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.

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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.” 

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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.