"I Don't Like This Story"

Nakiwe Dlamini

My life story.
I was born in 1993. I am in grade four. I come from a child headed family. My mother died when I was eleven years old. She became sick and died. My father died when I was two years old. He also became sick and died. When my mother died I became worried. I was frustrated. I needed a mother like others. I wanted her in my life. It became clear to me that I had no parents. I used to cry everyday. There is no one to buy me food, clothes. I even have no shelter.


Nokulunga Dludlu

My life story.
I was born 19 March. I am grade four. I live with my brother and my sister. My father died when I was five years old. He became sick and died. Many things I given by UNICEF. I am happy to much to help us give food. When I was in school I was happy because I was reading books. When I read books I am very happy because the books tell me stories and give me many things. The things stay in my head. No one can take them things from me. When I remember some things I start to cry. I want my father back. When my father is not dead he buy me food- now there is no one to buy me food. When my mother was alive she buy me food. Now there is no one to buy me food.

Nonsikelelo Matsenjwa

My life story.
I was born in 8 April 1999. I live with my father, grandmother, grandfather, and aunt. My mother died when I was still a baby. When my mother died I used to stay with my grandmother. I enjoy staying with my grandmother. She did not beat me. When I was in grade one my grandmother died. She became sick and died. I was hurt. I miss my grandmother's folktales. I miss my grandmother.

Tibuyile maksenjwa

My life story.
I come from a child headed homestead. There are eight people in my family. My mother died when I was still a baby. My father don't helps me with anything. My grandmother helps me. When I was in grade one my sister say to me please go to the shop for me. A man saw me. He came and forced me to sleep with him. The road in a bush. A woman came and he ran away. When I be old I want to be a nurse. And I want to get married like my sister.

Nomphumelelo Nblovu

My life story.
I was born in 1995. I am in grade six. I live with my parents. There are thirteen in my family. I am happy because I go to school and I am not happy because my skoni (sister in law) at home she cooks and eat with her children. When I cook she takes my food and says she will beat me and not give me food.

Wendy Nellela

My life story.
I was born 2 May 1998. I am grade four. I live with my aunt. I come from a child headed family. Both my parents are dead. My mother died when I was five years old and my father is dead. I never knowed him. When my mother died I stayed with my grandmother. I was happy because she took good care of me. My Uncle Sipho bought me clothes and my school fees. My other uncle used to send me to the river at night and not give me food. I think it is because I did not have parents. I don't like staying with my aunt. She doesn't give me food. She says mean things to me. Sometimes she throws me outside at night with my clothes. I don't like her. She's mean to me. At school I am happy because I play and I laugh with my friends and my teacher. When I grow up I want to be a police. I will buy Uncle Sipho a good present.

Siphesitile Mamba

My life story.
I am 12 years old and I was born 4 April 1997. I live with my mother, two sisters, brother, and father. When I was seven my mother fall sick. She had malaria. Me and my brother tried to make things to help mother. My brother ran away to the neighbours and got help. We helped my mother. Now she is alive. But there is something that makes me not happy. My mother have tuberculosis now. But I dont have problem because she is alive. I thank God she is alive. I don't want her to die. One day walking only one. I see two boys. One boy came and abused me. At home my mother asked and I did not tell her. I was scared to tell my mother because the boys tell me not to tell my mother. I was six years old. I told my mother and she take me to the hospital. They check me and they find that I do not have HIV/AIDS. My mother tell me if I see people that I run the other direction. I run home. I do not feels happy. Yes I do not have AIDS. But I don't feel happy. I don't go anymore. I don't want to repeat it again. That is my life story.

Buhle Vilane
My life story.
I am nine years old. I am grade three. My mother died when I was six years old. When my mother died I was not sad. I became sad when they take me to the coffin. They make me look inside. I became sad because I thought she was alive. She was dead. Three of my brothers die. One sick. He has maggots in mouth, one cough, and other sick. This is making me sad. I do not want to write anything more.

Nomcebo Mamba

My life story.
I am fourteen years old. I was born 1995. I have both my parents. My mother decided to go with another husband. My father too another wife. My step mother is not good just because she is jealous she doesn't give me food. She said she would punish me for nothing. I don't like this story.

..............................................

My last night home before I leave for Manzini- 10 days with volunteers- IST. The eldest girl in my family, 13, knocks on my door. I see just a hand come through the burglar bars. A letter with the name "Meredith Brooks" on it. Who is that I think. I sit on my bed and read:

To: Meredith
I write to say I don't know what these ten days without you will be like. Sometimes I feel like you can help me in my personal issues that nobody knows about, but only me. All these days I have been waiting for a day in which I would like to tell you about these issues. But I haven't found a way. When I sometimes feel like tell you it is hard because I'm not used to telling people about myself. I want to tell you these because I feel I can find the best advice from you because there's nobody else who I can tell. So back to the subject I will like to say that I will miss you and I love you.

I wish you all the best during your ten days in Manzini as a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV)
Hope when you come back I will be able to tell about a clear picture. I wish you all the best during your two years course as your work as a volunteer of the United States Peace Corps. I believe that it's hard to stay away from your family and your country, but you have to be strong and tell yourself that you are going to do it. Everything is Possible. Tell yourself that everything is possible. If you can say it in your heart, but not using your mouth. We are going to do everything we can for you to have two memorable years in Swaziland. Know that as you leave your house you are going to help people in this country and that we are grateful to have you in this homestead. WE LOVE YOU.

"It's A War Outside"

11/11/09


Her name is Dumile. She calls today to remind me that I am to come see her health club at Madlhyena Primary school. I'm impressed. Normally I do the confirming- tired of spending two hours to get some place, and an hour of waiting, only to realize no one is coming.

I had discovered Dumile's youth group after some interviews with the head teacher at Madlhayena Primary. I was excited to hear UNICEF had trained one teacher (Dumile), a parent, and a student of this school on Life Skills, Peer Counseling, how to spot an orphan, what a balanced diet is, and how to live a healthy life. NGO's are leaving and realizing you cannot just educate one role player in a community. You must bring the parent, the student, the teacher, the caregivers together. Like I said, there is a lack of communication that is killing these people.

With this information Dumile has formed a health club. They discuss growing up, life skills, HIV, STIS, teen pregnancy, counseling, defining child abuse. Everything a parent should teach a child. But there are no parents anymore. Now they are preparing for World AIDS Day. They want to hold an event at school. They've prepared plays, poetry, and dances. Dumile wants them to march. March with banners spreading awareness about HIV and child abuse.

"So many have come to me you see." She stands in front of the class now speaking directly at me. I'm seated amongst the children. "So many with stories of abuse. And I don't know who to turn to. Who to tell. I'm all alone here. So many children living alone in this area. So many children without food, clothes, and shelter. Two children, the eldest is 15 in a child headed homestead, their home fell apart. I got them a tent to sleep in for now. I buy them what I can. Some maize, some bread and beans. Out of my own pocket. We need help."

After the kids perform a skit on peer pressure and teenage pregnancy- it's time for them to go "home". But they don't want to. They stay seated. All eyes on me. I walk up to Dumile who is now gathering her things behind her desk.
"I've been looking for you."
"Me?" She asks.
"Yes. The motivated one. It's been hard finding one- but I think together, we can make a difference." I can't stop smiling. My heart pounding- daydreaming of all the things we can do together.

Dumile invites me to come with her to World Vision. There is a meeting with other teachers from all over the area. On the way she tells me what she's seen. Horror stories. Absolute horror stories.

"Two months ago, one of the children came to me. A fourteen year old girl living alone with 4 other children- an eight year old, a six year old, a four, and a two year old. Her parents had died and her aunt left her with her four children. Their house recently fell down (sticks and mud) and they had no where to go. I told UNICEF and they gave us a tent- a large tent. Myself and another teacher went to their homestead and put the tent up. It was very difficult- there were no instructions. We dug a trench so the water would not get in. As we dug and dug in the heat so many people passed and neighbors watched. No one offered to help us. These children have no food- nothing. They're dying as people stand by and watch. Another child, she is eight years old and both her parents are gone. We started noticing she was wrapping porridge from school into the bottom of her shirt and taking it home with her. We followed her home one day. We found a little baby boy wrapped in a blanket under a tree. Her brother. It was only this eight year old child and this baby boy at this homestead- all alone.

Another child, her parents died leaving her with her auntie. Her aunt had no children of her own so could afford to take care of this child. However, she has been abusing her. She refuses her food then throws her out at night when it's raining. She tosses her few belongings at the child and screams, 'I don't have a child!' When it's raining outside, she sleeps outside. A workers camp right across from our school. It's called S&B. You will see Simphiwe, I will show you. Tomorrow morning you will see students, young girls coming out of their camps in the morning. And next to them......their mothers- with cash in their hands.

And lastly. Two girls living with their grandfather. The nine year old is the daughter to the old man, and the eleven year old is the granddaughter. The homestead consists of him, the two girls, and his eldest daughter- she is our age. She's often away working though. The old man's wife just died of AIDS- so I am sure he has got it too. The eleven year old took care of her father and mother until they died of AIDS. Her father was the first to go. She had to scrape off the maggots from his infected thrush in his mouth. Then it was just her and her mother on the grandfather's homestead. The grandfather was her mother's father in law. Now I was told he chased her away because she refused him in bed. So she ran away to her parent's homestead and eventually died. The grandfather made her leave the eleven year old girl however. Her name is Jabolani. The daughter to the grandfather, the nine year old, is Bhule. Are you following?"

"Yes."

"Since talking about child abuse in my class I have noticed the two girls acting very strangely. They become very uncomfortable. So I went to their homestead to investigate.The neighbor told me she thinks the old man is sleeping with these two girls."
"So how do we get them out of there?" I ask.
"We must first get them to admit it to us. Can you come with me tomorrow Simphiwe?"
"Of course."

Dumile introduces me to the other teachers during the World Vision meeting. They are discussing a shortage of money. What a surprise. One man looks at me and says, "So Simphiwe. What are YOU going to contribute?" I laugh, "How's two years of my life?" They laugh. I drop by Save The Children that afternoon. I haven't been yet. I enter the building, clap my hands, and say, "I got some kids that need saving!" They tell me I need to get them to talk before anyone can take action. "You got it." I hitch a ride home with one of SWADE's trucks passing by (who also have workers camps full of men sleeping with young girls) and I get the driver to tell me where S&B's head office is. "I need to speak with SWADE and S&B about your boys sleeping with my students." Driver laughs, "Yes. It IS a problem."

The next day I meet Dumile at her house on school grounds. We talk about how we're going to get these two girls away from the grandfather tomorrow.

I tell her the story of how I used to live in Nkiliji but the harassment was too much so they moved me here. She laughs. "I used to be a teacher at Nkiliji high school. I was harassed all the time. Then my home was burgarlized while I was in it. They tried to break into my bedroom where I was hiding. I was so traumatized. I resigned and came here. Nkiliji is no place for a woman. Did you know Vusi? He is also a teacher in Nkiliji." "Yes." I respond. "He is the reason I am here. He tried to shove his tongue down my throat." Dumile has a hard laugh. "Oh I'm sorry Simphiwe. He is my cousin, and quite the drunkard."

She continues. "But this place really needs you Simphiwe. These people have been spoiled by hand outs and NGO's. They don't want to do anything for themselves. I say you've got two hands and a mind- what's the problem? NGO's are pulling out. They're telling us to think for ourselves. This is why UNICEF trained me, a teacher and a student. They're giving us knowledge and skills and it is up to us to spread it to the community. You can't just walk by anymore. We must come together. I always say. If you have two of something...share."

We are both now seated on her front porch- looking out at the dry flat plateau. I turn and tell her, " I think you're amazing." She looks down now. Just when I think the moment is about to entirely pass by without her saying anything. She says to me, "My sister died of AIDS you know. It was six years ago. She left her son behind. He is living with our mother. He is thirteen now and he is HIV positive. This is what motivates me. I've seen AIDS. I don't want anyone else to."

I dig through my bag and pull out two beers I saved just for this moment. I hand her one and raise my bottle high. "What shall we drink to?" She pauses and thinks. "To Vusi." I say. Confusion in her eyes. "If it weren't for Vusi's attempt at a tongue in my mouth- I wouldn't be here.....Yes...to Vusi. For bringing us together." We clink our bottles together. And there in the middle of Swaziland, during the hot midday of the Lubombo region, sat two women sharing a luke warm beer. Both from two different worlds, still young, with dreams and plans. With hope in their hearts.

That night I sat in my hut reading the "life stories" I had asked the students of this club to write me. It's important they know their life story is important to them and to me. Almost all of them spoke of their parent's death. About a third spoke of abuse, neglect, hunger, and rape. Tears fall from eyes onto the pages and the wind blows hard outside.

IST is coming up. In Service Training. Ten days in Manzini with all the other PCV's. Peace Corps will train us on how to write grants, mini vasts, and proposals. How to suck the NGO's and loved ones back home dry. Volunteers all hard at work writing their Community Assessments of their villages. I get an extension because of my "situation". I am still new to my community. PCV's have been slaving over them for three months now. Filled with census, surveys, charts, and graphs. A picture of their community in numbers. "I heard so and so's assessment from Group 6 was 60 pages long!" "I bet so and so surveyed over 200 hundred homesteads!" I don't understand charts and graphs. I don't understand numbers. I never have. What I do understand is sitting alone with a dying woman- holding her hand. Watching a shy girl light up in my class as she watches me bounce around in front of fourty students. She asks me later, "How do I tell him 'no'?" Peace Corps gives us Siswati homework and book reports to do over the past three months- due at IST. Are you kidding me? Volunteers biting their nails. "I haven't read it all. I barely got any of the Siswati assignment done!" While I sit on a stoop and plan out how to pull an abused child out of her home.

I by no means am saying one is better than the other. Or that other PCV's aren't doing this. I'm saying Peace Corps causes you to loose perspective. I have heard volunteers complain, even myself, that their community is too "active"...they aren't needed. Since when is it a "bad" thing that your community is being self sufficient. I'm about to spend ten days with people I used to spend every day with but now have been the last thing on my mind for the past three months. All eyes will turn to me and ask, "Why did you move communities Mere? Whats been going on?!" Where do I even begin? Do I even want to begin?

Where's your homework? IT'S DUE!"

I don't know how to let go of the grasp of the personal. This is who I am. Peace Corps wants numbers- crisp clean paper full of acronyms. Let me turn in these children's stories. Let me take you to their fallen down homes. Let me show you the face of the abused. I don't know how to step back. I don't know how to stop myself. "When you have two of something- share." I think about a dress I bought two months ago, the beer I bought Dumile and I, the things I have been given from home, the food I feed my dogs every night. There is so much more I can give and do. And I will. I've decided I will.

December volunteers are allowed to FINALLY leave this country. Most are planning a trip to Mozambique. OCEAN! I had planned on going- but now, I think I will stay. Youth will be out of school December and January. This is the time they are having sex and drinking. They don't want to go home. They have nothing to do. Dumile and I will give them something to do. I'm not sure what exactly. But I'm staying.

The wind is blowing harder now. I put down the Life Stories and stand in my doorway. Lightening so hard it looks like day outside. Thunder so loud, from every direction, you can feel it deep inside your body. It's a war outside. I think about the young girl living with her aunt. Is she outside right now? I think about the six children in their tent. Is it holding up? I think about my life story. My privileged life.

These children were born on the wrong continent.

"Lost in her Eyes"

Yeah but, what do you DO?

My typical day?

It's 4:30 in the morning- the cheapest time to call someone, and my phone rings... AGAIN.

"Simphiwe! How are you?!" I try to hold back the anger. "Ufunani?!" What do you want?! "Nothing. I'm just greeting you." I respond, "If you EVER!" Phone hangs up.

I roll over. I stare at my dogs, who unlike me, are able to ignore the mooing, the crowing, the screaming of children. One eye open. One eye shut. One eye open. One eye shut. Five thirty now. I roll over, slap my disc man on. I bounce my head along to Seu Jorge. Inhale and stand. I pick up my bones of a puppy, spin him around and then stare at my umgibe (large piece of wood) that holds the hangers of my clothes. I ask the little one, "Which flannel will it be today?"

I pull out my planner. I organize five things in a day and hope one will actually work out. Swazi's feel no shame in cancelling or showing up a few hours late. Today I will visit a few schools. I invite my neighboring male PCV to join me. I check my hand bag. Two sandwiches. One tuna. One peanut butter. Bottle of water. Notepad. Pens. Toilet paper. Book for when I'm stuck waiting a few hours. I'm ready.

I begin the walk. It's been about a month now and I allow drivers to give me rides into town. This too is another opportunity to meet people. Truck stops, I jump out the back and hand the man a few coins.
"No Simphiwe. It's my pleasure."
"You know me?"
"Yes. We've been looking for you. I run the youth club behind the inkudla."
"No no no. I have been looking for YOU." I smile.

I walk along the bridge, over the water, to Siphofaneni. The widow stops me. She asks me to come see one of the people dying at home. I tell her I can after school.

PCV and I arrive at the school, and as usual, by American terms, I am rudely approached. A male teacher gets in my face, "I don't see a RING!" He shrieks. Another male teacher, his first words to me, "Utsandza JESUS?!" His words squirt in my eyes. I pretend not to understand, wiping the spit off me.

I ask the headteacher. "Are the girls in your high school allowed to come back once they have given birth?" "No!" he shouts. "And the boy who impregnates the girl?" I ask. "He stays." He responds. I write in my notes. OK...boy who threatens to punch girl in face if she refuses to have sex without a condom can continue his education. I more politely describe this to the head teacher. He politley tells me this isn't America. We don't have perternity tests. "When were teen pregnancies highest?" I ask. "Has it gone down?" I notice SWADE has just been through this area. Swaziland Agriculture Development Enterprise. Here to put in canals. Here to give water. Because, as the Swazis tell me, "Water is life." A worker's camp was set up near their school. I suspect. "Did the pregnancies go down once SWADE left?" The headteacher tells me they did impregnant and sleep with their school girls. I wonder how many got sick from them. Another volunteer and I want to start some workshops at these worker camps. Educate these men as best we can and give give GIVE condoms.

Or.... my other idea is to put me in a room with them for just half an hour. I'll shout..."OK fellas. If you would please- drop your pants! Dicks out!" With knife in hand.. WACK...WACK.. WACK.. I hold their disease in my hands.. wave it in their faces and say, "And you get these back once the job is done." Problem solved.

I can go on and on with life skills and statistics I tell the headteacher. "But what I want to give these students is a visual." Swazi youth is not seeing the bigger picture. Or any picture. To them the world is as big as Swaziland, and their life as big as today. The future- uncertain. "I want to bring in two people who've been there." I propose bringing in Sebe and Mctosa. Sebe, a teenage mother I've become close friends with. She asked me to name her daughter. The father of her baby calling me Sibali. A family term. He considers me part of the family. I want her to tell her story to these girls. I want Mctosa to tell his story to the boys. Head teacher thinks this is a wonderful idea.

I go into the classroom to "lecture". "And ladies...you need to start DEMANDING he use a condom. And boys.... so help me god...if you threaten to beat her for demanding this....SHAME!" I explain a girl has the right to say no. (which always seemed obvious to me). "This is your body and you are allowing his penis inside of you. You are allowing disease and god knows what else. It's not just HIV you have to worry about." They laugh everytime I say vagina. "Everyone say it with me!" I shout. Yes...today 40 students and I shouted Vagina. A girl in the front is hesitant to ask a question. I whisper to her, "Write it down." After class I read the note.

"Now that I know. How do I tell him no?"

She and I talk after class. It's possible I may...just may...have made a difference to someone...today.

Second half of my day. HIV Swaziland: Prevention and Care. You cannot have one without the other.

I meet with widow, Make Dlamini. She takes me to the homestead of a woman dying of AIDS and now cancer. Some PCV's choose not to go to funerals. Not to go see the sick and dying. I feel obligated. I have to. I must. I compare it to when I force myself to watch my family cut the head of a chicken off (almost every night. In Swaziland- I eat meat. I feel it my duty then, to have a relationship with it. I need this little beating thing inside my chest to be stronger.

We walk, walk, and walk until familarity sets in. She points to the homestead. "My neighbor?" I ask. "Yes- she is your neighbor." On the homestead I find a girl in her late teens separating maize. A Gogo seated on the ground smiling up at me. her high cheek bones and large eyes- shows me she was once a beauty but now covered with the age of being a Swazi woman. I keep my eyes open for the sick Make. The Make- mother of 9- now dying of AIDS and Cancer. Her oldest daughter pulled out of school. They could no longer afford it and someone must stay home to take care of her dying mother. She only had one year left before graduation. We sit and talk. It's gogo, nine children, and a make waiting to die. How horrific I think. Then why is this Gogo smiling? It's unbearably hot today, I'm seated on a pointy rock, my temples are pulsating. Let's just get this over with.

"Would you like to meet her now?" Make Dlamini asks me. We walk to a tiny hut. Door open, I see the sliver of a skeleton hand. I brace myself. Alone in a low dark room, the sun light pouring in from above revealing all the grit and grime. Alone in a low dark room, a woman waits for a stranger.

Not reading, not cooking, not looking at anything really. White faced and bone thin. Breathless and emaciated. Her eyes. Her fucking eyes. Haunt me still. Some people seen only once, live forever in your memory. Her face, hallow, and her eyes- so full. Full of everything. Her eyebrows squeeze hard together. A curious scowl. Chin raised high- still proud. Proud, but weak.

They pull up a chair for me, but it's too late. I've locked eyes with her and I prefer to be eye level. I sit on the ground with her.. face to face now. She says nothing and not once does she take her eyes off mine. Not at my gauged ears, my colorful scarf, my white girl braids...all the things that Swazis love to gawk at and touch. Does she see everything in my eyes too?

"So what do you do when you're not waiting to die?" I want to ask her.

Make Dlamini begins to explain. "She was born deaf and dumb. She can't hear you, she cant speak, she can't read." I'm unable to remove my eyes from hers. Like the night I learned of Mctosa's status. The moment on that soccer field- the rain blowing- the boys buzzing...his eyes and mine- our moment. The only two people with this realization. This world is fucked up. She's telling me the same. She's telling me, these people are waiting for me to die. These people who dressed me in clean clothes only because they knew you were coming today. These people who are tired of changing my diapers and spoon feeding me every night. These people are waiting for me to die. Yes. This world is fucked up.

And some how I know her story. Born deaf in a Mad World. Not allowed to go to school. Not warned about HIV and men. Born in a world where parents don't show affection to their children- especially the disabled ones. A woman in a Mad World- wanting to feel a connection with someone..anyone. Men took advantage of her longing to connect. Now dying of AIDS alone.. with 9 children..and a dirty diaper at 32.

Yes. This world IS fucked up. I watch her arm shake, struggling to hold herself up. Her other hand shaking as she scratches her face- eyes still locked on mine.

"Take a picture Simphiwe!"
"No. I cannot."
"Yes you can. Add it to the grant proposal you will write to get us money for a garden." Make Dlamini has worked with PCV's before- shit.

"Make, I don't feel comfortable taking her photo."
She puts the ARV's in front of this woman.
"Get these in the shot too."

I swallow hard. As if she didn't feel like a freak everyday already. I quickly take three photos.

I'm an ASSHOLE.

But then I remember. I remember everytime I've taken photos of a Swazi and shown them their photo. I remember the smile that follows. This woman has probably never seen her photo. I turn the camera around... and I show her the beauty I see. For a quick moment she takes her eyes off of me and onto herself. And then there.... right there...it happens. The left corner of her mouth starts to move up. She smiles. She returns her gaze at me but leaves the half smile in place. I shake her hand goodbye. Her eyes still in mine, her smile still on. Even as I walk away....walking backwards now.. we are still in our moment.

"I want to come back and help." I tell Make Dlamini. She laughs.
"What Simphiwe. Are you going to come here, fetch them their water...put firewood on top of your head?"

I return home. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare. I can't read to her- she can't hear. I can't bring her music. She can't hear. No. I must give her something to do with her hands. I will learn to knit (from another PCV). I will visit her every week... and I will teach her to knit. Phone rings. It's Make Dlamini.

"Sisi. The other woman I wanted you to meet tomorrow.. the one dying of AIDS too. She's dead now. So we don't have to go tomorrow."

Yes. This world is fucked up.

Mad World

11.03.09

I would like to start this entry simply by describing the things I have seen while writing to you.

On a kombi, in Manzini, trying to jot down a few thoughts in my notepad, outside my window a young man gets hit by a car. The car continues on. I watch people pass by with no reaction as this man lies on the pavement in the middle of the road unconscious and bleeding from the head. Two young men walk to him, lift him up by the arms and drag him away- laughing. A trail of blood left behind.

In Siphofaneni, at the restaurant I go to EVERY morning to drink coffee read, write, and be approached by the obnoxious, a man puts down his fork in the middle of his meal and runs to the young lady behind the register. He starts screaming in some made up language- I mean tongues. He's shaking the woman, spit is flying out everywhere and she and I are trying hard not to laugh. A few minutes of shaking, screaming, and spitting- he goes back to his seat, picks up his fork and finishes his meal.

In Manzini, while pounding out these stories I write to you in my computer lab, BAM! The large window wall in front of me- a man's head being smashed into it. Blood bursting and the right side of his face already starting to swell from previous blows. A crowd has formed- the mob is shouting and aiding a large woman to beat up this young man. So of course I do the right thing. I stay seated. I stay safe.

A PCV once told me, "Mere when you see a bomb- you do what everyone else doesn't do. You run towards it."

I jump out of my seat and join the thickening crowd. They take turns throwing punches at this man. He's being jossled around like those punching bag clowns that never want to stay down. I try to push my way forward- maybe there is something this white girl can do. Someone grabs my arm. The owner of the internet cafe says to me, "Simphiwe, no. He tried to steal this woman's purse. This is justice."

This is Swaziland.

I'm in Swaziland and I must see it their way. If I don't, the anger and the frustration will consume me. Getting angry at their apathy- is this not apathetic of me? I need to understand where this apathy steams from.

This is Swaziland.

Children raising children. One volunteer lives in a community of 1900 people. 1450 of these people are children- under the age of 15. Sometimes you walk into a village and go a whole day without seeing more than one mother or father.

Swaziland has lost a generation- like the aftermath of a civil war. My homestead now? Nine children and Gogo. Where are their parents? They're getting infected between the ages of 15 and 24. But they don't know it. They have their children then die. Leaving them with the gogo's. This is why NERCHA has come up with neighborhood care points (NCP's) for orphans and vulnerable children (OVC's). They offer food and sometimes a bit of schooling. A one roomed building sometimes made of brick and sometimes made of sticks and mud. Many abandoned though- and no one there to take care of the children. It is my job to find the ones that are not functioning and find out why. Sometimes they need water to start a garden to feed the children.

I may not have fish. I may not know how to fish. But I know those who do. I'm a social networker. This is why I sit at the SAME restaurant every morning. People know where to find me. And they do. This morning a man approaches me. A man i've never met. He says to me, "Simphiwe. We have a support group meeting tomorrow. We would like you to come." He was sent by someone I do know. The people know where to find me. This is important.

A woman approaches me. She tells me her story. She and three widows go to homes to find those dying with AIDS. Too sick to make it to the clinics. These women are not paid. I ask, "Who are you with?" "No one Simphiwe. It's just us. Can you help us start a garden for them?" I ask her to take me to these people. Just as it is important for the people to be able to find me- I need to know where to find them. Once I track down the RHM's (Rural Health Motivators) in the area- I can tell these gogo's where the sick are living....trying to live- waiting to die.

I go to every school within reach. I shadow, I survey, I interview. I see how they do things. I take their ideas and I spread them to other schools. I'm asked every day, "Do you have this?" And I respond, "No. But I know who does."

There's a lack of communication that is killing these people. So many have given up. Rightfully so. I watch a woman crawling to town on her hands and calloused knees. Her crooked legs dragging behind. People pass- uneffected. This is everyday life.

I stand in front of an entire high school during assembly. The first part of school when teachers give their announcements for the day. I introduce myself. The head master follows with anger in his voice. An alarming message. "20 of you did NOT pay your school fees! This means the rest of the students have been paying for your meals! Shame! I told you. I warned you." I watch a teen boy in the back covering his head as he cries. "Now GET UP HERE! I want the school to see those who did not pay!" It's hard enough being a teen. But a teen in Swaziland?

As an outsider, you get angry at the abuse. The neglect of the mentally and physically disabled. The Swazi women and children being treated like cattle. The stigma and discrimination. I ask my class, "Can you get AIDS from buying food from a grocery clerk with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Can you get AIDS from sitting next to someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Can you get AIDS from sharing a meal with someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Would you share a meal with someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!"

It's incredibly hard, especially as an American woman, not to get angry. Previous volunteers have thrown in the towel- hating male Swazis. And I understand. More than anyone really. I have spoken with the women from my group and the women from the previous group. What I have endured certainly tops it all. But I can't get stuck in my anger.

My bhuti, his mother in jail. She shot and killed his father. You read about the domestic assault and murders weekly. Pouring hot oil, boiling water, a bullet to the head of your partner and then to your own....all headlining the papers every week. My bhuti learns that I am trying to get Gigi a wheelchair. He sits down next to me and asks, "So if I broke my arm....you would go with me to the hospital?" I tell him of course. "You would pay for it?" I tell him I would do everything I could. His eyes open wide- stunned. You see little African babies running up to the white people. Grabbing their hands, looking up and smiling. But the teens. They stay back, confused when you greet them. Hands cover their mouths when they respond back. The babies haven't been burned yet. The baby walls aren't up- ignorantly going through the motions of their African baby life.

How do I break down the teenage walls? The defense and the callouse that these children have worked so hard to maintain in a Mad World.

So how do I get angry at the apathy? Who is here to teach them otherwise? These people have been pushed to the edge. How can I blame them for giving up? I must see it their way. I must understand the apathy and teach them empathy. They must
vula emhelo- open their eyes.

"New Beginnings"

10.27

Lunch in Nkiliji- chicken and porridge. Babe says to his family, "I am certain. The world. Is flat!" I choke on chicken and porridge. The youngest boy laughs at my reaction from across the room. "I mean, how is it, if the world is round would we not all be just floating around?" He continues. "No. No. No. It must be flat." I whisper to Bongiwe....."Graaaaaaaaavity." The discussion quickly moves to the Bible. I tap my foot with frustration. I can only say so much to Babe- risk loosing his respect. Make speaks in Siswati to the family. ".......Simphiwe.......Bible....contradictes itself......." Her only words in english.
"Make, where did you get that from? Who told you this?" I ask.
"You did Simphiwe."
"Ah- no.... I wouldn't say that."
Bongiwe shaking her head in agreement with Make. Oooooops. Bongiwe explains, "No. Make respects what you said. She's not angry."
We talk religion for a good three hours until I excuse myself to go on a walk. I find Mctosa at his carp shop talking AT his colleagues while they're hard at work making them laugh and shaking their heads. I have yet to see him work anything but his mouth at talking and feet at soccer. We greet, male Swazi youth shake. I greet the carpenters- my friends now. Proud African and I walk the path to his hut. Along the way he greets every person that passes- loud and booming- leaving each person with the same reaction.. laughing and shaking their heads.A man walks by in his Sunday suit. "Amadota!" (Oh my god!) Mctosa exclaims. He drops to his knees, takes off his beanie, and puts his hands in prayer position shouting up to the heavens. Man in suit is laughing, a crowd emerging. Then, as quick as he had dropped to his knees, he stands and continues to walk on.
"What was that?" I ask.
"That was the first time I have seen this man go to church."
"Mctosa. YOU don't go to church."
"I'm the Black Jesus remember?"
I roll my eyes.

He asks me about my new family. I vent as I usually do- words tumbling out..."AND THEN!" How he can understand my word vomit in a second language to him- I'll never know. "Babe's dead?" He asks. "Yes. I dont know how. He was 'Sick for a while' then died." He's catching onto the appropriate usage of air quotes. "So it was AIDS?" He asks. "I'm assuming." Proud and booming Mctosa says, "Not me! When I die- they will know. And if they don't know- you make sure they do." He turns to an imaginary crowd, arms extended in the air. "Mctosa Mtetwa! Proud African! He died of AIDS!"

For an hour we sit and read. I found him a copy of his favorite novel, To Kill A Mockingbird. Whenever I visit, we sit and read out loud. He likes when I do the voices. I alternate between turning the page and scratching my belly.
"No sleeping with dogs anymore Simphiwe."
"Huh?" I say.
"Fleas."
"Spider bites." I correct him.
He grabs my arm and tilts the underside into the light.
"Fleas." He repeats.
"It was just one night! They looked so sad on the floor."
"These are African dogs Simphiwe. Not...what do you call them? Gold Revers?"
"Golden retrievers. Or what my dad likes to call- dumb blondes."

Before I go, I ask Mctosa's best friend, Dry Man, and Mctosa to take one of the surveys I give my students- testing their knowledge and attitudes on HIV. "It'll be fun...." I assure. The last page of the survey. "Would you buy groceries from someone with AIDS?" "Would you shake hands with someone with AIDS?" "Would you take care of someone with AIDS?" Dry Man answers "Yes" to all of them. Im proud of him. I hug Dry Man goodbye- leaving Mctosa and I alone.
"Why did you have us fill those out Simphiwe?" I hand Proud African Dry Man's last page of the survey. "Would you take care of someone with AIDS?"....Yes. He says.
"Because I know you're scared to tell him. I wanted to make sure when I leave, someone will be here to take care of you. It looks like someone will."
"Why are you so sneaky?" He asks.
"Peace Corps tells me, 'Swaziland doesn't adapt to you- you adapt to Swaziland.' I'm learning how to work with Swaziland- more imporantly- Swazi men."

As I leave, Mctosa shouts, "No more sleeping with dogs!"

Driving away from Nkiliji, in the back of Babe's truck, I wave to people, my connections, my friends. I pass Mctolisi, my khombi angel. I see Jean, a teacher at Nkiliji high school.

Jean, always dressed his best. Silvery shimmery ties, snake skin pointed tipped boots, and crisp edges along every corner of his suit. When I first meet Jean I ask, "You aren't Swazi are you? Your accent, your mannerisms...completely different." He smiles. "No. I'm from Rwanda." Jean, in his early thirties.

Jean was there.

I step back and look down.
"So you were there?" I ask.
"Yes." He says.
"Is it just you left?" I ask.
"Me and my brother. Parents and seven sibilings- gone."
I ask his story. How did he get here? He was a professor during the genocide. He hid at his school for thirty days with staff.
"For thirty days? Thirty days without food? How did you survive?" I ask.
Jean stares hard at the ground now, no longer into my eyes. He clenches his jaw.
"You SURVIVE."
I keep quiet- hoping for something more.
"I watched my friends turn on their parents. Neighbors on children. I had shelter for 30 days. For 30 days we waited. My good friend, a professor as well, she was British. She got me out of there. She paid for everything. She got the papers and she sent me here. I'm safe now. I'm alive because of her."

I remember when my father told me about the genocide in Rwanda. Twelve years old and I hear him say, "Machetes and children." Two words that should never be in the same sentence. I would listen to the song The Feeling Begins by Peter Gabriel everyday for the next six years- envisioning and trying to imagine the horror. I took courses in college touching on the Rwandan genocide- which didn't give me much. But one day, my professor put in a video that forever changed my life. Footage of machetes and angry people on the streets. I thought, "How do I get there?"

Holding Jean's hand now.
"Your pain is what inspired me to come to Africa. I am so sorry we took so long to help."

On the bus home to Siphofaneni, I look down at my phone. A text message from another PCV. "People in my community are asking if I am Simphiwe. If I know Simphiwe. You're spreading!" Another text. "We would like you to interview for a volunteer opportunity to work at an HIV positive kids camp in December." Im honored. I can't wait. Things are coming together- I feel hope again.

BUT. It's the end of the month. It's the weekend. It's the last bus to my community. Which means the cities are bursting with people. They've just gotten paid and are returning home. The end of the month. The last weekend. The last bus home- IS AN ADVENTURE. It's an environment you want to stay the hell away from. A bus made for 65 people- now holding around 150. I sprint to the bus as it pulls up. Your goal? Get to the front of the bus and get seated! And you run because if you don't- every damn Gogo within arm's reach will knock your ass down to get that seat. I speak from experience. I dive into the second seat and brace myself. Like an astronaut waiting for lift off.

It takes a little over an hour to cram squeeze push every single person onto this thing. Heads are sticking out windows, bodies dangling out the door- unable to shut. Chickens under feet- babies spilling out of mamma's fat folds as she shifts in her seat. People in the aisle bracing themselves against opposite windows. Armpits in face.I squeesh next to big mamma in the window seat next to me. Our cheeks mooshed together. I turn to the right- facing the aisle now- Gogo tits, fallen victim to gravity, now in my face. Or maybe on? She keeps shuffling down the aisle. Now I'm face to face with man crotch. I inhale and turn back to my left- cheek to cheek with big mamma. Bags of rice take up part of aisle so legs of those standing in the aisle extend up onto my lap. Babies on backs of mamma's seated- come up for air as she leans forward. Coughing, scratching, sweating- we embrace each other as the bus moves forward. We're in this together. Will we survive? Our first stop, FIVE MINUTES into our journey. People IN THE BACK need to get off. Bodies inhale, bodies adjust, unfold, and climb their way out. Ten minutes later we fold back into position.

My stop. Through legs, arms, tits, and crotch I shout...."Steash!" (Bus Stop!)I gather my freshly squeezed tomatoes and wait for people to move. Nobody moves. I climb, literally climb over Gogo's and fat mammas. An arabesque here, an arabesque there. Arms swimming in between bodies. I shout, "THIS IS INSANE!" A hundred plus people echo this silly mhlungu girl. "THIS IS INSANE!" I jump over someone and land on my feet on to solid ground. I brush myself off, pay, and laugh. "All right, same time next month?" I say to the conductor. "I'll make popcorn!" They stare confused. Seriously- next time I'm bringing my camera.

When I return home- kids hands are extended trying to push their way into my hut. A big blanket on my hut floor. "OK. You are only allowed on THIS BLANKET. If you step off the blanket.. I am afraid. I am going to have to kill you." If fake tits octo- mom can do this- I can right?

Kids out...my time now. I put on The Smiths (Yes Christine, The Smiths) I begin to paint my new home. I wanted deep red (too expensive unfortunatly) I have always dreamed of a house with one bright red wall, or ATLEAST a bright red door. I go for a light seafoam green that I soon learn to hate. I paint over the traces of the previous volunteer. Her quote, her drawings, her two years, her home. This is MY home now. I need to embrace it.

How fitting, the name of my new sea foam paint..."New Beginnings".

Googled Nkiliji- This is what I found...Huh?

http://www.dod.org/Products/Nkiliji--My-Heart--Part-I__DOD1947.aspx



My old village. First time I've seen a documentary and could accurately say, "um. that's not true...."


longest 26 minutes of my life.

"Starting To Fit"

10.25


"Let them know you realize the sun doesn't go down. It is just an illusion caused by the world spinning round." Words Fikile had written along the top of her hut. Words I have been trying to wrap my mind around for a week now. What on earth was she talking about. Today it clicked. A motivational statement- stay positive- keep going-you can do this. I can do this. A letter from Carl, reminds me of the words once spoken by our friend when times were rough- dish pit in Antarctica. "The weather will do what it wants regardless of your plans. Enjoy when the sun comes out."

A memory. My step mother, summer vacations as a child. Four whinning brat children, one camper, dad driving, we're lost again. Donna, whenever there wasn't a good side in sight would exhale loudly, clap her hands together and yell, "Well! It'll be an adventure!" As she herds us kids back into the car, hoping her upbeat call will bring us together and take on life's discomforts. This will be an adventure I tell myself. The door to my new hut, that once seemed so far away as I told myself "God I have to do this again." Face the glued eyes and gawking mouths all over again. My new hut door- now is within sight. I pick myself up, out of bed and open the curtains. I stare at the new lists of "Important People" along my walls. Reciting, memorizing, and visualizing their faces with names. I add on to my IDEAS FOR LUKHETSENI list. I keep a photo of Nkiliji though, along with my lists. I open my door, I step outside, and I begin.... the walk.

Integration for each volunteer is different. The dance of integration begins, for me, with a simple walk. From my hut to the nearest school. I line up my departure time with that of the students. I begin to make myself available. For the first month I will turn down all the rides I'm offered. "But Simphiwe, it's too far. But Simphiwe, it's too hot, But simphiwe, it's too cold." Swazis- its always too much with them. You'll never hear them say, "Man what a gorgeous day! No complaints, this weather is perfect and just right." It's important they see me. I wait for the Lubombo strangers to come crawling out of their bushes, their homes, their farms- hesitantly approaching this new mhlungu in Lukhetseni. A grocery clerk, "Can you look at this rash on my leg?" A caregiver, "Can you come to our NCP on Tuesday?" A single mother, "Can you help me start a business?"

NERCHA, SWADE, Save the Children, World Vision, ICAP. Swaziland acroynoms drive by. Whites on their way to the nation's game reserves. White South Africans and their big trucks- water irregation projects- canals and dams- all stop and ask. "No thanks, i'll walk." The best part though. The soundtrack. The playlist depends on the day- the weather- the time- the mood. Lately I have needed my saving grace. If you don't already know the band- download it right now. Beriut, "Elephant Gun". Just try not to dance along with it. The music video inspires me to dance again. I walk the dry jagged roads of dry jagged Lubombo- and I am alive again.

I set interviews up with caregivers, teachers, nurses, social workers. On my own of course, without a counterpart AGAIN. They all ask, "Simphiwe, how did you get my number? How did you find me?" I call PCV's in the area who have been here a year. I shadow their youth groups, their classes. PCV i'm "sharing" Siphofaneni with comes with me to interview career guidance teachers. I sit on the edge of my seat and throw up my words at them, "I have ideas for a school newspaper. They'll be an HIV section of course. I'd like to put a question box in the library for my shy students in class who are too afraid to ask questions. I can address these questions in the paper. I have made a contact with someone from the Swazi Times. I was thinking they could help with funding- I'm sure they put aside yearly charity funds. We could set up field trips to those young aspiring to be journalists at your school. My mother in the States works with a school newspaper. We could connect the papers some how. I also have ideas for an HIV/Sexuality/Gender debate club. We can start championships with other schools..." Im interupted. "Ok. Ok. I just got here- I'm a new teacher here, but I will think about these ideas. Thank you."

I feel foolish. I can't just smother them with my words. It's incredibly challenging to be sustainable in schools. You have to inspire the teachers to carry your work on. I need to find the motivated one in the school and lock on. PCV and I survey some of the kids on their HIV knowledge. At the end I ask them if they have any questions. Silence follows as usual. "Oh come on. I come from Rhihanna, Chris Brown, Obama, and WWF... and you're telling me you have no questions about them?" The questions flood in. Getting kids to ask questions- no im sorry- the right questions.. is like a dog herding cattle. As expected the questions move to personal ones about me. I answer as boldly as I am allowed to- I won't lie. "Are you Christian?" "Are you married?" "Why not?" Two girls, always in the back, stand up and ask more ridiculous questions... I am their entertainment- but little do they know, they are mine. We play a game of tennis with our questions. They soon realize- I can't be embarassed. I steer the game to a more serious note- we start talking about HIV. I tell them I want to start a girls club. They cheer and clap. "You have to come back!" They remember I told them I was once a dancer. Brave girl in the back stands, hands on hips, "If we join this club- will you dance for us?!" I promise them I will.

Male PCV and I continue to interview teachers and headmasters. Everyone of them thanks my male PCV saying his name over and over. It has been me talking the entire time. It has been me throwing ideas out. It has been me starring deep into their eyes trying to direct their gaze on me as I speak and not my male volunteer. We go to leave. "What was your name again?" SIMPHIWE.

I return home, keys out. I walk to my hut- as usual, nine giggling children and two barking dogs try desperatly to push themselves in with me. I start to create a routine. I allow hang out time until the sun is about to set. The sun set is mine and mine alone.

I walk alone to my spot. My two loyal companions following close behind- weary of the other dog's territories as we pass. I keep a rock in hand to protect them. With no glued eyes, no gawking mouths, apple in one pocket, banana in other, I find my "Where The Wild Things Are" dried up river bed. A large bloated tree, over sized low hanging branches awaits me. I climb. I sit facing my African sun as she lays her head down to sleep. My feet dangling, I let my flip flops (now held together by a screw and wire) fall to the ground where my companions lie- waiting for an applecore and banana peel to follow. The skyline is on fire. Her colorfully twisted hair stretching upwards washing everything in a thin orange haze. Before she goes, I tell my sun, "Kiss me you're beautiful."

She grabs my hand and we fall into it. Like a daydream- we fall into it- a memory. I'm lying on a hammock watching our Magnolia on Broadway- pink petals washing my face. My favorite unicorn folder, her unicorn tail painted in a way I can feel it blowing in the wind. The salt air of Cape Cod and the wind blowing inside my aunt's torquoise jeep along the beach. Pine Crest- lost again in a corn field and I can hear Mr. Anderson's tractor getting closer as I run. Baby Helen's pot belly- and her deep belly baby laugh. The softness and the smell of my mother's cream and yellow flower printed sheets. Running my wet freshly sucked thumb across the edges of her bed. Lying under white Christmas lights in his backyard- thinking...he did this for me? Wanting to be in his arms, afraid he'll feel my heart racing. Teenage hesitance. The absolute and extreme of being in love. My three favorite freckles on his neck. A contraction, a pull, a breath, dancing, organizing every silly adolescent emotion with a graceful step. Born with my grace- no one can take it from me.

All these moments have made me who I am and I am exactly who I should be.

The dark wind blows....I return home. Nine giggling children who I'm learning to embrace- or rather- to control. Still untouched by the retardation that America's entertainment brings to these "Underdeveloped" countries' youth- I break out the classics and for once.. my audience is smiling. Eric Clapton, "Motherless Child". We jump on my bed-"microphones" in hand. Brenton Wood "Oogum Boogum", Raphael Saadiq, "Big Easy" Paul Simon "Graceland" Seu Jorge "America De Norte".

Lukhetseni, my new home. This new shoe is starting to fit- blisters healing. Phone rings- it's Make in Nkiliji. "Sisi, it's Gigi- she's hurt again.' "I'll come tomorrow Make- I'll be right there."