In Peace Corps, we call going home Close Of Service or COS. As in, ‘I can’t wait to COS.’

And, like every stage of Peace Corps, this process is accompanied by
a workshop. It’s been this far off milestone for us. When I first started researching Peace Corps during our application process, I was introduced to it as the last conference you do as a PCV. It made a big appearance on personal blogs, I think primarily because of the abundance of showering a volunteer was able to do.

Oliver and I prepared to go to our COS conference after Oliver’s family flew back to America.

Our group is at 23 volunteers. 39 of us flew to Swaziland from America originally but people went home for various reasons like medical, family matters, it wasn’t a good fit, etc. It’s been a long time, maybe over a year, since our group was assembled in one place.

One of the volunteers in our group had been petitioning the office to take us to Forester’s Arms, not a backpackers or junky conference center, but a place where people actually want to go on their vacations. Forester’s Arms was all we expected it to be. There was even a towel warmer in each of the bathrooms and free internet. We were going to be there for four nights and it felt nice to settle in and get caught up with everyone. The food turned out to be AMAZING. And this is not just because rice and beans make up a good part of my diet, this food would have been good to anyone. And the quantity. It felt like we were always eating. Courses and real silverware made us feel like we were in a restaurant. Hot chocolate, puddings, homemade bread, soups, salmon….

But enough about food. We were at the conference to learn something!

There were some sessions about leaving our sites—like how to avoid being thrown a big going away party and then being presented with the bill for the cow your community slaughtered for you. Most of the sessions focused on reintegrating back into American life. Some of it was about job searches but also about getting back into American culture. You would think it’s easy to go home, you know everything about the place, but apparently it’s difficult for volunteers to adjust to things like the pace of life in America and the amount of consumption.

A lot of it was about goodbye though. The US Ambassador came to thank us for our service and told us how much she values Peace Corps and can see its relevance to Swaziland. One volunteer made a playlist for our group, people took photographs, tentative (and outrageous) plans were made for reunions, we all tied our arms together in some sort of Thai tradition, it was nice.

I really value the time that I’ve spent here in my community and with the other volunteers. Oliver and I have a BIG life change coming our way. That’s always exciting but it’s also hard to leaving.

-Rebecca

Our Country Director said this video is a spitting image of what it’s like to return from PC—you just want to keep talking about it.

Peace Corps – Conversations

When we started planning our trip to Swaziland in late 2012, we had expectations of what the trip would entail. Without a doubt, our entire view of this part of the world has shifted immensely. Our preconceived notions were derived mostly from animals we had seen from the zoo, stories from family that had travelled before, and, yes, The Lion King. To anybody who is wondering, none of those compare to the reality of southern Africa. Where I expected pure desert, everything was green. Where I was looking for scorching sun, I found a moderate, pleasant temperature. While tumultuous at times, we loved our experience in Swaziland and South Africa and have been inspired to continue our world travels with much more vigor than before.

Where a trip of two weeks in a relatively small country would normally put us on edge quickly, because of the variety of activities we had to choose from, the trip held our interest the entire time. From game walks and drives to learning about Swazi culture to the zip lining canopy tour, we had little time to slow down, and even less time to consider ourselves bored. What struck me the most was the beautiful landscapes we had encountered. Most notably, watching the mountains surrounding Swaziland rise and fall all around us as we looked around us at the Khopho Hut was absolutely breathtaking. While this was one of the last places we stayed, it may well have been my favorite for the view and the spectacle of God’s creation around us. We had our final home community cooked meal there and, while it was not the end of the trip, there was a certain finality about it. It was calming, relaxing, and overall, wonderful. In a trip to Swaziland, I would highly recommend this as a destination worth looking forward to.

This landscape was second only to that which we saw on our drive to the canopy tour. I can safely say that few moments have made me more proud as a husband and a friend to my wife than seeing her conquer her fears by ziplining across the gorge. As someone who is deathly afraid of heights, this was a big step for her. This trip has brought her adventurous side to light and has helped her understand first hand that defeating her anxiety can lead her to new and wonderful experiences that she never would know if she had let herself buckle under pressure. Our experience ziplining is among the most memorable adventures I have had in my life, and I feel confident that Brittany agrees. Without a doubt, this was the best activity in our trip to Swaziland.

We loved our trip from start to finish. Seeing family we hadn’t seen in years was wonderful. We loved seeing the work that they are doing and seeing the people they interact with on a daily basis. I cannot wait for them to return. They have inspired us to continue with our world travels and even expedite our future endeavors. Swaziland is a beautiful country. While I never had aspirations of travelling to this part of the world, I can say without a doubt that I am glad that I did. It was an experience unlike any I have had and I believe that it will stand out as unique among our future travels. While we look forward to coming home, we are sad to leave this amazing country.

-Jordan Semrow

“Mrs. Zornow, how many students are in art club? How many students can fit on the bus?  Will we all fit?”

“Mrs. Zornow, I had a dream last night that the bus left me behind so I woke up at 3:00 a.m.”

The students had been nervously looking forward to the art club trip since I announced it.  They all brought back permission slips, attended the meeting where I listed all the ways not to behave, and made sure they had all their art projects finished.

It was time to take a literal trip of their lifetimes.

The morning of, we headed out only a bit behind schedule from waiting for the bus to show up and then waiting for the last students to arrive.  When it looked like one 7^th grade student was not coming, we pulled out of the school.  The students started waving out the windows at anyone they could find and yelling excitedly.

15 minutes later, we got a phone call from the principal—the 7^th grader, Ntombifuthi, arrived late and they were rushing in the principal’s car to meet us.  We pulled over and waited, hoping she would arrive quickly.  We finally saw the principal’s erratic driving from the bottom of a hill and knew she was on her way.  She sprinted from his car to ours and we were off again.

It was an hour’s drive to our first destination, but there was plenty of sightseeing.  The students were constantly checking out road construction, cars, shops, cows.   One of the chaperones announced when we drove through the a regional capital and everyone’s face was instantly glued to the windows.

We finally arrived at Yebo!, an art center in Swaziland, where we would be getting a tour, talking with artists, and making an art project.

The Yebo! Staff was ready to meet us and ushered the kids into their newly built facilities.  The students started pointing out sculptures and mosaics with big eyes as if they couldn’t believe this place was still in Swaziland.

We went into the gallery room and were given final introductions and then told to look around for a few minutes to take in all of the art.  It was an exciting moment.  This was the first time any of them were seeing Art.  They walked around, looking interested but bemused at some of the pieces.  “Why is a photograph of King Sobhuza here” (Referring to a sculpture)?  “This is made out of paper? Haibo!”

We collected the kids again and had them sit down.  We were introduced to two local artists, both painters, and the gallery owner, also an artist.  The Swazi artists were able to tell the students about their work, how they became an artist, and stressed the importance of practicing to get better.  The student’s actually asked questions, something I am always trying to get them to do but they always say that they don’t have any, so it was a good breakthrough.  Then we went to a small room housing the collection of a Swazi fashion designer.  Necklaces, leather purses, high, high, high heels; the students were thrilled to find out it had all been made in Swaziland.  The fashion designer was able to show the kids his mood board, talk about how he made some of his work, and even let one of our students model a jacket he made.  This was all I wanted for the students and more—it showed the students some of the careers in the art world and let them meet people who had made their dreams come true.

After we finished our tour, our group was lead to a big outdoor space to do our art project.  I had told the kids that we were going to make an artwork on a t-shirt, but the idea was a little bit vague for them.  Once they saw the white t-shirts laid out and the art supplies, they started to get the idea.  Yebo! first took everyone’s photograph.  Then we sat down and began making a stencil of our names.   We wrote out our names in block letter and then used an exacto-knife to carefully cut the letters out.  Around the time we finished, print outs of our pictures were ready.  Our headshots were printed in black and white so we took our knives and cut out all the pieces that were black, leaving a face shaped hole on our papers.  The staff helped everyone screen print their faces and names on to their t-shirt.  By the time we saw the finished product, everyone was feeling like a fashion designer and artist extraordinaire.

After saying goodbye, and taking pictures with some of the artworks, we got back on the bus and I handed out the bag lunches and we settled into the drive to our next stop.

For a while, everyone was happy.  And then suddenly it was clear something was wrong, it was getting quiet.  I felt a tap on my shoulder and Nomphumelelo was making a horrid but painfully clear gesture that she was about to vomit.  We pulled over and a teacher asked her if she drove in cars often.  She said this was the second time she had ridden in a car in her life and the previous experience had only been for a few kilometers on our dirt road.  I gave her a some pepto from the med kit and a plastic bag.

A  few minutes later, I was handing out more plastic bags.  Even for those who had ridden in a car a few times, this was the longest trip they had ever taken and, as we began ascending into the high-veld and left the tar road, just about everyone was feeling it, including me.  We drove past Maguga Dam,  antelope, and stone carvings, but only a few were able to lift their heads off their laps to take in the sights.

After arriving at the rock art site, we stumbled out of the bus and I was greeted by the bus driver with the news every teacher dreads hearing on a field trip, “Some kid threw up in the car.”  And he made it clear that he wasn’t cleaning it up.  My stomach really started turning as I checked the spot and got a whiff of it.  I thrust my bag at Oliver and told him he had to take care of paying and getting to the rock art site with the tour guide.  I checked on a few kids lying on the grass and managed to get them up and going to the rock art with promises that they would feel better soon.

The students and chaperones hiked their way down a hill to see a rock art site where the bushmen used to perform rain ceremonies.  I had visited it over a year ago with my mother and would have loved to see the art work again.  But, instead, I opened up my medical kit, put on plastic gloves, set out a bag, got my small packet of tissues out and began to clean up the vomit that had made its way across three rows of seats.  I ended up getting sick myself and then sat on a rock for a while with my head in my lap.

Oliver came bounding back with good news about the rock art tour.  I handed out the kids’ notebooks so they could write down what they learned and told everyone that it was not cool to throw up on the bus floor and passed out plenty of bags and warnings.  And then we got back on the somewhat clean bus.

The only thing left to do was drive home.  One girl kept throwing up and we got pulled over by the police for 45 minutes, but other than that the kids were in super high spirits.  Even the most reserved students were hyper.  The girl who had been sick started to feel better and kept up a constant narration for me of where we were driving as she began to recognize sites in our neighboring community.  The students begged us to prolong the trip.  They all began singing and the now grumpy bus driver had to tell them to sit down and to not sing so loudly.  It was really loud but I couldn’t help but smile and think of what an amazing day it was for them.

The trip is now over, but the art club still has work to do this term.  The grant Oliver and I wrote specified that the students have to present to their peers on what they learned and lead an art project to widen the number of students impacted by the arts, also giving the club members a great opportunity to practice their leadership and presentation skills.

After school today, we all met.  Oliver took half to choose photographs for a power point presentation and I took half to get the materials ready for the art project.  I’ve seen these 16 students growing all term, but, suddenly, there’s been a leap.  The students have always enjoyed art club, but have shied away from presenting even in front of other members of the art club.  But today, when I told them what we were doing, I didn’t get a single sigh or complaint.  Instead the students got right to work, practicing what they would say to their peers and being excited at the prospect of being able to share with others what they learned.  I am so proud of my kids.

We’ll post pictures when we go to town next.

-Rebecca Zornow

Rebecca is Currently Reading: Nothing, I’ve been so busy getting ready for the art club trip.  But now it’s time to find a nice, long book and relax.

We are Currently Watching: Mad Man, Season 2

Oliver has a friend in the community that has been working on various media projects-making movies of preschool graduations and selling the DVDs to parents, making music videos, and even working on writing a movie script with his friends.  He was invited to a traditional wedding to take video and make DVDs to sell.  He invited Oliver and I along for technical support and to take part in the festivities.

We’ve been to one other wedding shortly after we first arrived.  We didn’t know anyone and weren’t quite sure what was going on so we were happy to have the opportunity to attend once more before we left.

The wedding is a three day process; Friday to Sunday.  To get married, a man has to negotiate with the woman’s family to set the lobola.  Lobola refers to the cows that a man will give a woman’s family to seal the deal.  A good number is about 13, I guess.  I was once told I could have gotten 20 cows because I have a university education (but in reality I was lucky enough to get a diamond ring).  Gathering this amount of wealth can take years, so usually the couple live together and have children before the wedding actually takes place.  There are other customs involved too, but they are ones I don’t understand (I know one has to do with a river).

The Saturday night dancing is when the whole community is invited to the celebration; Friday and Sunday events are for a much smaller group of people.  Saturday afternoon, everyone who has traditional wear puts it on, heads to the homestead, and the men and women take turns dancing.  And of course, Oliver too.  There’s not much else to say about the dance, it’s hard to describe, so I’ll add a lot of pictures and see if you can spot the white guy dancing.

-Rebecca

P.S. Happy Birthday shout out to my little brother!

Rebecca is Currently Reading: Under this Broken Sky

We are Currently Watching: Newsroom, Season 1

This past week, Rebecca and I decided to try and continue to make good on our resolution to see more of Swaziland before we COS later this year.  We joined a group of about 14 fellow volunteers heading to ‘one of the last untouched environments’ in Swaziland at Ngwempisi Gorge.

On Thursday night, after finishing up my final Excel computer class at 9pm, we packed our bags and set the alarm to head out first thing Friday morning to meet up with the group.  However, we were not woken by alarm, but rather by a rather uncommon morning rain storm pounding on our tin roof and the water that drips onto our bed whenever it rains.  We were not to be deterred; we busted out some rain ponchos Rebecca’s mom had brought when she visited and wrapped everything in plastic bags for our trek to the main dirt road about 2km away from school.  Even with the umbrellas and ponchos, we were soaked when we arrived at the intersection because the road leading to our school had transformed into a river of sorts.

At the bus stop (a designated tree at the intersection), we met one of the teachers from our school trying to get to the clinic.  She confirmed our fears, that our one reliable form of transportation – a bus called Pinduvuke – would not be able to make it to our community because of the rain.  She urged us to turn back.  Still determined to make our weekend plans, we huddled under the bus-stop-tree and waited.  After 45 minutes in the pouring rain, word came that the head teacher had called off school because so few students made the trek and he worried for their safe return as the storm continued.

Some of our students walk as much as 12km each way, and luckily they were offered a lift in the back of the 6^th grade Teacher’s truck as she was trying to get home as well.  As they passed us, we flagged them down and caught a lift with the students.  Everyone was shivering and laughing in the back of the truck, it wasn’t the most ideal school holiday, but it still felt like a vacation for everyone.   Though some of the kids had to wade through flooded rivers to check the depth, the truck eventually made it to the sealed road about 16km away – with us soaked in the back.

Once on the tarred roads, we thought all our problems were solved.  We caught one of the many buses that run on the main West-East road in the country and met up with some other volunteers.  Rebecca and I paid 1 Rand to use the public restrooms to try and dry off, but our bag of clothes was soaked through.  After shopping for our weekend groceries, we took a khumbi ride to a village we had never visited before, to meet the rest of the group and start the final leg of the journey.

There is no public transport that makes the trek down the unpaved road to the gorge, so another volunteer arranged for two private trucks to meet us and transport us and our supplies to the gorge.

In keeping with the uncertainty that we’ve become accustomed to, our ride there turned out to be one small truck over an hour late.  Everyone took one look at truck and started looking around at each other, unsure if it was funny or not.  We started piling our bags in and found very little room left for bodies to fit.  Somehow it worked, we squeezed in and began the final leg of our journey.  The driver made us all a little unsure when he mentioned he had never been to the place we asked him to drive us to.  After about 10km of dirt roads up and down the mountains, the truck began to struggle.  It began backfiring and stalling going up the hills and we ended up spending a substantial amount of the trip pushing the truck up the hills, muddy from the morning rains.  Finally, the truck lost its battle and died.

There was some discussion about where exactly we were.  The driver made a call to try and get picked up.  We were on our own.  The members of our group who had been to the place before couldn’t decide how far away we were.  Should we start walking or wait and try to get a ride?  To contemplate the impending decision we ate lunch by the side of the road.   Afterwards, we started walking, it was already the middle of the afternoon and didn’t want to chance getting caught in the dark.  It was a long hike, and several times we questioned where we were going and if we were on the right path.  Finally, finally, finally, the Khopho hut came into view—our series of unfortunate events was over.

The hut is built right into the giant boulders on the rim of the Ngwempisi Gorge.  It has a ‘Swiss family Robinson’ feel and is virtually open air with tremendous views of the river and gorge below.  The community runs this accommodation, and a man and girl from the near-by homestead made sure  to show us the gas-powered hot water heater and even made us a fire before heading back home.  We enjoyed the weekend, hiking down to the river, playing games with friends, and enjoying the view from just about everywhere (including the toilet and shower).

Alas, we had to go home on Sunday.  We had arranged with the same guys to pick us up at 10am and get us back to town in time to catch the Pinduvuke bus at 2:30pm for Rebecca and I get home.  Despite assurances from the guys that they would be on time and bring two new trucks, we quickly realized we couldn’t trust this claim.  After a few hours of waiting by the side of the road, we began searching for other options.  Asking near-by homesteads for leads on who might own a vehicle near-by.  Finally, we heard a truck approaching.  We sprang up and grabbed our bags only to burst out in laughter as we noticed it was indeed a new truck, but it was towing the old, broken truck behind it with a rope.

Luckily, the drivers arranged to park the broken truck at a local homestead and also arranged for a second, functional truck to ferry the group back to the tarred road.  Despite this break-through, we still arrived to the bus rank in Manizni too late.  The ladies selling snacks from their stands told us our bus had come and gone.  We decided we would get the next bus heading that direction and hope to pass the bus on the road somewhere before it turned from the tar.

We never found the bus, but we were lucky enough to catch a lift on one of the vehicles that had appeared in our area to ferry people to and from the big Marula festival at the near-by Royal Residence happening that day.

Rebecca and I ended the trip walking back down the 2km road to school.  Despite all of the challenges, we are so happy we never turned back—it was totally worth it.

-Oliver

Rebecca is Currently Reading: The God of Small Things

Oliver is Currently Listening to: Audacity of Hope

We are Currently Watching: Nothing! We’ve finally run out of media.

I cut my hair chin length when Oliver and were originally applying for Peace Corps.  I  wanted to see what it would look like short, but I also thought it would be easier to manage in the developing world as a bob.  I didn’t think my hair would be a big deal for the next two years of my life, it’s not like I was packing a straighter.  But hair is a big deal here.  Or synthetic hair is.  The last thing I was expecting in a poverty stricken country was an abundance of wigs but that’s what I found.

At first, I didn’t notice, I happen to be wholly ignorant of anyone’s hair but my own.  But after I saw a few hair pieces sliding around and  styles that got weirder and weirder, I could no longer fool myself that this was God given hair.  Once I opened my eyes, wigs were everywhere!

Our gogo (grandmother) who Oliver and I lived with during training had a difficult time supporting her family in terms of electricity and food, but when she would go off the homestead, she put on her wig.  It wasn’t an expensive wig but I was surprised that at any point in recent history she had enough money to purchase a wig.  It amazes me how so many women living in poverty own what I see as a frivolous accessory.

Girls in primary school are forced to shave their heads to be able to attend school, it’s seen as a way to keep clean and as another part of the uniform.  Once they get to secondary school, they’re allowed to start growing their hair out.  But that doesn’t mean they’re absent from the hair obsession.  I’ve seen preschoolers with weaves and hair pieces because they don’t have to shave their hair yet.  And I’ve seen school girls wearing wigs (probably their mother’s or older sister’s) after school hours.  Once these girls get to secondary school, for the most part, there is a strong desire to have hair that matches the texture and length of Caucasian hair ideals.

I think for most Caucasian women, the ultimate self-worth indicator is weight.  It’s often some low number, an unattainable goal, and I’ve long since written off scales in favor how taking notice of how I feel about my body.  But, going through that process of trying to fight off an imaginary, imposed standard, makes me feel an affinity with the women I see here who are trying to hit an unreachable mark.  In the bus rank, the shops, at school, I find myself wanting to yell out “Your Hair is Already Beautiful!  Take Off That Wig!”

And it is! When I see the teachers at my school without their wigs, I try to make a point to compliment their natural hair.  It’s not a fake compliment, I honestly think it looks better and lets me see more of themselves.

My own hair has been growing steadily over the last year and a half.  Oliver’s trimmed it a few times (with great levels of anxiety).  I wanted to be able to braid it and put it up so I kept growing it out for the most part.  But for every day I put it up, I wore it down for five days.  And it is hot, and hard to wash.  And I decided that I feel more free, more attractive with shorter hair.  So I told Oliver to cut it all off! It took the better part of an hour full of grumbles and close encounters with scissors and eyeballs, but throughout I thought about the reaction of those around me.  The girls that live in the hostel loved playing with my long hair, they often told me how much better it is long than when I first came with short hair.  To them, I had the exact hair they thought they wanted.  The female teachers approved of my longer hair as well and liked to ask me about it—if I had to redo my part every day, if I put oil in it, why it looked so different when it was wet.

I got my first taste of what I assume will be the general response.  The teacher who lives next door from us saw my new hair cut.  “Make Zornow, did you cut your hair?  Why did you do that!?”  I tried smiling and explaining how much easier it was to wash now and how having long hair got too hot and how I liked this much more.  The reply?  “I liked your hair much better when it was long.”   Obviously here we are lacking the US etiquette where you just agree that someone’s new hairdo is so much better than the old one and that it even makes them look younger, regardless of what you actually think.

It’s ok that others won’t really understand why I would cut off long hair.  I have my own ideal in mind and that’s what I want to stick with.  And what I want to show to the young girls growing up here-instead of conforming to others’ standards, you need to decide what is best for your body and what you want, and go for it.

-Rebecca

Rebecca is Currently Reading: i, Robot

We are Currently Watching : Homeland, Season 1

This week has been all about art (and the scheduling of it).  I like art a lot.  I’ve always liked drawing and painting but wasn’t very good at it.  I keep trying and get a little bit better sometimes.  I recently painted a jacana (also called the Jesus bird because it appears to walk on water).  In the painting, the bird itself looks really good.  If you doubt me, fly over here and take a look.  But the background is quite bad.  I don’t know how I can paint a bird but not some water reeds.

But my real interest in art is in being a viewer, learning about the history and theory behind it, and exposing others to it. I studied art history at university and worked at the arts and science area at the Building for Kids (a children’s museum in my hometown).  Now I’m starting an after school art club for the students here, something I’ve been looking forward to for a long time.

Scheduling the art club has been a tremendous task.  I began last year to talk to the school principal to get permission to hold it after school.  That was cleared.  At the beginning of this year, I brought it up again to make sure it was still ok.  It was.  Then I put up a poster and asked students to write a brief essay if they wanted to join.  Many students seemed excited and, on the appointed day, I received essays from 44 students.  Most of them went like this:

Dear Mrs. Zornow,

My name is Xolani Mamba.  I am in grade 6. I would like to be in art club to learn how to drawing.  I want to draw a house.  I want to draw a car.  I want to draw a school.  Good luck to you.

44 was much more than I expected and decided I would have to split it into two groups.  I went to the principal’s office to let him know it would have to be in two groups and to see what classroom I could use.  He gave me a few room options before, but I wanted to wait and see how many desks I would need.

I met the principal in his office and thought it would be a quick check-in meeting.  But suddenly all of the “ok” responses turned into “don’t you know we are doing athletics after school every single day this term?”  Yeah… disappointing, huh?

I ended up going back to his office and explained how I felt, he explained how he perceived the situation but there was still the problem of when to do the art group.  I finally decided that I should ask the kids what they thought.

I tried to be really cheerful during the first art club meeting while explaining the rules and the projects we would be making.  I didn’t want this experience to be ruined for anyone but I was secretly really worried.  I told the students the situation about the times and asked who would be willing to meet twice a week after athletics.  I rambled a bit about how I knew they would be tired, but it would be worth it to be in art club and they would have time to get some water in between, etc.  But I couldn’t keep talking so I finally had to stop and let them respond, whether or not the answer would disappoint me.  So I asked, “Who could do that time after sports?” 23 hands went in the air.  I felt a bit emboldened but still nervous to ask who would be able meet on Saturday morning for 2 hours.  Another 23 hands went in the air!

The students have signed up for the group they wanted to be in.  There are now 28 students in the art club, 2 groups of 14.  A few did decide they didn’t want to do it at the times available to us but many more did want to make the commitment.

So I had my first group on Tuesday.  They really enjoyed it.  I have a big puzzle in the library that I brought up for the class and everyone put a piece in as they introduced themselves to the group.    I wanted the first week to be focused on some basic skills.  I thought it would be mostly review.  I planned for that first day to do two templates, one on shapes, one on shading.  I was really surprised to see so many kids struggling with drawings circles and stars and spirals.  And almost all the students were thrilled to see how you could smudge pencil lines to shade an area of the paper.  I left a blank spot at the end of the templates called “free” so they could experiment on their own.  At the end, a few students kept calling out “Free education!” while using their pencils to make rapid dots on the paper.

It was fun, and it reinforced the clear need the students here have for a creative outlet and a place where they can practice important skills.  There are some practical art projects included in the school curriculum but many of them are cut because of lack of supplies or teacher know-how.

I’m excited for all of the things we are going to do in the art club, but Oliver and I have also tried to incorporate a lot of art projects into the activities for the kids who live at the hostel.

This school year, 20 students will be living in the hostel and last night Oliver and I decided to make Valentines with the children.  We explained the holiday (it only makes an appearance in the major cities of Swaziland) and I showed them one I made.  All the kids were excited but what took the cake was when I held up a piece of paper, folded it in half, cut a curved line and suddenly opened up a heart.  It never seemed that amazing to me, I’ve been doing it since I started kindergarten, but this was like magic for the kids.

Everyone got a piece of paper and we had scissors to share and I said to start.  The littlest kids couldn’t get their paper folded while the oldest kids managed to cut a shape but it either looked like a triangle or circle with jagged edges.  I knew how amazed they were just a moment ago, but I didn’t connect that right away to how they could have trouble replicating the simple cut.

Most of the papers were salvageable and decorated with red stickers, crayons, markers, and a heart hole puncher.  But we also had our share of a Valentine Massacre.  Hearts were cut in half, glued to a table, cut and recut until they were as small as a quarter.

At the end of it all, Oliver and I just looked at each other, amazed at the difficulties this project brought.  We’ve done lots of projects with the kids, but never one that required cutting paper.  I was a bit disappointed they didn’t have nice, big hearts to give their parents, but realized how important the lesson was and the kids clearly enjoyed showing off what they’ve made.  I’ve always had craft paper at home, at school, at my grandmother’s house, wherever, and I could cut until my heart’s content, getting new paper if I had messed up.  But here Oliver and I do not have a large supply for students to make and do what they like.  Maybe this was their first time to try and transform a square piece of paper, but also maybe, with practice, they can teach their children the magic of taking simple supplies and make a dazzling object to show another person that you care for them.

-Rebecca

Rebecca is Currently Reading: Wild Swans

We are Currently Watching: Game of Thrones, Season 1

The closest thing we have to a host family is our Principal.  He is around and takes it as his responsibility to look after us (during those times when he is not around and we are alone at school, the police travel over 30 km from the station several times a week just to check on us – I am certain he has at least something to do with this).

This past weekend, our Principal invited us to join him at his parental homestead to celebrate the final payment of cows from a man who fathered a child with his sister years ago (dependent on the circumstances such a payment ranges from 2-5 cows, where as full marriage can run as high as 13-15 cows).  At such a ceremony the entire family is invited and one is slaughtered and served.  This is definitely not an occasion we would ever run across with our families back in Wisconsin, but we both found ourselves amazed at just how many similarities there were to this family gathering and those we’ve missed so much since leaving home. 

Immediately upon arriving at the homestead after a somewhat treacherous 30-minute drive through the rain-soaked, dirt road we began noticing similarities.  An abundance of vehicles parked around the house resembled the car-lined streets that help you know you are in the right place when arriving at a family gathering in the US.  There was tent pitched and some folding tables with plastic chairs in the yard.  A long table along the side of the tent was quickly filling up with food being brought from the kitchen and various relatives were milling around talking.  When someone new arrived there was an abundance of hugs and excitement.  A couple young guys were huddled around the speakers playing music.

Fred introduced us to one of his brothers from another mother (his father was a polygamous and Fred estimates having at least 46 siblings though no one wsa certain on this figure) and a close cousin who were to be our chaperones for the event.  They both had excellent English and Fred, as the senior male in his family, had to attend to his responsibilities at the event.  We were introduced to the elders and a few important members of the family before taking our seats. 

There was a short service which included some church songs and then a brief message by the pastor from their catholic church and a prayer.  The closing song got several people to their feet and an over-exuberant uncle got everyone laughing as he tried to take center-stage while struggling to maintain the proper beat.

There was opportunity given for the senior-ranking family members to say a few words and then it was time to eat.  What looked so familiar quickly began to fade.  At first the selection of beverages which were located at the end of the buffet table were divvied up among the tables, a woman went around with a bucket of water washing people’s hands and everything was done by rank.  [I fall in with the other married men (just below the elders) and because we’re non-Swazi, Rebecca gets the same treatment.]

After that, what looked like a buffet table was quickly surrounded by the hardest working segment of the Swazi population – the married women—and was converted into a rapid assembly line.  (Fred told us on our drive in that we would likely not see much of his wife because she would be filling in the role as a house-wife, and he was quite right—this was the only time she emerged from the kitchen was with the rest of the women for this task).  Rather than each person standing and getting their own food each person was dished and served.  First the elders, married men, and senior women at the tables and then to the scores of people seated on the ground – children, unmarried adults, and more distant relatives/neighbors.  After we received our plates with a hunk of the slaughtered cow, rice, samp and beans, and beetroot, a plate containing intestines and other much-sought after internal organs was placed in the center of the table to be quickly divided up.

After the meal, we talked for a while and then people began to head home.  Our table was served wine and even a bottle of sparkling wine was brought out.  One man asked me if I took red wine, because it was healthy for me and I responded that one glass was, in fact, healthy.  He said what happens if you drink more, I said you start to get silly.  This, combined with one uncles fulfillment of my prediction, provided the conversation topic as we waited for Fred to finish up his conversations with the remaining important guests.  After he came to let us know it was time to go, we said our good-byes and thanked our hosts and just like back home were handed a plastic container of left over food which we couldn’t refuse.  Fred drove us back to school before returning home to finish out the weekend with his family. 

We were very grateful to be included in this celebration and enjoy the time we have with our Swazi friends, but are looking forward to returning to our own families and traditions in just a few months. 

-Oliver

Rebecca is reading: The Magicians

Oliver is reading:The Story of Nations: Southern Africa (1894)