tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81762906622830454732024-02-20T18:11:39.897-08:00Webster CornerI'm back in the USA after almost a year working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Swaziland. What I wasn't able to write about my experience while I was there, I'm posting now. Three cheers for Free Speech.Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-58327995566061400172013-04-18T16:34:00.003-07:002013-04-18T16:34:38.388-07:00New site coming soon!Since I've now been home from Swaziland for an entire year, I am finally putting a portfolio of my writing on the web at: ruthmarvinwebster.com. <br />
<br />
Check it out if you have time. <br />
<br />
<br />Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-20207550691786107352012-09-11T17:01:00.002-07:002012-09-11T17:03:39.849-07:00Tea with GogoWhile I'm tempted to take the khumbi into town today, I've pledged to stay on the homestead, take a walk, and "integrate into my community." That's good ol' PC jargon for chillin'.<br />
<br />
I've placed the office chair Gogo has loaned me in the yard outside my hut. The chickens mill around, scratching in the dirt for worms near the dried stocks of maize. The bees hum around the peach tree sprouting pink blossom behind me. A couple of children play in the yard too as there are always a half dozen here at the Simelane homestead in Khiza.<br />
<br />
Though they have no toys or balls to keep themselves occupied, they play for hours on end, never seeming to get bored and never to quarrel. A few children walk up and down the rusty dirt roads with homemade push toys --- bits of wires fastened together in the shape of a car or a train on two small wheels. The other day, from my khumbi window, two boys pushed paint rollers attached to a pole along the tar road.<br />
<br />
Gogo Simelane and her granddaughter Keke are at the other end of the yard behind the chicken coop washing clothes in a fiberglass bathtub. They plugged up the hole in it and put in a little bar of green soap with about four or five buckets of pump water and a pile of dirty clothes the size of a small glacier. Keke then stomps on them, walking back and forth in the bathtub with her bare feet as if she were crushing grapes. Afterwards, the clothes are rung out, put back again in the tub to rinse in clean water and then the process is repeated. Finally then, after at least an hour, the wet clothes are hung on the line to dry which takes no time here in the slight dry breeze.<br />
<br />
For ironing, which is mostly reserved for Zionist church garb, Gogo Simelane sits in the kitchen by her wood-burning stove and uses little irons - literally - that are warmed in the fire and look like they're from the Middle Ages. She often sits by the stove in the evenings with her feet on a blanket and a rusty metal TV tray before her. Yesterday evening, she put a chick in the bottom drawer under the stove to warm and massaged it back to life.<br />
<br />
Gogo cares greatly about her chickens, which she calls 'hooligans' behind their backs but secretly adores. Almost every week, a new brood of four or five hatch. Around the yard, there is an assortment in graduating sizes ranging from teeny tiny to almost grown. But before they are ready to eat (as hers are apparently boilers rather than layers), it is a world fraught with challenge and hardship. Gogo often keeps her eyes cast on the horizon as occasionally a hawk will swoop down into the yard and steal a chick away. The other day, the puppy Daisy ate an egg from the coop so she is chained up now by the latrine looking punished but not contrite. Brings new meaning to the expression, 'don't count your chickens before they're hatched.'<br />
<br />
Before laundry this morning, we gathered at the water pump outside my hut. Gogo was peering into Keke's open mouth and tut-tutting. I looked over Gogo's shoulder and noticed that the back four or five molars in Keke's mouth were blackened, jagged and misshapen. I didn't even know what I was looking at until Gogo threatened Keke to take her to the dentist and have them pulled out. Who knew that teeth could look as if they were charred black as coal. Just turned eight years old and the back of Keke's mouth was all but rotting out.<br />
<br />
"Too many sweeties at school," concluded Gogo. "And you tell her, Thembi. Tell her she must brush her teeth --- once in the morning and once at night."<br />
<br />
I parroted Gogo's admonitions but I'm not hopeful. Maybe when I next went to town I will look for mouthwash with floride. More than once, we volunteers have commented on the beauty of these Swazi smiles - with their perfectly white straight teeth. And Keke's looks like that too - from the front. Once again, I mumbled thanks to my mother for standing over me as a child, making certain I brushed the length of time it took for the salt to run through the inverted hour glass of an egg timer next to the sink.<br />
<br />
A friend gave Gogo a gift of a phone yesterday. Apparently Swazi Telecomm is giving out one free with the purchase of a new "wireless" phone, which is basically a cellphone that looks like a land line, complete with receiver, cord and push button pad. Yesterday, after assembly, Siabonga and another of Gogo's grandchildren, and I trucked down to Swazi Telecomm to find out the phone's number and to buy 40 Rand of credit to charge it up.<br />
<br />
When I asked her whether she liked her new phone this morning, I was expecting her to report that it was nothing special (she has a cellphone) but instead she raved. She said she had talked and talked and talked on it last night and the call had only cost 10 Rand. She was over the moon.<br />
<br />
Now it sounds such an easy thing to do, call into some automated Swazi Telecomm number, follow the prompts, 1 for English and 2 for Siswati, but somehow it is all so much more mysterious. For whatever reason, I'm not completely certain, we were there for hours, huddled around the kitchen table, straining with our glasses to see in the darkness of the kitchen, with the black plastic phone placed between us as if an oracle. We punched this or that number, with or without a hash or a star, sometimes on the speakerphone, sometimes passing the receiver back and forth, in bizarre broken English or minimalist Siswati. Then Gogo called a friend on the cellphone for direction, back and forth again, to me in English, then back to Gogo again in Siswati. It seemed all hope was lost.<br />
<br />
And then it was done. The credit for 100 R made it onto the phone, the transaction deemed SUCCESSFUL on the phone's tiny screen and we jumped around the table, high-fiving and dancing. <br />
<br />
"Oh Thembi!" Gogo shrieked, the joy all the sweeter for all the frustration. "You are so clever. You are so clever!"<br />
<br />
Not really, I thought. It shouldn't have taken me so long but I was pleased she thought so. And very happy indeed to have helped my host mother in some small way. I was useful.<br />
<br />
It reminded me of the first time I met Gogo Simelane two weeks ago. All my belongings and I had just arrived and we were anxious to know about each other. As we sat down for tea at her kitchen table, she told me she had two daughters but when one died, she left her job as a domestic for a family in Johannesburg and returned to her family home in Khiza to take care of her two grandchildren. She told me she was 61 years old.<br />
<br />
I asked inanely about whether 61 seemed old to her. Or did it seem an achievement? Afterall, the life expectancy in Swaziland is 35 or so.<br />
<br />
"Ah, 61 is old. Very old," she sighed. "I am no longer useful."<br />
<br />
I told her I was 54 and that I had a husband and two daughters at home in America. I brought out photos of my family and my home and she oohed and awed.<br />
<br />
"And you leave them behind? Your family in America?" Her brows furrowed, the look on her face was that of a strong, smart woman who was not easily convinced, and even more rarely surprised, She seemed unable to comprehend why this strange white woman would travel halfway around the world to come to live in the hut behind her house when she had a choice in the matter. "Why?"<br />
<br />
I paused to think of a simple answer to that simple question. One that had been weighing on my mind for over a year now. But silently, the clouds parted, and it all became so clear.<br />
<br />
"To be useful," I said.<br />
<br />
We looked deeply into each other's eyes, which were both filling with tears. Just then, I thought, we understood each other completely. Two women, from different worlds, in a moment of complete mutual understanding. Yes, this is what we both longed for in our lives. If not happy, then to be useful. Or perhaps useful is a form of happiness after all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-76666557654606345732012-06-13T17:54:00.000-07:002012-06-20T15:17:22.347-07:00Power of the Pen: What really happened to my blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj60lNcHL8sLKoT8kcXQVl5_0eZrvmXnhSi7_MNWKtAA0ID0APVzodIWMO3K6L_4JBiZiEXcWu3Y3DCViWhAkZ9QMt-Y4QYyMuA2tvlVTUvYutvaJlklG1BSQcIsDpT3sRbfOGHm-9uSdFD/s1600/DSCF0832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj60lNcHL8sLKoT8kcXQVl5_0eZrvmXnhSi7_MNWKtAA0ID0APVzodIWMO3K6L_4JBiZiEXcWu3Y3DCViWhAkZ9QMt-Y4QYyMuA2tvlVTUvYutvaJlklG1BSQcIsDpT3sRbfOGHm-9uSdFD/s320/DSCF0832.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Monday I was up with the sun, dressed in my wrap dress,
loafers and blazer, waiting for Stella and the Peace Corps Isuzu. I didn’t know when to expect them so I
was ready by 6. At 10, the car pulled
up in front of my homestead in Swaziland with the country director in tow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were halfway to Nsongweni High School, where I taught
English as a Peace Corps volunteer, before I asked if we had a plan. Swazis are always referring to ‘having
a plan.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We will meet with the principal first,” Stella instructed,
clutching my gray blanket around her tiny shoulders. “Then we will meet with the teachers. Ruth will not apologize until they have
voiced their concerns. It is best
they talk and get it all out in the air.
At the end she will apologize and promise to keep her nose out of their
business.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had hardly taken one step into the principal’s office
before students were summoned to move chairs across the hall to the staff room
for my trial. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat on one of the backless chairs in the middle of the
room as the director and the principal stood, hovering over me like gargoyles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I glanced around the room. The deputy principal stood directly across from me, in front
of cubbies holding the occasional broken stapler, box of chalk or dirty
rag. At one end of the room, a
dozen younger teachers lined the walls. At the other, behind an imposing desks piled high with exam
booklets, five senior teachers held court, glum and dour as executioners.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stella began in her small pinched voice, her eyes only occasionally
rising from the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We are here today because Ruth wrote something on her
website about the school,” she began.
“And we are here so that you can share your concerns.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each
syllable, rounding out all of the <i>ohs</i>
and stretching her lips wide for <i>eeees</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One teacher shifted in his seat. The gregarious agriculture teacher, who liked chatting about
America, sat with his back to me.
Zipho, my Facebook friend, with whom I had shared the address of the blog
in question, kept her eyes cast down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a few moments of silence, the deputy principal – a
thin man in his forties - cleared his throat. Stuffing his hands in his trousers and straightening his
back to appear larger, he started from the top.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She writes something --- I don’t know it exactly but --- but
if you go to Asia, you become spiritual,” he waved his hand for effect. “But if
you go to Africa, you are drunk and laughing.” He continued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It has been written that one teacher smelled of alcohol,
that one teacher is near retirement, that some teachers don’t go to class, “ and
then, that “our beans look like vomit.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the mention of such heresy, poor Mrs. MS Dlamini, the
mild mannered head of the English department, let out a gasp. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We love our beans,” she murmured. “And this has wounded us very deeply.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to explain I had written about another’s dried
beans, not the baked beans served at school, but I remembered the admonishment
to remain silent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ms. Mohammed said the cleaning lady had been terribly hurt
when she heard I had written how her bristled brush hit the baseboards. The deputy principal said I was
two-faced, especially when I had told him I understood corporal punishment but
then wrote that ‘he was like a child with ice cream cone’ when he inflicted
student beatings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The agriculture teacher, his back still turned, referred to
his notes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She says she is trained as a journalist,” he sneered, “but
she lies. She is writing that only a few teachers go to morning assembly and students
ask her to come to their classes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again I kept silent, tears starting to dribble down my cheeks. The country director handed me a
starched handkerchief.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The principal seemed most concerned about the state of the school buildings. “She says there are broken window,” she
said pointing to the cracked staff room windows. “These windows are not broken.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then pointing to the linoleum floor, she said, “These
floor tiles are not cracked, like she says.” My eyes fixated in front of my chair where the tiles by the
door were worn through and blackened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Couldn’t the heart of the matter be a cultural
misunderstanding, suggested Stella.
“It is like saying someone’s shoes are looking like your grandmother’s
shoes,” she smiled. “The same thing mean different things in different places.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The principal told how on a recent visit to the Cultural
Center, she had been deeply offended to overhear a tourist asking someone to
take her picture next to a statute of the ‘broke king.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I racked my brain before it dawned on me that the tourist
must have been referring to Swaziland’s king, one of the richest men in the
world, who was pleading for a government loan from its neighbor South Africa. “It
may be true, but he is my king. He is my king.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a moment of reflection, Stella nodded. It was time for my apology.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am so very sorry if I have offended anyone,” I
blubbered. “It was not my
intention to hurt anyone. I was
just trying to tell my friends and family what it was like here. I have taken down everything from the
Internet. I will not write any more
about the school. I hope you will
forgive me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Nhlabatsa, an English teacher who moonlights as an
evangelical minister, suggested the teachers mull over my fate during the holidays
and vote on the matter in January.
Stella’s eyes must have widened, thinking how impractical it would be to
wait a month if the Peace Corps must move me to another site – or fire me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then Old Mr. Twala slowly rose from his chair. “She has done a great many good things
at the school,” he said. “And I
think she should be forgiven.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I burrowed my head into my borrowed handkerchief. Mr. Twala, who appeared to have a bad
smell under his nose whenever I entered the room, had come to my defense and
with only a few words had completely changed the course of the proceedings. Old Mr. Twala, of all people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who here has never sinned? Who has not made a mistake? Would we all be thrown into a pit --- be burned in hell for
our sins?” chimed in a history teacher.
A small sermon on forgiveness ensued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it was decided, without show of hands or a vote, that I should be allowed to return to
school in the New Year. No doubt
the Peace Corps considered it a victory and I suppose it was a relief.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the teachers never extended themselves to me again. Though I had never been warmly welcomed,
the teachers’ reception was even frostier after that. They were wary of me, and rarely -- if ever --- spoke to me.
And never in English. I had always
been an outsider, but now I was a trespasser. I lasted another term, but after a few months of solitary
confinement, I decided to terminate my Peace Corps service and return home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another Peace Corps volunteer, who taught in Boston’s inner
city, said that American teachers would have had the same reaction. She said any school, like any company,
would be just as unaccepting of criticism. Especially if it’s true.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what I wrote on my blog had not been meant as
criticism. A dissertation on the
woes of Swaziland’s education system would have looked very different. My blog was intended to be a snap shot
of my life, living and working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Swaziland. I had truly only wanted to paint a
picture. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfC7BVAY_u8cDbvgMKwijoBrhEeaszPfnwlqp19IH1NUpi22MdBWR1vc-M16gv7q_ORphZzJs4oPtsaisCTomAH7TMgV7jqJQIuyrmG6fyavYorHzMbMjYL8GcB7Kma7aVqVPx1HB6kfo/s1600/DSCF0859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfC7BVAY_u8cDbvgMKwijoBrhEeaszPfnwlqp19IH1NUpi22MdBWR1vc-M16gv7q_ORphZzJs4oPtsaisCTomAH7TMgV7jqJQIuyrmG6fyavYorHzMbMjYL8GcB7Kma7aVqVPx1HB6kfo/s320/DSCF0859.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
“What can I write that will give people a flavor of this
place?” I wrote in my journal days before posting that entry. “I have hesitated to write until now –
wondering where to begin, anxious for it not to sound too negative. Writing is not as easy as it
looks. All words have connotations,
are gray with each reader’s meaning.
I want to describe the people and the place with clarity. Unfortunately language is a primitive
tool in my hands.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But hard as I had tried not to offend, I still ended up
wounding good people and ruining any chance I might have had to affect change
during my service in Swaziland. In
retrospect, I should not have written that blog post. Or at least, I should not have offered up its address. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I should have been quicker to describe the
children’s enthusiasm for learning or the good work that many of the teachers
do. And I definitely should have
been more forgiving of the teacher’s reticence to have me there and their fear
I would do --- just what I ended up doing – telling the world their educational
system is a failure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQHO7_ZuWaZII1ToE27hHmvr6NwgXDM513ZF3ZPzzYiT0wRlKUuuyN9JKcpEKP_LK5240rdMIQXmievfLIv_lX5TD1TQCjziwuv6MiFasQzTDxaLBC0_GMySRG6pHsimtEeNCnY178ige/s1600/DSCF0991.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQHO7_ZuWaZII1ToE27hHmvr6NwgXDM513ZF3ZPzzYiT0wRlKUuuyN9JKcpEKP_LK5240rdMIQXmievfLIv_lX5TD1TQCjziwuv6MiFasQzTDxaLBC0_GMySRG6pHsimtEeNCnY178ige/s320/DSCF0991.JPG" width="320" /></a>I don’t know whether a more rosy depiction would have
changed anything. But I do know
that I am more grateful than ever to live in a country where I can express
myself freely and where most everyone is respected for a paragraph well written
or an opinion well-informed. That,
I will never take for granted again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-25831236072428078112012-06-12T11:24:00.003-07:002012-10-09T17:01:48.269-07:00Give and Take<span style="color: #550055;"><div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-c5UDdrzqGOrxP4EPAV20BQItHgv1t5Hc3mdtwuFjTFXC_5GKK7sGNwvLq4fZ7tXy_RCmv7VqcTJKiTOoXdzVAC9f07lIjrr7zBbLpdBwlD1jbRQMMhEPGPjXD11zvLfNDUpRCrKRFx9/s1600/DSCF1081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-c5UDdrzqGOrxP4EPAV20BQItHgv1t5Hc3mdtwuFjTFXC_5GKK7sGNwvLq4fZ7tXy_RCmv7VqcTJKiTOoXdzVAC9f07lIjrr7zBbLpdBwlD1jbRQMMhEPGPjXD11zvLfNDUpRCrKRFx9/s320/DSCF1081.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seated on a rock waiting for the kombi near my homestead in Swaziland, a young man approached to ask for money. I shrugged, pretending not to understand, returning to my paperback. But he was insistent. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You like Swaziland? You think America is being better than Swaziland?” he said, peppering me with questions like gunshots, tapping my shoulder to illustrate the point.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Finally I murmured something about liking Swaziland. That both countries were wonderful. They were both good in their own ways. You know, the usual Peace Corps public relations stuff. I even smiled slightly, hoping that would satisfy him, but he didn’t go away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Instead he leaned over me, trying to wedge his head between mine and the pages of my book. It was no doubt difficult to lasso my attention with my eyes lowered on the page.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I want. You give me,” he snarled, pointing at the blue Uniball Vision Elite pen in my hand. “You give me. I want!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9-NA2oGdVzaK8BlW6UHROpAu9yH_5A7ljCLMDrx1uOpqkXjTdG_kEgh4OhlswW7mTuxIu-Eo5nZ-dUt_GK9cs6O5yx1Q6meIFCCdycD-rToqUbGnV7RI-F-ATXPUPlrMBR0faQPUCBQK/s1600/DSCF0808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9-NA2oGdVzaK8BlW6UHROpAu9yH_5A7ljCLMDrx1uOpqkXjTdG_kEgh4OhlswW7mTuxIu-Eo5nZ-dUt_GK9cs6O5yx1Q6meIFCCdycD-rToqUbGnV7RI-F-ATXPUPlrMBR0faQPUCBQK/s320/DSCF0808.JPG" width="238" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not surprisingly, he had no interest in my book. In the year I had spent living in a hut in the back of the Simelane homestead as a Peace Corps volunteer, I had never seen a person engrossed in a book. Not even in the Nhlangano Public Library where the candy jar was far more popular than the written word.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You know that ol’ Swazi saying,” quipped one of my teacher friends. “If you want to hide something, put it in a book.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I looked up at the man’s aggressive face, feeling my eyebrows tense together. The sun warmed the back of my neck. A cow called from the pasture behind me. I could even make out the rumble of the Nhlangano kombi in the distance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Why not? Why you no give me?” he argued, more sharply this time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Because it’s mine,” I told him simply. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Living in the tiny kingdom of Swaziland --- without running water, cooking meals on a single gas burner and teaching high school English --- had made me bold. I looked the young man straight in the eye, suddenly feeling no need to elaborate on the little respected concept of ownership. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I could have explained that I was a writer and I had a great affinity for some pens. That this one was one of the few remaining from my original stash brought from home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I didn’t. Why explain myself, I thought. Why should I?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I arrived in the southern province of Shiselweni, I had been embarrassed of my wealth – by my well-made American shoes, my healthy straightened teeth, and by my $200 a month Peace Corps salary. But no longer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt bombarded by open hands, by people for whom begging seemed perfectly acceptable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Emasweeties? Emasweeties?” the children asked on my walk to school.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You give me money? Give me money,” they demanded in town.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even on the Simelane homestead, if Gogo was not home, young mothers often wandered up to me as I pinned clothes on the line. Some were even so bold as to slink up to my partially opened door and ask for a handout. I didn’t often understand their words, but it didn’t matter. Their mournful eyes, the sideways glances to the their docile toddlers standing beside them, an hand outstretched. Their intent was clear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You must not spoil them, Thembi,” my host mother used to warn. “It’s no good!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She knows that something given rather than earned breeds dependency here. When her grandson forgot to put the weekly bag of maize on the gatepost in front of the to be picked up and I suggested various ways we could get the corn to the grain middleman but she wanted to hear none of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Let them starve then,” she told me matter of factly, swatting away my words as if they were gnats buzzing around her ears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You feed the cats, they will not hunt for rats. You feed the dogs, they will not get up to bark,” she instructed. “They must be disciplined, but you cannot.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Africa does not need your help. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She doesn’t need another handout. She needs a dose of tough love, a swift kick in the butt and an admonition to fix her own problems. Much blame has been given to our colonial ancestors but what was done is over now. Africa must stop her begging and quit relying on the West to bail her out when she gets in a bind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our charity may assuage our own guilt but I believe it undermines Africa’s already shaky self-esteem, affirming what she already suspects – that she is not capable of taking care of herself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let her stand or topple on her own. Walk away, NGOs and missionaries and aid agencies. Let the Swazi people learn to demand fair government, free expression and education, and a decent wage for a day’s work. They are quite capable of standing on their own two feet. All they need now is a dose of tough love.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</span>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-13352473028482910492012-06-07T14:42:00.000-07:002012-06-12T11:48:46.684-07:00Africa for Beginners<style>
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As my husband and I headed to San Diego’s Lindberg Field’s
Terminal 1 with my two massive suitcases, rolling computer bag, and overstuffed
backpack, I missed the step onto the first escalator. As he easily ascended to the Sky Bridge with the largest
bags, I tried to right my computer bag, nearly falling in the process.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You alright, M’am?” a worried Marine asked as I
successfully stepped onto the escalator.
I smiled sheepishly and followed my husband to the kiosk where I was to
print my boarding pass and check in my luggage.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How are you going to manage everything – all this traveling
– without me?” he asked as he hovered over my shoulder, directing me as to what
button to push and leaning over to unlock the TSA locks dangling from my
carry-on.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know,” I whispered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in my heart I felt strong. After all, I was no stranger
to hardship, I had lived in Europe when women didn’t shave their armpits and
clothes dryers were considered gadgets. Finally on my way to serve two years as
a Peace Corps volunteer in the tiny African country of Swaziland. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi-mhlfDI1SFGZm9BmEb6jRRKYeo91EBlNlwY5txKrOZUtEnkJKbEZn7TmqnfoszywSUfCE-2fn67G06v_vlXxWMAHWlsHowPuiDpqmcbdoQqAt67ObOaN32eky2xy1pI8lRgUhDrCY-Y/s1600/DSCF0763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi-mhlfDI1SFGZm9BmEb6jRRKYeo91EBlNlwY5txKrOZUtEnkJKbEZn7TmqnfoszywSUfCE-2fn67G06v_vlXxWMAHWlsHowPuiDpqmcbdoQqAt67ObOaN32eky2xy1pI8lRgUhDrCY-Y/s320/DSCF0763.JPG" width="320" /></a>No one knew where Swaziland was when the invitation packet
arrived on our doorstep. Almost
immediately, I Googled it. It is
the Kingdom of Swaziland, more accurately, as it has a king --- the only
reigning absolute monarch in Africa.
I read how Mswati III had thirteen wives, each of whom have a palace and
a BMW or two. Formerly ruled by
the British, the Internet said, people drink tea. There was even some diamond mining. Johannesburg, in South Africa, is
directly west and takes about an hour by bush plane. To the east lies Mozambique with its pristine archipelagoes
and unspoiled beaches. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched endless hours of You Tube videos in which
volunteers talked about their favorite foods and SiSwati phrases. I read every Peace Corps memoir and
blog I could unearth. And with
every word, I felt more certain of my decision to step out of my comfort zone
and my privileged life as a San Diego ‘tennis mom.’ I was ready for an
adventure.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once installed in the local college dorms for training, our
new Country Director referred to Swaziland as ‘Africa for Beginners.’ It seemed
certain I had been sent to the right place. We were told most of us would enjoy an electrical plug and
maybe a Jojo water tank at our permanent sites. I had even seen a handful of KFCs and the countryside, with
its rolling hills and fertile valleys, looked remarkably like the south of
France, from a distance.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even as I sat in a dilapidated classroom at the local
teachers college, listening to a Power Point training sessions, I felt sure all
that talk of diarrhea, filtering river water, HIV and poisonous snakes, were
somehow meant for the other thirty-nine earnest volunteers, with their wide
eyes and nervous smiles. But not
me. Their experience might be like that, but mine, I felt certain, would not be
so decidedly Third World.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One week later Peace Corps staff dropped each of us off at
our host family’s homestead, the place we would call home for our two months of
training.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perched on an upside down bucket in the kitchen of the
Masuku’s tiny cement bunker of a house --- the Masuku’s seven children squatted
on the floor around my feet --- all I could think was that in those hours of
training, someone could have at least tried to prepare me for this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTQ3dn-ojzPZeHapTQhfrsHgaUjZ-QINlZjtePHs8K_2et-kcbF7OjeVIUebWavwmFQmDj7BJFj2S-EYck4QoDdoH2fVXyma01k3uqc5xYP4S7qST4ieq1lG1l1P3NWWUcdxPTayi_mf1/s1600/DSCF1035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTQ3dn-ojzPZeHapTQhfrsHgaUjZ-QINlZjtePHs8K_2et-kcbF7OjeVIUebWavwmFQmDj7BJFj2S-EYck4QoDdoH2fVXyma01k3uqc5xYP4S7qST4ieq1lG1l1P3NWWUcdxPTayi_mf1/s320/DSCF1035.JPG" width="320" /></a>Mr. Masuku, a huge man wearing a bright magenta Ohio State
sweatshirt and an insincere grin, was seated on the only chair. He watched under hooded eyes as the
eldest daughter, 14-year old Notobeko, carefully offered me the biggest rusty,
metal plate piled high with rice and red beans. I set it on my lap, as she continued to solemnly hand out
each of the other metal mismatched plates, each one corresponding in size to
the size of its recipient. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First was the Make (pronounced ma-gay) Masuku, who could
have easily started as a NFL linebacker. Then doe-eyed Apinda who crouched
behind the wood-burning stove. Thin, athletic Ayanda was next, followed by shy
Bernet. Then came the young man of
the house named Ben. Next was
three-year old Nlolipo in his dirty tee shirt boasting ‘I’m kind of a big deal
around here’ and finally eight-month old, completely naked, Benele. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a short SiSwati prayer, the family dived in, eagerly
scooping grains of rice and beans in their dirty hands and shoving them into
their mouths in complete silence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dinner was late that night as there was not a morsel of food
in the house until the door to my room was unlocked. Instantly, the provisions the Peace Corps had sent: bags of
chicken, cornflakes, powdered milk, rice, juice and cans of sardines and tuna
fish, scurried into their desperate hands. Only the British water filter, gas tank and burners, two
blankets and a mosquito net remained in my room beside the garage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I sat gingerly eating my rice and beans, wondering
whether it would make me sick, I was pleased to think that at least I had put
food in these children’s stomachs and I was grateful for that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Conversation was impossible with only three SiSwati words at
my command and the father’s halting English but the basics were
communicated. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Father Masuku was getting ready to leave for Johannesburg to
work in the mines. The family is
Jehovah Witness and Banele’s name literally means ‘the last one,’ though there
are many children in Swaziland named Banele with younger brothers and sisters. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shy and fearful at first, the children painstakeningly
summoned enough courage to steal glances at me, marveling at the strange white
woman seated in their kitchen. I
smiled as I tried to describe my family and where California is, just in time
to catch a glance of a huge slimy turd as it slid down Banele’s leg and puddled
on the floor in front of Ayanda’s empty plate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys stifled an embarrassed giggle and Make leaned over
to retrieve a wad of toilet paper from one of the rolls included in the Peace
Corps care package. Then scooping
it up, she handed the smelly mess to Apinda who appeared from behind the stove
and took it outside where the two emaciated mutts, one blind, howled by the
half-opened door for their nightly gruel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this is what abject poverty really looks and feels and
smells and tastes like, I thought.
Television stories scanning a line of hungry African women and children
waiting for a bite to eat, or a celebrity leaning over to pick up a listless
child don’t do it justice. No training manual or guidebook can prepare anyone
for poverty like this.</div>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-36604071879616811302011-09-07T00:44:00.000-07:002012-06-12T11:49:33.339-07:00<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdEQdXIrhOhwo7o75uHzWRCBa97TgjdlrmPh-9EqnDtWe6r1Z7lJ1lVgizyhRAD4lsO0LuSVAqL3PT3fPRuDGV4xDcx7ELykffpqRqSdovPL9KPtZrSHYIsBU2rOuKKI9f646qIyhTJqKm/s1600/DSCF0426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdEQdXIrhOhwo7o75uHzWRCBa97TgjdlrmPh-9EqnDtWe6r1Z7lJ1lVgizyhRAD4lsO0LuSVAqL3PT3fPRuDGV4xDcx7ELykffpqRqSdovPL9KPtZrSHYIsBU2rOuKKI9f646qIyhTJqKm/s320/DSCF0426.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOMoj9GQJDbcxWq30EEVTGgKWoWs2cX9aJq8t7D41rvPSvAIBAff-PgrVqfBcbbTC94n3BQIHLybs55tCxVEgSOUtkg6CQoJiXNLUp-jKMBrIeNOFykbhCDEIomjCEP2v_m-ERCuwyLPx/s1600/DSCF0507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOMoj9GQJDbcxWq30EEVTGgKWoWs2cX9aJq8t7D41rvPSvAIBAff-PgrVqfBcbbTC94n3BQIHLybs55tCxVEgSOUtkg6CQoJiXNLUp-jKMBrIeNOFykbhCDEIomjCEP2v_m-ERCuwyLPx/s320/DSCF0507.JPG" width="238" /></a></div>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-51485577650821031352011-08-13T02:31:00.000-07:002011-08-24T01:20:29.668-07:00Waiting for the new fridge to arrive from ManziniFinally a moment to sit down with my blog and update it directly. Emma has been my blogmaster these last couple of weeks and I cannot thank her enough for typing in snippets from my letters home and scanning and posting the photos I have snail mailed. <br />
The internet cafe's soundtrack just came up with our favorite khumbi song, "Jezibel". Well second to that perennial khumbi favorite, "I don't want no short dick man."<br />
Yep, it's official. Tuesday afternoon, our group of Mighty Fine G-9s were sworn in an elaborate ceremony in Mbabane. The US Ambassador to Swaziland administered the oath as we all raised our right hands and stumbled to repeat after him. The Prime Minister of Swaziland, a member of the royal family, was on hand as well to offer us a few words of wisdom -- apparently he studied chemistry for three years at the University of Wisconsin as a young man and still keeps in touch with his host family. Particularly moving was a short video that was shown about the Peace Corps (I used to think them trite and trival but now they bring tears to my eyes) and an absolutely amazing speech by my friend and roommate Kerry Sullivan. She really nailed it -- mixing up a bit of humor ("We in Makhonza will miss our khumbi driver who we nicknamed Manny or Man U for his Manchester United sweatshirt as Khiza trainees will miss their "city jive" - the local alcholic beverage that's cheap and fruity") and seriousness ("Give your best to the people of Swaziland, and you will discover the best in yourselves").<br />
The next morning bright and early, we (and all our masses of stuff) were shuttled off in separate cars and trucks to our permanent sites. I think everyone in Group 9 was sad to be split apart after so much time together and a little nervous about what they would find at the end of the tunnel.<br />
I am extremely fortunate to be in the same corner of Swaziland as we were stationed for training. I am already settled into my gogo (grandmother) hut in the Simelane family homestead in Khiza. Gogo Simelane is a bright 62-year old woman with an amazing command of English having worked as a domestic for a family in Johannesburg for over 35 years. She also has a lovely twinkle in her eye and a constant smile and looks after her two grandchildren -- GeGe (which I am not doubt misspelling) who is 6 years old and her grandson who is 16 years old. They are both adorable and the house and garden are neat as a pin.<br />
My hut is a separate cement building which is roundish (with 8 corners) and a tile roof. It is painted a pale peach and my new double bed sits right in the middle of the room. I have one plug and a round bulb hanging from the center of the tile roof. Well, no more of these painful interior design details - I will send a photo home soon (for Emma to scan and post for me?) Uploading photos directly on to my blog takes so long, it is completely impractical though I hope to figure out a home computer connection soon.<br />
Suffice it to say for now, I'm very comfortable and pretty darned happy most of the time. <br />
The school I will be working at, Nsongweni High School, has just finished term and the students are on holiday until September 13th so I think I will have plenty of time to wander around town, meet the locals and get organized before settling down to the true task at hand. I suppose I might even hire my private SiSwati tutor too -- though I am listening to SiSwati on my new 40 Rand radio and enjoying it. I'm hoping it will sink in effortlessly but I'll have to keep you posted on that. <br />
Better run -- I'm going to meet another PC G-8 volunteer in town today, Sophia, who is from Santa Cruz. Wish we could grab a cappuchino at a local cafe, but unfortunately, this part of Africa doesn't seem to have adopted that gorgeous tradition. I think it would be a delightful one to bring here, given the perfect 70 degree sunshine and great people watching! Hambe kahle everyone. I will write again soon.Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-22501529399998700062011-08-12T19:19:00.000-07:002011-08-12T19:19:10.995-07:00new mailing address!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 16px;"></span><br />
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">Just got a new mailing address:<br />
</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">Ruth Marvin Webster</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">PO Box 1014</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"> Nhlangano S400</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"> Swaziland</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"> AFRICA. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><br />
</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><br />
</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><br />
</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">Good to get Peace Corps out of the transaction (I think). The old one still works too, this one is just easier for me as it's in the same town as my new permanent site!</span></h6>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-38414493454370063342011-08-11T16:04:00.000-07:002011-08-11T16:04:28.815-07:00photos from swaziland (pre-swearing in/ permanent site)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bivVpvuhTqoUp1u8NOskEv5SaEmQA0MUq88By1NJjpt57KncYJwChpsoIGjpgy0OCHNWxm0ILSXVtw6_W5D1EsGLKrUcndCVjTV0T4bZWWk0fMz6Y6qFz-led_GUvC3dWmDILRBEc14W/s1600/swazi1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bivVpvuhTqoUp1u8NOskEv5SaEmQA0MUq88By1NJjpt57KncYJwChpsoIGjpgy0OCHNWxm0ILSXVtw6_W5D1EsGLKrUcndCVjTV0T4bZWWk0fMz6Y6qFz-led_GUvC3dWmDILRBEc14W/s640/swazi1.JPG" width="310" /></a></div><br />
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Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-54301879928516537902011-07-10T12:24:00.000-07:002011-07-31T12:27:18.960-07:00My new cell phone number!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Just received our Peace Corps cell phones! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 16px;"><b>My number is </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>0026876781487</b> </span>and it's free for me to receive international calls, so please skype me sometime!</span>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-81730218008352528582011-07-01T12:10:00.000-07:002011-07-31T12:21:08.410-07:00Letters from Swaziland<b>Friday July 1st, 2011 2:30pm</b><br />
...<br />
Life is much better than last I wrote... Finally we received our medical kit which is stocked with everything from band-aids and sunscreen to a clean syringe and snake bite treatment. All of the sleep I'm getting is really helpful - it is pitchblack by 6pm and I'm always in bed by 8pm. Then, the day starts around 6am when the chickens are let out of the coop at the Masuku homestead - which so far, feels late. Come to fnd out, I'm kind of a morning person.<br />
...<br />
It's mid-winter here now and we are in a scrub-savannah rural area. Every day has been warm (70 degrees F) in the sunshine and pretty damn cold at night (40?). I certainly with I had brought more sweaters and sweatshirts and I made the mistake of packing all my pants (except my UCSD and black sweatpants) in my bag that I won't get until we are moved to out permanent sites after swearing in on August 9th.<br />
...<br />
One of the things that has struck me - and surprised me - is how strong I am mentally and physically - especially at my age! So many of these volunteers are just out of college , but more than that, they are so 'wet behind the ears'.<br />
...<br />
Love you all!Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-71387262040451718082011-06-28T11:59:00.000-07:002011-07-31T12:09:24.150-07:00Letters from Swaziland<b>June 28th 10:30am</b><br />
...<br />
Besides "hub days," we look forward to a field trip to Sondzela Bckpackers eMlilwane for a weeek. We leave Sunday, July 10th and don't return until the 15th-16th. Around then, we are also supposed to receive our cellphones (July 11th) and our permanent site placements. Apparently only one or two of us will remain in this area of southwest part of country.<br />
The nearest town... is called Nhlangano (which apparently means "meeting place"). It consists of a kumbi terminal, a KFC, and two streets including two supermarkets , Swazi Bank and Telecom, three internet cafés, a couple of bars and a few more "bottle shops". There are about two or three signaled intersections (they call traffic lights "robots") and a police station.<br />
...<br />
Well that's about it. It's my birthday today and I'm spending an extra amount of time thinking about all of you!! I miss you guys so much!! <3Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-23657033680880611232011-06-14T11:50:00.000-07:002011-07-31T11:53:56.862-07:00Letters from Swaziland<b>Tuesday June 14th 11:50am</b><br />
Today is a big day because we are moving out of the dorms at the Ngawane Teachers College and into our host families' houses in nearby towns. All of us are nervous about how it will all work out because they're been giving us endless lectures about social manners, siswati phrases, security and disease. We will be armed with a propane tank and double burner, water filter, pots and pans, food, mosquito net and a million other things<br />
...<br />
I'm being sent to a little town called Makhonza with is about a 20min kumbi drive from the college where we are now and where we will come three times a week for classes during the next two months of training.<br />
...<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday June 15th 8:30am</b><br />
Wow. The first night "in the field" was an experience I will never forget. I've been placed for eight weeks during training with a family called Makusuku. It is a huge, fat mother and her seven children and a father who looks like he comes and goes. The children range from 14 years to one year old - the oldest is a girl who knows a little bit of English, but the others don't go to school - probably because they can't afford school fees and uniforms. Their clothes are so tattered, they look like they are wearing hand-me-downs for years at a time. The bottom line is that the poverty is overwhelming.<br />
...<br />
The families are not paid to host us, except for the food, and must provide us with a locked room. Mine is a little room next to the garage and it is very clean and minimal - has a bed, a table and two chairs.<br />
...<br />
You may have ascertained - and you would be right - that this experience so far has not been easy. And I think it's harder than I think I had anticipated. [Though] I think I'm faring pretty well.Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-20263889121705384622011-06-08T07:31:00.000-07:002011-08-11T16:06:42.810-07:00Getting ready to board the plane to JohannesburgIt only seems fitting that we 39 new Peace Corps volunteers to Swaziland should wait at JFK to board our flight to Johannesburg this morning. As we learned in Staging yesterday, President John F Kennedy founded the Peace Corps in a stirring speech made to students at the University of Michigan fifty years ago.<br />
It's only 10 in the morning now but it's already been a long day. After a couple of beers and fish n' chips at a great Irish pub in Philadelphia last night, my roommate Kelly Root and I hit the hay after midnight only to rise again at 1:45 am. We all met in the lobby of the Hampton Inn at 2:30 and then boarded our bus for the two hour drive to JFK. Then, hours more waiting in the front of the terminal until the South Africa Airlines staff manned the counter at 7:30 a.m. But all went without a hitch. Many of us were worried stiff about exceeding our 80 lbs. luggage limit but the airline staff just waved us all through without so much as a mention of a fee. Apparently the airline allow more luggage than we were told. Yipee. Maybe I could have put in that Stanford sweatshirt in afterall.<br />
This may be my last post in over a month. We are told that when we arrive in Swaziland, we will be given a chance for one cellphone call to tell our families we are safely in country. But, after that, there may not be internet access for two months. So I'm getting my last wi-fi in at the airport with gusto. I've Skyped with Emma, played all my Scrabble games on Facebook and checked Jeff Frank's column today in the North County Times. Thanks Jeff for the mention!<br />
<a href="http://www.nctimes.com/news/local/columnists/frank/article_bfa6ad5b-5122-5091-87f4-4b1360b85b13.html">http://www.nctimes.com/news/local/columnists/frank/article_bfa6ad5b-5122-5091-87f4-4b1360b85b13.html</a>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-68713303330125177752011-06-05T16:39:00.000-07:002011-06-08T07:18:23.540-07:00Swazi Send-Off A Hit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp1T8T81hclL2NCpGiQSloNLj0nXmn7PAburAhX1JlvbZ7d28X6bc5ye8r278nVpmQrGRVt0jDd4-L7HQ3cAYn_dNWz_sExmbWuvQ-2QmmrtM_HfSspesgG8Yj2j17kIN9okzKlebUifQr/s1600/DSCF0025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp1T8T81hclL2NCpGiQSloNLj0nXmn7PAburAhX1JlvbZ7d28X6bc5ye8r278nVpmQrGRVt0jDd4-L7HQ3cAYn_dNWz_sExmbWuvQ-2QmmrtM_HfSspesgG8Yj2j17kIN9okzKlebUifQr/s320/DSCF0025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">First and foremost, I want to thank the Bjornstads for putting on this amazing party. Everything about it was perfect. The food was so good and Classic Party Rentals is the best! But most importantly, thank you to Jenny. Jenny is truly the best friend a person could ever hope to find in a lifetime. Not only is she a stunningly math teacher and tennis partner, she is always kind, always giving, always supportive, always loving. She puts up with my crappy tennis game and constant commentary on the court. She inspired our daughters in the classroom and in life. The list is too long, there are too many things. But I want her to know, I appreciate it all. I can never hope to repay all your love and kindness Jenn.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqsm9OBy5epwmMRzO0Itt1TJub6lVESrb_Mf834l2sB36cRpVEo4YsXWV-fW2hAlNwOGDp2-XnEve52PzXrQVVcss2CNsyjJX__qo3hhAOeK-dEz5hHJ_DvbvAj-7tPoexX4cFQddSCyM/s1600/IMG_2415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqsm9OBy5epwmMRzO0Itt1TJub6lVESrb_Mf834l2sB36cRpVEo4YsXWV-fW2hAlNwOGDp2-XnEve52PzXrQVVcss2CNsyjJX__qo3hhAOeK-dEz5hHJ_DvbvAj-7tPoexX4cFQddSCyM/s320/IMG_2415.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><style>
</style><span style="font-size: small;">And Kathy, my other BFF. Thank you so much for the gorgeous organizing for this party. </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Thank you, Kathy, for getting me off my butt to put together net wit. We’ve had so much fun picking out shirts, coming up with sayings, and lugging them around. I hope you can keep it going, but if you don’t have the time and it’s just too much, that’s OK too. We’ve learned so much, and it’s been wonderful having breakfast meetings, happy hour meetings, and after tennis lunch meetings. Who knew that business could be so much fun? Kathy, you are such a dear, sweet friend – I’m gonna miss you so much!</span></div><style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDs5mcfk0yNMUu8q0oHaQC2nMt6qLVMXV8w5LY2pNht_IxSB_6-1LbvfG9rHNXAaRgb1PXQa5ytKasAgDaPPIodOl2EE8v82qWYGaOkK0m5kH1LqHIVFPiiP9qpQi8nWjFGpXI4vOdMdRC/s1600/IMG_2421.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDs5mcfk0yNMUu8q0oHaQC2nMt6qLVMXV8w5LY2pNht_IxSB_6-1LbvfG9rHNXAaRgb1PXQa5ytKasAgDaPPIodOl2EE8v82qWYGaOkK0m5kH1LqHIVFPiiP9qpQi8nWjFGpXI4vOdMdRC/s320/IMG_2421.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Thanks also to my family for being so supportive of this crazy decision to go to Africa with the Peace Corps. In so many ways, if the next two years will be tough --these years will be the hardest on them. They are the ones who have to hold up the fort here at home. Nick is talking about taking a month to join me in my mud hut without a toilet or electricity. Traveling around Africa, fixing something – anything that needs fixing. There is nothing that man can’t fix. Girls, give him a call. But I can’t talk about Nick and our two stunning daughters without breaking out in tears so I won’t … just know that I love you and I doing so this, in some small part, so you can be proud of me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HCgIqC_bt1IIC2VD3G_VqvXUmkhMwnRhD5PvaCxHXSt2u3r9N_a9jjqAAvFFYUQ1EGUCu0O29A-C10JJosMDWr-WQecQdVtJLWVI2wuoidLKAwAfIv221hkH1o0yV4JT0WZWizK1GRCt/s1600/IMG_2431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HCgIqC_bt1IIC2VD3G_VqvXUmkhMwnRhD5PvaCxHXSt2u3r9N_a9jjqAAvFFYUQ1EGUCu0O29A-C10JJosMDWr-WQecQdVtJLWVI2wuoidLKAwAfIv221hkH1o0yV4JT0WZWizK1GRCt/s320/IMG_2431.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;">It’s been a difficult decision to come to terms with. And of course, I don’t know now whether it has been the right one. I may never know, but I feel that this is something I have to do. Who knows, maybe I can make some small difference in the world. Maybe I can help someone who I don’t even know now. Maybe I can motivate someone, someone who is poor, someone who has AIDS, someone who doesn’t believe in the future, to have a better life. To believe in themselves, to believe in their culture, to believe that things can be better than they are now. Maybe I will surprise myself too along the way.</span></div><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsi_iuidfb-8swuMINjoaC2wXiD35A-BOm4gXOLwvCKUBPIucU5QM_HTMpC1Hy4mith_ybgyzaCPjTmwA5bdQ6EHVd__R7BjzdVF9XHn_4dl9nU2HIQkmLE39FslSiCqRD-O-mxMIMmUK/s1600/IMG_2432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsi_iuidfb-8swuMINjoaC2wXiD35A-BOm4gXOLwvCKUBPIucU5QM_HTMpC1Hy4mith_ybgyzaCPjTmwA5bdQ6EHVd__R7BjzdVF9XHn_4dl9nU2HIQkmLE39FslSiCqRD-O-mxMIMmUK/s320/IMG_2432.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">I’m leaving my mother and Dave at a time when they probably need me most and for that, I must say ‘I’m sorry.’ They’ve moved all the way out here to Carlsbad and I pick up and go to Swaziland. Thank you, you guys, for never saying ‘don’t go.’ My mom is one of those people who has always gone after what she wanted --- she picked up and moved to Silver City. She found a great life there, a wonderful husband. She probably knows better than anyone, it is always best to follow your instincts, to take a chance. Sorry to say it mom, but you are the one who taught me by example, that life is not something to be feared but something to be seized</span></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Don’t forget to write me, call me, Skype me, and send me packages. Red Vines are always good. And come visit. I will miss you all. But, you know, two years isn’t a very long time. All of you with children know how fast two years can speed by. One minute the kids are starting kindergarten, the next minute they are graduating from college. Two years will go by with a blink of the eye. Before you know it, I will be back again, on the tennis courts, in the writing class, in the book club, sitting at the bar. </span><span style="font-size: small;">I will be back, boring you with all the daily details of my adventure. Be good to each other and hold down the fort until I'm home again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><style>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My address, at least at first, is:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Ruth Marvin Webster, PCV</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">PO Box 2797</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Mbanbane H 1000, Swaziland</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">AFRICA</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">P.S. Apparently it's good to put Africa on the letter, things have been known to go to Switzerland. Not a bad idea either, to add "Jesus Saves" on the outside.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-86531285698079041752011-05-26T13:02:00.000-07:002011-05-26T13:02:51.519-07:00Send-Off Party Plans<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItfwWgc8YWsfrFMnjPtf4SlA7yIJk5sqZ8Wg24z8tyuzFTyGe2Yh8bP1RrjryaubG5FCtoENNlaGl8sq8JUZ-5X8dolCKOr9QlcG9j0F6NQMU5QOj0ZhFkjdyjWcYBK6qMDOXTn5VT2Nj/s1600/I%2527m+how+old%253F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItfwWgc8YWsfrFMnjPtf4SlA7yIJk5sqZ8Wg24z8tyuzFTyGe2Yh8bP1RrjryaubG5FCtoENNlaGl8sq8JUZ-5X8dolCKOr9QlcG9j0F6NQMU5QOj0ZhFkjdyjWcYBK6qMDOXTn5VT2Nj/s320/I%2527m+how+old%253F.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny, Kathy and I at my 50th Birthday Bash</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The big Swaziland Send-Off Party at Jenny's house is around the corner. And I'm getting pretty excited about seeing everyone. I thought about alerting the media of the social event of the year, but then, decided against it. We'll have enough media there without issuing a press release ... as well as scientists, tennis players, teachers, business owners, librarians, producers, activists, artists, models, chefs, lawyers, doctors and generally, everyone I know and love. Can't wait until Saturday. How many hours left until we get to pop open a bottle of wine?<br />
Kathy said that I didn't have to make a speech if I didn't want to, but my family assures me that it would be wise to put together a few thoughts. I've been working on a few "talking points" this afternoon -- on my laptop beside the pool in the gorgeous sunshine -- but can't seem to string two words together without getting seriously misty-eyed. At present, I can't even make out the screen, let alone the words I've typed there. Maybe I'll go back to practicing my non-existent Siswati or endeavor to stack necessities beside my suitcase. Fitting my sleeping bag, flashlights, hard drives, alarm clock and sensible shoes in two bags weighing 80 lbs. seems almost as impossible as managing a couple of thank you's at the appropriate time on Saturday. Fingers crossed. No one said this was going to be easy.Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-81359483127888881202011-04-14T14:07:00.000-07:002011-04-14T14:07:15.628-07:00The Journey by Mary Oliver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfgrhntTlC_UKsiymubAoVEbk55oLCH-ii0fxg63zZSAxE91XSKBc2Z8N5DkxU8efqPvLm0mD94fofe_nSNb8uXYGU2t6JlqHiUMfUFRgGXUfUEvRwnSLNvGMwcxPWJwoW_ur0b3Q6wAR/s1600/IMG_1835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfgrhntTlC_UKsiymubAoVEbk55oLCH-ii0fxg63zZSAxE91XSKBc2Z8N5DkxU8efqPvLm0mD94fofe_nSNb8uXYGU2t6JlqHiUMfUFRgGXUfUEvRwnSLNvGMwcxPWJwoW_ur0b3Q6wAR/s320/IMG_1835.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqoiYt0bYqB0EGeNUk2UDS5W6fkV67lf4fK5c8Bj1Hfzgwzkk3tSt1aj8DmdAcaxV8cvxRN0X7c6fnOoi4JCjxjACYJE9Eu8kxyOvdd0dly3YoKjn4KG4CrI1vxKg049DR8hQ14LBbM5V/s1600/IMG_1529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqoiYt0bYqB0EGeNUk2UDS5W6fkV67lf4fK5c8Bj1Hfzgwzkk3tSt1aj8DmdAcaxV8cvxRN0X7c6fnOoi4JCjxjACYJE9Eu8kxyOvdd0dly3YoKjn4KG4CrI1vxKg049DR8hQ14LBbM5V/s320/IMG_1529.JPG" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">One day you finally knew</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">what you had to do, and began,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">though the voices around you</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">kept shouting</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">their bad advice ---</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">though the whole house</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">began to tremble</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and you felt the old tug</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">at your ankles</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Mend my life!"</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">each voice cried.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But you didn't stop.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You knew what you had to do,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">though the wind pried </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">with its stiff fingers</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">at the very foundations ---</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">though their melancholy</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">was terrible.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was already late</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">enough, and a wild night,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and the road full of fallen</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">branches and stones.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But little by little,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">as you left their voices behind,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">the stars began to burn</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">through the sheets of clouds,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and there was a new voice,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">which you slowly</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">recognized as your own,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">that kept you company</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">as you strode deeper and deeper into the world,</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">determined to do</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">the only thing you could do ---</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">determined to save</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">the only life you could save.</span>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-88437732718179988242011-03-27T13:21:00.000-07:002011-04-15T15:39:21.262-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEwnfL6yPa7djIH81pBOV8y6aABeojTh03A3eE7EC0MVRkf8mkHhTsSwU4MTL7VAwHWGh_RE7jpQwX9t-QqvsU2SDfE4jM4Vdl_ObYlpyXotDKdFwv1JilP3oprDvbn7XpSUt6ktccy5I/s1600/swazilandbright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEwnfL6yPa7djIH81pBOV8y6aABeojTh03A3eE7EC0MVRkf8mkHhTsSwU4MTL7VAwHWGh_RE7jpQwX9t-QqvsU2SDfE4jM4Vdl_ObYlpyXotDKdFwv1JilP3oprDvbn7XpSUt6ktccy5I/s320/swazilandbright.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is one of Emma's paintings in her new show at Stanford. It was tucked in the corner but, needless to say, I loved it from the first second I laid eyes on it.</div><br />
It is part of her exploration of family -- the ties that bind and the ones that pull us apart.<br />
<br />
For me, this painting shows how a simple word like "Swaziland" that may have little meaning for our family now, most certainly will in a year or two.Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8176290662283045473.post-40099059086142885172011-02-17T15:17:00.000-08:002011-03-27T13:32:10.594-07:00Trip to Tanzania in 2006<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zeRh6Odw2dd6CNi7OthCiklYMmg46B4tAoRLHk1HZ9wMPOMfrUt0N8Evp03N8sWtfrPEHmqO6uu_AoyzRJtiVHP323JQ7r3REFaKcv-zKlPmkXy2wgvOGvLaCseNDP6OWtFfNp2A-Xxt/s1600/IMG_1312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zeRh6Odw2dd6CNi7OthCiklYMmg46B4tAoRLHk1HZ9wMPOMfrUt0N8Evp03N8sWtfrPEHmqO6uu_AoyzRJtiVHP323JQ7r3REFaKcv-zKlPmkXy2wgvOGvLaCseNDP6OWtFfNp2A-Xxt/s320/IMG_1312.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The countdown to my June departure begins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">At the risk of boring you with all the 'navel gazing' details months before I even set off to Swaziland, I am starting this blog now.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've been going through photos of a trip Nick and I took to Tanzania in 2006 and thought some of these could find a good home here. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-05wRTdzfr1yeGi7wZD8_MLxVGHYsH2mnSZKfjImVZ74cXL1r3r1O6m5tVjdL1caET_OvqaPk8lEUvlidj0fGbvTVw_X0hyphenhyphen9tUpy088-IQcXXt7TJULHYzOkaUEY7LUSq62a7ZroqcMH3/s1600/IMG_0643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-05wRTdzfr1yeGi7wZD8_MLxVGHYsH2mnSZKfjImVZ74cXL1r3r1O6m5tVjdL1caET_OvqaPk8lEUvlidj0fGbvTVw_X0hyphenhyphen9tUpy088-IQcXXt7TJULHYzOkaUEY7LUSq62a7ZroqcMH3/s320/IMG_0643.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Back in 2006, we spent three short weeks in Tanzania with a group of doctors and researchers with whom we have traveled with before. We started in Arusha, drove to Ngorongora Crater and the Serengeti and finished with a week in Zanzibar. It was really a perfect trip. And one of the reasons I was so anxious to become a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZIPMRVUTfwlxt4vWGLAAOhCETwCjmcTbuEdTUNPWy7f_kcgqwa-1FXYN7o_pUbNn3zW776QG1C41h47em3HZru2hfE5Lx4May6f5hOVmMqRjjoZfywM2tjbWvS9u_7iJYo2em2vTlACCY/s1600/giraffe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZIPMRVUTfwlxt4vWGLAAOhCETwCjmcTbuEdTUNPWy7f_kcgqwa-1FXYN7o_pUbNn3zW776QG1C41h47em3HZru2hfE5Lx4May6f5hOVmMqRjjoZfywM2tjbWvS9u_7iJYo2em2vTlACCY/s320/giraffe.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The kingdom of Swaziland is the size of New Jersey and home to piles of snake species, including six deadly ones -- the most famous being the Black Mamba --- which I hope to never see. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">These photos of wildlife are certainly putting me in an African mood and allowing me to learn how to post new photos and add text at the same time. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">As you might be able to tell, I could use the</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">practice.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-05wRTdzfr1yeGi7wZD8_MLxVGHYsH2mnSZKfjImVZ74cXL1r3r1O6m5tVjdL1caET_OvqaPk8lEUvlidj0fGbvTVw_X0hyphenhyphen9tUpy088-IQcXXt7TJULHYzOkaUEY7LUSq62a7ZroqcMH3/s1600/IMG_0643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>Webster's Cornerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04186662993474292242noreply@blogger.com1