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!
