For a long time I’ve been able to exist in the dream of a princess from a fairy tale, living the life I want to live and having the love I want as well. I’ve been a very lucky woman, and I'm grateful for the experience. Time and space have taken their toll, and the change that is an inevitable part of life has occurred. As with everything here, it turns out I have to let him go. A man of God is still first and foremost a man, and so I continue forward on my chosen path, alone. In some ways he was never mine, but a borrowed soul. This was a risk I took when I came here, and it seems the time has come to cash in my chips. I regret nothing.
We had a good run.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Home is where the heart is????
Home is where the heart is???…
The concept of home is something I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate and reconsider since I’ve arrived in Africa. The house I grew up in has been in the custody of others for a few years, and they have changed it so as to be almost unrecognizable as the place I was formed, so that place has lived on in my memory rather than my heart. The places I’ve stayed since college have had very goldilocks qualities overall, and haven’t been much more than temporary stops on the search for the feeling of home.
I’ve left the apartment in Minneapolis that had me feeling kept, and where I could have been happy, or perhaps content, I suppose, were I ever able to ignore the fact that it had become too tiny and tight on my skin, and came to Africa. I’ve moved from Molopolole, living with a family, a home in the most traditional of senses, but which always felt more like a place I happened to be staying. I’ve arrived in Seronga, which I have struggled with and fought for and against. I had at one point begun to think that maybe home was a feeling you had with a person, but this theory has failed its test as well.
When home is best defined, the descriptives that resonate with me are of a safe and warm place you can always go back to, that understands you, and represents something to you in terms of physical space. A place that may have not always been roses and sunshine, but has taught and shaped you through trials and time, through joys and heartbreak. The formative moments of a life happen here, you are both cradled and thrown to the waves, and the weather, but it is also a safe haven from the storm that is living.
The one place I consistently think of as home would be my grandparent’s lake place. They purchased it when I was in at the end of my childhood, moving rapidly towards the tumultousness of adolescence and an angst that I’ve never completely grown out of. I witnessed it transform from an overgrown plot to a home, with beautifully manicured gardens and the kind of porch you envision coming back to again and again to watch the sunset. I’ve watched bonfires and dog performances, seen cousins wobble along with their first steps and later learn to drive the golf cart through the yard. There were always boat rides and summer nights spent catching fireflies, and snowy winters watching the icicles form and the lake freeze over while feeling warm and cozy over a cup of hot chocolate with the ever present marshmallows and extra buttery popcorn. Lake Pokegema had all the best and worst qualities of a small town, so while the Dairy Queen and Wal-mart “in town” were the main attractions, the dentist there was able to fill my wisdom teeth dry sockets on a random walk in appointment. I was there for my birthday/Labor day weekend celebration when I learned of Princess Diana’s death, an event that for me became the “where were you when you found Kennedy had been assassinated” situation of my generation.
Pine City was the halfway point between my college and my hometown, and was the place I could always find a way to afford to drive to or hitch a ride to during those years and ever after. It was actually the first place I learned to officially drive a car (and use cruise control, and hit a bird) with my learner’s permit over the heavily trafficked 4th of July weekend. I had a key, and could always get in, even if my grandparents weren’t there, and the light was left on for me no matter what insane hour of the night I arrived. It was the place I escaped to to study for finals and write papers, to decompress, to relax or to just get away from it all. I’ve brought every guy I’ve ever been very serious about there, and carefully gauged his reaction to what I considered my own personal Eden. I often went there on Christmas Eve, and most holidays, random summer weekends, and have been known to drop everything and drive there at the first sign of chaos in my life. I have gone there repeatedly to pick up the broken pieces of myself in an attempt to put humpty dumpty back together again after all of life’s big falls (and break-ups, career direction changes, big decisions, and life reroutings). It was the one place I never felt I had to escape from in order to find myself and be at peace.
Due to sad and unfortunate circumstances outside anyone’s control, the home in Pine City was sold this week. I will miss it, and had never imagined that when I left it for my last visit in March that it would be our final goodbye. For me it is another exercise in letting go, and the impermanence and uncertainty of life and spaces and circumstance. The loss of this physical place in my life and has taught me one last beautiful lesson about what lives on in the heart. To Pine City and Lake Pokegema, and the house at 13924, thank you for everything, life and home will never be the same.
The concept of home is something I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate and reconsider since I’ve arrived in Africa. The house I grew up in has been in the custody of others for a few years, and they have changed it so as to be almost unrecognizable as the place I was formed, so that place has lived on in my memory rather than my heart. The places I’ve stayed since college have had very goldilocks qualities overall, and haven’t been much more than temporary stops on the search for the feeling of home.
I’ve left the apartment in Minneapolis that had me feeling kept, and where I could have been happy, or perhaps content, I suppose, were I ever able to ignore the fact that it had become too tiny and tight on my skin, and came to Africa. I’ve moved from Molopolole, living with a family, a home in the most traditional of senses, but which always felt more like a place I happened to be staying. I’ve arrived in Seronga, which I have struggled with and fought for and against. I had at one point begun to think that maybe home was a feeling you had with a person, but this theory has failed its test as well.
When home is best defined, the descriptives that resonate with me are of a safe and warm place you can always go back to, that understands you, and represents something to you in terms of physical space. A place that may have not always been roses and sunshine, but has taught and shaped you through trials and time, through joys and heartbreak. The formative moments of a life happen here, you are both cradled and thrown to the waves, and the weather, but it is also a safe haven from the storm that is living.
The one place I consistently think of as home would be my grandparent’s lake place. They purchased it when I was in at the end of my childhood, moving rapidly towards the tumultousness of adolescence and an angst that I’ve never completely grown out of. I witnessed it transform from an overgrown plot to a home, with beautifully manicured gardens and the kind of porch you envision coming back to again and again to watch the sunset. I’ve watched bonfires and dog performances, seen cousins wobble along with their first steps and later learn to drive the golf cart through the yard. There were always boat rides and summer nights spent catching fireflies, and snowy winters watching the icicles form and the lake freeze over while feeling warm and cozy over a cup of hot chocolate with the ever present marshmallows and extra buttery popcorn. Lake Pokegema had all the best and worst qualities of a small town, so while the Dairy Queen and Wal-mart “in town” were the main attractions, the dentist there was able to fill my wisdom teeth dry sockets on a random walk in appointment. I was there for my birthday/Labor day weekend celebration when I learned of Princess Diana’s death, an event that for me became the “where were you when you found Kennedy had been assassinated” situation of my generation.
Pine City was the halfway point between my college and my hometown, and was the place I could always find a way to afford to drive to or hitch a ride to during those years and ever after. It was actually the first place I learned to officially drive a car (and use cruise control, and hit a bird) with my learner’s permit over the heavily trafficked 4th of July weekend. I had a key, and could always get in, even if my grandparents weren’t there, and the light was left on for me no matter what insane hour of the night I arrived. It was the place I escaped to to study for finals and write papers, to decompress, to relax or to just get away from it all. I’ve brought every guy I’ve ever been very serious about there, and carefully gauged his reaction to what I considered my own personal Eden. I often went there on Christmas Eve, and most holidays, random summer weekends, and have been known to drop everything and drive there at the first sign of chaos in my life. I have gone there repeatedly to pick up the broken pieces of myself in an attempt to put humpty dumpty back together again after all of life’s big falls (and break-ups, career direction changes, big decisions, and life reroutings). It was the one place I never felt I had to escape from in order to find myself and be at peace.
Due to sad and unfortunate circumstances outside anyone’s control, the home in Pine City was sold this week. I will miss it, and had never imagined that when I left it for my last visit in March that it would be our final goodbye. For me it is another exercise in letting go, and the impermanence and uncertainty of life and spaces and circumstance. The loss of this physical place in my life and has taught me one last beautiful lesson about what lives on in the heart. To Pine City and Lake Pokegema, and the house at 13924, thank you for everything, life and home will never be the same.
Baking in Botswana (!!???) in which I attempt the impossible without a safety net... or measuring cups...
The title of this blog seems a bit ridiculous as most people could probably bake anywhere, anytime or anything. Not me. I have no interest in cooking. The timing overwhelms me, the ingredients are non-negotiable, and take away is always just down the street. It should tell you something that I put cooking and baking right there in the same category.
I am anything but a domestic goddess, and prior to leaving the states Jack and I had down to a science what I have tried to explain to folks here is a completely lovely method of feeding ourselves and entertaining for others. Basically we go to the grocery store, he decides what he feels like cooking, I agree to it, we choose a bottle of wine, and a few hours later we’re eating. I clean up afterwards and provide the sparkling conversation, and maybe cut up some fruit.
Under the impending pressure of the many houseguests I was about to have, and knowing the limited food supply in Seronga, I had a touch of impending panic to get creative in attempting to feed these people. Which lead me to scour the piles of papers and random objects that have come to fill my house (it seems some things never change) for the Peace Corps issued cookbook, of which I somehow managed to acquire two, on the off chance by having more than one I would learn something perhaps?
I looked at the meager beginnings I had in my “kitchen” (to a cook or baker it would have occurred to stock up on these basic items, spices, staples in a town that actually has access to some forms of western food, but not me!!) and decided to attempt a coffee cake, mostly because I knew what it was supposed to taste like, and happened to have cinnamon. Growing up I was often entrusted with the task of adding the three ingredients that weren’t included in the box mix to make the Sunday morning coffee cake and felt this couldn’t be too hard. Although this was going after the gold without a box mix to fall back on. This was the real deal, baking for guests, why I don’t think or get inspired to do trial runs of this type of thing I’ll never know. Perhaps I like to live on the edge. More likely I’m lazy. I calmed myself with the thought that I could just throw it away and no one would know any better if the whole thing fell apart.
Using the empty plastic pineapple containers from the fruit my mom had sent me (three points for improvisation!) I eyeballed out the ingredients, nearly forgetting to add the water (I know, it all seems SO obvious). I sent up a little prayer that brown granulated sugar was close enough to the hard brick moist shit I’m certain this recipe was calling for. I found a round pot which I decided would be acceptable for the round baking pan the recipe called for (who WROTE this thing!!??? Clearly not someone stationed in Seronga! four points for creativity). I lit the oven (no standard 350 degrees here. I’m sure they don’t even operate in degrees Fahrenheit or whatever we use on ovens in the states-have I mentioned that math is not my strong point?) I light the pilot by sticking a match over a little hole in the front and eventually a fire appears in the back. The settings on the knob are numbers 1-9 and a little part with a picture of some flames. I stick it in the middle and hope for the best (sticking the landing- two points). I also have a little problem with timing, and the fact that there’s no microwave timer (much less a microwave, or really electricity, oh really this could go on for hours, or at least pages….) here isn’t a help.
I take it out of the oven when the match stick (now why would someone have a toothpick here!!? that would be too easy! I guess they’re both wood at the end of the day..) is clean. I fed the concoction to my guests, and to my knowledge no one has yet died (and neither have I, despite licking the batter bowl and spoon- yet another bonus to living alone!!! With no fear of the raw eggs inside) . It was actually halfway decent. I’m impressed. I give myself the gold, nevermind that there was no competition!
I am anything but a domestic goddess, and prior to leaving the states Jack and I had down to a science what I have tried to explain to folks here is a completely lovely method of feeding ourselves and entertaining for others. Basically we go to the grocery store, he decides what he feels like cooking, I agree to it, we choose a bottle of wine, and a few hours later we’re eating. I clean up afterwards and provide the sparkling conversation, and maybe cut up some fruit.
Under the impending pressure of the many houseguests I was about to have, and knowing the limited food supply in Seronga, I had a touch of impending panic to get creative in attempting to feed these people. Which lead me to scour the piles of papers and random objects that have come to fill my house (it seems some things never change) for the Peace Corps issued cookbook, of which I somehow managed to acquire two, on the off chance by having more than one I would learn something perhaps?
I looked at the meager beginnings I had in my “kitchen” (to a cook or baker it would have occurred to stock up on these basic items, spices, staples in a town that actually has access to some forms of western food, but not me!!) and decided to attempt a coffee cake, mostly because I knew what it was supposed to taste like, and happened to have cinnamon. Growing up I was often entrusted with the task of adding the three ingredients that weren’t included in the box mix to make the Sunday morning coffee cake and felt this couldn’t be too hard. Although this was going after the gold without a box mix to fall back on. This was the real deal, baking for guests, why I don’t think or get inspired to do trial runs of this type of thing I’ll never know. Perhaps I like to live on the edge. More likely I’m lazy. I calmed myself with the thought that I could just throw it away and no one would know any better if the whole thing fell apart.
Using the empty plastic pineapple containers from the fruit my mom had sent me (three points for improvisation!) I eyeballed out the ingredients, nearly forgetting to add the water (I know, it all seems SO obvious). I sent up a little prayer that brown granulated sugar was close enough to the hard brick moist shit I’m certain this recipe was calling for. I found a round pot which I decided would be acceptable for the round baking pan the recipe called for (who WROTE this thing!!??? Clearly not someone stationed in Seronga! four points for creativity). I lit the oven (no standard 350 degrees here. I’m sure they don’t even operate in degrees Fahrenheit or whatever we use on ovens in the states-have I mentioned that math is not my strong point?) I light the pilot by sticking a match over a little hole in the front and eventually a fire appears in the back. The settings on the knob are numbers 1-9 and a little part with a picture of some flames. I stick it in the middle and hope for the best (sticking the landing- two points). I also have a little problem with timing, and the fact that there’s no microwave timer (much less a microwave, or really electricity, oh really this could go on for hours, or at least pages….) here isn’t a help.
I take it out of the oven when the match stick (now why would someone have a toothpick here!!? that would be too easy! I guess they’re both wood at the end of the day..) is clean. I fed the concoction to my guests, and to my knowledge no one has yet died (and neither have I, despite licking the batter bowl and spoon- yet another bonus to living alone!!! With no fear of the raw eggs inside) . It was actually halfway decent. I’m impressed. I give myself the gold, nevermind that there was no competition!
Monday, August 11, 2008
In which she comes to an understanding with herself…
In which she comes to an understanding with herself…
The other night I sat on my clean sheets, a feat which in itself took an entire morning worth of effort after I realized that the line in my yard was only big enough to hold one, and had to improvise another line to dry the bottom sheet. I had cleaned the hut I live in, incense was burning. I had had a really nice dinner with friends, beef with fresh ginger and garlic on Simon’s veranda watching the sunset over the delta. I had heated up an extra kettle full of water and had a lengthy bucket bath (which in itself is a bit of an oxymoron) and used my nice lotions on my feet and hands. I was now relaxing in my home in my bed with a cup of tea and a book.
I received a call from the states; my friend spoke about all that is happening in Minneapolis, and asked if I missed life there. I immediately said yes, but as I said it, I was thinking about whether I would have rather been doing those things in Minneapolis today or the things I had done here in Seronga? I was suddenly aware I might be doing nearly the same activities in Minneapolis if I were there. I might be doing similar activities, but the exact experience I had today is only available here. I realized I wouldn’t trade this day. I missed those things about Minneapolis, but the feeling lacked a certain longing that has been a hallmark of my homesickness, and my inability to completely adjust and accept life here. Today I felt content. It surprised me when I recognized this.
I have finally arrived home in this place. The good has snuck up on me, as only good can, and instead of fighting and actively struggling against all the craziness and frustration of this place, I have surrendered to the simplicity life here has to offer. I am existing comfortably. I realized I am beginning to enjoy my own company, and being the sole occupier of the space I’ve been allotted. This is the first time I’ve truly lived alone. It’s always been a strange and somewhat frightening concept to me, but I find now that I look forward to the end of the day. I’ll hope for water and I’ll light candles in my bathroom by which to bucket bathe and decide which of my t-shirts smells the least, and crawl into my bed with my headlamp and a book.
A friend back home had given my contact info to a woman who is about to join the Peace Corps, leaving in a little less than a month. She had a few questions for me, and as I thought back on the last nearly four months I was completely blown away by how far I’ve come. I remembered the nervousness, excitement and the anxiety, and the constant up and down of preparing to leave one life for another completely. I considered the series of moments when I knowingly jumped into the great abyss of the unknown. I reflected on the advice I’d received, and the advice I would give, the places I’ve triumphed and the few I would have done differently. I breathed in, I breathed out. I was reminded again that I am breathing, each day, despite the hours that go by that feel like I’ve been holding my breath, or I can’t find the air through the sobs of frustration or anger or fear.
I’ve recently corresponded with a few people who have had their Peace Corps service interrupted or terminated. I’m actively worried about the safety of another close friend serving right now. In each case it has been something major that has happened to interrupt this experience for these people, major life changing or country of service changing events, the kind that make you re-evaluate things.
Although their personal well being in relation to themselves is foremost in my mind, it’s followed immediately by, “Oh wow, how hard would it be to have to leave a Peace Corps experience? What would I do if I had to leave here now for any reason?”
The thought, while not terrifying, rings more true perhaps as devastating. I think I’m learning to have less fear about what each day can bring in general, but the thought of leaving is pretty upsetting, or at least unsettling. I’m finding that not only would I stay here willingly; I would be upset if I had to leave. When did this change? When did these little rays of sunshine begin to poke their heads into what I’ve come to consider my funny little nightmare?
We chatted a while, and my friend asked me if I would have done anything differently, knowing all that I know now. Would I do it all again? I answered, without hesitation, yes.
The other night I sat on my clean sheets, a feat which in itself took an entire morning worth of effort after I realized that the line in my yard was only big enough to hold one, and had to improvise another line to dry the bottom sheet. I had cleaned the hut I live in, incense was burning. I had had a really nice dinner with friends, beef with fresh ginger and garlic on Simon’s veranda watching the sunset over the delta. I had heated up an extra kettle full of water and had a lengthy bucket bath (which in itself is a bit of an oxymoron) and used my nice lotions on my feet and hands. I was now relaxing in my home in my bed with a cup of tea and a book.
I received a call from the states; my friend spoke about all that is happening in Minneapolis, and asked if I missed life there. I immediately said yes, but as I said it, I was thinking about whether I would have rather been doing those things in Minneapolis today or the things I had done here in Seronga? I was suddenly aware I might be doing nearly the same activities in Minneapolis if I were there. I might be doing similar activities, but the exact experience I had today is only available here. I realized I wouldn’t trade this day. I missed those things about Minneapolis, but the feeling lacked a certain longing that has been a hallmark of my homesickness, and my inability to completely adjust and accept life here. Today I felt content. It surprised me when I recognized this.
I have finally arrived home in this place. The good has snuck up on me, as only good can, and instead of fighting and actively struggling against all the craziness and frustration of this place, I have surrendered to the simplicity life here has to offer. I am existing comfortably. I realized I am beginning to enjoy my own company, and being the sole occupier of the space I’ve been allotted. This is the first time I’ve truly lived alone. It’s always been a strange and somewhat frightening concept to me, but I find now that I look forward to the end of the day. I’ll hope for water and I’ll light candles in my bathroom by which to bucket bathe and decide which of my t-shirts smells the least, and crawl into my bed with my headlamp and a book.
A friend back home had given my contact info to a woman who is about to join the Peace Corps, leaving in a little less than a month. She had a few questions for me, and as I thought back on the last nearly four months I was completely blown away by how far I’ve come. I remembered the nervousness, excitement and the anxiety, and the constant up and down of preparing to leave one life for another completely. I considered the series of moments when I knowingly jumped into the great abyss of the unknown. I reflected on the advice I’d received, and the advice I would give, the places I’ve triumphed and the few I would have done differently. I breathed in, I breathed out. I was reminded again that I am breathing, each day, despite the hours that go by that feel like I’ve been holding my breath, or I can’t find the air through the sobs of frustration or anger or fear.
I’ve recently corresponded with a few people who have had their Peace Corps service interrupted or terminated. I’m actively worried about the safety of another close friend serving right now. In each case it has been something major that has happened to interrupt this experience for these people, major life changing or country of service changing events, the kind that make you re-evaluate things.
Although their personal well being in relation to themselves is foremost in my mind, it’s followed immediately by, “Oh wow, how hard would it be to have to leave a Peace Corps experience? What would I do if I had to leave here now for any reason?”
The thought, while not terrifying, rings more true perhaps as devastating. I think I’m learning to have less fear about what each day can bring in general, but the thought of leaving is pretty upsetting, or at least unsettling. I’m finding that not only would I stay here willingly; I would be upset if I had to leave. When did this change? When did these little rays of sunshine begin to poke their heads into what I’ve come to consider my funny little nightmare?
We chatted a while, and my friend asked me if I would have done anything differently, knowing all that I know now. Would I do it all again? I answered, without hesitation, yes.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
I don't even know what type of Animal that is, much less what part that comes from!!!! On being a carnivore in Seronga....
I have no idea what happens to a person if they eat hoof and mouth tainted beef. Getting enough protein is a challenge I’ve unwittingly undertaken as a resident of the Isle of Seronga, the place I’ve come to love, and love to hate. All I know, is that you can’t bring beef into Seronga, past the three government check point hoof and mouth stations where you and the 50 people you’re inevitably traveling with must stop, get out of the vehicle, walk through and dip all your other shoes in some chemically water that turns your soles of your shoes white, have your bag and all possessions checked, have the tires of the vehicle sprayed with the same chemicals, get back in and be merrily on your way to the next stop.
Eggs are good, if increasingly expensive, chicken is kind of available, if you happen to be at the co-op while the freezers are working, the generator is running, and the guy has recently brought some in. You can sometimes buy fish off the street, although the dried ones are quite sketchy and smelly.
This leaves me with a few choices, one of which has recently come to include buying meat from the local butchery.
I had heard stories about listening for the gunshot that would indicate that an animal had been murdered and I could go and collect my 5 pula worth of the remains. I had seen the outside of the building, which is a sort of a garage looking establishment (similar to the post office) where I would have hesitated to take my car to for repairs at in the states. But this is Botswana, and I am hungry, and tiny bit desperate.
I was in the clinic truck (ambulance) one day when I saw the purplish hunk of meat peeking out of the plastic bag on the floor.
“What is that?” I asked the driver, knowing full well from my restaurant days at good old t-lodge that that was a hunk of fresh beef. “Nama ya kgomo,” he replied. “Do you et it?”
I paused. “Yeah. I think I do.”
So to the butchery we went.
The smell of blood wafted through the air toward the fence surrounding the butchery, and the trail of blood that stained the sand in front of the building was a tell tale sign of what was inside. Being the daughter and sister of some pretty devout hunters, I had seen many carcasses in various states of disassembly, and have even been known to help in my earlier days with the processing. I had been on the hunting expeditions, I had held (although never shot) the riffles, I had helped reload the shells and even carved the meat from bones.
Very prominently in my memory is the yelping and gasping that would occur from my siblings and I on cool fall evenings as the garage door would slowly roll up to reveal a dead deer hanging from the rafters of the garage illuminated by the headlights of the minivan, it’s tongue flopped lifelessly out of its mouth frozen in its last moment. I had seen the pools of blood on the floor, the dead glassy eyes, and mortal bullet hole. I had touched the stiff limbs, peeled the hide from the carcass, and stroked the strange velvety nose that would never take another breath.
As with most things of my former life however, it didn’t quite prepare me for this.
Several rows of what can only appropriately be described as meat hooks (as that’s what they are) line the room, with various quadrants of the animal hanging from them, cut in such a way as to be unidentifiable. There is blood everywhere, and flies, and heat, and smell. I had been what I now understand to be blessed that every animal I had encountered had been pre-gutted, not so in this case, as the innards were everywhere, and they were for sale! Large chunks of fat that you would have been hard pressed to find on the animal’s body as it’s bones protruded out of it’s body while it was alive are everywhere, and they are cheaper than the rest of the meat. The floor may have been concrete at one point, but sand has mixed with blood and formed a strange paste on the ground. The butchery has not been spared in Seronga’s eternal quest for water, and thus has access to none. No sinks, no refrigeration, no sanitation, no problem!
The people from the village ask for various cuts of meat in various amounts of pula, all of which is handled and delivered to them with the same hands. Hunks are cut and hung haphazardly from the hook on the meat scale. Plastic bags to carry your purchase are extra, and many people walk out with a bloody mass dangling from their fingers. I’ve been told the trick is to listen for a gunshot and get their early, for the best pieces of meat, which lucky for me, are different in the eyes of Americans as opposed to Batswana.
It was midafternoon, in the heat of the day when we arrived. I gagged at the smell and winced at the sight ahead of me. I asked for a piece with "less fat" and hoped for the best. I paid the extra 50 theibe for a plastic bag and was on my way. I still haven't had the courage to eat it..... would you? but it's on the docket for tonight's dinner. If you don't hear from me again, you know what happened! ;-)
Eggs are good, if increasingly expensive, chicken is kind of available, if you happen to be at the co-op while the freezers are working, the generator is running, and the guy has recently brought some in. You can sometimes buy fish off the street, although the dried ones are quite sketchy and smelly.
This leaves me with a few choices, one of which has recently come to include buying meat from the local butchery.
I had heard stories about listening for the gunshot that would indicate that an animal had been murdered and I could go and collect my 5 pula worth of the remains. I had seen the outside of the building, which is a sort of a garage looking establishment (similar to the post office) where I would have hesitated to take my car to for repairs at in the states. But this is Botswana, and I am hungry, and tiny bit desperate.
I was in the clinic truck (ambulance) one day when I saw the purplish hunk of meat peeking out of the plastic bag on the floor.
“What is that?” I asked the driver, knowing full well from my restaurant days at good old t-lodge that that was a hunk of fresh beef. “Nama ya kgomo,” he replied. “Do you et it?”
I paused. “Yeah. I think I do.”
So to the butchery we went.
The smell of blood wafted through the air toward the fence surrounding the butchery, and the trail of blood that stained the sand in front of the building was a tell tale sign of what was inside. Being the daughter and sister of some pretty devout hunters, I had seen many carcasses in various states of disassembly, and have even been known to help in my earlier days with the processing. I had been on the hunting expeditions, I had held (although never shot) the riffles, I had helped reload the shells and even carved the meat from bones.
Very prominently in my memory is the yelping and gasping that would occur from my siblings and I on cool fall evenings as the garage door would slowly roll up to reveal a dead deer hanging from the rafters of the garage illuminated by the headlights of the minivan, it’s tongue flopped lifelessly out of its mouth frozen in its last moment. I had seen the pools of blood on the floor, the dead glassy eyes, and mortal bullet hole. I had touched the stiff limbs, peeled the hide from the carcass, and stroked the strange velvety nose that would never take another breath.
As with most things of my former life however, it didn’t quite prepare me for this.
Several rows of what can only appropriately be described as meat hooks (as that’s what they are) line the room, with various quadrants of the animal hanging from them, cut in such a way as to be unidentifiable. There is blood everywhere, and flies, and heat, and smell. I had been what I now understand to be blessed that every animal I had encountered had been pre-gutted, not so in this case, as the innards were everywhere, and they were for sale! Large chunks of fat that you would have been hard pressed to find on the animal’s body as it’s bones protruded out of it’s body while it was alive are everywhere, and they are cheaper than the rest of the meat. The floor may have been concrete at one point, but sand has mixed with blood and formed a strange paste on the ground. The butchery has not been spared in Seronga’s eternal quest for water, and thus has access to none. No sinks, no refrigeration, no sanitation, no problem!
The people from the village ask for various cuts of meat in various amounts of pula, all of which is handled and delivered to them with the same hands. Hunks are cut and hung haphazardly from the hook on the meat scale. Plastic bags to carry your purchase are extra, and many people walk out with a bloody mass dangling from their fingers. I’ve been told the trick is to listen for a gunshot and get their early, for the best pieces of meat, which lucky for me, are different in the eyes of Americans as opposed to Batswana.
It was midafternoon, in the heat of the day when we arrived. I gagged at the smell and winced at the sight ahead of me. I asked for a piece with "less fat" and hoped for the best. I paid the extra 50 theibe for a plastic bag and was on my way. I still haven't had the courage to eat it..... would you? but it's on the docket for tonight's dinner. If you don't hear from me again, you know what happened! ;-)
This Blog is being Posted in Seronga!!!!!!
This blog is being written from Seronga!!!!!! And even better, posted from the www, with a Seronga server. The Junior Secondary School got internet sooner than expected! Not to say that I won’t miss my every other week, three hour one way internet adventures in Gumare, but I am excited to have more access. Four moths of this is quite enough, thankyouverymuch. I’m hesitant to jump for too much joy, as this is still Africa, but this could make my life MUCH EASIER, and really, more pleasant! Yes I’ll have one less thing to gripe about, but hey, still can’t drink the water!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Projects!
The Peace Corps, especially the first two months, when we are doing our "community assessment"-(which my clinic insists on calling a diagnosis, and sort of makes me laugh as I have no idea what sort of medicine would save this place...) where we try to determine potential project areas, is an often confusing array of various tasks that you are asked to do that you may or may not be qualified to undertake, and are requested of for any number of reasons. Top on my list right now are the following, and I would appreciate any info people have on any of these topics as I am not an expert on any of them!
1) I have been asked to give a seminar on aerobics. Why me, I have no idea. I was walking from the post office to the clinic one day and a woman in a nice car stopped me and asked if I would give a seminar on aerobics to the teachers at one of the schools. The savings gram is in the mail, I would imagine, as are details to follow. Other than taking aerobics to fill out my schedule my senior year of high shool I have no experience in this field, but will give it my best ;-)
2) YWCA. As in forming one. Apparently there once was a committee to create a YWCA in Seronga, and by inquiring about it, I have fired the committee back up, and thus am the expert consultant. Lord help us all.
3) Still a secret, TBD, but the one I am most excited about. Just know that I have something cooking!
1) I have been asked to give a seminar on aerobics. Why me, I have no idea. I was walking from the post office to the clinic one day and a woman in a nice car stopped me and asked if I would give a seminar on aerobics to the teachers at one of the schools. The savings gram is in the mail, I would imagine, as are details to follow. Other than taking aerobics to fill out my schedule my senior year of high shool I have no experience in this field, but will give it my best ;-)
2) YWCA. As in forming one. Apparently there once was a committee to create a YWCA in Seronga, and by inquiring about it, I have fired the committee back up, and thus am the expert consultant. Lord help us all.
3) Still a secret, TBD, but the one I am most excited about. Just know that I have something cooking!
BUS-ted... Lessons in Public transport in the delta...
After my recent trip to Maun in the bumpy luxury of a Cesna plane, it was time to go back to Seronga via the way most people travel, the public bus. Now I’ve heard nightmare stories about people standing for the entire journey (which from Maun to Shakawe ends up being anywhere from 6 to 8 hours, then an additional 1.5 to 3 hitch hiking back down the other side, unless you’ve prearranged transport, which we were lucky enough to have done in this case) chickens on the bus and what. I’ve heard horror stories of window wars, and people mobbing and trampling each other to get a seat. This is a situation where you truly don’t even get up to give an elderly or pregnant woman your seat (she’ll end up relinquishing it to the first man that comes near-chivalry is dead in Bots) so I was there early and ready for anything.
I met up with MaSibindi at the rank and inquired as to which bus we should get on. We found the correct one and I put my big green backpacker back pack next to two similar ones being placed under the storage area by two white people. Being in the minority (although not necessarily in Maun, the tourist capital of Botswana at the foot of the delta) white people usually greet each other because a) nearly everyone greets everyone here, I spend most of me life greeting people and inquiring as to how they are and b) we generally are surprised to see someone else that looks like us (and we commonly have at least the common language of English). My experience in Maun is that this isn’t necessarily the case so I just smiled at them and climbed on the bus. After the five minutes it took us to get down the narrow aisle, past people, their luggage, and vendors who got on the bus to sell chicken, (cooked in this case although when, where remains to be known) sodas, water, sweets, and cell phone airtime. We found two seats next to each other and waited for the bus to depart, or in my case, for the life lessons to begin.
Botswana bus lesson 1) Know the bus schedule. These things fill fast and will leave early if they’re “full” (see lesson 5 for definition of full. I’d hate to see what one of these bad boys look like when they’re full enough to leave the rank early.) Lesson 2) Make sure you’re on the correct bus. The lone other white person I saw on the bus got off before we even departed. I smiled the “we’re both white people” smile at her as we got on, but then I heard a voice speak perfect English saying “oh, you’re on the wrong bus.” I turned around thinking they were talking to me and realized I wasn’t with any other white people, and thus these weren’t talking to me. She departed. Lesson 3) Get there early: check! I had done this, I had my seat and thought I was ready, but about ten minutes into the trip learned bus lesson 4) make sure your window is working. This was my first mistake. The window nearest to us didn’t open. Now it’s winter here, and generally tolerable, but still hot, especially mid day. And to put it delicately, when people have limited water (and since it’s so much work to heat up the water without electricity) one of the first things to go is apparently bathing, followed in close second by laundering ones clothing. There is also apparently a fear that opening windows lets in the flu. So it was a bit stuffy in there to put it mildly. I was claustrophobic as hell, and I can generally hang with the best of them. I once rode across Spain with my chair in the fully upright position as the world’s tallest Spaniard was apparently behind me, and I had another in my lap for 16 hours in the middle of the night on a Spanish (read smaller than American) bus where people chain smoked in anticipation of the rest stops that were filled with smoke, congealing tapas, and no toilet paper. As with my occasional newfound carsickness on the bumpy roads of Africa, it seems this bus trip was bringing new meaning to the term “hellish”. It began to make Spain seem like a disney world ride.
As we continued on, more people boarded the bus. As they entered, so did lesson 5) there is no maximum capacity on Botswana buses. You would be amazed how many people can pile on to one of these things. I was quite sure even the less liberal parameters of what constitutes personal space in Batswana culture were being violated by the old woman who was, for all practical purposes, sitting on my lap.
The next lesson in bus culture was learned as I paid. The fares had just gone up (more than 75 pula one way, how I’m going to afford the increase in gas and groceries that the rest of the world on a not increasing PC salary I have no idea…) and so I was not expecting a lot of change, but I was expecting some. Lesson 6) Bring correct and exact change. When I paid the “conductor” (a young girl, very rude, no ID or uniform- I thought at first I was being robbed before she produced her receipt book) who was coming around collecting fares, she insisted she didn’t have change and noted on my receipt that I was owed 30 pula. Three hours later I still didn’t have my change despite asking every time the conductor walked by and watching a man sitting in front of me pay in the exact amount I needed. Apparently this is a common scam, the conductors wait as long as possible to give you your change, and if you lose your receipt during the course of one the many hoof and mouth stops (everyone off the bus, walk through the undoubtedly toxic liquid that turns the soles of your shoes white, in addition to your bag being checked for beef and all shoes must be dipped regardless of where they are in your luggage. It’s Botswana’s illogical attempt to curb the spread of hoof and mouth disease, it seems they just keep making more stops as the cases are discovered. No, I don’t know what effects the eating of the beef of such infected creatures has on humans, and at this point I’d prefer not to) –there are at least three between Maun and Shakawe, you’re screwed. No receipt, no change, and guess who pockets the rest. Nice.
Lesson 7) Leave your modesty in Maun. The only bathroom stops? Out in the open, hurriedly during the hoof and mouth stops. I mean you try to have some privacy behind a tree, but really, despite being down to the fighting weight listed on my license, I'm still not skinny enough for an African tree to provide much coverage! I’m stared at walking down the street. You can imagine the draw of a chance to see not only a white person but their white ass. Enough said. Good luck with the number 2’s.
Lesson 8) Bring a snack. Unless you feel like living on some sketchy chicken (cooked when? Where?) or small candies you will starve. Luckily I had a few bananas. For 6 hours. You might want to hold off on the liquids (see lesson 7).
Lesson 9) When you get on the bus, the conductor should theoretically help you load your bag and you should receive a tag that marks that you loaded it. I saw no such service from my rude little friend as we boarded in Maun and so just put my bags next to the friendly enough looking white people with similar packs.
When we got off the bus in Shakawe I made every attempt to remain calm as I realized that although I had survived and made it through the trip my bag had not. After the ensuing chaos of my attempted calm with the now nice as can be conductor ended in me nearly having a complete and total meltdown I was willing to entertain the thought that perhaps it was an honest mistake. I wanted to believe in the good in people. The conductor and the driver made every attempt to call the other buses that had left the Maun rank and see if perhaps my other white buddies had taken the bag by mistake. As the sun began sinking in the sky and P walked the two hour round trip from his house to the Maun bus rank and reported back, that despite looking high and low there was no sign of the bag I began to lose my faith in the goodness of people.
Thank God I had MaSibindi, who is from Zim but can speak much more passable Setswana than me, to attempt to communicate the problem with all the relevant people. Lesson 10) Make every attempt to travel with someone who speaks the language better than you in case your bag is stolen. To prevent your bag from being stolen don’t trust anyone, and carry your bag on your lap, or refer to lesson 9) if you’re feeling brave and foolishly trusting. Lesson 11) in order to reduce your risk of losses on Botswana bus travel (the one thing I did right) keep your most valuable possessions near you, in my case in the OTHER bag I brought on my lap (next to the old woman for a time…) Luckily traveling light has never been my strong point. I was very fortunate that I had put my passport, computer, money and most of the other valuables with me, against the PC policy of diversifying your stuff amongst your bags. Although the custom teeth retainer, chako sandals and over 200 pula worth of groceries were a real bummer to lose, the bag itself was probably the most inconvenient loss. It sucks.
I’m trying to remind myself that in the end it’s only stuff. Travel will definitely take more creativity in the future not only because my bag is gone, but because I’ll be avoiding buses in Botswana at all opportunities.
I met up with MaSibindi at the rank and inquired as to which bus we should get on. We found the correct one and I put my big green backpacker back pack next to two similar ones being placed under the storage area by two white people. Being in the minority (although not necessarily in Maun, the tourist capital of Botswana at the foot of the delta) white people usually greet each other because a) nearly everyone greets everyone here, I spend most of me life greeting people and inquiring as to how they are and b) we generally are surprised to see someone else that looks like us (and we commonly have at least the common language of English). My experience in Maun is that this isn’t necessarily the case so I just smiled at them and climbed on the bus. After the five minutes it took us to get down the narrow aisle, past people, their luggage, and vendors who got on the bus to sell chicken, (cooked in this case although when, where remains to be known) sodas, water, sweets, and cell phone airtime. We found two seats next to each other and waited for the bus to depart, or in my case, for the life lessons to begin.
Botswana bus lesson 1) Know the bus schedule. These things fill fast and will leave early if they’re “full” (see lesson 5 for definition of full. I’d hate to see what one of these bad boys look like when they’re full enough to leave the rank early.) Lesson 2) Make sure you’re on the correct bus. The lone other white person I saw on the bus got off before we even departed. I smiled the “we’re both white people” smile at her as we got on, but then I heard a voice speak perfect English saying “oh, you’re on the wrong bus.” I turned around thinking they were talking to me and realized I wasn’t with any other white people, and thus these weren’t talking to me. She departed. Lesson 3) Get there early: check! I had done this, I had my seat and thought I was ready, but about ten minutes into the trip learned bus lesson 4) make sure your window is working. This was my first mistake. The window nearest to us didn’t open. Now it’s winter here, and generally tolerable, but still hot, especially mid day. And to put it delicately, when people have limited water (and since it’s so much work to heat up the water without electricity) one of the first things to go is apparently bathing, followed in close second by laundering ones clothing. There is also apparently a fear that opening windows lets in the flu. So it was a bit stuffy in there to put it mildly. I was claustrophobic as hell, and I can generally hang with the best of them. I once rode across Spain with my chair in the fully upright position as the world’s tallest Spaniard was apparently behind me, and I had another in my lap for 16 hours in the middle of the night on a Spanish (read smaller than American) bus where people chain smoked in anticipation of the rest stops that were filled with smoke, congealing tapas, and no toilet paper. As with my occasional newfound carsickness on the bumpy roads of Africa, it seems this bus trip was bringing new meaning to the term “hellish”. It began to make Spain seem like a disney world ride.
As we continued on, more people boarded the bus. As they entered, so did lesson 5) there is no maximum capacity on Botswana buses. You would be amazed how many people can pile on to one of these things. I was quite sure even the less liberal parameters of what constitutes personal space in Batswana culture were being violated by the old woman who was, for all practical purposes, sitting on my lap.
The next lesson in bus culture was learned as I paid. The fares had just gone up (more than 75 pula one way, how I’m going to afford the increase in gas and groceries that the rest of the world on a not increasing PC salary I have no idea…) and so I was not expecting a lot of change, but I was expecting some. Lesson 6) Bring correct and exact change. When I paid the “conductor” (a young girl, very rude, no ID or uniform- I thought at first I was being robbed before she produced her receipt book) who was coming around collecting fares, she insisted she didn’t have change and noted on my receipt that I was owed 30 pula. Three hours later I still didn’t have my change despite asking every time the conductor walked by and watching a man sitting in front of me pay in the exact amount I needed. Apparently this is a common scam, the conductors wait as long as possible to give you your change, and if you lose your receipt during the course of one the many hoof and mouth stops (everyone off the bus, walk through the undoubtedly toxic liquid that turns the soles of your shoes white, in addition to your bag being checked for beef and all shoes must be dipped regardless of where they are in your luggage. It’s Botswana’s illogical attempt to curb the spread of hoof and mouth disease, it seems they just keep making more stops as the cases are discovered. No, I don’t know what effects the eating of the beef of such infected creatures has on humans, and at this point I’d prefer not to) –there are at least three between Maun and Shakawe, you’re screwed. No receipt, no change, and guess who pockets the rest. Nice.
Lesson 7) Leave your modesty in Maun. The only bathroom stops? Out in the open, hurriedly during the hoof and mouth stops. I mean you try to have some privacy behind a tree, but really, despite being down to the fighting weight listed on my license, I'm still not skinny enough for an African tree to provide much coverage! I’m stared at walking down the street. You can imagine the draw of a chance to see not only a white person but their white ass. Enough said. Good luck with the number 2’s.
Lesson 8) Bring a snack. Unless you feel like living on some sketchy chicken (cooked when? Where?) or small candies you will starve. Luckily I had a few bananas. For 6 hours. You might want to hold off on the liquids (see lesson 7).
Lesson 9) When you get on the bus, the conductor should theoretically help you load your bag and you should receive a tag that marks that you loaded it. I saw no such service from my rude little friend as we boarded in Maun and so just put my bags next to the friendly enough looking white people with similar packs.
When we got off the bus in Shakawe I made every attempt to remain calm as I realized that although I had survived and made it through the trip my bag had not. After the ensuing chaos of my attempted calm with the now nice as can be conductor ended in me nearly having a complete and total meltdown I was willing to entertain the thought that perhaps it was an honest mistake. I wanted to believe in the good in people. The conductor and the driver made every attempt to call the other buses that had left the Maun rank and see if perhaps my other white buddies had taken the bag by mistake. As the sun began sinking in the sky and P walked the two hour round trip from his house to the Maun bus rank and reported back, that despite looking high and low there was no sign of the bag I began to lose my faith in the goodness of people.
Thank God I had MaSibindi, who is from Zim but can speak much more passable Setswana than me, to attempt to communicate the problem with all the relevant people. Lesson 10) Make every attempt to travel with someone who speaks the language better than you in case your bag is stolen. To prevent your bag from being stolen don’t trust anyone, and carry your bag on your lap, or refer to lesson 9) if you’re feeling brave and foolishly trusting. Lesson 11) in order to reduce your risk of losses on Botswana bus travel (the one thing I did right) keep your most valuable possessions near you, in my case in the OTHER bag I brought on my lap (next to the old woman for a time…) Luckily traveling light has never been my strong point. I was very fortunate that I had put my passport, computer, money and most of the other valuables with me, against the PC policy of diversifying your stuff amongst your bags. Although the custom teeth retainer, chako sandals and over 200 pula worth of groceries were a real bummer to lose, the bag itself was probably the most inconvenient loss. It sucks.
I’m trying to remind myself that in the end it’s only stuff. Travel will definitely take more creativity in the future not only because my bag is gone, but because I’ll be avoiding buses in Botswana at all opportunities.
There's a child in Africa...And this is her Playground....More lessons from the Children of Seronga
I’m beginning to appreciate the flip side of being the local freakshow, the monstrosity that makes children from way out in the rural areas who come into the clinic cry (I definitely give new meaning to the term “stranger danger”… Can you imagine if you’ve never seen a white person before as a three year old? And then you catch a glimpse of me at the clinic? Between the shots and the other scary things happening at that joint it will be a miracle if the kids ever go there as adults).
Yes, it means that I can never walk down the road anonymously, and that I must always be ready and willing to stop and greet people and smile, regardless if I’m having a bad day, trying to go for a run, scalding myself with hot tea as I hurry along, late for work (some things never change….) ect. However, there are perks to being the local celebrity, which come in the form of valuable lessons from the children of Seronga.
It’s funny, there are so many children here that I often hear them before I see them, I have to scan the horizon to find who is yelling at me or running full speed at me from any given direction. I recently have had children scream (in English) from places unseen that I am beautiful (thus giving new meaning to the phrase “kids say the darndest things,” especially in languages other than their native tongue…). I guess this is what happens in the absence of television. One of the few white people in town becomes the main attraction.
The volunteer before me brilliantly taught many of the village children to blow kisses, and many of them say “bye bye” which they greet me with regardless if I’m coming or going. Children generally have the most patience in teaching a person Setswana, they’ll repeat the same thing patiently for hours on end, and generally will speak English as well if they know it (unlike the adults, who will often pretend they don’t speak it, or truly don’t, and speak something else, but will often make their best attempts at communicating in English when they’re drunk…) Many of the ones along my route to work or on the paths I take through the village have been conditioned to call me Lorato (or at least know to after I don’t respond to the first 50 times they yell Lekgowa). I’m generally not a “kid person” but by golly these kids are melting my heart. I may even want some of my own some day…
I was sitting at one of the nurse’s homes over lunch (ha ha! They’ve taken pity on me and begun feeding me as any other helpless American wretch- lay off, I bring the food, she just cooks it like any good African Momma! What can I say, Simon’s been gone and thus my meals have been scarce. I cooked for myself the other day and thought I was going to die. Life is a lot different without a microwave, you try it!) the other day when I noticed some children playing, walking and climbing along one of the twisted fallen trees I’ve come to regard as the sculptures of Seronga. They’re beautiful, like huge chunks of driftwood in some ways, worn smooth by the sands and the wind. These trees are their jungle gyms, playgrounds of nature more pleasing to the eye than the toxic plastic monstrosities we have in the States.
I had a little photo session with the 2 boys that were there (along with the 10 children that joined them once I got out my camera.) I can never take a candid picture of anyone as they are always watching me, staring before I even notice they are there doing something I want to take a picture of, generally. The bonus of this is that I always have plenty of willing models. (I’ll try to add the pictures soon, but haven’t been having much luck lately).These playground trees are all over the village, twisted and reaching for the sky in ways I would like to encourage her residents to do. It’s a bit confusing as why no one has used them for firewood or lumber, but then resourcefulness is not a common trait here. However, the children prove time and time again that creativity is not a quality that is lacking in Seronga.
I was struck by it again the other day when I was walking along and a half dozen children, probably ranging between 4 and 10 years old (it’s hard to tell age on this side as people are even smaller than they tend to be in other villages because there’s not much food on this side of the delta. But that’s another blog) were scampering behind me. They were saying something I couldn’t understand, and bickering back and forth a bit, but I could tell the level of excitement was growing. I stopped and turned around.
I found 6 children, gazing up at me through broken fragments of beer bottle. Why is this charming? Because the beer bottle was brown, and as they looked at me through it, I was now brown like them.
Yes, it means that I can never walk down the road anonymously, and that I must always be ready and willing to stop and greet people and smile, regardless if I’m having a bad day, trying to go for a run, scalding myself with hot tea as I hurry along, late for work (some things never change….) ect. However, there are perks to being the local celebrity, which come in the form of valuable lessons from the children of Seronga.
It’s funny, there are so many children here that I often hear them before I see them, I have to scan the horizon to find who is yelling at me or running full speed at me from any given direction. I recently have had children scream (in English) from places unseen that I am beautiful (thus giving new meaning to the phrase “kids say the darndest things,” especially in languages other than their native tongue…). I guess this is what happens in the absence of television. One of the few white people in town becomes the main attraction.
The volunteer before me brilliantly taught many of the village children to blow kisses, and many of them say “bye bye” which they greet me with regardless if I’m coming or going. Children generally have the most patience in teaching a person Setswana, they’ll repeat the same thing patiently for hours on end, and generally will speak English as well if they know it (unlike the adults, who will often pretend they don’t speak it, or truly don’t, and speak something else, but will often make their best attempts at communicating in English when they’re drunk…) Many of the ones along my route to work or on the paths I take through the village have been conditioned to call me Lorato (or at least know to after I don’t respond to the first 50 times they yell Lekgowa). I’m generally not a “kid person” but by golly these kids are melting my heart. I may even want some of my own some day…
I was sitting at one of the nurse’s homes over lunch (ha ha! They’ve taken pity on me and begun feeding me as any other helpless American wretch- lay off, I bring the food, she just cooks it like any good African Momma! What can I say, Simon’s been gone and thus my meals have been scarce. I cooked for myself the other day and thought I was going to die. Life is a lot different without a microwave, you try it!) the other day when I noticed some children playing, walking and climbing along one of the twisted fallen trees I’ve come to regard as the sculptures of Seronga. They’re beautiful, like huge chunks of driftwood in some ways, worn smooth by the sands and the wind. These trees are their jungle gyms, playgrounds of nature more pleasing to the eye than the toxic plastic monstrosities we have in the States.
I had a little photo session with the 2 boys that were there (along with the 10 children that joined them once I got out my camera.) I can never take a candid picture of anyone as they are always watching me, staring before I even notice they are there doing something I want to take a picture of, generally. The bonus of this is that I always have plenty of willing models. (I’ll try to add the pictures soon, but haven’t been having much luck lately).These playground trees are all over the village, twisted and reaching for the sky in ways I would like to encourage her residents to do. It’s a bit confusing as why no one has used them for firewood or lumber, but then resourcefulness is not a common trait here. However, the children prove time and time again that creativity is not a quality that is lacking in Seronga.
I was struck by it again the other day when I was walking along and a half dozen children, probably ranging between 4 and 10 years old (it’s hard to tell age on this side as people are even smaller than they tend to be in other villages because there’s not much food on this side of the delta. But that’s another blog) were scampering behind me. They were saying something I couldn’t understand, and bickering back and forth a bit, but I could tell the level of excitement was growing. I stopped and turned around.
I found 6 children, gazing up at me through broken fragments of beer bottle. Why is this charming? Because the beer bottle was brown, and as they looked at me through it, I was now brown like them.
Concrete Envy?
The more Peace Corps homes I visit, the more find myself comparing the pluses and minuses of Seronga and my little roundevel to any place and accommodation I see. Many of my fellow Americans have government housing; spacious, two bedroom wonders with an actual kitchen and a sitting/dining room. I’ve also seen some NGO’s that are in similar conditions and square footage as me.
The one feature I’m constantly in awe of, without fail? The large concrete patios and verandas. Anything that puts more space and distance between one’s home and the sand that finds it’s way into one’s home (and in my case-bed???) is highly desirable, and I find myself jealous of those with much concrete. Who knew! The Peace Corps causes me to continuously surprise myself.
The one feature I’m constantly in awe of, without fail? The large concrete patios and verandas. Anything that puts more space and distance between one’s home and the sand that finds it’s way into one’s home (and in my case-bed???) is highly desirable, and I find myself jealous of those with much concrete. Who knew! The Peace Corps causes me to continuously surprise myself.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Lost Again, Imagine that.... Navigation in Botswana
I have often prided myself on the fact that I don’t hesitate to take new routes, try new directions, and wander around aimlessly on a path that “feels like the right way.” I’ve navigated London, New York and various other foreign language speaking cities on Earth with no more than a map and a smile. (And a lack of inhibition about asking strangers for help and directions..) In relation to these situations, Africa takes it up a notch.
I first realized I was in for a new ballgame when I got to Molepolole and was trying to describe my home to my mom back in America. “What’s your address?” she asked me,” We’re looking at Molepolole on google earth, and we can see the soccer stadium, and want to see your house.”
At this point, having just arrived in Moleps, I had no idea there even WAS a soccer stadium, much less where my house might be in relation to it… And I certainly didn’t have an address.
You see there are nearly no “streets” much less street names outside of the larger villages, and generally no house numbers, and in Seronga, no pavement delineating roads from paths. When people ask me where I live now, I say MaKeitikile, the woman who owns my compound or Kagiso (the name of the former PCV who lived in my house before me). Sometimes I just wave my hand as though I’m hitchhiking and say “that side”. These responses generally get the “Oh ho kay” that means I’m understood (or that they no longer have any interest in watching me attempt to pantomime and stutter in Setswana over my placement on the Earth). I pride myself on being able to navigate by the sun or in relation to water, but in Seronga, there are new challenges. Namely, without names for anything, it is exceedingly difficult to give directions. Or follow them. I’m not even going to try to explain how the boat drivers navigate the winding paths of the delta. To be honest I have no idea….
Back on land, the density of animal paths and lack of regulations regarding where roads shall form mean that navigation is an interesting challenge in Botswana. It’s not as though there’s generally any grass to worry about keeping off of, so roads and paths are created everywhere. The only thing differentiating much of anything is how deep the sand is that you are trying to walk through, how much animal excrement is in the way, and how many goat heads (little burs that get up under the feet in sandals) you must avoid. This means you can go nearly as the crow flies anywhere when you are walking and you are inhibited only by fences around yards, occasionally.
Now initially, this seems great, and to the American mind, thinking about the American standard of efficiency and directness it would be. If you can navigate in the manner of Hansel and Gretel. (And if you happen to have breadcrumbs to spare. I do not. In addition, with my luck some animal would follow after me eating up the damn things as soon as I marked my path) Simon lives less than a kilometer from me, and every time he drives me home at night we take the roads, which would take me an extra 20 minutes to navigate along, to get back to his house the next day. Traveling along what might be best called back alley’s to get to his house, I get desperately lost EVERY TIME. I try to keep track of things like which side of me is the red colorful tree on as I walk this time, and have I passed the trash hole with the brand new DVD box in it yet (don’t even ask). It’s so absurd it’s almost a game at this point. I’ve learned that animals and children are not stationary, although children are useful in asking how to get to “Uncle Simon’s”. Either a small child or actually any adult leads me there nearly every time, laughing at the lost white girl who can’t find her way from point a to point b every day. They are never bothered to take the time out of whatever they are doing to help me, which is another absolutely beautiful part of the African culture I often forget to mention.
At the end of the day (and sometimes it genuinely is the END of the day) I always get where I’m going. I just couldn’t tell you how to get there…
I first realized I was in for a new ballgame when I got to Molepolole and was trying to describe my home to my mom back in America. “What’s your address?” she asked me,” We’re looking at Molepolole on google earth, and we can see the soccer stadium, and want to see your house.”
At this point, having just arrived in Moleps, I had no idea there even WAS a soccer stadium, much less where my house might be in relation to it… And I certainly didn’t have an address.
You see there are nearly no “streets” much less street names outside of the larger villages, and generally no house numbers, and in Seronga, no pavement delineating roads from paths. When people ask me where I live now, I say MaKeitikile, the woman who owns my compound or Kagiso (the name of the former PCV who lived in my house before me). Sometimes I just wave my hand as though I’m hitchhiking and say “that side”. These responses generally get the “Oh ho kay” that means I’m understood (or that they no longer have any interest in watching me attempt to pantomime and stutter in Setswana over my placement on the Earth). I pride myself on being able to navigate by the sun or in relation to water, but in Seronga, there are new challenges. Namely, without names for anything, it is exceedingly difficult to give directions. Or follow them. I’m not even going to try to explain how the boat drivers navigate the winding paths of the delta. To be honest I have no idea….
Back on land, the density of animal paths and lack of regulations regarding where roads shall form mean that navigation is an interesting challenge in Botswana. It’s not as though there’s generally any grass to worry about keeping off of, so roads and paths are created everywhere. The only thing differentiating much of anything is how deep the sand is that you are trying to walk through, how much animal excrement is in the way, and how many goat heads (little burs that get up under the feet in sandals) you must avoid. This means you can go nearly as the crow flies anywhere when you are walking and you are inhibited only by fences around yards, occasionally.
Now initially, this seems great, and to the American mind, thinking about the American standard of efficiency and directness it would be. If you can navigate in the manner of Hansel and Gretel. (And if you happen to have breadcrumbs to spare. I do not. In addition, with my luck some animal would follow after me eating up the damn things as soon as I marked my path) Simon lives less than a kilometer from me, and every time he drives me home at night we take the roads, which would take me an extra 20 minutes to navigate along, to get back to his house the next day. Traveling along what might be best called back alley’s to get to his house, I get desperately lost EVERY TIME. I try to keep track of things like which side of me is the red colorful tree on as I walk this time, and have I passed the trash hole with the brand new DVD box in it yet (don’t even ask). It’s so absurd it’s almost a game at this point. I’ve learned that animals and children are not stationary, although children are useful in asking how to get to “Uncle Simon’s”. Either a small child or actually any adult leads me there nearly every time, laughing at the lost white girl who can’t find her way from point a to point b every day. They are never bothered to take the time out of whatever they are doing to help me, which is another absolutely beautiful part of the African culture I often forget to mention.
At the end of the day (and sometimes it genuinely is the END of the day) I always get where I’m going. I just couldn’t tell you how to get there…
My Laundry is dirtier than yours... and other unique instances of one-upmanship in the PC....
Whereas back home I might be comparing notes with friends over happy hour at a well lit bar with deep fried apetizers, (oh how the food pornography overtakes me again...) about how great the benefits of my new job are, or how much square footage my home has, or how horrible traffic or the weather is, in the Peace Corps we have some very different topics of conversation/ bragging shop talk.
So I was with a few other PC’s and we were doing what PC’s do when they’re together, which is talk about how rough we have it, and then when we’ve tired of the verbal sparing with each other, compare how hard we have it to how much more difficult this is than anyone in any other area of the country, world, universe has it. Or perhaps this is just what we do in the delta force. Last week was the DMSAC meeting, which stands for District Multi-Sectoral AIDS Committee, and it was occasion for all the volunteers in the delta to get together and see who everyone is and what we are all doing. As is the tendency in Botswana, not much else occurred at the meeting.
Since the newbies (Bots 7) are on lock down, we hadn’t been able to evaluate the Bots 6 that are dispersed throughout the area and vice versa. The DMSAC meeting gave us a prime opportunity to size each other up, and what a lovely little meet and greet we had. There’s crazy J, who is on the peer support and diversity network, which is the arm of PCV’s thats mission is to keep the newbies from ET-ing, and to keep everyone generally sane. We had met before, but proceeded to hit it off fabulously, and I can tell he’s going to be my new best friend. Then there is Ricky, the 6.5 transfer, who is a bit of a recluse, and Mormon (ethically at least) to boot. There’s the couple, Z and K, who are too cute for words. Along with the couple in Gumare, we make up the delta force, the north western portion of the country who arguably have it worst and simultaneously best. It’s these types of dramatic contradictions that I’ve come to live for in this experience.
So we bonded, and at some point in time crazy J and I came to be doing laundry in his bathtub. As the water runs in, we begin comparing notes, talking about how many times we had worn each particular item of clothing prior to this washing, and whose laundry was contributing more to the filthy sludge that was filling the bathtub. I’m newer to the country, and haven’t yet given up all my cleanly ways, although really, many of them are quite a ways out the door, so I can’t really hang when it comes to this competition. We argued about technique, whereas he likes to put in his laundry and dance on it, I like to use a combination of the lavender soap I use on my body and detergent followed with copious amounts of febreeze.
After we exhausted ourselves with the laundry (both the washing and the one upping) we moved on to craziest modes of transportation and strangest recipes, and the ever popular “who has gone longer without water/electricity/cell reception in their village” competition. We talked till we were blue in the face and ate the standard PC meal of pasta (in the dark as the electricity had gone out) and went to bed, assured at last of the fact that we are each living the best life we possibly can, and grateful for this experience. Hell when I get home I’ll have happy hour stories that will beat you all for YEARS!!!!
So I was with a few other PC’s and we were doing what PC’s do when they’re together, which is talk about how rough we have it, and then when we’ve tired of the verbal sparing with each other, compare how hard we have it to how much more difficult this is than anyone in any other area of the country, world, universe has it. Or perhaps this is just what we do in the delta force. Last week was the DMSAC meeting, which stands for District Multi-Sectoral AIDS Committee, and it was occasion for all the volunteers in the delta to get together and see who everyone is and what we are all doing. As is the tendency in Botswana, not much else occurred at the meeting.
Since the newbies (Bots 7) are on lock down, we hadn’t been able to evaluate the Bots 6 that are dispersed throughout the area and vice versa. The DMSAC meeting gave us a prime opportunity to size each other up, and what a lovely little meet and greet we had. There’s crazy J, who is on the peer support and diversity network, which is the arm of PCV’s thats mission is to keep the newbies from ET-ing, and to keep everyone generally sane. We had met before, but proceeded to hit it off fabulously, and I can tell he’s going to be my new best friend. Then there is Ricky, the 6.5 transfer, who is a bit of a recluse, and Mormon (ethically at least) to boot. There’s the couple, Z and K, who are too cute for words. Along with the couple in Gumare, we make up the delta force, the north western portion of the country who arguably have it worst and simultaneously best. It’s these types of dramatic contradictions that I’ve come to live for in this experience.
So we bonded, and at some point in time crazy J and I came to be doing laundry in his bathtub. As the water runs in, we begin comparing notes, talking about how many times we had worn each particular item of clothing prior to this washing, and whose laundry was contributing more to the filthy sludge that was filling the bathtub. I’m newer to the country, and haven’t yet given up all my cleanly ways, although really, many of them are quite a ways out the door, so I can’t really hang when it comes to this competition. We argued about technique, whereas he likes to put in his laundry and dance on it, I like to use a combination of the lavender soap I use on my body and detergent followed with copious amounts of febreeze.
After we exhausted ourselves with the laundry (both the washing and the one upping) we moved on to craziest modes of transportation and strangest recipes, and the ever popular “who has gone longer without water/electricity/cell reception in their village” competition. We talked till we were blue in the face and ate the standard PC meal of pasta (in the dark as the electricity had gone out) and went to bed, assured at last of the fact that we are each living the best life we possibly can, and grateful for this experience. Hell when I get home I’ll have happy hour stories that will beat you all for YEARS!!!!
All the World's a Stage... Life is a Cabaret....
No Bobby, I’m sorry I still haven’t seen this movie that will absolutely change my life (although if you want to send it over, I promise to devour it immediately upon all the elements of electricity, time and a working laptop coming into alignment!) and clearly still have some residual guilt about it nearly three years later..
This title came to me as I was enjoying another of the performances put on by the local children, that in my mind at least, occur just for me.
I was walking home from work one day when I looked through the doorway of a hut and saw a child sort of dancing and singing, doing the funny rubber legged dance that is common here, and looks completely obscene on adults (lots of thrusting pelvises, I now understand the initial reaction to Elvis. When you first see someone move in this particular manner it’s very difficult not to think about where the purpose of this movement could originate. That being said, these people sure do have rhythm…) and strangely adorable on children. He noticed me watching him, and began hamming it up even more. His brother walks by, looking at him strangely. The first boy points at me, the second boy sees me, and begins dancing to, now coming a bit out of the doorway into the yard. A third child (the one constantly calling my Kagiso… I know my hair is short but really…) wanders up, notices me and like Timon in the Lion King leaps into the dancing and singing. And so on. Most adults don’t pay a lot of attention to children here, much less a WHITE adult, and so they are very interested in my paying attention to them.
On my way to Simon’s house there is also a gaggle of children who perform for me, their particular act involves screaming my name and tearing across the yard singing, “Lorato, Lorato” and grabbing my hands. I have never given them anything other than a few pats on the head or hugs, and yet without fail, every time these children break into song and dancing at the sight of me.
How am I ever to come back to the states and walk down the street without this type of fanfare?
This title came to me as I was enjoying another of the performances put on by the local children, that in my mind at least, occur just for me.
I was walking home from work one day when I looked through the doorway of a hut and saw a child sort of dancing and singing, doing the funny rubber legged dance that is common here, and looks completely obscene on adults (lots of thrusting pelvises, I now understand the initial reaction to Elvis. When you first see someone move in this particular manner it’s very difficult not to think about where the purpose of this movement could originate. That being said, these people sure do have rhythm…) and strangely adorable on children. He noticed me watching him, and began hamming it up even more. His brother walks by, looking at him strangely. The first boy points at me, the second boy sees me, and begins dancing to, now coming a bit out of the doorway into the yard. A third child (the one constantly calling my Kagiso… I know my hair is short but really…) wanders up, notices me and like Timon in the Lion King leaps into the dancing and singing. And so on. Most adults don’t pay a lot of attention to children here, much less a WHITE adult, and so they are very interested in my paying attention to them.
On my way to Simon’s house there is also a gaggle of children who perform for me, their particular act involves screaming my name and tearing across the yard singing, “Lorato, Lorato” and grabbing my hands. I have never given them anything other than a few pats on the head or hugs, and yet without fail, every time these children break into song and dancing at the sight of me.
How am I ever to come back to the states and walk down the street without this type of fanfare?
Soooo... What do you DO all day?
In the Peace Corps, this is the million dollar question. From the time you sign on to this insanity to the time you’re on the plane home, this ends up being the number one question in your mind as a PCV. For most of my writing I focus on certain instances that happen, or occurrences that make me think, or are interesting. I try to share interesting contradictions and stories that differ from the life I remember living back in the states. Lately several people have posed the million dollar question, and when I realized that even my boyfriend had no idea what I do all day, I figured perhaps I should address it here.
What do you do all day? In some ways the answer is a bit complex at least in its simplicity. The answer, by American standards, is often “nothing,” and this is often what I say when people from back home ask. During the first few (maybe sometimes 6???!!!) months at site you are to just observe. Absorb the culture of your community, find their strengths and weaknesses, look for potential areas to build capacity, improve community life, and reduce HIV and AIDS. Practice language. Meet the Kgosi, the police, the teachers, anyone and everyone. Build relationships. Identify resources. This is all well and good in theory. The Peace Corps spends a great deal of time in training teaching us about different maps and analysis we can do in our community, different meetings we should try to schedule, people we should meet, possible projects, ect. Sometimes I try to do some of these. Sometimes I try to just talk to people and walk around making notes and writing thoughts in a little book. I try to find people who are invested in the community and willing to advocate for change. I try to think of projects that could help the many women who ask me for a job every day could participate in to earn money to help support their families. Sometimes I go home to my house and cry. I attempt to come up with projects the community would stand behind and help build, and that would be here and go on after I leave. I spent an entire afternoon coloring a sign the head nurse asked me to make with colored pencils, and was grateful as hell for a task I could do from state to finish and have something to show for it. I read the newspaper. I read magazines. I try to occasionally use an article here or there as a jumping off point for a conversation with someone. I ask people to tell me stories. I try to locate vegetables and meat to procure. I show up at the clinic in the morning and sometimes spend the whole day in the dispensary counting out pills to make the nurses jobs a little easier that day. This is a good opportunity to chat with them about what they think could help in the community. I try to figure out when I can logistically get to the internet, to Maun to bank, when there might be water to do my laundry or cook, and when there’s not water, I spend time fetching it. I write letters and blogs. I think about life and who I am and who I want to be. I ruminate. When I’m feeling blissful I will try to see the art and beauty of something. When I’m feeling shitty I will damn it to hell.
As an American, it’s sometimes very difficult to not have tangible projects and lists of things to do and check off. It’s hard to see how slow things move, and the ways of logic that are so different, and feel like you’re a worthwhile human being, and that you are accomplishing something, or that you have something to offer.
There’s very rarely a day when at the end of the day I don’t have to try very hard to come up with something tangible I learned or did that day. I’ve put a big white sheet of paper on the wall and wrote “successes and achievements” on it. Sometimes at the end of the day I just write the date, and the fact that I survived the day, and am not on a plane home. The biggest writing on the page right now says “I’m still here”. Some days it comes easier than others, and I will have had a conversation with someone who really appears interested or gives me good insight on anything about the community. I will have interacted with some children and made them smile, or held a happy baby. Many days I feel as though I’ve been banging my head against the wall. On one occasion I spent some time throwing concrete blocks at holes in the fence trying to prove (to whom? myself?) that the holes could be mended and we could build a community garden. Many days I feel as though I’ve done nothing. Those are the days I try to give myself credit for just being here, which some days is absolutely enough, in that it feels like too much.
In many ways this experience so far has completely bent my mind in half, or shattered it, or in some way shown me that it has been irrevocably changed and will never again return to its former state. It’s given me a lot of time to go more than a little crazy. On my good days I can laugh, or at least appreciate the growth I am experiencing. Bad days can be very dark. I try to remember that bad days happen in the states all the time. I was recently openly thrilled when a fellow PCV flatly stated that he asks himself every day what he’s doing here. I do as well. I generally consider the greatest accomplishment of every day to be that I have stayed here through this day, and am going to give tomorrow another go. I can almost hear the gasps of people reading this and thinking “that’s no way to live, day to day, barely getting by! What about searching for and achieving happiness?” I would argue that I’m learning that this is the only way to live, being fully aware that you have gotten by that day, as it reminds you every single day that you’re living. And you’ve chosen your life, rather than defining your life by the tasks you’ve chosen to accomplish in this day. Happiness falls into that category of moments you are lucky enough to have an occasional glimpse of if you’re open to it, rather than some mythical state of being that one can expect to be in for any permanent length of time…
I was reading a fellow Peace Corps blog today (it’s linked to mine as “hottie Brent’s blog”) and his latest entry is worth a read as it very eloquently states the theoretical basis for what community capacity builders are supposed to be doing, and a bit more background on the PMTCT (preventing mother to child transmission) and home based care programs. He states better than I what a community capacity builder does or is supposed to do every day.
What do you do all day? In some ways the answer is a bit complex at least in its simplicity. The answer, by American standards, is often “nothing,” and this is often what I say when people from back home ask. During the first few (maybe sometimes 6???!!!) months at site you are to just observe. Absorb the culture of your community, find their strengths and weaknesses, look for potential areas to build capacity, improve community life, and reduce HIV and AIDS. Practice language. Meet the Kgosi, the police, the teachers, anyone and everyone. Build relationships. Identify resources. This is all well and good in theory. The Peace Corps spends a great deal of time in training teaching us about different maps and analysis we can do in our community, different meetings we should try to schedule, people we should meet, possible projects, ect. Sometimes I try to do some of these. Sometimes I try to just talk to people and walk around making notes and writing thoughts in a little book. I try to find people who are invested in the community and willing to advocate for change. I try to think of projects that could help the many women who ask me for a job every day could participate in to earn money to help support their families. Sometimes I go home to my house and cry. I attempt to come up with projects the community would stand behind and help build, and that would be here and go on after I leave. I spent an entire afternoon coloring a sign the head nurse asked me to make with colored pencils, and was grateful as hell for a task I could do from state to finish and have something to show for it. I read the newspaper. I read magazines. I try to occasionally use an article here or there as a jumping off point for a conversation with someone. I ask people to tell me stories. I try to locate vegetables and meat to procure. I show up at the clinic in the morning and sometimes spend the whole day in the dispensary counting out pills to make the nurses jobs a little easier that day. This is a good opportunity to chat with them about what they think could help in the community. I try to figure out when I can logistically get to the internet, to Maun to bank, when there might be water to do my laundry or cook, and when there’s not water, I spend time fetching it. I write letters and blogs. I think about life and who I am and who I want to be. I ruminate. When I’m feeling blissful I will try to see the art and beauty of something. When I’m feeling shitty I will damn it to hell.
As an American, it’s sometimes very difficult to not have tangible projects and lists of things to do and check off. It’s hard to see how slow things move, and the ways of logic that are so different, and feel like you’re a worthwhile human being, and that you are accomplishing something, or that you have something to offer.
There’s very rarely a day when at the end of the day I don’t have to try very hard to come up with something tangible I learned or did that day. I’ve put a big white sheet of paper on the wall and wrote “successes and achievements” on it. Sometimes at the end of the day I just write the date, and the fact that I survived the day, and am not on a plane home. The biggest writing on the page right now says “I’m still here”. Some days it comes easier than others, and I will have had a conversation with someone who really appears interested or gives me good insight on anything about the community. I will have interacted with some children and made them smile, or held a happy baby. Many days I feel as though I’ve been banging my head against the wall. On one occasion I spent some time throwing concrete blocks at holes in the fence trying to prove (to whom? myself?) that the holes could be mended and we could build a community garden. Many days I feel as though I’ve done nothing. Those are the days I try to give myself credit for just being here, which some days is absolutely enough, in that it feels like too much.
In many ways this experience so far has completely bent my mind in half, or shattered it, or in some way shown me that it has been irrevocably changed and will never again return to its former state. It’s given me a lot of time to go more than a little crazy. On my good days I can laugh, or at least appreciate the growth I am experiencing. Bad days can be very dark. I try to remember that bad days happen in the states all the time. I was recently openly thrilled when a fellow PCV flatly stated that he asks himself every day what he’s doing here. I do as well. I generally consider the greatest accomplishment of every day to be that I have stayed here through this day, and am going to give tomorrow another go. I can almost hear the gasps of people reading this and thinking “that’s no way to live, day to day, barely getting by! What about searching for and achieving happiness?” I would argue that I’m learning that this is the only way to live, being fully aware that you have gotten by that day, as it reminds you every single day that you’re living. And you’ve chosen your life, rather than defining your life by the tasks you’ve chosen to accomplish in this day. Happiness falls into that category of moments you are lucky enough to have an occasional glimpse of if you’re open to it, rather than some mythical state of being that one can expect to be in for any permanent length of time…
I was reading a fellow Peace Corps blog today (it’s linked to mine as “hottie Brent’s blog”) and his latest entry is worth a read as it very eloquently states the theoretical basis for what community capacity builders are supposed to be doing, and a bit more background on the PMTCT (preventing mother to child transmission) and home based care programs. He states better than I what a community capacity builder does or is supposed to do every day.
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