My Ishmael

9.17.09

I make my way to the carp shop. Today *Mctosa, my proud African, will show me how to build a book shelf. I am excited. I am nervous. I bring speakers and Ray Charles on the i pod to ease any tension between two very stubborn, extroverted individuals. *Mctosa and I. Teacher and student. When I arrive, no *Mctosa and four men working hard on a bookshelf. "Uphi *Mctosa?"I ask. They don't know where he is- but that's my bookshelf they are building. "Ugh." I call him. When he arrives he asks me to walk with him.

"Simphiwe, I was trying to keep this from you. I'm sorry but my Uncle, who owns the carp shop, has fired me. I injured my arm in soccer and unable to work now. He mistakes my injury for laziness. So.... no job anymore." While we walk, I hassle him to be my Siswatie teacher- as I have been for the past four days. "No Simphiwe. I cannot." "*Mctosa. I need someone who speaks English very well. Out of school. No job. And challenges me. You. You. You. You." "No. No. No. No." He responds.

Our walk ends at my place where I continue to pick this Proud African's brain. Like reading a good book, he speaks mostly in proverbs and idioms. He speaks seven languages and is on the "wrong side of 29". 30 years old. While we're sitting, suddenly *Mctosa shoots up and points. In his booming Proud African voice he asks, "What...is... this..?" I laugh, it's a bookshelf *Mctosa." Like most Swazis, when shocked, he mutters, "How?" "But I thought you wanted me to make you one?" He asks. "I did. I only asked you to teach me how to make a shelf because I was curious about you. I don't REALLY need a bookshelf." I respond. Look of total confusion on his face. He sits, leans back in the chair, arms crossed above his head, "If Mohammad won't go to the mountains, the mountains won't come to Mohammad. You have my attention." He says and smiles. He's starring at the piece of paper behind my head. He stands, walks over to it and reads. "IMPORTANT PEOPLE" underneath these words- a list of Swazi names. Number 2. *Mctosa Dlamini- Proud African/Carpenter. Next to it I have written in Siswati how to say I want you to show me how to build a bookshelf and Open your eyes Simphiwe, you're in Swaziland. In Siswati. He laughs. He looks through my collection of books. He picks up "1984". "George Orwell." He says. "His novel, Animal Farm, changed my life." I'm intrigued he knows this book. Any book. I live in a world full of people who have no appreciation for literature and Ray Charles. It's Akon and pornography here. I pull out my favorite book. "The Constant Gardner" and hand it to him. "I think you will like this story. It's my favorite." I let him borrow it.

*Mctosa sits and thinks a bit, left lip curling up. His thinking face- a snarl. Words can't describe *Mctosa expressions. In his usual way of speaking- always emphasizing each word epically. He says to me, "So....now.. we....are... friends?" "Yebo." I reply. "Asembe." He says. Lets go.

As we're walking- everywhere we go people shout, "Mctosa!". Mctosa! Mctosa! Mctosa! His cell phone ringing constantly. He is the local soccer star. I've seen him play- fancy footwork like the Brazilians. He's good. I have found my "top dog" in this social hierarchy- hoping to gain some respect. We walk past my favorite tree. This side of Africa, colors are faded. Dry, worn out greens, browns, and the red red soil. All the color wasted underneath your feet. But every once in a while, you come accross this singing tree. Large and booming. Branches extended in every direction carrying petals of purple. This tree, unlike the others, is not tired of Swaziland just yet. She's full of life and motivation. Determined to bring color to this worn out given up world. An inspiration to me- I hope to be like this tree for the people.

"What do you call this tree *Mctosa?" "A jacuranda." He rolls his R's.

We turn right. "My home." He says. Right next to the booming jacuranda. A stop sign hangs on a large gate and a picture of a bull dog, "Beware of Dogs." I like this place. Like most Swazis, his hut is neat and clean. On a table are piles and piles of dusty old newspapers and a few novels. On another table more stacks of newspapers and magazines. "Why do you keep all these papers?" I ask. "When I run out of books to read, I just pick up a paper and read it again. I like the English language. It's fun to play around with the words. Your vocabulary is deep. The words sound so nice." All Swazi papers are written in English. Siswati is mostly a spoken language with a very limited vocabulary. Ironic, I learn that there is no Siswati word for "love". You can "tsandza" (like) a carrot like you tsandzsa the love of your life. Like and love are the same. I explain this to *Mctosa.

"That's why I never tell a woman how much I love her in Siswati. Only English or Porteguese." He says. "And if she doesn't speak English?" I ask. "Then Goodbye." He smiles. *Mctosa tells me about his girlfriend- 8 months pregnant. A mistake he says. We talk about our first meeting. I remind him of all the offensive things he said to me. He laughs. "You know. Before I met you. People were coming up to me saying, 'Mctosa! Mctosa! There's a white girl living here!' And I thought, a white woman..here? In Nkiliji? I'm going to investigate this girl- figure her out. Challenge her. I thought you might just be some little white girl." "And now?" I ask. In Mctosa booming pausing at every word voice he says, " SO...FIRST. I judge you. SECOND. I try to challenge you. THIRD. I insult you. AND NOW? And now you ask?" He pauses. I interrupt. "We are friends." Mocking his booming pausing words I say, "AND...SOON..." He interjects. "Yes" I continue. "Will"..."Yes"..."Be"...."Yes"..."My"...."Yes"...."Teacher."...."NO." He responds looking down at the ground, shaking his head no, eyes closed. I tell him they almost put me in West Africa, but last minute they decided Swaziland was where I would go. "SO. God said, 'No! Proud African and Simphiwe must be together to learn from each other!'" He shouts.

"So you believe in God?" I ask. "Im agnostic." he says. I laugh. I've never NEVER heard a Swazi say this word. An agnostic Swazi talking with an agnostic American. "And your king?" I ask. "What about my stupid King?" He asks. "A man who hires people like you to come to his world and preach condoms, abstinence, one wife. With his 13/14 wives and about a thousand children. Do you think his majesty uses a condom?" He asks me. "So *Mctosa, be a role model. Swaziland has no role models. Swazi youth has no one to look up to except Akon and gangsters of America. You could help." I tell him. "You're telling me to be a role model?" He asks, curling his lip up in disapproval. "Good deeds? Washing people's feet. Helping the needy. A black Jesus?" "Something like that." I respond. "NO." He says with a twist of his head, elongating the O. " Simphiwe, you cannot force a horse to water who does not want to drink. Swazis don't want my help. A wise man changes his mind- only a fool stays the same. Swaziland is full of fools. Remember that Simphiwe. You can't change anyone." "OK. I take it back. You aren't the black Jeus I hoped you would be." I say. He laughs, "OK. I'm a white Jesus." He says smiling big. "But you, a white woman from America. The most developed country in the world. OH AMERICA! A country with Beyonce Akon and Obama. Preachin' change change change. YOU. They will listen to."

It's getting late. I leave "The Constant Gardner" with *Mctosa and return home. Along the way, I run into Alexander- my once distant secret admirer, but now a constant shadow and constant pain in my ass. Always following me always calling me. Yesterday he saw me hug my sisi, Bongiwe's friend. He told me I was not allowed to hug or look at other men. I laughed. I had to explain the word "possessive" to him. I have told him repeadtly that I am a teacher, he a student. We are only friends. I tell him everyday to stay when he tries to follow me to the store.

And now, I hear he is telling his friends I am his girlfriend. Unfortunatly, I live in a society where boys and girls only interact when they are dating. Each day when they see Alex and I "interact" (he interacting with me) "proposing love" to me- watching eyes are thinking we are together. This is horrible for my reputation. Which is everything and incredibly important to maintain. He has seen me interacting with Proud African and has let me know how unhappy this makes him.

When I return home. Bongiwe and my bhutis tell me to, "Stay away from *Mctosa." There are rumors that an ex girlfriend of his is now taking ARV's. That *Mctosa used to sleep around, make bad decisions, always fighting, wreckless and careless. Everyone is sure he is now HIV positive. Bongiwe places her hands on my shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and says, "Simphiwe. I love you and I am begging you- stay away from *Mctosa. If people think you are with him- they will think you are a stupid silly girl. Promise me you will not be with him?" I tell her he is my friend and I will do everything I can to make sure people do not see us together.

At night, I lie in bed thinking of a billion things as I do every night. I am angry. I've finally found a true friend. A Swazi who's never asked me for anything. My hand in marriage, my love, money, emasweetie (candy). I have found My Ishmael. He helping me to analyze my culture, as I help him to analyze his. Two outsiders.

My Proud African has a name. *Mctosa. And of course, in Siswati means- Strength.

"What Can We Do Together?"

9.12.09

Word to the wise: If you decide to spend an entire day at your local watering tap in order to observe and introduce yourself to your community. May I suggest FIRST checking to see if there is actually water that day.

What a waste of a day.

The next day... I am to meet at the inkudla. There are 12 inkudlas in the central Manzini region. An inkudla is a meeting place for the area's chiefdoms/villages. My inkudla consists of the most chiefdoms: 13. Mine is Nkiliji. Each village has a bucopho. He is the communicator, the messanger. They report the communitie's problems to the invunda once a week at the inkudla. Yes, the invunda at the inkudla. The invuda of each inkudla takes these problems to the Ministry of Parliament which then goes onto his Royal Highness. And this is how a bill is passed. Or something like that.

I am at the inkudla to meet with the bagcugcutele (RHM's Rural Health Motivators). While I am waiting (which encompasses about 2/3 of my Swazi Life) enduring questions such as, "What will you do for us?!" Bognani (my bucopho) asks me to come meet with the invunda some of the RHM's the social workers the bucophos in the entire inkudla region (thats about 100 people in a tiny room). NERCHA is here to show a video. A documentary on a miner's life.

We sit and watch as the miner finds out he is postive. How he handles it. How he tells his two wives and children. It was quite emotional. When the film is over, the audience begins an amazing discussion. I sit and listen to the arguments in Siswati- understanding only verbs. Bucopho tries to translate as much as possible. They are discussing whether worms are really in condoms. What is a woman to do when she questions her husband's status? She cannot simply demand he uses a condom. He paid a dowry for her- she is his and therefore she has no right to ask. The women are blaming the men- the men are blaming the women. I am smiling. This is great. Swazis have an issue with communicating, especially with the opposite sex. They are discussing/debating how to put a condom on. I am debating whether or not to break out the condoms I carry with me and my how to manual on condom usage. A gogo stands up and demonstrates with a condom they found amongst themselves. Im amazed at how accurate she is doing this.

Then invunda and NERCHA ask my opinion. My heart is racing. I swallow hard and stand. I choose my words carefully to be culturally sensitive and make it easier on my translator. I am nervous. There are a few in this audience who have openly doubted me. I begin my speech that I actually have been preparing in my mind for the past two hours as they debate worms in condoms.

"Swaziland has the world scratching its head. Why is HIV so high in Swaziland? Why is the life expectancy at 32 here? What is going on Swazis ask me." I am ready to catch my pounding heart which is now in my throat- ready to jump out onto the table. Ever since I was little I have had a problem discussing sex, religion, and culture with others. I get so excited so passionate about it that my body physically reacts. I try to calm my passionate heart. Then in the audience I see him. My khombie angel. Moses. Smiling back at me. That's all I needed. I continue on with ease.

"For almost three months I have been living amongst you. I have spoken with doctors, scientists, teachers, swazi youth, swazi old, natural healers and nurses. All explaing/questioning HIV Swaziland. HIV is a sexually transmitted disease. It is mainly passed around in Africa through sexual intercourse. So, we look at the sexuality of Swaziland. The sexuality here is very unbalanced. This leads to a reliance on the other sex. Women need money to take care of themselves. Men need a woman to take care of them. Unfortunatly sex is often power. You've got the young women and the 3 C's. Cash, cell phones, and clothes/cars. It's transactional sex. You've got the elders- the bobabe going off to work in jo berg, the mines, bringing home money and often the virus from sex workers lingering around these mines. The young and the old are relying too much on the opposite sex. Both the young men and the old men are having concurrent relationships. Im not excluding the women either. This disease spreads amongst these clusters of sexual relationships. The bomake and bobabe are getting infected in their 20's, having children then are dying, leaving their children with the gogo's and mkhulus.

So America sees this dispersion of population. The working class is dying and the economy is unable to rebuild itself. So the bobabe get drunk- give up. The youth see this- get drunk- give up. Condoms aren't used, bad decisions are made- AIDS wins. America sees this. So they put someone like me with no money no agricultural experience. Just my motivation, my energy, here to empower the youth, recharge them. I am extremely excited to see all of you here today discussing this. As an outsider, Swazis are surprisingly very comfortable telling me their stories their concerns. But they don't talk to each other- with other Swazis. I am very happy we're talking today. We, as adults, need to be youth's role models. We need to do this together. So instead of asking me, "What are you going to do for us?" Instead ask, "What are we going to do together?"

I sit. Invunda with his nub for a hand rubs his chin. Crazy man with one eye stares hard at me with it. "Siyabonga sisi." They applaud. Im amazed that all of that just came out of me.

Outside the bomake bagcugcutele sit under a tree. UNAID is here to pass out a handful of tablets, condoms, gloves, and a tiny tiny stipend for the bagcugcutele. It's never enough here in Swaziland. I pass around pen and paper asking the bomake to write their names and villages down. I need to memorize. Today they are being lectured on people living with disabilities and their rights as individuals. I'm intrigued. I am thinking of gigi. UNAIDS asks me to staple some forms together for the bagcugcutele.

Today I stapled papers together- Brillant.

In the evening, babe and make leave for the night asking me to "take care of the home and Gigi sisi." While sitting in the living room with my bobhuti reading the ridiculous Swazi Times, Bongiwe bursts in with one of her "friends". Her 35 year old agriculture teacher- drunk. He shakes my hand and has a seat.
"Did you drive here?" I ask.
"Yeah- my BMW."
"Awesome." Unfortunatly Swazis don't pick up no sarcasm that well.
Bongiwe has told me how much she "boozes" with her teachers on the weekends and they've all been dying to meet me. He and I discuss why I'm here and HIV. He asks me if AIDS is a death sentence. He wants specifics on how long one can live with it. I can always tell who's worried about their status when they ask me these questions. I hear the fear in their voice. He stares at the ground. He stares at Bongiwe's ass in her tight tight jeans. I stare hard back at him waiting for him to notice me noticing him. He notices me noticing him.
"So what do you plan on doing with the youth here Simphiwe?" He asks.
"Challenge them."
"You think you can do that huh?"
"Yes. I can even challenge you." I glare at the beer in his hand.
"Maybe." He says. "Maybe."

Next day World Vision is coming to the inkudla to hand out free clothing to needy families and those living with disabilities. I have described Gigi and Sipho to the bucopho many times. Asking where I can purchase her a walker. Bognani (bucopho) asks me to bring them to this meeting. We agree it is good for the public to see them as well as World Vision.
I make sure Gigi is dressed her best. The family never takes her out- embarassed. They don't even allow her to sit near the path by our home- afraid others will see her.

Babe drives me, Gigi, and Bongiwe to the Inkudla. Bongiwe and I hop out the back of the truck to stop at the shop for some food. We'll meet babe and Gigi there. When Bongiwe and I arrive at the Inkudla, sweating from the hot hot sun, in front of us about 500 people and babe's truck. Inside the truck is Gigi with the windows rolled up. Babe talking to some friends under the shade of a tree. I run over to pull gigi out of the hot car. Bongiwe runs to stop me. She's afraid to show them Gigi. I ignore her. I pull Gigi out, she leans hard on me, drooling. I place my arm around her, right hand in her right armpit. 500 pairs of eyes now on the mhlungu (me) carrying Swazi disabled. Sipho shuffling close behind Gigi and I. We are quite the pair. Silence amongst 500 people (strange) I whisper to Gigi, " Suku ma mudze Gigi. Khombisa yena umhule." Stand up tall Gigi. Show them your beauty. She cowers inside my arms as we walk on. The more laughter I hear, the higher I raise my chin. We make our way to the line (a walk that seemed to take hours but really only minutes)- to recieve our clothing. My family remains under a shady tree. I introduce Gigi to the bucophos and explain the benefits of a walker for her. Still no answers on where to purchase one.

We return home. While I am cooking the usual- potatoe, rice, veggie stew- listening to Paul Simon by candlelight and sipping on my glass of red wine (my little romance alone)- I hear Gigi's whimpering outside. I run out to find her tangled in the barbed wire leading to the pit latrine outside. My cell rings. It is the bucopho. He wants to speak to my make. I hand the phone to my make inside and run back out. Gigi is now crawling on the ground crying. she's shit herself a bit. I carry her to the toilet, sit her down, shut the door for her privacy. I sit on the ground, lean up against the door. I hear her explosive shit. God she must have tried so hard to keep that in. I cannot hold back anymore. I weep into my arms as she shits. Swazi male youth shouts my name as they walk past up a hill looking down on me. It's important the boys don't see me cry- ever. I suck it in and wave back. Gigis finished. I'm finished.

I walk her back to her sitting spot inside. Babe and Make resting on their comfy couches, chewing on the bones of an animal.

It's culture. Moses would say. It's culture.

"It is only through disruptions and confusion that we grow. Jarred out of ourselves by the collision of someone else's private world with our own." Joyce Coates.

I am trying to see all this- their way.

FUCK

9.9.09 9:oo PM

Umgcugcuteli: Rural Health Motivator (bomake who go to homesteads to care for the sick). Probably one of the hardest Siswati words I've come across so far. Two clicks and about a thousand constanents. I am preparing for the umgcugcuteli meeting tomorrow. NGO- World Vision- is coming to hand out clothes to the OVC's in the area. It is a chance for me to meet the umgcugcuteli and OVC's. Tonight I practice out loud as I look in my mirror trying on different scarfs. My two little shadows dancing around my hut in the candlelight to "Beirut" playing from my speakers. Andisaw and Alikey laugh as I struggle with this word. I'm still uncertain if they understand I don't speak or understand much Siswati. Andiswa, three years old, keeps repeating "umgcugcuteli" perfectly to me as I spin her around dressed in my hat, scarfs, and jewelry. What I her in my head sounds identical to what they are saying, but to them I sound ridiculous. It's all about the kind of click and the rhythm and flow of the word. Anytime you are speaking of another you put a u in front of the verb and tense. Uyahamba. You are going. She/he is going. You emphasize the U much more and drop your voice. UUUUUUUUyahamba. Siswati is low and slow. Simphiwe is loud and fast.

The next morning I hear the put put of Babe Shongwe's little red jetta. I have asked him to accompany me to this meeting- as my translator. "No sisi. I spoke with the buchopo and we do not think you should go to this meeting- there will be people there outside of Nkiliji that will ask for your help and you cannot give it to them." I explain to Babe that I am not restricted to Nkiligi. Doesn't matter. He has decided today he is taking me to the umphagatsi. Where the inner council and chief meet. I go to change into a long skirt as Mkhulu and Shongwe converse. When I return to the car, drunken old harrassing fool is outside- opened button up shirt flapping in the wind. His hand resting on his hip, his pregnant booze belly bursting out. He interrupts the conversation when he spots me- I throw my guard up. "Asambe!" (lets go) I say to Shongwe. I get in the front seat of his car- Shongwe in the drivers seat. Drunken man jumps in the back seat proposing to me and grabbing the back of my shoulder. Shongwe looks surprised. "You see what I have to deal with..DAILY." I say to Babe as I throw off drunken old man's hand. "This will not do Sisi." Shongwe gets out of the car and opens up the back door. Drunken man shouts to laughing Mkhulu, "You are going to have to open a butchery with all the cows I am going to give you for her!" In Siswati of course. As Shongwe is literally pulling this man out of his car Andiswa approaches the car- I roll down my window. Amongst the low grumblings of Shongwe trying to pull out drunken man from the backseat, I hear Andiswa say, "umgcugcutile."

Shongwe climbs back behind the wheel- and we are off. I explain my daily endurance of proposals and drunken harrasments. "Sisi I am going to make you a stick- one of our wacking sticks. And you will raise it up high and say, 'Don't FUCK with me!'." "Babe Shongwe! That is not a good word to be saying." "Yes sisi, but it gets the point across. You need to start telling me if people are fucking with you. I'll fuck them so hard." I laugh. He still needs practice on how to properly throw down the f bomb.

When we arrive to the umphagatsi, Babe slaps me on the arm. "Sisi, that hair is FUCKING with you!" "All right Babe, tone it down...Are you going to comment on my acne again too?" Pointing to my ever constant pimple on the right side of my chin. "Yes sisi, that peanut butter is fucking with you!" Shongwe and I have gotten into many arguments over the cause of my acne. And by acne I mean one zit that every Swazi likes to point out. "OK Babe. For the next two weeks I will NOT eat my peanut butter and we will see who is right." "I don't believe you sisi. You must bring me the bottle- you love peanut butter TOO MUCH."

Shongwe leaves me with the bomake while discussing community disputes among the bobabe. The women are weaving together a straw roof of a traditional Swazi hut. Bamake knowing very little English stare at me in silence once we have gone through the series of greetings and introductions. Now what? As I'm standing there watching Shongwe discuss a world I know nothing about while the bomake try try scratch off the freckles on my arms, pulling me into the shade fearing I will turn black like them, I am thinking, "What the fuck am I doing here?" I need to be with the OVC's, the RHM's, the NGO's, all the acrnoyms of Swaziworld. NOT here at the umphagatsi as Shongwe's little white trophy. Watching him giggle as the others joke that I am his second wife. The overwhelmingness begins to take hold as I am approached once again with the, "We need water, we need jobs!" I KNOW I KNOW.

I'm not angry that they're askng me for these things- they're right. As one man put it best. "Water is life." How can I motivate a village that has no money, no water, no sanitation, to lead a healthy life and take care of each other. To care about their children's future. They are lacking an essential foundation. The overwhlemingness takes hold. What the fuck am I doing here? I know nothing about business or agriculture. "You can give a man a fish or you can teach him how to fish." I don't know how to fish- people!

Some days you're full of energy and ideas and other days all you want to do is despair and turn into a rondeval hobbit. Your white PCV chariot has left you in rural Swaziland with a few guide books and a few weeks of training. You now have this enormous task of tackling HIV/AIDS in your community. People are asking you about watering holes as they are struggling to scratch off the freckles on your arms.

"OUCH! That's a freckle! Please stop. Mani. Mani." I've had it with these gogo's. I've had it with Shongwe. As I'm about to tell Babe i'm walking home he asks me to come sit with the inner council of men. In Siswati they discuss who they are going to get as my counterpart. They want a boy just out of school- fluent in English. Then they actually ask me what I want. I clear my throat, " I need to conduct a census. There are around 400 homesteads in Nkiliji and I want to atleast hit half of these homes. I need them to fill out some questionnaries. I want them to be able to ask me any questions they might have about me. It's important the people know and trust me. I need to give out questionnaries to the primary and secondary students as well. Once I know where their general knowledge on HIV/AIDS lies- I can then work on school curriculums for the next school year. I want to start in the classroom with the youth then work my way out of the classroom with youth groups. I want to start a peer group for HIV positive people at the Nazereth clinic in Bekankhosi. I need someone along my side equally as motivated as I."

Silence.

"Good Sisi." Shongwe whispers. He translates for the rest. As he talks for me, I look around at the old weathered African men seated by my side. Rubbing their foreheads, adjusting their balls as they sit and think in silence. Bomake outside- always hard at work- making Swazi homes. And me, androgynous as usual, somewhere in between the long skirts and ball scratching.

It is decided Saturday we will choose my counterpart. I can finally get started and the overwhelmingness may subside for a bit.

Shongwe and I get into the little red jetta and put put back home. I'm feeling much better now. I turn and say to him, "That hat is FUCKING with you Babe." We laugh. When he drops me off, I run into my hut and bring back my bottle of "Yum Yum" peanut butter.

"No more fucking peanut butter sisi."
"No more fucking peanut butter babe."

"I Am Building"

9.05.08

Each night I close my eyes and wonder- what will I wake up to tomorrow?

A noise, a pitch- that always gets my attention- makes my skin crawl. A dog crying. I tear off my covers- run outside. Menzi inside the bed of a truck, rope in hand. At the end, a dog's hind legs tied together. He is raising her in the air. She's screaming- eyes now blood shot, shitting everywhere, she's biting hard at the rust metal of this old truck. Menzie is pulling her higher and higher while her body scrapes up against the jagged parts sticking out. He's going to brake a leg or cut her open. I yell, "Menzie! Wentani?!" What are you doing! He explains but I don't understand. He keeps pulling her- she's going into shock now. I move forward to grab the rope from him. "Simphiwe! NO! She'll bite!" "Yeah I wonder why!" I respond. I think he wants her in the truck with him. I go to lift her in. "Simphiwe NO! I am in here so she does not bite me!" We argue back and forth. I realize he is just simply trying to get a chain around her neck. I explain I can handle her. "Simphiwe, NO!" He turns to grab something- struggling to hold onto her while she bleeds from the cuts. She's on the ground now, Menzie distracted, I gently walk forward. I place my elbows behind her head, I press firmly on the back of her neck. I move my arms down- I hover over her like the pack leader dominating a dog in its pack. "Simphiwe, NO!" Menize notices. She tries to fight back. I hold her steady. I wait for it. I tell Menzie to stand still- she is reacting to his movement now. I wait for it. Finally, she submits. Still holding her down I extend my shit covered hand now to Menzie, "Now hand me the chain." I tie it hard around her neck. I hand over the dog to him. He explains she has been eating chickens and Mkhulu would be happy if she was chained up. "Next time, just come to me- I can handle it." I leave to wipe the shit off me.

I'm thinking- eggs for breakfast.

Getting dressed, I hear a light knock on my door- which surprises me. Swazis don't usually knock- they say, "clunk clunk"- never actually touching the door. Sobinele is back. She enters with a Bible in hand. Inside she pulls out a pink slip. On it, is written in all capitals, "NEGATIVE" and her daughters name, "Andiswa". No explanation needed. I point to the paper and say, "Now that's a beautiful thing." Tears in my eyes. We embrace. I wish I could say the same for her.

It's a Saturday- a day of funerals, soccer games, and drunkness. Pay day is Friday so Saturday you buy and drink booze. Bongiwe and I walk to a big soccer tournament. My bodyguards/brothers are fetching firewood in the mountains today- so I am curious how things will go.

Just yesterday- waiting two hours for a khombie at the carpentry shop/hang out grounds for lazy male youth. I endured two hours of stares, marry mes, whats your cell number, do you like sex, attempts at taking my picture, close talkers. When a khombie finally arrives- it was empty- a sigh of relief on my end. I've waited two hours for this- not sure if I could wait any longer. But then I see in the back, crazy drunk old man who I run into at every corner (the one who said, "I didnt mean for that to be my stomach") I seriously just laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. I get in. He grabs my shoulder. I grab his hand and throw it off. Can't catch a break.

So I'm curious how it will go today- drunk soccer funeral day- at the soccer game with only my sisi. Bongiwe and I have a seat on the grass. The game is an intense one. There's a large audience- but for once- all eyes are not on me. I am happy. In the distance, a drunk Swazi man stumbles. He's headed our way. I prepare myself. His eyes widen when he sees me. He stumble runs over shouting "MHLUNGU!" He grabs my arms. "MHLUNGU MHLUNGU!" I dont like my vulnerable seating. Me on the grass, he hovering over me. His hands go from grabbing my arms to grabbing my breast. I shoot up, throw my arms in the air pushing him to the ground. I shout, "Suka! Suka!" A rude way of saying...go away. He's on the ground, with a look of terror on his face. People just sit and stare. Soccer ball comes towards me, pass the goal. I boot it to the goal keeper. Now everyone looks astonished. I sit back down.. knees up, place my elbows on my knees and lean up again an old truck- piece of grass in mouth. I am Swazi Youth.

Another man walks over and apologizes on drunken man's behalf. I smell the booze on his breath. He leans in and whispers, "I want to tell you- I love you. I want you to be mine." I lean in and whisper back, "Why are we whispering?" He laughs. He follows me for the rest of the game. I ask Bongiwe if we can go home early. When I return, I explain the days events to my brothers. They tell me not to go without them again. "We will shaya anyone who messes with our sisi. And so will Mkulu."

I understand now how protected I am within my homestead. I never understood why- but I started to notice every time a Swazi man would insist on walking me home down the long dirt path to my house. They would always stop at the same exact point along the path and say, "OK Simphiwe let's talk here." My brothers laugh. "Because Simphiwe, that is the point right before the point when MKhulu can see the dirt path from home. They fear Mkhulu, and they fear us."

I think about the social hierarchy in most situations. I need to find the top dogs in my community outside of my own homestead- and befriend them. I must learn how to divert how to bend and transform men's harrasment into fun banter between two friends. I'm a shiny new toy right now- but with time, friendships, and boundaries the harrasment should subside. Statistically speaking a PCV is much much safer in their community than anywhere else in Africa. Within your community you are known, you are apart of it.

That night playing cards with my bhutis in my hut- teaching them games of skill instead of luck, how to shuffle, how undefeated I am at the game SPEED, they say to me, "Simphiwe there is no need to worry. The boys here are scared of you. People are saying, 'Simphiwe must know karate.'" I laugh. Another bhuti adds, " Yes- the way you sit and move- so flexible and your walk- so foreceful and strong. You're confident and your leg muscles are good and strong." I explain it's dance not karate, but to keep that rumor going. "You aren't scared of anything Simphiwe?" "Happy in my own ignorance." I reply.

That night I go outside to collect larger rocks. I pull out my jump rope, and mat. Bongiwe asks me what the rocks are for. "They are my new weights." I respond. She says, "Simphiwe- you are building a gym."

As I'm doing my now rouine push ups and pull ups I think, I am building a defense: my body and my connections.

"Open Your Eyes Simphiwe"

9.03.08

It's 6 in the morning, unlike most days where I am awaken by children playing or roosters crowing- there is a banging at my door and I hear Bongiwe's voice calling me. Christ- let me sleep.

Face mask glued to the pores on my face, tank top with no bra, boxers with holes- I look a fright. I open my door. Bongiwe with Babe and 2 strange men. "Kusile." I sleeply say. "Good Morning." "Simphiwe, you had told me you wanted to have a bookshelf made. Here is your carpenter." Babe says as he places his hand on a strange man's shoulder. I look closer. Sure enough, it's Proud African. "Oh no, not HIM!" I accidentally burst out. Man looks down. "It's my proud african, here to build poor white girl a bookshelf huh?" I say. Babe looking extremely confused now- negotiates a fair price with Proud African. We say goodbye, and that' that.

But not really. Sure I would love to learn some carpentry- someday. But really the chance to annoy/learn from this Proud African- priceless. I decide I will tell him I 'll pay him to teach me how to make a bookshelf. He once accused me of being unable to remember African names. I look on my hut wall. There I have posted a list of "Important People" with names, pronunciations, and how I know them. For example, *Mctosa- Proud African. I embed the name into my mind, I memorize how to say, "I want you to show me how to make a bookshelf." "Ngifuna ungi khombsi kwakha ebookshelf." Siswati likes to borrow English words and just throw an e in front of them. Or they have a really long and ridiculous way of saying something. Like the word blue. In Siswati is luhlata sagabagabaga. Which literally translates to "The Green Sky". Makes no sense to me. So you spend an entire week trying to memorize this absurd word for the word blue- it pisses you off. Then your Siswati teacher tells you, "Or you could just say eBlue- no one really says it the Siswati way." You invision strangling your teacher- or maybe just I do.

I'm off topic. Topic is- must prove Proud African wrong. I memorize my lines and walk to the carpentry shop, which unfortunatly is also the hang out place for all of the young men in the area. Bongiwe and Chief insist on following. I dont know if I can handle checking in with babe and make and having bodyguards for the next two years. I don't do well with supervision.

*Mctosa is there leaning against a building equally as worn out as him. He's doing what most do here midday on a weekday- leaning and chewing on a piece of grass. Swaziland is unemployed.

With an audience I begin.
"Sawubona *Mctosa. Unjani?"
He responds with a greeting. I continue on.
"Ngifuna ungi khombie kwakha eBookshelf."
He half smiles.
"Who told you my name?!" He forcefully asks.
"You did. I remembered."
"No no no! Someone told you!"
"Sorry Proud African- you were wrong."
"So you want to learn how to make a bookshelf eh?"
The others laugh. *Mctosa and I discuss a day and time.

Before I turn to go, he caves in and asks about me. He's curious now.
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Do you have children?"
"Yes. They're back home in America. Infants- all alone for the next two years. They should be ok right?" I've forgotten in Swazi world it's common for mothers to leave children with parents/aunts while they go find work.
"What kind of music do you like?" He asks.
"All kinds- but not what the kids around here listen to. I do NOT like Akon, Beyonce, 50 cent, etc." Young Swazis laugh in the back.
"Ah! I'm not like these fools. I like GOOD music. Bee Gees, The Temptations, Ray Charles."
"Al Greene?" I ask.
"Yes."
He hands me a pen. I take it with my right hand, place the left hand on my elbow.
"You are supposed to bend at the knees when you grab something from me." You Americans are rude- loud- abrupt. You're disrespectful."
He continues on, "Do you have sex?"
I reply, "Now see- THAT is disrespectful and rude to ask."
"I can tell by your avoiding the question- you have. Did you like it?"
Anger in my voice now, "Look- I'll bend at the knees and grab with my right hand, I'll do the skirt thing, I'll love the king, I'll greet EVERY SINGLE PERSON that walks pass me, I'll kneel to the chief and sit with the bomake. But you need to meet me in the middle here. Don't ever ask me about my sexuality again. It's disrespectful and rude. Is this clear?"
He puts his hands in the air and shakes his head. "You're going to teach us about HIV and you can't talk about sex?"

Bongiwe went to buy sour milk. I'm stuck standing alone with unemployed lazy young men and proud african. One boy tries to take my picture with his phone. I look down. Another sits below me, he looks up. "Are you here alone? The only one in the village?" I explain the Peace Corps.
"Im afraid you're stuck with me kid. Im the only one."
"Are you scared?" He asks.
"No. Should I be?"
He laughs. "Yes."
"Of you?" I ask.
He looks away.

Bongiwe returns with my cryptonite-sour milk. As we go to leave *Mctosa shouts Siswati at me. "Angiva!" I shout back. "I dont understand!" He walks close to me. He leans forward and softly says, "Vula emehlo Simphiwe- kuse eAfrica." Open your eyes Simphiwe. You're in Africa.

Walking home, Bongiwe and I run into drunk old man. This man I run into every corner I turn. Constantly asking me to be his second wife and to give him chocolate. He grabs my hand and rubs it on his stomach (which is always exposed- his button up collared shirt always undone blowing in the wind). He rubs my hand on his belly, I pull it away quickly. He leans in and says, "I didn't mean for that to be my stomach!" He laughs. "Beat it old man!" I yell. Bongiwe yells at him in Siswati, he grabs her arms tells her he's not talking to her. "Well Im talking to you. Dont talk to my sisi like that. Hamba! Go! Before I get Mkhulu." He stumbles off.

When we return home Make approaches me. (on a sidenote- if I say make, this is mother. Babe is father. I go back and forth calling my mother and father make and babe or Gogo and Mkhulu. They are parents to me and grandparents to others on the homestead. Just know mother is Gogo or Make and father is Mkhulu and babe.) Make hands me her cell phone. On the other end I hear, "Simphiwe! This is Gladis! I am your new make and babe's daughter. I am living here in Chicago with my husband and three children. My eldest is named Simphiwe." A Simphiwe in America I think. I explain how close they are living to my family- where I grew up. She asks, "Have you fetched water yet Simphiwe?!" We laugh. She explains her frustrations raising children in America. "They don't realize how good they have it here." She chokes up, "But I miss home." I choke up. "Nami Futsi." Me also. She tells me about her life here. How hard it must be for her to go from a small community to a large world. Feeling so alone. Her husband, from Ghana, gets on the phone. "We must speak to your parents. May we call them?" I give them their number and their names. "But she is not Mrs. Brooks I explain." "Oh divorce?" I laugh, "You know that word. You ARE in America." Gladis says, "Yes- Americans love it." She asks me, "Anything you want us to tell them for you Simphiwe?" I choke up. They're in my home, I in their's. "Tell them I love them. Tell them I miss them. Tell them I'm happy." "OK Simphiwe. We...." Phone cuts out.

I walk back to my hut. The stars above. The warm Harvest Moon- always smiling back at me. I smile, amazed. Always amazed- at the tinsy tinyness of our little world.

"God MUST Be Crazy"

9.1.08

Next morning- another busy day awaits. I find myself at the khombie stop again on my way to town. The Stillness has yet to come. No one can keep me still.

Before I know it I'm sorrounded by a dozen teen boys with a dozen questions. "I saw you in the paper- Peace Corps." I assume he doesn't mean me- we mhlungus all look the same. "I'm sure it wasn't me, you probably saw one of my friends." I say. "No no- it was you." The boys begin to ask me why HIV is so high in Swaziland. Im asked what is the HIV rate here. When I tell them they respond, "We're all going to heaven." One man lingers in the back though. He steps forward asking me questions in Siswati. I pick up on a few verbs here and there. I answer in Siswati what I can. The rest of the time I say "Angiva". I don't understand. He gets angry, in my face, saying his Siswati words very slowly and very forcefully- I am a child being talked down to. I step closer and forcefully reply, "Angiva. Ngikuluma kancane Siswati." (I speak a little Siswati). One boy says, "Ignore this man he's not educated." The boy asks me my name. "Simphiwe" (in Siswati translates to a 'gift from God') "Uneducated" angry man says to me, "God MUST be crazy." I ask him. "I thought you didn't speak English." In my face again, "I do, but I am a proud African!" I get closer. "And me a proud American. Ngiyazama kufundza Siswati. Ngcila ufunsisa Siswati." (I am trying to learn Siswati can you please teach me.) He laughs. He backs down. I tell him he is skeptical. "Scapegoat?" He asks. "No. You are skeptical of me. Unsure. You have little faith in me. It's all right. I understand your hesitance." When I ask him his name he refuses to tell me. "You won't remember my Siswati name." He says. With some persuassion he evenually tells me.

I return home. This week our family includes three new family members. This is a family that grows and shrinks daily. The mother is Sibonile. She is my age, married to my mother and father's son who is working in South Africa. She is visiting here with her two children- Andiswa and Alikey- both around three and four. She's weary of me- I assume she cannot speak English so I keep the conversations at the greeting level. But today I notice something. Andiswa, her three year old daughter, lifts her shirt to wipe the snot from her face. Across her stomach, chest, and back- a large rash. Prime spot for shingles- I look at her mother- herpes sore on her lip. Shit.

I ask Make and Babe to meet me in the living room with Sibonile so they can translate for me. I tell them I think Andiswa has shingles. The mother, in Siswati, is surprised. She thought it was a reaction from a plant, and the clinic put her on antibiotics. I explain she needs to be on antivirals. It's a virus and highly contagious. "She needs to be wearing long sleeves and pants. Bandage the blisters to prevent her from itching." But this is not the bigger issue here. Turns out Sibonile speaks English. I ask her if she's been tested. She looks at her husband's parents, she looks down at the ground, covers her mouth. She whispers, "Yes- it was negative." Make and Babe pleased with her lies. I ask their permission, "May Sibonile and I speak alone in my hut? I want to talk to her more about shingles."

When we enter my hut she explains she was scared to talk to me. I ask her to sit, I kneel below her on the ground. Silence for a minute. She begins to wheep into her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. "I have this heavy heart. This secret I am carrying Simphiwe." I hold her arms I pull her in I ask, "Was it positive Sibonile?" Her tears flow onto my shoulder now. She inhales deep in my arms. "When my husband told me his status, he begged me not to tell anyone. So I got tested. We are both positive. He's too ashamed. He does not want his parents to know. Me, I don't mind. But I must respect his wishes- I have no one to tell." I ask about her children. "They tested negative twice." I explain antibodies, that a child for the first few years is sometimes unable to produce these antibodies that the rapid test looks for. She must test them again. I'm worried that Andiswa has AIDS now- shingles a sign HIV has turned to AIDS. I hold Sibonile, I tell her she needs to find someone to talk to. I tell her I will look into the local clinics here and see if they have any support groups for HIV positive people. I tell her I'm here, we exchange numbers. I give her my bandages to cover the sores on her daughter's body. She's leaving today with her children. I urge her to call me after she gets Andiswa's results. We embrace once more.

Bongiwe is shouting my name now. She wants to take me to the Reed Dance. I know when I return Sibonile and her children will be gone. I encourage her to call me later this week. Bongiwe bursts in, she grabs my bag and shouts, "Simphiwe lets go!" She wraps her lihiya (skirt fabric) around her jeans. Once we become out of Gogo's sight she takes off the lihiya and shoves it into my bag. A routine she and Simone have got down.

In the khombie all I can think of is this secret I now carry. This woman's pain. My Make and Babe's child- 25 and living with AIDS- and they don't even know it. I look out the window. A mural on a cement wall shows painted silouettes of animals talking. They are saying, "God Save The Humans." Disease is changing this society. The middle aged are dying off, not surviving, leaving their children with their parents. What will happen to Sibonile's children when she and her husband die? She hasn't spoken to him in months- he might already be dead. The working population is dying off and this society is unable to rebuild itself. I'm angry.

"In Africa, HIV has a face of a woman. 65% of those infected are women." Nelson Mandeela.

Why did he bring home this disease to Sibonile? He ruined their family. I'm angry.

The Reed Dance, full of naked women paying tribute to their king as he sits fat on his throne. Full of white wandering traveling hippies with their long beards gypsy pants, opposite sex hand holding, smoking cigerettes- no appreciation for this culture. I just want to punch them in their fucking face. I'm angry.

Still angry- on the khombie ride home, behind me I hear a soft voice, a man says to the back of my head. "It's you." He points to the front page of the paper. They were right. There I was, front and center, right hand raised, reciting the Peace Corps oath at swear in. "It is you they have sent us. You are really here." The man, dressed in traditional Swazi gear, tells me his Swazi name. "But my Christian name is Moses." He continues. "Moses was a great man. He empowered/encouraged many people. So many believed in him, but he failed in the end. Despite his failure though, he did a great many things. So many followed and learned from him." Why is he telling me this Im thinking. "Americans are so diligent- you hate failure, always working so hard. You were given to us to help with our crisis. You will learn our language and our culture. It will be a great challenge. But you must remember- failure is ok. I believe in you and so will many others. I can see it in your face, you will do great many things. I think some day driving along this road I will see your homestead- and you with your family. I can see it now." I ask him what he does here in Nkilji. "I am a social worker. I know the people and I believe we will meet again- soon." The khombie stops, he gets up to leave. I say, "Ngiyabonga Moses." Three women by his side laugh. (It drives me crazy when they laugh at me for speaking Siswati). He see's my frustration. "It's culture Simphiwe. They aren't laughing at you. They are happy you are here and trying. It's culture- remember that."

Half expecting him to just dissolve into thin air like an angel sent from God- I watch him get off the khombie and walk the long dirt road home. It's strange. Everytime I am frustrated with Africa, a moment or a person inspires me- pushes me forward. They are writing this story for me.

That night I lie in my bed- thinking of her and the many others like her out there. 25 years old with just a degree in Sociology. Counseling and giving medical advice to the sick, the desperate, the lonely. How am I going to do this?

God MUST be crazy.

"This African Life"

8.27.09

Our big day arrives- Swearing in, Season 6 volunteers, diplomats, ministries, NERCHA, Country Director, Assistant Country Director, teachers, training manager, have all come to swear us in as Peace Corps Volunteers. The Swazi Times and newscasters are here to make it public- Swaziland meet Peace Corps Group Seven. Before being seated a pregnant cat weaves her way around the seats- in my traditional Swazi wear- the Lehia (sp?), I chase after her. Simon walks over to me as I'm playing with her belly feeling little bodies inside. "Simphiwe, you've found a cat. This means you will cry today." "Simon you crazy." I respond. Music begins- we're all seated. We sing our national anthem as well as Swaziland's. Peace Corps Season Seven delivers a speech of thanks to Swaziland in English and Siswati. Ministries and country director all have speeches prepared for us. I watch pregnant cat rub her back against dangling crossed legs. American Embassy Diplomat- Sarah stands to deliver her speech. Sarah- the former Peace Corps Volunteer who had me tear up at our last event- the welcoming ceremony for trainees on July 4th- with her friend from Mali's speech. Inspiring heart warming speech explaining how differently we'll see the world when our service is over. Sarah you're killin me with these speeches. Next up- director of NERCHA (National Emergency Response Council on HIV/AIDS) gets up to deliver his speech. I've been watching him throughout the ceremony- seated with the other VIP's. His hand on his brow, long exhales as he sits back on his chair arms occasionally crossed against his chest. I'm sure he has some where better to be. But now it is time for his uplifting "go get em PCV"s" speech. His mannerisms prepare me for what he's about to say.

"You've entered an abnormal depresssing world. You're going to get angry, mad- ask me...Why isn't the government doing anything?! So when you feel absolutly depressed and frustrated- come to my office and i'll give you something to really be depressed about."

Silence follows. I'm desperatly trying hard to keep from laughing. This gloomy speech was exactly what I needed and wanted it to be. Do we applaud this? AWKWARD.

Country Director stands to lead us in our official swearing in- our oath to Service, to the Peace Corps.

"I, Meredith Brooks, do solemnly swear that i will defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies, forgein, and domestic and that I will bear true faith and allegiance to do the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge my duties in the Peace Corps. So help me God."

Against all enemies? Is this the army or Peace Corps- this ain't War Corps. Im confused.

I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer! "Congratulations, you are now a Peace Corps Volunteer." I'm beaming, tears in my eyes. I'm finally here- this moment is finally here. Dammit Simon was right. For a brief moment I think- how sad, Peace Corps giving us a certificate for "toughing" out these past nine weeks. Living a life, doing what Swazis have been doing they're whole life. But being handed that Peace Corps certificate- meant more to me than any degree ever could.

Ceremony over- Peace Corps divides us into our regions: HHoho, Manzini, Schezelwani, Lombombo. Our belongings and those volunteers in our region are crammed into vans. All of us embrace each other- we aren't each other's routine anymore. Only allowed to leave site once a month for the next three months, it'll be a while before we see ecah other again. Group 6 is remembering when they had to say goodbye to each other a year ago- tears of empathy in their eyes. I hug my boys. "Be safe Meredith, take care of yourself." As I'm squeezing myself into my Manzini Region van, I hear a group 6 PCV shout to us all, "It's time to go home guys- go home now."

My home- a stranger- waits for me.

Peace Corps drives as I watch out the window, passing rolling hills, mountains, and valleys. A woman carrying her belongings on her head, a boy with a cow boy hat on- dust from the road blowing past him, a girl dressed in bright colors clings to an equally colorful tree in an open field mountains behind her. You see all these pictures that you've seen in National Geographics before. I've always wondered what the photographer in Africa must have been feeling when he captured these moments of light. How forgein this world to him. But when you stop to put the camera down- when you accpet you cannot possibly capture every beautiful moment- because this is life here. The moments become less surreal and this is just home. I wish I could explain to these people here that their life is art to those of us back home.

We pull into my homestead, unload my things. Make is polishing my hut floor (Swazis will polish anything and everything). Her breasts hanging out her apron- I'm grateful she's so short or else our strong.. strong embrace would force me deciding- do I go left, do i go right, or head right in between? "Ngiyajubula sisi!" I am so happy! "Nami futsi make" Me also mother.

So the moment that has been described over and over and over and over again by Peace Corps- is HERE. Luggage at my side, I embrace my fellow PCV and PC driver. I watch the dust roll up the back of the van as they pull away. I wait for the anticipated, the expected anxiety, the fear. But I get nothing. Dammit Peace Corps- you have robbed me of this moment. I wanted to feel- something.

In my hut, I sat alone, books, manuals, the how to everythings sorrounding me now. Where do I start- where do I begin?

I catch a khombie to my nearest shopping town- Manzini. It's about a half an hour khombie ride. My hatred for this ridiculous transport is dying down- now it's just entertainment. Akon blarring out of crackling speakers, khombie packed so full everyone must suck in and turn their heads to the right (you think I'm joking). I'm pressed against a sliding door that flaps open. You imagine the most horrific dramatic graceful deaths as you're winding around a 'slow" moving vehicle ahead. You're going atleast 80 mph. The road turns, you're on the wrong side of the road- AGAIN. You let go of fear- you accept This African Life.

In town I rush to the internet- outside world explodes into my inbox. I've given up trying to keep up with American news. I'm relieved mom is online. "Facebook has chat?!" She exclaims. I explain my frustrations, my concerns. How am I going to be productive without a counterpart? Who's going to plug me into this society? Her words are encouraging. I'm in a hurry now. The sun is about to set and I've got to find my khombie statin. As if God was ease dropping on my conversation- a woman literally drops from the sky and accidentally runs into me when I make a turn out of the mall. "Oh ncesi!"(Sorry). We're walking side by side now. I'm amazed she's keeping pace with me. No Swazi ever has. I ask her if she knows where Satellite Khombie Station is. She says to follow her- she is haeded that way. She asks me where I am from. I tell her where I am from and what I am doing here. She explains she is doing similar work with Elsium Society. An organization that works with OVC's (orphaned vulnerable children) all over Swaziland. She tells me she is living in Nkiliji. I laugh. She tells me she trained in Ngonini. How can it be, doing the same work, living in the same place, from the same area, the same age even. We exchange numbers and have two scheduled interviews later this week.

I return home to find my bhutis hanging around the khombie stop. With them is Alexander- my secret admirer. He has written such works as:
"To: A special Lady
Although it is my first time to see you but I, want to elaborate that I, love you with all my heart and there is no one like you in my life you are so pretty to me, so please may you do for a favour accepting my love so please may you think for your future with me and the luxury life we will leaving with you. Please reply soon.
From: Alexander

His works also include but are not limited to:

To: Special Lady of my Heart
"So if you are not willing to give me yoru love why don't tell me. Today you are gong back but even if you make me an ass I will always love you, you are my desire, you are everything t me so I wish you a good journey and days. Please may you give me your cell number."

I greet my brothers and walk past. Alexander stops me. He asks if he may accompany me home. The walk- to say the least- was awkward. He understands and speaks English well, but I've never seen someone so nervous. "Why...gshhesh..I mean.. ahh.. Why do you... not..ah.. write me back?" I explain he cannot possibly love someone who he does not know. "Have you heard of love at first sight?" Simone notices us and runs over to me. She greets Alexander, "Hello Sibali." She laughs. I shout, No no no no! Sibali meaning brother in law. "Simphiwe Alexander's Siswati name is Bosisoe. It means blessing. Simphiwe is a gift. So- you two have something in common then." She can't stop laughing.

It's dark now. I realize I have no water. "We must go and fetch water then!" Simone shouts, slapping me on the back. I get my water barrel and the wheel barrow. Simone and I walk to the neighbor's tap- a 5 minute walk. (Swazi walk keep in mind). The 25 litre barrel full of water now, I struggle to lift it into the wheel barrow. A five minute walk lies ahead, with many bumps, rocks, and a ridiculously steep hill. I struggle to keep the wheel barrow from tipping, trying hard to balance it, water splashing everywhere as I hit rock after rock. I'm struggling. Simone laughing ahead of me, "You're Swazi now Simphiwe! Come on strong swazi woman! Alexander wants his water! He's hungry! You need water to cook for your husband!" I've stubbed my toe somewhere along the way and can feel the warmth of blood seeping out from underneath the toe nail. Im laughing at how ridiculous this all looks. I can't stop laughing. "Come on Simphiwe! Alexander is waiting. He's calling your name! Lets go Swazi Woman!" Pushing as hard as I can, I shout to her, "I thought there was no hurry in Swaziland?!"

Twenty minutes later I make it back to our homestead- only to realize my hut is at the bottom of an even narrower bumpier incline. I barely get the barrel out of the wheel barrow. Simone walks away laughing. "Simone! How do I get this to my hut!? Simone! SIMONE! Simone?" Her laughter growing fainter and fainter. I take a seat next to the now 3/4 full water jug. Laughing to myself. This is all so cliche...white girl fetching water for the first time- shouting for help. I try to push it down the hill. I stop to catch my breath. I take a seat and wipe the sweat off my brow. I look up and see Sipho standing in front of me- looking down. Sipho is my mother's cousin. Middle aged and mentally challenged. He takes care of the cattle and dogs. He loves the dogs. He shuffles around the homestead with a half smile on his face. He looks down at my water jug and points to the right of us. Smiling he picks up the barrel with ease and walks over to a much softer incline with no bumps and even steps. I follow. He sets it in front of my hut, stands still looking at me- smiling. "Ngiyabonga Sipho." He shuffles off.

It's 8 pm now. I'm dying of thirst. But I first must boil then filter my water before I can drink it. To thirsty to wait, I inhale extremely hot water and collapse onto my bed. I forget about the dirt, the sweat, the bloody toe. Within minutes I am fast asleep with no fan, no ear plugs, and about a dozen roosters screeching and seven dogs howling outside.

I am home.