Some Pictures!

Yes, she's pretty much the sweetest thing in the world.

All this is mine, as far as the eye can see!

Swazi cattle of the Nguni breed...They're EVERYWHERE!

Just acting cute, no big deal.

 View from my front door before the wet season on a cloudy day.

My house

Inside my house

Story Series

I love stories.  Fairy tales from around the world are my absolute favorite type of story, so I’m rather desperately asking every Swazi I know to tell me the stories they grew up with.  So far I have only gathered a few, but I hope to re-phrase my questioning in such a way that Swazis better understand what kind of story I’m asking for.  I also love life stories, but am having a difficult time learning to be the unobtrusive interviewer….So here’s the first story in what will hopefully be a regular “segment” on this blog- life stories from Swazis.  Names and some events have been changed.

Sibongokaliso

  I grew up in a polygamous family, and realized from a very young age that that was not for me.  It is not good, Zanele.  Everyone is fighting all the time over everything.  It can be something as simple as a bar of soap.  One person would say “It is mine,” and the other would say “No, I bought it!” and then they would pull out receipts to compare to prove who the real owner was.  So much hating and competition…How many wives? Three.  My mother was the last wife.  Dozens of children, but only the ones I shared with my mother did I consider my real brothers and sisters.  So no, I am not taking a second wife.   

I left home when I finished Form 5 and went to Malkerns to be a firefighter.  I didn’t know the right people, though, so I didn’t make it far in the admissions process.  Then, I went to work for a wood company for a while.  I became a master craftsman- I can build beautiful tables and coffins.  But the boss man wasn’t any good- he was cheating the workers.  You know how I know this?  I once made 20 wooden doors for the Swazi Royal Casino.  I went to deliver them with a few of the other boys.  They were all illiterate- had never even been to school- so I was the only one who could sign the check they were writing us.  The check was for 21,000 Emalangeni!  And then I thought- this is not right.  We were doing all the work and getting paid 500 Emalangeni a month.  This is not enough.  So I went to the boss and asked for more- at least 1,000 a month.  But he refused, so I left the firm.  Later, the foreman left, too. 

After that I went to work at Swazican.  It was a nice job.  I was in charge of the slicing machine.  After it sliced the pineapple, I’d stick my hand out and grab a slice.  All the free pineapple you wanted!  Free lunch, too.  It was a good employer that paid well, but there were no benefits.  I worked there for four years before resigning for this job.  It pays less and there’s no free lunch, but there is a government pension. 

I am a prince, so there are certain things I cannot do.  I cannot attend funerals.  I’ll stay all night for the night vigil, but I’ll slip out before they bring out the body for the funeral.  That’s why they always make the announcement that they are bringing the body out- so that the royal Dlaminis can slip away.  I don’t know why this tradition is, but Dlamini’s can’t do anything with burials. 

Sometimes, my grandfather would get very drunk.  I knew that this was the time to ask him things without getting into trouble.  One day he was very drunk and I asked him why it is that we don’t help with funerals.  He told me that it is because, long ago, our family had bossed everyone around.  I think the real reason is that, in the old days, bodies were buried without coffins and would get very smelly.  The Dlaminis didn’t want to touch the smelling bodies, so they used their royalty as an excuse not to help.  I used to ask questions like this- why we do certain things the way we do.  Now, though, I just accept that no one knows why we do certain things.  It is just our way. 

A Reflection on World AIDS Day

“I believe that this could very well be looked back on as the sin of our generation…I believe our children and their children, 40 or 50 years from now, are going to ask me, what did you do while 40 million children became orphans in Africa?” –Rich Stearns, World Vision USA President

Before moving to Swaziland, AIDS meant nothing to me.  It was not an issue I cared about…Gay rights, unjust wars, healthcare, global warming….These felt like the issues that my generation would go down in history fighting our parents about.  A disease transmitted primarily through sex half a world away seemed like an issue for someone else’s world- not mine. 

World AIDS Day meant next to nothing to me.  I might have remembered it every two years, depending on whether or not my calendar for that year came with it pre-marked.  It registered somewhere between International Day of the Girl Child (weird holiday name, UN) and Presidents Day in terms of significance to my life.  I have no idea if I ever met an HIV positive person before leaving the States.  Certainly none of my friends or family was openly HIV positive.

At our World AIDS Day booth at the soccer pitch last December, rowdy boys and young men excitedly grabbed condoms and ribbons.  There was lots of laughing and blushes.  During quieter moments, a few asked to be tested.  One boy said his mother told him never to wear a condom.  Horrified, I asked why.  Apparently, he won’t need a condom if he’s only with one person.  Fair enough, but I’m a pragmatist, so please take some condoms. 

Then another man approached.  His cheekbones jutted out, he was too thin for his height- the all too familiar signs of late stage HIV.  He told his story in SiSwati, but I understood enough.  His wife gave birth to seven children, all of whom quickly wasted away and died.  Then in 2004, she also died.  Upon her death, he went and got tested after someone told him about HIV.  He tested positive, and is the sole surviving member of his family.  He thanked us for holding a day of remembrance. 

I don’t know a single person in Swaziland who hasn’t lost a loved one to AIDS.  There are funerals every weekend.  I’m told that in the dark days before ARVs became widely available in the mid-2000s, some funerals were even held on weekdays, which is unthinkable in Swazi culture unless there are too many people to bury.  Most homesteads take in orphans; mine has 2, sometimes 3.  One ponders what psychological effects this abnormal and traumatic situation has on the population since it has perversely become the norm.      

The mind struggles to comprehend the magnitude of such an epidemic.  It is a disease associated with stigmatized populations- homosexuals, prostitutes, and the impoverished. It kills slowly, over years, so that infection spreads so easily and silently that the unknowing carrier can go ten years feeling perfectly healthy.  Even with the miracle of ARVs, a person’s life span is inevitably shortened.  Economic status, genetics, age, HIV subtype, and country of birth also determine how long one will live with the virus.  All individuals with HIV eventually need to take ARVs, but become drug resistant after a period of time, needing to move on to more expensive second and third line ARVS.   All three lines of drugs are currently available in Western Europe and North America.  Third line drugs are still patented and therefore too expensive for any African country to afford for at least another decade.  While activists and governments badger the pharmaceutical industry to provide a generic at reduced cost to Africa, an entire generation of a continent grows up parentless.   

But the picture isn’t all doom and gloom….My friends on ARVs are just as peppy as I am, and they certainly would argue fiercly that they still have long lives ahead of them.  Recent articles I’ve read argue that, for the first time, the World AIDS Conference this past year was one of hope and breakthroughs, not one of despair and hopelessness.  I’m particularly excited about potential breakthroughs in microbiocides.  These are chemicals that can be inserted into the vagina prior to intercourse which may kill off the HIV in sperm.  (thereby giving the woman some agency in situations where she cannot negotiate for condom use). 

 

The tides are turning, and maybe- just maybe- our grandchildren will look upon AIDS as our generation looked upon polio- a horrific disease almost completely eradicated. 

 

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.