The Universal Language

Some people say that math is the universal language. If you were to ask my bosisi (sisters) what they thought of that, they would disagree! Math is a language spoken fluently by few compared to what I believe is the true universal language: music.

My family took me to church today. Their church is called AAFM, African Apostolic Faith Mission.  I’ve always thought that church in general was kind of boring, and it is in fact even more boring when the sermon is in a language you do not speak. I do not mean to speak ill of the pastor – I just had no idea what was going on for most of the two-hour service. The parts of the service that were not spoken, however, were when the magic happened.

The singing always started with one singer, sometimes male, sometimes female. The only instruments were cushions wrapped with duct tape and held in one hand. They were drums, and were beaten with the other hand. As the drummers kept their beat and other people joined in singing, the song swelled in volume and the number of harmonies increased until the whole building seemed to be filled to the brim with sound and song and joy.

I could tell looking around the room some of the things that I know to be true about music. Each singer had a slightly different facial expression. For some, the music was an expression of thanks or of joy, and they sang sedately. For others, the music was gratitude and praise that needed to be heard! They sang loudly, with their eyes closed, moving to the music. For others still, they really felt the music. Their eyes were also closed, their faces held in absolute rapture, lost in the sound of the voices and the experience of singing. Music is a deeply personal experience, but those personal experiences united to form the swell of sound that was both overwhelming and exalting. It was the sharing and uniting of more than just voices; it was a union of souls, and it was one of the most powerful things I have ever experienced.

Whether it is playing in a combo in Starbucks, an orchestra in Clowes, a national championship basketball game in a stadium, or singing in a church in Swaziland, music is something that has been a part of the lives of so many people that I know. It is a crucial part of the lives of people all over the world. It expresses sadness so deep that words have not been invented to describe what the heart contains. It expresses joy so powerful that words could not be shouted loudly enough to share the fire that is burning so brightly. Music is an experience that is part of being human.

Thank you, Swaziland, for that reminder. AEA.

Training Continues, Illness Begins

As the weeks of training continue on, life here is beginning to seem more like a reality than a trip. Routines are established, friendships are built, habits are formed, new things are learned both at home and at training, and the days between the present and our departure from home grow more numerous. It no longer gives my heart a small pang to wake up (slightly frozen), stare about myself, and think: “This is my life now. There is no going back.” It is merely another fact of life, like the roosters crowing, the sun rising, and the bus stopping for cows to cross the road.

This week, I have missed a few days of training. On Friday, I started to feel ill, and noticed that I was getting an upset stomach. On Saturday, I had little appetite and diarrhea. Sunday continued those symptoms in the morning, with a fever starting in the midafternoon. When I took my temperature at 2:30pm on Sunday, it was 101. I took some non-aspirin (African Tylenol) and went to bed. I awoke at 3:15am in some pretty intense pain and sprinted to the latrine. I took my temperature, and it was 102.8. I took more non-aspirin and waited for morning, wishing I had a cell phone to call for help. I fell back asleep and woke up the next morning with my fever down to 100 but absolutely no energy. I dragged myself to training, where I was promptly sent to the Peace Corps medical center in Mbabane.

Day, our absolutely wonderful medical officer, took some blood, did a brief exam, and diagnosed me with a bacterial infection. She put me on an antibiotic and an antinausea medication. I promptly fell asleep, and did not awaken until dinnertime (Monday). I did not eat, but merely went back to sleep. I woke up long enough to take a shower that evening (running water and heat exist at our med center), and then slept until the next morning. Although Tuesday morning found me weak, I felt better. Since most of my symptoms weren’t better (the exception being fever), they decided to hold me another night. I slept much of Tuesday and then today, Wednesday (17 July), I woke up with most symptoms gone and some of my strength back. I’m still tired and weaker than I was going in, but I am far stronger than I was just a few days ago and my appetite has returned in full force. Getting sick is part of going to a new country with different endemic diseases, and we really do have the best medical care available to us to handle that transition.

The med hut, which is really not a hut at all, has heat, wifi, a microwave, a refrigerator, catered meals, a flush toilet, a giant bathtub with a shower, two pillows on the bed, loads of blankets, unlimited hot tea, and the most caring medical staff imaginable. I will have to catch up on everything that I have missed during training, but I certainly haven’t been slumming it while I was busy being sick and feeling sorry for myself. I am much better emotionally as well, as I got to get away from my situation and reassess, meditate, and sleep on all my problems. Getting sick was honestly more of a blessing than a curse, although it’s a blessing I don’t need again for a while!

On another note, as routines here become established, they become less of a novelty and a fascination to me and more of a reality. I stop seeing things as new and exciting as I acclimate, and that may mean that I don’t write about something that some of you are curious about. If there are any questions that you have or anything in particular you want me to post on, please let me know! I could use the inspiration, and it will keep me looking at Swaziland with a fresh light in my eyes. My dad has requested a post about Siswati, the language spoken here, so maybe I’ll get started on that one soon.

It's starting to get real now

Today is 8 July. I write my blog posts on my computer before I post them online, due to the challenges with internet here. It’s still better service than the AT&T at home, but the service is rarely available.

On my first or second night on the homestead, I wrote a post that I ended up deciding to not publish. Culture shock and the loss of so many things that I took for granted made my first few days on the homestead pretty rough, but as that is not so much the case anymore it would be inappropriate to post my earlier lament.

As I mentioned, I have moved out to the homestead. I am called Maswazi Hlatjwago (Mah-swaz-ee Hlat-jwa-go) by my family. My American name is not how I am known anymore here in Swaziland unless it is by other volunteers. I have a room that locks, and it is adjacent to one of the kitchens. I have a full size bed, my little gas stove, some buckets to bathe in, pots to boil water in, and some plates. I do not have running water or heat. I have electricity enough to power a light, but nothing beyond that. My floor is concrete, as are my walls. My roof is tin, which has been the biggest challenge for me so far. When I boil water during the day, the steam condensates on the roof and rains on me all night. When it rains here, the roof magnifies the sound. I know that my room is very well built, however, by the fact that I didn’t feel the earthquake that hit yesterday.

My homestead is huge. I am around a part of it frequently, but the whole homestead is over a hundred people. I have a mini-homestead within the homestead as a whole. My area has 20 people, which is how many we cook for at dinner. Few speak English. There are many animals in addition to the many people. We have cows, goats, chickens, pigs (supposedly – I have yet to see a one), and dogs. The rooster perch is right by my window, so my mornings start very, very early.

A typical day consists of me getting up at 5:00am. I dress, go fetch water, boil the water, drink coffee, cook breakfast (typically eggs), make my lunch to take to school, study before school, maybe do other chores (hang wet laundry up, filter previously boiled water, etc.), sweep, and leave for training at 7:30. I do Peace Corps things all day from 8:00-17:00 and then I head home. I immediately fetch and boil water, which has to cool for my evening bath. Boiling takes at least an hour. Then I help to cook dinner and sit with the family. Dinner is at 19:00. I then come back to my room, study or write on here, and bathe. Then I go to bed by 21:00.

The days are hard. Everything takes so much more time. Think gratefully today of your washing machines, dryers, safe running water, reliable electricity, ovens and stoves, internet, refrigerators, English-speaking family, heat and AC, and a complete lack of copious amounts of red dust on your feet/socks/shoes/floor/everything else. I would also advise a moment of thanks for not going to dinner to find a chicken head, foot, and intestines on your plate and a very proud family that cannot wait for you to try what they slaughtered for you earlier that day.

Today we spent hours learning Siswati, and some time learning how to make a compost so that we can have gardens at our permanent sites. Composting in the US is easy. Making composting look easy so that villagers will add it to their lifestyles is not quite as simple. That is what we are working on this week. At home my family teaches me Siswati words, and sometimes I remember them. Make (ma-gay), my host mother, tried to teach me a Swazi dance today. I can’t even dance in America, let alone one of these challenging, intricate, and beautiful Swazi dances. The family laughed for a good half an hour at me. I left the kitchen recently, and I can still hear them laughing.

Life here is hard, but it is okay. On my first few nights here, I cried much of the evening. I have only now gotten my appetite back (though that chicken head didn’t improve things). I thought seriously about whether I could live this way in this country speaking this language for two years and three months. After some intense soul searching, I believe that this is the right place for me. Adjusting is hard, and it is a process that takes time. Fortunately for me, I have nothing but time left.