Sometimes I nap, sometimes I work

It has come to my attention that I’m not blogging enough. Or responding to emails in a timely fashion. Nor writing letters or taking pictures at a rate that is acceptable to documenting this whole life-changing-Peace-Corps-experience thing.

I could give a whole bunch of excuses. It’s been a hellishly hot past couple of months (I started counting in October, so let’s go with six). A hot that I don’t think I will ever be able to describe adequately in words, despite my love of thesauruses. While I surprisingly survived, nonetheless my creative juices were sapped and replaced by a lot of floor napping. And bed napping. And now hammock napping (thanks Mom).

I really like naps. I think I’m making up for four years of college where I never indulged in this awesome habit. Oh what I have been missing. I can’t believe people actually have real jobs and can’t do this every day. Returning to America is going to be tough.

I’ve also realized that I haven’t written at all about my actual job here. I suppose it is because I loathe reading other blogs that are just a laundry list of “So I did this, then I went there and met these people and it was super cool.” But I suppose there’s a way of imaginatively describing what the American government is expecting of me here in the magical Kingdom of Swaz. So here goes.

When I was first nominated for the Peace Corps, my original assignment was in the At-Risk Youth Development sector. Throughout my time at St. Lawrence University I had participated in numerous activities and mentorships working with the youth in the North Country*. In particular, my time spent with SLU Buddies during which I was paired with a middle school student was possibly the most eye-opening of my experiences. I was exposed to a world so removed from my own in safe, cookie-cutter suburbia. So being given the opportunity to expand on this type of volunteer work in another part of the world highly appealed to me.

In early May 2010 I received a call from my Placement Officer offering me a slightly altered job track, focusing heavily on HIV education though still incorporating work with at-risk youth. I decided to take it and about a year later, here I am in Swaziland, living in a hut that is sometimes infiltrated by sparrows.

In mid-February this year I officially started two new clubs at my secondary school. Throughout the past fall (or I guess spring, since this is the Southern Hemisphere. Apparently water drains the opposite way here. I wouldn’t know, latrines don’t really flush) I have been in talks with numerous teachers about starting a health club and tutoring students in English. What came out of that is a Health Club and a Writers Club. Both meet afterschool once a week for an hour and contain a range of students in both age and ability. Membership is voluntary and neither club numbers over 20. Which is good, since large groups of people staring at me freaks me out.

I never in a million years saw myself as a teacher. And still I see myself as nothing but an imposter. The Swazi school year is broken up into three terms and we recently finished the first term, with the second starting the first week of May. My first term was a bit, oh let’s say, bumpy. Scheduling conflicts/confusions, holidays, my cluelessness, the students’ shyness all contributed to a haphazard couple of weeks. Despite the difficulties, I have found that I absolutely love these kids. They are sharp, funny and incredibly eager. And they are constantly surprising me with probing questions and honest perspectives.

One of the activities we do in Writers Club is to discuss topics, sometimes controversial, that appeal to the students who then go home and write one to two page compositions responding to the discussions and backing up their opinions. During a meeting early on in the term, one conversation in particular was very captivating.

We had been discussing the students’ opinion of race relations in Swaziland and my own concerning the United States. For most Swazis, outsiders of European descent represent colonialism and missionary work. I myself am often confused as a whole host of other nationalities: German, English, Afrikaans, etc. And many think I work for a religious organization, which is understandably given the high prevalence of Christian-based NGO’s here (including a regional office of World Vision that is situated right in my community).

At first my students were quite hesitant to say anything, sticking to acceptable answers straight out of their history lessons. Getting exasperated as only an impatient American can, I asked them what the problem was, why they were not being honest with me. A Form 4 boy finally said what we all knew was the issue: I was white and they didn’t want to offend me.

It’s one thing to all be aware of the elephant in the room, quite another for someone to finally say it. I acknowledged his reservations but encouraged them to proceed without fear of hurting my feelings. Surprisingly the floodgates opened a smidge.

They started to recount a much too common scenario. In Swaziland (and one can probably surmise, most of Africa), when a white man walks into a room full of black men, the former is always given a comfortable chair. Even if the other men in the room are by traditional hierarchical standards of higher rank and importance (such as a chief or member of the inner council). The students used this issue of the “chair” as a jumping off point to represent the multitude of inequalities due to race that still exist in this country.

I then began to tell them of my experiences during homestead visits that I made throughout my period of integration to gather census data. That no matter what I did, the moment I walked on to a homestead I was given the best seat, which sometimes was just the most intact water container. Now some of this has to do with Swazi hospitality and the treatment of guests and visitors. However, it was made clear that I was to be taken care of before that of my Swazi counterpart. At homesteads where they literally had one chair, I was always given preferential treatment. And no matter my reservations or protestations, refusing was out of the questions for both cultural and historical reasons.

I can’t be sure how exactly this entire lesson was received. At the end most of the students left in quiet and reflective moods. Which was a vast improvement I suppose over previous meetings where they just looked lost and bored.

The first term was an important learning experience for me. I discovered how to hold their attention, what kinds of topics they need and want to discuss and how to push them in the right ways. I’m positive I will still screw up royally during my second crack at this, but at least I have a better foundation. And now I know that what they really want to debate is whether WWE is real or fake means my first lesson for the Writers Club is planned. So I’m feeling much less stressed.

I try to go into these sessions hoping to somehow impart a level of confidence to these students. No matter the topic, be it decision-making, peer pressure, creative writing, George W. Bush*, at some point during the lesson I attempt to encourage them to express themselves as individuals. Of course, capacity building is easier said than done. What I’ve discovered is that it is less about the content and more about the increased time I spend with these kids. I’m starting to see that perhaps my biggest impact is not going to be my words, but just the very fact of my presence.

This is especially true when it comes to the young women in the group. I’ve realized the opportunity I have to show these impressionably girls that there is a life beyond the second class treatment they’ve grown up with. That they are capable of taking charge of their sexual rights and choosing who, when and how. The challenge is convincing them that they are deserving of the same level of respect that their male counterparts enjoy.

I know that in the end, the key to having any kind of impact on HIV prevalence is empowering women to take charge of their bodies and minds. These are not at-risk youth in the conventional sense, rather they live in a place rife with risk. It is by no means fair. Thus my opportunity to teach, to act by example, to inspire is so fragile, so easily thwarted by numerous factors working against me.

But they keep showing up, so I will too. And that’s the best any of us can do.

*North Country: I have found that what has best prepared me for dealing with the incredibly level of poverty I’ve seen and experienced in Swaziland was my time spent in the northern most part of New York state. St. Lawrence exists in this bizarre bubble of wealth and opportunity whereas the surrounding area represents much of what has happened to rural America. High unemployment, domestic violence, drug usage, dying industry and a general sense of futility. I count myself lucky to have met and become friends with a lot of people, both at SLU and from the surrounding Canton-area, who are North Country born and bred. They represent a wide range of experiences and backgrounds and gave me incredible insight into what it means to live and work in a rural setting.

*George W. Bush: One day the students wanted me to explain my feelings about our most recent former president versus our current one. While I was not going to reveal my opinions regarding Swazi politics during class, I’m completely at liberty to go to town on the American political game. Basically it was child’s play.

The little things

Dusk is my favorite time of the day. The sun has finally set, the heat has begun to dissipate and my front stoop is the perfect place to soak in the cool breeze that dries my sweaty skin. I think that one of the most enduring images of my service will be the scene I see before me: the dirt road, the scraggly trees, high grasses all set in the backdrop of the Lubombo plateau. Even as the seasons have changed, winter to spring to summer, the picture has remained stunning in its ever-changing form.

My family has learned that I will sit for at least an hour before I head in to cook dinner. I read, I write in my journal or date book, I wave hello to neighbors and friends passing by on their way home. Often my older bhuti (brother) will come over to discuss some important matter, like my electricity bill or to inquire about my day. Babe (Father) will shout his greetings, flashing his dashing smile my way. Make (Mother) will remark on the weather, always in siSwati and we will struggle through our conversation, which always ends in good hearted giggles on both sides.

And then bosisi bami (my sisters) will show up. Without fail I watch for their evening arrival, bringing in the goats from their off-site grazing. First the timbuti (goats) will thunder through the gates and begin attacking the grass and shrubs around my hut. Then I will see the girls. One, age 12 or so, is the picture of an African princess. Slender limbs, tall neck and high cheek bones. Sometimes I see her standing still on the road, her stance proud and regal. Then she will bound towards me, her ethereal smile and gangly strides revealing her youth.

Next is my drama queen, age 9 and just full of it. Always the show off, she will do her silly dances down the dirt drive way and giggle like a fiend. Small for her age, her stunted growth most likely due to a lack of nutrients in her diet during early development (a much too common ailment she shares with many Swazi youth), she nevertheless has energy matched by no American child I’ve ever met. Her eyes sparkle, her smile electrifies and I can’t help but fall madly in love.

The two of them can turn around any terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Whether it’s the way they throw down their cards during Crazy 8’s with such flourish that the deck pile often shatters. Or when we have spontaneous photo shoots with my phone and they dance and sing with reckless abandon in the dying light. They will knock on my door and bring me maize they’ve cooked for me and shout joyous “good nights!” as they saunter back to the main house.

It is these moments at the end of the day that I must compare with those at the beginning.

There are mornings when I don’t want to get out of bed. When it’s 5:30 and I can feel the sun’s heat already infiltrating my hut and my day promises little more than frustration and stagnation. When even the whirl of my fan cannot keep me cool and the thought of doing my chores makes me turn around and pray for sleep once more, chores that with running water would take mere minutes. Sometimes just the knowledge that I have to trudge through perilous grasses to reach a dark, damp latrine full of over-sized lizards and infested with flies gives me pause to contemplate my sanity in signing up for two years of this. What was once a morning adventure against the elements has turned into a burden from which I garner little satisfaction in achieving.

And yet, after dealing with the mundane necessities required of living in the conditions of a hut in rural Swaziland, I still have to steel myself for “doing my job.” For putting on a dress and sandals, packing my shoulder bag and setting off in the dirt towards dilapidated buildings where I will wait for meetings to start hours late, for counterparts to cancel on me without even a phone call and to witness a poverty that I had once only seen in news magazines. And to realize that I’m increasingly able to pick out community members who are obviously ill with AIDS. Their gauntness too extreme; their hollow eyes too desperate.

Everything is extreme here. The highs are unbelievably high, the lows are incredibly low. Yet what amazes me is that they are brought on by such small human acts and conditions. I can feel my faith in humanity crashing on top of me and then my sisi (sister) will run up with her English homework and I feel lifted. I’ll be watching an episode of Entourage, my mind completely monopolized by images of American wealth and excess, and then I hit the stop button, walk out my door and watch teenagers wearing threadbare clothing amble by pushing wheelbarrows with sacks of donated maize from the local NGO. It can all be so jarring.

But what makes it all worth it are the relationships. My host family, who are some of the most gentle and welcoming people I’ve ever met. The countless community members who want to help their neighbors and friends, giving up time and energy for little or no pay. The young people who meet every Saturday to practice skits and dances they will perform at schools and functions to raise awareness about HIV, poverty and inequality. The counterpart who walked me home, speaking of his dreams for his drama club and his work to spread the word about male circumcision. It is these people who make me get out of bed every day. It is their struggles that make me remember that my physical and mental discomfort is only temporary; theirs have lasted a lifetime.

These past couple months have been no doubt trying. I’ve strained to turn project ideas into reality, to secure my role in the schools and to find an overriding purpose in my work here. I’ve been cancelled on, been disappointed by meetings and counterparts and sweated more in two months than probably my entire life. I’ve spent countless hours in my hut, stewing over daily failures and relentless heat. But I cherish the tiny, fleeting successes. I’ve sensed the painfully slow progress I’ve made: to integrate, to “make a difference,” to learn, to exist.

I can see how a passerby would deem this area as desolate. Daily I see white South Africans drive by in their SUVs, puzzled by the appearance of a sweaty American among so many Swazis, registering for a moment this community along the tar road, its ramshackle buildings and huts, its bowlegged children, its punishing temperatures appearing as flickering waves of heat rising from the horizon.

But they do not know this place as I do. They do not know what it is like to walk in a sea of Swazi children on their way to school. Or the warm greetings of a member of the inner council, dressed in a colorful print, brandishing a walking stick and a wearing the widest grin when he spots me at the stash. They do not know the joy of a simple hello from a friend screeching by on his used, fluorescent green bicycle. Or the shared relief of an evening rain in the lowveld.

I’ve begun to realize why two years are necessary to make sense of it all. To understand how to deal with the intense feelings of both joy and pain. To accept that the world is and will always be imperfect. And to discover my role amidst all of this. “This” being the journey. Not the object. Never the object.

Mozambique or Bust

For two consecutive days we woke up at 4:15. We slept on floors covered in cushions and in one case, large foam puzzle pieces. We heaved our packs down the misty hills in sleepy neighborhoods surrounding Mbabane and the quiet streets of Maputo. We ate fresh bread from street vendors and suspicious-looking cheese sandwiches. We crammed ourselves into minibuses while jamming out to shared iPods playing everything from Girl Talk to the new Kanye West.

We napped with our heads leaning forward on the sharp edges of the seats in front of us, waking periodically when our overstuffed khombis hit a particularly substantial bump. We watched as the landscape became increasingly tropical. We remarked that the passing homesteads situated in clearings surrounded by palm trees were just that much better than our own in Swaziland. We started to joke about field separation to Mozambique.

Finally, in the afternoon of December 23^rd, after what amounted to roughly 15 hours of travel by khombi, we arrived in paradise. Tofo. A small but well-developed tourist haven situated in one of Mozambique’s most picturesque stretches of coastline. Fine, white sand. Clear, turquoise seawater. Blue skies and a breeze that made the surrounding jungle heat just tolerable.

The moment we had thrown our bags into the dorm and changed into our suits, the females of the group marveling at the ability to not only show off our knees but our entire thighs, we ran to the ocean. We splashed about in the warm water, lapping up the salt and washing away the grim of travel.

I stood in the surf and could feel with every surge and pull of the tide all the stress of the past six months drain away. All the long days of nothing, when my counterpart couldn’t meet me and the temperature reached 115 and all I could do was lie on my floor waiting for night, despite the knowledge that I would still fall asleep in a puddle of sweat. The long bus rides, up to my eyeballs in Swazi limbs, livestock and bags of maize. The frustration of a job that lacked the clarity and predictability of normal office hours and recognizable benchmarks. All of it was worth this moment.

Every other Christmas of my life has been spent in the throes of winter weather. Snow blizzards. Wet, cold drizzle. Sweaters, fireplaces and Charlie Brown Christmas Special playing in the background. This year, I climbed out of the khombi to find a beach side hostel whose every structure sported grass roofs, a barely five minute hop skip and jump away from the ocean and even running water.

We spent four days eating the best seafood of our lives (except for our Hawaiian colleague, for whom the food was just a reminder of home): line fish grilled to perfection with mango salsa, huge juicy prawns on a bed of leafy greens, calamari alongside coconut rice. At the market we got pineapples that the women cut up for us, rendering it possible to walk around eating the fruit like a popsicle. Oh and the glorious bags of roasted cashews that we constantly munched on.

We haggled over wooden bracelets and pants made of colorful print, some of us more successful than others at naming a reasonable price. We met fellow PCVs from all over southern Africa: Zambia, South Africa, Namibia.

The best thing I heard upon my return was from a good friend and fellow PCV who lives across the country. I had been back in Swaziland about four days and while at lunch on New Year’s Eve, she looked at me and said in all sincerity that I seemed completely at ease. And kind of tan. A huge accomplishment given my stubbornly pasty complexion.

And now I’m back at site, sweaty with no ocean breeze nor ocean to jump in to relieve this constant affliction. Yet I feel reinvigorated, ready to begin the work that I have been prepping for months to actually and finally start doing. 2011 is my full year in Africa, so let’s do this thing.

Life as the Community Figurehead

I’ve been going to a lot of events lately. I’ve sat through presentations on everything from the benefits of male circumcision (MC) to a celebration of World AIDS Day to a Swazi rapper singing about the responsibility of the country’s youth to combat the HIV epidemic. I’ve eaten more rice than a person should consume in a lifetime and my tolerance for hours of non-stop siSwati as gone through the roof.

All of these events tend to operate along similar lines. They always start at least an hour late, if not two, an African must. Take the MC awareness event put on by World Vision, the NGO in my community. I was told to arrive at 8, so being the American that I am, I’m promptly there at 7:55. I walk into the clearing of the inkhudla (government buildings) as discreetly as possible, greet people I recognize though whose names I’ve forgotten and try to figure out what to do with myself. There’s no one around except the cooking crew, so I join them and peel every single carrot for the next two hours while making awkward small talk with a number of NGO representatives in attendance. I’m now an expert at being awkward and forcing conversation. Talk about resume builder. I should add that my hands turned an eerie shade of orange, much to the delight of the bomake (women).

Next the actual festivities actually start. I’m usually led to the front, even though I have no presentation or speech prepared, and told to sit with the other dignitaries (ranging from community leaders, honored guests and people who actually organized the event). For the next four hours I try to listen attentively while everything is said in siSwati, relying on the few translation tidbits I receive from my neighbors, and try desperately not to fall asleep in front of my community. Since that probably is bad form. Plus the majority of the audience tends to stare bemusedly at my sweaty self. The best moment was when one of them came up afterward at the MC event and wiped away my dripping sunscreen. I’m hoping that means I’m starting to become integrated.

The actual presentations and performances at these events can be entertaining. Mostly I look forward to the traditional dancing since it requires no translation and I get to soak in some culture. During the dramas I amuse myself by guessing what the storyline is, only to be told that I completely missed the punch line. But I think my favorite part is the music that is played in between each act. It’s usually techno and I like to glance at the bomake to watch for their reactions to such non-Swazi music. The DJ’s blast it within an inch of destroying everyone’s eardrum. It’s fun.

At the close of the events always comes a massive level of refreshments. I’ve been told to expect this by my veteran volunteers, that Swazis take their food seriously at events, but seeing is truly believing. As with my seat placement, I’m always handpicked to join the important folks in the conference rooms to eat the prepared meal. Not by choice, might I add. Picture a room full of mostly older Swazi men eating from heaping foam containers of rice, three kinds of chicken and beef, boiled carrots, cabbage, beets, beans and sipping soda and then me, trying to eat chicken off the bone without looking completely foolish and praying silently that I won’t get sick from this food. I did make some social head way the other day when I became the official bottle opener (Mom, that bottle opener/carabineer was a great find).

During one of these nerve-racking meals I met my chief. Quick culture lesson – in Swaziland, the role of the chief in the rural communities still carries a great deal of weight. So it would be expected that I would have met him already at a prearranged time and have announced what I will be doing in the community for the next two years. Problem: my MIA counterpart, who I’ve begged repeatedly to furnish such a meeting, has failed to do so. Thus when this solemn man dressed in traditional garb approached me as I was crouching down to set up the foam plates and plastic spoons I wanted to disappear into the floorboards. He held out his hand, said my Swazi name and we exchanged the proper greetings. Hours later I made a frantic phone call to one of the Swazi staff members at the PC office, who assured me I did everything right. Nevertheless, this memory still gives me shivers.

Another lovely aspect of events and my presence at them: my impromptu and terrible speeches in siSwati. So far I’ve only been forced to speak publicly at one of these, the World AIDS day at the primary school. Not only did they think I was from World Vision but that I had brought presents to the children who performed. The microphone was then thrust into my face and I had to basically scream over the noise of hundreds of schoolchildren rushing to the stage for the candy being thrown at them that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer and an HIV Educator. Pretty sure they still don’t have a clue why I’m here.

Yet for as uncomfortable and out-of-place I feel most of the time at this things, I’ve walked away each time incredibly happy I went. Not only does it give me the opportunity to be very much visible to my community, but I’ve made incredible contacts. It’s worth the marathon of siSwati, pounds of rice and endless handshaking to meet some of the most motivated people with whom there’s a real chance of collaborating on projects.

Additionally, these events have shown me what my community is already capable of and it has been one of most promising and encouraging discoveries of my service so far. Take the youth awareness event. This youth group has been together for two years, includes kids from all the surrounding chiefdoms and is led by a young man who pays for most of their fees out-of-pocket. I sat in that dilapidated hall silent as they did my job for me: speaking about the importance of getting tested, demanding mothers educate their daughters about PMTCT, encouraging young men to get circumcised and promoting the idea that HIV positive people can lead a normal life and that stigma hurts everyone. And for that, I’m willing to give up even more of my already nonexistent dignity.

The Clinic

I'm running an hour late. Four months and I'm already functioning on APT (African People's Time). I get out of the khombi after taking a roundabout way back from visiting a friend in a nearby town and run/walk to my hut. Roughly ten minutes later I'm sweating. It is not yet 10 in the morning. Awesome.

I find my host bobhuti (brothers) and our carpenter friend, essentially an uncle, planting mango and orange trees behind my hut. Make (Mother) is sweeping the yard. I come bolting through the gate and yell a rushed greeting. They humor my hurried and broken siSwati with knowing smiles and return to their tasks.

As I hastily change, throw my notebook into my book bag, grab my last, lonely orange - taking a mental note that soon all I’ll have to eat are a few slices of bread and soy sauce - I run through my head all the questions I need to be prepared to ask. I’m going to my community’s clinic today and as the most non-medical human being on the planet, I’m obviously well-versed in the correct comments to make in such an establishment. Great, I’m screwed.

When I arrive to the clinic, already I’m getting the same feeling I did on previous visits: they are busy and incredulous at my seemingly constant presence asking inane questions about staff size, their services and how many people on average they see. But today I persevere and stand my ground; I made this appointment weeks ago and I intend on staying the entire day to observe, shadow and learn.

One of the nurses reluctantly shuffles me into the first examining room, bringing me a chair. This is the family planning room and today the head nurse, a midwife, is in charge of consultations. Patients are seen according to the numbered slip they paid 2 rand for at the booth down the road at the inkhudla (government offices). Since today is a Friday, the wait isn’t terribly long and the clinic will probably see 30 or so people. Unlike Tuesdays when the patient load can be upwards of a 100 or more.

Woman after baby-clad woman enters the small, cramped space, each here for a variety of prenatal, postnatal and birth control needs. The majority are here for the injection to prevent pregnancy. The first patient, a young woman seemingly no older than myself, is pregnant with her fourth child and is HIV positive. The nurse explains the procedure for PMTCT (Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission), examines her and gives her a follow up appointment. Most sessions last only ten minutes and in about two hours time we’ve seen a dozen women.

They completely avoid my gaze, which I can only surmise must appear cold and clinical as I sit in the background taking occasional notes. No matter how hard I try to catch their eyes to offer an encouraging word or inquire about their child, they ignore all my attempts. They are painfully shy, speaking barely above a whisper. I feel the colonizer and they the colonized, only instead of land, I’m occupying the most private area of their lives. It’s a strange new feeling and at this moment, I’ve never been more aware of my skin color and the privileges it has afforded me.

I’m moved to the curative room where the nurse practitioner is stationed. This is the catch-all room and gets everything from STI’s, some admitted and others posed as bath water burns, to a 29-year old woman who has symptoms of stroke. I ask the nurse how common this is; she remarks that due to the high rate of HIV they see this more often than would be normal. As I sit, I notice an ostentatious sticker on the filing cabinet: US AID: From the American People. It’s bizarre to see it here in this cramped room; I feel disconnected from something that could easily be stuck on any undergrads Mac Book. And yet here I am, with both this sticker and a never-ending stream of ill, poverty-stricken people who are barely kept afloat by the mounds of outside aid this country receives.

I’m still trying to conceptualize this apparent contradiction when a woman in her 50’s walks in. She has a sculpted face, no wrinkles and kind yet scared eyes. She is waiting on the results of her HIV test. As the nurse talks to her, the lab technician comes in carrying a slip of paper ripped out of a notebook. I see a name written and the word “positive.” Apparently the woman had tested before, but in denial had “clinic shopped,” a common enough practice the nurse tells me where those who are positive take multiple tests in hopes that there was a mix up in the lab or a badly administered test. Mostly, they are not ready to come to terms with their status.

Normally the woman would be counseled, but as the expert client (an HIV-positive individual who works at the clinic and helps the newly positive cope with a their changed existence) is out that day, she is merely told to come back Tuesday to get her CD4 count taken. As she gets up to leave, the nurse reminds her to bring her partner with her so he can be tested. By the look on her face, that’s highly unlikely.

It only took a few moments, but I had just witnessed someone’s life change in a way I can hardly understand. Yet it was all so normal, so routine. I feel numb, unable to understand how it could get to this point. This is the beginning of my real education, my real exposure to a pandemic that has up until this point been articles in news magazines and the topic of conferences in far-off, well-lit, air conditioned auditoriums.

I’ve never been so close to the reality, and there is nothing dramatic or momentous about it. Only another victim added, disappearing into the nameless mob of those who just happened to be born in a country and continent where the combination of colonialism, poverty, gender inequality, corruption and a whole host of factors contributed to their likelihood of infection.

I could have easily been her, but instead I’m sitting on this side of history, disgustingly healthy, obscenely well-educated and most importantly, transient. In two years I can escape this, I can get on a plane and fly back to the safety of suburban comforts, away from constant strain of heat, poverty and disease. It’s a strange knowledge to have, well-understood by the patients: they look at me and see only a voyeur, someone who has come to get a “life experience” and then return to tell of my valiant trials and tribulations in this strange African land.

I would have left dejected, defeated and useless had it not been for the nurses. I’ve heard much about the lack of training, professionalism and humanity of nurses and other medical staff in this country. Perhaps I’m no judge of how to run a clinic, but the women I met that day instilled in me a shred of hope for this community, for this country. They were well-spoken, compassionate and thoughtful about a disease whose collateral damage they are barely able to stem.

Perched on a stool in the back room, eating a shared lunch of Pap, beef and curry, I listen intently as they impart their war stories to me. They are not blind to the odds, yet they keep showing up every day. I’m told that I am welcome anytime and my help is greatly appreciated. That help will most likely be pill counting with other volunteers. But I relish the thought of even such a menial task as that.

As the afternoon winds down, I walk home, in deep thought about my day. I cross the main road and start down my gravel one. I hear the familiar cries of my Swazi name from neighbors. The women at the grinding mill are still there – and they shout their usual greeting my way. I enter my homestead and see my family bustling around: Make is feeding the chickens, the kids are preparing dinner over the open fire and the goats are wandering back from their daily adventures.

I fetch my book and take a seat on my front stoop. It is by far my favorite place to sit – I can watch the dying light and feel the forgiving breeze. The nearby Lubombo plateau frames a picture of budding acacia trees and Swazi women with bundles on their heads on their way to their respective homesteads. Often, one of my host sisters brings over a mat for me to sit on so I don’t get my skirt dirty.

It is in this place that I find solace, that I can make sense of what I’ve seen each day. Sometimes I don’t even read, just gaze around at my surroundings. In effect, just exist in this strange, new environment. I must look bizarre to passerby and my host family, but I chuckle to myself upon realizing this, since I’m sure my pale complexion among other strange habits already elicits such thoughts. Can’t get much weirder when you are already plenty weird.

I stand up and enter my hut, noticing the huge spider web around my door. Looks like I will have some visitors tonight. I start dinner, only to discover the power is out. Looks like it’s a bread supper and bath-by-candlelight kind of evening. 

Visual Evidence

The homestead. Notice the tree that blooms despite no rain.

Chaco tan lines are the best.

Moving in continues...

My awesome "bathroom."

The permanent hut.

The surrounding area.

Fellow PCVs.

Swearing-in.

My first attempt at hanging a mosquito net.

My training hut.

Training homestead.

View of the South African mountains from my training homestead.

As promised, some pictures to satisfy your curiosity of what I see every day.

Again, some logistics (get used to this sure-to-be recurring blog feature. I’m an organizational freak):

I’ve added a literary feature to my blog. It is entitled “Swazi Read Along”. It’s basically my own personal African book club that all are invited to join. I will try to update as often as possible and if anyone out there in that strange cyber world actually is reading in tandem with me, feel free to send me a note (snail mail or electronically), I’d love to have some rousing intellectual banter. When one lives in a hut, options for stimulating discourse are limited to one’s own subconscious.

Here’s what I’ve read so far, and if it seems like a paltry number, I concede to the fact a) Ayn Rand was read during training when making it through 10 pages felt like an accomplishment before falling into a dead slumber at 8:30 b) new hut + electricity = enjoying the wonders of my netbook a little too much.

The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

What is the What by Dave Eggers (highly, highly recommend – Incredibly compelling story about one of the Lost Boys of Sudan)

The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follet

A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah

I’m currently reading: Infections and Inequalities: The Modern Plague by Paul Farmer (Thanks to Jack for this book – very relevant to my work here)

On deck:

The Ugly American by William J. Lederer & Eugene Burdick

Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

Another note on my reading habit. I love magazines and have found that addiction to not be satisfied by my Peace Corps budget. So if you are looking for something to send me, interesting articles are greatly appreciated. The Economist, Time, Newsweek, Rolling Stone, New Yorker, New York Times Magazine – all fantastic places to look. Also, anything that strikes your fancy from the New York Times; I’m sorely missing my daily fix. Anything and everything Middle East is always a good bet.

Other non-literary care package ideas include:

-Trail mix

-Granola

-Cliff/Luna/granola bars – I’m a big fan of anything combining chocolate and peanut butter. Also dried cranberries.

-anything and everything Burt’s Bees

-Lindt chocolate – the milk chocolate bars with raspberry filling are my favorite (and yes I concede to the fact that these will most likely perish in the African heat. I don't care. I'll drink them out of their packaging.)

-Pictures of you. I hastily put together an album before I left but I’m definitely lacking in visual memories to put on my wall. I want to see all your smiling faces when I wake up to my roosters every morning.

-Practical surprises that fit into a flat rate box

Also, to my fellow recent college grads out there, I have a request to make of you. Since I know every single one of you check your email ad nauseum, I’d ask that any of you whose school emails are either defunct, soon to be defunct, or for all intensive purposes, defunct by default of your own doing, PLEASE send me the email addresses that you are using permanently. Feel free to include a nice note. No pressure.

Love from khombi land