28 days. I will be on Combivir for 28 days. For the length of a first timer’s stay in rehab, the length of time of an average menstrual cycle, I will be on this drug. Post Exposure Prophylaxis. It makes me nauseous, tired, and I struggle to keep my bowels about me. And yet, because of the events of a split second of my life, I will not cease it’s ingestion for 28 days.
It’s like the beginning of a pregnancy, I suppose, but opposite. The fluids of two bodies were exchanged, and I hope and pray to all that is holy that there is only one line on that test I will take in 28 days, and that it’s negative. I’m nauseas as hell, and usually in the morning, and should not drink alcohol due to its effects on my liver. I must remember to take it at the same time every day morning and night, and plan my day’s activities around my water intake and nearness of bathroom facilities. All this fun and I didn’t even get to have sex.
I will live through a month of uncertainty, in some ways better than the other uncertainties in my life here, as it has an end date. This makes it a bit more bearable, but still, the not knowing. Despite all the facts and figures being thrown at me, all the information available, and my dear friend in the States spending an hour on the phone with the CDC, the statistics of less than 1% chance doesn’t reassure me completely, as there are more than a few variables in my particular situation. I have nothing tangible to do but hope. The odds are good but not completely 100% and so there still remains an element of uncertainty. And nothing left to do but hope and pray against everything I know that after this month of not knowing I will remain HIV negative.
How did this happen? Quite simply, quickly, ordinarily as most moments do, even those which have the potential to change your life.
I was at the clinic. It was Friday, nearing lunch time, and one of the nurses was trying to finish up with the last patients that were in the waiting room prior to lunch. It was a mother and her child; they had traveled to the clinic from Gunitsoga, about a thirty minute drive down the horrible dirt road out of Seronga, towards Gudikwa. It would be difficult to catch a lift out that way regardless, but I shuddered to think of the mother and baby trying to hike in the midday heat. If they didn’t get finished before the lunch break (the only thing that ever happens promptly on time in Botswana) they would have to wait and leave after 2. In the interest of everyone involved but myself, in order to help everyone get where they were going in a timely manner, I agreed to perform the small task that would change my life.
The mother needed a consultation and the baby needed a vaccination. As our injection area at the clinic is incredibly cramped and small, there is no room for a proper table on which to sit a baby who is getting a shot. Usually the mother just holds their child, while the nurse gives the child the injection in their upper thigh. As the mother was in the consultation room, I agreed to hold the baby for the procedure.
I propped the baby on my lap, speaking in my strange language to the back of his little 4 month old head, murmuring something about how in just one quick second he was not going to be very happy, but not to worry as it would only last a moment. The nurse swabbed the area and prepared the syringe. He pressed the needle into the baby’s thigh. The baby predictably cried and squirmed. The nurse removed the needle and went to wipe away the tiny bit of fluid that seeped out of the baby’s thigh.
And accidentally plunged the needle into my own thigh.
He recoiled immediately.
I looked up at him in surprise, unwilling to completely believe what had just happened, but unable to deny it as a droplet of my own blood appeared on my skirt.
I look down at the crying child in my arms, the tiny possible carrier of such a deadly disease. I stammer, “What is the baby’s, is the baby, the mother,” I want to hand the child off to someone, to get away from it, and immediately feel guilty, judgmental, but my fear quickly overrules these emotions. The nurse, just as shocked as I am, quickly says “It’s ok, this baby is negative.” I look at the baby, fat, and healthy looking, it seems right that this is true. “The mother? The DBS? (Dried blood spot.- the test in which blood is taken from a baby’s heel and blotted onto a paper, sent to a laboratory in Gabs, and analyzed and returned to the clinic via the mail. It is the way to determine the HIV status of a baby.) Where is the baby’s DBS?” The baby is still in my arms and squirms and cries and I want to be away from him, far, away. I am nearing panic and am trying to remain calm so as not to drop this child, this innocent child, and trying to remind myself that he is just that, and innocent child.
The next few minutes pass in a blur, phoning the PCMO, panicking, trying not to panic, rationalizing. I go into the defensive mode of denial for a while, and eat lunch. I walk through the blazing heat to try to make a copy of the baby’s DBS report to fax to the PCMO, as I am thinking this is essential information for her to have, and of course no fax or copy machines in Seronga are working and I am pissed off.
I try not to think "Why me" because why not me? I'm human, no different from anyone else, just as susceptible to this disease as the next person. But I think it anyways. And I'm slightly mortified by my previous and lasting sense of invincibilty. I'm indignant.
I wish for the strength to bear this uncertainty alone, willing myself to remain calm and not to burden anyone else with this worry but I lack that particular strength. It seems unfair to bring anyone that cannot feasibly do anything into this surreal terror but as is her tendency, no matter where I am on Earth it seems my mother can sense my turmoil as only a mother can and chose that exact moment to text me. I ask her to call. She does and I try to downplay the situation, trying my damndest to convince myself and her that this is no big deal and all will be fine. I speak sharply and try to speak factually, playing up the things in my favor and downplaying the ones that suggest the true risk. I hear the tears in her voice and I demand that she not worry herself with this, that I will be fine.
She asks me if I’m scared.
I blink back tears.... And I lie to my mother.
“No,” I snap, only realizing as I say it how frightened I really am.
I chase away these fears and thoughts by conjuring up the blameless denial that has gotten me this far in Africa. “This is not happening to me, I will not allow it,” just as sternly as any parent admonishes their child.
And in response, a small, small voice inside me, one that I haven’t heard for quite some time wonders, “Maybe Africa just doesn’t want me here anymore.”
As long as I’ve contemplated coming to Africa, and joining the Peace Corps, there has been many, many times in which the sheer force of my will has prevented me from even entertaining the possibility of leaving. When people have asked me what I want to accomplish with my two years in the Botswana, they are often uncomfortable at the forcefulness with which I pronounce that my accomplishment will be to stay the whole time. I’m generally quite venomous when people gently remind me that it’s ok if I want to come home. It’s telling that it took another event completely outside of me to push the question into my mind- maybe more than whether I want to stay in Africa, I need to question the other side of the equation, whether Africa wants me here. Through the thefts, the sickness, the difficulty, the adjustments, the homesickness, the disappointments, and the relationship that has crumbled at least partially due to my decision to come here, I have rarely, if ever, considered if I should leave. As anyone who has ever been in a relationship with me can attest, I never did know when to give in, or how to quit while I was ahead.
In my darkest moments here, I’ve trusted that the stuff that has been happening has all been for a reason, to teach me something, with the really hard things maybe a lesson I’m not yet ready to understand the meaning of. I swallow the lump in my throat and rack my mind for the bright side, something to make this fear and uncertainty productive. All I’ve found at this juncture is that I now know intimately the feeling of anyone coming in to be tested and having any doubts about what will be revealed to them.
Today it’s a week since the moment that upset the balance of my life. Other than remembering to take my medication, I’ve found I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I can usually forget about the dark cloud looming over my future, and ignore the flattened plum-like bruise on the back of my right hand that indicates where they took my blood for the first round of liver function tests. I decline the wine at dinner and go to bed early. I reason that this is just like a completely irrational pregnancy scare and that in a month, and three months, and six months the tests I take will turn out just the way they always have, negative. Tomorrow I will return to my life in Seronga, where I left in a hurry one week earlier. I will continue my life as normally as possible. I will try to make it through the remaining three weeks of my sentence; I will try to adjust to the slightly off-ness of my new normal.
I will hope that by the sheer force of my will, I will be fine. I will repeat it like a mantra whenever I need to white knuckle way through this, even if my fingernails pierce the skin of my palms. I will breathe deeply and I will continue on in the only direction I know how to go, which is foward...
Thursday, October 30, 2008
These are the Facts...
I am behind on my writing. I want to just put a note up there for those who may have heard through other means...
Last Friday I was stuck by a needle that had just given a vaccine to an HIV neg baby.Unfortunately baby momma was HIV pos. This is both good and bad as it means that all the PMTCT measures were taken, however it also means that I had to go on PEP (Post Exposure Prophylaxis) a medication to prevent the transmission of HIV after a possible exposure. The Peace Corps responded quickly and well, and got me down to Gabs in a record 1 day (2 flights) and I was given the medical attention that I needed. I'm still processing the whole situation myself, and I've been given varying statistics as to the possibility of transmission, but with PEP I'm told there is a less than 1% chance of acquiring HIV. I'm very hopeful. The medication makes me very nausious and tired. I will be on it for 28 days. I take it every 12 hours and try to set an alarm to wake up really early so that I can go back and sleep through the nausea. I'm writing a blog about the emotional side of it, so more details are to follow. I'm not angry with the nurse or anyone involved, as these things just happen.
For those of you so inclined please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
I'll be fine.
Jen
Last Friday I was stuck by a needle that had just given a vaccine to an HIV neg baby.Unfortunately baby momma was HIV pos. This is both good and bad as it means that all the PMTCT measures were taken, however it also means that I had to go on PEP (Post Exposure Prophylaxis) a medication to prevent the transmission of HIV after a possible exposure. The Peace Corps responded quickly and well, and got me down to Gabs in a record 1 day (2 flights) and I was given the medical attention that I needed. I'm still processing the whole situation myself, and I've been given varying statistics as to the possibility of transmission, but with PEP I'm told there is a less than 1% chance of acquiring HIV. I'm very hopeful. The medication makes me very nausious and tired. I will be on it for 28 days. I take it every 12 hours and try to set an alarm to wake up really early so that I can go back and sleep through the nausea. I'm writing a blog about the emotional side of it, so more details are to follow. I'm not angry with the nurse or anyone involved, as these things just happen.
For those of you so inclined please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
I'll be fine.
Jen
Life at Seronga Clinic
I sit perched upon a broken stool as I stare out through the square space that comprises the dispensary window, and watch all the people on the other side. They wait patiently for their medications, drugs that will relieve some of their suffering, that will be their salvation, and that I sit amongst, unable to dispense. I again feel useless in a questionable mission. They chat amongst themselves, speaking of what I am unsure, as somewhere between my ears and my mind the rhyme and reason of this language is lost. I absorb but do not comprehend this musical speaking. They stare back at me, a fish in a fishbowl, and animal in a cage, a creature more exotic (and possibly more dangerous, based on the look in their eyes) than any animal that stalks their village at night.
At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.
The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.
It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.
At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.
The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.
It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.
The Condom Fairy...
They generally accept the condoms I offer them in the waiting area of the clinic, wrapped in packets of 12 (no baker’s dozen here.. despite being used to prevent not only STI’s but also to avoid a bun in the oven) in the news of the past weeks (it takes a while for printed news to arrive in Seronga). It’s mostly women at the clinic, occasionally for themselves but mostly for their children of which it’s common to see one in the belly, one on the back and one at their heel.
Some reach out and grab one or two packets from the boxful I carry, eager to get their hands on the thing that may stave off the virus that is slowly killing their village, their country, their continent. Some grab them as a statement to others, much in the vein of “setting a good example”, or to take advantage of something, anything being given to them by a white person. Others giggle bashfully, reluctant to admit that they may be having sex despite the bulge in their middle. Some are hesitant to accept them, not immediately understanding my strange accent exclaiming “dikondom” (the Setswana plural for condom) in a language that still may not even be their own. Some defer, as they have a small baby in their arms and by traditional custom are not supposed to be having intercourse until their child is of a certain age. I offer them some to “give to their friends”. They usually take them.
I have made tentative friends (although my white presence can never truly be trusted at face value; especially not as I hawk the implements for sexual activity- safe or otherwise) with the women who run (although not own) the businesses of this village. I have attempted to make a habit of taking up what Kagiso left off, encouraging the women to come to the clinic to get boxes to have available at their shops. They keep returning for more boxes, claiming at least to have run out.
My colleagues at the clinic seem to think my increased emphasis on condom distribution is ridiculous, standing by their belief that the people of the village are not actually using them. To this I innocently ask, “Well whatever are they using them for after they take them?” while readying my logic for an endless battle of reasoning and theorizing that may never get through to my coworkers. They seem to think that people are using them to decorate their houses or their health cards, or blow them up for their children as balloons, or worst of all, leaving them lying around. I demand to be shown these alleged atrocities, quite certain it’s not happening, and they laugh and shake their heads knowingly- silly Lorato…I respond, slightly irritated, that perhaps what they say is true, and is happening, but if of every 1,000 condoms distributed 1 box (100 condoms) are misused, that is still 900 that are potentially used correctly and are preventing HIV. My math does not impress them. Trying to convince a rural area with limited resources that some condoms may go to waste in order for some to be used is unfathomable.
My counterpart still doesn’t understand why condom distribution should be part of his job. I try again to lead him down the long path of explanations as to how it is relevant to his job as the PMTCT lay counselor. I establish that it is indeed his job to try to lower the number of HIV + women who become pregnant, and to encourage people to be tested and know their status. We get lost around the bend of trying to make his job of testing easier by helping to prevent people from having unprotected sex in the first place, with the main avenue of this being increased condom use.
I try to explain that at least when people have easier access to condoms, if they can grab them when they stop at the co-op or the bottle store as they are out doing other errands; at least they have less chance of forgetting them. Easy access means at least they’ll have them. What happens after that point is anyone’s guess.
Maybe a woman takes some condoms, holding them in a secret place, hoping for the courage to bring up the topic of safe sex to her husband, who may very well beat her for insinuating that one of them can’t be trusted or is sleeping around. Perhaps the woman with three children under five will wearily say “enough” and demand her husband use them so as to avoid yet another pregnancy. And perhaps that husband will leave her, easy enough to do in the land of lebolla and common law marriages and small houses, to sleep with someone more willing to have sex without one of those “wrappers”. Maybe the woman who is HIV+ will mention the idea of using a condom to the man who is paying her for sex, but doesn’t really press the issue, as he will pay more for sex without one. Perhaps a man knows that his small house is HIV+ and is attempting to protect his wife, but is unable to admit to her that he’s been with someone else and cannot bring up the topic of condom use. Maybe having condoms in hand could change the fate of these people, perhaps they’ll use them to protect themselves and live happily HIV free ever after.
I’ll never know which of these scenarios plays out, if all of them or none at all actually occur. They are all equally likely. I’m increasingly realizing the futility of changing the outlook of the entire village on sexual health, but I know that one of the keys to changing behavior is having the means to make a change. I have a hard time trying to press the Abstain, and Be Faithful elements of the ABC trinity of HIV prevention- to convince them of the virtues of monogamy when I know of no one whom has successfully lived the tenants of this theory. It’s a hard pill to swallow, much less distribute in this small rural village, I a culture that doesn’t necessarily seem up for it. Which battles am I choosing here? What are my best chances to make a difference?I choose to be the condom fairy, and hope that like all things magical in the mind of a child, it works.
Some reach out and grab one or two packets from the boxful I carry, eager to get their hands on the thing that may stave off the virus that is slowly killing their village, their country, their continent. Some grab them as a statement to others, much in the vein of “setting a good example”, or to take advantage of something, anything being given to them by a white person. Others giggle bashfully, reluctant to admit that they may be having sex despite the bulge in their middle. Some are hesitant to accept them, not immediately understanding my strange accent exclaiming “dikondom” (the Setswana plural for condom) in a language that still may not even be their own. Some defer, as they have a small baby in their arms and by traditional custom are not supposed to be having intercourse until their child is of a certain age. I offer them some to “give to their friends”. They usually take them.
I have made tentative friends (although my white presence can never truly be trusted at face value; especially not as I hawk the implements for sexual activity- safe or otherwise) with the women who run (although not own) the businesses of this village. I have attempted to make a habit of taking up what Kagiso left off, encouraging the women to come to the clinic to get boxes to have available at their shops. They keep returning for more boxes, claiming at least to have run out.
My colleagues at the clinic seem to think my increased emphasis on condom distribution is ridiculous, standing by their belief that the people of the village are not actually using them. To this I innocently ask, “Well whatever are they using them for after they take them?” while readying my logic for an endless battle of reasoning and theorizing that may never get through to my coworkers. They seem to think that people are using them to decorate their houses or their health cards, or blow them up for their children as balloons, or worst of all, leaving them lying around. I demand to be shown these alleged atrocities, quite certain it’s not happening, and they laugh and shake their heads knowingly- silly Lorato…I respond, slightly irritated, that perhaps what they say is true, and is happening, but if of every 1,000 condoms distributed 1 box (100 condoms) are misused, that is still 900 that are potentially used correctly and are preventing HIV. My math does not impress them. Trying to convince a rural area with limited resources that some condoms may go to waste in order for some to be used is unfathomable.
My counterpart still doesn’t understand why condom distribution should be part of his job. I try again to lead him down the long path of explanations as to how it is relevant to his job as the PMTCT lay counselor. I establish that it is indeed his job to try to lower the number of HIV + women who become pregnant, and to encourage people to be tested and know their status. We get lost around the bend of trying to make his job of testing easier by helping to prevent people from having unprotected sex in the first place, with the main avenue of this being increased condom use.
I try to explain that at least when people have easier access to condoms, if they can grab them when they stop at the co-op or the bottle store as they are out doing other errands; at least they have less chance of forgetting them. Easy access means at least they’ll have them. What happens after that point is anyone’s guess.
Maybe a woman takes some condoms, holding them in a secret place, hoping for the courage to bring up the topic of safe sex to her husband, who may very well beat her for insinuating that one of them can’t be trusted or is sleeping around. Perhaps the woman with three children under five will wearily say “enough” and demand her husband use them so as to avoid yet another pregnancy. And perhaps that husband will leave her, easy enough to do in the land of lebolla and common law marriages and small houses, to sleep with someone more willing to have sex without one of those “wrappers”. Maybe the woman who is HIV+ will mention the idea of using a condom to the man who is paying her for sex, but doesn’t really press the issue, as he will pay more for sex without one. Perhaps a man knows that his small house is HIV+ and is attempting to protect his wife, but is unable to admit to her that he’s been with someone else and cannot bring up the topic of condom use. Maybe having condoms in hand could change the fate of these people, perhaps they’ll use them to protect themselves and live happily HIV free ever after.
I’ll never know which of these scenarios plays out, if all of them or none at all actually occur. They are all equally likely. I’m increasingly realizing the futility of changing the outlook of the entire village on sexual health, but I know that one of the keys to changing behavior is having the means to make a change. I have a hard time trying to press the Abstain, and Be Faithful elements of the ABC trinity of HIV prevention- to convince them of the virtues of monogamy when I know of no one whom has successfully lived the tenants of this theory. It’s a hard pill to swallow, much less distribute in this small rural village, I a culture that doesn’t necessarily seem up for it. Which battles am I choosing here? What are my best chances to make a difference?I choose to be the condom fairy, and hope that like all things magical in the mind of a child, it works.
Botswana Wedding!!!
I recently crashed my first Motswana wedding here in the village. I had secured my invite (or really just the information that the event was happening, which I parleyed into an invite -from the sister of the bride- it's considered rude to not invite the entire village to a wedding celebration in this culture, but I still feel like I sort of crashed it) the way I do most things in this village, and really the way I did many things in the states, by wandering into the room (or yard in this case) and smiling in such a way that I hope no one wants to tell me to leave. The Bride’s sister had told me the festivities would be starting at 9 am and I was still early for the party when I smartly arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon.
I followed the sound of blaring music and saw all the children huddled as they do around the opening to the reed fence that comprised the yard. Once the adults inside noticed me they invited (or rather commanded) me to enter, and ordered a small child to find me a chair. As many of the older men and all the women were seated on the ground, I knew I had probably unseated someone important with my arrival. I kept on the stupid winsome grin so through the language barrier they knew I came in peace, and with openness, ready to do what they were doing, whatever they indicated was appropriate, that I was here to respectfully learn about and participate in their culture and this wedding. Can a smile say all that?
I've come to realize that no matter what I do or how much Setswana I learn, I will never completely be treated as an average member of this community. I will never completely blend in and will always be treated as an “honored” guest where ever I go. I will always be given a chair while women that are older or should demand more respect are seated on the floor or in the dirt. I will always be introduced and thanked as a guest of honor. They will repeatedly ask if I eat goat, the portions will always be embarrassingly large as a child looks hungrily on at my feet. I’m “special” here, for better or for worse. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a bit hard to accept when you feel a bit undeserving of all the fuss.
I would imagine that this is one of the things that make it difficult to go back home, to being "normal" and "average" again. These social niceties and signs of public respect are nice, if sometimes unnecessary. I go back and forth in my demeanor. Sometimes I want to be seen as a consultant who can help them come up with new ideas for helping things run more smoothly. I often crave the respect I feel I should be given for having four years of college, and having travel experience, and living in other cultures. I have a tough time deciding if I want to be seen as someone who’s the same as them, no expert, no one special, my white skin and American citizenship don’t mean anything significant. At the end of the day they still do and always will.
So the wedding. The bride and groom were dressed in what appeared to be their finest apparel, long dressy everything despite the fact that they were heavily perspiring in the heat. Their wedding party included all the children I had seen the day before dancing at the reed hut in town. They were now decked completely out with pink dresses (burgundy shirts and black pants for the boys), new hair, and occasional earrings or necklaces. The bride and groom walked out of the reed hut and everyone from the village was singing loudly, almost to the point of shouting, and if I hadn’t known it was a wedding celebration I would have been frightened. The wedding party and nearly everyone who wasn’t cooking piled into the back of a few trucks, which became loaded down to the point the axels it appeared the axels might break. The sing/shouting continued down the road. I was told they were going to take pictures of the wedding party down by the river. A note about photographs in Botswana. Unless specifically instructed to, people don’t smile for photographs. Even wedding photos. Every picture you see people are staring blankly into the camera or nearly glaring. This is why I try to take candid shots.
The wedding party was gone for nearly an hour, and everyone still back in the yard was milling around waiting or cooking. Just outside the reed fence where we had been sitting earlier someone had set up a canvas shelter with a few tables and chairs under it, and then a head table for the bride and groom, complete with upholstered living room chairs set like thrones. The thrones sat behind a table filled with several plastic flower arrangements that light up and change colors, as well as those plastic things that vaguely resemble fireworks operating on the same principle as the flowers. Around the rest of the area were traditional reed decorations and baskets here and there. Someone turned on the music and that continued to bump. One old woman danced feverishly by herself, seeming to be lost in the music, oblivious to the small children mocking her. I stopped to wonder if I would still be that cool when I am her age. I hope so. Finally the bride and groom returned, everyone yelling and jumping off the back of the dangerously overloaded trucks. The bride and groom walked unsmiling down the aisle, followed by their wedding party, who proceeded to dance for the next hour straight, performing the routines I had seen them doing the day before. The women of the village who are married wore brightly colored shawls to indicate this, the men had nothing in particular to denote their marital status. After the dancing the men gave speeches, and the dinner was served. As usual there was much pointing and whispering at me at this juncture amongst the women who were serving the food, undoubtedly wondering if I “et goat.” I smiled and waited patiently for the one who spoke the best English to approach me and ask (which is unfortunate because my taste for goat is something I can actually articulate in Setswana). I accepted the plate offered to me and declined the jar of mayonnaise and bottle of ketch up that came next (these are considered sauces to be used on rice, palache, or maze meal, they use these condiments as a sort of gravies.) As it was now dark and nearly 8PM I knew I had to make my way home, and paid some of the village children to lead me there.
I followed the sound of blaring music and saw all the children huddled as they do around the opening to the reed fence that comprised the yard. Once the adults inside noticed me they invited (or rather commanded) me to enter, and ordered a small child to find me a chair. As many of the older men and all the women were seated on the ground, I knew I had probably unseated someone important with my arrival. I kept on the stupid winsome grin so through the language barrier they knew I came in peace, and with openness, ready to do what they were doing, whatever they indicated was appropriate, that I was here to respectfully learn about and participate in their culture and this wedding. Can a smile say all that?
I've come to realize that no matter what I do or how much Setswana I learn, I will never completely be treated as an average member of this community. I will never completely blend in and will always be treated as an “honored” guest where ever I go. I will always be given a chair while women that are older or should demand more respect are seated on the floor or in the dirt. I will always be introduced and thanked as a guest of honor. They will repeatedly ask if I eat goat, the portions will always be embarrassingly large as a child looks hungrily on at my feet. I’m “special” here, for better or for worse. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a bit hard to accept when you feel a bit undeserving of all the fuss.
I would imagine that this is one of the things that make it difficult to go back home, to being "normal" and "average" again. These social niceties and signs of public respect are nice, if sometimes unnecessary. I go back and forth in my demeanor. Sometimes I want to be seen as a consultant who can help them come up with new ideas for helping things run more smoothly. I often crave the respect I feel I should be given for having four years of college, and having travel experience, and living in other cultures. I have a tough time deciding if I want to be seen as someone who’s the same as them, no expert, no one special, my white skin and American citizenship don’t mean anything significant. At the end of the day they still do and always will.
So the wedding. The bride and groom were dressed in what appeared to be their finest apparel, long dressy everything despite the fact that they were heavily perspiring in the heat. Their wedding party included all the children I had seen the day before dancing at the reed hut in town. They were now decked completely out with pink dresses (burgundy shirts and black pants for the boys), new hair, and occasional earrings or necklaces. The bride and groom walked out of the reed hut and everyone from the village was singing loudly, almost to the point of shouting, and if I hadn’t known it was a wedding celebration I would have been frightened. The wedding party and nearly everyone who wasn’t cooking piled into the back of a few trucks, which became loaded down to the point the axels it appeared the axels might break. The sing/shouting continued down the road. I was told they were going to take pictures of the wedding party down by the river. A note about photographs in Botswana. Unless specifically instructed to, people don’t smile for photographs. Even wedding photos. Every picture you see people are staring blankly into the camera or nearly glaring. This is why I try to take candid shots.
The wedding party was gone for nearly an hour, and everyone still back in the yard was milling around waiting or cooking. Just outside the reed fence where we had been sitting earlier someone had set up a canvas shelter with a few tables and chairs under it, and then a head table for the bride and groom, complete with upholstered living room chairs set like thrones. The thrones sat behind a table filled with several plastic flower arrangements that light up and change colors, as well as those plastic things that vaguely resemble fireworks operating on the same principle as the flowers. Around the rest of the area were traditional reed decorations and baskets here and there. Someone turned on the music and that continued to bump. One old woman danced feverishly by herself, seeming to be lost in the music, oblivious to the small children mocking her. I stopped to wonder if I would still be that cool when I am her age. I hope so. Finally the bride and groom returned, everyone yelling and jumping off the back of the dangerously overloaded trucks. The bride and groom walked unsmiling down the aisle, followed by their wedding party, who proceeded to dance for the next hour straight, performing the routines I had seen them doing the day before. The women of the village who are married wore brightly colored shawls to indicate this, the men had nothing in particular to denote their marital status. After the dancing the men gave speeches, and the dinner was served. As usual there was much pointing and whispering at me at this juncture amongst the women who were serving the food, undoubtedly wondering if I “et goat.” I smiled and waited patiently for the one who spoke the best English to approach me and ask (which is unfortunate because my taste for goat is something I can actually articulate in Setswana). I accepted the plate offered to me and declined the jar of mayonnaise and bottle of ketch up that came next (these are considered sauces to be used on rice, palache, or maze meal, they use these condiments as a sort of gravies.) As it was now dark and nearly 8PM I knew I had to make my way home, and paid some of the village children to lead me there.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
"Rough" and "Bruised", Goodbye to Hugh: The misadventures of Z the Queen and Me
I like to think of it as a reconnaissance mission...
We had mentioned the possibility of a meet up in Maun during my birthday weekend in the bush. As with most conversations that begin around a campfire you never know if these things will carry through. Dudu, V and I though it might be a great idea to make some friends with the bush pilots (a generally rough crowd of overgrown boys in planes who party hard and spend a lot of time in the clouds over the delta. At the end of the day they’re mostly male and have cute accents). Fast forward three weeks later and as IST (and thus the PC travel lockdown) came to a close V began the coordination of our efforts to meet for a weekend in the "big city". Dudu became incredibly ill and had to bow out, so it looked like it would just be V and I. She had found an empty flight in on Friday and I sat waiting for her in the little known area I like to think of as my own personal hideaway in the crow’s nest (that nobody’s ever heard about) at Bon Arrive (see blog about maun for the feel of this place).
We began our night at the Buck and Hunter, an unfortunately named bar (I’ll let you use your imagination for what beautiful rhymes can be made for that one after a few) that while ok fun, generally has the main advantage of being within reasonable walking distance from both P's house and the Bon Arrive. The Buck was a bit dead, so we caught a lift with my new friend Zeke to the Riverlodge, which was, as B says “bumpin'.” The ratio of men to women was exceptionally favorable, as it usually is in Maun at about five men to every woman.
I took advantage of these lucky numbers by fulfilling my stereotype as an American woman (and shamelessly exploiting what appears to be my “charming” American accent. Who am I to tell these people they’re wrong? I learned of this formerly overlooked little secret weapon later when some guy began arguing over nothing with me and his friend informed me that his buddy just wanted to hear me talk at any cost. Pretty lame. These guys seem to lack serious game, a result I’m sure, of living in the bush for too many months. I do have to say an American accent is exponentially more attractive than a particularly thick Boer Afrikaner voice, but whatever.) by striking up a conversation with the nearest decent looking guy. He ended up being exceptionally drunk and it was over before it started as he spilled his ecto-cooler looking drink (I found it was Cain and cream soda, a popular Afrikaner drink that is lethal in it’s sweetness) all over me.
Not to be deterred, I dragged V, ever the reticent wingwoman, over to another mixed group. Quickly realizing the new power dynamic of and possible blacklisting by the local women, as well as their potential irritation at the competition of V and I (she is seriously cute, and with a last name and pedigree that carries quite a bit of weight around these parts). I decided the best way meet the guys was to make friends with the girls. This also helps in screening for complete A-holes. I began chatting with some of the women near the bar, and was quickly intercepted by Hugh, the most genuinely nice pilot I've had the pleasure of meeting.
We had met on the house boat in Seronga the night of the cigarette lit adventure ride through the delta with Simon. I had learned at our initial meeting that Hugh was moving to Canada to be a bush pilot there at the beginning of October. I remembered this and asked how the planning was going. He mentioned that his going away party (along with that of three other pilots- it seems they come and go in waves) would be tomorrow and would I like to come? Hell yes I would like to go to what will likely be THE (as in only) party in Maun. We chatted for a while until I caught the eye of the man who will come to be known as “Rough”. (In the interest of anonymity, and my future potential book deal I've decided to come up with nicknames or use initials for many of the characters in the story, to protect both the innocent and the guilty. The exceptions to this are those whose characters tend to be too big for characterization or nicknames. Ie Simon. I’m sure you understand).
Rough was Scottish, his brogue worn away slightly by several years spent in America, a relocation he undertook upon turning 18 (more than a few years ago…) and having the realization that being born in America means he has duel citizenship. So he decided to take full advantage of that American passport. The slight loss of his accent was replaced with a certain American arrogance that faintly contradicted his British charm. Although he was tall, dark, handsome and generally clean cut, one could tell he was a little rough around the edges as are most of the men who choose to make their career in the bush of Africa.
He made a few initial flirtatious comments about how I was clearly an attractive girl who would be beautiful with hair, which turned me on my heel as I scoffed and tried to walk away, at which point he laughed and grabbed my arm and apologized. We settled into the sort of flirtatious banter that I realized I so desperately miss about the states. I’ve found most Africans don’t understand sarcasm, or dry humor, and thus my main ability to entertain and amuse is based solely on my inability to speak the language, and my intentions are all too often misconstrued. So after bit, post him storing my number in his phone with some notation of “Sinead” (that wasn’t in reference to her cover of the Prince song “Nothing Compares 2 U”) after my name we parted ways. He could have been everything I ever wanted in another life, before I had a good grasp on what precisely that was…
Moving on.
I went to retrieve V, who was deep in conversation with “Bruise” the pilot she had called dibs on previously. V, or the Queen as I like to call her, is so very lovely. She is strikingly gorgeous, exceedingly kind and generous, fiercely loyal and quite sharp to boot. I like her. She’s the best female friend I have in the vicinity of Seronga. Her family connections make her essentially an heiress of the delta, although she’d never act the part, or drop her name for her own benefit, although she can sometimes be convinced to do it for mine. All of these factors together make her a prime candidate to be a victim of these jackals that are the pilots. For Bruise is a flyboy, one of these Peter Pans of the Never Never Land that is the Okavango delta. They are young pilots from all over the English speaking world (accents! Everywhere, accents!) who have come to sow their oats in the wilds of Africa. They delight in a post collegiate extended adolescence; flying all over the delta by day and partying like it’s their second job at night. More than once I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a cockpit with a man who gave more than a suspicion of having been out partying the night before, although any one of them can and will readily quote you the regulation number of hours between last drink and take off.
So the flyboys are generally trouble. Interesting, well traveled, and fun, but trouble nontheless. They are much like modern day sailors. If one is the mature old age of 27 they have most likely previously encountered such trouble, it is rather easy to spot. ;-) However, at the tender young age of 22, the Queen is charmingly naïve in her assessment of the datability of these flyboys. So I try to watch out for her. But it’s still fun to witness the hunt in action. I mentioned it might be time to go and dragged V along towards a more sober looking pilot who was the friend of a guy who had proposed marriage to me earlier, and we were soon riding home with the wind in our hair.
In the darkish bar and with a few drinks under my belt, I took pause at the idea that Rough’s attractiveness could feasibly be caused by the ever present “Botswana goggles” that seem to be standard issue when one resides in the wilds of Seronga. I asked V about this and she was in no state to recall, having been cozied up to Bruise throughout the night. My theory was disproved the next day at lunch at the Buck when V and I ran into Rough and his (Irish!!! The accents!! Ahh!) friend who were in fact coordinating the very party we had been invited to that night.
Jackpot.
A few hours later…
We showed up at the pilot party in Z’s boss’s truck, as I had spotted the Z research emblem on the vehicle and immediately asked for a lift to the party; much to Z’s chagrin (she is notoriously shy). I had made it my personal mission that we were not paying for any taxis or combis (bus-vans) in Maun that weekend, and so we were relying on V’s good looks, Z’s charm and my assertiveness. It worked well. As we came through the balloons in the trees that designated the party house and went through the gate, I was extremely excited to spy a pool. Maun (and really, most of Botswana) is a notoriously hot place, and to know the location of a pool is better than gold. I decided that pilots and their tendencies aside, I needed to make very good friends with the inhabitants of this house.
As we arrived the dynamic was like a high school dance, a huge group of guys on one side of the yard, (except for the pig rotating on a spit) and a few girls were standing near some cars. By just walking in we had doubled the number of females at the party. These were again, lovely Maun odds. Hugh came up and greeted us warmly, being British and hospitable, and the other guys gawked at us from across the pool. They, being Afrikaans, lacked the same social graces without a little liquid courage. I preferred to sit by the pool. Which in the course of a half hour was entered gracefully by a few cannon balling young men. Being drenched already I of course decided if you can’t beat them….join them.
After the sun began to set more people showed up and it became a proper party. The pool was violated by both people and eventually a pig’s head, (after which I no longer felt like swimming). Throughout the course of the night Rough and Bruise showed up in another British invasion, and Z got to know Hugh a little better (which seemed appropriate as they are both leaving the country in the next month). Singing and dancing ensued, food and drinks flowed, and a good time was had by all.
Our Maun invasion was complete, and Z, the Queen and I all left the next day to give Maun a break and plot our next adventure.
We had mentioned the possibility of a meet up in Maun during my birthday weekend in the bush. As with most conversations that begin around a campfire you never know if these things will carry through. Dudu, V and I though it might be a great idea to make some friends with the bush pilots (a generally rough crowd of overgrown boys in planes who party hard and spend a lot of time in the clouds over the delta. At the end of the day they’re mostly male and have cute accents). Fast forward three weeks later and as IST (and thus the PC travel lockdown) came to a close V began the coordination of our efforts to meet for a weekend in the "big city". Dudu became incredibly ill and had to bow out, so it looked like it would just be V and I. She had found an empty flight in on Friday and I sat waiting for her in the little known area I like to think of as my own personal hideaway in the crow’s nest (that nobody’s ever heard about) at Bon Arrive (see blog about maun for the feel of this place).
We began our night at the Buck and Hunter, an unfortunately named bar (I’ll let you use your imagination for what beautiful rhymes can be made for that one after a few) that while ok fun, generally has the main advantage of being within reasonable walking distance from both P's house and the Bon Arrive. The Buck was a bit dead, so we caught a lift with my new friend Zeke to the Riverlodge, which was, as B says “bumpin'.” The ratio of men to women was exceptionally favorable, as it usually is in Maun at about five men to every woman.
I took advantage of these lucky numbers by fulfilling my stereotype as an American woman (and shamelessly exploiting what appears to be my “charming” American accent. Who am I to tell these people they’re wrong? I learned of this formerly overlooked little secret weapon later when some guy began arguing over nothing with me and his friend informed me that his buddy just wanted to hear me talk at any cost. Pretty lame. These guys seem to lack serious game, a result I’m sure, of living in the bush for too many months. I do have to say an American accent is exponentially more attractive than a particularly thick Boer Afrikaner voice, but whatever.) by striking up a conversation with the nearest decent looking guy. He ended up being exceptionally drunk and it was over before it started as he spilled his ecto-cooler looking drink (I found it was Cain and cream soda, a popular Afrikaner drink that is lethal in it’s sweetness) all over me.
Not to be deterred, I dragged V, ever the reticent wingwoman, over to another mixed group. Quickly realizing the new power dynamic of and possible blacklisting by the local women, as well as their potential irritation at the competition of V and I (she is seriously cute, and with a last name and pedigree that carries quite a bit of weight around these parts). I decided the best way meet the guys was to make friends with the girls. This also helps in screening for complete A-holes. I began chatting with some of the women near the bar, and was quickly intercepted by Hugh, the most genuinely nice pilot I've had the pleasure of meeting.
We had met on the house boat in Seronga the night of the cigarette lit adventure ride through the delta with Simon. I had learned at our initial meeting that Hugh was moving to Canada to be a bush pilot there at the beginning of October. I remembered this and asked how the planning was going. He mentioned that his going away party (along with that of three other pilots- it seems they come and go in waves) would be tomorrow and would I like to come? Hell yes I would like to go to what will likely be THE (as in only) party in Maun. We chatted for a while until I caught the eye of the man who will come to be known as “Rough”. (In the interest of anonymity, and my future potential book deal I've decided to come up with nicknames or use initials for many of the characters in the story, to protect both the innocent and the guilty. The exceptions to this are those whose characters tend to be too big for characterization or nicknames. Ie Simon. I’m sure you understand).
Rough was Scottish, his brogue worn away slightly by several years spent in America, a relocation he undertook upon turning 18 (more than a few years ago…) and having the realization that being born in America means he has duel citizenship. So he decided to take full advantage of that American passport. The slight loss of his accent was replaced with a certain American arrogance that faintly contradicted his British charm. Although he was tall, dark, handsome and generally clean cut, one could tell he was a little rough around the edges as are most of the men who choose to make their career in the bush of Africa.
He made a few initial flirtatious comments about how I was clearly an attractive girl who would be beautiful with hair, which turned me on my heel as I scoffed and tried to walk away, at which point he laughed and grabbed my arm and apologized. We settled into the sort of flirtatious banter that I realized I so desperately miss about the states. I’ve found most Africans don’t understand sarcasm, or dry humor, and thus my main ability to entertain and amuse is based solely on my inability to speak the language, and my intentions are all too often misconstrued. So after bit, post him storing my number in his phone with some notation of “Sinead” (that wasn’t in reference to her cover of the Prince song “Nothing Compares 2 U”) after my name we parted ways. He could have been everything I ever wanted in another life, before I had a good grasp on what precisely that was…
Moving on.
I went to retrieve V, who was deep in conversation with “Bruise” the pilot she had called dibs on previously. V, or the Queen as I like to call her, is so very lovely. She is strikingly gorgeous, exceedingly kind and generous, fiercely loyal and quite sharp to boot. I like her. She’s the best female friend I have in the vicinity of Seronga. Her family connections make her essentially an heiress of the delta, although she’d never act the part, or drop her name for her own benefit, although she can sometimes be convinced to do it for mine. All of these factors together make her a prime candidate to be a victim of these jackals that are the pilots. For Bruise is a flyboy, one of these Peter Pans of the Never Never Land that is the Okavango delta. They are young pilots from all over the English speaking world (accents! Everywhere, accents!) who have come to sow their oats in the wilds of Africa. They delight in a post collegiate extended adolescence; flying all over the delta by day and partying like it’s their second job at night. More than once I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a cockpit with a man who gave more than a suspicion of having been out partying the night before, although any one of them can and will readily quote you the regulation number of hours between last drink and take off.
So the flyboys are generally trouble. Interesting, well traveled, and fun, but trouble nontheless. They are much like modern day sailors. If one is the mature old age of 27 they have most likely previously encountered such trouble, it is rather easy to spot. ;-) However, at the tender young age of 22, the Queen is charmingly naïve in her assessment of the datability of these flyboys. So I try to watch out for her. But it’s still fun to witness the hunt in action. I mentioned it might be time to go and dragged V along towards a more sober looking pilot who was the friend of a guy who had proposed marriage to me earlier, and we were soon riding home with the wind in our hair.
In the darkish bar and with a few drinks under my belt, I took pause at the idea that Rough’s attractiveness could feasibly be caused by the ever present “Botswana goggles” that seem to be standard issue when one resides in the wilds of Seronga. I asked V about this and she was in no state to recall, having been cozied up to Bruise throughout the night. My theory was disproved the next day at lunch at the Buck when V and I ran into Rough and his (Irish!!! The accents!! Ahh!) friend who were in fact coordinating the very party we had been invited to that night.
Jackpot.
A few hours later…
We showed up at the pilot party in Z’s boss’s truck, as I had spotted the Z research emblem on the vehicle and immediately asked for a lift to the party; much to Z’s chagrin (she is notoriously shy). I had made it my personal mission that we were not paying for any taxis or combis (bus-vans) in Maun that weekend, and so we were relying on V’s good looks, Z’s charm and my assertiveness. It worked well. As we came through the balloons in the trees that designated the party house and went through the gate, I was extremely excited to spy a pool. Maun (and really, most of Botswana) is a notoriously hot place, and to know the location of a pool is better than gold. I decided that pilots and their tendencies aside, I needed to make very good friends with the inhabitants of this house.
As we arrived the dynamic was like a high school dance, a huge group of guys on one side of the yard, (except for the pig rotating on a spit) and a few girls were standing near some cars. By just walking in we had doubled the number of females at the party. These were again, lovely Maun odds. Hugh came up and greeted us warmly, being British and hospitable, and the other guys gawked at us from across the pool. They, being Afrikaans, lacked the same social graces without a little liquid courage. I preferred to sit by the pool. Which in the course of a half hour was entered gracefully by a few cannon balling young men. Being drenched already I of course decided if you can’t beat them….join them.
After the sun began to set more people showed up and it became a proper party. The pool was violated by both people and eventually a pig’s head, (after which I no longer felt like swimming). Throughout the course of the night Rough and Bruise showed up in another British invasion, and Z got to know Hugh a little better (which seemed appropriate as they are both leaving the country in the next month). Singing and dancing ensued, food and drinks flowed, and a good time was had by all.
Our Maun invasion was complete, and Z, the Queen and I all left the next day to give Maun a break and plot our next adventure.
Score another for Team Seronga...
From mid august:
It was Friday. It had been one of the longest weeks in my recent unreliable memory of record, and I was tired. I had spent most of the morning at the kgotla, listening to the choir perform and the lengthy process of distributing some blankets that had been donated for “destitutes” (all in Setswana, my second such meeting of the week. I think I’ll learn this language by sheer exposure despite my stubbornness and refusal to study it) which ended up being another fine lesson in those who have little making the utmost effort and putting the utmost integrity into distributing what little they have to those who need it more. I had walked into the local barbershop which is a reed walled tin roofed shack, wherein I had painstakingly attempted to explain the concept of a mohawk to the man who was clipping my hair. He claimed to understand English and I soon realized was nervous to be cutting a white woman’s hair. He was afraid to put the clippers anywhere near my scalp, and eventually I asked for the clippers, had him hold the mirror and ended up doing most of it myself. It was another example of how much I’ve let go of my own concept of the importance of hair, and the loss of my faith in the necessity of stylishness in Africa.
After failing to get the internet to work (an upsettingly common occurrence in Seronga) I gave up on everything and just started walking towards home. As I’ve mentioned it was Friday, and toward month end, which means people have been paid and have money, and thus they all want to play their music. Loudly. This is not uncommon. To my left I heard blown speakers projecting traditional music, complete with whistles in place of procussion (how this is “traditional” when the whistles sound like a combination of those cheap plastic things you get from the doctor’s office as a reward for not screaming at the top of your lungs during your shot, and have to fill with water to make work; and something from the dollar store, cracker jack box, or the like). To my right I hear some mega club remix of the “Lion Sleeps Tonight,” the irony of something like this being projected so loudly to be heard over the rumble of the generator powering the cd player (“in the village, the peaceful village”) was not lost me. Intrigued by both the hilariousness of the music and even more so by the hoards of children huddled near the opening of reeds that I assumed to be the doorway to a shebeen (traditional bar), I decided, despite my foul mood, to investigate further. I figured why not add to my shitty mood by checking out what sort of drunken debauchery these children are witnessing today (it’s completely common for children to be with their parents at these open air bars that serve “traditional beer” known as shake shake, chibuko, or as I like to think of it, “swill” and they are often ordered to play waiter or waitress to their parents by fetching them drinks.) Maybe it would be a nice opportunity to yell at someone for being an irresponsible parent. That would make me feel better…Right.
The children were everywhere, peering through the reeds, bouncing with that obscene looking hip thrusting dance to the music. They giggled and wiggled as I approached, and I craned my neck around the doorway to see what all this was about.
It was a dance class.
My bad mood immediately evaporated and I burst into a huge grin. One of the women who appeared to be teaching yelled, “Lorato, tsena,” (enter) over the thumping music. I sat down on an oil drum to watch.
A line of children and teenagers arranged by height, were dancing with choreography and steps, each different steps according to the various songs. Children that had only a few years of walking under their belts were performing relatively intricate steps at the front of the line. There was turning and direction changes, it was Texas line dancing to club tunes. It reconfirmed my notion that people in Africa are just straight born with a rhythm like no other. Everyone, it seems can naturally sing and dance.
More proof that just when I underestimate Africa, it responds by producing another amazing example of just how wrong I am…
It was Friday. It had been one of the longest weeks in my recent unreliable memory of record, and I was tired. I had spent most of the morning at the kgotla, listening to the choir perform and the lengthy process of distributing some blankets that had been donated for “destitutes” (all in Setswana, my second such meeting of the week. I think I’ll learn this language by sheer exposure despite my stubbornness and refusal to study it) which ended up being another fine lesson in those who have little making the utmost effort and putting the utmost integrity into distributing what little they have to those who need it more. I had walked into the local barbershop which is a reed walled tin roofed shack, wherein I had painstakingly attempted to explain the concept of a mohawk to the man who was clipping my hair. He claimed to understand English and I soon realized was nervous to be cutting a white woman’s hair. He was afraid to put the clippers anywhere near my scalp, and eventually I asked for the clippers, had him hold the mirror and ended up doing most of it myself. It was another example of how much I’ve let go of my own concept of the importance of hair, and the loss of my faith in the necessity of stylishness in Africa.
After failing to get the internet to work (an upsettingly common occurrence in Seronga) I gave up on everything and just started walking towards home. As I’ve mentioned it was Friday, and toward month end, which means people have been paid and have money, and thus they all want to play their music. Loudly. This is not uncommon. To my left I heard blown speakers projecting traditional music, complete with whistles in place of procussion (how this is “traditional” when the whistles sound like a combination of those cheap plastic things you get from the doctor’s office as a reward for not screaming at the top of your lungs during your shot, and have to fill with water to make work; and something from the dollar store, cracker jack box, or the like). To my right I hear some mega club remix of the “Lion Sleeps Tonight,” the irony of something like this being projected so loudly to be heard over the rumble of the generator powering the cd player (“in the village, the peaceful village”) was not lost me. Intrigued by both the hilariousness of the music and even more so by the hoards of children huddled near the opening of reeds that I assumed to be the doorway to a shebeen (traditional bar), I decided, despite my foul mood, to investigate further. I figured why not add to my shitty mood by checking out what sort of drunken debauchery these children are witnessing today (it’s completely common for children to be with their parents at these open air bars that serve “traditional beer” known as shake shake, chibuko, or as I like to think of it, “swill” and they are often ordered to play waiter or waitress to their parents by fetching them drinks.) Maybe it would be a nice opportunity to yell at someone for being an irresponsible parent. That would make me feel better…Right.
The children were everywhere, peering through the reeds, bouncing with that obscene looking hip thrusting dance to the music. They giggled and wiggled as I approached, and I craned my neck around the doorway to see what all this was about.
It was a dance class.
My bad mood immediately evaporated and I burst into a huge grin. One of the women who appeared to be teaching yelled, “Lorato, tsena,” (enter) over the thumping music. I sat down on an oil drum to watch.
A line of children and teenagers arranged by height, were dancing with choreography and steps, each different steps according to the various songs. Children that had only a few years of walking under their belts were performing relatively intricate steps at the front of the line. There was turning and direction changes, it was Texas line dancing to club tunes. It reconfirmed my notion that people in Africa are just straight born with a rhythm like no other. Everyone, it seems can naturally sing and dance.
More proof that just when I underestimate Africa, it responds by producing another amazing example of just how wrong I am…
From the Land of 10,000 Lakes to the Land of 150,000 Islands.
We drive over the floodplain, bouncing violently along on a road, or really a trail blazed by someone who left their tire tracks on this particular path previously. The ruts in the path are large, and toss the little white pickup up and down, back and forth as it nobly attempts to navigate along the path that seemed steady only from a distance. The pink sun sinks into the haze, making its final encore until the morning. It leaves the stage that is the sky to the full moon that rises opposite.
In a few months all we drive over will be gone, held hostage by the rains and drowned completely in the subsequent floods. The ground here is mostly dry, sandy, yet boggy in the most unpredictable places. Some of the mud is obvious, a thick black mess created by a combination of the water from the occasional lagoon and the refuse of the animals that drink from it. They have left their footprints and the indents of their bodies where they sleep and roll in the mixture to cool down at night. Simon points this out to me.
We drive on. We must take caution as we continue to not become stuck. The sand beneath us betrays what in a few months time this expanse will become; a glassy swiftly flowing river. The grasses, which once waved in the calm yet deeply flowing currents have been chewed down to short tufts by the livestock that have made this place their refuge from the dusty, dry, barren village field further up the gently sloping riverbank.
The village children have also made this their haven, no longer afraid of the crocs and hippos that will inhabit this very acreage when the rains come; they have erected goal posts for a futbol field. Patches are charred by fires set by the villagers after they’ve come to collect the long, dried reeds for their traditional roofs and fences. They do this so as to make net fishing easier when the rains come. Long wood makoro boats lay abandoned on the shores; they too await the rains, which will render them useful again.
Huge termite mounds create what will become thousands of small islands when the river floods, trees take advantage of this elevation and dense rich dirt to put down their roots. The trees act as a filter for all the dusty waste that settles in this area while the lands are dry, while also providing ready food for the termites to continue building their empire. It’s just another of the symbiotic relationships that make the delta the unique ecosystem it is.
Simon casts his fishing pole into one of the larger lagoons; I peer into the pond and am surprised to see what looks like small jellyfish. This area is so beautifully mysterious, it never fails to produce something to amaze me when I am quiet and examine it closely enough. The delta and the floodplains especially are magic, striking a balance as delicate as the dragonflies’ wings that hover like fairies in the vanishing daylight.
In a few months all we drive over will be gone, held hostage by the rains and drowned completely in the subsequent floods. The ground here is mostly dry, sandy, yet boggy in the most unpredictable places. Some of the mud is obvious, a thick black mess created by a combination of the water from the occasional lagoon and the refuse of the animals that drink from it. They have left their footprints and the indents of their bodies where they sleep and roll in the mixture to cool down at night. Simon points this out to me.
We drive on. We must take caution as we continue to not become stuck. The sand beneath us betrays what in a few months time this expanse will become; a glassy swiftly flowing river. The grasses, which once waved in the calm yet deeply flowing currents have been chewed down to short tufts by the livestock that have made this place their refuge from the dusty, dry, barren village field further up the gently sloping riverbank.
The village children have also made this their haven, no longer afraid of the crocs and hippos that will inhabit this very acreage when the rains come; they have erected goal posts for a futbol field. Patches are charred by fires set by the villagers after they’ve come to collect the long, dried reeds for their traditional roofs and fences. They do this so as to make net fishing easier when the rains come. Long wood makoro boats lay abandoned on the shores; they too await the rains, which will render them useful again.
Huge termite mounds create what will become thousands of small islands when the river floods, trees take advantage of this elevation and dense rich dirt to put down their roots. The trees act as a filter for all the dusty waste that settles in this area while the lands are dry, while also providing ready food for the termites to continue building their empire. It’s just another of the symbiotic relationships that make the delta the unique ecosystem it is.
Simon casts his fishing pole into one of the larger lagoons; I peer into the pond and am surprised to see what looks like small jellyfish. This area is so beautifully mysterious, it never fails to produce something to amaze me when I am quiet and examine it closely enough. The delta and the floodplains especially are magic, striking a balance as delicate as the dragonflies’ wings that hover like fairies in the vanishing daylight.
My history repeats itself....
My time in Seronga is spent in ways ironically reminiscent of the way I spent much of my childhood. I’m often in nature, the whether driving on roads that don’t quite exist in a car, a blazing new trails boat or on foot, stalking animals and watching sunrises and sunsets. I’m enjoying, or relearning to enjoy the serenity of the great outdoors.
I bounce along in a beat up pick up truck, the man next to me chain smoking and squinting into the horizon. Our eyes scan the edges of the undergrowth, watching for the elusive animals that might appear at any moment, my game spotting eyes developed from an early age for slightly different purposes, hunting to kill rather than just discovering an animal for the mere thrill of it.
The radio is on in the background, back then it relayed the WCCO livestock report, now the BBC reports the sad state of the word through the persistent static. Although he will sometimes tell a story from a time long before I was around, the words trailing out of his mouth with the smoke, eyes a bit glazed with the memory, mostly we are both silent. We exchange more in actual understanding through this nonverbal atmosphere than we ever could by talking; somehow the words to really express anything deeper elude us both.
When he’s not telling a story, he is often tersely instructing me, informing me of some random piece of nature trivia. I appear to intently absorb these facts, occasionally genuinely interested but usually my mind is elsewhere. I will, however, always be able to regurgitate these facts if the occasion arises, usually to someone who is shocked at my unexpected outdoor aptitude. I absorb this knowledge because the way in which he relates it to me makes it clear that it is important to him, and I want him to be pleased with me. His gruff and closed off nature ensure that I will never truly know if this is the case, and thus I will wait for this confirmation in vain, but I continue nonetheless.
We stop frequently as he gets out to investigate this or that, I remain in the truck, never quite knowing how long his investigation will last, or if I will have enough time to get out and pee. I always tread carefully, never knowing which particular question or action will cause him to sigh and shake his head in exasperation. I have learned that I understand him only insofar as to know how to deal with him, although on occasion he will surprise me by revealing a small part of himself that I suspected, but have never been able to confirm was there.
Occasionally he’ll wander further off, disappearing from view to discover the status of some seemingly obscure thing he’s been keeping track of, whether an animal has been where he expects it to have gone, if that certain plant has begun to bud or the state of the blooms. Back then he looked for signs of frost, here now he looks for signs of rain. Both of them effortlessly using knowledge gleaned from a lifetime outdoors to predict the weather, the season change, the animal migrations and plant growth that seem confounding and mysterious to those of us less inclined. Each of them can navigate the ever changing landscape and activities of their domain by a print, the freshness of scat, the level at which the bark is scraped off the trees, recreating the events of the night or week or month before.
I wait quietly, the elbow of my brown arm rested along the edge of the rolled down window of this truck, my fingers casually grazing the top rim of the door. It is the same now as it was then, although now I sit on the other side of the truck. The small child in me panics irrationally now as I did then that he will get lost, or hurt, attacked my some wild beast he is stalking, or harmed by someone stalking the same beast. I fear he will just leave and not come back. And I need him. I push these thoughts away, although sometimes they linger. I stare into the distance, slightly bored, my mind drifting while waiting to take the next mental note he dictates to me upon his return. They are both somewhat tortured souls, some of the reasons for which are apparent and others in which I imagine he will die without completely revealing to anyone outside of himself. He likes people and is incredibly gregarious in a crowd, but also craves his solitude, to the point he will chase me away to protect it.
Like the one before him, I know I will never come near completely understanding this one, but this bitter pill becomes easier to swallow every time. Because of a lifetime with the first, I am able to exist in the presence of the second. I am more able to appreciate the beauty of nature in a way I couldn’t quite grasp in my childhood, despite his spontaneous yet insistent lesson plans. I like to think he’d be proud of me if he could see me now, if he could look past himself. If it was me, for once, he took an interest in and tried to understand.
I bounce along in a beat up pick up truck, the man next to me chain smoking and squinting into the horizon. Our eyes scan the edges of the undergrowth, watching for the elusive animals that might appear at any moment, my game spotting eyes developed from an early age for slightly different purposes, hunting to kill rather than just discovering an animal for the mere thrill of it.
The radio is on in the background, back then it relayed the WCCO livestock report, now the BBC reports the sad state of the word through the persistent static. Although he will sometimes tell a story from a time long before I was around, the words trailing out of his mouth with the smoke, eyes a bit glazed with the memory, mostly we are both silent. We exchange more in actual understanding through this nonverbal atmosphere than we ever could by talking; somehow the words to really express anything deeper elude us both.
When he’s not telling a story, he is often tersely instructing me, informing me of some random piece of nature trivia. I appear to intently absorb these facts, occasionally genuinely interested but usually my mind is elsewhere. I will, however, always be able to regurgitate these facts if the occasion arises, usually to someone who is shocked at my unexpected outdoor aptitude. I absorb this knowledge because the way in which he relates it to me makes it clear that it is important to him, and I want him to be pleased with me. His gruff and closed off nature ensure that I will never truly know if this is the case, and thus I will wait for this confirmation in vain, but I continue nonetheless.
We stop frequently as he gets out to investigate this or that, I remain in the truck, never quite knowing how long his investigation will last, or if I will have enough time to get out and pee. I always tread carefully, never knowing which particular question or action will cause him to sigh and shake his head in exasperation. I have learned that I understand him only insofar as to know how to deal with him, although on occasion he will surprise me by revealing a small part of himself that I suspected, but have never been able to confirm was there.
Occasionally he’ll wander further off, disappearing from view to discover the status of some seemingly obscure thing he’s been keeping track of, whether an animal has been where he expects it to have gone, if that certain plant has begun to bud or the state of the blooms. Back then he looked for signs of frost, here now he looks for signs of rain. Both of them effortlessly using knowledge gleaned from a lifetime outdoors to predict the weather, the season change, the animal migrations and plant growth that seem confounding and mysterious to those of us less inclined. Each of them can navigate the ever changing landscape and activities of their domain by a print, the freshness of scat, the level at which the bark is scraped off the trees, recreating the events of the night or week or month before.
I wait quietly, the elbow of my brown arm rested along the edge of the rolled down window of this truck, my fingers casually grazing the top rim of the door. It is the same now as it was then, although now I sit on the other side of the truck. The small child in me panics irrationally now as I did then that he will get lost, or hurt, attacked my some wild beast he is stalking, or harmed by someone stalking the same beast. I fear he will just leave and not come back. And I need him. I push these thoughts away, although sometimes they linger. I stare into the distance, slightly bored, my mind drifting while waiting to take the next mental note he dictates to me upon his return. They are both somewhat tortured souls, some of the reasons for which are apparent and others in which I imagine he will die without completely revealing to anyone outside of himself. He likes people and is incredibly gregarious in a crowd, but also craves his solitude, to the point he will chase me away to protect it.
Like the one before him, I know I will never come near completely understanding this one, but this bitter pill becomes easier to swallow every time. Because of a lifetime with the first, I am able to exist in the presence of the second. I am more able to appreciate the beauty of nature in a way I couldn’t quite grasp in my childhood, despite his spontaneous yet insistent lesson plans. I like to think he’d be proud of me if he could see me now, if he could look past himself. If it was me, for once, he took an interest in and tried to understand.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Words of Wisdom...
That I chew up and spit out in an attempt to digest them?
"Open your doors and windows....And your heart….Allow whatever you can to come in..."
His words have more meaning than just in reference to the bugs, lizards, creatures, mice and men that have shown up on my door step, in my bathroom, in my sheets.
"And give yourself credit for all that you allow in, and compassion for that which you are not yet ready to allow in, and the grace to allow it in tomorrow.”
“Savor each day, each moment. Strive for contentment, even if it lasts for just one second.”
The words she wrote, comforting me as yet another heartbreak commenced.
“Growth and change are seldom easy or pretty. Of course it’s messy. What did you expect? It’ll all only make sense once it’s over.”
From the mouth of someone who can only know because she’s living it herself, in a parallel life, in a village in a small African country called Botswana.
I sink into these words often, and have tried to do so even more lately.
I fight against and overlook these words.
I remember them and smile.
I write over them in the notebook of my mind.
I try to live by them.
I ignore them and reject them.
I comprehend them.
I struggle. I resist. I forget. On purpose?
Of late I haven’t been having my proudest of moments.
Recently I’ve “readjusted” to the shock of lights and electricity and pavement and white faces, people who literally speak my language. I’ve embraced the beauty of an easy camaraderie not fraught with constant explanations and cultural misinterpretations. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely, and had a fun and memorable time. Reality resumes, and bites, and I’ve pouted my way through the inevitable loss and disappointment of having it all taken away from me again. I struggle and curse and tantrum against the reality I thought I’d come to terms with.
Since being back in Seronga after being away "in civilization" so long, I find myself struggling to relax back into the life I’ve created here. Some of the smaller children have forgotten my name, and its back to "Lekgowa". It's much hotter than when I left and I find myself besieged by the heat. The dust swirls around me, choking me, suffocating me, coating my constantly sweaty body in a thin layer of grime. My house, the place that I had begun to think of as a sanctuary is hotter than the air outside and brings no relief- it has become my kiln. The constant English is pretty gone again, as is the cheese, and the shops, and treated, clear drinkable tap water, and reliable electricity. I often find myself resenting volunteers in other placements, their reality made much clearer to me both through their recent descriptions and my witnessing of it. I feel that nasty sense of entitlement creeping up on me, "Why can't I just have electricity to run a fricken fan? Why isn’t the water running, or clean? Why doesn’t the mail come reliably, or the internet work ever? Why couldn't the district replace the fridge that clearly wasn't working when Kagiso left so that I could have a consistently working fridge, rather than one that is consistently inconsistent,?” This leaves me with one more thing to question whether it will be working when I get home from a day of increasing sweat and frustration. All the questions whose answers I thought I had come to terms with swirl around me in a taunting haze of heat and blowing sand.
I am disgusted with myself and the mentality I am operating under. I struggle to recall their words, to embrace their meaning.
I had spent much of my time in “civilization” at training feeling inadequate, stuck between feeling like I had done nothing and furthermore had no hope of doing anything in this place I’ve come to call “the place God (or at least the government of Botswana) forgot.” I scoffed at the suggestions of well meaning friends, colleagues and experts, silently railing on them and raging against their attempts to help or give perspective. I began to feel an entitled sense of superiority, an earned helplessness. “I live at the toughest site, no one understands me, these people from Gabs have never spent any amount of time in a place like Seronga, and all their grandiose ideas are stupid and inapplicable. They shouldn’t expect anything of me because there’s nothing to be done. All I can do is to continue to struggle to get by. All the work I have to do collecting and purifying my water, and scheming to get groceries, washing my clothes, finding transport to do my banking, tracking down my mail, or trying to get to the internet for an inadequate amount of time to do anything is all I have time for.”
It slowly dawned on me that the hopelessness and the helplessness I witness and have come to consider unfortunate trademarks of the village had transposed themselves onto me; they had enveloped me without me necessarily noticing. All the empowerment and inspiration I was always yammering about the village lacking was also completely absent in me. My motivation for the things I was supposed to or could be trying to do at site was lacking terribly. I was acting like a spoiled child. The “can-do” had become the “can’t,” or worse, the “don’t wanna even try.”
These pleasant realizations were followed by their comrades guilt and doubt. As with everything here, or maybe it’s in my life, once I notice one chink in the armor of my self concept I question everything I thought I've ever known as fact. Am I just lazy, am I running around trying to empower people so that I don't have to empower myself? Do I truly believe that I am capable of the things I am trying to convince them they are capable of? Which of these harebrained schemes or ideas will I follow through to make a reality, if any? Where is all of this going? And the ever popular “What am I doing here?”
The question and emotions that consume me, which I label in my heart as ugly, yet are likely a necessary part of the changes I’m undergoing, are strong. I fight them. They grow. I resent them. I feel weighed down and heavy, stuck in the mud and muck of my own self pity and helplessness. The one who thought she had all the answers is apparently at a loss for words. So I try to fall back on theirs. I recite them in my unwilling mind like a mantra or a prayer. I pace and scream and rock back and forth in a ball. I cry until I exhaust myself. I lay on my bed, finally drained of my rage and my anger and my guilt and doubt and hopelessness and helplessness, anything that could vaguely resemble an emotion or an unanswerable question, or that could be carried as a weight in my body. My former arrogance is abated. My confusion remains, although subdued. I’ve reached such a state of complete ambivalence that anything is possible.
I squeeze my eyes shut to stem the flow of tears. I feel a breeze touch my face and turn my head and open my eyes. And I gaze up from my misery to glimpse the prayer flags. A set is strung above my door, and one in front of my window. They flap gently, silently in the wind enters through these gates thrown open wide. I realized this action had been performed by the very person I was now despising and pitying, myself. In my frustration I had unwittingly done it. I had reopened my doors and windows up in an attempt to do something, to begin again. To regain my motivation, my vision, my drive. To forgive and accept and appreciate. To start over and move forward.
To live their words, to accept them in my heart, to use them in my actions.
I look to find a reason to believe.
"Open your doors and windows....And your heart….Allow whatever you can to come in..."
His words have more meaning than just in reference to the bugs, lizards, creatures, mice and men that have shown up on my door step, in my bathroom, in my sheets.
"And give yourself credit for all that you allow in, and compassion for that which you are not yet ready to allow in, and the grace to allow it in tomorrow.”
“Savor each day, each moment. Strive for contentment, even if it lasts for just one second.”
The words she wrote, comforting me as yet another heartbreak commenced.
“Growth and change are seldom easy or pretty. Of course it’s messy. What did you expect? It’ll all only make sense once it’s over.”
From the mouth of someone who can only know because she’s living it herself, in a parallel life, in a village in a small African country called Botswana.
I sink into these words often, and have tried to do so even more lately.
I fight against and overlook these words.
I remember them and smile.
I write over them in the notebook of my mind.
I try to live by them.
I ignore them and reject them.
I comprehend them.
I struggle. I resist. I forget. On purpose?
Of late I haven’t been having my proudest of moments.
Recently I’ve “readjusted” to the shock of lights and electricity and pavement and white faces, people who literally speak my language. I’ve embraced the beauty of an easy camaraderie not fraught with constant explanations and cultural misinterpretations. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely, and had a fun and memorable time. Reality resumes, and bites, and I’ve pouted my way through the inevitable loss and disappointment of having it all taken away from me again. I struggle and curse and tantrum against the reality I thought I’d come to terms with.
Since being back in Seronga after being away "in civilization" so long, I find myself struggling to relax back into the life I’ve created here. Some of the smaller children have forgotten my name, and its back to "Lekgowa". It's much hotter than when I left and I find myself besieged by the heat. The dust swirls around me, choking me, suffocating me, coating my constantly sweaty body in a thin layer of grime. My house, the place that I had begun to think of as a sanctuary is hotter than the air outside and brings no relief- it has become my kiln. The constant English is pretty gone again, as is the cheese, and the shops, and treated, clear drinkable tap water, and reliable electricity. I often find myself resenting volunteers in other placements, their reality made much clearer to me both through their recent descriptions and my witnessing of it. I feel that nasty sense of entitlement creeping up on me, "Why can't I just have electricity to run a fricken fan? Why isn’t the water running, or clean? Why doesn’t the mail come reliably, or the internet work ever? Why couldn't the district replace the fridge that clearly wasn't working when Kagiso left so that I could have a consistently working fridge, rather than one that is consistently inconsistent,?” This leaves me with one more thing to question whether it will be working when I get home from a day of increasing sweat and frustration. All the questions whose answers I thought I had come to terms with swirl around me in a taunting haze of heat and blowing sand.
I am disgusted with myself and the mentality I am operating under. I struggle to recall their words, to embrace their meaning.
I had spent much of my time in “civilization” at training feeling inadequate, stuck between feeling like I had done nothing and furthermore had no hope of doing anything in this place I’ve come to call “the place God (or at least the government of Botswana) forgot.” I scoffed at the suggestions of well meaning friends, colleagues and experts, silently railing on them and raging against their attempts to help or give perspective. I began to feel an entitled sense of superiority, an earned helplessness. “I live at the toughest site, no one understands me, these people from Gabs have never spent any amount of time in a place like Seronga, and all their grandiose ideas are stupid and inapplicable. They shouldn’t expect anything of me because there’s nothing to be done. All I can do is to continue to struggle to get by. All the work I have to do collecting and purifying my water, and scheming to get groceries, washing my clothes, finding transport to do my banking, tracking down my mail, or trying to get to the internet for an inadequate amount of time to do anything is all I have time for.”
It slowly dawned on me that the hopelessness and the helplessness I witness and have come to consider unfortunate trademarks of the village had transposed themselves onto me; they had enveloped me without me necessarily noticing. All the empowerment and inspiration I was always yammering about the village lacking was also completely absent in me. My motivation for the things I was supposed to or could be trying to do at site was lacking terribly. I was acting like a spoiled child. The “can-do” had become the “can’t,” or worse, the “don’t wanna even try.”
These pleasant realizations were followed by their comrades guilt and doubt. As with everything here, or maybe it’s in my life, once I notice one chink in the armor of my self concept I question everything I thought I've ever known as fact. Am I just lazy, am I running around trying to empower people so that I don't have to empower myself? Do I truly believe that I am capable of the things I am trying to convince them they are capable of? Which of these harebrained schemes or ideas will I follow through to make a reality, if any? Where is all of this going? And the ever popular “What am I doing here?”
The question and emotions that consume me, which I label in my heart as ugly, yet are likely a necessary part of the changes I’m undergoing, are strong. I fight them. They grow. I resent them. I feel weighed down and heavy, stuck in the mud and muck of my own self pity and helplessness. The one who thought she had all the answers is apparently at a loss for words. So I try to fall back on theirs. I recite them in my unwilling mind like a mantra or a prayer. I pace and scream and rock back and forth in a ball. I cry until I exhaust myself. I lay on my bed, finally drained of my rage and my anger and my guilt and doubt and hopelessness and helplessness, anything that could vaguely resemble an emotion or an unanswerable question, or that could be carried as a weight in my body. My former arrogance is abated. My confusion remains, although subdued. I’ve reached such a state of complete ambivalence that anything is possible.
I squeeze my eyes shut to stem the flow of tears. I feel a breeze touch my face and turn my head and open my eyes. And I gaze up from my misery to glimpse the prayer flags. A set is strung above my door, and one in front of my window. They flap gently, silently in the wind enters through these gates thrown open wide. I realized this action had been performed by the very person I was now despising and pitying, myself. In my frustration I had unwittingly done it. I had reopened my doors and windows up in an attempt to do something, to begin again. To regain my motivation, my vision, my drive. To forgive and accept and appreciate. To start over and move forward.
To live their words, to accept them in my heart, to use them in my actions.
I look to find a reason to believe.
I'm not in Kansas (or Seronga) anymore
Back in September I attended a Peace Corps sponsored meeting of the minds otherwise known as training and it became startlingly clear to me both the changes in myself and my fellow crazies (volunteers).
The first came when my roommates A and C saw what looked to me like a bug jr running across the floor of the motel room I came to think of as paradise with both air conditioning AND hot running water. I barely noticed the thing, and when I did, I nonchalantly killed the bug, not completely putting two and two together that the girls were scared of it until I looked up and saw that they themselves had skittered to the other side of the room. In Seronga, I’ve developed a policy that if it’s not the size of my palm I generally let it live. I simply do not have the time to attempt to exterminate every little thing living in my house with more than two legs as the Peace Corps doesn’t seem to think that killing bugs can be counted as sustainable development on a PEPFAR report. I looked over from the dead bug to them, sort of cocked my head in confusion and we went about our day.
The next indicator that I had been in the bush too long was when I caught a glance of myself in the full length mirror, and spent altogether too much time staring. I realized that perhaps it wasn’t just my inability to properly wash my clothes thus causing them to stretch out that had made them fit more loosely. Being able to truly see myself for the first time in two months made it clear that I had lost weight. Being in a place that served three meals a day was enough to begin to counteract the weight loss, and I decided to help it along. And so I began another of my "out of Africa" behaviors, which was eating as much “nearly ice cream” as they would feed us at the lodge. It was pretty easy to procure, and I would often eat the bowls given to my friends as well as my own. Ice cream wasn’t as terribly exciting for them as many can get better ice cream than this shit in their villages. So I would often eat two to three bowls of the stuff a day, and for the first time since high school, didn’t give a damn about the calories. I found myself overloading my plate with food strictly because it was there, not necessarily because it was good (although I kept raving about it.) It’s probably a good thing, as I gained back between five and seven pounds in the ten days I was there- it was like being on a cruise!
Later in the evening, I was surprised and astounded when everyone began to bring out their "clubbing clothes" and make-up to have a dance party night for one of the fellow volunteers birthday parties. Sure I remember clubs, but it has been ages since I actually remembered that they could be created with a bit of alcohol and someone’s ipod if desperation and the mood were to strike. As I hadn’t planned on any of these clubbing situations to occur, I hadn’t brought anything of this caliber. Makeup has nearly become a thing of the past, really my clothes would have never passed muster at any club I’ve ever been to anyways. I was going to have to pinch hit. I did so by borrowing a male PCV's shirt and tie (again, who HAS this stuff), threw on my trademark hat, and rocked the androgynous look for the evening. If I wasn’t going to be a hot girl than I suppose I would settle for a charmingly girlish looking boy. In the pictures I ended up looking like a "Newsie" (or as my sister said- Oliver Twist, ah musicals.) It was a fun night, although I would imagine they are bumping a little more recent music than 80’s bands and the stuff from Usher’s LAST cd…
I was also surprised how little irritation I experienced in living in one room for ten days with two other people, sharing a bathroom, a thermostat, a television, a door that wouldn’t stay shut unless it was locked, and a bedtime. In college I would get beyond irritated after a certain point in the night when it became clear that my room, or house or dorm floor had been designated the party room. Namely after I wanted to go to sleep, or if I had an early class that I really had the best of intentions of attending the next morning. It would send me into a rage when I would open my bedroom door to have to step over a body to get to the bathroom. I was often a bit of a bitch, and occasionally a huge party pooper. At Peace Corps In Service Training I lived in the designated party (or at least “Socializer”) room. Oh if those poor former roommates could see me now!
At one point during training we had all 27 of our training group in our room for a loud music- broken glass-muddy floors party and I joyfully helped hang up the toilet paper streamers. I happily woke up an hour before our wake up call to help clean the mud and broken glass off the floor. I guess after the solitude of Seronga, and the patience I’ve developed as a result of nothing ever happening the way I think it could or should, I’ve become more tolerant, and a bit more willing to live and let live. I owe the entirety of Section K and those who I lived with afterward a big hell yeah. I have seen the light. Or I’m just desperate. Whichever.
The next day I was again brought to the realization of what a “savage” I've become when A saw me exiting the bathroom… and throwing all of my laundry in the bathwater I had just exited. She yelped "Jen, are you reusing your bathwater to do your laundry? You don't gotta do that shit anymore, you're not in Seronga! You can have more clean water, it’s not going to go out, this is Kanye!" She gave me a small bottle of detergent and I was genuinely surprised to take in the familiar scent and color of liquid Tide. My eyes welled up with tears at the sight of liquid laundry detergent. Bizarre.
My other roommate C was repeatedly disgusted by the yogurt I kept insisting I was going to eat despite being out of refrigeration for three + days (and as I don't recall ever getting around to eating it I would imagine she eventually threw it away). I repeatedly found my standards of what was “good food” to be comparatively low when I kept raving about how great the food was (because it was there.) I would go to town and eat just a brick of cheese or a bar of chocolate. My fellow volunteers often just woefully shook their heads at me. I never bothered to defend my newfound weirdness.
Throughout the course of the week I noticed other things I’ve come to think of as changes from the person I can vaguely remember being. I found too much music, or television, or air-conditioning to be unbearable or at least uncomfortable and distracting. I often had to wander away from large groups (which I used to adore being in the center of) because they overwhelmed me. I also found myself reticent to walk away from conversations with individuals, ever, as I wanted so badly to keep talking. We watched an entire season of Sex and the City while we were there and I found even this to be nearly an overload, which is strange, because this used to be a normal weekend activity.
The restrooms outside the room where we were having trainings had two stalls. I always just went into the first one as it always seemed to have toilet paper, which continuously surprised me. It was always open, and occasionally someone would be standing and waiting for the other stall and motioned for me to go ahead if I wanted to use the first one. It took me a week to realize that no one was using the first stall because it had no toilet seat. I am used to hovering always in Seronga as having a toilet seat is the exception rather than the rule that side. I was just impressed that the stall always seemed to have toilet paper!
Overall it was a good week, and the time soon came to step back through the looking glass and head over the rainbow to Seronga.
I wasn’t quite ready to leave all my friends, and chocolate, and face the 10 hour bus ride to Maun. While I found that in general we were all much calmer than the sometimes hysterical head cases we had been during PST, I myself occasionally felt more angsty when I thought of heading home. Leaving everyone was different this time, as I knew more intimately what I was heading back to, and I realized how much more than before I would miss them without another scheduled, sanctioned activity planned for us the next two months. The next time I will see most of these people is in a few months at Thanksgiving.
I left Kanye kind of anxious to get back to site, and to get away from all the sensory overload that training had provided, but also hesitant to leave so much familiarity convenience and comfort. The 10 days had made me realize that now not only was I living a life that was so different and indescribable to my family and friends in the US, it was also getting more difficult to relate to my friends that were in the same country as me. I felt alone, and sort of isolated in my experience, but I found I was also craving that solitude. I realized again that grass is always greener, and wondered if I’ll ever be able to truly BE where I am…And where is Kansas, anyways?
The first came when my roommates A and C saw what looked to me like a bug jr running across the floor of the motel room I came to think of as paradise with both air conditioning AND hot running water. I barely noticed the thing, and when I did, I nonchalantly killed the bug, not completely putting two and two together that the girls were scared of it until I looked up and saw that they themselves had skittered to the other side of the room. In Seronga, I’ve developed a policy that if it’s not the size of my palm I generally let it live. I simply do not have the time to attempt to exterminate every little thing living in my house with more than two legs as the Peace Corps doesn’t seem to think that killing bugs can be counted as sustainable development on a PEPFAR report. I looked over from the dead bug to them, sort of cocked my head in confusion and we went about our day.
The next indicator that I had been in the bush too long was when I caught a glance of myself in the full length mirror, and spent altogether too much time staring. I realized that perhaps it wasn’t just my inability to properly wash my clothes thus causing them to stretch out that had made them fit more loosely. Being able to truly see myself for the first time in two months made it clear that I had lost weight. Being in a place that served three meals a day was enough to begin to counteract the weight loss, and I decided to help it along. And so I began another of my "out of Africa" behaviors, which was eating as much “nearly ice cream” as they would feed us at the lodge. It was pretty easy to procure, and I would often eat the bowls given to my friends as well as my own. Ice cream wasn’t as terribly exciting for them as many can get better ice cream than this shit in their villages. So I would often eat two to three bowls of the stuff a day, and for the first time since high school, didn’t give a damn about the calories. I found myself overloading my plate with food strictly because it was there, not necessarily because it was good (although I kept raving about it.) It’s probably a good thing, as I gained back between five and seven pounds in the ten days I was there- it was like being on a cruise!
Later in the evening, I was surprised and astounded when everyone began to bring out their "clubbing clothes" and make-up to have a dance party night for one of the fellow volunteers birthday parties. Sure I remember clubs, but it has been ages since I actually remembered that they could be created with a bit of alcohol and someone’s ipod if desperation and the mood were to strike. As I hadn’t planned on any of these clubbing situations to occur, I hadn’t brought anything of this caliber. Makeup has nearly become a thing of the past, really my clothes would have never passed muster at any club I’ve ever been to anyways. I was going to have to pinch hit. I did so by borrowing a male PCV's shirt and tie (again, who HAS this stuff), threw on my trademark hat, and rocked the androgynous look for the evening. If I wasn’t going to be a hot girl than I suppose I would settle for a charmingly girlish looking boy. In the pictures I ended up looking like a "Newsie" (or as my sister said- Oliver Twist, ah musicals.) It was a fun night, although I would imagine they are bumping a little more recent music than 80’s bands and the stuff from Usher’s LAST cd…
I was also surprised how little irritation I experienced in living in one room for ten days with two other people, sharing a bathroom, a thermostat, a television, a door that wouldn’t stay shut unless it was locked, and a bedtime. In college I would get beyond irritated after a certain point in the night when it became clear that my room, or house or dorm floor had been designated the party room. Namely after I wanted to go to sleep, or if I had an early class that I really had the best of intentions of attending the next morning. It would send me into a rage when I would open my bedroom door to have to step over a body to get to the bathroom. I was often a bit of a bitch, and occasionally a huge party pooper. At Peace Corps In Service Training I lived in the designated party (or at least “Socializer”) room. Oh if those poor former roommates could see me now!
At one point during training we had all 27 of our training group in our room for a loud music- broken glass-muddy floors party and I joyfully helped hang up the toilet paper streamers. I happily woke up an hour before our wake up call to help clean the mud and broken glass off the floor. I guess after the solitude of Seronga, and the patience I’ve developed as a result of nothing ever happening the way I think it could or should, I’ve become more tolerant, and a bit more willing to live and let live. I owe the entirety of Section K and those who I lived with afterward a big hell yeah. I have seen the light. Or I’m just desperate. Whichever.
The next day I was again brought to the realization of what a “savage” I've become when A saw me exiting the bathroom… and throwing all of my laundry in the bathwater I had just exited. She yelped "Jen, are you reusing your bathwater to do your laundry? You don't gotta do that shit anymore, you're not in Seronga! You can have more clean water, it’s not going to go out, this is Kanye!" She gave me a small bottle of detergent and I was genuinely surprised to take in the familiar scent and color of liquid Tide. My eyes welled up with tears at the sight of liquid laundry detergent. Bizarre.
My other roommate C was repeatedly disgusted by the yogurt I kept insisting I was going to eat despite being out of refrigeration for three + days (and as I don't recall ever getting around to eating it I would imagine she eventually threw it away). I repeatedly found my standards of what was “good food” to be comparatively low when I kept raving about how great the food was (because it was there.) I would go to town and eat just a brick of cheese or a bar of chocolate. My fellow volunteers often just woefully shook their heads at me. I never bothered to defend my newfound weirdness.
Throughout the course of the week I noticed other things I’ve come to think of as changes from the person I can vaguely remember being. I found too much music, or television, or air-conditioning to be unbearable or at least uncomfortable and distracting. I often had to wander away from large groups (which I used to adore being in the center of) because they overwhelmed me. I also found myself reticent to walk away from conversations with individuals, ever, as I wanted so badly to keep talking. We watched an entire season of Sex and the City while we were there and I found even this to be nearly an overload, which is strange, because this used to be a normal weekend activity.
The restrooms outside the room where we were having trainings had two stalls. I always just went into the first one as it always seemed to have toilet paper, which continuously surprised me. It was always open, and occasionally someone would be standing and waiting for the other stall and motioned for me to go ahead if I wanted to use the first one. It took me a week to realize that no one was using the first stall because it had no toilet seat. I am used to hovering always in Seronga as having a toilet seat is the exception rather than the rule that side. I was just impressed that the stall always seemed to have toilet paper!
Overall it was a good week, and the time soon came to step back through the looking glass and head over the rainbow to Seronga.
I wasn’t quite ready to leave all my friends, and chocolate, and face the 10 hour bus ride to Maun. While I found that in general we were all much calmer than the sometimes hysterical head cases we had been during PST, I myself occasionally felt more angsty when I thought of heading home. Leaving everyone was different this time, as I knew more intimately what I was heading back to, and I realized how much more than before I would miss them without another scheduled, sanctioned activity planned for us the next two months. The next time I will see most of these people is in a few months at Thanksgiving.
I left Kanye kind of anxious to get back to site, and to get away from all the sensory overload that training had provided, but also hesitant to leave so much familiarity convenience and comfort. The 10 days had made me realize that now not only was I living a life that was so different and indescribable to my family and friends in the US, it was also getting more difficult to relate to my friends that were in the same country as me. I felt alone, and sort of isolated in my experience, but I found I was also craving that solitude. I realized again that grass is always greener, and wondered if I’ll ever be able to truly BE where I am…And where is Kansas, anyways?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sting Operation. A Tutorial on actions to be taken when a Scorpion has entered your bed....
I knew when I put my arm back above my head that it wasn’t a bee, a wasp or any kind of small bug. I had just had the pleasure of being stung by a rather large wasp that had invaded my mosquito net the previous Monday, and so was quite familiar with the lovely feelings and particular curse words that accompany that particular experience. This pain was new and strange. It was near my left shoulder, and went both up and down my arm simultaneously, and was both stinging and numbing, with twinges of sharp pain and burning. Although it sounds like the general symptoms of a pretty horrific STI (if not in the proper geographic place on the body), due to the rapidity of its onset, I concluded it was a scorpion sting.
We were lying on J’s bed, singing along with his newly purchased pirated copy of “Rent” (damn I love that movie!) waiting for the apple pie to cool. All was right with the world. Whichever law of the universe says that when things are too good, something bad must happen was suddenly enforced. Either that or karma, actually.
About a month back K and I had gone out to the bush for my birthday celebrations. In the processing of zipping the tent she was stung on her finger by an elusive and fast departing enemy, which we were unable to find in the darkness to positively ID. At the time, this seemed to me to be shades of slightly hilarious. We consulted our host, a guy who had lived in and around the bush for most of his life, but due to having a few drinks in him was more than slightly unhelpful. K took some antihistamine and we went to sleep, although I did periodically wake up throughout the night and than wake her up to make sure she was still alive (what a good friend I am). She did not appreciate this. Her hand was sore for a week
As the sensations of burning, shooting, stinging and slight numbness that K had described were now running up and down my arm into my fingers, I had a pretty good idea of which bandit had assaulted me. I yelped and grabbed my arm, disrupting J right in the middle of the duet we were performing while viewing Mimi’s first scene in the movie. I whipped back the duvet we had been laying on and saw him. About the size of my pinky finger and nearly translucent, he was scurrying for cover.
Since J is more afraid of creepy crawlers that I am, he darted towards the door. I grabbed his empty wine glass and upended it, trapping the intruder in a glass coffin. We put him on the desk, theorizing that we would kill him through either suffocation or starvation. Neither of which was, in the end effective. (We got him the next day when R, an Eagle Scout whose phone was of course off when I called in a panic, suggested that we gas him by throwing a few alcohol rubbing pads in there with him. That did the job. PCV’s are SO resourceful.)
After we had imprisoned the culprit and I had assured J that there were no more scorpions in the bed, I joyously began the next natural course of action in a situation like this. I text messaged K. She was of course thrilled to laugh at me, and I was laughing right along with her. We quickly went through our running tally of shitty things that had happened to us since being in country (including but not limited to scorpion stings, stalkers, site relocation, mice, bank issues, thefts, weight lost or gained, length of water outages, housing problems, and sicknesses, and decided that we were now equal and one of us would have to work on one-upping the other, so we could alternately tease or brag to the other about how much rougher or easier we have it).
Then I text the PCMO, my mom, and most of my close PC friends in country, and some that I’m not in regular texting contact with as it was a holiday and text messages were cheap that day. Leave it to me to want to have to best story of the weekend. J was doing the same, although not mentioning it was me that got stung, only that there had been a scorpion in his bed, so that his story would sound better. So there we are, side by side, my arm pulsing, the characters of Rent singing, and both of us ignoring everything to text everyone that wasn’t with us what was happening. Only in the PC. The next round of incoming texts were, of course from people we hadn’t even initially text who had heard the story from texts they had received from others and wanted details. Ah, the PC “network”.
The PCMO called several times, asking about the make, model and color of my scorpion, and advised me to take a benedryl. I did so, and then she called back, telling me not to go to sleep. We ate the apple pie, which did sort of take the pain away temporarily. As the first and main thing you want to do after taking a bendryl is go to sleep, I made a list of people J should call if he awoke to find me dead or otherwise not breathing and laid down to watch the rest of the movie. The PCMO called a few more times, we went to sleep, and I’ve lived to tell the tale of another African adventure. What Next?
We were lying on J’s bed, singing along with his newly purchased pirated copy of “Rent” (damn I love that movie!) waiting for the apple pie to cool. All was right with the world. Whichever law of the universe says that when things are too good, something bad must happen was suddenly enforced. Either that or karma, actually.
About a month back K and I had gone out to the bush for my birthday celebrations. In the processing of zipping the tent she was stung on her finger by an elusive and fast departing enemy, which we were unable to find in the darkness to positively ID. At the time, this seemed to me to be shades of slightly hilarious. We consulted our host, a guy who had lived in and around the bush for most of his life, but due to having a few drinks in him was more than slightly unhelpful. K took some antihistamine and we went to sleep, although I did periodically wake up throughout the night and than wake her up to make sure she was still alive (what a good friend I am). She did not appreciate this. Her hand was sore for a week
As the sensations of burning, shooting, stinging and slight numbness that K had described were now running up and down my arm into my fingers, I had a pretty good idea of which bandit had assaulted me. I yelped and grabbed my arm, disrupting J right in the middle of the duet we were performing while viewing Mimi’s first scene in the movie. I whipped back the duvet we had been laying on and saw him. About the size of my pinky finger and nearly translucent, he was scurrying for cover.
Since J is more afraid of creepy crawlers that I am, he darted towards the door. I grabbed his empty wine glass and upended it, trapping the intruder in a glass coffin. We put him on the desk, theorizing that we would kill him through either suffocation or starvation. Neither of which was, in the end effective. (We got him the next day when R, an Eagle Scout whose phone was of course off when I called in a panic, suggested that we gas him by throwing a few alcohol rubbing pads in there with him. That did the job. PCV’s are SO resourceful.)
After we had imprisoned the culprit and I had assured J that there were no more scorpions in the bed, I joyously began the next natural course of action in a situation like this. I text messaged K. She was of course thrilled to laugh at me, and I was laughing right along with her. We quickly went through our running tally of shitty things that had happened to us since being in country (including but not limited to scorpion stings, stalkers, site relocation, mice, bank issues, thefts, weight lost or gained, length of water outages, housing problems, and sicknesses, and decided that we were now equal and one of us would have to work on one-upping the other, so we could alternately tease or brag to the other about how much rougher or easier we have it).
Then I text the PCMO, my mom, and most of my close PC friends in country, and some that I’m not in regular texting contact with as it was a holiday and text messages were cheap that day. Leave it to me to want to have to best story of the weekend. J was doing the same, although not mentioning it was me that got stung, only that there had been a scorpion in his bed, so that his story would sound better. So there we are, side by side, my arm pulsing, the characters of Rent singing, and both of us ignoring everything to text everyone that wasn’t with us what was happening. Only in the PC. The next round of incoming texts were, of course from people we hadn’t even initially text who had heard the story from texts they had received from others and wanted details. Ah, the PC “network”.
The PCMO called several times, asking about the make, model and color of my scorpion, and advised me to take a benedryl. I did so, and then she called back, telling me not to go to sleep. We ate the apple pie, which did sort of take the pain away temporarily. As the first and main thing you want to do after taking a bendryl is go to sleep, I made a list of people J should call if he awoke to find me dead or otherwise not breathing and laid down to watch the rest of the movie. The PCMO called a few more times, we went to sleep, and I’ve lived to tell the tale of another African adventure. What Next?
Recent Acquisitions... that are rocking my world
Just a random list of the things I’ve recently gotten my hot little hands on that have made my life easier, more enjoyable, or higher fashion! I figure I spend more than enough time describing, bitching, complaining, or scoffing at how strange, difficult, or annoying things are here I should be taking some time to tell you about things that make my life wonderful and amazing. Thanks again to those who sent or in other ways made possible having these things in my life. I love them!
The books "Tweak" and "Beautiful Boy." Memoirs of a young man’s addiction to meth from both his and his father’s perspective. Powerful moving stuff, inspires hope while living in the eye of a never ending hurricane of pain and uncertainty. I’ve found I enjoy reading stories that take you all the way down before bringing you back to a place of hope. It feels very applicable to life here in Seronga in some ways. It has also reaffirmed powerful lessons about hope in the face of hopelessness. Keep the Faith!
Shaving cream. I found it in Shakawe, it was only a fourth of my daily living allowance and my legs are thanking me daily. 6 months is too long to go without this stuff. I again feel slightly more civilized.
The movie “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day.” My new favorite. I would love to have a real copy so I could watch the bonus features, but watching the movie over and over again is fun as well. Love Amy Adams and Francis Mcdormand. I could be crazy when I recall that Amy Adams is from MN and performed at Chanhassan Dinner theater, but I imagine if this is the case some kind caring soul will correct me. And Francis Mcdormand was nominated (won?) for an Oscar for her role in that lovely movie of Midwestern twang “Fargo” which I’ve never seen. And all those cute British actors, especially the guy who plays Michael- does anyone know what else he’s been in?
Actors aside, I found the movie to be filled with great shots, interesting angles, good music, cute costumes and a story that has me questioning what I’m doing here having given up love for not even money….
My new mirror. I may be vain but looking at myself in a full length mirror for significant amounts of time has come to be my new hobby. Since living in Seronga I’ve been using a broken locker sized mirror that divided my face, hair, anything I tried to look at in two. I found this one at a China shop (yes as unpolitically correct as that term is, they are called that not for their fine crystal or dinner place settings but for the ethnicity of the proprietors who run them) in Shakawe and got in down the long and bumpy road to Seronga in one piece in only a week’s time. Then it only took two more days to get from Simon’s place to my house. This is a Seronga record for timeliness. I would imagine my fashion choices are going to be much more impressive now that I can actually see what I’m putting on and walking out the door in.
My Trader Joes reusable cloth shopping bag. I use it every day as a purse-esc sort of thing to carry the 4 litres of water I have to haul around the village with me for the course of the day. I love, love, love this- thank you again E and A.
The Wicked Soundtrack. Rick, you are a saint among men. I saw this musical for my birthday last year and it quickly became my favorite. I have been playing it and singing it and last night even falling asleep to it. It often causes me to cry for reasons I won’t go into here, but I love it! No one mourns the Wicked!
My straw diva hat. Back in another life, in another country, in another economy, some of you may remember receiving a picture text from me of my new hat that I had impulsively bought on a shopping spree that may or may not have been inspired by a date of significance I was attempting to avoid (what? we’ve all been there!!!). The hat became my pride and joy until the splashes from an early summer weekend of boating wrecked and misshaped it beyond repair. I am pleased to inform you it has been replaced. Purchased for the equivalent of $3 US dollars at a PEP store in Gabs I have already gotten exponentially more use and cute ensembles out of it than my $40 US dollar Banana Republic catastrophe.
It has also been rocking my world to have been able to replace some of the clothes that through washing, stretching, sunbleaching, staining and my own shrinking have began to make me look like even more of a mess than someone without a mirror… hmmm. Thanks to those who made that possible.
Hope, Love, Peace, Gratitude- Holopeagra
It’s the simple things,
Jen
The books "Tweak" and "Beautiful Boy." Memoirs of a young man’s addiction to meth from both his and his father’s perspective. Powerful moving stuff, inspires hope while living in the eye of a never ending hurricane of pain and uncertainty. I’ve found I enjoy reading stories that take you all the way down before bringing you back to a place of hope. It feels very applicable to life here in Seronga in some ways. It has also reaffirmed powerful lessons about hope in the face of hopelessness. Keep the Faith!
Shaving cream. I found it in Shakawe, it was only a fourth of my daily living allowance and my legs are thanking me daily. 6 months is too long to go without this stuff. I again feel slightly more civilized.
The movie “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day.” My new favorite. I would love to have a real copy so I could watch the bonus features, but watching the movie over and over again is fun as well. Love Amy Adams and Francis Mcdormand. I could be crazy when I recall that Amy Adams is from MN and performed at Chanhassan Dinner theater, but I imagine if this is the case some kind caring soul will correct me. And Francis Mcdormand was nominated (won?) for an Oscar for her role in that lovely movie of Midwestern twang “Fargo” which I’ve never seen. And all those cute British actors, especially the guy who plays Michael- does anyone know what else he’s been in?
Actors aside, I found the movie to be filled with great shots, interesting angles, good music, cute costumes and a story that has me questioning what I’m doing here having given up love for not even money….
My new mirror. I may be vain but looking at myself in a full length mirror for significant amounts of time has come to be my new hobby. Since living in Seronga I’ve been using a broken locker sized mirror that divided my face, hair, anything I tried to look at in two. I found this one at a China shop (yes as unpolitically correct as that term is, they are called that not for their fine crystal or dinner place settings but for the ethnicity of the proprietors who run them) in Shakawe and got in down the long and bumpy road to Seronga in one piece in only a week’s time. Then it only took two more days to get from Simon’s place to my house. This is a Seronga record for timeliness. I would imagine my fashion choices are going to be much more impressive now that I can actually see what I’m putting on and walking out the door in.
My Trader Joes reusable cloth shopping bag. I use it every day as a purse-esc sort of thing to carry the 4 litres of water I have to haul around the village with me for the course of the day. I love, love, love this- thank you again E and A.
The Wicked Soundtrack. Rick, you are a saint among men. I saw this musical for my birthday last year and it quickly became my favorite. I have been playing it and singing it and last night even falling asleep to it. It often causes me to cry for reasons I won’t go into here, but I love it! No one mourns the Wicked!
My straw diva hat. Back in another life, in another country, in another economy, some of you may remember receiving a picture text from me of my new hat that I had impulsively bought on a shopping spree that may or may not have been inspired by a date of significance I was attempting to avoid (what? we’ve all been there!!!). The hat became my pride and joy until the splashes from an early summer weekend of boating wrecked and misshaped it beyond repair. I am pleased to inform you it has been replaced. Purchased for the equivalent of $3 US dollars at a PEP store in Gabs I have already gotten exponentially more use and cute ensembles out of it than my $40 US dollar Banana Republic catastrophe.
It has also been rocking my world to have been able to replace some of the clothes that through washing, stretching, sunbleaching, staining and my own shrinking have began to make me look like even more of a mess than someone without a mirror… hmmm. Thanks to those who made that possible.
Hope, Love, Peace, Gratitude- Holopeagra
It’s the simple things,
Jen
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Blood Diamond: With the commentary. From both the director and me, I guess....
I recently spent an afternoon roasting in my house watching "Blood Diamond" (while trying to think cool thoughts) with the commentary on. It was really interesting to watch it again, having now lived in Africa, and so close to Zimbabwe (Leonardo's character is Rhodesian) and Mozambique (where most of the film was shot).
I found I was able to relate to Jennifer Connolly's character as an American who comes to Africa pretty naive to the causes and reasons for the diamond conflict, much as I did regarding HIV/AIDS prior to coming to Botswana. Not that I ever thought it would be easy, but I had no idea the intricate web of culture, geography, economics, politics and the like that would so deeply influence this epidemic. For that alone I am grateful to be in the eye of the hurricane at a time in which I can truly experience the "crisis" from it's core. I have a much better understanding than I did only 6 short months ago when I came as a result of living this life with the people, and can only hope that I can do them justice in my reporting, reflection (and really blogging) of their struggle. Being here especially in rural Botswana with such very limited resources has made me passionate about, yet occasionally impotent to impact on this crisis, but the spirit of the people here does and will continue to inspire me to keep trying. ok enough soap box... (maybe? ok reading through that seems to be exactly what I kept going on ooops)
It was interesting for me to note that during the process of her character development Connolly spoke with female reporters who had been in Africa during the Sierra Leon blood diamond conflict times and the fall of Freetown, and how she made it a priority for her character to make specific efforts to maintain her femininity in an area where it's not necessarily safe to do so as a female. This is an iceberg I'm just at the tip of in living in Africa and it was interesting to note that that was something she considered. Another piece of her character I felt was very true to life is how she sort of occasionally has to flirt her way through her interactions with African men (both black and white) to get things she wants/needs, but remains very serious about and committed to her ultimate cause, which is documenting and reporting on the conflict.
Despite my own personal passion for and commitment to the causes I am working with in Botswana I find myself occasionally having to do the same thing. Older men often smile condescendingly at me, and talk down to me and respond very, very badly when I reply in the assertive, or correct them that no my name is not "Baby". When I do this I've found I will nearly always then be told no to any request I have. In a country where it takes forever to get anything done, and at many, many junctures you can be told no for little or no reason, especially if you're young and female, is it wrong to smile pretty? To not correct a man who calls you sweetie, (when my Setswana name means "Love" for god's sake) or insists (as the chief has done) that I am his niece, which is technically true, but do I really want to call him uncle Kgosi? Will I do it if it means that he will then support my project, knowing he has the absolute power to stop the progress in it's tracks? There are some ways in which I've often wondered if I've compromised my integrity in dealing with the men of this country on this level, the level of development, and change, and getting shit done. There are many ways in which despite these doubts I wouldn't do a thing I've done differently.
In the struggle (both universally and mine personally) for women's overall equality and my specific task of creating and supporting projects than can help these women, the ones I've come to know, of this village, earn income to support their families and become more empowered to stand up for their rights with their husbands I ask myself many questions. Am I copping out? Have I contradicted or am I compromising myself? Am I being disingenuous? Am I taking one for the team? Should I use what I have? Are these the questions women from and living all over the world have been asking themselves since the beginning of time?
Back to the movie:
I also noticed this time through the intricacy of DiCaprio's accent, how he uses a Rhodesian accent most of the time and a thicker Afrikaans accent when he is peaking with the general or someone of influence from South Africa. Having been surrounded by these particular accents a lot recently I ahve a greater appreciation for the vocal work he must have done.
The director talks about building the bar on the beach where DiCaprio and Connolly meet, and apparently it's still there in Mozambique and I think we're planning on going there. Many of the shots of the fall of Freetown sequence were apparently filmed in and around Maputo and we'll be there for at least a little bit (I'm always a sucker for being in places movies were filmed).
All in all, the movie seemed to take on some new meanings for me as I watch it living in Africa. Does anyone have a copy of The Last King of Scotland they'd like to send across the pond?
I found I was able to relate to Jennifer Connolly's character as an American who comes to Africa pretty naive to the causes and reasons for the diamond conflict, much as I did regarding HIV/AIDS prior to coming to Botswana. Not that I ever thought it would be easy, but I had no idea the intricate web of culture, geography, economics, politics and the like that would so deeply influence this epidemic. For that alone I am grateful to be in the eye of the hurricane at a time in which I can truly experience the "crisis" from it's core. I have a much better understanding than I did only 6 short months ago when I came as a result of living this life with the people, and can only hope that I can do them justice in my reporting, reflection (and really blogging) of their struggle. Being here especially in rural Botswana with such very limited resources has made me passionate about, yet occasionally impotent to impact on this crisis, but the spirit of the people here does and will continue to inspire me to keep trying. ok enough soap box... (maybe? ok reading through that seems to be exactly what I kept going on ooops)
It was interesting for me to note that during the process of her character development Connolly spoke with female reporters who had been in Africa during the Sierra Leon blood diamond conflict times and the fall of Freetown, and how she made it a priority for her character to make specific efforts to maintain her femininity in an area where it's not necessarily safe to do so as a female. This is an iceberg I'm just at the tip of in living in Africa and it was interesting to note that that was something she considered. Another piece of her character I felt was very true to life is how she sort of occasionally has to flirt her way through her interactions with African men (both black and white) to get things she wants/needs, but remains very serious about and committed to her ultimate cause, which is documenting and reporting on the conflict.
Despite my own personal passion for and commitment to the causes I am working with in Botswana I find myself occasionally having to do the same thing. Older men often smile condescendingly at me, and talk down to me and respond very, very badly when I reply in the assertive, or correct them that no my name is not "Baby". When I do this I've found I will nearly always then be told no to any request I have. In a country where it takes forever to get anything done, and at many, many junctures you can be told no for little or no reason, especially if you're young and female, is it wrong to smile pretty? To not correct a man who calls you sweetie, (when my Setswana name means "Love" for god's sake) or insists (as the chief has done) that I am his niece, which is technically true, but do I really want to call him uncle Kgosi? Will I do it if it means that he will then support my project, knowing he has the absolute power to stop the progress in it's tracks? There are some ways in which I've often wondered if I've compromised my integrity in dealing with the men of this country on this level, the level of development, and change, and getting shit done. There are many ways in which despite these doubts I wouldn't do a thing I've done differently.
In the struggle (both universally and mine personally) for women's overall equality and my specific task of creating and supporting projects than can help these women, the ones I've come to know, of this village, earn income to support their families and become more empowered to stand up for their rights with their husbands I ask myself many questions. Am I copping out? Have I contradicted or am I compromising myself? Am I being disingenuous? Am I taking one for the team? Should I use what I have? Are these the questions women from and living all over the world have been asking themselves since the beginning of time?
Back to the movie:
I also noticed this time through the intricacy of DiCaprio's accent, how he uses a Rhodesian accent most of the time and a thicker Afrikaans accent when he is peaking with the general or someone of influence from South Africa. Having been surrounded by these particular accents a lot recently I ahve a greater appreciation for the vocal work he must have done.
The director talks about building the bar on the beach where DiCaprio and Connolly meet, and apparently it's still there in Mozambique and I think we're planning on going there. Many of the shots of the fall of Freetown sequence were apparently filmed in and around Maputo and we'll be there for at least a little bit (I'm always a sucker for being in places movies were filmed).
All in all, the movie seemed to take on some new meanings for me as I watch it living in Africa. Does anyone have a copy of The Last King of Scotland they'd like to send across the pond?
Never would I ever....
Imagine that I would walk nearly five k's over hot sand in the blazing Tropic of Capricorn heat to use the Internet. But that's exactly what I just did ;-). I got a text from Thuso that the Internet was back up and went from the clinic to the school confirmed that it was indeed working, then from the school back to the clinic and then home to grab my laptop and back to the school. Round trip probably 5 k's.
There are a few other things I never dreamed I would be doing that have now become commonplace to me, including but not limited to:
Reusing my bathwater. I fill the tub every morning in case the water goes out sometime over the course of the day, and then use and reuse the water for whatever I can think of. It's often got sand and floaties in it, but I'm generally grateful for the wet, and occasionally the cool. This is what you do when you don't have electricity to have a fan! I have swam in lakes cleaner than what comes through my tap but I have generally found that I'm able to have good humor about it. After I sit in the water to cool down I leave it in for the point in a few hours when I will need to cool down again. It's just a few shades short of hot but I make it work. My mother has lovingly reminded me of the days when I had to boil water to bathe with. Dishes are cleaned, laundry cleaned, body cleaned. Sure maybe it's not "sanitary" but that concept makes me laugh these days.
Getting altogether too excited at the concept of sleeping in a tent. It is now so incredibly hot here that I can barely sleep through the night in the oven that is my house, (go figure, you get rid of the night terrors and they're replaced by heat. I swear to you I'm laughing!) and am thrilled that my mother has sent me a tent. I cannot wait for it to arrive so I can sleep in my yard. Prior to Africa I had been camping for real precisely once, and it was a nearly complete trauma. I never thought camping would be an upgrade, but it is and I love it. I think perhaps the reason I never wanted to camp in the past was somewhere deep down I had a feeling I would be doing it for two years straight in some distant day in teh future.
Baking. Like for a hobby. So far I've made (from scratch and occasionally without measuring cups): brownies, coffee cake, apple pie, and peach cobbler. I have to honestly say I wasn't sure I had the baking gene in me. Everything I've made has been edible and Simon (not typically a man of many compliments) has even said it's quite good. My mother and grandmother are shocked and surprised and my mom has said that if I come back from Africa knowing how to cook a miracle indeed will have occured. I have informed her that baking is not cooking, so don't anyone hold your breath.
Cohabiting with spiders, bugs and other creepy crawlies. I have a general policy at this point that if the size of a creature (including legs) is close to the size of my palm, they have to die. Anything smaller is generally friendly and someone to talk to. With of course the exception of the scorpion that recently stung me, but that was at J's house so that doesn't really count.
Imagined that I could be this hot. Tempurature wise that is, as my hair is beginning to "fro" as it grows. I wake sweating and fall asleep sweating. I drink 4 litres of water a day. The dust blows and sticks to me. My brainpower gets a little foggy from 11 am onward and by 2 my mind is completly useless and I stare into space. I dream about ice. I pant like a dog. It's lovely.
That I would become an expert at ID-ing animal shits. Whether it came from an elephant, cow, donkey, goat, dog, mouse or lizard I can tell you who did it. And that's kind of sad....
And many more things that I discover and soon become commonplace every day!
Africa is fun!
There are a few other things I never dreamed I would be doing that have now become commonplace to me, including but not limited to:
Reusing my bathwater. I fill the tub every morning in case the water goes out sometime over the course of the day, and then use and reuse the water for whatever I can think of. It's often got sand and floaties in it, but I'm generally grateful for the wet, and occasionally the cool. This is what you do when you don't have electricity to have a fan! I have swam in lakes cleaner than what comes through my tap but I have generally found that I'm able to have good humor about it. After I sit in the water to cool down I leave it in for the point in a few hours when I will need to cool down again. It's just a few shades short of hot but I make it work. My mother has lovingly reminded me of the days when I had to boil water to bathe with. Dishes are cleaned, laundry cleaned, body cleaned. Sure maybe it's not "sanitary" but that concept makes me laugh these days.
Getting altogether too excited at the concept of sleeping in a tent. It is now so incredibly hot here that I can barely sleep through the night in the oven that is my house, (go figure, you get rid of the night terrors and they're replaced by heat. I swear to you I'm laughing!) and am thrilled that my mother has sent me a tent. I cannot wait for it to arrive so I can sleep in my yard. Prior to Africa I had been camping for real precisely once, and it was a nearly complete trauma. I never thought camping would be an upgrade, but it is and I love it. I think perhaps the reason I never wanted to camp in the past was somewhere deep down I had a feeling I would be doing it for two years straight in some distant day in teh future.
Baking. Like for a hobby. So far I've made (from scratch and occasionally without measuring cups): brownies, coffee cake, apple pie, and peach cobbler. I have to honestly say I wasn't sure I had the baking gene in me. Everything I've made has been edible and Simon (not typically a man of many compliments) has even said it's quite good. My mother and grandmother are shocked and surprised and my mom has said that if I come back from Africa knowing how to cook a miracle indeed will have occured. I have informed her that baking is not cooking, so don't anyone hold your breath.
Cohabiting with spiders, bugs and other creepy crawlies. I have a general policy at this point that if the size of a creature (including legs) is close to the size of my palm, they have to die. Anything smaller is generally friendly and someone to talk to. With of course the exception of the scorpion that recently stung me, but that was at J's house so that doesn't really count.
Imagined that I could be this hot. Tempurature wise that is, as my hair is beginning to "fro" as it grows. I wake sweating and fall asleep sweating. I drink 4 litres of water a day. The dust blows and sticks to me. My brainpower gets a little foggy from 11 am onward and by 2 my mind is completly useless and I stare into space. I dream about ice. I pant like a dog. It's lovely.
That I would become an expert at ID-ing animal shits. Whether it came from an elephant, cow, donkey, goat, dog, mouse or lizard I can tell you who did it. And that's kind of sad....
And many more things that I discover and soon become commonplace every day!
Africa is fun!
Nearly 6 months in Africa... and I miss you.
And I sit on my floor, alone, sweating in the concrete oven that is my home, balanced in some unsettling yoga pose, trying to quiet the mind that refuses to be silenced. I listen to the song that will always remind me of the he that has always been there, in so very many capacities, the times we had, the history there, the love lost and found and misplaced but never forgotten. The ways in which he's been right, the times he's been wrong, the me he's always known to my core, better than I of myself on occasion, the me he has understood in ways that only history and far too many drunken nights and levels of disclosure will allow. The love we’ve had that would never truly work in reality is in it’s current incarnation a mutual respect and a lifelong friendship. The times I've seen inside his soul when he gifted me the opportunity to see inside his vulnerability. It seems his turn has come in the series of moments dedicated to those that I miss, those that I've come to ache for.
Flashing through my mind like a random photo screensaver, the good times, the bad times, the wonderful casts of characters make their cameos and take their bows. The times and people of a different era remind me of who and what I've left behind. As my life is so disarmingly different here, it's easy to overlook the presence of those I carry with me. Sometimes it sneaks up on me, overtakes me, steals my breath and brings me to my knees in grief, causes me to bargain and barter with the powers that be that will not allow me just one Saturday morning in my mother's kitchen, talking over tea and nonsense, one Sunday afternoon dinner with section K, one more movie date with Karly. One more night out with him, in any city or country in the world, at any museum or bar or coffee shop, as we always seem to be able to translate the words we couldn't quite speak aloud through these venues.
These are things I long for, and come to terms with not having in stages, but the grass is always greener, right? The mourning also stems from the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that even if I were to have these things I wish for, they would never again be the same, as time passes I change irrevocably, for better or worse, through sickness and health, in this crazy commitment I've forsaken all others to undertake with myself. I know I will never again fit within that box; I will fail should I attempt to wrap myself in the skin I've shed and outgrown.
I hear from the he who has been here, who's slept in the very bed I've made for myself and truly knows the extent of the life I live in Seronga, and I hear the longing and confusion in his voice, I connect with the changes in the he he's become, and I fear for myself. His sorrow and resignation resonate with me, and yet I am inspired by his strength. I know in the depths of my soul that there's nothing different, nothing to change, but that doesn't stop me from missing it. The world I left behind. All of it together helps teach me acceptance, that elusive lesson I've been stalking all my life. I wrestle with the concept, on good days surrendering to it, on bad days shadow boxing the invisible opponent that I could see should I look in the mirror. In the end I decide to give it a rest, to dunk myself in the standing water in the tub and try my hand again tomorrow. I hope for sweet dreams, and perhaps a chance to see him and all the others there.
Flashing through my mind like a random photo screensaver, the good times, the bad times, the wonderful casts of characters make their cameos and take their bows. The times and people of a different era remind me of who and what I've left behind. As my life is so disarmingly different here, it's easy to overlook the presence of those I carry with me. Sometimes it sneaks up on me, overtakes me, steals my breath and brings me to my knees in grief, causes me to bargain and barter with the powers that be that will not allow me just one Saturday morning in my mother's kitchen, talking over tea and nonsense, one Sunday afternoon dinner with section K, one more movie date with Karly. One more night out with him, in any city or country in the world, at any museum or bar or coffee shop, as we always seem to be able to translate the words we couldn't quite speak aloud through these venues.
These are things I long for, and come to terms with not having in stages, but the grass is always greener, right? The mourning also stems from the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that even if I were to have these things I wish for, they would never again be the same, as time passes I change irrevocably, for better or worse, through sickness and health, in this crazy commitment I've forsaken all others to undertake with myself. I know I will never again fit within that box; I will fail should I attempt to wrap myself in the skin I've shed and outgrown.
I hear from the he who has been here, who's slept in the very bed I've made for myself and truly knows the extent of the life I live in Seronga, and I hear the longing and confusion in his voice, I connect with the changes in the he he's become, and I fear for myself. His sorrow and resignation resonate with me, and yet I am inspired by his strength. I know in the depths of my soul that there's nothing different, nothing to change, but that doesn't stop me from missing it. The world I left behind. All of it together helps teach me acceptance, that elusive lesson I've been stalking all my life. I wrestle with the concept, on good days surrendering to it, on bad days shadow boxing the invisible opponent that I could see should I look in the mirror. In the end I decide to give it a rest, to dunk myself in the standing water in the tub and try my hand again tomorrow. I hope for sweet dreams, and perhaps a chance to see him and all the others there.
On Famingoes and Iridescence
After I abruptly shortened my time in Maun (in Africa it's ok to be a flake!) to join A and Z on the cross country voyage (you gotta love that concept in a country the size of Texas) we had a small detour at a beautiful camp between here and there. After a detoured night of debauchery and dancing on the bar the likes of which I suspected I was no longer capable of at the advanced age of 27, (oh how we surprise ourselves… I ended up in the pool as well as dancing on the bar) we arrived at Cracker and A’s house in Sua. We stop at the internet cafe where I part with the best 13 pula I've ever spent in this country on internet of comparable or better speed that the good old US of A. I got through all 127 emails that had collected in my inbox as a result of my three week struggle with the phantom internet in Seronga. We grabbed some "sundowners" a lovely term for drinks consumed in nature, and generally in public while observing one of the phenomenal African sunsets. The concept of sundowners is a product of a place where the laws concerning public consumption are a complete and unenforceable joke. It’s another of the things that make me speculate that perhaps I am indeed in the Wild West or some other crazy last frontier.
We make our way to the salt mines, where they pump the salty liquid from deep in the Earth and flood the pans after which they harvest the salt which is left. We are lucky to have access to the closed fields because Cracker has done his PhD research there.
We cross through the ominous looking gates and I am immediately confronted with one of the more confusing of the many unusual sights I've encountered in Africa. It begins as we drive over the hill and I see the snow. I literally shake my head and squint and have to remind myself that in the heat this sight is impossible; this salty sand is just really white. And thick. We drive on, seeing herds (this word should probably be flocks, but really when you see these big birds running across the pan you would think herd as well!) of ostriches, again causing a bit of inner turmoil as I thought we would be looking at flamingoes. We crest another hill and I am amazed to observe a complete and total lack of horizon. I can see where the sand meets the water and then there is a line caused by the tide of flamingoes,(and I immediately wonder if there are several trailer parks in Blaine, MN that are missing their yard ornaments) but where the sky meets the water is a complete mystery. There is no horizon. Just the sky, and the reflection of the sky in the water, with no differentiation line as to where one ends and the other begins. I again squint, question the veracity of my hangover and the possibility that I have had a phantom hangover that must have come back without showing any signs of it's existence until now, when it decided to follow me though the looking glass to this bizarre place.
It quickly became one of the top ten most awe inspiring sights I have witnessed in my young life (Sorry, Seville at Semanta Santa. You’ve just been served). The air feels so heavy, yet not really humid; it's drier and feels as though it is sucking the moisture out of your very skin. I walk carefully through the discarded feathers that cause the whole beach to look like the street the day after a drag queen's birthday celebration, and let my feet sink into the stinky mixture of salty mud and flamingo shit. I am awestruck by the colors in the sky, and the perfection of the sun's reflection of itself in the water. The place has an opalescence about it that reminds me of the inside of a clam type shell. The flamingoes honk and grunt, and snort verbally in absolute contrast to the brilliant shades of pink and gorgeousness of their appearance. I sit on the gritty sand and watch the sun sink into not the water that reflects its beauty to itself, but the haze that causes the colors and absence of horizon. I smile and am grateful I said yes.
We make our way to the salt mines, where they pump the salty liquid from deep in the Earth and flood the pans after which they harvest the salt which is left. We are lucky to have access to the closed fields because Cracker has done his PhD research there.
We cross through the ominous looking gates and I am immediately confronted with one of the more confusing of the many unusual sights I've encountered in Africa. It begins as we drive over the hill and I see the snow. I literally shake my head and squint and have to remind myself that in the heat this sight is impossible; this salty sand is just really white. And thick. We drive on, seeing herds (this word should probably be flocks, but really when you see these big birds running across the pan you would think herd as well!) of ostriches, again causing a bit of inner turmoil as I thought we would be looking at flamingoes. We crest another hill and I am amazed to observe a complete and total lack of horizon. I can see where the sand meets the water and then there is a line caused by the tide of flamingoes,(and I immediately wonder if there are several trailer parks in Blaine, MN that are missing their yard ornaments) but where the sky meets the water is a complete mystery. There is no horizon. Just the sky, and the reflection of the sky in the water, with no differentiation line as to where one ends and the other begins. I again squint, question the veracity of my hangover and the possibility that I have had a phantom hangover that must have come back without showing any signs of it's existence until now, when it decided to follow me though the looking glass to this bizarre place.
It quickly became one of the top ten most awe inspiring sights I have witnessed in my young life (Sorry, Seville at Semanta Santa. You’ve just been served). The air feels so heavy, yet not really humid; it's drier and feels as though it is sucking the moisture out of your very skin. I walk carefully through the discarded feathers that cause the whole beach to look like the street the day after a drag queen's birthday celebration, and let my feet sink into the stinky mixture of salty mud and flamingo shit. I am awestruck by the colors in the sky, and the perfection of the sun's reflection of itself in the water. The place has an opalescence about it that reminds me of the inside of a clam type shell. The flamingoes honk and grunt, and snort verbally in absolute contrast to the brilliant shades of pink and gorgeousness of their appearance. I sit on the gritty sand and watch the sun sink into not the water that reflects its beauty to itself, but the haze that causes the colors and absence of horizon. I smile and am grateful I said yes.
On Pirates, the Delta and Fashion...
In hindsight, it may not have been the smartest decision I’ve ever made…
(But it’s still up there for fun and hilarity.)
To say yes when Simon called asking if I wanted to go out on the houseboats to meet his clients for dinner and drinks, leaving at 5:00 as the sun was beginning to set, but I said sure anyways. He had been gone for a week, and I was getting hungry! Knowing that whatever Simon has in store is generally going to be an adventure of some sort, I thought, why not.
So I met him at the office of the houseboats, his first words to me being, “Didn’t you bring a jacket, silly girl?” The summer winds had recently picked up and I had left it at home when I nearly fainted from carrying it, my bag and two parcels from the post (thanks mom and Karly!!!) at lunchtime. “Well, looks like you’re going to suffer, but you’ll learn, won’t you?” he growled as he made his way down to the landing and the boat.
M, my new S. African mother saved the day by insisting that I couldn’t go without a jacket, and brought me one about 4 sizes too big (hey I didn’t care, beggars can’t be choosers.. ) and off we went.
My first inclination that this might not be the best of ideas came as Simon fired up the outboard motor on the boat… Using… a flathead screwdriver. Sparks and smoke poured out of the engine, but hey, I rationalized, if he’s been all the way up the delta in this boat and it’s still fine, what the hell. I climbed aboard.
We met up with the clients, who were lovely folks from S. Africa and Europe, and had a nice time watching the sunset, talking and taking pictures. Dusk came and we went to the actual houseboat, and this was my first time on one.
Quite a good dinner of butternut squash soup, real meat, salad and lovely conversation followed. I’ve found I’m more intrigued by conversations consisting of a variety of different accents and on this occasion I was pleasantly entertained by a plethora.
By the time all the clients had gone to bed, and it was only Krauser, Simon, Hugh the pilot and I, I pointed out that it might be time for all Cinderellas to head on home to bed, the small hope creeping into the back of my mind that Krauser might just tell us to stay on the boat that night, how after all, would we possibly get home on the boat, in the delta in the dark?
The motor on same boat that only hours earlier had to be started with a screwdriver, and had no lights, stickers, buoys, anything.
I would soon find out. We found our way on board by jumping from the houseboat across a few platforms and onto the small boat. There were workers lighting the way with small flashlights, and I hear Simon laughing a bit maniacally as he fires up the engine, again with the screwdriver. I briefly contemplate the physics of the electrical situation present and wonder what Simon’s chances of being electrocuted are, and also spend a moment or two trying to refresh my memory on that boat safety class we were required to take along with our driver’s permit test in the great state of MN. I was just beginning to grab a glimpse of a memory of the manual when I remembered that by that time the teacher I had had (who had been my mother’s driving instructor as well) was so close to retirement and his pension that I had been the one scoring the tests for the class, as one of the better (Dependable? Trustworthy?? What? Who? Me?) students (albeit in hindsight not necessarily one of the better drivers) I was given a great deal of responsibility. Being myself I can’t imagine I didn’t take full advantage of the situation by not bothering to study too terribly hard on the boating portion. Still, I think boats fall into that small category of machines with motors that I haven’t crashed at some point (a category that does not include cars, four wheelers and riding lawnmowers). I’m kind of certain I could drive one? But I digress.
Through the pitch black delta we sped, a moonless light with stars to pretend to light the way but no real lights but the ash from Simon’s cigarette. I’m relatively certain he was navigating by feel, and I swore I once overheard Simon muttering to himself about the boat finding it’s way home….I inquired about the possibility of turning on a light or torch of some sort, but Simon grunted that no, we couldn’t do that as it would surely upset the hippos. Great.
Along the narrow channels we went, weaving around the papyrus banks, the long reeds bending over to nearly smack me in the face as it’s not like I could see to avoid them. The motor was not sounding not the healthiest I’ve ever heard an outboard run. I had a few visions of Simon and I as pirates, and how cute I would look with a red bandana and my new black and white striped tank top my sister sent me for my birthday. My mind then began to distract itself by wondering if perhaps pirates were in this season, and if not they surely would be next season, in which case I would be a trendsetter. It was one of those situations in which all you can do is laugh, (as you’re likely all cried out for the week or perhaps month) text 50 of your closest friends and hope you live to blog the tale…
(But it’s still up there for fun and hilarity.)
To say yes when Simon called asking if I wanted to go out on the houseboats to meet his clients for dinner and drinks, leaving at 5:00 as the sun was beginning to set, but I said sure anyways. He had been gone for a week, and I was getting hungry! Knowing that whatever Simon has in store is generally going to be an adventure of some sort, I thought, why not.
So I met him at the office of the houseboats, his first words to me being, “Didn’t you bring a jacket, silly girl?” The summer winds had recently picked up and I had left it at home when I nearly fainted from carrying it, my bag and two parcels from the post (thanks mom and Karly!!!) at lunchtime. “Well, looks like you’re going to suffer, but you’ll learn, won’t you?” he growled as he made his way down to the landing and the boat.
M, my new S. African mother saved the day by insisting that I couldn’t go without a jacket, and brought me one about 4 sizes too big (hey I didn’t care, beggars can’t be choosers.. ) and off we went.
My first inclination that this might not be the best of ideas came as Simon fired up the outboard motor on the boat… Using… a flathead screwdriver. Sparks and smoke poured out of the engine, but hey, I rationalized, if he’s been all the way up the delta in this boat and it’s still fine, what the hell. I climbed aboard.
We met up with the clients, who were lovely folks from S. Africa and Europe, and had a nice time watching the sunset, talking and taking pictures. Dusk came and we went to the actual houseboat, and this was my first time on one.
Quite a good dinner of butternut squash soup, real meat, salad and lovely conversation followed. I’ve found I’m more intrigued by conversations consisting of a variety of different accents and on this occasion I was pleasantly entertained by a plethora.
By the time all the clients had gone to bed, and it was only Krauser, Simon, Hugh the pilot and I, I pointed out that it might be time for all Cinderellas to head on home to bed, the small hope creeping into the back of my mind that Krauser might just tell us to stay on the boat that night, how after all, would we possibly get home on the boat, in the delta in the dark?
The motor on same boat that only hours earlier had to be started with a screwdriver, and had no lights, stickers, buoys, anything.
I would soon find out. We found our way on board by jumping from the houseboat across a few platforms and onto the small boat. There were workers lighting the way with small flashlights, and I hear Simon laughing a bit maniacally as he fires up the engine, again with the screwdriver. I briefly contemplate the physics of the electrical situation present and wonder what Simon’s chances of being electrocuted are, and also spend a moment or two trying to refresh my memory on that boat safety class we were required to take along with our driver’s permit test in the great state of MN. I was just beginning to grab a glimpse of a memory of the manual when I remembered that by that time the teacher I had had (who had been my mother’s driving instructor as well) was so close to retirement and his pension that I had been the one scoring the tests for the class, as one of the better (Dependable? Trustworthy?? What? Who? Me?) students (albeit in hindsight not necessarily one of the better drivers) I was given a great deal of responsibility. Being myself I can’t imagine I didn’t take full advantage of the situation by not bothering to study too terribly hard on the boating portion. Still, I think boats fall into that small category of machines with motors that I haven’t crashed at some point (a category that does not include cars, four wheelers and riding lawnmowers). I’m kind of certain I could drive one? But I digress.
Through the pitch black delta we sped, a moonless light with stars to pretend to light the way but no real lights but the ash from Simon’s cigarette. I’m relatively certain he was navigating by feel, and I swore I once overheard Simon muttering to himself about the boat finding it’s way home….I inquired about the possibility of turning on a light or torch of some sort, but Simon grunted that no, we couldn’t do that as it would surely upset the hippos. Great.
Along the narrow channels we went, weaving around the papyrus banks, the long reeds bending over to nearly smack me in the face as it’s not like I could see to avoid them. The motor was not sounding not the healthiest I’ve ever heard an outboard run. I had a few visions of Simon and I as pirates, and how cute I would look with a red bandana and my new black and white striped tank top my sister sent me for my birthday. My mind then began to distract itself by wondering if perhaps pirates were in this season, and if not they surely would be next season, in which case I would be a trendsetter. It was one of those situations in which all you can do is laugh, (as you’re likely all cried out for the week or perhaps month) text 50 of your closest friends and hope you live to blog the tale…
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