Since a majority of time in Seronga is spent going about the daily business of food procurement, cleaning the ever entering sands from not the hourglass, but from one’s life, cleansing one's body (if not always one's soul), running around the village and plotting one’s next internet fix, the limited amount of free time one has must be spent on having fun, if for no other reason than that if not for some fun one would lose their mind, shit, ect. One must be creative in these “fun” pursuits, and in order to give my adoring fans a glimpse into what counts as “fun” in Seronga I’ve made my top twenty list of my favorite Seronga pastimes. You have to supply your own visuals, and it’s in the “you” form as I also do a lot of talking to myself here….
1) Teach yourself the harmony parts to Postal Service songs (thank you so much L-I’d kiss you if you weren’t back in America!!!) and then do high kicks to same during upbeat numbers. Contemplate writing and choreographing Broadway revival a’la “Mama Mia” and realize the report on Andrew Lloyd Webber you did while in London was closest you’d get to the Great White Way. Settle for Peace Corps being your current claim to fame (for now!)
2) Hunt down someone to open the computer lab at the school-this will take the better part of an hour and at least ten pula worth of airtime on your cell phone- (hopefully your buddy Eman, then spend a while wondering (again) why you don’t just have your own key?) and just wait. Eman will declare today a “work day”, proclaim that he’s very sad and wants to cry today and will put on the Usher “Confessions” album and the two of you will have a sing along. He will also cue up such gems as the Michael Boltan classic “Said I Loved You But I Lied”, along with every thug-tastic sad song that’s been released in the past two decades. Question Eman’s guaranteed melancholy disposition; realize that when you’re sad listening to sad music is funny and thank God for him.
3) Gaze down at your belly button and upon viewing the ring that is still there, have an argument with yourself as to whether this is your high school or college post break-up body, due to semi starvation and partial malnutrition in rural Africa. Rue the fact that no ex boyfriends are going to happen upon you on the road in Seronga. Thank god for Facebook, where they might. Wonder if you could ever maintain this in the presence of real food. Realize there’s no fricken way, and make a goal to get over body anxieties. You’ve got two years…
4) Come up with a convoluted and ridiculous plan to have a contest to name the lizard that lives in your windowsill. Think of some possible names yourself and realize you blew your cleaver name wad on those damn cats. Be cheered in the fact that you’ll probably be able to name some kids someday and realize you should practice with the lizard. Or not so much.
5) Write many, many semi coherent blog entries and letters home. This is fun in that in attempting to describe life here, you realize it could never, ever be done. You will never do it justice. As it is impossible, there is less pressure and thus you can just be wildly entertaining. Ha.
6) Make long and random lists of ….everything. Life goals, goals for the next year, six months, week, day, ten minutes, knowing that a grand and frightening majority will probably never happen. Make peace with that for about ten seconds and move on. Lists of favorite foods that you miss, reasons you’re happy to still be here, reasons you wish you were home, great things about Seronga/Botswana/Africa/ make a large and ongoing list to complete Vanity Fair magazine’s Proust questionnaire, dream of new and amazing half cocked ideas for ways you could change the world that again, will likely not pan out. All of the above to be written in crayon. Don’t take yourself too seriously.
7) Photography 101. There is no shortage of amazing, weird and wonderful things in Seronga and Botswana to take photos of. Favorite subject when all else fails? Self.
8) Repeat random and useless celebrity and entertainment gleaned from celebrity imported magazines as well as the fact that you often spend your precious internet time checking out people.com (and realizing you could be checking out like cnn.com if you were more of an adult…) to unsuspecting (and possibly unenglish speaking) villagers in effort to keep on top of useless celebrity knowledge game. Mentally go through the ever changing family tree of Brad and Angelina. Mourn the fact that you have likely ended your glory days as an unstoppable contender at Trivial Pursuit (the last 20 years) and Scene It.
9) Pedicure toes. Again.
10) Practice walking around balancing things on your head. I myself am up to quite a few steps before whatever thing I’m balancing falls off. If I put one arm up to support whatever it is I’m doing even better. In addition to being a fancy parlor trick, I figure this may be the one indicator that I’ve actually lived in Africa (as I suspect the tan may fade with time…)
11) Go through stockpile of magazines to determine the next short transitional style for hair and plot out who in this country might be qualified to perform the operation. Contemplate what it means that hair role models for now are Pink, Victoria Beckham, Katie Holmes and Agnyess Deyne. Make collage of pictures for back of door.
12) Plank position (like the up part of a push up). Done to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers “American Girl”. Hold until arms, legs, abs and other previously unknown muscles shake violently (generally the length of 1 song) laugh hysterically and repeat. This constitutes one set. Do three or four.
13) Baking. Like from scratch with a recipe book. Spend most of day wandering around village looking for eggs.
14) Pick up a few more languages. This may seem ridiculous in light of the fact that you are barely conversational in one, however. If one is going to suck at one African language, one can certainly handle being terrible at three or four. In all seriousness, learning the greetings to several of the other languages in my village-priceless. Seeing the toothless old people grinning and commenting that the Lekgowa now speaks Simbugushu and Seyai, heartwarming. Being unable to tell which tribe any of these toothless old people are from, and risking offending them (I've been told that these two tribes in particular really strongly dislike each other)- a little more dangerous, but i like to live on the edge. And I think they at least see I'm trying...
15) Cheerleading. Not the yea rah rah type, but the kind in which one runs around the village encouraging people to follow through with the things you've previously asked them to do for this or that project. This'll take a while.
16) Continue on with house decorating project. It only looks a little like an asylum now, and more like a standard issue padded room with pictures and writing everywhere. Surely there's a little more space over here....
17) Re-view every movie you have. Watch them again with the second commentary. Not the one with the director and the main stars, the one with the dolly grip and the sound guy giving their recollections of filming. Dream up additional alternate endings. Laugh out loud. This is your life.
18) Imagine the first thing you'll say to everyone upon arriving home. Stop that. It makes you homesick.
19) Read. Another. Book.
20) Gaze out at the day, the sunlight, the raindrops, the stars, the moon, the clouds, the clear sky, the delta. Walk through the village and find something to smile about. Great the children and the old ladies, the friends and the strangers who know your name when you might not know theirs. Write random things on the pavement at the school in chalk. DAnce to the song in your head (or on your ipod). Breathe in the air and do all the things you never had time for in your previous life. Express gratitude. Even when it's boring, this is an amazing experience you're having, and it only gets better with time.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Dear Grandma, Happy Birthday
I hope you have a most wonderful birthday a half a world away from me. It's times like this that I curse the skin you've always said was too thin, and wish for longer sleeves, it seems the ones on which I wear my heart aren't doing much to relieve the aching way in which I long to be near you today. I know the pain is normal, that it means I'm growing and that the discomfort is a kiln which is firing me to be a stronger tea cup or china or whatever antiquated piece of kitchen wear you use to make the analogy, but for now I just want relief in the cool calming waters that I know to be you. I miss you so completely, every day, but especially today.
If I were there I would kiss your face and "mess up" your hair. I would put lotion on you hands and you'd complain about how hot your feet are, while mine would be too cold, and you'd admonish me to wait, my time is coming. We'd trade shoes and you'd find something in a drawer or a closet or a book or a can or jar of something that you'd "been meaning to give" to me. You'd listen to my advice and suggestions cautiously or enthusiastically, scowling or grinning at my youthful certainty, or uncertainty. You'd tell me what to do, and I'd roll my eyes, knowing that you're probably right, but only taking it completely in later, on the drive home.
We'd eat too much, sugary and sweet and chocolatey and whatever newfangled health remedy you're trying after getting a crazy email forward about how it will change your life. The vinigar, the yougurt, the garlic, the vitamins, whatever, washed down with whatever chocolate or sweets you had in the house. Cause that's what you do at Grandma's. You'd shake your head and bitch and moan about my picky eating habits (which I promise you, are changing here)swearing that I was too old to act this way, and yet we'd dine on whichever meal you'd prepared especially because you knew I was coming, whichever items you could most recently recall as being my "favorite". I would listen for your ticking heart, and the whisp of the oxygen, and I would breathe in the familiar scent that I've never been quite able to find anywhere else on Earth, only hints of it, here, or there, which always inspire my heart to miss you and love you.
We would have long chats in which I'd speak too quickly and too loud, taking time to settle into the calm that you create in me. We would laugh until we cried, or really in your case, not really cry, but sort of, and then cry until we laughed again. We'd agree and disagree and agree to disagree. I'd shriek and you'd whisper, and we'd both use too many gestures. We'd talk until there was nothing left to say, but to just feel the space in the air left by the warmth of our words, the kind of closeness only those who have shared so much of their souls with each other over the years can create.
And I've been lucky. So lucky. Because not everyone has someone in their life who will proudly pull back their curtains and expose the inner workings of the dirty business of living a life. Not everyone is strong enough to show the shadows, and expose the mistakes, wear the failures like badges of honor. It seems small, and obvious, and yet it has the effect allowing anyone in your presence to take the risks that will make them a better person, that will make them stronger, that will allow them in turn to grow and reach and strive and yet to have the safty of knowing they can always come back home if the plan fails, if the lover is the wrong one, if the choice was mistaken, or the efforts in vain. Not everyone has someone who has lived such an extraordinary and yet ordinary life, and is willing to teach them the lessons, again and again until she is horse, and still repeat them no matter how many times I miss, forget, ignore, overlook or fail to learn them. And yet with every success, and even most failures, I know you're out there in the crowd, silently crying in your way, clasping your hands together with pride in the front row of the stage from which I live my life. And I'm so very, very, blessed.
So congratulations my dear, on completing another lap round the sun on this planet. And thank you for giving those of us lucky enough to live in your essence another year with you. I miss you bittersweetly, and love you completely, and cannot wait until we meet again.
I love you, Happy Birthday.
Your Granddaughter,
Jennifer Korrin Katchmark
If I were there I would kiss your face and "mess up" your hair. I would put lotion on you hands and you'd complain about how hot your feet are, while mine would be too cold, and you'd admonish me to wait, my time is coming. We'd trade shoes and you'd find something in a drawer or a closet or a book or a can or jar of something that you'd "been meaning to give" to me. You'd listen to my advice and suggestions cautiously or enthusiastically, scowling or grinning at my youthful certainty, or uncertainty. You'd tell me what to do, and I'd roll my eyes, knowing that you're probably right, but only taking it completely in later, on the drive home.
We'd eat too much, sugary and sweet and chocolatey and whatever newfangled health remedy you're trying after getting a crazy email forward about how it will change your life. The vinigar, the yougurt, the garlic, the vitamins, whatever, washed down with whatever chocolate or sweets you had in the house. Cause that's what you do at Grandma's. You'd shake your head and bitch and moan about my picky eating habits (which I promise you, are changing here)swearing that I was too old to act this way, and yet we'd dine on whichever meal you'd prepared especially because you knew I was coming, whichever items you could most recently recall as being my "favorite". I would listen for your ticking heart, and the whisp of the oxygen, and I would breathe in the familiar scent that I've never been quite able to find anywhere else on Earth, only hints of it, here, or there, which always inspire my heart to miss you and love you.
We would have long chats in which I'd speak too quickly and too loud, taking time to settle into the calm that you create in me. We would laugh until we cried, or really in your case, not really cry, but sort of, and then cry until we laughed again. We'd agree and disagree and agree to disagree. I'd shriek and you'd whisper, and we'd both use too many gestures. We'd talk until there was nothing left to say, but to just feel the space in the air left by the warmth of our words, the kind of closeness only those who have shared so much of their souls with each other over the years can create.
And I've been lucky. So lucky. Because not everyone has someone in their life who will proudly pull back their curtains and expose the inner workings of the dirty business of living a life. Not everyone is strong enough to show the shadows, and expose the mistakes, wear the failures like badges of honor. It seems small, and obvious, and yet it has the effect allowing anyone in your presence to take the risks that will make them a better person, that will make them stronger, that will allow them in turn to grow and reach and strive and yet to have the safty of knowing they can always come back home if the plan fails, if the lover is the wrong one, if the choice was mistaken, or the efforts in vain. Not everyone has someone who has lived such an extraordinary and yet ordinary life, and is willing to teach them the lessons, again and again until she is horse, and still repeat them no matter how many times I miss, forget, ignore, overlook or fail to learn them. And yet with every success, and even most failures, I know you're out there in the crowd, silently crying in your way, clasping your hands together with pride in the front row of the stage from which I live my life. And I'm so very, very, blessed.
So congratulations my dear, on completing another lap round the sun on this planet. And thank you for giving those of us lucky enough to live in your essence another year with you. I miss you bittersweetly, and love you completely, and cannot wait until we meet again.
I love you, Happy Birthday.
Your Granddaughter,
Jennifer Korrin Katchmark
11-03-2009 Hello, Sully.......
Welcome to this world, my new little prince. You are (really, besides your father who is more of an honorary member, kisses Martin) the first man to be born into our tribe. I have been awaiting your arrival here on Earth from the far off lands and waters of Seronga, and cannot wait until I get to hold your little face in my hands. It will be awhile, but you will know me. Before I came to Botswana a wise woman informed me that I had sent certain parts of myself ahead to Africa prior to actually coming here so that I would recognize the person I would soon become, and so I would feel more at home in my skin once I got here. I have left an equal amount of myself that side of the world, to keep watch over you and yours and be with you there as I am here.
You are a lucky one, little man, with the amazing family you’ve come into, and we will love you well. I cannot wait to impart with you all the mysteries that I have discovered, and cannot wait for you to teach me to uncover new ones as well. We will adventure, we will explore, we will learn and grow and we will love.
I am so excited you are finally here (or there, rather). Welcome to the world of life and all it’s mysteries.
I love you already.
Aunty Katch
You are a lucky one, little man, with the amazing family you’ve come into, and we will love you well. I cannot wait to impart with you all the mysteries that I have discovered, and cannot wait for you to teach me to uncover new ones as well. We will adventure, we will explore, we will learn and grow and we will love.
I am so excited you are finally here (or there, rather). Welcome to the world of life and all it’s mysteries.
I love you already.
Aunty Katch
Pet Sounds... Life in an African Village....
With a title like this one, you'd think that I'm about to wax poetic about all the raging parties in Seronga... Not so...
When I first arrived in Africa- or what I thought of as “real Africa”- the village of Moleps, my first few nights were… Interesting. The night sounds of an Africa village are an unfortunate symphony of the constant barking, braying, clucking, crowing, bleating, mooing and fornicating of the village animals. It crescendos at the full moon.
On the plane to Africa I had somehow managed to score a pair of earplugs (although how or why I would have needed them on the plane to block any noise out of my ambien and wine induced slumber is anyone’s guess) and then at my host family’s house I was reusing the “one time use only” charming blaze orange foam wonders to a point that lacked any semblance of hygiene to block out not only the sounds of the livestock but also the night sounds coming across the open rafter walls of my house. Luckily my mom sent more.
It was funny to me that I needed earplugs to block out the sounds of all the barnyard animals that wander the villages of Botswana day and night (this is the first time I’ve been to a country where they fence their yards to keep wandering livestock out, rather than in..) when I think back on all the places I’ve slept through noises of all kinds.
I’d slept through tons of movies played full blast, innumerable bandits toilet papering my house through my teen years, one year in the drunken, typically screaming haze that is a girl’s freshman dorm floor at college, 2 years in a house directly above both the Duluth fire station and the police station, (cue the blaring sirens at all hours of the day and night) on a hill in which semi trucks flew down the slippery winter hill throwing their jake brakes and screeching day and night. I slept through the city noise of London, near the Imperial War museum on the eve of an unpopular war and its frequent protests complete with drumming, singing and shouting. I’ve slept on a volcano that had been actively erupting and spent more time than I care to admit sharing a residence with an unruly cockatiel who didn’t completely understand what a sheet over his cage meant. I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.
Over time I have adjusted to sleeping through my new barnyard “neighbors” without the assistance of earplugs. At Scott’s camp I have been able to add lions, elephants and groaning hippos to the menagerie of animal night sounds I have slept through. On any given night anywhere near the water of the delta (of which now that it’s flooding I live within a half a mile of) there are so many frogs chirping and singing it sounds like some sort of crazy windchime. I have to admit on the extremely rare night of silence in my hut I have a rather difficult time falling asleep. Luckily, due to the reinvasion of my house by mice (and perhaps bats are what I hear scampering over my head upon a thin layer of nearly particle board that separates me from the invaders?) this isn’t often a problem. It seems the sounds must be sporadic and loudly disruptive to be my lullaby. Ah, Africa.
When I first arrived in Africa- or what I thought of as “real Africa”- the village of Moleps, my first few nights were… Interesting. The night sounds of an Africa village are an unfortunate symphony of the constant barking, braying, clucking, crowing, bleating, mooing and fornicating of the village animals. It crescendos at the full moon.
On the plane to Africa I had somehow managed to score a pair of earplugs (although how or why I would have needed them on the plane to block any noise out of my ambien and wine induced slumber is anyone’s guess) and then at my host family’s house I was reusing the “one time use only” charming blaze orange foam wonders to a point that lacked any semblance of hygiene to block out not only the sounds of the livestock but also the night sounds coming across the open rafter walls of my house. Luckily my mom sent more.
It was funny to me that I needed earplugs to block out the sounds of all the barnyard animals that wander the villages of Botswana day and night (this is the first time I’ve been to a country where they fence their yards to keep wandering livestock out, rather than in..) when I think back on all the places I’ve slept through noises of all kinds.
I’d slept through tons of movies played full blast, innumerable bandits toilet papering my house through my teen years, one year in the drunken, typically screaming haze that is a girl’s freshman dorm floor at college, 2 years in a house directly above both the Duluth fire station and the police station, (cue the blaring sirens at all hours of the day and night) on a hill in which semi trucks flew down the slippery winter hill throwing their jake brakes and screeching day and night. I slept through the city noise of London, near the Imperial War museum on the eve of an unpopular war and its frequent protests complete with drumming, singing and shouting. I’ve slept on a volcano that had been actively erupting and spent more time than I care to admit sharing a residence with an unruly cockatiel who didn’t completely understand what a sheet over his cage meant. I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.
Over time I have adjusted to sleeping through my new barnyard “neighbors” without the assistance of earplugs. At Scott’s camp I have been able to add lions, elephants and groaning hippos to the menagerie of animal night sounds I have slept through. On any given night anywhere near the water of the delta (of which now that it’s flooding I live within a half a mile of) there are so many frogs chirping and singing it sounds like some sort of crazy windchime. I have to admit on the extremely rare night of silence in my hut I have a rather difficult time falling asleep. Luckily, due to the reinvasion of my house by mice (and perhaps bats are what I hear scampering over my head upon a thin layer of nearly particle board that separates me from the invaders?) this isn’t often a problem. It seems the sounds must be sporadic and loudly disruptive to be my lullaby. Ah, Africa.
Highland Fling
I hadn’t planned to go to Maun, but when transport from Gumare back to Seronga went awry when the head nurse informed me that my only ride back to Seronga that day would be in the back of an ambulance with several drums of petrol (likely not completely properly closed and fuming like what) I decided to make a new plan in deference to my remaining brain cells. A few well placed calls informed me that I would have better luck catching a lift from Maun back home with the police from Seronga after the weekend, so Dudu and I made a plan to get to Maun.
As with most ventures through the metropolis that is Maun, it began with me texting the usual suspects about my impending arrival. “Rough” the dashing Scotsman I had met a few months back responded to the social calendar inquiry by asking if I had heard about the Scottish Burns Night. Indeed I hadn’t, although I had to admit the name, along with the brief text he had sent describing a night filled with “wit, poetry and whisky” in and of itself sounded quite promising. When he told me the level of dress was to be “formal” a glimmer of the party-dress girl I used to be danced to the surface of my mind. There are just so few events to which one can attempt to wear make-up and feel pretty in the bush! This was an opportunity, and I’m not one to look a gift donkey in the mouth. When I jokingly inquired about Tuxedos (thinking Bond, James Bond… What with all these gorgeously accented ex pats and pilots running around) and he text back “No…. Kilts.” Yeah. Like I was gonna turn THAT one down. I figured it’s still a cultural exchange, just a Scottish cultural exchange. And it certainly was.
As I was already in Gumare at this point Dudu and I then raided her closet for some suitably appropriate China shop attire. (I hate to say this for the complete political incorrectness of this but when I say “China shop” I’m not speaking about places peddling fancy wares such as china and perhaps flatware and pretty linens. But then perhaps you noted that when I mentioned the state of other marketplaces in the area. “China shop” means junk shops run by Chinese people. No one here seems to think this odd or offensive in the least. Just thought I should clear that up at the start). We made a plan with some dresses we thought would work and I mourned the fact that I couldn’t find a decent pair of heels in the Northwest region of the country. We headed out to the hitching spot in Gumare, thumbed a ride, and were on our way to Maun.
Now this happened to be Friday, and during the rounds of meeting up with the friends and associates I’ve somehow collected in Maun, we managed to get completely sidetracked by my friend “Canada”. He’s nearly Motswana, as his parents are missionaries and have lived in Maun most of his life. He is however, still pretty close to American (which I remind him about how he’s so NEARLY there all the time… Which he loves as much as you can imagine a typical Canadian would.) He ended up inviting us boating the next day, which was the day of the Scottish party, which he had no plans to attend.
The boating adventure ended up being just that, with us stopping to meet up with a friend of a friend of a friend who had all the tame zebras running around their yard that you see in my new photos. (Side Note: There are tons of Zebras in Botswana, and many of them are quite tame as they are not hunted, poached or eaten because they are the totem of the President of Botswana’s tribe. I’ve still never seen them get this close to humans. It was weird. I threatened them-although being in English I wonder if they understood- that they had better not trample me or my mother was going to be PISSED. Perhaps the threatening fist I shook at them made it clear. I’ll let the pictures tell the story…) Long story short (or really, told in parenthesis) after a brief run in with a hippo at close range, by the time we had docked the party had begun about an hour previously.
Now really, things never start on time in Botswana, so when we showed up nearly two and a half hours late, I thought we’d be right on time. It seems I forgot about the Brits and their “timeliness above all” which you’d think I would have really taken in after spending all this time with Simon, for whom half 4 means twenty past. We wandered into the entryway of the assigned seating formal sit down dinner function (mental note: not a good idea to try to sneak in two and a half hours late when you are seated at the host’s table… ooopps.) and I began the smile and feign ignorance apology dance. The whisky began to really flow soon after and all was forgiven.
It seems we were just in time for the actual main course of dinner, which was a lot of stuff that usually goes on my “scary food” list, but as I was trying to play “cultured” I sampled (most of it). The Haggis wasn’t as horrendous as I thought it would be so long as I focused on not thinking about what it was (intestines, nasty ground up bits,-google it). There was also a really amazing thing that was so damn close to a cheese cake that it nearly brought tears. The poetry was surprisingly (to me) pretty good, or if not good, at least sweet, considering the purpose of the night was to immortalize a man whose legend lies heavily in his sexual infidelities. The whole night had the effect of really transporting all present to the experience of a cold winter’s night in a Scottish pub, which is a pretty impressive feat in the heat of Botswana.
In the end, the only thing missing was the bag pipes, which it seemed even Rough couldn’t pull off managing to procure in Africa. The highlight of the evening ended up being the dancing, which the three actual Scots present attempted to teach the rest of us. Scottish dancing is all about being in pairs and constantly switching partners and (in the beginning at least) attempting to focus and count and attempt to go in the right direction. It was hilarious to watch what were undoubtedly a bunch of former prep school boys in their ties twirling around like little leprechauns (I know that’s Irish, but really, it fit) to some dance it appeared they may have mastered at some point in their lives in their Physical Education class and were just remembering in a whisky induced haze now. They were tossing Dudu and I around enough to nearly compensate for the fact that letting a man lead me while dancing is an art form I have not yet mastered.
During the breathless breaks between songs I realized how cool it was just to have a space in which to sit around and speak with people that didn’t carry the “thrill of the hunt” type atmosphere of most of the bars in Bots (or really, the world). Everyone kind of sat around drinking and talking and not necessarily trying to figure out whom was going to try to go home with whom. The dancing had broken the ice amongst people who would have normally spent the night only speaking after they had had their inhibitions worn away by the dulling effects of alcohol. Somewhere between the dancing and the raucous harmonizing of Auld Lange Syne at the bar at the end of the night with lyrics scribbled on a bar napkin and 10 people craning their necks to see and sing, I got a chance to speak with Rough and some of the other Scots and discovered that this is actually is how it is in Scottish pubs. Yeah, there’s crazy drinking (they’re kind of known for it after all) but there’s also this element of widespread socializing amongst the whole room through movement that I would say in American culture we’ve lost (if we ever had?) in the bump and grind of the clubs.
The whole experience made me certain that I need to follow through with the idea I’ve had since London (6 years ago now!!!) that I need to get to Ireland and Scotland for my 30th year of life (also quickly approaching) and with all the friends I’ve met from England, it seems I’ll have to make a few stops there as well. So much for the idea that living in Africa would cure me of my itchy feet…..Here we go again ;-)
As with most ventures through the metropolis that is Maun, it began with me texting the usual suspects about my impending arrival. “Rough” the dashing Scotsman I had met a few months back responded to the social calendar inquiry by asking if I had heard about the Scottish Burns Night. Indeed I hadn’t, although I had to admit the name, along with the brief text he had sent describing a night filled with “wit, poetry and whisky” in and of itself sounded quite promising. When he told me the level of dress was to be “formal” a glimmer of the party-dress girl I used to be danced to the surface of my mind. There are just so few events to which one can attempt to wear make-up and feel pretty in the bush! This was an opportunity, and I’m not one to look a gift donkey in the mouth. When I jokingly inquired about Tuxedos (thinking Bond, James Bond… What with all these gorgeously accented ex pats and pilots running around) and he text back “No…. Kilts.” Yeah. Like I was gonna turn THAT one down. I figured it’s still a cultural exchange, just a Scottish cultural exchange. And it certainly was.
As I was already in Gumare at this point Dudu and I then raided her closet for some suitably appropriate China shop attire. (I hate to say this for the complete political incorrectness of this but when I say “China shop” I’m not speaking about places peddling fancy wares such as china and perhaps flatware and pretty linens. But then perhaps you noted that when I mentioned the state of other marketplaces in the area. “China shop” means junk shops run by Chinese people. No one here seems to think this odd or offensive in the least. Just thought I should clear that up at the start). We made a plan with some dresses we thought would work and I mourned the fact that I couldn’t find a decent pair of heels in the Northwest region of the country. We headed out to the hitching spot in Gumare, thumbed a ride, and were on our way to Maun.
Now this happened to be Friday, and during the rounds of meeting up with the friends and associates I’ve somehow collected in Maun, we managed to get completely sidetracked by my friend “Canada”. He’s nearly Motswana, as his parents are missionaries and have lived in Maun most of his life. He is however, still pretty close to American (which I remind him about how he’s so NEARLY there all the time… Which he loves as much as you can imagine a typical Canadian would.) He ended up inviting us boating the next day, which was the day of the Scottish party, which he had no plans to attend.
The boating adventure ended up being just that, with us stopping to meet up with a friend of a friend of a friend who had all the tame zebras running around their yard that you see in my new photos. (Side Note: There are tons of Zebras in Botswana, and many of them are quite tame as they are not hunted, poached or eaten because they are the totem of the President of Botswana’s tribe. I’ve still never seen them get this close to humans. It was weird. I threatened them-although being in English I wonder if they understood- that they had better not trample me or my mother was going to be PISSED. Perhaps the threatening fist I shook at them made it clear. I’ll let the pictures tell the story…) Long story short (or really, told in parenthesis) after a brief run in with a hippo at close range, by the time we had docked the party had begun about an hour previously.
Now really, things never start on time in Botswana, so when we showed up nearly two and a half hours late, I thought we’d be right on time. It seems I forgot about the Brits and their “timeliness above all” which you’d think I would have really taken in after spending all this time with Simon, for whom half 4 means twenty past. We wandered into the entryway of the assigned seating formal sit down dinner function (mental note: not a good idea to try to sneak in two and a half hours late when you are seated at the host’s table… ooopps.) and I began the smile and feign ignorance apology dance. The whisky began to really flow soon after and all was forgiven.
It seems we were just in time for the actual main course of dinner, which was a lot of stuff that usually goes on my “scary food” list, but as I was trying to play “cultured” I sampled (most of it). The Haggis wasn’t as horrendous as I thought it would be so long as I focused on not thinking about what it was (intestines, nasty ground up bits,-google it). There was also a really amazing thing that was so damn close to a cheese cake that it nearly brought tears. The poetry was surprisingly (to me) pretty good, or if not good, at least sweet, considering the purpose of the night was to immortalize a man whose legend lies heavily in his sexual infidelities. The whole night had the effect of really transporting all present to the experience of a cold winter’s night in a Scottish pub, which is a pretty impressive feat in the heat of Botswana.
In the end, the only thing missing was the bag pipes, which it seemed even Rough couldn’t pull off managing to procure in Africa. The highlight of the evening ended up being the dancing, which the three actual Scots present attempted to teach the rest of us. Scottish dancing is all about being in pairs and constantly switching partners and (in the beginning at least) attempting to focus and count and attempt to go in the right direction. It was hilarious to watch what were undoubtedly a bunch of former prep school boys in their ties twirling around like little leprechauns (I know that’s Irish, but really, it fit) to some dance it appeared they may have mastered at some point in their lives in their Physical Education class and were just remembering in a whisky induced haze now. They were tossing Dudu and I around enough to nearly compensate for the fact that letting a man lead me while dancing is an art form I have not yet mastered.
During the breathless breaks between songs I realized how cool it was just to have a space in which to sit around and speak with people that didn’t carry the “thrill of the hunt” type atmosphere of most of the bars in Bots (or really, the world). Everyone kind of sat around drinking and talking and not necessarily trying to figure out whom was going to try to go home with whom. The dancing had broken the ice amongst people who would have normally spent the night only speaking after they had had their inhibitions worn away by the dulling effects of alcohol. Somewhere between the dancing and the raucous harmonizing of Auld Lange Syne at the bar at the end of the night with lyrics scribbled on a bar napkin and 10 people craning their necks to see and sing, I got a chance to speak with Rough and some of the other Scots and discovered that this is actually is how it is in Scottish pubs. Yeah, there’s crazy drinking (they’re kind of known for it after all) but there’s also this element of widespread socializing amongst the whole room through movement that I would say in American culture we’ve lost (if we ever had?) in the bump and grind of the clubs.
The whole experience made me certain that I need to follow through with the idea I’ve had since London (6 years ago now!!!) that I need to get to Ireland and Scotland for my 30th year of life (also quickly approaching) and with all the friends I’ve met from England, it seems I’ll have to make a few stops there as well. So much for the idea that living in Africa would cure me of my itchy feet…..Here we go again ;-)
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