Those of you nearest and dearest to me who know me well know how I feel about the amazing power of a hot bath. Throughout my life the tub has been my refuge, my relaxation place, and is second only to my bed in terms of places I absolutely love to spend hours on end. This is such an ingrained culture in my family that my sister has told me that she regularly threatens our mother to remind her “don’t you slip and tell Jenny to take a hot bath when she’s crabby there, don’t you do it!” as since I have been to Africa, other than a few harried minutes in my friend Caitlin’s homestay tub, a hot bath is a luxury I have been without. The only other time I’ve gone this long was when I was in London when I couldn’t bring myself to scrub and scour enough to submerge my body in the tub of the shower I shared with 9 other strangers..( my how things have changed, what I wouldn’t give to have hot running indoor water at my disposal whenever I want it….) The tub of the hotel in the red light district that ended that bath drought in Paris seemed like a dream, to the point of my insisting we stay there again when my mom and sister came to visit.
Back in Africa, part of my settling in process has been to adjust to life without things and people and cheese and cultural things I love, and to try to accept those lovely little additions that have made my life… Interesting (Lizard this means you). Being that I am now in a space where I have an actual bathtub and have finally gotten it to a state of some semblance of clean, it seems a shame to continuously squat in it every day pouring cupfuls of hot water over myself alternately scalding myself and freezing while my goosebumps get goosebumps, and then using the water remaining to soak and wash my laundry. So I decide that it’s Friday, I’m made it through a week at site, and I’m going to treat myself. To a hot bath.
I filled up my tea kettle and the only other pot I have and set them to boil on the stove. I lit the candle in the bathroom (I’m not being romantic, it’s the only way to light the place, and generally makes me laugh when I squat in the tub and shiver my way through another bucket bath that this is the lighting available to me) and wait for the water to heat, and walk back across the room to dump it into the tub. A process I repeat countless times over the course of the next hour and a half. After the first hour, I notice that the water that is in the tub is cooling and the gas from the stove might be leaking more than burning and the air is getting thick. Not willing to give up my dream I lift up the long skirt I’m wearing, take off my underwear and sit in the tub, the water at a level at which, after all this work, still only barely covers the tops of my legs. And if my feet are flexed up my toes hang out. The water has reached a degree of heat somewhere between tepid and lukewarm at this point. I sit in the water, in my sweater, holding up my skirt that I haven’t taken off yet. I have to keep warm in order for the experience to work. I still need to get the kettle and the pot off the stove. This entails walking out into the next room, the window of which is open so that I can breathe through the noxious gas fumes that are helping heat the water. I sure as hell am not going to be walking through the room naked, as if the people of the village stare at me as I walk down the street I can only imagine the stir the exposure of my white ass would cause.
I finally get enough warmish water in the tub to get completely naked, and feel the grittiness of the dirt that has come in from the tap under my feet as I lay back, trying to get warm while still so happy to have my entire body wet at once. Even though I’m more than slightly uncomfortable, I’m still appreciative for this water in a way I couldn’t possibly be had I simply turned on the tap and walked away to do something else as the water ran, only to return in five minutes to find the bathtub filled with hot bubbly water waiting for me.
I laugh out loud as I realize the sheer ludicrousness of the whole situation, whilst simultaneously realizing that this will not be the last time I try this particular stunt.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Road to Seronga...
Unlike the road to a friend’s house-which is never long, or so I’ve read on some embroidered pillow or refrigerator magnet somewhere, the road to Seronga is long. Kakgala, as it is in Setswana, said with emphasis on the second syllable and look of incredulity, and always the English translation of “veddy far” the r’s of the native speaker’s tongue rolling off into the inconceivable distance with much sorrowful head shaking.
This is the second time in two weeks I’ve made this journey. No matter how many books you have it always leaves plenty of time to think, because at some point, you’re on the road after dark with no light to read by. Generally by the time dusk sets in you’ve been in the car for so long that strange parts of your body are simultaneously numb and aching. You find yourself on the lookout for kangaroos, unicorns and other out of place or mythical creatures in addition to the dangerous herds of cows, goats, donkeys and other farm life that are always choosing right now to cross the road.
Tonight we had barely reached the ferry in Shakawe when the day decided to begin her evening seduction, dropping the sun from the sky like a negligee. The fiery blaze that overdramatically ensues leaves deep burgundy and purple hues painting the horizon like the eye shadow of a woman past her prime and unwilling to let the heavy concealing make-up of her youth fade away gracefully.
The line to become one of the coveted three spots available on the ferry each time it crossed the delta was long, about 12 vehicles deep. Only one ferry was running, the other sat heavy in the water docked on this side, unapologetically unavailable to the swarms of people trying to get across the water before dark. One of the most irritating things about the crossing at Shakawe is that you can see the other side quite clearly. The ride itself from loading to disembarkment is less than five minutes. The American in my mind pleads “Shit can’t we just ford this nonsense like I did in fourth grade playing Oregon Trail?” Anywhere in the US there would be a multilane bridge with stop offs to take touristy pictures spanning this insultingly short distance.
I sit in the back of the ambulance, no longer willing to be social as what little patience I had has been blundered by the drunk people that came up to try to speak English to the Lakgowa whist standing too close and leaning in. I realize that this is one of those situations that calls for the type of patience I still haven’t developed. We alight the ferry as the last embers of day give into the dark of night, and the blood red moon the likes of which I have never seen anywhere on Earth rises from the horizon opposite where the sun has set. One of the nurses I have been traveling with informs me that a moon such as this indicates a chief somewhere has died. I don’t doubt it.
A few hours later on a long dusty road I am in my new home, unsure of what to do with myself in my new surroundings. As is my tendency when traveling for extended periods of time, I want to sink into a pile of tears but decide to save that overwrought coping mechanism for another time. After unloading all the boxes into my new living room, slash bedroom slash kitchen I wander back and forth between this and my bathroom which can also double as the rest of my kitchen. The scene is one of complete disarray, but as B reminds me in response to my text sent out to announce my arrival in my new village, nearly two days after all my other compadres arrived in their villages, “I am home.”
In order to avoid weeping I pump up the Black Keys CD (thank you again, Rick) and begin using every coping mechanism I’ve ever learned to settle into this new place. I walk around in much the manner I’ve noticed my mother does when she’s cleaning, by doing a little bit of everything at once, and nothing in particular. I thought about my friend K-train, as she was moving into the apartment next to mine in Minneapolis, frantically scrubbing the cupboards in ways I would have never imagined to do, insisting that she won’t feel at home until she “gets her stink on it.” I finally know what she means. I am running around picking things up, putting them down, realizing I won’t feel good about things until I have moved nearly every item of furniture out of this room and swept and mopped and then feeling worse when I realize I have no friends here to call to help me with this task, and how to you explain to people whose language you don’t speak that you’d like to move the furniture out into the sand in order to remove the sand from your floors?
Furthermore, I knew from the last time I was here that there was at least one, perhaps more lizards living in this house that has been empty for over a month. I am, admittedly, unreasonably afraid of these little bastards. I realize that they are “friendly” and eat the bugs but I can’t get over the larium enhanced dreams and waking nightmares of the f-ers falling on me during the night, or scampering over me, or really, even coming out from behind my wardrobe for a little hello. (I’ve since hung my mosquito net and hide under it proudly in my false sense of security. If they can get behind my wardrobe, they can certainly figure out how to compromise a little bit of mesh hanging if they so well please). I have also decided that in the vein of my friend Lightning this place absolutely has to be smudged if I’m to be successful here, and am thus running around with burning sage, the very smell being close enough to marijuana to spark feelings of Ende like paranoia in my already heightened sense of discomfort with the lizards lurking everywhere (in my mind they are multiplying by the minute, and plotting their descent on me in the night like military paratroopers.)
In addition to all this fun I realize that contrary to my former insistence, I haven’t completely transcended my fear of the dark, at least not in Africa. Between the one stark florescent light buzzing overhead casting strange shadows (Jack, I totally know what you mean now and hereby do solemnly swear that I will completely willingly enter into a life committed to lamps set at flattering angles) and the lack of lighting altogether in the bathroom, I’m a bit nervous. The dark, dark, bathroom houses the only mirror in the place, one of those locker size numbers that proves useful in this context for helping me scare myself silly every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. As I don’t recognize my own reflection with my new haircut, I keep thinking some crazy Buddhist monk has invaded my home wearing a headlamp and is out to get me.
So I was, as my new friend Ronny likes to put it, “a bit delicate” (read: a wreck) as I settled in under my haphazardly hung mosquito net, listening to every bump and thump and things hitting my door to ride out one of the longest nights of my life, trying to remember, as B says, that things always look better in the morning.
This is the second time in two weeks I’ve made this journey. No matter how many books you have it always leaves plenty of time to think, because at some point, you’re on the road after dark with no light to read by. Generally by the time dusk sets in you’ve been in the car for so long that strange parts of your body are simultaneously numb and aching. You find yourself on the lookout for kangaroos, unicorns and other out of place or mythical creatures in addition to the dangerous herds of cows, goats, donkeys and other farm life that are always choosing right now to cross the road.
Tonight we had barely reached the ferry in Shakawe when the day decided to begin her evening seduction, dropping the sun from the sky like a negligee. The fiery blaze that overdramatically ensues leaves deep burgundy and purple hues painting the horizon like the eye shadow of a woman past her prime and unwilling to let the heavy concealing make-up of her youth fade away gracefully.
The line to become one of the coveted three spots available on the ferry each time it crossed the delta was long, about 12 vehicles deep. Only one ferry was running, the other sat heavy in the water docked on this side, unapologetically unavailable to the swarms of people trying to get across the water before dark. One of the most irritating things about the crossing at Shakawe is that you can see the other side quite clearly. The ride itself from loading to disembarkment is less than five minutes. The American in my mind pleads “Shit can’t we just ford this nonsense like I did in fourth grade playing Oregon Trail?” Anywhere in the US there would be a multilane bridge with stop offs to take touristy pictures spanning this insultingly short distance.
I sit in the back of the ambulance, no longer willing to be social as what little patience I had has been blundered by the drunk people that came up to try to speak English to the Lakgowa whist standing too close and leaning in. I realize that this is one of those situations that calls for the type of patience I still haven’t developed. We alight the ferry as the last embers of day give into the dark of night, and the blood red moon the likes of which I have never seen anywhere on Earth rises from the horizon opposite where the sun has set. One of the nurses I have been traveling with informs me that a moon such as this indicates a chief somewhere has died. I don’t doubt it.
A few hours later on a long dusty road I am in my new home, unsure of what to do with myself in my new surroundings. As is my tendency when traveling for extended periods of time, I want to sink into a pile of tears but decide to save that overwrought coping mechanism for another time. After unloading all the boxes into my new living room, slash bedroom slash kitchen I wander back and forth between this and my bathroom which can also double as the rest of my kitchen. The scene is one of complete disarray, but as B reminds me in response to my text sent out to announce my arrival in my new village, nearly two days after all my other compadres arrived in their villages, “I am home.”
In order to avoid weeping I pump up the Black Keys CD (thank you again, Rick) and begin using every coping mechanism I’ve ever learned to settle into this new place. I walk around in much the manner I’ve noticed my mother does when she’s cleaning, by doing a little bit of everything at once, and nothing in particular. I thought about my friend K-train, as she was moving into the apartment next to mine in Minneapolis, frantically scrubbing the cupboards in ways I would have never imagined to do, insisting that she won’t feel at home until she “gets her stink on it.” I finally know what she means. I am running around picking things up, putting them down, realizing I won’t feel good about things until I have moved nearly every item of furniture out of this room and swept and mopped and then feeling worse when I realize I have no friends here to call to help me with this task, and how to you explain to people whose language you don’t speak that you’d like to move the furniture out into the sand in order to remove the sand from your floors?
Furthermore, I knew from the last time I was here that there was at least one, perhaps more lizards living in this house that has been empty for over a month. I am, admittedly, unreasonably afraid of these little bastards. I realize that they are “friendly” and eat the bugs but I can’t get over the larium enhanced dreams and waking nightmares of the f-ers falling on me during the night, or scampering over me, or really, even coming out from behind my wardrobe for a little hello. (I’ve since hung my mosquito net and hide under it proudly in my false sense of security. If they can get behind my wardrobe, they can certainly figure out how to compromise a little bit of mesh hanging if they so well please). I have also decided that in the vein of my friend Lightning this place absolutely has to be smudged if I’m to be successful here, and am thus running around with burning sage, the very smell being close enough to marijuana to spark feelings of Ende like paranoia in my already heightened sense of discomfort with the lizards lurking everywhere (in my mind they are multiplying by the minute, and plotting their descent on me in the night like military paratroopers.)
In addition to all this fun I realize that contrary to my former insistence, I haven’t completely transcended my fear of the dark, at least not in Africa. Between the one stark florescent light buzzing overhead casting strange shadows (Jack, I totally know what you mean now and hereby do solemnly swear that I will completely willingly enter into a life committed to lamps set at flattering angles) and the lack of lighting altogether in the bathroom, I’m a bit nervous. The dark, dark, bathroom houses the only mirror in the place, one of those locker size numbers that proves useful in this context for helping me scare myself silly every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. As I don’t recognize my own reflection with my new haircut, I keep thinking some crazy Buddhist monk has invaded my home wearing a headlamp and is out to get me.
So I was, as my new friend Ronny likes to put it, “a bit delicate” (read: a wreck) as I settled in under my haphazardly hung mosquito net, listening to every bump and thump and things hitting my door to ride out one of the longest nights of my life, trying to remember, as B says, that things always look better in the morning.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Swearing my mother would have loved to have heard....
Yesterday I swore in as an official volunteer of the United States Peace Corps. We were again at the secondary school where we had been matched to our host families, and my heart and stomach were fluttering similarly as they had on that day when I nervously walked into the arms of a big African woman, was given the name for love and burst into tears.
The pomp and circumstance of a typical
Speeches were made, touching on how grateful the Batswana are to have us here, and also reflecting on the history and tradition of taking an oath as an American, and pledging to defend the constitution as a public servant. I raised my right hand and made this commitment, and I pondered on the concept of all the Americans who have come before me and said these words or any others to the same end. Presidents, military people, civil servants and others have spoken these words, made this commitment, and sometimes given their lives to this end. I felt in that moment the magnitude of what I am doing, and a connection to something bigger in a way that is hard to remember when you are so far from home. Needless to say, I was teared up. It was a beautiful ceremony (if a little long winded). We were able to shake his Excellency’s hand, and he warmly and sincerely thanked each and every one of us (yes mom, I got pictures).
It was a beautiful day.
Cultural Banking
Tuesday we went to Gaborone
So at this point the bank and the Peace Corps have assured me that all will be well, and although I have a hard time believing this, I also realize exactly how effective stressing about this is. I am a little ramped up as this is my last chance at a mall that easily has many things I need to attempt to outfit my house before going to Seronga and I only have 4 hours. I’ve got my list, I’ve got my plan, and right now this banking glich is not on either mental grouping. I have to put American Jen away for now, bring out world weary Lorato and just wait it out and hope for the best. I am continuously amazed by how, for the most part, I can do just this and zone out and accept the extreme slowness/ inefficiency with which everything operates here. I know this is a Peace Corps and I’m in a developing country, but I have to admit, Botswana does a hell of a job at fooling you sometimes, especially when you get near the mall that could really be anywhere in America (except for the loud chorus of crickets clearly audible near the Mr. Price.)
By this time the whole machine eating card thing had happened to a few other volunteers so I knew I wasn’t alone, and the Peace Corps themselves have been really pretty good about intervening in these situations. Between this, and continuing computer problems (I now have Norton and a new lease on life!!!) I have come to know most of the staff VERY well. They are great. So now I had the smooth operator’s business card and number, I had some cash, and I felt as at ease as I was going to about the situation. As the time was dwindling on shopping, I got my butt out there and proceeded to be confused by all the loud music and florescent lighting of the shops- I don’t know what will happen if I’m ever to go in a Costco after this. I may need a preemptive valium.
The next day was swearing in, after which the Peace Corps rounded us up and brought us to the Molepolole branch of the bank. We were told that the people with our (repaired) cards were over halfway there. We waited (outside the closed bank hanging out in the Peace Corps combi) about two hours longer than they said it would take to get from Gabs to Moleps with our cards. So we waited patiently for the most part, cooling our heels while most of our buddies were celebrating our official Peace Corps status and saying goodbye (for now, at least) at the Lodge. I had also stupidly planned to do some last minute shopping in Moleps with the homey third world feel of the China shops (which are called that for exactly the unfortunate politically incorrect reason you’d think) that I am more used to, or at least less overwhelmed by.
When the smooth operator pulls up, I’m beginning to lose this gracious demeanor. They let us in the bank, hand out our cards, a process which entails all 6 of us rewriting info and resigning forms, again producing our passports and ID’s which again I don’t have, and tell us to try the cards again. So we then go outside the bank and wait in line for the ATM. Which promptly eats my card. Again. The smooth operator is still all smiles, as I begin to get testier, three hours into the ordeal, with no end in sight. It’s a horrible process of elimination in which some people’s cards work and they get to leave, and I am the last person picked for the team. After somehow retrieving our cards (and then there were two- of us left) the two ladies behind the counter get on the phone and start working it from that angle. I’m getting a little desperate at this point and am asked to produce my passport again by the smooth operator. Which he knows damn well I don’t have, just like I didn’t have it an hour before when he asked. Now I am very close to losing it. And he proceeds to calmly look me over, smile creepily, and say, “You know Jennifer, (we have not been formally introduced – a big deal in
SERIOUSLY!!!??? This man is a representative of a bank whose machine has eaten my card three times in two days, made me stand around waiting while my friends say goodbye, I could be getting the last things I might need for my new home, which is in a village with no stores and no electricity (and incidentally in the end I had to sign up for a new account and come in the next day for a new card and paperwork-which I had to complete AGAIN) and his professional solution to this whole debacle and my rage is to HIT ON ME????
Were I in
The next morning I was at the bank bright and early and sitting in the plastic chair outside the door smiling at the security guard waiting to retrieve my allegedly fixed card. the new story is that I don't need to close the account but i need to apply for a new card. which they will supposedly send to Seronga in 7 business days. Right. I love it. I smile again (Mr. Smooth Operator was now back in Gabs, and I have no beef with these people) and walk to the internet, the one solace I have left in this town!!!
I was able to withdraw some money and should be fine until the whole thing gets settled... unless you get an emergency western union request from Africa, assume i got it straightened out. And know that I am smiling, and shaking my bald head as I write this.
Monday, June 16, 2008
and on and on...
I'm at the internet, and I keep saying this will be the last time I hit it up before I move away, it seems the addiction has flaired up again. I'm reading emails, and I miss you all. I get the Star Tribune in my inbox and usually delete, but today I read it and ache for home. I'm about to undertake the next leg of a journey of a certain solitude, and I'm hesitant to walk away. It's like every goodbye I've already said, magnified. I'll leave this group of people I've come to love, and in doing so, again feel the distance between me and all of you. I've come to think of this expereince as a new tattoo, painful at first, with the promise of a permanent lasting story and beauty that cannot be created any other way.
I miss you.
Jen
I miss you.
Jen
Friday, June 13, 2008
To a very special couple....
AS you celebrate your marriage vows next weekend, know that I am thinking of you and am there in spirit. Jake and Veronica, you are one of the bust suited pairs I've encountered in a while, and I look forward to watching you grow in love and as a couple. Congratulations to two very special people.
Love
Jen
Love
Jen
To the wonderful people at Messerli and Kramer!!!!
Thank you so very much for the lovely packages. They are full of wonderful things I need and wanted and made me so very happy. Many of the people in my group have package envy, so i have to admit that the first thing I did was open the m&M's and share them. I slept in the sleeping bag last night and was the closest to warm as I slept for the first time in a long time, so again, thank you.
You all ROCK my world, and I hope you have a wonderful company picnic next week!!!!
You all ROCK my world, and I hope you have a wonderful company picnic next week!!!!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Hells yeah I got the pictures up!!!!!
If you click on the slideshow to your right, you'll be able to access my pictures on Picassa. Such a beautiful thing to have figured out before promptly leaving this high tech area of Moleps! All teh house looking pictures are of... my house. enjoy! I am so happy to be able to share this with you all!
One week from today
I swear in as a Peace Corps Volunteer! I am so excited. Thanks to everyone for all the support, I couldn't have made it through without all the nice mail, packages, emails and thoughts. I love you!!
Jen
Jen
The story of how I came to be married, engaged, just off the fricken market to you, thanks, Buddy:
SHIT! disclaimer: I am not really engaged, married or otherwise. I guess in my rush to express my exasperation I may not have noted that.
Since the first day in the car with Pulane, in which I exclaimed (pinch hit) that I was engaged (sometimes I say married, although when I refer to Jack, it’s as my boyfriend, which puts a whole new spin on the confusion for everyone) I have since produced a simple silver ring to wear on my ring finger, which is inscribed with the words “Fear Not” and is a bit funny to me as it was given to me by a TG man at the clinic I used to work at, after I admired his. I wear it with the words facing in, so that when I am about to put my face into my hands to cry about this or that, I realize that even if I’m crying I shouldn’t be fricken SCARED!!!!! It suffices as a wedding band. Many PCV’s do this. I get several offers to “know me,” marry me, sleep with me, come check on me ect, throughout the day, every day. On good days it is simply verbal, but it can also entail some grabbing, which gets really old. It happens to most PCV’s here, men and women and is thus more annoying than flattering. Wearing a ring doesn’t stop it, but at least suggests a bit more seriousness in my constant rejection of these offers. It’s very claustrophobic to be in a situation in which you cannot just be who you are, and indeed to be truthful can occasionally be dangerous, and this has manifested in ways that are sort of unexpected to me, but I am trying to roll with the punches. Lying doesn’t sit well, and the whole concept of wearing a ring as a symbol for something so sacred and lying about it is very hard. The plan from here on out is to become friends with the young men that work at my clinic, and to make them understand that it is their duty to keep me safe and that I am to be respected. It makes me so much more appreciative of all the liberties we take for granted every day in the
Random thoughts:
I now eat many things I wouldn’t otherwise. This includes onions. Now someone please call my grandmother and make sure she’s ok, as this information is likely to cause heart palpitations, or shortness of breath from laughing and screaming I told you so at the top of what is left of her lung power. There are only so many things that I can avoid, and onions have proven to not be on that list. Right now cabbage and beetroot rank higher.
Also in the land of surprisingly bland food, where you’d think I would be in heaven, my taste buds have revolted. I overheard someone saying that your taste buds change every 7 years, so mine must be in the midst of a serious overhaul. I now crave and often eat Mexican chile flavored potato chips. Apparently the introduction of all of the MSG laden options that come with dinner every night has caused new cravings in my world. Strange to say the least.
I wouldn’t count on these changes sticking, but I’ve learned to be surprised by nothing in this country.
Books: Yes please. I, as is my habit, will read anything put in front of me. Jack may be taking advantage of this by sending me a bible. Lucky me. Otherwise I have recently read (and generally enjoyed) the following titles, and am completely willing to read anything else sent to me.
Memory Keeper’s Daughter- brilliant, haunting.
The Notebook- Why I put myself through this I will never know, but I read it in the span of a trip back from Gumare, I read it from cover to cover as did the girl next to me. E- you were right to recommend this one back in college.
Me Talk Pretty One Day- David Sedairis is HILARIOUS. Nothing better than the second half of this wonder to keep me inspired to continue language class every bloody day
Into the Wild was perfect for my trip to Seronga, as completely appropriate to keep perspective as a lizard falls out of my stove and scurries into my fridge, witnessed by the light of my headlamp, and to lull me back to sleep every time I woke up certain there were scorpions, snakes and lizards in bed with me that night.
Soon to be followed by Under the Banner of Heaven by the same author. A girl in my group has it, and I’m next on the list.
Freakonomics I’ve started it, and like it very much.
Also on the docket, the
These are quite rightly interspersed with any gossip magazine I can get my grubby hands on- a luxury soon to be eclipsed by the fact that I will be hours away from all of my buddies.
So if you’ve recently read and loved a book, pop it in the mail to me. What the hell else are you going to do with it?
Jennifer Katchmark
Peace Corps Volunteer
Seronga Clinic
Seronga: Reality
It seems my fears were warranted about some things, and uncharacteristically overwrought on others. Right.
The Journey:
Seronga is a beautiful place. It’s rustic. It takes a shitlong time to get there from Gabs (anywhere in the neighborhood of two days, depending on the driver and how many friends and acquaintances he wants to “check” on the way, and how many cows, donkeys and other animals you must slow down to avoid hitting along the highway with your car.). After the 13 hour drive from Gabs on Tuesday, which by the end of we thought we were seeing unicorns and kangaroos in the dark- that much time in a car will make you positively loopy- we spent the night at my friend Katie’s (potential) NGO in Gumare- it seems they are having a tough time with the housing. So we slept in her temporary housing which was her office with a bed thrown in, and people listening to some sort of gospel DVD over the wall. All night. Again I am thankful for earplugs. The next morning I got my first hot shower in a month and a half in a shower filled with spiders, bugs, lizards and a door that doesn’t quite close. All the better to escape from should I find any bigger creature in there. Nonetheless it was a hot shower and I was happy. It’s amazing how your standards change.
I was picked up by someone else’s counterpart at half 7, so promptly I was shocked, and taken to the RAC, where I was able to upload last weeks blogs and return some emails. I was now on my own, and I was introduced (read: handed off) to several people as this will be my district office, and then met the driver and man who would tell me (6 hours later) that he was my counterpart. All the other PCV’s had spent Monday in a training with their counterpart, but as I am so very far up the delta, my counterpart did not come. It was very much the experience of being the dork at the dance without a date (incidentally- not familiar to me). All my arrangements were made by someone else’s counterpart, who couldn’t answer a ton of questions. So by Wednesday, after being passed around and uncertain of who was “in charge” of me, if anyone, for three days I was rabid to meet my counterpart. Sidenote: A counterpart is a Motswana person who is kind of responsible for you, helps you integrate into the community, learn the ropes, and whom you work in tandem with on projects, so that the work you do in your community can continue after you leave. Sort of like a supervisor, the counterpart is very important person and has been known to make or break a peacecorps experience. Pulane was initially introduced as my counterpart, but then quickly denied this fact. I spent the rest of the day asking about my counterpart, only to find, upon arrival at the clinic and brief interrogation of its entire staff 6 hours later that Pulane was indeed my counterpart. Through a combination of communication/translation problems and a sheepish “April Fools?” when further pressed, I realized that this would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
I will of course have to disregard the fact that over the course of an approximately 6 hour drive that should have taken 3, Pulane and I were pressed together into the front passenger seat of a truck cab, during which I proclaimed my engagement (surprise! Jack) as a result of Pulane asking if I had a boyfriend, and giving me his cell number, and otherwise asking many personal questions that the Batswana do not consider intrusive, and that I was hesitant not to answer as I had no idea who this guy was, but I was pretty sure that either way, I didn’t want to offend him. I also didn’t want him to think we were dating, or better yet, going to get married. This should not be a problem.
So the drive continued from Gumare to Seronga, all the way up to Shakawe, and to the edge of the delta to the ferry that took us over to “that side”. Apparently the translation to English to Setswana doesn’t include “here”, or “there,” but more so “this side” and “that side.” The definitions of which are always changing, leading me to constantly ask “WHERE??” Lots of pointing and gesturing ensues, as it can mean the other side of the delta, or the other side of the room. I love it.
Somewhere on “this side” of the delta, on the 150 kilometers of white, bumpy dirt roads, I was inexplicably filled with excitement and anticipation to see my village, and a sense that this was where I am supposed to be. These instances are few in the sea of doubts I harbor about this whole experience, and I’m sure to take note and bask in them when they grace me with their presence. As is common, this glory did not last, but to have had it was enough for this trip… I hope.
The house: I will be spending the next two years in a cement roundeval (bathroom attached) It’s similar to a studio apartment that is round, which presents interesting problems for square things fitting against the walls.(which is, I guess why the round papasuan chair along the wall – there is no corner- makes so much sense.) There is a solar panel on the roof, which provides electricity for one florescent overhead light, and is connected to what looks like a car battery, which has a converter attached into which I can plug my cell phone, and hopefully my laptop, or in addition to the sketchy internet possibilities in the village, will prevent much blogging. The bathroom needs some cleaning and attention and has a tub that can be filled with (cold) water for bathing. Water for this task can also be heated on the gas stove. 2 years of bucket bathing- game on. There is a cute patio out front with chairs straight out of the 70’s. It has a traditional reed fence enclosure with netting above for shade. As it has been empty for a few weeks a few critters have moved in, including a lizard that was not lucky enough to make it through the septic tank and is now being progressively flushed through my toilet. If you think this is disgusting to read, imagine flushing the toilet (in the dark- the bathroom has no light) and seeing something filling the bowl along with the water, and upon closer inspection realizing it is the bones and partial corpse of yet another creepy crawly “friend” the first being the lizard that fell out of my stove and crawled into the non-working fridge. Upon my expressing my dismay to my coworkers about the wildlife in the place, they didn’t understand why I was upset about a lizard as they are “friendly” and eat the bugs and spiders. “Friendly” although they may be, I’m not looking forward to my new roommates. Hopefully a good cleaning when I get back will discourage them from staying.
The village:
People are very nice. I feel pretty safe, and feel that my clinic will take good care of me. I’m excited about the prospects of living and working in this village, although I am still nervous about the distance from other PCV’s.
The Baby:
I mentioned wanting to see some babies be born, and was blessed with this opportunity on my second day at the clinic. I was present (and nearly passed out during) the birth of a brand new HIV neg baby. She was born at 2:05 (by MY watch, which was the official time) on Thursday. I’ve seen a birth before, but man, I was CLOSE, and a combination of hormones and heat nearly had me passed out on the floor! The nurse midwife said the same thing happened to her during the first delivery she observed, and she felt it was quite common, apparently when a woman watched another women giving birth she wants to push as well, which in my case entails holding my breath. It was amazing. I've got a lot to do!!!Jenny in the mine, with diamonds
Or maybe not so much. I didn’t see a one!
A few weeks back was a Peace Corps field trip to Jwaneng mine, the richest diamond mine in the world by value.
Three years ago, when I had a heavily vested interest in and was intensely researching diamonds, I read a book called something like “Diamond: the Anatomy of an Obsession”, which was a really interesting read and one I will be perusing again just as soon as I can get my hands on it. Back then, in a different life, this would have been the trip of a lifetime for me, to see the place and be near so many of my favorite sparklers. I was surprised by my actual reaction.
The day began altogether too early at 7 am, as we waited out by the road in front of our language teacher’s house. Half an hour later than we were supposed to, we were picked up (again a half an hour to wait is exceptionally little in
So we get on and off the bus a few more times (I should add that these are not American buses, they are African buses, and like the people in on this continent, they are much smaller than you’d anticipate. We brush up against every person we pass, every time we walk through the aisle. This makes for not only increased static cling, but irritation in the heat as well!) and finally enter the mine. Jwaneng is an “open pit” mine, which means that layers and layers of Earth are blasted away and removed with the valuable Kimberlite material trucked to a “crusher” which separates the diamonds from the “waste.” An overwhelming majority of this material is “waste rock”, even though there may be copper and other valuable minerals within the refuse, it is still discarded. As the tour guide pointed out, “they are mining diamonds”.
Notwithstanding the large amount of dust in the air, I was struck by the beauty of the different layers and colors of Earth contrasted against the sky. I was visually reminded of the coffee plants growing throughout the valleys and mountains in
Despite this, the mine was visually stunning in its own ways, as was the technology quietly humming around us. The tour guide said that as they get deeper into the Earth, they need bigger equipment to get the diamonds out. Huge trucks, with tires taller than me lumber around, the only elephants I’ve seen thus far are slowly violating the Earth. The company has of course GPSed the entire outfit, timing how long every action should take in this mine. Seismographs and explosives are carefully placed, and satellites monitor this carefully and systematic constant evacuation of rock.
We rode the bus further in, disembarking again to take pictures and not much else (no sudden movements). We get back on the bus and go through the tedious process of leaving the mines, everyone going through a door one at a time (I was not one of the lucky ones who got to go through the “frisking” security).
I had mixed feelings about visiting the mines, and diamonds in general. This resource discovery put
At the same time, the diamonds are a finite resource. Contrary to DeBeers marketing slogan, the diamonds won’t last forever, yet the gaping holes left in the ground of Jwaneng will. The dangers of underground mining are glossed over in the official presentation, but will be real for the 94% Batswana work force who will be risking their lives to recover these gems when the mines go underground for recovery within the next 20 years. When the four pipes of kimberlite in Jwaneng are exhausted, what then?
I can’t help but see the experience as yet another example of how the time I spend in
No wonder Cinderella stuck with glass.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The one in which the universe puts our heroine where it wants her, in Seronga
We entered the putridly lilac painted room and sat in the horseshoe shaped arrangement of chairs (“blue chairs for trainees, white chairs for everyone else,” the main man intoned repeatedly, as if we couldn’t hear him from out the door and down the hallway.) In the front of the room was lined with a small map, a long table, and a easel covered with a sheet, the likes of which we have grown to know and fear throughout training (It seems everything in Botswana must, absolutely must, be done on flip chart paper. They hand it out daily to facilitate the creation of endless numbers of unintelligible and illegible artistic group project renditions of whatever point the trainers are trying to encourage us to illustrate. We collectively hate the large white paper.)
We herded into the room, with a group of this size, everything you do has the effect of both herding and group mentality. We settled in and waited together anxiously, all 56 of us, and when I say anxiously, I mean you could feel the electricity in the room. We could have lit up some big ass building in NYC with our nervous energy. The powers that be began their speeches, all cultural formalities with the exception of prayer observed, and none of which I was paying attention to, choosing instead to sink into the numbness and mind wandering that I often retreat into while they talk at us in training. In my pocket today was a piece of smooth blue sea glass, collected in the early morning on Pismo beach on my last trip to Cali, with my dear friend E. I sometimes carry it with me here, to bring me comfort, as a small thing to rub as a worry stone when I'm anxious. When I don't have that I often take a small piece of pewter in the shape of a shell with a copy of the labrynth that was a souviner from the cathedral in san Fran, a shell being the sign of pilgrims and wanderers, reminding me that it is solved by traveling.
Suddenly, there was movement in the front of the room as they pulled back the sheet which had been covering not a flip chart, but a map filled with little tiny variously colored numbers. They informed us, as though we were the studio audience of some cheesy game show, us that we had numbers tucked into the bottoms of our chairs. I reached under my chair and I pulled my out my orange card. Number 16. Ok. The girl two seats away from me had the deadly number 56 (the last one).
The process began and I dutifully wrote down everyone’s name and location. My number was called and I went up to the table and searched for my name. I found it packed with a ginger cookie. I thought my name would also have my village name on it, so I immediately thought, foul! My number now became five. I looked at the map, searching through the areas I was expecting, the ones in the south, in the east, the ones surrounded by other people. The space grew. “It’s up and to the left” someone helpfully called. There was number 5. Seronga. All by itself. In the delta. Near the water. The only water. In the country. The place I specifically didn’t want to be, after reflecting on my lack of appreciation for wildlife and disinterest in the wilderness and camping. The place many others wanted to be. I flashed “the crowd” a look of shock and found my way back to my chair, that of the number 16 card. The rest of the announcements went by in a blur. I was able to note when some of my friends got the places they had wanted, the places they had lobbied for, and others walked away from that map with the same look on their face that I did.
It seems that the big water is calling her wayward daughter home. The girl from the land of 10,000 lakes returns to the water, in the country I least expected it. I can only take this as a sign of good things to come, despite my initial hestitancy. Where there is water there is always life, and for me there has always been inspiration. I will be getting my wish to live a life of simplicity, and solitude, and get to know where my edges and center are. There will be big bugs, snakes and the like but I will survive. I can't help but see the irony in be placed in the main place in the country with water and lots of wildlife, some things I have never fully appreciated in the life I left in Minnesota that were also available a plenty. I guess the time to reconcile it all has come.
So know that although I won't have internet as often, I will do my best to keep in touch. I have a post office in Seronga, (I will get the new address up next week, until then hold off on sending things, the peace corps will hold them for me, but I will be two days out of the office in Gaborone). so I will love to receive letters, and hope to have many pen pals. I've been told I won't have electricity (I'm so looking into solar power!!!!) but there is a generator at the clinic where I work, so perhaps I can write at night and recharge in the day? I've found that writing has become a major stress reliever for me, and am finding this may be increasingly a larger portion of my calling.
I'm scared of and nervous about this new reality, but after much thought, I realized that if fear is all I'm up against, than I have no options but to go forward, as I've done things I've feared before, and come out the other side. It is with this attitude that I continue on my two day journey to Seronga. I have met many people at my stop in Gumare, and they all seem kind (and speak English!!!!). The delta is supposed to be beautiful, and a coveted area for eco-tourism and wildlife excursions (if this encourages anyone to come visit, you are, of course all welcome, my traditional roundaval is your roundaval.) I will report back once I get there. I love you all, and despite the new additional distance, I feel you with me as I go.
We herded into the room, with a group of this size, everything you do has the effect of both herding and group mentality. We settled in and waited together anxiously, all 56 of us, and when I say anxiously, I mean you could feel the electricity in the room. We could have lit up some big ass building in NYC with our nervous energy. The powers that be began their speeches, all cultural formalities with the exception of prayer observed, and none of which I was paying attention to, choosing instead to sink into the numbness and mind wandering that I often retreat into while they talk at us in training. In my pocket today was a piece of smooth blue sea glass, collected in the early morning on Pismo beach on my last trip to Cali, with my dear friend E. I sometimes carry it with me here, to bring me comfort, as a small thing to rub as a worry stone when I'm anxious. When I don't have that I often take a small piece of pewter in the shape of a shell with a copy of the labrynth that was a souviner from the cathedral in san Fran, a shell being the sign of pilgrims and wanderers, reminding me that it is solved by traveling.
Suddenly, there was movement in the front of the room as they pulled back the sheet which had been covering not a flip chart, but a map filled with little tiny variously colored numbers. They informed us, as though we were the studio audience of some cheesy game show, us that we had numbers tucked into the bottoms of our chairs. I reached under my chair and I pulled my out my orange card. Number 16. Ok. The girl two seats away from me had the deadly number 56 (the last one).
The process began and I dutifully wrote down everyone’s name and location. My number was called and I went up to the table and searched for my name. I found it packed with a ginger cookie. I thought my name would also have my village name on it, so I immediately thought, foul! My number now became five. I looked at the map, searching through the areas I was expecting, the ones in the south, in the east, the ones surrounded by other people. The space grew. “It’s up and to the left” someone helpfully called. There was number 5. Seronga. All by itself. In the delta. Near the water. The only water. In the country. The place I specifically didn’t want to be, after reflecting on my lack of appreciation for wildlife and disinterest in the wilderness and camping. The place many others wanted to be. I flashed “the crowd” a look of shock and found my way back to my chair, that of the number 16 card. The rest of the announcements went by in a blur. I was able to note when some of my friends got the places they had wanted, the places they had lobbied for, and others walked away from that map with the same look on their face that I did.
It seems that the big water is calling her wayward daughter home. The girl from the land of 10,000 lakes returns to the water, in the country I least expected it. I can only take this as a sign of good things to come, despite my initial hestitancy. Where there is water there is always life, and for me there has always been inspiration. I will be getting my wish to live a life of simplicity, and solitude, and get to know where my edges and center are. There will be big bugs, snakes and the like but I will survive. I can't help but see the irony in be placed in the main place in the country with water and lots of wildlife, some things I have never fully appreciated in the life I left in Minnesota that were also available a plenty. I guess the time to reconcile it all has come.
So know that although I won't have internet as often, I will do my best to keep in touch. I have a post office in Seronga, (I will get the new address up next week, until then hold off on sending things, the peace corps will hold them for me, but I will be two days out of the office in Gaborone). so I will love to receive letters, and hope to have many pen pals. I've been told I won't have electricity (I'm so looking into solar power!!!!) but there is a generator at the clinic where I work, so perhaps I can write at night and recharge in the day? I've found that writing has become a major stress reliever for me, and am finding this may be increasingly a larger portion of my calling.
I'm scared of and nervous about this new reality, but after much thought, I realized that if fear is all I'm up against, than I have no options but to go forward, as I've done things I've feared before, and come out the other side. It is with this attitude that I continue on my two day journey to Seronga. I have met many people at my stop in Gumare, and they all seem kind (and speak English!!!!). The delta is supposed to be beautiful, and a coveted area for eco-tourism and wildlife excursions (if this encourages anyone to come visit, you are, of course all welcome, my traditional roundaval is your roundaval.) I will report back once I get there. I love you all, and despite the new additional distance, I feel you with me as I go.
I've often depended on the kindness of strangers...
Like blanche dubois in "a streetcar named desire," there have often been times in my life that just when I think things are going to take a turn for the worse, the kindess of a stranger steps in and helps in some way. When I undertook this Peace Corps journey, I had many fears and hesitancies, but decided to go through with it, knowing that if I followed my calling, good things would happen. Saturday was site placement (see next blog) and I am way up there, no electricity, internet, volunteers around me. This was a bit of a surprise, and quite honestly, I'm nervous.
After announcements were completed, they handed out our mail, and my m-bag arrived with all the books I had sent myself (mostly self help, I guess I'm going to get really enlightened while I'm here, a little part of the plan I had in mind when I singed up for this, that I had forgotten about during the luxuries of electricity, internet and grocery stores in Molepolole.) and another package, from Washington, DC. It said training materials, had the return address of someone I don't know, and I was confused. I opened it to find a care package with music, candy, lotions, bug stuff and things I had mentioned on my blog. A perfect stranger had read my blog and supports what I'm doing and wanted to send me some cheer. The letter indicated that Rick is a friend of Brent's who has been very generous to both brent and now me.
So I, being who I am, immedaitely burst into tears and walked laughing and crying (which really, equals sobbing) over to brent, who didn't know whether to slap me or hug me. I was overwhelmed with the emotion and gratitude of the day.
Before I left, Lightning, Lenox and I had a little ceremony to commemorate our upcoming and continuing journey's in life, and we meditated and wrote down our hope for ourselves and our fears. We burned the fears in a fire, and carried the hopes with us wrapped with a stone from Lake Superior, where it sort of all began. I brought the rock and note with me, and I found it the other day when I was going through my happy bag of things that make me smile, and it is as follows.
"The Universe is with you, sending you good things, spirits and people to help you because you choose to follow your journey. Receive them with grace."
Thank you, Rick, a perfect stranger, for your kindness in sending me a package, and your support of my journey. I will pay if forward, I promise you.
After announcements were completed, they handed out our mail, and my m-bag arrived with all the books I had sent myself (mostly self help, I guess I'm going to get really enlightened while I'm here, a little part of the plan I had in mind when I singed up for this, that I had forgotten about during the luxuries of electricity, internet and grocery stores in Molepolole.) and another package, from Washington, DC. It said training materials, had the return address of someone I don't know, and I was confused. I opened it to find a care package with music, candy, lotions, bug stuff and things I had mentioned on my blog. A perfect stranger had read my blog and supports what I'm doing and wanted to send me some cheer. The letter indicated that Rick is a friend of Brent's who has been very generous to both brent and now me.
So I, being who I am, immedaitely burst into tears and walked laughing and crying (which really, equals sobbing) over to brent, who didn't know whether to slap me or hug me. I was overwhelmed with the emotion and gratitude of the day.
Before I left, Lightning, Lenox and I had a little ceremony to commemorate our upcoming and continuing journey's in life, and we meditated and wrote down our hope for ourselves and our fears. We burned the fears in a fire, and carried the hopes with us wrapped with a stone from Lake Superior, where it sort of all began. I brought the rock and note with me, and I found it the other day when I was going through my happy bag of things that make me smile, and it is as follows.
"The Universe is with you, sending you good things, spirits and people to help you because you choose to follow your journey. Receive them with grace."
Thank you, Rick, a perfect stranger, for your kindness in sending me a package, and your support of my journey. I will pay if forward, I promise you.
When people type good things about you, you should post them on your blog!!!!
To remember that things are good, even when they're not!!! I was working on my site blog the other day and my friend Adryan took the computer and wanted to "write on my blog". she said hella nice things, so I'm posting it! A-I'll miss you in the delta, buddy, but you're welcome any time!!!!
**There is something you should know about “Jenny in Botswana.” So far, the only accounts of life in Botswana and the Peace Corps experience has been dictated and determined by Jenny herself. But there is a totally unique perspective held by her volunteer counterparts. Our friend Jen has thus far been an exceptional trainee, both for her dedication during typical PC bullshit as well as her unrelenting optimism as those of us struggle along the way. Jen is one of my best friends, after only a month and a half, and already she has exposed her true self for the benefit of others, letting brutal honesty replace required politeness, allowing herself her flounder when we are expected to flourish, and paving the way for effective volunteerism. To hear about her lover (Jack) and her life (MN) fills the pages of my own yet blank life, and as I write this I nearly tear thinking that a woman who I was so instantly attached to will so suddenly be ripped from my convenience. Some of you have been close to Jen for years, and that I envy. But you should know that your girl has taken the responsibility to protect and represent us all, and just before we are spread thinly throughout the country, we will be saying our prayers to her as she prays for herself., She is brave, candid, and above all the essence of unconditional love that makes all volunteers keep on working despite intangible results. Thank you Jen, for already being a lifelong friend.
Adryan Caron
PS Dear Jack-You and I will meet soon enough. I am originally from the Bay and am dying to meet you. Jen says the best shit about you-you are a lucky man, almost as much as she is a lucky woman. See you soon!
**There is something you should know about “Jenny in Botswana.” So far, the only accounts of life in Botswana and the Peace Corps experience has been dictated and determined by Jenny herself. But there is a totally unique perspective held by her volunteer counterparts. Our friend Jen has thus far been an exceptional trainee, both for her dedication during typical PC bullshit as well as her unrelenting optimism as those of us struggle along the way. Jen is one of my best friends, after only a month and a half, and already she has exposed her true self for the benefit of others, letting brutal honesty replace required politeness, allowing herself her flounder when we are expected to flourish, and paving the way for effective volunteerism. To hear about her lover (Jack) and her life (MN) fills the pages of my own yet blank life, and as I write this I nearly tear thinking that a woman who I was so instantly attached to will so suddenly be ripped from my convenience. Some of you have been close to Jen for years, and that I envy. But you should know that your girl has taken the responsibility to protect and represent us all, and just before we are spread thinly throughout the country, we will be saying our prayers to her as she prays for herself., She is brave, candid, and above all the essence of unconditional love that makes all volunteers keep on working despite intangible results. Thank you Jen, for already being a lifelong friend.
Adryan Caron
PS Dear Jack-You and I will meet soon enough. I am originally from the Bay and am dying to meet you. Jen says the best shit about you-you are a lucky man, almost as much as she is a lucky woman. See you soon!
Paul T Holmgren is my hero!!!!
And not just for loving my mom. He is a tech wizard! The man gives tech support across the planet! My hero! He and whomever came up with the concept of system restore. The computadora is back on track, music is still MIA save for my new tunes from friends near and far (keep it coming peeps!). However I can type on it, and then transfer blogs, pictures and video and such to a memory stick, and then to the WWW. My new village doesn’t have electricity and thus no internet (sad face) so this blog won’t be updated as much as I’d like, but I will be able to hopefully upload lots of blogs, pics ect. on occasions that I do get near a wire. Life is good people!
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