more anger. I visit other volunteer’s homesteads. “My family won’t stop talking about Simphiwe.” Volunteers tell me. “I think they love you more than me.” The family members greet us, welcome us, hug us. Other volunteers, apart of something. I am an orphan. Rejected.

As a volunteer we are reborn. We grow like a child does. Full of marvel and wonder, but lacking all awareness. We held onto our naive intellect. And we begin to grow, just as ever child does. Hormones are raging. Our hut walls begin to feel like a prison. We feel stuck. We feel paranoid. Everyone is against us. We want so much to fit in. But we can't. We're angry. Pissed off. The "I hate you mom" stage. But your mother is Swaziland. Many of us leave here as adolescents.

We swing from vanity and pride to whining self-doubt. "What do THEY know." We say. "Fucking Swazis. A nation of 15 year olds!" We criticize, we judge. We are trained, by Peace Corps, to walk into clinics with a piece of paper in hand (given to us by Peace Corps, signed by the Ministry of Health, saying we are allowed to work in these clinics)and ask the staff to give us work to do. "And what is your background in?" Some nurses will ask us. You huff and you puff, "How dare they. I am here to help them for free. They should immediately put me to work. They're lucky to have me." You walk into schools, signed paper from the Ministry of Education. "Were you a teacher back home?" They ask. "Of course." You say, knowing full well you worked with dogs, not children. "I'm better than any teacher here anyway." You think.

My language had turned to debris in my throat. My thoughts were no longer me. Who am I? I used to be humble. I used to be fair. I wanted to be a sociologist, an anthropologist, a psychologist. A person who fought to understand with humility. Who have we become?

Self-important. Self pretencious. I can no longer endure a social life in this crowd of volunteers anymore. Sitting around a cheap box of wine, hour after hour of bitching. Hatred. Cannot wait to leave this unreasonably intolerable place.

"I mean what do you expect. He's Swazi." My friend says to Mamba. Once we've dropped her off, I turn to Mamba and ask, "Does it bother you when she says that to you?" He looks confused. "Says what?" I explain, "When she speaks so little of.. Swazis."

He laughs. His pride flares up again and his big bright eyes look charmingly into my own. I can't help but twirl my fingers through his boyish hair.He begins, "You volunteers, cocky. You think you know everything about our world in two years. Come here. Conquering. Telling US how it is OUT there. I grew up OUT there. You think because you've spent a few months in the bush you can come to the city and talk at us like we don't know what's going on out there."

I think back to all the nasty things I've said and written to the kids growing up in the city of Mbabane. I try to defend, "Most Swazis live 'out there' Mamba. And it just shocks us that the kids in the city have no idea what THEIR people are going through." He turns, "Do you know what the kids growing up in the slums of New York are going through? Are you helping them? You guys think you've got it all figured out. If I even approach American girls here you throw your hand up in the air and assume I'm just trying to get a piece of your ass. Cocky. Cocky. Cocky." His brother nods in agreement. And I'm thinking about the first time I met Mamba. I actually wrote about it. The post was titled, "It takes a queen to notice one." He, myself, and my African Queen spent the entire night talking about life in Swaziland. I had learned so much from her. She inspired me. Mamba sat next to me, said a few words. Or had he said many words? Knowing him now, I can't imagine he had little to say. I had blocked him out. I assumed he only stayed behind to chat with us because he wanted.. me. And once African Queen left for the night, there he stood by my side, I turned to him and simply said, "It's NOT going to happen." Cocky. Cocky. Cocky.

"As much as we need to humble ourselves and understand that we don’t know everything about the Swazi world." I tell Mamba. "You need to understand YOU do not understand everything about the volunteer world. We spend three months in training where all they tell us is how bad the harrassment is going to be. Then three months at site, not allowed to leave. As much as you "grew up out there" you are not rural Swazi. You do not act like the Siphofaneni man. Three months of harrassment, then we're finally allowed to leave and witness the city life. By the time we get to you we have endured so much. So much you will never know." Mamba shrugs his shoulders. Finally, unable to argue against my words. "We can only continue to ask and learn from each other." I tell him. "I have already learned so much from you. I'm lucky to have met you." I tell him.

I don't think he'll ever know how much he's shown me. As another volunteer once put it, "Sometimes, as volunteers, we have the privledge to meet a person who is our bright light in this confusing darkness." I wish we had met earlier. or I, at least, had been willing to listen. But that is part of growing up. You can't force growth.

Everyday I try to face the unsettling realities about myself. Who I was. Who I've become.

I grew up to feel. I constantly need to feel- something- anything. Pain, joy, sadness, surprise. Take your pick, it didn’t matter. As long as it stirred something inside me. I was reactive. I was sponge. I soaked everything in. And I was born this way. I knew Africa, Swaziland, would give me the extreme sides of all of these emotions. But now, here at the source of it all, I feel more disconnected than ever. How did this happen? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. I was to integrate. To love. To connect. My host family would soon become family. We’d make dinners over the fire. We’d share stories of growing up. We’d laugh at the silly things we misinterpreted. We’d learn from each other. We’d grow together, not apart.

But that’s all I feel now, apart.

I was ready to pour my all into this. I know I have it in me to love the whole world. The whole country. The places I’ve visited, the people I’ve met along the way, they pour themselves into me as I have them. We share. We bond. We love. It’s my homestead, my host family, I now hide from. Constant discomfort. Constant stares. Constantly staying away. Seeking connection else where.

I have failed them, as they have failed me. The mood here has changed from one of dislike and disassociation to now hatred. And it’s mutual.

I go to our office, in the capital, to make copies for my class. Stella, Swazi staff, sits behind her desk. Stella’s been on my side this whole time, back when there were sides. Me vs. Peace Corps. The office pointing fingers my direction. “Why are you being harassed so much in Nkiliji? You must be doing something wrong.” They asked me. Stella, scared of American staff, tried, in her own way, to defend me. She was there the day they came to take me away. She stood by and watched as I said my tearful goodbyes to my family.

She sits behind her desk and smiles big as she always does when she sees me. “Meredith. Oh how I miss you.” I tell her I miss her more. “I know you hate me Meredith. Just like your family in Nkilji.” I’m confused, why, after a year is she bringing this up? “I know they didn’t understand why we took you away.” A Peace Corps driver walks in. “I remember that day.” He says. “I know you don’t remember, but I was there. I saw you. The whole family crying. Oh what a sight. So much love.” Stella shakes her head, “I know you hate me.” I put my hand on hers. “All is forgiven Stella. I’ve moved on and accepted the new situation I am in now. We’ve all learned from it. It’s ok.” I walk out before she can continue. I don’t want to re-live that day anymore.

But there are times when I don’t forgive. There are times I wonder how different my service would have been there instead of here. Would I still be so full of hatred? I hate that I was put here, on this desolate goat-infested desert, where no one loves or feels anything. I had something, and it was taken from me. I try to go back to Nkiliji when I can, but it just makes it harder to come back.

I once was a child here, and now a teenager. The more I let in, the more I let go, the more I feel and understand. Eventually the anger will dissolve. And I hope, when my time comes, I can fly out of here, in four months with a smile on my face. A feeling of no regret and extreme personal growth.

I walk outside this desert behind my hut and sit with the goats. I imagine fantastical creatures around me. I imagine magnolia's sweet smells. I decide how I want my future to unfold. Coming home to a loving boyfriend, in his underwear twisting the cork out of a nice bottle of red wine. Hello Sweetie. He'll say. Hello my love. I'll say back. Franklin, our bulldog sleeps on the hardwood floor. Stuffed and snoring. I've got two degrees and a job I love. Wednesday nights are martini Wednesdays with my girlfriends. Sundays I visit the parents. We eat salads from their garden and argue over petty politics. And every night i'll go to bed, exhale loudly and whisper to myself, "I love my life."

I shake myself out of it. No. I need to be here. I need to make the most of the here and now. With open arms and an open heart. I still have four months to learn and understand. I have a long way to go. I tell myself . But I'm starting now.

Skinny Love

2011-03-21T07:24:00.001-07:00

3/14/2011

“We are stronger for all that we let in.”

Connection is something I’ve always sought out. I was grew up this way. I am fully aware, however, that connection has its costs. It can cause painful vulnerability and dependence. And in the end, you are at risk of the worst thing to come of reaching out: loss.

“I just visited my sisi, Polile, in the hospital.” Brook texts me. “Can you come over tonight?” Brook is, without a doubt, my best friend and also, without a doubt, another Peace Corps volunteer like myself. And her homestead sisi is dying of AIDS. Recently she has been diagnosed with TB. And I know Brook is not one to reach out. So when she casually asks me to come over, I hop on the next bus to her homestead. “Do you want me to go with you tomorrow to visit her in town?” I ask. We agree to go to the hospital the next morning. “I want to warn you Mere. It’s like something out of a civil war film. Cots filled with bodies. Unattended. I swear there was a dead body lying next to her. Hidden under the covers.” Tears collect in her eyes. As much as Brook thinks I can’t handle this. I need this. I need to be unnerved. I’m strong.

I’m the girl for the job. I think.

Let us open with the stereotypical third world hospital scene. Babies falling out of every corner. You walk into the lobby throbbing with florescent midday heat, and spot an obedient crowd with fidgety children in laps,waiting for visiting hours. The submissivness of the people here reeks of faith. And it's something, right now, you long for. To share their trustfulness. Their faith. That everything is going to be all right. But why must I believe. Because I NEED to? Their God is different than ours. Dictator. Authoratative. Turning us into beggars. But can you blame them? Needing some sort of control in this horrific world. Glory to God in the Highest. It's never been for me. I want the here and the now. The Earth and present. But it's moments like these, I wonder, will that suffice?

The hallways feel like arteries; pulsating with people who lead us to the heart: Polile. We stick out in this crowd and the people wonder what we’re doing in this governmental hospital. The white go to the private clinics. Are we volunteers? Nurses out of uniform? They wonder. We walk through doorway after doorway. Doorways where there are no doors. Open and exposed. Anyone could walk in. The female wing carries cot after cot of half dressed women, suffering. No air conditioning, not even a fan and it reeks of stale body. Mothers by their sides fan them as they sit and stare. No words exchanged. I’m going to have to bury my own daughter. They fear. I wonder, do they ever glance over to each other and ask, “What have we done wrong? They’re all dying on us.”

But we aren’t there yet. Brook and I continue to walk to the very back, pass these suffering skeletons, to the quarantined. “You’ll need a mask.” A nurse tells us. We put our shields on. We are ready for battle. The masks cover our nose and mouth, plastic covering our eyes. I’m already finding it difficult to breath. Anticipating. We open the door and we’re in. Brook sees Polile in the back and goes to greet her and her mother. I’m at a stand still. So many of them. Pain in their eyes. I am sure the dead have climbed in from their graves. Motionless skeletons. Enormous eyes are all that’s left of them. They stare at you with captivative horror, and a splash of hope. As if you’re about to pull out a syringe from your pocket. You carry the cure. You are here to end their suffering, they hope. And when you leave all they will see is your amputated arms, your rotten stumps with nothing to give them. What a tease, they will think.

Their bodies. Trembling leaves. Their bodies. Dying. Trying hard to stay alive. Their organs burst. Intestenial swelling. White webs climb outside from their throats. Their brains melt.

I bite the inside of my cheek and pinch my sideburns into points. All my nervous ticks come out. I walk fast. I stand by my friend’s side and I greet our skeleton. I grab her skinny hand with both hands to greet. I want her to know I don't care what's inside. She's more than this to me. That I too, love her. The others sit in fascination. How did this girl get two whites to come visit her? Why is she so special? She sits up now. “You’re looking SO much better today Polile.” Brook assures her. Are you kidding me? I think. This is better? Polile’s eyes are trained on me. She tries to smile for us. Her lips quiver and she struggles to make them curve upward. Her whole body shaking. Brook hands her three cards. “These are from your children. They miss you so much and can’t wait for you to come home.” She holds the cards in her hands, barely able to bend her fingers to turn the page. We help her. She looks out the window and smiles a weak smile. “They’re in town today." Brook continues. "They’re running in the competition for school. I know they wish you were there Polile.” Polile says nothing. She looks out the window and stares. Her daughters so close to her and yet she is unable to get to them. It’s not culturally appropriate for her or anyone to show emotion at this point. She is to shed no tears in front of us. But I know she’s in pain. She knows there will be many track competitions she will miss. She knows she very well may never get to hold her babies again. Her husband died two years ago (AIDS), and she knows what’s in store for her. If she gets to leave this place, it will be her mother and children that will wipe her ass and spoon feed her porridge until her end. But she stays strong. She cradles her cards and she gives us a smile.

I stand in spotlight. I find it difficult to breath inside this mask. Inside this place. I take a look around. The half dead lie here next to me. They had their chances, and they blew it. They shouldn’t have been distracted by the boys, their bad romance. They shouldn’t have trusted them, they should have focused on their studies, they shouldn’t have said yes. Why hadn’t they awaken from their zombie slumber. Now their children will be orphaned, raised by greedy relatives, slaves will become of them. I’m seeing the beginning of all the stories I’ve read or heard from my students and friends. It all begins here. The death of the mother.

I’m putting it all together and they’re taking me apart.

If they could talk. What would these skeletons say?

I was born. I grew up. I studied. I loved. I married. I procreated. I made mistakes. Just like you. Passionate affairs. Reckless adventures. Now. All gone. I went. I saw. I did. Farewell to my decaying heart. Farewell you young men with alluring eyes offering me risky voyages and luring me in with your gems and germs. Farewell friends and family, you’ve shifted from my view. I once had hairdos and told jokes like you do now. I once had a dream and a future. I once was like everyone else. I used to sing like sirens and dance like daisys do. But now my rhythm and dance are gone. My mouth is open and tongue cut out. The leaves crinkle, and the air stagnant. And so too will my heart lie still and no longer beat and I've fallen silent.

I’m 30 years old and I’m going into the ground.

Goodbye to my children, goodbye to my parents, goodbye to my dirty dresses, to my unfaithful husband, to my boyfriends, goodbye to my scabby knees and calloused hands,, goodbye and thank you to my aching back for holding all my children. To all these things that have made my life, I say goodbye. You say, what a simple life. But it was mine. I owned it. And now, taken from me. Gone.

Their sadness is worn like an old book. The damage and pain shows along the borders. No longer hiding. It’s out for me, and anyone passing this ward, to see. They stare into my eyes. They stare beyond my flesh. I feel them inside me. They want me to end it. Slit their throat. They whisper to me now, “Empty your mind. And make a space for me. Don’t forget me like everyone else.”

I’m reminded of the scene in Aliens. A cheap comparison I know. But it’s all I have. Sigourney Weaver walks into a room of her clones. Lying there, dying, untouched, unloved. One calls out to her, her deep brown eyes staring into her origin, she pleads for her to end it.

Like Sigourney, I feel so connected. This connection is more than just being woman. We are human. No one should have to suffer like this. And I hear them. I wonder what it’s like to breathe so heavily. I need to breathe.

These women’s faces. Their frightening expressions. Lie there exposed. Un-phased by my presence and their bare breasts. Breasts no longer used. Washed up. The milk all sucked out. Now lay on top of their skeletal bodies. Crushing them. Their job done: Procreation. Now they can die. “Life ends today.”

Do they want to speak out? Do they want to tell me something? Bring your ear down closer. They’d whisper. Put your hand over your other ear, and listen. Can you hear me? Can you feel me? Do you feel what I feel? Ask me what you need to know. I know you’re just a neutral observer. A supplier of aid. Find your voice, and tell the others my story. But don’t exploit our human tragedies that are really none of your business. One day, maybe I’ll tell you how I got here. I’ll tell you how it got to this. I was young once. I was beautiful. I was sought after. The boys lined up for me. There were waiting lists. And now, so tiny. I’m so tiny, so wispy and whispery thin. How did I come to be shut up in this room with these other skeletons? I don’t belong here. My story is an incredible story. A story you won’t find in your world. My fight for survival. We all have stories we want to tell you. But we can’t. We don’t speak the same language. You are just an outsider to us. And I’m just a statistic to you.

So many bodies, scattered, slashed, venemous, contatious and broken. We are not able to process so many carcasses. In this number, they blend into the scenery. Now, just a landscape.I bring myself back to the individual.

Brook sits with Polile in silence. I examine the door. The gateway out of here. My way to escape. It seems so far. All eyes are on me. The spotlight is hot and heavy.

I can’t breathe.

“Are you OK?” Brook asks me. I need to stay strong. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I turn to Polile. “Do you need anything? From the store? To drink?” I ask.

Please say yes. Please say yes. I think.

She asks if I can get her something to drink. “I’m on it!” I grin. Inside suffocating. Tears collect in my eyes. Don’t let them see me now.

I turn for the door. I walk fast. Through water, my feet, my clothes, weigh me down. Halfway across the room now. The door moving further and further from my reach. Almost there. Keep it together. My heart, my anchor, holding me back. I run, certain that something is following, chasing, just about to catch me.

I shut the door behind me. Their eyes still staring. I try to untie my mask. I can’t get it off. No more breaths left in my body. I am light headed. Get it off me. Just get it off me! I rip off the mask and run outside. But even outside, I’m still inside. I don’t want them seeing me cry. Little white girl can’t cut it. They’ll think. No. I hold my breath. Focus on my breathing. A bubble in my throat. I shove it back down and I swallow hard.

I thought I could be strong for you. I thought I’d be stronger for letting this in. You’ve got the wrong girl I think. I feel myself getting weaker. I feel myself becoming unstuck. I break down and let the tears pour down my cheeks. My eyes, mixed with sweat, begin to burn. I lean hard against the wall and bury my head. It’s not fair. It’ just not fair. Like my Proud African seeing my notebook of stories of those living with HIV in our village. “So many.” He says to me. So many. I think now. So many dying. "Helloooooooooo mommmyyyyyyyyyyyyy. Helllooooooooo baaaaby." Two young men walk pass and call out. It takes everything inside of me not to pull them by the ears and drag them into the female ward. "Look what your little peckers have done to these women!" I would shout. But I have to remember, there's a whole separate ward of the male skeletons- waiting to die as well.

I collect myself and go back inside, drink in hand. I wipe the sweat off my palms and put my mask back on. I try to become callous and conquer these emotions. Despite this heavy mask, I can smell rotten flesh. It’s getting stronger. I am pushed aside by a nurse as a dead body is wheeled pass me. Not a family member or friend in sight. She died alone. No one to hear her story.

My healing visit concluded, I pass down the hall and notice a woman lying in her bed. I don’t hear her words, but her deep murmur of prayer. Her bandages soaked through. Rotten orange and red. Pulsating puss. And i've never prayed.

Why is it, after we feel something so strong, the touch of a man, the death of a dog, the realization that pain is everywhere, after the moment of feeling is over between us, the synapses continue snapping away? Isn't this the moment that should drive me to prayer?

All observations of life are harsh. Every one of us has experienced something that will sit with us for the rest of our lives. I know flashes of her face and other's faces like hers will stay with me. I know I cannot change this. I have to live embracing. Knowing each of these moments will, in the end, make me stronger. Only walking barefoot will I get the calluses I seek.

And when I get back home my mom will ask, What happened to my little girl? And I will say, She grew up.

Zombie Land

2011-03-09T01:18:00.000-08:00

3/1/2011

Zombie Land

I’m angry. I’m pissed off.

I walk into bars, with my Swazi friend, Mamba, hoping to start a conversation. I’m tired of teaching in “settings”. The classrooms, the youth centers, the conference rooms. I want to see the guts of Swaziland. I’m done tip toeing around. I have 5 months left and it’s time to dive right in. I want to understand the environment in which people have sex so casually and dangerously. Cops at bars, sex workers in bathrooms. The rich white, colored (the preferred term instead of bi-racial) kids with daddy’s credit cards. The unemployed. The managers of factories. S&B workers and head teachers. I share drinks and befriend the sons of ambassadors and former ministers. Their family close to royalty.
I gyrate with the rich in flashy “nightclubs”. I peek into shady sheebeens (bars). I order beers and chat with the Swazi drunk and soon I discover everyone has something interesting to say. I latch onto anyone who will chat. I sit silently listening to the drunk poor out their deepest secrets. The things they would never tell their teachers, their bosses, a reporter, a surveyor, or scientist, their best friend, or wife. The same stories. “I think my girlfriend is cheating on me.” They tell me. They pull me in with sympathy and pity. I feel for them. “And I think my wife is too.” I get angry. “You’re the reason this country is dying! You’re the reason your people only live to be 33 years old. Villages of people 15 and under! Don’t you see!?” I pull my hair out and my Swazi friend intervenes to smooth things over. “I’m trying to show them!”I shout at him as he pulls me back. “No Meredith. You’re trying to piss them off. There are two ways to make change happen. And one will get you a bullet in the head. Stop pissing people off.” He shouts back.

Their stories and reasoning was all starting to make sense to me now. It was the international bureaucratic aid agencies I struggled to understand. Blindly dumping food off the back of trucks. Paying caregivers money instead of food. “Please.” They tell us. “Please tell them to start paying us in food again, our husbands take our money and use it to get drunk. We have no food now.” The NGO turf wars. Meetings only to schedule other meetings. Nothing actually ever discussed or determined or DONE. Only scratching the surface. And peace corps itself. Millions of taxpayers dollars going down our idealistic drain. A world of acronyms and their ignorance to understand the ACTUAL environment in which this disease spreads in THIS country. Maybe they’re not the lunatics. Maybe we are.

“We need jobs, not donations.” Mamba tells me. It’s not the people we need to change. It’s the environment that is causing the people to behave the way in which they are behaving. I’m trying to understand this environment. Swaziland isn’t like Asia’s drug injectors and prostitutes or the US’s homosexuals. Here there is no clear box to put those at risk in. Here, everyone is a target. Everyone is using sex for power.

I want to leave the dry technical, counting pills, weighing babies, teaching “Life Skills”, world and plunge into the brains of people who know more about what was going on then I did. Who had the experience. Who lived everyday in this sexual web of transmission. I had lost my way in this labyrinth of relationships and it was time for me to sort it out, to finally understand the reasoning behind the, what seems to us, idiotic (almost suicidal) actions of the people here.

And I didn’t have to go far. Mamba is a manager of a backpackers just outside the city of Manzini. One day, off running errands, he leaves me alone there. I sit outside on the verandah, sipping my instant coffee. A car pulls up and a middle aged man steps out. His expensive suede shoes and Swazi plates on his car tell me what he is here to do. Most backpackers in Swaziland refuse business to Swazis. Why? Because of what is about to happen next. His young beauty waits in the car until she is given the all clear. I remember Mamba telling me once, “I could make a fortune on this place. I get at least 5 people a day asking, begging, me to charge by the hour. This place is just right outside the city, so no one can see. You get the wife coming in with her secret lover, she goes. Half an hour later her husband walks in with his secret girl. I refuse these people everyday. I am not a brothel.” The man causally walks over to me blocking my view of the television. In between me and The Kardashians, OK now I’m pissed. “We don’t charge by the hour.” I say, hanging upside down on the couch chewing on a straw. “I’d like a room for the night.” I get Mamba on the phone and they talk it out. He calls to his secret lover. Flogging lipstick and plunging neckline steps out of the car, I search her face for any sign of guilt or shame. Just another empty face, another blank stare, another walking zombie. She follows him into the bedroom.

“The fan is broken.” He calls out. I bring him another one. As I set up the fan I’m screaming in my head, “What are you doing?!” Thirty minutes later, after their mundane dank sex session, the man comes out. “We’re going to town for a bit.” He says. “We’ll be right back.” Mamba is back, and he pays him before he goes. “They won’t be back.” I say. “I know.” He says.

Sometimes I find myself with the conquering settler’s complex. Fucking idiots, I think. Why are people risking their lives for sex? These people must have no developed conscious. They seem to lack any spark of reason. Critical thinking and problem solving is almost impossible for them. I think.

I walk the streets of Manzini, these untamed sights, smells, customs, men shaking the urine off their dicks in broad daylight in front of you. I am above this. I think. Smug.Why couldn’t I have been placed in a country whose people constructed ornate languages. Vast cities. Invented new systems of mathematics, philosophy, and astronomy. People who are graceful, sensitive in human relations. Who write poetry about human existence. Who don’t latch onto our culture and twist it in a way that suits them.

“I don’t get it!” I shout to Mamba. “Why are people behaving this way when they have the education?! They know the average Swazi lives to be 33 years old. Why doesn’t that scare them? One woman once said to me, ‘Life ends today. Nothing else matters.’ How can they so easily just line up and let this disease take them?” He shakes his head, nibbling his cob of maize. “They haven’t given up. You say the average Swazi lives to be 33? For the people here, once you’ve had children and established a home- life is over. You’re done. You’ve done everything a Swazi can do. And most of them are achieving this before 33. It doesn’t sound that bad to us.”

I realize now. These kids don’t need “HIV lessons.” They need direction. There needs to be more to life than just sex and babies. People needed to learn to explore themselves and the world around them. It’s what I’ve been trying to teach in my school and girls clubs. They’ve been bred to accept, never question. They sit in my class and stare. Zombies. “Make a collage of who you are. What you like. What makes you angry. Who you love. Your passion.” I have to define the word passion. An idea foreign to them. Every girl makes a collage of becoming a nurse, teacher, or soldier. She cuts out pictures of Beyonce and Rihanna. The boys draw pictures of soccer balls and Manchester United. I don’t see them anywhere on there. “Simphiwe.” They tell me. “Your collage doesn’t have a job, a husband, or a child.” I tell them, “That’s because there’s more to life. So much more.”

“What is happening in Libya?” I ask my high school students. They look confused. “Libya? They’re asleep right now.” They laugh. “Don’t you read the paper?” I ask. They laugh. “Yeah, you do.” I continue. “ But you flip straight to the back to see how your friend Rooney or Messi is doing. Don’t ya? There’s more to life than soccer people.” I shout. I tell them what’s happening in Libya. They don’t care. “Does this affect you?” I ask. “No.” They tell me. “And how much more are we all paying for public transport now?” They know the answer to this question. “Did you ever stop to ask why?” I explain to them the relationship between Libya, oil, and the rest of the world. I tell them what happened in Egypt, what may happen in Tunisa and Algeria, now Yemen. I hold up the Swazi Times. “Teachers Protest. Nurses protest.” It reads. “Revolution can be contagious.” I say. They ask, “Revolution?” One student raises his hand, “Change.” He says. “YES!” I shout. “The world is more connected than you think. You’re apart of this world. It’s time you start caring and seeing the bigger picture.”

HIV lessons on the back-burner. I bring newspapers to class and we discuss what’s going on “out there”. These children have no access to information. Only through a paper they cannot afford. A newly built library sits unused on school grounds (paid for by PEPFAR, from a previous volunteer). Thousands of books still in boxes from another volunteer. “Have you guys ever used the new library?” I ask them. “The teachers say we can’t.” I ask, “Did you ever ask why?” They shake their heads. I tell them the books are here, and the teachers couldn’t be bothered with organizing them. “If you want a library, make it happen. If you want CHANGE make it happen.” They laugh. “I will march to the deputy’s office today and ask for the books if you will help me. And together we can put them into the library and finally have the information we want.” They cheer. “Revolution!”

Everyday I fear it’s too late for me. These children need role models, but at the high school level can they really be formed, inspired? Some days you teach and you see that girl nodding in agreement and the young boy’s mind starting to turn.. thinking over your words. These are the days you hold onto.

“Girls are just as much to blame.” Mamba tells me. “I cannot date Swazi girls. There’s nothing there. You try to talk to them and they ask you, ‘Why are you asking me these questions?’ They want to just have sex and that be that. Marriage sex and babies. Nothing more. No one knows how to communicate what they’re feeling. The girls are cheating and the boys are cheating. And no one says anything.”

Another kombi ride home. Suffering from squashed knee syndrome yet again. I sit with my knees pressed together, propped up against my chest. I carry surveys I had given my students that day. Questions asking them about their attitudes on relationships. A man in his thirties sits next to me and reads the questions out loud. (Little does he know I purposefully carry the questions outside my bag to spark some sort of conversation with anyone willing to talk.) “Yes. I agree.” He shouts. “Sometimes a woman does deserve a beating.” The woman next to him laughs. The next question, “Is it OK to have a secret lover?” He shouts, “Of course. I mean. Let’s say I am fighting with my girlfriend. Then I can have another for when things go wrong with the first one. I cannot just break it off with her. Do you know how hard that is?” The next question reads, “Why is the HIV rate in Swaziland so high?” He scratches his chin, “I don’t know. You tell me.” He says. I point to the previous question that read, “Is it OK to have a secret lover?” He laughs. “I think we should agree to disagree.” He says.

It’s only in this world, that you realize with HIV education, HIV lessons are the last thing you should be talking about. I bring the world to the classroom and I make sure we are sharing and discussing it alongside our opposite sex. We get comfortable with the topics at hand and the people who we are discussing it with.

“You’re always working.” Mamba tells me. “You can’t ever just NOT have a conversation with strangers can you?” Sure some get threatened that I’m muscling my way into their world. But I try to work to find the balance between shaking them up and pissing them off. I heed to Mamba’s words.

“Americans. You volunteers. When are you going to realize, you aren’t going to get the revolution you hoped for here. We’re Swazi, and we have to do things OUR WAY.” Mamba tells me. We’re back at his place, his friends, drunk on marula. The traditional brew, two sips and any sized man is done for. “Look at Mandela.” He continues. Mamba’s friends, their drunk eyes hanging on to every word he preaches. “That man started out with fists a blazin. He didn’t care who he pissed off. The elders didn’t take him seriously. No one did. But when he came out of jail, he had a sense of calmness. He said to the people, ‘I am for black empowerment. And I am for white empowerment.’ He shook the hands of the white men who once held him down. This is what causes change. Revolution. It takes time. You’ll see. You Americans think just turning a monarchy into a democracy will solve everything. We are not ready for a democracy. You think you know everything.” I laugh. “I may not know everything now. But just wait Mamba.” I tell him. “I’m going to go back home and get a masters in International Policy! And whoop your ass in every historical/political debate we get into!” “No.” He laughs. “You’re going to go home and get a degree in What’s new with The Kardashians Policy.” I shout back, “Well..they’re international. No one knows what the fuck their ethnicity is. Except, hot.” Mamba shakes his head in disappointment.

His drunken friend, I call Depeche Mode (for his love of the band) and who calls me Demi Moore (from the movie Ghost) holds my hand. “I can tell you haven’t felt love in a long time. You’ve lost something.” I roll my eyes, not again. He begins to sing. “You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin! Woahhhhhhhhhhhhh that lovin’ feelin!” “And what do you know about love?” I ask. His wife at home, his girlfriend sitting next to him. He laughs. “Ah. We’re Swazi Demi. We know we cannot live like you Americans. We cannot live, ‘Forever. Forever young. We don’t want to be.. Forever Young……” And a new song begins.

I escape the horrible 80’s sing a longs and take a walk outside. I stand on a bench, enjoying this lighted pause of the early evening. Nightfall approaching and a cool chill in the air. Goodnight sun, I say. I sit and watch, silent, for once. The boys are singing God Bless America now and Mamba stands behind me. I point to the fields of green and brown. “What is with Swazis and growing so much maize? I mean it’s not drought resistant. They shouldn’t be growing it in the low veld. I mean look at all that maize out there.” I point out at the field ahead of us. “That’s sugar cane you idiot.” Mamba laughs.

I’m slowly learning that once I stop the static of endless arguing and macho posturing, once I stop and just listen, there is so much to be heard.

Being here almost two years, I still feel like I’m gazing down the wrong end of the telescope. Where the reality, that big picture lies concentrated at the end of my long, distant, and sometimes distorted view. The truth, to me, is shrunken. Immature, stylized. Making sense and connection with me only through symbolism. Just when I think I’ve got the big picture, it’s gone before I know it.

It’s always been so much easier to look in things in an either or perspective. In boxes and categories. To give up and just say, “This is not a country of reason or logic. A nation of 15 year olds.” I say to Mamba. “There’s a historical reason, a cultural context behind all these things that don’t make sense to you now. You may not agree with it. It may not justify it, but there are reasons for the things we do. You’ve been here less than two years. You can’t possibly understand.” I hold on tight to this. I have no wish to blame a country or its people. A country and a King that has invited myself and Peace Corps here to help.

“We are not here to be activists.” Our country director tells us. “We are here as developers. There are rough times ahead and we cannot get caught up in it.” Peace Corps warns us the direction this country is headed and we aren’t to tell anyone or get involved. “You aren’t allowed to have these conversations with anyone. And for god’s sake, don’t blog about it!!” The CD yells.

Sugar cane surrounds Mamba and I. I listen to the wind. I listen to his words.

I try hard to listen now.

“So what WILL you tell your father when you get back home and he asks you again, ‘How much MORE do you appreciate your country now?!’” Mamba asks me.

A long pause.

“You're keeping quiet now huh? That’s a first.” He laughs.
“Shh. I’m trying to listen now.” I whisper.

The Sweet Here After

2011-03-09T00:34:00.000-08:00

2/12/2011

The Sweet Here After

She takes a long pull from her cigarette, her lips pursed, she holds the smoke in. A pause, a long exhale, and she tells me, “I told you if I was harassed one more time I was going to ET (Early Termination).” The words come out in smoke. “I’m ETing.” She says. Two letters that cause a mix of emotions for any volunteer. And much like what she’s going through I feel sadness and joy. It hurts to say goodbye. But I'm proud of her for doing what it takes to be happy. It’s hard to push aside your pride as a volunteer in order to be happy.

She waves the smoke from my face then leans back, her arms crossed, “You know, all you group seven volunteers do is bitch about the conditions here and now you’re just counting down the days until you leave. I don’t want that.” One never really knows what to say in these moments. So I hug and tell her I’m proud of her because I know no one else will. “You know what I miss the most?” She asks me. “That taste of crisp cold water from the garden hose. Metallic and smooth on a hot summer’s day.” “Yeahhhhh.” I say. “Well. You’ll be home soon enough and you can find the nearest hose and enjoy it on a hot day.” She laughs, “Mere. It’s the middle of winter back home.” The days, months, years have all meshed together. How long have I been here? “Please don’t tell anyone.” She’s pleads with seriousness. “I leave Wednesday and I’d just like to go without the goodbyes. You’re the only one who knows and I want it to stay that way.”

And here’s where you might be confused. For many, the best part about leaving is the heart-felt goodbyes that follow. We all experienced this our last few weeks in the States. Parties and cards. Pats on the back. Free drinks. MORE free drinks.

But for a volunteer whose leaving service early (not for medical reasons) they fear they won’t experience this. Some project their guilt onto other volunteers. The fear of judgment. Are they thinking, “Oh she couldn’t cut it”? A volunteer’s pride has such a tight grip on us all. “If it weren’t for my pride, I would have left a long time ago.” She tells me. Of course none of us would ever say these things. But once she had gone, there were those who questioned what she might have done wrong. “Wasn’t there a volunteer living there before her? She made it work, why couldn’t she?” They ask.

My Swazi friend, who I have become close with over the past few months, he’s known many Peace Corps, Finish, Canadian, Australian volunteers over the years and his knowledge of the Swazi world has been a great light for me in times of confusing darkness. His father was Minister of Agriculture and close friends with the previous King. It’s a small country and a big family. I can’t go anywhere with him without him greeting every single person that passes. We shall call him: Mamba. “It’s just selfish!” He protests. “To leave everyone without saying goodbye.” He flips his long dreads over his shoulder and shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

Going home is a HUGE ordeal for anyone. No matter how long they’ve been here. The things you’ve seen, the bonds you’ve made. No one will understand that back home. Even your closest friends won’t see you in the way they once did. Everything fast-forwards when you travel with strangers. Weeks move like years, and years become a lifetime.

I’ve been in this situation before. I found myself at the bottom of the world a few years ago, Antarctica, with my boyfriend at the time, and we had made ourselves a little family with the people down there. Only together 5 months, but felt like a lifetime, it was time to say goodbye. Everyone huddled together, penguin-like, and we’re saying our tearful goodbyes. Hugs are being passed. Tears wiped off each other’s faces. Emails being scribbled down. “Who’s got a pen!? Paper?!” I turn to say goodbye to one friend, but she is no where to be found. She’s gone. The door is open and I know she has already left. I run down the street to find her. But it’s too late. She couldn’t bear saying goodbye to all of us. Now imagine, having to do this with almost 70 people and for some, being with them for over two years.

Mamba continues to insist, however, that not saying goodbye is selfish. “What if I wanted to say goodbye to her?! If you just left without saying goodbye Mere. I’d be incredibly hurt!” I laugh, “It’s not about YOU. It’s about the person leaving. Most of the volunteers who leave, seem to just vanish, and most of us understand.” Like an animal ready to die. He knows his time is up. My first cat, crawling into the dog house my dog never used, taking his last few breaths- preferring solitude over company.

“I’ll see you on the other side.” I tell her. She goes to speak and we are interrupted by another volunteer who has spotted us outside this café. “Oh man!” She exclaims barreling in for a landing at our table. She flings her bags down on the ground. A typical Peace Corps prop: backpacks and bags. “My butthole is on fire!” She shouts. We laugh. “The shits again huh?” I ask. Doesn’t matter what the topic of conversation is, the discussion of poo always manages to slide (ha) its way in. “What’s the consistency this week?” We ask her. She plops down and tells us in detail. The sophisticated white give us the dirty glare and shift in their seats, with horror, sipping their filtered coffees. I keep quiet. I keep this volunteer’s secret to myself, occasionally a sympathetic glance her way every now and then.

That night I sleep at a backpackers. A volunteer from the previous group (Group 6) is finally COSing (Completion of Service). She’s been here well over two years and now, is going home. But like many, she won’t go straight home. She has a one-way ticket to Spain and from there she will see where the road takes her. I reek of jealousy. There are five Peace Corps volunteers seated outside with us, sipping our glasses of cheap boxed wine. The Last Supper. We’re surrounded by a handful of girls from Finland- fresh off the plane- bright eyed and blonde; bubbly and bright.

We are Yin and Yang.

Our friend COSing,Victoria, sits and stares at her plate of food her friend has made her. She stares, chain-smoking, “I can’t eat.” She tells us. Her friend, from her group and will be leaving in a few weeks herself, smiles,” You need to eat Victoria.” She’s on her fifth cigarette in ten minutes. Hands shaking. “I’ve got too much anxiety.” She says. The bright eyed bushy tailed Fin giggles, “But you’re going to SPAIN! How can you have anxiety about that?!” Peace Corps volunteers look down. We take Victoria’s hand now. “I don’t know what I’ll do.” Victoria continues. “ I don’t know where home is. What home is. I’ve invested SO much here. It was just starting to feel like home.” We nod in agreement. I lean in and ask her friend if she went to her host family today to say goodbye. She whispers back, “No. I don’t think she did. It’s too difficult. They were very close.”

All these transitions I’ve witnessed of previous volunteers, I know what is in store for me now.

I get an email from a group 6 volunteer, Jenn. She writes, “ I got a job at the Grateful Bread where you worked in Seattle. I think I only got it though because you used to work here. Lots of them have put it together that we were in Swaziland together. They really loved you there. It’s all going ok, being back, but it’s just weird. I’m different now. I enjoyed traveling after service. But it’s so hard to come back. What will you do next? Time is coming to come back home for you guys. Good luck.”

Another Group 6 volunteer writes: “I went through two weeks of depression when I came home. I didn’t eat at all. It all started when I went into Target for the first time and walked through the Breast Feeding aisle. A whole aisle for breast feeding! I think of the women back in Swaziland. The babies. Their life. My life back there. Good luck. Home is waiting for you, but man is it rough.”

I remember, three months into service, a group six volunteer telling me aid is killing this country. “We need to pull out!” She exclaims to me in her little hut. Her mannerisms exaggerated by candlelight. Angry shadows. What a jerk, I thought. What is she doing in the Peace Corps then? I watched another group six volunteer scowl at the attention from men and roll her eyes at the pushy gogos. God, I’ll never be that bad. I once thought. It seems like a lifetime ago now, but here I am rolling my eyes and scowling at “them”.

I know now what’s ahead for me. I’m right on track. I wake up angry. I go to sleep angry. I taunt the Swazi man. I tease the Swazi police. They spend their days in the city profiling. Targeting white, Indian, and Asian who may jaywalk and then demand a payment of 60R. You watch them put the money into their pockets and move onto their next target. One day, feeling rather dull, I just wanted to feel something again. I spot two police officers across the street. And so I decide to do it. Right there. I jaywalk. Right in front of two bored scrawny officers. They stop me and my friend. (My poor friend didn’t see the cops and followed blindly). They shout. I refuse to pay. They get angry. I get angry back. They threaten. I welcome it. “Fine.” I say. “I’ll spend the night in jail. But I am NOT paying you.” My friend apologizes on my behalf and they let us go.

It’s been since August since I’ve left this tiny country. I need a break before I get myself into serious trouble. With two other volunteers we catch a ride to Pretoria, the capital of South Africa. All I’ve heard is how “American” this place is. We enter the streets of this city, an actual city. We’re refugees of the techno Swazi world. The first thing I spot, pinecones. Pinecones! I pick one up from the ground, fascinated. I cradle it and bring it to my nose. One of the best parts of being away from home, is re-entering it all over again with a different perspective and a different appreciation. It’s like being on drugs (or so I imagine). Home in my hands.

Our first stop is to the Peace Corps office for Peace Corps volunteers in South Africa. We arrive and greet other volunteers. We shake with gentility, a firm handshake, and eye contact that says, “I’m American.” We introduce ourselves by country of service first, then our names. Morocco, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Ghana.

Tonight I’m sharing a room with another volunteer at a backpackers. “We thought you two would get along, being that you’re both Peace Corps, so I put you in a room with him” The receptionist tells me. “Him?” I ask. “Yes. Him.” She repeats. “Is he cute?” I joke. She takes me to the room and I catch him watching, Everybody Loves Raymond. How embarrassing. “Swaziland.” I say. “Lesetho.” He responds. And handshakes follow. We’re brothers in South Africa, both in landlocked countries inside here. We share a few beers outside. The Afrikaners surround us. Silly language, we tell each other. We tell our stories and nod in agreement. He gets it. We have a shared view of this world now and so too a special bond. “I’m never coming back to Lesotho.” He tells me. “There’s no culture. No compassion. No curiosity on their end. All of sub-Saharan Africa, I am told, is this way. I’m never coming back.” He shares my disenchantment for Sub-Saharan life. Every Peace Corps volunteer has heard about the volunteer in Lesotho that was shot last year and killed. And I’ve had just enough beers to finally ask the question,
“Did you know him?”
“Tom?” He clarifies.“Yeah. I knew him. I held him in my arms as he took his last breath.”
And again, one never really knows what to say in these moments. We’re all growing up, these experiences, these tragedies, shaping who we become. Twenty something year olds being slapped with the cold bitter bare hand of the outside world.

It’s the next morning, and I find him eating his muesli. I shake his hand, “It was a pleasure.” I tell him. “I have to go.” He stands, “Ah. I should get your contact!” The more you travel, the more people you meet, the less you feel the urgency to hold onto every single person you bump into along the way. I feel now, more than ever, more comfort with the goodbyes. Appreciating these brief encounters and the stories we’ve shared and just leaving it at that. I avoid the searching for scrap paper and pen dance. I tell him my name. “You can find me on facebook.” A new appreciation for this Social Network.

Back home now, I walk the streets of Manzini. A dramatic repository of skeletons and piss. Simple buildings. A dispassionate smell and light. Goiters, people walking around with bulbous growths on their necks. The crippled drag their bodies along these busy streets. The crowd, a surging shoulder to shoulder mass, has become more comfort to me now.

I stand on the side of the road waving down anyone who will give me a free ride home. A car pulls over and inside, a papery skin little old white lady sits behind the wheel. “Get in.” She says. American? I wonder. She holds out her hand, “I’m Brenda.” “Meredith” I say back, rarely going by Simphiwe anymore. Brenda immediately dives into who she is and where she’s from. It’s incredible how easily someone can open up once they find one similarity with you. Ours: white. I soon find more similarities between us. Brenda was a Canadian volunteer in Zambia for two years, in her twenties. She served two years then traveled the world. “I didn’t start this new life of settling down until I was 31. When I had my first child. And I’ve got four now. Don’t worry Meredith, you’ve got plenty of time for that life.” When Brenda finally returned home, to Canada, after serving in Zambia for two years, she longed for that “African connection” again. She went to libraries and centers searching for any Zambians in her country through the net. She ended up finding 4 Zimbabweans. Eventually, she married one. They moved to Zimbabwe then to Swaziland, where she has been living with him and her four children for 26 years now. “I love my life!” She exclaims. “I love your life.” I laugh.

I envy her drive to come back. Her passion for this world here.

Will I fly out of here with my one- way ticket, with no regrets? Will I ever set foot on this country again? Or, like my Lesotho friend, will I say, “Fuck it. I have no wish to come back.” When I fly back to the fancy café’s with their edgy urban chatter, will I, like Brenda, search my home country for my “African Connection”? Will I fly back home, seated at my father’s dinning room table, he at the head, proud of the food he has just prepared for his family (even though we all know it’s my step mother whose done most of the cooking). My grandmother will slap the table and say, “Welcome home Meredith! Tell us, what have you learned on this journey of yours?” I’ll take a deep breath in, turn to my father and he’ll ask me (like he always does when I return home from a journey), “So, tell me, how much MORE do you appreciate America now?” What will I say? All the faces I’ve met, all the words I’ve spread, the ideas we’ve expressed, the tears we’ve shared. Does it make me love my country more? Does it make me love Swaziland less?

Just like Victoria, we’ve acclimatized to the noise down here, to the old gogo shrieking at the ten or so grandchildren on her homestead, to the sound of the corrugated iron expanding and moving with the midday heat, to the young boys wacking their cattle home against the backdrop of another warm and fire-breathing sunset. These are the things we’ve come to know as “home”. But suddenly, a sudden pause in this noise, and you’re gone before you know it.

Hiraeth

2011-01-29T01:09:00.001-08:00

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.

-

"My Superheroes"

2011-01-14T02:26:00.000-08:00

12/4/2010

I'm asked again to join the Hole in the Wall camp for children living with HIV. I wrote about this camp last year in December and it was probably the most profound, uplifting, inspiring three weeks of my entire service here.

And I couldn’t wait to be apart of it all again.

Day one. We all feel a great warmth, as if being welcomed back after a long and unforeseen separation. We are home again. Family. Hugs are being passed and new faces introduced. This time, with us, we have two people form Uganda, Alice and Roy, and a man from India, Satish. They hope to bring the “camp” idea back to their countries. I notice something else new in these faces of camp counselors. There are more men than last year. In fact, we are almost half and half. I know having young men working with children will give these kids great role models and show them that men too can be caregivers. However, these are not just men, they are Swazi. And I am cautious. I’m hesitant to be completely comfortable with any man at this point. 19 months with the Swazi man, I have become cynical and jaded. I know Peace Corps volunteers who now experience anxiety attacks if they enter a room full of Swazi men. We’ve all been hurt. Again, I am hoping to be proven wrong.

The same routine for the first four days. We play the role of “camper”. We go through the cheers, the dances, the games we’ll be teaching the children when they arrive.

And again, I am always amazed at how quickly Swazi staff and I are able to bond. If you put yourself out there in just the right way, making yourself vulnerable to laughter for sake of entertainment, you’ll be surprised at their reactions.

Our first four nights together, all the women caregivers share a dorm room before the children arrive. Like the Swazi women I’ve gotten to know at the gym inside the locker room, these women gather around me. Some at the foot of my bed, some in the bunk above, hanging down-listening. Their robes and face masks on and their scarves wrapped around their hair, they begin to open up to me as I have to them. Questions are asked. ‘Simphiwe. What is the white umpipi (penis) like?” “Simphiwe. Have you ever had the Swazi umpipi?” I do my gogo impersonations and explain to them what exactly oral sex and masturbation are. “They do that in America?!” They exclaim. “Here. It is only us who please the man.” They sit close and lean in to hear my whispers. The older women are trying hard to sleep, disinterested in a world an ocean away. A world of pleasure, hopes, and dreams. A world that can be all about YOU. “Simphiwe.” Tobi, a woman my age with a child at home, leans in even closer. She grabs my cheeks and whispers, “Do you know about the men here?” I shake my head no. She begins to tell me their stories. The women around her nod in agreement. In a country this small, everyone knows everyone’s secrets. There are no secrets here.
“Themba.” She begins.
“Oh no. NotThemba! I don’t want to hear his secrets. He’s so nice to me. Everyday always asking how Simphiwe is. Everyday telling me what a beautiful day it is. With that high pitched soft voice of his. I like Themba.” The girls laugh.
“Well. Did you know Themba is married?”
“He doesn’t have a ring. But I guess most married men around here don’t wear a ring.” “He DOES have a ring. He takes it off during camp.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because Simphiwe. For us. The women. He can’t help but try.”
Another girl chimes in, “Just yesterday he wrapped a blanket around me. He leaned in against me. And asked if I felt something hard.” The women laugh. “Here at camp they’re counselors like us, but they’re still MEN. They’re always grabbing me and proposing love. They know I’m a married woman. But they don’t care.”

It’s getting late.

“Tell us more about you know… the stuff we were talking about earlier.” They demand with embarrassment. “Tomorrow.” I tell them.

Lights out. We lie in bed giggling. Thinking of the stories we just shared. And man do they have them.

It wasn’t until after camp that I found out 4 of the male Swazi counselors were taking turns having sex with one of the female cooks of the establishment. They did this while the children were sleeping. And sadly, I was not at all surprised.

The next day Tobi pulls me aside during our rest hour. We lie in bed starring up at the ceiling, heads leaning in.
I wait for her to speak.
“My baby’s father just called.” She begins with a big sigh. “ He wants to see me when camp is over.”
All I know about this man is he is a truck driver in Matsapha- a hot spot for HIV and a place where truck drivers sleep with sex workers and spread disease. He and Tobi are no longer together and he pays “child support” when he feels like it. This means Tobi has to sleep with him when he’s in town in order to get money for her baby.
“Tobi. Why do you put up with this?” I ask.
“One night, Simphiwe. When he and I were together. He woke up grabbed a knife and slid the blade under my neck. He was pressing so hard I bled. He told me if I ever left he would kill me. I can’t leave him Simphiwe.”
I ask her if she’s ever been in love. She blushes and looks down.
“I am in love with someone. He told me he would take care of me and my baby. He doesn’t care that I already have a child. But I can’t. I can’t ever be with him. That’s just the way it is.”

Tobi goes on to tell me about the first time she had “sex”. She was 16 and he was her school teacher and a pastor. He raped her. But she struggles with saying this word. “Forced himself on me” Were her words. She tried to tell her mother, who refused to believe that a man of God would do such a thing.
Sadly, this is the story of many Swazi women.

And that’s just the way it is.

The next day we prepare for the campers arrival. As I’m hanging up another decorated banner, Themba walks past.
“Good morning Simphiwe.” He says in his soft voice.
“Whats up Themba?!” I exclaim back.
“Simphiwe. I think I will come visit you in Siphofaneni and see you in your little hut.”
I laugh. “Yes. And bring the Mrs along.”
“The who?”
“Your wife.” I say.
Themba laughs, “Oh Simphiwe. I don’t think I shall ever forget you.”

Another counselor, Buhle, walks past. He looks me up and down as I am struggling to tape the banner up high. My shirt is riding up and I can feel his stares. I quickly pull my shirt down.
“Let me help you with that sweetheart.” He whispers.
“Let me help you with that Simphiwe.” I correct.
“Is it offensive for me to call you ‘sweetheart’?” He smiles back.
“Yes Buhle. And you know that. You grew up in the city. You’ve been around. You know that’s a term for a girlfriend- not a co-worker.”
Buhle leans in. He moves to wrap his arms around my waist. “Oh come on baby.” He grunts.
I jump back.“You touch me and I’ll kick in your parts so hard you’ll sound like Themba.”
The women around snicker and Buhle gets the message. Well, for now. They say the best way to train a dog is through repetition and authority? This will take some time.

And the day is here! And just like last year, I stand in position, filled with hope. Filled with excitement. Filled with anxiety that I won’t be able to connect with these children. To make them smile and give them hope. Wigs, smiles, costumes are on. We stretch our arms out and in unison we sing our song. One by one, the children step out of the bus. It’s always a mixed reaction. Half in a disbelieving daze at all the clapping, cheering, and high fiving. The other half smiling along and holding hands. These children have witnessed absolute horrors. Have lived the horror. At first you have to be gentle. You learn not to run over and throw your arms around a child. The moment you raise your hand they cower waiting for a beating. You can only extend your hand out and wait for them to come to you. I haven’t forgotten the feeling of the first arrival. Their blank little bodies. Who they are is unknown to me. All I can see is AIDS just like the rest of the world. Their glossy eyes, stunted growth, the rashes and bumps. The outside exposing and I can’t wait to see past it all. I can’t wait to see what’s inside. Because, as I recall, in about two hours, I won’t see it anymore. I will see them.

I’m amazed at the contrast of economic backgrounds these children come from. Some with hair extensions, cell phones, and caboodles of accessories. Others arrive with literally only the clothes on their back and needing to borrow underwear for the next four days. We witness that this virus has torn its way through all classes.

I’ll never forget Adele. Adele is thirteen year olds but if you saw her, you’d swear she was no more than six. Her big eyes and cheeks on her tiny little body. She reminds me of a Pixar character. Her belly pokes out from her torn shirt. Malnutrition. Adele comes from extreme poverty, and yet is constantly laughing. She carries one of those deep bellied contagious laughs that I love. The best part wasn’t exactly the sound of her laugh. It’s her reaction to her own laughter. Every time I pretend to throw up my food onto her lap, dance like a baboon, or slip on an imaginary banana peel she leans her body to the side laughing, holding her stomach. She closes her eyes and gives an exhausted, “Wooo..” And ends it with a sigh. I hope I never forget the image of Adele’s laughter. It’s the reason we do these camps.

One morning, however, eating our breakfast of eggs, cereal, and sausage, the children gorging themselves, Adele, seated next to me, drops her fork only three bites in. She leans back grabbing her belly and says something in Siswati to her new friends. “What did she just say?” I ask a girl fluent in English. “She says her stomach doesn’t know what to do with all this food.” The young girl pauses and looks down. “And?” I ask her. “And, at home they only eat once a day in the morning. And it’s just porridge, it’s all they have.” A moment of silence. Adele looks up at me with her big Pixar eyes. A burp slips out her mouth and so the laughter begins. I laugh alongside her, but inside I’m breaking.

In ways, camp is an extreme version of your Peace Corps service. Your heart will break over and over and then, when you least expect it, someone comes along and helps you put it back together. With each of Adele’s laughs I am brought back together again.

At first, I always doubt the children will be able to reach out to me. But by the day’s end we sit on the floor watching the camp counselors perform their hilarious skits. I sit alongside my girls. Three are trying hard to sit on my lap. Two lean on each side of me with their fingers laced between mine. Most of these children have already lost their parents and now a “burden” to their relatives. I say burden only because, in this world, this is what their relatives will tell them and often they treat them like servants. Like I’ve written before, the real nightmare begins once the parents have passed away. These three weeks are about showing them love because many of them have never witnessed it.

And just like that, we become friends. Hand in hand. Side by side.

At night their sickness becomes real to me. The throat rattling coughs, unable to catch their breath, you think they’re on the verge of death. It scares you, but they’re used to it and the other children laugh. You bring them water and sit by their side. The next night another one cries out. Nightmares. You can make sure they have nothing but joy during the day, but at night, they’re alone in their dreams. They fear death. They cry out. I’m on the bottom bunk next to Pilele and she wakes from her scary dreams. I reach out my hand and hold her arm. Without saying anything, she takes my hand and gently rubs the hair on my arm. She places my hand next to her head and cups it to her face. For the next three nights we lie in separate beds with my hand cradling her face.

The next day, more sports and arts and crafts. We ask them to make masks of their superheroes: Who they want to be like and why. They draw the faces of WWF wrestlers, Kings and Princesses. We ask for volunteers to present their mask and tell us why this person is their superhero. One of my girls stands and holds her mask high. In English, she says, “This is aunty Simphiwe. She is my superhero. She shows us love and holds us when we need it. She tells us if we have nightmares or feel lonely at night to wake her up. She shows us she loves us.” The other counselors in the room awe and go to high five me. And just like last year when this happened, I am torn. I’m touched, but it’s sad that it has to be us that shows them the love they deserve. I am seeing their pain. They’re hurting. At night we end each day with a question. We ask them, “What do you love about yourself?” Not a single girl can say. They respond, “We love how much you love me aunty.” Again, your heart breaks.

Day four we split the children into groups. We let them choose if they want to play sports, do arts and crafts, or have a spa make-over day. Not surprisingly, most my girls have chosen spa and make over day. All except one, Futhi. Futhi is the tomboy in the group. Whenever the girls gather together singing songs in chorus, Futhi stands in the back making fart noises and giggling. As you can imagine, Futhi and I have a strong bond. Today she decides she wants to play soccer with the boys. She chases after the ball charging any boy, regardless of his size, screaming in their faces challenging them. Every goal scored she throws her arms in the air and runs to me as I scream her on from the sidelines. Today though, after an attempt at a slide tackle, she falls and busts her knee. Blood is pouring out. I pick her up and sit her on a chair. In Swaziland, when a child hurts themselves, you find that many adults will put their hand on the wound and rub. For some reason they think it stops the bleeding and makes the pain go away. Themba rushes to my side and begins to rub her wound, without a glove. Again, we no longer see AIDS. I quickly grab his arm and tell him to wash his hands immediately.

Tonight is their last night and their opportunity to show their talent. We call it Stage Night. The children come up with dances, songs, and plays. The first performance is a play by the boy’s group. Another camp counselor leans in and translates for me. The story is about a young girl who gets pregnant, is kicked out of school and from home. She eventually goes to her boyfriend’s house begging for help when he and his family turn her away. The audience, the children and counselors, are laughing. And this is how it is here. Every play I’ve seen the youth put on is always about abuse (usually sexual), murder, rape, teen pregnancy, or alcohol abuse. And every play causes the audience to laugh. The next skit is put on by my girls. Lilly, who I’ve become incredibly close with, has written this skit. And of course, it’s about a young girl whose parents have died. She stays with her grandfather. She is raped and beaten almost everyday. The young girls act out the rape scene. They act out the beatings. Lilly is the main character. She pretends to scrub the floors as her aunt beats her. She acts out washing her cousin’s clothes as her aunt continues to yell. She sleeps outside watching her aunt hug and love her daughter. And again, the audience is laughing. I look at my friend, another Peace Corps volunteer. Tears are streaming down her face and she tries hard to cover it. I grab her hand and we look at each other. No words are needed. I know why she’s hurting. She turns to me and asks, “Mere. Do you remember what our plays were about growing up? Fairytales. Princes and Princesses. But not here. It’s always the same. And they always laugh.” It’s a coping mechanism. When the abnormal becomes normal. Nobody sees the tragedies anymore.

Since it’s the girls last night, I let them bathe for as long as they like. The five of them squeeze into the tiny boxed shower- singing their songs and giggling. I sit outside watching the stars make lines over ahead. I look over and notice the owner of this establishment get out of his BMW with his wife and child beside him. His daughter, with her long hair, skips around dancing and playing with her dolls. How unfair I think. A life these girls will never know. I wish I could give it to them.

Lilly is the first to come out. She asks, like always, “How are you aunty?” I tell her I’m fine. She sits on her bed starring at the ground. Tears begin to stream down her face. I take a seat next to her and put my hand on hers. “Lilly,” I begin. “I have to ask. The play you wrote. It was about you wasn’t it?” She begins to cry even harder. “Yes aunty.” She whispers.

The night before, a person from the leadership team (our boss) told me that Lilly was trying to tell her a “sob story” and she just redirected the conversation. She felt Lilly was only trying to get attention and advised that I not give her the attention she was seeking. Before camp, all of us were told if any child reports abuse to bring it to the leadership team.

Having lost faith in leadership, I take out a sheet of paper and do what we were told never to do. I write down my phone number. I hand it to Lilly. I tell her there are people that can help. That I will do my best to help and to call me if she needs me. Her tears finally stop as she leans hard into me and I put my arm around her. I think back to the young girl I met at school. The one they called "crazy". The one who told me "I love you" when we first met. How odd I found it, to love someone you have never spoken to. "It's sad." She told me. "We never say it enough. Why can't I just tell someone I love them? Why can't I tell you I love you?"

With my head now leaning onto Lilly's, I whisper, "I love you." And I fear, this could possibly be the first "I love you" she has ever heard.

We, as caregivers, will never truly know their suffering. We all try to do our part. To do more than just bear witness. In Peace Corps, you find yourself only playing the role of witness. You’re limited in how much you can REALLY help. I think the reason I need this camp so much is because for once, I am doing more than witnessing.

It’s difficult to imagine how restricted of a life many of these children lead. What little living they manage to do. Busy struggling to survive. Maybe they have some affection from some relative. Maybe some schooling and a bit of disrupted play. But most struggle to go on. Chores, insults, stigma, sleepless nights, fear of death, the physical and emotional pain of living with HIV, of living with HIV without your parents. And then things end. Without any mumble. The world goes on as if nothing has happened. With this camp, we can only hope to interrupt their in between life and death. Their routine of pain and misery. We can only dream to bring them laughter for the present and hope for their future.

But they don't want your pity. These children are survivors. ARVs, in Swaziland, didn't become readily available until around 5 years ago. Most of these children are older than ten which means they grew up without treatment. When a child is born with HIV and he or she is not immediately treated, there is a 50% chance they will see their second birthday. If the child does make it, there is then an 85% chance they will not make it to their tenth birthday.

These children are survivors. When we ask them to draw their superheroes, they draw the faces of celebrities, doctors, and caregivers.

But, it is these children that are the REAL superheroes.

A poem by Lilly, performed during stage night:

A Rose in heaven

Here we are red
Here we are not beautiful
But we will be roses in heaven
We will be beautiful in heaven
No one will be a red rose like us
No one is red like us
Here we are red
Here we are not beautiful
But we will be red like a rose in heaven.

"Indaba"

2010-12-30T01:20:00.000-08:00

Justice takes me to the city to another NGO for reasons he won’t really make known to me. I know these organizations like when rural Swazis work with “outsiders”- proof that they’re trying and are worthy of said NGO’s donations. So today, I am trophy white. Whatever. I don’t mind playing the part.

He pushes me in front of a woman who we shall call: Gloria. I can feel Justice’s nervous energy. His head looks down as his tail goes between his legs. We take a seat in front of her big, shiny, desk. Her big person Director title plaque sits in front of her. Here we go. I think. The two sit and talk in English. The fact that she’s using English to communicate, making direct eye contact, getting to her point quickly, and dressed up in Africa’s bright colors, tells me….she ain’t from around here. I’m guessing eastern Africa. Maybe Kenyan. She has yet to even look my direction. Fine by me, I try not to take control anymore. I’ve learned. Justice tells her I help with the youth club at his youth center.

“And who are you?’ She turns to ask, looking me up and down. “They call me Simphiwe.” I smile sweetly and extend my right arm out. She ignores my attempt at a handshake. “No. I don’t want that name. I want your REAL name.” Justice continues to look down. “Meredith.” I tell her. “So. Meredith. What do YOU do for this youth club? What do YOU have to offer THEM?” Holy fucking fuck fuck. I’m being judged inside the walls of an NGO. I thoughts I was cushioned between walls made of sunshine rainbows and licorice. These people are supposed to love everybody. Hello, Peace Corps. You’re only supposed to judge and make fun of us behind our backs.

“Well I ah. I teach.” I say.
“Simphiwe teaches us about HIV.” Justice backs me up.
“I want to hear from her Justice.” Gloria snaps back.
I hate telling people I teach about HIV. There’s so much more to it than that.
I continue. “I teach about other things than HIV. I talk about the outside world. I talk about different cultures and people in the world. I try to…”
“You try to what? Teach them that YOUR culture is BETTER than theirs?” Gloria snaps. Justice’s head remains down. Thanks buddy. I sit back in my seat and fold my arms across my chest.
“No. I would NEVER do that Gloria.” I can feel my mother's look on my face when she's pissed at me. Shit. I've inherited it.
“OK. Good. Now we can press on.” She turns to Justice. “Tell me more about your youth center.” She asks him.

For the next 8 or so minutes I have no idea what the two are discussing. Only my Peace Corps reputation holds me back from walking out the door and showing her how we, in my culture, say fuck you without any words.

I’m shaken from my vengeful daydream when I hear Justice and Gloria arguing about god knows what. Justice, again talking in circles not really making any point and Gloria misunderstanding him because English isn’t his first language.

“I can’t believe you think AIDS isn’t a problem because of ARV’s. It’s people like YOU that are causing this virus to be such a problem. My own nieces and nephews aren’t scared because of those tablets. When they should be!” Gloria shouts back.
I try to explain to her that’s not what he meant but she cuts me off to start the discussion of who’s to blame for the spread of HIV. I hate this conversation.

“It’s the men.” She says. “Transactional sex. The girls are trying to survive.”
“Well actually. If you talk to the girls who tell the truth, you’ll find a lot aren’t doing it for food. It’s hair extensions and cell phones a lot are after. Not all. But a lot.”
“So it’s the girls.” She says.
“No. It’s everyone. There’s a lack of direction for the youth in the rural areas. Just the other day I had to teach my girls what the word passion meant. They couldn’t even translate it into SiSwati. You can say I teach HIV. But really, I’m just trying to teach direction. Passion. To open them up to themselves. To live with confidence when no one else believes in them. That’s real prevention.”

My words carried a certain tune that she finally agreed with. Singing the same language now, she sits back and nods her head. “Sorry about earlier. I know I can come off a bit brash at times. I used to be a lawyer. And I had to make sure you were serious.” She tells me. I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that, so I just waited.

“Now.” She’s talking to me now. “Justice tells me you need things for your youth center? I am going to donate computers, couches, chairs, books.” Justice grins and thanks her over and over again. “How are we going to pay the electricity bill for those computers Justice? I thought we were here to start up an income generating project.” I ask him.
Gloria interjects. “I also want to help you with a workshop.” Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Not another workshop. I scream inside my head.
“My organization will donate one cow and a few speakers if you hold a Health Day Event.”
“What’s a Health Day Event?” I ask.
“An all day workshop where NGO’s come to your community and talk about HIV care and prevention. They’ll be testing booths and condom distribution. You provide the drinks and we’ll bring the cow.”
I remember the last one of these I was a part of. People sneaking in after the lectures, demanding food. Caregivers were going for seconds when children hadn’t even eaten yet. People lined up shouting outside when the food ran out.
I just nod and smile. Sure whatever. Gloria tells me about a campaign coming up at the end of the month. “It’s called Indaba. Held by us and NERCHA. You and Justice should come. We’re spending two days talking about ways we can better prevention. We’ll be talking about EVERYTHING.”

Screw the free couches and books; I want to bring my youth club to this event. So they can witness it themselves. It's time the people we're talking about and studying see what is being said about.. them.
“Can I bring my girls?” I ask.
She sits and thinks. “OK. I don’t see why not. It’d be good for them. It’s in the city. I’m sure they’d love it.”
“And transport?” I ask with a big fake smile.
“Transport?”
“We live an hour from the city and it’ll cost about 25R a person to get there.”
Gloria finally agrees. I, Justice, two other volunteers, and 8 of my girls are going to the city in a few weeks and this time, I’m OK said NGO is picking up the tab.

“Prevention is becoming a challenge to everybody and to the world. It’s why we are here today. There is no answer yet. 1986 was our first documented HIV case in Swaziland. The ABC and condom approach was the first reaction. Uganda became our mentor. ‘It worked in Uganda.’ Everyone was saying. Why did it work there and no where else? Uganda had just gotten out of a civil war. Their army had become infected with HIV. A civil war was looming and this created a political commitment. Everyone mobilized and became involved. The ABC approach worked. Then in 1994 to 2006 this pandemic ran away with us. We asked ourselves, what’s the missing piece? We looked at all the angles. We realized most of those getting infected were heterosexual men and women. This became about controlling sexual behavior. Unfortunately sexual behavior is driven by norms and values in a society. Why was there such an HIV explosion in Southern Africa?

Colonization. Christianity. Education. Consumerism. Migration.

Colonization brought new government structures and authority. We weren’t managing ourselves, but rather being managed.

Christianity told us to change. Become re-born. Forget our ancestors and values. There became a new formula. ‘Do it like we do.’ They came and confused. 85% of us are Christian, but we aren’t behaving like it. The philosophy is right but the setting is wrong. The way it was introduced was wrong.

Then we followed the world into consumerism. We wanted everything they had. There became a huge emphasis on the disposable quick fixes. The media was confusing us. Every Swazi now watches MTV. Jerry Spaniel, or whatever the guy’s name is. The media tells us what is acceptable behavior. Whole societies became confused with stimuli.

Migration became the root of what changed norms and values in our society. In the 1980’s, 50,000 Swazi men left home. 9 month contracts into Jo’berg with no recreation. Nothing but sex and booze at these camps. It became their lifestyle. Mining meant more money and they brought all their diseases back with them. What did their absence from home do to their relationships? Sex became about money, procreating, and bonding. Sex became a commodity and a recreation because of absence. Marriage no longer meant sex. There became no need for a wife. 23% of men are married in this country. 22% of the Swazi youth grow up with two parents. 38% are only with their mother. 34% with no biological parent. Socialization is all messed up. Who are the role models?

Society has changed. Relationships between men and women have changed. Women’s rights are becoming promoted. Men’s dominance increases out of insecurity. Incest and child abuse have become the norm. It’s all emerging and it wasn’t there before.

This pandemic is in context of a changing society.

How do relationships work in Swaziland? We’re trying to figure it out. We’re recording conversations of school children, discussing their sex lives and sugar daddies. The youth and their unwanted pregnancies. Married men tell each other get yourself a wife and a school girl. One for fun , one who cooks, and one who is fresh. This is how they think.

People have become dependent on others for economic benefits. The 3C’s and recreation. Women living with men who can’t get out. Totally dependent. Teachers exploiting children. Police raping sex workers. Pastors and school girls. Sex used as power.

So how do we deal? Enforce paternity. Ensure every child has a father. Every father has responsibility. Create laws on alcohol to youth. These are all separate epidemics. Separate approaches. There is a lot our government can do but a lot we can still do ourselves.”

I turn my tape recorder off and sit in awe. Tingles. I’m in an audience of Swazis at what they're calling the: Indaba, alongside my youth club. Are they hearing this? Do they see? Surely by now.

Derek Von Wissel, a poet in this HIV analysis, is Swaziland’s leader in this battle against AIDS. The director of NERCHA and asked, expected, to lower the HIV rate in Swaziland. To perform the impossible. What tricks does he have up his sleeves today? I sit and wonder. Derek, seated at every campaign, every panel and every event on HIV. He sits, always, on stage in front of an audience. His usual face of distain. Another speech, another deaf audience. He rubs his brow, head down, half asleep as the other presenters talk. Always looking so depressed. But can you really blame him? He’s been asked to lower the HIV rate in a country that is disinterested. A country that is waiting for the outside world to fix their problems. He’s on his own.

I daydream, while he talks. I show up at his office in the city. I waltz in with a confident swagger. I carry a six pack of microbrews, sent from home, and dump them on his desk. I tell him, “I think you could use a drink.” He leans back in his chair, exhales loudly…. “Let’s talk.” He’ll say. And for hours he and I sit and talk about Swaziland. I’ll tell him to just be real, no one’s listening. The Swazi Times isn’t here. And he’ll say, “OK, here it is Mere. Here’s the missing piece of the puzzle…” Afterwards, I’ll walk out with a bounce in my stride. Relieved. Enlightened. Filled with hope. Alive again.

Just a silly dream.

Next on the panel: Helen Jackson with UNAIDS. She’s here to lecture on the biomedical side of HIV prevention. With her thick British accent, I lean forward struggling to understand. “Male circumcision, PMTCT (preventing mother to child transmission), sexual reproductive health education, condoms, blood safety, and PEP. We know these work in the fight against this virus. STI management, HIV testing and counseling, microbicides, ARV/ART, and vaccinations are less evident to work.” I hear you Helen. I’m pickin up what you’re layin down. I look down at my girls. They’re long gone. Another world. Daydreaming of boys and cars. Can you blame them?

“Prevention equals reducing the incidence rate by reducing opportunities for infection. Lowering the infectivity of HIV positive people. And lowering susceptibility of HIV negative people.” She pauses to take a sip of her bottled water seated next to her.

“Is treatment prevention?” She asks. I remember my conversation with my UNAIDS Proud African Queen. “We need to stop letting these people live. We need to take away ARVs so people will start getting scared. That will change behavior. People will SEE what AIDS does to you and they will change how they behave.” Gloria said. The uninfected cracking a few eggs for the better of everyone. Helen asks us a good question. Is treatment prevention?

“ARV’s cause viral loads to go down. (Viral load: The amount of HIV living in the body. The less you have the less likely you are to get sick or pass it to others. ARV’s keep these levels down). ARV’s can make a person’s viral load go down so far it’s almost impossible for them to spread it. On the other hand, treatment can cause people to take more risks because they can.” She pauses to look up from her notes. Her glasses hang low, her hair in her face; it hasn’t been brushed in weeks. A true scientist: all the sex boiled right out of her. We wait for her to continue.

“All biomedical interventions require social and behavioral inputs as part of a minimum package.” She concludes, and takes a seat next to Derek on stage.

I look over at my girls. The only youth amongst 300 people in this conference center. Again, the world, the educators and scientists, talking at them as if they were American, French, or British. They (Swazis) need song. They need dance. They need rhythm. They need to feel the message being told.

A woman steps onto stage. She shines with copper and orange. Afro and bangles. She holds the microphone softly. She whispers at first. “I’d like to read you my poem.” She clears her throat. She unfolds and becomes alive. She emphasizes and sways at the rhythm of her words extending her arms out as if holding onto something fragile and precious.

“Not all that glitters is gold.
Live to tell the stories of our mothers
Our sisters
Our brothers
We’re burning for loss.
We’re hungry for life.
Kagema.
Kagema.
Hurry.
Hurry.
Don’t let it catch you.
This is our story.”

She steps down and I watch my girls in awe. It’s rare they see a woman with such confidence and grace. For the first time they’re feeling the message here today. I look back on stage. Derek, still seated with the rest of the panel, unphased with his arms folded against his chest leaning back in his chair. His head is down. Is he asleep?

Next, we break into groups. The men go with the men to one room. The women go with the women. The traditional healers leave with the traditional healers. And the youth go with the youth (or those working with the youth). The girls and I leave with the rest of those working with youth. For an hour we discuss issues such as: condom use, circumcision, PMTCT, MCP, and sex education. After an hour, we all return to the auditorium and share each group’s perspective.

And we’re talking. Finally, we’re talking together. For two days we have discussed all modes of prevention in this country. But right before us now we are doing it. If I had to pin point the biggest cause of HIV, in Swaziland, I’d say a serious lack of communication. And we’re doing it here. They call this campaign: Indaba. In SiSwati it means story. We all have ours and we all just need to share them.

Next on stage, we have the Dr. of Economics: Mr. Allen Whiteside. Born in Kenya, a citizen of South Africa, white, privileged?, and traveled up and down the northeast side of Africa. I’m curious to hear an economist’s view on this prevention campaign. What is HIS story?

He begins with a “global overview” of the pandemic. The incidence rate in Swaziland is this doctor’s main focus. With his power point presentation overhead and red laser pointer in hand, he takes us through chart after chart of Swaziland’s HIV incidence rate. Who’s getting it.

“When a person first receives HIV their viral load is incredibly high. After some time, however, that viral load goes way down. This makes it harder for this person to pass it on.” His laser pointer shows us the peak in the graph. “If we can control these people, the HIV incidence rate will go down, way down. How do we stop these people who’ve just become infected from passing it onto other people?” I can’t wait to hear this. Another shot at the impossible. My two favorite words they love to use: Behavior change. “We create a campaign that says, ‘A month of no sex!’. He yells, waiting for a response.

Say what!? Is this man mad? Spoken like a true economist. Absolutely no understanding of the people here. An uproar rises around me. Swazis and I, laugh. I look around at the few white faces around (I only say white because it gives me more opportunity to generalize and assume they have a distant view of the situation here....don't judge my judgment). They sit, calm and collected, almost confused by our reaction. One of them shoots me a nasty look and I start to feel like a fifth grader, laughing at the teacher and I’ve been spotted by one of the obedient ones seated in front. Can I help that I inherited my father’s obnoxious laugh?

“Oh come on,” Dr. Economics continues. “It can’t be THAT hard. We’re only asking for one month." I didn’t realize a transaction was being made. “If everyone stops for one month or engages in only safe sex, then fewer people are exposed during the recently infected’s high viral load. We need to cut them off at this peak.” Laser points to chart again. “We provide a one month condom pack. We encourage partners to test together. (Which we’re already doing. It’s called the ‘Love Test’. Romantic I know.) People will do it for their country.” He ends patriotically.

For hours we’ve heard the language of the US Universities, the Harvard grads, the economists, the scientists from France with their thick accents (“You ah.. take z… ah.. foreskin… and ah..). Everyone struggling to understand the echoes of international bureaucracies and their inane proposals. Talking at us. Us, the Swazi. You don’t need to speak SiSwati at Swazis. But you must be able to speak Swazi.

Before I give you my FULL reaction (which I’m sure by now you’re already getting), I want to share with you what the next presenter had to say.

A young Swazi man takes the stage. Baring no MD before his name, no title. Just Swazi. A nobody to the rest of the world, he looks scared out of his mind.

“Ah, hello.” He begins. “I am here today to talk to you about Multiple Concurrent Partners and HIV.” (MCP, a cheating web of sexual contact, and the biggest reason for the HIV rates here.) “Lets face it, we’re all doing it.” The audience braces themselves. They’re ready to listen and a discussion is beginning with clarity. The young man shows slides of newspaper clippings overhead. Story after story of those caught cheating and impregnating. Those using sex as power. The headline of the gospel singer, I met, pops on screen and the audience laughs.

“We’re all doing it.” He continues. “I know it because I live it. My boys and I joke. ‘She takes my HIV and gives it to you.’ We say to each other. One of my friends had sex with six different girls in one day.” The audience laughs in disbelief. “I’m not joking. He started north of Mbabane. He made his way down to Matsapha into Manzini then further south to Big Bend and that region. In one day he traveled the entire country for sex, and he didn’t even have a car.” We’re in awe; gasps of disbelief fill around us.

“Our socialization is facilitating this virus…..Thank you.” He steps off stage.

And there it was. Dr’s, lecturers, panel, are you listening? This disease is a reflection of what needs to change here. We cannot ignore the reasons and only do what is needed to TEMPORARILY fix the problem. “Donors are suffering from aid fatigue. The prevalence rate is not going down and they are now less inclined to donate anymore to this country.” Whiteside tells us. I can understand why this no sex for one month campaign can sound so appealing to those that are interested in more donations, whatever keeps the cash flow flowing. Donors are suffering from aid fatigue. Well the people here are suffering form AIDS fatigue. They don’t care anymore. AIDS is merely a symptom of what this culture has turned into. The people know condoms will save their life and yet they still refuse to use them. Why on earth would they care about their country’s well being and abstain for a month, if they don’t even care about their own? It’s like telling Americans not to use any electricity for one day to “Save the Planet”. We need to examine why AIDS is wiping out an entire generation here and go from there.

We’re treating them like spoiled children. You won’t use a condom, abstain, or be faithful? Then give us your foreskin and continue to behave the way you’re behaving. You won’t change, then just give us one month of no sex then you can continue to fuck your brains out.

“Are there any questions?” The MC asks the audience. A middle aged Swazi man stands. A young boy runs to hold the microphone to his mouth. “In our culture,” He beings softly. Nervous in front of a panel that comes from a culture where confidence, direct eye contact, and a college education is encouraged. “In our culture, we respect our elders. We obey them and we would never tell them what to do. Who are we to go out there and tell them now to circumcise? To not have sex? This is just not how it is done here. Ah. Thank you.”

We need to make sure our campaigns, our lectures, or “requests” do not seem so demeaning, so patronizing. These people are being asked to respond to an agenda imported from cities, do-gooder organizations, from Universities, from an ocean away with the “right” answers, from those who do not know their suffering. It’s obvious a change in mentality is needed, but it is needed in the hearts and minds of those with power- those that are not seated here today.

We break into groups again. We discuss similar topics and try to figure out a way to resolve the country’s social “problems”. When we return it’s the women’s group who takes stage. A delightfully, surprisingly, confident Swazi woman stands behind the podium. She tells us stories of women’s sexual dissatisfaction. A lack of communication in relationships. A curiosity of vibrators in a country that outlaws any and all sex toys. I hoot her on as the men chuckle in disbelief. She starts to loose her courage and laughs along with the men. I holler and whistle. I can’t believe what’s being said. The Swazi woman representing her Swazi women. The Swazi woman wants she’s telling them. The Swazi woman needs. The Swazi woman desires. The Swazi woman is not happy. This Swazi woman won’t keep quite anymore. Comments are being whispered in SiSwati amongst the men in the crowd. I make my youth group translate for me. I look down at the Swazi Times reporters ferociously writing. I can just read the headlines tomorrow. “Swazi Women Demand Vibrators! Swazi Women Sexually Unhappy! Professor of Economics tells Swazis ‘No more sex!’” I can just see it now.

The audience goes wild. And, again, I’m in love with dialogue.

Each group takes the stage and tries to give their solutions. Outsiders call it “Behavior Change”. It’s what needs to happen. But no one knows exactly how to do it. “We’ll fine anyone caught without condoms on them. We’ll have family monitors. People who go into homesteads and make sure they’re engaging in safe sex. Test or get fined! No sex for one month!” They scream.

Is forcing and making things compulsory the answer? I think hard about the brave Swazi man who stood up before this panel of doctrines and questioned their tactics. This doesn’t happen here. There’s a naïve trust and confidence in the outside world that Swazis have. “Don’t piss them off. They give us money.” Some are even starting to believe they are biologically less smart than the rest of the world. Just yesterday a man, like everyday, tells me he wants me. I ask why. He says, “Because you are white and everyone knows white people are smarter than black people.” And I hear this all the time. They tell me, “Swazis have black hearts and small brains.” So many have told me sub-Saharan Africans are just dumber than the rest. They've lost all confidence in themselves and wait for the outside world to fix their problems.

Are we encouraging blind faith? The only way we’ll get through this is to help them understand. We need more Indabas. We need more communication.

Derek takes the stage to close the ceremony. “I’ve discussed the causes to our HIV pandemic: colonization, Christianity, migration, denial and consumerism. And now we’re looking forward. We’ve come together for two days and the response has been beyond our expectations.”

I look around the theater. 300 people stay seated, asking question after question when lunch was served over an hour ago. I’ve never seen free food put on hold because of a desire for more information. I’m just as blown away.

“We’ve seen the crowd react to certain things. There’s been lots of buzz around female sexual gratification. We shall write a report. Come up with new programs to create a higher communication level between partners in the future. We need to decentralize this Indaba. Bring it to the community level and out to the rural areas. We’d like to create a National Youth group that meets on prevention. We want to work on this month of no infection and no sex. You doubt, but it has been scientifically proven to work in other countries. It took us two years to organize this event. We’ll try to listen to your contributions and get back to you. We’re going to redirect our efforts. A new dedication has begun.”

Indaba over.

I can’t believe that took them two years to plan. The amount of money and time that went into this two day event blows my mind. A buffet feast awaited us at the end of each lecture. My girls had never seen food like this before, some never even to the city. The second day they came prepared with Tupperware in their purses- shoving chicken legs, pasta, cupcakes, and lamb chops into their bags. Where did this money come from? What else could it have been spent on? Why was there such a delay in getting 300 people together who were already bound together in their work in the health care field?

I recall a conversation with another volunteer I had recently. A certain NGO in her area was given $80,000 USD to collect information on the people in her community. After 4 months and $80,000 spent, the NGO came to her, a Peace Corps Volunteer, needing information. “They had nothing on these people. We had been here just two months, with no car to get around in and the language barrier and we were the ones supplying them with the information. For free.”

I realize I run risk in writing about the poor and powerless. What I write could be used against them. Taken in the wrong way. I could be totally wrong about EVERYTHING. I am only here to show you- that I was here. At the same time, it's incredibly hard to be a dispassionate reporter. I write on PERSONAL experience. What I have seen with my own two eyes. It's hard not to judge when your work becomes your life. And not just your life.. two years of your life.

I hope Derek is true to his words. A redirection and new dedication is strongly strongly needed. Are no sex campaigns and fining people the answer? I know confronting the big picture seems like an overpowering challenge, messy, and can’t be put so simply on power point. But we need a better comprehension of the societal causes of what’s going on around us and why there is such a tolerance for it.

Lost In Translation

2010-12-08T03:31:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s happening here.

Aid should not be stopped- but changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then. Just like that. They were gone.

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

“No.” I tell her. “I can’t.”

"Hand in Mine"

2010-11-17T04:05:00.000-08:00

*picture taken over a year ago. when we first arrived to swaziworld.
11/11/2010

After sharing her tales of protest and rally alongside Colbert and John Stewart,she pauses to take a breath and asks,“Why do you seem so adrift these days Mere?” I don’t know what to say to my mother anymore. I know what she’s asking, but I don't quite know how to respond. She continues, “We just don’t hear about your work anymore.” I collect my scrambled thoughts and try to make sense of it all. “What’s left to say?” I ask. You write about inspiration, change, and movement. When did I become so stagnant- just like them. A quicksand of misery and I’m waving my white flag up high. “It’s like the 5 stages of grief.” I tell her. First, you have Denial. “I’m going to start a girls club. Open their eyes and raise their voices. We’re going to march the streets and take back the night!“ You have anger next. “Why isn't the government doing anything?!” You find yourself placing blame and pointing fingers at everyone. Then comes Bargaining. You feel the guilt of the hatred that’s consumed you. The guilt of eating another home-cooked meal inside your little hut- your little escape- while there are those who crave just a few feet from your door. You give them the candy they ask for, some bread you just bought to the beggar right outside the store. A quick temporary fix to their pain and your guilt and now maybe you can sleep just a little better tonight. You bargain for that little voice of guilt to turn off. And then there’s the scariest, deepest, hardest to escape stage. Depression. A descent into a depravity for which, for some, there is no escape until they’ve returned home or maybe even never. You’ve heard every heartbreaking story. You’ve joined this culture of mourners. It feels as though this pandemic will go on forever. And all you can do is bear witness to it. Some volunteers seek refuge inside their huts- watching tv series after tv series or another gigantic Stephen King novel. Others turn to booze or reckless relationships. Anything to disconnect from it all.

And finally, Acceptance. You accept the goals you cannot reach and the things you cannot change. You accept you will fall again and again and put yourself, piece by piece, back together again and again. When the 5th person of the day has asked you for money, screamed umlungu, grabbed your breast, whistled, shouted, starred, and laughed at you and your display of being their new shiny toy. When you have gone through the routine and drill of the same dialogue over and over and over and over and over again. Why you are here. Who are you. What are you doing. Are you married. Do you have children. Do you know Siswati. What is your name. Their laughter and your words- a broken record. Another child doesn’t see their 6th birthday, another corrupt head teacher, another ignorant NGO. You learn to accept and you grow silent- just like them. And for the first time, you’re understanding their silence. I try to prevent this plague from consuming my life. It colors everything I believe, I think, I say. I have become what we- the outside negotiator and donator- has talked and written about: a product of AIDS fatigue.

And yet, I know as I write these very words. I have many African friends who are now gasping for a few more days of life. As I sit here writing on this bench, pen and paper in hand, Swazis peering over my shoulder and asking, as always, “Simphiwe. Why do you write?” My Swazi deputy teacher (vice principal) takes a seat next to me. She says, “Simphiwe. Thandiwe Dlamini passed away last night.” She was one of my form five students. As usual, I ask how. “She was born with HIV. Living with her aunti. Both her parents have already passed on.” Another student of mine has died. Another secret revealed. I had no idea of her pain. What she was living with. As I stood in front of the class preaching that AIDS is out there. 3 in 10 people now. A generation lost. Extended relatives having to take care of the orphans left behind. There she was the whole time sitting there- with this secret. Listening. Knowing. While the rest in her class doubted around her. And I couldn’t be there for her. All I did was assure her she was not alone. She had just finished her exams and about to graduate. But her life ended there. And I had no idea.

And there are SO many out there. Out there a child is being refused food by his step mom. A student is having sex with her teacher. A pregnant girl is being refused her education. A young man, who finally got tested, is contemplating suicide. A buisness man "working late" is sliding a cold beer across the table to the underaged confused youth. A preacher impregnates a 15 year old then denies. A gogo is stealing food from her orphaned grandchild. An uncle is molesting his niece. Another young teacher, determined to make a difference, is angry. She tries to help the orphans in her village, living alone in stick and mud shelters, but neighbors keep stealing the food she has donated to them. A young boy is molesting his younger sibilings because it is all he knows. A wife is accusing her husband of cheating and shoots him dead in front of their child. A volunteer is being harassed, mugged, and feeling discrimination for the first time in their life. Another, tired of holding it in for over a year, is screaming out his pain and frustration while the public stares- not understanding. "It's like we're on a sinking ship and no one notices. No one wants to see!!" And I personally know all these stories, and i've accepted them all.

I’ve stripped myself of the NGO bureaucratic gobbily gunk and their overblown ideologies of the aid providing world. I am starting to see reality- and quite frankly, it’s boring. So how do I talk about "work" without sounding like a broken record?
The new volunteers have arrived. It's been about four months now. And they're singing the same tune we once sang over a year ago. Their facebook statues tell the rest of the world the difficulties of hauling water, understanding the clicks in this new language, the mannerisms and spoken word of the people here. The “Shames” “Eeishes” and “Hows!” They’re asking, “How can he propose to me? He doesn’t even know me.” The humiliation of standing in front of 800 students laughing as soon as you say your name in Siswati. Gogo’s tits on transport and livestock between your legs. A live chicken as a gift. The Swazi lightening- as if heaven has been cracked open over your head and you stand in awe while your host family hides inside. An absent counterpart and you’re asking yourself, “What am I doing here?” Fridays in town. No. The last Friday of the month in town and your sardine packed bump and grind trip back home on public transport. The crazy thing your sisi said this week.

Season 8 assures us –we weren’t crazy in our observations. But soon their statuses will turn to work. And observation will turn to analysis. Anger/frustration. Thoughts of home. An everything bagel with salmon cream cheese. Christmas without the family. Then.. lots of nothing. Who knows if this is what we signed up for. And it doesn’t matter. Whether we expected this or not we still have to press on. We still have to wade through the shit and try, just try, to get some work done. To open at least one person's eyes. Including our own.
There are basically three parts of my work I write about. The big picture stuff. The sustainable and most likely out of reach part of any volunteer’s little grasp. The stuff that would slap anyone in the face and have them say, “Now they are making a difference. No. A change.” If you look closer, on a smaller scale, you have the community stuff. Dealing with caregivers, teachers, OVC’s, NCP’s of your community. And lastly, looking even closer and smaller- you have the individual. It’s my favorite to write about and sometimes gets me into trouble. The story of the individual. It’s the untold agony of this pandemic in this one person. Proud African. Citizen of the World. African Queen. Dare I say- privledged or the not privileged Swazi. Buhle and Nonjabuliso. Thembi. And Thuli.

Thuli.

I get a call from Dazi- the social worker who has taken her in. “Simphiwe. Thuli has stolen my mother’s clothes and run off. She cannot disrespect us like that. I was willing to take her in as my own. Why has she done this?” I explain I will find her and talk to her.

I find Thuli. Back and forth she tells me her side of the story. She didn’t steal the clothes. It was a neighbor. She tells me Dazi’s mother belittles her and calls her an orphan and she doesn’t like it. She wants to leave. “I found you a home. Now you don’t want to stay there. Think about your baby. Where do you want to raise this child? What choice do you have?” I ask her. Thuli, still a child, holds her unborn baby belly. Thuli about to be a parent herself with no parents or family to help. What happened? What went wrong?

I walk to the police station to find out why anyone hasn’t done anything. Moving from the individual to the community level. The station commander is shouting for a big campaign at the end of the month. “I want to combine HIV and crime. Show the community how these two are connected. Let’s get the NGO’s here! The people need to listen!” I suggest we bring in a certain NGO I have been working with in Manzini. The police are hesitant and I am told by others, “No one wants to share the spotlight.” I ask for clarification. “You see if you bring in that NGO from Manzini who specializes in child abuse that is taking away the spotlight of those who are putting on this event- the police. THEY want to be known as helping children who have been abused. They don’t want to share the spotlight.” It’s been explained to me as an, “NGO war”. Fighting for the credit and the territory. Here in a world where we are flooded by aid and donation. They are actually fighting over those to help. Certain NGO’s dropping off food to NCP’s (Neighborhood Care Points), when other NGO’s have claimed that NCP as “their’s”. No one has actually put onto paper who works with what areas. And who helps which OVC's (orphaned vulnerable children). Everyone is throwing food at the backdoor and not bothering to take a look inside. I ask how long has this been going on. “For years.” They tell me.

Fights over turf and battles begin. “If you invite that NGO to your event Simphiwe, don't expect the other one to come. They don’t get along.” Adolescents managing donations. Higher up the ladder you start to question the donors. The business men gone humanitarian. Finally a heart, but still very much a business orientated brain. Again, the magic bullet approach. A temporary fix for your guilt. Another NGO plans to pull out. They’re angry with the “system” here. Nothing is making a difference. “Here’s an idea.” I shout at another meeting. “Why don’t these NGO’s provide these NCP’s with fencing?! (We can grow food but we can’t stop people from stealing. This is why fencing is KEY.) That way, WE, can grow our OWN food and not rely on donations or some Peace Corps Volunteer to write another proposal for expensive fencing.” Another volunteer pipes in, “People are complaining there is no water here. There IS water. Sudan Somolia. THEY have a problem with water. We just need to teach these people how to manage rainfall.” We’re starting to realize it’s not bags of maize we need. We need people teaching people. NOT ABOUT AIDS. About survival. Sustainable agriculture. Business and money management. NGO’s should be dropping this off instead. Then they can pull out with dignity instead of defeat like they are now.

NGO’s are scared when it’s the people who should be. They continue to point fingers at NGO’s. Blaming them for inadequate food and lack of accessibility. The fingers are being pointed in the wrong directions. But it’s all they know. They’ve grown up with NGO’s and volunteers and free food on the back of trucks. This is why they ask me, “Where does America get their donations from?” This is why when they ask me what I do here I can just say, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” And they immediately understand. Can you imagine someone asking you in the States what you “do” and you reply with, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” This is normalcy. I can see why they blame “them” why they blame “us”. And for a while, I was standing there right next to them, demanding the same unsustainable things.

But today I came to point fingers not at NGO’s or volunteers, but the community level. The police. I tell Thuli’s story. But they know it by heart. They know Thuli and have tried to help her in the past. I tell them about her abusive aunt who took her in when her parent’s died and refused her food. Kicked her out in the rain, made her sleep outside, and beat her when she came inside. “Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you arrest her.” I ask. “Because there are no laws to protect these children once their parents have died. Thuli was lucky to have someone take her in.“ I try to wrap my brain around this word, “Lucky”.

I run to my NGO contact in Manzini. Moving from the smaller to the bigger level:the NGO world. I go to the office of the two Canadian women volunteers doing work as “legal aid” here until January. “No laws protecting children?!” I shout. “Laws protecting children and women are actually fairly new in this world Meredith.” She tells me. “Technically, these police officers are right. There are no laws in Swaziland protecting children. But that doesn’t mean there is nothing they or you can do to protect them. There are case laws police and others can use in a court of law. They are just unaware these laws are out there.” After I have her explain to me what a case law is she says, “It took me six months just to get a copy of these case laws when they are supposed to be open to the public. We can use these to protect them for now. This is how change begins and laws are born.”

Back at school, my day to teach I find all the students outside. A large man dressed in royalty, purples and golds, stands before them. My headteacher walks over to me and slaps me on the back. "Sorry Simphiwe. These children have demons in them and I have called in these ministers to come and get them out. So you won't be teaching today." I grind my teeth and fake a smile. It's becoming harder and harder for me to paint a pretty face when i'm surrounded by idiots constantly. I take a seat and watch the madness. The minister demands the students to get in line and allow him to "get the demons out." All the girls stand as the boys sit, crossing their arms.. being "cool". As each girl stands before him he places his hand on her forehead and shouts out. Spit is flying everywhere and a woman stands behind the girl. The girl screams out, her arms are flaying around and she falls back into the woman's arms. One girl, i'm guessing she had a lot of demons, is convulsing in a corner her girlfriends holding her down. She's "speaking in tongues" and shaking violently. "What is she saying?" I ask one teacher. "I don't know. It's tongues I suppose." I laugh. "I can translate for you. She's shouting, 'YES! TODAY I DON'T HAVE TO GO TO GEOMETRY! THIS IS AWESOME!'"

I realize this is going to take a while so I take a seat in the staff room. The teachers sit, drink tea, and enjoy their day off. "So I guess you guys don't have any demons that need taken out?" I ask. They laugh.

As I sit seated and starring, another working day blown off, a young girl takes a seat next to me. The teachers shift in their seats as if bracing themselves for what is about to happen next. She looks into my eyes and softly says to me, "I love you." I smile. "Do I know you?"

"She's a student. Form three." A teacher tells me.
She holds my chin and turns it towards her again. "Why can't we just tell each other that? Why is there so much space between all of us?"

I'm in shock. Was this girl truly this profound? I've been asking myself the same thing about Americans and our little social cubicles.

"They tell me i'm crazy you know. I'm possessed. I'm the snake's child."
"Well.. do you think you're crazy?" I ask her.
"Why do you ask so many questions??" She smiles.
"Because I think you want me to."
She laughs.
"I see snakes in my dreams. I'm just so restless.... I can't sit still anymore. That's why I don't come to school anymore. I just need a rest. But I'm not crazy." She stands and leaves the room.

The teachers tell me this is why the head teacher invited the ministers. She's been getting worse and becoming violent lashing out at students and her family- accusing them of things. "Her voice is different if you notice Simphiwe. Her vocabulary. How she knows English so well. Her accent will change. I mean maybe she is possessed." I know this is Swaziland and these children are faced with horrible things. But I can't help but think back to my own brother. Maybe this isn't environmental. Maybe this is Schizophrenia. I think of him back home. The damage it would have done telling him yes- he does have ESP. Yes. He is a famous rapper. Slipping further and further away from reality. Telling this girl she's possessed is only making her delusions worse.

I step outside to be with her.
She turns, "Do you know our head teacher Simphiwe?"
"Yes" I tell her.
"No. Do you KNOW our headteacher?" She asks again.
I suspect she is referring to the corrupt things he has done. Sex with students. Beating them senseless. Deals made under the table.
"He won't stop. No one notices...."
Another teacher walks over. She's created an audience now. They stand and laugh at her. "And YOU!" She points to one of the male teachers. "I know about YOU." This particular teacher.. the one rumored to have impregnated Thuli. "I know what you did." The teachers stop laughing. "OK... you're done." They tell her.
She stretches her arms out into the air and looks up at the clouds.

"No. I'm not." She starts to take her shirt off.... She turns towards the students seated outside. The head teacher is speaking to them now. She runs with her arms outstretched screaming the head teacher’s name. "Simphiwe go get her." The teachers beg. I run after her. The whole school starring now. I grab her hand.

"Let's go talk. I want to know more about these dreams." I put one arm around her waist.
"No. I have to talk to them." She insists.
We go back to the the staff room.

"I once shouted 'I AM JESUS' in the middle of our bus rank." She tells me, exhaling loudly.
"Do you think you're Jesus?" I ask.
She laughs, "Of course not. But it got people's attention. It connected all of us that day. And that's all I want. To reach out and connect. Through my craziness."

I can't speak for those people in the bus rank that day, but today, I felt that connection she is forever seeking. That I too am forever seeking. Someone, who's basically grown up in Swaziland, once asked me after reading my blog, "If you hate it so much. Why do you stay here?" This question really stuck with me. I once asked a Peace Corps Volunteer if she thought i'd make it the two years. She responded with, "We all knew you'd stay the two years. You're a masochist Mere."

Why am I here if I am experiencing so much pain? Seeing so much pain. A few weeks ago a former PCV told me she went to India to work at Mother Theresea's Hope House. The madness that resided there. Nuns gone nurse. Untrained. Holding body parts together. Dirty bandages. Giving shelter to those near death so they don't have to die alone. The things she saw. Shoving a woman's uterus back inside over and over again because she had been raped so many times. Holding a man's brains in place. I sat in complete awe as other people tried to finish their dinner- disgusted. Why do I have the desire to go there and do these things? To stay here if it hurts so much?

It is through suffering, pain, and crisis, I find, that many of us feel this sort of connection. For the young girl- it was her "madness" giving her the release of feeling isolated and alone.

Group 7 volunteers, we are at that point. They make charts of our emotions. Staff holds up a diagram, "Now you guys should be right about HERE." A star at the peak of "crisis mode" and the peak of volunteers leaving and going home. Right on the money.

We ARE on this sinking ship surrounded by those that don't see. But we're together in this. We've all had our moments. One day you will wake up knowing. Today I'm going to freak out. Things are all coming to a head. Another volunteer you've known for over a year- is going home. The water is about to boil and you wait for one person to taunt you. To harass you. To give you just one reason to flip the fuck out. And then it happens. And you come crashing down on them. You scream you roll your fists. "THIS PLACE WOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE OUTSIDE WORLD!! NO WONDER THIS PLACE IS GOING INTO THE SHITTER!" You're on fire and all you want is the comfort and assurance- you aren't the crazy one. A volunteer notices, walks over She holds your hand, and tells you, you aren't alone.

"You know you volunteers all you do is bitch about the harassment and the misery." Another "Host Country National" (god I hate this term.. but it's better than "native") says to me. And I see their point. I'd get so tired of hearing the same complaints. I'm hearing them all over again with the new group. But for me, this is connection. I may not desire the pain- but sometimes it's the easiest way to that sense of community. To ubuntu.

When I go to visit a young girl, I got out of an abusive homestead now living in a loving home, and I see her playing with friends- smiling for the first time, I know, it has all been worth it.

Most of us can understand the desire for connection. Whether it's in Chili with the miners, my mother, sign in hand, alongside Colbert and John Stewart, the young girl screaming madness and seeking someone's attention, or a handful of Americans wanting to help- longing to belong to something they believe in. Sometimes it's worth the pain and the suffering to hold someone's hand.

*We will miss you Sus and Kramer! Can't wait to see you on the other side... again.

Prologue

2010-11-11T02:23:00.000-08:00

11/11/2010

There is a certain rhythm to speech that doesn't quite sit comfortably onto the page. The written word can often suck out the grace and the sincerity that the spoken word has to offer. I can only hope, for now, my text will suffice.

This is my attempt at an apology. I write not only as an apologist but also a devotee. Devoted to sharing my open mind. Forever learning. Forever growing. As a peace corps volunteer I have a duty- no an ethical responsibility- to paint a certain picture of my experiences here. It's only once I've left am I able to point out the failings of specific NGO's, organizations, most importantly Peace Corps- and suggest possible alternatives.

There is a tendency for beucracy to think, while employed, that criticism should be contained and censorship applauded. I find this to be incredibly challenging.

I wish to reflect on what I see while I am around those that may disagree or take offense. Hoping for a conversation, a debate, or even an argument. I have always been fully aware that individuals, agencies, even my own- may be rubbed the wrong way and even seek retribution.

But it seems to me- a true loyalist is one who is honest with those whom they are loyal to. So how do I speak candour with heart? Honesty without judgement? Observation without analysis? In this, I've failed.

I run risk in writing about the what, the who, and the why. Some of the things i'm writing people will disagree with. The NGO's, the the people, Peace Corps- hell even fellow volunteers- will read my writing and say, "You've said what I've been trying to say this whole time." Or sometimes they roll their eyes and think, "She just doesn't get it. I haven't experienced anything like that."

And then there are those you thought would never read your words. The individual- taking offense. With good reason. Talking about NGOs/Politics is one thing. But the individual. I've thought a lot about what I write about the individual and because I value the people I've been privledged to meet, I am seeing the value in censorship.

Which brings me to the beginning. An apology. There are certain facts and details- entire posts I have gone back and ommitted. Ethically- I owe it to the people I write about and who have trusted and confided in me.

I'm still a child in this world and I will continue to try my best and stay humble to that.

As my Proud African once said, "Vula Emehlo Simphiwe."

Onkhe emalanga ngizama kuvula emehlo ami.

"Small Numbers. Big Gain. I Hate This Title."

2010-10-08T04:33:00.000-07:00

"Small Numbers. Big Gain. I Hate This Title."

Since I’ve returned from home, the States, I’ve found it incredibly hard to start “work” again. What’s the point, I think. Organize books in a library nobody cares about. Teach health lessons with a teacher who won’t translate for me. Another youth club who only wants Jacki Chan movies and candy. Peace Corps has given you resource after resource of how to teach LIFE SKILLS, Games and dramas about HIV, movies about teen pregnancy, drinking, and cheating. But scream “Jacki Chan!” “Chuck Norris!”.

What’s the point. I’m doing all this alone anyway. Workshops, clubs, libraries: all ways we’re trying to address HIV education but only skimming the surface with the same boring message everyone’s heard a thousand times. You write the appropriate grants, mini vasts, so you can have a workshop. But you can’t have a workshop without food because nobody will come unless there’s food. You think they care about your message? They come for the food. You hold off until the end of your lectures to feed them. Hoping they’re listening, dangling the meal at the end of the workshop like a carrot in front of a donkey. Listen to me and you’ll get your meat! Or maybe you get them 1500 books from the US and find them in boxes unused, unwanted, unloved.

This isn’t working.

But today I’m meeting Thuli. Thuli, my 17 year old neighbor, student, and now friend. The young girl I’ve written about many times. Parents dead. Living in her aunti’s home alone, with no food. Came to me not wanting to sleep with her boyfriend anymore for food and security, so I went to SWAGAA for help. They gave her a year’s worth of food. Thuli, the girl who ended up getting pregnant and kicked out of school. I plead with the head teacher to ATLEAST let her come back and write her exams so she can pass form 3 and not have to take it all over again. “It sets a bad example for the other girls Simphiwe. I cannot allow it.” The head teacher growls, his gaze on my breasts.

But today she needs help with something else.

“Simphiwe. I cannot live with my aunti anymore. I can’t go back there.”
She tells me her aunti has allowed another young girl to live with Thuli, alone in her home. The young girl is Thuli’s age and is “abusing her”.
“What do you mean ‘abusing’ you?” I ask.

“She steals my things. She sells my clothes. She stole my cell phone. When I complain she beats me with a wooden spoon. She took my key and locked me out. She even sleeps with men for money and she brings them to our house.” Thuli begins to cry. “I can’t go back there Simphiwe. You have to help me.”
Thuli holds her pregnant belly. 5 months pregnant. Alone. “Where will you go if you don’t stay at your aunti’s?” I ask.

“I can go back to my parent’s home. In Stiki.”
“Is there anyone on that homestead?” I ask.
“No. There is no one there. But maybe there is an open window I can crawl through.”
“Thuli. You have no phone. No food. What happens when you go into labor? What happens if you need something?”

She begins to cry even harder.

“You’re sleeping with me tonight. What’s your aunti’s number?” I ask.
I call her aunt to ask what the fuck is going on. Thank god her English is good enough to hear me over the phone.

“What do you mean Thuli is a liar?!” I yell in response. The aunt begins to laugh.
“That girl is a pain. I’m tired of dealing with her. She never cleans the house. You don’t know her like I do. I don’t want her anymore.” She tells me.
“Where do you suggest she goes?” I ask.
“I don’t care.”
“You’re family. You’re all she has. How can you do that to your sister’s daughter!?” I yell.
She continues to laugh and my airtime is slowly dwindling.
“You can meet me tomorrow in town so we can sit and talk about your niece’s future or you’ll be hearing from Child Protection Services. THE POLICE.”
The laughter quickly fades and she agrees to meet me tomorrow, 8 in the morning at a restaurant.

Just as I predicted. It’s now nine in the morning and I’m sitting alone. By then, I’m gone. I bring Thuli to SWAGAA (Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse) to tell the case workers, who I’ve become very close with, her story. When we arrive one of the social workers, Dazi, takes Thuli by the hand and they go inside the counseling room.
Having just ran through town, swimming in the insufferable heat, dirt is now sweating its way down my cheeks and off my legs. I can’t catch my breath. I scratch away the sweat behind my neck, leaving dirty grime underneath my fingernails. I can’t decide which is more urgent, finding a piece of paper to use as a fan or pick out this disgusting dirt from my nails.

Before I can decide, one of the case workers walks over and says to me, with a smile, “Follow me.” I walk with him into one of the back rooms where I find two young white ladies, roughly my age, sitting in front of computers. One is wearing a beautiful bright pink scarf around her neck, and the other colorful dangly earrings and a shimmery bangle. I look down at my cut off jeans smeared in, God what is that? How long has that been there? The case worker nudges me in front of them like a little kid showing off a two dollar bill he just found. He smiles big and says, “Here you go.” And walks away. The two women stare waiting for me to say something intelligent. As if I had some important message for them. “Ah. Hi. I’m Meredith. And I’m white. Which is why I’m guessing I’ve just been presented to you.” They laugh and introduce themselves. They’re from a Canadian organization that, like Peace Corps, finds young adults who want to volunteer in other countries. However, they are actually specialized in a certain area. Their field: legal aid. They are here to help SWAGAA protect children in court.

“Oh you’re the girl they’ve told us about. The one with all the cases down South. Suppose you’ve seen a lot. What’s it like out there.” They huddle like girl scouts around a camp fire waiting to hear another ghost story. Still trying to catch my breath and thinking about the dirt underneath my fingernails, I begin with, “Well EXHALE where do I begin EXHALE” Suddenly I’m spraying out a year’s worth of frustration. Case after case. Headache after headache. Nonjaboliso. Thuli. Nomfundo. Bhule. Snakes in my hut. Mean Gogo. Changing sites. Harrassment. Abusive head teachers. Lazy teachers. Older men younger girls. Why. Why. Why. What am I doing here. It’s all fucked.

I stop. I catch my breath. “I’ve been here over a year. Sorry.” They chuckle. “We’ve only been here 4 months and we’re screaming the same things too. Well sort of. We live in the city.”

It’s been a few hours and I realize I need to get going. I knock on the door to tell ThuiI I have a few errands to run and I’ll be back. I open the door and look to my right, Thuli is crying. I look to my left and see Dazi who is also crying. “I had no idea.” Dazi tells me in between sniffles. “She can stay with my mother in town until we find her a home.”

A few days go by and I pop into SWAGAA to see how my Thuli is doing. “Simphiwe my friend! You have to come visit her!” Dazi shouts. She drives me to her parent’s homestead and leads me inside. Techno music is blaring and a young girl moves her hips to the beat while sweeping. She looks up and sees us. She drops the broom and begins to beam. “This is my niece, Zandi.” Dazi introduces me. Zandi runs over to shake my hand, her gaze and smile staying strictly on my face alone. “I am so happy to finally meet you!”

I see Thuli. She stands in the kitchen doorway, smiling.

“Thuli. Simphiwe is here to see you.”
“Hi Simphiwe.” Thuli beams back.
I take a seat and the two girls, Zandi and Thuli chatter away. Young Swazi girls NEVER chatter in the presence of adults. They lean into each other as they tell their stories. A baby is crying from the back bedroom. “That’s my little boy.” Zandi laughs. “Zandi’s twenty. She had her baby while doing form three. Just like Thuli. She’ll go back to school, don’t worry. This is good for Thuli. They can talk.” Dazi assures me.

Behind me, I hear the shuffle of old tired feet. Gogo stands in the door way, hunched over and smiling from ear to ear. “Mama!” Dazi shouts. Gogo extends her arms out. They hug and grab and shake and hug and kiss and shake some more. She wobbles over to me and I stand to shake her hand. She pushes my hand aside and wraps her little hands around my waist. Her head smudged between my breasts. “I love you!” She shouts. Her crooked fingers wrap around my big cheeks as she stares into my eyes. “Thank you.” She says. “Thank you.” She returns to her daughter and jabbers away in Siswati. I’m hearing the words wash, white people, love. Dazi translates, “She’s telling me she used to work for white people. She washed their dishes. She loves white people.” Not really knowing what to say, I settle for an, “Ohhh. I, ah, I see.” Gogo laughs. In English she says to me, “I love to work with water! I love to do dishes. That’s how I got this.” She slaps her hunch back. “Well Gogo.” I laugh. “One of these days you’re going to have to let a white girl do YOUR dishes for YOU because this white girl loves to do dishes.” Gogo laughs and begins to burrow in my breasts again. “Ngiyabonga! Ngiyabonga!” Thank you! Thank you! She shouts. I say goodbye to Thuli and tell her I’ll be back in a week to check on her.

I’m realizing now this is the kind of work I am here to do. As a volunteer, we’re told about the workshops other volunteers have put on. We’re encouraged to try health clubs and build libraries. Reach those BIG groups. Reach those BIG numbers for your trimester reports we send back to Washington. The reports that ask us, “How many people attended your workshop/event. How many people actually learned something about HIV or healthy living? Every three months we sit there in front of the computer plugging in numbers that mean absolutely NOTHING to us, and EVERYTHING to the people an ocean away. When it shouldn’t. As a volunteer, who has been here over a year, you see where these approaches fail. We spend all our time organizing events and clubs, writing vasts for them, setting the date, making sure people come, getting the food and the money all in order. It’s the day of the workshop and the beans that take 22 hours to cook haven’t been prepared, another NGO decides not to show up because they don’t have an extra vehicle and refuse to use public transport. There’s a shortage of food and the adult Swazis who are helping you put on this event are having second helpings of everything while the starving orphans sit in a corner being told there’s no food left. And you’re being told to take pictures of these orphans to send photos of them back home asking for money. “Try and get a picture of one shaking.” They tell us. And the entire time you’re trying to remember that one yoga class you took over a year ago because your best friend made you- where the instructor taught you how to properly breathe when in a panic. Was it in through the mouth out through the nose? Or in through the nose and out through the mouth? What was all that, envision my breath moving in a circle talk?

“What?!” Someone taps you on the shoulder.
“Um. These people want their food.”
“Well do they have their ticket that proves they sat through all the lectures?”
“Yes. But we ran out of plates to put the food on.”

In through the nose out through the mouth. Tiny circles. PANIC ATTACK!

Look, I’m sure SOME workshops work, but every single one I’ve done or been to has been a huge slap in the face for the person who puts it on.
Just the other day, a new volunteer comes to me and says, “We need to put on a workshop. Write a mini vast for me so we can get the money for it.” I ask, “Why do we need money for this workshop?” She’s impatient. “Just write it for me please. We need money for food. For notebooks and markers.” I explain I don’t do food for workshops. This information is benefitting them and if they can’t see that then it’s a waste of my time and yours. I have extra notebooks and markers we can use and there is no need to jump through the hoops Peace Corps Washington has set up for us to get the money for a few biscuits, juice, and notebooks. WE can do this alone. But straight out of training, I understand why she’s shouting MINIVASTS and WORKSHOPS!

Another new volunteer complains, “Oh she’s one of THOSE volunteers. Only here for the fellowship. Trying hard to get into John Hopkins. Here for the resume if you ask me. She NEVER leaves her hut.” God. The words I once said a year ago and now I wish I could go back a year ago and smack one year ago Meredith. It doesn’t matter WHY we’re here. If you’re here for the numbers, the resume, the experience, or for some “I just had to get away. Bad break up.” It doesn’t matter. We’re here and we can’t possibly estimate and calculate the numbers of those we’re affecting. And our goal should never be able to fit in a tiny box asking for a huge number.

For over a year I have stressed myself out trying to motivate big groups of people. This mzungu is walking in circles again.

My PCV friend hears my complaints… again…. and hands me our latest Peace Corps newspaper. “Read this.” Two RPCVs (Peace Corps volunteers who’ve served and gone back home- and who I absolutely adored/adore and don’t use facebook so I can’t get a hold of them!) wrote a small article for our newsletter. And this is what I read, “When we arrived in our community and began searching for ways to address the HIV/AIDS education, we noticed that many of the events we attended seemed to be scratching the same surface over and over again to promote healthy living. There was not much change occurring due to the information that was being taught. We decided we wanted to dig deeper in our interactions with community members. This meant stepping away from large meetings and towards individual relationships. We spent most our time helping on homesteads, farming, talking, learning Siswati and just hanging out with our community members. However, this led to low numbers on our trimester reports and occasionally feeling like we were not completing the task that we were asked to do. Our service was spotted with moments where we saw our work pay off in a good conversation about HIV or someone coming to us for help with a problem.”

And there it was. My very EXACT thought I had this month. My realization in someone else’s words. And I found this article at the EXACT moment I needed to find it. I came here for the work. To help people. And this past month I thought I wasn’t doing enough, and even worse, there was nothing I could do. I had serious thoughts of going back home. But this realization has made me see that it’s ok not to do my “work” in a large scale kind of way. I know this is what Peace Corps values. They subtly praise the volunteers that take out large vasts and put on huge events. They bring the ambassador or any VIP to “those” volunteer’s sites, t he ones doing this kind of work, to show them what PCVs are doing “out there”. They look at their trimester reports and their numbers and think, wow, now THAT’S a volunteer. And by no means am I belittling THAT work. I think it’s amazing volunteers can have the organizational skills and the patience to put on such things.

Every volunteer suffers from work insecurity. We sit around and talk about our work and every one of us, no matter how much work we’ve done in our community, cringes a bit when we hear one say, “(certain NGO) and I are putting on this huge meeting with all the caregivers in our area and we’re going to sit down and figure things out.” Or “I’m starting a huge soccer tournament with all these NGO’s and there’s going to be massive testing.” We all think, “Man… I need to do something like that too.” But I’m realizing, that was never me. Our first three months in Peace Corps, integration, we’re supposed to get to know people and open ourselves up to them. After that, go out there and spend PEPFAR money like crazy! That isn’t me, I’m stuck in integration. I’m ready to let go of this guilt and just focus on myself and someone who needs my help. As my African Queen once said , “Just show them who you are, and the rest will follow”

Inside Dazi’s car I tell her, “I have never seen Thuli smile like that. I’ve never seen her happy.”
“I know!” She shouts back. “After one day of being with Mamma and Zandi she is a chatterbox like the rest of us.”
“You did this Dazi.” I tell her. “You showed her love. I don’t think Thuli has ever seen love.”
“No Simphiwe. “ Dazi looks back at me and smiles. “WE showed her love.”
I grab Dazi’s hand and say, “We showed her Ubuntu.”

How many people benefited from your event/workshop?I know I have. I know Thuli has. But what about her unborn baby? I once asked Thuli if she will go back to school. She told me she would. She said she wanted to move to South Africa and get her education there. “And what about your baby?” I ask. “I will leave her with someone here.” To us this sounds selfish and unmotherly. But in this culture, it is what they do. Babies are handed over like sweaters. Thuli certainly wasn’t raised by her parents and maybe either were her parents. But because of mine and Dazi’s interference, we are showing her the importance of love and a mother’s love. Dazi has asked Thuli to stay and live with her parent’s. They want to help her raise this baby. So how many people have I benefited? Hopefully, Thuli will show this baby what love is and this baby will grow up and show her baby what love is, and maybe, just maybe…..a cycle has been broken.

"Hut Sweet Hut"

2010-10-08T02:46:00.000-07:00

"Hut Sweet Hut"

9/11/2010

Raw bone, yes. An elbow in my neck, a tit in my face, a knee up my ass. The Swazi public transport soundtrack plays on and I’m pretty sure there’s a chicken somewhere between my feet. “STEASH!” I scream. (Stop!)The bus driver ignores. “I said STEASH!” The bus continues on pass my bus stop. “STOP!” I yell. With the little room they have, people’s heads adjust to stare at the screaming white girl, and laugh. “STOP THE BUS NOW!” I’m carrying with me three heavy bags and there’s no way I can carry it all back if this bus does not FUCKING stop NOW. It starts to slow down and I’ve had it. Being a foreigner, I’m naturally squeezed in the very back of the bus. I wait for body parts to shift so I can squeeze mine through. Nobody moves. Dead silence and wide open eyes..gawking. Why won’t anyone move for me? I open the window I’m smashed up against and throw my bags out. Then, despite the rather long way down, I throw myself out the window while it’s still in motion. Gasps of “Umlungu!” follow. I brush myself off, and search for my wallet. Damn. I don’t have exact change and I know this driver is PISSED. I open the driver’s side window as he continues to stare, mouth open, in amazement. I throw a ten at him. “KEEP THE CHANGE!” This umlungu screams. People are shouting at me in Siswati and I don’t care. I turn to walk away. Anger rises inside me. I turn back at my audience, “Oh and by the way….. ITS MY BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!” I jump in the air and shout. A sort of pout.
It’s always a hard way home. But being my birthday, MY day, made it even harder not to have it go MY way.
Twenty seven years old and today I jump out of a moving vehicle. I drag my bags and my sorry ass back to my homestead from hell, not looking forward to the dozen demanding children and gogo’s horrific disapproving glances. The only thing I have now are my two pups waiting for me at the end of this road. I stop and exhale. Here we go.

The dry dirt of the African savannah surrounds me and I’m missing my green oasis of the north. The sun is setting against the dust and on this particular evening it causes a wedge of violet sky to shine through. How much I wish to peel back that corner of violet sky and have my family appear. To be with me on this day. I round the corner to my two smiling dogs, jumping and kicking in the air. Gogo is away at a funeral with her eldest children. The grandchildren sit lazily on the front stoop and ignore my arrival. The eldest, Nobandile, walks over to me.
“I didn’t think you’d be home today.”
“Why?” I ask her.
“Oh. No reason.” She smiles.
I turn the keys and enter my hut. Dirty. Dusty. Lizard poo all over the ground. Hut sweet Hut. I sit on the edge of my bed in a stare. Flashbacks of the past week. An oasis. An interruption. A beautiful interruption. Banish these thoughts. Now. How do I delete it? It’s always easier to just ignore. I look down at my phone. 5 missed calls. Thuli, a local girl I’ve been trying to help, has been phoning me all weekend. I just wanted a weekend to shut this whole place out. But now the guilt rises. I’ve missed the first week of school. My dogs are hungry and scratching at the door. The starving animals on my homestead are calling. I rouse myself out of my daze to feed the deranged cow outside. The chickens scowl. The goats huddle. The phone rings, another student needs helps.

IM COMING. IM COMING.

I lie in bed and stare at the cobwebs hanging from my thatch roof. In 4 hours this birthday will be over. I am officially UPPER, no LATE… twenties. I realize, of course, my mother was this age when she had me. My mother was able to fall in love, get married, be married, then have a baby ALL before 27. Did I do the right thing? Coming here? At 26? Am I at that point in my life where I need to worry about these sort s of things? Babies. Clocks ticking. Mothers nagging. It’d be nice if my future kid could actually know MY grandparents.

Peace Corps. A sea of EARLY 20 something year olds, fresh out of college or over 50 year olds done with babies and awaiting grandchildren. And me, somewhere awkwardly in the middle of it all.

8:40 PM. 3 hours and 20 minutes until this birthday is over. Come on, I think….lets just get it over with so I can officially say TODAY was a shit birthday. Nothing special. Just a shit birthday. 27.

There’s a light knock on my door. I open it and find Ndimiso, the 12 year old boy, standing there in the dark. “Please can you come to the house?” He asks. “Nobandile needs you.”
I’m shocked. I’m never been invited INSIDE the house. Ndimiso takes my hand and I am led inside THE HOUSE. As I walk in I see a table set with 7 glasses of juice. The children sit around the table, smiling up at me. The radio is playing the same seven techno songs it always plays and Nobandile stands in the middle of the room holding a sign. In big colorful block letters it shouts, “HAPPY 27th BIRTHDAY SIMPHIWE. WE LOVE YOU. WE MISS YOU.” And all of the children have signed it. I had told Nobandile weeks maybe even a few months ago about my birthday and I told her my age almost a year ago. No reminders since then.

And she remembered.

She remembered.

She walks over and hands me a poem she had written.
“I wrote this poem for you. I need a title for it. Can you help me?”
I stand there in a daze. Almost shaking.

The poem read,
“Life is a journey
If you achieve in something
You are doing means and opening a new chapter
Turning another year is taking a step in your life
Your life is precious and others lives are precious
Some people are more precious and are who they are
Because of YOU
Some people have smiles on their faces just because you are HERE
You cannot see who you are benefitting now
But know you have people’s love and trust.”

Nobandile. The girl whose first words to me, just a year ago, were “We’ll see if you last the two years.” Her arms cross every time she speaks to me. Her eyes roll every time I greet her in public. Her written words, her letters, her art, always reach out to me though. Swazi on the outside, changing in the inside.
My chin begins to quiver and I don’t know if I can hold it in.

“I’m going to go put this in my hut. I’ll be RIGHT back.” I tell them.
9pm. I sit on the edge of my bed and cry. Maybe I can’t give her a title of this poem but I can tell her how much it meant to me. I know that she doesn’t like to show emotion with words, so I write her a letter back. And I know, through our letters, this is how we will love each other for the next year I am here.
I splash some water on my face and dry my eyes. Deep breaths. I go back inside THE HOUSE. And for the rest of my birthday we dance to the same seven techno songs and play Twister until 10:30 at night.
11pm. I sit on my stoop, outside my hut in a daze. The cool night air wraps its fingers around me. I look up and watch individual stars puncture the midnight blue canvas above my head.
It’s almost midnight now. And I can officially say today was not the worst birthday I ever had.
Today was the day my hut became my home.