"The Ubuntu Club"

3/12/2010

"Why is HIV so high in Swaziland?" I ask my students. "This tiny country carries the world's...THE WORLD'S.. highest HIV rate. Why?"

A brave one raises her hand. "I think it is because of poverty."
"Yes. Good answer. I'm sure that has A LOT to do with it. But why then do other poor African countries, some poorer than Swaziland, carry such a small HIV rate? What is happening here?"

They scratch their heads and think. I jump down to the ground and give them their five promised push ups. My ploy in getting the sheep to speak out. I challenge the boys in my class who can do the most push ups in one minute. "If by the end of the school term I can beat him in push ups I will throw all of you a party. But you have to help me get there. I need practice. The more push ups I do the more likely I'll win and the more likely you'll get a party." They think I'm nuts, but agree to play along.

People ask me, "What happened in Uganda?" Uganda once carried the highest HIV rate and in a matter of just a few years it dropped significantly low. 60% lower. They ask me how did THEY do it.

"During the early 2000's, many AIDS experts traveled to Uganda to try to find out why the HIV rate there had fallen. Billions of dollars in funding for global AIDS programs were at stake, and the question soon became mired in controversy. Most public health officials attributed it to government commitment and condom programs. Evangelical Christians attributed it to abstinence programs in schools and churches. World Health Organization officials attributed it to new bureaucratic structures designed by WHO consultants, and so on. While all of those factors certainly mattered, they didn't seem to fully explain the decline, and eventually I would draw my own conclusions."

Writes Helen Epstein, author of The Invisible Cure. I continue to read Helen's words, with my injured foot, stuck in Mbabane, the capital of Swaziland, for a week. I'm on the edge of my seat asking myself: WHAT IS THIS INVISIBLE CURE?! I had no idea then but Helen's findings on pages 160 to 167 would shake my little Peace Corps soul to the core.

"It seemed to me that what mattered most was something for which public health experts had no name or program for. It was something like "collective efficacy."

AND THERE YOU HAVE IT. Helen had found the invisible cure. "...the ability of people to join together and help one another." I had just recently read an interview with South Africa's Archbishop, Desmond Tutu, on what he called, "Ubuntu". A person is a person through other people. Interconnectedness. Communal Harmony. So then what am I doing here Helen...Desmond? How do I teach Ubuntu?

Just seven pages had me so angry. It got me thinking. What am I doing here? Volunteers are teaching in a country where their students ask them, "Which country does America get its food from for free?" Where the abnormal becomes normal. As I'm writing you these words, SWAGAA has called me. "Simphiwe, we have a donor. A woman from America. She wants to help. She has asked for a child with no parents who needs help with school fees." I think of Thuli. "We thought you would know someone who needs this kind of help." I tell her I know someone. SWAGAA and I talk. Thuli's fees will be paid for. But not by her remaining family members. Not by her aunt who has only left Thuli with a scar above her left eye and taken EVERYTHING, including her two little brothers, from her. Don't worry Thuli, this ones on America, a complete stranger, because your family doesn't know Ubuntu. How do I teach them this? Where is their sense of compassion?

I'm angry. I'm pissed off.

Lets get back to Uganda. I mean they did it. How. People ask. How. How did Uganda beat AIDS. "During the 1980s and early 1990s, while people in most African countries were ignoring the AIDS crisis, hundreds of tiny community based AIDS groups sprang up throughout Uganda to comfort the sick, care for orphans, warn people about the dangers of casual sex, and address the particular vulnerability of women and girls to infection. World Health Organizations provided funding, but much also came from the pockets of the poor themselves. Their compassion and hard work brought the disease into the open, got people talking about the epidemic, reduced AIDS related stigma and denial, and led to a profound shift in sexual norms. The process was very African. The Uganda response to AIDS was vastly different from that taken in southern Africa. However, people in southern Africa have the capacity to respond to AIDS just as Ugandans did, and governments and foreign-aid programs can support them. However, they can sometimes undermine them."

So why can't Swazis do this? Why can't they ban together?

Swaziland does not know war. Because of the Apartheid, millions of South African parents were forced to abandon their children with their own parents, aunts, and uncles in the rural areas to search for work in the city. This left children vulnerable to the abuse neglect and exploitation of their extended family members. This then turned them into the hardened adults of today. This tiny country offers no jobs. Families are uprooted. Family members are shifted around while the healthy go look for work in South Africa. This causes a lack of communication and a loss of a sense of community. And maybe, just maybe, all this is not their fault. This lack of communal harmony may not be their fault. This is what keeps me here. Helen goes on to statistically prove that countries that have experienced war, or are currently enduring warfare, have a much lower rate of HIV infection. Could this be that warfare shocks the hearts of the people and encourages the Ubuntu way? Is this what this country needs?

"The open discussions led by government field workers and in small groups of women and churchgoers, the compassionate work of the home-based care volunteers, the courage and strength of the women's rights activists--helped people see AIDS not as a disease spread by disreputable high risk groups or 'others' but as a shared calamity affecting everyone. Behavior change then became a matter of common sense. IT IS A SPIRIT THAT FLOURISHES WHEN PEOPLE COME TOGETHER TO FACE A COMMON THREAT. IT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT CAN BE PACKAGED AND PAID FOR AND THEN SHIPPED AROUND THE WORLD."

So when my students tell me HIV is the highest in Swaziland because of poverty; I must teach them the facts, I must teach them "Ubuntu".

In 2003 the HIV rate in Botswana was six times higher than in Uganda- a much poorer country. Botswana did not talk about AIDS. Botswana had all the packaged elements though. It had the condoms, the testing centers, the things paid for by outside help. "Uganda's campaigns built upon the personalized, informal, intimate, contingent, reciprocal nature of African society, while Botswana mainly focused on mass media campaigns, the distribution of condoms and other commodities, and HOSPITAL based services. These services failed to stir the nations conscience. HIV was everyone's problem."

"Development is good, but we have to ensure we don't lose the ability to care for one another. Down the line, we will realize that development is not only about how good your infrastructure is; it's also about the heart."

I sit on these words with my right foot elevated and iced. "It's not something that can be packaged and paid for and then shipped around the world." I feel like such a commodity. Was Helen referring to us? I have to give them something more than just a library- I have to give them fire, inspiration. I have to teach them ubuntu.

Torn ligaments. Mbabane for a week. I stay at a nice cozy bed and breakfast with other Peace Corps Volunteers. Between us we have: torn ligaments, scorpion bites, ulcers, and parasites. At first I find anxiety in this world of toilets, tvs, cafes, and just another white person in the city. Here I am no one. But now I'm finding comfort in this place. Which I know will make it harder to go back to site. The longer a PCV stays away from site the harder it is to go back. You hear the story of the volunteer who had just a few months left of service. He goes to spend a few weeks in Spain before being tied down to his site for the next two months. He never comes back. It's easier to forget the outside world and live in your routine roundavel hut surrounded by the Sawbonas and Unjanis. Naked in a crowd. You have to forget. You have to forget your old comforts and make new ones.

While in Mbabane, I visit a friend I had made from the Baylor Camp. She is one of the Swazi camp counselors: Thembi. She's been in the hospital for weeks and would not tell me over the phone why. I'm afraid its domestic abuse. Last time I was in town she was walking around with egg yolks in her hair. His retaliation to her accusations. She feared he was cheating on her. I find her at work behind her desk. We embrace and go for a walk. She shows me pictures of her swollen discolored face in the hospital. "I looked through his cell phone to see who he had been texting. So he got angry." She tells me he's moved out for now. She grabs my arm. "Meredith I think I'm pregnant. We were trying for a baby before this all happened. And now I'm two weeks late." She's been too afraid to take a test. We pace outside the pharmacy. Back and forth, back and forth. "I can't go in there. I can't." She says. I walk in and buy two tests. "We'll do it together." I assure her.

One shared carton of Lichi Juice later, we sit on our seperate toilets. Stalls apart...worlds apart. For her, this will be the longest minute of her life. I sit tapping my feet. A flash of some weird adult feeling creeps inside me. A life I am not ready for. Delaying as long as I can, ignoring that clock that just gets louder and louder with age and my nagging mother, "I want grandbabies!" You're never completely carefree when you pee on that stick. Doesn't matter how much sex you're NOT having. Your heart always stops for a split second as you stare at the stick and quickly grab the box again fumbling with the instructions that you ve read and re read over and over again. One line is good? Two lines....is that TWO LINES? OH SHIT..WHAT?...No..ok..exhale. She slides her stick under my bathroom stall. "I can't look Meredith. What does it say?"

I step out of the stall, her stick in hand. A co worker walks in. We quickly hide the evidence behind our backs. "Sawbona Ma?" "Unjani Sisi?" "Ngiyaphilia Ma." OK. She's gone. Thembi stands in front of me. "Well?" She asks. "You're pregnant Thembi." She puts one hand on her belly and slides down the wall to the floor, tears in her eyes. She won't look at me. Her head tilts to the side as tears collect in her eyes. I sit next to her holding her hands.

"I'll be right here with you no matter what you choose to do." I assure her.
"What I choose to do? I don't have a choice Meredith. This isn't America. This is Swaziland. It's illegal here. I could get ten years in jail. No. I HAVE to do this now."
We continue to sit holding each other. We both know this baby, this lump of cells, is going to bind her to this man. This will be his and so will she.

I return to the bed and breakfast. Another tragedy. Another solution out of my volunteer reach. Silly little white girl. The owner of the bed & breakfast asks if me and the other volunteers wouldn't mind sharing dinner with two new guests of hers tonight. "They are doing work like you. They are working for an NGO." She beings to pull out her fancy dinner plates and fancy wine glasses. It won't be cheeseburgers tonight. No. The VIPS are here and they've asked to dine with US.

We are moved from the kiddy table.

A woman and man take the heads of the table. My twenty something year old brain tells me they are over their mid thirties so I cannot compute their age. After the mid thirties it all seems to run together for a mid twenty year old. Red wine tonight. I inhale my food and watch as the adults eat.

The woman is Shantha, working with UNICEF. The man seems to just be along for the ride. They aren't married. They have a wife and a husband back home with their kids. She is living in the US and he is South African. Today they were shown what it was like "out there". They visited a community some what close to where I stay. "We saw such horrific things." They tell us. We explain what it is we do. We explain what it is we have seen. They seem very interested in...us. Shantha points at the man. "THIS ONE, he is an AMAZING photographer. He's done some amazing work. He wrote a book...." She talks as he humbly keeps his head down chuckling. "Can we find it on Amazon?" I joke.

"It's called The Bang Bang Club." She tells us. "Wait a minute!" PCV shouts. "My friend is reading that book right now." She texts her friend who immediately calls back, "You are eating dinner with the author of The Bang Bang Club?! He's kind of a big deal!"

Greg Marinovich is his name. Greg is one of two surviving members of the four photographers that were part of The Bang Bang Club. Called this by the South African Government because of the high risk situations they put themselves in in order to capture amazing photographs during the apartheid between 1990 and 1994. It was Kevin, Greg, Ken, and Joao. In 1994, crossfire kills Ken and seriously injures Greg (shot three times). The book was later written by Greg and Joao. They describe the difficulties of how far one person can and should go to capture an image for others to see. Kevin goes on to take a world famous photograph of a starving Sudanese boy being stalked by a large vulture. He wins a Pulitzer Prize for it but later commits suicide. Greg also received a Pulitzer for his photography. His book was turned into a South African documentary and now, 2010, is going Hollywood. Ryan Philippe will be playing Greg.

I, of course, have excused myself from the table and am in the bathroom googling Greg's life through my little internet phone. I come back to the table and take a seat....speechless...for once. "What do you want to do after Peace Corps?" He asks me. "Ahh..." The famous Greg Marinovich, Pulitzer Prize winner, author, shot three times, has seen death and more, going to be played by the gorgeous Ryan Philippe is asking ME what do I want to be when I grow up?! "Ahh....There's life after this?" I laugh. "It sounds silly. It sounds like common sense at this point, but I want to teach people how to treat each other. I think it would be fun to create a nationwide curriculum for American children. It's ridiculous we're taught algebra. EVERYONE is taught fucking algebra but never are we taught how to treat each other. Something Montessori like. The Scandinavians, I'm sure, have got it figured out. They're always one step ahead. Or maybe I'll just do like everyone else...go back to school." Peace Corps, a two year long study hall. A two year prep for taking the GRE MCAT LSTAT. He asks us what we studied. "Psychology, Art, Environmental Science." "Sociology and chose Kiswahili as my language. Which got me a swat over the head and my dad yelling, 'Be practical you twit! Spanish...social work!" "Your dad's a lawyer? A doctor?" He asks. "Public relations actually."

Greg asks about the Peace Corps. We spend hours explaining to him what it's like to work for the US government. The papers you have to sign the promises you have to make. The only benefit is the benefits. "Wait a minute. You have to sign something saying that you will ALWAYS use condoms?! You could get kicked out for not?!" He shrieks. We laugh. "AND you have to take antimalria drugs for TWO YEARS!? That's insane!" We ask, "So if my PCMO asks why I have stopped taking my antimalaria pills I can just tell her dude with a Pulitzer told me it was INSANE to continue taking them?"

I think about the reports we have to write for the government. Counting children. Volunteer Report Files. Don't worry...we're spending PEPFARs money wisely. The government wants numbers. How many children have you helped?!

Peace Corps: Numbers, Rules, Files

"So much regulation, so many rules." He continues. (I would say more but as a Peace Corps Volunteer our words are monitored and checked. Which is ironic that I'm mentioning this now. I should emphasize, US embassy, I am still taking my doxy.)

We have a good time with Shantha and Greg. The next day they leave and it's time for me to go back to site. The anxiety creeps up. I sit out by the road waiting for a kombi to pass. A van pulls over with Greg and Shantha inside. "Hop in." He and the Swazis who visited some homesteads the previous day are discussing what they saw. "A young girl living with an uncle sexually molesting her. She got out of that homestead but is now living with her older sister." Shantha explains. "Hardly adequate accommodations." Greg replies. The Mbabane Swazis nod their head in agreement. Mbabane Swazis, like these, might as well be living in South Africa or America. They have no idea, that this sad story has a happy ending. This young girl is still with family. Has been taken in by family. Is not living under a tree eating garabage. Sleeping with older men for food and security. This girl has a chance because of a family member. To me, this is rare.

They look at me. "These are my neighbors." I tell them. I tell my sad stories. I tell them about Nonjaboliso and her grandfather and Bhule and Thuli and all the others whose names I no longer remember. Kevin was given a Pulitzer for his world famous photograph of a Sudanese boy being stalked by a vulture. Here we don't have vultures stalking our children. We have humans. Their family members preying on the orphans left behind- turning them to slaves. We have dogs. A two year old boy left to die outside an abandoned homesetead was found just as a pack of dogs were surrounding him. PEOPLE left him to die. Our people are our vultures. The people who break into the homes of orphaned children with no security and steal all their food. Who rape our young girls.

Here, WE are the vultures.

On my way back to Manzini now. Back to the filth and grime. The old man pissing in the street. The legless people dragging their bodies across the piss and filth covered roads, hands outstretched begging. That complicated human smell I once found so comforting. No more crystal glass filled with wine. No more talk of how horrible it is "out there".

I'm there. I'm here. I'm home.

I get a call from my neighbor PCV. His voice is shaking. "Someone I knew." He tells me. "Was receiving help from Save the Children. They noticed he was loosing lots of weight. They think he found out he was positive. He hung himself last night."
"Oh god. I'm so sorry." I interject. He continues, " I went with Save the Children to his house. Mere his body was still hanging from the rope." He pauses and exhales. "I've seen corpses before Mere. (His family...all in the medical field) But I've never seen a BODY. There's a big difference between a corpse and a body. Hanging there and then cut down. His hand. I've shaken that hand before." I can hear him trembling. "I'm on my way home. Just hang on. I'll be there soon." I tell him.

The kombi can't get there fast enough. I fidget, shaking my foot up and down. It's Sunday morning which means the the drunks from last night are still drunk. I hear them yelling in the back of the kombi. I sit amongst the other women starring straight ahead. I hear the shouting stop and then gasping. They have spotted me. Two of them grab empty seats behind me and an elderly woman. They shout loudly amongst themselves, "I like a white pussy!" They gurgle. "I don't like a black one..loose and a forest. A white pussy has money and it is so tight!" They laugh. None of the sober men in the front say anything to these loose cannons. The women stay looking forward, unphased. It's incredible the things you being to tolerate the longer you're here. You become THEM. The silent. The accommodating. The submissive. They grab the woman's shoulder next to me and spray their drunken filth on her. "I want to fuck Obama's wife's pussy!" His friend interjects, "Wait. She's black!" The other one laughs, "OK then. I want to fuck Bush's wife's bush! Ha ha ha!" They continue to grab the woman next to me. It's incredible what OTHER people begin to tolerate the longer they are here.

I stand and turn, "I feel sorry for these Swazi women. All they have to choose from are you Swazi men: Twiddle Dumb and Twiddle Dumber!"
"Hello white pussy! I AM a man!"
"You are an embarrassment. I hope you never reproduce."
One of the men stands face to face with me now. I stare at the pool of spit resting on his large lower lip. Disgusted.
"You know it's unfortunate. The fastest way to Heaven is only through Death. We're stuck here until then."
The kombi stops and we are here. One tries to touch my cheek as they climb out. "Take care of your tight pussy, neh?" They laugh and leave. An old gogo grabs my arm as she climbs over me. "Mandla Sisi. Mandla."

One more kombi ride to go. I'm almost there. A packed kombi yelling: Umlungu! Greets me. "No no no....I am Simphiwe." I correct them. I sit next to a woman with an infant in her arms. She burps her drunken, slurred words all over me. "Sisi, umlungu...Ngicela...Ngicela umlungu," She is asking me to feed her child. I look down at her baby. The drunken woman's sagging wrinkled breast flops on top of her baby's tiny head. Her unloved body. Wrinkled and puckered: elephant like. dried apricots. Her baby: Bone thin. The skin sagging off every limb. The light brown hairs and bloated belly indicates she is iron deficient and malnourished. The mother takes her two fingers and wraps them around the child's upper arm. Her baby won't live long. For twenty minutes she begs me, in SiSwati, to give her money to feed her dying baby. She begs me with every drunken breath. I clinch my face hard and try to stay focused on something outside..holding the tears back. That familiar lump in my throat, I search for something pleasant in this mess. But this is home.

Then I feel something light and soft brush my arm. Her baby looks up at me. I'm surprised. She is smiling....at me. Instead of crying in horror, like most infants, at something that, to them, looks like someone turned inside out..this baby is smiling..no laughing at me. She grabs my finger hard and smiles big. But you're dying..I think. I tell her I'm sorry. You were born in the wrong country baby. Hang on. Just hang on.

"When the Americans come, we sing, we dance, they take our picture, and they go back and show everyone how they are helping the poor black people. But then all they do is hijack our projects and count our children."

Peace Corps. Rules. Numbers. Files. How many children have I helped. I don't know. I so long to be apart of Greg's "Club". To see the horror and tragedy without the files rules and regulations and my constant concern IS MY WORK SUSTAINABLE?! I so long to capture the horrors of this world, risk my life, and show those back home what it is like "out there". I asked Greg, "How do you do it? How do you manage the two dreams? Family and adventure. Travel and home." He tells me, "You've got to find someone who's down for the ride. Who will do it with you. You take turns with the family part and the adventure part." His parting words to us volunteers," Always use condoms!" He laughs. "Don't quit. Don't you DARE quit. Stay for the two years, or you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Sometimes I wish I could be a journalist or a photographer. Stay behind that expensive glass. The published pen and paper. Just a little more detached from it all. Show you what is happening OUT THERE. Let YOU decide what to do with it all and how to feel about it.

But I'm not. I'm a VOLUNTEER. It's up to me. It's up to us. Yes. Every three months we count those we've "helped". Yes. We write reports for the government. Yes. Sometimes our "help" comes down to the material worth: a library, a bore hole, school supplies.

But we are volunteers. We ARE Ubuntu. And all we can do is show them that.

"Show them who YOU are...and you can change the world."

"It Takes A Queen To Notice A Queen"

3/13/10

Thuli: A girl in one of my classes, 16 and a neighbor to my homestead. My student, my neighbor, and now my friend.

I invite her over for dinner. We sit on the floor of my hut eating our beans and rice. "What happened?" I ask as I place my finger on a puffy scar along her right temple. She looks down. "When my parents died I was ten. It was just myself and my two younger brothers and all of our parent's belongings. People, strangers to us, started coming to our home and taking our things. My aunti comes over one night taking EVERYTHING. I began to make a fuss about it. She took a large piece of wood and smacks me over the head with it. I fall to the floor...I wake up to her children splashing cold water over my face. My aunti took my two younger brothers. She didn't want me but left me on her homestead where I live now. She has another home where she works and visits this one on weekends. When she's home she locks me outside."
"Why does she allow you to stay in her home here?" I ask.
"I'm a security guard. During the week she needs someone to watch the house."
"Does she feed you?"
"No."
"Where do you get food?"
"Save the Children gives me a bag of millie meal every month. But I want to tell you a secret. Im a born again Christian now Simphiwe. I have an older boyfriend. He's very kind to me. He gives me food when I ask. We have sex...." She looks down, embarrassed. "Im a Christian now and I don't want to sleep with him anymore. But I'm afraid...he won't give me food if I stop."
I tell her I'll speak with SWAGAA. "There are other ways Thuli. You don't have to sleep with him."
"How do you do it?" She asks me.
"Do what?" I ask.
"You are strong. You tell us about transactional sex....you tell us there are other ways. You are old...you don't have anyone. But you are always smiling."

I think. I'm relieved. She has no idea about the mess inside my chest. Tangled feelings. Preaching to girls about independence when I find solitude to be so difficult. Trying hard to forget the past. The past: You think things are settled and then suddenly they come alive. A familiar sound, a smell...His mannerisms on someone else's face. The things he would like behind a store window. Sitting, waiting for him to discover them- without my help now. I have these feelings, useless and heavy, and I don't want to get rid of them just yet. Weakness. I'm smiling, but I'm not strong.

No more shoe-boxes full of memories you can just slide under your bed. Facebook: a slap in the face....the bearer of bad news. I sit in front of the computer. His Relationship Status: ENGAGED. I settle into this ever constant feeling: sorrow. I pick apart its pieces. I get comfortable with it. I am trying to empower young girls. I am trying to empower myself. I remember once being reduced to the touch of him. I remember everything I ever did for a man. His ideas, his beliefs, his family, his life. It's not just these African girls. It's every woman.

I'm a hypocrite. Who am I? 26 asking myself this question. My life, since 15, has been interrupted. My ideas, my beliefs, my family, MY life. And I still want to go back, to a place I can find him: Indiana. But in waking life and in my dreams I know, he is never coming back. I'm feeling a door shut inside me. A lock turning. Not just on him but everything we liked. The wheel is making a complete turn, a realization. He is gone for good. And I must be happy with this. I have faith time will work its slow erosion on me just as it has always done. But for now...there's comfort in memory. Weakness. My secret.

To them: I'm 26, alone, and smiling.

I promise Thuli to talk to SWAGAA. I hand her eggs, onions, cans of tuna, mustard...she squishes her face together. "OK..I'll keep the mustard."
"Come back when you're hungry. Remember, there are options Thuli." We hug goodnight.

A week later, I injure my foot and am sent to Mbabane. The doctor tells me I have to stay in town for physical therapy. The radiologist looks at my foot x rays. I stand next to her. "They look fine to me..can I go back to site now?" She laughs, "You were a dancer weren't you?" I tell her yes. "Let me show you a NORMAL foot x ray." The normal and abnormal hang in front of us. "Oh Jesus." I gasp. PCMO wants me to stay at a certain backpackers. I protest, "That place is a giant frat house....it's Friday. Please put me somewhere else." This backpackers is the cheapest. Doctor insists I try it out for tonight. I reluctantly go.

I arrive. Apparently the kids here are filming a movie that I'm sure only Youtube will ever see. Girls from Finland (Finland provides a lot of volunteers to teach HIV prevention in schools here in Swaziland) and boys from Italy gather around outside to the thumping music by the pool. Cane juice and Akon. Tall Finish blondes...nothing but legs and short skirts. Suave Italian men, hair slicked back, smoking cigarettes like the movies. The butt end buried deep in between index and middle finger. I have a seat at a table and watch the sex circus around me. A Swazi man sits next to me, his long dreads are pulled back. He comes from money. Family works with the UN. He's international. He calls himself Phumi. Phumi talks and I half listen. I'm distracted. I can't take my eyes off a certain woman. She stands tall, the wind blowing the thin fabric wrapped around her body. A beautiful afro and large earrings. Milky skin. The worker bees swarm around their Queen as she laughs- spouting Shakespeare to the sheep. I'm in love. And I'm caught. She notices my stare.

She walks over and places her hand on my shoulder, leans down close to my right ear- her afro barely brushing my face- and whispers, “It takes a Queen to notice a Queen.”

I’m not really sure what to say. I try to follow with equal grace and confidence. Just as I have noticed her, she has noticed me. The words tumble out of my mouth, “I, ah, was just admiring you. Everyone seems to just gravitate to you.” She takes a seat next to me. She says nothing as she pulls out a cigarette leaning her head to the side and lighting it with one eye closed. I’m Bond- James Bond- and I’ve discovered my sexy heroin. She inhales deep, exhales and glides the tip of her tongue across her lips- preparing for the introduction.

“I’m Tonya.”

Tonya. Thirty years old. Her father German, her mother Swazi. Tonya. Previous owner of Café Lingo- a very hip very Western restaurant with Jazz night on Fridays. Panera Bread with attitude and sexy outdoor seating. I sip my boxed wine out of a Dixie Cup as she speaks. I’m an impostor. Doesn't she know?
“And you are?” She asks. Cigarette finished- she holds her crystal of sparkling shimmering wine now. How did I escape the kiddy table? I like it here.
“They call me Simphiwe.” I say.
“And what do you call yourself?”
“Meredith.”
“Well Meredith, I hope you know who YOU are.”
“I’m confused. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I don’t see Meredith. I see Simphiwe. These fake braids…the skirt and scarf. Where are YOU in there?”
I’ve been caught. I knew I didn’t belong here…pretending
“I want to see YOU.”
“I don’t know anymore.” I say.

The Finish Females, the short sexy skirts buzz around us. Like the bull frogs, the insects, the night life- “I’m here…fuck me.” They call out. The Italian men….drunk…listen to their bodies- their calls.

But it’s my African Queen I’m interested in. My constant Swazi shadow- Phumi- is getting annoyed with my lack of attention on him. One of the drunk short skirts, trips and falls, the men are quick to help her up. I burst out laughing. Her fuck me calls… now ruined.
“Ah. There you are.” Queen says to me.
Confusion on my face.
“That laugh. Abrupt and bursting….and sometimes- unforgiving. THAT is YOU.”
I rest my head on my knees, fetal position, and listen.
“Even the way you sit…is YOU. It’s the outside I’m having trouble believing. But I see you now.”

She leans back gliding her index finger across the lip of her crystal glass. She wants silence. She wants me to think about her words. I look up at the night sky. The clouds are breaking- illuminated by the full moon. Cities and continents – stars and clouds. The natural night life is coming alive. The bats play above our heads. And who are YOU I wonder…tell me your secrets. It’s midnight- pre party over. My shadow pulls on my arm…. “Asembe.” “Lets go! Lets go!” He wants me to follow the short skirts to another house party. “I’m OK here.” I say. My Queen agrees, “I think I’ll stay too.”

Defeat. Swazi dreads sighs heavily and takes a seat next to me. I urge him to go and have fun but he doesn’t listen. A stubborn one. The short skirts and Italian men, dumb and dumber, make sure to kiss the Queen on each cheek before they leave. “Goodnight Love.” She says to each bee. No one kisses my cheek, no one notices me. I’m an impostor. With my fake hair and mustard stained attire…I’m America…just America. Not a mixture of anything. Not a little bit of this and a little bit of that…making a fancy blue cosmopolitan. Budweiser. I’m just Budweiser.

Our love triangle stays seated.

I tell her my stories…my time in Swaziland. I make her laugh. I make her tear. She is a city girl with a rural heart. Two hearts. German and Swazi…a beautiful blue Cosmo.

“You know Meredith. I am dating a Spaniard right now.” I like how she says right now…at any moment this powerful woman could easily be dating someone else..could have anyone. “You know, I love him. And I would never allow him to date another while dating me. But as strong and confident as I seem…if I were to marry a Swazi man, I would be OK with him taking on another wife. You would find me covering my mouth and looking down as I speak to him….like you do the girls in your class.”

Defeat. She sees the shock and horror in my face. She too, with that tangled mess in her heart. Her secret- like mine- weakness. Every woman: conditioned.

“It’s our way Meredith and you can’t change that.”
“But it doesn’t have to be YOUR WAY…it can change.” I plead.
She smiles at me as though I were some puppy with her favorite pair of shoes in my mouth. So cute- but so wrong. “No Meredith.” She lowers her voice. “That is where you are wrong. You can dance around these children and demand they look you in the eyes and demand confidence- but you’re not going to change anyone. You are here to TEACH not CHANGE people. You must realize, those are two different things."

Im 15 years old. My first boyfriend:The troubled kid in class. Smokes cigarettes, drinks…broken home. Abusive parents. Of course, I’m attracted to him. I do his homework …I try to show him what it’s like to be loved. I’m standing in the kitchen, my step mom is chopping onions. “I’m worried about you Meredith. This boyfriend of yours. He has a lot of problems and you can’t get involved.” She warns me. “But I can help him. I can change him.” I plead. She reminds me of her first husband. “I was like you too. I thought I could change Bob. You can’t change people Meredith. Only yourself.” My step mother, a counselor, telling me you can’t change people. This angered me. Until recently, I refused to accept such heart-breaking advice.

What the hell are we doing here.

“This one’s too hard headed Tonya. Don’t waste your time with her.” Phumi mumbles.
Tears collect in my eyes. “I’m a child in your world. I’m learning.”
Tonya smiles, “Just yesterday, I was a child. My car was being repossessed by the police. I found myself pleading with them on the side of the road. People were starring. But the police weren’t going to listen. My car was being taken away. And it was my fault. So you know what I did? In public, I, a Swazi woman, pull out a cigarette. I lean my back against the side of a building and ask the policeman for a light. I stood there smiling. I gave up caring who saw…proud to be a child again…learning another lesson.”

She looks down and tears begin to fill her eyes.

“Meredith. You’ve got to sit back and enjoy this ride. You can’t get caught up in trying to change people. Keep dancing and pushing them. You got it girl.” She smiles. “Show them who YOU are and so many will follow.” Her tears come back. “Show them who you are…and you can change the world.” I swallow hard trying not to cry. I don't think it was just me she was trying to convince tonight.Swazi dreads shrugs, “Ah, you can’t change this one- she’s just here to help us poor Africans who can’t help ourselves…like the rest.” Tonya grabs my arm, “This one’s important Phumi. I know it.”

It’s three in the morning. She stands to go. “I know we’ll see each other again Meredith.” I walk her to the door. "Put this one to bed...he's too drunk." She points to Phumi. He helps her with her jacket.

“You’ve touched me. You’ve made me feel like a Queen..." I tell her."I’m so inspired.”
“And that’s what you’ve got to do for our African girls Meredith. Show them, they too, are queens.”
We hug goodbye. She holds me hard. Don’t leave me with these toddlers. Face to face now. She holds the right side of my face with one hand. “Show them who you are….and they will follow.”

And then…my African Queen….was gone.

I stand alone with Phumi now by my side. He sighs, "Well...now what?" He asks. "I'm not sleeping with you." I say, and walk away. The insects the bull frogs the confused twenty something year olds. Again, I go unnoticed.

“It takes a Queen to notice a Queen.” I stand in the bathroom…my reflection in front of me. I grab a handful of braided extensions…Show them who you are……and I begin to cut.

"I've never been so alone. But I've never been so alive."

Utsi Umlungu: The White Person Says

3/3/10


Today


"Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you...." A three year old runs pass me laughing these fun words at me. He has no idea what they mean, only that it makes white people angry. I continue walking to my steash (bus stop), an eight year old walks pass with an empty bottle of Castle beer. I ask him, "You drank that?" He glares hard, throws his hands in the air P Diddy style and yells, "WHAT!" Thrusting his chest forward. A car in the middle of the dirt road....slowly inching its way to the right... starts and stops starts and stops. What is going on. Inside, a child, his head barely over the steering wheel, a look of horror on his face....struggles to drive this car. No one else inside with him.

Americans: most with their gradual introductions to the adult world: slumber parties,prom, movie ratings, a driver's permit, college. An introduction to the adult culture- a gradual shift from the kiddy table. Swazis: thrown out of childhood, kicked out..no time. All at once into this bare place where nothing was prepared for them. The reality: Birth, Suffering, Death.

They're running the show now. Who's going to stop them.

I wait with the school girls in uniform for a bus to drive pass or a willing truck driver. High pitch screaming is to our left now. A woman is beating a crying young boy. He runs free from her grip. She follows with rocks in hand. The girls are laughing as the boy runs pass us sobbing. The mother follows, stern. She sees me, an outsider, and laughs. She greets, "Unjani Gamadze?" I cross my arms and glare back. I mumble, "Ngiyaphilia." She continues to laugh. The whites don't understand our ways she thinks. And she's right. Violence with Violence- they're running the show now.

Today I'm teaching a quick lesson on STI's HIV and condoms to seventh graders. These kids are anywhere from 12 to 16 years old. The headteacher wants me to give my lesson to all her classes. I tell her I need a translator. "Sisi, these children are supposed to learn English- how can they do that if we are teaching them in Siswati?" I explain I am only asking one subject...one lesson.. be taught in Siswati. "It's important Head Teacher." She talks Babe Sviso into translating for me. He, of course, doesn't want to. He would rather sit in the staff room doing...nothing.

Babe Sviso, a character..a jokester....a clown. In his mid 40's, shorter than I, pot bellied and a mustache.. a clown. He's got the energy and enthusiasm of a five year old and I fear, like most male teachers, he will undermine me in front of the children. I begin to teach, Babe Jokester, at my side.

"Utsi umlungu." ...The white person is saying....He says before translating my words to the children. I let this go on for about twenty minutes. Then finally, I break. "Ngiva!" "I know what you're saying." The teacher hesitates unsure what to say, "Ah....we can talk about it after class." "No. You need to say, 'Utsi SIMPHIWE.'" He laughs. But he listens. I end my lecture emphasizing that these children can come to me about ANYTHING. "I live close to here. If you see me walking along the street, please stop and ask me anything. I love questions and I hope to get to know all of you. I know many of you are struggling and I hope I can help you get the help you need." After this I want to make one thing clear. "No one really knows where HIV came from. Unfortunately there are still Africans who believe HIV came from America in a laboratory by scientists trying to wipe out the African race. THIS IS NOT TRUE." Babe Sviso stands and stares at me. He doesn't translate. "And what are YOU?" He asks folding his arms against his chest. "I'm American." I say. "Exactly." He says. Stay calm Meredith...breathe....I explain massive amounts of people in the US have died of AIDS. "Just because your people are dying too...doesn't mean you didn't create it." He argues.

I hover over his fat little body and we "have it out" in front of the children. Another male teacher walks in. "We can discuss this after class....for now..I need you to translate what I just told them." I sternly demand. "Simphiwe...don't get cross with him." The other teacher warns me. Sakhile, the hip young male teacher who I had to convince to help me with my after-school health club. He sits on a desk of one of the students and asks me what's going on. Sviso goes outside to talk with another teacher. The kids look around..confused..."I just spent that past half hour with that man translating for me with Utsi Umlungu. I'm tired of being disrespected in front of the children. You have no idea what it's like being young, white, single and female in this country." Sakhile stands and puts his hand on my shoulder, "You're right. You're right." Sviso comes back into the room. He looks frightened of me. My head is blood warm, rushing emotions. I struggle to find fake, official ones. He tells the children HIV did NOT come from the States. Then turns to me and laughs.
"I was only joking Simphiwe."
"At my expense." I reply.

Class is dismissed...Sviso, Sakhile, and I walk to the teachers lounge. They ask me why I think HIV is so high in Swaziland. I choose my words carefully. For two hours we sit and talk. We debate we laugh we question.....
Sakhile says, "These kids are having sex so early. The fifth graders, six and seven."
My pot bellied friend gets angry, "No Sakhile! I refuse to believe this! These are OUR children! They cannot be doing that to themselves!"
"I live on school grounds Sviso...I hear EVERYTHING."
They argue back and forth...loud..sitting on tables their legs dangling. Quiet female teachers pass and they hassle them. The two men of the school...Kings.
They turn to me, "What do YOU think Simphiwe!?"
"The same thing happens in America. You find the more impoverished less educated and inequalities in gender..the younger kids are engaging in sex. I have to agree with Sakhile on this one."
"THERE YOU SEE!" Sakhile shouts jumping off the desk. Sviso stands scratching his head. Suddenly he slaps his hand on the table, "Simphiwe...let me show you these kids! You look at them, their young faces, and then tell me they're having sex."
A challenge. Sakhile yells, "LETS GO! COME SIMPHIWE...WE'RE GOING TO TAKE YOU TO GRADE 5 GRADE 6 GRADE 7...and you will see."
I'm sandwiched between the two kings as they herd me to a grade 5 class. We barge in. The teacher stops talking as these clowns demand all children stand and look at Simphiwe. The men walk back and forth..."Simphiwe. Look. Look at these faces. So young." Sviso points to a young girl. The sheep stand tall and silent. We move on to grade 6 grade 7. "Everyone stand!" Sviso yells. "Who here is having sex!?" I beg him to stop. The sheep stand tall and silent. "Who here has menstrated!?" "WHAT!" I exclaim. One brave girl...scared....slowly raises her hand. Everyone laughs. I raise my hand, "I menstrate too...."

We head back to the lounge. The Kings duke it out a bit more. Sakhile sits in a chair behind the desk. Silence. He sighs heavily. "We are dying Simphiwe." Elbows on the table he puts his head in his hands and exhales loudly. He sits back up, "WE....ARE....DYING...." Sakhile, bone-thin- it never occured to me to question... is he dying? Sviso laughs, "I'm 40 without children. When I was twenty, my friend says to me, 'Sviso, you had better have a child soon, before you get AIDS.'" He walks over next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, "I was testing you back there. I needed you to EARN your respect. You've got it now Simphiwe."

"The Fire Inside."

1. What evidence is there that there was a big hot balloon that burst and all creation was created?
2. What makes another planets to appear on the sky of the planet Earth while they are supposed to have their own sky on which you can find their planets starts and moon?
3. How were the other planets created because in the bible it is only written about Earth only?
4. The Earth is round and the countries are shown on the edge of the Earth. So how come there is no end of the Earth
5.According to the scientific explanation of creation what made people to speak different languages?


I sit outside with Nobandile, her paper of questions in hand, struggling to answer them as simply as possible. “Well the evidence of the Big Bang Theory is observational- it‘s what we have seen and calculated. I mean… the universe is slowly expanding and always has been....OK....So…it began with just this tiny piece of matter and.. Well I think… Yeah, I mean...” Nobandile thinks for a moment. She crosses her arms, rolls her eyes and asks, “Well then where did that piece of matter come from?” Ahhhhhh….

As challenging as it is answering a teenager’s why and how questions; it’s a nice change from the struggles I have been enduring with my Primary level students the past few weeks. I’ve taken over Madleyna’s Health club after school each day. It was Dumile’s project but she has been transferred to another school. The head teacher has yet to give me another teacher who can assist me with the lessons. I cannot teach students about healthy living, growing up, and HIV when they don’t understand English. “How can a person get HIV?” I ask the 9 to 13 year olds. “Seminal Fluids” “Vaginal Secretions” They shout. “And what do those mean?” I ask. Blank stares follow. From grade 1 most Swazi children are taught in English. Swaziland is determined to have English speaking citizens. They assign a few students from each class to be what they call “Prefects” (which if I recall is a reference to the poorly made film “Minority Report” but not a reference from them- just my little observation) These “Prefects” tell on children who are caught speaking Siswati amongst themselves. I’m guessing they have very few friends. This system is nation wide. I really don’t have an opinion on the matter- weird, I know. All I care about is that these children understand HIV. They MUST MUST MUST understand- it‘s a matter of life or death. They cannot just memorize textbook definitions. I believe this is why so many students fail. So many students at the age of 18 can’t write a simple composition describing an event or photo. Why so many students don’t quite understand what HIV is. Why they can’t think critically or creatively or problem solve anything. Learning has become simply memorization. HIV has something to do with the words transmission and fluids but what do those words actually mean? Children aren’t getting an education and they aren’t comprehending anything because it’s being taught in a language they don’t fully understand. They’re being taught empty words in a loud voice. A stitch in time saves nine. A penny saved is a penny earned. They LOVE learning our expressions and are even forced to memorize them…but have no idea what they mean (neither do I really). Again, as a volunteer, this is an issue out of my reach. I do the best I can with exaggerated hand gestures and drawings to show these children what seminal fluids are. What a fluid is. What transmission means. I need a translator and it’s pissing me off that not even one teacher can take an hour after school to help me. My club is on school grounds and that’s where these teachers live.

The head teacher asks me to create an exam about HIV for her grade seven students. The last grade before going on to high school. I ask the receptionist to show me previous exams given to these students. All are multiple choice or true or false. Perfect for children who aren’t actually understanding anything they’re being taught. But this is my exam, and I have a point to prove. I ask the usual questions that are followed with textbook answers. Be faithful. Use a Condom. Abstinence. What does AIDS stand for? Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome. Human immunodeficiency Virus. OK….. “What is a fluid?” They write, “A fluid is a germ that causes HIV” “What does your immune system do?” They write, “My immune system eats the blood in my body.” “My immune system digests my food.” Not a single person knew what the word transmission was or understood the difference between HIV and AIDS. Most thought brushing your teeth was a way one could get the virus. And I found this out by asking them to put their own knowledge in their own words. I hand the graded exams to the head teacher. Every single person failed. She gasps. These students are about go to go into high school. She is outraged. “If you’re going to insist these children are taught in English then make sure they understand the English words you are using. This is Life skills we’re teaching. We’re trying to teach them how to survive.” She nods her head in agreement. I gave this exam to her seventh grade social studies class which are divided into two different classes. “I would appreciate the opportunity to teach them this subject myself next week then give them the test again. I’m going to ask them the why and how questions. I’ll make sure they don’t go on to high school without first understanding HIV.” Head teacher wants me to come back Tuesday. “Do you think you could talk about sexuality on Wednesday as well?” She asks me. I agree. “And a few of the social studies classes?” She pleads. I smile and nod. “OK Sisi, how would you like to be my seventh grade social studies teacher?” “I thought you’d never ask!” I laugh. A chance to talk about the world and how people interact in it. Different cultures and beliefs, human sexuality, taboo subjects and embarrassing discussions. I can’t wait! Little guy on my left shoulder reminds me….you’re supposed to be doing SUSTAINABLE work! Oh hush….I’ll do some sort of workshop for the teachers later. That’s a bit more sustainable right?

My schedule now: Tuesdays and Wednesdays I teach Seventh graders “Social Studies”. Tuesdays and Thursday’s I teach a Health Club from 2-3 then a drama club 3-4. Mondays and Fridays I teach highschoolers “Life Skills”. But soon will be meeting after school for a debate team I’m starting. I don’t know much about acting, singing, sports, or art…but I know how to use my voice. That will be my biggest challenge. Teaching these kids to speak out. Primary level students, especially the girls, can be incredibly shy. I’ve enrolled my Health Club in a drama competition in a few months. They will be the youngest performers and I had to convince to get them in there. So they need to shed their quiet voices and their hands over their mouths. I bring bags of candy, popcorn, and tortillas to the club every Tuesday and Thursday. The carrot dangling in front of a donkey. Before we begin, everyday, I have them stand in a circle. I walk up to each student. “What is your name?” I ask. A young girl covers her mouth, looks down and whispers… “Zodwa.” “What is your name?!” I yell. She whispers, “Zodwa.” I run and jump onto a large rock and scream, “MY NAME IS SIMPHIWE! SIMPHIWE!” The students laugh. I stand in front of her again.
“I want the Universe.. God.. Clouds.. The birds and the skies to hear you.”
She loudly replies, “Zodwa.”
“Hands down!” I shout.
“Zodwa!”
“What?” I scream.
“ZODWA!” She tilts her head high, bending her knees, hands down at her side.
“Good. Now you can take a handful of candy.”

I move to the next person. I move to all 40 students until every person has found their voice. I hear my old dance instructor inside my head. I’m 11 years old, the only white girl in an African Dance ensemble. I cross my arms across my chest and cower in the back. Flamboyantly “something” dance instructor struts towards me. “Na ah honey. You NEED to put those arms down. Don’t no one want to get to know you when you’ve closed yourself off like that. You are a dancer. You need to make people interested, curious, with your body. You need to be PROUD. Stand tall girl. You are SO beautiful.” To this day, you will never see me stand with my arms crossed. They ask me why I look them in the eyes. They tell me they aren’t allowed to- it’s disrespectful. I explain my culture. Direct eye contact means strength and confidence and as a woman this is important to have. I encourage them to look me directly in the eyes when speaking to me. I’m breaking a cultural norm but their body language reeks of low self-esteem and lack of confidence. And that is what abusers look for. This is one cultural norm I’m ok with breaking.

I loosen them up before each class with one song. One of my favorite songs and yes- I have it on my I-pod. I have them stand behind me in three lines. "Now follow me. Do as I do!" 5.6.7.8....."MORTAL KOMBAT!" The theme song to Mortal Kombat blares out of my little speakers. A shuffle here a jive there...everyone's laughing. I'm trying to shake them up. Break down walls.

40 students. 40 students stay after school because they want to be there- eager to learn. Everyday, after school, they sweep and clean out the classroom. Right now we focus on self esteem, finding our voice, and team building. This generation needs to be there for each other because no one else will. By the end of the day they’re mocking my constant, “Find your voice!” “Let me see your beautiful faces!”

Madleyna is too far from my home to walk and it’s easy to hitch a ride in that direction. I find even in the back of pick up trucks and inside stranger’s cars I am teaching.

A man pulls over. He asks me where Madleyna is. He offers to give me a lift to school. He’s a soldier along the Managa Border. While he talks, I pay attention to his sunken in face, enlarged cheek bones, and a pack of ARV’s next to the stick shift. He’s telling me a story of a girl he met at the border. “She is beautiful. A beauty. I am on my way to visit her. I think I will love her.”

I look around his car, “Then that means you’ve brought her flowers yes?”
“No. I did not. Should I?”
I point to a store on the right, “Well you need to get her SOMETHING. Stop here.”
We go inside.
“In America, men like to give ladies chocolate.”
He laughs, “In Swaziland. We like our meat.”
“Buy her a chicken.” I laugh.
In the end, we go with old reliable: Cadbury Chocolate.

We get back in the car and I point to his tablets.
“Will you tell her?” I ask.
He sighs for a moment. He jostles the packet of pills around then puts his hand back on the steering wheel.
“Yes. I will tell her. It’s important she knows. So then she can get tested like I did. But these tablets,” he points to the packet of pills. “ Eeesh....these ARV’s. Should I be taking them? I haven't started yet, but the doctor tells me my count is too low. What if I start taking them and then Swaziland runs out of ARV’s? They say you cannot stop taking them once you start. “
The car stops and we’re outside my school. I sit and listen to his concerns. I give him the best advice I can and try to reassure him to take the medication. A moment of silence, his turn to argue with me again why he should not take them. He stares into my eyes though- looking for something. Questioning… do I really know what I’m talking about…little white girl. I hear his thoughts. I stare back. I always stare back.
He sighs, “OK teacher. I think I will start the ARV’s.” I encourage him to talk to his doctors more and only to start if he’s REALLY ready.
“And tell her she has a beautiful smile….girls love that.”
“I will tell her. And I will give her the chocolate.”
I shut the door and wave goodbye.

Health club is over. With no teacher to assist me and limiting resources, today I spin straw into gold. The kids left smiling and still singing the songs I taught them. Bags and flip charts in hand, I wave down another trucker. The usual introductions. The HIV topic has wiggled it’s way into all my introductions now.
The trucker points his big finger in the air and asks, “Why is it you think women with HIV live longer than men?”
“Because women go to the clinic and seek help. Therefore they live longer.”
He laughs, “No no no.. Actually it’s because they menstruate. They loose a little bit of the AIDS every month.” The man laughs a deep bellied laugh. We reach my stop and he continues to laugh as I shut the door and thank him.

I’m starting to love these funhouse turns. I never know what’s going to happen next or who I will meet. My days are still filter grey but punctuated with these tiny bright moments that keep me smiling. I’ve been having these amazing conversations with the Swazi people that leave me with a fire inside. A deep body shiver and a warmth and a glow. I used to get this feeling talking about religion with my step father. Like we’re both detectives and we’re on the edge of discovering something true real and revolutionary.

I meet a new man today. He calls himself Justice. He was a counterpart to a previous volunteer and he was given my phone number. He wants me to help him with his youth center. Justice is incredibly motivated and dedicated. I’m in complete awe at all the work he’s done and of course without pay. Every caregiver, every teacher, every cook, at these Neighborhood Care Points don’t usually get paid. If they do, by the government, it’s pennies. Pennies. I ask him, “What exactly does the government do with their money as far as social welfare goes?” We take a seat and talk about the fucked up world. “I don’t get it Justice. How can you live in a country that you know has the highest HIV rates in the world and still choose to have sex without a condom. How?!” He tells me they don’t see it that way. “Ten years ago when people got HIV, they died. People weren’t living long. And they certainly didn’t look healthy if they had the virus. ARV’s are keeping people alive and looking healthy. So people say oh that beautiful one she surly doesn’t have it. I can have sex with her without a condom. They don’t know how severe HIV is here. They don’t see anyone dying.”
I disagree. “But the bomake and the bobabe. Child headed homesteads. The parents, a whole generation, is dying, is gone, because of AIDS. How can they not see that?!” He shakes his head, “And when you ask these children, their neighbors, and their friends how these people died….what do they tell you?” I look down and sigh, “A stomach ache.” Justice laughs, “You and I both know…it was NOT a stomach ache. They keep it secret and nobody knows just how bad it really is.”

People are blaming the new king for how bad HIV is now. They say when the old king was here HIV was not so bad. But it has nothing to do with the king (to an extent). A new culture is being formed here. One that is waving the flames of AIDS. I ask Justice if he’s married. No. But he has a child. Just like everyone else. And that’s just it. Years ago you wouldn’t dare have a child out of wedlock. And many more people had multiple wives. Now it’s multiple partners. I believe, because of poverty, these people can’t afford to have multiple wives- let alone one wife. But they are continuing to have multiple partners. As a man, you don’t have to pay for multiple partners. Multiple partners is free and lots of sex….perfect environment for this virus to survive and grow. If you have multiple wives and everyone is faithful to each other…no AIDS. And I believe that is how it used to be. “Where is your counterpart?” Justice asks me. “I don’t have one. Never did.” Justice smiles, “Well…now you do.” I smile back, “It’s probably not culturally appropriate..but can I hug you Justice?!” We hug and laugh. Justice and I, on the edge of something real and revolutionary…. And we can feel it.

I have lunch with two volunteers who last week held a MCP, Multiple Concurrent Partners, workshop. They wanted to ask people why they were cheating. What did THEY think were the problems. The men all agreed, “When my wife refuses me in bed one night, I have every right to seek out someone else who will pleasure me.” They also mentioned one of the biggest problems was having sex with their wife in front of their children.

Is this a nation of 15 year olds? This pornographic world with no real people just simple bodies. Just holes to fuck. It’s come down to food and sex. I look around the restaurant as I talk with the other volunteers. I watch “them” eating. Tearing apart their chicken. Their greasy wet lips sliding over the bubbly flesh. Even the way they eat is almost pornographic. I pull my skirt down to cover an exposed knee. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not fear being wanted. To embrace and be flattered by the attention of a stranger. As a white woman in Swaziland you distrust the sexual aspects of your body. You hide them in loose clothing. I remember being breasts, ass, and soft delights once. Now, just meaningless elbows and ankles.

Volunteers bring their heads in. We are whispers now. "We’ve wondered if there would be political instability while we were here.” The PCV’s whisper to each other. Disease and poverty seems like a decent explanation for all that is wrong here. A revolution of souls is what they need. Is what we all hope for while we are here. But it won’t happen. They’re producing robots and soldiers. Creativity and speaking out is discouraged. The teachers are just government’s worker bees, hating their jobs. And the students are just a knot of embarrassed sheep. No one will die courageously. Not like my Proud African. Even he won’t. Their eyes are closed.

I am teaching high schoolers now. I've been waiting for this moment a long time. They're brats at first. I am feeling what a substitute teacher goes through. Right now, to them, I am just an American sickness: porn, 50 cent, guns, fancy white cars, gas stations and strip malls.... Budweiser. I’m nervous. I feel the sweat start at my scalp, my inner palms moisten. "Do you like sexxxxxxxxxxxx!?" One boy screams from the back...it's always the boys in the back.... I walk over and open the classroom door. "Get out." I look at him and say. He cowers and walks out. My brats quickly become sheep again, and I am a teacher. They're in high school now. From birth, AIDS has been crammed down their throats. They are suffering from severe AIDS fatigue. I stand before all of them and begin, "I am NOT here to teach you AIDS. If you don't know by now.. that's your own fault." "How..." They whisper to each other- confused. "Instead. I'm going to have you teach me. I want to know why the HIV prevalence is so high in Swaziland. Why the average Swazi lives to be 33 years old." "How...." They whisper again. "They haven't told you this?" I point to one of the cool kids in the back.
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Twenty- two." He says.
"Eleven more years.......huh....No. I'm here to help you understand, comprehend, think for yourselves. I want you to challenge me. I want you to raise your hand and say, 'Simphiwe- I disagree! Simphiwe no..that's wrong.' I reward those who ask questions with a loud voice and direct eye contact."

Each day, before class, I write something controversial on the board. I want to talk about condoms today. I write, "You can't eat the emasweeti (candy) with the wrapper on." What Swazi boys tell each other and girls when they don't want to use a condom while having sex. They walk in and immediately start talking about it. It begins a discussion. The next day I write, "HIV effects women more than men." I ask them, "How does this statement make you feel?" The next day, "People living with HIV should be branded." I'm preparing them for what I hope to start... a debate team centered around topics such as: Sexuality, HIV, and Gender. A chance to be heard.

After class, I stop by the police station to check on Nonjaboliso's case. The police officer who helped me with her has left. No one sticks around the rural area too long. There's a new woman in charge of Child Protection Services and Domestic Violence. She's heard of me and asks to speak with me. We take a seat. "Simphiwe, I have so many cases." She spreads files across the table in front of us. "And I don't know what to do with these kids. One girl, puss coming out of her vagina. We think it's gonorrhea from her father. Four children abandoned by their mother under a tree. A young boy, his father dies, his mother remarries his uncle (custom here). His uncle refuses to feed him or his siblings because they are not his own. He won't pay for their school fees. The boy wants to kill himself. What is a child to do here without an education? He's been sleeping here.. let me go get him so you can meet him." I grab her arm, "No no no.. that's not necessary." I know if I see his face.. it'll only hurt me more. She gets him anyway. He looks down and whispers when he speaks. "Simphiwe, I've been calling SWAGAA and they have not returned my calls.. please can you try them?" She asks. I agree. I was planning on visiting this NGO tomorrow anyway.

SWAGAA, Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse. One of the biggest NGO's protecting Swaziland's youth here. In the late 90's, SWAGAA conducted surveys that found the Social Welfare Department (government agencies) were not doing their job. They didn't offer counseling to victim's of abuse. They didn't protect these children in court. And most cases were lost. I meet with Xolili. A young beautiful woman with a South African accent more than willing to meet with me. We talk for hours about "the system." "What exactly does Swaziland's governmental organizations do as far as social welfare?" I ask. There is one tiny home that the government pays for, for children to go if they don't have parents or cannot return home. It's the home I took Nonjaboliso to. It holds around 12 children and if they're over 14 cannot stay. And the stay is temporary. Every other orphanage, service, and donation is provided by OUTSIDE help. I am realizing more and more how little this country provides for its people. I can't imagine what would happen if the outside world pulled out. She tells me everything SWAGAA does. I'm astonished. No one is taking advantage of these services in the rural world- because they don't know about it. "Yes, we're having trouble with those in authority out there. You'll find the police don't bring the women who are being beaten by their husbands to us. They know we can provide a safe place for them, but they don't bring them here. The chiefs and the inner councils won't work with us. They don't consider child abuse to be a priority. Land disputes are more important." I remember Vanessa, PCV, telling me the other day she got some new kids, at an "orphanage" she works at, from my chiefdom. "They were living alone under a tree." She tells me. "So what.. there are hundreds like that." I say. "Yes, but these children lived close to the umphagatsi and the Chief didn't want them there. It made him look bad." I laugh, "Oh you mean the chief who, when I told him horror stories of the kids in this area, told me he had no idea kids were being abused and abandoned in his chiefdom..."

I ask Xolili, "Why someone who works for Child Protection Services at the police station is coming to me, an outsider, for advice on what to do with these children? Why aren't they being trained?" She tells me no one sticks around long enough to be trained. I'm realizing more and more the lack of connection between organizations. I want to find a way to connect the parents, the teachers, the caregivers, the NGO's, to these children. It would not be something I could conquer as a volunteer right now. I daydream about extending another year here and working directly with SWAGAA, helping to decentralize their services.

I notice a scar on Xolili's neck. Puffed, light in color. "Is it dangerous pulling these children out of homes and challenging authority figures in communities?" She stares for a moment. Searching for the right words. As she speaks she brings her hand up to her scar and feels it... a constant reminder to her. "It can be very dangerous. I get threats all the time. Occupational hazard." She laughs. She promises me she'll send someone to my schools to talk.

"Abuse is incredibly high where I live." I say
"Oh Simphiwe, it's high everywhere." She responds.
"My high school. I've gotten close to two girls. They are telling me horror stories about the head teacher there. He bribes the girls with money..a thousand Rand to sleep with him. He impregnated one girl. Then paid a male student to say the child was his. He sent the girl to another school, when she graduated he took her on as his second wife. He only comes to school to beat the children. And I believe them. He has that certain vibe. His gaze always a little too low for my liking."
"That happens a lot in schools these days." She tells me.

We talk about inspiring the youth. We talk about speaking out. Events and marches. I'm getting that fiery feeling inside me again.

I leave Xolili uplifted and colored in. We told our horror stories, but we still had hope in our voices. We shared an excitement for change and for the hope that change is within reach. For so long, so much has been out of reach for me. So many ideas, so many in need of help, so hard to keep track of. I was bleeding like ink on a wet page. I'm starting to see direction now. The path...

I walk back home. The split dead trees are showing me their green hearts. Life is still within these dead trees. I am seeing life underneath all this death. A secret I wasn't meant to see. There is good here.

There are still good people out there. There is still hope...and the fire inside me is growing.

Wish You Were Here

2/1/10

I open my hut door as quietly and slowly as I can, holding on tight to my keys as I lock my door shut behind me. Did she hear that? I wonder. She knows the sound of these dangling keys. I turn and grab my bag and make my way toward our front gate. I struggle to unlock the chain while scraping the biting ants off my legs with my feet. Walking as fast as I can now with a quiet toe ball heel I don’t look back. Locking eyes with her will only encourage her to follow. Deep exhale now, I am sure I am out of sight. I take the back way to town. My morning walk to Siphofaneni is MY time. Less people use this route. Less “How are you’s!” “I want to marry you!” and “Please may you borrow me’s”. More of my thoughts. My daydreams. A rocky terrain, I hear footsteps quickening behind me and a heavy panting. Shit. I turn.

She found me.

She wags her tail hard while looking up at me smiling big. So proud of herself. I do what I can throwing rocks shouting “Hamba!” “Suka!”. She cowers and continues to follow with her head down and tail between her legs. But soon we are walking side by side. Our heads up starring at the bright light streaming between the leaves and that crisp golden wind kissing our faces. She takes in the smells and all the surrounding stories. All the stories I’ll never know. Her secret.

It is our routine every morning. I don’t like her following me to town. Shebali is not good with cars and people are not good with her. But they are starting to get used to her and she is minding the “traffic“. Every person that passes gawks, laughs, or stares. Even to community gatherings she is by my side. I walk into a meeting head down and hands up showing my utmost humility and respect. I sit on a cinder block with her head on my lap as community members ask for help. I stroke her head as she looks up at me smiling. Another chicken project idea another business plan thrown at me. Another one of my, “I’ll see what I can do.” And we leave. So many times she has scared off mentally ill man for me and any other man brave enough to approach me with her by my side. I carry rocks in my pocket as we enter new territories. She knows when we are not on our “grounds” anymore. She lowers her head, slows her pace, and is glued to my side. Dogs begin to bark and chase. I stand my ground as she whimpers and I throw my rocks, chest raised.

We take care of each other.

This is the season of no school and a Peace Corps Volunteer’s loneliness. The loneliness of the bare trees and the bare branches encircles you. You are alone standing in the dead grass. Your eyes close as you walk through it tearing off the browned tips of this tired tall grass. An audience is always starring. You’re public property of Swaziland, what did you expect. School is out and work is scarce. My outlet of being with children and working in schools has been absent since November. But it’s OK. Shebali and I have our small enclosed world. A warmth between us. The dead empty branches in the low veldt become more beautiful to me when I have her by my side . My little hut is our breath and light, the two of us in it and the big hot world outside.

Another long tiring day. Another cancelled meeting. On the way home a group of old women laugh at me for knowing so little Siswati as I allow them to drink out of my nalgene. Shebali and I lie on the cool cement floor of my hut. Tongues draped out of our mouths panting hard and our heads leaned in together. I complain and she listens. She listens as I tell her about this place called America. My plans to bring her home with me. The dog parks. The changing seasons. The color and smells. You know, the things a dog would notice and appreciate.

At night we sit on my stoop starring up at the stars. Her three puppies try hard to suck at her breasts but she is weaning them off now. She looks up at me annoyed. How cute it would be if dogs could roll their eyes. I grab the little buggers and try to distract them so she can rest. She breaks up the food I give her and encourages her little ones to eat solids. She has given them all her milk and is loosing too much of her weight. I try hard to feed her as much as I can. She and the pups.

Today we walk along the narrow bridge to Siphofaneni. Her least favorite part. Only a small edge for people to walk on as large buses pass. A tight rope in a circus and a rushing river below. There have been times I have literally had to carry this large animal across. I tell her if she is going to live with me in The States she has to get used to this. We find a little piece of concrete sticking out over the water. We take a seat and watch the water flow. A gathering of cows are crossing the high sand bar today. We watch them push the little calves on through the deep parts. People walk by laughing and starring. I have never seen anyone stop and sit on this bridge. I have never seen anyone sit admire the beauty here. They rush to Siphofaneni. This bridge only a way to get them from here to there. Siphofaneni is shit. Shouting kombi drivers, cows eating trash because there is no grass, the stench and smell of sweating, that complicated human smell. But this river, she is talking, on the edge of something beautiful, important, and real. Are Shebali and I the only ones seeing this? For now, its ok. We prefer to be alone in our spot in our amazement and awe.

We return home to our shared hut and our shared routine.

But I knew better. I knew this was temporary. The big hot world outside was just waiting to swallow her whole. Waiting to dissipate our hut, our friendship, and our bond. I always knew she’d never make it home with me. She wouldn’t survive the next year and a half. Not here. Not on this homestead. It was all just too good to be true.

I open my hut door as quietly and slowly as I can. I hold on tight to my keys as I lock my door shut behind me. Did she hear that? I wonder. She knows the sound of these dangling keys. I turn and grab my bags and make my way toward our front gate. I struggle to unlock the chain while scraping the biting ants off my legs with my feet. Walking as fast as I can now with a quiet toe ball heel I don’t look back. Walking as fast as I can…

But of course, a few minutes later, quickening steps and a heavy panting. She is behind me. I have given up trying to convince her to stay. She follows me to my bus stop. A pick up truck slows down and pulls over . I jump in the back. She follows for as long as she can smiling the whole way. I wave goodbye. And soon she is out of sight.

Two days later. I return home. Like every time I leave site I cannot wait to return to see her smiling face. My favorite moment rounding that corner right before our homestead. Seeing her look up and howl loud wagging her tail running towards me. Her pups trying hard to keep up. I round that corner and look for her smiling face today. The children get to me first and grab my bags. The three pups bite my ankles as I walk onto the homestead. Sakhile looks at me and says, “Simphiwe Shebali is finished.” She laughs then drags her index finger across her throat and rolls her eyes back with her tongue sticking out. “Unamanga.” I say. “You lie.” I walk to the main house. Nobandile (the eldest on the homestead, 14) walks out to greet me.

“Where is Shebali?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” She replies.

I ask her to ask Sakhile what happened. Nobandile quickly tightens. Grave concern covers her face now. I brace myself.

“She says they beat her to death.”
“WHO. WHO beat her to death?!” I yell.
She looks down, “Tommy.”
Tommy. One of Gogo’s children, in his thirties. The one who hung Shebali’s first born from a tree because he was sick. The one who waited until I left the homestead to kill him. The one who has watched me for months hold Shebali in my arms. Walk side by side with her. Feed her and care for her.

“WHY Nobandile! WHY!” The tears start to collect as I ask these painful questions.
I see Gogo sitting fat on her couch through the open window. The folds of her body shine and sweat. You get lost in her angles. Which of these curves was her breast? TV on in front of her. Like always. She talks to Nobandile.

“She says she and another dog ate some goats.” Nobandile translates.
Tears streaming down my face. I look at Gogo and ask again “Why?” She looks back at me and laughs hard. A flash of real anger pure and unreasonable. My fists tighten. I am being made fun of. Left with a bitter aftertaste I wobble slowly back to my hut trying hard to find the rhythm of my feet again. I close my door, sit on the edge of my bed and weep hard. The tears, sweat, and sunscreen burn my eyes. I look into my broken pieces of mirror. My eyes deep and dark rimmed- injured. My face- sweat and swollen. I am aging. Was this wrinkle here before? This line, this crease? Are these the lines of a 26 year old? Or a volunteer heavy with the little tragedies Swaziland has to offer?

I open my door again. The sky is a faded maroon, bruised like me. I am public property again. I stay quiet with my sorrow. I am stripped and empty with an audience of confused children. The little one runs to me. He wraps his little arms around my leg, “Pee-whey, sorry Pee -whey.” The noon sun is leaning heavy against my head and the puppies complain of thirst. I walk over to the JoJo tank and pour water into a bowl. I sit and stare. Setsabile asks me, “Simphiwe. Why do you always sit like a man?” I turn my head and ignore. Nobandile walks over to me. Her face is heavy with pain also. I am surprised. She hates dogs. I wonder if the pain she is feeling is because of the pain I am feeling. In some way- this comforts me. She slides down next to me and we sit in silence. There weren’t any magic words that were going to make any of this better. We both knew this.

She tells me she’s sorry. She tells me she didn’t know.

Today was her first day back to school and I’m ready for a new subject.
“How was your first day back Nobandile?“ I ask.
“It was fine.“
“Are you happy to be back with all your friends?“
“I am happy to be back. But I don’t have any friends.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I am number one in my class. They are jealous of my marks. I am the smartest.”
This I believe. Nobandile has always amazed me with her thoughts and questions.
“But I don’t need any friends.” She continues.
“Well. Shebali was my friend. I lost my best friend today.” I extend my arm out towards hers, palm facing upwards. “Would you like to be mine?” I ask.
“Ok.” She smiles back. And grabs my hand.

We sit on the side of the house, the puppies playing, alone in our thoughts. Two friends now. “They” tell me she is my “sisi”. My sister here. But this new family of mine… calling them my “family”. The word is like a blanket. Covering up rather than showing what is really underneath. Two cultures colliding. A family told by their chief they had to take on another volunteer for sake of the community‘s needs. My “family” is a given term and certainly not an earned one. Nobandile has earned her title friend. I am happy to be her friend now.

Tommy returns home. I stare hard as he walks by and does his usual insincere greeting.

“Where is Shabli?” I ask.
He refuses to make eye contact. Like last time I asked where a dog was that he had killed. The fear in his eyes comforts me.
“Ah, she left. She is gone.” He says with a flicker of his hand.
“Gone? Where?” I push.
“We had to kill her. She was eating goats. We put a rat poison in the goat meat she had killed. She died day before yesterday.’

I am familiar with this death. While in Thailand I found a dog that had been poisoned. Foaming out the mouth and sitting in it’s own shit convulsing and panting heavily. I struggled to find someone to help me take him to the nearest vet (the only vet on the island). The Thai laughed at the silly white girl running around throwing money at any taxi driver who would agree to ship this shit covered creature to a clinic ten minutes drive away. “OK…. 200 Bhat!” I yelled. The owner of a pick up truck agrees but refuses to help me lift the large dog into the back. I find some Canadian surfers playing cards. I beg them to help me get the dog in the truck.
They shrug and complain, “We’d rather not.”
“Well I’m not leaving until someone helps me.“ I cross my arms. “I’ll grab the shit end. Come on.” One dread locked gypsy pant wearin hipster finally agrees. Ten minutes and a new white dress covered in feces later and I am helping the vet (British woman) lie him out on the surgery table. We proceed to pump his stomach with a black charcoal substance. She gives him something for the pain. An hour later and he’s going to be ok. She looks up at me and says, “A few hours later and this poor guy would have died. You saved him from what could have been the last and most painful hours of his life.”

I was unable to save her from her last and most painful hours of her life.

Tommy still refusing to make eye contact with me continues on. “But I think she was sick with what the other dog had. She was foaming at the mouth.”
“It wasn’t distemper that killed her Tommy. The poison you fed Shebali had moved to her brain causing her organs to shut down. Her nervous system was shot and therefore causing her to foam out the mouth and seizure. It’s a slow painful way to die. And it can take days.”

The sun is setting and it‘s taking everything in me not to explode. I stand and walk past him.
“Where is the body?” I ask.
He points, “That tree there. The third tree down. She is under that one. I buried her.” Buried her. The most humane thing he has done yet.
The three puppies follow and we make our way towards the third tree down.

It’s clear where her body lies. A shallow grave. The flies are swarming close to the dirt. I take a seat next to her. Her babies walk through the flies and begin to dig. They whine and bury their noses in the fresh soil. They soon tire and take a seat next me.

Right now, I long for live music, a symphony of violins and sad instruments playing my emotions. I long for the company, and a hand to hold. I close my eyes and see a museum full of confusing paintings. I’m eight years old again, with my father, and I find my favorite one at the bottom of the stairs. A painting of Armageddon and soldiered demon pigs dragging the unfortunate ones down down down. God with his arm outstretched and his little baby angles saving all they can. I keep my eyes close to the ones suffering at the bottom of the painting. I like the look of agony. True and real. I close my eyes and see gardens and labyrinths of green. Buddha statues standing in pools of water in Thailand. The sunshine and a cool breeze breathing on the back of my neck and my once short hair . I close my eyes and I think of all the things I’m walking towards. I think of the future.

I feel like I’ve been traveling upside down lately. Lost in this cultural labyrinth. Schools out and this has been a season of dead batteries, never-ending dirt filled fingernails, the same song over and over again, eating handfuls of popcorn on my dirty cement floor, once white t shirts gone brown, long walks going no where, hanging upside down from my bed wondering why why why. A cow’s life, a pig’s life, a dog’s life are they worth more than my own? Than a person’s? Shouldn’t they be the little things that don’t matter? I’m here for the people not the dogs. I want to feel close to humanity again.

I tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let her down. I left her, she got hungry, and now she’s gone. I promise her I will take care of her babies. Not even two months and six dogs on my homestead have died. A volunteer reminds me, “When Peace Corps asked you what you wanted from site. You didn’t say anything about electricity, location, family, or NGO’s. All you said was you didn’t want to be on a home that hurt dogs.” It’s ironic, but impossible for Peace Corps to predict or prevent.


It’s getting late. We stand to go. I slowly find my pace again. A rhythm to this lonely walk. A kick. A glide. A rest I think I can settle into. My hut, blue depressed and half lit now. My “family” and I, we are OK. We are going to be fine. This is never going to be perfect. Volunteers urge me to talk to Peace Corps and ask for another family. But I can’t leave them.

That night I grab a ball and ask the kids if they’ve ever played the game 500. The sky lights up and a storm is coming. We continue to laugh and play as lightening branches her way up through the black sky. I’ve never seen anything like it. Normally Shebali would be running between us jumping and trying hard to catch the ball. But not today, or ever again. The wind is blowing hard now and I pretend it’s her still trying to run through us and catch that ball.

I lie in bed trying again to stay away from my thoughts. I’ve never been good at it. It reminds me of that scene in Ghostbusters. The Devil wants them to choose their destructor. They try hard to clear their minds, which the Devil can apparently read. But one, Ray, fails. He’s unable to think of nothing. He chooses the sweetest destructor of them all. I am thinking of my destructor. Her last moments. Her last breath. Alone. Suffering. Scared and confused. I jump out of bed. I tell myself. I need to bring myself closer to the people again. I pull out flour, butter, salt, and oil. I mix it all together. With an empty wine bottle I flatten them out. I work out my anger and pain. One after the other I roll and knead roll and knead roll and knead. Tears and sweat. I make 40 tortillas.

The next morning I grab 40 tortillas and make my way to the front gate. I scrape the biting ants off my legs as I struggle to open it. I take a few steps and stop. I turn back and look. No quickened steps. No heavy panting. I am alone.

I continue to walk and try to move on without her by my side. Moments later, however, I hear many footsteps behind me. I hear a whimper and I turn. Three mini Shebali’s follow close behind smiling up at me. No longer alone, we walk together. They weave in and out of my footsteps causing me to nearly crash over and over again. It’s pathetically sweet.

Finally, we are here.

I struggle to open another front gate. The ants biting. The dogs whimper and roll in the grass trying hard to brush the little bastards off. We make our way to the center of the homestead. A gogo is sitting with her maize. She smiles. She remembers me. She stands to shake my hand. Behind her sit’s the woman I had visited weeks and weeks ago. The woman living with AIDS, cancer, two deaf ears, and nine children with no father. Again, I am lost in her eyes. The curiosity has left them though. She smiles at me today. This family only knows Siswati. I speak with the few Siswati words I know. I struggle to find something to say. I hand over the tortillas. They are more than gracious.

I pull out my computer and ask the family if I can show this Mother a movie. She, her children, and her mother gather around my computer shoving tortillas in their mouths. But she is not hungry. Polar bears and penguins birds and waterfalls…..and her children only care about the tortillas. They fight over who gets the last one. I look up at her. Her eyes only on me. She doesn’t care about the penguins and the waterfalls. But I’ve brought you the world I think. I don’t understand. I help her back outside to sit on her mat and see she has urinated all over herself and there is feces on her skirt. I see Gigi in her. I lie her down and ask one of her children to get me a new diaper. She never takes her eyes off me as I struggle to push aside her folds and parts and bring the diaper between her legs. “All better.” I say with a smile. She looks at me with those eyes. Those haunting eyes. An emotion in them I cannot translate. It’s not a look of shame or anger or confusion. She is trying to tell me something. The only way she can. I tell them I’ll be back in a few days. Maybe next time I’ll try music. I am told she can hear a bit.

That night, I celebrate Nobandile’s birthday with her. We eat cake and sit outside on my stoop. Most of the children here don’t know their birthdays. I ask them to make one up. “Pick a day and we’ll celebrate it.” I tell them.

“Kusasa!” They yell. “Tomorrow!”.

I tell them my birthday. “OK. Eleventh of September!” They shout. I’m used to sharing my birthday so I don’t mind. Nobandile asks me about the universe, about God, and the rain. I explain best I can.

“So how do you know teachers and textbooks are telling you the truth?” She asks me.
I laugh. “Well. It makes sense to me I suppose. And I guess I have…..faith.”
She crosses her arms, “But you are not religious. And you have faith?”
“We all have faith in something.” I explain.
“Well not me. I have too many questions and secrets. I can’t go to anyone with. Not even my mother.” “What about Gogo?” I ask, knowing that her mother left her to live with Gogo when she married another man.
Nobandile laughs, “Telling Gogo your secrets is like telling them to a crocodile. She’ll just chew them up and spit them right back out at you.”
“Well, since we’re officially friends now. You can always ask me. Or tell me anything. And if I don’t have the answer, I will find it for you. Best I can.”

We make a deal. Every time I go to town she writes down five questions. I am to research and find her her answers. I hug her and say goodnight. She gets half way to the main house and stops. She turns back, “Thank you. For today. For my birthday.” She lets down her wall, her 14 year old sass, and smiles.



I wish you were here. I don’t want to be here anymore without you. But I have a family that needs my help. School starts tomorrow, and there will be more…so many more.... that need help.