Life as a Peace Corps Volunteer

September 5^th, 2012

It has been cold and raining for almost a week now.  I have been largely stuck inside the whole time, reading, cooking, occasionally trying to do something productive.  It’s hard to haul myself out from under my tent of blankets, though.  The thermometer in my hut barely passes 50 degrees during even the warmest part of the day.  How my skin longs for the heat of the sun, to be released from the prison of layers I have been wearing since this wretched weather started days ago. 

It is times like this that I feel so disconnected from my life back home, so utterly caught up in my world here that I almost feel as if I am existing in a whole other universe.  It’s amazing how quickly the body can adapt.  How quickly new habits are formed and old habits are forgotten, my life here so different from the one that I led back home.  Things that at first seemed so daunting and burdensome have now become the norm to me.

One of the most defining elements of life here is water.  The most critical part of existence.  Vital to every living being, but yet, something that I have so taken for granted all my life… up until now.  You never really realize how much water you use in your day-to-day business until you have a 25-litre jug of it sitting in front of you, and you know that’s ALL you are going to have until the taps open again in three days.  But really, I don’t need more than that anyway.  Another thing I have learned since being here…how little water we actually need to get by.

Everyday, I boil two litres of water and immediately filter it.  This is my drinking water for the day, occasionally a little of which I will use to cook with.  In the evenings, I use another few litres to wash all my dishes from the day.  Finally, I use a mere litre to bathe.  And that’s it.  Except for laundry days, which are few and far between for me.  Here, I’ll go three or four days without washing my hair.  Likewise, I’ll wear my clothes at least four or five times without washing them.  When water is such a precious commodity, you wait to wash something until it is truly dirty.  When I do wash (either my hair or my clothing) it is all done by hand with a bucket.  My “bathroom” consists of a plastic basin with a shower curtain hung around it and my toilet is the pit litrine in the back corner of the homestead shared with the rest of my family.  As foreign as this all may have seemed to me six months ago, before I found out I was joining Peace Corps, it is amazing how normal it all is to me now and how little I actually miss of the amenities from home.

Village life was also a fast adjustment, mainly how different my daily routine is here.  There are no street lights illuminating the dirt roads of my village.  When night falls, it is DARK! No one is out and about after 6pm in the evening (except those types of people you definitely don’t want to be sharing a pitch black street with).  As soon as darkness descends, I padlock my burglar bars, lock my door, and latch all the windows.  I usually fix dinner, do the dishes, take a quick bucket bath and am in bed by 8pm.  Likewise, I rise much earlier.  My sleep cycle here is basically controlled by the sun at night and the roosters in the morning.  The roosters start crowing at 4:30 every morning like clockwork.  I’ve only used my alarm clock once since arriving in the village over a month ago.  Once the roosters start, there is no more sleeping.

The way I conduct myself in the village is also very different than I ever carried myself back home.  Swaziland remains a very conservative country.  In addition, as a young white woman, I get a TON of male attention here….rather aggressive male attention.  I am proposed to no fewer than three or four times every time I go to town.  As such, I dress modestly and carry myself modestly, as well.  Whenever I leave my homestead, I am in a skirt or dress that goes at least to my knees, if not all the way to my ankles, along with a shirt with sleeves and a high neckline.  I’ve noticed that dressing in such a way really does cut down on the amount of harassment I receive. 

Finally, one of the most welcome habits from home that I have quickly broken here is my obsession with time, schedules, appointments, etc.  Every time I leave to go somewhere, I take my time.  I stop to chat with every single person I pass on the way.  Sometimes it’s just a greeting.  Other times people want to ask questions and find out more about what I’m doing here or what the U.S is like.  If I’m not walking to my destination, I have to wait for the khumbi, which runs on no particular schedule, coming and going as it fills up.  Even when I am walking, most days the road has been muddy and riddled with puddles, making for slow progress.  My village is gorgeous though, and I never mind the detours and long journeys.  I often just make up excuses to get out and walk.  I’m soaking it all in as much as possible before I’m back in the hustle and bustle of home. 

August 16^th, 2012

“My Love Affair with a Mountain Village”

I rise each morning with the sun and, of course, the neighborhood roosters that act as the village’s alarm clock, faithfully ushering in each new morning with their cacophony of crowing.

This is, by far, my favorite time of day.  The homestead is still quiet, the rest of my family still savoring their last few moments of sleep while I quickly rise to savor my only few moments of solitude around the homestead.  I swing open the wooden door to my thatched-roof rondavel; the warm air, still heavy with sleep, rushes out as the crisp morning air rushes in to replace it.  The valley lays below me, a velvet blanket glittered with silver lights scattered here and there.   Daylight has just begun to peek above the hills, the sky blushing a soft pink along the horizon. 

I slip outside, still in my pajamas.  Having the homestead to myself means that this is the only time of day that I get to leave my house without modestly donning a knee-length skirt or dress first.  Immediately, my neck cranes upward to catch a glimpse of the moon precariously hanging in the little darkness that remains above the mountain top, a few stars still faintly twinkling their last twinkles of the night.  Here, I love that I can mark the passage of time in moon cycles.  In fact, in Siswati, the word for “month”  (inyanga) also means “moon.”  At home, I’m too busy and distracted to notice things such as the waxing and waning of the moon.  Since arriving in Kudzeni, it has become one of the highlights of my day. 

Spring is on the way…I can feel it tickling my skin.  The African sun has yet to break the Swazi winter, leaving the mornings pleasantly cool.  The valley below still lays blanketed in a thin layer of mist, not yet ready to rise and face a new day.  I cautiously make my way down to the pit latrine in the dawn’s faint light.  On the way, I pass my family’s kraal, where the cows lay snuggled under their usual tree, the low branches offering some shelter from the biting wind.  They lazily raise their heads from slumber to acknowledge my presence.  Sometimes I even mumble a greeting in reply, “Kusile inkhomo.” (Good morning Cows).  In this moment, I feel as if it is just the cows, the mountain, and I ready to greet the sun’s first rays.

By the time I have finished my morning rounds, the sky has brightened, the stars all faded, the rocky hillside red above me, bathed in an early morning glow.  Likewise, the homestead begins to awaken around me.  As I retreat to my hut, I hear the first cries of my sisi’s baby, the door to the main house slamming repeatedly as my younger bosisi dress for school, the clamor of hooves as our herd of goats rush past my hut to spend the day grazing the mountainside.

Six days a week, I set off down the dirt road for training, my two dogs, Tiger and Boss, following along behind me, their entire backsides wagging with excitement.  I hear faint cries of “Bongiwe!” coming from the children on the homestead up the mountain from mine.  I always smile and return their waves, loving the feeling of belonging that their greetings give me.  When we reach my neighbor’s homestead, we are joined by Heather (a fellow volunteer) and her puppy, Kona.  Together, the five of us make our way down the mountain, the puppies wrestling contentedly, occasionally rushing off into the tall grasses in pursuit of some ever-elusive prey.  We pass groups of timid school children, marching purposefully in the opposite direction on their way to the local primary school.  They all smile and offer shy waves, giggling as we pass.  After seven weeks, we have become a part of their morning routine, just as they have become a part of ours. 

After hours of tedious training, my mind breathes a sigh of relief when the bus finally drops me at the base of my beloved mountain each evening.  I almost always opt for the “shortcut” home, following a narrow, dirt path that weaves through thick, brittle grasses then under and around a grove of mango trees before depositing me back on the main road halfway up the mountainside.  The heat hangs so heavy by the afternoon that the edges of the surrounding mountain tops always appear hazy and blurred at this time of day.  But as I complete the final leg of my journey, crossing a small stream and climbing ever higher up the mountain, there is a merciful drop in temperature.

Cold evenings are spent huddled around the fire in our outdoor kitchen, chatting with my bosisi as they prepare the evening meal.  As darkness descends, life on my homestead begins to draw to a close.  My bhuti gathers the wares of his small outdoor shop and safely stows them away for another day.  My babe and oldest sisi arrive home from a long day of work in the city on the last bus of the evening.  In the distance, I hear the yapping of my dogs and the shrill whistles of my bhuti, followed by the vibration of dozens of hooves on the packed earth as the goats and cows are herded back down the mountain and into their kraals for the night.

As the first stars begin to shine, I retreat to the sanctuary of my own hut.  Although evenings remain crisp, I now fall asleep to the lullaby of crickets singing below my window, and once again, I am reminded that spring is on it’s way.