When Gogo is Gone

12/02/09

Another PCV has asked me to come and help with her community's World AIDS Day event. I will have to spend one night away from home. Which means, Shebali and her babies must be moved out of my hut. One of Gogo's sons is a carpenter. I have repeatedly asked him to fix an old dog house for me so I can get these dogs out of my hut. He has repeatedly ignored me.

Mctosa comes to his least favorite part of Swaziland- the Lubombo region- to help me build my dogs a new home. He takes one look at my face and says,
"You've been eating peanut butter again."
"Two zits.. come on Mctosa!"
"I will take a photo of your face and place it in every store reading, 'Do not give peanut butter to this umhlungu.'"

In the sweltering heat he and I hammer, hit, and nail back together the dog's new home. The kids do what he asks and bring us materials when needed. Gogo and her older children watch tv inside and refuse to let me use any of their SCRAP metal that has been lying around for weeks on our homestead. When the house is finished I grab the babies and put them inside. Shebali follows. I hand Mctosa a cold glass of water as he sits and chats with the grandchildren. I watch them cling to every word he says. They need a Mctosa. No male figure to look up to in their lives. Mndimiso looks up at me and says, "Thank you Simphiwe." I am taken a back. "For what?" I ask. "These are my dogs. Thank you for taking care of my dogs."

As Mctosa and I go to leave I ask him,
"Did you tell them to thank me?"
"No." he smiles.
"Mctosa...."
"Ah. Nevermind."

Mctosa carries his Lubombo face. One of disgust and impatience. "This place is for animals Simphiwe. Not for humans." We walk the rest in silence to the bus rank. "What is it Simphiwe?" He asks. "You're never quiet."
I tell Mctosa about the email and the "I've met someone."
"But I broke his heart first." I justify.
"So...now... he is returning the favor?"
"I suppose so."
"So...now... you are married to Africa. You can give us all of your heart. I owe him a thank you."

I shove some money into Mctosa's pocket as I hug him goodbye. "I will buy him new (his son)nappies and tell him it's from his Aunty Simphiwe."

The next day- World AIDS Day- a success.

When I return home, I go straight to the dog house. Shebali runs out to greet me. I peek inside and see only three puppies. I run around looking under every piece of trash, every corner, every crack and hole. About to give up, I notice a swarm of flies around a tire on the middle of our homestead. A dead puppy lies squished underneath. I demand answers from the kids. They start pointing to the pit latrine. The story unfolds. They played too hard with the puppies then disposed of the bodies afraid I'd get angry. I didn't cry. I felt no anger, no sadness. I've learned how to turn my heart on and off. I am becoming like them- calloused with walls. I have to be careful. Two years in Swaziland can change you- sometimes in ways you weren't expecting. A volunteer who has been here over a year tells us, "My boyfriend back home says I've changed. I'm not very nice anymore." I watch some of the season 6 volunteers interact with Swazis- short and abrupt, unsympathetic. Some who've been here longer than any PCV tell us, "What's the point. These people are stubborn and selfish. They don't want your help. Get rid of ARV's. Let them die."

On a kombi, squeezed between two men, one asks me why I'm here. I tell him Swaziland has the highest HIV prevelance in the world. He looks at his friend next to me and says, "Well atleast we're number one at something." His friend asks, "But no.. why are you here?" I explain Peace Corps.
"No no no.. why are you here? You say you aren't paid. What are YOU getting out of this?"
"Helping people." I reply.
"I refuse to believe that. What are YOU getting out of this- not others."
"OK. How about personal growth?" I say.
He laughs.
"I don't know what this helping people and personal growth thing is. You must be a spy. No one does anything for nothing."

It's not the first time I've been accused of being a spy. So many Swazis find it absolutley unbelievable Americans are here living without electricty and cars are here just to help. We are called spies because they can't imagine anyone helping just to help. NGO's in Swaziland, they see them in their fancy offices and big white vehicles. Man in kombi continues on, "You know what I hate? You people come here, work in your big offices and drive in your big cars. Waste all your money on yourselves and give us none of it." I laugh. "You know what I hate?" I ask. "When you people ask for money when you've got two hands and a brain. You have no idea how much the world is spending on this continent. I'm in this kombi sweating with you. I got no office, no car, no money to give. I'm just here to motivate you to use your brain." He laughs. "OK. I want you to come to my school and talk." The kombi stops. He turns and asks," Simphiwe I have no money, can you pay for me?" "Excactly." I say. "Exactly."

Later I meet up with my dear friend and neighboring PCV, Vanessa. She sits me down and tells me she has a horrific story to share. Much of our friendship is us just saying, "Isn't that fucked up?" Our stories of this mad world. She continues, "Over Thanksgiving three boys at Cabrini tried to kill another boy. One was eleven the other two were six and the victim was six years old. They forced this boy to start digging a grave and then asked him to lie in it. The boy pleaded with them, " Please leave me a little air hole. Please." They began to bury him. Afterwards, they collected fire wood to lie on top of the shallow grave and to start, what we think, was a fire. But before they could finish someone saw what was happening and stopped them. They got the boy out of the grave and rushed him to the hospital. He was severely bleeding from his anus. They had shoved objects up him before burying him."

Vanessa and I sit and stare in silence. Deep breath. We ask each other what will happen when these parent-less children grow up? With their apathy, anger, and violence. The only person taking care of this generation is Gogo. What happens when Gogo is gone?

I think this is why I'm here. Every volunteer finds their own way to tackle the HIV crisis of Swaziland. I see AIDS and I see apathy. Both are killing these people. This generation knows of AIDS- but nothing of sympathy. How do you force them to care? They have witnessed such horrors. Their hearts are calloused. Their walls are up. It's how you survive this mad world. They can't imagine a world in which an American comes here to help them just to help them. They know everything about AIDS but nothing of Martin Luther King, Ghandi, Mother Theresea, Nelson Mandela. I have to teach them these things. I have to show them the selfless. I have to show them those who fought for the oppressed. Those who sacrificed. It's difficult to change a state of mind where there's no food and water. I have no foundation to build on. Psychosocial support is put on the back burner until a human's basic needs are met.

Vanessa tells me something else quite disturbing. "I think there might be abuse going on at your homestead Mere. And I think it might be sexual." Someone she works with at Cabrini told her that the previous volunteer where I live had told him this. I suspected this.

I return home and ask the eldest grandchild, 13, to come inside my hut. Which has become their "safe place". I ask her if there's abuse on this homestead. She laughs, lies on my bed, and puts an opened book on top of her face. "Yes, there is." She whispers. I ask her, "Can you tell me about it?" She hesitates. I hand her a piece of paper and pen. "I'm a better writer then talker. Do you think you could write it for me?" She grabs the pen and paper and goes into the main house. Five minutes later I hear a knock on my door. "I can't write in there." I let her come inside and write. My mind wanders as I try hard not to look at her writing and give her her privacy. I'm scared it's the older men on my homestead, my age and Gogo's sons, who are sexually abusing the grandchildren. I worry about the youngest, Sindiso, he's six years old and who I've sensed might be a victim of abuse.

"OK. Finished." She lies the paper face down and turns away. I pick up the paper and read, "It's Sindiso. He sexually abused the younger kids. The three year old twins and the two year old girl. And others from sorrounding homesteads. If you have any more questions I can write the answers. I trust you."

What happens when they grow up? What happens when Gogo is gone?

Sympathy

11/28/09

Back to Lubombo where the bugs get bigger as the people get smaller. Hut again Hut again jiggidy jig...

A flock of screeching children and my pregnant dog, Shebali, tackle me. Ah- it's good to be home.

That evening, I sit on the stoop of my hut with the two eldest grandchildren, Mndimiso and Nobandile, 12 and 13. Shebali, our dog, is about to burst. She leans hard onto my side, exposing her pregnant belly. I take Mndimiso's hand and place it on her stomach. He screeches, "Simphiwe! How! What is that?!" "It's a head." I tell him. These children are sorrounded by death; it's important I show them life. My one year old puppy comes staggering towards us. He is unable to hold himself up. Open sores all over his body and he is bone thin. I have been gone for ten days. He has not eaten in 10 days. I sacrifice my last bit of matured....ahhh.. cheddar cheese to him. "Simphiwe, why are you giving that to him?!" The kids whine. "Sympathy. I feel bad for him." I explain sympathy. The little dog refuses to eat. I have seen this before, but I refuse to accept it. I let the thought quickly escape my mind. I cannot possibly have another dog with distemper (my dog on my first homestead died in my arms of distemper).

Shebali bursts into my hut and begins to scratch my cement floor. She buries herself under my bed as far as she can go. I turn to Mndimiso, "They're coming..." The children quickly run to bed. I tell them not to worry I'll document the whole thing. I sit with the soon to be mother, camera in one hand rag in other. I hold her in my arms and stroke her hair speaking to her softly as she whines and screeches in pain. She stops her panting suddenly, looks down and lets out one gigantic yelp. She quickly turns and tends to the newborn- ripping open the sac with her teeth and eating, yes, EVERYTHING. She licks her puppy clean as I hover over flashing with my camera. I am in complete awe. She knows exactly what to do. No baby books needed. Foolish humans. This is better than any surgery channel I've ever watched. I hang upside down from my bed watching as baby after baby comes out. Two hours have past and finally the runt- lucky number seven- is born. Shebali sleeps as her babies feed. All through the night, I wake up every thirty minutes to do a head count and make sure no one is being squashed.

Next day is World AIDS Day and I am extremely sleep deprived. Dumile and I planned a march and an event at her school. We spent the previous day literally running around Manzini shaking NGO's by their crisp collars yelling, "We want condoms!" "We want tiny red ribbons!" "We want speakers!" Most couldn't even spare one representative to come speak to these children. World Vision tells me, "Sorry, all cars are in use that day. We have no way of getting to you." To which I respond, "I see. They don't have kombis where you're staying? That's strange." "No they do." She assures me. Sarcasm doesn't quite fly here. "Look. World Vision created this health club, and now they are having a little event and are inviting you to come see them perform. Please come support these kids." They agree to send us a Jr. Rep. Three hours of listening to NGO's excuses and my bag now full of condoms, we finally make it back to Lubombo.

World AIDS Day- a success.

The next day, however, another story. I wake up to Gogo shouting at me and Nobandile explaining Gogo did not ask for me to live here with them. "The umphagatsi told her to take you in." It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I bite my lip and say nothing. To go from a Gogo who considers me one of her kin to....this... it's a challenge. Volunteers who knew the previous volunteer on my homestead tell me there was abuse in this family and some of it was sexual. The horrors of this Mad World are leaking into my own homestead. I don't have time to dwell on this right now. This morning, country director, is coming to my site to "talk" and I am extremely nervous. What could she possibly have to say to me? Our relationship is not a good one. I am still incredibly angry. I felt blamed and abandoned by the CD. I must choose my words carefully. Not be..me.. and think before I speak. I need to have a good relationship with the office. I have eight dogs in my hut right now, but I know she's a dog person. So I let them stay.

Peace Corps' big white fancy car made for big white fancy people arrives. CD steps out of the back. She wants a tour. "You're lookin' at it." I laugh. Big Gogo steps out of her house. She greets Country Director in Siswati who stares blankly back at her. I direct her to my hut.

We chat a bit about the dogs- making small talk. Deep breath, serious faces on. "I came here to apologize." She tells me. I begin to sweat- big gulp. "This post has been known for not supporting their volunteers. When I was assigned here, I wanted to change that. I wanted to make sure I supported EVERY volunteer. After hearing from other volunteers, I see now that I have failed." Tears collect in her eyes. Tears collect in country director's eyes in my hut. "And I want to apologize." Pause Pause Pause. "I'm sorry. When I asked you if you wanted to be here. I was not questioning your desire to be here. The last group that COSed (completed service) had a 50% drop out rate. Swaziland is known for loosing it's volunteers. But that is history. Your group is different and I need to focus on the present."

Country Director of Swaziland drives all the way from sipping lattes Mbabane early in the morning to formally and personally apologize to me.

"Now I want to pet your dog before I go." She bends down slowly and touches the mother on the head. She notices three ticks on Shebali's neck. "Oh, we'll have to get rid of these. Hand me some neusporen." I get up to grab my med kit as country director hovers over my dog twisting heads off of ticks. Is this really happening? I think. Country Director of Swaziland and I spend twenty minutes pulling ticks off my dog today. Country Director, Eileen, and I ..... friends again.

Before Eileen drives away, my other dog, the one year old pup, barley stands in front of us. He struggles to stay standing. His eyes are wide with terror and foam is bubbling from his mouth. Eileen is horrified. I tell her I've been trying to find a vet in the area. Today I will try harder.

I walk and walk. I ask and ask. Dead end after dead end. "What's a vet?" They ask me. Finally, a point in the right direction. That direction being about a 5K walk. No matter. I arrive to the "clinic" on this especially sweltering hot day, sweating and panting. My shirt clinging to my body. My sweat now glue. My thighs, like two hams wrapped in wet velvet, are raw from the journey. Inside, I find four men devouring chicken legs and licking their fingers clean. They look up at me with greasy lips and curious eyes.

"Now I know this is going to sound strange." I begin between gasps of air. "But I have a dog that needs saving." Laughter follows. After chatting a bit with these greasey lipped vets, I soon realize these "vets" do no surgery, no treatment, no lab work of any kind. "We go around collecting blood samples from dead cows to determine their cause of death." "What do you do with these samples?" I ask. "We wipe them onto those pieces of paper and send them to Manzini." He points to a piece of paper I am fiddling with in my hands. I quickly toss the paper. They offer to send me home with penicillin. I explain my fear of it being distemper. Penicillin would just be a waste of money.
"OK. Bring him to us. We will have a look." Vet tells me.
"OK. I'll just cram my sick sore infested dog onto a kombi full of dog loving Swazis." They laugh.
"What do you suggest we do? Are you suggesting we come out to your homestead and have a look?"
"Yes please." I smile big and innocently.
"All right." Older male vet continues. "How does midnight at your place sound? I can leave in the morning?" He smiles big.
"How does I sleep with a really big sharp knife under my mattress sound?" Vets laugh.
"OK Simphiwe. We'll drive you back to your homestead and have a look. How's that sound?"

On the way to my home, my phone rings. It's Mctosa. "Are you sitting down?" He asks. "Negative." He says. "My son. He is negative." I scream with joy. "Are you smiling?!" I ask him. "More than smiling. I am dancing." I ask him to come to my house tomorrow and build me a dog house for 7 puppies. "That place is not meant for humans." He whines. "I hate Lubombo. I hate dogs. But I like my Simphiwe. I will see you tomorrow."

Young male Swazi vet walks onto my homestead. Gogo greets him and laughs uncontrollably when she realizes I've brought a vet home with me. She and vet exchange Siswati words. I'm sure it went something like, "Silly white girl and her dogs. She has eight in her hut right now." They both look and laugh at me. Laughter comes to an abrupt halt when the vet sees my sick puppy.
"Simphiwe. This is..."
I interrupt. "Distemper. I know."
"He will soon die." He assures me.
"Is he in pain?"
"Yes."

I explain to the vet I will take him to Manzini to put him to sleep peacefully. "Let me atleast offer you a ride back to town to get a box so you can transport him on the bus tomorrow." Before I leave I tell Mndimiso I will be back. He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. Box in hand, I return home after an exhausting 4 hour attempt to try and save this little pup. Another dog with distemper. I am cursed. I set the box down and enter my hut. I sit with Shebali and her babies. On my burglar bar door hangs Mndimiso. He is looking down- his eyes sad. I show him the box and explain what I am going to do with our dog tomorrow. "He will fall asleep and feel no more pain. It's sympathy." He continues to look hard at the ground. "Mdimiso, what is it?" I ask. Behind him comes Tommy, the 27 year old son of Gogo. With a can of gas in his hand he asks me for matches. I hesitate, fear in my voice. "Why do you need matches?" He looks down and points to a tree. "We took care of it." He refuses to look at me when he speaks. In the distance, on this particularly windy day, I see the limp body of my puppy hanging from a branch swaying in the wind- feeling pain no more. I hand over the matches and make my way to him. A barb wired fence lines the tree and I see new gashes all over his body. He struggled. And then I ask Tommy what I ask every time I hear of death. "How long did he take to die?" "Not long." He tells me. "2 minutes. Just 2 minutes." "Two minutes is a lifetime when you're fighting to survive." I tell him as I stand on my toes, trying to pry the wire off of the puppy's neck. His body falls to the ground. I turn around and see the kids now standing behind me in this open field. The wind blows hard, the sun's one last exhale before sleep. Tears fill my eyes I stare hard back at these children. They quickly look down. I pet my puppy's lifeless body one last time and tell him I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I stand to go, tears now streaming down my face. I want the children to see, but they are afraid to look. "Vula emhelo." I say, standing in front of Nobandile. "Look at me." She can only bare to look for a moment- quickly returning her gaze to the ground.

I return to my hut, sit on my bed and stare at the ground. Mndimiso leans on my burglar bars. I can feel him starring at me as I cry.
"Did you know they were going to kill him Mdimiso?"
"Yes. But they told me they would beat me if I told you. So I didn't say anything when you left."
"Who is they?"
"Gogo and Tommy."

I ask him to sit next to me. We sit in silence. He picks up my headphones and slowly wraps the wire around his finger over and over squeezing it tightly. His nose fills with snot as he struggles to hold back. I put my hand on his knee.
"It's ok Mdimiso. You can cry."
"I cannot." He says.
"This is our safe place. In my hut we are not Swazi. We are whomever we choose to be. If you ever need to cry, I want you to come to my hut. It's your safe place."

He puts his head on my shoulder and exhales loudly. I see his tiny hand move up to his cheek to wipe something away. Is he starting to understand sympathy?

That night Shebali leaves her new litter to look for her first born. She smells the blanket he used to sleep on. She whines and looks up at me. I hold her head in my hands and tell this mother I am sorry. I could't save him.

Wondering how much more I can take today. I check my email. An email from someone back home. Four words I've been dreading. "I've met someone."

Warm tears stream down my face as I lie on my floor and place my hot cheeks against the cool cement. I look up and read the words written along my hut wall.

"Every passing moment is another chance to turn it all around."

"Hometown Glory"

11/27/09

Happy Ambassador Giving desperate PCV's food....Day!


5 months away from home so far. 4th of July, our first holiday without family was an easy one. We were all still excited- Swaziland still new. Thanksgiving stung a bit more. It'll be nothing in comparison to Christmas, but still our heads hung a little lower.

My new hero, Mr. U.S. Ambassador, however, saved the day. Ambassador of Swaziland invited every American in Swaziland to dine with him on this American holiday. Thanksgiving day marked the end of IST. The end of ten days that left us all a little bit crazier. All 62 of us try our hardest to look our best for the VIP's of Swaziland. I try my hardest to scrub the black off my feet, shave my legs (around all the cuts and scabbed over mosquito bites), try my hardest to get the dirt out from under my nails. I cover up the circles under my eyes, and put deodarant on for the first time in months. I borrow a pretty dress that isn't full of avocado and mustard stains.

A woman again.

62 big smiling faces pile into a big smiling bus. A care package was just received. A Happy Thanksgiving Day package from someone back home with two People magazines inside. We attack like lions. Pictures of the cast of the new Twilight film sends girls screeching. An article about a dog who can read, "Give me that!" I scream as I tear it from the girl's death grip. Bus stops. Magazines and mouths drop.

New life plan: Become U.S. Ambassador

The Ambassador's palace awaits. A line of who I presume to be important people wait to shake each of our hands. Out of habit, I Swazi youth shake the U.S. ambassador. He looks confused. STUPID! I tell myself. Cheese and candy coated peanuts line the tables. A bucket of ice filled with beer. Before I can notice anything else, I quickly inhale half a block of green olive cheese. GREEN OLIVE CHEESE....GENIUS! They made the wrong decision putting cheese in front of 62 volunteers before the other guests arrive.

The other guests arrive. No cheese in sight. Ambassador's people, internationals, and Country director pour in. Women with bright red lipstick and shoulder pads- babies clinging to their pantie hoes. Mommys important. Mommy gets paid to travel the world with me. I'm five and have seen more of the world than you ever will. I have pigtails and speak five different languages.

I feel uncomfortably out of place. Where's the "kiddy table" I wonder. For once it's where I want to be.

Ambassador stands to make a speech before dinner. I try desperately to push the half block of green olive cheese I inhaled to the right corner of my belly... I know there's lasagna inside there somewhere. "I'd like to read to you, Obama's Thanksgiving speech.." Ambassador says. 4th of July was the last speech I heard from our President. It moved me. Would this one do the same?


"What began as a harvest celebration between European settlers and indigenous communities nearly four centuries ago has become our cherished tradition of Thanksgiving. This day's roots are intertwined with those of our Nation, and its history traces the American narrative.

Today, we recall President George Washington, who proclaimed our first national day of public thanksgiving to be observed "by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God," and President Abraham Lincoln, who established our annual Thanksgiving Day to help mend a fractured Nation in the midst of civil war. We also recognize the contributions of Native Americans, who helped the early colonists survive their first harsh winter and continue to strengthen our Nation. From our earliest days of independence, and in times of tragedy and triumph, Americans have come together to celebrate Thanksgiving.

As Americans, we hail from every part of the world. While we observe traditions from every culture, Thanksgiving Day is a unique national tradition we all share. Its spirit binds us together as one people, each of us thankful for our common blessings.

As we gather once again among loved ones, let us also reach out to our neighbors and fellow citizens in need of a helping hand. This is a time for us to renew our bonds with one another, and we can fulfill that commitment by serving our communities and our Nation throughout the year. In doing so, we pay tribute to our country's men and women in uniform who set an example of service that inspires us all. Let us be guided by the legacy of those who have fought for the freedoms for which we give thanks, and be worthy heirs to the noble tradition of goodwill shown on this day.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, BARACK OBAMA, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim Thursday, November 26, 2009, as a National Day of Thanksgiving. I encourage all the people of the United States to come together, whether in our homes, places of worship, community centers, or any place where family, friends and neighbors may gather, with gratitude for all we have received in the past year; to express appreciation to those whose lives enrich our own; and to share our bounty with others."

I'm moved. It's during these moments when we ban together- all Americans in one room- not a mhlungu, not a foreginer- but an American, trying to do good and what's "right" for the world. It's these moments that I feel truly apart of something bigger than myself. I belong. It's a rare feeling for me to have. It's truly inspiring. We all pause for a moment after the speech. My tilted head, twinkling eyes, and feeling of awe quickly vanish when I hear my two favorite words, "Lets eat!". Internationals, Ambassadors, country directors...all the VIP's aside...I'm still first in line.

I need a third plate. I need another hand. I know every PCV is kicking themselves for not bringing tupperware, or lining their purses with tin foil. The last thing I remember before blacking out is shouting, "I LOVE FOOD!" with two large plates in front of me. I definitely don't remember the food going in. Black out. Next thing I know I'm lying on the lawn amongst other digesting volunteers grabbing my belly shouting, "I'm never eating again!" Friends roll their eyes, "By 6 tonight Mere, you'll be stuffing your face again." I crawl my way back to the table, suck in my gut, focus on breathing, and try to act at least semi professional amongst the VIPs of Swaziland. One of the ambassador's minions, a young man in his thirties- attractive, comes over and sits next to me. He introduces himself along with some title of importance- that quickly leaves my brain- something to do with traveling, learning lots of languages, and a big fancy pay check. He has two little ADORABLE girls with him. "Their MOTHER is back in the States. It's JUST me and them." I think he mentioned "their mother" back in the States three times in five minutes. We get it, you're single.

I realize he chose the only table full of young ladies. "You ladies are welcome to come over anytime- my home (mansion) is close to here. I have wifi and I can cook..... I go ball room dancing during my spare time.....OH I need to go change my daughter's dirty diaper. I'll be back." Female PCV's heads huddle together . "Oh my god Vanessa! We are so hooking you two up. He is pretty cute. And his girls.. ADORABLE! Not afraid to change a dirty diaper..."

I'm making this guy out to be a total schmoozer (one who schmooooozes over the ladies) but I do appreciate one thing he said. "You know I spent a few years in Germany... I was all about integrating, wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with Americans. But you know, it's ok to hang out with people from America. You're a PCV in Swaziland, yes, we get it. But you don't have to be Swazi..." It made me think of how overly dedicated a volunteer can get to integrating and "roughing it". During IST so many of us were complaining we just want to get back to site. Sometimes it's hard for us to admit- we enjoy a warm shower, mansions with pools, and talking with Americans. As "soft corps" as that sounds.

Our overwhelming ten days are over. I don't even remember saying goodbye to anyone. We were free to go and suddenly we were gone. I hadn't really slept in ten days. Ten days of I can't miss anything, people are talking till 2 in the morning so I must join them. People are up at 5 in the morning talking, I must join in. I can barely keep my eyes open now. My heart beating slowly beating loud inside my chest. The hustle and bustle of Manzini is in slow motion now.

And it's the end of the month. The last weekend, the last bus. And I don't care. Gogo's and babies run to get on. I slowly drag my feet towards the bus, bouncing off of others. I'm herded and jostled inside this big machine. I have a seat next to the aisle. Next to big Gogo by the window. She'll be safe there. My head falls foward then back. My eyes open then close. People keep piling in. A mother with a baby on her back, a bag of rice in one arm, a child in the other. There might have been something large balancing on her head- I don't know. Without even thinking or looking up, I grab the toddler and place him on my lap. She thanks me. Sweat pouring down my face and back. Shoved close to fat Gogo. I lie my head on her shoulder, or is it a breast? I can fight it no longer. My eyes close. Toddler sucks on his thumb and plays with my hair. Wrapping a braid around his fat little finger. His eyes shut. We doze off together. I hear chickens screeching, babies cyring, men shouting, 150 people are being josstled around as I sleep now on Gogo's breast and a toddler on mine.

Next thing I know, I feel a nudge on my shoulder. "Simphiwe, wake up. You are home." Gogo next to me laughs, "You are Swazi now."

IST: Penis Doodles

11/26/09

Six days of IST go by. We are dropping like flies. I sneak pictures of everyone sleeping during lectures. Their bobble heads and the loud inhale that wakes them up. Followed by a look around...did anyone just see me doze off? Our tired brains can't take much more. The penis doodles, STI monsters, and dinosaur doodles saturate our notes.

Season six volunteers are here now. It's been the first time for many of them to see each other in months. First time for most of them to be together since training a year ago. And it is the first time for season six and season seven to be together. It's insanely hard for me to put into words what this was like. Going from no one for three months, to thirty three people for six days, then to sixty two for four more days. All crammed in one classroom, one dormitory. Season seven is slowly loosing their minds. We've forgotten how to interact. We're overwhelmed. To say the least, it was painful for all of us to adjust- and keep adjusting.

In the classroom, all sixty two of us together now, I watch people's eyes drift and linger. I'm completely fascinated watching season six and seven interact. Imagine being a twenty-something year old in isolation for a long period of time then abruptly put around new people of the opposite sex that aren't Swazi....but like...you. Any sexual frustration you were feeling before becomes incredibly inflamed. Sexual frustrations can mean anything from missing the act of sex, flirting, holding, or just looking (in case you've never experienced it.. you lucky bastard). We're all sexual beings- especially as twenty something year olds. I watch the few men in season six stare at the beautiful bleeding heart babes of season seven. Feet are tapping, pens are clicking as the opposite sexes from opposite groups stare from the opposite sides of the room, ignoring the mundane lectures. I start to tally how many times one person stares at another. No penis doodles anymore- this game is much more fun. We are sexual tyrannosauruses. If young male international presenters speak on an NGO's behalf I watch the ladies in the audience take notice to his left hand ring finger. Fantasies are blossoming. AIDS what?

Not to say Peace Corps turns you into a sex hound. Most wouldn't act on these impulses. Traveling and being alone... you long to connect with anyone you don't have to fight the cultural and language barriers with. Ten days of presenters dancing around our questions and throwing out statistics on flip charts......... your mind is mush! You're starting to loose perspective, your grip on reality gone, and you're forgetting who you once were. The solution?

Penis doodles.

All trash talking of IST presenters aside..there were a few lectures I did enjoy. PSI came to speak. PSI one of the main distributors of condoms in Swaziland. They're in the marketing biz. So unlike myself, they know how to sell the idea of condoms. They know you have to work with Swazi men, not against them. Whereas I just want to shake them and shout, "Fusake!". Their new condom slogan: "A man knows he should ALWAYS be right. And he's not a man unless he tests." Their new condom, billboard reads : "You'll last longer." A picture of a smiling man and a very satisfied beautiful young lady. You have to make him WANT it. They hold soccer tournaments telling young men they cannot join unless they test.

The ABC's (abstinence, be faithful, condoms) of AIDS education doesn't fly anymore. It's a broken record. A campagain, "One Love" does what they call, "Ambush Theatre". Actors go into communities. Into kombis and restaurants and act. They pretend to be part of a love triangle- showing the consequences of multiple concurrent relationships. The dangers of cheating. Actors showing the pain of what's really going on "on the ground". Their hope? This will discourage unhealthy behavior.

These strategies all here as a result of AIDS Fatigue. The people don't want to hear it anymore.We must look at AIDS culturally and through the complexities of Swazi gender.

We must see AIDS their way.

IST: Our Family is Back Together Again

11/17/09

IST

In Service Training. We are called. From all four regions of Swaziland. From the deepest valley, from the tallest mountain. From Hhoho to Lubombo. From Mbabane to Manzini. Volunteers meet in a Catholic convent in the city Manzini. We leave behind our newly established ebb and flow. Our world of pee buckets and candles. Our solitude in our roundavel huts. Integration now over. It has been three months since we've seen each other. We are all anxious to be back together in a classroom for the next ten days.

Back to our familiar routine: flip charts, power points, technology failing, butts and brains going numb. Eight hours in a classroom. Our days broken up by meals. Like the carrot dangling before a donkey. "Just gotta get to lunch" "Just gotta get to dinner" "I wonder what they'll serve for breakfast tomorrow." The comfort of meals at the end of each exhausting lecture.

All day volunteers pour into the convent. We embrace each other. I am Meredith again. We are mostly girls in our group. One can hear the high pitched embraces from kilometers away. As stories are being shared on the lawn (ah, a lawn), I lie on the grass and take advantage of our free to be environment. I pull up my shorts a bit and let the sun bleed between leaves and onto my white white thighs. The jacuranda sways in the wind. Questions are asked about my three months of integration. "What happened Meredith?!"

"Mere, you're like a lightening rod for crazy."

I notice the Swazi mannerisms and expressions we have all picked up on. We have integrated. Each time we reunite, our hair gets a little longer and our clothes a little less white. Hair cutting scissors are brought out and the token hair dressers in our group begin their performance- maintaining our appearance every three months. Our family is back together again.

In the classroom, IST is some review on HIV/AIDS and some review of Swazi culture. But it primarily becomes an introduction to the NGO's in our area. During integration we were forbidden to start any projects. After IST we are free to begin. To begin though, most "projects" will need funding. Peace Corps is here to show us how to write those mini vasts and grant proposals. Yawn... 6 hours of how to write grants, a lecture on ARV adherence, more proposal writing, another lecture on sustainable gardening. Is any of this actually sticking? They are trying so hard to sculpt us into better resources for our communities. But I am forever struggling with ADD which is inflamed when it's ten six hour days of flip charts and graphs. And my group knows me so well. I raise my hand, "OK. So I just zoned out.. but did you just say 1 in 50?!" My group laughs- not surprised. Hand up again, "Yeah... I definetly did NOT get that form." "Meredith, you probably lost it. Don't loose this one." Peace Corps says. Country Director goes over protocol if we need to evacuate Swaziland. Where to go and what to bring. "And don't even think about bringing any cats or dogs with you." All eyes turn and look at me. "What?"

Yes. our family is back together again.

Our lab coats are back on and we are pulling back our look at AIDS now. What was an individual and sometimes personal view on AIDS is now a statistical one. We are talking about "them". We are studying "them". Mctosa, Proud African, a test object now. Our classroom is in the middle of Manzini. I watch outside the window at the hustle and bustle of this grimy city. Strange to watch Swazis while studying "them" on paper. How would it feel for Swazis to know all of us were in this room studying and analyzing how to help. People from all over the world just trying to figure out how to help.

CDC and NGO's ask us, "Are these statistics true? Are you seeing this out there on the ground?" A term office people LOVE to use about where our work is.

UNICEF comes in and lectures about the improvements they plan on making to the NCP's of Swaziland. Neighborhood Care Points. Swazi Government's solution to the growing number of OVC's. Orphaned Vulnerable Children. Children with no parents and no food flock to these huts often made out of nothing but stone and mud. One "caregiver" to each NCP. Sometimes only given a stipend to feed these children. UNICEF, "We want to build better ones where existing NCP's are now but falling apart. We want caregivers to provide more than just food, but also psychosocial support, two meals a day, and pre school." My Lubombo neighbor and I exchange a look of doubt. Lubombo a different region. A different world. NCP's are a joke, and most volunteers know this. This idealistic goal in these NGO's minds makes us all shift in our seats and hold our tongues.

I understand the idea of an NCP. I see why they were established. A child looses both parents and is left with a few things and a house. In a world where no wills are written or if so aren't considered, a child only has it's home and must stay in it to keep it. Lingering relatives come by and take whatever belongings they can from these children. Orphanages are few here. They cost the government money. Caregivers at these NCP's are given a small amount of food as payment to care for thirty to fourty children everyday. With hardly any food and structure how can you expect these women to teach and provide psychosocial support to them as well?

Who will raise these children? Who is raising these children? No one.

These crumbling existing NCP's UNICEF wants to replace are crumbling for a reason. No one is maintaining them. What will happen to the new buildings they put in? Is this sustainable? Lots of meaningless words are used to answer our questions but we are still left scratching our heads.

WFP comes in. World Food Program. We have all been waiting for this one. WFP is going bankrupt and we're all seeing it..."on the ground". The new director of WFP comes to speak. She's bubbily and animated. She's new. WFP is giving food to schools and NCP's all over Swaziland. We ask, "What about the communities that don't have an NCP?" Her reply, "Well, just pull your community together and build one." I try to cover my mouth before it leaps out. Too late. I burst out loud with laughter. "Any questions?" She naively asks. About 20 hands shoot up into the air. She steps back. I see the bit of fear in her eyes. "WFP gives us un-milled maize. It costs money for these people to mill it. What are they going to do with un-milled maize?" "My NCP is constantly running out of food at the end of each month. Is anyone actually monitoring these NCP's and how much food the caregiver takes for herself?" "My NCP was given food but has not kitchen." "My school is getting half rations now, what are these kids to do when they aren't fed at home and now school?"

Director becomes nervous and defensive. She knows we know she doesn't know...(?) the answers to our questions, but yet we keep asking them. I wait for her Swazi counterpart who has been working for this organization for 9 years to speak up. Director doesn't once ask for her input. Peace Corps Programming Manager stands up and tries to calm the sea. "We just want to thank you for coming again. We all are aware you are new and well we really do appreciate you coming." She looks at us to start applauding. Volunteer leans in and whispers to me, "Man are we gonna get it from the country director for this one. We were pretty rude."

And I feel no pity. We are the voice to many who don't have one. We are our community's ambassadors. We are the voice of these "lab rats"...of our Proud Africans.

Our next lecture is a somber one. PCMO, our doctor Day, wants to know how we are coping amongst all the tragedy of this world. Her flip chart reads: Grief and Loss. "What are you seeing out there?" she asks. Hands go up. "Last week I lost my bhuti." "My sisi was murdered." "My little sisi is sick." "My babe from our training family died." Volunteer tries to hold back the tears. She takes a moment to collect herself before finishing. "I never made it back to see him. I promised him that I would come back, and I didn't." Day asks us how we're coping leaving our loved ones back home. "You are all nurturers. How are you dealing not being able to be there for those back home?" A volunteer gets out of her seat and leaves. I follow. I hear her crying in the bathroom stall. I let myself in and take a seat with her on the dirty tiled bathroom floor. "They are going through this alone." She tells me. "I can't be there for them. I could kill him for what he's doing to my sister and brother. I can't protect them anymore." We share tears as I relate. Unable to be there for my sister back home. Alone going through the awkward steps of adolescence. Not able to tell her none of this won't matter in a few years. You'll have the last laugh. Your uniqueness is absolutely beautiful and one day...you will see.

Sometimes the absolute insanity of this Mad World is comforting. It helps us forget those who we have left. The connections and control we have lost back home.

Surprisingly not much was said between volunteers during this session of competition. You loose perspective as a volunteer amongst other volunteers. Who is the most HARDCORPS volunteer. Those privileged to have electricity or even a toilet are made fun of. No volunteer spoke of maybe wanting to go home. Which is just unrealistic. The fact that all of us are still here through integration- is rare. To leave now, for some, would be bruising their pride. Volunteers are scared to hear other's HARDCORPS stories and all the crazy intense things they are doing everyday. Afraid to say, "I'm not adjusting so well. I miss home. I don't really do anything in my community."

That evening we go out. We meet up with beer and pizza. As soon as I finish my entire pizza in record time, my phone rings. It's Dumile. "Simphiwe, the 5 children living in the UNICEF tent have been robbed. Their tent was sliced and all their food taken." My pizza and beer turn in my belly. I feel guilt. This is why NCP's are NOT the solution. These children need guardians, an orphanage, a protector. I go back to sit amongst friends- detached again. Neighboring PCV, my "bright light", sees the distraction in my eyes. She grabs my arm. She knows. We share similar experiences- we're in "it" together.

You Have to Remember Their Happy Stories

11/13/09
Next morning.

Dumile and I meet on royal grounds. Long skirts and tail between our legs. Submissive and ready to speak with the chief. We get seated on a mat next to chief Gamedze. I wait for Dumile to speak. The chief stares. She gives me the "go on" look. Head down, eyes on the ground hands up- humble and respectful- I go on.

"Chief Gamezde, there are four issues Ms. Mkhetshwa and I would like to discuss with you. She and I have been going from homestead to homestead checking on the OVC's in the area. We have found very VERY severe instances of abuse and neglect." I tell him Jaboliso and Bhule's story. He turns and speaks with Dumile in Siswati then turns to me and says, "Simphiwe, this homestead is not part of our chiefdom. You will have to address this to the chief of that chiefdom. As for the other homesteads, the problem is no one reports the abuse to me."

What does he think I'm doing now? Silence follows.

"Okk... The other issue is the workers camps. S&B has placed their camp right across from our primary school. Girls are being seen from coming out of their at night and early in the morning. I went to the site and there are big block letters on a building that say No Women Allowed. There is a guard, but no one is actually monitoring this. There are no consequences. There needs to be consequences. Maybe if you talked with them." He tells me I should make an appointment with S&B. I should hold a workshop on their site and explain the consequences of satitory rape.

"Our other issue Chief Gamedze, is WFP. They're pulling out- leaving schools with less and less food each year. They have given us 22 bags of maize for the entire year, for 450 students. We go through two bags in one day. The students aren't eating at home. Most rely on school for food. We need land. The umphagatsi has a lot of land, and you're close enough to the school we could easily transport the crops to the kitchen. The children have an agricultural class where they are required to maintain a garden. The children would maintain the land- plowing and harvesting it. SWADE has provided water, all we need is land." Chief responds, "You and Ms. Mketshwa are new to this school. Even your head teacher is new to the school. There is a plot of land across the street from the school. It used to be maintained but over the years no one has used it. It's there, but unfortunatey now it's in the bush and must be cleared. But it is for the school."

God Dammit! I'm so tired of the solutions being right under these people's noses. Children are starving and there's land right across the street. People need to start speaking out. Why am I the one requesting land for the school? Shouldn't the head teacher be doing something?

"And last, Ms. Mkhetswa and I are having an event at Madlheyna Primary school. She got World Vision to donate a tent and PA. We'll be having poetry, drama, and a march raising awareness on child abuse and AIDS. We would love it if you came." Chief Gamedze would love to...BUT.... he'll be in the Philippines in December. BUT he'll send someone to our little event. And it's the same story with many chiefs. Being a chief, a pastime to most. They're NEVER around. Homes in Mbabane, a vacation in Thailand, and a newphew to the king. Detached and uncaring.

LET ME BE THE CHIEF. PEOPLE ARE DYING.

Defeated, Dumile and I walk back to her place. "Looks like we're on our own." I say to her. We hug goodbye. I promise to keep in touch with her over the next ten days.

Nkiliji, close to Manzini, I stop by before heading off to the 10 day reunion. My first stop, as usual, the carp shop. I find the boys keeping warm around a fire, Mctosa is outside talking with someone in the rain. I take a seat. As I'm trying to explain to them what a marshmellow is, Mctosa walks up to me and whispers, "We need to talk." We go to sit in a private room next to the shop. He has a seat on the bed. I sit in a chair across from him. "Things are bad." He says. I can handle anything at this point. I'm ready. He stares at the ground.

"She's positive." I say nothing. "She is positive." He tells me again. I clinch my jaw, barely open my mouth, and mutter, "fucking window period." The mother of his newborn child had tested throughout pregnancy, as all Swazi women do, and was always negative. We weren't worried. We should have been.
"And him... your son?"
"We'll know in a month. He's had a fever for a while. His body is so hot."
We look at each other now. He whispers, "Yeah. Things are bad." His hands rested on his knees, his head looking down at the ground. I grab both hands and lean my head in. Forehead to forehead we look down at our hands. He exhales loudly and I feel a tear. But it's not mine this time.

I look hard at him, and like he once said to me, I tell him, "You need to remember your name. You are Mctosa Mtetwa. 'Strength'"
"Proud African" He whispers.
"Mcotsa, I have seen parents dying and leaving their children behind with aunts and gogo's. I've seen what these family members are doing to these kids. Only taking them in to use them as cattle- as slaves. You promise me, if something happens to both of you, you will KNOW, you will KNOW, you're leaving him with someone who will love him unconditionally. Every part of him. Promise me."
"I promise."
"Do you have someone you can trust?"
He smiles."The lady that sits before me. She calls herself Meredith Brooks, 'The Protector'."
" Mctosa you have to tell your girlfriend your status. She needs to know."
"Yeah, this week. She asked me to go test. She and I will go to the clinic and I will have the nurse tell her. I don't think I can. I can't say it out loud right now. I will ask the nurse to."

Next stop. Bongiwe. I find her at Sebe's homestead. Sebe, the teen mother and my good friend. Bongiwe with her new hair and new clothes- is bouncing around telling Sebe stories of wild parties she's been to. The boys. OH...and the boys. Sebe is holding her coughing child. Her hair is matted and a mess. Her clothes are torn and deep circles are swallowing her eyes whole. She stares off into the distance hurting inside, Bongiwe oblivious to it all. I ask to hold the baby. Her body squirms. Her tiny feet push hard against my hands as she tries to cough out whatever is inside her.
"How long has she been coughing like this Sebe?"
"Two weeks."
TWO WEEKS. My first thought naturally, TB. I urge her to go to the clinic.
I tell Sebe about the health club in my new village. I ask her if she would come and speak with the girls about being a teen mother and the challenges. She smiles big, honored that she can do something Bongiwe cannot. She agrees. Bongiwe shouts, "What about me!? I'll come talk to them." "What about you?" I ask. " You can explain to the class where you got those new clothes and the money for that hair. I taught them all about transactional sex- the 3 C's Bongiwe." Sebe tries hard not to laugh. "Simphiwe!" Bongiwe shouts.


That night I have one of the most lucid dreams I have ever had.

My feet are soaked in water, but I am safe in an old beat up motor boat. The white paint chipped off. I am safe though. We are safe, going far away from this place. The early fog still clinging to the dark ocean. I know this scene. It's the last scene in the film, "Children Of Men". I look down in my arms. A bundle of blankets and a tiny child crying inside. He's not mine. He's Mctosa's son. I turn around. Mctosa and his girlfriend stand on shore, hand in hand, waving goodbye to us. The forest behind blazes on fire. A storm without rain and lightening striking all around. With each strike, Mctosa and his lady in hand, turn to skeletal figures. A familiar voice inside the boat with me now. I turn back around. A man seated before me, his head wrapped in fog.

"What became of your lamb Simphiwe?" He whispers to me.
"What?"
"You still wake up sometimes, to the screaming of the lambs don't you? And you think if you can save just one, the screaming will stop?"
Silence.
"Look down Simphiwe. Vula emhelo."

The crying stops. I look down into my arms and the child is gone. Blood pours out of my stomach and the boat is filling up with water. He whispers again, "Vula emhelo."
Open your eyes.

I wake up.

The next day Mctosa and I go to Manzini to meet Dumile and discuss him working with the youth. We go to our usual restaurant. Away from the white faces and expensive "American" food. I pull out my bag and hand him the Life Stories of these children. After reading all of them as I inhale my food, he pulls his head up and asks,
"Is there lots of sugar cane in your village?"
"Yes."
"HIV is very high in the factories working with sugar cane. That's why these parents are dying."
He pulls one story out and says, "They aren't all sad Simphiwe. Read this one. This boy is living with a Gogo he likes and she's feeding him."

My home. Here where an eight year old child with no parents but is fed by his grandmother is considered "Lucky". Here where the abnormal becomes normal. Where the people are desensitized. The abused and the starving are not a priority. Here where the secretary to the chief tells me, "Simphiwe, I want to start a band. Can you get us instruments from the U.S.?" Where there is no food, no shelter, and instruments are asked for.

This is the ugly side of mankind and I don't know how to turn away. The nightmare is their waking life. I ask my friend who documented child soldiers in Uganda, "Why do we want to be punched in the face? Why do we do this to ourselves? Watching the horror?" He says to me, "You want to see all the ugly of this world before you die. You only live once. You want to see the horror."

I remember the Welcome to Swaziland DVD sent to us while still in the States. I remember the bubbily excited smiling PCV's explaining what they're doing in Swaziland. I had forgotten about the one not smiling. He sat and stared as they asked him questions. What happened to him? I ask Season 6 volunteers his story. They tell me, "He saw a lot. He did actual counseling with people who were HIV positive. He saw A LOT."

I need to be careful. I need to be effective. I cannot let the Mad World swallow me in. I want to expose myself to everything but I don't want to break down. I have to remember their Happy Stories. I ask Dumile,
"How do you do it? How do you not throw in the towel and say screw mankind?"
"I don't Simphiwe. I can't. It's not an option."

And I'm glad she hasn't.

The volunteer at Cabrini phones me today. "I think we can get Jabaliso out of there. We're going to go in and ask the grandfather if we can take her away. We'll get the rest of her story and hopefully press charges."

Maybe, because of us, Jabaliso can live up to her name. Jabaliso: Happiness.

And maybe one day, she'll smile again.

His Voodoo Magic

11/12/09

"Simphiwe, we must be strategic- we must be smart about this. Last time I tried to get these girls to talk to me- I failed. This old man is verrrry clever. We must be careful."

We arrive at their homestead. Sticks, mud, and stone hold this family together. Two babies wander naked. A young girl in dirty jeans and no top runs up to us- smiling. Not the greeting I was expecting. "This is Bhule." It means beautiful. Behind her stands a tall, lean girl standing in a doorway. She watches with her big brown sad eyes. "And this is Jaboliso." It means happiness. But she is anything but.

Bhule brings us a mat to sit on. We sit. Dumile asks them where they sleep at night. Bhule points to a small one roomed hut. "And where does Mkhulu sleep?" She points to the same one roomed hut. Bhule tells Dumile they share a mat with the old man. She asks them why don't they sleep in the empty hut behind us. She tells her that is where the mother died and they believe it to be cursed. Jaboliso says nothing. She is withdrawn she is scared. Dumile translates as I explain to them that I have asked other students to write me their sad stories. I give them examples of the abuse and the neglect. I hand them pen and paper. "I would like to hear your sad stories." Dumile and I sit and watch the two girls write down their sad stories. Bhule, still smiling, is writing quite a lot, but Jaboliso- she's stuck. Still on the first sentence and it's been ten minutes. Something's not right between these two girls. I could sense it even when we arrived.

Bhule doesn't want to write anymore. "It makes me sad." She wants she and Jaboliso to talk instead. I agree. "But separately." Jabaliso leaves while Bhule talks with us. In Siswati she describes how happy she is at home. In English she says, "I am happy here. I am comfortable." It's now Jaboliso's turn. Bhule goes to get her.
"Something's not right." Dumile whispers to me. "Those words are too big for her vocabulary. The Mkhulu must have put those words in her mouth. He's telling her what to say to people when they ask."

Jaboliso sits next to us, paper in hand. Her paper is full of writing now. She sits and stares at the ground- not making eye contact and hands Dumile her paper. Dumile reads her story. Jaboliso's eyes still focused on the ground. Dumile's eyes widen. She quickly folds the piece of paper and shoves it into my hand.
"Simphiwe, quick. Put this in your bag."
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"She's going to be victimized if we push any further- we must go." As we're getting up to leave Bhule comes running up. Dumile tells Bhule, "Jaboliso is going to walk us to the neighbor's house." The one who feeds them when there is no food. Bhule insists on coming too. "No Bhule. Stay." She tells her.

The three of us walk to the neighbors, Jaboliso walking behind- her eyes following the gravel road. We ask her if we take her somewhere private if she would finish her story- she agrees. We ask her if she wants to leave the homestead- she says yes. Dumile tells me, "Jaboliso spoke of taking care of her dying father. Her father is Mkhulu's son. She wrote about the maggots in his mouth that she would have to wipe away. When he was close to death he asked Mkhulu to take care of Jaboliso. Mkhulu promised he would treat her like his own and give her a good home. She writes that Mkhulu did not do this. She talks about Mkhulu chasing her mother away and leaving her behind. From the neighbors, I have heard that he chased her away because once his son died he tried to get Jaboliso's mother to sleep with him. She refused him and therefore was sent away. Jaboliso goes on to talk about Mkhulu forcing her to fetch water late at night. Her last two sentences she writes how he grabs her hands and forces her to kiss him. And then she writes..."don't trust Bhule."

We hear Bhule yelling and running towards us. "Bhule I told you to stay." Dumile yells. Bhule shakes her head no. The four of us now walk together in silence to visit the neighbor. When we arrive, we ask the two girls to wait at the entrance. I walk past Jaboliso and whisper, "Ngitawubuyala wena sisi." I'm coming back for YOU. Dumile, neighbor, and I huddle together and whisper. We think that maybe the Mkhulu is sleeping with Bhule too. "This is why he asks Jaboliso to fetch water at night." Bhule is straining to lean forward and hear our whispers. "And don't trust that one." The neighbor tells us of Bhule. "I think the Mkhulu is using her as a spy. To tell him if Jaboliso speaks to anyone. She reports everything back to him." I ask the neighbor how she knows what she knows. She points to her neighbor. "Jaboliso confided in that neighbor there. She is part of Lihlombe Lekukhalela- Shoulder To Cry On. These women are trained what to do when they hear stories of abuse." "And what did she do with this story of abuse?" I ask. "Nothing." "WHY!" I exclaim.

The neighbor yells to the two girls to go back home. Once they've gone she leans in and whispers to me.
"Umtsakatsi."
"What?"
Dumile pulls me aside. "Simphiwe, do they have witchcraft in America?"
"Oh you got to be kidding me!"
Neighbor leans in. "Simphiwe, people around here are scared of this Mkhulu. He does witchcraft. You should be careful. You might come home to a snake in your hut, or lightening might strike your hut down. We are afraid to get involved."
"Well you can blame the white girl." I say. "He can do his voodoo magic on me behind bars." Volunteers who have been here for over year- most have never even seen a snake. And there's a lightening rod on my homestead- I'm not worried.

The two women continue to talk in Siswati to each other. Im starring at the ground, making shapes with my feet in the sand. "Simphiwe...here he comes.. Simphiwe. Pretend to talk about food." The two women speak louder now....about food. Dumile and I had made a point to convince Bhule we are only here to find out what the homesteads in the area need. I am a volunteer trying to understand the food situation in this homestead and how many have died. The Mkhulu walks up to us. "Sanibonani." He says. We reply. My hands in my pocket trying desperately not to claw his face off. I grind my teeth hard. Mkhulu goes to shake our hands. Both women laugh and shake mine instead. They are afraid to shake his hand. I'm wondering if it's because of the whole witch rumor. He looks at me, his arm extended. I shake his hand hard. He asks Dumile why we were at his house talking to the children. Dumile tells him our made up story of food. As they talk amongst themselves Mkhulu looks hard at me. He pulls out an old shampoo bottle and sprinkles some sort of soil and herb into his hand. He separates it as he stares at me.

The conversation is over and Dumile and I are free to go.

"Did he buy it?" I ask Dumile.
"I think so."

Our next step is to contact the aunt who stays there sometimes. Dumile is convinced she will open up to us. We need Jaboliso to confide in the authorities. We need to figure out who these authorities are. But we also need to find a home for her. It isn't safe for Jaboliso to be there if Mkhulu knows what we are up to. We need to be careful and we need to be quick. Dumile and I take refuge from the midday sun inside a little shop. I call neighboring PCV who works at Cabrini. Cabrini- an orphanage and school set up by two American nuns. The reception is poor and I have limited airtime so I'm quickly throwing out what I need from this PCV. "I need you to contact the nuns. I need a safe place for one double orphan and possibly a single orphan. Mkhulu might be sexually molesting the children and I'm sure he's positive. Can they help us?" As I'm shouting out acronyms and peace corps jargon a South African walks into the shop. A huge smile on his face he asks for a coke. His upbeat attitude is inappropriate in my world right now. He walks by me. He stops and turns around. "It's you!" He shouts. "The little girl I see walking the streets everyday." I'm trying to listen to PCV on the other end tell me what she needs from me before Cabrini can act. "I see you all over and I tell myself- this girl...she's not just anyone. She's with something..something BIG."

"WHAT!?" I ask.
"Who are you with?"
"Peace Corps."
He says ok and goes to leave. He shouts one last thing to me but I don't hear. I continue my conversation. I feel a hand on my shoulder. He's standing right next to me now. "I said, take care of yourself ok kid?"

PCV talks with the nuns and she thinks they can send someone from Cabrini to talk with Jaboliso during school Monday. Dumile and I have tracked down the aunt and the three of us agree to meet in Manzini and talk. "But we need to talk to the chief Dumile." Dumile tells me we need to talk to him WITHOUT the inner council. "They are corrupt and won't let us talk to him. We have to get at him without them knowing." She calls the sister to the chief who convinces him to meet with us tomorrow morning. "We will tell him EVERYTHING." I say.

I return home. By the heat I know it's noon, but my body tells me it's evening... time to sleep. I pour myself a nice cold bucket bath. I take off my skirt and top. Only in my undies now I step into the bucket. I look up. And there, in my hut...is a large bright green...snake. I run outside, trip and fall to the ground. In the middle of my homestead, in my skimpies, I sit and remember:

"Simphiwe be careful, you might find a snake in your hut or lightening might strike your hut down."