On February

Sanibonani, team.

It has been criminally long since I updated, which is partly because my computer is dead. This post is sponsored by Jack, whose laptop I've snagged for the morning. Also, I'm at one of the only places in this country with a bottomless cup of coffee. Mugg & Bean, you're my hero (as is Jack, obviously).

I want to tell y'all what I've learned about the child who asked me for a job. As is often the case, the situation is more complex than I realized.

My friend who tracked him down told me this: The child's parents did both die, and he was taken in by his paternal grandmother. They moved him to a new homestead in my community. He didn't want to stay there. He keeps running away and returning to his previous homestead, which is uninhabited. So he does live alone, as he told me. She also said he is 12, not 14. She told me that his family has sent him to school repeatedly, but he runs away. He says he would rather get a job than attend school. My host father actually ran into him as well. The child also asked him for a job. My host dad instead asked where he stayed and took him back to his grandmother's house. (My host dad is a pretty awesome guy.) I don't know whether the child has since run away again.

So it's interesting, right? The situation isn't as dismal as I thought it was; the boy does have family members who are concerned for his whereabouts. He still isn't in a safe or stable situation. I don't know why he continues to run away. It's entirely possible that there are issues at home that make his life difficult or unpleasant. I certainly can't speak to that. But he has resources and a backup in case of emergency, and that's better than nothing.

If I have more contact with him, I'll write a bit more about it. I haven't yet remembered to ask my host dad for details of his encounter with the boy.

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Onward!

February has been extremely busy. Yes, you read that right: I've actually been busy. One of the staff members at the clinic was on leave for the whole month, so they asked me to fill in at the registration desk in the HIV section. It meant getting there at 8 a.m. Monday through Thursday and staying till about 3 p.m. I KNOW, RIGHT?! Who works those hours? It's INSANE.

But seriously, it is extremely rare for me to be doing anything, especially sitting, for that long. It was kind of exhausting. I did find, however, that it made me super productive. That's a thing, right? The busier you are, the more productive you are with other parts of your life. When I have a ton of spare time, I find it difficult to get myself to do anything. When I'm busy and have to pack in activities, the momentum keeps me going. So in January and February, in the midst of busyness, I wrote the first draft of my second "Haunted Library" children's novel (buy the first one here! http://www.lulu.com/shop/blythe-terrell/the-haunted-library/ebook/product-17421356.html). I wrote it out longhand because that's how I prefer to do it. I want to have all the original thoughts and scratch-outs and notes, so I don't like typing creative writing. I think it turned out OK, but I'll type it and edit as I go, I'm sure.

I also wrote a few poems, which is not a thing I usually do, and I experimented with some truly awful short stories. I'm going to take another stab at those in the coming months.

Also this month, my friend and I started a girls empowerment club at one of the primary schools, and I helped start weekly spelling bees at the other primary school. It's meant running around a lot and has been really satisfying.

March will bring more club meetings, preparations for the annual girls empowerment camp in April, and probably some time with the support group I've been working with. Jor visits (!!!) at the end of the month, and we're heading to Cape Town as Jack goes back to the US of A for Wedding Extravaganza 2014. I'll be back for Morgen's wedding in May, and I'm scheduled to complete service in August. I feel like these months will really fly.

Salani kahle! Nginibona ngeMay (I'll see y'all in May)!

A thing that happened

I was on a walk one Sunday afternoon in my community when I passed a child walking the opposite direction. He was lean and wearing worn clothes, not unusual for the weekends here. He carried a bulging plastic bag. I figured him for 8 or 9.

"Ngicela umsebenta," he said. "I'm asking for a job."
"Ncesi, ngilivolontiya. Ngite umsebenta," I said. "I'm sorry, I'm a volunteer. I don't have a job."

We walked our separate ways. I overtook him again on my way back, after I'd hit my turnaround point. I didn't have a whole lot more I could say in SiSwati.

I asked if he could speak English.

"I am asking for a job," he said.

I explained again that I didn't have one to offer him. I wished I had.

I asked if he went to school. He said he did not.

I asked if he had brothers and sisters. None, he told me. I asked if he lived with his mother.

"She has died," he said in English.

I asked if he lived with his father.

"He has died," he said.

We went through the grandparents, and I asked who he lived with at home.

I am alone, he told me in SiSwati.

I asked how old he was, "unangakhi iminyaka?"

"Fourteen years," he said.

This silenced me. We walked quietly together. After this long in Swaziland, I figured I'd be immune to feeling sad in these situations. I've met many children who have lost their parents. It's rare, however, to find a child who doesn't live with another adult relative. I felt myself starting to tear up, which is approximately the least useful reaction.

After a few minutes, I thought of a question.

"Uthandaza kuphi?" I asked. "Where do you worship?"

He told me the name of his church, and it was a church that I knew. I asked what his name was, and he told me.

Normally, I wouldn't give money to anyone in my community. If I'd been carrying money, I almost certainly would have given some to this child or bought him bread. But I didn't. I wasn't even sure where he lived, exactly. But I had a name and a church.

Since that conversation, I've spoken with a friend who lives near his church. She's talked to the head of the youth committee there and confirmed that the child attends. I intend to find out more about his living situation. But it gives me great relief to know there's a community helping him. Although I don't go to church, I know that sometimes it's the only support system an orphan has here in the SWZ. I'm thankful for it.

Holidays in the Southern Hemisphere

Sanibonani and umnyaka lomusha! (Hello and happy new year, sort of. Umnyaka lomusha just means "new year," but it seems to be the common thing to say to wish someone the best.)

I wrote a chunk of a post and then tried to add a photo, but Google is now doing something really dumb where it requires you to sign in to get photos from some imaginary online space, so ... I might be looking for new blog options in the future. Regardless, the holidays were lovely.

Highlights:

We enjoyed some Christmas hiking and potluck at Ngonini in northern Swaziland. We stayed with our friend Kathy, who was a PCV in the 1980s and has lived in Swaziland since. It was a lovely time.

We headed to Tofo, Mozambique, on Dec. 28. It's a 12-hour drive from Swaziland, and we were lucky enough to have friends to organize the transport. Otherwise, you have to take a khumbi about three hours to Maputo and then stay the night before getting additional transport to Tofo. No, thank you. Our driver was stopped by cops a few times, and he was always able to talk them down on the fine/bribe.

TOFO is glorious. It has amazing white sand beaches on the Indian Ocean, and a spot called Fatima's hosts a days-long New Year's party. We spent the first three nights camping at a hotel called Mozambeat. This was grand, except Jack sustained a bite that we think led to African tick bite fever. He saw a doctor immediately upon our return to Swaziland, so it never developed into full-blown illness (thank goodness). He's basically a Peace Corps volunteer now, though, as ATBF is a bit of a rite of passage. I haven't gotten it, probably because I'm too tough for ticks to bite.

The food in Tofo was ah-mazing. I ate barracuda with coconut curry, a fish with a face, and a traditional dish called matapa (pureed spinach with coconut milk and peanuts). There are also natural and spicy cashews available from dudes on the roadside. Surprisingly, we found amazing Italian food there as well. Everything we ate was fabulous, and they make amazing bread there. We also drank all kinds of tasty Mozambican beers. Sorry, Swaziland and South Africa: Your beers are terrible.

We went snorkeling with whale sharks one day. As it turns out, I do not enjoy snorkeling on choppy open ocean. I hopped out of the boat once, and that was enough for me. Luckily, it was whale shark central that day. We had five sightings, and I saw at least two on the surface of the water. I felt like I definitely got my money's worth. It was amazing. Jack has better stories to tell from swimming alongside the big guys. I was in the water with a shark, which is apparently enough for me. What can I say? I'm an air sign, and I hate choking on saltwater.

We did a pretty good job of avoiding sunburns and still getting in great beach time. The water was gorgeous, and Tofo remains surprisingly low-key and un-built-up (that is an awful hyphenate. What's the word I'm not using here?) The street market turned into a big party on New Year's Day, and that was fun to see. You can also buy plastic 500-mL bottles of Tipo Tinto rum for 50 meticals, which is less than $2 U.S. You might be getting what you pay for. The favored way to drink it is mixed with raspberry soda, which is just weird. Coca-Cola did us just fine.

We spent New Year's Eve day in the nearby town of Inhambane. It poured on us, which was unfortunate. We tried out the local public transportation, called choppas (shoppas?). These are like the minibuses in Swaziland, but WAY MORE people pack onto them. Cops in Swaziland will give tickets for overloading. It appears that this isn't a thing in the Moz. There were 30 people on a 16-seater on our way back to Tofo. We were speeding through driving rain when the vehicle slowed to a stop on the roadside. There were few English speakers on board, but the man next to me managed to communicate that it was broken.

After a few minutes of waiting, I desperately wanted out. I figured we could hitch a ride the rest of the way to Tofo, and the steamy inside of a van full of people was the opposite of where I wanted to be.

"Can we get out?" I asked the man next to me.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't speak English. I speak Portuguese."
"Sorry," I said. "Umm ... out?" I gestured toward the door.
"You want to run?"
"Yes."

Heated discussion followed among passengers. I have no idea what they were saying, but the gist was clear: No one wanted to get out into the rain to let us crawl out of the back seat.

We asked again a few minutes later.
"Another car is coming," the man told me.

I writhed in frustration, feeling claustrophobic. About 10 minutes later, another vehicle showed up. This choppa turned off the road into the sand, promptly getting its back wheels stuck. As men left our choppa to help, I saw the opportunity and squeezed out past an old (and grumpy) grandmother. The rain was still pouring, and I pulled open our umbrellas. But once we were out, Jack felt obligated to help with the unsticking of the other vehicle. Men rolled it up to one side and jammed palm tree bark beneath the back wheels.

Jack and I tried halfheartedly to flag down a ride, but it wasn't happening. No one wanted to stop for two people next to a broken-down van. By this point, Jack was sopping wet, and the people on the bus were ready to punch us. Several minutes later, the rescue choppa popped free onto the road. Cue mad dash by the 30 people on the broken choppa. We mashed onto the new choppa and were on our way.

Lesson: transport is waaaaay easier in the SWZ than in this particular part of Mozambique.

We spent New Year's Eve dancing to DJs at Fatima's and chatting with new friends. The place is right on the beach, and it was lovely (if not the greatest service I've ever encountered).

After six days in Tofo, we were sad to leave but happy to get back to our comfort zone. Overall, it was glorious. I'd highly recommend it.

Since our return, Jack has started year two of teaching, and I've participated in a training of trainers for the Girls Leading Our World program. A counterpart in my community and I attended so she could learn how to be a camp counselor for GLOW. That was an inspirational week. The counselors were amazing (though someone might have walked away with my male condom model), and we capped it off with a phenomenal talent show.

This is, ladies and gents, the home stretch. Things are fixin' to get interesting.

Graduation!

The preschool I work with held its graduation yesterday (that's right: yesterday. CURRENT INFORMATION!). Preschool graduations are a big ol' affair here. The two I attended last year went on for five or six hours. I was worried that mine would be no different. Have you ever sat through five hours of a preschool graduation in a language you don't speak? It can be a bit exhausting. They typically include lots of dancing, speeches and costume changes. Last year, one of the preschools hosted a motivational speaker from Kenya. KENYA.

As luck would have it, my preschool is awesome. Our graduation started only an hour late -- which is pretty impressive for the way things can roll here -- and was finished in a tight two-and-a-half. I shot a few photos with my phone. The girls and boys both did traditional dances. The iPhone shutter speed isn't quite good enough to get the high kicks. But here you are. AND I took a photo of the food because it was delicious and I never post food photos. I was a VIP (and spoke briefly, and handed out diplomas), which meant I got a piece of fried chicken! It was very exciting.

So now the kiddos have graduated, and they'll be off to primary school next year. Milestones, y'all.

Photos!

Here are some photos I've been meaning to upload! This is the support group working on its garden compost pile. We're searching for worms here.

Now we are depositing the worms into the compost pile. (Thanks to Jack for shooting these; I have almost no photos of me working.)

 This is the sunset over the inland salt lake at St. Lucia.

Here is a make (mother/woman) dancing at a celebration at my homestead.

Jack and I went for a walk near his place and found this interesting burned-out old building. This is an atypical structure for rural Swaziland.

My friend Emma and me! I just found this and wanted to post it because she's already back in the U.S., and I miss her.

More photos from the burned-out house ...

Life chugs along. We just had our Peace Corps Thanksgiving celebration, which our country director graciously hosted. Volunteers and staff members cooked for two days before the celebration. In addition to the traditional stuff, it included impala, which was fun. The night before, Jack and I had our Thanksgiving at his place (he wasn't available to come to the PC celebration). We cooked turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, mac n cheese, green bean casserole, salad, and apple and chocolate-chip pie. I made the pie crusts from scratch, because that's how I roll. And also because you can't buy ready-made pie crust in the SWZ because no one eats pie.

We shared our dinner with his boss/landlord and her family, as well as a friend of ours. It was a pleasure to explain an American holiday to South Africans and to let them experience and enjoy our traditions. 

It was delicious. In the spirit of the holiday, I'm thankful for how smoothly things have gone for us. My Peace Corps service has its definite ups and downs, but Jack has been able to enter the workforce successfully and create a life of his own in another part of the country. We couldn't have asked for a better situation. Swaziland is a lot easier than other posts in terms of creature comforts and the contact volunteers have with one another. Transport is relatively easy (most of the time), and safety is less of an issue here than at other posts. We are certainly lucky.

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We'll be spending this New Year's on the beaches of Mozambique, so I plan to have scores of photos from that. I will probably be able to share four or five of these with you here. You're welcome.

Keep fighting the good fight, all, and happy holidays from the Southern Hemisphere!

My friend

Sanibonani.

I’ve been experiencing weird times of late. I haven’t exactly been busy with “work” – a trend that probably will continue into the Christmas season – but life has thrown a few curve balls. One of my closest friends and work partners has been extremely ill. I went to visit her with a volunteer buddy, Walker, and she was almost too weak to get out of bed. She wasn’t too weak to tell us stories, however.

She described how some Swazi women have husbands who invite their mistresses into the family home.

“The women, they must cook for their husband and his girlfriend and even bring them the food,” my friend told me. “Even (someone we know) must cook for her husband and his girlfriend and then she must go sleep in the kitchen while they are in bed together.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “What about you? What about your husband?”

“He had a woman he wanted to have sex with. I would not let them have sex here. Then they went to her home to do it. So I got some matches and some paraffin and went there. I told them I would burn their house down. My husband came home.”

“Wow,” I said, laughing. “You are tough!”

“A Swazi woman must be tough, or her husband will have 10 wives.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon talking and laughing together, and we visited her father-in-law to say hello. When we left, she seemed to be in pretty good spirits.

Over the next few days, her condition worsened. I went to see her again. She had just been to see a sangoma, or traditional healer. The healer had treated her by making an incision in her chest and holding a cow horn up to it. He had pulled something from the horn that he said came from her chest.

“It looked like a piece of meat covered in hair,” she said.

Before they had visited the healer, she and her sister had held the Bible to the sick woman’s face and let it fall open. The verse spoke of vanquishing one’s enemies and surviving.

That day, she was feeling much better. She could even eat a bit – wheat cereal with milk. But she was lean. We sat on the brown overstuffed furniture in her living room, and I looked at the 8-by-11 photo of her on the shelf over the TV.

“Look at me, Nonhlanhla, I was so fit!” she said. “Now a man, he told me I am all bones.”

I left after several hours that Thursday. The next Monday, we sent messages back and forth. She had gone to her mother’s home across the country.

“Unjani?” I asked her how she was.

“Ngiyafa.” I am dying.

I stood at my window, staring at that message, unsure how to reply. She told me to call her a few hours later. When we spoke, she seemed to be saying goodbye.

“I am in grave condition,” she said. I asked whether she was going to the hospital later that day, and she said she was. I told her I hoped they would be able to help her.

“My brother, he will give you your camera.” She had borrowed my point-and-shoot.

“Sisi, that’s not important right now. I hope you feel better.”

It was difficult to hear her. Twenty minutes after the call, I called her back.

“I just want to let you know that you have been a great friend to me here.”

I couldn’t hear her response. I wondered if this would be the last time I’d speak to her. How was I supposed to process that? This woman is a few months younger than me, and she was lying among her family members, awaiting death. The tears came. There was nothing to do but wait. I wondered whether anyone would call me if – when – she died.

The next day I was in town. I messaged her in the morning, and I received no response. Was that it? After my meeting, I called her. My heart was pounding. She answered on the sixth ring.

“Sawubona, sisi, unjani?”

“Kuncono.” Better. She was doing better.

By that weekend, she was with her husband (who works in South Africa) and planning to come back home. As she had told me when she first fell ill: “I’m a fighter.” I’m so glad she is.

Tears in the Kingdom

Sanibonani!

I realize I've tapered off considerably in the blogosphere, which is basically a crime against humanity. But it's probably because my life here has become "normal." Everything that seemed interesting at the beginning is a lot less interesting now. So, like many people in the early 2000s, I've put my blog in the back seat.

The difference between me now and 20-something me is that my blog still might be interesting to its readers. Therefore, I'm going to try to do a better job of feeding it.

My conversations at support group often come back to gender roles, as you might have noticed. We often contrast the life of a Swazi woman with the life of an American woman. Whether it's them mocking me because I don't cook meat at home ("Nonhlanhla, you are lazy to cook!") or me telling them I couldn't marry a Swazi man because I don't like to work so hard ("These Swazi women, they are strong!"), a lot of our conversations get at the heart of the women's issues that interest me in public health.

We recently discussed the "teka" concept, or traditional Swazi marriage rites. Stop me if I've already written about this -- oh, you can't? Then here we go.

When a Swazi man wants to marry a Swazi woman, he typically gets approval from his family and the bride's family. Then he has someone (usually a neighborhood boy or relative) throw a hunk of meat on the doorstep of the woman's family. This is an indication that the marriage is on.

The next step is for the man's relatives to come to the bride-to-be at 3 a.m. and take her to their homestead. They put her in the kraal, where cattle are kept, where she remains, topless. The women of her future husband's family then insult her until she cries. I think I've discussed this before. But I'd never figured out why the woman must cry before she's officially married. I asked the support group women, and this is what one said:

"The woman must cry because it is her last chance. After that, her life will be hard, but she cannot cry about it."

That was fascinating. I'm not sure if it's the agreed-upon cultural reason -- I've also heard that she's crying because she's leaving her own family -- but the women said the tears are a sign of a challenging life to come. It's true that women bear the brunt of the work in terms of cleaning, cooking, raising the children and working the fields. The men work as well, some of them extremely hard, but the gender roles are clearly defined.

I've been here 16 months and haven't seen a Swazi adult cry. I haven't been present at any births or funerals, so I can't speak to those, but I've never seen anyone break down at the clinic or when speaking to me about a problem. It's a generalization, of course, but Swazis don't tend to show a lot of emotion in public. That's fair -- I don't either.

I asked the women if they ever cry.

"I cry every day," several said.

They asked me if I ever cried. I told them I'm not a big crier. I've cried twice in Swaziland, I think. Once was because of the loss of a loved one back home, and the other was related to personal stuff over here. But I didn't cry during the stressful adjustment period when I first got here. I'm not sure where that comes from. I'll cry at movies sometimes, and I tend to tear up at weddings, but it's not my go-to emotional response. Maybe I fit in better than I think I do.

As they tell me all the time here: "Ah! Now you are a Swazi."