Lorato o bua.... (Lorato speaks)

Or maybe not so much.....

I had my Peace Corps interview a few days back, and has interestingly been my custom as of late, I spent the morning on the verge of tears in frustration. It seems that as I learn to speak this language, and as I have my extra helpful daily reminders of what little Spanish I know that comes to me freely during those opportune moments in which I am trying to respond to a statement in Setswana, I am becoming ever less adept in my mother tongue. I can’t seem to think of, much less express what I want to convey, in words larger than two syllables, in any language.

In some ways it’s a pretty important interview, being one of the factors that decide where I will be placed for the next two years. At the same time, there are many, many other factors that go into the decision, very few of which I have any control over. The importance and irrelevance of conveying one’s needs and wants in the Peace Corps process of site placement has been expounded on through several avenues, leaving me feeling more than a little impotent in terms of the responses I gave.

As I considered what I wanted to convey in terms of importance of location, geography, amenities, proximity to other volunteers, personal goals, skills, strengths, weaknesses, past experience and future vision and mission, and ideas for projects I had the strongest simultaneously contradictory sensations of knowing and not knowing how I felt about any and all of these areas.

In the end, as is the case for me under conditions of anxiety or stress, I only remember what the conversation entailed in bits and pieces, larger chunks coming back to me throughout the course of the rest of the day. I came away thinking I may have said everything and nothing. The APCD assured me that I had conveyed information, and summarized the notes she has taken for me. I’m left wondering if it was too much, enough?

Lately I have been struggling, really wrestling, with notions of what I am to do here in Botswana. I have had to lean very heavily on the faith that lead me here that whatever cosmic purpose I am to serve will be revealed. It’s not a matter of should I stay here, or is this the right thing for me, but rather what am I doing, what will I do, am I doing enough? What of my past have I processed enough to summarize neatly as strengths and weaknesses and what the hell do I want for my future? What percentage of my angst is useful and should be poured into actively searching for exactly the right project or site to tackle, or lobby for, how much in developing the skills that I don’t yet know I’ll need? How much of this process is, like the APCD said, serendipity and trust?

I guess in the good old U.S. of A. these questions would be lumped together in the category of good old fashioned self doubt, and could be solved by making some sort of mind map or flow chart or graph of pros and cons, thrown into an excel spreadsheet and computed. The best practices could be determined, the path of least resistance or greatest gain could be discovered, and the choice could be made. Or maybe things aren’t that easy no matter where you are.

In coming to Africa, while it seems that although my physical body seems to have made the flight, along with some belongings that look suspiciously like mine, other things have shifted. As I’ve learned to adapt to the palette of shades of similarity and difference on this continent, a process of change and reevaluation has been set actively and disorientingly in motion. Simply, things that mattered before either don’t or do extremely. Things that I miss, I long for. I’ve reprioritzed.

I guess this is what you call growth.

Is there anything more funny......

Than a power outage in Africa…

That commences….

While you are bathing?

Yet another instance to chalk up to “all you can do is laugh.” Out loud. Which makes the whole situation even more bizarre. I’m squatting over a basin tub filled with two inches of lukewarm soapy water and the power goes out. And in Africa when the power goes out it gives new meaning to the idea of dark.

So here I am giggling, which is suddenly twice as loud as it would have been, as a result of sitting in a small concrete room with rafters that echoes as well as the fact that the blaring television has just been silenced. I hear my host family muttering to each other in Setswana as they search for the candle, probably also commenting on Lorato who is laughing at herself in the dark. Privacy doesn’t exist here. As has become common in these situations, I immediately take stock of what I have to be grateful for, which in this instance includes the fact that my hair is rinsed clean of most soap. I contemplate attempting to wash my feet, and whist considering the physics the long walk down the dark hallway and the with soapy slippery feet, (all that is left to clean, bucket bathing moves from the top down) and think “screw it” my feet have been effectively clean all of about once since I have been in Africa, when I gave myself a pedicure, otherwise they are stained with the reddish dust I have come to consider a second skin.

Instead I root around for the towel I brought in, strictly to ward off hypothermia (an exaggeration) because hey, who can see my naked white ass in the dark!? I find my way to the door only tripping over one of the three buckets necessary for the task of bathing, and through a combination and trial and error, luck and echo location find my way to my room at the end of the hallway. I groped around for my headlamp, which was nestled smartly under all my freshly sundried laundry (which incidentally is not as delightful a concept as the tomatoes), get dressed and then set about finding my phone. I text messaged my friend and neighbor Cait, as it seems that when these strange occurrences happen in the Peace Corps we want to make certain that everyone else is suffering at equally adequate levels as we are. Indeed, her power was out as well, and she was now cooking her family’s dinner by candlelight (gas stove). (I had cooked for my family once too. I think after my improvised spaghetti went over like a lead balloon I cured them of any further desires to sample American cuisine. Amazing that my culinary skills did not increase magically as I flew over the Atlantic. Huh.) I asked her to remind me to mention in my blog that if any of my wealthy benefactors felt like sending me a solio charger (www.rei.com) they are more than welcome to. She asked me to remind her to buy candles before she gets to site. To each her own;-)

So I put on my headlamp, went to clean up the bathroom and take the bucket of bathwater out to the yard to dump on the fenceline. I walked through the front room, where I find my host mom staring sadly at the quiet television. They had just turned on the TV for the first time that day, as I had ironed my skirt this morning for my interview. These two things seem unrelated but in a bizarre turn of events that can only happen in Africa, they are directly connected. Why I chose today to iron, when every other day I just show up in my sundried wrinkly best is beyond me, but I had left the adaptor for the television in my room. The Peace Corps has a policy that every home a trainee stays in have a lock on the door, and although I am usually running too late to remember/have time to lock it (imagine that, my morning habits haven’t changed across the Atlantic, either) my host family is extremely respectful of my privacy and would never enter my room if I weren’t there. They won’t even come in when I’m there. My door can be wide open and propped and my brother will still call “knock-knock” from the doorway and wait for me to come over to him if he wants to ask me something. Although I should have known something was up when I came home and everyone was sitting on the porch and the TV was silent, I neglected to notice. So it was one of these very “knock-knock” instances that made me realize that I had committed the ultimate sin of leaving for the ENTIRE DAY AND LEAVING THE ADAPTOR TO THE TV IN MY ROOM! The Batswana are so polite that although my host brother and sister (who is really his mom but I call them both my siblings, it’s easier that way) both have my cell number, they didn’t bother to text to me ask about it. The best question in this entire quandary is why no appliances in Botswana have plugs that match the outlets in the houses, causing all residents to need to purchase adaptors to run anything that plugs into the wall, but to contemplate this is a mystery I’m not willing to undertake. The only other adapter in the house is attached to the fridge. I’m not even going to tell you what it takes to make toast. Television or fan, refrigerator or pressed clothes. We’ve got miniature Sophie’s Choice going on every day.

So I watch the candlelight dancing across my host mother’s face as she stares at the blank screen. I scrunch my own face in an attempt to conjure the words to again express my apologies for the adaptor incident (although I imagine I’m more difficult than usual to take seriously due to my headlamp shadowing my features) and reach past her to open the door. As I yank the handle (it generally sticks. Most doors do here.) I see a tall, thin figure dressed in head to toe black. It takes exactly the correct amount of time for me to go through every grim reaper/slasher/ shadowy ghost terror I have as it does to finally realize it’s my host brother. (no, I did not drop the bucket). My yelp of terror entertains my host mom immensely, nearly as much as the time I summoned my brother to kill the enormous cockroach that had been eluding me and slinking around my room (more like I froze in terror and yelped for Mompati to come kill the monster under my bed in broken Setswana, but really, the thing was as long as my pinky finger). I was back in good graces.

I walked out into the darkness across the yard and over to the fenceline. I dumped the soapy water and looked up across the darkened horizon. The night sky is huge on any given occasion, but on a night when the few lights that exist in Africa were extinguished it was like looking into my own personal planetarium. The night wasn’t even that clear and it was phenomenal. I’ve noticed, and my comrades have agreed that the sunrises and sunsets here are simply amazing. We are blessed with National Geographic caliber sunrises and sunsets. Every day. While I stand in the yard and brush my teeth in the morning the sky lights up with blues and purples and oranges and golds the likes of which I have never seen. In the evening as I bring in my laundry it’s like a painting. I don’t know if it’s something about the slower pace of life or lack of distractions that makes me notice these times, but I’m pretty sure it’s just more beautiful.

I take notice of the big yellow moon guiding my way across the yard and smile again at the candlelight flickering in the front room of my little concrete house. I go in and sit down to write this blog, the old fashioned way, with a pen and paper, and my hsot mom smiles at me. In her soft raspy voice she says “Lorato o wa kwala,” (Lorato is writing) happy for any opportunity to teach me Setswana. She and my brother are generally bored whenever the TV is not on. The nation as a whole seems to be in the infantile stages of television appreciation wherein they are thrilled to have the infernal machine on and watch whatever is offered on the one national station (BTV) with pleasure. (As if Americans have such refined, sophisticated tastes. We produce most of the crap that is on, unfortunately, although I must say, New Zealand gives us a run for our money.)

I myself relish these times when the power is out and the TV is silent. I smile at my African mother, attempting to repeat whist butchering her words. My host brother reads what looks like it might be the classifieds by the light of the candle. Then just as suddenly as it began, our moment of solitude in the candlelight is over. The return of power has been signaled by the light in the kitchen flickering on, and my host brother jumps up to turn on the TV, and my host mom grooves in her chair as the music video for Usher’s “Love in the club” comes on. They each do a little dance of joy as the raunchier part of the rap interlude comes on to what is already not the cleanest of songs. I don’t think it translates.

We are living the bonus features

My friend Caitlin and I went walking the other day, it was Sunday and ahead of us we had a pool party at the Lemepe Lodge, which is a little motel with a pool and a bar where we can go hang out and have a drink or two and not draw attention as we would were all of us makgowa to turn up at a local bar or shebine. We were walking, doing our best to avoid the stares and calls of “Lakgowa” (white person, may or may not be derogatory, we can’t be sure) that seem to come from all the children that follow us wherever we go and I turned to her and asked, “Do you ever feel like maybe this isn’t really your life? I mean I know we’re here and that this is real and this is Botswana, and such, but do you ever feel like maybe this is like the Twilight Zone version of your life?” We laughed and then she said, “No, I think I know exactly what you mean. It’s like we’re living the bonus track at the end of the CD.” We laughed again and decided that what this is is the bonus features on a DVD, the path that few choose to travel (or in the case of the DVD’s-watch the extra features) and for those who do, you find out all sorts of interesting things you would have otherwise not known about life, Africa, yourself (or the movie or making thereof, actors, ect). The extras of the movie have often been my favorite part, and in some cases the reason I have fallen in love with a movie (in particular, the movie “Once.” What a killer soundtrack….) Living here it seems as though your life might just be continuing on back home, there’s just a stand in actor reading the lines you would have said. Or that your life is occurring as it is supposed to, just with the director’s commentary on. It’s just a weird type of off that you can’t quite put your finger on.

There are honestly times when I will be walking alone and look at the sky, or walk across the dirt path to see the neighbor children (who have called out to “Lorato, Lorato,” and when I actually come over have nothing else to say but stare shyly or peek out from their hiding places amongst their mother’s or sister’s legs) playing “baseball” whist running the bases backward and using the most interesting things they can find for bats and balls, with the lines for the bases (of which there are kind of five) drawn in the dirt as they would be in any small town back home in which there is no overly organized and fundraised community team. I think to myself, I could be anywhere, and it is really hard to remember that no, I won’t wake up and be back home, I can’t expect to run into any of you from home as I walk along the series of dirt paths that make up my new neighborhood, this is really Africa. Not that there’s any confusion that this is Africa, it’s just that I’ve made it my home in such ways that I have to mentally squint to remember what the place I’ve spent my whole life is like.

Yesterday I was at a clinic where I was supposed to be meeting with PMTCT (preventing mother to child transmission-everything is an acronym here) lay counselors to discuss their program, and when they weren’t there, we ended up asking the nurse midwife if we could just hang out with her for the rest of the day. She was fine with it, and proceeded to have us sit in on all the appointments that day, including family planning sessions, the pre and post natal care, and the pelvic exams. It was completely fascinating for me to sit there as these women stripped naked (no dressing gown) without much more than a glance in my direction and climbed up onto the table with no stirrups, lightbulb in the nurse’s exam light, no lubrication and no running water to warm the speculum, and doors that rarely stayed closed throughout the exam as there clinic’s only phone was in the room with us, and other nurses would often come in to answer it or to ask the midwife we were working with a question. I quickly realized what a unique opportunity this was to go through what is, in America such a personal process, (ah! Nudity!) with these women, and how they didn’t even blink. It made me so completely and totally grateful for all the amenities we have in American clinics that we take so for granted and have the nerve to complain when the Dr. is a few minutes late. It blew my mind. The midwife was very aware of what her clinic lacked, but improvised with such grace, and tended to her patients with such care and tough true concern, which is really the only way one can imagine discussing what is Botswana is often the undiscussable, sexual habits and politics with these women and young girls.

The clinic was what you would imagine an African clinic to be, a few small rooms surrounded by an open air waiting room, wherein women would come in the morning and just wait to be seen. Most things don’t happen quickly or even on time here and so people expect to wait for things. They sit patiently, these women, and the children wrapped and strapped to their bodies are quiet as well, unless one of the children is receiving a shot. The clinic is generally quite clean, but as with most of Botswana very dry and dusty, whenever the wind blows strongly you can taste it in your teeth. When the women finally come in to see the nurse they have their medical records with them. The standard record books are covered in magazine pictures and customized by these women, or more often, girls. They bring their own medical records to their appointments, as the Batswana tend to be a very mobile culture, they may return to their home clinic despite living far away to have a baby. When they deliver at the hospital they are given a new sheet to add to the book for their baby, and the two pages from their original book that have been torn out and completed by the Drs. I was amazed at both the efficiency and craziness of this medical records process, having of course, worked in medical records for a while myself. If the nurse sees something unusual or wants to consult with the Dr, the women have to come back again the next day or later in the week when the dr is there and do the whole waiting process again. Something else that struck me about the time in the office was that several of the women were having their first babies at 26 or 28, which implies that family planning methods are indeed something that women use here. All the women we saw that had been tested were HIV negative (YEAH!!), which the nurse said was very rare.

So moral of the story: say a little thanks the next time you are sitting in air conditioning at the clinic for the doctor who is making you wait 20 minutes after your appointment to see you. At least there’s a magazine in the waiting room, which has four walls surrounding it and several working lightbulbs!

A day in the life she lives in Africa…

Is a full one indeed, especially during Peace Corps training.

Since I’ve been here, my time has not been my own, which for the first few weeks was fine. The Peace Corps keeps you pretty much on lock down initially, which is a good thing to do as the culture shock is still raging, and the safety and security people have you running scared from your own shadow. I experienced much of the same types of insecurity and fear that I faced in London, without the benefit of amazing tourist attractions and a new musical every night. Luckily for me, I have been through some of this before, and know it doesn’t last forever. I’ve gone from feeling as though I’m floating above my body watching with a combination of bemusement and amazement to feeling very much in my skin, and being surprised to be comfortable there. I’m beginning to feel more at home here, and with that, I am facing a new discomfort in being comfortable. I feel a sneaky sense of betrayal (to whom?? for what???) at being ok in my new surroundings. I guess sometimes I wonder what was so wrong with the life I lived before this?

I tend to hit a new realization every day, first and foremost the one that I live here in Botswana, and then any of a number of lesser yet important details. I have discovered that because one creepy guy grabs me in the street doesn’t mean they are all going to, and furthermore, this same shit happens at home and I know how to deal with it there. The same girl from MN still lives somewhere inside me, and knows that there are a-holes and amazing people everywhere you go. She is occasionally hard to find, the girl from the Midwest, as she has taken a new name and cut off her hair, and is trying her damndest to speak a new language and blend with a new culture. I find myself writing her letters, this new person who has taken residence in my body, giving her encouragement and laughs that she will need to keep this living in Africa business up.

Enough existential bs for now, let’s talk about what I do in a day.

I wake up in the morning to the sound of dogs and roosters, “waking up” being the key terms as sometimes they try to keep my up all night (thank you again mom for the earplugs). The alarm on my watch goes off at 6:13 and again at 6:37 just to make sure I’ve truly gotten up. As the days get shorter and the light becomes less, it takes more for me to get out of my bed and face the meat locker (exaggeration) my little concrete house with the tin roof has become overnight. Central heating is not a concept that has not yet arrived in Africa. Being in the southern hemisphere means I am going through the longest winter of my life, winter being a relative term as I sweat my butt off every day during the day.

By the second time the alarm goes off I have either heard one of my family members moving or have come out of the cocoon I sleep in and realize I’m in Africa. This realization is sharp and new nearly every day, as I haven’t dreamt that I am in Africa yet, and only had my first dream that involves someone I know from here a few nights back. So know that you all live very vividly in my dreams, and I am sad to leave you every morning. ( a note on dreams: the PC antimalarial drug of choice is Larium, which has the side effects of nightmares, hallucinations and disrupted sleep. The side effects I have experienced so far have to do with sleeping very lightly, similarly to when I was young and would over drink and pass out, and be able to hear what was happening and not really respond. Anyhow, while I’m sleeping I’ll dream that bugs, snakes and mice are crawling in my bed with me- although I generally keep to one genre of scary shit at a time, come to think of it, it might be nice to have everyone at once, they could kill each other off and leave me alone. I’ll work on that one…)

I step out of my bed and onto my concrete floor and take stock of any new bites that may have occurred overnight, I think I have figured out how to trick the bugs as well, the nurse can’t seem to figure out if they are flea bites or mosquitoes, but I’ve taken to putting on bug spray before I go to sleep (my dog nose is so confused here, they are so many new smells!!!). A note on bug bites, being sweaty/smelly, sunburn, DUST, bucket bathing, feeling dirty, insomnia, hot/cold, new or crazy food, queasy stomach ect. I’ve managed to stay pretty philosophical about these issues to date, and as I am usually discovering that one or a few of these things are generally occurring at any given time, I take special note of any moment when my attention is not on any or all of the above and am grateful for this.

It sounds strange, but finding yourself in such a completely new life situation really does strip a lot of bullshit away and give you the opportunity to take stock and have gratitude for what positive things you do have going on. Don’t get me wrong, I still get toxic as hell, and can bitch and complain with the best of them. It’s just funnier for me to laugh hysterically and think either, this is the Peace Corps, or this is Africa and move on. There’s not much else I can do.

I decide if I’m grateful to be in Africa today or not, and then I consider again with the Peace Corps being the subject. I’ve learned it is essential to separate them in my mind, for if it was one big conglomerate, I’d usually be pissed off about something. One or the other is usually challenging me. So I make the choice early and plan the day accordingly.

I throw on a sweatshirt or one of my new fleeces (thank you Lightning, you are amazing!!!) and step on the scale that my family has graciously provided me, I use it to have something to do while I try to remember how to greet them in Setswana. I recently noticed (after almost a month of half heartedly weighing myself -it’s in kilos I think) the thing is off by nearly ten clicks. Oh well, such is life in Africa. So I fill my pockets with my retainer (which I wear all the time now, I have no idea what that’s about….) my toothbrush, toothpaste, cup, cell phone (just in case one of you fine people calls me!!!) toilet paper, and grab my bucket, which is filled with yesterday’s t-shirt and underwear and soapy water, throw on my flip flops and head out to the neighbor’s yard and the pit latrine. I do that business, I come back to the water pump in my yard. I brush my teeth as I watch the sun rise, and I spit on the fence. This is a very nice time of my day, because sunrises are so universal, it makes me feel connected to something steady and familiar. The smell of smoke, which is generally the garbage burning and is in the air constantly, reminds me of being at the cabin growing up. I rinse out my laundry and head back over to the neighbor’s yard to hang it. (the underwear hangs in my room, for those who are keeping track. I don’t care, but it’s a cultural thing I guess….) Now that my multitasking is done for the day, I put a little bit of cold water from the tap into my bucket and take it in to my host mom-a wonderful robust woman who is everything you could hope for in a good African momma, speaks little English and calls me “my daughter” and envelopes me in hugs all the time,-who has been heating water for me on the stove or over the fire, mix it with the cold and wash my face with it. I recently figured out how to set up a mirror in my room in the windowsill so I can actually see myself (after a few weeks of rarely having a mirror, and having cut my own hair, I look, as my boy Brent calls it, a hot mess) to put my sunscreen on, and pluck my eyebrows (a little eyeshadow compact, yes I brought make-up to Africa, and I have to tell you, it’s what has kept me sane on the exactly two occasions I have worn it. and yes, my eyebrows are another vanity I have kept up with. I shave my legs about every two weeks.) And so after I have dressed in whichever clothes I think are going to keep me warm for the morning and cool throughout the rest of the day (inevitably wrong choice, waddayagonnado?), and whichever sandals are hurting my feet the least, I go out to greet the rest of my family. Greetings are important in Botswana, as are leave taking phrases, and I have recently been enlightened as to how to convey that I am going to sleep, rather than putting the baby to sleep. Either seems accurate to what I am doing in my humble opinion, but a linguist, I am not. My family has been laughing about this one for three weeks and finally decided to tell me a few nights back. Hmmm.

So my mom has cooked me porridge (called borobga) and I make my lunch, which is generally some strange and unbalanced combination of things (cornflakes, yogurt, and apple) that only I would think are fine together, and hope that my host family does not think my eating habits are typical of all Americans…

My friends (and neighbors and language group) Caitlin (AKA Gorata, letter g = h sound which is another form of the word love meaning “to love,” whereas I am just “love.” the Batswana frequently laugh at the two lekgowa (white people) girls with the similar names) and Pedro (Thatho) walk through my yard and we walk down the goat and donkey paths to out language instructor’s house. We attempt to avoid all the aforementioned animals (and also chicken’s) shit as we travel, but this is near impossible. We soldier through one of the three most difficult Bantu languages to learn for a few hours, and then generally walk to the “center” a cramped church school called Hope something blah blah the main selling points of which are the tree in the front yard I can climb, the flush toilets and running water. At this point we are joined by 52 of our other closest friends AKA Bots 7, where we listen to presentations and generally endure mild chaos and confusion for the day until they let us go, after which we rush (rush being the operative word as NOTHING happens quickly in Africa) either to the internet café, the store to get something for dinner, or straight home if we have received mail or a package that we have to carry slash we need to hide and get home before dusk. When I get home after training I usually immediately bathe, as I have to bathe before it gets dark at all or it will be more difficult to heat the water and be somewhat warm for my bath, which is in a basin not a tub and for which I am, interestingly, nearly never completely naked. I then choose from my least dirty clothes that fall into the pajama category and try to plan how I will remember how to say anything in Setswana to my family. I then sit down to watch the TV that has been blaring nonstop all day with my family, the program selection on the one channel (BTV) in the country being one of the following, interspersed with American or African music videos and anti-stigma HIV ads; an Australian weight loss show, a top chef type show, a British luxury travel show, American WWE, a show with Holly Robinson Peete that was probably canceled in the states a few years back, or a drama called “beautiful people” also American. On Sunday we are lucky enough to have Botswana Pop Star, which is relatively untalented people who sing old American pop songs (think Whitney Houston pre crack and Bobby Brown) and looks like cable access with the karaoke back up Muzak. They rarely get the lyrics right and this is never one of the judge’s critiques. Then the news is on in Setswana and we eat dinner at the coffee table (9 PM is the magic hour for English news and (worth noting-) sign language edition!. I’m in bed long before this but can usually hear the headlines as I’m drifting off to sleep). Dinner is generally chicken, and a big serving of whitish carbs and some spinach (good night!!) or cabbage/beetroot combo (sad face). Then I study Setswana or more likely read whichever trashy South African magazine or month old People magazine I have managed to scam for a while, and pass out around 9PM wondering what the next day will bring.

This is my life, and I’ve come to find it beautiful. Mostly.

Thank you for mail from the states!!!!

Thanks everyone for the mail from the states. I cry when I get it and scream little with excitement. I am going to get the laptop up and running and get some major stories told soon, so thanks for your thoughts, emails and love!

Training is kinda tough and sometimes boring but I am beginning to realize that this is my home. and I'm happy about it. I swear in on June 18th (mark your calenders) after which I will be placed at my site. I will interview for placement in a week, a meeting that will determine if any of you ever here from me via email again... or at least for a while.

I had some really great blog titles in my head...

none of which will be summoned forth now, under pressure.

HELLO EVERY BODY!!!
Yes this is me on the world wide interweb!
update
I hacked off my hair with a dull scissors and a pocketknife. It has become a bit of a ragged source of pride for me, so I won't even let the gal who cuts hair for a living even it out. I think it looks rugged hot. goes with the whole dirty sweaty look I'm rocking. To which i remedy by bathing in a bucket, in my concrete house with rafters electricity and no indoor plumbing. I have perfected a method of using very little water and rarely feel clean, but then no one else is that clean either so I am ok. the toilet is in the neighbor's yard. which is my host mom's brother. My host family is amazing and cook for me and put up with my incredible lack of words that I fluently speak in their language. The mom has named me Lorato which is Setswana for love and also charity. I'm not quite sure if it is my charity work or the fact that I am a charity case that she was thinking of when she named me but whatever. I have gone from 1981's most common name to the most common name in Botswana. I think it suits me.
Usher's song "love in the club" brings tears to my eyes. I have no idea why. American music is very popular here, and you hear it in the supermarkets, which are crazy in terms of their content, busyness and the nearness to which people stand to you. I often have what I would normally consider inappropriate affect and reactions to things here, but have grown to accept as life in Africa, or at least life in the beginning of the Peace Corps.
I have lots of friends, that I have grown ridiculously close to very, very fast. This is good as I need them every day. most don't even look up anymore when I yell at nothing. I have had 8 medical shots as of today. i laugh when they tell me I need another, and offer up an arm while tapping it as an addict and a smile. I eat peanut butter sandwiches every day for lunch and chicken for dinner every night. I have lost between 6 and 8 pounds, depending on how much water I have gotten my friend to have her maid boil for me before I step on the scale which my host family has so generously provided me in my room when I arrived. It is a fun activity for me to do in the am as I am trying to remember how to greet my family in Setswana in the morning before I leave the safety of my room. greetings are really important.


the sky is the biggest I have ever seen and the stars shine like it is their job. I constantly smell fire, (as people are constantly burning their garbage plastic, ect) which reminds me of growing up at the cabin, but then I look at the clouds lined up against that big old sky and am reminded of the number of miles between me and that time and place.
The Setswana word for yes or I hear you or I agree is a sort of grunt and the sound "eh-ma" sound that my grandma makes when she is trying to catch her breath, which coming from my host mom and sisters has also brought much comfort. It is amazing the little things that do that here.
the sunset is gorgeous.
I am reading "three cups of tea" which is amazing and inspiring and gets me through many days here. thanks for recommending, Kassapa (and everyone else. I would highly recommend it)
ok enough stream of consciousness blogging for me.
I thank all of you for the beautiful emails of love and support, for as manically happy as this blog has been, there have definitely been rough points.
I am learning where my edges are, and where my spine, heart and guts are.
Literally sometimes
please send mail!
Love you
Jen