Hiraeth

12/22/2010

It’s my last day at camp and a young woman working with the center approaches me. She grabs my arm and pulls me close. “Simphiwe. Go to Nkiliji. They need you.” “How do you know I used to live there?” I ask her. (Nkiliji my first village I was moved from because of the harassment.) “I am friends with your sisi, Thobakile, and I was just there. They love you. Go see them.”

I haven’t been “home”, Nkiliji, in almost two months. Every time I go it’s as if I never left. The love and connection I was looking for in a host family is still there. They, unlike my Siphofaneni host family, consider me family. I grab my bags and a few Christmas presents and make my way North to Nkliji. I find Babe (Father) where I left him last time I was back. He sits in the living room, a plate of meat on the coffee table, and the cat below. “You know Simphiwe.” He always tells me. “This cat is VERY clever. She walks by and drags her tail on the edge of my steak. She knows that I now have to rip off that corner of my steak because she touched it, and then I give it to her. She is SO clever.” He laughs. I find Make (Mother) outside. She’s digging up her sweet potatoes she had buried months ago. They are ready to be eaten. She holds one into the light, examining its beauty. She catches me in the corner of her eye and drops her elegant potato. “Simphiwe!” She exclaims. “Swani! (baby) My Swani home!” All 5 feet and one inch of her comes barreling towards me. She holds me tight and leans back to grab my breast rubbing hard. “Swani! Swani!” She continues to call out. I hear a familiar voice of a young woman, deep and sassy, behind me. “Well hello…” The young lady says. It’s my sisi, Bongiwe, her hands on her hips, happy I’m home but pissed it took me so long to come back. But she can never stay angry. We run towards each other laughing. The boys come up to greet me- always growing- they keep it cool and give me the Swazi shake. “Where’s Gigi?” I always ask. My other sisi has gotten herself a wheel chair FINALLY. She sits in the kitchen trying to feed herself porridge. She cries out. Only family members can understand her slurred speech but now I’m catching on. I wrap my arms around her and give her chocolate.

After an hour of catching up Bongiwe tells me to tell Babe we want to go for a walk. With this family, you report everything to Babe. He allows it but tells us he is going to put a drop of water in his hand and we had better be back before it disappears in this heat. Bongi must look her best when we go on our walks through the village. She puts on an outfit I bought her during the World Cup- a South African soccer jersey. And so we begin the walk. Unlike my family in Siphofaneni, Bongi is proud to have me by her side- not embarrassed. We hold hands and talk. She’s gotten kicked out of school again.


People pass shouting my name. They remember. I’m seeing old faces- everything is just where I left it. I walk pass the carpenter shop and I’m looking for my Proud African- Mctosa. We haven’t seen each other in almost 6 months now. Last we spoke was in anger. It was raining outside and he was drunk. He told me he was in love with me and I told him to go back to his newborn baby and his girlfriend. I wonder if he is still struggling with his status. I know he has told no one. I know I’m the only one who knows he is living with HIV. I was there when he got the results. I was the one who told him to test. And I still have the image of finding him alone in his hut sitting on the edge of his bed and a long rope hanging form his ceiling. It will always haunt me.

I call him.

On the 5th ring he answers. His voice has changed. Deep, muffled, raspy, and almost on the verge of pain he says, “Hello?” I greet in a way only he and I would understand- hoping he will recognize who this is. He doesn’t.
“It’s me. How is my Proud African?” I laugh. “Are your eyes open yet? Vula emehlo.” I remind him.
“Simphiwe…..” He draws out like he used to.
“I’m back. I want to see you.” I pester.
“No Simphiwe. I can’t. Not today. I’m busy.”
“Mctosa. I leave early tomorrow morning. Please. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I want to show him my arm. Vula emehlo I’ve tattooed onto it.
“No. I can’t. I am working.” He’s loosing patience.
“It’s Sunday. I know you don’t work on Sundays.”
“I have to go Simphiwe. I will see you another day.” He hangs up.

I’m stunned. I know he’s hiding something. I ask around to see if anyone in the village has seen him lately. I run into his “boys”. They stagger over to me with their proud manly gangster walk. “Hows your Proud African?” They ask laughing. I ask if they’ve seen him. “We don’t see much of him anymore. He doesn’t come out a lot.” I fear he’s gotten that sick. When I first met Mctosa I found a photo of him buried in between his stacks and stacks of already read newspapers. I refused to believe it was him. He was a lot heavier - his face wasn’t sunken in and he had a lighter tone to his skin. That was the moment Mctosa realized he was sick. He grabbed the photo from my hands and sat down on his couch (a row of seats taken out of a van). He rubbed his brow and let out a long sigh. “I don’t wan to see this photo again Simphiwe. I want you to have it. But promise me you won’t show anyone.” “Why?” I asked. “Because then they will know. That I’m sick.” In a village so small any weight gain or weight loss is noted and AIDS is usually the theory. Some refuse to take ARV’s because they’ll become healthier and start to gain their weight back. People will notice they’ve put on weight quick and will come to the conclusion that this person in on ARV’s.

My heart sinks thinking of him all alone. In pain. Refusing to see me. How sick he must think he looks.

His best friend, who he calls Dry Man, is asking me questions about my new village. The boys start asking me the same questions I’ve been asked for the past 19 months. “Why aren’t you married?” “Why are you here?” “Where are your children?” The same assumptions and jokes. The boys are laughing at my responses. I no longer give into their ignorance. I play back. I’m being myself. Dry man stops the others from laughing. “Wait a minute.” He looks at me. “You’ve changed.” “What do you mean?” I ask. “The way you talk and your answers. I believe you now.” I laugh. “Thank you.” We’re stopped right outside my homestead, at my bus stop.

Dry man turns to me, “Simphiwe. Do you remember this spot?” “ It’s where we all first met.” I tell him. I did remember. I was standing right here in this spot, my first morning in my new village. Peace Corps had said goodbye to me just the day before. I was going to town on my own and I was horrified and excited. The very end of my knee cap was poking out of my skirt and my white tank top was actually white back then. I look out and see a gang of young men walking towards me- their swagger. Oh shit, I think. Here we go. I pull my skirt down a bit to cover the sin and get in my battle stance. The gaggle of young boys have circled me now and there is a chorus of laughter. The laugher quickly stops when I notice a very tall dark man push his way through the crowd. The boys put their tails between their legs. “And what’s YOUR name?” I ask the tall dark man. “You can call me Proud African.” He grins and the others laugh.

That memory seems so long ago, and to think all the memories I’ve acquired since then. Now I stand with the same people. Everyone the same- but me. My once white shirt now egg tan white. My pants torn and dirty. I’m comfortable for the first time in Nkiliji. I am myself.

I don’t want to, but it’s time to go back to the colorless, lifeless, asshole of Swaziland: Siphofaneni. Babe drives me to town in the back of his truck and I say goodbye to my rolling green hills. I say goodbye to the wrinkled white haired old man who is always leaning against his turquoise door underneath the only coca cola sign in this country that is still red and not sun baked orange. Babe drops me off at a village neighboring mine. I’m visiting a friend. I walk with my head straight forward and my chin slightly raised. Always a stern expression. The don’t fuck with me look. There’s a slight swagger in my walk. Manish I guess you could say. It’s what I’ve adopted to discourage Swazi men from approaching me. I dislike the role of tyrant but have to put on the act to avoid any harassment. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to get so lucky today. I spot a drunken man about 50 feet from me. I’ve become an expert at spotting this species. He notices me and I know to get through this I need to avoid eye contact at all costs. He shouts at me. His legs move forward but the upper half of his body leans hard to the left. He reaches his arms out and I keep moving as if I don’t even notice he’s there. He grabs my arm and I pull away, aggressively, knocking him over slightly. “You fucking white bitch!” He screams. I’m actually impressed with his usage of the word “fuck”. Most don’t know where exactly the fuck goes in a sentence. If he had said, “You bitch fuck white!” Then I wouldn’t have been so shocked. People are staring but no one stops to help. To get to my friends I have to walk a long isolated path alone and this man is following me. I need to shake him off. He continues to scream his smart profanity at me. He tries hard to reach for my arms but I’m too quick for him. Again, no one is helping. I ignore I ignore I ignore. Still trying to avoid eye contact. He becomes more aggressive- and I realize my passiveness won’t help. I stop, drop my bags to the ground, look him directly in the eyes. He screams, “FUCK YOU!” I grab my hair and bend half down in rage and scream back, “FUUUUUUUCK YOOUUUU!” He is shocked. Stunned. He stands staring. For a moment we stand staring at one another. I pick up my things and continue my walk. He stays put and all are gawking.

I make it safely back to my community and today I’m working at my youth center. I sit outside waiting for the girls to arrive. As I sit eating another hard boiled egg (my diet these days: eggs and nuts) a young man takes a seat next to me. Inside I’m rolling me eyes but I keep a friendly face. We introduce ourselves and I answer his questions of what I’m doing here.

“But I’m leaving in 7 months.” I tell him.
“So soon?” He asks.
“I’ve been here a long time. It’s not soon.” I laugh.
“We’re still in the forest Simphiwe. We can’t see pass the trees. We still need you.” He says looking down.


I walk back home, sweating dirt down my body. I take shelter inside my shaded hut. It’s the rainy season, which brings us sharp sunny months. Following the extreme heat, rain ends these airless December days. I step outside my hut. The dust is thick and the soft light begins to shift. It’s going to rain soon. This is my favorite time for a walk with my dogs. Everyone preparing for the rain- taking cover. The roads are ours. The air begins to move but the sun is still white hot surrounded by electric polyester pink. One last bang before the darkness settles. My dogs follow, as always, and we make our way to the back of our property. Here, the only place where I feel a sense of great stillness. A field of stunted trees and the bones of eaten cows-not a person in sight. In between the trees I imagine shadows of the gods. Silent and watching. Sometimes my dogs will bound off into the brush. Something unknown to my senses is calling. The gods are playing with them.

I stand next to Shebali’s grave- their mother. My dogs, now over a year old, no longer dig above where their mother lies. They probably don’t even remember her. I sit on the rock I once placed next to her grave and look out at the mountains. The bald blue sky is now becoming pregnant with perspiration. Dreaming clouds. Dark and angry. Across the mountains the last of the sunlight sings a tune. Falling into the dark eternity, I watch and listen. The pale yellow Lancashire sun sinks down into these mountains. Behind me, I can smell the fires being started for supper. Smoke blows our way. The rain is just about to hit and I look down at the ants taking cover. I know they’ll be back. After the rains the ants always run out one by one from their earth-holes- angry that their work has been interrupted. They now need to double their time and they have little tolerance for my interfering footsteps. They climb up my ankles and bite hard as I walk past quickening my pace. My dogs roll around the ground crying out as the little monsters climb up their bodies. There has become a wonderful sense of closeness between myself and this earth. A new conscious of cycles, rhythms and patterns. Earth and human.

I stand on my rock as the wind blows pass. Just as time has always been passing me. I can feel it now running through and within me. I see that now. The trees are waving in the cool moving air. I raise my arms up high and take it in. “Liyahuuuuuuuuuusha.” I call out. My dogs stand stall, ears flapping, their faces directed into the breeze, eyes closed, smelling all the stories from far away.

The rain begins and soon the land will seem refreshed and newly washed. The heat turns down and I feel damp and sticky. Sheets of rain unfold onto us. It streams from the dark sky. The wind is flying fiercely at all living things. Lightening breaks the sky in half. Metallic metal sounds. Cracking whips above. Gods and dogs by my side. I’ve dreamt this life as I walk this world.

Sometimes I feel like I’ll never come out of this forest the people here find themselves trapped in. I think its deeper darkness might consume me. Or feed me to the gods. I’ll loose myself in this journey. I’ll return home- a stranger.

And home.

Homesickness- has taken on a new meaning now.

I miss my family. I miss home. I miss the routine and certainty. A world of divorces, of options, open gay and lesbian couples, vegetarians, humanitarians, celebrities saving the whales, ecologists, tree huggers, artists, massage therapists, starbucks employees, the humming cicadas. People in recovery. Rehab. Signs of protest. The hipsters into crystals, rekai, and tantric sex. Those in search of enlightenment and personal growth. A world filled with people searching for happiness and settling for therapy and Prozac. Plump pugs. Maple leaves. The crimson ruby reds and crayon yellows of autumn. The direct approach of Americans. Their sarcasm and wit. I miss being acquainted on a first name basis with every dog at the dog park and never knowing their owners by name. I miss the vegetables and herbs from the farmer’s market on Saturdays. Fathers playing catch with their sons in their IU t shirts. The employee behind the cash register cupping my palm tenderly as she hands me my change. I miss auto flush toilets. Department stores would be paradise to me now. White. Sterile. A wave of concrete and plastic. I ache for all these American props.

The sky turns earl grey and I watch the birds fly high. I wish for their wings. Homesickness has never been sharper. Reminders make it difficult to breath. I try to escape. Like Alice and her Rabbit Hole, or Narnia through the wardrobe.. I fall. Suddenly I’m in my fantasy world. My happy place. Ayub Ogada’s African song is playing in the background. I walk through the thick dark grove of trees. I’m inside another country. Not Swaziland. Not home either. All shades of green surround me now. Green rice paddies shine in the blue sky morning. Worn down Buddhist statues lean into weeping willows inside these flowing rivers filled with coy fish. Graceful still in their presence. They’ve been standing for hundreds of years. Now leaning with beautiful curves and lines. It begins to rain and I’m in my bright yellow canoe. But I don’t mind. I drift with the current trailing my fingers in this warm water. I tilt my head to the sun. I close my eyes. Cat-like. I feel safe in this small community ringed by green tumbling hills. I walk these silent village streets. Not a man in site. No stares. No questions. I am accepted. I am native. I am- them. Two story wooden homes. Flowing magnolia trees. I’m greeted by an old woman. Her eyes smile back. She hands me my favorite flower- a zinnia- and points to the old cobblestone steps sunken into the side of a mountain. Were those there before? I begin to climb. I climb and climb. I can feel the acid pain run through my legs. I ignore it. Paradise is just ahead. As I turn to look down, this hidden world falls behind me. And I wake up.

Swaziland no longer seems like some enchanted place. I remember a time when I used to dreamily peer out the bus window. In awe of the scenery. Africa, I thought. Wow. I’m really here. The women walking by carrying things on their head. The cows in the street. The little naked children running behind you. Vegetables and fruits old on every street corner. It’s as though you’re on some “African” movie set. Zimbabwean music and drums are playing in the back of your mind, like in every movie about Africa. Tropical. Exotic. You feel as though everything will be fresh and strange forever. Or at least for the next two years. Those sweet moments of delight. You see it now as self delusion. You don’t see Africa anymore. There are no more surprises and after 19 months you struggle what to talk about. Your parents call and ask you about your life about your work.

“I never know what to say to them anymore.” One PCV tells me. “I mean they ask these questions and it’s the same response I’ve had for the past year. And they’ll never understand.”

I wish my writing was that of movement, excitement, and change. However, writing about staying put has its advantages too. There’s a deeper anthropology and understanding of the people around you. There’s a deeper connection. You eventually realize the only way to really peer into the heart of your new home is to simply stay put. Miscommunications will occur and keep on occurring but word by word, phrase by phrase, your confidence and your knowledge will grow. And eventually you’ll have those light bulb moments of realization.

Out to dinner with the new group of volunteers, here 6 months now, one of them says to me, “I want to tell you about my light bulb moment.” I ‘vet had so many myself and I always love hearing about other volunteer’s realizations. To realize you aren’t crazy after all.

I silently listen. With any new volunteer I try not to preach my knowledge of Swaziland and smother them with bitter opinions. They need to put this puzzle together on their own. But I can help and maybe point out a few of the curved pieces.

After visiting with Peace Corps Volunteers from South Africa this new volunteer has realized what Peace Corps needs to change here in Swaziland. She leans in, talking fast skipping over words trying hard to get out her light bulb realization before she looses it. “When we all got our packet of information about serving in Peace Corps they told us we’d have a primary project. Something or someone to work with. A specific narrowed down project. But, here in Swaziland, it’s “HIV prevention”. You can’t just shove a volunteer into the middle of no where and tell them, ‘OK. Now. Go fight AIDS . This is not realistic. This is not how it is in other countries. This is not what we signed up for.” She takes a breath and I’m nodding in agreement. “Our first three months of preparation is mostly about the culture and how to be Swazi. I am never going to be Swazi.”

Her last sentence resonates hard with me. It’s as if that one part of the jigsaw I never considered before or even thought of was just handed to me- and by a new volunteer. And now that I have it, 7 months left, it’s almost too late.

Like your family, you discover this place is something you cannot change. I’m hearing my African Queen. Her words spoken over a year ago, mean more to me now. “All you can do is show them who you are.”

The guilt I have felt, like many others, for so long- for not being “Swazi” or not trying hard enough to fit in. Peace Corps tells us to keep our religious, political views and sexual orientations to ourselves. We are taught ways not to fight back when being harassed. That we need to give into their culture. A whole culture that is willing to lie down in its grave and hide behind their beliefs and values to justify the bad things they do and now accept.

Sometimes I feel like Pooh Bear- lost- following his own tracks in the snow. Carefully, like two porcupines sharing a room, we need to find a happy symbiosis. Swazi and American. There needs to be less acceptance and more exchange. There is a way for us to show them who we are in a respectable manner. You do not have to become a solidified obedient body like the rest of them. Walking zombies.

I sit outside my favorite café in town. Double espresso, hard-boiled egg, book in hand I’m greeted by a volunteer from the new group. She’s looking for advice on how to deal with the everyday harassment from men. I’ve become the go to girl when it comes to questions on this topic.

“At this point Mere, if this continues I am going to go home. I just can’t take it. But I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to quit.”

Peace Corps life can become a sacred duty and your pride will always get in the way.

As my second year in Swaziland is drawing to a close and I m thinking about what is next in my life, I see now that I could never fit in here- at least not in anything more than a superficial way. My appearance and nationality will always mean I am either privileged as a guest or exploited as an outsider. This is something Peace Corps never told us. We were taught how to be “Swazi”. We were taught the norms, the laws, the religion, and beliefs. We were taught to accept these things outwardly to gain acceptance. But this deception was never for me. I was born into this different world, this I could not change, and for the first time I am no longer denying it. For the first time, after our light bulb conversation, I can let go of the guilt. I refuse to loose myself again and I’m proud to show them who I am- everyday.

Nobody has more pleasure from traveling than I have. Nobody pushes more eagerly to see more and more of this world. Somewhere far away. Somewhere uncomfortable and challenging. Yet, there’s always this sensation nagging at me. Part sweet part sad. Some days the homesickness is unbearable. Some days the wind carries a familiar scent. A friend uses an expression your father used to say. Something glitters in a store window that you just know your mother would love.

I long for color in my life. The Siphofaneni ash grey world and the sun baked plain has edged out any traces of green and has sucked out any warm light I once carried inside me. As a volunteer in a foreign place, it seems like nothing is yours. The only space you have- your only privacy and comfort is inside your hut. You try to make it your own as best you can. I’ve covered every inch of my hut with magazine cut outs. Pictures and images of the world. Portraits and landscapes. I am surrounded by the outside world. I forget how strange it probably looks to someone at first. Other volunteers visit and gasp. My collage has taken over. I lie in bed at night and stare. Every time I look I see a new image. I pretend to be there. Just above my bed is my favorite place to escape. Pictures of my father’s home. Pictures of my family and friends. Smiling back at me. Waiting for me to come home.

Always in the back of my heart- no matter where I am. I am homesick waiting to return home.

The renovation of my hut, the evolution of my village will never be finished. The only constant is change and connection. It’s what brought us all here. Traveling the globe, as much as I see our differences across the oceans. I am always searching for the commonalities between us all. I still have this growing sense and hope that we live in a world that’s singing the same song in a thousand different accents all at once. That every person in this world is looking out for each other. For someone who does not exactly believe in God- I need to believe in people. That there is still good in us all and there is still good here- worth fighting for.

This is my hope and continues to be my dream.








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"My Superheroes"

12/4/2010

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

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


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


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

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

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

It’s getting late.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s just the way it is.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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



A poem by Lilly, performed during stage night:


A Rose in heaven

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

"Indaba"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Colonization. Christianity. Education. Consumerism. Migration.

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

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

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

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

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

This pandemic is in context of a changing society.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a silly dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indaba over.

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

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

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

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

Lost In Translation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s happening here.

Aid should not be stopped- but changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then. Just like that. They were gone.

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

“No.” I tell her. “I can’t.”