Beginning of March- Beware the Ides of March: Why ‘Beware the Ides of March’? Really? I recall the line from Shakespeare’s play Caesar, where Caesar is warned about things to come. But worry only creates stress, usually if it’s unnecessary worry. Sometimes as volunteers, we get caught up in worries regarding our worth or effectiveness, especially as service draws to an end. We wonder, have we done enough? It’s a relentless question with never an easy answer, sometimes with no answer at all. I find I can get caught up in the question or the answer or both on occasion, and I then struggle to suppress my ego once I realize that I will forever ask questions and forever seek answers. That cyclical questions and seeking answers are constant. What really matters is what I do in between time. So in an effort to quiet my ego and leave something for my community, I decided to paint.
My plans for 2010 in my community involved helping improve the 4 functioning NCP’s. Neighborhood Care Points or NCP’s have been charged with the task of starting preschool, in order to provide OVC’s (Orphan &/or Vulnerable Children) some foundation before entering primary school. Most NCP workers are volunteers with limited education themselves. Many didn’t know where to begin. Last August and September I organized First Aid Kits and basic training for each NCP worker, at the same time assessing their preschool start-up needs. Essentially they needed everything but I’m not a miracle worker. So I decided to give them something I was physically capable of: painting curriculum on their walls. Two of the four NCP’s have actual structures, so I sought permission and planned out objects for each wall. At both NCP’s I painted the alphabet with an object corresponding to each letter, numbers with circles to represent the amount of each number, shapes, colors, and a healthy eating food chart. I also added a tree and a sun at one; at the other I painted the rainbow to represent colors and the phrase: “Rise and Give God Glory” in yellow and orange. My intention for putting curriculum on the walls was twofold: first, if no one was teaching on a given day, as least the children could learn by looking; and two, if a volunteer wasn’t sure what she could teach she would simply refer to the walls. I think the first goal was accomplished, if nothing else. Each day I painted, children lingered near the entrance or close behind me. I heard their hushed voices, naming each object and counting numbers. It was sweet.
March 9, 2010- As I Was Walking to the NCP: On the path to one NCP there is a Jehovah’s Witness church. Today a few members milled outside the gate, looking as if they just finished a meeting. They were excited to see me, as I’ve discovered many people in neighboring communities are since they do not see me on a regular basis. Little did I know they were even more excited to see me today. I greeted them with the obligatory greetings. As I did, a young man of maybe 21 approached with a flyer he was eager to share with me. He said, “My sister, I have something very important to share with you. Take it and please read it.” I read the title: Comfort for the depressed. Suppressing my giggles, I thanked him with a smile and continued along my way shaking my head. I knew I looked tired, as I had to walk about 4km with six liters of paint since the connecting bus never came. Did he think I was depressed because of it? I don’t know but it was worth a laugh. Sadly, I accidently spilled paint on the flyer so I never read the message waiting inside.
March 17-18, 2010- Happy St. Patrick’s Day & Mourning my Chief: This morning my make came from the chief’s homestead wailing and saying “Nkosi yami. Nkosi yami!” (my God, my God). I heard screams from the chief’s homestead earlier, and thought my make was causing trouble since she went to discuss an issue with the chief’s wife. It turns out my chief died. He’d been in and out of the hospital since January. I was told he was getting better. But this morning make told me he’d been in Pretoria, SA the last few weeks. I found out later that he contracted meningitis. He’d gone to Pretoria for surgery but either didn’t survive surgery or it didn’t work. A person can suffer from meningitis in advanced stages of HIV, but I’m unaware if he was positive.
The following day I accompanied the primary and high school teachers to mourn with the family. Men stay outside the main house, sitting around the fire or on porches of secondary houses. Women cover their heads with scarves or hats and approach the main house singing a song of sorrow. They remove their shoes at the entrance, and then enter by crawling or crouching to a space on the floor where they sit and continue to sing. After several minutes of singing, they stop and begin praying out loud. Once they finish, a representative or two from the group offer a prayer or speech of sorrow to the family. If other people approach the house singing, the group inside stops what they are doing and picks up the song of those entering. Then out-loud prayers begin again. Once the group has offered what they can, the family thanks the group for coming. Then the group begins their leaving song, and slowly, one by one, they stand, bent, to leave. This continues all day, and sometimes during the night; the family receives mourners whenever they come. Those who stay all day to mourn, usually relatives, are fed; extended family members bake and cook constantly from the first mourning day until after the funeral. Mourning days occur from the time the death is announced until the night vigil. Depending on how far away family members live, mourning could be a week or more since the night vigil doesn’t begin until all immediate family members are present.
March 19-23- Walking to Ntjanini w/ Jaci & Weekend w/ the Jackson’s: Jaci and I walked from her site to Hilary and Jay Jackson’s site, about a 3 hr walk. Hilary’s birthday is 17 March, and she wanted a party. Since we left Jaci’s site at noon, we encountered hordes of school children walking home. We felt like the Piped Piper at times, since more than once we had groups of children following us, and mimicking everything we did.
Eleven people showed for Hil’s party. We grilled hotdogs and chicken. Jay made homemade vanilla ice-cream the day before. I helped Hilary make fudge brownies to eat with the ice-cream. We drank wine and beer and talked into the wee hours of the morning. The following day, most people left. Matthew and I stayed longer. It was easier for me to go to Nhlangano from their site since I had training on Monday in Nhlangano. Besides, I wanted Hil to teach me to crochet the page boy hat she made months ago and I’d coveted. We had the house to ourselves all afternoon; Jay had a youth group meeting and he took Matthew with him. It was nice to have some one-on-one time with Hil since we rarely get the chance. The hat was harder than I expected but I figured out how to back post crochet, and that’s the main stitch I needed to make the hat. I decided to borrow her book and work on it, without pressure, at my hut. We ended our afternoon with a Rodney Yee yoga cd, our favorite yogi.
The bus ride to Nhlangano was unpleasant as I got sick during the night. I’m not sure what caused it but I’m blaming the chicken. I sipped ORS (oral dehydration salts) water while Matthew distracted my nausea with engaging conversation. Once I got to Pasture Valley, I crashed out for 4 hours. I woke feeling like I’d been hit by a Mac truck, and with a fever. I took ibuprofen, drank several glasses of water, and then took a hot shower. I went to bed early. (17 April, 2010: I’ve been sick since, unfortunately. Some days I’m fine, and other days nothing I eat will settle with me. Oh Africa life! I’m not sure visiting my PCMO will do much good. I think I just need to work something out of my system, and I’d rather do that with my home remedies. The only positive is the decline of fat comments. You cannot tell someone who’s lost another 5 lbs that she’s fat!)
I woke the next morning still feeling rough but successfully trained 30 women from the Shiselweni Reformed Church Home-Based Care group to make paper beads. Justine taught basic business all morning; she and Michelle helped me inspect the quality of paper beads in the afternoon. Most of the women caught on quickly, even asking how to make smaller and larger beads. Others struggled with using a toothpick to roll paper. I showed a few who struggled to use their fingers to roll; it was still a problem. I offered encouragement, just keep trying and practicing. We dismissed at 3pm, sending them home with several magazine sheets and glue. We’re keeping our fingers crossed, hoping they produce high quality beads and bring them to the next training day.
March 25, 2010: Attending Two Mourning Services: We scheduled another bead training for the Home-Based Care group on 26 March. As it turns out, it was the same day as my chief’s night vigil. In all honesty I was glad I had another obligation. I attended the end of a night vigil once during training, and have been to other mourning days. It’s awkward, culturally; I’m never sure if I’m committing a faux paux or not. I don’t know the language well enough to sing along or pray out loud. And I just don’t quite belong. I asked make if I could bake the chief’s wife something and take it to her; perhaps even sit with her awhile. Make said it would be okay, and she would accompany me. I made oatmeal and cornmeal biscuits. We walked up the hill slowly, and I thought about what I could say to a woman who lost her husband to strange circumstances. The chief’s mother received us at the main house; her daughter in-law was in town seeing to funeral preparations. I gave the biscuits to the sister in-law of the chief with my greetings to the chief’s wife and my sympathies. Then I extended my sympathies to his mother; she hugged me so tightly I started tearing up. I sat as make sang and prayed with those in the room.
Later that morning make found me at the clinic. She was on her way to another mourning. She asked me to accompany her, and since she helped me this morning, I thought it only right to go with her. It turns out we were paying our respects to the mother of the peer educator in my community; his sister passed. I’m glad I attended the mourning since I know him and have had several conversations with him about life, health, HIV and education on the bus.
It was an exhausting day, to say the least. I didn’t know my chief well but saw him often and spoke with him on a few occasions. Yet, grief rushed over me both days I mourned at the chief’s house. The longer I’m here, the more people I get to know and know well. With that comes the possible death of people I might actually know or have interacted with frequently. It’s a strange feeling. One of disbelief, anger, confusion and sadness.
28 March, 2010- Freshly Ground: Freshly Ground, a South African musical group won an MTV music award sometime in early 2000. Tonight they made their second visit to Swaziland to debut the release of their 3rd album. They combine traditional South African music with jazz, blues and a little rock. In 2004 their song Doo Be Doo was #1 at the South African music awards. They give an amazingly high energy performance. Listen to their cd online. You will not be disappointed.
2 - 8 April, 2010- Lesotho: I spent the Easter weekend in Lesotho with Jaclyn, Justine and Danielle on a 3-day pony trek through the Malealea area. Lesotho is a beautifully mountainous country with purplish and greenish hued rocks. Basotho people are incredibly friendly and welcoming, and quite proud of their peaceful, beautiful country. They wear wool blankets with maize motifs instead of coats. They make wonderfully delicious sourdough bread. Alongside maize, they raise sorghum. Sustainable development is actively happening; Basotho people willingly support and even initiate many of the projects and growth currently happening in Lesotho. Needless to say, I feel in love with Lesotho; mostly because of the mountains, partly because it really felt like Africa, and finally because the people don’t feel apathetic to their situations.
The pony-trek was interesting. Had I known the path we would take and the precariously narrow trails we sometimes traversed, I would have told my travel companions that I had no business being on that horse. But I am glad I tried it, and I can honestly say I would do another pony trek, but perhaps not longer than five days. My horse was quite patient with me. Jaci joked that we each got a horse to fit our personality; yes, my horse must have practiced Zen meditation and yoga at some point, maybe just to put up with other trekkers. Luckily he remained calm when two other horses fell, and remained incredibly calm each time I over-steered him. It drizzled during the first day making some rocks quite slick. My horse almost jumped a steep ravine to avoid the slippery rocks. I freaked for a moment, causing my horse stress and confusion. Luckily our guide was behind me, and led the horse down the slippery rocks. I wanted to get off and walk a while. Our guide, Mpho, said, “Sorry, miss. It will be okay.” I did get off and walk a bit, but once the mud got too sticky, I got back on my horse, and tried to remember to breath. We stayed two nights on a homestead in a little village on the side of the mountain. Our rondoval had a packed dirt floor. We cooked on a gas stove, and used candlelight to light the hut. Not unlike our experiences in Swaziland. But had I not experienced something similar I’m not sure I’d appreciate a place to rest my head or shelter from the windy mountainside as much as I did.
Grace be to God: The day we left, Michelle, from Pasture Valley Children’s Home gave us a ride to the border. She was on her way to the hospital. The baby, Gracie, wasn’t doing well, and she was going to check on her. She’d been admitted a few days earlier with pneumonia. Gracie is a 9-month old with HIV. A few weeks ago, several of the children contracted German measles aka mumps. Gracie suffered a mild case; her ARV medication helped to keep the high fevers at bay, but she was still affected since her immune system is compromised. As a result of the infection, her immune system took a dive. She’d had a 103 degree temperature for two days; Gogo gave her cool baths, thinking that would be enough. Gogo didn’t alert Michelle or Peter about Gracie’s condition; in Swazi culture, being sick is not distressing. Michelle visited late in the afternoon on the second day; after taking her temperature she rushed Gracie to the clinic immediately. They admitted her and began an IV drip. Unfortunately it was too late. Gracie’s body wasn’t strong enough to fight. She died the day before Easter. They buried her in a cemetery on the property. Her headstone, a simple wooden cross, reads: Grace be to God.
I cannot even describe how much this pains me. I held her. I played with her. I fed her bottles. She smiled when she saw my smile. This makes no sense to me. There are days I curse humanity. I even curse the universe. I don’t understand a world that allows an innocent child to suffer; I don’t understand idly standing by, letting destruction happen without concern. Sometimes, I simply don’t understand life. And that is without a doubt the hardest part of my service, and probably something I’ll never quite grasp.
16 April, 2010- Grant update: as most of you know my revised grant was funded. I updated the budget to finish one building. Previous experience with construction would have suited me well, and helped me ask the right questions. I was unaware that the budget only included figures for roofing. It didn’t include estimates for a ceiling. I found that out once the contractor, his assistant, the Clinic Committee Treasurer and I arrived at the building store to purchase materials. The original estimates include tiles for the roof but we switched to corrugated iron and rust-resistance paint after discovering tiles were twice the cost. I asked the people at the building store to look at the floor plans, estimate the amount of materials needed for a ceiling and how much it would cost. Well over my newly estimated budget, I thought it worthwhile to know in case money appears to help install a ceiling. The entire time this was happening, the contractor was absent. We found him later at the police station; he was defending himself against a woman who’d brought a case against him, most likely a case of not finishing his work. He’s done the same thing to the Clinic Committee. They paid him a certain amount to pour the base of both houses and to begin work on the second. They paid him in full, unfortunately, and he didn’t finish everything the committee asked him to finish. I told the head nurse I didn’t trust his guy; he agreed but acquiesced with the committee’s desire to allow this contractor to finish the work. Well, my instincts were right but don’t do me much good at the moment. I will not have a problem, however, telling the committee to fire him if he doesn’t show up, continually make progress on the building or mess up. And I will not pay him until the work is completed and approved by the Ministry of Works. Oh, the lessons I learn.
20 April – 23 April, 2010- COS Conference: COS stands for Close of Service conference. Our COS conf is geared toward reflection and transition; reflecting on our service and how to transition from Swaziland back to America. We talked about our highs and lows, and our proud moments during each period of service. We discussed how to say good-bye to host families and communities, as well as how to close out projects. We learned about medical coverage after PC. We shared our plans for after service. We learned what to expect. We had a great panel of returned volunteers who are now working and living in Swaziland. Mostly Embassy people, they talked about their first trip back to America after service. How difficult it was to go to the grocery store and be inundated by all the choices. How patience was needed with the plethora of questions from family and friends. How friends and family might not understand what you experienced, and you won’t be able to explain it to them sufficiently enough for understanding. It was nice to hear their perspective on life after PC. A bit hard to know I’ll never think about America or Africa in the same way again, this could be good or bad. And what’s harder is that I’ll never be that person my friends and family use to know. Along with that, my family and friends won’t be the same either. That was a tough one to hear. I knew/know I’ve changed. But I didn’t think about not reconnecting in the same way to dear ones back home. They said to give your self time, and be patient with self and others. Something I’ve really learned to embrace while living here. On the whole, it was an enjoyable conference even though it was emotionally draining. It was a pleasure to have everyone together again, to share and reflect. We did a tying in ceremony to remind us that we are part of a community, and we’ll always be connected. We each will wear a piece of twine around our right wrist for at least 3 days; we can never cut it, rather we let it wear off or slip it off but never toss it. Great closure, even though it felt a little surreal since I’m not leaving yet. A few in our group are leaving end of May, so it was more real for them. A few leave in July and the rest in August. Six will remain; two volunteers are staying 13 months, one will stay until December, two until February and one leaves next May. I’m one of the volunteer leaving in February. 26 February is my official extension COS date. And after that? Other than traveling the rest of Africa, the only thing I know for sure is my desire to obtain a teacher’s certification in hatha yoga. I offer to lead classes at each conference/workshop we’ve had during service, and I’ve discovered that I really enjoy practicing with others and leading them, especially people new to yoga. I really believe in the sense of community and unity I feel when practicing with others, and how that sense feels more and more important as the madness of this world continues.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Life in February, 2010
January 28-30, 2010- Introducing Jenn & Vic to Pasture Valley: Since Justine, Jaclyn and I mostly talk non-stop about the incredible children’s home we volunteer at, more volunteers in our group are interested in what really makes this place wonderful. Jenn is considering extending her time, and since I’ve praised this haven in the country, she was curious. Jenn and Vic live in the HhoHho region so the trek was long to the Shiselweni, about 5 hours, but both were eager for a weekend away on the farm.
The majority of times we stay with Michelle and Peter, Michelle either makes us yummy lunches or hearty, home cooked dinners. Yes, we are volunteers with limited resources, so the home cooked meal is welcome, and so delicious. However, our Midwest upbringings (Justine grew up in Kansas, Jaclyn in Iowa…yeah, the Shis crew are also Midwest girls) require us to either work for said meals or reciprocate in some way; we’re happy doing either as a trip to the farm is like going home for each of us in some way.
Since we were bringing 2 extra mouths to feed, Justine and I decided we would provide dinner that evening. We prepared orange chicken & spicy orange tofu, lettuce salad and steamed green beans for Michelle and Peter and their kids, as well as for ourselves. Michelle and Peter’s kids were not impressed with orange chicken even though they were required to taste a little. However the rest of us enjoyed heartily, and gladly reached for seconds. Wine accompanied the meal, as well as lively conversation, first about Victoria and Jenn’s hometowns then about the work they are doing in their community. Inevitably the conversation turns to HIV, as Michelle and Peter are eager to learn as much as possible; several of the children are positive and being informed caregivers is a goal.
On Friday morning Jenn and Justine accompanied me to the preschool to help me teach. Michelle asked if I could give at least one day each week to teaching preschool. The woman she hired was asked to leave the first week of class since she wasn’t following Michelle’s instructions; the woman seemed more concerned with cleaning than teaching, leaving the children sitting alone in the preschool room. Michelle’s philosophy is learning through creative play, and even though I have limited experience teaching preschool I can play. There are blocks, puzzle pieces, sing-a-long cd’s, colors and paints, play dough, books, and the curriculum we painted on the walls. It’s a bit of a stretch for me, as my sister Sharon confirmed to me on the phone when I told her. But I’m doing what I can until Michelle finds another teacher. There are only 4 students; two boys and two girls between the ages of 3 – 6. Four is manageable for me, for now.
February 3, 2010- Presenting the Craft Proposal: Michelle scheduled a meeting with the Board of Directors for the children’s home. We are eager to begin the craft project as a pilot program at Pasture Valley; if it works on a small scale here then we will take it to other communities in the Shiselweni region, eventually increasing to 100 women participating in making crafts. We’re applied for funding through a U.S. Embassy Women in Development grant; they are currently reviewing applications. In the meantime, we’re seeking seed money to begin the project; we want the women to be making quality products to sell by the time World Cup fever arrives in June. Justine presented the overview of the project we are calling Bambani Sandla or hands taking hold together, hands grasping together. I presented the craft ideas and showed samples of items Justine and I are experimenting with—paper and fabric beads strung as necklaces and earrings, mobiles using paper and fabric beads and other recycled materials, paper mache and handbags. We received positive feedback from the Board and approval to begin the project. I’m excited and anxious. I really believe in this income generating project because it’s not only about a steady income for vulnerable woman but also a social outlet and support group. Along with providing ongoing skills training, we will offer weekly workshops focusing on women’s health issues and general life issues. Once a month we plan to bring in a professional speaker to talk about more sensitive topics or those out of our expertise. The project’s vision is to foster a supportive community among the women while providing them useful life skills and a sense of purpose. It’s a lot of work to undertake so I’m anxious about getting the details right and implementing each facet. Nonetheless, I’m excited as well. To be part of the dream for a better tomorrow so these women may envision a future is humbling.
February 9-10, 2010- Cleaning the Shed at Pasture Valley: In order to implement the craft project, we need a space large enough to hold at least 20 women and work areas for each craft. Peter acquiesced, giving up ¼ of his storage shed for a workspace; I’m not sure he was really keen on the idea of giving up space but supports the project 100%. Justine set to cleaning, along with the children’s help on Tuesday afternoon. Michelle asked me to attend a Standards meeting given by the Ministry of Social Welfare on Tuesday morning. The Ministry is trying to lay standards in place for children’s homes throughout Swaziland, and is asking for feedback from existing homes or those looking to set up new homes. After attending the meeting, I’m curious how the first meeting of standards in America proceeded or perhaps unfolded, as may be the case. Many people attending the meeting believe the standards are unattainable given their limited resources, funds and/or personnel; nothing seemed unattainable to me especially if the higher standards are slowly implemented or more support is given from the Ministry in order to implement them. I’m interested in attending future meetings to witness the progress.
I left the meeting before lunch in order to catch early transport back to Nhlangano. I arrived to a somewhat organized shed and about 12 children saturated in sweat and covered in dust; it was an especially hot day and working in an enclosed shed made conditions worse. The following morning, Justine and I rose early to finish organizing and cleaning. It had rained overnight, cooling the air but not settling the dust. We worked quickly with the help of one of Peter’s staff. In the process the staff worker and I uncovered a snake, which Billy the farmhand, unceremoniously picked up by the tail with bare hands and then using the snake pole put in a bucket. We discovered later it was just a slug eater, and would not hurt a person. While I was away teaching preschool Justine found 6 rats that quickly scattered in all directions, the slowest one beaten by Peter as he tried to escape. I’m happy to have missed that, since the snake was enough for me. We finished by 12:30, just in time for a 1 o’clock braii with Peter and his staff, a going-away party for Billy.
February 22, 2010- Keeping Tallies: Since September 2008 until today I’ve been keeping track of the number of times I’ve been asked certain things or told certain things or done certain things. I thought, at first, it would be an interesting experiment or contribute to an anthropological study I was planning of my time in Swaziland. I decided to keep track of the number of marriage proposals I received, the number of times people offered me their babies, how many snakes wondered into my hut, the number of times people told me I was getting fat and the number of books I’ve read since my arrival. It was sort of comical at first, perhaps even a badge of honor for enduring certain things. But as time went on, I begrudgingly tallied marriage proposals and fatty comments. As mentioned in previous blogs, the fat comments have increased with my level of happiness in being here but have taken a toll on my self-esteem and body image. I sadly and sometimes angrily tallied baby offers, forgetting to remember why bogogo (grannies) were offering me their grandchildren. After mentioning this to my Shis crew, they asked why I continued to tally things that upset me. Good question. I had to ask myself that question several times. Am I just a glutton for punishment? No, I’m not. It’s ridiculous to me to be in a situation where you constantly punish yourself; I’m not in to S&M. Am I really going to conduct an anthropological study around my response/reaction to marriage proposals or my decreased self-esteem due to fat comments? Chances are, an anthropological study would focus on why Swazi men propose at will or why Swazi women comment on weigh. Do I think tallying snake encounters in my hut will keep them from entering? Probably not. But given my distain and fear for snakes, I endured their presence and successfully rid my hut of them. I feel proud, even confident, of my abilities to tolerate each encounter, and endure the anguish of hut living. So while some tallying was good for my ego, my ego fought many others. Since I’m trying to quiet my ego, I’ve decided to discontinue all tallying except for one—the number of books I read. It serves as my challenge to read more instead of watching movies in the evening. So, without further ado, here are the tallies for September 2008 to present: Marriage Proposals: 21, the fifth one w/ an offer of 30 cows; Snakes: 3; Baby Offers: 11; Fatty Comments: 21; Books: 22. I think it’s interesting that the number of fat comments and the number of marriage offers are the same. Is that coincidence or is my perceived weight gain, which also means I’m happy, an indication of increase attractiveness as a wife and mother? Because if I’m happy to be here, and I continue to ‘gain weigh’ then surely I’d want to marry a Swazi man and stay here for life? The jury is out and will remain out since I’m weary of talking about my weight, and I don’t want to increase a man’s interest by chatting him up about marriage. I will merely continue to think the numbers are interesting and purely coincidental.
February 23, 2010- A Letter to Jacy: Just read your letter while sitting at an outdoor café. I happily eat warm bread and drink ginger ale. It’s not as romantic as it sounds. The bread was a whole loaf from the grocery store that I have to break off and the ginger ale is called Stoney’s Ginger Brew—ginger ale on crack…it’s that strong!
The café is just a collection of plastic tables and chairs set near a kiosk that sells a variety of things including the best fast cakes (little donuts) and chips (fries) w/ salt and vinegar in Nhlangano. But also sells soda, juices, candy, super glue and batteries. Of course! The owners are from Bangladesh. The one brother is cute! And very nice—he keeps eyeing me but he’s not much better than other men here—prolly has a girlfriend or wife and still flirts! Good God!
A young boy looks over my shoulder as I read, hoping to see the pics you included—creep! I gave him the evil eye, not that he noticed.
Then, 15 minutes later, as I read the Reader’s Digest from Ma & Pa, 2 teenaged boys- prolly not more than 20—sit next to me and begin professing their love. They both reek of Marula Brew—a beer made from marula nuts. It’s the season and everyone from young to old—even granny—gets wasted. We tried it when we first got here—part of a medical/cultural class—tastes like fermented yeast. Nasty! Anyway, when I said Hamba! (go) one began telling me how rich he is—has a car, and tv and fridge at home. I asked them several times to go, saying I didn’t care to talk to them. And privately I thought I cannot stand to smell you anymore—marula brew giving an even worse smell when sweated through the pores. I finally got up and walked away, to cat calls from the perpetrators, and jeers from their friends who were watching the exchange. Now, I’m sitting in KFC—yes there’s a KFC here! And I think I’m gonna eat some ice cream. Blah!
February 25, 2010- The Gila Monster: A few months ago I saw a lizard outside my window, the kind you’d see gliding across the Arizona desert, scaly and prickly. Not at all like the smooth color-changing geckos that I’ve grown accustomed to sharing my hut. He peered into my window, examining the bugs he could eat. I startled him as I moved closer to the window for a glance at the 6” creature; he quickly scampered along the side of my hut, away from my prying eyes. I’ve seen him a few more times since, each time a little bigger than the last, crawling along the walls. Once he bypassed my door. I’m glad he’s too big to fit under the gap but I still stuff rags under the door just in case. Today, as I entered my homestead I saw him perched on the side of my house. He’s a good 2 feet long now, a little longer if you include the tail, and his body has widened. When I approached, he became anxious and rapidly crawled between the space in my walls and the tin roof. So he’s living in the spaces in my roof? That explains the scratching sounds I occasionally hear; although sometimes that’s the bats that live in the roof spaces also. Oh joy! I’m looking forward to the cabin I’ll inhabit in a few short months at Pasture Valley. A non-tin roof. An indoor bathroom with shower. Hot, running water. A full-sized fridge and sink in the kitchen area. A front loading washer. A combined living room and kitchen but 2 separate bedrooms. And to top it all off, a porch—the icing on the cake, so to speak. Awwww, the little things!
February 27, 2010- Bus Ride Home, Rewiring the light fixture and Babysitting: Tomorrow marks 20 months in Swaziland but I swear no two days can ever be the same here. I went to town today; I needed a few necessities as well as a new fixture for my light bulb. At the post office I discovered a package from my dear friend Jenny filled with pictures of her beautiful children as well as coffee, chocolate, lotion and movies. All things I gladly welcome. On my bus ride home I was reading Country magazine, something my parents sent in a package. I usually read something that doesn’t take much concentration or consists of short articles while riding the bus home. Usually it’s the Nebraska Life magazine my parents gave me a subscription to or the Christian Science Monitor from my friend Julia. I never thought I’d enjoy the Nebraska Life magazine as much as I do. It’s fun to read about little out-of-the-way places I’ve never been or thought to go, or things in Omaha or Lincoln I’d forgotten exist. But now I have a mental list of places Mom and I will venture to when I return or adventures I’ll take by myself, like the dog sledding and northern lights trip to Hudson Bay in Canada I was reading about in the Country magazine.
As I read Country, the young woman next to me looked over my shoulder at the pictures. She was mesmerized, so I showed her a picture of a snow covered forest in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. Then I flipped to the beginning and took her through each page, looking at the beauty and wonder of the United States during winter. Each picture of snow caught her breath, and she asked if it was the sea each time. I tried to explain snow to her, and they she realized she’d read about the white stuff in her social studies book in school. To read about something and then to see or experience it are very different things, which was apparent in our exchange. The bus conductor approached for the fare, so I lay the magazine on my lap to pay. She eyed it several times then lightly picked it up to look at the pictures more closely while I fumbled with money. She opened it to the beginning and started to read the first article. She asked me to pronounce a county in Minnesota, one with a very Native American sounding name. She read on. I realized I was have a cross-cultural experience right then, and since I’d read most of the articles already I decided she should take the magazine with her. I took the recipes from the middle, since lately I have a slight obsession with new recipes, and then handed it back to her. She smiled. At the next stop she got off, clutching the magazine to her chest, and as the bus pulled away, I saw her walking home looking at the next article and smiling. I couldn’t help myself; I smiled for her as the bus round the next corner.
Once I got home I put my groceries away then set upon my next task. Rewiring the light fixture. I needed to replace the part that holds the bulb in since both notches broke off, and once the bulb heats it fall out or explodes, leaving scattered glass scattered all over my floor. I cut the power in the main house. Then using my trusty multi-purpose leatherman knock-off from Jarrod I disconnected the old fixture and rewired the new one in place. And I did it right.
I walked back to the main house to switch on the power. Machawe joked that now I was an electrical engineer. I laughed. Hardly. He was occupying the new OVC Make brought home two weeks ago. While visiting Babe on her last trip, a neighbor begged her to take her son since she couldn’t feed him. Make finally relented after many pleas. He’s a shy five year old named Khayelethu but his nickname is something meaning lazy because he was a lazy baby. I’m not sure how Make will manage to keep him well fed or healthy considering she’s feeding four other OVC’s.
Leaving the four in charge of him, she left some time after I did to visit a relative and would not return until the following day. I was busy going through my package so I didn’t notice Zandele, Nomdumiso or Machawe leave. After some time, Khayelethu came to my door, shyly. “Wentani?” I asked (what are you doing?). No answer. “Uyafuna icolor?” (would you like to color?). A mumble. “Angiva?” I ask (I don’t understand/hear). Then he begins speaking quickly in siSwati and tears stream down his face. I don’t understand anything he’s saying but my heart aches for him. I ask him where Zandele and Nomdumiso have gone. I pick out a few words I understand from his crying speech and gather that they’ve gone to do work somewhere. The same goes for Machawe. What about Mcolisi? He points to the house where the boys stay but I conclude that Mcolisi isn’t around either. We walk around the homestead to see if Mcolisi is around. I don’t see him. Asambe (let’s go) I say, and we walk to the soccer pitch to see if anyone there. Nope. I ask Zandele’s friend if she’s seen them. She says the three have gone to take some maize to be ground; she hasn’t seen Mcolosi. We go back to my hut, and I tell him ngena (come in); siyadlala (we are playing.) I let him color while I bake granola. Then I break out the play dough and I teach him to make shapes, numbers, and snakes for close to an hour. He lies down on the grass mat that’s in front of my bed. “Udziniwe?” I ask (are you tired?). Yebo. I imagine him falling asleep on my mat then waking up an hour later hungry, yet the kids aren’t back so there’s no way to get into the main house to get him food. Then what? So I ask if he’s hungry. Ulambile? Yebo. So I boil water for tea, wash some grapes and give him an oatmeal biscuit I made the other day. He begins to gobble the biscuit, and I tell him to eat slowly several times. Small bites. He finally complies. I show him to eat the grapes, and spit the seeds in the bowl; he was just spitting them out on the floor or throwing them across the room. I forgot how messily five year olds eat. Biscuit crumbs are everywhere, and slurped teaspoons of tea drop to the grass mat. I take a breath and try to cultivate patience. Caphela! Careful, I say as he sips the tea. Eventually Zandele and Nomdumiso make their way home. I’m upset with them, and ask for the details. Mcolisi was left with the task of watching him. He’s the most irresponsible, selfish boy I’ve met here. Why did they pick him? I told the girls I wasn’t mad at them, just upset that a 5 year old was left alone. They told me Make would take care of the matter when she gets home; she would beat Mcolisi. I said I wanted to beat him. They laugh at me. I’m half serious. Mcolisi makes his way home sometime after dark, so I haven’t told him how disappointed I am by his actions.
The majority of times we stay with Michelle and Peter, Michelle either makes us yummy lunches or hearty, home cooked dinners. Yes, we are volunteers with limited resources, so the home cooked meal is welcome, and so delicious. However, our Midwest upbringings (Justine grew up in Kansas, Jaclyn in Iowa…yeah, the Shis crew are also Midwest girls) require us to either work for said meals or reciprocate in some way; we’re happy doing either as a trip to the farm is like going home for each of us in some way.
Since we were bringing 2 extra mouths to feed, Justine and I decided we would provide dinner that evening. We prepared orange chicken & spicy orange tofu, lettuce salad and steamed green beans for Michelle and Peter and their kids, as well as for ourselves. Michelle and Peter’s kids were not impressed with orange chicken even though they were required to taste a little. However the rest of us enjoyed heartily, and gladly reached for seconds. Wine accompanied the meal, as well as lively conversation, first about Victoria and Jenn’s hometowns then about the work they are doing in their community. Inevitably the conversation turns to HIV, as Michelle and Peter are eager to learn as much as possible; several of the children are positive and being informed caregivers is a goal.
On Friday morning Jenn and Justine accompanied me to the preschool to help me teach. Michelle asked if I could give at least one day each week to teaching preschool. The woman she hired was asked to leave the first week of class since she wasn’t following Michelle’s instructions; the woman seemed more concerned with cleaning than teaching, leaving the children sitting alone in the preschool room. Michelle’s philosophy is learning through creative play, and even though I have limited experience teaching preschool I can play. There are blocks, puzzle pieces, sing-a-long cd’s, colors and paints, play dough, books, and the curriculum we painted on the walls. It’s a bit of a stretch for me, as my sister Sharon confirmed to me on the phone when I told her. But I’m doing what I can until Michelle finds another teacher. There are only 4 students; two boys and two girls between the ages of 3 – 6. Four is manageable for me, for now.
February 3, 2010- Presenting the Craft Proposal: Michelle scheduled a meeting with the Board of Directors for the children’s home. We are eager to begin the craft project as a pilot program at Pasture Valley; if it works on a small scale here then we will take it to other communities in the Shiselweni region, eventually increasing to 100 women participating in making crafts. We’re applied for funding through a U.S. Embassy Women in Development grant; they are currently reviewing applications. In the meantime, we’re seeking seed money to begin the project; we want the women to be making quality products to sell by the time World Cup fever arrives in June. Justine presented the overview of the project we are calling Bambani Sandla or hands taking hold together, hands grasping together. I presented the craft ideas and showed samples of items Justine and I are experimenting with—paper and fabric beads strung as necklaces and earrings, mobiles using paper and fabric beads and other recycled materials, paper mache and handbags. We received positive feedback from the Board and approval to begin the project. I’m excited and anxious. I really believe in this income generating project because it’s not only about a steady income for vulnerable woman but also a social outlet and support group. Along with providing ongoing skills training, we will offer weekly workshops focusing on women’s health issues and general life issues. Once a month we plan to bring in a professional speaker to talk about more sensitive topics or those out of our expertise. The project’s vision is to foster a supportive community among the women while providing them useful life skills and a sense of purpose. It’s a lot of work to undertake so I’m anxious about getting the details right and implementing each facet. Nonetheless, I’m excited as well. To be part of the dream for a better tomorrow so these women may envision a future is humbling.
February 9-10, 2010- Cleaning the Shed at Pasture Valley: In order to implement the craft project, we need a space large enough to hold at least 20 women and work areas for each craft. Peter acquiesced, giving up ¼ of his storage shed for a workspace; I’m not sure he was really keen on the idea of giving up space but supports the project 100%. Justine set to cleaning, along with the children’s help on Tuesday afternoon. Michelle asked me to attend a Standards meeting given by the Ministry of Social Welfare on Tuesday morning. The Ministry is trying to lay standards in place for children’s homes throughout Swaziland, and is asking for feedback from existing homes or those looking to set up new homes. After attending the meeting, I’m curious how the first meeting of standards in America proceeded or perhaps unfolded, as may be the case. Many people attending the meeting believe the standards are unattainable given their limited resources, funds and/or personnel; nothing seemed unattainable to me especially if the higher standards are slowly implemented or more support is given from the Ministry in order to implement them. I’m interested in attending future meetings to witness the progress.
I left the meeting before lunch in order to catch early transport back to Nhlangano. I arrived to a somewhat organized shed and about 12 children saturated in sweat and covered in dust; it was an especially hot day and working in an enclosed shed made conditions worse. The following morning, Justine and I rose early to finish organizing and cleaning. It had rained overnight, cooling the air but not settling the dust. We worked quickly with the help of one of Peter’s staff. In the process the staff worker and I uncovered a snake, which Billy the farmhand, unceremoniously picked up by the tail with bare hands and then using the snake pole put in a bucket. We discovered later it was just a slug eater, and would not hurt a person. While I was away teaching preschool Justine found 6 rats that quickly scattered in all directions, the slowest one beaten by Peter as he tried to escape. I’m happy to have missed that, since the snake was enough for me. We finished by 12:30, just in time for a 1 o’clock braii with Peter and his staff, a going-away party for Billy.
February 22, 2010- Keeping Tallies: Since September 2008 until today I’ve been keeping track of the number of times I’ve been asked certain things or told certain things or done certain things. I thought, at first, it would be an interesting experiment or contribute to an anthropological study I was planning of my time in Swaziland. I decided to keep track of the number of marriage proposals I received, the number of times people offered me their babies, how many snakes wondered into my hut, the number of times people told me I was getting fat and the number of books I’ve read since my arrival. It was sort of comical at first, perhaps even a badge of honor for enduring certain things. But as time went on, I begrudgingly tallied marriage proposals and fatty comments. As mentioned in previous blogs, the fat comments have increased with my level of happiness in being here but have taken a toll on my self-esteem and body image. I sadly and sometimes angrily tallied baby offers, forgetting to remember why bogogo (grannies) were offering me their grandchildren. After mentioning this to my Shis crew, they asked why I continued to tally things that upset me. Good question. I had to ask myself that question several times. Am I just a glutton for punishment? No, I’m not. It’s ridiculous to me to be in a situation where you constantly punish yourself; I’m not in to S&M. Am I really going to conduct an anthropological study around my response/reaction to marriage proposals or my decreased self-esteem due to fat comments? Chances are, an anthropological study would focus on why Swazi men propose at will or why Swazi women comment on weigh. Do I think tallying snake encounters in my hut will keep them from entering? Probably not. But given my distain and fear for snakes, I endured their presence and successfully rid my hut of them. I feel proud, even confident, of my abilities to tolerate each encounter, and endure the anguish of hut living. So while some tallying was good for my ego, my ego fought many others. Since I’m trying to quiet my ego, I’ve decided to discontinue all tallying except for one—the number of books I read. It serves as my challenge to read more instead of watching movies in the evening. So, without further ado, here are the tallies for September 2008 to present: Marriage Proposals: 21, the fifth one w/ an offer of 30 cows; Snakes: 3; Baby Offers: 11; Fatty Comments: 21; Books: 22. I think it’s interesting that the number of fat comments and the number of marriage offers are the same. Is that coincidence or is my perceived weight gain, which also means I’m happy, an indication of increase attractiveness as a wife and mother? Because if I’m happy to be here, and I continue to ‘gain weigh’ then surely I’d want to marry a Swazi man and stay here for life? The jury is out and will remain out since I’m weary of talking about my weight, and I don’t want to increase a man’s interest by chatting him up about marriage. I will merely continue to think the numbers are interesting and purely coincidental.
February 23, 2010- A Letter to Jacy: Just read your letter while sitting at an outdoor café. I happily eat warm bread and drink ginger ale. It’s not as romantic as it sounds. The bread was a whole loaf from the grocery store that I have to break off and the ginger ale is called Stoney’s Ginger Brew—ginger ale on crack…it’s that strong!
The café is just a collection of plastic tables and chairs set near a kiosk that sells a variety of things including the best fast cakes (little donuts) and chips (fries) w/ salt and vinegar in Nhlangano. But also sells soda, juices, candy, super glue and batteries. Of course! The owners are from Bangladesh. The one brother is cute! And very nice—he keeps eyeing me but he’s not much better than other men here—prolly has a girlfriend or wife and still flirts! Good God!
A young boy looks over my shoulder as I read, hoping to see the pics you included—creep! I gave him the evil eye, not that he noticed.
Then, 15 minutes later, as I read the Reader’s Digest from Ma & Pa, 2 teenaged boys- prolly not more than 20—sit next to me and begin professing their love. They both reek of Marula Brew—a beer made from marula nuts. It’s the season and everyone from young to old—even granny—gets wasted. We tried it when we first got here—part of a medical/cultural class—tastes like fermented yeast. Nasty! Anyway, when I said Hamba! (go) one began telling me how rich he is—has a car, and tv and fridge at home. I asked them several times to go, saying I didn’t care to talk to them. And privately I thought I cannot stand to smell you anymore—marula brew giving an even worse smell when sweated through the pores. I finally got up and walked away, to cat calls from the perpetrators, and jeers from their friends who were watching the exchange. Now, I’m sitting in KFC—yes there’s a KFC here! And I think I’m gonna eat some ice cream. Blah!
February 25, 2010- The Gila Monster: A few months ago I saw a lizard outside my window, the kind you’d see gliding across the Arizona desert, scaly and prickly. Not at all like the smooth color-changing geckos that I’ve grown accustomed to sharing my hut. He peered into my window, examining the bugs he could eat. I startled him as I moved closer to the window for a glance at the 6” creature; he quickly scampered along the side of my hut, away from my prying eyes. I’ve seen him a few more times since, each time a little bigger than the last, crawling along the walls. Once he bypassed my door. I’m glad he’s too big to fit under the gap but I still stuff rags under the door just in case. Today, as I entered my homestead I saw him perched on the side of my house. He’s a good 2 feet long now, a little longer if you include the tail, and his body has widened. When I approached, he became anxious and rapidly crawled between the space in my walls and the tin roof. So he’s living in the spaces in my roof? That explains the scratching sounds I occasionally hear; although sometimes that’s the bats that live in the roof spaces also. Oh joy! I’m looking forward to the cabin I’ll inhabit in a few short months at Pasture Valley. A non-tin roof. An indoor bathroom with shower. Hot, running water. A full-sized fridge and sink in the kitchen area. A front loading washer. A combined living room and kitchen but 2 separate bedrooms. And to top it all off, a porch—the icing on the cake, so to speak. Awwww, the little things!
February 27, 2010- Bus Ride Home, Rewiring the light fixture and Babysitting: Tomorrow marks 20 months in Swaziland but I swear no two days can ever be the same here. I went to town today; I needed a few necessities as well as a new fixture for my light bulb. At the post office I discovered a package from my dear friend Jenny filled with pictures of her beautiful children as well as coffee, chocolate, lotion and movies. All things I gladly welcome. On my bus ride home I was reading Country magazine, something my parents sent in a package. I usually read something that doesn’t take much concentration or consists of short articles while riding the bus home. Usually it’s the Nebraska Life magazine my parents gave me a subscription to or the Christian Science Monitor from my friend Julia. I never thought I’d enjoy the Nebraska Life magazine as much as I do. It’s fun to read about little out-of-the-way places I’ve never been or thought to go, or things in Omaha or Lincoln I’d forgotten exist. But now I have a mental list of places Mom and I will venture to when I return or adventures I’ll take by myself, like the dog sledding and northern lights trip to Hudson Bay in Canada I was reading about in the Country magazine.
As I read Country, the young woman next to me looked over my shoulder at the pictures. She was mesmerized, so I showed her a picture of a snow covered forest in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. Then I flipped to the beginning and took her through each page, looking at the beauty and wonder of the United States during winter. Each picture of snow caught her breath, and she asked if it was the sea each time. I tried to explain snow to her, and they she realized she’d read about the white stuff in her social studies book in school. To read about something and then to see or experience it are very different things, which was apparent in our exchange. The bus conductor approached for the fare, so I lay the magazine on my lap to pay. She eyed it several times then lightly picked it up to look at the pictures more closely while I fumbled with money. She opened it to the beginning and started to read the first article. She asked me to pronounce a county in Minnesota, one with a very Native American sounding name. She read on. I realized I was have a cross-cultural experience right then, and since I’d read most of the articles already I decided she should take the magazine with her. I took the recipes from the middle, since lately I have a slight obsession with new recipes, and then handed it back to her. She smiled. At the next stop she got off, clutching the magazine to her chest, and as the bus pulled away, I saw her walking home looking at the next article and smiling. I couldn’t help myself; I smiled for her as the bus round the next corner.
Once I got home I put my groceries away then set upon my next task. Rewiring the light fixture. I needed to replace the part that holds the bulb in since both notches broke off, and once the bulb heats it fall out or explodes, leaving scattered glass scattered all over my floor. I cut the power in the main house. Then using my trusty multi-purpose leatherman knock-off from Jarrod I disconnected the old fixture and rewired the new one in place. And I did it right.
I walked back to the main house to switch on the power. Machawe joked that now I was an electrical engineer. I laughed. Hardly. He was occupying the new OVC Make brought home two weeks ago. While visiting Babe on her last trip, a neighbor begged her to take her son since she couldn’t feed him. Make finally relented after many pleas. He’s a shy five year old named Khayelethu but his nickname is something meaning lazy because he was a lazy baby. I’m not sure how Make will manage to keep him well fed or healthy considering she’s feeding four other OVC’s.
Leaving the four in charge of him, she left some time after I did to visit a relative and would not return until the following day. I was busy going through my package so I didn’t notice Zandele, Nomdumiso or Machawe leave. After some time, Khayelethu came to my door, shyly. “Wentani?” I asked (what are you doing?). No answer. “Uyafuna icolor?” (would you like to color?). A mumble. “Angiva?” I ask (I don’t understand/hear). Then he begins speaking quickly in siSwati and tears stream down his face. I don’t understand anything he’s saying but my heart aches for him. I ask him where Zandele and Nomdumiso have gone. I pick out a few words I understand from his crying speech and gather that they’ve gone to do work somewhere. The same goes for Machawe. What about Mcolisi? He points to the house where the boys stay but I conclude that Mcolisi isn’t around either. We walk around the homestead to see if Mcolisi is around. I don’t see him. Asambe (let’s go) I say, and we walk to the soccer pitch to see if anyone there. Nope. I ask Zandele’s friend if she’s seen them. She says the three have gone to take some maize to be ground; she hasn’t seen Mcolosi. We go back to my hut, and I tell him ngena (come in); siyadlala (we are playing.) I let him color while I bake granola. Then I break out the play dough and I teach him to make shapes, numbers, and snakes for close to an hour. He lies down on the grass mat that’s in front of my bed. “Udziniwe?” I ask (are you tired?). Yebo. I imagine him falling asleep on my mat then waking up an hour later hungry, yet the kids aren’t back so there’s no way to get into the main house to get him food. Then what? So I ask if he’s hungry. Ulambile? Yebo. So I boil water for tea, wash some grapes and give him an oatmeal biscuit I made the other day. He begins to gobble the biscuit, and I tell him to eat slowly several times. Small bites. He finally complies. I show him to eat the grapes, and spit the seeds in the bowl; he was just spitting them out on the floor or throwing them across the room. I forgot how messily five year olds eat. Biscuit crumbs are everywhere, and slurped teaspoons of tea drop to the grass mat. I take a breath and try to cultivate patience. Caphela! Careful, I say as he sips the tea. Eventually Zandele and Nomdumiso make their way home. I’m upset with them, and ask for the details. Mcolisi was left with the task of watching him. He’s the most irresponsible, selfish boy I’ve met here. Why did they pick him? I told the girls I wasn’t mad at them, just upset that a 5 year old was left alone. They told me Make would take care of the matter when she gets home; she would beat Mcolisi. I said I wanted to beat him. They laugh at me. I’m half serious. Mcolisi makes his way home sometime after dark, so I haven’t told him how disappointed I am by his actions.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Life in Dec 09 and Jan 2010
December 7 – 11 2009- Painting Health Signs: As a way to motivate my health club, I suggested we paint health signs around school grounds as a daily reminder for students. I researched appropriate health-related messages, and approved them with the Head Teacher the week classes ended. The three most active members agreed to help me during holiday break. On the day we slated to begin drawing, my sisi, also a member, called the other two members. One was busy without giving a reason; the other was taking her mother to the hospital. So I began drawing the signs; my sisi helped me with the last three, which she picked among the 20 that were approved. It only took us one morning, about 4 hours, to draw the words. The following 3 of the 4 days, I painted the words by myself. Again, there was no word from the other two members, and my sisi was busy in the field, weeding the maize. I convinced Justine to help me one of the days, in exchange for cooking dinner and buying chocolate for dessert; not a tough sell. The signs turned out really well; I even painted the AIDS ribbon next to quotes related to HIV/AIDS. There was a little activity at the school on the days I painted; people stopped to ask what I was doing or to read the signs. The responses seemed positive; I take that as a success.
Below are the messages I painted:
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams. Eleanor Roosevelt
Education is the most powerful weapon, which you can use to change the world. Nelson Mandela
The global HIV/AIDS epidemic is an unprecedented crisis that requires an unprecedented response…it requires solidarity… Kofi Annan
The feeling of being valuable - 'I am a valuable person'- is essential to mental health and is a cornerstone of self-discipline. M. Scott Peck
…never let anyone tell you that what you are doing is insignificant. Bishop Desmond Tutu
Let us give publicity to HIV/AIDS and not hide it, because [that is] the only way to make it appear like a normal illness. Nelson Mandela
One Love: Talk – Respect – Protect. One Love Campaign
The Head Teacher would like me to paint a new motto for the school; currently the walled gate as you enter says: Fight the Good Fight. He wants the school motto to be a bit more uplifting and positive. He also wants me to paint messages in the assembly hall, which is sometimes used by the community. We’ll work out the details next term. I‘m hoping my health club is more active when that time comes.
December 12 2009- Visiting the Orphanage and 21st Birthday Party: Tim and Jamie Cook have been eager for several months to visit Pasture Valley Children’s Home; Justine and I decided to take them this weekend since we planned to be in town already. We’d been invited to a 21st birthday party of the daughter and niece of Make Simelane, the woman we house sit for. The birthday party was supposed to begin at 10, and in true Swazi fashion it began late. Under a tent, the two birthday girls were flanked by friends at a table toward the front of tent. The guests of honor were dressed in hot pink, as were their friends. Their dresses resembled bridesmaid or prom attire; being PC volunteers, arriving everywhere in jeans and t-shirts or well-washed skirts and tees, we felt considerably under-dressed. The celebration was to honor Samke and Khetsiwe for not only turning 21, but also for not getting pregnant or loosing their virginity. Many relatives and friends spoke highly of the girls’ integrity, as well as their passion for education; both are at university. Make narrated the slide show with pictures of them growing up together. The guest speaker, a former teacher of both girls, ended her endearing speech with a toast to long life and happiness. We ate lots of food—also a Swazi tradition at any gathering—drank sodas, a new tradition, and finished with dry cake. We’ve known both girls for about a year but not well; they are genuinely nice every time I see them, and seem ready to share their home or food. I was happy to share this important day with them. It was interesting to me the reason for celebrating a 21st birthday here. When I reflect, it’s also about celebrating a life endured. Had either of them already had sex, both would probably be HIV positive. I don’t want to even think about how being positive would dramatically change their present situation but I can say with certainty that neither would have finished high school much less gone to university. Then I think about the reasons for celebrating a 21st birthday in America. I know every situation is different but we really have forgotten to celebrate LIFE in America; we are too eager to drink our weight in shots or sign up for military service and put our lives at risk. My appreciation for the sanctity of life has gradually taken new meaning thanks to my interaction with Swazi people.
We returned to the children’s home to work off our full bellies with play. The boys were eager to have a male figure to play with; Tim was more than willing to romp on the jungle gym, play tag and teach the boys to throw a football American style. Jamie, being a former cheerleader, taught those willing several cheerleader jumps and gymnastic moves; I followed with yoga poses, namely headstand, crow and bridge. Justine’s approach was cheering and holding the younger children. Eventually the Lego tub came out, and Tim set to building airplanes with eager children sitting around him gleaning his skills. We all took turns holding Gracie, the 5 month old, then ended the afternoon with hugs and high 5’s. Since Michelle and Peter, the owners, were away for the day, we stayed in the cabin behind one of the orphanages. It’s a two bedroom place with shower and combined kitchen and living room. We spent the evening telling stories of the past, listening to Moth and NPR podcasts and lots of music, and drinking wine. Eventually we cooked dinner and I displayed the contents of the package retrieved earlier in the day from the Post Office.
It’s rare that Tim and Jamie stray from their homestead, so it was a real treat to spend a weekend with them. Tim is a writer and Jamie is a PT; I feel like I have a lot in common with each, so we never want for conversation. They are the oldest couple in our group; Tim is several months older than me. We always joke about being mkhulu (old man/grandfather) and bogogo (grandmothers). It is also their goal to visit more volunteer homesteads in the coming year; I hope to join them on a few visits.
December 14, 2009- Learning Another Lesson:
I’m not sure I wholly believe the adage, “home is where the heart is.” I believe that home is where you are happy or where you are able to have a little happiness in some moment every day, wherever you happen to be. I believe this because I have obtained happiness here but my heart is sometimes elsewhere: in Vermillion with the Farmers Market, Coffee Shop Gallery, in my massage practice or with my fabulous friends; at my parent’s place, on the farm, in Nebraska; wondering through the pasture near my parent’s farm; with my family, at holidays or impromptu gatherings; in Sioux City with my massage friends; in the Old Market in Omaha; in the mountains in Colorado; in yoga class; in France; or in places yet to discover. Surprisingly, I find my heart in places I visit here, with friends in my community, and fellow volunteers, as well as with my Swazi family, especially my bosisi. So I’ve discovered my heart is in many places, whether I happen to be happy there or not.
I’ve been reading the book “A New Earth: Awakening to your life’s purpose” by Eckhart Tolle. In a beginning section he talks about the secret of happiness, saying that “being at peace and being who you are, that is, being yourself, are one.” That being at peace, having peace, is letting go of the ego. And that being one with life is being one with Now. One should not seek happiness; if you seek it you won’t find it since happiness is elusive. However “freedom from unhappiness is attainable now, but facing what is rather than making up stories about it. Unhappiness covers up your natural state of well-being and inner peace, the source of true happiness.” Oh, how many times I tried to seek happiness when I first arrived, only to fail and become even more despondent. I thought actively searching for happiness or things or make me happy would make it okay to be here, would make me feel better about being here. Oh my vanity! Oh my ego! It wasn’t until I let go of controlling what would or would not happen, living each day as they came, being as present in each day as possible, that I found happiness had been at my doorstep for months. My fickle friend but of my own making.
Even though some days may pass without much recognition of whether I am happy or not happy, and at time I may become melancholy and ride the rollercoaster of emotions, happiness is apart of my every day, apart of me—I am not trying in vain to seek it. It’s just there when I am present enough to feel it.
December 15, 2009- Fatty Comment w/ an Ass Pat: I was wearing jeans today, so of course Make made a comment about my bum becoming bigger. “My daughter! She is getting bigger and bigger. Look at her bum. She is becoming like me.” She even went so far as to pat my butt and right thigh as I passed her. Thanks Make. Little does she know that earlier in the day I bought a pair of jeans a size smaller than the pair I bought when I first arrived. My main reason for buying jeans was to have a pair that actually fit for my Cape Town trip. Secondly I thought it might be nice to have a pair that weren’t as tattered as the pair I brought with me. And finally, they were only E40; in US dollars that’s less than $6. After purchasing them I was excited about how well they fit and looked on me, as well as the good deal I got. But after returning home to an ass pat and fatty comment, it’s more about a battle that I won with the war on fatty comments from Make. No matter it’s a silent battle between us, and I’m the only one who knows the war is on. Today I won!
December 17, 2009- Plaiting my Hair: My sisi Nomdumiso offered to plait my hair last week, and today I decided to take her up on the offer. I wanted just the front plaited, thinking it wouldn’t take long and thinking it would be nice to have a few braids here and there. We didn’t have the same vision in mind. She plaited everything from my ears forward. Once I realized what she was doing, she was already too far into the process for me to stop her. So I decided to sit quietly, hoping it would turn out. And as things usually do, it worked out well. The small braids took over 2 hours to create, and they were very nicely done. I was very happy with the results. She wants to plait my hair again, next time with colored extensions or with a zigzag design. I’m not objecting.
December 18 – 20, 2009- Celebrating my Birthday, Hiking to Mvubu Falls, & Early Christmas at Pasture Valley: Since the people I wanted to help me celebrate my birthday would be at a children’s camp, we met the night before at Café Lingo. An out of the way place in Mbabane, we sat outside drinking wine and eating pizza for the better part of the evening. An African jazz group began playing around 9, and we danced to their upbeat grooves. Then a few of us ventured to House on Fire for more music and dancing. The following afternoon, Victoria, Justine and I set out to find Mvubu Falls. Just a sort distance from Mbabane, Mvubu Falls is an easy hike to 3 beautiful waterfalls. The afternoon sun was warm but since the walk to the falls is mostly tree covered, the only thing we found troubling was the tree snake we happened upon at the beginning of the hike. On Sunday, Justine and I rode with the Country Director and the Medical Officer to Pasture Valley. They wanted to bring Christmas presents to the children and Peter and Michelle, their way of giving at Christmastime. Justine and I sat in the circle of children, helping the little ones open presents, installing batteries and removing tags. To see their faces light up upon discovering the treasure behind the wrapping paper… I cannot even describe how priceless that moment. Then there were treats Michelle made, as well as candy sent from a former volunteer at Pasture Valley. For most this was their first Christmas celebration; for others a reinforcement that they have a family, a home.
December 24 – 28, 2009- Celebrating Christmas: Make Simelane asked Justine and I to house sit during the holidays. We gladly accepted. The house was full, as a few Group 7 volunteers stayed with us before they headed out to Durban. No matter. Justine and I were occupied with spending Christmas at Pasture Valley. Peter and Michelle invited us to the Christmas celebration they were planning with the children on Christmas Eve: reading the Christmas story, opening presents from Michelle’s father and sister, opening presents from their neighbors, eating Christmas treats, singing carols, and watching a movie. It felt more like Christmas than last year, and I heartily welcomed the change. Christmastime seems more festive when children are involved; their wonder and excitement at presents, eating too much food and learning Christmas songs is endearing, especially the children at Pasture Valley. Everything they were given was accepted with a thank you, a knee bend and a smile, no matter what was being given. They were genuinely appreciative, and that would warm the heart of any scrooge.
The next day, Christmas Day, Justine and I took sugar cookies we’d made the night before to lunch. We made green and pink icing before lunch, then after we showed them how to decorate their own cookie, many enjoying theirs piled with green and pink icing. After playing games, coloring and teaching them how to use their new outdoor toys, we headed back to Make Simelane’s and joined G7 in Christmas dinner. The next day G7 left for Durban, and Justine and I enjoyed a quiet house, watching movies and eating our Christmas dinner—orange chicken—after cleaning the house in preparation for Make’s arrival the following day. It was not the most relaxing Christmas I was hoping for but the time with the children at Pasture Valley was uplifting, and just what I needed, for me the essence of Christmas.
December 29-30, 2009- The Train Trip to Cape Town:
The land outside Jo’burg resembles the Midwestern
plains—lots of farm land, many trees and herds of cattle.
Shortly, the landscape gives way to rolling hills and scrub brush, reminding me of eastern Colorado. The sky holds 3 shades of blue, and
increasingly fills with clouds as we traverse west.
Each of us in our own zone.
The train is crowded, and we struggle for our own space.
Except for the mix of languages I hear around me, I could easily be traveling thru the heartland of America, searching for mountains I love and seeking wine country in the distance.
Road tripping with three unforgettable friends. Oh the adventures to come.
A rain cloud directly over the train, it begins to rain. I reluctantly edge the window up a little to avoid getting wet, and at the urging of a fellow passenger.
But I don’t close it completely; I want to feel the cool clean air on my face and smell the fresh crispness it brings.
It keeps the train car from becoming too stifling, keeps me from smelling my own sweat and the stench of 80 others in this car.
Back to more scrub brush and flat land.
Several windmills rapidly spin in the wind.
In the distance, a storm brews, the sky is a blue grey.
Rays of sunlight pierce thru clouds but the sun doesn’t fool me.
We are driving into a storm, and I anticipate the erratic energy it will bring.
The rains come again, at a slant, struggling to fall against the wind.
I love storms, and on the train it seems even more romantic and ominous. Sadly the rain doesn’t last long; the drops are enough to wet the windows.
We’re back to blue skies peeking thru the clouds.
I open my window once again.
December 30-
My sleep is fitful, and I grow cold toward morning so I rise to look out my window. The buttes in the distance are mist covered, the plains and scrub brush a solid tan. The sun rises 30 minutes later, around 5:30, like a precocious child, quickly and without remorse, transforming everything into golden.
The train is mostly quiet, still.
My companions slumber without want.
Several travelers shift in their sleep, trying in vain to
find comfort in their seats.
A two-year-old chatters to her groggy mother.
The train pauses and more people begin to stir, some rising to stretch, others stumbling their way to the toilet.
It’s morning time in Africa. The day always begins early and immediate with activity.
With the sun at my back, I slowly thaw and begin my coffee daydream.
As we discovered last night this train doesn’t have a kitchen car.
Coffee will remain a daydream. My eyelids become increasingly heavy, and I resist the urge to let them close fully.
Sleep deprivation triumphs, and I fall asleep for another hour.
We’re heading toward the Western Cape.
Mountains spring up, sharp and rocky, reminding me of Colorado.
My spirit feels renewed. I feel alive and refreshed. I feel like I’m home.
Nestled under the foothills are rows and rows of grape vines; wine country is near.
The train’s multinationals talked politics and passion for their country since last night. Mugabe. The state of Zimbabwe. Apartheid in all nations. Language and terminiology. Lack of jobs. The division of the Congo- now two separate countries. Some conversations become heated usually due to inebriation.
Those people walk away or someone works to keep the peace. But most people become fast friends, even thru the arguments, and look after each other.
Several groups have adopted us—making it their mission to make the only white girls on the train comfortable and welcome.
The men from the Congo give us tips for places to visit in Cape Town. One woman walks us to get food during a train interlude. Another buys us ice cream for breakfast. A man offers his wife’s hair dressing services; he says she would plait our hair and make us really beautiful.
The two-year-old takes turns playing with each of us, inquiring about our belongings in Zimbabwean.
Siswati is somewhat similar, so I ask her questions.
But her English isn’t bad, so I point to things and she repeats what I say almost perfectly.
We arrive in Cape Town to afternoon heat,
anxious to explore the city but desperate for showers.
Cleanliness wins out, and we hail a taxi to the backpackers.
Anne’s plane should be landing.
I am anxious once again, waiting for her call.
We meet a few hours later for pizza and beers.
We meet Ryan, her PC friend from the DR and his fiancé, Ali.
We make plans to hike the next morning.
I go home with them.
Anne and I talk as long as we can before sleep beckons.
She is in Africa.
I am on vacation.
Life is good.
December 31, 2009- Cape Town, Day 1:
Hiked Lion’s Head
Lunch at Café de Cuba on Long Street
Exploring Long Street, hoping to find a cute dress, to no avail
Finding Green Market Square
Happy hour at the No Happy Hour bar, watching taxi
drivers play cards in the trunk of one car.
New Year’s Eve celebration at Green Market Square- coffee and hummus
at the Kurdish place, dinner there later w/ the girls,
salsa music playing at the Kurdish place,
bands begin to play, we begin to dance.
New Year’s Eve with a few fireworks, anticlimactic,
but enjoyed with friends. It’s 2010; I’m
in a foreign country.
January 1, 2010- Cape Town, Day 2:
Bo Kaap district- Malay community, we
discover a festival, a minstrel show to honor
their culture and the new year; traditionally
the one day per year
they got off from work.
People of all ages in each group, dressed
in bright costumes, playing instruments, singing
and dancing, marching thru
the streets where vibrantly colored houses
stand, celebrating life. We watch
for hours, each group louder and jollier
than then last. Bystanders and community members
get caught up in the action,
and sing and dance with minstrels along
the way. Everyone is laughing. Everyone
is enjoying.
We learn later that it’s become a competition
among minstrel groups, who can play and
march the best. The competition begins
at 11pm, and groups march throughout
the night along the main street, with
the top groups giving a final performance
at the stadium. Sometime is takes
two days, sometimes 3. They celebrate
for as long as they need.
We decide to get food, Vietnamese, then
venture along Long Street for possible night life. We
discover many bars open and people sitting along
the festival route, finding
good seats. We get a beer at one place
with a surly bartender; out tip is minimal.
We watch the festival begin, then
shortly make our way to sleep.
January 2, 2010- Cape Town, Day 3:
I sleep until 9, the latest I’ve slept in a long
while. Anne’s jet leg is kicking in; I tell her to
sleep as long as she needs. I call
car rental places, hoping something is available
for touring wine country. Nothing is
available until Monday.
The day is hot but Table Mt is clear, a
first since our arrival; I want to
take advantage of it. Anne says she
will take the cable car to the top. The
other girls want a cooler day to hike, and
opt for Simon’s Town. I hike
it on 2 hours, 20 minutes. The route I take
is like climbing stairs in an old house, narrow
in some places, steep, and immediate. The altitude
bothers me at first, but after trekking
one-fourth of the way, I find my chi
breath, and take my time climbing the stair steps.
I meet Anne at the top, feeling a huge sense of
accomplishment. We discover later the high for
the day was 44 degrees C (or 111 degrees F). I pat
myself of the back again.
We make our way to the V & A Waterfront
for Thai food and cold drinks with
pineapple garnishes. I hear Hot Water playing
at the amphitheater; they played
at House on Fire last New Year’s Eve.
Thai food and good music, perfect combination.
We meet the girls at the
Green Dolphin Jazz Bar later for drinks.
We make plans for tomorrow.
January 3, 2010- Cape Town, Day 4:
Anne and I both sleep in; the girls
are hiking Table Mountain, and we’re
meeting them once they finish.
We walk to the Table Mt entrance, then take
an expensive cab ride to the Botanical
Gardens. It’s beautiful. I seek out
my favorite African flower, Protea,
along the way; I need to see nothing else.
The girls go back to their hostel to
shower; we will meet them at La Med
later. Anne and I walk towards the
promenade. We eye a gelato shoppe
along the way. She gets granadilla aka
passion fruit; I abandon my standard
chocolate for lemon. We happily lick our
way to the Indian Ocean, and
imagine we can see all the way
to South America. Would we see Brazil?
La Med is the happening spot for the 20 something’s,
hipsters, and wanna-be’s. As Anne says,
“it’s the scene!” We feel slightly
outta place, but enjoy the scenery. The
bar, complete with outdoor patios, is on
the beach. Goldfish is slated
to play. Anne and I leave early; only Goldfish
remixes are playing, and we want to say
farewell to Ryan and Ali; they are headed to
Thailand tomorrow.
January 4, 2010- The Trip, Day 5:
We pick up the rental car. Hurray,
they have an automatic. We pick up the
girls and head to Simon’s Town to see
penguins, and the gorgeous beaches. We long
to stay. We drive back up the coast to
Muizenberg. After lunch at an
organic coffee shop, we bid
Vic and Mar adieu. Jenn, Anne, and I
begin our journey back to Swaziland
via the Garden and Wilderness Routes.
Anne quickly masters driving on the right
sides of the car and road. I try my skills
later, once she tires of the wind
and concentration of passing people…there are
no rules for passing in Africa; you go when you can, where
you can.
I haven’t driven a car in 18 months. Surprisingly
it’s like riding a bike, and I remember
instantly; after 5 minutes
of nervousness about driving on
the right, I’m like an old pro.
We decide to stop in Knysna, a quaint town
famed for it’s lagoon harbor, protected
by the sea by two sandstone cliffs. South
Africa’s largest commercial oyster-farming
Center is based in the lagoon. We
find the backpackers quite friendly. The
friend of the owner shares his extra veggies
with us; we make a curry dish and
grilled cheese sammies. They also
recommend a close bar to enjoy
a few Windhoek, a beer made
in Namibia. During the
night, the owner rushes in to
alert the drivers of a white Toyota
that it’s been vandalized, and to come quite;
the police are waiting. We panic for a moment,
then remember out white car is a Chevy.
January 5, 2010- The Trip, Day 6:
After yoga and a long hot shower, we
pick up coffee and breakfast. We head to the
lagoon look-out point, enjoying scones, hot
coffee and the view.
How far will we drive today? Let’s see
where we are around 5. The Garden Route
is a majestic stretch of coastline, encompassing
mountains, rivers, lagoons, lakes, beaches, and
indigenous forests. In 1780, the French
naturalist, Francois Le Vaillant, wrote: “Nature
has made an enchanted abode of this beautiful
place.” Enchanted is it, and each town is
quainter and boasts more activities than
the next. Jenn decides Coffee Bay, along
the Wild Coast, is our
final destination for the day. The Wild Coast
is an adventurers paradise, with rugged cliffs,
untouched coastlines, sheltered bays, pounding
breakers and dense coastal forest.
Beautiful. Yes. It lifts our spirits
until we discover the road to Coffee Bay
is littered with potholes and 62 km from
the main highway. It took 2 ½ hrs to drive. We
arrive dejected, exhausted, in need of food, and a
bed. We’re welcomed by Rasta look-alikes, old hippies,
young hippies and extreme sport enthusiasts. We lurk on the
edge of the excitement, waiting for the manager
to assign us a dorm. Then Jenn says, “maybe we
should gets beers while we wait?!” Anne and I
nod in agreement; might as well join the
festivities. Eventually we’re
shown to our beds, but after quick
discussion and since the beers have
already gone to our heads, we
join the crowd around the camp fire
and drink more beers. Anne and I realize this
is our first time getting drunk together. We cheers
to that. Close to 1 am, Anne and I stumble to our
beds, leaving Jenn catching the eye of a
fellow camper.
January 6, 2010- The Trip, Day 7:
After little sleep we rise to get an early
start on the final leg, the drive
to Durban. We traverse the
potholes in half the time it took
last night. We stop for breakfast and
coffee at a rest stop, and look thru
the guide book for a place to stay. Anne
is tired of backpackers; she offers
to spring for a nice place. I make
reservations at Durban Manor. The
drive is uneventful; Anne and I take turns
driving and sleeping. Jenn sleeps most of the
way. We pass the edge of Drakensberg Park, and
I must resist the urge to steer the
car that direction. Another trip.
We over-estimate the amount of time
it will take; we arrive in Durban during
rush hour, but successfully find the drop-
off for the rental car, and walk a short distance
to the Durban Manor. It’s a turn-of-the century
mansion. The room is spacious but the
hall is eerily quiet. It feels mysterious, and quite like
a haunted house. We crash on the
bed and turn on the television. We unwind
watching a movie, then shower, get ready, and
walk to Roma’s Revolving Restaurant. The Italian
food hits the spot and a
360 degree view of the city is lovely
but service is poor; we wait
45 minutes for our bill. Once back to the
mansion we feel like we’re being spied on; I
wish is explore this haunted place but sleep calls
to me strongly.
January 7, 2010- The Trip, Day 8:
One no is moving quickly. I lazily hit the snooze
alarm twice. I finally force myself up; Jenn and Anne
reluctantly follow.
Breakfast is served in the breakfast nook,
where we’re waited on by a butler, of sorts,
dressed in a black waistcoat, and carrying a
towel over his left forearm. We feel transferred
to a different time and place, but our dress
makes us feel out of context.
The receptionist hails us a cab. We want
to make one stop before heading to
Swaziland. The Victoria St. Market, a market filled
with smells, tastes and wares from India. We smell
incense, taste spices, and peruse over 100 stalls, selling
everything from jewelry, fabrics, spices, ceramics and clothing.
The building is striking enough; it features 11 domes,
each modeled after a notable building in India. The
bazaar is noisy, but crowds are minimal today. I buy
two pair of earrings, one made from banana
leaves, the other from springbok bones. I buy
sandalwood and nag champa incense, and vanilla beans;
I want to try my hand at making vanilla essence. Later
I wish I would have bought masala spice. We
wait for 2 hours for the khombi to Swaziland to leave.
We pass the time eating litchi, listening to music, and
recalling the long drive, each of us longing to return to
explore a different place
along the Garden and Wilderness Routes. The drive
is mostly uneventful except for a moment near
St. Lucia. Two vehicle-loads of men dressed in all black
with machine guns pile out and surround a truck with 2 men
inside. As we speed quickly passed, we hear gunfire. Our
fellow passengers say SA is cracking down
on criminals. We hope they had the right perpetrators; I saw
one man’s face—he seemed surprised and scared.
We cross the border at Lavumisa, and I breathe a sigh of
relief. It feels good to be home. Anne removes her camera,
to capture the rainbow that appears after
a short rain. She says, “This looks like Africa.” It’s my
idea of Africa too. We stay with my
Salesian friends in Manzini. Their shower
feels amazing as I remove the travel from
my body.
January 8, 2010- The Trip, Day 9:
We take our pile of dirty clothes to the Laundromat. After
coffee with we head to the Manzini market
and Jenn heads home. The market is quiet for
a Thursday, normally it’s biggest selling day. Anne
finds great gifts for family and friends; I find
thin acrylic yarn, perfect for braiding necklaces. Once
we pick up our laundry, we run to catch the last bus to Nhlangano
with only a few minutes to spare. I become
increasingly excited to share the journey to my
place and my site with Anne. In Nhlangano we
purchase fruits and veggies then hop on the bus
to my site. Bomake greet us; Anne comments on the
friendliness of the bus and it’s occupants, and I smile. This
is my bus. These are my people. I am on my way home.
We arrive at site to find only Zandele home. Make has
been gone since before Christmas; she is staying
with Babe. As I unpack
Anne reads my walls and looks at
all the pictures I’ve accumulated. She thinks my
place is homey. It really is. I need water, so
she helps me fetch it with the wheelbarrow. I make
popcorn for supper, and we spend the
evening listening to music and chatting.
January 9, 2010- The Trip, Day 10:
I take Anne to see the primary and
secondary schools; I want to show her
the health signs I painted. On the way home,
the neighbor boy hands me one of Make’s
chickens; it had gotten out and he caught it.
I reluctantly take the chicken, and carry it
home. Anne thinks it’s funny and takes a
photo. I give her a disgusted look. For lunch,
Anne teaches me to make bean burgers. We sit outside under
the rondoval to eat; my hut is too hot. After lunch,
we continue sitting outside; I teach her
to crochet. We crochet all afternoon. She makes
two potholder for me. My sisi
visits us from time to time, and I share the
chocolate Anne bought me with her. Eventually
her friends visit, and we dance, and perform head-
and handstands in the front yard. Anne records
them on her Flip; they are fascinated. She requires them
to perform if they want to be filmed. A few sing the
Swazi national anthem; others dance.
We make my Mom’s cereal treat recipe, and I
write it down for Anne; it’s her favorite treat
and memory of my mom’s house as a child. I make
liphalisi for supper—maize meal and water cooked. I
show her how Swazi’s eat it with their hands. She
enjoys the experience as much as the taste.
January 10, 2010- The Trip, Day 11:
I make maize meal pancakes for brunch as
Anne begins a scarf. She helps me make
fabric beads, and I begin putting together
a prototype mobile. It takes space nicely. We
walk to my friend Phindile’s house in the afternoon,
taking her some cereal treats. She offers us mango,
and we gladly accept. It’s my favorite type of
mango, the large ones without stringy palp, sweet
but not too sweet. We stay a few hours, then head home
the back way. I boil water for Anne’s first
bucket bath. In the DR she had a tile floor with
a drain. I tell her not to worry about splashing
water on the cement floor; it wipes up
easily. I create a makeshift curtain; she bathes
while I begin preparing supper, veggie pizza with
mangos. I take a piece to Zandele and
invite her to hang with us. We play UNO, then
teach Anne to play sisu, a Swazi card
game; sisu means stomach. Zandele has a cold;
she leaves early to go to bed. I download pictures
to my computer from Anne’s camera.
January 11, 2010- The Trip, Day 12:
I make New Year’s treats for the clinic staff. We
both repack our bags, and I try to clean my hut
as best as possible. I introduce Anne to my clinic
family. They instantly love her. I give her a tour, and
take her to see the project I’m trying to help
them with. She makes a video of the buildings
as well as me explaining the need for the project; she
wants to put something together for my blog and
perhaps Facebook. We take the 11 am bus, and meet Justine
and Jaci in town for lunch at Richfield’s. I catch up
with them; we talk about out trips, upcoming
projects, upcoming trips. Then Anne and I head
to Pasture Valley. We play all afternoon with
the children. She loves the painted preschool room
and the map. Buhle falls asleep in her lap; Piwa in mine.
Michelle arrives late afternoon. We
go with her to their house. We chat about the craft
project. Peter joins us later, tells us there is
too much craft talk, and offers us a beer. We
eat supper with Michelle and Peter and their children.
January 12, 2010- The Trip, Day 11:
Michelle offers us a ride to town; we gladly accept
and talk crafts all the way to town. I tell her
I want to be as involved as possible. I think
she’s relieved to know there will
be help. I tell her I want to extend my PC
service at Pasture Valley. She’s excited. For how
long? Will 6 months work? Yes, of course. Yah!
Good! Anne and I venture to
Manzini; we find the khombi that will take us
through Ezulweni Valley. Our first stop is
Rosecrafts and Swazi Candles. We have lunch
at Sambane Tea Garden, then go to Swazi candles
to watch crafters shape the candles. One guy has
worked there for 20 years, another for 10 years.
Then it’s Baobab Batiks, the weaving place, the
jewelry place, and finally the individual vendors. She
finishes her gift list. Our second stop is
Malendela’s. We shop at Gone Rural, and she
finds grass placemats for herself. We have a
few beers, then tour House on Fire. She’s amazed
at the detail in the carving on the walls. Our
wait for the khombi to Mbabane is short. We make
our way to Jason’s backpacking place. We drink
wine in the backyard; she sits in the hammock, I on
a lounge chair near the pool. We make
gazpacho for supper, and go to bed early.
January 13, 2010- The Trip, Day 12:
I take Anne to the PC office; I have a mid-morning
VAC meeting. I log her onto a computer, and she
happily uses the computer, content to be in
our lounge, as if she’s a PC volunteer again. She meets
Jason and Connor, two guys in my group, as
well as many staff members. Victoria stops in
too, and they keep each other company during
my meeting. My meeting is short, and while
I wait for her to finish in the internet, I
open a package from my former boss. It’s filled
with everything I was needing: chocolate, new flip flops,
lotions, Christmas decorations, lip balm, books. The letter
is sweet, and I gladly read and think of work times.
We repack one bag to take with us, necessities only, then grab
borrowed tents and sleeping bags. We meet Jenn, Jaci and her PC
friend from Moz in Manzini. We find the bus to Lomahasha; it
will take drop us by Hlane Game Reserve. We reserve
space on the 5:30 am game drive. After
getting passed an ostrich to get to the camp
and setting up our tents, we walk to the
watering hole to watch the rhinos and hippos
frolic. A few warthogs sidle up to water’s edge. We drink
Windhoek and watch their nightly routine. Afternoon
slowly slips into evening, and we think about building
a fire to roast hotdogs and coconut marshmallows. An
elephant grazes on the opposite side of the
fence near our camp while we cook. The girls want
up-close pictures, and tip toe toward the fence.
I hang back, screening my body with
the trunk of a tree; I am awed
by elephants’ power, majesty, peacefulness. The
camera flashes disturb him, and he rushes
the fence a few times to warn us that he
is boss. By 8:30 it is dark, and we retire to
our respective tents, trying with great effort to find
comfort on the solid dirt ground.
January 14, 2010- The Trip, Day 13:
Five o’clock comes early. We rise quietly, apply
sunscreen, don hats or bandanas, and saunter
toward the office. Our driver is ready. The
game drive is 2 ½ hours and we manage is spot
warthogs, impala, ostrich, elephant, inyala, white
rhinos, hippos, a lone lion, two turles, several golden
spiders, a blind snake and a few crocs. Our driver
tells a story about a drive he did a few
years ago where an elephant charged the truck,
knocking it over and injuring several passengers. He
is apprehensive about elephants but had no problem
getting quite close to the lion. According to him,
lion’s don’t care; when they are tired of the attention
they will walk away. So he drove us very close
to the lion. Had I been outside the truck, I could have
taken 2 steps and been right next his hind legs. A little too
close for me. After breaking camp, the girls showered.
A guide offers us a lift to Manzini for free; we patiently
waited for him. We go our separate ways in Manzini Mall. I have
another meeting at the office, which gives Anne the chance
to check her flight status. Then we get some Indian food,
and eat it blissfully at the outside tables. Back
to the backpackers, we take showers, then
sit on the patio wanting to enjoy the last
hours of sunlight. Anne transfers her
purse contents into the new purse I’d given her, giving
me things she doesn’t need anymore. Once
it grows chilly, we sit at the table inside; I
write the siSwati words and phrases I taught her
in her journal, as well as my Swazi friends’ names.
We play Scrabble in later; she beats my by 10 points.
January 15, 2010- The Trip, Day 14:
We sleep in until 9; it feels good.
I want to do yoga, and Anne joins me wanting some
stretching before the long hours on the plane. Fresh
mangos and litchi, one last time, for breakfast. Jason
gives us a lift downtown. We negotiate a
fair ride with a taxi driver to the airport. Her
flight leaves at 2:20pm; we wait in the lounge.
I teach her to crochet a flower; it’s confusing. I
promise to send her instructions. She’s
disgusted with her scarf, and pulls it out. She
confesses that she planned to wait until on
the plane to redo it, so I wouldn’t know. But I
tell her that I knew she’d do that; she’s a
perfectionist, like me. Boarding begins at 2pm;
I bid her farewell. I’m sad to see her go, and
wait to shed tears until I leave the terminal,
keeping a happy face on until she passes security
and out of my view. It was a great
visit. I beginning walking to town; a khombi
offers me a lift to Manzini. I catch the half 3 bus to Nhlangano
and the 5 o’clock to my site. My vacation is over. My
cousin is gone. I am back home, felling slightly
blah, but ready for the month ahead. I have
projects to accomplish; I’m eager to start and
finish them.
Below are the messages I painted:
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams. Eleanor Roosevelt
Education is the most powerful weapon, which you can use to change the world. Nelson Mandela
The global HIV/AIDS epidemic is an unprecedented crisis that requires an unprecedented response…it requires solidarity… Kofi Annan
The feeling of being valuable - 'I am a valuable person'- is essential to mental health and is a cornerstone of self-discipline. M. Scott Peck
…never let anyone tell you that what you are doing is insignificant. Bishop Desmond Tutu
Let us give publicity to HIV/AIDS and not hide it, because [that is] the only way to make it appear like a normal illness. Nelson Mandela
One Love: Talk – Respect – Protect. One Love Campaign
The Head Teacher would like me to paint a new motto for the school; currently the walled gate as you enter says: Fight the Good Fight. He wants the school motto to be a bit more uplifting and positive. He also wants me to paint messages in the assembly hall, which is sometimes used by the community. We’ll work out the details next term. I‘m hoping my health club is more active when that time comes.
December 12 2009- Visiting the Orphanage and 21st Birthday Party: Tim and Jamie Cook have been eager for several months to visit Pasture Valley Children’s Home; Justine and I decided to take them this weekend since we planned to be in town already. We’d been invited to a 21st birthday party of the daughter and niece of Make Simelane, the woman we house sit for. The birthday party was supposed to begin at 10, and in true Swazi fashion it began late. Under a tent, the two birthday girls were flanked by friends at a table toward the front of tent. The guests of honor were dressed in hot pink, as were their friends. Their dresses resembled bridesmaid or prom attire; being PC volunteers, arriving everywhere in jeans and t-shirts or well-washed skirts and tees, we felt considerably under-dressed. The celebration was to honor Samke and Khetsiwe for not only turning 21, but also for not getting pregnant or loosing their virginity. Many relatives and friends spoke highly of the girls’ integrity, as well as their passion for education; both are at university. Make narrated the slide show with pictures of them growing up together. The guest speaker, a former teacher of both girls, ended her endearing speech with a toast to long life and happiness. We ate lots of food—also a Swazi tradition at any gathering—drank sodas, a new tradition, and finished with dry cake. We’ve known both girls for about a year but not well; they are genuinely nice every time I see them, and seem ready to share their home or food. I was happy to share this important day with them. It was interesting to me the reason for celebrating a 21st birthday here. When I reflect, it’s also about celebrating a life endured. Had either of them already had sex, both would probably be HIV positive. I don’t want to even think about how being positive would dramatically change their present situation but I can say with certainty that neither would have finished high school much less gone to university. Then I think about the reasons for celebrating a 21st birthday in America. I know every situation is different but we really have forgotten to celebrate LIFE in America; we are too eager to drink our weight in shots or sign up for military service and put our lives at risk. My appreciation for the sanctity of life has gradually taken new meaning thanks to my interaction with Swazi people.
We returned to the children’s home to work off our full bellies with play. The boys were eager to have a male figure to play with; Tim was more than willing to romp on the jungle gym, play tag and teach the boys to throw a football American style. Jamie, being a former cheerleader, taught those willing several cheerleader jumps and gymnastic moves; I followed with yoga poses, namely headstand, crow and bridge. Justine’s approach was cheering and holding the younger children. Eventually the Lego tub came out, and Tim set to building airplanes with eager children sitting around him gleaning his skills. We all took turns holding Gracie, the 5 month old, then ended the afternoon with hugs and high 5’s. Since Michelle and Peter, the owners, were away for the day, we stayed in the cabin behind one of the orphanages. It’s a two bedroom place with shower and combined kitchen and living room. We spent the evening telling stories of the past, listening to Moth and NPR podcasts and lots of music, and drinking wine. Eventually we cooked dinner and I displayed the contents of the package retrieved earlier in the day from the Post Office.
It’s rare that Tim and Jamie stray from their homestead, so it was a real treat to spend a weekend with them. Tim is a writer and Jamie is a PT; I feel like I have a lot in common with each, so we never want for conversation. They are the oldest couple in our group; Tim is several months older than me. We always joke about being mkhulu (old man/grandfather) and bogogo (grandmothers). It is also their goal to visit more volunteer homesteads in the coming year; I hope to join them on a few visits.
December 14, 2009- Learning Another Lesson:
I’m not sure I wholly believe the adage, “home is where the heart is.” I believe that home is where you are happy or where you are able to have a little happiness in some moment every day, wherever you happen to be. I believe this because I have obtained happiness here but my heart is sometimes elsewhere: in Vermillion with the Farmers Market, Coffee Shop Gallery, in my massage practice or with my fabulous friends; at my parent’s place, on the farm, in Nebraska; wondering through the pasture near my parent’s farm; with my family, at holidays or impromptu gatherings; in Sioux City with my massage friends; in the Old Market in Omaha; in the mountains in Colorado; in yoga class; in France; or in places yet to discover. Surprisingly, I find my heart in places I visit here, with friends in my community, and fellow volunteers, as well as with my Swazi family, especially my bosisi. So I’ve discovered my heart is in many places, whether I happen to be happy there or not.
I’ve been reading the book “A New Earth: Awakening to your life’s purpose” by Eckhart Tolle. In a beginning section he talks about the secret of happiness, saying that “being at peace and being who you are, that is, being yourself, are one.” That being at peace, having peace, is letting go of the ego. And that being one with life is being one with Now. One should not seek happiness; if you seek it you won’t find it since happiness is elusive. However “freedom from unhappiness is attainable now, but facing what is rather than making up stories about it. Unhappiness covers up your natural state of well-being and inner peace, the source of true happiness.” Oh, how many times I tried to seek happiness when I first arrived, only to fail and become even more despondent. I thought actively searching for happiness or things or make me happy would make it okay to be here, would make me feel better about being here. Oh my vanity! Oh my ego! It wasn’t until I let go of controlling what would or would not happen, living each day as they came, being as present in each day as possible, that I found happiness had been at my doorstep for months. My fickle friend but of my own making.
Even though some days may pass without much recognition of whether I am happy or not happy, and at time I may become melancholy and ride the rollercoaster of emotions, happiness is apart of my every day, apart of me—I am not trying in vain to seek it. It’s just there when I am present enough to feel it.
December 15, 2009- Fatty Comment w/ an Ass Pat: I was wearing jeans today, so of course Make made a comment about my bum becoming bigger. “My daughter! She is getting bigger and bigger. Look at her bum. She is becoming like me.” She even went so far as to pat my butt and right thigh as I passed her. Thanks Make. Little does she know that earlier in the day I bought a pair of jeans a size smaller than the pair I bought when I first arrived. My main reason for buying jeans was to have a pair that actually fit for my Cape Town trip. Secondly I thought it might be nice to have a pair that weren’t as tattered as the pair I brought with me. And finally, they were only E40; in US dollars that’s less than $6. After purchasing them I was excited about how well they fit and looked on me, as well as the good deal I got. But after returning home to an ass pat and fatty comment, it’s more about a battle that I won with the war on fatty comments from Make. No matter it’s a silent battle between us, and I’m the only one who knows the war is on. Today I won!
December 17, 2009- Plaiting my Hair: My sisi Nomdumiso offered to plait my hair last week, and today I decided to take her up on the offer. I wanted just the front plaited, thinking it wouldn’t take long and thinking it would be nice to have a few braids here and there. We didn’t have the same vision in mind. She plaited everything from my ears forward. Once I realized what she was doing, she was already too far into the process for me to stop her. So I decided to sit quietly, hoping it would turn out. And as things usually do, it worked out well. The small braids took over 2 hours to create, and they were very nicely done. I was very happy with the results. She wants to plait my hair again, next time with colored extensions or with a zigzag design. I’m not objecting.
December 18 – 20, 2009- Celebrating my Birthday, Hiking to Mvubu Falls, & Early Christmas at Pasture Valley: Since the people I wanted to help me celebrate my birthday would be at a children’s camp, we met the night before at Café Lingo. An out of the way place in Mbabane, we sat outside drinking wine and eating pizza for the better part of the evening. An African jazz group began playing around 9, and we danced to their upbeat grooves. Then a few of us ventured to House on Fire for more music and dancing. The following afternoon, Victoria, Justine and I set out to find Mvubu Falls. Just a sort distance from Mbabane, Mvubu Falls is an easy hike to 3 beautiful waterfalls. The afternoon sun was warm but since the walk to the falls is mostly tree covered, the only thing we found troubling was the tree snake we happened upon at the beginning of the hike. On Sunday, Justine and I rode with the Country Director and the Medical Officer to Pasture Valley. They wanted to bring Christmas presents to the children and Peter and Michelle, their way of giving at Christmastime. Justine and I sat in the circle of children, helping the little ones open presents, installing batteries and removing tags. To see their faces light up upon discovering the treasure behind the wrapping paper… I cannot even describe how priceless that moment. Then there were treats Michelle made, as well as candy sent from a former volunteer at Pasture Valley. For most this was their first Christmas celebration; for others a reinforcement that they have a family, a home.
December 24 – 28, 2009- Celebrating Christmas: Make Simelane asked Justine and I to house sit during the holidays. We gladly accepted. The house was full, as a few Group 7 volunteers stayed with us before they headed out to Durban. No matter. Justine and I were occupied with spending Christmas at Pasture Valley. Peter and Michelle invited us to the Christmas celebration they were planning with the children on Christmas Eve: reading the Christmas story, opening presents from Michelle’s father and sister, opening presents from their neighbors, eating Christmas treats, singing carols, and watching a movie. It felt more like Christmas than last year, and I heartily welcomed the change. Christmastime seems more festive when children are involved; their wonder and excitement at presents, eating too much food and learning Christmas songs is endearing, especially the children at Pasture Valley. Everything they were given was accepted with a thank you, a knee bend and a smile, no matter what was being given. They were genuinely appreciative, and that would warm the heart of any scrooge.
The next day, Christmas Day, Justine and I took sugar cookies we’d made the night before to lunch. We made green and pink icing before lunch, then after we showed them how to decorate their own cookie, many enjoying theirs piled with green and pink icing. After playing games, coloring and teaching them how to use their new outdoor toys, we headed back to Make Simelane’s and joined G7 in Christmas dinner. The next day G7 left for Durban, and Justine and I enjoyed a quiet house, watching movies and eating our Christmas dinner—orange chicken—after cleaning the house in preparation for Make’s arrival the following day. It was not the most relaxing Christmas I was hoping for but the time with the children at Pasture Valley was uplifting, and just what I needed, for me the essence of Christmas.
December 29-30, 2009- The Train Trip to Cape Town:
The land outside Jo’burg resembles the Midwestern
plains—lots of farm land, many trees and herds of cattle.
Shortly, the landscape gives way to rolling hills and scrub brush, reminding me of eastern Colorado. The sky holds 3 shades of blue, and
increasingly fills with clouds as we traverse west.
Each of us in our own zone.
The train is crowded, and we struggle for our own space.
Except for the mix of languages I hear around me, I could easily be traveling thru the heartland of America, searching for mountains I love and seeking wine country in the distance.
Road tripping with three unforgettable friends. Oh the adventures to come.
A rain cloud directly over the train, it begins to rain. I reluctantly edge the window up a little to avoid getting wet, and at the urging of a fellow passenger.
But I don’t close it completely; I want to feel the cool clean air on my face and smell the fresh crispness it brings.
It keeps the train car from becoming too stifling, keeps me from smelling my own sweat and the stench of 80 others in this car.
Back to more scrub brush and flat land.
Several windmills rapidly spin in the wind.
In the distance, a storm brews, the sky is a blue grey.
Rays of sunlight pierce thru clouds but the sun doesn’t fool me.
We are driving into a storm, and I anticipate the erratic energy it will bring.
The rains come again, at a slant, struggling to fall against the wind.
I love storms, and on the train it seems even more romantic and ominous. Sadly the rain doesn’t last long; the drops are enough to wet the windows.
We’re back to blue skies peeking thru the clouds.
I open my window once again.
December 30-
My sleep is fitful, and I grow cold toward morning so I rise to look out my window. The buttes in the distance are mist covered, the plains and scrub brush a solid tan. The sun rises 30 minutes later, around 5:30, like a precocious child, quickly and without remorse, transforming everything into golden.
The train is mostly quiet, still.
My companions slumber without want.
Several travelers shift in their sleep, trying in vain to
find comfort in their seats.
A two-year-old chatters to her groggy mother.
The train pauses and more people begin to stir, some rising to stretch, others stumbling their way to the toilet.
It’s morning time in Africa. The day always begins early and immediate with activity.
With the sun at my back, I slowly thaw and begin my coffee daydream.
As we discovered last night this train doesn’t have a kitchen car.
Coffee will remain a daydream. My eyelids become increasingly heavy, and I resist the urge to let them close fully.
Sleep deprivation triumphs, and I fall asleep for another hour.
We’re heading toward the Western Cape.
Mountains spring up, sharp and rocky, reminding me of Colorado.
My spirit feels renewed. I feel alive and refreshed. I feel like I’m home.
Nestled under the foothills are rows and rows of grape vines; wine country is near.
The train’s multinationals talked politics and passion for their country since last night. Mugabe. The state of Zimbabwe. Apartheid in all nations. Language and terminiology. Lack of jobs. The division of the Congo- now two separate countries. Some conversations become heated usually due to inebriation.
Those people walk away or someone works to keep the peace. But most people become fast friends, even thru the arguments, and look after each other.
Several groups have adopted us—making it their mission to make the only white girls on the train comfortable and welcome.
The men from the Congo give us tips for places to visit in Cape Town. One woman walks us to get food during a train interlude. Another buys us ice cream for breakfast. A man offers his wife’s hair dressing services; he says she would plait our hair and make us really beautiful.
The two-year-old takes turns playing with each of us, inquiring about our belongings in Zimbabwean.
Siswati is somewhat similar, so I ask her questions.
But her English isn’t bad, so I point to things and she repeats what I say almost perfectly.
We arrive in Cape Town to afternoon heat,
anxious to explore the city but desperate for showers.
Cleanliness wins out, and we hail a taxi to the backpackers.
Anne’s plane should be landing.
I am anxious once again, waiting for her call.
We meet a few hours later for pizza and beers.
We meet Ryan, her PC friend from the DR and his fiancé, Ali.
We make plans to hike the next morning.
I go home with them.
Anne and I talk as long as we can before sleep beckons.
She is in Africa.
I am on vacation.
Life is good.
December 31, 2009- Cape Town, Day 1:
Hiked Lion’s Head
Lunch at Café de Cuba on Long Street
Exploring Long Street, hoping to find a cute dress, to no avail
Finding Green Market Square
Happy hour at the No Happy Hour bar, watching taxi
drivers play cards in the trunk of one car.
New Year’s Eve celebration at Green Market Square- coffee and hummus
at the Kurdish place, dinner there later w/ the girls,
salsa music playing at the Kurdish place,
bands begin to play, we begin to dance.
New Year’s Eve with a few fireworks, anticlimactic,
but enjoyed with friends. It’s 2010; I’m
in a foreign country.
January 1, 2010- Cape Town, Day 2:
Bo Kaap district- Malay community, we
discover a festival, a minstrel show to honor
their culture and the new year; traditionally
the one day per year
they got off from work.
People of all ages in each group, dressed
in bright costumes, playing instruments, singing
and dancing, marching thru
the streets where vibrantly colored houses
stand, celebrating life. We watch
for hours, each group louder and jollier
than then last. Bystanders and community members
get caught up in the action,
and sing and dance with minstrels along
the way. Everyone is laughing. Everyone
is enjoying.
We learn later that it’s become a competition
among minstrel groups, who can play and
march the best. The competition begins
at 11pm, and groups march throughout
the night along the main street, with
the top groups giving a final performance
at the stadium. Sometime is takes
two days, sometimes 3. They celebrate
for as long as they need.
We decide to get food, Vietnamese, then
venture along Long Street for possible night life. We
discover many bars open and people sitting along
the festival route, finding
good seats. We get a beer at one place
with a surly bartender; out tip is minimal.
We watch the festival begin, then
shortly make our way to sleep.
January 2, 2010- Cape Town, Day 3:
I sleep until 9, the latest I’ve slept in a long
while. Anne’s jet leg is kicking in; I tell her to
sleep as long as she needs. I call
car rental places, hoping something is available
for touring wine country. Nothing is
available until Monday.
The day is hot but Table Mt is clear, a
first since our arrival; I want to
take advantage of it. Anne says she
will take the cable car to the top. The
other girls want a cooler day to hike, and
opt for Simon’s Town. I hike
it on 2 hours, 20 minutes. The route I take
is like climbing stairs in an old house, narrow
in some places, steep, and immediate. The altitude
bothers me at first, but after trekking
one-fourth of the way, I find my chi
breath, and take my time climbing the stair steps.
I meet Anne at the top, feeling a huge sense of
accomplishment. We discover later the high for
the day was 44 degrees C (or 111 degrees F). I pat
myself of the back again.
We make our way to the V & A Waterfront
for Thai food and cold drinks with
pineapple garnishes. I hear Hot Water playing
at the amphitheater; they played
at House on Fire last New Year’s Eve.
Thai food and good music, perfect combination.
We meet the girls at the
Green Dolphin Jazz Bar later for drinks.
We make plans for tomorrow.
January 3, 2010- Cape Town, Day 4:
Anne and I both sleep in; the girls
are hiking Table Mountain, and we’re
meeting them once they finish.
We walk to the Table Mt entrance, then take
an expensive cab ride to the Botanical
Gardens. It’s beautiful. I seek out
my favorite African flower, Protea,
along the way; I need to see nothing else.
The girls go back to their hostel to
shower; we will meet them at La Med
later. Anne and I walk towards the
promenade. We eye a gelato shoppe
along the way. She gets granadilla aka
passion fruit; I abandon my standard
chocolate for lemon. We happily lick our
way to the Indian Ocean, and
imagine we can see all the way
to South America. Would we see Brazil?
La Med is the happening spot for the 20 something’s,
hipsters, and wanna-be’s. As Anne says,
“it’s the scene!” We feel slightly
outta place, but enjoy the scenery. The
bar, complete with outdoor patios, is on
the beach. Goldfish is slated
to play. Anne and I leave early; only Goldfish
remixes are playing, and we want to say
farewell to Ryan and Ali; they are headed to
Thailand tomorrow.
January 4, 2010- The Trip, Day 5:
We pick up the rental car. Hurray,
they have an automatic. We pick up the
girls and head to Simon’s Town to see
penguins, and the gorgeous beaches. We long
to stay. We drive back up the coast to
Muizenberg. After lunch at an
organic coffee shop, we bid
Vic and Mar adieu. Jenn, Anne, and I
begin our journey back to Swaziland
via the Garden and Wilderness Routes.
Anne quickly masters driving on the right
sides of the car and road. I try my skills
later, once she tires of the wind
and concentration of passing people…there are
no rules for passing in Africa; you go when you can, where
you can.
I haven’t driven a car in 18 months. Surprisingly
it’s like riding a bike, and I remember
instantly; after 5 minutes
of nervousness about driving on
the right, I’m like an old pro.
We decide to stop in Knysna, a quaint town
famed for it’s lagoon harbor, protected
by the sea by two sandstone cliffs. South
Africa’s largest commercial oyster-farming
Center is based in the lagoon. We
find the backpackers quite friendly. The
friend of the owner shares his extra veggies
with us; we make a curry dish and
grilled cheese sammies. They also
recommend a close bar to enjoy
a few Windhoek, a beer made
in Namibia. During the
night, the owner rushes in to
alert the drivers of a white Toyota
that it’s been vandalized, and to come quite;
the police are waiting. We panic for a moment,
then remember out white car is a Chevy.
January 5, 2010- The Trip, Day 6:
After yoga and a long hot shower, we
pick up coffee and breakfast. We head to the
lagoon look-out point, enjoying scones, hot
coffee and the view.
How far will we drive today? Let’s see
where we are around 5. The Garden Route
is a majestic stretch of coastline, encompassing
mountains, rivers, lagoons, lakes, beaches, and
indigenous forests. In 1780, the French
naturalist, Francois Le Vaillant, wrote: “Nature
has made an enchanted abode of this beautiful
place.” Enchanted is it, and each town is
quainter and boasts more activities than
the next. Jenn decides Coffee Bay, along
the Wild Coast, is our
final destination for the day. The Wild Coast
is an adventurers paradise, with rugged cliffs,
untouched coastlines, sheltered bays, pounding
breakers and dense coastal forest.
Beautiful. Yes. It lifts our spirits
until we discover the road to Coffee Bay
is littered with potholes and 62 km from
the main highway. It took 2 ½ hrs to drive. We
arrive dejected, exhausted, in need of food, and a
bed. We’re welcomed by Rasta look-alikes, old hippies,
young hippies and extreme sport enthusiasts. We lurk on the
edge of the excitement, waiting for the manager
to assign us a dorm. Then Jenn says, “maybe we
should gets beers while we wait?!” Anne and I
nod in agreement; might as well join the
festivities. Eventually we’re
shown to our beds, but after quick
discussion and since the beers have
already gone to our heads, we
join the crowd around the camp fire
and drink more beers. Anne and I realize this
is our first time getting drunk together. We cheers
to that. Close to 1 am, Anne and I stumble to our
beds, leaving Jenn catching the eye of a
fellow camper.
January 6, 2010- The Trip, Day 7:
After little sleep we rise to get an early
start on the final leg, the drive
to Durban. We traverse the
potholes in half the time it took
last night. We stop for breakfast and
coffee at a rest stop, and look thru
the guide book for a place to stay. Anne
is tired of backpackers; she offers
to spring for a nice place. I make
reservations at Durban Manor. The
drive is uneventful; Anne and I take turns
driving and sleeping. Jenn sleeps most of the
way. We pass the edge of Drakensberg Park, and
I must resist the urge to steer the
car that direction. Another trip.
We over-estimate the amount of time
it will take; we arrive in Durban during
rush hour, but successfully find the drop-
off for the rental car, and walk a short distance
to the Durban Manor. It’s a turn-of-the century
mansion. The room is spacious but the
hall is eerily quiet. It feels mysterious, and quite like
a haunted house. We crash on the
bed and turn on the television. We unwind
watching a movie, then shower, get ready, and
walk to Roma’s Revolving Restaurant. The Italian
food hits the spot and a
360 degree view of the city is lovely
but service is poor; we wait
45 minutes for our bill. Once back to the
mansion we feel like we’re being spied on; I
wish is explore this haunted place but sleep calls
to me strongly.
January 7, 2010- The Trip, Day 8:
One no is moving quickly. I lazily hit the snooze
alarm twice. I finally force myself up; Jenn and Anne
reluctantly follow.
Breakfast is served in the breakfast nook,
where we’re waited on by a butler, of sorts,
dressed in a black waistcoat, and carrying a
towel over his left forearm. We feel transferred
to a different time and place, but our dress
makes us feel out of context.
The receptionist hails us a cab. We want
to make one stop before heading to
Swaziland. The Victoria St. Market, a market filled
with smells, tastes and wares from India. We smell
incense, taste spices, and peruse over 100 stalls, selling
everything from jewelry, fabrics, spices, ceramics and clothing.
The building is striking enough; it features 11 domes,
each modeled after a notable building in India. The
bazaar is noisy, but crowds are minimal today. I buy
two pair of earrings, one made from banana
leaves, the other from springbok bones. I buy
sandalwood and nag champa incense, and vanilla beans;
I want to try my hand at making vanilla essence. Later
I wish I would have bought masala spice. We
wait for 2 hours for the khombi to Swaziland to leave.
We pass the time eating litchi, listening to music, and
recalling the long drive, each of us longing to return to
explore a different place
along the Garden and Wilderness Routes. The drive
is mostly uneventful except for a moment near
St. Lucia. Two vehicle-loads of men dressed in all black
with machine guns pile out and surround a truck with 2 men
inside. As we speed quickly passed, we hear gunfire. Our
fellow passengers say SA is cracking down
on criminals. We hope they had the right perpetrators; I saw
one man’s face—he seemed surprised and scared.
We cross the border at Lavumisa, and I breathe a sigh of
relief. It feels good to be home. Anne removes her camera,
to capture the rainbow that appears after
a short rain. She says, “This looks like Africa.” It’s my
idea of Africa too. We stay with my
Salesian friends in Manzini. Their shower
feels amazing as I remove the travel from
my body.
January 8, 2010- The Trip, Day 9:
We take our pile of dirty clothes to the Laundromat. After
coffee with we head to the Manzini market
and Jenn heads home. The market is quiet for
a Thursday, normally it’s biggest selling day. Anne
finds great gifts for family and friends; I find
thin acrylic yarn, perfect for braiding necklaces. Once
we pick up our laundry, we run to catch the last bus to Nhlangano
with only a few minutes to spare. I become
increasingly excited to share the journey to my
place and my site with Anne. In Nhlangano we
purchase fruits and veggies then hop on the bus
to my site. Bomake greet us; Anne comments on the
friendliness of the bus and it’s occupants, and I smile. This
is my bus. These are my people. I am on my way home.
We arrive at site to find only Zandele home. Make has
been gone since before Christmas; she is staying
with Babe. As I unpack
Anne reads my walls and looks at
all the pictures I’ve accumulated. She thinks my
place is homey. It really is. I need water, so
she helps me fetch it with the wheelbarrow. I make
popcorn for supper, and we spend the
evening listening to music and chatting.
January 9, 2010- The Trip, Day 10:
I take Anne to see the primary and
secondary schools; I want to show her
the health signs I painted. On the way home,
the neighbor boy hands me one of Make’s
chickens; it had gotten out and he caught it.
I reluctantly take the chicken, and carry it
home. Anne thinks it’s funny and takes a
photo. I give her a disgusted look. For lunch,
Anne teaches me to make bean burgers. We sit outside under
the rondoval to eat; my hut is too hot. After lunch,
we continue sitting outside; I teach her
to crochet. We crochet all afternoon. She makes
two potholder for me. My sisi
visits us from time to time, and I share the
chocolate Anne bought me with her. Eventually
her friends visit, and we dance, and perform head-
and handstands in the front yard. Anne records
them on her Flip; they are fascinated. She requires them
to perform if they want to be filmed. A few sing the
Swazi national anthem; others dance.
We make my Mom’s cereal treat recipe, and I
write it down for Anne; it’s her favorite treat
and memory of my mom’s house as a child. I make
liphalisi for supper—maize meal and water cooked. I
show her how Swazi’s eat it with their hands. She
enjoys the experience as much as the taste.
January 10, 2010- The Trip, Day 11:
I make maize meal pancakes for brunch as
Anne begins a scarf. She helps me make
fabric beads, and I begin putting together
a prototype mobile. It takes space nicely. We
walk to my friend Phindile’s house in the afternoon,
taking her some cereal treats. She offers us mango,
and we gladly accept. It’s my favorite type of
mango, the large ones without stringy palp, sweet
but not too sweet. We stay a few hours, then head home
the back way. I boil water for Anne’s first
bucket bath. In the DR she had a tile floor with
a drain. I tell her not to worry about splashing
water on the cement floor; it wipes up
easily. I create a makeshift curtain; she bathes
while I begin preparing supper, veggie pizza with
mangos. I take a piece to Zandele and
invite her to hang with us. We play UNO, then
teach Anne to play sisu, a Swazi card
game; sisu means stomach. Zandele has a cold;
she leaves early to go to bed. I download pictures
to my computer from Anne’s camera.
January 11, 2010- The Trip, Day 12:
I make New Year’s treats for the clinic staff. We
both repack our bags, and I try to clean my hut
as best as possible. I introduce Anne to my clinic
family. They instantly love her. I give her a tour, and
take her to see the project I’m trying to help
them with. She makes a video of the buildings
as well as me explaining the need for the project; she
wants to put something together for my blog and
perhaps Facebook. We take the 11 am bus, and meet Justine
and Jaci in town for lunch at Richfield’s. I catch up
with them; we talk about out trips, upcoming
projects, upcoming trips. Then Anne and I head
to Pasture Valley. We play all afternoon with
the children. She loves the painted preschool room
and the map. Buhle falls asleep in her lap; Piwa in mine.
Michelle arrives late afternoon. We
go with her to their house. We chat about the craft
project. Peter joins us later, tells us there is
too much craft talk, and offers us a beer. We
eat supper with Michelle and Peter and their children.
January 12, 2010- The Trip, Day 11:
Michelle offers us a ride to town; we gladly accept
and talk crafts all the way to town. I tell her
I want to be as involved as possible. I think
she’s relieved to know there will
be help. I tell her I want to extend my PC
service at Pasture Valley. She’s excited. For how
long? Will 6 months work? Yes, of course. Yah!
Good! Anne and I venture to
Manzini; we find the khombi that will take us
through Ezulweni Valley. Our first stop is
Rosecrafts and Swazi Candles. We have lunch
at Sambane Tea Garden, then go to Swazi candles
to watch crafters shape the candles. One guy has
worked there for 20 years, another for 10 years.
Then it’s Baobab Batiks, the weaving place, the
jewelry place, and finally the individual vendors. She
finishes her gift list. Our second stop is
Malendela’s. We shop at Gone Rural, and she
finds grass placemats for herself. We have a
few beers, then tour House on Fire. She’s amazed
at the detail in the carving on the walls. Our
wait for the khombi to Mbabane is short. We make
our way to Jason’s backpacking place. We drink
wine in the backyard; she sits in the hammock, I on
a lounge chair near the pool. We make
gazpacho for supper, and go to bed early.
January 13, 2010- The Trip, Day 12:
I take Anne to the PC office; I have a mid-morning
VAC meeting. I log her onto a computer, and she
happily uses the computer, content to be in
our lounge, as if she’s a PC volunteer again. She meets
Jason and Connor, two guys in my group, as
well as many staff members. Victoria stops in
too, and they keep each other company during
my meeting. My meeting is short, and while
I wait for her to finish in the internet, I
open a package from my former boss. It’s filled
with everything I was needing: chocolate, new flip flops,
lotions, Christmas decorations, lip balm, books. The letter
is sweet, and I gladly read and think of work times.
We repack one bag to take with us, necessities only, then grab
borrowed tents and sleeping bags. We meet Jenn, Jaci and her PC
friend from Moz in Manzini. We find the bus to Lomahasha; it
will take drop us by Hlane Game Reserve. We reserve
space on the 5:30 am game drive. After
getting passed an ostrich to get to the camp
and setting up our tents, we walk to the
watering hole to watch the rhinos and hippos
frolic. A few warthogs sidle up to water’s edge. We drink
Windhoek and watch their nightly routine. Afternoon
slowly slips into evening, and we think about building
a fire to roast hotdogs and coconut marshmallows. An
elephant grazes on the opposite side of the
fence near our camp while we cook. The girls want
up-close pictures, and tip toe toward the fence.
I hang back, screening my body with
the trunk of a tree; I am awed
by elephants’ power, majesty, peacefulness. The
camera flashes disturb him, and he rushes
the fence a few times to warn us that he
is boss. By 8:30 it is dark, and we retire to
our respective tents, trying with great effort to find
comfort on the solid dirt ground.
January 14, 2010- The Trip, Day 13:
Five o’clock comes early. We rise quietly, apply
sunscreen, don hats or bandanas, and saunter
toward the office. Our driver is ready. The
game drive is 2 ½ hours and we manage is spot
warthogs, impala, ostrich, elephant, inyala, white
rhinos, hippos, a lone lion, two turles, several golden
spiders, a blind snake and a few crocs. Our driver
tells a story about a drive he did a few
years ago where an elephant charged the truck,
knocking it over and injuring several passengers. He
is apprehensive about elephants but had no problem
getting quite close to the lion. According to him,
lion’s don’t care; when they are tired of the attention
they will walk away. So he drove us very close
to the lion. Had I been outside the truck, I could have
taken 2 steps and been right next his hind legs. A little too
close for me. After breaking camp, the girls showered.
A guide offers us a lift to Manzini for free; we patiently
waited for him. We go our separate ways in Manzini Mall. I have
another meeting at the office, which gives Anne the chance
to check her flight status. Then we get some Indian food,
and eat it blissfully at the outside tables. Back
to the backpackers, we take showers, then
sit on the patio wanting to enjoy the last
hours of sunlight. Anne transfers her
purse contents into the new purse I’d given her, giving
me things she doesn’t need anymore. Once
it grows chilly, we sit at the table inside; I
write the siSwati words and phrases I taught her
in her journal, as well as my Swazi friends’ names.
We play Scrabble in later; she beats my by 10 points.
January 15, 2010- The Trip, Day 14:
We sleep in until 9; it feels good.
I want to do yoga, and Anne joins me wanting some
stretching before the long hours on the plane. Fresh
mangos and litchi, one last time, for breakfast. Jason
gives us a lift downtown. We negotiate a
fair ride with a taxi driver to the airport. Her
flight leaves at 2:20pm; we wait in the lounge.
I teach her to crochet a flower; it’s confusing. I
promise to send her instructions. She’s
disgusted with her scarf, and pulls it out. She
confesses that she planned to wait until on
the plane to redo it, so I wouldn’t know. But I
tell her that I knew she’d do that; she’s a
perfectionist, like me. Boarding begins at 2pm;
I bid her farewell. I’m sad to see her go, and
wait to shed tears until I leave the terminal,
keeping a happy face on until she passes security
and out of my view. It was a great
visit. I beginning walking to town; a khombi
offers me a lift to Manzini. I catch the half 3 bus to Nhlangano
and the 5 o’clock to my site. My vacation is over. My
cousin is gone. I am back home, felling slightly
blah, but ready for the month ahead. I have
projects to accomplish; I’m eager to start and
finish them.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Life in November, 2009
November 4, 2009- Final Exams: My 6th graders take final exams; I just found out today. They begin next week, so my time with them is finished. I’m actually a little sad. Had I known in advance, I would have tried to do more recycled art projects with them. We were going to make bugs out of egg cartons and styrofoam and plant a jacaranda seed in decorated tin cans. Oh well. The BBC Plant Earth series was a hit, so I’m glad they were able to watch two episodes. In addition, we were able to string their handmade paper beads with plastics ones—left from a Group 5’er—which was a huge treat for them. Nonetheless, I was hoping to teach a few more lessons about recycling, to hammer that concept home; alas, it is left undone. I do plan to give each student an Earth Day activities book before terms ends, something to take home, read and remember.
November 6, 2009- Steroid Injection in my Foot: Long story short, my PCMO believes I have chronic tendonitis due to scar tissue build-up from previous stress fractures. After consulting the orthopedic doctor at the Mbabane Clinic, both recommended a cortisone injection in my foot to decrease the inflammation. According to Peace Corps, this is the next level of conservative measures, and if it’s successful I should get another in 3 months. So I agreed since I’m desperate for something to work. The doctor warned me that there’s a 10% chance it will not work, as it doesn’t work for everyone. I’m also supposed to refrain from a lot of walking for two weeks. Then I’m allowed to test my foot with small walking/running sessions. While injecting me, the doctor suggested I take up another exercise, like biking. The doctor should see my site.
November 11, 2009- My 16th Fatty Comment: My Make believes my butt and hips are becoming bigger and bigger, and I’m guessing that makes me more and more her daughter since Swazi’s consider weight gain a sign of happiness and an acceptance of them as your family. I keep telling her I am the same shape as the day I came, maybe even more toned but that I am very happy to be here. Yet lately, every time I wear my sarong or a pair of pants, she comments on my shape, in particular my thighs; I’m guessing she associates it to me not running. I used to defend myself because it’s not an easy thing to hear as frequently as I do. Now I just shake my head and walk away. There is no convincing her, and I cannot handle her saying it twice in a row.
November 12, 2009- Writing a poem on a rainy day:
November 12, 2009
It’s been raining since noon. I
occupy myself with a sentimental story,
then a sentimental comedy-
this makes me want a cigarette.
I smoke it as a storm rolls in;
thunder, lightning, and rain
barrage my hut.
I light incense to cover the smell of smoke
and continue smoking by my back window,
watching the rain thrash the corn.
I wonder how close lightning could strike
without striking me. I dare it with reckless
haughtiness. “How close will you come?” I taunt.
Does it know I could strike back too?
This evening seems like a cigarette smoking
evening. The rain beckons the smoke.
Slowly the past begins beckoning my thoughts,
and as I meditate on each inhale, it forces
me to recall the past.
I long for company; yet I am alone
in my solitude- always alone
-making my desire to know the
potential all that much greater.
With each lightning strike I feel the need to know become more
unbearable, and I reach out
only to be struck.
This evening is suited for smoking
cigarettes and drinking wine.
Stormy weather seems to beckon in me
thoughts of the past; melancholy rolls in,
and I long for company.
November 14, 2009- Writing an article for SoJo: Two elected volunteers edit our monthly newsletter for staff and volunteers, The Swazi So Journal, affectionately dubbed SoJo. The volunteers serve a 1-year term, then the new group votes in two new volunteers from their group. Our group decided to require 4 - 5 random volunteers each month to submit articles to fill the newsletter pages; staff are required to submit monthly. Articles range from volunteer projects, vacation spots worthy of volunteer time and money, book reviews, recipes, funny or interesting stories about our communities, and sometimes how to make something from scratch, like a rug from plastic bags. I submitted an article a few months ago on the benefits of yoga and basic meditation. I included an easy to begin meditation guide.
The editors are always looking for submissions; and since our group is phasing out as the main contributors, I decided to submit another article before year-end. It follows below.
A lesson in compassion
by Jennifer Gaspers
“Do not utter words in friendship that can be used in animosity.” –Yogi Bhajan
While thumbing through Yoga Magazine, I happened upon an article about creating connections in this busy, mad world we inhabit. The article, geared toward families with children, talks about how we take our family unit for granted, “presuming they will always be there when we need them.” Learning to create a strong relationship, mutually with conscious communication, is essential for a sense of trust among those you’re in contact with daily. This concept easily applies to life in general, but particularly to Peace Corps service. Currently we live within several ‘family units’—our homestead family, the Peace Corps family, and fellow volunteers we chose to adopt as extended family. At times, it can be quite dysfunctional, but I would rather choose the lunacy over having nothing or no one to call ‘family’ here. Therefore, my interactions with ‘family’ are most effective when performed with compassion, awareness, and humanity, especially if I wish to remain a vital member within the family unit. Partly I choose to conduct my interactions with great care because my desire for a sense of family is a selfish need. Nonetheless, shouldn’t we always take great care with those we love or interact with daily? After all, how else do we learn about others unless we are willing to actively Sit with them, listening with compassion and speaking our words with honesty and loving kindness. Below is a piece of the article in which the author gives a few tips on how to implement conscious communication. The guidelines are great suggestions for daily living, whether at home or in Swaziland. Namaste, my family.
Conscious Communication by Indra Singh (taken from Yoga Magazine)
When we communicate it is important to do our best to communicate from the heart; it takes practice and involves being aware of what you say to others before you actually say it.
Try not to speak unnecessarily. Words can have a profound effect once they have been spoken.
Treat those around you with the respect you wish to be treated with and communication will flourish between you and your family members.
Yogi Bhajan, master of kundalini yoga, created five rules for harmonious communication:
· You are communicating for a better tomorrow, not to spoil today.
· Whatever you are going to say is going to live forever and you have to live through it, therefore take care you don’t have to live through the mud of your communication.
· One wrong word said can do much more wrong than you can even imagine or even estimate.
· Words spoken are a chance for communication—don’t turn them into war.
· When you communicate you have to communicate again, don’t make the road rough.
“If you are not aware of someone else then in reality you are not aware of yourself.”
–Yogi Bhajan
November 14 -15, 2009- Passing time during a rainy weekend:
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet,
And whither then? I cannot say.
-J.R.R. Tolkien
Yesterday and today, I spent most of my morning and early afternoon stringing beads. These are the paper beads I’ve been rolling since August. I had quite a pile growing, so I decided to try my hand at stringing them. I’ve strung necklaces before but this time I wanted something edgier. Studying the glass bead necklace my friend Amy made, I discovered the string is braided. I pulled out my cross-stitch floss and began braiding. I started by braiding the same colors together, then I intertwined grey-blue with grey, grey-blue with black, and grey-blue with chocolate brown. I also had some braiding cord, which I intertwined with the floss. The result was the right amount of edge for the beads I’d made. As Swazis say, bah bops or kukahle…it’s good! In two days, I made twelve necklaces, and it was so much fun. The entire time I was stringing, I was thinking of other ways to display my beads; I want to make some earrings once I find findings, and I envisioned paper bead mobiles.
Within the last few weeks, I’ve found my creative hands again, for which I am thankful; to feel inspired is a gift I welcome. After being so restless from not running, I was eager to find something equally satisfying. Making paper beads is by far more creative and better for me spiritually and emotionally but nothing compares to the physical high and mental release of running. I have another week, and then I am testing out my foot! YAH!
November 16, 2009- Unseasonable Weather: This year’s October and November weather have been much cooler than last year. Today was 13 degrees C! I can see my breath as I type; it feels like winter, and honestly compares to October nights in Nebraska or South Dakota. I’ve been wearing several layers, and socks and mitten to bed again; I lie under 2 doubled blankets. Burr!!!! The last few weeks it’s been raining every few days for 2 – 3 days at a time. When the rain comes in torrents, which is usually at least once or twice during the 2 – 3 day period, water runs under my door. Silently I thank myself for the good decision of purchasing a mop each time I use it.
Last year those kinds of rains came in January and February. I’m ready for the rainy season to be done but I must endure until March. On the up side, the countryside it greening nicely, the corn is growing well, and the flowers I planted in front of my hut are in full bloom. I planted lisela (in siSwati it means thief- they say it ‘steals’ the snakes away), a bulb plant that looks and smells very much like spring garlic with a large purple flower head and marigolds, which are blooming shades of orange- buttery orange, dark orange, and burnt orange all mixed together with pale yellow. They are supposed to keep the snakes away; so far, they are doing their job! Even though the rains bring color to Swaziland, I really hope there is reprieve in December and beginning of January when my cousin, Anne, is visiting. I meet her in Cape Town, SA on 30 December, and she flies back to America on 15 January. YAH! So I’d hate to stay in-doors the whole time; we have too much to see and explore.
November 22 – 30, 2009- All Volunteer Conference, Thanksgiving at the Ambassador’s house, Oliver Mtukudzi, Hiking to Waterfalls and Eating Grapes on Public Transport: My group joined the newly released-from-seclusion group 7s for an All Volunteer conference. Most of the information was geared toward the new group, unfortunately. However, the sessions on male circumcision and behavior change were interesting. For instance, being circumcised reduces a male’s changes of contracting or spreading HIV by 60%. It doesn’t mean that people should discontinue using condoms; it just means it increases a male’s chances, and in turn his partner’s chances, of being safer during sexual intercourse. Of course, the best part of the conference was being with my fellow G6ers. We are just that great of a group; we all get along, genuinely like each other, and never want for conversation. I also enjoyed starting my day with yoga, showering each morning, eating three meals a day that I didn’t have to cook or clean up after, and close proximity to some night life.
Thanksgiving dinner was hosted by the Ambassador at his rather lavish house with pool and a view of the hills of Mbabane…yes your tax dollars are going to good use. We enjoyed all the traditional food items—home-grown turkeys from the Jackson’s homestead, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, sage stuffing, mixed greens and pumpkin pie—as well as new-to-some editions—veggie lasagna, cranberry & nut stuffing, macaroni and cheese, and chocolate cake. There was even an impromptu game of football after food digested. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, this is my home-away-from-home family. While I’m not close to everyone the way I am with some, I am glad to call them family. And I’m happy I had them to share a day of thanks.
I stayed in town for the weekend. I heard about a concert by a well-known African musician, and about the Mbabane Hiking Club excursion. I couldn’t miss either. Oliver Mtukudzi, a musician from Zimbabwe, is in his late 70’s and still rockin’ as if he’s 20. His music is a mix of traditional African with a little rock and a little rhythm and blues. He played for three hours, and Victoria, Jenn, Marloes and I danced the night away. It was well worth the ticket price, and the venue was great- I love House on Fire.
The following day Marloes (a volunteer from Norway working with an NGO run by a former PC volunteer from the 80’s) and I joined the Mbabane Hiking Club in their trek to the famed waterfalls near Mbuluzi. It was mostly a downhill hike to the falls. Knowing the way out would be mostly uphill didn’t deter us, though, especially considering the splendor of the falls. Called the Three Waterfalls because there are three tiers, they flow into a small pool after rushing over the last tier. I cursed myself for my broken camera, although I’m not sure I could quite capture the magnificence of the fall’s beauty; even so, Marloes has promised me copies.
Before I headed home the following day, after two spontaneous meetings, I stopped at the Spar in Manzini since I knew there were more grocery options there than at my Spar. I found a bag of mixed green and purple grapes, a large handful of each for E16. I splurged. I haven’t eaten a grape in so long, my mouth water as soon as I spied them; everything else paled in comparison. I decided I was worth E16! I felt decadent, though, as I ate them one-by-one on the bus ride home, slowly savoring the texture and delighting in the juices as I watched the seven shades of green reappear on the landscape. The man next to me longingly eyed each grape as I popped them in my mouth. I feel a pang of guilt for about a second, and then went back to languidly eating them. The perfect breakfast, in my book.
My euphoria lasted until I walked into my hut. It smelled like a musty locker room, and I quickly discovered my walls were wet and moldy in places. I set to cleaning immediately. It took me a little over 3 hours to clean. Some pictures met their demise. Many bugs were swept out. I even had to burn my pillows; they were propped against the wall, and mold had grown through the mosquito net, through the pillowcases to the pillows. They were moldy to the core. Luckily, it hadn’t reached the blankets. Water even reached my grass mat, somehow, and it too was moldy in places. I let it hang in the sun after shaking it out. I took a nap following the ‘spring-cleaning’, since I felt dejected and exhausted. I woke an hour later to the voices of my bosisi and bhuti. I joined them on the lawn, and soon after, we practiced some dance moves, which has become an evening ritual of late. They were happy to see me, saying there were missing me. They laughed at my dance moves, and I said I was missing them. I felt less melancholy. Once again, I was home.
November 6, 2009- Steroid Injection in my Foot: Long story short, my PCMO believes I have chronic tendonitis due to scar tissue build-up from previous stress fractures. After consulting the orthopedic doctor at the Mbabane Clinic, both recommended a cortisone injection in my foot to decrease the inflammation. According to Peace Corps, this is the next level of conservative measures, and if it’s successful I should get another in 3 months. So I agreed since I’m desperate for something to work. The doctor warned me that there’s a 10% chance it will not work, as it doesn’t work for everyone. I’m also supposed to refrain from a lot of walking for two weeks. Then I’m allowed to test my foot with small walking/running sessions. While injecting me, the doctor suggested I take up another exercise, like biking. The doctor should see my site.
November 11, 2009- My 16th Fatty Comment: My Make believes my butt and hips are becoming bigger and bigger, and I’m guessing that makes me more and more her daughter since Swazi’s consider weight gain a sign of happiness and an acceptance of them as your family. I keep telling her I am the same shape as the day I came, maybe even more toned but that I am very happy to be here. Yet lately, every time I wear my sarong or a pair of pants, she comments on my shape, in particular my thighs; I’m guessing she associates it to me not running. I used to defend myself because it’s not an easy thing to hear as frequently as I do. Now I just shake my head and walk away. There is no convincing her, and I cannot handle her saying it twice in a row.
November 12, 2009- Writing a poem on a rainy day:
November 12, 2009
It’s been raining since noon. I
occupy myself with a sentimental story,
then a sentimental comedy-
this makes me want a cigarette.
I smoke it as a storm rolls in;
thunder, lightning, and rain
barrage my hut.
I light incense to cover the smell of smoke
and continue smoking by my back window,
watching the rain thrash the corn.
I wonder how close lightning could strike
without striking me. I dare it with reckless
haughtiness. “How close will you come?” I taunt.
Does it know I could strike back too?
This evening seems like a cigarette smoking
evening. The rain beckons the smoke.
Slowly the past begins beckoning my thoughts,
and as I meditate on each inhale, it forces
me to recall the past.
I long for company; yet I am alone
in my solitude- always alone
-making my desire to know the
potential all that much greater.
With each lightning strike I feel the need to know become more
unbearable, and I reach out
only to be struck.
This evening is suited for smoking
cigarettes and drinking wine.
Stormy weather seems to beckon in me
thoughts of the past; melancholy rolls in,
and I long for company.
November 14, 2009- Writing an article for SoJo: Two elected volunteers edit our monthly newsletter for staff and volunteers, The Swazi So Journal, affectionately dubbed SoJo. The volunteers serve a 1-year term, then the new group votes in two new volunteers from their group. Our group decided to require 4 - 5 random volunteers each month to submit articles to fill the newsletter pages; staff are required to submit monthly. Articles range from volunteer projects, vacation spots worthy of volunteer time and money, book reviews, recipes, funny or interesting stories about our communities, and sometimes how to make something from scratch, like a rug from plastic bags. I submitted an article a few months ago on the benefits of yoga and basic meditation. I included an easy to begin meditation guide.
The editors are always looking for submissions; and since our group is phasing out as the main contributors, I decided to submit another article before year-end. It follows below.
A lesson in compassion
by Jennifer Gaspers
“Do not utter words in friendship that can be used in animosity.” –Yogi Bhajan
While thumbing through Yoga Magazine, I happened upon an article about creating connections in this busy, mad world we inhabit. The article, geared toward families with children, talks about how we take our family unit for granted, “presuming they will always be there when we need them.” Learning to create a strong relationship, mutually with conscious communication, is essential for a sense of trust among those you’re in contact with daily. This concept easily applies to life in general, but particularly to Peace Corps service. Currently we live within several ‘family units’—our homestead family, the Peace Corps family, and fellow volunteers we chose to adopt as extended family. At times, it can be quite dysfunctional, but I would rather choose the lunacy over having nothing or no one to call ‘family’ here. Therefore, my interactions with ‘family’ are most effective when performed with compassion, awareness, and humanity, especially if I wish to remain a vital member within the family unit. Partly I choose to conduct my interactions with great care because my desire for a sense of family is a selfish need. Nonetheless, shouldn’t we always take great care with those we love or interact with daily? After all, how else do we learn about others unless we are willing to actively Sit with them, listening with compassion and speaking our words with honesty and loving kindness. Below is a piece of the article in which the author gives a few tips on how to implement conscious communication. The guidelines are great suggestions for daily living, whether at home or in Swaziland. Namaste, my family.
Conscious Communication by Indra Singh (taken from Yoga Magazine)
When we communicate it is important to do our best to communicate from the heart; it takes practice and involves being aware of what you say to others before you actually say it.
Try not to speak unnecessarily. Words can have a profound effect once they have been spoken.
Treat those around you with the respect you wish to be treated with and communication will flourish between you and your family members.
Yogi Bhajan, master of kundalini yoga, created five rules for harmonious communication:
· You are communicating for a better tomorrow, not to spoil today.
· Whatever you are going to say is going to live forever and you have to live through it, therefore take care you don’t have to live through the mud of your communication.
· One wrong word said can do much more wrong than you can even imagine or even estimate.
· Words spoken are a chance for communication—don’t turn them into war.
· When you communicate you have to communicate again, don’t make the road rough.
“If you are not aware of someone else then in reality you are not aware of yourself.”
–Yogi Bhajan
November 14 -15, 2009- Passing time during a rainy weekend:
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet,
And whither then? I cannot say.
-J.R.R. Tolkien
Yesterday and today, I spent most of my morning and early afternoon stringing beads. These are the paper beads I’ve been rolling since August. I had quite a pile growing, so I decided to try my hand at stringing them. I’ve strung necklaces before but this time I wanted something edgier. Studying the glass bead necklace my friend Amy made, I discovered the string is braided. I pulled out my cross-stitch floss and began braiding. I started by braiding the same colors together, then I intertwined grey-blue with grey, grey-blue with black, and grey-blue with chocolate brown. I also had some braiding cord, which I intertwined with the floss. The result was the right amount of edge for the beads I’d made. As Swazis say, bah bops or kukahle…it’s good! In two days, I made twelve necklaces, and it was so much fun. The entire time I was stringing, I was thinking of other ways to display my beads; I want to make some earrings once I find findings, and I envisioned paper bead mobiles.
Within the last few weeks, I’ve found my creative hands again, for which I am thankful; to feel inspired is a gift I welcome. After being so restless from not running, I was eager to find something equally satisfying. Making paper beads is by far more creative and better for me spiritually and emotionally but nothing compares to the physical high and mental release of running. I have another week, and then I am testing out my foot! YAH!
November 16, 2009- Unseasonable Weather: This year’s October and November weather have been much cooler than last year. Today was 13 degrees C! I can see my breath as I type; it feels like winter, and honestly compares to October nights in Nebraska or South Dakota. I’ve been wearing several layers, and socks and mitten to bed again; I lie under 2 doubled blankets. Burr!!!! The last few weeks it’s been raining every few days for 2 – 3 days at a time. When the rain comes in torrents, which is usually at least once or twice during the 2 – 3 day period, water runs under my door. Silently I thank myself for the good decision of purchasing a mop each time I use it.
Last year those kinds of rains came in January and February. I’m ready for the rainy season to be done but I must endure until March. On the up side, the countryside it greening nicely, the corn is growing well, and the flowers I planted in front of my hut are in full bloom. I planted lisela (in siSwati it means thief- they say it ‘steals’ the snakes away), a bulb plant that looks and smells very much like spring garlic with a large purple flower head and marigolds, which are blooming shades of orange- buttery orange, dark orange, and burnt orange all mixed together with pale yellow. They are supposed to keep the snakes away; so far, they are doing their job! Even though the rains bring color to Swaziland, I really hope there is reprieve in December and beginning of January when my cousin, Anne, is visiting. I meet her in Cape Town, SA on 30 December, and she flies back to America on 15 January. YAH! So I’d hate to stay in-doors the whole time; we have too much to see and explore.
November 22 – 30, 2009- All Volunteer Conference, Thanksgiving at the Ambassador’s house, Oliver Mtukudzi, Hiking to Waterfalls and Eating Grapes on Public Transport: My group joined the newly released-from-seclusion group 7s for an All Volunteer conference. Most of the information was geared toward the new group, unfortunately. However, the sessions on male circumcision and behavior change were interesting. For instance, being circumcised reduces a male’s changes of contracting or spreading HIV by 60%. It doesn’t mean that people should discontinue using condoms; it just means it increases a male’s chances, and in turn his partner’s chances, of being safer during sexual intercourse. Of course, the best part of the conference was being with my fellow G6ers. We are just that great of a group; we all get along, genuinely like each other, and never want for conversation. I also enjoyed starting my day with yoga, showering each morning, eating three meals a day that I didn’t have to cook or clean up after, and close proximity to some night life.
Thanksgiving dinner was hosted by the Ambassador at his rather lavish house with pool and a view of the hills of Mbabane…yes your tax dollars are going to good use. We enjoyed all the traditional food items—home-grown turkeys from the Jackson’s homestead, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, sage stuffing, mixed greens and pumpkin pie—as well as new-to-some editions—veggie lasagna, cranberry & nut stuffing, macaroni and cheese, and chocolate cake. There was even an impromptu game of football after food digested. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, this is my home-away-from-home family. While I’m not close to everyone the way I am with some, I am glad to call them family. And I’m happy I had them to share a day of thanks.
I stayed in town for the weekend. I heard about a concert by a well-known African musician, and about the Mbabane Hiking Club excursion. I couldn’t miss either. Oliver Mtukudzi, a musician from Zimbabwe, is in his late 70’s and still rockin’ as if he’s 20. His music is a mix of traditional African with a little rock and a little rhythm and blues. He played for three hours, and Victoria, Jenn, Marloes and I danced the night away. It was well worth the ticket price, and the venue was great- I love House on Fire.
The following day Marloes (a volunteer from Norway working with an NGO run by a former PC volunteer from the 80’s) and I joined the Mbabane Hiking Club in their trek to the famed waterfalls near Mbuluzi. It was mostly a downhill hike to the falls. Knowing the way out would be mostly uphill didn’t deter us, though, especially considering the splendor of the falls. Called the Three Waterfalls because there are three tiers, they flow into a small pool after rushing over the last tier. I cursed myself for my broken camera, although I’m not sure I could quite capture the magnificence of the fall’s beauty; even so, Marloes has promised me copies.
Before I headed home the following day, after two spontaneous meetings, I stopped at the Spar in Manzini since I knew there were more grocery options there than at my Spar. I found a bag of mixed green and purple grapes, a large handful of each for E16. I splurged. I haven’t eaten a grape in so long, my mouth water as soon as I spied them; everything else paled in comparison. I decided I was worth E16! I felt decadent, though, as I ate them one-by-one on the bus ride home, slowly savoring the texture and delighting in the juices as I watched the seven shades of green reappear on the landscape. The man next to me longingly eyed each grape as I popped them in my mouth. I feel a pang of guilt for about a second, and then went back to languidly eating them. The perfect breakfast, in my book.
My euphoria lasted until I walked into my hut. It smelled like a musty locker room, and I quickly discovered my walls were wet and moldy in places. I set to cleaning immediately. It took me a little over 3 hours to clean. Some pictures met their demise. Many bugs were swept out. I even had to burn my pillows; they were propped against the wall, and mold had grown through the mosquito net, through the pillowcases to the pillows. They were moldy to the core. Luckily, it hadn’t reached the blankets. Water even reached my grass mat, somehow, and it too was moldy in places. I let it hang in the sun after shaking it out. I took a nap following the ‘spring-cleaning’, since I felt dejected and exhausted. I woke an hour later to the voices of my bosisi and bhuti. I joined them on the lawn, and soon after, we practiced some dance moves, which has become an evening ritual of late. They were happy to see me, saying there were missing me. They laughed at my dance moves, and I said I was missing them. I felt less melancholy. Once again, I was home.
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