… This weekend is the All Volunteer Conference, a yearly weekend at a swanky hotel for all the Peace Corps volunteers in-country, with workshops, and a Talent Show, and this year the King of Swaziland is coming to speak to us! Oh Boy! I plan to ask him if the rumor that I heard, that he puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us, is true, or is just fascist blasphemy. The Ambassador will be there. I am MC of the talent show, which, right now, is Me, and one other guy who plays guitar and sings. I figure while I am there at the Re-connect, I am gonna take 5 or 6 showers. Every day. With soap, and wash my hair. Hot, clean water flowing out of a pipe higher than your head. And I can let it cascade warmly on my head while I wash my clothes. My pack is full of dirty clothes. A miraculous event!

… At the talent show, when I got up on the stage, the Country Director was very nervous. I guess because of my reputation for speaking my mind, he was afraid that I would commit some egregious breach of etiquette that would give Peace Corps Swaziland a black eye and get us kicked out of the country. Or something. Ambassador Rodgers was sitting right down in front, with Mrs Ambassador sitting right next to him crocheting at the speed of light, like always, and I managed to get through the talent show without besmirching anybody’s reputation. Afterward, I went over to him and greeted him and the Missus. I had talked with him a couple times before. A very astute man. As we talked, I saw the Country Director moving through the crowd towards us, with a look of alarm on his face. The Ambassador noticed too. “I see Director Kelley coming over Sam, and he looks nervous,” Ambassador Rodgers said. “Yes,” I replied, “he is afraid I won’t toe the company line on social interaction, sir.” He chuckled. Director Kelley arrived. Ambassador Rodgers smiled at him, and said, “Hello, Jim. Sam and I were just discussing world sized problems of great import. Won’t you join us?” A Great man, the Ambassador.

… How bad am I suffering over here? Not at all. I am happy as a clam. What can you send me? M and M’s. Can’t get those here. A t-shirt that is not mud colored and stretched out with holes in it. Kraft Mac and Cheese. I lead a simple life. My wants are mundane. It’s kind of disappointing, really, to realize that there just ain’t much that I want that I don’t already have. Your letters are the most precious thing that you could give me.

… Whenever people, invited to dine with me, would ask, “Will you have meat?”, I always reply, “Inyama yensikatfulo, yebo.” (Yes, meat of the shoe.) Most beef here is so tough because of its extremely hard life of suffering and hunger as a cow, that it has the consistency of shoe leather no matter how you cook it.

… Say, did you ever get the Swazi money I sent for Michael to share with his third grade class? I chuckled when I sent it. I wondered how you, as a parent, would explain the back of the bill. Really, that half naked woman is the King’s First Wife, bare breasts and all. Here is another one, in case you didn’t get the first one. Slip it into the collection plate at church. That’ll give em something to think about.

…I was heading back to school from a wedding that I had been invited to, and as I was leaving, my grandfather called me aside. He led me over to a tree, where a hunk of meat was hanging from a branch, covered with a piece of bridal veil type netting, and whacked off a piece, and handed it to me. Plop, a hunk of raw meat in my hand. “It is for the teachers at your school Maseko, so that they can eat the meat from our wedding.” I said, “Thank you grandfather, I am sure they will enjoy this.” And off I walked with meat in my hand. Arriving at school an hour later, the teachers came around to ask if I had liked the wedding. “Was there meat?” they asked. Meat was always a topic. They didn’t eat it much because it was expensive, and the butcher shop was far. So we started a fire, and roasted the meat. It was a chunk of cow heart, and the smoothest, most flavorful meat I ever ate.

… There is a spice they call pilipili, and swazis put it on everything. It is like cayenne pepper, flaming hot. I figure they use it because their cooking methods and traditional food are so tasteless. I make stir fries and rice a lot, often meatless, and I love eating them. I throw them together from whatever veggies and things that I have brought back from the market in the capital city on my trips to the Peace Corps office. I put in peanuts, or cashews, and raisins. Pieces of apple. I go for subtle flavors that compliment each other. And use spices like cinnamon, anise seed, paprika, and cardamom, Sometimes I put a clove or two in the rice while it is cooking. And because I am Sam, and know the great value of breaking bread together, I frequently invite one teacher or another to sup with me. My stir fries are not that popular, even after they dump on some pilipili, because the vegetables are just heated, not rendered into mush, and the teachers say, “Oh Maseko, these vegetables are not cooked enough. They will give me the running stomach.” It is a common expression for diarrhea. The running stomach. They have the running stomach a lot. I think it is from the fecally tainted water from the river that they drink, and not from uncooked vegetables.

… I made popcorn for my homestead family last night. They had never seen it before and were surprised when the first couple kernels popped and I slammed the lid on while shaking it. They said, “It seems to be an energetic thing to cook, Maseko.” I replied, “Yes, you have to wake it up.” Then I surprised them again when it was done, and I took off the lid to reveal the fluffy white popcorn. I put garlic salt on it. They ate it with gusto. But when they got to the bottom of the bowl, with the unpopped kernels left, they really really liked those a lot, and tossed them into their mouths, crunching them with their teeth, and smacking their lips. It was the best part of the popcorn for them.

… Last weekend I was tired of the rat race at school, so I walked a couple hours across the bushveld to a homestead where my friend Musa lives, and spent a couple days with his family, sitting around in the shade, drinking Marula. It is marula season, and the fruit of the Buganu tree, of which there are 3 on the homestead, provides about a third of their yearly income from selling the wine they make from it. When crushed, and added to sugar and water, and allowed to ferment for about 3 or 4 days, the fruit makes a potent wine/beer that tastes like Sweet Tarts. Needless to say, as the day wore on, I got more and more um… relaxed, until I was almost lying down. I taught my brothers to play Chinese Checkers, and we all had a great time hooting and laughing. When sundown came, we caught a couple of chickens and cooked them on a fire, and ate them. A couple of neighbors came by to see the umlungu (colloquial siSwati for White Man, but in fact, it means, The one who bears the gun. Some sense of history here?) Most folks out here in the bush haven’t seen one up close. I think they were disappointed that I didn’t bear the gun. And also they came to buy some Marula.

… I made toasted cheese samwiches last night for dinner. I had wheat bread, and had amazingly found a hunk of cheddar cheese in town at the Spar grocery where the ex-pats and the embassy staff shopped. I found a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup and bought it though it was really pricey. And a stick of butter. I was really looking forward to some American comfort food. There were two students who had come by and were sitting on my bench out in front of my house, practicing their English with me, so I invited them to eat with me. They had never seen cheese before, and were amazed that it had been made from milk, and the butter too. Cheese is not a thing that you find, out in the bush. They tried the samwiches and soup timidly, but soon were crunching them right up. I showed them how to dip the corner of the samwich in their soup. Yankee nachos.

… It was my turn to lead Morning Assembly this week. Back when I was first here, I didn’t enjoy it. Every teacher did it the same. “Ok students, let’s have a chorus.” Some student or other, I never knew how they decided, but there were never two to start a song at the same time, would just start singing, and the rest of the students would join right in. Church songs, traditional songs. Songs they had been singing in morning assembly since primary school. They could sing the heck out of a song. Natural harmonies, all those blended voices. It was beautiful. Then the teacher would say, “Here is the headmaster with announcements.” And he would have his say, and end it with, “Ok, students, go to your classes.” Boring. Not me, after I caught on, I would have the students sing two or maybe three songs. The first time I said, “Ok, let’s have another chorus,” they looked at me blankly. I guess nobody ever asked that before. Sometimes I would play my guitar and sing a song. I would make jokes about things I had seen as I wandered around the community. Talk about what was available at the community garden for sale. Or tell them what projects that the woodworking students would soon have for sale. I could do a good impression of Mrs. Ngambule, the Home Ec teacher, and I would talk with her voice and mannerisms about the projects that they were working on, and that they would be for sale soon. It always got a laugh. She laughed too. I would Pray. Some teachers did, and some didn’t. but their prayers were always dry. I prayed for big things. Understanding between adversaries. Compromise. Empathy. Getting good grades. Being kind to others. Taking responsibility for your life. Short prayers with big concepts. I had a captive audience. They weren’t going anywhere until I turned it over to the headmaster, and nobody would gainsay me. I was always more interesting than class.

… I will call you when I get into JFK in New York. I will come by Michigan on my way back to Texas. I will be thinking about what to do next. The possibilities are endless. Brain Surgeon? Movie Star? MajorLeague Baseball Player? Tarot card reader to the rich and famous? Some days I think I have been here too long. Other days I just think I have been here long. Do you think I will ever grow up? I hope not.

… A week ago I made a poster to fit in my bedroom window, facing out. I titled it, “WHO IS THIS MASEKO GUY, ANYWAY?” I put pictures of you and the kids, and Bunny and Lin with their kids, and the one of everybody down at Dads for thanksgiving. I put a picture of me playing with my band at a bar mitzvah. One was of my last girlfriend and me before I came here. All of them had speech balloons saying who they were. Students would come by and stand outside my window and talk about the pictures. One day a group of girls came by while I was grading papers inside. They had a long conversation about what they were looking at. Then they came and knocked on my door. One asked if she could buy a picture. “Which picture?” I asked. They pointed to the one of you and the kids on that arched bridge there in Midland. And the one of Bunny with her girls on her lap. I asked why they wanted a picture of complete strangers. They giggled and said it was because the kids were so cute. They especially liked Lauren, and asked me about her. How old is she? What grade was she in? When was she coming to visit? Is her hair really that color? Did she make the dress she was wearing? Was the tall girl (you, Carol) my daughter?

… I put up a poster in my window saying, “The first person who reads this and knocks on my door, and is willing to walk up to the store and buy me a loaf of bread and a coke, will be rewarded with a gratuity of 10 emalangeni.” Lots of students read it. It took 4 days for one to finally knock on my door, and say, “I will buy your bread and coke, Maseko.” So I gave her the money for the bread and coke, told her to buy two loaves, and off she scurried. Half an hour later she returned with the goods. I gave her the 10 emalangeni, and the extra loaf of bread for being smart enough to figure it out. I think it was the word gratuity that kept most of them from asking.

… Kids are for ordering around gratuitously. I had been at my new school for 3 days, and was standing outside my house in the teachers quarters talking to my headmaster about making the timetable for classes. In the middle of telling me his ideas about fitting each teacher with a classroom for each class without any conflicts over the limited classrooms, he suddenly shouted “Boy!” And gestured to a student walking by. “Here boy, take this money and run up to the store and buy some bread!” And he went right back to talking about the schedule as the boy ran off. “Send a child” was what teachers said when they wanted something fetched. No concern that the child might already be doing something. Never a thank you. Later I found out that the student was actually named Boy. Boy Ginindza. 

… There is an expression in siSwati… Ncesi Kancane… which means, “Oh, I am sorry, but only a little bit sorry.” A useful expression. I use it all the time. We don’t have anything like that in english.

… When I first got to my school, and was walking around looking it over, I wandered into the science classroom. It didn’t seem to have much in the way of materials and instruments to teach science. As I turned to leave, I saw painted over the doorway, “ESCHEW OBFUSCATION”. I suspected it had been painted there by the Peace Corps volunteers who had taught here 5 years ago, but had left early in their contract because they said it was a horrible school, with a corrupt headmaster, and a corrupt Chief, and they should never send a volunteer there again. I was the first one since then. Wussies, It wasn’t that bad. Like politicians aren’t corrupt in the states.

… It is coming down to my last semester. In the Peace Corps office today I got a note in the B box, from the hierarchy, telling me that they were going to post one of the recent training group guys to teach with me for my last semester, and take over the woodworking program after I left. I didn’t remember him from when I taught my Sams Survival Session to the newest trainees. But, Oh Goody! I would see him when I got back from my holiday between semesters and back to school. I left him a key to my house in the teachers quarters, and a note to move on in and take the back bedroom, recently vacated by the agriculture teacher who transferred to a school with water and electricity, closer to town. I got back from traveling, and headed out to my school thinking about how great it would be to have somebody with whom I could speak English at a natural speed. When I got there, I found a note on my kitchen counter that said, “Three days was all I could take, Sam. Sorry.” He had gone back into town after being at my lovely school for only three days, and terminated his contract early. No imagination. No stamina.

… Today I am feeling every one of my 41 years. I am glad that I came here while I was still mentally flexible enough to not be overwhelmed by the cultural chasm. It has been, I reckon, the hardest thing that I have ever done. And I am deeply tired. And I didn’t manage to achieve world peace. Or save the world. But I did manage to save me.

Peace Corps. The best paid vacation I ever worked my ass off for.