U.S. rolls back AIDS drug prevention trial in Botswana
By Maggie Fox, Health and Science Editor Maggie Fox, Health And Science Editor Thu Dec 17, 3:48 pm ET
WASHINGTON (Reuters) – U.S. officials said on Thursday they will give up on a trial in Botswana that was trying to show whether it is possible to prevent HIV infections by taking a daily pill because too few people are being infected.
There are also problems keeping track of people enrolled in the trial, so it will be adjusted to show instead how well people can stick to the routine, the team at the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said.
The trial of 1,200 people was trying to see if people could prevent infection with the AIDS virus if they took a daily pill that combined two HIV drugs. It was using Gilead Sciences Inc's Truvada, a combination of two drugs called tenofovir and emtricitabine.
They did not release the data on how many people in the trial became infected. The researchers also said that there appeared to be no safety concerns with the treatment so far.
The study, called TDF2, is one of several globally looking at the new approach, called pre-exposure prophylaxis, or PrEP. The idea is that a daily low dose of the drugs, which interfere with the ability of the virus to replicate, could also lower the risk of infection.
It has worked in monkeys and researchers are keen to see if it could provide an easy and cheap way to protect people from the virus, which infects 33 million globally and has killed 25 million people.
"The TDF2 study will be adapted due to unanticipated challenges that make it very unlikely that the trial will be able to determine if tenofovir-emtricitabine is effective in reducing the risk of HIV infection," the CDC said in a statement.
"The trial protocol and timeline will be revised to focus instead on the other remaining study questions -- primarily behavioral and clinical safety and adherence."
The problem is that new HIV infections are becoming less common in Botswana, where nearly a quarter of adults are infected.
"While the trial met its original enrollment goals, this study will not be able to determine efficacy given much lower than anticipated HIV incidence in the study population (likely due to declining HIV rates in Botswana generally, and to extensive HIV prevention services provided to all participants), and challenges in retaining participants in this highly mobile population of young adults," the CDC said.
"The trial, however, will provide critical information on safety and adherence to help guide potential implementation planning should PrEP prove effective in other trials. "
Other, similar trials are under way in the United States, South Africa, Thailand, Brazil, Peru, Kenya, Uganda and elsewhere.
Researchers are also looking for other ways to prevent infection, including by circumcising men.
There is no vaccine against the AIDS virus yet although work continues to make one, and researchers are also working on testing microbicides -- gels or creams that could be used to help prevent sexual transmission of the virus.
(Editing by Jackie Frank)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
This week in Seronga.....
Seronga Men’s Sector Event:
Traditional Healer/Midwives, Faith Based Leaders & Medical Professionals-
Working Together for Community Health.
On 8 December 2009 the Seronga Men’s Sector was the sponsor of a unique event bringing together traditional healers and midwives, faith based leaders and members of the medical community to address the spread of HIV in the greater Seronga area. The event was funded by the Okavango District Multi-Sectoral AIDS Committee (DMSAC).
The workshop was held at the Seronga Police compound and was facilitated by Ms. Celia Kauthemwa, health education technician from Gumare district health team and Mr. Emmanuel Segotso, a lay counselor and moruti from Gumare Counselling Centre. Dr. Mpata Lumbu and Nurse in Charge Florence Nkaelang from the Seronga clinic presented specific information regarding the issues they are encountering as medical professionals in the health facilities in the targeted area.
Also present were the dikgosi from Seronga and Gunotsoga, the councilor from Seronga, the Chair of the Seronga Men’s Sector Mr. Douglas Khumalo, the vice Chair of the Men’s Sector and master of ceremony of the day Mr. M Ramphisi, and the Peace Corps Volunteers from Seronga and Gumare, Ms. Jennifer “Lorato” Katchmark and Catherine “Duduetsong” Lecesse. Participants hailed from various villages, cattle posts and settlements from Mogotho to Gudigwa in Okavango delta area. They ranged in age from late twenties to 85 years old and were evenly divided in their capacities as traditional healers/ midwives and church representatives with 16 healer/midwives and 13 church leaders from various denominations.
Seronga Kgosi Maeze B Maeze welcomed the participants to the workshop, which was officially opened by local councilor Mr. Kotongwa. The format of the workshop was both lecture style and interactive, with participants playing an active role in sharing their experiences and having the opportunity to have many of their questions and concerns addressed by the facilitators. This equality based approach proved to be a very effective forum for all sectors to work together to trouble shoot and problem-solve various issues that were raised in a respectful and effective manner.
The goal of the workshop was to educate the targeted groups about HIV and AIDS and to discuss their practices to identify ways in which they can avoid the spread of HIV and to protect themselves and their patients and congregants from contracting HIV. Participants were informed of the differences between HIV and AIDS as well as practices such as using razor blades (or any other method of blood to blood contact) with multiple patients. They were also urged of the necessity of using latex gloves with their patients and were provided with a box of gloves in order to begin this new practice immediately. The healers/midwives were informed of various resources that they could reach out to in order to continue to acquire gloves for their practices. Traditional healers were encouraged to register their practices to legitimize their businesses and protect themselves in instances of accusation of malpractice or other controversy.
Traditional Healer/Midwives, Faith Based Leaders & Medical Professionals-
Working Together for Community Health.
On 8 December 2009 the Seronga Men’s Sector was the sponsor of a unique event bringing together traditional healers and midwives, faith based leaders and members of the medical community to address the spread of HIV in the greater Seronga area. The event was funded by the Okavango District Multi-Sectoral AIDS Committee (DMSAC).
The workshop was held at the Seronga Police compound and was facilitated by Ms. Celia Kauthemwa, health education technician from Gumare district health team and Mr. Emmanuel Segotso, a lay counselor and moruti from Gumare Counselling Centre. Dr. Mpata Lumbu and Nurse in Charge Florence Nkaelang from the Seronga clinic presented specific information regarding the issues they are encountering as medical professionals in the health facilities in the targeted area.
Also present were the dikgosi from Seronga and Gunotsoga, the councilor from Seronga, the Chair of the Seronga Men’s Sector Mr. Douglas Khumalo, the vice Chair of the Men’s Sector and master of ceremony of the day Mr. M Ramphisi, and the Peace Corps Volunteers from Seronga and Gumare, Ms. Jennifer “Lorato” Katchmark and Catherine “Duduetsong” Lecesse. Participants hailed from various villages, cattle posts and settlements from Mogotho to Gudigwa in Okavango delta area. They ranged in age from late twenties to 85 years old and were evenly divided in their capacities as traditional healers/ midwives and church representatives with 16 healer/midwives and 13 church leaders from various denominations.
Seronga Kgosi Maeze B Maeze welcomed the participants to the workshop, which was officially opened by local councilor Mr. Kotongwa. The format of the workshop was both lecture style and interactive, with participants playing an active role in sharing their experiences and having the opportunity to have many of their questions and concerns addressed by the facilitators. This equality based approach proved to be a very effective forum for all sectors to work together to trouble shoot and problem-solve various issues that were raised in a respectful and effective manner.
The goal of the workshop was to educate the targeted groups about HIV and AIDS and to discuss their practices to identify ways in which they can avoid the spread of HIV and to protect themselves and their patients and congregants from contracting HIV. Participants were informed of the differences between HIV and AIDS as well as practices such as using razor blades (or any other method of blood to blood contact) with multiple patients. They were also urged of the necessity of using latex gloves with their patients and were provided with a box of gloves in order to begin this new practice immediately. The healers/midwives were informed of various resources that they could reach out to in order to continue to acquire gloves for their practices. Traditional healers were encouraged to register their practices to legitimize their businesses and protect themselves in instances of accusation of malpractice or other controversy.
The views and customs of the traditional healers/midwives were quite openly shared with the medical professionals, giving them much greater insight into potential areas of conflict in various treatment regimens and traditional practices. There was an emphasis on how all involved sectors can work together and refer patients and clients to each other for complimentary treatments and services. Medical professionals urged the traditional healers to encourage their clients to bring their clinic health cards to their appointments for better coordination of services. The importance of bringing patients into the clinic in a timely manner, especially pregnant women who are in labor was emphasized as well as those showing symptoms of HIV or AIDS. Faith based leaders were implored to continue to support those in their congregations suffering from HIV and to encourage them to continue to adhere to ARV’s and the use of condoms.
Throughout the day participants repeatedly and enthusiastically expressed their understanding that they know they themselves cannot cure HIV and AIDS, and also showed a great deal of support and respect for the services provided at the local health facilities. Many reiterated their appreciation for the information they were given during the day and were pleased with the respect they felt they were shown by being targeted as important stakeholders in the prevention of spreading HIV. They expressed their intent to go back to their communities to continue to share the information they had been given.
Organizers of the event judged it to be a success, and feel it is an important type of event to replicate widely as these stakeholders have the potential to impact many members of their communities. Traditional healers, midwives and faith based leaders, while having a tremendous impact within communities have often been shunned or ignored by those attempting to address the spread of HIV. This workshop proved that when approached with respect and humility these important stakeholders can be eager to gain new knowledge and are even open to changing their traditional practices and beliefs and culture to better protect themselves and their clients from contracting HIV. Increasing their understanding of HIV/AIDS, prevention strategies and proper adherence to ARV’s may prove to be an effective way to reach populations who have been historically difficult to address and inform. Members of these important sectors of the community are very interested in improving the lives of those they serve by spreading messages of prevention in their unique capacities and should be utilized to the fullest.
Throughout the day participants repeatedly and enthusiastically expressed their understanding that they know they themselves cannot cure HIV and AIDS, and also showed a great deal of support and respect for the services provided at the local health facilities. Many reiterated their appreciation for the information they were given during the day and were pleased with the respect they felt they were shown by being targeted as important stakeholders in the prevention of spreading HIV. They expressed their intent to go back to their communities to continue to share the information they had been given.
Organizers of the event judged it to be a success, and feel it is an important type of event to replicate widely as these stakeholders have the potential to impact many members of their communities. Traditional healers, midwives and faith based leaders, while having a tremendous impact within communities have often been shunned or ignored by those attempting to address the spread of HIV. This workshop proved that when approached with respect and humility these important stakeholders can be eager to gain new knowledge and are even open to changing their traditional practices and beliefs and culture to better protect themselves and their clients from contracting HIV. Increasing their understanding of HIV/AIDS, prevention strategies and proper adherence to ARV’s may prove to be an effective way to reach populations who have been historically difficult to address and inform. Members of these important sectors of the community are very interested in improving the lives of those they serve by spreading messages of prevention in their unique capacities and should be utilized to the fullest.
*** this is the report that Mr. Khumalo, the policeman from the Seronga Police and Chair of the Men's Sector Committee, and I put together. The original report is much cooler with the pictures artfully added in, but it appears blogger is a little past my area of expertise in terms of putting them where I want them ;-0
Friday, December 4, 2009
Month End Madness!!!!
In Seronga, the village that-like Sleeping Beauty, nearly always seems to be sleeping (and is of course, not to be confused with New York, which from my startlingly foggy recollection of American geography-seems to have lapsed in the 20 months I’ve been away from it- is “the city that never sleeps”, or perhaps that’s Vegas? Either way-Seronga-completely different.) a certain time of month brings around the handsome prince known as Pula (money). With one brief brush of his lips the money is deposited, the cash is acquired (in Seronga all government employees-which is pretty much everyone- gets two days off each month strictly for banking. For many of us, the nearest branch of our bank is between 6 and god knows how many hours by car.) and a general state of Chaos ensues.
Now why, you ask, would an influx of cash be anything less than stupendous and gladly welcomed, Lorato, you evil Scrooge? In a village that clearly has so little? These people have surely worked hard for and earned each Thebe they are being granted. Surely when people have money they must feed their children and their animals sufficiently, and incorporate more vegetables into their diets. Everything must be better/easier/simpler with money! These good hearted villagers probably indulge is some harmless, (and especially in light of a first world expectation) extremely simple pleasures. And likely well deserved! These people have so little Lorato, why must you begrudge them their small pleasures that come with having some cash? Who let you into the Peace Corps anyways? Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of kind hearted humanitarian?
Yes gentle Readers. I too used to believe in this wonderful Botswana fairy tale, that this was a place where just a little cash could make such a big difference, and I believed in the power of the almighty dollar (Pula?) to really change lives, and solve things. Hell one reads about the wonders of microfinance (and increasingly sexy concept if it works as it’s purported to in other African nations, and believe me, I want in on some of those projects..) and how simple it is to make a small amount really felt in Africa, and you’d think that payday in Botswana would appear to be much like a Christmas every month end.
That’s exactly the problem. It’s the reason my mother spent most of my childhood proclaiming “Christmas comes but ONCE a year.” Through some stroke of genius, some infrastructurally cognizant wizard decided that all government employees in Botswana would be paid at the same time, which was then christened MONTH END. The few private enterprises appear to have followed, and thus THE ENTIRE COUNTRY GETS PAID AT THE SAME TIME. 12 times per year.
Yes, dear reader, I can see from your blank stare that you’re still not getting the picture I paint for you. I too remember what it’s like to spit and hit a Target store, and to have not one but four huge grocery stores and two Walmarts in any given strip mall complex. But alas the Target Empire has not yet crossed the ocean to Africa (although I stand eagerly on the shore of Botswana awaiting its arrival, oh wait, landlocked country, right….) And this means that there is a limited number of stores that carry foodstuffs and other items. And these limited numbers of stores are invaded as though by Vikings each month at month end. As such nearly entire employed population of most of Ngamiland district descends on Maun at once. In Maun, the ATM’s routinely run out of cash on any given day, but at month end, the line is not only long but usually hopeless. The buses are overfull, and the traffic on the road is more than dangerous, it’s deadly. Because an influx of cash means not only more drunks at any given hour of the day and night on the street grabbing you, but more frighteningly, drunk drivers. Sub Saharan Africa is not known as the deadliest place in the world for road accidents as some white elephant gift from the other regions of the world, it’s for real. I unfortunately know too many people who have died in road accidents here, including a Peace Corps volunteer who was killed the night before we received our site placements.
So aside from ransacked grocery stores, empty ATM’s, and deadly roads, what’s the problem, Lorato? The problem, dear friends, is the noise.
Now why would it be any noisier because of this mythical Month End you are wenching about? You’ve clearly got no grocery stores or ATM’s in Seronga, and there’s only one (dirt) road there that you should have no problem avoiding. What’s the problem, Princess?
MY BEAUTY SLEEP!!!!!!
As I write this it’s much much much past dark (quarter past 12 for those of you into the specifics) and I should be long asleep. And I was. The village was the sort of quiet you only get with a crescent moon, as it seems all the animals are resting their vocal chords (and their loins) in anticipation of the upcoming the extravaganza that is a full African moon.
And then the music begins pumping. In the middle of the night. And it’s not even a good song.
One thing that has never ceased to amaze me in a culture that is so incredibly communal is the lack of consideration that people seem to have for others. I have been woken up at each hour of the night by some guy listening to his music as loud as his car battery will allow (month end means he’s got money to put petrol in his car in order to run the battery or generator. If it’s the latter, the music must be that much louder to be heard over the whirring of the machine) and I have WALLS. Most of the village huts are constructed of reeds or mud. Not soundproof.
I have tried to be patient about this noise disturbance and chalk it up to cultural integration, but sometimes it’s ridiculous. Once a few months back I was awoken at about half eleven, by a horrible sexual American song from the mid 90’s (damn us and our crap cultural imperialism!!!) with a shit ton of expletives and gratuitous swearing. Now those of you who know me know that I consider swearing one of my absolute favorite filthy habits, but this song goes above and beyond.
In this half asleep daze, I forgot my flashlight but managed to remember to put on something “decent”. I stormed off into the overcast night with no moon to guide me towards the sound of the offenders. I clothes-lined myself half a dozen times with various wire fences and vines and trees that appeared to be running around, as I didn’t remember having this much navigational trouble in the daylight.
The sound was coming from an area deeper in the village than I usually wander even in daytime, and I could sort of tell I was headed in the direction of the floodplain, which as luck would have it, was flooded. As I heard the now familiar grunt of a hippo I tried not to think of the Kgosi’s story about the hippo he found resting at the kgotla in the early hours of morning. The kgotla is much further into the village from the water than I was at this immediate moment. As big as they are those guys are quick, and I wasn’t in the mood to try to negotiate with one of those guys as well as the music dudes.
After ten minutes and 6 thorns in my feet, I found the source of the noise. Two drunk guys whom I didn’t recognize (but then I was half asleep) smiled drunkenly and began the rigmarole of greeting me.
I cut them off, not even bothering to attempt to search my brain for some form of language these guys might understand. My wild hair, eyes, and gesticulations must have made my message clear, because once the shock of an angry white woman crashing their party and making demands in the middle of the night wore off, they began to laugh and walked in the direction of the volume button. I stomped away (as much as one can stomp on sand) and then called the police, thinking that if I had any more problems that they would be the next to deal with these guys (and probably in Setswana).
Now three of my village husbands, (true to the culture of the country there seems to be no problem among them that in one office there are three of them offering to negotiate cows for my hand in marriage, they all know about each other, and I just shake my head and wonder if anything I’ve been preaching about multiple concurrent partners and their negative impact on HIV has sunk in AT ALL. Although I’ve blunted and repeatedly rejected any of their attempted advances, I haven’t been able to shake them of the title, so when in Rome if you can’t beat them cause they are police officers, join them in what you desperately hope is a joke) are policemen, and I have to admit I may have been a bit overzealous in my initial training regimen with this poor police force.
When I first came to Seronga, in the Zen state I like to think on as “Scared Shitless” I did my best to communicate to the police office the duty of the police to protect me or Seronga would lose its Peace Corps. Perhaps I did a bit too well. When you call the police land line number, they are unable to call me back at night time because in the interest of controlling corruption all the outgoing lines are locked behind doors. So on the few occasions I’ve called in the evening or night they have to call me back on my cell phone from their cell phone. And what do they do with that prized number of the Lekgowa (white person) white person in Seronga? They push save.
In the beginning more than a few times I would then get drunken dials from various members of Seronga’s finest. Over time I’ve gotten all their numbers and thus know when to push ignore. We’ve come to a happy understanding.
But the point of the story is that in the process of calling the police and re-clotheslining myself back through the village to my hut, I managed to get lost. Not horribly, mind you, but lost enough. It’s amazing how much more difficult navigation becomes with no light. All huts begin to look alike, and you can’t follow your own footprints. So I trudged on in the direction that felt right and hoped that the cold weather meant that all those deadly poisonous snakes (puff adders, black mambas) that like to lie in the middle of sandy paths were in some sort of hibernation rather than plotting to kill me.
I’d like to say that to solve this conundrum I looked up at the sky and navigated by the stars (which would be so badass, but as I mentioned it was an overcast sky… and I couldn’t do it anyways) but in reality it was dumb luck (and the headlights of the police cruiser that was rapidly approaching my gate). I have to admit that this is the fastest I’ve ever seen any Batswana move in response to a request, but I quickly realized why this was when in response to my description of the problem each of the two officers in turn offered to inspect the inside of my hut for intruders, including my bed. I’d like to say I politely refused, but polite had nothing to do with my response.
So now it appears the distant pounding has ceased for a moment at least, and I must now rush to sleep before it pounds again. Time continues on, and there are fewer month ends ahead of me than behind me, and so I sink back into my pillow in gratitude for where I am right now, in my funny little village.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Lorato
Now why, you ask, would an influx of cash be anything less than stupendous and gladly welcomed, Lorato, you evil Scrooge? In a village that clearly has so little? These people have surely worked hard for and earned each Thebe they are being granted. Surely when people have money they must feed their children and their animals sufficiently, and incorporate more vegetables into their diets. Everything must be better/easier/simpler with money! These good hearted villagers probably indulge is some harmless, (and especially in light of a first world expectation) extremely simple pleasures. And likely well deserved! These people have so little Lorato, why must you begrudge them their small pleasures that come with having some cash? Who let you into the Peace Corps anyways? Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of kind hearted humanitarian?
Yes gentle Readers. I too used to believe in this wonderful Botswana fairy tale, that this was a place where just a little cash could make such a big difference, and I believed in the power of the almighty dollar (Pula?) to really change lives, and solve things. Hell one reads about the wonders of microfinance (and increasingly sexy concept if it works as it’s purported to in other African nations, and believe me, I want in on some of those projects..) and how simple it is to make a small amount really felt in Africa, and you’d think that payday in Botswana would appear to be much like a Christmas every month end.
That’s exactly the problem. It’s the reason my mother spent most of my childhood proclaiming “Christmas comes but ONCE a year.” Through some stroke of genius, some infrastructurally cognizant wizard decided that all government employees in Botswana would be paid at the same time, which was then christened MONTH END. The few private enterprises appear to have followed, and thus THE ENTIRE COUNTRY GETS PAID AT THE SAME TIME. 12 times per year.
Yes, dear reader, I can see from your blank stare that you’re still not getting the picture I paint for you. I too remember what it’s like to spit and hit a Target store, and to have not one but four huge grocery stores and two Walmarts in any given strip mall complex. But alas the Target Empire has not yet crossed the ocean to Africa (although I stand eagerly on the shore of Botswana awaiting its arrival, oh wait, landlocked country, right….) And this means that there is a limited number of stores that carry foodstuffs and other items. And these limited numbers of stores are invaded as though by Vikings each month at month end. As such nearly entire employed population of most of Ngamiland district descends on Maun at once. In Maun, the ATM’s routinely run out of cash on any given day, but at month end, the line is not only long but usually hopeless. The buses are overfull, and the traffic on the road is more than dangerous, it’s deadly. Because an influx of cash means not only more drunks at any given hour of the day and night on the street grabbing you, but more frighteningly, drunk drivers. Sub Saharan Africa is not known as the deadliest place in the world for road accidents as some white elephant gift from the other regions of the world, it’s for real. I unfortunately know too many people who have died in road accidents here, including a Peace Corps volunteer who was killed the night before we received our site placements.
So aside from ransacked grocery stores, empty ATM’s, and deadly roads, what’s the problem, Lorato? The problem, dear friends, is the noise.
Now why would it be any noisier because of this mythical Month End you are wenching about? You’ve clearly got no grocery stores or ATM’s in Seronga, and there’s only one (dirt) road there that you should have no problem avoiding. What’s the problem, Princess?
MY BEAUTY SLEEP!!!!!!
As I write this it’s much much much past dark (quarter past 12 for those of you into the specifics) and I should be long asleep. And I was. The village was the sort of quiet you only get with a crescent moon, as it seems all the animals are resting their vocal chords (and their loins) in anticipation of the upcoming the extravaganza that is a full African moon.
And then the music begins pumping. In the middle of the night. And it’s not even a good song.
One thing that has never ceased to amaze me in a culture that is so incredibly communal is the lack of consideration that people seem to have for others. I have been woken up at each hour of the night by some guy listening to his music as loud as his car battery will allow (month end means he’s got money to put petrol in his car in order to run the battery or generator. If it’s the latter, the music must be that much louder to be heard over the whirring of the machine) and I have WALLS. Most of the village huts are constructed of reeds or mud. Not soundproof.
I have tried to be patient about this noise disturbance and chalk it up to cultural integration, but sometimes it’s ridiculous. Once a few months back I was awoken at about half eleven, by a horrible sexual American song from the mid 90’s (damn us and our crap cultural imperialism!!!) with a shit ton of expletives and gratuitous swearing. Now those of you who know me know that I consider swearing one of my absolute favorite filthy habits, but this song goes above and beyond.
In this half asleep daze, I forgot my flashlight but managed to remember to put on something “decent”. I stormed off into the overcast night with no moon to guide me towards the sound of the offenders. I clothes-lined myself half a dozen times with various wire fences and vines and trees that appeared to be running around, as I didn’t remember having this much navigational trouble in the daylight.
The sound was coming from an area deeper in the village than I usually wander even in daytime, and I could sort of tell I was headed in the direction of the floodplain, which as luck would have it, was flooded. As I heard the now familiar grunt of a hippo I tried not to think of the Kgosi’s story about the hippo he found resting at the kgotla in the early hours of morning. The kgotla is much further into the village from the water than I was at this immediate moment. As big as they are those guys are quick, and I wasn’t in the mood to try to negotiate with one of those guys as well as the music dudes.
After ten minutes and 6 thorns in my feet, I found the source of the noise. Two drunk guys whom I didn’t recognize (but then I was half asleep) smiled drunkenly and began the rigmarole of greeting me.
I cut them off, not even bothering to attempt to search my brain for some form of language these guys might understand. My wild hair, eyes, and gesticulations must have made my message clear, because once the shock of an angry white woman crashing their party and making demands in the middle of the night wore off, they began to laugh and walked in the direction of the volume button. I stomped away (as much as one can stomp on sand) and then called the police, thinking that if I had any more problems that they would be the next to deal with these guys (and probably in Setswana).
Now three of my village husbands, (true to the culture of the country there seems to be no problem among them that in one office there are three of them offering to negotiate cows for my hand in marriage, they all know about each other, and I just shake my head and wonder if anything I’ve been preaching about multiple concurrent partners and their negative impact on HIV has sunk in AT ALL. Although I’ve blunted and repeatedly rejected any of their attempted advances, I haven’t been able to shake them of the title, so when in Rome if you can’t beat them cause they are police officers, join them in what you desperately hope is a joke) are policemen, and I have to admit I may have been a bit overzealous in my initial training regimen with this poor police force.
When I first came to Seronga, in the Zen state I like to think on as “Scared Shitless” I did my best to communicate to the police office the duty of the police to protect me or Seronga would lose its Peace Corps. Perhaps I did a bit too well. When you call the police land line number, they are unable to call me back at night time because in the interest of controlling corruption all the outgoing lines are locked behind doors. So on the few occasions I’ve called in the evening or night they have to call me back on my cell phone from their cell phone. And what do they do with that prized number of the Lekgowa (white person) white person in Seronga? They push save.
In the beginning more than a few times I would then get drunken dials from various members of Seronga’s finest. Over time I’ve gotten all their numbers and thus know when to push ignore. We’ve come to a happy understanding.
But the point of the story is that in the process of calling the police and re-clotheslining myself back through the village to my hut, I managed to get lost. Not horribly, mind you, but lost enough. It’s amazing how much more difficult navigation becomes with no light. All huts begin to look alike, and you can’t follow your own footprints. So I trudged on in the direction that felt right and hoped that the cold weather meant that all those deadly poisonous snakes (puff adders, black mambas) that like to lie in the middle of sandy paths were in some sort of hibernation rather than plotting to kill me.
I’d like to say that to solve this conundrum I looked up at the sky and navigated by the stars (which would be so badass, but as I mentioned it was an overcast sky… and I couldn’t do it anyways) but in reality it was dumb luck (and the headlights of the police cruiser that was rapidly approaching my gate). I have to admit that this is the fastest I’ve ever seen any Batswana move in response to a request, but I quickly realized why this was when in response to my description of the problem each of the two officers in turn offered to inspect the inside of my hut for intruders, including my bed. I’d like to say I politely refused, but polite had nothing to do with my response.
So now it appears the distant pounding has ceased for a moment at least, and I must now rush to sleep before it pounds again. Time continues on, and there are fewer month ends ahead of me than behind me, and so I sink back into my pillow in gratitude for where I am right now, in my funny little village.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Lorato
Life/Death
Death is here. No matter how I may try to avoid it, to run or hide from it, death is in this village. It’s amongst the children, which for some reason feels like the biggest injustice of all. You can smell it, the sickness, and in contrast the health amongst them. One of the children moans in a decibel that reminds me of a kitten. When I heard him in the infirmary the other day I thought the woman in maternity had given birth, but when I glanced in and saw her still full belly I checked the other room.
His mother had been cradling him, and my mind struggled to slowly register the contradiction between what I was hearing and seeing. While I heard the shallow cries of a newborn, I saw that the limbs of this child were too long to be a newborn. When I got closer and saw his skeletal mouth full of teeth and head full of the fuzz of a newborn I knew something was incredibly wrong.
I checked his chart and sure enough he was nearly a year and a half old. I glanced at his growth chart, which had progressed for a short period and then plummeted towards the bottom of the chart. Prior to this I’d never thought of that line as what it is, an indicator of growth in relation to averages, of expectations, something that measures health in relation to the space that one takes on the planet, one’s height and weight, a record of growth, of progress. What this line appeared to me as that day was an indication of the decreasing space this child required on the planet, likely soon to be no space.
The nurse standing next to me noticed the change in my demeanor as I reviewed the chart. Failure to thrive was written nowhere but rather implied. The multiple HIV blood tests taken from the baby’s foot had not been returned from the lab in Gaborone, but there was no doubt that HIV was the culprit. Tears welled in my eyes and I looked away. I quietly asked the nurse in English if the baby would live through the night.
“You feel for the kid, huh?” he said sympathetically. “He’ll be fine, he’s a fighter, look how many times he’s been to the clinic and he’s still fighting!” his enthusiasm rang with the hollowness of we both knew was the reality of the situation. I went to find the child a rattle that was left over from the breast feeding promotion we had. I was trying to distract him from the agony of the nurses probing every tiny vein in his emaciated body in a valiant attempt to revive and rehydrate him. I grimaced when he went to put his left thumb in his mouth, he had used this particular method to comfort himself so frequently that he had sucked off much of the skin, and refused to use his right thumb. He also refused the offer of the rattle, the pain in his watery eyes accusatory; it was as though he was insulted by my feeble attempt to comfort him with a bloody rattle.
I walked out of the infirmary, helpless, hopeless.
The next morning I arrived at the clinic to find the child had indeed survived the night, and sent up some gratitude to the universe. The patients and I made our way down to the boat to travel across the river to the hospital in Gumare.
On that journey, somewhere between Seronga and Sepopa another child, a brand new baby, has died. The last breath has escaped her lips and there’s nothing any of us can do about it, least not me. On the shore at Sepopa the women call me over in English, which is how I am first alerted to the problem. The people in my village and all the surrounding villages have decided that I will learn Setswana by immersion if nothing else, or perhaps they’re just more comfortable speaking in their native tongue and hoping I understand through some magic Rosetta stone of the universe. But when I hear them speaking to me in careful English I can sense the urgency in the situation. I know that obviously there are sick people on the boat, it is the water ambulance after all, and so most people are being transported to hospital, but I hadn’t taken the time to consider the ratio of women to sick children until now. So I approach them, and they open the circle from which they were originally huddling around the silent bundle in one woman’s arms.
“Is this baby alive, Lorato?” I hesitate to look but know I must. I see the baby’s purple face, lips still wet with her first tastes of life and although I know the inevitable answer, I search her motionless, still warm body for signs of life. I lift her arm, still covered in the waxy coating of birth, and search for a pulse, my thumb big and awkward and nearly the size of her tiny wrist. I fumble around before realizing that one’s thumb has a pulse of its own, and thus I must use one of my fingers, but I find they’ve also developed a pulse of their own.
I feel my own heart begin to race as I search for life in this child, it’s a cross between taunting me with the strength of its pounding and my own desperation to give this mother another answer than what is now the truth. I begin to feel frantic and panicky, as though there is some cosmic move I can make to bring this child back from the other side, if I only knew it, if only. The women somberly look over me, patiently waiting to see if my white skin does indeed have the special powers of which they’ve only heard.
It’s like not knowing the answers on exam day, or every bad dream I’ve ever had where I cannot control the course of events in any way, like the other night when I woke up crying. I look around in a state of anxiety and insecurity, I want someone else to take this burden, I don’t know what to do, and I’m not the doctor. I want to scream it; I want to run away, I want to know how to handle this situation.
There is no way. I’m the only one who hasn’t accepted the inevitability of the situation. Life and death come every day to Seronga, and everyone seems to know the score but me.
Just when I think that my heart is finished, that it has shriveled and hardened into a little palm nut, covered in a hard, protective shell, it is broken again. A tender piece of flesh exposed, to the wind, to the world, to the hurt and it bleeds anew. A little river of pain flows through and I know I can still feel, and this feeling is sadness. And it is sprinkled with despair, and laced with hopelessness, and I can taste the pain, it springs bitter onto the tip of my tongue and it mixes with the bile of the rage which has risen in my throat, the indignation and confusion that although this matters, it doesn’t seem to matter.
I want to scream primally, I want to howl, I want to shake my fist at the heavens and demand that this child’s spirit and her life be returned to its rightful place here on Earth. But how can I do any of these things when the child’s own mother sits stoically next to the woman who holds her now lifeless child, the body of which sprung from her own body less than 12 hours previous. The tears stream silently down my own face, defying the dehydration that is my normal state of being to protest this awful situation.
What do you do? There’s nothing. I don’t mean to sound like a “save the children” ad here, and to be honest it frustrates me to describe the problem in any depth as I know from living here that there is certainly not an easy, and possibly not even a difficult implimentable solution to this problem, which surely will not be solved any time soon.
Why should I even write about it, to make all of you reading this have an idea of the shittiness if there’s nothing to be done about it? I guess I do it to get rid of some of the rage and sadness that lives inside me as a result of this experience. Parts of me are becoming hardened to this constant human suffering, but am I so different from people who work anywhere else doing this type of work? What about nurses and doctors in Emergency Rooms anywhere on Earth, or homicide detectives, or even teachers in some areas?
What obligation can I possibly have to each of these children? What can I do? I swear I would move mountains if I thought it would help…
I have no answers. This upsets me. I go on with life, not able to forget, but slightly becoming numb to the pain.
This day comes, as all do, to an end. Later, in the darkness of night I hear the rain begin to fall on the corrugated iron roof. I run outside, desperate to feel the rain on my skin, to cleanse me of this day. I look to the sky for answers and find my hot tears mixing with the cold rain. I yearn to have the lightning illuminate the world, and make it clear again, if only for a moment.
His mother had been cradling him, and my mind struggled to slowly register the contradiction between what I was hearing and seeing. While I heard the shallow cries of a newborn, I saw that the limbs of this child were too long to be a newborn. When I got closer and saw his skeletal mouth full of teeth and head full of the fuzz of a newborn I knew something was incredibly wrong.
I checked his chart and sure enough he was nearly a year and a half old. I glanced at his growth chart, which had progressed for a short period and then plummeted towards the bottom of the chart. Prior to this I’d never thought of that line as what it is, an indicator of growth in relation to averages, of expectations, something that measures health in relation to the space that one takes on the planet, one’s height and weight, a record of growth, of progress. What this line appeared to me as that day was an indication of the decreasing space this child required on the planet, likely soon to be no space.
The nurse standing next to me noticed the change in my demeanor as I reviewed the chart. Failure to thrive was written nowhere but rather implied. The multiple HIV blood tests taken from the baby’s foot had not been returned from the lab in Gaborone, but there was no doubt that HIV was the culprit. Tears welled in my eyes and I looked away. I quietly asked the nurse in English if the baby would live through the night.
“You feel for the kid, huh?” he said sympathetically. “He’ll be fine, he’s a fighter, look how many times he’s been to the clinic and he’s still fighting!” his enthusiasm rang with the hollowness of we both knew was the reality of the situation. I went to find the child a rattle that was left over from the breast feeding promotion we had. I was trying to distract him from the agony of the nurses probing every tiny vein in his emaciated body in a valiant attempt to revive and rehydrate him. I grimaced when he went to put his left thumb in his mouth, he had used this particular method to comfort himself so frequently that he had sucked off much of the skin, and refused to use his right thumb. He also refused the offer of the rattle, the pain in his watery eyes accusatory; it was as though he was insulted by my feeble attempt to comfort him with a bloody rattle.
I walked out of the infirmary, helpless, hopeless.
The next morning I arrived at the clinic to find the child had indeed survived the night, and sent up some gratitude to the universe. The patients and I made our way down to the boat to travel across the river to the hospital in Gumare.
On that journey, somewhere between Seronga and Sepopa another child, a brand new baby, has died. The last breath has escaped her lips and there’s nothing any of us can do about it, least not me. On the shore at Sepopa the women call me over in English, which is how I am first alerted to the problem. The people in my village and all the surrounding villages have decided that I will learn Setswana by immersion if nothing else, or perhaps they’re just more comfortable speaking in their native tongue and hoping I understand through some magic Rosetta stone of the universe. But when I hear them speaking to me in careful English I can sense the urgency in the situation. I know that obviously there are sick people on the boat, it is the water ambulance after all, and so most people are being transported to hospital, but I hadn’t taken the time to consider the ratio of women to sick children until now. So I approach them, and they open the circle from which they were originally huddling around the silent bundle in one woman’s arms.
“Is this baby alive, Lorato?” I hesitate to look but know I must. I see the baby’s purple face, lips still wet with her first tastes of life and although I know the inevitable answer, I search her motionless, still warm body for signs of life. I lift her arm, still covered in the waxy coating of birth, and search for a pulse, my thumb big and awkward and nearly the size of her tiny wrist. I fumble around before realizing that one’s thumb has a pulse of its own, and thus I must use one of my fingers, but I find they’ve also developed a pulse of their own.
I feel my own heart begin to race as I search for life in this child, it’s a cross between taunting me with the strength of its pounding and my own desperation to give this mother another answer than what is now the truth. I begin to feel frantic and panicky, as though there is some cosmic move I can make to bring this child back from the other side, if I only knew it, if only. The women somberly look over me, patiently waiting to see if my white skin does indeed have the special powers of which they’ve only heard.
It’s like not knowing the answers on exam day, or every bad dream I’ve ever had where I cannot control the course of events in any way, like the other night when I woke up crying. I look around in a state of anxiety and insecurity, I want someone else to take this burden, I don’t know what to do, and I’m not the doctor. I want to scream it; I want to run away, I want to know how to handle this situation.
There is no way. I’m the only one who hasn’t accepted the inevitability of the situation. Life and death come every day to Seronga, and everyone seems to know the score but me.
Just when I think that my heart is finished, that it has shriveled and hardened into a little palm nut, covered in a hard, protective shell, it is broken again. A tender piece of flesh exposed, to the wind, to the world, to the hurt and it bleeds anew. A little river of pain flows through and I know I can still feel, and this feeling is sadness. And it is sprinkled with despair, and laced with hopelessness, and I can taste the pain, it springs bitter onto the tip of my tongue and it mixes with the bile of the rage which has risen in my throat, the indignation and confusion that although this matters, it doesn’t seem to matter.
I want to scream primally, I want to howl, I want to shake my fist at the heavens and demand that this child’s spirit and her life be returned to its rightful place here on Earth. But how can I do any of these things when the child’s own mother sits stoically next to the woman who holds her now lifeless child, the body of which sprung from her own body less than 12 hours previous. The tears stream silently down my own face, defying the dehydration that is my normal state of being to protest this awful situation.
What do you do? There’s nothing. I don’t mean to sound like a “save the children” ad here, and to be honest it frustrates me to describe the problem in any depth as I know from living here that there is certainly not an easy, and possibly not even a difficult implimentable solution to this problem, which surely will not be solved any time soon.
Why should I even write about it, to make all of you reading this have an idea of the shittiness if there’s nothing to be done about it? I guess I do it to get rid of some of the rage and sadness that lives inside me as a result of this experience. Parts of me are becoming hardened to this constant human suffering, but am I so different from people who work anywhere else doing this type of work? What about nurses and doctors in Emergency Rooms anywhere on Earth, or homicide detectives, or even teachers in some areas?
What obligation can I possibly have to each of these children? What can I do? I swear I would move mountains if I thought it would help…
I have no answers. This upsets me. I go on with life, not able to forget, but slightly becoming numb to the pain.
This day comes, as all do, to an end. Later, in the darkness of night I hear the rain begin to fall on the corrugated iron roof. I run outside, desperate to feel the rain on my skin, to cleanse me of this day. I look to the sky for answers and find my hot tears mixing with the cold rain. I yearn to have the lightning illuminate the world, and make it clear again, if only for a moment.
And I walk away.....
All Italicized lyrics from "One"-U2
It is a difficult thing for me to attempt to describe my experiences in Seronga. I tell stories that I hope give glimpses, of the sorrow, of the joy, of the essence of the place. I try to make aspects of most of it seem a little funny, or I try to find the poignant moment or the lesson learned. I’ve come to believe I’ve got a pretty good understanding of life here, and the motivations of the people, the reasons for their actions.
We’re one but we’re not the same,
We hurt each other and we’re doin’ it again.
The one area I can’t quite get around is the dying children. It’s an easy enough situation to overlook. In some ways I’m ashamed to say I try to stay out of that aspect of life here. I don’t attend all the funerals. I don’t even attend most of them. When I’m honest with myself, I have to admit I actively try to avoid them. What can one’s response possibly be when death is no longer a tragedy? I mean it is. It’s still a tragedy. But what is the proper word for it? How does one name the continuous state or condition of tragedy that has become a way of life?
I’ve noticed that African children aren’t really big criers. They don’t really cry because they’re tired, because if they’re tired, they are strapped to their mom’s back, which serves as their crib, and so they just go to sleep. They don’t really cry because they’re hungry, perhaps this is because they quickly get used to the feeling, or because their moms will just swing them around to nurse anywhere and everywhere. They don’t cry for many other reasons that I’ve seen children from my own culture cry, and a small part of me can’t help but speculate that it’s because they learn so early on that it really does no good. They’ll get what they get when it’s given to them, and in this culture it tends to be whatever is left over. There’s no use whining for something else.
(Worth noting: I might be wrong about this whole crying thing, as I was previously wrong on my “African children don’t crawl” theory, developed in part because I had never really seen it happen. It appeared to me that babies went from their moms back, being carried around- to walking. I mentioned this to a woman at the clinic one day and she laughed at me, told all her friends, who then also laughed at me, looked around the waiting room for a child of the correct age, picked it up, and put it on the floor in the crawling stance. She moved away and called the child and he crawled right to her. Touché. Perhaps these babies are just smart enough (or their mothers are) to not do too much cruising around in the loose sand full of broken glass and thorns.
But generally it’s got to be an injection, a serious injury or some pretty dire straights to get a child this side to cry.
A few weeks back I was at the clinic, trying to write or read or count pills or some other menial task that had been interrupted for what was likely a crap reason. I was about to leave the clinic, as it has increasingly become a difficult place for me to try to be for long periods of time, day in and day out, when I realized there were children crying. I have to admit I was surprised to find that I was in some ways deaf to the sound of children crying.
It’s often a haunting sound here. It’s a cross between a painful yelp and a prolonged moan. Sometimes I’ve noticed the children get so sick they don’t even sound like children any more, but rather some sort of injured animal, a sort of hoarse howling sob.
Just the other day I realized a child had followed me crying down the dirt road in Seronga for nearly ten minutes without me noticing until a car pulled up in front of me and asked, “Lorato, is that child crying for you?”
I looked back. The village is so full of children whom all know my name and scream it at me at any given opportunity that past indulging their fervent greetings I had no idea why the child was crying but walked back and picked her up.
As I’ve said before, I tend to get extremely mixed reactions from children here, from them running full speed from anywhere within eyesight to greet me in the village to shirking away in terror. I never know what reaction I’ll get, and have to admit I was a bit surprised when this child held up her arms in the universal “pick me up” way that makes even muddy or food covered children seem endearing.
I carried her along with my heavy bags, overloaded with at least two and a half litres of boiled, filtered and frozen water which I have to bring with me around the village daily in an attempt to stave off dehydration. I looked at the child and asked her what was the matter (I think) and told her to “quiet down” (didimala), which other than the Setswanafied English word of “sorddy” (sorry) is the only word of comfort I’ve really heard here.
The child eventually stopped crying and seemed satisfied to just follow me around for a while longer, to the co-op, the hardware store. At some point I looked back and had a gang of them following me like lemmings, rushing and nearly knocking each other over to help show me where the dish soap was.
One love,
One blood
One life you’ve got to do what you should
One life with each other, sisters, brothers
We’re one but we’re not the same
We’ve got to carry each other, carry each other…..
One
The other day I was walking home and heard the sound that my brain has recently begun to recognize again. Again it was a child crying. Not the I’m hungry, or thirsty, or that kid stole my toy, but the I’m in serious pain and I’m going to just cry myself into a state of passing out. I sighed and walked toward the sound. I found a child leaned up against a doorway, her torn and dirty dress hanging off her thin frame and a spot of sand in the front of her hair where she must have put her head onto the ground. She was half heartedly moaning, while someone on the other side of the piece of corrugated iron that was the door shouted at her periodically to stop. The other children played obliviously nearby, and the mother greeted me smiling when I entered the yard.
“What’s wrong with this child?” I asked her sharply, forgoing the usual series of polite greetings.
Realizing this wasn’t a social call, she thrust her chin in the child’s direction and indicated that “her hand was hurting.” I glanced at the child’s hand and saw that it was a swollen paw dangling at the end of a skinny wrist. The baby finger of her right hand was jutted out so far that it was perpendicular to her wrist, with a few small cuts between the last two fingers. “What happened?” I demanded from the mother.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. I asked for the card from the clinic and saw that the child had first been seen on Saturday. It was Wednesday. I read through the card, and asked why the child hadn’t gone with the water ambulance to Gumare, as she had been referred to do for an x-ray.
“I wasn’t there.” said the mother. “It was her grandmother, and there was no money.”
“No money for what?” I asked. (The water ambulance is free.)
“For lunch,” She answered.
Is it getting better?
Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you, now,
That you’ve got someone to blame?
I wanted to scream. Instead I indicated that the child should follow me to my house. Two of her sisters followed. Against any and all Peace Corps policies, I busted out my often self raided medical kit for some antibacterial ointment, band-aids, and grabbed an ice pack from my freezer. This would be a temporary solution as it was 105 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade today, and this family would have no freezer. I attempted to clean the small punctures in the skin where the flesh was beginning to pop out that suggested it might have been a bug bite gone terribly wrong, but also thought it might have been a puncture from rusty piece of something.
I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. And unlike many people who join the Peace Corps, this experience has done absolutely nothing to push me in that direction, as a matter of fact I am quite certain that is absolutely not what I would like to be when I grow up. I have seen and heard about more strange injuries here, including one of my favorite village kids, who somehow managed to get a boiling water burn on her vulva (her mother was ready to yank off the dressings to explain to me exactly what was going on but I deferred) than I could care to see or hear about for the entirety of the rest of my life.
I walked the child back to her yard and spoke to the mother again. I called a few of my co-workers, none of whom could remember this child that had apparently been consulted today (“Is it the one with the abscess between the thumb and forefinger?” one of my coworkers asked helpfully.) and asked them if the child showed a referral on her card for the hospital if she should go with the water ambulance tomorrow. There was of course no certain answer for this so I indicated to the mother that this injury was quite serious and the child needed to go to see the doctor at the hospital the next day. I have no idea if she will actually be able to go there, as their might be adults with more serious injuries…
Did I ask too Much?
More than a lot?
You give me nothing-now it’s
All I’ve got……
(Sidebar: I traveled to Gumare the next day, and at the hospital I saw that the child was there waiting with her mother to go to the hospital via the water ambulance. When I arrived at the hospital and I heard a tiny voice calling “Lorato” –which isn’t completely out of the ordinary in this village far from my own-what can I say, people know me ;-0. I looked over and saw the girl’s sister smiling and waving at me and the little girl with the hand injury right behind her, staring at me slightly suspiciously- she might be remembering the painful application of the bandaid… It was afternoon and her hand still hadn’t been looked at by the doctor. I later heard that the trip was a waste and that the doctor never saw her, but back at Seronga clinic they had lanced the wound and drained it, and the next time I saw the child she had a bandage on it and the finger was closer to straight. Later when I got to the clinic and again mentioned the case, the nurses again said that the mother was supposed to bring the child back again for re-bandaging as they were worried about the infection spreading. The next time I passed the house I told the mother she must bring the child in again- as it said, in English-so helpful- on her card. The child’s sister later brought her back to the clinic, I found the nurse on call and sort of dragged him out of his house (it was a holiday) and had him attend to it. I think it’s gonna make it….. Update: I saw the little girl the other day, she called my name from the school yard and waved at me, with her fully healed hand. I guess I’ve done something here;-)
You say:
Love is a temple, Love the higher law
Love is a temple, Love the higher law
You ask me to enter, and then you make me crawl,
I can’t keep holding on to what you’ve got,
when all you’ve got is hurt.
A few steps farther down the path to my house I saw my neighbor and greeted her.
I asked her where her child was and she looked at me curiously. “He died this year.”
“What?” I asked. “He couldn’t have died this year, he was only born this year and I saw you with him only a month or so back.”
Through much discussion and producing several points of reference from events in the village, and who had been here or at the cattle post we managed to pin it down to when I was gone in Gabs for training last month.
“He was veddy sick,” she said matter of factly, continuing on to list off diarrhea and vomiting (universal signs of dehydration, one of the most common causes of death amongst babies and small children in Seronga) as legitimate and worthy causes of death. I muttered how sorry I was, and continued on my way.
I ask myself, How many times can you walk away from these situations before you are classified as a monster? What can you do, to stay, to help, to solve? What does it mean to when I stop caring, or feeling?
When I came here because I wanted to DO something, what exactly was it that I thought I might do? I mean truly?
“Have you come here for forgiveness,
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus,
To the Lepers in your head?”
Did I think I would really run around actively saving lives? I’m not the Doctor.
As I entered my house, hot tired, dehydrated, sad, I turned and shut both my doors to the world, to this day. One of my prayer flags got caught on the door in protest, as though reminding me to try to keep my heart open. I ignored it and walked to the bathtub where I turned on the tap to fill the tub with the murky brown water in which I bathe or just sit in to get relief from the heat. Much like I was surprised by the cries of the children this day, I was startled to find myself suddenly sobbing. The tears began pouring down my face like the African rains that had been refusing to come. My heart melted and burned, and I sobbed, trying to release this sadness inside of me.
Did I disappoint you,
or leave a bad taste in your mouth
you act like you never had love,
so you won't need to go without...
It is a difficult thing for me to attempt to describe my experiences in Seronga. I tell stories that I hope give glimpses, of the sorrow, of the joy, of the essence of the place. I try to make aspects of most of it seem a little funny, or I try to find the poignant moment or the lesson learned. I’ve come to believe I’ve got a pretty good understanding of life here, and the motivations of the people, the reasons for their actions.
We’re one but we’re not the same,
We hurt each other and we’re doin’ it again.
The one area I can’t quite get around is the dying children. It’s an easy enough situation to overlook. In some ways I’m ashamed to say I try to stay out of that aspect of life here. I don’t attend all the funerals. I don’t even attend most of them. When I’m honest with myself, I have to admit I actively try to avoid them. What can one’s response possibly be when death is no longer a tragedy? I mean it is. It’s still a tragedy. But what is the proper word for it? How does one name the continuous state or condition of tragedy that has become a way of life?
I’ve noticed that African children aren’t really big criers. They don’t really cry because they’re tired, because if they’re tired, they are strapped to their mom’s back, which serves as their crib, and so they just go to sleep. They don’t really cry because they’re hungry, perhaps this is because they quickly get used to the feeling, or because their moms will just swing them around to nurse anywhere and everywhere. They don’t cry for many other reasons that I’ve seen children from my own culture cry, and a small part of me can’t help but speculate that it’s because they learn so early on that it really does no good. They’ll get what they get when it’s given to them, and in this culture it tends to be whatever is left over. There’s no use whining for something else.
(Worth noting: I might be wrong about this whole crying thing, as I was previously wrong on my “African children don’t crawl” theory, developed in part because I had never really seen it happen. It appeared to me that babies went from their moms back, being carried around- to walking. I mentioned this to a woman at the clinic one day and she laughed at me, told all her friends, who then also laughed at me, looked around the waiting room for a child of the correct age, picked it up, and put it on the floor in the crawling stance. She moved away and called the child and he crawled right to her. Touché. Perhaps these babies are just smart enough (or their mothers are) to not do too much cruising around in the loose sand full of broken glass and thorns.
But generally it’s got to be an injection, a serious injury or some pretty dire straights to get a child this side to cry.
A few weeks back I was at the clinic, trying to write or read or count pills or some other menial task that had been interrupted for what was likely a crap reason. I was about to leave the clinic, as it has increasingly become a difficult place for me to try to be for long periods of time, day in and day out, when I realized there were children crying. I have to admit I was surprised to find that I was in some ways deaf to the sound of children crying.
It’s often a haunting sound here. It’s a cross between a painful yelp and a prolonged moan. Sometimes I’ve noticed the children get so sick they don’t even sound like children any more, but rather some sort of injured animal, a sort of hoarse howling sob.
Just the other day I realized a child had followed me crying down the dirt road in Seronga for nearly ten minutes without me noticing until a car pulled up in front of me and asked, “Lorato, is that child crying for you?”
I looked back. The village is so full of children whom all know my name and scream it at me at any given opportunity that past indulging their fervent greetings I had no idea why the child was crying but walked back and picked her up.
As I’ve said before, I tend to get extremely mixed reactions from children here, from them running full speed from anywhere within eyesight to greet me in the village to shirking away in terror. I never know what reaction I’ll get, and have to admit I was a bit surprised when this child held up her arms in the universal “pick me up” way that makes even muddy or food covered children seem endearing.
I carried her along with my heavy bags, overloaded with at least two and a half litres of boiled, filtered and frozen water which I have to bring with me around the village daily in an attempt to stave off dehydration. I looked at the child and asked her what was the matter (I think) and told her to “quiet down” (didimala), which other than the Setswanafied English word of “sorddy” (sorry) is the only word of comfort I’ve really heard here.
The child eventually stopped crying and seemed satisfied to just follow me around for a while longer, to the co-op, the hardware store. At some point I looked back and had a gang of them following me like lemmings, rushing and nearly knocking each other over to help show me where the dish soap was.
One love,
One blood
One life you’ve got to do what you should
One life with each other, sisters, brothers
We’re one but we’re not the same
We’ve got to carry each other, carry each other…..
One
The other day I was walking home and heard the sound that my brain has recently begun to recognize again. Again it was a child crying. Not the I’m hungry, or thirsty, or that kid stole my toy, but the I’m in serious pain and I’m going to just cry myself into a state of passing out. I sighed and walked toward the sound. I found a child leaned up against a doorway, her torn and dirty dress hanging off her thin frame and a spot of sand in the front of her hair where she must have put her head onto the ground. She was half heartedly moaning, while someone on the other side of the piece of corrugated iron that was the door shouted at her periodically to stop. The other children played obliviously nearby, and the mother greeted me smiling when I entered the yard.
“What’s wrong with this child?” I asked her sharply, forgoing the usual series of polite greetings.
Realizing this wasn’t a social call, she thrust her chin in the child’s direction and indicated that “her hand was hurting.” I glanced at the child’s hand and saw that it was a swollen paw dangling at the end of a skinny wrist. The baby finger of her right hand was jutted out so far that it was perpendicular to her wrist, with a few small cuts between the last two fingers. “What happened?” I demanded from the mother.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. I asked for the card from the clinic and saw that the child had first been seen on Saturday. It was Wednesday. I read through the card, and asked why the child hadn’t gone with the water ambulance to Gumare, as she had been referred to do for an x-ray.
“I wasn’t there.” said the mother. “It was her grandmother, and there was no money.”
“No money for what?” I asked. (The water ambulance is free.)
“For lunch,” She answered.
Is it getting better?
Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you, now,
That you’ve got someone to blame?
I wanted to scream. Instead I indicated that the child should follow me to my house. Two of her sisters followed. Against any and all Peace Corps policies, I busted out my often self raided medical kit for some antibacterial ointment, band-aids, and grabbed an ice pack from my freezer. This would be a temporary solution as it was 105 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade today, and this family would have no freezer. I attempted to clean the small punctures in the skin where the flesh was beginning to pop out that suggested it might have been a bug bite gone terribly wrong, but also thought it might have been a puncture from rusty piece of something.
I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. And unlike many people who join the Peace Corps, this experience has done absolutely nothing to push me in that direction, as a matter of fact I am quite certain that is absolutely not what I would like to be when I grow up. I have seen and heard about more strange injuries here, including one of my favorite village kids, who somehow managed to get a boiling water burn on her vulva (her mother was ready to yank off the dressings to explain to me exactly what was going on but I deferred) than I could care to see or hear about for the entirety of the rest of my life.
I walked the child back to her yard and spoke to the mother again. I called a few of my co-workers, none of whom could remember this child that had apparently been consulted today (“Is it the one with the abscess between the thumb and forefinger?” one of my coworkers asked helpfully.) and asked them if the child showed a referral on her card for the hospital if she should go with the water ambulance tomorrow. There was of course no certain answer for this so I indicated to the mother that this injury was quite serious and the child needed to go to see the doctor at the hospital the next day. I have no idea if she will actually be able to go there, as their might be adults with more serious injuries…
Did I ask too Much?
More than a lot?
You give me nothing-now it’s
All I’ve got……
(Sidebar: I traveled to Gumare the next day, and at the hospital I saw that the child was there waiting with her mother to go to the hospital via the water ambulance. When I arrived at the hospital and I heard a tiny voice calling “Lorato” –which isn’t completely out of the ordinary in this village far from my own-what can I say, people know me ;-0. I looked over and saw the girl’s sister smiling and waving at me and the little girl with the hand injury right behind her, staring at me slightly suspiciously- she might be remembering the painful application of the bandaid… It was afternoon and her hand still hadn’t been looked at by the doctor. I later heard that the trip was a waste and that the doctor never saw her, but back at Seronga clinic they had lanced the wound and drained it, and the next time I saw the child she had a bandage on it and the finger was closer to straight. Later when I got to the clinic and again mentioned the case, the nurses again said that the mother was supposed to bring the child back again for re-bandaging as they were worried about the infection spreading. The next time I passed the house I told the mother she must bring the child in again- as it said, in English-so helpful- on her card. The child’s sister later brought her back to the clinic, I found the nurse on call and sort of dragged him out of his house (it was a holiday) and had him attend to it. I think it’s gonna make it….. Update: I saw the little girl the other day, she called my name from the school yard and waved at me, with her fully healed hand. I guess I’ve done something here;-)
You say:
Love is a temple, Love the higher law
Love is a temple, Love the higher law
You ask me to enter, and then you make me crawl,
I can’t keep holding on to what you’ve got,
when all you’ve got is hurt.
A few steps farther down the path to my house I saw my neighbor and greeted her.
I asked her where her child was and she looked at me curiously. “He died this year.”
“What?” I asked. “He couldn’t have died this year, he was only born this year and I saw you with him only a month or so back.”
Through much discussion and producing several points of reference from events in the village, and who had been here or at the cattle post we managed to pin it down to when I was gone in Gabs for training last month.
“He was veddy sick,” she said matter of factly, continuing on to list off diarrhea and vomiting (universal signs of dehydration, one of the most common causes of death amongst babies and small children in Seronga) as legitimate and worthy causes of death. I muttered how sorry I was, and continued on my way.
I ask myself, How many times can you walk away from these situations before you are classified as a monster? What can you do, to stay, to help, to solve? What does it mean to when I stop caring, or feeling?
When I came here because I wanted to DO something, what exactly was it that I thought I might do? I mean truly?
“Have you come here for forgiveness,
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus,
To the Lepers in your head?”
Did I think I would really run around actively saving lives? I’m not the Doctor.
As I entered my house, hot tired, dehydrated, sad, I turned and shut both my doors to the world, to this day. One of my prayer flags got caught on the door in protest, as though reminding me to try to keep my heart open. I ignored it and walked to the bathtub where I turned on the tap to fill the tub with the murky brown water in which I bathe or just sit in to get relief from the heat. Much like I was surprised by the cries of the children this day, I was startled to find myself suddenly sobbing. The tears began pouring down my face like the African rains that had been refusing to come. My heart melted and burned, and I sobbed, trying to release this sadness inside of me.
Did I disappoint you,
or leave a bad taste in your mouth
you act like you never had love,
so you won't need to go without...
A Measure of Success.....
When I arrived in Seronga, due partially to my inexperience in living alone, and also to my former shortcomings in the field of planning and preparation, there were quite a few items I didn’t have, many of which it didn’t occur to me I might need. Nowhere was this deficiency more evident than in the kitchen.
When I visited my hut in during the weekend in which we viewed and took inventory of our future new homes and villages, (an exercise in which many of my Bots classmates were able to wander around their comparatively spacious accommodations- and really how much is there to explore in a one and half room hut- for somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 days, I myself had about 1 due to the fact that I Seronga is just so damn FAR from…. everywhere. I t took me two days to get there from Moleps and two days to get back) I have to be honest and admit that I spent a majority of that time cowering in the corner (or really rather not—round room-no corners), or later, when I realized the creepy crawlies that resided in the corners, huddled in the middle of my bed (possibly in tears) eating my processed cheese slices and bread which seemed to be the only logical thing that might be properly kept through a journey of that many miles (or really, Kilometers).
In the midst of my quivering period of self doubt, I managed to observe that there were about four plates and a few half sets of cutlery which I assumed should be fine as it seemed unlikely that I would have any houseguests. The few sauce pans and glasses and two coffee mugs that rounded out the happy cupboard seemed to sufficiently cover what would be necessary for me to (learn to) cook.
A few weeks later in the altogether overwhelming experience of shopping in the mall in Gabs for the supplies that were to furnish our homes for the next two years, ( I blew a quarter of my moving in allowance on a down comforter and would do it again in a heartbeat… somewhere in my head was a line from what was undoubtedly an old Martha Stewart ”Living” magazine from my grandmother’s house extolling the virtues of nice bedding… or perhaps that was an advertisement… whichever) I did manage to remember to spend altogether too much money on a non-stick (yeah right) cake pan and cookie sheet. And with that I survived happily enough. I didn’t even have proper pot holders until this past July (which I got from someone who was moving away) but they’re those crazy silicon bird beak looking things, the technology of which must just be beyond me….
I give these examples of my culinary shortcomings as an overly detailed account of how inept I am when it comes to matters of the kitchen. You can see the direction this would be going when I resorted to taking up baking as a hobby.
Busy the hands to quiet the mind? Feed the stomach to empty the brain? I have no idea what pseudo fortune cookie theory I was operating under at that particular time.
But discovering I had no measuring cups was likely one of those charming little mishaps that defined those first few months at site (and likely sent me crying to that overly-expensive-down-comforter-covered-bed. I cried enough in those first few months to certainly last me the next two years…) Depressed, determined and most of all, hungry, the perseverance I’ve found in myself (and has jumped in to save me through much more trying and traumatizing shit than I can name) kicked in and I decided that measuring cups were going to have to be a luxury for the moment (incidentally I now have two sets;-).
So I baked. I eyeballed and felt the weight of the ingredients. I experimented and tried new things. It probably wasn’t always exactly right, but at least sometimes, it worked. Things tasted generally ok. I ate them. I didn’t poison myself or others (that I know of). I can’t even begin to tell you the amount of pride I experienced, and the amount of confidence in myself I developed, and the hope that was fostered that I could indeed do this Peace Corps thing.
Because what does it mean to measure? How can one determine exactly how much of something one has in different situations, under different conditions? How does one measure things, especially abstract things like success? Or behavior change?
I think about this often, even more so when it comes time to fill out our quarterly Peace Corps reports, those nightmarish visions in excel friendly format (allegedly) wherein we’re supposed to compile numbers and write a short synopses to describe what it is we do and how many people we’ve “saved” from the scourge that is HIV in Botswana.
So every three months I find myself in a tailspin of self doubt and feelings of inadequacy and failure when I face the difficult task of quantifying the work I do into an easy-to-read numerical format.
I often find myself envying people serving in other Peace Corps countries, where the goals appear (although I’ve learned nothing here if I haven’t learned that appearances can be deceiving…) to be attached to programs with tangible outcomes.
“What did you do in the Peace Corps?” a Question I anticipate enjoying almost as much as the one about “Why are you joining the Peace Corps?” or “What will you do in the Peace Corps?” To be able to simply answer, “I dug wells.” Or “I grew gardens”. Some of the members of a former cohort often said (only partially in jest) “I saved babies”.
What does it mean to have lived a year and a half of your life in a place and still not completely have a handle on it?
What have I done in the Peace Corps….?
Ummmm…
Crickets chirping….
(I mean really, I’ve been writing this lengthy, overly wordy blog which many people swear they’ve been reading for a year and a half and they still ask me what I do… and I don’t blame them a bit. Personally, I like to think there’s been some growth, and professionally, I’ve got ideas, and some energy still, I’ve got a helluva lot of goals, and things I’d love to see happen… but it’s also really tough to explain in a way that seems meaningful to the average onlooker. When I try to describe what have been some of the more meaningful moments and life changing experiences I've witnessed and had myself here, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it can all start to sound a little kum-bah-ya and lame. I realize that. People say I'm doing good work over here, and I struggle sometimes to believe that is true, but it's the hope that I'm doing something that will incite change that gets me out of bed in the morning.)
As Americans (and especially as Americans with mostly American funders) we want results. We want numbers, we want hard facts, and we want success. We want gorgeous, Excel generated charts and graphs and spreadsheets that we can take back to show other Americans how successful we’ve been. These are our measuring cups. We want everyone to marvel at the cake we’ve baked, and we want to give them the recipe for success with exact and replicable ingredients.
But this is Africa. And more specifically, Botswana. And even more than that it’s Seronga, a tiny village in the heart of the Okavango delta and peoples whom even their own government often overlooks. We don’t eat cake here. And so I’m sorry. Success looks and tastes differently here. The measurements vary.
Because what can these numbers possibly mean? If it’s about numbers I can give you numbers all day, numbers that have been ascribed to me or to my accomplishments. I can give you my weight, my date of birth, my social security number, my high school and college GPAs, the score I got on any number of tests throughout my life, the number of stamps in my passport, any number at all that is supposed to have some meaning that in some way describes me. But do they? Can they tell you if I’m a success?
Ok then, lets talk experiences. If I gave you the name, presenters, brochure, location, duration, program from every class, speech, lecture, workshop, seminar, poetry slam, open mic night or reading I’ve ever attended that was supposed to in some way influence me or change my mind, could you from that calculate my risk behaviors?
Maybe. But probably not.
But it doesn’t exactly predict how I’ll act. And thus whether I’ll act in a way that might lead to me acquiring HIV.
So how can I report, honestly, that the guy over there that attended the workshop I’ve put on has been at all informed, has taken in the information presented to him in a meaningful way, that he relates to himself the benefits and risks of male circumcision and that his decision around this matter for himself might be changed. Can I report this quite honestly when I know for a fact he came for the free lunch?
And what about the woman over there, who just sat through the clinic health talk on multiple concurrent partnerships? Can she conceptualize what this means for her (sure she can repeat what has just been said, and she can tell me all day long what it is I want to hear.)? Does this mean that I can safely assume that she’ll have the sexual negotiation skills and confidence to confront her partner, and the independent financial resources to leave her partner should he refuse to give up his other wives, or even to go to the clinic to test for HIV with her? Is all this a success if it just ends up getting this woman a fresh beating?
You can see where the numbers and reporting are just the first wave of angst.
It’s hard to look at a report designed for the duel purpose of keeping track of what we’re doing (this is indeed the only evidence we submit that we are really doing anything-for those of us this far out it’s not like the Peace corps is just going to randomly wander through our villages-I’ll say it again, it’s a mission to get here) and reporting to funders (one might expect that it’s sort of in everyone’s best interest to produce high numbers of those reached- and thus effectiveness as it’s these funders who keep us in jobs-this has been a moral dilemma to me, as I had always envisioned the Peace Corps as a place in which the goal would be to “work myself out of a job…” And the HIV rate in this country has done nothing but go up since I’ve been here) and not feel a sense of confusion, and I daresay, failure?
Because really in the end, all the paperwork and reporting and questioning leads to one bigger, more personal end.
If the Peace Corps is my life (Which arguably it is, at least for these two years. It’s pretty difficult to separate the personal from the professional when you live in these circumstances, with these sorts of goals) and these are the predetermined measurements of my success, and I feel this much confusion and uncertainty over reporting my “accomplishments” and whether I’ve achieved success, then what am I doing? Am I doing the right thing? Must my goals and feelings of success as a person in an individual be intrinsically tied to the level of success present in this village-ie the increase or decrease in the number of HIV infections? Has this been worth it? Am I successful?
These are questions I ask myself everyday. And the answers have never come to me via the reports I agonize over and resignedly hand in every three months. I’ve had to redefine success. Again and again. And it rarely comes in a numerical form.
Because success has come to look and feel differently to me.
Do I know that making art projects around the village is going to have any impact whatsoever on the prevalence of HIV in my village, or in Botswana? Nope. But I do know that several children have taken a project through from design to completion and can see their efforts on the walls of their hometown. I can see in them a sense of pride in their accomplishment. Some of them have made a connection between the use of alcohol and HIV. Some have been inspired by the notion of recycling objects to make art.
Can I foresee if reading books in English and discussing the themes and watching the movies and journaling about their reactions is going to keep five precious girls from contracting HIV? I wish to God I could. But I can tell you that I have seen their comfort level of reading, comprehending and expressing themselves in English increase, for some of them, dramatically. And I am willing to bet that these skills will help them enormously when they’re in medical school, a plan that half of them have, with their primary goal to be to find a cure for HIV and to help their people.
So how do I measure success? I know it when I feel it.
I consider it a success when I see one of the nurses, after watching me practice reading aloud in English with some school children for 45 minutes while they waited for him to finish with patients so that he can help them complete a questionnaire they’ve been sent to complete, take real time to help them finish their assignment and make certain they understand. Last week a nurse shouted an answer at them from a doorway.
I consider it a success when the woman who sells me airtime texts me after I’ve given her some magazines because she’s expecting a child and wants to know more about healthy eating and how she should prepare health wise for the baby. Prior to my suggestion she had never before taken advantage of the library within 100 meters of the door of her shop.
The children with whom I practice writing their names and multiplication tables in the dirt have steadily decreased the time it takes them to answer my quiz like questions and increased their willingness to look me in the eye. Learning is becoming something that is fun for them. They’ve come to trust me and know I won’t beat them if they get the answer wrong.
And there’s no box on the form for that.
How much credit can I take for any of these things? Probably not much. But for me that’s the definition of Peace Corps. We don’t come here to achieve success in the typically American sense. We have to find it in other ways, to search and dig and redefine it for ourselves. For me that has meant that my feeling of success comes when others achieve something, when I see that they are becoming closer to their best selves, and that they are improving the way in which they interact with and manage their worlds and what they want from it, when they raise their own expectations of themselves and others.
Did I come here to solve HIV? Nope, that one is way bigger than me. Did I come here to personally have an impact on a massive reduction of HIV? Even at my vainest moments I’m not that delusional. Might I have helped someone who could potentially do these things for their own country? That’s the dream. Have I been successful? That’s the one I take to bed with me at night, and hope that in the end, the answer will come out to be a resounding “yes”.
When I visited my hut in during the weekend in which we viewed and took inventory of our future new homes and villages, (an exercise in which many of my Bots classmates were able to wander around their comparatively spacious accommodations- and really how much is there to explore in a one and half room hut- for somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 days, I myself had about 1 due to the fact that I Seronga is just so damn FAR from…. everywhere. I t took me two days to get there from Moleps and two days to get back) I have to be honest and admit that I spent a majority of that time cowering in the corner (or really rather not—round room-no corners), or later, when I realized the creepy crawlies that resided in the corners, huddled in the middle of my bed (possibly in tears) eating my processed cheese slices and bread which seemed to be the only logical thing that might be properly kept through a journey of that many miles (or really, Kilometers).
In the midst of my quivering period of self doubt, I managed to observe that there were about four plates and a few half sets of cutlery which I assumed should be fine as it seemed unlikely that I would have any houseguests. The few sauce pans and glasses and two coffee mugs that rounded out the happy cupboard seemed to sufficiently cover what would be necessary for me to (learn to) cook.
A few weeks later in the altogether overwhelming experience of shopping in the mall in Gabs for the supplies that were to furnish our homes for the next two years, ( I blew a quarter of my moving in allowance on a down comforter and would do it again in a heartbeat… somewhere in my head was a line from what was undoubtedly an old Martha Stewart ”Living” magazine from my grandmother’s house extolling the virtues of nice bedding… or perhaps that was an advertisement… whichever) I did manage to remember to spend altogether too much money on a non-stick (yeah right) cake pan and cookie sheet. And with that I survived happily enough. I didn’t even have proper pot holders until this past July (which I got from someone who was moving away) but they’re those crazy silicon bird beak looking things, the technology of which must just be beyond me….
I give these examples of my culinary shortcomings as an overly detailed account of how inept I am when it comes to matters of the kitchen. You can see the direction this would be going when I resorted to taking up baking as a hobby.
Busy the hands to quiet the mind? Feed the stomach to empty the brain? I have no idea what pseudo fortune cookie theory I was operating under at that particular time.
But discovering I had no measuring cups was likely one of those charming little mishaps that defined those first few months at site (and likely sent me crying to that overly-expensive-down-comforter-covered-bed. I cried enough in those first few months to certainly last me the next two years…) Depressed, determined and most of all, hungry, the perseverance I’ve found in myself (and has jumped in to save me through much more trying and traumatizing shit than I can name) kicked in and I decided that measuring cups were going to have to be a luxury for the moment (incidentally I now have two sets;-).
So I baked. I eyeballed and felt the weight of the ingredients. I experimented and tried new things. It probably wasn’t always exactly right, but at least sometimes, it worked. Things tasted generally ok. I ate them. I didn’t poison myself or others (that I know of). I can’t even begin to tell you the amount of pride I experienced, and the amount of confidence in myself I developed, and the hope that was fostered that I could indeed do this Peace Corps thing.
Because what does it mean to measure? How can one determine exactly how much of something one has in different situations, under different conditions? How does one measure things, especially abstract things like success? Or behavior change?
I think about this often, even more so when it comes time to fill out our quarterly Peace Corps reports, those nightmarish visions in excel friendly format (allegedly) wherein we’re supposed to compile numbers and write a short synopses to describe what it is we do and how many people we’ve “saved” from the scourge that is HIV in Botswana.
So every three months I find myself in a tailspin of self doubt and feelings of inadequacy and failure when I face the difficult task of quantifying the work I do into an easy-to-read numerical format.
I often find myself envying people serving in other Peace Corps countries, where the goals appear (although I’ve learned nothing here if I haven’t learned that appearances can be deceiving…) to be attached to programs with tangible outcomes.
“What did you do in the Peace Corps?” a Question I anticipate enjoying almost as much as the one about “Why are you joining the Peace Corps?” or “What will you do in the Peace Corps?” To be able to simply answer, “I dug wells.” Or “I grew gardens”. Some of the members of a former cohort often said (only partially in jest) “I saved babies”.
What does it mean to have lived a year and a half of your life in a place and still not completely have a handle on it?
What have I done in the Peace Corps….?
Ummmm…
Crickets chirping….
(I mean really, I’ve been writing this lengthy, overly wordy blog which many people swear they’ve been reading for a year and a half and they still ask me what I do… and I don’t blame them a bit. Personally, I like to think there’s been some growth, and professionally, I’ve got ideas, and some energy still, I’ve got a helluva lot of goals, and things I’d love to see happen… but it’s also really tough to explain in a way that seems meaningful to the average onlooker. When I try to describe what have been some of the more meaningful moments and life changing experiences I've witnessed and had myself here, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it can all start to sound a little kum-bah-ya and lame. I realize that. People say I'm doing good work over here, and I struggle sometimes to believe that is true, but it's the hope that I'm doing something that will incite change that gets me out of bed in the morning.)
As Americans (and especially as Americans with mostly American funders) we want results. We want numbers, we want hard facts, and we want success. We want gorgeous, Excel generated charts and graphs and spreadsheets that we can take back to show other Americans how successful we’ve been. These are our measuring cups. We want everyone to marvel at the cake we’ve baked, and we want to give them the recipe for success with exact and replicable ingredients.
But this is Africa. And more specifically, Botswana. And even more than that it’s Seronga, a tiny village in the heart of the Okavango delta and peoples whom even their own government often overlooks. We don’t eat cake here. And so I’m sorry. Success looks and tastes differently here. The measurements vary.
Because what can these numbers possibly mean? If it’s about numbers I can give you numbers all day, numbers that have been ascribed to me or to my accomplishments. I can give you my weight, my date of birth, my social security number, my high school and college GPAs, the score I got on any number of tests throughout my life, the number of stamps in my passport, any number at all that is supposed to have some meaning that in some way describes me. But do they? Can they tell you if I’m a success?
Ok then, lets talk experiences. If I gave you the name, presenters, brochure, location, duration, program from every class, speech, lecture, workshop, seminar, poetry slam, open mic night or reading I’ve ever attended that was supposed to in some way influence me or change my mind, could you from that calculate my risk behaviors?
Maybe. But probably not.
But it doesn’t exactly predict how I’ll act. And thus whether I’ll act in a way that might lead to me acquiring HIV.
So how can I report, honestly, that the guy over there that attended the workshop I’ve put on has been at all informed, has taken in the information presented to him in a meaningful way, that he relates to himself the benefits and risks of male circumcision and that his decision around this matter for himself might be changed. Can I report this quite honestly when I know for a fact he came for the free lunch?
And what about the woman over there, who just sat through the clinic health talk on multiple concurrent partnerships? Can she conceptualize what this means for her (sure she can repeat what has just been said, and she can tell me all day long what it is I want to hear.)? Does this mean that I can safely assume that she’ll have the sexual negotiation skills and confidence to confront her partner, and the independent financial resources to leave her partner should he refuse to give up his other wives, or even to go to the clinic to test for HIV with her? Is all this a success if it just ends up getting this woman a fresh beating?
You can see where the numbers and reporting are just the first wave of angst.
It’s hard to look at a report designed for the duel purpose of keeping track of what we’re doing (this is indeed the only evidence we submit that we are really doing anything-for those of us this far out it’s not like the Peace corps is just going to randomly wander through our villages-I’ll say it again, it’s a mission to get here) and reporting to funders (one might expect that it’s sort of in everyone’s best interest to produce high numbers of those reached- and thus effectiveness as it’s these funders who keep us in jobs-this has been a moral dilemma to me, as I had always envisioned the Peace Corps as a place in which the goal would be to “work myself out of a job…” And the HIV rate in this country has done nothing but go up since I’ve been here) and not feel a sense of confusion, and I daresay, failure?
Because really in the end, all the paperwork and reporting and questioning leads to one bigger, more personal end.
If the Peace Corps is my life (Which arguably it is, at least for these two years. It’s pretty difficult to separate the personal from the professional when you live in these circumstances, with these sorts of goals) and these are the predetermined measurements of my success, and I feel this much confusion and uncertainty over reporting my “accomplishments” and whether I’ve achieved success, then what am I doing? Am I doing the right thing? Must my goals and feelings of success as a person in an individual be intrinsically tied to the level of success present in this village-ie the increase or decrease in the number of HIV infections? Has this been worth it? Am I successful?
These are questions I ask myself everyday. And the answers have never come to me via the reports I agonize over and resignedly hand in every three months. I’ve had to redefine success. Again and again. And it rarely comes in a numerical form.
Because success has come to look and feel differently to me.
Do I know that making art projects around the village is going to have any impact whatsoever on the prevalence of HIV in my village, or in Botswana? Nope. But I do know that several children have taken a project through from design to completion and can see their efforts on the walls of their hometown. I can see in them a sense of pride in their accomplishment. Some of them have made a connection between the use of alcohol and HIV. Some have been inspired by the notion of recycling objects to make art.
Can I foresee if reading books in English and discussing the themes and watching the movies and journaling about their reactions is going to keep five precious girls from contracting HIV? I wish to God I could. But I can tell you that I have seen their comfort level of reading, comprehending and expressing themselves in English increase, for some of them, dramatically. And I am willing to bet that these skills will help them enormously when they’re in medical school, a plan that half of them have, with their primary goal to be to find a cure for HIV and to help their people.
So how do I measure success? I know it when I feel it.
I consider it a success when I see one of the nurses, after watching me practice reading aloud in English with some school children for 45 minutes while they waited for him to finish with patients so that he can help them complete a questionnaire they’ve been sent to complete, take real time to help them finish their assignment and make certain they understand. Last week a nurse shouted an answer at them from a doorway.
I consider it a success when the woman who sells me airtime texts me after I’ve given her some magazines because she’s expecting a child and wants to know more about healthy eating and how she should prepare health wise for the baby. Prior to my suggestion she had never before taken advantage of the library within 100 meters of the door of her shop.
The children with whom I practice writing their names and multiplication tables in the dirt have steadily decreased the time it takes them to answer my quiz like questions and increased their willingness to look me in the eye. Learning is becoming something that is fun for them. They’ve come to trust me and know I won’t beat them if they get the answer wrong.
And there’s no box on the form for that.
How much credit can I take for any of these things? Probably not much. But for me that’s the definition of Peace Corps. We don’t come here to achieve success in the typically American sense. We have to find it in other ways, to search and dig and redefine it for ourselves. For me that has meant that my feeling of success comes when others achieve something, when I see that they are becoming closer to their best selves, and that they are improving the way in which they interact with and manage their worlds and what they want from it, when they raise their own expectations of themselves and others.
Did I come here to solve HIV? Nope, that one is way bigger than me. Did I come here to personally have an impact on a massive reduction of HIV? Even at my vainest moments I’m not that delusional. Might I have helped someone who could potentially do these things for their own country? That’s the dream. Have I been successful? That’s the one I take to bed with me at night, and hope that in the end, the answer will come out to be a resounding “yes”.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The tale of the (J-)Kat Burglar of Seronga....
The story of how I added “breaking and entering” to my laundry list of Peace Corps Accomplishments….
A few months back, I was walking home through the (hot) village around lunch time distracted in my usual fantasy about what I would be having for lunch. Alas, upon my arrival at the hut, not only was there was no grilled salmon waiting for me, there was another less delightful surprise. I had locked myself out of my hut.
How did you manage that, Lorato? Well it happened that I had left the skeleton key, which was what I used to lock the door from the inside at night, in the lock inside the door in the morning. I have a small padlock that I use to secure the deadbolt latch that Simon had installed for me on the outside of the door after my host family had been stealing from me using said skeleton key to open my door. The key for the small padlock was of course on the same key ring as the key which was still in the lock on the inside of the door. It was, as we say in Southern Africa a bit of a f*ck up.
Now I know myself, and I know that this is the type of shit that I’m generally known to do. As such I had tried to create a safety measure so that this very issue wouldn’t occur. I had attempted to preempt myself by putting a spare key up in the shade netting that creates the shady area on my “porch”. I instinctively reached for this key, smiling to myself in appreciation of my brilliance.
Which I immediately followed with a cursing of my stupidity. My constant use of what appeared to be the foolproof key plan, which entails clipping them to a karabiner so that I can always clip them to my purse, a bag or my person, so that I DON’T MISPLACE OR LOSE THEM, had recently caused just that to happen, in the process of clipping or unclipping the damn thing the keys had fallen off without me noticing. And thus the emergency replacement key had been promoted to the sole key to my hut.
Which was now on the other side of the door.
And the lunch clock was ticking.
So I quickly looked out into the yard at the gate, just to see if some Prince Charming slash Knight sort of fellow might instinctively know that his services were needed (it seems that Disney sponsored Damsel in Distress detector doesn’t quite pick up signal in Seronga. They must be in cahoots with the Orange and Mascom cellular networks.) and possibly pitched up outside my fence on his horse (with his locksmithing kit). No such luck.
Back to the old standby, making a plan.
I briefly stood back and assessed the situation. As I’ve said, I know myself and thus often arrange things in my life so that there is some emergency escape/contingency plan. I soon discovered that if I used my little pink mini leatherman (thank you thank you thank you K-Train-best gift EVER!!!) to unscrew the entirety of the door handle, I could probably shove something long and thin through the lock where the key was currently nestled. It would push the key out of the lock and the hopefully drop it just on the other side of the door. If I then pried a piece of the bottom of the door that was supposed to keep small creatures, like say, mice out (we all know exactly how well that has gone) and found another longer thin object through I could possibly hook the keys and pull them out, and thus unlock the door.
Which is what I did, in thirty minutes or less, just like the Dominoes Pizza guy (shit now I gotta add that one to the list of lunch fantasies). Who needs prince charming anyways?
A few months back, I was walking home through the (hot) village around lunch time distracted in my usual fantasy about what I would be having for lunch. Alas, upon my arrival at the hut, not only was there was no grilled salmon waiting for me, there was another less delightful surprise. I had locked myself out of my hut.
How did you manage that, Lorato? Well it happened that I had left the skeleton key, which was what I used to lock the door from the inside at night, in the lock inside the door in the morning. I have a small padlock that I use to secure the deadbolt latch that Simon had installed for me on the outside of the door after my host family had been stealing from me using said skeleton key to open my door. The key for the small padlock was of course on the same key ring as the key which was still in the lock on the inside of the door. It was, as we say in Southern Africa a bit of a f*ck up.
Now I know myself, and I know that this is the type of shit that I’m generally known to do. As such I had tried to create a safety measure so that this very issue wouldn’t occur. I had attempted to preempt myself by putting a spare key up in the shade netting that creates the shady area on my “porch”. I instinctively reached for this key, smiling to myself in appreciation of my brilliance.
Which I immediately followed with a cursing of my stupidity. My constant use of what appeared to be the foolproof key plan, which entails clipping them to a karabiner so that I can always clip them to my purse, a bag or my person, so that I DON’T MISPLACE OR LOSE THEM, had recently caused just that to happen, in the process of clipping or unclipping the damn thing the keys had fallen off without me noticing. And thus the emergency replacement key had been promoted to the sole key to my hut.
Which was now on the other side of the door.
And the lunch clock was ticking.
So I quickly looked out into the yard at the gate, just to see if some Prince Charming slash Knight sort of fellow might instinctively know that his services were needed (it seems that Disney sponsored Damsel in Distress detector doesn’t quite pick up signal in Seronga. They must be in cahoots with the Orange and Mascom cellular networks.) and possibly pitched up outside my fence on his horse (with his locksmithing kit). No such luck.
Back to the old standby, making a plan.
I briefly stood back and assessed the situation. As I’ve said, I know myself and thus often arrange things in my life so that there is some emergency escape/contingency plan. I soon discovered that if I used my little pink mini leatherman (thank you thank you thank you K-Train-best gift EVER!!!) to unscrew the entirety of the door handle, I could probably shove something long and thin through the lock where the key was currently nestled. It would push the key out of the lock and the hopefully drop it just on the other side of the door. If I then pried a piece of the bottom of the door that was supposed to keep small creatures, like say, mice out (we all know exactly how well that has gone) and found another longer thin object through I could possibly hook the keys and pull them out, and thus unlock the door.
Which is what I did, in thirty minutes or less, just like the Dominoes Pizza guy (shit now I gotta add that one to the list of lunch fantasies). Who needs prince charming anyways?
Cling...
Or: “The day the English died. (The Language, not the people….)”
Or: “You get what you need….”
Or: Goodbye… Again
I was having a little ambivalence about the title for this one…..
I’ve made lots of friends here… They just all seem to keep leaving.
In Botswana, the population is known for being pretty mobile. People are always traveling around the delta, going up and down, here and there, around. Very few professional people spend their working careers in their home villages with their families and are thus always going back “home” to visit or on leave. Government employees are supposed to transfer every three years, a policy designed to prevent corruption that tends to encourage a lack of connection and investment. This policy was often overlooked, until of course recently.
Since I’ve been here in Seronga, many of my buddies have left or are leaving. It’s sad, as just when you make a friend within a few months they leave! It started with Paul, the gentle Zambian nurse who had been in Seronga for 12 years! He left while I was away last October. I’ve met up with him in Maun but it’s not easy. Then Ma Sibindi, the kind Zimbabwean nurse whom I would run to crying, knocking on her door in tears when there were mice in my house, or no water or some other tragedy. She would open her arms and with a huge hug invite me into her house, telling me to make myself at home, or to go rest in her guest bed. She cooked for me a lot while Simon was gone when I first got here as well. I was just beginning to really bond with the kids she had living with her (pictured in the picasa album “the Zims that inspire me”).
When I met up with her at the Co-op on a random Saturday and she said the truck had come to pick her and she was on her way to her new clinic (And these things are so sudden! Nothing moves fast in government here unless it’s a car to take someone away.) and suddenly I’m acting very un-African and making a scene crying in the store.
Each of the other clinic nurses has applied for (and as I found out today, been granted) their transfer, which will leave me as the longest serving non-Serongan of the bunch. I understand, it would be hard for me to swallow the idea of staying in Seronga for longer than three years. It is discouraging as it makes me certain that many of the programs I might try to implement at the clinic won’t survive my own departure, as the nurses I have sold on this idea or that idea will leave. I’ve observed that if it’s not in the job description, regardless if it improves things or makes them more efficient, it likely won’t happen.
Outside of the clinic staff in the past months The Queen was deported (sort of) in March, and although she’d recently returned, now she’s left again until December, and she stays out on what is currently an island in the delta. When the waters recede a bit more she might be accessible by 4 wheel drive (which I don’t have anyways) but it currently requires a truck and a half hour in a boat to get to her. So it takes more than a little effort to meet up with her for tea.
Thuso (with his wife and adorable new baby) transferred to near Maun as of May first, and Golesadi at the Mortuary (internet!) who is one of the few people to invite me over and cook for me, and who also came to my house is gone as well. They are a little easier to keep in touch with via internet or phone, but they’re still not here to invite over for tea.
The kind Afrikaans couple who ran the houseboats (and would inform me of flights and transport to Maun) have left recently, and their young replacements are only temporary, and will leave in December.
Plenty of great people also come in and out of my life here and I know when I meet them one of us will be leaving. Some are backpackers, people here through short term contracts, researchers. When I finally got into this country after much fan fare and Peace Corps drama of leaving home I met some amazing Peace Corps volunteers who have of course since been blown to far corners of the country (although we’ve mostly done a pretty decent job of getting together every so often or at least keeping in touch). In some ways my social life feels more like a revolving door than any sort of solid support system. In Botswana it seems (cue the Lion King soundtrack) the circle of life, the cycle of beginnings and endings, or introductions and departures seems to happen much more smoothly and with much less drama than other places I’ve experienced these events. People fade in and out, one day they are here, the next they are gone, often without much acknowledgment at all. I never realized how much the rituals we have associated with these passages in the States have brought me comfort until now.
In the end it’s not the English speaking that I miss, but the welcoming way each of these people have related to me, and accepted me and my different culture. It’s a connection that’s difficult to establish through different cultures and languages. At the end of the day, yes I realize I’m here experiencing a cultural exchange. However, that aspect of life does tend to become tiring (read exhausting) as it NEVER STOPS. I cannot walk down the street without exchanging cultures, and in all reality, I’m generally spending so much time trying to understand the culture that I’m living in that I don’t really have a lot of time to devote specifically to sharing mine (although I have to admit, these occasions do come along) and sometimes when I do something that confuses or confounds people I just claim it’s because I’m American. This answer sometimes works. But it is a cop out as I only use that one when I am exhausted from explaining a bunch of other things.
I think anyone would agree that it’s more comfortable to spend your leisure time with someone for whom you’re not constantly having to explain this aspect or that of your background or culture. These are people I would consider friends, and hope to keep in touch with in the future. I’m used to having long distance friends at this point (although I do not look forward to trying to keep in touch knowing the limited means of communication in this country… or perhaps it’s just the delta), but I also really like having my friends that are HERE!.
You’d have thought all these goodbyes would have prepared me for the worst yet. The English English leaving. Back in May I walked over to Simon’s house and something wasn’t right. I walked past the gate and into the yard and finally into the house. He was packed. He had been saying for weeks (months, years?) that he would be moving out near Gunotsoga and Ronny to work on building the backpackers lodge. I guess today was the day that that was going to happen. (Or really the next day.)
Simon had some random people (they’ve rented a small cottage in the village with the late councilor’s wife and are supposed to be coming back from the Southern trip of South Africa sometime towards summer. So in short, they are more temporary, part time people.) who had stopped by to visit him and we talked and had sundowners, talking the local talk, keeping tabs on the movements of all the other ex pats.
They were drinking beers and I poured myself a glass of wine. I had a feeling I was in for a long night. The guests left and I quietly asked Simon what was happening. He answered, almost defensively, that he was moving everything, yes everything, out to the camp so that he could start really working on the backpackers. I picked at a hole that was starting in the knee of my jeans to divert my nervous energy. We’re not really known for our heartfelt talks, Simon and I, and when I express something anywhere close to a “girly” emotion either his gruffness increases to near unbearable levels or he goes eerily quiet. I kept tipping back my wine glass so as to conceal my tears and we sat in silence, the closest thing we have to a heart to heart.
I knew this move would be good for him, but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking about how bad it would be for me. Simon has been my go to guy here, the grumpy rusty old knight in shining armor whom I call in emergencies (after, of course, I compose myself from any lingering effects of a girly (read crying) response). I’ve lived here long enough and learned enough and become efficient enough at “making a plan” to know I can do it on my own, but that certainly doesn’t mean I want to.
I realized that this meant that the battles we would have about the presence of onions in the food (please no) would be over, and I would be able to watch any movie on any night I wanted now, instead of allotting all the cranky British ex pat worthy choices for nights we would watch together on his TV and saving all the musicals and romantic comedies for my little laptop in my hut. I would no longer be assured of a hot shower at his place or drinkable water to take when my water was out, and there would be no one I trusted with my life that was near when I would get scared of something in the night. There would be no one to gruffly remind me that things would be fine, to give me hope through the presence of his extreme cynicism, and no one to help me “make a plan”. (Well technically there would be someone, in fact a lot of someones. But you know how it is when you just want to hear it from that particular person who has previously filled that role so well.) The things I used to expect from Simon would now have to come from within me.
When I describe Simon to people, and when they first meet him, many people are a little shocked, or confused at the symbiotic relationship we had developed. Through his constant criticisms of nearly every move I make, and his steadfast stubbornness that there is one and only one correct way of approaching and issue and behaving in any situation (his way, or at least the British way) he has made me tougher and more resilient. I have had to learn when to push back and when to give in, as in some ways with him I have finally met my match in terms of someone capable of steamrolling people. It has been an exercise in tolerance and compromise. Through my optimism and energy, and the ways in which I have come to depend on him it has softened him, and filled the places in his life left empty by a lifetime of solitude. I’m someone he feels he has to take care of, and although he may complain about it, I know (mostly from other people telling me) that he misses me when I’m gone, and I him. We can’t put words to it (he even less than I) but there’s a love there, and the man has become like family to me since I’ve been here. He’s a difficult man, which is nothing new to me and perhaps even provides some of the comfort and familiarity I find in him.
In the end, despite the difficulty of our strange interdependence, I would rather have him here than not. He’s got an aerial antenna for his cell phone at his camp, and so for the most part he’s still only a phone call away, but the distance is still tangible. There’s no three times weekly evening dinners and movies, and when I find some guests to entertain, we can’t just go to Simons, which has been one of my favorite pasttimes.
I find myself pondering the sayings about continuing to keep one’s heart open to love and friendship and connection, and I have to be honest, sometimes I find that to be a really hard concept. There are times when I just want to shut people out rather than letting them in, to build up a wall to protect myself from future goodbyes and missing someone. I want them to stay firmly on the other side of the fence where I don’t have to care too much.
Alternately I want to cling. I want to intermix my being with someone else’s so as to feel that bond, that connection. I want someone to be right here living this experience with me, breathing the very air I exhale, I want to be completely in someone’s space, and know they aren’t leaving, that they’ll be around for a while. I want familiar connection to be the rule rather than the exception, and I want it to be simple, not Herculean effort. Instead of longing for someone in their absence I want to be overwhelmed by a comforting, familiar presence.
But that’s not the way it is, or the way it will be. Throughout the phases of life here, with its predictable unpredictability, the only constant continues to be that I don’t know what will happen next, and who will enter or leave my life. I guess it’s no different than life anywhere else, but much like the hot Botswana sun, here I’m just more aware of it. No matter what I may want, through this experience I will manage to get what I need. I continue to learn the difference, and try to appreciate living in moderation while existing in conditions of extremes.
Or: “You get what you need….”
Or: Goodbye… Again
I was having a little ambivalence about the title for this one…..
I’ve made lots of friends here… They just all seem to keep leaving.
In Botswana, the population is known for being pretty mobile. People are always traveling around the delta, going up and down, here and there, around. Very few professional people spend their working careers in their home villages with their families and are thus always going back “home” to visit or on leave. Government employees are supposed to transfer every three years, a policy designed to prevent corruption that tends to encourage a lack of connection and investment. This policy was often overlooked, until of course recently.
Since I’ve been here in Seronga, many of my buddies have left or are leaving. It’s sad, as just when you make a friend within a few months they leave! It started with Paul, the gentle Zambian nurse who had been in Seronga for 12 years! He left while I was away last October. I’ve met up with him in Maun but it’s not easy. Then Ma Sibindi, the kind Zimbabwean nurse whom I would run to crying, knocking on her door in tears when there were mice in my house, or no water or some other tragedy. She would open her arms and with a huge hug invite me into her house, telling me to make myself at home, or to go rest in her guest bed. She cooked for me a lot while Simon was gone when I first got here as well. I was just beginning to really bond with the kids she had living with her (pictured in the picasa album “the Zims that inspire me”).
When I met up with her at the Co-op on a random Saturday and she said the truck had come to pick her and she was on her way to her new clinic (And these things are so sudden! Nothing moves fast in government here unless it’s a car to take someone away.) and suddenly I’m acting very un-African and making a scene crying in the store.
Each of the other clinic nurses has applied for (and as I found out today, been granted) their transfer, which will leave me as the longest serving non-Serongan of the bunch. I understand, it would be hard for me to swallow the idea of staying in Seronga for longer than three years. It is discouraging as it makes me certain that many of the programs I might try to implement at the clinic won’t survive my own departure, as the nurses I have sold on this idea or that idea will leave. I’ve observed that if it’s not in the job description, regardless if it improves things or makes them more efficient, it likely won’t happen.
Outside of the clinic staff in the past months The Queen was deported (sort of) in March, and although she’d recently returned, now she’s left again until December, and she stays out on what is currently an island in the delta. When the waters recede a bit more she might be accessible by 4 wheel drive (which I don’t have anyways) but it currently requires a truck and a half hour in a boat to get to her. So it takes more than a little effort to meet up with her for tea.
Thuso (with his wife and adorable new baby) transferred to near Maun as of May first, and Golesadi at the Mortuary (internet!) who is one of the few people to invite me over and cook for me, and who also came to my house is gone as well. They are a little easier to keep in touch with via internet or phone, but they’re still not here to invite over for tea.
The kind Afrikaans couple who ran the houseboats (and would inform me of flights and transport to Maun) have left recently, and their young replacements are only temporary, and will leave in December.
Plenty of great people also come in and out of my life here and I know when I meet them one of us will be leaving. Some are backpackers, people here through short term contracts, researchers. When I finally got into this country after much fan fare and Peace Corps drama of leaving home I met some amazing Peace Corps volunteers who have of course since been blown to far corners of the country (although we’ve mostly done a pretty decent job of getting together every so often or at least keeping in touch). In some ways my social life feels more like a revolving door than any sort of solid support system. In Botswana it seems (cue the Lion King soundtrack) the circle of life, the cycle of beginnings and endings, or introductions and departures seems to happen much more smoothly and with much less drama than other places I’ve experienced these events. People fade in and out, one day they are here, the next they are gone, often without much acknowledgment at all. I never realized how much the rituals we have associated with these passages in the States have brought me comfort until now.
In the end it’s not the English speaking that I miss, but the welcoming way each of these people have related to me, and accepted me and my different culture. It’s a connection that’s difficult to establish through different cultures and languages. At the end of the day, yes I realize I’m here experiencing a cultural exchange. However, that aspect of life does tend to become tiring (read exhausting) as it NEVER STOPS. I cannot walk down the street without exchanging cultures, and in all reality, I’m generally spending so much time trying to understand the culture that I’m living in that I don’t really have a lot of time to devote specifically to sharing mine (although I have to admit, these occasions do come along) and sometimes when I do something that confuses or confounds people I just claim it’s because I’m American. This answer sometimes works. But it is a cop out as I only use that one when I am exhausted from explaining a bunch of other things.
I think anyone would agree that it’s more comfortable to spend your leisure time with someone for whom you’re not constantly having to explain this aspect or that of your background or culture. These are people I would consider friends, and hope to keep in touch with in the future. I’m used to having long distance friends at this point (although I do not look forward to trying to keep in touch knowing the limited means of communication in this country… or perhaps it’s just the delta), but I also really like having my friends that are HERE!.
You’d have thought all these goodbyes would have prepared me for the worst yet. The English English leaving. Back in May I walked over to Simon’s house and something wasn’t right. I walked past the gate and into the yard and finally into the house. He was packed. He had been saying for weeks (months, years?) that he would be moving out near Gunotsoga and Ronny to work on building the backpackers lodge. I guess today was the day that that was going to happen. (Or really the next day.)
Simon had some random people (they’ve rented a small cottage in the village with the late councilor’s wife and are supposed to be coming back from the Southern trip of South Africa sometime towards summer. So in short, they are more temporary, part time people.) who had stopped by to visit him and we talked and had sundowners, talking the local talk, keeping tabs on the movements of all the other ex pats.
They were drinking beers and I poured myself a glass of wine. I had a feeling I was in for a long night. The guests left and I quietly asked Simon what was happening. He answered, almost defensively, that he was moving everything, yes everything, out to the camp so that he could start really working on the backpackers. I picked at a hole that was starting in the knee of my jeans to divert my nervous energy. We’re not really known for our heartfelt talks, Simon and I, and when I express something anywhere close to a “girly” emotion either his gruffness increases to near unbearable levels or he goes eerily quiet. I kept tipping back my wine glass so as to conceal my tears and we sat in silence, the closest thing we have to a heart to heart.
I knew this move would be good for him, but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking about how bad it would be for me. Simon has been my go to guy here, the grumpy rusty old knight in shining armor whom I call in emergencies (after, of course, I compose myself from any lingering effects of a girly (read crying) response). I’ve lived here long enough and learned enough and become efficient enough at “making a plan” to know I can do it on my own, but that certainly doesn’t mean I want to.
I realized that this meant that the battles we would have about the presence of onions in the food (please no) would be over, and I would be able to watch any movie on any night I wanted now, instead of allotting all the cranky British ex pat worthy choices for nights we would watch together on his TV and saving all the musicals and romantic comedies for my little laptop in my hut. I would no longer be assured of a hot shower at his place or drinkable water to take when my water was out, and there would be no one I trusted with my life that was near when I would get scared of something in the night. There would be no one to gruffly remind me that things would be fine, to give me hope through the presence of his extreme cynicism, and no one to help me “make a plan”. (Well technically there would be someone, in fact a lot of someones. But you know how it is when you just want to hear it from that particular person who has previously filled that role so well.) The things I used to expect from Simon would now have to come from within me.
When I describe Simon to people, and when they first meet him, many people are a little shocked, or confused at the symbiotic relationship we had developed. Through his constant criticisms of nearly every move I make, and his steadfast stubbornness that there is one and only one correct way of approaching and issue and behaving in any situation (his way, or at least the British way) he has made me tougher and more resilient. I have had to learn when to push back and when to give in, as in some ways with him I have finally met my match in terms of someone capable of steamrolling people. It has been an exercise in tolerance and compromise. Through my optimism and energy, and the ways in which I have come to depend on him it has softened him, and filled the places in his life left empty by a lifetime of solitude. I’m someone he feels he has to take care of, and although he may complain about it, I know (mostly from other people telling me) that he misses me when I’m gone, and I him. We can’t put words to it (he even less than I) but there’s a love there, and the man has become like family to me since I’ve been here. He’s a difficult man, which is nothing new to me and perhaps even provides some of the comfort and familiarity I find in him.
In the end, despite the difficulty of our strange interdependence, I would rather have him here than not. He’s got an aerial antenna for his cell phone at his camp, and so for the most part he’s still only a phone call away, but the distance is still tangible. There’s no three times weekly evening dinners and movies, and when I find some guests to entertain, we can’t just go to Simons, which has been one of my favorite pasttimes.
I find myself pondering the sayings about continuing to keep one’s heart open to love and friendship and connection, and I have to be honest, sometimes I find that to be a really hard concept. There are times when I just want to shut people out rather than letting them in, to build up a wall to protect myself from future goodbyes and missing someone. I want them to stay firmly on the other side of the fence where I don’t have to care too much.
Alternately I want to cling. I want to intermix my being with someone else’s so as to feel that bond, that connection. I want someone to be right here living this experience with me, breathing the very air I exhale, I want to be completely in someone’s space, and know they aren’t leaving, that they’ll be around for a while. I want familiar connection to be the rule rather than the exception, and I want it to be simple, not Herculean effort. Instead of longing for someone in their absence I want to be overwhelmed by a comforting, familiar presence.
But that’s not the way it is, or the way it will be. Throughout the phases of life here, with its predictable unpredictability, the only constant continues to be that I don’t know what will happen next, and who will enter or leave my life. I guess it’s no different than life anywhere else, but much like the hot Botswana sun, here I’m just more aware of it. No matter what I may want, through this experience I will manage to get what I need. I continue to learn the difference, and try to appreciate living in moderation while existing in conditions of extremes.
Things Happen While You're Away...
Joann Marie
Katchmark
Danelski
Joann Marie Katchmark Danelski, 60, died September 18, 2009 at her home on the St. Louis River with her family by her side. Her strength and endurance during her illness were sustained by her unwavering faith.
Joann was born June 26, 1949 in Sturgeon Lake, MN, the baby of 15 children born to Frank and Katherine Katchmark. She had attended the Sturgeon Lake and Willow River Schools. After graduation Joann moved to Duluth and worked for Cutler Magner Co.
She married Ken Danelski in 1968. Joann worked for the Duluth News Tribune until her diagnosis of cancer in 1992. Both she and Ken retired to focus on each other, their family and home.
Joann loved the outdoors and gardening and nature responded to her. She opened her home and gardens to friends and family and generously shared her time and talents with others. She planned parties, loved cooking and baking, decorating for holidays and making cards and games for her family. Her love of the St. Louis River has been captured in many of her photographs. Joann hiked her trails, kayaked, fished and enjoyed every moment of “her” rivers’ gifts. She taught her grandchildren the importance of gathering family and friends and to live each day to its fullest. Her zest for life was infectious to all who crossed her path.
She is preceded in death by her parents; brothers Ted, William, Florian and David; and sisters Patricia and Bernice.
Joann is survived by her husband Ken, of 41 years; sons Corey(Darcey) and Perry(Jill), both of Hermantown; grandchildren Megan, Madison, Austin, Mallory, Katie and Colten; brothers John(Bena), Bernard(Jeanette), Leonard and Frank; sisters RoseMarie(John)Thrun, Leona Bibeau, Leonilla(Jerry)Gilbert and Virginia(James)Zezuelka.
The family would like to thank everyone for their love and support. Her gifts will live on in the hearts and lives of her family and friends and all those she touched in life. “When my earthly life no longer exists, that I have pleased God with my earthly life and inspired others to believe in Him”---Joann.
Visitation Tuesday 5-7 PM with Rosary at 7 PM, all at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church, 2801 E. 4th St., Duluth. Visitation continues from 11 AM until the noon Mass of Christian Burial Wednesday at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church. Burial at Oneota Cemetery. Arrangements by Williams-Lobermeier Funeral Home.
This is the obituary of one of my great aunts. My father comes from an exceptionally big family, and I am sorry to say that many of these Aunties blend together in my mind, although many of the memories I have of these great women are of kindness and strong spirits. On my best days I hope that perhaps I am like them in some ways, and hope that I do justice to the example they’ve set for me. On my worst I am reminded of those who have been through so more than me and have still sparkled with a brilliant light of grace and strength and am reminded that I, too, am capable of this, and should bloody well stop whining.
Although I knew that life would continue on while I was away, these things are always hard to swallow, and can occasionally be made more so by the incredibly tangible distance between me and those I love. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to get to know Joann a bit more through the loving words posted by her family and friends on her Caring Bridge Website. It’s clear she was loved and appreciated by many, and will be greatly missed.
Here is one of the last entries on her Caring Bridge website before she passed:
“I was looking through some of Joann's photos and stuff by her computer today and ran across a story my mom saved about "The Power of Prayer" from the Duluth News Tribune. The story ran on Christmas Day of 1996. The story had featured Joann with her cancer and her faith. Here are some parts of the article.
"This Christmas, Joann Danelski could have been dying from lung cancer. Instead, she'd joyously celebrated the holidays at home with family and friends. Her cancer which had been doubling every six months, has unexpectedly stopped growing. Her Mayo Clinic physicians are astounded, and they believe Danelski when she tells them that this gift of life comes directly from family and friends who are praying for her, as well as from her own faith and positive attitude. "It's nothing short of miraculous. The doctor said to keep doing whatever I was doing. I said we pray alot. He said 'It's working.'" While Danelski believes prayer has helped her, she still expects to die from lung cancer. In the meantime, she takes care of her health and savors each day and her relationships to the fullest. "I've never asked God to take the cancer away. I've asked for help to live with this in peace, and it's happening," she said. "I've been given extra days and He's put me at peace with it."”
Rest Peacefully, Joann. Know that you’ve given me more inspiration and strength to continue striving for the sometimes seemingly insurmountable challenges I face here. Blessings of strength and grace to her family and friends who are missing her now, and navigating a new way of life without her. Peace be with you all.
Jen
Katchmark
Danelski
Joann Marie Katchmark Danelski, 60, died September 18, 2009 at her home on the St. Louis River with her family by her side. Her strength and endurance during her illness were sustained by her unwavering faith.
Joann was born June 26, 1949 in Sturgeon Lake, MN, the baby of 15 children born to Frank and Katherine Katchmark. She had attended the Sturgeon Lake and Willow River Schools. After graduation Joann moved to Duluth and worked for Cutler Magner Co.
She married Ken Danelski in 1968. Joann worked for the Duluth News Tribune until her diagnosis of cancer in 1992. Both she and Ken retired to focus on each other, their family and home.
Joann loved the outdoors and gardening and nature responded to her. She opened her home and gardens to friends and family and generously shared her time and talents with others. She planned parties, loved cooking and baking, decorating for holidays and making cards and games for her family. Her love of the St. Louis River has been captured in many of her photographs. Joann hiked her trails, kayaked, fished and enjoyed every moment of “her” rivers’ gifts. She taught her grandchildren the importance of gathering family and friends and to live each day to its fullest. Her zest for life was infectious to all who crossed her path.
She is preceded in death by her parents; brothers Ted, William, Florian and David; and sisters Patricia and Bernice.
Joann is survived by her husband Ken, of 41 years; sons Corey(Darcey) and Perry(Jill), both of Hermantown; grandchildren Megan, Madison, Austin, Mallory, Katie and Colten; brothers John(Bena), Bernard(Jeanette), Leonard and Frank; sisters RoseMarie(John)Thrun, Leona Bibeau, Leonilla(Jerry)Gilbert and Virginia(James)Zezuelka.
The family would like to thank everyone for their love and support. Her gifts will live on in the hearts and lives of her family and friends and all those she touched in life. “When my earthly life no longer exists, that I have pleased God with my earthly life and inspired others to believe in Him”---Joann.
Visitation Tuesday 5-7 PM with Rosary at 7 PM, all at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church, 2801 E. 4th St., Duluth. Visitation continues from 11 AM until the noon Mass of Christian Burial Wednesday at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church. Burial at Oneota Cemetery. Arrangements by Williams-Lobermeier Funeral Home.
This is the obituary of one of my great aunts. My father comes from an exceptionally big family, and I am sorry to say that many of these Aunties blend together in my mind, although many of the memories I have of these great women are of kindness and strong spirits. On my best days I hope that perhaps I am like them in some ways, and hope that I do justice to the example they’ve set for me. On my worst I am reminded of those who have been through so more than me and have still sparkled with a brilliant light of grace and strength and am reminded that I, too, am capable of this, and should bloody well stop whining.
Although I knew that life would continue on while I was away, these things are always hard to swallow, and can occasionally be made more so by the incredibly tangible distance between me and those I love. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to get to know Joann a bit more through the loving words posted by her family and friends on her Caring Bridge Website. It’s clear she was loved and appreciated by many, and will be greatly missed.
Here is one of the last entries on her Caring Bridge website before she passed:
“I was looking through some of Joann's photos and stuff by her computer today and ran across a story my mom saved about "The Power of Prayer" from the Duluth News Tribune. The story ran on Christmas Day of 1996. The story had featured Joann with her cancer and her faith. Here are some parts of the article.
"This Christmas, Joann Danelski could have been dying from lung cancer. Instead, she'd joyously celebrated the holidays at home with family and friends. Her cancer which had been doubling every six months, has unexpectedly stopped growing. Her Mayo Clinic physicians are astounded, and they believe Danelski when she tells them that this gift of life comes directly from family and friends who are praying for her, as well as from her own faith and positive attitude. "It's nothing short of miraculous. The doctor said to keep doing whatever I was doing. I said we pray alot. He said 'It's working.'" While Danelski believes prayer has helped her, she still expects to die from lung cancer. In the meantime, she takes care of her health and savors each day and her relationships to the fullest. "I've never asked God to take the cancer away. I've asked for help to live with this in peace, and it's happening," she said. "I've been given extra days and He's put me at peace with it."”
Rest Peacefully, Joann. Know that you’ve given me more inspiration and strength to continue striving for the sometimes seemingly insurmountable challenges I face here. Blessings of strength and grace to her family and friends who are missing her now, and navigating a new way of life without her. Peace be with you all.
Jen
A Meeting of Note....
--------I wrote this one after a meeting we attended in Mid-August in Maun. The Seronga Men’s Sector had been invited (which is another word for commanded in Botswana) to give a report on the activities that we had carried out in the past year and the ones we planned for the next year to the National Men’s Sector Commissioner, who is the Commissioner of Police for Botswana. It was a big deal meeting and I went along mainly as a show of support and solidarity with the guys I’ve been working with, who have repeatedly been my inspiration here in Seronga. Many of the other village Men’s Sectors basically admitted they’ve done nothing, so Seronga was sort of the star of the show;-)---
We sat in the overheated conference room, despite rushing to be promptly on time we’re delayed as the Commissioner of police (whom I recently noticed in a photo in the national newspaper shaking the President of Botswana’s hand, I think he must be sort of a big deal) had forgotten the location of the meeting that he called. He arrived an hour late, taking the time to magnanimously greet each of us personally. He sat down and we yawned though the typical introductions, each person being acknowledged with an amount of clapping proportional to his position. The rest of us minions were relegated to self introductions, which sent my mind scurrying to recall all the formalities of the details I’m supposed to recite in order to properly do so.
It’s funny to me that no matter how many people appear to be in any given group I attend in this region of the country I’m generally somehow singled out. This time it was for the announcement that the meeting would be conducted in Setswana, followed by the joke that I would surely be fluent by the meeting’s end. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this particular one, and I smiled and he repeated the joke in English for my benefit. ( I don’t know why it was even discussed, as it ended up that the commissioner gave his speech in English and it was then translated into Setswana.)
The other piece of notoriety, besides of course the staring, which in a bigger village like Maun is usually at least somewhat cloaked in stolen glances rather than straight out gawking like it would be in Seronga, was the photography. The photographer, who had been introduced at the beginning as the something something of marketing went around the room taking sort of group pictures of the different villages who had sent representation.
Throughout the speeches and presentations she would take occasional pictures as well as filming, although in a land where there are few TV’s much less cable access on which to broadcast these boring meetings much less recording it for some sort of posterity, (and I certainly didn’t hear the “this meeting will be recorded for training purposes” disclaimer, although it certainly could have done some serious good) I couldn’t necessarily see the point.
The weird part came right in the middle of the commissioner’s speech, which she had previously been recording with the video camera. The photographer suddenly walked away from the tripod, grabbed her still camera, and began taking pictures of me. Like obviously taking pictures. Of me. Several of them.
I often joke about the paparazzi, so naming all the tourists who nearly reflexively take my picture from their hulking overland vehicles as they drive through Seronga. It seems they are shocked by the presence of my white skin, as though I am some sort of rare (albino?) animal in the bush. I generally like having my picture taken, but this was straight up weird. I tried to smile whilst looking at least mildly interested in the speech.
One of my personal greatest successes of the past quarter for me was to help the chairman-Mr. Khumalo, a police officer- of the Seronga Men’s Sector create a report of the activities we had done and were planning to do. It’s the next entry on the blog. It was a simple enough thing, just a word document that I inserted some pictures I took from various events we’ve had. It was one of those things that took very little time on my part, but meant a lot to him. It’s something so easy, and yet to see his face light up and his chest puff out when the pages came out of the printer made me realize it was going to be a bigger deal to him than that.
Through the course of my time here I’ve realized that capacity building is not just about teaching people to do things, as with most of these things we work on, the people know how to do what needs to be done. In my situation I’ve found it’s also important to help people chronicle their accomplishments, and in helping them acknowledge and feel pride in what they’ve done, to hopefully inspire and encourage them to do more.
So when the time came for Seronga to present its report most eyes in the room turned to me as though waiting expectantly for my presentation. Mr. Khumalo and I had previously agreed that rather he would give the report, and I whispered a few reminders and words of encouragement as he stood up to walk to the podium.
It’s typical in Botswana for people to just read exactly what they’ve got in front of them when they give a “report”. If then there are any questions, which are always repeatedly requested, if it can’t be quoted directly from the report, the question will be deferred. Mr. Khumalo and I have discussed this tendency at length, and talked about ways he could give a more enlightening presentation. He knows just as much if not more than me about what we are doing as the Men’s Sector, and thus we decided he should be the person to present (And there’s also the little part where I sort of subliminally refused. I don’t think I would be building anyone’s capacity but my own to present at an important meeting like this.)
It was more than enough reward for me when Mr. Khumalo went up to the podium to give his report. He handed a copy to the Commissioner of Police, who is the national head of the Men’s Sector for this year, and began. Khumalo positively sparkled. He made eye contact around the room, didn’t read from the report or repeat irrelevant information. He was confident and even made a few jokes. It was definitely the best presentation of the day, (and it helps that our Men’s Sector is one of the most active in the district) and the other Seronga Men’s Sector representatives we were with made several other relevant points about the importance of involving churches and traditional healers with Men’s Sector campaigns. It was definitely a day of pride and success for Seronga, the Men’s Sector and me.
We sat in the overheated conference room, despite rushing to be promptly on time we’re delayed as the Commissioner of police (whom I recently noticed in a photo in the national newspaper shaking the President of Botswana’s hand, I think he must be sort of a big deal) had forgotten the location of the meeting that he called. He arrived an hour late, taking the time to magnanimously greet each of us personally. He sat down and we yawned though the typical introductions, each person being acknowledged with an amount of clapping proportional to his position. The rest of us minions were relegated to self introductions, which sent my mind scurrying to recall all the formalities of the details I’m supposed to recite in order to properly do so.
It’s funny to me that no matter how many people appear to be in any given group I attend in this region of the country I’m generally somehow singled out. This time it was for the announcement that the meeting would be conducted in Setswana, followed by the joke that I would surely be fluent by the meeting’s end. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this particular one, and I smiled and he repeated the joke in English for my benefit. ( I don’t know why it was even discussed, as it ended up that the commissioner gave his speech in English and it was then translated into Setswana.)
The other piece of notoriety, besides of course the staring, which in a bigger village like Maun is usually at least somewhat cloaked in stolen glances rather than straight out gawking like it would be in Seronga, was the photography. The photographer, who had been introduced at the beginning as the something something of marketing went around the room taking sort of group pictures of the different villages who had sent representation.
Throughout the speeches and presentations she would take occasional pictures as well as filming, although in a land where there are few TV’s much less cable access on which to broadcast these boring meetings much less recording it for some sort of posterity, (and I certainly didn’t hear the “this meeting will be recorded for training purposes” disclaimer, although it certainly could have done some serious good) I couldn’t necessarily see the point.
The weird part came right in the middle of the commissioner’s speech, which she had previously been recording with the video camera. The photographer suddenly walked away from the tripod, grabbed her still camera, and began taking pictures of me. Like obviously taking pictures. Of me. Several of them.
I often joke about the paparazzi, so naming all the tourists who nearly reflexively take my picture from their hulking overland vehicles as they drive through Seronga. It seems they are shocked by the presence of my white skin, as though I am some sort of rare (albino?) animal in the bush. I generally like having my picture taken, but this was straight up weird. I tried to smile whilst looking at least mildly interested in the speech.
One of my personal greatest successes of the past quarter for me was to help the chairman-Mr. Khumalo, a police officer- of the Seronga Men’s Sector create a report of the activities we had done and were planning to do. It’s the next entry on the blog. It was a simple enough thing, just a word document that I inserted some pictures I took from various events we’ve had. It was one of those things that took very little time on my part, but meant a lot to him. It’s something so easy, and yet to see his face light up and his chest puff out when the pages came out of the printer made me realize it was going to be a bigger deal to him than that.
Through the course of my time here I’ve realized that capacity building is not just about teaching people to do things, as with most of these things we work on, the people know how to do what needs to be done. In my situation I’ve found it’s also important to help people chronicle their accomplishments, and in helping them acknowledge and feel pride in what they’ve done, to hopefully inspire and encourage them to do more.
So when the time came for Seronga to present its report most eyes in the room turned to me as though waiting expectantly for my presentation. Mr. Khumalo and I had previously agreed that rather he would give the report, and I whispered a few reminders and words of encouragement as he stood up to walk to the podium.
It’s typical in Botswana for people to just read exactly what they’ve got in front of them when they give a “report”. If then there are any questions, which are always repeatedly requested, if it can’t be quoted directly from the report, the question will be deferred. Mr. Khumalo and I have discussed this tendency at length, and talked about ways he could give a more enlightening presentation. He knows just as much if not more than me about what we are doing as the Men’s Sector, and thus we decided he should be the person to present (And there’s also the little part where I sort of subliminally refused. I don’t think I would be building anyone’s capacity but my own to present at an important meeting like this.)
It was more than enough reward for me when Mr. Khumalo went up to the podium to give his report. He handed a copy to the Commissioner of Police, who is the national head of the Men’s Sector for this year, and began. Khumalo positively sparkled. He made eye contact around the room, didn’t read from the report or repeat irrelevant information. He was confident and even made a few jokes. It was definitely the best presentation of the day, (and it helps that our Men’s Sector is one of the most active in the district) and the other Seronga Men’s Sector representatives we were with made several other relevant points about the importance of involving churches and traditional healers with Men’s Sector campaigns. It was definitely a day of pride and success for Seronga, the Men’s Sector and me.
Seronga Men’s Sector… Leading the Way Forward
Below is the report we submitted to the National Men's Sector Chairperson at the meeting described in the entry above. I had to remove the pictures as the internet here is too slow to upload them, but I've left the captions, I hope this doesn't make it too confusing.
The Ngambao Scouts Troup entertains the crowd at the November Men’s Sector Event, demonstrating the theme of “Men Standing Tall, Walking Proud and Taking Responsibility.”
Enclosed please find a report detailing the events to date as well as the future events planned to be carried out by the Men’s Sector in Seronga. We thank you for your past and continued support of this active and hardworking committee.
Men’s Sector Community Event:
“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”
Men’s Sector Participants competing in a “Tug of War”
On 22nd November, 2008, the village of Seronga hosted an event sponsored by the Seronga Men’s Sector with the theme “Men standing tall, walking proud, and taking responsibility.” Present at the event were the dikgosi of Seronga, Gudigwa, Gunotsoga, nursing representatives from the Seronga clinic, teachers from both the primary and junior secondary school in Seronga, members of the local and national police based in Seronga, as well as representatives from wildlife and BDF. Also present were the police chief from Gumare, the guest speaker Mma Knutson and nearly 400 villagers. The event began with a lively march in which the members of Men’s Sector Committee split into two groups and were led by the Scout Group down each road away from the Kgotla for a vigorous 3 kilometer round trip march. Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war representing the battle between HIV and ARVs to entertain the crowd.
In addition to the message being spread from the main stage, there were 2 side booths which continued to spread the message of Men’s Sector. Over 60 participants were awarded airtime, crisps, and oranges for their efforts in events in a challenging sexual health quiz. Villagers tested their knowledge of issues of HIV/AIDS health, prevention and transmission, PMTCT, IPT and reducing stigma. Each participant was corrected by a trained educator on any information they answered incorrectly or needed more information about. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. This event was funded with the support of the National Men’s Sector Committee.
Participants in the health quiz
Outreach:
Since it’s inception as a result of a workshop held at the Seronga Land Board by the Gumare Counseling Center, the Seronga Men’s Sector has developed a progressive list of goals aimed at reducing the transmission of HIV in Seronga and the surrounding area. It has been a top priority of the Seronga Men’s Sector to reach out to the traditional and faith based communities as a target audience through which to spread the message of reduction of HIV related health behaviors.
One of the Seronga Men’s Sector’s most active members is Mareko Gweexa. He is a boat driver for the Seronga Clinic as well as a widely respected Church elder. Mareko has been instrumental in securing audiences with a number of church leaders throughout the Seronga catchement area.
As a result of his perseverance members of the Men’s Sector were able to meet with 12 leaders of various churches at the village of Mokgacha on 31 May 2009 in order to educate them on the issues of HIV as well as to sensitize them to the goals of the Men’s Sector. The Men’s Sector members were also able to address the various congregations about HIV prevention, and directed them to access resources available in addition to the support of their faith based community. Church goers were encouraged to use condoms, to get tested with their partners, and to take their ARVs and other medications appropriately.
Mr. Gweexa also preached the message of Men’s Sector to 379 parishioners in Sepopa village on 8th August 2009. He gave a sermon spreading the message of the importance of men testing with partners and also challenging the message that using condoms is a sin. He expressed concern about the methods faith healers were using for the treatment of various ailments that may lead to an increased spread of HIV. He encouraged people to go to the clinic for treatment of their health issues, as well as to not mix ARV’s with traditional medicine. Mr. Gweexa emphasized that the role of the church needs to continue to be to provide support and comfort to those affected by HIV, and promote behaviors that prevent the spread of HIV.
Mr. Gweexa addressing the congregations of ZCC at Gudigwa
Another outreach with other members of the Seronga Men’s Sector occurred on 16 August 2009 in Gudigwa with church members from various congregations of ZCC. Mr. Khumalo introduced the members of the Men’s Sector and informed 128 church members about the Men’s Sectors goals and objectives, which was then reinforced when Mr. Gweexa addressed the congregation. The message was further emphasized when Mr. Binang Makgetho reiterated that the ZCC church has always encouraged people to know their status by going to the clinic to be tested as well as taking their medications appropriately. He stated that the ZCC has maintained a position whereby members are encouraged to have only one partner, as well as for younger members to wait until marriage to indulge in sexual activities. He restated that ZCC’s protocol regarding HIV and AIDS is to follow and promote the government’s initiatives regarding the prevention and treatment of HIV/AIDS, and that there is no contradiction between the teachings of the ZCC and the government’s programs. Mr. Makgetho encouraged the congregations present to become active members of committees such as Men’s Sector, and thanked the Seronga Men’s Sector for coming to spread their message at Gudigwa.
The Seronga Men’s Sector will continue in their outreach efforts in the coming year by taking advantage of opportunities to address various congregations of faith throughout the Seronga and surrounding areas as they arise.
Mr. Gweexa addressing ZCC congregations at Gudigwa
Education:
In the coming months the Men’s Sector will host 2 workshops involving the local medical professionals from the Seronga clinic, as well as community healers and faith based leaders from Mogotho to Gudigwa. The goal of these workshops is to facilitate a conversation between these three important and influential community providers of HIV treatment and support. We intend to create an atmosphere of open conversation so that each service provider can highlight the service they provide in promoting HIV prevention and support. We also want each sector to educate about and promote their best practices and ways these three sectors can network together to provide the best response to the needs of their respective communities.
Another goal that the Seronga Men’s Sector is working towards is sensitizing the Police and members of the BDF on issues of gender and gender based violence. We plan to hold short seminars on these topics based on the curriculum provided by Men as Partners. We hope through these events to promote discussion of gender issues and to find a common ground from which we can address gender based violence through the men and women involved in these traditionally male centric organizations.
STEPS film Series:
Two members of the Men’s Sector Committee will be going for a workshop at the end of August to be trained on the facilitation of screenings for the STEPS (Social Transformation and Empowerment Projects) films. The STEPS films are designed to promote discussion and debate through their content, which will be shown with the support of the Men’s Sector at various locations in Seronga that have access to a television and generated power. Supporting partners include: the Seronga Clinic, the Seronga Sub Land Board, Ngambao CJSS, and the Seronga Police. These locations together provide us with a wide variety of locations from which to reach the people from the various wards of Seronga village.
Successes and Challenges:
The Seronga Men’s Sector has had a productive year, and has many planned activities for the coming year. We have held a successful kick off event; we have done outreaches, and have plans for workshops and programs that have a great deal of potential. That being said, we also have some challenges we hope to overcome in the coming year. The Lay Counselor at the clinic (who is also a member of the Men’s Sector) reports that there is still a hesitancy of men to go the clinic with their partners for testing. Combating traditional beliefs about HIV continues to be a challenge, with a great deal of misinformation being perpetuated in the community despite our efforts at widespread education. Another of the challenges we face in the coming year will be the procurement of a DVD player with which to play the STEPS films on. Plenty of the local partners have televisions and generators they would be willing to help us with, but we have yet to find one that has a DVD player on which to play the movies. We will attempt to meet this challenge by requesting funding from various sources in order to procure a DVD player that can be moved from location to location with the films.
Conclusions:
The Seronga Men’s Sector is an active and hardworking Committee comprising of men and women from the various sectors of professional, village and traditional life in Seronga and the surrounding area. We have set high goals for ourselves based the top issues of concern as set out by the Okavango Sub-District’s Evidence Based Plan. Of these areas the Seronga Men’s Sector is primarily focusing on Men’s involvement and addressing myths and misconceptions. We consistently strive to meet these goals without being deterred by lack of resources or the rural nature of our village. The Men’s Sector is making important progress in reducing the spread of HIV in the village of Seronga through our outreaches, our efforts at education, and our community events. We will not be discouraged from meeting our goals, and will consistently increase our efforts to bring men to the forefront as leaders in addressing issues of HIV/AIDS.
The Ngambao Scouts Troup entertains the crowd at the November Men’s Sector Event, demonstrating the theme of “Men Standing Tall, Walking Proud and Taking Responsibility.”
Enclosed please find a report detailing the events to date as well as the future events planned to be carried out by the Men’s Sector in Seronga. We thank you for your past and continued support of this active and hardworking committee.
Men’s Sector Community Event:
“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”
Men’s Sector Participants competing in a “Tug of War”
On 22nd November, 2008, the village of Seronga hosted an event sponsored by the Seronga Men’s Sector with the theme “Men standing tall, walking proud, and taking responsibility.” Present at the event were the dikgosi of Seronga, Gudigwa, Gunotsoga, nursing representatives from the Seronga clinic, teachers from both the primary and junior secondary school in Seronga, members of the local and national police based in Seronga, as well as representatives from wildlife and BDF. Also present were the police chief from Gumare, the guest speaker Mma Knutson and nearly 400 villagers. The event began with a lively march in which the members of Men’s Sector Committee split into two groups and were led by the Scout Group down each road away from the Kgotla for a vigorous 3 kilometer round trip march. Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war representing the battle between HIV and ARVs to entertain the crowd.
In addition to the message being spread from the main stage, there were 2 side booths which continued to spread the message of Men’s Sector. Over 60 participants were awarded airtime, crisps, and oranges for their efforts in events in a challenging sexual health quiz. Villagers tested their knowledge of issues of HIV/AIDS health, prevention and transmission, PMTCT, IPT and reducing stigma. Each participant was corrected by a trained educator on any information they answered incorrectly or needed more information about. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. This event was funded with the support of the National Men’s Sector Committee.
Participants in the health quiz
Outreach:
Since it’s inception as a result of a workshop held at the Seronga Land Board by the Gumare Counseling Center, the Seronga Men’s Sector has developed a progressive list of goals aimed at reducing the transmission of HIV in Seronga and the surrounding area. It has been a top priority of the Seronga Men’s Sector to reach out to the traditional and faith based communities as a target audience through which to spread the message of reduction of HIV related health behaviors.
One of the Seronga Men’s Sector’s most active members is Mareko Gweexa. He is a boat driver for the Seronga Clinic as well as a widely respected Church elder. Mareko has been instrumental in securing audiences with a number of church leaders throughout the Seronga catchement area.
As a result of his perseverance members of the Men’s Sector were able to meet with 12 leaders of various churches at the village of Mokgacha on 31 May 2009 in order to educate them on the issues of HIV as well as to sensitize them to the goals of the Men’s Sector. The Men’s Sector members were also able to address the various congregations about HIV prevention, and directed them to access resources available in addition to the support of their faith based community. Church goers were encouraged to use condoms, to get tested with their partners, and to take their ARVs and other medications appropriately.
Mr. Gweexa also preached the message of Men’s Sector to 379 parishioners in Sepopa village on 8th August 2009. He gave a sermon spreading the message of the importance of men testing with partners and also challenging the message that using condoms is a sin. He expressed concern about the methods faith healers were using for the treatment of various ailments that may lead to an increased spread of HIV. He encouraged people to go to the clinic for treatment of their health issues, as well as to not mix ARV’s with traditional medicine. Mr. Gweexa emphasized that the role of the church needs to continue to be to provide support and comfort to those affected by HIV, and promote behaviors that prevent the spread of HIV.
Mr. Gweexa addressing the congregations of ZCC at Gudigwa
Another outreach with other members of the Seronga Men’s Sector occurred on 16 August 2009 in Gudigwa with church members from various congregations of ZCC. Mr. Khumalo introduced the members of the Men’s Sector and informed 128 church members about the Men’s Sectors goals and objectives, which was then reinforced when Mr. Gweexa addressed the congregation. The message was further emphasized when Mr. Binang Makgetho reiterated that the ZCC church has always encouraged people to know their status by going to the clinic to be tested as well as taking their medications appropriately. He stated that the ZCC has maintained a position whereby members are encouraged to have only one partner, as well as for younger members to wait until marriage to indulge in sexual activities. He restated that ZCC’s protocol regarding HIV and AIDS is to follow and promote the government’s initiatives regarding the prevention and treatment of HIV/AIDS, and that there is no contradiction between the teachings of the ZCC and the government’s programs. Mr. Makgetho encouraged the congregations present to become active members of committees such as Men’s Sector, and thanked the Seronga Men’s Sector for coming to spread their message at Gudigwa.
The Seronga Men’s Sector will continue in their outreach efforts in the coming year by taking advantage of opportunities to address various congregations of faith throughout the Seronga and surrounding areas as they arise.
Mr. Gweexa addressing ZCC congregations at Gudigwa
Education:
In the coming months the Men’s Sector will host 2 workshops involving the local medical professionals from the Seronga clinic, as well as community healers and faith based leaders from Mogotho to Gudigwa. The goal of these workshops is to facilitate a conversation between these three important and influential community providers of HIV treatment and support. We intend to create an atmosphere of open conversation so that each service provider can highlight the service they provide in promoting HIV prevention and support. We also want each sector to educate about and promote their best practices and ways these three sectors can network together to provide the best response to the needs of their respective communities.
Another goal that the Seronga Men’s Sector is working towards is sensitizing the Police and members of the BDF on issues of gender and gender based violence. We plan to hold short seminars on these topics based on the curriculum provided by Men as Partners. We hope through these events to promote discussion of gender issues and to find a common ground from which we can address gender based violence through the men and women involved in these traditionally male centric organizations.
STEPS film Series:
Two members of the Men’s Sector Committee will be going for a workshop at the end of August to be trained on the facilitation of screenings for the STEPS (Social Transformation and Empowerment Projects) films. The STEPS films are designed to promote discussion and debate through their content, which will be shown with the support of the Men’s Sector at various locations in Seronga that have access to a television and generated power. Supporting partners include: the Seronga Clinic, the Seronga Sub Land Board, Ngambao CJSS, and the Seronga Police. These locations together provide us with a wide variety of locations from which to reach the people from the various wards of Seronga village.
Successes and Challenges:
The Seronga Men’s Sector has had a productive year, and has many planned activities for the coming year. We have held a successful kick off event; we have done outreaches, and have plans for workshops and programs that have a great deal of potential. That being said, we also have some challenges we hope to overcome in the coming year. The Lay Counselor at the clinic (who is also a member of the Men’s Sector) reports that there is still a hesitancy of men to go the clinic with their partners for testing. Combating traditional beliefs about HIV continues to be a challenge, with a great deal of misinformation being perpetuated in the community despite our efforts at widespread education. Another of the challenges we face in the coming year will be the procurement of a DVD player with which to play the STEPS films on. Plenty of the local partners have televisions and generators they would be willing to help us with, but we have yet to find one that has a DVD player on which to play the movies. We will attempt to meet this challenge by requesting funding from various sources in order to procure a DVD player that can be moved from location to location with the films.
Conclusions:
The Seronga Men’s Sector is an active and hardworking Committee comprising of men and women from the various sectors of professional, village and traditional life in Seronga and the surrounding area. We have set high goals for ourselves based the top issues of concern as set out by the Okavango Sub-District’s Evidence Based Plan. Of these areas the Seronga Men’s Sector is primarily focusing on Men’s involvement and addressing myths and misconceptions. We consistently strive to meet these goals without being deterred by lack of resources or the rural nature of our village. The Men’s Sector is making important progress in reducing the spread of HIV in the village of Seronga through our outreaches, our efforts at education, and our community events. We will not be discouraged from meeting our goals, and will consistently increase our efforts to bring men to the forefront as leaders in addressing issues of HIV/AIDS.
An Appliance Rebellion....
(I wrote this one in about mid July when my fridge busted. It took nearly a month to get it replaced. Ah Botswana. Thank God it was winter then, as my gas just went out while I was gone over the weekend and the sight and smell of my fridge full of rotten food in the summer brought me to tears.)
In order to combat increasingly declining sense of accomplishment (I wrote this a while ago…) I have ceremoniously decided (upon of course the recent suicide of my refrigerator) that in fact all of my combined household appliances, as well as several of my electrical gadgets have an unspoken vendetta against me. I am currently unable to deny that these appliances will no longer be satisfied with successfully ensuring my madness, but rather are trying to completely eliminate me as a resident of my hut (perhaps they have formed an alliance with the mice and lizards life insurance co-operative). This new framework through which to view my appliances and living conditions allows me to believe that my lack of prowess in most matters domestic is indeed not my fault.
My fridge has been making idle threats for months, or actually since I’ve had it, and finally chose today (as of course, the day when I have recently returned from Maun through a relatively painless 6 hour ride with transport nearly the entire way, which for the non-hitching in Sub-Saharan Africa layman means that I was completely and totally weighed down with perishable groceries because I had the means to get them here in a reasonable amount of time) and being completely full to die.
My oven is in on the death pact, and has decided it’s not only the appliances in the house but also its human inhabitant that must perish. It chooses to ensure this by f*$#ing up every item resembling food (It even went a step further and destroyed the butter knife I had accidentally left in a pan of toasting bread the other morning- I am so not a morning person….) that touches it. I know this little bastard is planning on me actually starving myself by becoming so fed up with the under and simultaneously overcooked item of food I bring forth from its fiery bowels that I give up on myself.
At current I have gone through 2 cameras being completely wrecked by dust, and the third is making a funny noise when I turn it on. The first ipod I brought with me has died, and I’ve gone through two mini speakers. The solio solar charger has died a long time back, and I’m on my third cell phone and have broken at least two chargers thus far in my tenure.
I can assure you it’s not that I’m not taking care of these things. All of my electronics have their own little plastic bags that they live in, with all of their corresponding chargers and adaptors and accessories (it took Africa to descend on me but by God I might emerge slightly closer to organized!). I guess that the lessons on wants versus needs will just keep coming and by the end of this I’ll surely be able to deal with anything;-)
In order to combat increasingly declining sense of accomplishment (I wrote this a while ago…) I have ceremoniously decided (upon of course the recent suicide of my refrigerator) that in fact all of my combined household appliances, as well as several of my electrical gadgets have an unspoken vendetta against me. I am currently unable to deny that these appliances will no longer be satisfied with successfully ensuring my madness, but rather are trying to completely eliminate me as a resident of my hut (perhaps they have formed an alliance with the mice and lizards life insurance co-operative). This new framework through which to view my appliances and living conditions allows me to believe that my lack of prowess in most matters domestic is indeed not my fault.
My fridge has been making idle threats for months, or actually since I’ve had it, and finally chose today (as of course, the day when I have recently returned from Maun through a relatively painless 6 hour ride with transport nearly the entire way, which for the non-hitching in Sub-Saharan Africa layman means that I was completely and totally weighed down with perishable groceries because I had the means to get them here in a reasonable amount of time) and being completely full to die.
My oven is in on the death pact, and has decided it’s not only the appliances in the house but also its human inhabitant that must perish. It chooses to ensure this by f*$#ing up every item resembling food (It even went a step further and destroyed the butter knife I had accidentally left in a pan of toasting bread the other morning- I am so not a morning person….) that touches it. I know this little bastard is planning on me actually starving myself by becoming so fed up with the under and simultaneously overcooked item of food I bring forth from its fiery bowels that I give up on myself.
At current I have gone through 2 cameras being completely wrecked by dust, and the third is making a funny noise when I turn it on. The first ipod I brought with me has died, and I’ve gone through two mini speakers. The solio solar charger has died a long time back, and I’m on my third cell phone and have broken at least two chargers thus far in my tenure.
I can assure you it’s not that I’m not taking care of these things. All of my electronics have their own little plastic bags that they live in, with all of their corresponding chargers and adaptors and accessories (it took Africa to descend on me but by God I might emerge slightly closer to organized!). I guess that the lessons on wants versus needs will just keep coming and by the end of this I’ll surely be able to deal with anything;-)
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