Men's Sector 2008. A Success!

After many false starts and projects that only got as far as hopes, wishes and dreams in my overactive little imagination, the unbelievable happened! A successful event in Seronga! Although there are plenty of times I have experienced small successes, and moments of hope and pride and small triumphs that bring me joy, this was unprecedented.

I came to be involved with Men’s Sector (which is supposed to be male leaders in the community coming together and creating forums from which to help men address their issues and concerns surrounding HIV/AIDS) at the training to form the committee. There had actually been a bit of talk that was very discouraging for a white, western, “liberated” woman to hear that was women's fault when they were raped as they shouldn't be enticing men with their short skirts, and the reaffirmation that women were the property of their husbands as the husbands bought and paid for them with Lebolla, I figured the only way to help change these charming little misinfo's was to join them. So here I am.



The planning sessions for this event to "introduce the men's sector to the community" were too many in number, too long, tedious, overly focused (in my humble opinion) on the food, and nearly always completely in Setswana (which I really must get around to learning better).

It was an interesting thing for me to try to balance participation in the discussion with letting the committee make decisions on their own. I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut after we were all told to think about a theme for the event to present at the next meeting and I was the only one who had anything, which was unanimously approved without any other options offered up. After this I tried (big challenge for me) to just observe the planning process for this event. I wanted to see how the committee would set things up, to see what the organization would be and how things would work without much outside influence.

I offered to partner with someone to head the publicity committee (for which she promptly avoided doing anything, I found some ladies at the "restaurant" to help me) and took charge of the health quiz, which is one thing that wouldn't have happened without my involvement as no one saw any point to it. I recruited community members and some of the teenagers from the junior secondary school to administer the quiz so that they could educate people when they got answers wrong (in Setswana). It ended up working out really well as I wasn't really involved with the actual administering of anything, but rather overseeing the activity. I've noticed that often everyone is expected to participate in everything, and then you've got the problem of who deals with any problems that arise. It was a little awkward to get up on stage and interrupt the police investigator who was the chair of the committee, but hey, he was in charge..

I learned a lesson in trust when at one of the last meetings before the event, everyone began getting up and climbing into the backs of cars heading towards the police station. When I asked someone what we were doing they informed me that we were going to the police station to view the supplies and groceries that had been purchased for the event. I asked why, as we had just seen the receipt during the meeting. This apparently wasn't enough. We had to go look at the food, to ensure that indeed it was all there. When I asked my favorite question (what I've come to think of as "the second why") again, I was just told it was part of the culture. "But he's a policeman, don't we trust him?" This one is still a bit of a mystery to me.

The health quiz was a concept that was kind of tough to describe to the committee, but they sort of let me run with the thing on my own, which was good for the first event so that I could figure out what I wanted to happen as well. Education at a community event was a new concept, and one that got a little dicey at the actual event. At one point during the event the Men's Sector chairman tried to shut down the booth with the health quiz because the rest of the committee was complaining as they thought there were too many people waiting to take the quiz to win airtime (only cash would have made them more mob like) than there were people watching the dancing and songs. It took some firm negotiating to convince the chairman not to shut us down, but eventually I prevailed. I found myself thanking my lucky stars I had spent so much time building a relationship with him!

The event surpassed my expectations, which is the greatest gift I could have ever asked for. The health quiz happened, the entertainment was great, the food was chaotic but people were happy for the most part. I left the day with tears of joy flowing down my face. It was a shining of example of what I came here to do. And it only took 7.5 months!!!!!

I thought back to every time I've ever experienced tangible success before, at graduations, track meets, dance recitals, choir concerts. I remember the look on my mom's face, and how my grandma was always crying, how tightly my track coaches would grab me after a good race and how the director would beam after a great performance. I never understood until now that sometimes we can derive more joy from the accomplishments of others than we ever could with our own, that celebrating another's success could ever come to mean more to us than our own. It's another beautiful lesson I'll leave this village having learned.

Here's my "press release" that will hopefully go in the Okavango newsletter with photos and such- I've added some to picasa as well, hopefully they show up.

Seronga Men’s Sector Event:

“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”

On 22nd November, 2008, the village of Seronga hosted an event sponsored by the Seronga Men’s Sector with the theme “Men standing tall, walking proud, and taking responsibility.” Present at the event were the dikgosi of several neighboring villages, nursing representatives from the Seronga clinic, teachers from both the primary and junior secondary school in Seronga, members of the local and national police based in Seronga, as well as representatives from wildlife and BDF. Also present were the police chief from Gumare, the guest speaker Mma Knutson and nearly 400 villagers. The event began with a lively march in which the members of Men’s Sector Committee split into two groups and were led by the Scout Group down each road away from the Kgotla for a vigorous 3 kilometer round trip march. The weather was nice and not too hot, and although there were brief rain showers the Seronga Village Health Choir keep up the excitement by performing through the downpour! Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war to entertain the crowd.

In addition to the message being spread from the main stage, there were 2 side booths which continued to spread the message of Men’s Sector. Over 60 participants were awarded airtime, crisps, and oranges for their efforts in events in a challenging sexual health quiz. Villagers tested their knowledge of issues of HIV/AIDS health, prevention and transmission, PMTCT, IPT and reducing stigma. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the by Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. It was a successful day for the Seronga Men's Sector!

The Gentle Giant of Seronga... My African Education Continues

He smiles widely at me, the gaps between his teeth both prominent and unmistakably appropriate. He is a gentle giant, well over 6 feet tall, and his body sturdy and solid and constructed of a lifetime of strenuous hard labor, as though his muscles were spun from not muscle fiber but perhaps something much firmer, yet still softer than the cliché of steel.

When I hug him hello after one of us has been away for a while it’s as though I’m walking into the embrace of a huge tame grizzly bear, he could easily flatten me but has not the inclination, nor the desire. His hands alone are similar to paws in their expansiveness, and it is clear that they have been used to work very hard throughout his life. They are calloused and yet soft, and they envelope my hand completely as we shake hands before we hug. His complexion is very dark, but smooth, and it seems there is nearly always a glow of sweat around where his hairline would be, if it hadn’t receded back to a white ring around the back of his head and to his ears- he calls the sparse areas of hair on top the “short hair” and states that he never needs to cut those ones. He wears a lilac uniform to work at the clinic to identify him in his job as a nurse orderly, which corresponds beautifully with his dark skin.

We have a greeting of “ey hey” (which seems to be the Batswana way of showing recognition- their version of eureka! if you will) expelled from deep in our diaphragms that we loudly and jubilantly exclaim (repeatedly) upon meeting, it has become part of out routine, and is the reason he is convinced I will learn Setswana. In this practice he is one of my most consistent and patient teachers, on car rides from Gumare to Sepopa smooshed into the single bucket seat (really I’m nearly more on his lap than in the seat with him) in the front of an ambulance he teaches me to say things I should have learned at training. His English is very good when he is speaking, his comprehension when I am speaking is less, but he often complains of my funny accent (I’ve gathered that he learned English from South Africans and English descendents and my inability to say “wa-tah” (water) often confuses him as it seems when I say it it becomes more, as he describes it “ward-ar”) so I am more than partially at fault. Unlike some of my other coworkers he rarely asks me for anything, and is more than thrilled to trade vegetables for pens when he is in need, which is a form of commerce that works for both of us.

We have long talks at the clinic, or on drives, or as we walk home together along the bank of the floodplain. He tells me about his culture, his family, his past, and what is important. The descriptions are refreshingly simple. There is little ambivalence, and what uncertainty there is is quickly displaced by his willingness to learn, and possibly rework his understanding to include new information. He invites me to his “old plot” and gives me the grand tour of it’s one room, telling me how this is where he comes to eat the meal his wife prepared for him that morning and rest at lunch as it is much nearer to the clinic than his “new plot”. He shows me how he leaves his clinic uniform there and changes into his other clothes to travel the rest of the way home. He walks me around the yard, describing how he will replace the roof, or chop down this tree or that one, and which ones are “girl” trees (fruit producing) and which are boy trees. He walks me “halfway” (really the entire way) to the gate as I leave, for I am a friend, as opposed to an unwanted guest, who would have to find their way to the gate on their own.

He calls me his daughter and reminds me that I must come to visit my “mother” (his wife) as it is more appropriate for her to learn English from her daughter than from him. He himself learned English after his mother sold traditional beer and saved the money to send him to school. His father didn’t want him to go. His mother sent him anyway and she died shortly after, his father again forbids him to go. He got himself a job working for a teacher who in turn sponsored him at school, which he attended until grade 4. This was the end of his formal education. He then spent time working in the mines in South Africa where he improved his English, and moved back to Seronga to work at the Seronga clinic which opened somewhere in the late 70’s or early 80’s.

He tells me the year he got married to his wife, as well as the years they were born, and we each carefully do the math in our own heads, me waiting patiently for him to declare their respective ages and the length of their marriage. He is often off by a year or so depending on the actual date he is calculating, but I seldom correct him as a sign of respect, although he never seems offended when I correct him on something. For a man of 58 he is remarkably willing to accept the corrections of a young white girl. Each time he exclaims his own age, it’s as though it’s new or recently discovered information, he then moves on to the years his children were born, as well as which year he went to work in the mines in South Africa, when he’ll retire and let his children take care of him in Seronga. This is how he defines his life, by a series of important dates, never worrying about comparing himself to others, or whether it is enough, or if he has been happy. He does not define himself by what he has done necessarily, but what he has learned and who is in his life. I’m increasingly believing there’s something to his line of thinking.

He often gives me advice on how to live my life, and why I should so this or that, and one of my favorite topics (although this is funny as it’s growing to be one of my least favorite topics in speaking with anyone else) is why I must get married. He often tells me about how he loves his wife, and how he’s never had another wife or small house since he’s been married (and due to his earnestness, I believe him). He tells me that I must marry (and preferably a Motswana) so that I will have someone who knows how to take care of me, and which foods I like and how they should be prepared. When I protest that I am quite happy on my own (at least for the here and now) he just shakes his head and says “No Lorato, let me explain you”. And launches again into the way that his wife does his laundry and he goes to the store to buy her the sweets she likes. He speaks about how he knows white people, and although white ladies think they know how to take care of themselves and can be fine alone they are wrong. About this he is certain. His descriptions are so charming and sincere that I want to lean back into the fairy tale he presents and squeeze my eyes closed as though I am five and he is waxing poetic about fairies.

There are many lessons about life, and relationships, family, friends, Africa and…. Economics (?) from T
Here’s a funny lesson of late:

So in addition to working at the clinic he runs a garden on his land, and has several plots around town. He is quite the saavy businessman when he explains to me the prices of his produce depend on if people come to pick them up at his garden, or if he has to deliver them to town.

“Why T, I had no idea you had a car.” I said.

He looks as surprised as I do, briefly considering the fact that wait, did he perhaps have a car he had previously forgotten about? Having searched his memory and decided that no, indeed he doesn’t have a car, he slowly shakes his head and says, “No Lorato, I have no car.”

“But then why are people being charged for the fuel price of bringing the fruits and vegetables into town?”

“Because the donkeys, they need fu-el, Lorato. They are eating to get big and strong so as to pull the cart to town.” Satisfied with his answer he smiles and crosses his hands in his lap.

Touché, T.

Staggering Generosity: Stories of Kindness

I have recently been the recipient of the kind of generosity from strangers that I didn't know existed anymore. I can't say that as an American, in America, I would trust these sorts of things, but it has happened in Africa, and has helped open my heart even further to it's people and those I serve. Thank you to the individuals mentioned below, as you've lifted my spirit, regenerated my energy, and filled my soul with light, and just generally been so good to me. People like you make the world a better place!


It began with a man in my home state, MN. He stumbled upon my blog. He was fact checking some info that his friend who lives in Gaborone (the capital city of Bots) had told him. He emailed me (as so many tend to do, and keep it up, good or bad, I love to get people's reactions, or really just to see if anyone out there is reading. It's been a long time since hearing from strangers has been weird and is now one of the more interesting components of writing this blog) and we would write back and forth every so often.

The needle stick happened. Many people responded with kind words and messages of hope (and again thank you, I am so lucky. I do not take this blessing for granted).

Shortly after that post, I got a call from Nala, a doctor who stays in Francistown. She offered me many kind words and a place to stay should I ever make my way to Francistown. I thanked her for her kindness and stored her number in my phone.

On my way down to Gabs for follow-up testing after the needle prick I get a somewhat strange message that there is a package waiting for me in Maun. K, the man in Minneapolis has told his friend Carle about me, and Carle has sent me what is nearly a crate filled with nice food and supplies that are hard to impossible to find in the bush. I am in tears. Carle offered me a place to stay should I ever need it in Gabs.

Again, as an American, these tend to be the sort of interactions that we have become naturally wary and suspicious of. I decided to believe in the true goodness of people and take both these folks up on their offers. And I'm so glad I did.


Carle and his family showed me such kindness, opening their home to a complete stranger. They fed me, let me use their washing machine (this in itself was a miracle that nearly brought me to tears), their Internet and showed me better hospitality than a 5 star hotel. Carle took me to yoga and his wife K took me all over the city looking for reading glasses for Simon. I got to hang out with their darling little children and have the sort of experience that reminds me so strongly of a typical "home", or at least to what I've come to think of as home. We watched movies and funny American reality TV, and talked about books and music we'd enjoyed and places in the world one really must go. We spoke of psychology, philosophy, the politics of both the US and the southern part of Africa. I helped K and the children decorate their Christmas tree. Carle helped me find a new camera to buy as the one I had had crapped out on me, and arranged for a ride to Francistown so I wouldn't be stuck on the bus. I was staggered by their willingness to open their home to a complete stranger, and to be so incredibly kind.

In Francistown, when it became clear that I would be stopping there for the night, I hesitated. Nala had said to call, but it was very short notice and I would be getting in quite late. I took a deep breath and I called. She answered, delighted to hear from me and immediately offered up her home for the night. I arrived in Francistown near 11PM. She came to pick me up in the dark of the night in the middle of the city, no hesitation. She brought me to her home, mentioning landmarks along the way so that I could come back again next time. She had a meal warming in the oven for me and chocolate cake and tea after that. She had a magic phone that allowed me to call the states from an internal number (no long distance) and I was able to speak with family and friends for free. She let me use her Internet as well, and we had lovely conversations over the wonderful breakfast she cooked for me before taking me to some art shops and another pharmacy to look for Simon's glasses before dropping me at the bus rank. She is wonderful and giving, and the woman just amazes me as she herself is going through grieving a very recent death. I meant what I said to her when I told her that short of my own mother, if I ever needed someone to take care of me, let it be an African woman. They mother better than anyone on Earth, I would wager... For her to go out of her way for a stranger.. I smile when I think of her grace and healing presence.


I smile when I think of these new friends, who have opened up their homes to a stranger, and shown such generosity. I send up good feelings and hopes for happiness for the kindness of strangers, and how they have quite simply changed my life and altered my perspective, and made it possible for me to go back to my village ready to keep doing the work I do. I am so blessed to be so intimately exposed to the genuine good in the world, which I had no idea how thoroughly I would see when I signed up for a job that would naturally expose me to such hardship and sadness. Thank you again. You are amazing.

I tell this story to attempt to begin to thank those involved for their generosity, (although I have kept them somewhat anonymous at their own request). I tell it also in light of the season upon us, with the hope that it inspires those who are sharing this journey with me to ask themselves (as I now ask myself, every day) what kindness can you show to a stranger?

It makes a big difference.
Peace, Love, Gratitude, Hope, Kindness
Jen

Just like a tattoo...

A year ago today I got this tattoo, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of the other who bears the same markings. I’ll be walking along and glance down at my foot, thinking of the other foot that has often traveled a similar path, and does no more. A pair of cherries, connected at the stem, two women connected at the heart. When people in the village notice it, as they often do, as I live in sandals, they smile and comment, sometimes conversing in Setswana to determine the proper name for such an exotic marking. I smile and thank them, thinking of her. Whenever someone mentions it I speak of her, and that she has the same, and we got it together, as it feels and has always felt like a shared symbol, a half to a whole, something not quite mine and thus the shared property rights must be duly noted. I think of our feet, and how she always seemed to follow in my footsteps, and the richness our lives have taken on because of such a highly shared but incredibly unique experience. She is the only one who can truly know certain parts of me, has seen my life from the mirror’s perspective, knows my thoughts and can predict my intentions with an almost unsettling accuracy. In some ways we are opposites, in height and demeanor, in others so similar as to be startling. No matter where I go or how far I travel on this planet I carry her with me, in this marking we both share.

Love you, Sis.

In which I get a white Christmas...

There were a few weeks that mail didn’t come to Seronga, and then a week that I was gone in Gabs with medical and thus not collecting the post. So when I finally got to the post office I had six packages waiting for me. It was incredible, so much loot I had to get a lift to my house (yes I am a very, very lucky girl!!). I opened a package from my mother which I knew would contain my CD’s and a new ipod (thank you again mom, this little machine is already changing my life!!!). I eagerly opened the box. As I lifted the flap back I am surprised to find white powder everywhere. I gingerly pick up the box and move to the stoop, wondering what sort of drug shipment had been confused with a box from my mom. I tried to blow the powder off, covering my front step in the process with a thin layer of white dust.

“Perhaps some drink mix gone awry?” I think to myself. I begin remove the items, most of which were clothes, from the box and discover the culprit. The box of baking soda I had asked my mom to send before I realized I could get it here (labeled as soda bicarbonate-who knew. I guess I should have paid more attention in Chemistry class, but really the guy who fell alphabetically after me and thus sat behind me just seemed so adept that it just seemed silly to argue with him) had exploded. And was now covering my front step. It might be a white Christmas indeed!


Thank you so much to all of those who sent me Christmas care packages. You are all amazing and I am so lucky to have such thoughtful people supporting my journey from all over the globe. You have really made my day, (week, year) and I am so grateful for your generosity and kindness, especially in a tough economic time of year (and really decade?). Namaste to you all. Know that I will pay it forward until I cease to walk this planet. I am so blessed.

To my mother's "Other"

P-Funk.. I hope you had a wonderful, very happy birthday. I am so grateful for you every day that I am blessed enough to be breathing. I am so thankful you came into our lives, and take such good care of and show my mother so much loving kindness. Your calm steadiness and caring understanding are her beacon in the storm and as such you are also a source of strength and grounding for me. I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect match for her if I tried (although I will take a little credit for my wing man capabilities at the party that first night…). Thank you for all the happiness and pleasure you’ve brought to all of our lives, and thank you for looking after my mother and caring for her as I am a world away. It all means more to me than you can ever know.
Happy Birthday!
Jen

A Woman of Africa: Part 1

She is a lovely British woman, Kenyan born with the sort of lilting musical accent my ears have been longing to hear after all these months of Simon’s gruffness and muttering. She enters the room with an incredible air of confidence; she carries herself exuding such a sense of capability and authority that I am immediately a bit intimidated and struck slightly wary, in the effect that only truly capable and approachable people have on me.



She is a lady. A proper lady. She sweeps into Simon’s house and I am quickly very impressed. I smile a shy half smile (so uncharacteristic of me!) and look down, wishing there was some way I could magically have the rough edges of myself buffered away to be like her. Although she has spent nearly her whole life in Africa, she is thoroughly British, and of the belief that there were no obstacles that can not be overcome with some tea and reasoning. I get the sense that there is no question on Earth that could render itself impossible for her to answer, and no problem that dare place itself firmly in her path; she could take it on and solve it without breaking a sweat and tackle a few of mine for sport. I get the impression that no would never be the answer she was given unless it was the one she requested. She is a doer, and yet had such an air of approachability and humble grace. If you have earned her respect she will indulge you, and if she thinks you are a reprehensible moron you would have to push her pretty far, and give her a glass of red, rather than her classic white, in order to get her to tell you outright (unless, of course you are trying to screw her or her business or one of her children over. Then watch out.)

I instantly respected her and wanted her as my friend, my mentor. I felt the childish urge to want her to like me. Over lunch we discussed some of the projects I'm working on, and she had showed what appeared to be genuine interest, and had ideas or suggestions or contacts for many of them. She always follows up with these contacts, sending the information or encouragement I needed at just the moment I was about to lose inertia, interest, and hope in my projects.


She is always crisp and fresh in unwrinkled linen, even when she’s not and it isn’t, you would swear this was the case upon recalling the details of her after she’s left the room. She is the epitome of a colonial African woman, and I would compare her to Merryl Streep in “Out of Africa” if it didn’t do her the injustice of implying that she was copying Merryl, rather than the seeming reality that Merryl got it from her. She walks with the purposeful grace and stride of a dancer, gliding through rooms, both commanding attention and offering tea.


She offered her home as a place I could stay in Maun, an offer I took her up on on my way back through for medical from Gabs. She led me to my own tent outfitted with a complete bathroom and a queen size bed. We had lovely dinners of fresh vegetables and wonderful, luxurious meats and cheeses. She spoke of her childhood and raising her children in Africa. We talked of our mutual love of Vanity Fair, and fresh vegetables, her battle with breast cancer, and the experience of boarding school. I paid full attention, trying to figure out how to be like her.

I quickly noted that she has really mastered the way to interact with men in this country, to use the authority vested in her to demand what she felt she or whatever cause she was petitioning for deserved, or was right, whilst charming the men and evoking them to offer her their help, service, counsel, advice, or opinion on how something was to be done. She depends on no man, and yet they clamour to help her. She is building a cottage on a plot in Seronga, and every time I am with her someone asks how it is going and how they can help her. It is extraordinary. She is extraordinary.

Elephant Graveyard

Piles of rough, scaly, dried skins are stacked up underneath a corrugated tin awning. The type of animal is mostly indistinguishable unless you look closely, and then it is possible to identify an occasional crocodile snout. Tiny chunks of the salt that preserves the skins spills off the heaps onto the ground. Across the yard in the sand, the jawbones of elephants are lined up like soldiers, the more recent kills still covered in bits of gristle and hairs while the older ones are bleached as white as the sand under the midday African sun. The skulls of other beasts, their dangerous horns lifeless in the sand, wait to be packed and labeled in boxes and shipped around the world to those who paid dearly for the privilege of ending the lives of these beasts.


As I wander around more I find the tannery, with the tiny old men hunched over carefully tanning the hides, using impossibly sharp knives to scrape away the remaining bits of flesh from the now soft, pliable furs. It is clear that they have learned these traditions from their forefathers, techniques passed down a long line from father to son for generations. Their feet are bare, calloused and hardened from walking many miles in the scorching sand and through the thorns of the brush, their thick toenails grown protectively long over their hardened toes. They are dressed in ragged “modern” working clothes, although I can easily picture them in skins of animals they have tanned previously. I imagine them doing the same thing around a fire in a village somewhere, scraping at the hides as they tell stories, as the children play and the women cook the meat from the hunt. The stillness in the air lends a sense of the sacred to this practice; the rains seem to be waiting for the men to give their signal to fall.


I walk into the warehouse, where the glassy eyes of the mounted heads gaze back at me. The head of an elephant, it’s ears at full staff as though he is listening for intruders regally regards anyone who enters the room, and one fights the impulse to bow to the fallen king in reverence and respect. Around the room skins are stretched tight over foam molds, the fur carefully styled to look “windblown”. Horns and tusks are mounted on wooden trophy stands, and elephant femurs have been fitted into lamps. On the opposite wall, brilliant paintings depicting bones and patterned skins of the beasts against wildly colored backgrounds are reminiscent of a combination of Georgia O’Keefe and Salvador Dahli. Below them are photographs of the animals in states of life and in death, shots from various angles to help the taxidermists achieve a realistic look for their eternal preservation.


Having spent my youth in the hunting-happy state of Minnesota, I have a certain appreciation and respect for hunting. For me it was very cool to get to see how those glassy eyed animals went from living in the wild to staring down at me fromthe walls of my uncle's homes. Granted, these are very different specimens but I got the idea.

I don’t have any particular moral issue with hunting, eating meat, ect and the operation before me appears to really make use of all parts and pieces of the animal, from the skins and bones to the meat that the villagers are called in to harvest after a kill. Where some people would think of this as gross, to me it seems quite the opposite, the very epitome of respect for the animal, to hunt it nobly, kill it quickly, and honor it’s spirit by making use of all the parts.

In addition, it seems that as the population in the rural areas of Botswana has increased, there has also been an increase in poaching. I've been told the populations of most animals in Botswana have gone down as the human populations have increased. Many people in other countries look at the hunting industries in Africa and think it's savage, or cruel, when in reality the people who run the hunting companies take pretty careful management of the animals, after all, if you're spending amount x to sell hunting experiences to Americans and other tourists, you're going to take care of that investment, and the hunting companies are sort of the ones who protect the animals from poaching and over hunting. I myself prefer the experience of what is known is photographic safaris, wherein you are attempting to shoot photos of animals to bring home rather than carcasses, but to each their own I suppose.


It's funny to me that when I was interviewing for site placement I specifically said I didn't need to be near the delta, and furthermore wasn't very interested in the animals and whatnot having had plenty of time watching National Geographic and Animal Planet in my day. I have eaten these words again and again as the delta and it's people continue to reveal their magic to me. I admit it, I was wrong...

Prize Giving

In accordance with my status as one of only 11 resident “whities” in Seronga, (Simon and I have a ridiculous habit of counting, and recounting, for no good reason, it’s not as though the numbers have -or will- change. And yet we often recount as though we are taking inventory, or making certain non of us have bred without reporting to some crazy committee – the official count is as follows- Me, him, 2 Afrikaners at the Houseboats, a missionary family of 5, the counselor- who really, is mixed- and his wife) or perhaps because I am “The Peace Corps in Seronga”, I am often invited to community events of significance. As a result of the aforementioned status of whitey, I am nearly always an “honored guest” which means sitting under an awning or tent with the heads of departments and the kgosi (chief) while everyone else swelters in the sun, and being fed a higher quality of food in an area segregated from the majority of the villagers who I’ve heard often fight over the food and tend to get upset when they cannot also bring left-overs home in a Tupperware container (side note on Tupperware- I am amazed at the commerce of Tupperware in Seronga- one of the policemen’s wives and the female ambulance driver from Gunistoga are reps, and I often see catalogues floating around amongst the villagers. The actual products are everywhere, coming into the village in huge cartons at the post office which have had the occasion to nearly bring me to tears when I see a huge box come through and realize it’s got nothing to do with me… Jeeze I am becoming selfish… anyway…It never ceases to amaze me how in a rural, tough to get to village down a dirt road with limited accessibility to what I’ve come to consider “the outside world” we can have such a prevalence of Tupperware. I’m nearly ready to email the company to congratulate them on their marketing strategy, because this is truly impressive. We can’t get decent….most anything, really, but by God, we’ve got Tupperware. Go figure. Perhaps Mary Kay and Avon will be next…but I doubt it.)


Another condition of being an honored guest means that I am introduced and expected to stand and give a little wave, which can occasionally get difficult as A) this is clearly all in Setswana and if they don’t go around the introduction of the “dignitaries” in the order we are sitting I am screwed, stuck with a smile plastered on my face never quite knowing when it’s my turn (but now I am often nudged by one of the kind souls I make a point of sitting next to) to do my pageant wave and B) I occasionally space out or am sending a text message- (this is not rude or uncommon behavior during meetings here) when I am announced and C) I still can’t exactly figure out what importance I hold as a figurehead and am always surprised when I am introduced. I can understand the Kgosi and the social worker and the Principle Registered Nurse from the clinic, but me? Oh well.


Anyway. The school year in Botswana goes more on the calendar year rather than by the farming seasons (although perhaps it still is on the farming season as with the advent of rain it appears that also means it’s plowing time…) like it does in the States so the schools have been coming to the end of their terms. In what was an exceptionally surprising turn of events for me, it is customary for the schools to have a ceremony and “prize giving” for the students who have done especially well over the year, acknowledging their hard work and rewarding their excellence.


The reason this is surprising to me lies in my observations that the Batswana tend to be a quite a socialist culture, there isn’t much emphasis on acknowledging people’s differences, or one person’s inadequacies or their success or superior performance over another. While this is a positive in terms of the immediate acceptance and inclusion of those who stand out for some reason, such as those who are albino or have down syndrome, are an AIDS orphan, exceptionally poor or something else that might make them the object of ridicule or isolation and shame in another culture are included without hesitation here. There seems to be more emphasis on inclusiveness than exclusiveness in some ways.


This tends to be a more problematic concept amongst groups which in western culture thrive on the rewards and praise that may come with putting in a great effort, such as within the workplace or in schools. When there is so much being given in a country and culture through no sense of working for it, because everyone should be taken care of equally and there are no rewards for extra effort, it can lead to a sort of apathy or even lack of personal responsibility.
While it’s the epitome of fairness, it can also be the downfall of excellence and productivity. It’s been a stark contrast for me, and one I continue to learn about and from. I’m beginning to see the value in concepts of socialism, and am nearly certain that it, rather than straight capitalistic and democratic concepts might work better for Africa as a whole. There is a reason that kgotla meetings can go on for hours and hours and that is because everyone gets to speak their opinion and be heard even if they are saying the same thing as their neighbor. Everyone’s opinion is valued, and everyone must come to consensus before we move on. In many ways, the majority doesn’t always rule in Botswana.


Don’t get me wrong, there are sections of the population that work very, very hard. Women often work from sun up to sun down caring for children, husbands and households, washing and cleaning and cooking all by hand, without the assistance of modern appliances and conveniences. You know everything they make will be from scratch, every time, no take out or fridge for leftovers in Seronga. There are men who farm, or have a formal job and plow fields, striving to support their families and make their lives better.

All of these factors together lead to my surprise and extreme pleasure that there was such a thing as Prize Giving.

The first was the primary (elementary) school. The invitation didn’t list a time, and both the teachers and my friend the social worker who was giving the keynote address insisted that the festivities would begin at 8am. Knowing what I know about Botswana, I showed up at half 9, and the event did not begin until around 11. We went through the introductions, the performances, the speeches and the awards, with the whole thing lasting longer than my undergraduate commencement.


I was thrilled to see all the mothers (and occasional grandmother or father) in the audience, taking time away from their very busy lives to acknowledge the achievement of their progeny. When a child’s name was called the mothers would scream and wave their arms as they also rushed up to the make-shift stage to hug and kiss their children while dancing around (in what I now realize is a mother’s universal tendency to embarrass their children) and to receive the brown paper wrapped prize and certificate that was given to the child and immediately handed over to the parent. It was poignant to witness the blatant display of pride they had in their children, an appreciation of a somewhat intangible academic achievement, generally higher than the level they themselves had accomplished. To me it was even more beautiful to witness when you think of what a concept of “accomplishment” might mean to one of these mothers. Anything they finish or complete inevitably has to be done again tomorrow, next week, or next growing season.

At the second ceremony, the prize giving at the junior secondary (middle school, although with children ages 13-18, depending on when many of them began school, this is the highest level of education many children on this side of the delta receive as there is no senior secondary between here and Maun which is between 6 and 10 hours away) I was also impressed (if not also a bit tired of long speeches and the formalities of another commencement length activity in Seronga) by the performances of the children. There were traditional dances, songs, dramas, the scouts, poetry, and music. It was quite the show, and ended up leading me to the idea that I need to be working more with the children, which is what is now happening. Prizes all around!

Something to be Thankful for....

Although this isn't the first non-traditional Thanksgiving I've had in another country (sleeping through whatever Thanksgiving meal there may have been on the plane to Australia due to Ambien was notable...) it is the first in which recent experiences really brought me to my knees in gratitude. Last week I finished the course of combivir (and am feeling quite good) and today I got my results from my one month HIV tests. I'm still negative. A friend introduced me to an American doctor here in Gabs and she insisted she had never heard of some one who had contracted from a situation like mine, and so after the 3 and 6 month tests this will all have been a true experience of the past. Not that it will be forgotten. In some ways I am lucky to have had this experience of not knowing what my status would be at my next test. Lucky I say? Am I blinking nuts? Perhaps, but bear with me...

The whole incident served to put me in a mental and emotional place where I can truly relate to the people I work with in a way I never could have if the situation had been a hypothetical. Reflecting on the possibility of what my options would be for having children, and the idea of telling both any future or potential partners, and my family and friends, how public I would want to be with it, the possibility of going home, or changing my future plans, or not being able to make future plans, and all the other things that come with HIV infection was a real challenge, especially being in a place where I just naturally have less contact with the type of people who I would normally talk this type of thing through with. It made me understand the PMTCT moms I work with on a new level and I also used myself as an example for my coworkers who can sometimes be less than sympathetic to women who are positive and continue having babies. I watched the veil of judgment lift from their faces as they looked into my white one and realized the potential blamelessness that can be a possibility for the contraction of HIV. Making myself an example got through to friends and coworkers at the clinic in a way that made many uncomfortable, perhaps in realizing the depth of their own judgment and blame. I found a few times people would disclose my situation to people I might have preferred didn't know, (which is admittedly a risk I took when I published it on my blog, and in hindsight I don't regret being so upfront with my experience, because it's my reality, but would I feel the same way if i hadn't been so lucky, and if I had become positive?) There have got to be plenty of women who contract HIV as a result of not using a condom with a man they have married, and should have every reason to trust. Or a mother who may help in the delivery of her grandchild at home, trusting, yet not completely knowing the status of her daughter. Yes, HIV is a disease that mainly is transferred through behavioral choices. But who can say in their own life that they always make the right one?

Who on this Earth can honestly say they know the status of everyone they could potentially contract HIV or any other serious illness from? The conversations aren't easy to have, or even think about having, until you are in the position in which you have to. Through the past month I've seen several people visually recoil from me when I've told them about my situation, and many more look at me with the kind of grating sympathy that has the potential to drive a person mad. Many people wanted to dismiss the idea of me contracting HIV without completely even letting the possibility enter their mind, perhaps for the sake of their own mental comfort, perhaps for not wanting to think about their own prejudices, perhaps because I was not into discussing it on those levels and sometimes didn't let them go there, at least not in my presence, because sometimes I wasn't interested in being the source of someone else's reassurance and comfort in the shadow of my own tragedy. But at the end of the day, the luxury of complete denial was not one I was privileged with. Although it was a tool I used often...

But enough soap box.. I am very thankful for remaining negative, having the opportunity to live this dream, and for the wonderful friends and family who have supported me in so many ways, and all the amazing new people who have come into my life bearing such gifts, love and inspiration. I am a very, very lucky woman. I was grateful to spend the holiday in Gabs, with my good buddy B, and I ate Indian food and watched a proper movie at a movie theater, as well as spoke with much of my family on the phone, and I'll meet up for another feast with many more PC friends on Sat. I hope everyone had a lovely day, and knows that I'm very thankful for all of you!

Things in my life here that give me HOPE

Over the last 6 months in Seronga there have been many projects with potential, many that have fallen through, false starts, dead ends, and finally, a bit of success! There have been many instances of joy and many of.. well… something. I know I often use this blog as a forum from which to broadcast my frustrations and dissatisfaction with the state of things here in Seronga, but there are also lots of great things happening that remind me why I’m here, and bring a great deal of joy and happiness. Here’s a few.

Men’s Sector.
A few months back Dudu and the Gumare Counseling Center came to Seronga to present a workshop on Men’s Sector. It’s an organization that is comprised of the community “leaders”- high standing professional and tribal men in the community. The objective is to educate and empower these men, and for them to in turn encourage men in the community to be more involved with the PMTCT (preventing mother to child transmission) programs, as well as coming to get tested with their partners, taking more responsibility in their families and reducing violence against women. These last two messages often get lost in the shuffle, but hey, that’s what I’m here for, to provide gentle reminders/slash insistence that those issues be covered as well! The workshop was somewhat positive, with the Kgosi (chief) agreeing that when a wife is forced to have sex with her husband within the bond of marriage it is indeed rape, which was a high point, while the consensus that women and young girls should be forced to wear longer skirts as they were asking for some man to have sex with them when they wear short skirts was a definite low point. The frustrations of two liberal women were barely held at bay as Dudu and I bit our tongues, realizing that sometimes people have to come to conclusions through discussion with each other in order for them to take ownership of their conclusions. I made every attempt to listen more than I spoke and hoped for the best.

Most workshops in Botswana involve a great deal of talking about how things could/should be with very little action or follow up. Fortunately Seronga Men’s Sector doesn’t seem to be one of them. At the beginning of November I heard that they were planning an event for November 22 and immediately joined the committee (in what I will forever consider to be a position of nearly extremely forward thinking and progressive movement for a very rural African village, the Seronga Men’s Sector is comprised of not only men, but also several women. Whether this is because they want to have women around to work on the catering committee I will never know, but for my own peace of mind I choose to believe they are being progressive. Whatever helps me sleep at night, right!)

In the course of planning this event I have sat through countless meetings in the heat of the day and the haze of rain (our Kgotla, the traditional meeting place at which I am constantly reminded that I need to wear a skirt, is by tradition out in the open in the middle of the village) in nearly exclusive Setswana, learned the proper amount a cow and two goats should cost, listened to numerous discussions of what is generally deemed most important at an event like this – the planning for the food- begged for the inclusion of sexual health quizzes and games so that I can feasibly report this event for the ever present PEPFAR report that sometimes feels like the only tangible proof that we were here and served in the Peace Corps.

The event (which at several points I was certain was not actually going to happen, but that an unthemed feast of some sort likely would) is going to happen, and it might not even be all that terribly chaotic. I’ve spent my days and nights covered in colored marker and mumbling Setswana in creating posters to cover the village for my job on the “publicity” committee, and recruited and trained no less than ten people (of which I’m hoping at least three show up on the day) to facilitate the sexual health quiz. I may be eating my words (along with the remains of a cow and two goats purchased at the proper price) in a few days, but as the committee practiced the drama they wrote completely on their own about a man who died because he went to a traditional healer rather than the clinic, complete with funeral hymns and pretty convincing wailing, my heart swelled with pride. Even if we run out of food, by God, I think this event will be a success. The committee did it all nearly of their own volition, and the best part of the whole program for me is that they would have probably done the whole event (less the sexual health gameshow quiz) without me. It’s the greatest hope a Peace Corps can have for a place, as it is a really good sign that something you’ve done is sustainable and can and will continue on after you’ve left. Go Seronga!

Post script: the event was AMAZING. i'm writing all about it to be posted...soon.


Artsy Smartsy
I’ve partnered with a local art teacher and the HIV/ AIDS clubs at the school in the hopes of creating some art projects around the village to showcase the talents of the junior secondary age children in the area. I see it as a way of both fostering and encouraging interest in art (which is selfish enough of me, as it’s one of my own personal causes), and also of spreading the message in a more permanent way about HIV/AIDS. I’ve submitted proposals for funding to the DMSAC (district multisectoral AIDS committee, it’s important for me to show people within the village that funding for their projects can be available locally if they are organized about it, rather than coming in like the “white knight” tossing out funding from America) and “encouraged” the local teachers to do most of the work (which involves many, many reminders, lists, and the occasional threat –nobody said behavior change was easy… or pretty) in order to get the projects going. They’re on board but are sometimes hesitant and unsure about how to get things going effectively, much less efficiently. I’ve found that building confidence and empowering while sitting on my hands, as I’d rather be DOING are going to be the main element of any project I chose to undertake in this country. Which is what sustainability is supposed to be about, right?

The first project we’re working on is to create a HIV themed mosaic for the wall of the school made from the beer bottles that exist in abundance in the village (and currently serve mainly to lie broken and jagged in the road, just waiting to slice open the foot of a child running barefoot through the village- which has always pissed me off). I’m excited to incorporate the themes of recycling and using what you have in your area (as well as perhaps highlighting exactly how much drinking is going on in the village) into the somewhat monotonous theme of HIV/AIDS. Sometimes you gotta spice up a deadly disease to make people pay attention in a new way. Hopefully this is one way of doing it. I’ve been working with the HIV club to get proper funding for their World AIDS day celebration for this year as well as to plan in advance for next year when I’d like to have a proper unveiling ceremony. The other project would be similar, except the inspiration is not my own, but rather piggybacks off another hugely successful project in the Mahalapye district of creating murals with and HIV or PMTCT theme on the clinic walls. If both of these projects go well, and I have the time, I would also like to have an HIV themed sculpture using found materials in an open area to be determined. This one is still in the pipe dream phase of development.

I also want to work with the art club to learn to make papyrus paper (there is plenty of this around in the delta, and if accent Egyptians could do it, then I would imagine we can figure it out here!), do some collage projects (thank you to all of you who have been kind enough to send me magazines, and know that they are being recycled into something of good use! Keep them coming!) and I hope to help them enter an art exchange, to get an idea of how other cultures create art, and to share their pieces with the world. Prior to becoming involved with the children of Seronga in a deeper capacity than smiling and waving at them, teaching them that my name is Lorato, not Lekgowa, and discouraging them from begging from white people, I had forgotten how rewarding it is to work with kids, even if they’re naughty (shout out to the girls from WH) or whom you can’t really understand linguistically (hello ever present difficulty that is Setswana).

I’ve been working with the teachers who run the HIV and AIDS club at the school to focus on making their activities more interactive and comprehensively educational. I’ve given them a booklet of reproductive health games (thanks Kate and Leah for the health games and quizzes) that they were really excited about and offered up my assistance in forming a more comprehensive curriculum and plan for their meetings. I also requested the GLOW curriculum from WAR (Women Against Rape) on gender based violence in the hopes of using it with HIV club and perhaps forming a few GLOW clubs at the school. The HIV club needs help. At this point the one meeting I’ve attended involved a few songs, a few prayers, a testimonial or two and adjournment. They are basically regurgitating the national stance and catch phrases of Abstinence, Be faithful and Condomize. There is generally little reliable behavior change in regurgitation and thus I hope to be able to incorporate some sessions on sexual negotiation and healthy decision making. The facilitators really liked the idea of incorporating a more holistic approach to sexual and reproductive health (thank you OWL training), and I am very lucky for this, as it would undoubtedly be a lot more difficult to not only have to formulate the curriculum but also to convince them of it’s merits. They have been very open and on board from the start, which I am incredibly grateful for.

Softball!!!!
My computer lab buddy Eman had mentioned that he was coaching some kids on a softball team, and my having been out of American and surprised by differences in Africa enough made me immediately assume softball meant something else here. Expecting some form of modified basketball, I promised to check it out. I have never been more thrilled to be wrong. A decent sized group of boys and girls threw balls back and forth and swung bats at decent pitches. I was, as Simon would say, chuffed. The girls wore mostly skirts, as was I on that first day and not one of them had proper shoes (how they ran along the ground littered with those spiked thorns that ravage my tender pedicured feet I’ll never know). The girls are just at that awkward just about to get their first period phase (or in the case of a few girls who look to be in their first trimester, or appear to have left a baby home with their mothers, already have) and the boys are cocky and obnoxious (as per usual for me nothing gives me more pleasure than when I can occasionally beat these little boys at what they consider to be their own game, or at least teach them a thing or two.)

The dynamic of trying to coach both boys and girls is a bit of a nightmare that the two male coaches don’t even seem to notice, which is why I’m glad to be there to advocate for the girls. Some of the boys are kind to the girls and are genuinely trying to teach them and help them, as at this age the males have the size, speed and skill advantage. Most of them, however, are constantly being very rough and faux intimidating, a tendency that quickly becomes real in the realm of the Seronga dating pool, where if a man can grab a woman hard enough by the arm and hold her there, this is considered consent for sex. Although most of them are bigger than me, they seem very surprised when I step up to them, step between them and whomever they are badgering, and give them my death glare and thirty second lesson on chivalry. Whether this is the right thing to do or not I’ll never know, but I consider it part of my job to at least show these girls that they have options when it comes to guys, and that they can demand to be treated differently.

Book Club
Another stolen idea. Thank you Joe in Shaks, and Johnny and Johnny’s mom for making this one possible. Over what was undoubtedly initially a drunken discussion in Shakawe, Joe mentioned he was thinking of reading the Diary of Anne Frank with his GLOW (Girls/Guys Leading Our World) club. I loved the idea and immediately decided that I wanted to have a book club as well. At a stop over in Lethlakane I noticed that Johnny had on his bookshelves several copies of a few books. He mentioned his mother was a teacher and was often able to get many copies of common school books. I connected what I remembered from Joe and the book club idea, and he said it could probably work. I forgot about the idea until I met the softball girls and realized how completely fun it would be. Two text messages later the plan is in motion, complete with a plan for having a pen pal type situation with some girls in the states Johnny’s mom knows. I think I’ll start really getting the girls together when the school year resumes in January. I can’t wait!

Ice, Ice, Baby.. In honor of ice, rain, and end of the hottest days of my life.

October is the hottest month in Botswana. It is also known as suicide month. Although I haven’t been updating my blog recently, I have not yet succumbed to that particular fate. Being from Minnesota, land of the ice and snow, I am definitely not accustomed to the kind of heat Southern Africa has to offer.

It kind of sneaks up on you through the month of September. The heat becomes more intense earlier in the day and you realize you need a stronger SPF than the 15 that is build into your facial moisturizer (which is sliding off your face at an alarming rate anyway). Suddenly you are sweating by 7:00 in the morning and find yourself sitting through entire meetings (which are difficult to decipher in the best of times) without realizing anything that has happened. And not caring much. Toward the end of the month no one even bothers any more. People wander around like zombies, and have entire conversations that neither party remembers. I broke down and bought a pink “Minnie Mouse” umbrella to shade my white self from the sun’s crazy hot rays. The duct tape that holds up most of the interior design of my home was melting off the walls and ceiling, and I spent long hours in the slightly cooler than room temperature water of my bathtub, the standard brown floaties worse than usual as the boor hole that feeds the village got closer to dry (I can’t even bear to recount how often I feared for my life as the water was out for many days at a time quite consistently. This was of course not very rational, but then my brain was melting). The candles I used for light in my bathroom and the rest of my house when the electric was out would be sad little puddles around their wine bottle holders when I forgot to put them in the freezer during the day. I was sweating in strange places like behind my knees and the back of my neck, under my eyes and on my wrists. It was as if my armpits had given up the effort it took to properly sweat altogether, or the sweat evaporated before it caused a scene.

During the course of my criminology degree we learned that there is a significant increase in crime during the hot summer months. I have found this is not the case in Seronga as we are all too hot and tired to try to kill each other, and furthermore we don’t want to get that near each other. Panting became an acceptable form of greeting. "Go Mogote" and "Ke Letsatsi" (too hot) quickly joined the meager number of setswana phrases I know.

I found myself spending great heaping periods of time dazed and confused, as that type of heat with no relief certainly must begin to destroy brain cells. I have never been more grateful for the invention of freezers and being in possession of ice in my life. I would freeze two 1.5 liter bottles and carry them frozen in my bag (they only stayed cold for maybe two hours before they were hotter than piss warm again) to work at the clinic. I was constantly fighting people in the village (including little children) away from my precious boiled, filtered and kind of cold water. I was constantly dehydrated and dizzy and a bit ill (this was off course followed by a month of combivir, accompanied by many of the same symptoms-lucky me). I would often sleep curled around another frozen bottle. I tried soaking my sheets, my bedding, my pj's, then I tried sleeping in the altogether, nothing really helped. Although many of my peace corps compatriots also complained of the heat and sleeping many more hours per night (and those lucky bastards had fans..) I found I lay under my mosquito net in a state of near sleep, full sweat. I was becoming certain I wasn’t sleeping at all and thus the resulting blogs I sometimes attempted to write were definitely unfit for public consumption. My ranting became completely off the wall. Simon and I had entire conversations in which we were both speaking, at each other, about completely different topics and not even noticing, or caring.


At one point my saint of a mother sent me a tent, after which I slept in my front “yard” on the dirt. I later modified this arrangement to sleeping on the mat from my papasaun chair on the floor with my door wide open with an attempt at a mosquito net duct taped around the door frame, an unfortunate remedy as it had to be torn down every morning when I had to leave my house and painstakingly replaced every evening. There was little breeze to come through but then at least the oven that is my concrete house had a vent feature. October will not remain as a terribly productive month in my memory of Peace Corps Service, but then I stand by my excuse that my brain was boiling.


Then on November 4, a miracle happened in Seronga (and not the same as the one that happened in the states, although now instead of “Lorato,” or “Lekgowa,” the people occasionally yell “Obama” when I go down the road in town. They are so happy. I am too). After a month of occasionally dark skies and scalding breezes that flirted with the idea, it rained. It had sprinkled teasingly a few times prior, but this was a proper rain, with thunder, lightning and puddles. Had I not discovered a new, gel heavy method of holding my increasingly fro-ing hair into a somewhat suitable form I would have danced and sang in the rain with pleasure. As it was I was grinning to the point my face hurt, and yelling “pula” (Setswana for rain and the denomination of the money in Botswana- go figure) at anyone who looked my way (or really was in the vicinity). I sent off a flurry of excited (and often international) text messages.

The rain had the effect of both clearing the dust out of the atmosphere (thus making the sun’s rays impressively even stronger) and also cutting the heat of the day more often. It’s become more bearable to sleep and I’ve even begun to see women carrying their babies in their heavy winter gear again. The clouds that fill the sky make the sunsets even more beautiful (which I would have never thought possible). I’ve taken to rain worship as a hobby, and find myself singing any song I can think of with rain or ice- my two saving graces- in the lyrics embarrassingly often. I’ve survived my first suicide month in Seronga, and that makes for celebration indeed.


So... How's the weather back home?

"Go Slow" a no go... The health crisis in Seronga...

Back in the months of September and October in Botswana, all the nurses were on something called a “go slow” very similar to a labor strike in the States. It means that they were refusing to do anything more than what duties are listed in their job descriptions. This was apparently a country wide strike, and the reasons they were given for it were that nurses were not compensated well enough, and that they were doing jobs that should be done by doctors or pharmacy technicians.
There is a shortage of health professionals as a whole in Botswana, many nurses and nearly all the doctors come from neighboring countries (which also contributes to the communication barrier and mistrust between villagers and medical professionals). I’ve been told there is a medical school being built in Gabs which will hopefully help with this shortage. Right now the government supports students who want to pursue a medical degree in other countries that have medical schools, but I’m uncertain if there is a provision for them to return to their home country to practice medicine.
One of the first problems with a strike in a developing country like Botswana lies in the fact that all nurses are employed by the government, and thus there is little opportunity for any productive negotiation. The nurses were demanding something like a 60% increase in their salaries, and it makes for a sticky situation when the government cannot intervene on behalf of the people who are experiencing interrupted services. The effects of such a strike might be felt a bit less in communities that are large enough to have a hospital, where doctors could step in and help with the overflow of patients not being completely treated by nurses. But in a community like Seronga it was a nightmare.
The nurses in Seronga, (who were incidentally running short staffed with only 2 or 3 nurses –we are considered fully staffed when we have five- for the duration of the go slow, which is thankfully over now) weren’t prescribing any pills other than those deemed absolutely necessary, like malaria drugs. They would triage serious wounds and injuries, but referred a huge number of people to the doctors at the hospital in Gumare, a 300 k one way trip around the delta with very few boats and ambulances going through rather than around… (and now might be the time to mention the lack of public transport for the first 100 or so kilometers on this side on the dirt road, a pretty unpleasant journey if you are healthy, much less injured or sick in the back of an open truck with dust and dirt or worse yet rain flying at you). The clinic’s biweekly boat/ambulance trips to deliver the blood to the hospital in Gumare for analysis were extremely full of patients trying to get to the doctor to be seen for conditions the nurses were refusing to treat. The go slow also had a domino effect of causing all the health education workers and clinic cleaning staff to reevaluate their duties and there were many smaller yet important cleaning and educational functions that were not being performed at the same time. It was a very difficult time for the morale of everyone.
HIV testing, which is usually done by the lay counselor, with back-up from the nurses, was not being done when Pulane was out (and he was out quite a lot, they get an amazing amount of off days in Botswana). There were a few instances where I was near tears of frustration and calling in every favor, and using every begging, pleading and threatening method I could muster with the nurses to get them to test. Admittedly, they were between a rock and a hard place (in Batswana culture I have found that there is a great emphasis on obedience and following directions very specifically, with little thought towards if the command given makes sense for the situation at hand, or if there might be a more effective or efficient way of getting things done.) but could usually be convinced if for no other reason than to shut me up. I found that the nurses at the health posts and mobile stops had run out of testing kits a while back and although they weren’t refusing to test, they were refusing to order more tests, as this was not supposed to be their job. The DBS (dried blood spot) tests that were supposed to be done on babies were occasionally getting done, but not submitted to be analyzed.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand where the nurses are coming from, maybe not on the pay dispute (in relation to other Southern African countries nurses in Botswana are very well compensated, in fact we have many nurses from Zambia and Zimbabwe who have come here to earn money to send home to their families, and I know they are making a hell of a lot more than me right now) but certainly on the job duties. Although nurses trained in Botswana are given a short course on pharmacology, (having spoken with them about the issue they emphatically state that they do not feel qualified to dispense drugs in the manner they are, especially not when the drug interactions with local methods of traditional healing methods are taken into consideration) there should definitely be a pharmacy tech as well as a doctor on site. There is, in fact a doctor and pharmacy tech living in Shakawe who are specifically assigned to Seronga. They make the trip down the dirt road from Shakawe to Seronga two Mondays per month. The doctor and phamracy tech get patients started on ARV’s when the patient’s CD4 count drops below 250 (ie they start to get real sick). The doctor will monitor the patients at appointments on these two Mondays per month for three months. After that the patients are expected to follow up and get their medications from Shakawe. Right. The inability to make their way to Shakawe for whatever reason has caused many people to default on their ARV’s, or to develop immunity to the effectiveness of their ARV’s, after which they should probably be referred to Gabs for a third or fourth line drug. This doesn’t happen, as if they can’t get to Shakawe 100 k’s away how on Earth will they make a three day’s journey to Gabs? It’s not difficult to understand why villagers resort to the local roots and pseudo-medicines of the traditional healers. With respect to traditional healers, I understand and admire their attempts to heal and cure the people through age old methods, and am willing to bet that for common ailments they have the ability to provide a great deal of comfort and help. However with AIDS they really don’t stand a chance. I’ve seen many people who consult traditional healers get very ill very quickly, and many have died.
In Seronga we have a big, beautiful, red brick ARV building that stands locked, empty and unused. Currently we don’t have adequate housing on the clinic compound for the nurses who work at the clinic (It is part of government employees’ contracts that they are provided government housing in the village they are sent to. This is normally where Peace Corps volunteers are housed as well) and so we don’t have housing for a doctor, either. It’s shocking to me that the government would have gone through the trouble of building such a beautiful building without plans to provide the housing for the doctor and pharmacy tech as well, but that is apparently what has happened. I suspect that like most services promised to Seronga, the government rushed to put up the building to placate the people, to quiet their demands and complaints, without the necessary follow through to make it functional. While I understand how difficult and expensive it is to get building materials and laborers this side, that’s not really a good enough excuse for me.
Although there are open houses on the police compound I’ve been told the doctor refuses to come to live in an area where he cannot be supplied with 24 hours a day electricity. In some ways I can’t blame him; this is a less than desirable life for someone who went to medical school to improve themselves and their career and lifestyle opportunities. There was a Spanish woman with the British Skillshare program who had been working as a volunteer at the Okavango Poler’s Trust to try to improve their marketing. She lasted about 6 weeks. Many of the professional employees (teachers, police, nurses, ect) have expressed dismay and depression at being placed in Seronga, and have recently requested both hazard pay and a rural placement bonus from the government. It’s the bush and it’s not easy and it’s frustrating and I get that. I certainly spend enough time wanting to get out of here, at least for a while. I understand that a life like this isn’t for everyone, but I am still nevertheless distraught at the lack of services being provided to the villagers in Seronga.
Although the strike is over, the level of health care provided in Seronga is still discouragingly under par, despite the increased efforts of the nursing staff at the clinic. As someone who has been sent here to build the capacity of aforementioned entity, it is frustrating to feel that you don’t have the complete support and commitment of the government that has requested you be here. It's frustrating to stand by and witness these problems that are amongst the many I have nothing feasible I can do about them. It is during these times of tear inducing frustration that I am reminded again that change takes time. I search for the things this village has going for it, the people who do care, the ones who are doing things, and dream of the place Seronga can be. I still have hope.

50 and Fabulous

To the woman who gave me life and continues to support me in the journey that began with her.. Happy Birthday, Mom. You are my hero, my teacher, my idol, my guidance, my strength, my inspiration, the voice of my "better judgment" and my best friend. I am so lucky to have you in my life, and I send you all the happiness and good things life has to offer on this day. I wish I could be there to help you celebrate this milestone birthday, but I know you're in good hands. Thank you for giving me life, and know that my journey is yours, as I couldn't do this crazy thing without you. I love you, and I hope you can feel my hugs and kisses on the snowflakes that I don't have here, but send to you there. You mean the world to me, and I am blessed. Happy 50th Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a lucky woman. Your thoughts, calls, prayers and well wishes (from all over the globe! How cool!) have meant the world to me in a tough time. I am happy to report that my body has adjusted favorably to the PEP, and that I only have 1.5 weeks left. Then a few tests over the course of the next few months and I will likely be awarded a clean bill of health. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

An Unintentional Rehab... An Unexpected Sentence... Where do I go from here?

28 days. I will be on Combivir for 28 days. For the length of a first timer’s stay in rehab, the length of time of an average menstrual cycle, I will be on this drug. Post Exposure Prophylaxis. It makes me nauseous, tired, and I struggle to keep my bowels about me. And yet, because of the events of a split second of my life, I will not cease it’s ingestion for 28 days.

It’s like the beginning of a pregnancy, I suppose, but opposite. The fluids of two bodies were exchanged, and I hope and pray to all that is holy that there is only one line on that test I will take in 28 days, and that it’s negative. I’m nauseas as hell, and usually in the morning, and should not drink alcohol due to its effects on my liver. I must remember to take it at the same time every day morning and night, and plan my day’s activities around my water intake and nearness of bathroom facilities. All this fun and I didn’t even get to have sex.

I will live through a month of uncertainty, in some ways better than the other uncertainties in my life here, as it has an end date. This makes it a bit more bearable, but still, the not knowing. Despite all the facts and figures being thrown at me, all the information available, and my dear friend in the States spending an hour on the phone with the CDC, the statistics of less than 1% chance doesn’t reassure me completely, as there are more than a few variables in my particular situation. I have nothing tangible to do but hope. The odds are good but not completely 100% and so there still remains an element of uncertainty. And nothing left to do but hope and pray against everything I know that after this month of not knowing I will remain HIV negative.



How did this happen? Quite simply, quickly, ordinarily as most moments do, even those which have the potential to change your life.



I was at the clinic. It was Friday, nearing lunch time, and one of the nurses was trying to finish up with the last patients that were in the waiting room prior to lunch. It was a mother and her child; they had traveled to the clinic from Gunitsoga, about a thirty minute drive down the horrible dirt road out of Seronga, towards Gudikwa. It would be difficult to catch a lift out that way regardless, but I shuddered to think of the mother and baby trying to hike in the midday heat. If they didn’t get finished before the lunch break (the only thing that ever happens promptly on time in Botswana) they would have to wait and leave after 2. In the interest of everyone involved but myself, in order to help everyone get where they were going in a timely manner, I agreed to perform the small task that would change my life.

The mother needed a consultation and the baby needed a vaccination. As our injection area at the clinic is incredibly cramped and small, there is no room for a proper table on which to sit a baby who is getting a shot. Usually the mother just holds their child, while the nurse gives the child the injection in their upper thigh. As the mother was in the consultation room, I agreed to hold the baby for the procedure.

I propped the baby on my lap, speaking in my strange language to the back of his little 4 month old head, murmuring something about how in just one quick second he was not going to be very happy, but not to worry as it would only last a moment. The nurse swabbed the area and prepared the syringe. He pressed the needle into the baby’s thigh. The baby predictably cried and squirmed. The nurse removed the needle and went to wipe away the tiny bit of fluid that seeped out of the baby’s thigh.

And accidentally plunged the needle into my own thigh.

He recoiled immediately.

I looked up at him in surprise, unwilling to completely believe what had just happened, but unable to deny it as a droplet of my own blood appeared on my skirt.

I look down at the crying child in my arms, the tiny possible carrier of such a deadly disease. I stammer, “What is the baby’s, is the baby, the mother,” I want to hand the child off to someone, to get away from it, and immediately feel guilty, judgmental, but my fear quickly overrules these emotions. The nurse, just as shocked as I am, quickly says “It’s ok, this baby is negative.” I look at the baby, fat, and healthy looking, it seems right that this is true. “The mother? The DBS? (Dried blood spot.- the test in which blood is taken from a baby’s heel and blotted onto a paper, sent to a laboratory in Gabs, and analyzed and returned to the clinic via the mail. It is the way to determine the HIV status of a baby.) Where is the baby’s DBS?” The baby is still in my arms and squirms and cries and I want to be away from him, far, away. I am nearing panic and am trying to remain calm so as not to drop this child, this innocent child, and trying to remind myself that he is just that, and innocent child.

The next few minutes pass in a blur, phoning the PCMO, panicking, trying not to panic, rationalizing. I go into the defensive mode of denial for a while, and eat lunch. I walk through the blazing heat to try to make a copy of the baby’s DBS report to fax to the PCMO, as I am thinking this is essential information for her to have, and of course no fax or copy machines in Seronga are working and I am pissed off.


I try not to think "Why me" because why not me? I'm human, no different from anyone else, just as susceptible to this disease as the next person. But I think it anyways. And I'm slightly mortified by my previous and lasting sense of invincibilty. I'm indignant.


I wish for the strength to bear this uncertainty alone, willing myself to remain calm and not to burden anyone else with this worry but I lack that particular strength. It seems unfair to bring anyone that cannot feasibly do anything into this surreal terror but as is her tendency, no matter where I am on Earth it seems my mother can sense my turmoil as only a mother can and chose that exact moment to text me. I ask her to call. She does and I try to downplay the situation, trying my damndest to convince myself and her that this is no big deal and all will be fine. I speak sharply and try to speak factually, playing up the things in my favor and downplaying the ones that suggest the true risk. I hear the tears in her voice and I demand that she not worry herself with this, that I will be fine.


She asks me if I’m scared.

I blink back tears.... And I lie to my mother.

“No,” I snap, only realizing as I say it how frightened I really am.

I chase away these fears and thoughts by conjuring up the blameless denial that has gotten me this far in Africa. “This is not happening to me, I will not allow it,” just as sternly as any parent admonishes their child.

And in response, a small, small voice inside me, one that I haven’t heard for quite some time wonders, “Maybe Africa just doesn’t want me here anymore.”


As long as I’ve contemplated coming to Africa, and joining the Peace Corps, there has been many, many times in which the sheer force of my will has prevented me from even entertaining the possibility of leaving. When people have asked me what I want to accomplish with my two years in the Botswana, they are often uncomfortable at the forcefulness with which I pronounce that my accomplishment will be to stay the whole time. I’m generally quite venomous when people gently remind me that it’s ok if I want to come home. It’s telling that it took another event completely outside of me to push the question into my mind- maybe more than whether I want to stay in Africa, I need to question the other side of the equation, whether Africa wants me here. Through the thefts, the sickness, the difficulty, the adjustments, the homesickness, the disappointments, and the relationship that has crumbled at least partially due to my decision to come here, I have rarely, if ever, considered if I should leave. As anyone who has ever been in a relationship with me can attest, I never did know when to give in, or how to quit while I was ahead.

In my darkest moments here, I’ve trusted that the stuff that has been happening has all been for a reason, to teach me something, with the really hard things maybe a lesson I’m not yet ready to understand the meaning of. I swallow the lump in my throat and rack my mind for the bright side, something to make this fear and uncertainty productive. All I’ve found at this juncture is that I now know intimately the feeling of anyone coming in to be tested and having any doubts about what will be revealed to them.

Today it’s a week since the moment that upset the balance of my life. Other than remembering to take my medication, I’ve found I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I can usually forget about the dark cloud looming over my future, and ignore the flattened plum-like bruise on the back of my right hand that indicates where they took my blood for the first round of liver function tests. I decline the wine at dinner and go to bed early. I reason that this is just like a completely irrational pregnancy scare and that in a month, and three months, and six months the tests I take will turn out just the way they always have, negative. Tomorrow I will return to my life in Seronga, where I left in a hurry one week earlier. I will continue my life as normally as possible. I will try to make it through the remaining three weeks of my sentence; I will try to adjust to the slightly off-ness of my new normal.


I will hope that by the sheer force of my will, I will be fine. I will repeat it like a mantra whenever I need to white knuckle way through this, even if my fingernails pierce the skin of my palms. I will breathe deeply and I will continue on in the only direction I know how to go, which is foward...

These are the Facts...

I am behind on my writing. I want to just put a note up there for those who may have heard through other means...

Last Friday I was stuck by a needle that had just given a vaccine to an HIV neg baby.Unfortunately baby momma was HIV pos. This is both good and bad as it means that all the PMTCT measures were taken, however it also means that I had to go on PEP (Post Exposure Prophylaxis) a medication to prevent the transmission of HIV after a possible exposure. The Peace Corps responded quickly and well, and got me down to Gabs in a record 1 day (2 flights) and I was given the medical attention that I needed. I'm still processing the whole situation myself, and I've been given varying statistics as to the possibility of transmission, but with PEP I'm told there is a less than 1% chance of acquiring HIV. I'm very hopeful. The medication makes me very nausious and tired. I will be on it for 28 days. I take it every 12 hours and try to set an alarm to wake up really early so that I can go back and sleep through the nausea. I'm writing a blog about the emotional side of it, so more details are to follow. I'm not angry with the nurse or anyone involved, as these things just happen.
For those of you so inclined please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
I'll be fine.
Jen

Life at Seronga Clinic

I sit perched upon a broken stool as I stare out through the square space that comprises the dispensary window, and watch all the people on the other side. They wait patiently for their medications, drugs that will relieve some of their suffering, that will be their salvation, and that I sit amongst, unable to dispense. I again feel useless in a questionable mission. They chat amongst themselves, speaking of what I am unsure, as somewhere between my ears and my mind the rhyme and reason of this language is lost. I absorb but do not comprehend this musical speaking. They stare back at me, a fish in a fishbowl, and animal in a cage, a creature more exotic (and possibly more dangerous, based on the look in their eyes) than any animal that stalks their village at night.

At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.

The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.

It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.

The Condom Fairy...

They generally accept the condoms I offer them in the waiting area of the clinic, wrapped in packets of 12 (no baker’s dozen here.. despite being used to prevent not only STI’s but also to avoid a bun in the oven) in the news of the past weeks (it takes a while for printed news to arrive in Seronga). It’s mostly women at the clinic, occasionally for themselves but mostly for their children of which it’s common to see one in the belly, one on the back and one at their heel.

Some reach out and grab one or two packets from the boxful I carry, eager to get their hands on the thing that may stave off the virus that is slowly killing their village, their country, their continent. Some grab them as a statement to others, much in the vein of “setting a good example”, or to take advantage of something, anything being given to them by a white person. Others giggle bashfully, reluctant to admit that they may be having sex despite the bulge in their middle. Some are hesitant to accept them, not immediately understanding my strange accent exclaiming “dikondom” (the Setswana plural for condom) in a language that still may not even be their own. Some defer, as they have a small baby in their arms and by traditional custom are not supposed to be having intercourse until their child is of a certain age. I offer them some to “give to their friends”. They usually take them.

I have made tentative friends (although my white presence can never truly be trusted at face value; especially not as I hawk the implements for sexual activity- safe or otherwise) with the women who run (although not own) the businesses of this village. I have attempted to make a habit of taking up what Kagiso left off, encouraging the women to come to the clinic to get boxes to have available at their shops. They keep returning for more boxes, claiming at least to have run out.

My colleagues at the clinic seem to think my increased emphasis on condom distribution is ridiculous, standing by their belief that the people of the village are not actually using them. To this I innocently ask, “Well whatever are they using them for after they take them?” while readying my logic for an endless battle of reasoning and theorizing that may never get through to my coworkers. They seem to think that people are using them to decorate their houses or their health cards, or blow them up for their children as balloons, or worst of all, leaving them lying around. I demand to be shown these alleged atrocities, quite certain it’s not happening, and they laugh and shake their heads knowingly- silly Lorato…I respond, slightly irritated, that perhaps what they say is true, and is happening, but if of every 1,000 condoms distributed 1 box (100 condoms) are misused, that is still 900 that are potentially used correctly and are preventing HIV. My math does not impress them. Trying to convince a rural area with limited resources that some condoms may go to waste in order for some to be used is unfathomable.

My counterpart still doesn’t understand why condom distribution should be part of his job. I try again to lead him down the long path of explanations as to how it is relevant to his job as the PMTCT lay counselor. I establish that it is indeed his job to try to lower the number of HIV + women who become pregnant, and to encourage people to be tested and know their status. We get lost around the bend of trying to make his job of testing easier by helping to prevent people from having unprotected sex in the first place, with the main avenue of this being increased condom use.

I try to explain that at least when people have easier access to condoms, if they can grab them when they stop at the co-op or the bottle store as they are out doing other errands; at least they have less chance of forgetting them. Easy access means at least they’ll have them. What happens after that point is anyone’s guess.

Maybe a woman takes some condoms, holding them in a secret place, hoping for the courage to bring up the topic of safe sex to her husband, who may very well beat her for insinuating that one of them can’t be trusted or is sleeping around. Perhaps the woman with three children under five will wearily say “enough” and demand her husband use them so as to avoid yet another pregnancy. And perhaps that husband will leave her, easy enough to do in the land of lebolla and common law marriages and small houses, to sleep with someone more willing to have sex without one of those “wrappers”. Maybe the woman who is HIV+ will mention the idea of using a condom to the man who is paying her for sex, but doesn’t really press the issue, as he will pay more for sex without one. Perhaps a man knows that his small house is HIV+ and is attempting to protect his wife, but is unable to admit to her that he’s been with someone else and cannot bring up the topic of condom use. Maybe having condoms in hand could change the fate of these people, perhaps they’ll use them to protect themselves and live happily HIV free ever after.

I’ll never know which of these scenarios plays out, if all of them or none at all actually occur. They are all equally likely. I’m increasingly realizing the futility of changing the outlook of the entire village on sexual health, but I know that one of the keys to changing behavior is having the means to make a change. I have a hard time trying to press the Abstain, and Be Faithful elements of the ABC trinity of HIV prevention- to convince them of the virtues of monogamy when I know of no one whom has successfully lived the tenants of this theory. It’s a hard pill to swallow, much less distribute in this small rural village, I a culture that doesn’t necessarily seem up for it. Which battles am I choosing here? What are my best chances to make a difference?I choose to be the condom fairy, and hope that like all things magical in the mind of a child, it works.