condom demonstrations at the shebeen

      We have arranged for Population Services International to deliver condoms to us and, better yet, directly to supply our major distribution points. In visiting at our site with PSI they were interested in an alternative to our biggest distribution point at the local bar. Near the bar is what is called here a shebeen, which is an Irish word I'm told meaning an informal, unlicensed place that sells “home-brew”, a sweet fermented sorghum drink. We were told in training to avoid shebeens, and our only association with this one had been to see its denizens stumble around back (right by the road we travel) to pee. The PSI rep was tall, self-assured, and Swazi, and he took us to the shebeen, where we met the owner/manager (a woman, which I think is typical). The customers were quiet and polite, if a little stupefied. I enjoyed some home-brew with them, and we agreed to return Saturday afternoon for a condom demonstration.

     We didn't arrive till around 4 because of an event at the Refugee Camp, and the clientele had not become more lively with the passing time, but they were older than the bar, the absence of the pounding music of the bar enabled us to talk with those there, and we saw one woman we knew, the secretary at one of our schools, whom we like and who has been helpful to us.

     We pulled out our models and condoms, a customer volunteered to do translations and Katherine demonstrated on the models the use of the male condom first, then the female, then we answered many good questions.

       As in dining halls I've observed for US primary schools, high schools, colleges, and graduate schools, the men at the shebeen mostly sat together, and the women sat apart. After our demonstrations for the men, we went up to the women's end, and started our demonstration there, but several women, including our friend, told us quite nicely to stop. They said they are widows, and this information was not useful for them; they were passed this stage in their lives. Not easily deterred, Katherine said they could use this information to be sure their children and grandchildren were being safe. They were not interested. We backed off. My guess is we are older than all of these women, but many of them were lame, missing teeth, significantly over-weight in some instances, and all rapidly losing ground in the struggle with mortality.

      Our translator came up, led us back to the main group, and publicly thanked us, very eloquently. I think he was genuinely appreciative, but I was also coming to understand that they expected us to buy one of the small (probably 1 ½ quart) plastic buckets of home-brew they pass around. We get requests for money a lot more compelling than this all the time, and we mostly just brush them off as I did this one, saying we're volunteers, not paid, and we're giving our time. I went inside to see the fermentation process, bought a bucket of brew for the two of us and, after we'd had a swallow, one of our new friends took it off our hands, and it quickly started around the circle. Which was fine. Katherine said she was burped all the way home. I liked it.

      Sunday we planned to ride around 20 kilometers to the homestead of another volunteer, but shortly after we started K got a flat, I couldn't repair it, so she walked back alone. When I got home after a long, hot, dusty, dry ride into a fierce headwind we worked on some siSwati exercises we've set for ourselves and, upon finishing that, found the kitchen area was infested with ants; there's a crack in the wall, and if you leave unwashed plates out for a few hours, the ants invade. We washed and moved everything, then sprayed and exited into the late afternoon heat. Not what I'd planned for the end of the afternoon! In the increasing heat we've been drinking and generally using more filtered water, and I did a 2^nd processing overnight, and awoke to find I'd overfilled the reservoirs and flooded the kitchen table, seeping underneath the plastic cover, which is worse than it sounds because the kitchen table is made from composition material like cardboard, and I'm afraid it will fall apart if I do this much more. After teaching 2 classes at the “poorer” primary school, which did not go very well – they could recall few of the most elementary things we'd covered (the 4 fluids that can transmit HIV) and instead talked and joked among themselves - we went back to the High School to meet some Form IIIs selected by the teacher as needing special help for their exams. The Principal had sternly lectured the students at morning assembly on the importance of a big push for their final exams for Form III and V, which start this week and extend through October, but then he sent so many of them home for failing to pay their school fees (including the refugees, whose fees are supposed be paid by Caritas, a Roman Catholic charity funding the Refugee Camp) that classes were canceled for everyone. We rounded up 2 of the 5 Form IIIs we were to help, and had a pretty good session with those two.

     Sometimes this country is too much for us!