Just another day in paradise

It is Sunday.  I get up around seven to fetch water at the well with two 20 liter buckets in my wheelbarrow.  The neighbor girls are already leaving as I arrive.  They sing in chorus as they smoothly glide back to their homesteads with buckets of water perched on their heads.  The well is lower than I’ve ever seen it, and I have to practically lay on all fours to collect my second bucket. 

The two youngest boys are in and out of my house all morning.  I put on a movie for them to watch on my laptop as I scrub my mountain of dirty clothes clean.  The older two boys stop by my room periodically. 

-“Sister, are you coming to the game?” 

-“Sister, what time are you coming to the game?”

  “I’ll come around 12:30.”

“Can you bring Sihle with you and lock up the main house when you come?”

“No problem.”

The walk to the soccer pitch is about a mile through maize fields and grass as high as my chest.  In some areas the grass is so thick that I navigate from memory alone.  It’s in the middle of the valley, and it feels like you can see for miles in all directions.  We run into a soccer team from a nearby village which is walking to the pitch as well.  Sihle chatters along behind me in a near constant stream of musical, incomprehensible SiSwati.  Suddenly, we hear the du-du-du of a helicopter.  Sure enough, a helicopter is flying all around the valley.  The soccer team, Sihle and I stop in our tracks and jump up and down, waving like maniacs.  After almost a year of not seeing any air traffic, it is a bizarre sight. 

I sit in my usual spot at the soccer pitch.  Someone dug out the ground in one area and made a natural bench that way.  It’s by a corner of the field, but is shielded by tall grass on all sides.  I feel pretty inconspicuous sitting there.

Some of the regulars sit with me on the bench.  One is an old Grandpa with no hair, two teeth, and a comically large mustache.  He always sits and holds his knobkerrie regally in front of him like a king, and when he’s very focused on the game, he’ll pound it on the ground occasionally to emphasize a point.  He watches every team and every game seemingly without a favorite.  He is most interested in chiding the players when they perform poorly.  “What are you doing?  Are you playing for the other team now? What’s wrong with your legs?  Were you passing to the ancestors?”

The young men around him always find his running commentary highly amusing.  “Oh, grandfather!”   They howl at his derision.  They know that grandfather doesn’t have favorites and that as soon as their teams are up, they will be the ones facing his ridicule.  Sure enough, when my host brothers’ team is up, he is merciless in his criticism. 

All play momentarily stops as the helicopter from before flies back into the valley. This time, however, a long rope dangles beneath it carrying a person.  The helicopter begins flying right towards the enormous power lines.  I gasp and stare in horror as the person suspended beneath the helicopter hits the enormous power lines about 500 meters from the soccer pitch.  The rope detaches, and I can just barely make out a body hanging from the wires.  The helicopter swings away to the other side of the valley. 

“What happened?!”  I ask the man sitting next to me.

“Ahh, he is fixing the power line,” he tells me calmly. 

“What?!  It’s not an accident?”  I have to fight every impulse in my being to not run over to what is surely a horrific, toasted mess of a person dangling from the power line.

“No, he is fixing it.  The helicopter will come back for him soon.  It’s a South African company and they are fixing the wires of the electricity which go to Mozambique.”

Everyone quickly resumes observing the soccer match, so I fight the urge to go check on the adrenaline junky victim/electricity repair man.  Sure enough, about 20 minutes later, the helicopter swings back into view and hovers above the man with a rope.  The man on the wire re-attaches himself and the helicopter goes higher.  I can see the man splayed out on the rope as the helicopter gets further and further away.

“Best job ever,” I declare.  I wonder what kind of trade school teaches one to jump out of helicopters and onto potentially live wires.

The man next to me nods thoughtfully.

“But surely there’s a more cost effective way to fix the wires?”  The man next to me just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at this.  Helicopter jumping it is, then.         

Men and boys I work with on various projects walk by and greet me throughout the games.  A few stop and chat for longer to catch up.  I’m practically bursting with pride to see many of my students behave like adults amidst such a heady testosterone-laden environment.  Then a man I don’t know approaches me, as is the norm at these events.  I hold my breath, waiting for my third marriage proposal of the day to come.  No, he wants sponsors for the soccer league.  I don’t do sponsors, I tell him, but I can give his team HIV lessons if he wants.  He does, and we exchange phone numbers.  His team will be the 6^th in the league that I will conduct lessons with. 

A while later, one of the boys on my host brothers’ team is injured.  I’ve seen these boys walk away with injuries that would bring most grown men to tears, so it’s clearly serious when Mfanafuthi stays laying down for 5 minutes before being assisted off the field.  There’s a lot of heckling, and the poor boy lashes out between sobs.  We apply ice and have him rest.  He’s covered in the red mud of the soccer field and bleeding from various minor injuries, but what really hurts him is his knee.  We let him rest for a few minutes, but he lays on the ground trying not to cry but silently screaming in pain.

Several of the more senior men on the league approach me as I comfort him. Many worried eyes are upon us. 

“Zanele,” Siboniso says quietly.  “You need to arrange transport to take him to the hospital.”

I nod my head, glad someone else made the call that the boy needs professional medical attention.  I try calling the clinic nurse, but her phone is off and I doubt she would come to help anyway.  I know that she often spends her own money to drive critical patients to the hospital, but I doubt a knee injury will qualify. 

I quickly call the volunteer who lives across the street from the hospital and ask for lodging for Mfanafuthi and I for the night.  It’s late on a Sunday, and there’s a good chance there won’t even be a doctor or a nurse in the emergency department by the time we arrive.  At least we can make him comfortable at her house for the night.  She agrees immediately.  That settled, I turn to the men standing around me.  

“The only problem is that all of my money is in my house,” I say.  “Can we get one of the little kids to run back and get it?”  None of the solemn men standing around me moves to make this happen, which is a very Swazi way of disagreeing with what someone says.  My mind quickly catches up to their thought process- it’s too far to go to risk missing what might be the only transport out of the community.

“How much do you need, make?” My friend the storeowner asks.

I shrug my shoulders, not knowing how much the hospital in Mankayane will cost us.  He asks again, and I shrug again.  He hands me a fresh two-hundred bill from his pocket, which is no small amount to him and those around us.  “Thank you so much.  I’ll pay you back tomorrow, I promise.  I have the money; it’s just in my house.”

“Don’t worry, make,” he says.         

I hand my keys off to one of my young host brothers with instructions for him to feed my dog while I’m away. 

Several boys take turns carrying Mfanafuthi to the road, and we wait 10 minutes before spotting a car on the horizon.  We jump up and down and gesture at Mfanafuthi laying there.  We hold our hands out like we are begging and indicate one finger to show that it would be enough if they only took him. 

Four trucks pass which are packed to their brims.  The drivers all punch their fist into the palm of their opposite hand, a signal meaning “it’s full.”

Finally, a car comes to a stop and the boys speak in low voices to negotiate a ride.  The man isn’t going nearly as far as the hospital, but if I can contribute gas money, he’ll take us.  “Of course,” I agree. 

“How much?” He eyes me up and down and I deflate.  My whiteness is going to make this one very expensive ride.  It is, but what’s important is that we make it to the emergency room before everyone goes home for the night.  The nurse who treats Mfanafuthi is nice, translating everything into English for my benefit and assuring me that I did the right thing in coming to the hospital.  It’s not a fracture, just some kind of soft tissue injury, he says.  He gives Mfanafuthi a painkiller shot in the rump and a bandage, but tells us to come back in the morning when the pharmacy opens to pay and pick up a subscription. 

We hobble across the street and bunker down at the generous volunteer’s place for the night.  Mfanafuthi is hesitant to try the American food we give him.  It is corn muffins, chicken noodle soup, cheese and crackers, and grapes for dinner.  Dessert is cake and ice cream.  His reaction to the food is pretty typical of Swazis I’ve fed American food to.  Hesitant, scared, disdainful (although I suppose I’m not much better when being fed tripe or parts of the animal I didn’t even know were edible). The scene repeats itself the next morning for breakfast with waffles, banana bread, juice, and toast.  When the volunteer offers to fry him some eggs, he responds favorably.  I whisper in his ear that it’s very important in American culture to say thank you.  He picks up on it, and graciously thanks our host when she brings out the eggs.  I think it’s important in Swazi culture to say thank you as well, but I’ve lost track of the many demoralizing times I’ve been treated as the benevolent white benefactress and seen other volunteers treated that way as well.

We go back to the hospital around 8, where we wait in various lines for over an hour to pay and get the medicine.  The hospital has open-air triage (TB prevention) like all Doctors Without Borders clinics in Swaziland.  As we are leaving, a young girl calls Mfanafuthi to come help her carry her World Food Programme 40 kg sack of maize.  We run into another young man from the village just then, so the four of us each grab a corner and lug the bag to the corner. 

We walk a kilometer or so to the bus rank, and I have a nice chat with Mfanafuthi on the way.  We talk about condom use, teen pregnancy, and women’s rights. 

“The problem is, Zanele, Swazi culture says a woman is below the man.”

“I don’t think that’s right.  A culture changes over time.  Think about how much Swazi culture has changed since your parents were born.”  He agrees and we talk about how responsible men try and provide for their children.    

 We arrive at the rank, and our kumbi isn’t there.  I run into a few of the conductors that I’m friendly with, and we chat for a while before I sit down to read my book while I wait.  Mfanafuthi sees some of his friends and goes to chat with them.  A young man with a hoody pulled low over his face approaches the bench and politely asks the woman sitting next to me which kumbi goes to M-.

She shrugs, so I respond that I’m waiting for it, too, and that it sits just there.  

He thanks me and sits next to me.  We chat for a few minutes, and he strikes me as a very nice young man.  Such a refreshing change of pace from the usual outlandish behavior at the bus rank.  When the kumbi finally pulls up a good thirty minutes later, it fills quickly, and the nice young man sitting next to me also sits next to me on the kumbi.  The ride is quiet, hot, and bumpy.  Perhaps due to the heat, the young man finally lowers his hoody and I see his face for the first time.  His lips have oozing sores, his hair is orange from malnutrition, and there are tell-tale tumors bulging on his ears and neck.  I gulp and look away.  I’ve seen his face hundreds of times on hundreds of people.  Even the child sitting on its mother’s lap two rows up seems to have that face as well.  The child’s eyes are yellow instead of white, and its skin looks like paper molded across the throbbing veins in its forehead.  The young man gets out of the kumbi at the same stop as me, and I want to take him aside and ask him if he’s seeking treatment or been tested.  But alas, there are many others getting off at the same stop, and I cannot broach the subject in privacy quickly enough.  He wants to know if we can walk together, as he is going across the river.  “No, I’m just going this way.  Have a nice visit with your mom, though!”  I tell him as our paths diverge.  It doesn’t occur to me until much later that I should have just walked with him until we could speak privately.                         

Later that day at the clinic, I am sitting around having a lively chat with the receptionist, TB counselor, and Expert Client.  A patient comes up and asks me for sponsors.  My coworkers immediately leap to my defense before I can respond; saying the line I told them once and they’ve passionately repeated dozens of times to would-be beneficiaries since.  “Not everyone in America is rich!  Wouldn’t you rather work for your money?  If you had asked her for work, she would have given it to you!  But no, you want a hand-out.  What does that teach you other than that you get something for nothing?” 

The woman is angry, as would-be beneficiaries usually are.  These people I view as extremely different from friends or community members asking for small loans or favors, which I am usually probably too generous with.  Rather, would-be beneficiaries are people who have never met me and don’t care even to give a polite greeting or learn my name before demanding money.  They act egregiously insulted if you refuse, and you can see in their eyes that nothing you say or do is going to change their minds that you are wealthy, you are greedy, and you are going against the natural order of the universe by not being more forthright with your stacks of gold.  My coworkers have seen this happen to me enough that they angrily shout at the offending party by now, god bless them.  I have made it clear to each of my coworkers that they are welcome to come to me for anything, and they have taken me up on the offer occasionally.

The woman is deflected, and she begins ranting about World Vision coming and taking pictures of her child, but her not getting any benefit from it.  In her unique way, she is telling us that she feels exploited.  Later in the conversation, we discover that she’s gotten food from World Vision before.  She doesn’t even like TOMS Shoes, which is the “charity” requiring the absolute least amount of reciprocal effort I know.  Yet minutes ago, she was demanding a handout from me.  I find the woman to be a fascinating contradiction and also refreshing, despite our rude first encounter.   

All day, I receive calls and visits from worried villagers inquiring about the boy I took to the hospital.  It is touching to see their concern, and I am pleased to be able to tell them that he’s doing very well. 

In the evening, I try reading children’s books to Sihle.  Getting a child who’s never been read to to pay attention is difficult, but I try to take a cue from my own father and use lively animations.  While my parents visited last week, Sihle became quite attached to my father.  It was touching to watch him cuddle up to my dad and stare up at him in wonder when my dad showed him such loving care.  Tonight, Sihle tires of my narration quite quickly, but I vow to try again tomorrow night. 

Two Days in the Life

A Day in the Life

Thanks for the suggestions, Dad and Erica!  J 

I will do a whole entry on how YOU can help many of the fabulous people and organizations I work with and love at a later time.  I selfishly also don't want you to get charity fatigue right before all of my big projects need funding! ;)

I’m going to write two “Day in the Life” entries, as my day varies drastically depending on if it’s a village day or a town day.

VILLAGE DAYS:

Village days are a sporadic series of meetings, helping with agricultural activities, tutoring, walking, chores, counting pills, and teaching.  As Swazis are wont to say: “As long as there is sun in the sky, what needs to be done will be done.”  This was my day yesterday, and I think it’s pretty typical:

I wake up at around 4 shivering despite my fleece blankets.  Scruff-T snuck up onto my bed after I fell asleep again.  I pull the blankets over my head and let my breath warm me up until I fall asleep again, completely encased in my cocoon.  My alarm goes off at six, and I go outside to collect my bathtub, which I leave out in case there’s any rainwater or condensation to collect.  I heat up some water and bucket bathe quickly, as the morning temperature in the Highveld is frigid.  Breakfast is eggs or bread and butter.  Around 7, the two youngest boys come to knock on my door to tell me they’re leaving for school.       

Before I leave for work at 8, I stop into the main house, where my host mom is usually busy with dishes.  I give her the obligatory Swazi greetings and let her know that I’m off to the clinic.  At the clinic, I greet my coworkers and go water the seedling nursery first thing.  Then, I sit around making lesson plans unless I’m needed to sell seedlings, tickets, or help with small tasks such as pill counting. 

Some kids want to buy seedlings with a 50 Emalangeni note, and there’s no change to be had at the clinic.  It’s a daily annoyance that no one has enough small bills to give change for big bills.  Even the larger supermarkets often beg you to pay with 10 or 20 notes.  I walk home to get some change for the kids, and arrive just in time to see the cows escaping from the kraal and making a beeline for make’s prized guava tree.  I grab a stick and make joins me in herding them in.  “Beat them, Zanele!”  She gives a fierce battle cry, and we spend a good 10 minutes beating them back into the kraal.  Then I get my change and leave again.    

I buy a fat cake from the little clinic market, which typically sells any combination of the following; bananas, apples, oranges, suckers, fat cakes, scones (not delicious- trust me), cheetos, popcorn, and- very rarely- cabbages, beetroots, or tomatoes.

Later, an older man comes to the clinic who hasn’t met me yet.  “Are you a girl or a mother?” he wants to know.

What does that mean?  I can tell that this is not a question of linguistic differences.  In his eyes, one is either a girl or a mother.  If I admit that I am not a mother to him, I lose standing because I have not had children and am therefore still just a child myself.  If I say I’m a mother, I’m a liar.  Fortunately, the lady selling fruits saves me from my existential dilemma.  “She doesn’t have children,” she says.

“Ahhh…So you are a girl.”

I swallow and nod.  I don’t have it in me to correct him.  I think back on the only man in the village who respectfully calls me make (mother).  My age makes me a sisi (sister) to everyone, but I have one friend who has always insistently called me make in front of others despite knowing that I’m not actually a mother.  I’ve always been grateful to him for it, because I can tell he is not only being respectful to me, but also trying to raise the respect shown by those around him.       

Around two, I walk to the other side of the village for a community meeting that I’ve called about upcoming community computer classes.  I’m a little nervous that no one will show, but I’ve had my signs advertising the event in the sitolos (stores) for a week now.  Plus, everyone has been asking me for months to offer a community computer class.  A perfect storm of events caused the head teacher to finally acquiesce, so this is the first informational meeting.  I sit on the grass in the typical community meeting area and wait. 

“There is no hurry in Swaziland. There is no hurry in Swaziland.  There is no hurry in Swaziland.”  I repeat this mantra over and over again to remind myself that perceived rudeness is really just a cultural difference.  Some high school senior boys run up to me and ask me to come back and teach them computer classes.  I am baffled.  Didn’t they see my sign, and aren’t they here for the meeting?  No, they didn’t see the sign, but they arrange a time for me to come and teach them (since the teacher who is supposed to organize our classes completely neglected it this semester).   

Half an hour after the meeting is supposed to happen, I give up.  This probably is too early, but I explicitly wrote on the posters (NOT Swazi Time!), much to the amusement of everyone who I saw reading the signs.  I head back to the store of the man who always respectfully calls me make to chat and forget my disappointment.  When I arrive, there is the usual crowd; unemployed but respectable young men playing the card game Casino.  The shopkeeper brings in a new load of goods from town, so they put down the cards and we all spend the next several minutes re-stocking.               

As we stock, they ask how I am and what I’m doing, and I tell them about the failed attempt at a community meeting.  Several of the boys slap their foreheads.  “Today is the 22^nd?!  Ohhhhh!  I was going to go to that!”

“People have been asking for months, and I have been trying to get permission for months.  Now that it’s here, no one comes!”  We laugh and I feel much better knowing that it will work out if it is meant to. Plus, it wasn’t a total failure- the high school seniors and I were able to arrange a time for lessons which they sorely wanted.

I eye today’s newspaper on the counter, which is a pleasant surprise indeed!  At least once a week, we get a fresh newspaper courteously left on the counter for all to read.  I always am thrilled on days when I read the paper on the correct day.  I lean over the counter and read it cover-to-cover (ok, minus the sports section) before handing it off to the next eager reader. 

Swaziland has two newspapers- the Swazi Times and the Swazi Observer.  The Observer is partially owned by the royal family (although I have yet to fact-check this tidbit), but most Swazis I know purchase the Times when given a choice.  Fun fact- I’ve been photographed in both!  The Swazi Times reads like the Bild Zeiting- flashy, sensationalist, populist.  It has lots of spelling mistakes and religious editorials (“Is Barack Obama the Anti-Christ?”), but it does occasionally have impressive pieces of daring journalism thrown in the mix.  The front page of today’s paper shows horrifically graphic pictures of a fatal kumbi accident.  Five pages in, there’s a brave piece on the spark that lights massive democracy movements.  The editorial is well-written and perfectly timed to coincide with the 40^th anniversary of the suspension of political parties in the country.     

I walk back to my homestead and arrive home around 5.  I cook dinner (noodles and veggies), wash dishes, and watch some shows on my laptop.  I leave my door open so I can greet host family members as they walk by.  It gets dark too early these days to do much in the evenings, so I just close and lock my door around 7….After that, Scruff-T and I just snuggle down and have a quiet night. 

TOWN DAYS:

Town days are full of meetings with Americans/Peace Corps staff, wretched transport, frantically using internet for work-related activities at internet cafes, getting price estimates from businesses for projects you need to do in the village, buying things that your village friends asked you to get them, buying 20 kgs of groceries, spoiling yourself on that cute dress or restaurant food, and eventually partying with some volunteers and plenty of cold beers at a backpackers.

Last Thursday, for example, I woke up at a backpackers with the rest of the Camp GLOW committee.  GLOW (Girls Leading our World) is a world-wide female empowerment organization founded by Peace Corps volunteers.  In a few short days, rural communities with GLOW clubs from around Swaziland will send girls to a week-long summer camp, kind of like girl scouts.  This is only the 2^nd year Swaziland has had a GLOW chapter, and with the camp just weeks away, there is much to be done!  In addition to being the 2014 director, I’m working on this year’s food committee, helping set-up camp, leading sessions, and being camp medical officer.  I will keep you posted on funding opportunities for next year!  With an eye on expansion, we hope to get double the girls next year (aka-needing double the funding….). 

Anyhoo, I was waking up at the backpackers before I digressed into GLOW’s backstory….  I take a warm shower (aaahhhh!) and head outside with a few other girls to flag down a kumbi around 7 am.  This is a tricky spot to catch a kumbi going all the way to the capitol, but we somehow manage it after just 5 minutes of waving our hands at passing kumbis.  We roll in to the Mbabane bus rank and I wave goodbye to the other girls, walking to where I know the kumbis going towards the Peace Corps office sit.  As per usual at this spot, the kumbi conductor tries to put the white girl on the empty kumbi next to the one that just needs one more passenger.  I ignore him and hop on the full kumbi next to him, and we roll out.  The Peace Corps office is in an extremely affluent residential neighborhood in the picturesque mountains surrounding Mbabane.  Needless to say, it’s a 10 minute walk from where I yell “Stesh!” and hop out of the kumbi. 

A day at the Peace Corps office reads like one giant “to do” list…Actually, I’ll just paste my actual “to do” list….It’s faster than and just as boring as narrative form:

  -Check mail/post letters

-Pick up free condoms to hand out in community

-Print schedules for GLOW 2014 committee

-Print meeting agenda/share info with assistant directors

-Share meat order details with food committee

-Attend GLOW 2013 meeting (9-11)

-Briefly meet with food committee

-Hold GLOW 2014 officer elections (11-12)

-Email list serve with election results

-Meet with Country Director re. GLOW funding next year

-Pick up calcium and anti-malarial from medical officer

-Ask med. Officer to lead a session at GLOW/first aid supplies

-Follow up with absent volunteers

….After all these terribly boring office-y tasks, I head to town to find fabric.  I’m trying to do a re-usable pad project with the girls in my community, and need to find a fabric store.  Disposable sanitary pads are exorbitantly expensive for girls in my community.  Most girls just use rags, spend the days they have their periods at home, or run to the latrine to wipe with leaves between classes.  I’ve been told that some girls resort to transactional sex to get the money for pads, and I shudder to think that any of the girls in my community would ever have to make that choice. 

Re-usable pads are an easy, cheap alternative…provided I ever find a fabric store.  I make my way from the bus rank past the street hawkers selling “dead white people clothes” looking for a fabric store.  I have a good feeling that I’m headed the right way.  I spot a hawker selling a plastic tablecloth (a key part of re-usable pads can be made using a tablecloth).  I try getting it cheaply using SiSwati, but he responds in English.  I quickly realize he’s Mozambican like most of the hawkers selling the clothes that Americans and Europeans donated and shipped to Africa.  We haggle for about 5 minutes.  I want to shout at him for thinking I’m a tourist he can pull the wool over on, and just when I’m too frustrated to purchase, he hands me off to the dealer next to him and walks away.  The guy next to him wants even more.  Ugh.  My backpack is heavy, the sun is hot, and I don’t know where I’ll find another plastic tablecloth before Saturday.  Fine.  I pay the asking price of the first guy angrily and walk away, just as the first seller returns to propose his love to me.  “Please, I need a white girlfriend,” he says. 

“And I needed a tablecloth!” I snap back.    

I cross the street and start heading down a more working-class street.  I don’t go two steps before seeing the first fabric store I’ve seen in Swaziland.  I happily bound into the store and order cheap fabric.  As I pay for the fabric at the counter, I look down and see some lovely plastic tablecloths for sale.  They cost half of what I paid 5 minutes ago.  Nice one, karma.    

I stop at the Pick n Pay supermarket to stock up on groceries.  The variety here is incredible, and the store looks cleaner than most American grocery stores.  I buy mostly junk food, having easily fallen into that nasty habit of volunteers who eat incredibly healthy at site only to binge on junk food when in town.  I can’t help but feel that we pick up the Swazi mentality of eating tons when there’s food around because you don’t know where your next meal is coming from.  In town, there’s always good food around, and we go nuts and eat ourselves sick.    

I recently watched the movie The Hunger Games with my best friend in the village, and it prompted me to re-read the books.  I can now appreciate how obsessively the author wrote about the characters’ feelings towards food and hunger- especially when the characters eat themselves sick and then feel ashamed, knowing that their community is hungry.  I can relate to that.     

It’s almost 5 as I lug my grocery bags down to the bus rank and board a kumbi.  It’s too late to make it home tonight before dark, so I’ll have to stay at a backpackers.  Most volunteers are going to the Mbabane backpackers to party, but my head is pounding, so I head down to my favorite backpackers near Matsapha (the industrial town) for a quiet night.  Over my frequent visits, I’ve become good friends with the owners, and they invite me over to their house for a nice family dinner.  We have a lovely evening drinking and eating until 10 or so, but the guilt of eating so well still creeps in a bit when I finally slip into bed.

           

             

The Gogo and the Hare and My 12 Favorite Swazi Idioms

There once was a Gogo and a hare.  The hare was a clever animal.  So the hare said to the Gogo “Let’s play a game.”  It’s called into-the-pot, out-of-the-pot.”  The Gogo agreed and they began to play.  First the Gogo jumped into the pot.  Then she said “Ok- you can let me out now, I’m cooking.”  And the hare let her out.  Then it was the hare’s turn.  The hare jumped into the pot.  Then he said “Ok- you can let me out now, I’m cooking.”  The Gogo let him out.  Then she jumped into the pot again.  Then she said “Ok- you can let me out now, I’m cooking.”  But the hare said “No!  Not til you’re all the way done!”  So the hare cooked the Gogo in the pot. 

Soon, the Gogo’s grandchildren came home and asked where their Gogo was.  “Ah, she had to go away for a while, but have some of this nice stew she made you,” said the hare.

The children happily ate the stew.  “Hmmm…this finger looks a lot like Gogo’s finger,” said one of the grandchildren. 

“That’s because it is!” cackled the hare. 

The grandchildren leapt up and chased the hare all the way to the river.  When it got to the river, the hare tried to jump over, but couldn’t, and turned into a stone instead.  

 

My 12 Favorite Swazi Idioms:

1. Akatalanga wabola ematfumbu

Translation:

She did not give birth but had rotten intestines

Means:

Her kids are soooo lazy

2. Inkhosi yinkhosi ngebantfu bayo

Translation:

A king is a king by his people

Means:

Governance by consent of the governed

3. Kukandlula wafa

Translation:

Go past and die

Means:

We have no food here to give you, so don’t ask

4. Kudliwa tintsaba

Translation:

To be eaten by the mountains

Means:

To disappear without telling anyone where you’re going

5. Kukhotfwa ngemadloti

Translation:

To be licked by the ancestors

Means:

To have good luck

6. Kungenwa liphela endlebeni

Tranaslation:

To have a cockroach enter your ear

Means:

Nagging

7. Kusenga letimitsi

Translation:

To milk the pregnant ones

Means:

To tell lies

8. Kuveta litinyo

Translation:

To show a tooth

Means:

To laugh

9. Lucu aluhlangani

Translation:

The necklace doesn’t fit

Means:

I don’t love you

10. Mahlekehlatsini

Translation:

Someone laughing in the forest

Means:

A man with a big, untidy beard

11. Muhle sengats akayi ngaphandle

Translation:

She is beautiful as if she doesn’t go to the toilet.

Means:

She is so beautiful you forget that she goes to the toilet.

12. Umhlaba kawunoni

Translation:

The soil does not get fat/oily

Means:

This is said when a good person dies

 

Two Worlds

I apologize for the long delay in entries.  Work has been going really well lately.  The youth are receptive to my sex ed classes, and people are seeking me out to help with things I’m good at.  (Sidebar: The best part of my rather lewd lectures is when the boys inevitably try and fit the male anatomy model into the female one).  I have a routine, and I am becoming true friends with several women I work with. 

That being said, this has been the hardest month of service yet.  A recent (bad idea!) whirlwind romance drew me out of my community at least once a week, and the contrast between spending time with like-minded friends/the first world luxuries of town and the reality of life in my community left me very confused about my commitment and connection to my community. 

I spent a lot of time in the white Swazi community.  It is full of interesting characters, most of whom are extremely critical of the aid world.  I understand why, too.  There is a distinct arrogance in implying that a country is not capable of handling itself and that outsiders know better- especially because most of the time- we don’t.  (Don’t get me started on TOMS shoes….)

Whenever I am confronted by a white Swazi who needs to vent this hurt, I have to laugh.  Chances are, they are only Swazi because their ancestors had some pretty strong feelings about their own religious/national/physical superiority when they first arrived.  I can only hope that today’s newcomers have learned a little something about the cost of feeling superior.  And while a few white Africans I’ve met have fit the stereotype of the racist, stolid Boer, the vast majority feels a strong sense of responsibility and pride in being African.  The whole experience of spending time in that privileged Swaziland taught me to accept the complexity of the inequalities between the Swaziland I live in and the Swaziland they do.  It also robbed me of my class rage at those few who have succeeded.  As individuals, almost everyone is blameless for the creation of these two Swazilands, and many of the people who live in the privileged Swaziland do wonderful work for the other Swaziland, be it through business or charity.  Even still, it is striking what little insight most of the white Swazis I’ve met have about the culture, language, and rituals of 97% of their fellow countrymen.           

Straddling these two Swazilands is difficult, and as a result, my relationships in both Swazilands suffered.  After the inevitable break-up with privileged Swaziland, I decided to retreat to the other Swaziland to lick my wounds and re-devote myself to service.  Sadly, I arrived in my village only to learn of three deaths.  Two more died within the next several days.  One was a neighbor boy on my soccer team who was struck by lightning.  Another was a dear friend who sold fruit at the clinic and had a booming, infectious laugh.  She also died unexpectedly.  The third who I knew was the old security guard at the high school, who was so sweet and kind to me and always asked about Scruff after he inquired as to whether or not I’d lowered my bride price of 50 cows yet.  When I told my white Swazi friends about the losses, they had little to say.  “This is Africa,” one shrugged.  “People die all the time.”  I guess it’s a normal reaction when you’ve been around death as much as any Swazi has. 

Swazi funerals are a beautiful and interesting endurance test.  Throughout the week, different community groups connected with the deceased visit with gifts of food and money, and offer their condolences.  I recently went with a community group to the homestead of a deceased member.  We took off our shoes and filed into the house singing hymns.  Women stood on one side, men on the other.  We all then kneeled down on all fours in the cramped space and everyone said prayers to the family aloud.  Then, the group elder spoke of our condolences.  The family passed a plate around for more donations as they told us more about the death. 

Extended family begins arriving.  Then, ideally on the weekend, a night vigil is held.  Community women cook all day and night, and a large tent is erected for the hundreds of guests.  Women wear long skirts and cover their heads.  In the tent, everyone sits on the ground (men and women typically on separate sides).  Male church elders sit in a long row of chairs as the focal point, as they have the floor most of the night.  Then, the whole tent sings and prays all night long.  People stand and speak of the deceased.  Grief is a communal as opposed to familial experience, and everyone shares their grief with everyone.  Bible passages are read, always with quite a bit of hellfire and brimstone.  Bread and tea is served just before sunrise by teenage girls.  I was made to serve at a recent funeral, which called an annoying amount of attention to me as the only white person.  Mostly, I prefer to go hang (bumble) around the kitchen area and do whatever easy tasks the hearty bomake will assign to me. 

A Jericho funeral is particularly interesting.  Most Swazis I know claim to be afraid/not fond of Jerichos.  Based on my observations, Jerichos seem to consist mostly of particularly poor Swazis, although I don’t understand why this may be.  The line between Christianity and animism is very blurred with the Jerichos.  Recently, a Jericho man apparently drowned during a religious baptism, only to re-appear again two weeks later in South Africa claiming to have been swallowed by a giant snake.  Many in my community believe it.  Jerichos often speak in tongues, shout in deep, hoarse voices, and dance themselves into trances, all while wearing colorful, pope-style robes.  At a Jericho funeral, all the men wear their robes and a rope tied around their head and carry knobsticks or Shepard’s hooks.  The vigil proceeds as all vigils do, with the rather rude exception of husky-voiced men interrupting every speaker and song in their supposed “trance.”  I call it Jesus Turrets.  When the dancing in a circle and shouting begins, attendees on the ground scatter if they can for fear of being trampled.  Jericho beat boxing is actually really neat, though.  The men make grunting noises in their throats together that create a unique musical beat.             

At every funeral, the body is brought out in a coffin, and the pallbearers carry it to the grave (typically on or near the homestead, but some royalty bury their dead in sacred mountain tombs) with hundreds of people in tow.  The body is buried around dawn.  The family of the deceased throws the first fistfuls of dirt on the grave as everyone sings.  Then men begin shoveling on the dirt, with one man dancing on the coffin to pack down the earth.  By dawn, the exhaustion is physically painful, and all you want to do is crawl into bed, but the disorientation from lack of sleep facilitates a willingness to bury the body and finally be free of grieving.  The bittersweet beauty of burying your dead at dawn casts a surreal mist over the proceedings.  One last meal is served in Styrofoam take-away trays, and everyone begins heading out as soon as they get their share.  At the end of it all, you crawl into bed and sleep away the weekend and the ache in your heart.  Then you wake up, and life goes on.        

  

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.