Monday, October 25, 2010

October- November 2006

10/1/06
 Yesterday Fezile, Buyile, and I set off to visit Spelele.  We left at 830 and, after a lot of waiting, and a long bus ride (on that dry, dusty, dirt road) we get to the stop at 11ish.  As we were preparing to walk the long distance down to Spelele’s house, we were stopped by a man who identified himself as the gogo’s brother.  He said that Spelele was not there, that she had been taken to the hospital in Mbabane.  What we gleaned from what he was saying was that they were intending to amputate the arm above the burned off hand.  We waited another hour for the bus to return to bring us back, resolved to go to Mbabane in the morning to see Spelele, certain that she was frightened and lonely.  We were met this morning at the bus station in Mbabane by Brendan, a former PCV who is now helping to run the Young Heroes program for NERCHA, the governing body for HIV outreach here.  Brendan is as close to a perfect young man as you could get- handsome, self-contained, intelligent, sincere- you kinda want to pinch him to see if he is real.  He is so much so that you wonder, if you are cynical, if there isn't some deeper pathology ready to erupt.  He was so welcomed by and integrated into his Swazi community that he was chosen by them to represent them at the annual Reed Dance, the most important ceremony in the country, just a couple months after he arrived in country last year.

Anyway, Brendan went with us and we found Spelele on the children’s ward.  She hadn’t had surgery yet and we learned from her aunt (the gogo wasn’t there) that they weren’t amputating.  Instead, they are going to try to remove the significant scar tissue that is preventing her from extending her elbows.  We also learned that the doctors think that beneath the scar tissue covering the stub of her missing hand, they can detect finger movement.  It seems they think at least some of the fingers may be buried beneath the mound of scar and that they can sense movement.  Swazi hospitals are not equipped to deal with that type of surgery but they may be able to refer her to someone in South Africa who can help.  The auntie tells me there is simply no way the family can afford that.  I tell her all she needs to do is find out the details and get Spelele there, and I believe the rest can be taken care of.  How exciting and how timely.  If this had come a month later, I’d be gone and her hope with me.  If there’s anything we can do to make this happen, then it will happen.  We saw Spelele smile and heard her talk for the first time. Some days are altogether good to be here.

Running with the girls 10/6/06
I went out for a run tonight.  Two of the younger girls from the orphanage went with me, Fikile and Kayelihle,as did Dumsile, a tall, thin, athletic, and studious high schooler.  It has been a while since I ran with the girls.  I have been gone more than here in recent months and, when I do run, it is usually very early.  All my life I have wanted to be a morning runner.  I admired, tremendously, those who could jump out of bed, irrespective of weather, and take to the road or the gym.  I would drive by them on my way to the lab in Petaluma, seeing them through the glass front of the building on the treadmills and cardio equip, knowing more were upstairs in the weight room.  And I admired them, their sincerity.  I have run for many years now and, finally, I can run in the morning.  It started when Sindi and Maseko, two very overweight women at the bomake market, wanted to start exercising.  They asked me if I would walk with them, but the only time they could get away was half past five in the morning.  The rest of the day they are at the canteen at the bus rank, cooking or hoping to cook for whomever could pay a few bucks for a meal.  So half past five it was.  And after we did one lap, of about 2.5 miles, I would continue to run another couple laps.  They have since lost interest, the cold of winter giving them an excuse to rest again.  Me, however, when I am not away from the orphanage for one reason or another, well, I prefer the morning run.  My body still does not eagerly await the sun.  I am older and stiffer and the morning is a sharp reminder that at least my most agile days are behind me.  And I love the evening run as the sun is setting, especially with the girls at the orphanage, when I have had the whole day to warm up.  But now I prefer a day that starts with my hair flying and a cool wind in my face. 
Today, however, I am with the girls, the two small ones barely 10 years each.  They are running barefoot and in tattered skirts, skipping over sharp stones and gravel that would stop me flat.  Fikile flaps her arms like a bird as we fly down the dirt path toward the main road.  She is a stocky little thing, all muscle and grit.  Her freeness fills me.  There are problems at the orphanage where I have been places, problems for sure.  The place is poorly managed and the facility is horribly run down.  But the housemother here, who takes care of these 27 children, is a good woman.  The girls are so much better off than other children on homesteads in the community.  Here, the girls are not beaten, abused, or molested like so many young girls on homesteads.  They are outspoken and have a strong sense of self and of their immediate community.  They do everything for themselves, collecting and cutting firewood, growing vegetables, grinding corn all day long, cooking, etc.  And, because there are so many and the work is divided, there is much time for playing and singing, both of which happen spontaneously and randomly.  They are noisy.  God they are noisy.  I used to think I would never get used to the noise.  Now I notice it more by its absence- when they are at church or at bed time.  For an hour or two, the peace is sublime and I just sit, immersed in stillness.  After too long, I become edgy, I miss the way they fill the air with song and laughter.  And noise. 
 I have meant to write about the girls and I cannot bring myself to do so.  It is too close, too personal.  Each of them is unique and each deserves a book, not a line or two on a web journal.  Every time I think of leaving them, which is imminent, a tremendous sadness falls over me.  When I moved here, it was made clear that the orphanage was not my job.  My job was to do HIV outreach and education in the community.  The orphanage was my homestead, where I lived and, hopefully, became a role model or mentor for the girls.  So, I made sure it was not my job.  Consequently, it has become my family.

The children’s ward 10/12/06
I have been in Mbabane for a few days for “close of service” medical examinations.  While in town, I was able to stop in the children’s ward and see Spelele.  She has been there for over a week and they only took her to surgery today because there were not enough medicines and surgical supplies to do more than the absolutely essential surgeries.  I arrived while she was in surgery and did not see her; however I was able to visit with the other mothers and children for a little bit.  I brought a fuzzy teddy bear to a little girl I met there the other day who is dying of cancer.  They showed me her belly- an inverted U of gleaming staples stretching from one side to the other- and told me the doctors opened her up and found cancer everywhere.  All they could do was close her back up again.  The little girl is beautiful and she is loved and she is dying.  Her mother does not seem to understand that the child is dying and I was not going to take that away from her.  She will be sad soon enough. 
I also gave the kids a coloring book and crayons to play with and some candy. 
As much as I do not want to be the "umlungu", the white person, in the role of benevolent benefactor, it takes so little to make a difference in their day.  A day at the hospital, with nothing to do, nothing to watch, no books, no toys, a day here stretches.  And these children are here for a long time.  I looked over the child with spinal cord injury I met the other day.  His mother speaks perfect English and has her infant child with her as well.  She helps me to communicate with the other mothers.  She and her other child both sleep on the floor near the injured child.  He is about 9 and was hit by a vehicle.  Except for his eyes, immense against his tiny face, he is immobile.  He probably weighs as much as his much younger sibling.  It will not be long for this one either.  
I sit and chat for a while.  An attendant comes in who knows me from Hlaitkhulu and he sits with us as well.  We talk about HIV and I encourage all the women and their children to check their status.  The attendant tells me that when culture was strong and girls remained virgins, HIV was not an issue.  It is the girls fault.  Of course I respond, I can’t not now.  I go on a bit about the men who have children with several girls and women, leaving at the first sight of pregnancy and taking no responsibility.  I don’t know of any young women with children (and I know many) where the father of the child is present. I then lapse into my diatribe about how there is nothing for girls and women here other than what men allow them, and to be with a man is often just a means to get by.  The man looks down, he doesn’t disagree, and the women are surprised and more than a bit pleased, to hear someone speaking for them.  It’s true, it’s not always that way, and the girls are responsible for their own behavior, but it’s mostly that way.  I check the little girl with cancer on my way out.  She lies on a small metal cot, staring silently and clutching the fuzzy bear.  It may provide some small comfort in these next few days, weeks at most.


Life expectancy 10/14/
https://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/rankorder/2102rank.html
Swaziland has recently achieved a new distinction- the lowest life expectancy in the world, now 32.62 years of age.
sigh

Free my soul 10/29/06

I was on the bus, headed to town to check email this morning.  The bus was crowded, having come in from Manzini, and I ended up having to stand near the rear of the bus.  Oddly enough, Dobie Gray’s “Drift Away” came on the bus radio, for some reason tucked inbetween horrible music that passes itself off as gospel here.  I start singing along, quietly, and noticed someone singing at a bare whisper with me.  A man in a seat near the window, holding his young daughter on his lap, joins me a verse into the song:
 “Beginning to think that I'm wastin' time
I don't understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
I'm countin' on you to carry me through
Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away
Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away”

And the man’s eyes are closed and there’s a half smile on his face…

“And when my mind is free
You know a melody can move me
And when I'm feelin' blue
The guitar's comin' through to soothe me
Thanks for the joy that you've given me
I want you to know I believe in your song
Rhythm and rhyme and harmony
You help me along makin' me strong
Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away
Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away”

We get to the end of the song and we know we shared a moment out of place, out of time, across cultures.  I guess we're all looking for a little release sometimes.



And so it ends 11/7/06

It was excruciating leaving the girls.  Words don’t do it justice.  I have just finished my exit interview with the PC Country Director and have officially closed my Peace Corps service.  We had a party at the orphanage Sunday afternoon attended by all the girls, Manthoba and Tigi, the neighbors’ children, and Simphiwe’s 2 little ones.  We had chicken, rice, cake, cookies made by the girls and I saturday, etc. The girls made little movies on my digital camera and we all had a great time.  Then I fell apart.  It was too much.
The following morning the girls all came to my little rondeval to say goodbye before they left for school.  I did not want them all there when the PC came to collect me, I could not have borne the looks on their faces and to see them all standing there as I drove off, so I made arrangements to be picked up while they were in school.  I hugged each and kept a smile on my face so they could remember me as happy to be with them.  The pretense was exhausting and by the time the drive came, I had nothing left.  I wanted to enjoy my last drive from Hlatikhulu to Mbabane, through those beautiful green hills and overlooking South African mountains in the distance, but my mind kept shutting down and I have little recollection of the journey.
More to come…

Reflection 11/14/06
It’s been a week now since I’ve left Swaziland, and I have had some time to myself to reflect.  Quite honestly, I am still not sure if anything really means anything, if anything really is important.  I left my home and my relatively comfortable career two years ago to find Joel.  No, of course I know.  Joel is dead.  I get that.  But I came to Africa, planting myself in the middle of a raging AIDS pandemic, to try to understand that simple yet incredibly complex fact.  And after so many deaths and so much sickness these past two years, I am still no closer to the answer.  In 4 days, Joel will have been dead 3 years.  In 4 days, thousands more will die on the African continent because they had the poor taste to have been born into lives of poverty and suffering that don’t remain in anyone’s consciousness longer than Madonna’s next act (although the hell with the critics who would rather see a child deserted and raised in an orphanage, somehow equating that with a rich cultural heritage- the hell with you all. What are YOU doing?). 
I learned a lot more than I wanted to about the absence of ethic and moral will.  HIV has become a big business in Africa, supporting tens of thousands of organizations and salaries that serve no purpose beyond their own financial survival.  Millions of dollars have been spent supporting the hotel and restaurant business in the name of AIDS, as workshop after workshop is held to “discuss issues and strategies” over buffet lunches (as scores of overweight women attending the workshops are stuffing their purses with food while thousands in the rural areas can’t take their antiretrovirals for lack of a decent meal).  And as a young boy is dumped at my local hospital to die of AIDS-related opportunistic diseases, the headlines of the national paper read, “Swazis must beat their children.”
So, what have I learned?  I saw young 23 and 24 year olds leave their safe homes and families in places like Iowa and Minnesota to live in the middle of Africa, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of an AIDS pandemic, in the middle of hell.  I listened to them as they told stories of the children on their homesteads who were so sick that the only way they found comfort was to be carried on the backs of these young, idealistic volunteers when the child’s own family members had no time or interest or perhaps just not enough energy left to hold children at all.  I saw these young volunteers from America bring 7 year old girls to the clinic for treatment of HIV and sexually transmitted diseases as a result of rape by grandfathers, fathers, and uncles.  And I listened to the confusion and despair as they saw the rapists, abusers, tyrants excused by the family, victims robbed not only of legal recourse but of any recourse at all.  I saw these volunteers fight with nurses and doctors for the lives of young children that no one wanted to test or treat for HIV and that no one wanted to care for anymore.  I saw volunteers cry with despair after learning of the sexual relationships between adult teachers they called friends and the very young girls attending the volunteers’ anti-HIV and health clubs.  I saw the final volunteer who had yet to be touched by this disease here fight for his young sisi’s life at the hospital, trying to work things out with the doctor while still keeping from the family the fact that she was HIV positive.  And I remember his sms, shortly after midnight a week later, telling me he was “at her funeral now”.  No one was left untouched, no innocence was spared.
And beyond the HIV issue, I saw young children whipped with a cane as they each got off the bus, their only crime being that the bus was late, and I clearly recognized the delight in the eyes of the “discipliner” (who refers to his beating stick as his “motivator.”)  I saw incompetence and greed rewarded as organizations continued to flourish in the absence of accountability and at the expense of orphans and vulnerable children.  I saw patients die in hospital for want of routine care, as IV fluids run dry days earlier and medicines are out of stock in the pharmacy.  I saw children abandoned by their mothers.  Many children.  Abandoned by their mothers, their fathers unknown faces at the other end of abandoned seed. And in the face of all this horridness, I saw young Peace Corps volunteers do battle the best they could, some in a very quiet way, others more outspoken or with more sophistication, living on homesteads without even clean water, or any water at all, while their Australian, Swedish, and Canadian counterparts lived in relative comfort in the major cities as they partnered with the NGOs who continue to get fat.
I saw lives saved, literally one by one, by young people who believed they could make a difference.  And they did make a difference even though many more lives were lost along the way.  They made a difference to people who were dying, when no one else either cared or noticed. The US may have made many mistakes in its foreign polity, but this is not one of them. I learned how important it is to be “seen” at the end of your life, however short or long it is, how important it is that someone knows you lived and breathed and shared the air with the rest of us.  The lives that Peace Corps volunteers couldn’t save they at least acknowledged. 
I’m still no closer to finding Joel, no closer to understanding any of this.  So my journey continues.  It doesn’t matter much what contribution I make or don’t make, not to me anyway.  I just move on, do what comes next.

anniversary 11/18/06
It seems I’ve always appreciated the inevitability of death.  Joel’s death made me acutely aware of its randomness though.  So, when I walk down the street, I am keenly cognizant that something could come falling out of the sky from nowhere to land squarely on my head, or that some poor sucker driving down the road toward me could suffer an unexpected stroke causing his car to jump the curb and smash directly into me.  Life is that capricious, death that unexpected.  And I think when one really understands that, everything changes.  Everything either loses its meaning or its substance- not in an awful, heavy, “godicantgoonbecausenothingmeansanythinganymore” kind of way but in a way that keeps you separate from the world while still being in it, still being a part of it. The everyday world takes on a kind of transparency and the telos, the endpoint as it were, is to pull back the thin veil and get a peek at what lies behind it.  After Joel died, for many days, I floated in an ocean of my own breathing , each breath an audible wave breaking across my mind.  All I really remember, until the moment I took Matt’s arm to walk into the Phoenix, into the memorial service his strong, amazing friends had prepared for him (and thus for me), was the roaring of my own breath in my ears and a state of paradoxical grace the belied the awful event that precipitated it.  And wherever it was that I went during those days, I came back different, something at the core of me changed forever.

Moving on 11/28/06
If you get this image,stay with me.
As I start on my new journey, I am leaving this site which highlights my volunteer experience with HIV outreach work in Africa.  I will travel on through west Africa, Egypt, and India and will find a new blog site to describe my journey. I wanted to leave this as is.  I will be posting my new home when I find it.  These journal entries will be included in a book currently being edited by a couple RPCVs and will include the experiences of a number of PCVs in Swaziland.  I will post more about that as time goes by. 
Best,
Alyson

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