Something to be Thankful for....

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

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

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

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

Things in my life here that give me HOPE

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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


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

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

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

50 and Fabulous

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

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you

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