Swazi Culture

One of the first observations a visitor to Swaziland makes is that Swazis are very proud of their culture.  And Swazis have every reason to be proud.  Despite colonialism and globalization, Swazis have not just maintained a few costumes or festivals, but rather they have actively sought to protect and pass down their heritage in its entirety.  This is what makes this tiny little kingdom so unique.  It feels like a secret place where there is no apparent contradiction between the bastions of tradition and the conveniences of modernity.     

Traditional dress is not just appropriate at specific functions, but anytime.  A teacher, a bank executive, a rural kid, or an old grandpa are all equally likely to be spotted walking around in animal skins and patterned wraps called emahiya. After school clubs revolve around traditional dance.  Cultural lessons are taught every year in school…Swazi weddings are held by most as superior to “white weddings” and only the most radicalized Christians decry traditional ceremonies as “ancestor worship.”…The two major festivals in the country (Umhlanga and Incwala) are not just a ritual put on for the few tourists who come; they are visited and upheld by almost every Swazi.  In fact, the festival dates vary yearly depending on the star alignments, making it difficult for tourists to plan a visit. 

“It’s our culture,” or “It’s un-Swazi” are the two divergent perspectives on virtually every socially contentious issue in Swaziland.  For example: when conservatives argue that it’s culturally appropriate to beat women and children, the other side can point out that Swazi customary law allows the battered woman to run back to her family’s homestead without fear of repercussion, interpreting this to mean that it was never acceptable to beat women.  Likewise, the house of the Gogo is a sacred place where children and women can run to, and the abuser is not allowed to enter.  In this way, Swazi culture is actively interpreted, debated, and framed in a way that takes “Western concepts” such as circumcision and women’s rights and makes them relevant to daily life in Swaziland.    

This framing of every issue as an issue of cultural relevance doesn’t even feel contrived.  When Swazis criticize Umhlanga or Incwala, they don’t criticize for the same reasons I might criticize them.  They argue that the tradition, once good and pure, has been polluted by ruling elites who wish to “manipulate Swazi culture” for nefarious purposes. 

And while some governments may criticize the King for this supposed manipulation of culture, he isn’t opposed to many of the “Western” solutions to the problems in his country.  In fact, culture can even be used as a weapon for good.  At a time when most African leaders refused to acknowledge the crisis of HIV/AIDS, King Mswati III became Africa’s first ruler to publicly shake hands with an openly HIV+ individual, thereby signaling that there is nothing “Swazi” in stigma and discrimination.  And while he received flack and anger from groups around the world for briefly imposing a law requiring young girls to wear sashes signaling their virginity, he was at least trying to come up with culturally appropriate solutions to stop the spread of HIV at a time when the epidemic was at its peak. 

There is some longing for the good old days in Swaziland, some decrying of Western values corrupting the youth.  This argument seems to increasingly revolve around women wearing pants.  At a recent protest against harassment in the bus ranks, police sent the protesting young women home to change into more modest clothing.  The irony was apparently lost on the police.  Also recently, a woman wrote an editorial about being humiliated and fined for wearing pants by Bemanti (people who come from the palace and who I have only been able to identify as the culture police).  Another mother wrote in to say something like “I’d rather end up with no culture if this is the kind of treatment our daughters receive.” 

I brought up the editorials to an elder female friend in the village, asking her opinion on the matter.  “Ah, but Zanele- it is not good.  If you wear pants, the men will rape you.”

“But if I wear pants, it’s much more difficult for them to rape me.” 

“Ahhhh…I see you!” She laughed. 

And while the idea of a pants ban might seem crass from an American perspective, it is healthy to remind ourselves that the politicization of women’s’ bodies occurs in America and around the world.  (Sluts wanting birth control and justified rape ring any bells?  FYI- Birth control is free of charge in Swaziland.) 

I think the debate that something is or is not culturally appropriate for Swaziland is healthy, as I see the most rational and progressive side winning out in the long run.  Both the good old days and Western values are put into a machine which disassembles and rebuilds them to better serve the people.  This occurs with healthy debate and without a sense of loss from either side.  The debates may take time, but they ensure that Swaziland will remain a place with beautifully visible cultural heritage for decades to come. 

The Unexpected

“Now it is not good for the Christian’s health to hustle the Aryan brown

For the Christian riles and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the Christian down

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased,

And the epitaph drear: “A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.”

-Rudyard Kipling

I am fast approaching the sixth month mark of my time here in Swaziland.  Looking back on the past six months, there are some things that I expected, and some things I really didn’t.  Here is a list of the unexpected:

I did not expect such indifference towards my past, my culture, or my country.  Granted this is also a product of the communities I’m working with- mostly rural poor with limited media access.  The few times I have gotten questions, they have always been amazingly random: “Is wrestling real?”  “Do you have cows in America?”  “Are celebrities Satan worshippers?”

I did not expect Swazis to be as friendly and helpful as they are.  When the young khumbi conductors see the lost little white girl standing at the Manzini bus rank (which African guidebooks dub the most crowded bus rank in Africa), I don’t even have to ask for help guiding me to the right khumbi.  I am asked “Where to?” in clipped Swazi English.  I tell them my destination and the young men guide me like they’re the Secret Service and I’m the President fleeing a bomb threat.  Also, cheers to the man who carried my enormous gas can with me, the grandpa who pulled the tick off my neck, and my host brothers for never once complaining about the extra chore of caring for my dog when I’m away. 

I did not expect health problems to consume so much of my time.  Since coming here six months ago, I have been treated for giardia, African tick bite fever, a cough that lasted three months, viral infections of horrific sore-throatiness, and GI illnesses that remain undiagnosed (pending an upcoming visit to a specialist).  I’ve always been a bit paranoid about my health, so the trip has not been fun.    

I did not expect to see so many awesome insects/bugs.  They often look a lot like bugs in the States, but somehow bigger and more colorful.  When there are hundreds of giant grasshoppers hopping in one tiny corner of the grass, I’ll be looking to the sky for the next plague to strike. 

I did not expect training to cover the topics it did, and expected more depth in other areas.  We spent a solid four or five days on mental health/feelings/diversity/grief, which may be very valid given past attrition rates.  Apparently the shift was more of a global standardization of Peace Corps policy (perhaps in response to the now infamous rape and murder cases), as the past group reports having had significantly more time devoted to technical trainings.   I am a total workaholic, though, and wanted three months of solid language and technical trainings. 

I did not expect to draw strength from meeting Swazis working to change their communities and country.  Trying to effect change with families that sometimes only have the abilities/resources to care about their immediate condition produces only a few, small victories.  Listening to an impassioned speech on corporal punishment by a ministry employee at a training reminded me to quit being selfish and to do what I’m here to do.  In discussing corporal punishment, the gentleman reminded us that the manipulative argument of cultural heritage should be challenged in many arenas, not just in the arena of school discipline.  “Yes, it was done to us, but we need some kind of introspection to ask, was it right?”  Knowing that there are people such as him working for change inspires me to not give up on changing behavior in a small way in my community. 

I did not expect to spend so much time straddling two communities.  One community is my village.  The other is the Peace Corps, which is a strange little group of Americans who are all so stunningly different that you know that you would spend very little time with most of them if you weren’t thrown into a program together.  Over time, our group has finally become more cohesive, and I will be going on vacation to the beaches of Mozambique over the New Year with some of my fabulous new friends!  (Can’t wait!!) 

Finally, I did not expect to spend at least five minutes every day with my jaw hanging open, staring in awe at the buena vistas.  The sun rises and sets in colors too brilliant for words.  It conveys to me only the melancholy reflection that this incandescent paradise is tainted by a disease which preys upon the deepest chords of our humanity.               

A Day in the Life Returns

Today is Saturday.  I wake up at six, pleased to have slept in.  Yesterday was exhausting at the clinic.  It was ARV day, and Doctors without Borders rolled in to see patients and give out their monthly ARV supply.  In the morning, I helped sell tickets and snacks at reception while occasionally holding business-y chats with the nursery group leader.  I sat down only to let one of the few children waiting for medicine braid my hair.  In the afternoon, the support group met.  Then I helped my host mom plant sweet potatoes for an hour before netball practice…But I digress…Today is Saturday!

I take my clothes to the well early so as to avoid what will clearly be a blisteringly sunny day.  There is only one other boy there when I arrive at seven, and we wash our clothes silently together.  I am pleased to be free from the usual judging eyes of every young girl in the village that I usually face doing laundry.  I make a mental note to come and wash early from now on.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy their company, but my left-handedness and whiteness put me under a lot of scrutiny, especially when doing housework.  One Saturday, after the umpteenth girl came up and commented to her friends about my washing technique, I totally snapped.  “Just because something’s different doesn’t mean it’s wrong!” I told them.  They didn’t get my point, so I just dropped it…Still; difference being wrong is a recurring theme in my life.

I pick up two little hitchhikers on the walk home- neighbor kids about three years old.  I give them paper and markers and sit them on a grass mat outside as I hang up my laundry to dry.        

After washing and sending the cuties on their way, I go to the clinic with the intention of picking up my frying pan, having leant it last week so that we could fry up some cockroaches as a tasty work-time treat.  Seriously, they weren’t bad if you closed your eyes.  Saturday’s are dead at the clinic, so I just check on the nursery and my garden before chatting with the receptionist and fruit-stand seller.  I forget the pan for the 3^rd day in a row. 

 I then head to the soccer game of my host brothers’ team.  It’s about a half hour walk from the clinic.  They are playing their arch rivals, the Swallows!  I sit with their stuff, the only lady fan besides Scruff T and the make selling snacks.  The men I know greet me and Scruff politely.  The men I don’t know stare/leer openly, but there aren’t as many strolling by as usual, as this is the first game of the day.  I buy snacks left and right for the boys on the team.  The head of the league comes by for a chat about a tournament we’re trying to organize where the players get tested for HIV in lieu of a joining fee.  Both of our efforts have stagnated (his with the players, mine with the sponsors), but we agree not to give up.  He asks about my netball team, and promises to come watch their next game. 

Towards the end of the game, my netball girls show up, giggly and giddy to be in a man’s world.  I wave them over and buy them some treats, but they are there to check out the players, not the playing.  The boys win the game and run over to me with hugs and whoops. 

It’s hot and I’m roasting despite my umbrella.  I head to the Sitolo (store) for a cold drink.  Only the storekeeper (whose name means Happiness) and one make are in the store.  They greet me with typical Swazi politeness, and I update them on the status of the game (Happiness’s husband having played for the losing team).  We chuckle for a bit about that, then the make asks me if I’m married.  Would I like to be her daughter in law? 

“Oh, make.  You don’t want me for a daughter in law.  I’m very lazy… I won’t cook, I won’t clean, and I won’t wash clothes.” 

She appraises me for a minute, trying to decide if my childbearing hips are worth it.  “But I saw you carrying firewood with your make.”

Foiled!  She still wants me.  Perhaps the “I’m lazy” line only works on women who aren’t from my village.  I tried it last week on a would-be mother in law at the vegetable stand, and she ran away snapping “This I can’t stand!”

This make is not so easily persuaded, so I quickly divert the conversation back to what I really want- a cold drink!  It’s the old kind of pop in Swaziland- straight from the glass bottle and pure sugar coursing down your throat.  All she has left is an off-brand Fanta Orange, but most days they don’t have it at all (the working fridge is also recent).  I get out my wallet to pay just as she opens the bottle for me.  To my embarrassment, I realize that I had given out more than I thought at the soccer game, now fifty cents shy of being able to pay for my drink.

“Don’t worry,” Happiness tells me.  “You pay when you get the money.  Not today, though.  Today it is too hot.”

I grin and blush and apologize as I sip my pop.  However much I give out in money, I am always repaid in kindness by someone else.  In a few minutes, my host brothers and their team stomp through the doors of the Sitolo, partaking in the usual post-game ritual of splitting a loaf of bread and sucking on little bags of homemade popsicles.

I say goodbye and go home, quickly updating make on the status of the game before finishing up some reports for Peace Corps and grad school.  I have every intention of walking the mile to pay back the fifty cents, but a storm rolls in just as I’m leaving.  Storms here are as violent and sudden as they are in Illinois, but it is much easier to tell what the weather will be like here.  It will go weeks and even months with not a cloud in the sky.  Then suddenly, you can watch the storm clouds roll in with such exactness that you can predict to the minute when the rain will fall over where you are standing. 

I cook dinner (macaroni and spinach) as an enraptured audience of two neighbor girls stand at my screen door and whisper about my technique.  I eventually get sick of them staring and (wanting to avoid feeling guilty for not feeding them) I close the door. 

My nineteen year old host brother comes in as I’m writing this and asks to use the computer for music.  I move over and read for a few hours.  More boys from the team stream in, and we all sit in comfortable silence, listening to the music.  Later, my youngest host brother will come for tutoring.    

Tomorrow is Sunday.  I’ll take the two hour hike across the valley and up the mountain with make to church.  I really like the hike and am trying to memorize the twisting paths to take.  I will leave Scruff locked inside the house, as she was quite the distraction sneaking up the pews to be with me last time.  Awkward and adorable.  I might step out before the exorcisms start, though.  

 

Aid or Dependency

I’ve been thinking a lot about dependence versus aid lately.  I’m sure there are dozens if not hundreds of people who make a decent living writing about every possible flawed outcome of aid and the “real motives” behind it (usually boiling down to donor country domestic interests).  Foreign aid’s greatest critics argue that aid is nothing but a bloated industry interested in lucrative paychecks that allow aid workers to live like kings in countries where a nickel still buys something.  I’m not this cynical, and I don’t think anyone who works in the development industry is. 

The history of development assistance is much like that of any other industry- it has made progress, adapted to new times and markets, expanded in some areas, died in others, and still could use a serious re-vamp in a lot of other stagnated practices.  The solution as to how to best fulfill the ultimate mission of uplifting people from poverty is still a work in progress.  Lately the best practices have finally turned towards requiring local ownership in projects as the only way to ensure success and mitigate collateral damage.  This makes a great deal of sense, but many aid organizations and donor countries still provide the resources, training, and monitoring for such “community owned” projects. 

I used to discount claims that foreign aid creates dependencies.  It seemed like a conservative smokescreen excuse for a callous and selfish worldview.  But lately I find myself sympathizing with dependency theory.  I get asked to “sponsor” on a daily basis- be it school fees, clothes, sports equipment, electronics, airtime, community projects, NGO projects, school projects, personal projects, business projects, etc... 

And it’s exhausting.  And frustrating.  And incredibly uncomfortable.  Especially when people I’ve grown close to ask for something that (if I scrimped and gave up the occasional luxury) I might be able to afford.  One day was filled with so many requests for sponsorship that I almost cried in frustration.  By comparison, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been asked for something in exchange for work.  When I do break down and buy something small for the community that still puts a big dent in my monthly earnings, I am almost never shown the gratitude I desire for such benevolence, and I walk away stinging, vowing not to repeat the mistake again.      

When I tell less educated Swazis I’m not some aid worker making an aid worker’s salary who can afford to give alms, they typically don’t believe me.  White skin= rich.  I’ve heard that the only white people one village saw was when white people drove by in a car and threw candy out the window without even stopping to get out.  Barf…And I understand that a lifetime of conditioning would make you think I am Miss Moneybags. 

But at the same time, what kind of mentality must one have to ask for something for free before asking to work for it?  How did this mentality develop?  Did it come from shoe drops, clothing drops, food drops, sponsoring, etc?  Ignoring the systemic factors of colonialism and world trade inequalities, how does a culture of aid over self-sufficiency even develop?  Is what I’m witnessing the product of foreign aid, or is it a product of poverty? 

And to be fair, many Swazis are aware of the aid world’s dependency dilemma.  When I deny someone sponsorship, it always comes with the “teach a man to fish versus feed him for a day” line.  Swazis nod.  They typically understand that this is the line that aid workers give.  They even believe the line usually and assure me that they, too, would like to see a Swaziland so empowered that it doesn’t need outside assistance.  But in the meantime, they need the money yesterday.    

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether or not aid creates dependencies.  You can’t use dependency theory as an excuse not to care about others.  You can only learn from past mistakes. 

On a slightly related note, I’ve been trying to expand my understanding of the aid world by reading some more books which might go against what I believe or know.   The best was “Letting them die: why HIV/AIDS prevention programmes fail” by Catherine Campbell.  It is based on a longitudinal study of a mining community project in South Africa (where many Swazis work and which are notorious for catastrophically high HIV infection rates).  On paper, the community-led project was beyond even industry standards, but it failed to instill change towards consistent condom use.  There are some interesting tidbits that all HIV prevention programs could learn from.  For instance, the greatest determinant of a young girl engaging in unsafe sexual activity is how much affection she feels her parents have for her.  Another interesting tidbit was that sex without a condom was somehow perceived by men as fulfilling a need for intimacy/affection in an extremely brutal social setting.  HIV prevention must move beyond the condom demonstrations and peer educators, but focus holistically on the environment of poverty, extreme patriarchy, and the sense of hopelessness/fatalism that begets potentially deadly behavioral choices. 

 

A Day in the Life...

A Day in the Life…

I wake up at 5:30…Whether it was the roosters, the dogs, or the booming bass of bhuti’s African house music, I don’t know.  I’m up by 6 most days anyway, but I lay in bed trying to steal back some sleep before I really need to get up.  It’s still before 6 when my bobhuti and their friends start cementing the walls of the construction site next to my hut- so I’m up for good this time. 

I am unfortunately gripped by (pardon my SiSwati)- explosive Umsheko.  Whether it is from the clinic, yesterday’s beef carry-out, or the expired eggs I’ve been boiling, I couldn’t tell you.  Whatever it is, it sends me running back and forth from my bed to the latrine for the next few hours.  Having to walk past a gaggle of teenage boys each time is not the most confidence-boosting way to start your morning, let me tell you. 

I am just entering the “kill me now” phase of the Umsheko around 8:30, ready to resign myself to a day of counting ceiling cracks and steps to the latrine, when my host mother calls from out of town.  I am needed at a meeting, apparently.  She tells me the name of the place, and I quickly rouse myself out of my one woman pity parade.  My community needs me! 

I quickly dress (no time for a bucket bath), make myself a to-go bottle of Oral Rehydration Solution, and head off to unknown meeting at location unknown.   I take what might be the fast route if I knew what I was doing or where I was going, but I’m still pretty weak and walk slowly.  I pass countless homesteads where I’m called out to by everyone.  I feel great- my community knows my name!  One homestead asks me to drink some of the beloved Swazi maize drink.  My stomach cramps at the very thought.  “No thanks, I’m full!”  I decline politely and quickly continue towards the meeting, getting directions every few homesteads. 

I am pleased to run into my friend the old security guard at the school on the way- it always brightens my day to see him (especially now that he doesn’t propose every time he sees me). 

When I finally arrive at the meeting, my tardiness seems to be excused by my whiteness, and the whole room bursts into applause when I enter.  I am embarrassed and apologize profusely, and take my spot next to the other 20 women on the grass mats along the wall. 

Women in Swaziland must sit with their legs straight out in front of them or tucked daintily to the side.  Ouch.  Needless to say, I last about half an hour before my legs are positively numb and I am biting the inside of my cheek to keep from rustling.  I think I’m doing an awesome job at pretending like this is the most natural position in the world for me, but I get told during the break by one of the presenters to take the lone chair in the room.  I stubbornly don’t.  Boy would I regret that 6 hours later….

I have arrived on the 4^th and final day of a community counselor training being conducted by two no-nonsense Swazi women from the Adventist Development Relief Agency.  The trainings consist of the typical HIV/STI/TB/nutrition talks, but my ears perk up at a particularly interesting session about the importance of wills and involving children in the process of writing the will.  As in many developing countries, land and property grabbing by relatives of the deceased tragically deprives the rightful heirs (usually still children) of their desperately needed inheritance.  The presenters talk about how to make a simple will, where to put it, the role of the courts if there is a dispute, and the important role fencing can play in preventing the wrongful allocation of land.  It is definitely new and important information to many people in the room. 

During the break, I network with the presenters, who have dollar signs in their eyes at the sight of me.  Great ladies and quality presenters, but I beg off any financial commitment until I know for sure what is being accomplished here.  I chat with other community members I know from various community groups about ideas for projects, too.  Another young lady approaches me during the break.  She is a classic beauty, her modest Swazi housewife dress not capable of concealing that she could be a model.  She wants to work with me on the support group the counseling trainees are forming.  I am thrilled at having another active counterpart.  I can sense that this woman is a natural leader as she gently but firmly guides the girls in her charge through the preparing and serving of the food.  The young girls instantly like me as I offer repeatedly to help them with the dishes, but they still give me the easy tasks. 

Come lunchtime, I am given the heart of the chicken.  I’m not sure if this is considered a quality piece or not, but I discretely try sliding it back into the pot when I’ve eaten the rice.  I’m caught, though, and there are some laughs and looks of astonishment- I hope I haven’t offended. 

The meeting finally winds down around 4, and offices are voted on for the new organization.  My counterpart nominates me to be a board member, but I successfully protest and withdraw from the race.  This needs to be their organization and there are many capable Swazi women in the room.  Another half hour is spent arranging a date for the next meeting, and I check out my SiSwati mentally after I get that bit down.  Apparently, the women are concerned and want to confirm that I will be there next week.  Whoops- shouldn’t have checked out so soon.  Yes, I reassure them, I will be there.  A prayer and a song, and I’m on my way home at 5.  There is a storm brewing and the sky looks like a fantastic Illinois skyline during tornado season.  There is a pleasant calm-before-the-storm on the homestead when I arrive. 

I start cooking, feeling much recovered from my illness in the morning.  Thanks to the spices mom and dad spent, I made the best curry I’ve ever made!  I soon have a 15 year old bhuti at my door, wanting to play the memory game.  We play as I eat, and I give him a little to taste as always.  He refuses to quit playing until he’s beaten me, which takes a few rounds, but he does.  Normally, the seven year old would join us, and I would have the two draw or practice their writing for an hour or so, but he’s away visiting his mother at the moment.  I give brief greetings to the older bobhuti who are in charge while make is away with the little one.  Normally we’d go and practice with the soccer team until it gets dark (I’d beg off before it actually gets dark), but there’s a storm a-brewing tonight.  They know I’m feeling like more of a quiet night following my illness, too, and so it’s good night after a few pleasantries.

Tomorrow I will spend the day at the clinic, helping at reception and counting pills and socializing and planning grand projects.  Sometimes the nursery group meets on Fridays, so maybe there will be another surprise meeting.  Yesterday there was a surprise meeting of Rural Health Motivators (well- I was the only one surprised) at the clinic, so you never know what exciting adventures await in the village! 

So that’s what my days are like.  I can’t imagine spending whole days without leaving my homestead or holing up in my hut.  Scruff and I are busy bees all day, every day, thanks to our very active civil society.  (Yeah, yeah, I had to read a lot of Putnam last year…)  I’m DYING to get out of this integration phase so I can start really doing my job and start working with all these groups that want me to work with them.          

 

Scruff

I wasn’t going to have a dog in Peace Corps.  I came to that conclusion some six months before I even knew what country I was being sent to.  I made a list of pros and cons of a dog, and the cons all outweighed the pros.  My returned volunteer friends agreed- it’s too expensive, too much responsibility, too foreign a concept, and too crass to feed an animal well in a community where people are hungry.  I made my decision and thought that was the end of it. 

But sometimes, life throws a cute little puppy in your path. 

Her name is Scruff.  She is the dog of a previous volunteer.  When I first found out that I would be inheriting Scruff, I was mildly distressed.  Sure she was cute and affectionate and all that…But she wasn’t really my dog.  I was worried about community perceptions, worried about the cost of dog food, and most of all- worried about what I would do with her when the two years were up. 

Peace Corps immediately gave me some options- maybe someone will adopt her.  The alternative was the Animal Welfare Society.  That option felt like a “well, should we inject her now?” kind of option, so I couldn’t send her there and ever forgive myself for it.  Peace Corps said that the quicker I made a decision, the easier it would be, so I did. 

The first few weeks were strange, and I felt like I was dog-sitting for someone.  Scruff didn’t feel like she was mine somehow, even though she threw herself at me frantically whenever I returned from an absence of longer than 20 minutes.  She even forced her way into the latrine a few times to be with me until I learned to use the latrine that she can’t nose open! 

Scruff has been my constant companion and shadow.  If she manages to follow me all the way to the bus stop, the khumbi conductors have to physically hold her back and start driving away with the door open so that she can’t spring into the khumbi at the last second. 

Unfortunately, the Swazi homestead dogs have also attached themselves to me, so I inevitably have an entourage of 6 dogs following in my wake whenever I walk around the village.  I don’t have the heart to throw stones at them to make them return to the homestead, and my weak “suka!” doesn’t exactly send them running home with their tails between their legs.  Just call me the pied piper of dogs. 

Slowly, I am beginning to realize that my fears of community perceptions were unfounded.  The community knows Scruff well from the previous volunteer, so it’s like instant integration whenever they see us out and about together.  The concept of a dog as a pet and not for homestead protection is novel and baffling to Swazis, and so Scruff and I get a lot of attention.  It’s not that Swazis wouldn’t keep dogs as pets necessarily, but rather there is a hierarchy of needs and animals have jobs.  I often struggle with a holier-than-thou sense of self- righteousness towards people who take pity on dogs in developing countries.  It’s not that there isn’t animal cruelty- there is plenty of that- but mostly there’s just a different type of relationship with dogs that is perfectly legitimate given the circumstances.    

Scruff is the exception, however.  She is fluffy and furry and so very different from the other dogs that people take a genuine interest in her.  Scruff and I will be watching a soccer match when some shy boys see me petting her and want to try it out as well.  Scruff is unfortunately terribly racist, so I have to subtly scoot closer to the boys so that Scruff is within petting distance.  They first pat her tentatively a few times on her head, and the boys look up at me in wonder.  This scene repeats itself with everyone from the oldest grandpa to the smallest child- all petting a dog for apparently the first time in their lives.  It is truly a wonderful sight to behold.        

Scruff is an easy dog to love.  She reminds me of Belle in a lot of ways- incredibly needy and sweet and loving.  Slowly, I’m not just dogsitting this cutie- I’m adopting her.  It began about a week ago when she hopped on my bed for the umpteenth time.  I usually shove her off gently, but I was feeling benevolent, and let her curl up next to me as I read.  And I rubbed her belly.  And it was true love.  We’ve repeated this hours-long cuddle ritual most nights since then. 

Her previous owner and another volunteer are keeping Scruff in food for now.  (I’m not quite ready to accept that responsibility, jerky as it sounds.  I was planning on travelling with any extra living allowance, not spending it on dog food).  I’m still worried about what to do with Scruff when it’s time to leave.  Give her to another volunteer?  Spend my re-adjustment allowance on having her sent back to the States?  I suppose I have two years to think about it, though, so these things will resolve in time….

In the meantime, Scruff is proving to be one heart-melting little cookie.  I’ve had tough young men want to take pictures with her, and countless mothers ask me if they can have Scruff.  Women look upon me with great pity when they find out that I am an old maid of 23 with no husband and (worse) no children, but I just point at Scruff and say “This is my baby!”  We laugh and the judgment leaves their eyes.  

Most telling of how loved this dog is, however, the reactions I got today.  I was going to a meeting and had my usual entourage following me.  I managed to yell threateningly enough that they all ran back to the homestead- including Scruff.  I felt naked without her all day.  When I stopped on my walk to the meeting to chat with some grandpas I am friendly with, they all had one question: “Ukuphi inja yakho namuhla?”  Where is your dog today?  “Ekhiya,” I responded sadly.  At home.  Our yippy reunion felt really good when I finally made it home.  I’m such a sap for cuddle time.            

 

Religion in Swaziland

The following snippets took place both at my permanent site and training one, so ignore the fact that time jumps around a bit….

I would like to record some of my interactions with religion/animism in Swaziland.  Religiosity is extremely high, and it is very important to say you are Christian (even on resumes).  According to my bhuti, a “fat American named Frank” came around the village one day when I was at school.  He handed out little picture books with the story of Jesus.  I chuckle at this, as I think Frank might have been a little late on the conversion bandwagon.  I have never been exposed to more deeply Christian people than in Swaziland.  Pre-missionary Swaziland also believed in a male supreme being, so conversion was easily facilitated.  Snippets of this faith remain, and are acted out upon in many churches with a myriad of fascinating customs.     

Swaziland recently celebrated King Sobhuza’s birthday.  In honor of the holiday, many versions of the same story were repeated over and over on the radio and by word of mouth.  The story goes like this:

King Sobhuza had a dream (some would say vision).  In the dream, a person of fair skin approached him.  In his left hand, the stranger held a medallion (coin).  In the right hand, he held scrolls with writing (the bible).  King Sobhuza consulted with his advisors, and asked which hand he should pick.  They advised him to pick the right hand, and thus he made the correct choice in choosing God over money.  Around this time, missionaries wanted to come into Swaziland.  Seeing the missionaries as the manifestation of his dream, he allowed the missionaries into the country. 

This story of Sobhuza has been handed down for generations, but I wonder if the story serves the dual purpose of giving Swazis (and the king) ultimate authority over and agency in their religious practices.  After all, Christianity is perhaps one of the most lasting legacies of colonialism in Swaziland.  At least in this version, Swazis are in control of the situation.

_______________

My Gogo is a devout Catholic, but her daughters are Zionist, Apostolic, Born-Again, and Jericho.  On Sundays, I hike 45 minutes with her and some grandkids to the Catholic Church.  Along the road, we cross many Swazis dressed in an eclectic and colorful mix of costumes.  One sect wears white lab coats and white from head to toe.  I’ve heard from other volunteers who have attended services that this bunch sings/chants/dances/speaks in tongues/perform exorcisms for hours at a time.  Jericho men carry long canes or clubs and drape themselves in chains. Our neighbors above and below us are Jericho, and I often hear the men screaming themselves hoarse in deep voices as part of their religious practice.  It sounds almost like a New Zealand haka or a war cry.  The Apostles often don white hats and wear light blue capes.  These capes are quite common, and the colors vary often depending on the sect or individual church.  The female elders of Gogo’s Catholic Church wear purple capes like something I imagine might have been worn in the 1940s or 1950s.

Services in the little one-room Catholic Church are quite pleasant.  I am almost relieved at the banality of Catholic services world-wide, having heard stories of rather grueling all-day chant-a-thons from fellow volunteers.  The first time I attend, the priests never once look at their congregation, as their eyes are unnervingly glued to me the entire service.  I feel the strange disconnect I usually feel during religious worship.  I sense the deep spirituality of the Swazis around me as they sing and pray and preach, and I know that they are getting something out of this that leaves me feeling flat.  I often visualize it as if there’s a wire firing in their brains that makes religion make sense, but this wire is entirely absent or dead in my own brain.  The choir sings amazingly well, though, and my siblings enjoy the attention they receive for bringing the exotic Mlungu (white person) with them. 

Despite the high levels of Christianity, folklore and animism lie just beneath the surface- and I love the many fantastic stories I have heard so far.  Right after hearing the story of Sobhuza choosing the bible, my bhuti tells me another story of Sobhuza in which he turns himself into a snake in order to defeat the British in a battle.  “How did he turn himself into a snake?” I ask.  “I don’t know.  But he did!” my bhuti explains.

“Are mermaids real?”  My sassy, intelligent coworker asks me one day as we are huddled around the space heater, enjoying a lull in the busy clinic setting.

“No,” I respond.  “Do Swazis believe in mermaids?”

No, she tells me, but there is a magic snake in Swaziland.  It is a big snake, but it can turn itself into anything it wants to- the most beautiful lover, male or female- and talk its way into anything.  Once a girl disappeared, and it was because the snake proposed to her, pretending to be a suitor.  So dazzled by his charm was the maiden, that she didn’t notice him leading her down a long path, into the river.  She didn’t even notice when he led her underwater.  Under the water, it becomes like land again, and her suitor turned himself into his true form.  Then, the girl was stuck down there forever, the bride of the snake. 

“Great story!”  I say.  I’m thrilled to finally be hearing some of the legendary Swazi oral tradition, having heard much about it but having been unable to coax many stories out of my shy friends.  But my coworker insists then that it is not a story- that this really happens when girls disappear, and she even has an auntie who once encountered the snake-man.  “There was once a man in the store where my auntie was a cashier.  He came to the register with about 500 E worth of items.  When it was time to pay, he didn’t pay, but merely wagged his tongue at her.  His tongue was a snake’s tongue!  Then, he and the items disappeared.  They looked and looked, but he was gone.”      

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There is a nameless waterfall in our community which is cursed or sacred, and every villager has their own version of its history.  Our trainers hear that some volunteers want to go there on a hike, and the one who grew up in the area warns us that it is not safe.  We press him, but he won’t say why.  Another trainer warns us that we will be “pieced” by traditional healers.  Slowly, stories begin to emerge.

Some say a man went there and never came back.  Others say an octopus lives under the water.  Some say a man threw a dog in, and the dog disappeared.  Still others believe some kind of a god or spirit lives there and controls the weather.  They explain that it was once angry and made it so windy that the roofs blew off the houses.  Several volunteers go to see it anyway.  That night, the windstorm is one of the strongest windstorms I’ve ever been in, or at least it feels that way under my clattering tin roof.  A roof of a house in the village gets torn off, and I’m sufficiently convinced that the spirit in the lake does not want us to go there.         

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I go stomping through the knee-high grass in my Sunday best.  Now I know why make and bhuti donned knee-high rubber boots for our expedition.  “Should I be worried about snakes?” I ask, slightly terrified. 

“No.” 

“There aren’t snakes here?”

 “There are.  I will give you something to protect you.  Then the snakes won’t bite you.”  I am very grateful for the kindness, but I think I’ll wear the rubber boots next time just to be on the safe side. 

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I ask make if Peace Corps can install a lightning rod on the homestead.  “No,” she tells me, visibly upset by the question.  She pauses for a few minutes, stirring the porridge on the stove.  I sit there awkwardly, telling her it’s ok, but that Peace Corps wanted me to ask.  “It’s just that there are witches in this country,” she tells me.  “They put something in the pole to make the lightning come more.” 

____

We are sitting in our informal classroom, having a cross-culture session on Swazi traditions.  Our trainer tells us about the ceremonies leading up to the annual reed dance (celebrating Swaziland’s young maidens).  She tells us that if the reeds a girl cuts end up wilting or molding by the time she makes it to the royal kraal, she is not actually a virgin, and she must pay a fine for lying.  Several students vocally protest this with an American sense of scientific reasoning.  There is no way for a reed to be a scientific test of virginity.  “There is!” she protests.  “I have seen it!”  Apparently, the guilty girls are taken to be examined by some doctor, and the doctor performs a physical exam before they are fined.  “But it has never happened that they are virgins.  Never have they been virgins.  The reeds are always right,” our trainer insists. 

We insist back that this is not scientifically rational.  We try to understand, but our minds are grasping at straws.  “I don’t understand!” one student exclaims in frustration. 

“No you can’t.  You will never understand because you are not a Swazi,” our trainer ends the discussion. Her words haunt me for a long time afterwards.    

Most meetings in Swaziland are started with a prayer.  Many include a religious song that everyone joins in on.  Our little clinic begins each day by having all the staff (anywhere from 3 to 5 at one time) huddle into the little waiting room where the first patients are already sitting.  The patients who don’t know me yet stare openly at the Mlungu during the prayer and hymn.  I imagine they wonder what I am doing here… if I am a doctor…if this means that their wait will be shorter or their care will be better today….

I stare back at the patients.  I try and diagnose by sight what ails them, wondering and judging about who might have HIV or TB.  I wonder how many mouths they have to feed at home…how they are going to muster the strength to walk the long way home... If they know that the strongest painkiller we have is one that won’t even knock out light headaches for me.

As we sit opposite each other- scrutinizing one another- I am overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness and worry for them.  But by now, the morning hymn has started.  Gravelly voices and strong ones sing in a round, and the music begins to drown out my helplessness.  My fear and anxiety about myself and for the patients pass, and only the hymn remains.  It fills me with an aching comfort and a sense of peace.  It lingers in the air for a few moments after the singing is over.   If that’s not God, I don’t know what is. 

I love you like chicken dust!

With only a few days until swearing-in, I decided it was time for another update.  Even if I haven’t had enough internet access to respond to each of your words of wisdom/letters/comments/emails individually, know that they are cherished and that I look forward to them immensely.  I can’t believe how awesome my friends and family are! 

Some pics:

(These are pictures of the mountain I lived on).

So what have I been up to?  Classes and life continue as normal, and I still feel incredibly blessed to have such a great host family.  One of my trainers even remarked; “That Gogo of yours- she’s one in a million, I tell you!  One in a million!”  (Just in case you needed more proof- as I was typing this, Gogo came by with two lemons and advised me to make a lemon tea for my scratchy cold voice!)  It will be so hard to leave this family, but there is so much to look forward to with the next one.  Speaking of…

On the job training is a little trip we took mid-training to our permanent sites with our work counterparts.  My work counterpart is a young “expert client” (HIV counselor) at the local clinic, where I will be doing most of my work.  She is sassy and awesome.  As one of our trainers rather coarsely explained that Swazi women think constant proposals and comments from men are flattering, my counterpart voiced her disagreement LOUDLY!  My kind of girl, to be sure.  She has a vision for my work, and has already planned some income generating projects I can help facilitate.  (Quick- where’s that Peace Corps manual on how to build a chicken coop?!)  She also wants to start a support group for HIV+ children, and I definitely think my experience working with kids will fit in nicely here.  Sitting around wasting taxpayer money?  Unlikely.

My permanent site is 10 kilometers down a dirt road, and the surroundings are quite stark.  At first, I am taken by surprise at the rural-ness of it as compared to our training site.  There are at least 100 meters between the closest homesteads, and homesteads appear to dot the valley in a haphazard way.  I ask five different people the boundaries of village M-, and get five different responses and some vague hand-waving towards distant houses that evidently do not belong to village M-.  After a grueling 3 hours chopping firewood by the river with my host mom, I begin to romanticize the desolate beauty of the village.  If you squint a little, M- might be some rural area in Wyoming.  It is truly majestic, and I can’t wait to see it in the wet season when the whole valley turns green.     

My host family is pretty nuclear (which is pretty surprising in Swaziland).  Babe works in the mines in South Africa, but is home for the weekend when I’m there.  I pull out all the stops with my SiSwati, as he speaks no English, and he warms up to me quickly.  Make is a hard-working traditional Swazi woman with many sons, three of whom live on the homestead and range in age from 17 to 28/29).  Make has also taken in a shy OVC (orphans and vulnerable children) who is somehow related, and plans on taking in another one at some point next year.  “It is difficult,” she tells me sadly during a lull in our Sunday afternoon card game.  There is not a single family here that remains untouched by the devastation of AIDS.    

Anyone interested in reading a really great book on AIDS in Africa, please read “28 Stories of AIDS in Africa.”  The introduction does an amazing job at explaining the epidemic in an incredibly poignant way, and emphasizes that no two countries share the same narrative.  For this reason, the author tells 28 personal stories from 28 different countries (1 story for every million Africans who have died from AIDS).  The first chapter is the Swazi story.  Reading this book and living in the country with the world’s highest infection rate has taught me that one of the greatest systemic evils in our world is the patenting of life-saving ARVs.  But I digress…

On the homestead

Last night I asked my Gogo (host grandmother) to tell me a traditional Swazi story that she grew up hearing.  The tale that went like this:

King Shaka of Zululand wanted to invade Swaziland.  He took his great armies to the edge of a river, where they rested for the night.  At that time, all of the cows in Swaziland were white, white.  They went and went and went to the edge of the river.  Instead of crossing to attack the Zulus, the cows stood at the edge of the river and cried.  Then, the cows turned around and went and went and went right back to the King of Swaziland.  Seeing this, the Zulus became terrified that the Swazis possessed magic.  They ran away in fear.

Gogo laughed, and this was the end of the story.  I am incredibly blessed to have such a caring and welcoming host family for the two months of training.  A little bit about the homestead:

We live in a village in the mountains and it is the dry season, so the shoes my Gogo insists I polish before leaving for school each day are dirty before my 15 minute walk down the mountain to the main village road.  Whoever put on the packing list that we needed to bring our winter coats and wool socks clearly was from Florida and had never felt a cool breeze before.  The mountains are beautiful, and there are sacred waterfalls and the royal tombs nearby.   

My homestead is a flat area carved out of the mountain.  Yards in Swaziland are dirt (see snake run), and the Gogos are constantly sweeping, sweeping, sweeping them clean.  Right in front of our homestead and a slight drop down is my family’s maize field, spanning about the length of the homestead.  The latrine, sugarcane field, and two ancient avocado trees are to my left when I stand at the door of my hut, looking out onto the valley and more mountains in the distance.  Behind my hut are two houses for sleeping, a round hovel in disuse, and the kitchen hut. 

My host family consists of an ever-rotating cast of characters.  Gogo is the matriarch, and she thoroughly enjoys the presence of her many grandchildren.  Of her eight children, only four are living.  I’ve met all of them, and one daughter sometimes also stays on the homestead with her children.  It is normal and acceptable in Swaziland to send children to live with relatives.  The mothers of Gogo’s grandchildren work long hours in the city, and prefer that their children be cared for by their loving Gogo.  Gogo speaks to me only in SiSwati, and she reminds me very much of my own grandmother.   

I have an older host bhuti (brother) who I’ve rarely seen, but he smiles and nods when he sees me.  His girlfriend and baby were staying with us, but were recently called back to her family’s homestead in another village.  The baby was quite the popular attraction on the homestead, but she couldn’t seem to warm up to me until the day she left.  I won her mother over several days before with sweets and my valiant/hilarious attempts at Swazi housework. 

My near constant companion and champion is my thirteen year old host bhuti.  He speaks amazing English and was probably assigned the task of helping me out.  What a kid!  He is quick to smile, quick to help, and eager to learn.  He is extremely proud of being a boy scout, and his laugh puts all who meet him at ease.  Despite weeks of ongoing teacher strikes, he still carefully puts on his school uniform each morning and makes the 45 minute walk to school just in case the strike is called off.  He respects his elders and has an emotional intelligence that is almost uncanny for any age.  (Am I singing his praises enough?)  Seriously though, I’ve never met another kid like him.  My heart wants this kid to have a happy life and to grow into a wonderful young man so badly. 

The younger children on the homestead don’t always spend the night here, but are sweet and silly like most kids everywhere.  They take great pleasure in quizzing me on my SiSwati, and they get so excited that they shout out the answers before I have time to respond. 

The one time a man ever came up to the homestead to bug me, bhuti and I were having fun pulling avocados down.  The man was clearly talking about me in SiSwati, and bhuti just gave him the most scornful, disgusted glare I have ever seen a child give an adult.  “She is older than you!”  He chastised.  My bhuti’s got my back.  Gogo then came out and gently guided the man away.  Another bhuti, this one a loping 18 year old, tells me to come and wake him if I need to use the latrine at night.  That way, he can escort me and keep dogs/other night dangers away.  They are protective of me, and I can already feel how hard it will be to leave them in a few short months.  Gogo asks me if I will come back and visit, and I promise that I will. 

They have named me Ntombenhle (in-tom-bent-hhlay), meaning “beautiful girl” in SiSwati.  They introduce me as Ntombenhle with their surname, although they haven’t forgotten my given name, either.       

I am one of the few trainees placed in a host family without electricity, but the absence of electricity doesn’t seem to matter anyway.  In fact, it’s done wonders for my sleep schedule.  I am more rested than I have been in years, as I’m usually asleep by 8 or 9 pm.  The deafening chorus of cows, chickens, and dogs wakes me around 4 each morning, and I doze until 5 or 6.  (Yes, Mom and Dad, I get up before 6 each day and I don’t even feel like a zombie!)  Bucket bathing is proving more of an adjustment than electricity.  In the US, I was a 5 minute shower girl- get in, get clean, get out.  Now, boiling water, waiting for it to cool down enough, washing hair, etc., takes me a solid chunk of time. 

Evenings are spent sitting inside the smoky kitchen, chatting and listening to the news/music on the radio.  It feels a bit surreal listening to a mix of Dolly Parton (on the South African country station), inspirational, and rap.  Gogo sings and sways to the beat of all music.  It’s a time of laughter and eating and family.  When the fire and candle burns out, it’s bedtime. 

Gogo has gotten used to giving me smaller portion sizes than what she would like to feed me.  In our traditional homestead, portion sizes are given according to family rank, and oh lord it felt rude handing back plates that were still half full those first few days!  Gogo has gotten used to my bizarre American stomach though, and she now doles out (slightly) smaller portions with only about 5 minutes of muttering when I hand off my half-finished plate to my grateful bhutis. 

While I’m enjoying Swazi food, my stomach has been having some problems with it.  I had the lucky distinction of being the first trainee to need Oral Rehydration Solution (multiple times).  Puking until 2 am in your hut is not fun.  Granted, I should have been more careful on the several occasions I’ve been sick.  (What part of the chicken am I eating, again?) 

My Gogo serves very well-balanced, nutritious meals.  There is usually some kind of vitamin-rich vegetable, as well as a bean or a meat with rice or Lipalishi (a fluffy white, tasteless carbohydrate derived from maize).  Tonight for dinner, we just had sweet potatoes.  I was given 4, and I promised to take the remaining (bigger) 3 for my lunch tomorrow.  Meat is culturally significant, and its prevalence is greater in wealthier families. 

Last Sunday, I made breakfast for all 8 members of my host family, making the best French toast I’d ever made!  I also gave everyone scrambled eggs, half an orange, some banana, and tomato slices.  While I won over Sisi, Gogo was skeptical that this qualified as a meal, and she promptly made incwacwa in addition to my breakfast.  Incwacwa (the cwacwa is clicked!), is a fermented Swazi breakfast staple which has the texture and roughly the taste of malt-o-meal, but a bit more sour.  You add brown sugar, and it’s quite nummy.  My dinner that night was more successful, and I made a vegetable curry with rice.  I added a can of beans for the side, as I wanted to offer a solid protein as well.

I have had some moments of doubt insofar as my ability to bring something to the table as a development worker.  Every night the radio blasts correct public service announcements about HIV transmission and news about different development projects.  When I became ill, my bhuti immediately asked if I was “taking the ORS”.  When I tell my host family I am training to work on HIV prevention, my teenage bhutis can list off all the ways HIV is transmitted.  The family garden is diverse, and bhuti knows that the soil is too basic for the peppers they are trying to grow.  There are billboards covering every major road boasting development projects and HIV prevention billboards, too.  The information is there.  Is there message fatigue?  I somehow doubt this, but I’ve hardly been here long enough to accurately judge that…So why am I here?  I had long ago accepted the Peace Corps’ definition of development- I just must have thought on some subconscious level that I would truly be imparting some medical wisdom unbeknownst to my community.  But local knowledge and local resources are here already.  It’s just a matter of working within the community framework and creating linkages, following a Peace Corps-esque approach to development.   Here’s to hoping I succeed! 

PS- A bat totally flew out of my hut earlier today and it didn’t even phase me.  I do battle with a mouse every night.  It makes some noise, I throw a shoe at it, it runs away....The battle continues.  Phase one of Hard Corps has commenced!