"You Can't Take the Nkiliji out of Simphiwe"

10.05.09


Banned from Nkiliji until Peace Corps can escort me back home to get my things on Tuesday. Then,straight to Lukhetseni (Siphofaneni).

So, sipping lattes in Mbabane I must wait.

This is not good enough.

I need the chance to explain to my family- more importantly, Bongiwe, why I'm going. The past week I have been getting phone calls from them- underneath their school desks whispering, "Simphiwe..where are you? When are you coming home?" I need the chance to explain. Tuesday they'll be in school and I'll be unable to talk to them.

Peace Corps allows me to go on Sunday only if I allow them to take me. Despite how ridiculous I believe all this to be- I can't turn down a free ride. Peace Corps picks me up in Manzini.

Driving back, the familiar roads and faces. The cool green valleys, the white haired old man- eyes aged with blue-looming in the doorway of an old building. A washed out coca cola sign painted above. He never fails to wave as I pass. A creek filled with naked children and that scent of warm sweet grass. I can hardly keep still in my seat.

I'm greeted first by my pack- 7 smiling dogs. The black one, they call Baby and my constant shadow, wraps his legs around my thigh. I walk into the house, Baby walking on his hind legs while the front legs are still holding on tight. Make (Ma-gay) is polishing the hallway. She looks up and screams, "Swani! Swani!" (Baby child) I embrace her as she continues to yell, "Swani!" rubbing my breasts for a good minute. Sibonile's daughter runs up to me. Hands on her hips she says in her high pitched voice, "Umgcugcutele". Behind Make (Ma-gay) stands Bongiwe. She hesitates to approach me, turning away when I make eye contact. I pry myself from Make and Baby's grip. I walk over to my sisi, turn her around and hold her tight. Tears streaming down both our faces.

A month ago Bongiwe, Mctosa, and I watched a soccer game. For an hour we listened to Mctosa share all his expressions and idioms in English. Bongiwe's favorites were: "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." Which she would always mess up and ignorantly say "Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder." I'd laugh and tell her both work really. Her other favorite, "I miss you like the cool shade of a tree that has been cut down."

I pull away from Bongiwe's embrace. Hold her her head in my hands and say, "Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder." Which she replied with, "I'll miss you like the cool shade of a tree that's been cut down." "Where's Gigi?" I ask. She points to the kitchen. I walk over to Gigi's bench. As I go to shake her hand, she pulls me in hard. I had no idea she had such strength. She speaks in her low drawn out Siswati to me. Most Swazis don't even understand her speech. With her tight grip and smile I can understand what she's saying."I missed you too Gigi."

Before Peace Corps driver leaves he explains to Babe (Ba-bay) and Make (Ma-gay) what exactly is going on with my move. Once he's gone, Bongiwe (Boe-knee-whey)and I walk to the shop as we always do. Singing a Black Eye Peas song with our little dance stomp walk. I pass miss Jacuranda- dancing along. "Simphiwe you will be so sad. Manzini is jacuranda region. There are very few in Lubombo." Bongiwe tells me. I see Chief ahead. I know it's him by his swaggering walk and beanie leaning to the side- Swazi male youth. He's smiling big. He pulls me in for a hug. "Simphiwe. We will hide you. You cannot go!" He shouts. I tell him Peace Corps is putting a male volunteer in Nkiliji next year. Peace Corps Swaziland Season 8. "You always asked me Chief- to bring over my male friends from Peace Corps. Well, now you'll have one all the time." "No Simphiwe, we want you. What if next year you come back here and he goes to Siphofaneni?"

Ahead, I see Proud African with his closest friend, Dry Man.

"Why do you call him 'Dry Man' Mctosa?" I once asked him. "Because the way he moves. So dry...so stiff. A lazy lazy man. Even his girlfriend says he's lazy in bed." Mctosa laughs.

"UUUUUUUUUUUUUUnjan (sounds like, goo-johhhhhhhhhhn)....Dry Man?" I mock the way Swazi male youth greets.Swazi male hand shake follows, thumbs greet and glide pass each other. I make limited eye contact with Mctosa whom Bongiwe says I should not be hanging around with. Bongiwe, Chief, and I continue to walk pass when Bongiwe stops and turns. In Siswati shes says, "Mctosa! Come by tomorrow- we're reading Lion and the Jewel. We need help." She notices the bewilderment in my eyes. "Mctosa is tutoring my friends and I in our studies- exams are next week. He's really smart you know." "Simphiwe stay away from Mctosa." I believe those were the words you told me. "I didn't want you to be his girlfriend. He's been helping us out a lot." She defends.

Before I go, stressing to family I will be back Tuesday to get my things, I stop by Proud African's to say goodbye. His door is open, but he's not in. I walk in. I run my fingers over the piles of newspapers and books, dust collecting on my fingertips. Pages of notebooks open, his scribblings. New expressions and phrases he's pulled from books. Random sentences hes copied from novels. "I like to play with the words." He once told me of English.

I look up and see him standing in the doorway. Bright blades of sunlight thrust their way around him. Although backlit and unable to see his smile- I can hear it in his voice.
"Unnnnnnnnnnnnjan- Tessa?"
"I told you, you should be a teacher. Teaching Bongiwe and her friends now."
"Ah Nevermind." He replies, always with a flicker of his hand.

He reaches past me to put on a shirt. "The youth" he continues, "They read these novels. But to them- they're just reading words on a page. They aren't understanding the words. Give them Rihanna and Chris Brown- they'll understand they're words. But words in a book- are just words in a book."

I ask Proud African to look after Gigi's walker, Bongiwe's behavior, and the clinic's support group. "I'll be back Tuesday." As I go to leave Mctosa stares hard at me,
"You were safe Simphiwe."
"What?"
"Here. You were safe here."

I return to Mbabane, the backpackers, where other volunteers are here to celebrate a PCV's birthday. Most of the night I stand and stare. I don't connect with anyone. PCV's don't understand, "Where's the Meredith we know?" My heart is heavy, and there's this ever constant lump in my throat. I'm going through a break up with Nkiliji- heart broken. I decide, here and now, I can't just abandon this village. I will do what I can from Lukhetseni. I will help two villages- best I can.

Peace Corps drops you off with a community, the only white in sight. They leave you with a new family, a new name. They tell you, "Integrate. Integrate. Integrate." You become this new village, this new family, this new person. You are someone else. How do I shake off everything I've absorbed in the past three months?

PCV nudges me in my side and says, "I guess Mere. You can take the Simphiwe out of Nkiliji, but you can't take the Nkiliji out of Simphiwe."

"Guardian of the Sea"

10.01.09

(This entry only reflects my Peace Corps experience and my silly opinions. It is not an accurate representation of Peace Corps.)


The Final Straw.

PCMO, Day, is doing site visits. Visiting each volunteer’s homestead asking a serious of routine questions to insure Peace Corps we are adjusting well. And more importantly, to make sure our mosquito net is over our beds- the illusion of safety in a country that really has no malaria. We’ve been warned by group 6, “She’ll ask you about your sex life.”

I tell Day my ideas for my schools and clinic- school newspaper, expanding the support groups in clinics, a big brother big sister project. “I’m starting to see the bigger picture here. What they need. How I can make it happen. Everyday people are coming to me. A dialogue has begun. I’m excited.” I tell her how happy I am with my family. “They’re perfect- we really are a family.” I hesitate. “But…. Well…” I tell her about the harassment. The whole office already knows about crazy drunk naked man (as they refer to him- apparently even in Washington). I hesitate some more. I tell her about the latest incident- the teacher- the attempt at a tongue in mouth greeting. “OK. That’s NOT normal.” She says. Her smile fades. She makes note of it in her notepad. I swallow hard- maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I might have just risked leaving my family. Day shifts in her seat, smile back on- my buddy again.

“So you havin’ sex?” She grins.
I laugh. “Yeah- Swaziland rampant with AIDS and gender inequality- I’m constantly turned on here.”

Next day, I get a call from my favorite Swazi- Mfanafuthi, head of Safety and Security Swaziland Peace Corps (Seriously, I love this man). “Meredith, we’ve heard about your incident with the teacher.” I tell him the story. “But I’m OK.” I try and reassure him. “Yes. But I’m NOT ok.” He responds. Later, country director calls. “Meredith, I heard about your incident with the teacher.” I tell her the story. “But I’m OK.” She tells me to pack for what could be a week. I am to come to Mbabane and stay at a backpackers while Peace Corps “investigates” my site. “We don’t feel you are safe there. Especially with the weekend coming up. They will be drinking and these incidents have all occurred on the weekends.” She continues to tell me I must have done something. There must be a rumor going on about me. I must have done something to cause this harassment. I don’t like her tone or the sound of this. I pack for a week and prepare for the worst. Bongiwe hovers over me as I pack. “I’ll be back in one week- tops Bongiwe.” She’s giving me that doubting look she reserves only for when I tell her things like, “Don’t worry- I can handle it.” I hug her tight- knowing full well they’re probably taking me away, but keeping my concerns to myself.

I stop by Proud African’s home to say goodbye. I tell him I might be leaving for good. He says nothing. He hands my my copy of Constant Gardner.
“Did you hear me? They might be moving me to a different site, a different region, a different family.”
“What do you want me to say Simphiwe? What do you want me to do? Cry?”
“I wouldn’t expect that from Proud African.”
“I’m Swazi. A man. We don’t cry. But know, inside, I am hurting."
I turn to leave. He grabs my arm, pulls me in, and hugs me tight. Mid embrace I tell him, “Go see your baby boy as much as you can. And the walker I had made for Gigi- please deliver it to her ASAP. She’s fallen many times- her arm and head are swollen from injury. And don’t forget to go to the doctor on the 15th to find out your CD4 count and start the ARV’s.” I pull away and look into his eyes. “And Mctosa, you have to take them on time everyday. And they may make you sick at first.” I had him one of my books. Pointing to a page, “If you get any of these symptoms- go see your doctor. AND I’ll know if you are taking your tablets. If you’re doing it right, you’ll start to gain your weight back. Promise me. Promise you’ll.” He interrupts, “I promise Simphiwe.”

Before stepping onto the kombi to town, I look over at my favorite jacurranda. The wind brushing through her purple petals, she sways and waves goodbye.

I arrive at the backpackers. Electricity, toilets, microwave, shower, a pool, oh my god- a pool, tv and movies. Yesterday I spent thirty minutes fetching water and fourty minutes trying to pet a donkey. Now I am microwaving my dinner, clothes are washing themselves while I’m watching 300. In the next room, white Swazi born men drinking and smoking. Born into privledged familes in a shit country. Sporting Swazi flag tattoos- showing them off to traveling confused white girls. They've grown up in a country they know nothing about. I speak more Siswati than them. One evening I was invited to watch them play cricket. The most boring sport in the entire universe. I am surrounded by Swazi born whites. South African accents, fancy cars, and men in short shorts. How did I stumble across this bizarre subculture? This transition is becoming a total mind fuck.

I enter country director’s office. Together we are analyzing MY behavior. My knowledge, skills, and attitudes- Peace Corps’ theme of training. I am given a test with Papa Bear, training manager, Musa. Scenerios are thrown at me and I’m asked, “How would you handle this harassment?” I respond, “Well, is the harasser drunk? How old? Am I in an environment I can easily get out of? Or am I say in a kombi? Am I alone? Does the harasser have a weapon? Is he threatening me? Please be more specific with your scenerios, because my actions would change according to these specifications. How about I tell you what I would do in each scenario, or rather- what I have done in each scenario.” Training manager laughs.

Back in Country Director’s office- she tells me, “You need tougher skin.” I laugh. I’m remembering a recent incident in a small town- with two other PCV’s. In a restaurant, I’m expressing to them the on going harassment I’ve been enduring. During this discussion, two men approach me and ask me to be their wives. They continue to linger and persist. “I want to taeke you!” One PCV starts yelling, “WHY DON’T YOU GO SEXUALLY PLEASE YOUR OTHER WIVES! IM SURE YOU AREN’T.” I ignore. I ignore until I absolutely cannot no more. We finish eating and go outside. Outside, two different men circle around me. One is glassy eyed with drunk. This will require a different reaction from me. PCV starts yelling at him in English. I ignore and walk away. Man goes to touch me. Drunk and touching me gets this reaction: I push his hand away, raise my finger and point in his face yelling, “Fuseki! Hamba! Suka! Ahhhhhhh…wena. Ngitakushaya!” Bomake (women selling fruits) in the background start laughing hysterically. And as usual, drunken man gets the most confused look in his eyes, steps back- dumbfounded. Walks away- trying to shake the shock off.

But apparently, Mbabane Peace Corps- sipping their lattes and mochas-thinks I need “tougher skin”.

Country director asks me, “Do you want to be here Meredith?” Do I want to be here? “WHAT?!” I exclaim? How did it go from questioning why I’m being harassed to questioning if I want to be here. I want to just rip my skin off- the audacity of such a question. “I don’t want you to answer now. I want you to think about this. Re-integrating is an incredibly hard task. You don’t have to stay here. It’s ok if you want to go home. It’s not a failure if you decide to go. Just think about…” I interrupt, “I’m not going anywhere.” “I want you to sleep on it and tell me tomorrow.” CD says. “Today Stella (Swazi Peace Corps cross cultural integration staff) is talking with your chief, village, and family. I’ll discuss with Musa about the test you took with him and see if you are able to go to another community, another country, or home.” “WHAT?!” I exclaim again. “Swazi staff is convinced that you’ve somehow brought this on yourself. Washington is asking me why I am allowing you to stay. We need to know you can integrate Meredith.”

Fuck. I’m crying. “Why are you crying?” CD asks me. “You just told me Peace Corps is basically against me. I need you to have confidence in me. I need you on my side.” I explain. “You need to prove to us first. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I shut the door. Lesson Four: Don’t report harassment- It is your fault.

Next day, country director’s office. “So did you think about what I asked you yesterday? Do you want to go…” “I’m not going anywhere.” I interrupt.

Stella comes in. Stella, my Swazi Savior, tells country director and I- everyone in my community liked me. I was a hard worker she says. “At all the meetings. You met a lot of people despite not having a counterpart like everyone else. They said you were incredibly friendly..” CD interrupts, “Too friendly.” Stella continues, “ You have to be careful not to be too friendly Meredith. People, especially Swazi men, take advantage of this.” She is making a very valid point. “You need to FIRST make close relationships with those in your community who have the most respect. You cannot start with the youth.” Then, I make a very valid point.

“You put me in a community with no counterpart- no gogo clerk manager. No one to plug me in to help me to connect with the elder respected members of this community. So. I make my own connections. I find my own counterparts. I worked with what I had. Regardless of who I worked with, you put me in a community that has no respect for their chief. I was harassed at the umphagatsi- IN FRONT OF the chief. While being threatened by drunken naked man on my own homestead, shouting I will shoot you both, two men just walked by and did nothing. No counterpart. No respect. I agree I need to be a bit more hesitant who I am friendly to. But I came here to make connections- to start a dialogue. Already I have gone with three people to get tested. Everyday strangers confide in me their stories. Just having someone to talk to alleviates so much pain for them. Other volunteers are hearing my stories and asking me how do you start these conversations. I'm just walking down the street smiling and greeting. And if someone wants to talk- i'll hold their hand and talk. If it means I get harrassed more- then I get harrassed more."

Stella nods.“There were a lot of factors in this. Your community is ashamed and very sad to loose you.” I begin to cry again. “I let my community down.” “No. They let you down.” Stella adds. CD explains they are putting me in a community, a homestead that has housed a group 5 female volunteer. “This community will know how to handle a white outsider female.”

I leave to speak with other PC staff- all incredibly supportive. I speak with Musa. "Musa, I hope you remember that now I am a month and a half behind all the other volunteers. Our assessment is due in one month. I will try my best to gather as much information as possible in such a short period of time." Musa smiles. "Meredith, you're always moving, shaking hands, greeting people, and eating- I know you'll catch up just fine."

Two of the Swazi women staff, including Stella, will escort me on Tuesday to Nkiliji. They will be with me as I say goodbye to another family and hello to a new one. It’s still secret what region I am going to. I try to shake it out of Stella. I joke, “Well as long as it’s not Lubombo. The hottest place on Earth- 120 degree heat, black mambas and severe poverty.” Stella looks down. I laugh. Remembering my training family in Ngonini who told me, “Simphiwe, those people moving to Lubombo……THEY WILL SUFFER.” I clap my hands together. “Well.I came to Africa to experience Africa. Being in Manzini- a vacation. Saying goodbye to another family will be hard. But now I can say I have three families in three out of the four regions in Swaziland- that's a lot of love..." An awkward pause- I look down and exhale loudly. I'm trying so hard to be upbeat about this. If I allow my real emotions to soak through- I know I'll crumble. I can't in front of Peace Corps. I can't.

Stella must have picked up on my bluff. "I really admire you. What you've endured and will have to endure again... I want to be there for you during this transition." I hug Stella. I hug Nicole. I hug Musa. I hug the lady behind the desk- the guard outside...I hug Peace Corps again.

Mctosa meets me in Manzini. I am not allowed to visit Nkiliji without Peace Corps till Tuesday. Tuesday Peace Corps and I will go to my home- collect my things- say goodbye- then straight to my new home, my new family. To be back in Manzini though! Familiar faces talking to me- kombi drivers shouting my name as they pass. I'm Simphiwe again. It's Monday and my phone is ringing non stop, schools, students, youth groups, "Where are you Simphiwe?! We miss you!" Bongiwe and bhutis calling, crying "Why Simphiwe, Why?" With their limited air time I only tell them I'll be back Tuesday. I've written letters. Make, mother, calls me- it's Gigi. She's fallen again on her arm and face. It's been days and the swelling is getting worse. I tell her I'm in Manzini, to meet me at the hospital.

I see Mctosa's face- waiting for me at the kombi rank. My anxiety now replaced with a familiar warmth of comfort inside. I hide my excitement. Arms raised he greets me with a different name today (To him I am many different characters in the books he reads)Arms raised he says, "My Florence Nightingale- you've been eating peanut butter again haven't you?" He laughs. I swat him on the arm. "Where is Gigi's walker I paid for?! It was supposed to be delivered last week. She keeps falling and hurting herself. And don't give me that 'there's no hurry in Swaziland' bullshit." "They're working on it. I promise i'll get it to her tomorrow."

Proud African and I walk the grimey streets of Manzini- my favorite city- rugged, torn, and busy. Unlike manicured Mbabane- I miss my home. As usual, Mctosa turns to me and asks, "OK- where's the police station?" I point in the wrong direction..again. Five minutes later, "OK- where's the post office." This time I get it right. He knows I'm lousy with directions- always testing me. We walk past a park. "Let's sit in the park and talk." I say. "They call it a park, but I don't see a park- just a smelly place to sit." He says this everytime we walk past any Manzini park. We sit on a pile of bricks. I give him letters, books I've borrowed. I hand him brochures, phone numbers, and information I've gathered while in Mbabane about NGO's that can help Nkiliji's clinic with their little support group. "I went to the group last week, but no one was there." he tells me. A look of shock on my face. "What? You're attending the support groups now?" Proud African, a Swazi young man keep in mind, is going to an HIV positive support group. He tells me soon he will come out and teach others. Swazi young man going to support groups, open about his status- almost unheard of.

Imagining him and all the others I've become close to- the HIV positive in Nkiliji- now without me. Tears begin to fill my eyes. "Simphiwe, I told you. Swazi men don't cry." I wipe away the tears. "I'm Swazi man now huh?" Mctosa wipes off some tomato seeds and bits of avacado on my shirt collar. He points a finger at my face."You need to remember your name." "Simphiwe?" I laugh. "Some gift I was for Nkiliji."
"No, your REAL name...Meredith. Guardian of the sea. You are a guardian, a protector of others. Like this necklace you wear everyday 'St. Christopher Be My Guide'- you too are a protector. Your name is strong. Like mine, Mctosa. Strength. Don't ever forget your name."

Swaziland, full of meaning. A bracelet, a piece of cloth..I'm always asked, "What does it mean?" It's just decoration I explain. Swazis always asking, "Do you know what your name means?" Americans- we wear our empty names our clothing- with no understanding, no depth. But when you live in a world of tragedy, of emotion and wonder- it's important to have meaning. You must raise your newborn child into the air and shout to the heavens, "Universe! I give you- Kunta Kinte! I give you Mctosa. Simphiwe. Lungile." Your name is the beginning of your story.

Proud African is right. I must always remember my name.

"God MUST not be crazy- after all"

09.25.09

“Simphiwe! We’ll be boozing like nobody’s business! You MUST come!” Kukucayenne teaching staff shouts to me from their car- literally filled with 40’s of Castle and Amstel. “Ah, maybe another time.” I reply. I want to make nice with the staff- I soon will be staff, but I know I must remain a role model for the students and now- the boozing staff. I will have to find a balance between teaching the staff and not insulting them. What I really want to ask them is, “So about how many children’s lives have you negatively affected because of your ‘boozing like nobody’s business’ with them? The students continue to drink which leads to stupid decisions, such as sex without a condom, and then HIV and then death. About how many would you say you’ve influenced now?

No. I’ll save the insults for the end of the two years when I realize you can’t REALLY change anyone. For now- I must try though.

Next day. Six in the morning. I walk to the umphagatsi. A familiar car drives past. Stops. Reverses. Rolls down the window. It’s my teaching staff again, beers in hand, the men wearing dangly earrings laughing. Loud music. “Uyaphi?” They ask me. “Im going to the umphagatis,” I respond. “Uyaphi?” I ask back. “To get more BEEEEEEEEER!” They laugh. Still boozing like nobody’s business.

When I arrive to the chief’s home, umphagatsi, men are butchering a freshly killed goat. A man sits next to me asking how he can get to America- VEGAS! He says with a smile as I watch a goat’s head, eyes rolled back, tongue sticking out, flop around on a piece of metal as the men try to chop off the horns. Opening the mouth, they cut the head in half. Everything but the horns- teeth, ears, eyes, and all, goes into a kettle to be eaten. For someone who enjoys watching the surgery channel- surprisingly- I may vomit.

Behind me, the chief’s soon to be wife is being walked around the homestead by elder women singing. She’s topless. They are to put her in a crull (where the cows sleep at night) and insult her until she cries. She must cry for marriage. To signify that marriage for a woman is hard and you will cry many more times while married.

I am meeting with the bucopho to kind of give him an overview of what I’m seeing here in Nkiliji.Bucopho, Bongani, unlike most Swazis, is good at seeing the bigger picture and recognizing the gaps in his community. I go over the strengths and the weaknesses in Nkiliji. “Which brings me to the schools. Unfortunatly, the biggest problem I’m seeing so far is the staff, not the students. They are drinking and sleeping with the youth. When I ask the students when do they not use condoms- they tell me it’s when they are too drunk. They are drinking with the staff. Girls are sleeping with male teachers for cell phones and clothes.” Bongani interrupts. “Yes. Yes I know. I am a product of that school. I know what goes on there. Ten years ago, the old staff eventually retired and new young teachers were hired. Last year, rumors spread about the staff. The staff impregnated three girls at the school. The headmaster hired SWAGA to come in and investigate. As a result, one teacher hung himself and three fled. So you can see why the headmaster is reluctant to intervene again.”

Yesterday’s paper read “Professors Giving Good Grades to Female Students for Sexual Favors.” This is Swaziland. Sex is power. Bongani says to me, “I guarantee, your sisi will pass and graduate. And it has nothing to do with how well she’s actually doing in school.” I explain to him in one month I am to write an assessment on Nkiliji. I am to give it to Peace Corps and the umphagatsi. I want to put this information in this report. I believe the staff’s behavior is indirectly contributing to HIV.

He agrees.

Today, back to the clinic to fill bottles with tablets and count pills while I continue to ask these nurses the ever nagging question they hate, “But ….why?” Mctosa accompanies me. Today he will give blood to test his CD4 count and see if it’s low enough to start on the ARV’s. More importantly, today is the first time he will see his newborn son- who with his mother- is at the clinic. Proud African these days, has become- Sad African. “I’m a dead man walking.” Still refusing to tell anyone. Remember, he’s Swazi after all.

I was not there the moment he first saw his son. But I was with him on our walk home from the clinic after seeing his son. Greeting and shouting to anyone that passed us. Smiling and beaming. Proud African again- turns to me and says, “I am not a victim, but an ambassador of AIDS…..Nelson Mandela.” Mctosa stops walking- looks up at me, “Simphiwe I have been testing you. I doubted your for a long time and I’m sorry. You see, nothing is for free and nothing good can come from getting something for free. You know, few years back, World Vision decided to bring to our small village bags of milley mill, oil, rice and maize. Free for all that just signed a piece of paper. But I never signed. I never took when everyone else did. We have to help ourselves Simphiwe. We learn nothing by getting things for free. No. I’d rather suffer than take. Then you came along. You find out my status- and you’re still here? Why? Are you using me for information? I don’t understand why. What is going on I ask myself. Nothing is free and nothing good can come from something that is free. But you- you proved me wrong. I can see now, you’re genuine and thank you for that.”

I smile. “So, my Proud African, I am Simphiwe- Gift from God- Do you STILL think God MUST be crazy?” He laughs. “No. I don’t think so anymore.”

Walking home, another graceful African sun set, car drives past. Stops. Reverses. A car full of new faces. A man steps out. He shakes my hand. “Unjani?” He asks. We exchange greetings. The shake continues, continues, continues. I go to pull away. He pulls me into his arms and well- attemptes to shove his tongue down my throat. I push him off. “I’m a teacher at Nkiliji schools.” He says grinning.

“Of course you are.” I respond.

Open Your Eyes- This is Swaziland

“Touching the Void”. An amazing film about one man’s struggle,- his fight to survive after falling through an ice crevase. The real struggle was not climbing out of this hole with one broken leg, but the “walk” outside of the crevase back to camp. He describes the agonizing pain of true thirst. Hallucinations of running water, lips dried shut, the unforgiving sun ripping off layers of dead flesh. His descriptions enabeled you to feel his pain.

Today Babe Shongwe and I went to visit the OVC garden. A garden created by caregivers and RHM’s in the area for orphaned and vulnerable children as well as those living with HIV. “It’s close to the umphagatsi.” He tells me. Not far I think. Books, pens, notepads go into my bag, nalgene left behind. I’m ready for this lesuirely stroll.

FOUR hours later. FOUR hours later. The hot noon sun laughing above my head- watching its rays turning me pink to red. Up mountains, down mountains, past valleys and creeks. We’re there. Just the two of us- not a single caregiver in sight. Caregivers that I planned on interviewing. The whole reason I walked this god awful walk- to interview these caregivers.“Guess we’ll have to come back Friday.” Babe says. I give him the “Are you fucking kidding me?!” look, that I reserve only for him. Walking back, still no water- I tell Babe we have to stop at a homestead and ask for water. “Sisi, I offered you water at my place. But you said ‘fuck Babe Shongwe’s water’.” With Babe bitching behind me about me turning down his water- I can only think of one thing WATER. Despite territorial dogs and PCMO’s caution of “worms in their water! BOIL FILTER BLEACH!” I leave bitching Babe behind and knock on a homestead’s door, “Ngicela emanti?!” I ask.

After an hours rest, waiting for that lazy 3 o’clock sun to droop down and quit harassing me- I walk up the hill, pass the jacaranda tree to the crooked hanging stop sign. Mctosa’s door is open. I find him hunched over a table, reading his favorite novel, “Animal Farm”. “Don’t you find it kind of strange that Swazi schools are teaching this book- a book of revolution and rebellion- to students living in an absolute monarchy? Man resembling your King and the pigs turning into your King.” I ask. Mctosa taps his head with his index finger. “Swazi’s don’t think. This book, to them, is just a book. A story about animals- communism/socialism whatever. Something completely foreign to them and does not translate to their world. I told you, we are fools." He says. "Then again," I continue. "Look where rebellion got them- a dictatorship followed by a dictatorship- maybe that's the lesson- don't rebel."

Mctosa teaches me how to prepare and cook chicken over fire on a very windy day- a challenge. We sit, we eat, we read out loud together "Animal Farm". He interjects with lines he has memorized.

I stand to clean my dish. "In three months Mctosa when you go back to the clinic to confirm you are negative- we will prove this small town wrong. Boo Radly will have the last laugh." I smile. My back still turned to him. He says, "Simphiwe- I'm positive" I say nothing. I say nothing. I say nothing. I don't turn around. "I said. Im positive." Unable to control it, unable to control anything- I fall to the ground. Tears pouring out. Between sobs I mutter, "I'm too late. Im too late... Maybe if Peace Corps had come while you were in school- maybe ...maybe..." I bury my head in my arms. "Im too late." Mctosa lifts me up by my arms, one hand on each arm. He leans in and says, "No Simphiwe, because of you- I got tested- I know now I won't take anymore innocent lives with me. Because of you." "Mctosa why?!" I interject." Why didn't you take care of yourself? Why didn't you use a condom? Why weren't you smart?!" He smiles. "Looks like I'm Swazi after all." I push him back. He sits on the couch, "No matter- in three days I will hang myself. I won't let this thing kill me. I'll die Proud African."

"I beg you. You cannot Mctosa! You can still live a healthy long life- long enough to raise your son and teach him. He needs you. I beg you- take this one day at a time. Right now you feel hopeless- but I can get you help- give me two weeks. Let me help you.I beg you." He agrees for now.

"Please. I want to be alone." I go to leave. "Will you be playing soccer this evening?" He is starring hard into the distance. "Mctosa?" "Yes. I'll be there." He responds.

The wind blowng, the rain falling. I sit and watch the game. He is playing awful- bouncing off other players- he's given up. I stare hard at him, the rain covering my tears as they roll off my chin. Rain dripping from my nose. The ball is passed to him who has now noticed my gaze. He ignores the ball rolling past him as we sit and stare at each other. Seated all around me, boys busy buzzing, trying to get my attention. I ignore, I stare. This moment is ours. This secret is ours.

I walk home heavy hearted, no no- with no heart. A heart in Africa- a dangerous thing. Leave your heart at home.

Since then- each day- like my jacurranda- I check on him. I bring my speakers and his favorite tunes. Stevie and Ray to cheer him up. I must try. Even when I come to his home in the morning and find 5 feet of rope next to his bed and he tells me, "A wise man aways changes his mind." I won't give up. I have to give him hope. The belief in God could soothe this agnostic's pain- but I'm no preacher. No. I must keep him busy. With purpose. Swazi men don't go to clinics let alone support groups for HIV positve people in a clinic. So- there's no trying to convince him to get help. I tell him I need to investigate this suppot group for HIV positive people for my work here (this is true). I tell him it's in Siswati (this is true). I tell him I don't have anyone to translate for me. (this is not true). He agrees to come and help me translate.

"But I won't get help Simphiwe." He grabs my notebook I carry around with me-jotting people's stories, people's secrets down. Even his. "What are you writing?" He asks. "A story." I say. He flips through the pages. I've changed the people's names. "Who are these people?" He asks. "People like you- with secrets. Secrets that only I know." He reads the pages. He realizes these are stories about those living with HIV. He quickly closes the notepad. But he's curious. He looks closer. An aunt whose sister and her husband died of AIDS. Left her with four of their children. A one month old baby included. This woman soon realzes her neice is HIV positive. Eight years old now, healthy and on ARV's, no one knows her status. Not even this woman's husband. Not even the eight year old child herself. "I will wait to tell her when she's ready. Eleven, twleve maybe. How do you tell an eleven year old they're HIV positive?" Another woman who digs through her drunk cheating husband's things at home. Determined to find records of his status. She just knows he's positive and not telling her. Another woman, positive, husband positive. Two children negative. Because of stigma is not allowed to tell anyone her statu. Her husband forbids it. An HIV positive man, a negative woman, in love, want children. What do they do?

He closes the notebook. Exhales loudly. wipes his brow and stares. "Why do you write about these people Simphiwe?" he asks. "Because it's important. Their pain- it's important to me." I continue. "I have many secrets Mctosa. So many stories. As an outsider, they trust me."

"So many people." He whispers.

"This is why we're here. Vula emhlo- open your eyes- Mctosa. This is Swaziland."

"72 Hours"

Next Day.

Starts with me, Simphiwe Dlamini, addressing an entire school- 900 students and 55 staff. I give my speech in Siswati. I was prepared for laughter so I made my speech a bit interesting with my sisi's help. Laughter followed.... White girl speaking Siswati- with a Swazi name... God must be crazy.

Next. Mctosa and I walk to the local clinic- he to get tested, I to volunteer. I've been helping them with their filing (for now). Organizing four communitie's records- about a thousand different people each year since 1979. That's a lot of records. And of course, no computer. They laugh when I ask them, "So- where's your computer?" Half joking.

In the waiting room sits pregnant women and mothers with infants and Proud African. Unfortunatly, the rural clinics are no place for a man. Swazi men are too stubborn and too scared to come here. But somehow I got this one to come.

Although I'm a nervous wreck for his results- he doesn't seem phased at all. he talks with the women, picks up a toddler and speaks to it in his proud booming voice- even to the young he preaches. They call him back. I can't stop fidgeting. For someone who hates repetitive noises, my pen clicks non stop. Mctosa steps out. "Asembe." He says. Lets go.

"So?" I ask.
"So." He says.
"Negative?"
"Negative." He says.

I ask to see the slip. "They don't give you a slip." I argue, "Yes they do. I've seen them. They're pink and they say in big letters NEGATIVE followed by your name." He goes back into the clinic and returns quickly to whistle me in. He points to the head nurse. I ask her for the slip. She explains they do not give any slip of any kind for the safety of the patients. "OK." I say. I feel awful. Doubting Mctosa and demanding proof from the nurse. I tell him I'm sorry. "Ahh.. nevermind." He says.

I explain that today I promised make and babe I would go to Manzini to give a reciept of payment to St. Joseph's- my young sisi's boarding school. He laughs. "It's no where near Manzini- and you'll get lost. I will accompany you." "You don't have to do that." I say. He puts on his jacket and smiles, "Didn't you get the message? The King has appointed me your personal bodyguard."

A very VERY complicated two hours later- 2 kombi rides filled with screeching chickens. We are at St. Joseph's. An oasis among filth- filled with jacurrandas. A catholic boarding school. When we get to the office, there seated behind a desk is an enormous white man- priest with a collar. He grumbles for us to have a seat. He's Italian. Even worse- a fat Italian. The fatter the Italian- the harder to understand.

Noticing my skin color and Mctosa's, in English he asks, "Which language would you prefer I speak?" "Excuse me?" I ask- struggling to understand his words. "Shall I speak in Latin, Italian, French, Porteguese, English, Siswati, Zulu, Afrikans...." I interrupt this man's hollier than thou speech. "English is just fine." He looks at Mctosa. Mctosa says something in Siswati to him. They talk a bit back and forth in Siswati. Then he turns to me. He thinks Mctosa cannot speak English. Proud African speaks better English then this old man though. "So, you are Peace Corps?" He asks. "He tells me you are in the Peace Corps. Ungrateful people you are." Now he's got my attention. "You came here a long time ago, I've been here 55 years. My school housed your volunteers- they taught here. Then you just packed up and left- didn't even say goodbye. Then you came back to Swaziland and didn't even ask us what we needed. UNGRATEFUL PEOPLE." I try to interrupt but being an arrogant fat white man he doesn't allow my words to enter his ears. He continues with his ungrateful speech as his Swazi servant hands him a plate of meat and pourridge that he grabs with his left chubby hand. Unable to hold back anymore I jump up onto his desk- knocking over his plate of pourridge. With two hands I sink my fingers into his fat face and shake him raw. I yell into his Italian mouth, "Ungrateful? UNGRATEFUL? Giving up two years of comfort of my home to be groped at gawked at everyday- fetching water- respecting and struggling with cultural norms everyday- UNGRATEFUL you say?! While you sit fat and sweaty on your throne of lies?! Preaching a way of life unsuitable in this environment- no condoms, many babies, the illusion and unreality of abstinence. You waste of space old man!"

A comforting daydream. "Simphiwe. Simphiwe..." Mctosa says. "Asembe." "They call me (insert Swazi name). Ask your friend here what it means in Siswati. Good bye now." Italian says. "Goodbye Father." I stop and turn, "Today you're lucky. I'm Simphiwe Dlamini- and not Meredith Brooks."

Walking away from the office- I ask Mctosa what his name means. "The step of a bull." He responds. "Why did you let that man think you did not speak English Mctosa?" I ask. "I don't speak English with fat white bulls- only little Simphiwes like you." When I think about it- Mctosa really only speaks English when he and I are alone.

Over lunch, in town, his attention is somewhere else and his phone is ringing off the hook. I continue to ask what's wrong. "Ah nevermind." He says. Finally I demand to know. "Simphiwe, my girlfriend's in labor. It's coming today." I shoot up. "Oh my god! We have to go! Let's go!" I shout. "No Simphiwe. She is stuck at home- in Bekankhosi, she is unable to take public transport to the hospital in Manzini." "So an ambulance?" I ask. "Ambulances around here only come for the dead. No. I must rent her a car. The problem is- Im poor as a church mouse. It's $300 R. There has to be another way to get her there." I tell him I'll be right back. When I return, he is clearing our table. I tuck the money in his pocket. He stops me, "Simphiwe, I told you- You cant feed me you can't..." I interrupt, "Mctosa. This is not for YOU. It's for her and your unborn child."

A kombie and a hitched ride in the back of a pick up truck later- we arrive to a nearby town close to her. Mctosa calls and tells her to rent a car and meet him here so he can pay the driver. While we're waiting in his brother's carp shop- 2 of my fellow PCV's show up- interested in purchasing a dresser. We embrace. Like most conversations between PCV's and Swazi men we are on the topic of safe sex with Mctosa and his brother. Mctosa is again Proud African- booming Siswati in their faces. One PCV, outspoken like me, doesn't back down. They argue playfully back and forth. He is telling her it's useless to try and change Swazis. Telling a PCV to give up- that nothing will change- an argument us idealists don't like. "Where there is ignroance it is folly to be wise. Swazis don't want change. This is Africa. You know the story of King Solomon?" He asks. PCV's and he argue more as I sit back and laugh- it's nice to be the audience now knowing he's just arguing for sake of arguing. PCV's fidgeting with frustration now. Finally one of them argues his "just give up they won't change" argument with a quote from the Bible, "Faith without deeds is dead." ..Mctosa steps back, "How..." He smiles. He pauses a moment- then says, "Well... a wise man always changes his mind." His phone rings- he runs outside. "Where did you get this guy?" PCV asks me. "Planet Mctosa." I respond.

When he comes back, he whispers in my ear, "It's a boy."

On the way home I ask him when he will see the baby. "In Swaziland, a man is not allowed in the delivery room. And you go around a month before visitng the mother and the baby." He stops walking. "Meredith- thank you again."
"What did you call me?"
"Meredith, you said it earlier. What does it mean?"
"Guardian of the sea." I laugh. "But ironically, I am scared of the big sea. Tell no one my real name."
"Simphiwe, again thank you for..."
"Ah nevermind." I interrupt.

"24 hours"

9.21.09

Allow me to explain the worst day I have encountered in Swaziland. You may doubt it, question it, think it to be untrue. But I promise you. It is. And it all took place within- 24 hours. (This does not represent an actual Peace Corps Volunteer's experience)

It began with my introduction to the headmaster of a school. I explaining what it is I want to do in his schools while he looks me up and down with what I am sure is a huge erection. "And so this is why I want to start a school newspaper here." He interrupts my BIG ideas and BIG plans. "So you are looking for someone to teach you Siswati huh?" He asks. "Ahh... yes." I say- confused. "I can teach you on the pillow." He grins. His secretary looking down, blushing. He continues, "You know the problem with learning Siswati is that the ears are too close to the mouth. Do you understand me?" I continue on. "OK. So the school paper- a great way for the students to communicate with each other. Informing them of events and clubs. Helping them with their English. Keeping them positvely active you know?" He continues to look me up and down. What a fucking schmuck (I dont know how to spell schmuck- you get the idea).

As I'm walking home, I run into my bhuti- *Themba. Themba, who's known for being a ladies man- tells me he's found the love of his life. She's 25, like him, and has a child of her own. "Themba." I ask. "Have you been tested?" He pauses for a moment. He stops to explain. "You know Simphiwe. Girls over there, they know me. Girls here. They know me. Over there. They know me.. even way over there.. they know me. And I don't like to use condoms." "OK." I say. He continues, "So I just assume I am positive. But now things are different. I'm a one woman man. I love her. I want to marry her." "Themba, you NEED to know your status before having unprotected sex with her. She's a mother." "It's too late. I've already slept with her maybe 6 times without a condom." I explain that the virus is a stupid virus. It does not always transmit. It has to be just the right environment. I tell him the sooner he gets tested the longer he will live if he is positive. But what I didn't explain was my anger. You just killed an innocent mother of a 4 year old girl- you selfish prick. But life is not black and white- especially here. Hearing this story, in America- i'd hate this person. But, I don't. I sympathize. I'm starting to see AIDS their way.

I arrive at the carp shop. *Mctosa is talking with friends. Bhule goes home while *Mctosa and I continue to walk and talk. I want to talk about him getting tested tomorrow. Something that needs to be discussed in private. We walk down a narrow path and sit under a tree. In the distance I hear Alexander's voice getting closer and closer. I tell *Mctosa he is following us. Like every time I complain, he raises his hand and says, "Nevermind..." Alexander now standing over us, with a friend, starts shouting at *Mctosa in Siswati. *Mctosa laughs. Alexander looks at me, and asks, "What are you talking with him?!" I ask him to leave. He continues to shout at Mctosa. I get up to leave. Mctosa follows me, Alex follows him, friend follows Alex. I stop as Alexander continues to shout at Mctosa while Mctosa just laughs, looks down and smiles. Alexander's friend grabs my arm and says, "Sibali (his nickname for me- I am family to the mother of his child therefore making him my sibali... its confusing.. just go with it), they are going to fight over you." Mctosa looks up at me and asks, "Do you know what he is saying about you? He says because he was the first to propose love to you- you are his. No one else can have you. Not even as friends, as I have explained to him that we are." "This is absurd." I say, throwing my hands up in the air. How did it come to this? I go to leave. I look at Alexander, he pulls his sleeve down, covering a shiny object in his right hand. "Mctosa, he has something in his hand." I say. "Nevermind." He says as he turns me around to walk away. Alexander behind him. Mctosa's back turned to him to escort me away, I'm afraid Alexander will stab him in the back. I turn back around. Mctosa stares hard at Alex as Alex continues to swear in Siswati at him. Bomake (mothers) are now starring. This is not good.

Mctosa lifts his shirt up exposing his rippling chest full of scars. He is egging Alex on. Mctosa stands, shirt up, smiling, motioning for him to "come on". Alex- a child- with fury in his eyes. A stupid adolescent with a stupid crush. I put my hands on Mctosa's shoulders and whisper, "Leave us." "What?" He asks. "Hamba. Go. He wants to hurt you. Not me. Leave us." Mctosa pulls his shirt down, turns to leave. But watches from afar.

I lean in and calmly speak to Alexander. " Alexander. You have crossed the line. You have taken advantage of my niceness. I am going home now. I am speaking with Mkhulu and then probably Peace Corps. If you approach me or Mctosa ever again- it is them you will have to answer to. Is this clear?" "Simphiwe! Please! NO!" He pleads. I go to leave. Alexander turns to Mctosa then me and shouts, "Your posioned blood will run together!" (Im sure he is referring to Mctosa's supposed HIV status).

I arrive home. I get a call from Babe Shongwe. He and the bucopho want to meet me at the umphagatsi. Mctosa finds me along the way. We walk in silence most of the way. "Mctosa where did you get all those scars?" "If love be rough with you, you be rough with love."He says. "You know Romeo and Juliet?" " I know Mercutio, even in death- he was laughing." "Is this how you will die?" "No. I plan on just fading away. No one will see me die. This is where my journey ends. I leave you here." Mctosa leaves me at the entrance to the umphagatsi.

For thirty minutes, Babe Shongwe has the audacity to complain to me how I have not been in Nkiliji enough. Nkiliji is hearing about my presence at Kukucayenne schools and clinics- but not Nkiliji. I explain to Babe. " My family my home is in Kukucayenne. They have introduced me to the appropriate people. They have informed me of events in this area. You have yet to give me a counterpart. You don't inform me of anything. You tell me this morning you were at the new OVC garden for the children. I should have been there Babe. I should have been called. How am I to know what is going on in Nkiliji when you do not tell me?" The bucopho agrees with me. I follow the two men under a tree and to talk with the chief. As im seated below his highness, hands up in humility- drunken crazy man I've been dealing with for the past month wanders into the umphagatsi. He stumbles over. He takes a seat next to me and starts grabbing my arms and chest shouting obscenities. IN FRONT OF THE CHIEF.

Immediatly, Babe and another man pull him off of me and start wacking him with their wacking sticks. They drag him away as he's reaching out for me yelling at me to come visit his home. The chief shakes his head in disbelief. He asks me if I want bodyguards. I turn him down. It's important the youth feel comfortable to approach me anytime. I do emphasize that this man needs to be taken care of though. There has been no consequence for his actions yet. I also explain Alexander. That his obsession is a big reason I have not gone to Nkiliji schools yet. I'm uncertain how things will turn out, me going to his school without a counterpart. He tells me Babe Shongwe will take care of this. I'm quickly loosing faith in Babe Shongwe.

The chief gets up to leave. Babe slaps me on the back and says, "Sisi, you are getting big! Big mamma!" "NOT TODAY BABE! It's called muscle. The only protection I have these days." I endure a couple more routine greetings, go gos touching my hair, groping my breasts, asking for money and water. NOW NOW NOW NOW. What will YOU do FOR US?!

Chief drops me off at my homestead. I am home. I find my family is gone to the mountains to collect firewood and water. Our tap has been dry for days. So we must go to the water. If Mohammad won't go to the mountains, the mountains won't come to Mohammad. I find Bongiwe and Gigi sitting alone on the tire that is placed in the middle of our homestead. I tell Bongiwe my days events. We have a laugh. Mkhulu has slaughtered a cow so tonight the men will come over to sit and eat the head together- making them "smarter".

Then, in the distance, I hear his drunk grumblings. Bongiwe and I shoot up, Gigi looks around confused. Drunk man comes stumbling towards us from behind our property with a friend of his. Bongiwe yells at him to go. "Hamba! Hamba!" His friend retreats to where the cow head is- out of sight from us. Drunk man comes closer, reaching out to me asking me to be his, to come home with him. Bongiwe steps in front of me. They start yelling at each other in Siswati. Drunk man then pulls down his pants and under garments. Bongiwe and I turn around. I whistle for the dogs. I've been practicing Mkhulu's whistles when he wants the dogs to get a cow off his lawn. I want this cow off my lawn. The dogs circle around me as I whistle. They bark and lunge at the drunken man. He's too drunk to care though. "I'm not scared of your fucking dogs!" He laughs. "Fusake!" I shout. Siswati for Fuck Off! I know how to say fuck off in many ways now. He gets in Bongiwe's face, he starts pressing his fingers against her chest. He threatens to get a gun and shoot us both. I run inside the kitchen and grab the biggest knife I can find. I come out, dogs following close behind. I step in between him and Bongiwe arguing. Knife in hand, I tilt it into the light so it shines in his eyes. "Hamba." I calmly say. He laughs. I'm completely aware, as a woman, I should never introduce a knife into a quarrel with a man- due to who has the most strength. But this one is too drunk to do anything. Bongiwe pushes past me. She pushes him to the ground. As he sits there- shocked- she grabs a large branch and begins beating him.

During this whole encounter- two men have walked past- and done nothing. Gigi continues to laugh on her tire. I have called Babe Shongwe, "community police" who told me to call the bucopho because he does not have a car anymore. I call Mkhulu- no network. Finally, old man decides he's had enough. He leaves. After 30 minutes of indecent exposure, beatings, and shoutings of obscenities in two different languages- I fall to the ground as soon as he is out of sight. I barry my head- and began to laugh. "Simphiwe! Why are you laughing?!" Bongiwe exclaims between her long frustrated breaths. "My day Bongiwe. Two years of THIS....." I continue to laugh. "Simphiwe noooooooooo. It'll get better. I promise you. You have me."
"And you. Bongiwe." I continue. "Shayaed (beat) a man for me. I love you girl." I laugh and then reinact her beating this man with a large branch. We laugh together.

Now. I am completely aware I have four parents at home reading this. Which means four times the worry. So allow me to continue.

I realized, at the community level, this whole day's events has just been entertainment for others. So i decide to call Peace Corps. When I explain to the head of Safety and Security of Peace Corps Swaziland- Mfanafuthi- the day's events he says, "I'll be right there." "Are you sure?" I ask. "I mean. Is this just part of integration?" "No Meredith. This is completely abnormal."

Peace Corps arrives in big shiny air conditioned SUV to my little worn out village. Heads are turning. Mfanafuthi takes my statement and calls the Manzini police. Manzini police take drunken man to jail. As for Alexander, I wait in the air conditioned car (ahhhhh) while Mfanafhuti talks to Alexander's parents and then calls Alexander over. Alex continues to look hard at the ground, then up at me. He says nothing- only listens. Mfanafuthi gets back in the car and says, "He won't be a problem anymore." "What did you say to him?" I ask. "I told him, it only takes one phone call to put him behind bars. This is the first and final warning. Exams are just around the corner for him and I do not want to put a student in jail. I told him next time, it won't be me he's speaking to." "Mfanafuthi, I can see why you are the head of Safety and Security here." We laugh.

Peace Corps pulls away. Leaving me at home with my family. I haven't thought of Peace Corps in quite a while. I once had ideas, plans, dreams, for this tiny village- my home.

"Jacaranda"

9.20.09

It's especially hot today. My favorite time to walk. The youth in school, the elders and unemployed hiding in their thatched roof huts, children asleep under trees, dogs under cars- too hot- too lazy to give a damn of my presence. Simphiwe is free, alone for once- undisturbed. I say hello to my favorite tree- jacurranda. She's smiling just as I am. I come to *Mctosa's home. Door open, dogs asleep, I find him reading the Swazi Times, shirtless, hovered over the coffee table, rubbing his brow.

"Knock. Knock." I say. *Mctosa stands. "Simphiwe hlalapass." Have a seat. He says. I sit on his couch and pick up the paper from the table to read. *Mctosa picks up my copy of, "The Constant Gardner". He opens the first page and points to the last paragraph. "Read." He says.

"...and brown grass and sore eyes and heat ripping off the city pavements. ...... Under the same jacaranda tree. His face was leather too." It read.

I never knew how it was spelled. But there it was. My favorite tree in my favorite story. As I'm reading, I look up and see tall, lean, muscular, *Mctosa in the doorway, scars on his back, bright light shinning past him- illuminating his dark body. An epic sillohuette, a graceful shot. I think for a moment I should grab my camera and capture this moment. But I decide to live in the moment instead. *Mctosa stares outside, whistling at the cattle to get off his lawn. His back to me he says in his slow low voice stopping at each word, "So. You. Are. Tessa." I laugh. He continues, "Tessa from your favorite story, "The Constant Gardner". Tessa with the heart of a lion. Not afraid of anyone or anything. Determined to help." "I'm no Tessa *Mctosa. But she is an inspiration to me." "You leave your home." He continues. "Your family. Your friends. Your dogs. Come here to get harrassed by me and everyone else and yet everyday I see you walk by with your head held high. Courageous heart. I can see why you like this story." He says.

"Mctosa we need to talk." I explain to him about the rumors, about my family's warnings, about my reputation. "So. You have found the Boo Radly of this small town.""What did you just say?" I ask. "'To Kill A Mockingbird'- a great novel. Do you have it? I'd love to read it again." I laugh. He and my mother have the same love for the same book. "A scapegoat he was. Everybody always blaming Boo Radly and all Boo Radly wanted was to be left alone in his big house. Never trusting anyone. People are jealous Simphiwe. I read a lot, I speak English very well, I'm the best at soccer, and now I have the pleasure of being the new white girl's friend. Jealousy."

"And the ex girlfriend on ARV's?" I ask. "Your loss of weight. Your watching what you eat. No sugar. No soda. No drugs." "So it's a crime to take care of one's self?" He asks. "When did you last get tested Mctosa?" "Two years back." He replies. "Well clearly you aren't using condoms- you knocked up your girlfriend within those two years." "You want me to get tested?" He asks. "Yes." I say. "OK. Tomorrow- we'll go." He responds.

I sit back-that was easy. I tell him since my reputation is everyting we can only have our talks during the day when the youth is at school. He agrees. "Mctosa, how are you so different from the others? Is it all these books you read?" I ask. "I don't read them. They read me." He smiles. I roll my eyes. Like Mctosa does in any silent moment between us, he begins to sing. Issac Hayes, Brian Mcknight, Tracey Chapman, Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Al Greene. I laugh. "Mctosa, you have got to be the only African who cannot sing." He leans in and whispers, "Yes, but I can dance." He turns up the radio, pulls me up off my feet, and begins to spin me around his hut. If this were a Hollywood story- Mctosa and I would be secret lovers in this disapproving world- and our sweet story would end with his death- AIDS. But this is not Hollywood. I am writing this story. So there we were, two friends spinning, dancing, and laughing. Mandla begs me to sing- and like everytime he asks I say "NO."

"Why do you like me Simphiwe?" He asks. "Why do I like you?" I repeat. "Because you are unique. Not once have you asked me for marriage, love, money, emasweetie. That despite your overbearing culture - rich in tradition and stubborn beliefs- you are who you are because of you, and you alone. That's a rariety. You have escaped from your sorroundings. I admire your strength." "Simphiwe, like i've told you. No one can feed me, no one can clothe me, no one can entertain me. OK- sometimes, yes, you do entertain me." He smiles.

I look above his head. A picture of a muscular handsome man leaning against a recently made dressser. "Who is that?" I ask. "It's me- 2004" "Mctosa no it's not. That can't be you." Mctosa 2009- wasted thin. "This does not help your case Mctosa." "Tomorrow we will go, but Im telling you Simphiwe. I'm negative." "How do you know?" I ask.

"I know."