I’m constantly amused by how happy I can feel here, in the presence of so much sorrow and suffering. It seems completely ridiculous to my thinking brain when I realize how little I have, at least in contrast to what I’m used to having, and then considering exactly how much this is in comparison with those around me. It’s like I can somehow feel the happiness, or maybe it’s contentment, so much easier here, as there is less to distract from it. Perhaps it’s the contrast, or as M calls it, “living closer to the bone”. Life and death and water and Earth are so present here, there is no glossing over them or ignoring or cleaning and sanitizing them away. I have to learn to exist in their presence. Or maybe I have to learn to let their presence exist more fully in mine.
In some ways I’m living the life I always envisioned for myself, surrounded by somewhat diverse people who generally give a shit and are actively doing something to at least begin to speculate about how to change the world, make it a touch better. In other ways my generally healthy sense of cynicism becomes a mad crazy rabid beast fighting to kill any innocent idealism I may have been harboring as I am confronted with the reality of the situation here in Seronga. AIDS didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen in a vacuum. Behavior change is tough, and made even more so here in Botswana as the culture (and unfortunately the color of my skin) dictates that when I ask a question or speak, the people here nearly always answer in the affirmative, or at least give you an answer, whether based in fact or not, so as not to disappoint you. I don’t believe anyone is deliberately trying to be difficult, but there is also a general lack of education and sense of intimidation that I battle against with every smile and greeting I try to give.
I often think about Maslow’s hierarchy here, and I’ve noticed that it’s when my needs and what is available to me move down on the pyramid that I feel closer to some sort of actualization. When I have to focus on how to get water in a purified enough state to drink without spontaneously vomiting, I feel more evolved, or actualized. When a woman comes into the clinic speaking a language I generally don’t understand and through some combination of miming, sign language and each of us repeating the few words of the other’s language we know and understand, I can get her something she needs, I feel supreme accomplishment. It seems when everything is harder, things are also simpler.
When I lift up a piece of clothing to not find a lizard or spider scurrying from underneath it I feel kind of ecstatic. When I feel a breeze against my skin that’s not filled with dust I am grateful. When I twist the knob and on the faucet and I see and feel the stream of water coming out, rather than hearing the hissing and gurgling of air which means no water, I am happy for the simplicity this offers over having to collect water from outside across the yard in the dark. I still can’t directly drink it, but it’s closer to easy.
When something simple goes awry, I find that I can sometimes have more patience with it, as it is so clear to me that there was and is nothing I can do to change it. When something simple actually happens that I would normally take for granted, like the post woman being at the post office when she says she’s going to I smile so fully, and if she actually has mail for me I nearly cry with joy.
These are all things that happen when I feel blessed. There are also times when I sink into depths of self pity, and feel rage against the difficulty in the simple things. A woman who speaks only Sasarwa who walks three kilometers to have her wounded foot bandaged at the clinic by people who don’t speak her language. A baby dying for lack of simple hygiene or a medicine that would be plentiful most other places on Earth. A woman with five children contracting HIV because there is no way for her to support herself other than to sleep with a man without a condom, as he will pay more for her to have sex with him this way. The apathy that runs rampant in this culture, and can be the only thing one sees if you don’t look harder, and search deeper for something more. And why can’t I just drink the water!!!???
And these feelings could take over, and sometimes do, but I’ve found my life is much more bearable if when these thoughts and experiences come to the forefront of my mind I just let them continue on through, and out the other side. I can usually mange to think back to why I came here, and I can summon some excitement for the opportunity that exists in the presence of so much sorrow. Simple things can change lives. And if I can’t conjure up excitement for that I can at least feel pleasure in the moment of knowing that I am living in the presence of the integrity of doing what I said I was going to do.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
My heart breaks every day....
Every day my heart breaks. Not a day goes by for me without seeing a child suffering, and every day it breaks my heart. It’s something that is beyond my range of understanding, and I suffer as I mentally go back and forth between accepting it, as it is the reality that is happening, and wanting to stop it, prevent it, run and hide from it. I’m torn between wanting to hold these children and acknowledge all the suffering in their little bodies and wanting to erase the visions from my mind, from my world, from my dreams.
I see children starving, dehydrated, HIV positive, dying from diarrhea and the victims of the traditional healer’s medicine. They sometimes don’t even resemble humans, so small and limp, with their eyes bulging out of their tiny heads, the hair gone, looking like baby pigs or kittens. They are so dehydrated that the bumps on their heads are often sunken in, and their plaintive cries fill the air as the nurses pump their wiry arms, searching for a vein in which to insert a rehydration IV.
Sometimes their veins are too small and too dry, and the nurse must have the mother attempt to orally rehydrate the baby using the IV drip liquid, the baby’s immature digestive system fighting to reject the fluids that could save the child’s life. The gurgling from deep in the babies protruding stomach is interrupted by its attempts to wail, which are so subdued and sound like a kitten mewing if you close your eyes. When you open them again you see the drama of the baby trying to flail and attempting to squirm. None of this lasts long as the child quickly exhausts, and resigns itself to becoming limp in its mother’s arms, allowing the nurses and the mother and the fates to do their biding.
These scenes are juxtaposed with others, with those of hope. Scenes that quietly wash over my broken heart and soothe it a bit, like a cooling menthol. Moms quietly giving birth on a table with no stirrups in a room with no lights and later bringing back fat, healthy babies. Noticing a nurse slip one of the few candies I’ve given to her to a child crying after a vaccination injection. Seeing a toddler feeding an infant, sharing what little food they have as they sit on the dirt on the ground outside the clinic. Watching a young girl testing HIV negative, and taking the condoms offered to her. Hearing the children at the daycare singing and knowing they are dancing as well. Watching the nurses be so caring as they rebandage the boy’s leg who comes in every third day.
It is only these scenes of hope that can carry me on, for if I were to dwell on the sadness I could not manage. I must look for them and search for them, and observe the beauty of simple moments or I feel I could not stay. And even this seems ridiculous, because what would I do, where would I go? I’m not the one who is so inflicted. My leaving would not end the suffering here, it would only compound it in my mind. Seeing it and bearing witness to it, and watching and working for change to slowly creep in are the only ways to alleviate my own angst. Now that I’ve seen it, I must do what I can to help change it. I, like those surrounding me, am destined to be in this place, for better or for worse. I can only hope for better.
A broken heart is not the worst thing in the world. As it breaks it grows back stronger, or at least this is what I’ve heard to be true.
I see children starving, dehydrated, HIV positive, dying from diarrhea and the victims of the traditional healer’s medicine. They sometimes don’t even resemble humans, so small and limp, with their eyes bulging out of their tiny heads, the hair gone, looking like baby pigs or kittens. They are so dehydrated that the bumps on their heads are often sunken in, and their plaintive cries fill the air as the nurses pump their wiry arms, searching for a vein in which to insert a rehydration IV.
Sometimes their veins are too small and too dry, and the nurse must have the mother attempt to orally rehydrate the baby using the IV drip liquid, the baby’s immature digestive system fighting to reject the fluids that could save the child’s life. The gurgling from deep in the babies protruding stomach is interrupted by its attempts to wail, which are so subdued and sound like a kitten mewing if you close your eyes. When you open them again you see the drama of the baby trying to flail and attempting to squirm. None of this lasts long as the child quickly exhausts, and resigns itself to becoming limp in its mother’s arms, allowing the nurses and the mother and the fates to do their biding.
These scenes are juxtaposed with others, with those of hope. Scenes that quietly wash over my broken heart and soothe it a bit, like a cooling menthol. Moms quietly giving birth on a table with no stirrups in a room with no lights and later bringing back fat, healthy babies. Noticing a nurse slip one of the few candies I’ve given to her to a child crying after a vaccination injection. Seeing a toddler feeding an infant, sharing what little food they have as they sit on the dirt on the ground outside the clinic. Watching a young girl testing HIV negative, and taking the condoms offered to her. Hearing the children at the daycare singing and knowing they are dancing as well. Watching the nurses be so caring as they rebandage the boy’s leg who comes in every third day.
It is only these scenes of hope that can carry me on, for if I were to dwell on the sadness I could not manage. I must look for them and search for them, and observe the beauty of simple moments or I feel I could not stay. And even this seems ridiculous, because what would I do, where would I go? I’m not the one who is so inflicted. My leaving would not end the suffering here, it would only compound it in my mind. Seeing it and bearing witness to it, and watching and working for change to slowly creep in are the only ways to alleviate my own angst. Now that I’ve seen it, I must do what I can to help change it. I, like those surrounding me, am destined to be in this place, for better or for worse. I can only hope for better.
A broken heart is not the worst thing in the world. As it breaks it grows back stronger, or at least this is what I’ve heard to be true.
The Venice of Africa.....
The Venice of Africa…
In the Okavango Delta, generally far from anything you would really consider civilization, and yet not quite out in the bush, lies a gorgeous area I can only describe as pristine (a description that is cliché, yes, but appropriate and made more accurate by the fact that I could drink directly out of it, and did so, and was not sick at all, in contrast to when I subsequently drank water from the tap that had been through the Peace Corps provided filter and puked my guts out. The PC medical officer’s response to this quandary, brought to her awareness because I additionally puked up my anti malarial med and was generally in a state of feeling extremely sorry for myself and was looking for comfort, was to not go trying to drink water on an empty stomach. Drink tea first, eat something, give your stomach a chance to warm up. Shit. Seriously!!? I now boil, then filter, then UV light anything I attempt to drink. Lesson learned.) with the type of clear water I’ve only seen in Lake Superior on a early spring day, before the warming waters cause everything to grow crazy green algae.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. After Simon invited me on this adventure and we picked up the two people from the Polers, we arrived at a small clearing/camp that appeared to have a sort of boat landing. The reeds and swampy sea grass appeared to cover all available water, and I couldn’t figure out where a boat could come from, unless it was one of those fan powered ones you see in the deltas and bayous of the southern United States or in the rivers of the Amazon. In my mind and I daresay extensive experience with water and lakes (hey I’m from the land of 10,000) there was no way a standard boat motor could get through the thick foliage I was witnessing.
Despite the thickness of the grasses, the gorgeous breeze betrayed the apparent stillness and kept the air from carrying the acrid smell of decay common in swampy or still bodies of water. I resigned myself to the confusion that has become commonplace to me here, when I think that I know how something is going to work or should work and it turns out completely differently. The learning curve is steep.
We waited on the shore of the delta with all our gear and could hear the cows and hippos mooing from within the deep grasses of the delta. In the distance the mechanical whine of a boat motor could be heard coming towards us. Suddenly Ronnie pulls up in his big aluminum boat weaving through the previously unseen paths in the marshy weeds. It was indeed an outboard motor propelling the boat forward. Hmmm.We load the boat and are off on our journey.
We pass through occasional open flowing water around and across the delta, but mostly we travel through canals of papyrus and reeds that I’m told were initially cleared by hippos and then helped along by Ronnie and his workers, clearing the extra reeds and sea grasses off the top so the boat could get through. The papyrus is very tall and densely settled in the water, producing a bit of a canal effect as we slowly motored through. The colors in the papyrus are stunning, the tops ranging from a fresh green to an autumn orange and red and exploding in a firework of blossom on the top. As I look out into the water on the side of the boat I could see down 20 or thirty feet to the sandy bottom where the hippos had cleared the path for themselves. The water ranges from an amazing green tea shade to nearly perfectly clear, with the type of clarity I haven’t seen since I was a child at the cabin in Minnesota. I quickly realize I’m in a cathedral of nature, the Venice of Africa, and suddenly feel giddy with excitement for the rest of the journey.
We motor through this wonderland for about an hour, stopping along the way to spy on a herd of hippos sunning themselves in an out of the way lagoon and passing various birds and a crocodile that dives under the water as we pass. We get to a very swampy area cleared by the hippos onto land, the soil black with nutrient rich rotting vegetation and hippo dung. We unload and boat and Ronny and one of his employees walk off and return with a huge truck with tires the height of me and chairs on the top nearly 15 feet off the ground. We pack all of our stuff onto this monster and drive jarringly into the bush, where although there are the tire tracks of the path we are following, it’s hard to believe humans have ever been through here.
We lumber along, the machine belching diesel into the air and the motor grinding away loud enough to alert the animals of our presence, but not enough to frighten them away. We come upon our first elephants, not more than 100 meters away, looking at us quickly, their curiosity quickly fading into disinterest. We continue on and discover a herd of giraffes, at which point my camera battery dies, and Ronny kindly lends me his. We see several species of deer/antelope type animals as well as zebras, wildebeests, and warthogs. It starts to look like something out of “the Lion King,” minus the lions (next time). Ronny takes us to a beautiful spot where we are able to swim in the delta where the clear, clean water is drinkable, and out of which Simon pulls several fish for dinner. We continue on and as we reach the edge of another area of water we turn back, and after traveling not more than 1 kilometer, there is an extra large lurch and a crash and the wheel of the lumbering giant falls clear off with a thud. We spend some time in the bush and are later rescued and I am able to see the delta at dusk, the sunset providing even more spectacular views of this cathedral of nature we are traveling through. It seems nature is becoming my new art museum…
I think I am beginning to realize one of the reasons I am here, to relearn and respect the power of nature and its healing properties. I have often considered myself a city girl, and although I continue to love and appreciate yearn for the fast pace, and flashy lights whist eschewing the countryside as boring, I often manage to find myself living in the presence of some of natures most awe inspiring vistas, first along the shore of Lake Superior and now this. I’ve found that it’s difficult to get as wrapped up in your problems as you can in the city when you’re in nature. I’ve also grown to appreciate camping out as somewhat of an upgrade from the way I live on a daily basis. I’ve come to understand nature and the way you can come back to it, the quiet calm and serenity it offers.
Most importantly, I am finally coming to relate to nature in ways I couldn’t relate to some of the people in my life who have loved it. In some ways transcending this block that I now realize was always put up by me, I am coming to feel closer and at least understand those people from my past and my life more.
In the Okavango Delta, generally far from anything you would really consider civilization, and yet not quite out in the bush, lies a gorgeous area I can only describe as pristine (a description that is cliché, yes, but appropriate and made more accurate by the fact that I could drink directly out of it, and did so, and was not sick at all, in contrast to when I subsequently drank water from the tap that had been through the Peace Corps provided filter and puked my guts out. The PC medical officer’s response to this quandary, brought to her awareness because I additionally puked up my anti malarial med and was generally in a state of feeling extremely sorry for myself and was looking for comfort, was to not go trying to drink water on an empty stomach. Drink tea first, eat something, give your stomach a chance to warm up. Shit. Seriously!!? I now boil, then filter, then UV light anything I attempt to drink. Lesson learned.) with the type of clear water I’ve only seen in Lake Superior on a early spring day, before the warming waters cause everything to grow crazy green algae.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. After Simon invited me on this adventure and we picked up the two people from the Polers, we arrived at a small clearing/camp that appeared to have a sort of boat landing. The reeds and swampy sea grass appeared to cover all available water, and I couldn’t figure out where a boat could come from, unless it was one of those fan powered ones you see in the deltas and bayous of the southern United States or in the rivers of the Amazon. In my mind and I daresay extensive experience with water and lakes (hey I’m from the land of 10,000) there was no way a standard boat motor could get through the thick foliage I was witnessing.
Despite the thickness of the grasses, the gorgeous breeze betrayed the apparent stillness and kept the air from carrying the acrid smell of decay common in swampy or still bodies of water. I resigned myself to the confusion that has become commonplace to me here, when I think that I know how something is going to work or should work and it turns out completely differently. The learning curve is steep.
We waited on the shore of the delta with all our gear and could hear the cows and hippos mooing from within the deep grasses of the delta. In the distance the mechanical whine of a boat motor could be heard coming towards us. Suddenly Ronnie pulls up in his big aluminum boat weaving through the previously unseen paths in the marshy weeds. It was indeed an outboard motor propelling the boat forward. Hmmm.We load the boat and are off on our journey.
We pass through occasional open flowing water around and across the delta, but mostly we travel through canals of papyrus and reeds that I’m told were initially cleared by hippos and then helped along by Ronnie and his workers, clearing the extra reeds and sea grasses off the top so the boat could get through. The papyrus is very tall and densely settled in the water, producing a bit of a canal effect as we slowly motored through. The colors in the papyrus are stunning, the tops ranging from a fresh green to an autumn orange and red and exploding in a firework of blossom on the top. As I look out into the water on the side of the boat I could see down 20 or thirty feet to the sandy bottom where the hippos had cleared the path for themselves. The water ranges from an amazing green tea shade to nearly perfectly clear, with the type of clarity I haven’t seen since I was a child at the cabin in Minnesota. I quickly realize I’m in a cathedral of nature, the Venice of Africa, and suddenly feel giddy with excitement for the rest of the journey.
We motor through this wonderland for about an hour, stopping along the way to spy on a herd of hippos sunning themselves in an out of the way lagoon and passing various birds and a crocodile that dives under the water as we pass. We get to a very swampy area cleared by the hippos onto land, the soil black with nutrient rich rotting vegetation and hippo dung. We unload and boat and Ronny and one of his employees walk off and return with a huge truck with tires the height of me and chairs on the top nearly 15 feet off the ground. We pack all of our stuff onto this monster and drive jarringly into the bush, where although there are the tire tracks of the path we are following, it’s hard to believe humans have ever been through here.
We lumber along, the machine belching diesel into the air and the motor grinding away loud enough to alert the animals of our presence, but not enough to frighten them away. We come upon our first elephants, not more than 100 meters away, looking at us quickly, their curiosity quickly fading into disinterest. We continue on and discover a herd of giraffes, at which point my camera battery dies, and Ronny kindly lends me his. We see several species of deer/antelope type animals as well as zebras, wildebeests, and warthogs. It starts to look like something out of “the Lion King,” minus the lions (next time). Ronny takes us to a beautiful spot where we are able to swim in the delta where the clear, clean water is drinkable, and out of which Simon pulls several fish for dinner. We continue on and as we reach the edge of another area of water we turn back, and after traveling not more than 1 kilometer, there is an extra large lurch and a crash and the wheel of the lumbering giant falls clear off with a thud. We spend some time in the bush and are later rescued and I am able to see the delta at dusk, the sunset providing even more spectacular views of this cathedral of nature we are traveling through. It seems nature is becoming my new art museum…
I think I am beginning to realize one of the reasons I am here, to relearn and respect the power of nature and its healing properties. I have often considered myself a city girl, and although I continue to love and appreciate yearn for the fast pace, and flashy lights whist eschewing the countryside as boring, I often manage to find myself living in the presence of some of natures most awe inspiring vistas, first along the shore of Lake Superior and now this. I’ve found that it’s difficult to get as wrapped up in your problems as you can in the city when you’re in nature. I’ve also grown to appreciate camping out as somewhat of an upgrade from the way I live on a daily basis. I’ve come to understand nature and the way you can come back to it, the quiet calm and serenity it offers.
Most importantly, I am finally coming to relate to nature in ways I couldn’t relate to some of the people in my life who have loved it. In some ways transcending this block that I now realize was always put up by me, I am coming to feel closer and at least understand those people from my past and my life more.
It’s not always as easy as black and white……In which I try to learn to live in the gray area…..
One day, back in training in Molepolole, my friend Caitlin and I were walking, and a man walked past us, did a sort of double take, and desperate to convey something to grab our attention and unsure of the proper English yelled, “ hello black people!” as we passed. This small exchange, the vocabulary of which was skewed but the meaning of which was clear, made me again aware of the race and differences as I see it in every day life here in Botswana.
I noticed it in myself for the first time in a mall in Gaborone. The Peace Corps had let us loose for one reason or another and so there were already 50 some white people around, but I was also aware that there were several others, and as Gabs is the capital and somewhat near South Africa this makes sense. There’s plenty of Afrikaners and ex pats of various other persuasions. It happened again in Ghanzi. I found myself staring and rubbernecking at them, just as most of the Batswana stare at me, wondering what they were doing here.
Although in the United States we are taught the politically correct mantra that everyone is the same, and race doesn’t matter, here in Africa, it just does. It’s constantly surprising me, as I foolishly anticipated that in a place of predominantly black people, I would find black pride in ways I hadn’t seen in the US. However, Botswana, bordering South Africa, still feels the effects of their relatively recent battle with apartide in ways you don’t hear about on the news. I’ve had intelligent, educated people of color adamantly insist to me that black people and white people are just too different, and that we should all just accept it. This goes against everything I’ve been taught and have subsequently grown to believe in some pretty big ways…
People here constantly ask me about the political events going on in the United States (people here manage to remain embarrassingly up to date on the goings on in my home country, often more aware of what’s going on than I am, and certainly they are more aware than most people living in America.) and I’m always being asked if I think America is ready for a black president. I’ve been asked this same question several times, usually with the slightly resigned or incredulous belief that there’s no way America will vote for a black man, and many express the belief that they shouldn’t. I’ve read studies about the impact of racism on those who are oppressed and this internalization of decreased worth is something that is real and that I never thought I’d find on this part of the globe. I never thought that I would hear people that are black telling me that black people aren’t as good as white people. (An additional note on Obama, many other Africans I've spoken to think of him as their "Kenyon brother" and his potential influence as a uniting figure around the world, not just amongst the United States that so badly needs his unifying influence. (so much for my impartialism....) Many are wait hopefully to see the results of our election in Novemeber....)
My response to these political inquiries (which in themselves inherently present a problem as the Peace Corps is supposed to be politically non-affiliated) is that I would choose a candidate for president based on his or her political platform and energy, not their skin color. People mostly smile thinly at me as though they think that’s what I was programmed to say, similarly to what they think I was programmed to say about HIV and AIDS. I can only hope that my credibility will increase with time.
I’ve actually had a man tell me that black people are just not the same, their wiry hair is screwed into their brain in ways that makes them incapable of sound reasoning and good decision making, which is why Obama should never be president. The women at the clinic were upset when I cut off my hair, and were reticent to teach me how to wrap my head as they do, because they “have bad course hair that should be covered,” while mine is “nice and soft and should be out so people can see it.”
In Seronga, as a white person, I’m often treated differently-sometimes the product of curiosity, sometimes as what people see as a wealthy donor. There are many white tourists in Seronga, as we are near the delta and the Poler’s trust. I often find myself getting annoyed at the white tourists, coming to visit the children of the daycare/orphanage, taking pictures, teaching the children songs in English. I can easily imagine myself as one of them, on a mission trip or service vacation of some sort and hell, I speak to the children (and everyone else for that matter) in English, and take their pictures all the damn time! (I don’t really know what this irritation on my part is about, but I have a lot of time to think on it, and at night, under my mosquito net in my bed somewhere in the dark of my heart of hearts I have to ask myself if I’m jealous that they get to leave after a few weeks.) Another theory is that my reactions are a result of some screwed up attempt at bonding with and developing a sense of pride in and protection about my community. Sometimes I feel like the elephant in the Dr. Seuess book “Are you my mother?” -who keeps asking all sorts of wildly inappropriate animals and- I think, objects- if they are his mother as he doesn’t know he’s an elephant. I delusionally forget that I’m white and American and different and thus become annoyed at those like me. Some sort of reverse Stolkholm syndrome? Who knows? I clearly have way too much time to think about these things…..
Many wealthy people (you have to have some level of wealth just to get into Botswana with their high price, low traffic policy of ecotourism) come through the village and will often indulge the adorable black shoeless children by granting them the pula ($) they so sweetly ask for in English. This “beggar mentality” has caused many of the children here greet me by asking for a sweet or money, not realizing I am their new neighbor. I am constantly vigilant in my efforts to rework their greeting of “Lekgowa” to “Lorato” as they encounter me in the street, this being the first Setswana phrase I have mastered, that I am called Lorato, not Lekgowa. Occasionally I will ask them for money or a sweet right back, or yell Motswana back at their exclamation of Lekgowa (these phrases are not insults unless you take them that way. In this culture it is like calling someone French, or Canadian. This can be hard to remember on really long days.)
I try to never give them what they are begging for as I’ve come to understand that when they learn begging as a way of life, it will be the only means through which they know to achieve and obtain things and relate to others. It’s annoying because when I have so many oranges that some are about to go bad, I would love to hand them out like the candy the children are asking for. And God knows that there are children here who could use the nutrition and vitamins (I have to admit, I’ve given them the oranges. Now kids scream after me as I walk asking for money, candy and oranges. I don’t know if I’ve won or lost this battle.) But it’s a dangerous habit to reinforce. I’ve even had people who work for the clinic ask me to buy them shoes, when I’ve watched them come home from their offs (vacation days) with nicer stereos than I have in the states. The woman at the post office asks me for my shoes every day. When I gave my colleges at the clinic some of the sweets I had received in the care packages they know I got I was sure to clearly state that the sweets were a thank you for all the hard work and patience they had all had with me in the past two weeks. I want to share with my coworkers as I would my friends, but I don’t want to be seen as the “wealthy” American who is just around to give stuff.
It’s exceedingly difficult to know who your friends are (or will be) in this type of environment, as it’s tough to achieve the balance of power and mutual beneficially of bond that is necessary to form friendships. How can I know what people really want from me? People are constantly asking me for sex, candy and money, and what I’m here to give is my time, energy, skills, knowledge and assistance. And how do I reconcile what they are asking for with what I have to give? And how do I go on without losing myself in this hierarchy of power and start thinking I AM inherently better than those around my in some way? Or that I have some unexplained additional gifts as a result of my skin color or nationality? How can I mentally keep wealth and skin color separate in my mind as I live in a community in which they are very often the same? These are challenges that have come completely unanticipated, and I would imagine will take more than two years to answer.
I noticed it in myself for the first time in a mall in Gaborone. The Peace Corps had let us loose for one reason or another and so there were already 50 some white people around, but I was also aware that there were several others, and as Gabs is the capital and somewhat near South Africa this makes sense. There’s plenty of Afrikaners and ex pats of various other persuasions. It happened again in Ghanzi. I found myself staring and rubbernecking at them, just as most of the Batswana stare at me, wondering what they were doing here.
Although in the United States we are taught the politically correct mantra that everyone is the same, and race doesn’t matter, here in Africa, it just does. It’s constantly surprising me, as I foolishly anticipated that in a place of predominantly black people, I would find black pride in ways I hadn’t seen in the US. However, Botswana, bordering South Africa, still feels the effects of their relatively recent battle with apartide in ways you don’t hear about on the news. I’ve had intelligent, educated people of color adamantly insist to me that black people and white people are just too different, and that we should all just accept it. This goes against everything I’ve been taught and have subsequently grown to believe in some pretty big ways…
People here constantly ask me about the political events going on in the United States (people here manage to remain embarrassingly up to date on the goings on in my home country, often more aware of what’s going on than I am, and certainly they are more aware than most people living in America.) and I’m always being asked if I think America is ready for a black president. I’ve been asked this same question several times, usually with the slightly resigned or incredulous belief that there’s no way America will vote for a black man, and many express the belief that they shouldn’t. I’ve read studies about the impact of racism on those who are oppressed and this internalization of decreased worth is something that is real and that I never thought I’d find on this part of the globe. I never thought that I would hear people that are black telling me that black people aren’t as good as white people. (An additional note on Obama, many other Africans I've spoken to think of him as their "Kenyon brother" and his potential influence as a uniting figure around the world, not just amongst the United States that so badly needs his unifying influence. (so much for my impartialism....) Many are wait hopefully to see the results of our election in Novemeber....)
My response to these political inquiries (which in themselves inherently present a problem as the Peace Corps is supposed to be politically non-affiliated) is that I would choose a candidate for president based on his or her political platform and energy, not their skin color. People mostly smile thinly at me as though they think that’s what I was programmed to say, similarly to what they think I was programmed to say about HIV and AIDS. I can only hope that my credibility will increase with time.
I’ve actually had a man tell me that black people are just not the same, their wiry hair is screwed into their brain in ways that makes them incapable of sound reasoning and good decision making, which is why Obama should never be president. The women at the clinic were upset when I cut off my hair, and were reticent to teach me how to wrap my head as they do, because they “have bad course hair that should be covered,” while mine is “nice and soft and should be out so people can see it.”
In Seronga, as a white person, I’m often treated differently-sometimes the product of curiosity, sometimes as what people see as a wealthy donor. There are many white tourists in Seronga, as we are near the delta and the Poler’s trust. I often find myself getting annoyed at the white tourists, coming to visit the children of the daycare/orphanage, taking pictures, teaching the children songs in English. I can easily imagine myself as one of them, on a mission trip or service vacation of some sort and hell, I speak to the children (and everyone else for that matter) in English, and take their pictures all the damn time! (I don’t really know what this irritation on my part is about, but I have a lot of time to think on it, and at night, under my mosquito net in my bed somewhere in the dark of my heart of hearts I have to ask myself if I’m jealous that they get to leave after a few weeks.) Another theory is that my reactions are a result of some screwed up attempt at bonding with and developing a sense of pride in and protection about my community. Sometimes I feel like the elephant in the Dr. Seuess book “Are you my mother?” -who keeps asking all sorts of wildly inappropriate animals and- I think, objects- if they are his mother as he doesn’t know he’s an elephant. I delusionally forget that I’m white and American and different and thus become annoyed at those like me. Some sort of reverse Stolkholm syndrome? Who knows? I clearly have way too much time to think about these things…..
Many wealthy people (you have to have some level of wealth just to get into Botswana with their high price, low traffic policy of ecotourism) come through the village and will often indulge the adorable black shoeless children by granting them the pula ($) they so sweetly ask for in English. This “beggar mentality” has caused many of the children here greet me by asking for a sweet or money, not realizing I am their new neighbor. I am constantly vigilant in my efforts to rework their greeting of “Lekgowa” to “Lorato” as they encounter me in the street, this being the first Setswana phrase I have mastered, that I am called Lorato, not Lekgowa. Occasionally I will ask them for money or a sweet right back, or yell Motswana back at their exclamation of Lekgowa (these phrases are not insults unless you take them that way. In this culture it is like calling someone French, or Canadian. This can be hard to remember on really long days.)
I try to never give them what they are begging for as I’ve come to understand that when they learn begging as a way of life, it will be the only means through which they know to achieve and obtain things and relate to others. It’s annoying because when I have so many oranges that some are about to go bad, I would love to hand them out like the candy the children are asking for. And God knows that there are children here who could use the nutrition and vitamins (I have to admit, I’ve given them the oranges. Now kids scream after me as I walk asking for money, candy and oranges. I don’t know if I’ve won or lost this battle.) But it’s a dangerous habit to reinforce. I’ve even had people who work for the clinic ask me to buy them shoes, when I’ve watched them come home from their offs (vacation days) with nicer stereos than I have in the states. The woman at the post office asks me for my shoes every day. When I gave my colleges at the clinic some of the sweets I had received in the care packages they know I got I was sure to clearly state that the sweets were a thank you for all the hard work and patience they had all had with me in the past two weeks. I want to share with my coworkers as I would my friends, but I don’t want to be seen as the “wealthy” American who is just around to give stuff.
It’s exceedingly difficult to know who your friends are (or will be) in this type of environment, as it’s tough to achieve the balance of power and mutual beneficially of bond that is necessary to form friendships. How can I know what people really want from me? People are constantly asking me for sex, candy and money, and what I’m here to give is my time, energy, skills, knowledge and assistance. And how do I reconcile what they are asking for with what I have to give? And how do I go on without losing myself in this hierarchy of power and start thinking I AM inherently better than those around my in some way? Or that I have some unexplained additional gifts as a result of my skin color or nationality? How can I mentally keep wealth and skin color separate in my mind as I live in a community in which they are very often the same? These are challenges that have come completely unanticipated, and I would imagine will take more than two years to answer.
What I've learned....
What I’ve learned….
There has been a steep learning curve on all the finer points of living completely alone and in a village where a variety of foods are very difficult to get. Cooking and new recipes have been a challenge; I’ve made “kind of like chilli” and “sort of like tuna casserole.” I firmly believe that without Simon I might die of starvation. My inability to gage boiling water, as I can’t see into the pot from the dark shadows cast by the one fluorescent light has caused the fingerprint of my left index finger to be possibly permanently damaged; perhaps removed completely, and it seems my blisters are now getting blisters. I’ve since learned that if you let it get hot enough, you can hear boiling water. I’ve learned that even really cheap toilet paper can be rescued and dried out and used after it falls in one of the many buckets of water I’m forced to have standing around for when the water goes out, which I’ve learned is in fact, every weekend.
I’ve learned what it takes to drain my solar panel completely (exactly 1.5 movies in a row in the dark, after which you can’t get the light to turn on, either.) I’ve learned that it takes mail two weeks to get here from the East coast, three from the Midwest, and up to four from the East coast. I’ve improved my “showering” techniques to include heating enough water to dump half a bucket over my head in the end, and I’ve learned the pain of scalding a newly bald head with this process. I’ve learned to save my bathwater as I will inevitably reuse it to either wash my clothes or my dishes, or to dump in the tank of the flush toilet when the water goes out. I’ve learned that my toilet is also my main drain. I’ve found that sanitation and cleanliness are such relative concepts, and I laugh to think of how anal I used to be about this shit, and boy do I owe some former roommates apologies.
I’ve learned a lot about every movie I have here as I’ve taken to watching them through with the director’s commentary on after I tire of seeing them in their entirety. I've learned that the following are considered perfectly fine toys or teething objects in Seronga: broken mirror glass, batteries, dirt, used condoms. Seeing this stuff breaks my heart. I’ve learned that I must boil, then filter, then use my UV light on any and all water I plan on having enter my body orally, including washing the fruit I plan on eating. I’ve learned sometimes it’s just easier to drink a coke. I’ve learned the joys of processed cheese and mustard sandwiches. I’ve come to enjoy eating any kind of meat, no matter how grisly or fatty or if it’s goat.
I’ve learned how much I appreciate and love and miss my family and friends back home, and around the globe, and what good people I’ve been blessed to know, and how much they care about me. I’ve learned what a lucky girl I am, indeed.
There has been a steep learning curve on all the finer points of living completely alone and in a village where a variety of foods are very difficult to get. Cooking and new recipes have been a challenge; I’ve made “kind of like chilli” and “sort of like tuna casserole.” I firmly believe that without Simon I might die of starvation. My inability to gage boiling water, as I can’t see into the pot from the dark shadows cast by the one fluorescent light has caused the fingerprint of my left index finger to be possibly permanently damaged; perhaps removed completely, and it seems my blisters are now getting blisters. I’ve since learned that if you let it get hot enough, you can hear boiling water. I’ve learned that even really cheap toilet paper can be rescued and dried out and used after it falls in one of the many buckets of water I’m forced to have standing around for when the water goes out, which I’ve learned is in fact, every weekend.
I’ve learned what it takes to drain my solar panel completely (exactly 1.5 movies in a row in the dark, after which you can’t get the light to turn on, either.) I’ve learned that it takes mail two weeks to get here from the East coast, three from the Midwest, and up to four from the East coast. I’ve improved my “showering” techniques to include heating enough water to dump half a bucket over my head in the end, and I’ve learned the pain of scalding a newly bald head with this process. I’ve learned to save my bathwater as I will inevitably reuse it to either wash my clothes or my dishes, or to dump in the tank of the flush toilet when the water goes out. I’ve learned that my toilet is also my main drain. I’ve found that sanitation and cleanliness are such relative concepts, and I laugh to think of how anal I used to be about this shit, and boy do I owe some former roommates apologies.
I’ve learned a lot about every movie I have here as I’ve taken to watching them through with the director’s commentary on after I tire of seeing them in their entirety. I've learned that the following are considered perfectly fine toys or teething objects in Seronga: broken mirror glass, batteries, dirt, used condoms. Seeing this stuff breaks my heart. I’ve learned that I must boil, then filter, then use my UV light on any and all water I plan on having enter my body orally, including washing the fruit I plan on eating. I’ve learned sometimes it’s just easier to drink a coke. I’ve learned the joys of processed cheese and mustard sandwiches. I’ve come to enjoy eating any kind of meat, no matter how grisly or fatty or if it’s goat.
I’ve learned how much I appreciate and love and miss my family and friends back home, and around the globe, and what good people I’ve been blessed to know, and how much they care about me. I’ve learned what a lucky girl I am, indeed.
If you can't "duct it", f- it. a Treatsie on the amazing comfort a roll of duct tape can bring....
If you can’t “duct it” f- it. A treatise on the amazing comfort of roll of duct tape can bring….
After some time spent “blending” at the kgotla I went home to face the music (or really silence) and mess at my house. I again thought about the lizards lurking, and the need to get the furniture out to clean the floors. There were some teenage boys in the fenced in yard of the compound and so I tried speaking with them. No English. With much gesturing and the setswana word for help, I was able to get them to move the furniture out of the room.
Which of course revealed the lizards behind the wardrobe. My shriek and overdramatic motions indicated that they were to remove the beasts, of which at first they were able to only get the tail of one. Further searching and five pula ensured that they disposed of the rest of him. The other one hid very well, and I’ve only seen him inside the house again one time. I left the carcass on the front stoop for a few days as a warning to any others who might be considering moving in. Now the only time I see lizards anywhere near the house is that there is one that crawls up in between the screen I’ve put up and my constantly open bathroom window. He and I have made peace with this arrangement, I know that he’s not able to actually come into my house as a result of the screen and he can hang out and feast on the bugs that are drawn near the warmth of the house and the screen. So long as he doesn’t get any crazy ideas to try and avenge his brother’s death, we’ll be fine.
I’ve since covered every crack and crevice and possible point of entrance for both lizards and the bugs that are their food source with duct tape. My thinking is that if I cut off their food source I will also deter the lizards from coming in. The fact that I have to keep my door open when I’m home to let in light and air is a bit of a problem in my deterrence scheme, but I tend to watch the door and guard it carefully. The duct tape has lead to an interesting decorating schema in the house, but one I appreciate for its functionality rather than fashion.
After some time spent “blending” at the kgotla I went home to face the music (or really silence) and mess at my house. I again thought about the lizards lurking, and the need to get the furniture out to clean the floors. There were some teenage boys in the fenced in yard of the compound and so I tried speaking with them. No English. With much gesturing and the setswana word for help, I was able to get them to move the furniture out of the room.
Which of course revealed the lizards behind the wardrobe. My shriek and overdramatic motions indicated that they were to remove the beasts, of which at first they were able to only get the tail of one. Further searching and five pula ensured that they disposed of the rest of him. The other one hid very well, and I’ve only seen him inside the house again one time. I left the carcass on the front stoop for a few days as a warning to any others who might be considering moving in. Now the only time I see lizards anywhere near the house is that there is one that crawls up in between the screen I’ve put up and my constantly open bathroom window. He and I have made peace with this arrangement, I know that he’s not able to actually come into my house as a result of the screen and he can hang out and feast on the bugs that are drawn near the warmth of the house and the screen. So long as he doesn’t get any crazy ideas to try and avenge his brother’s death, we’ll be fine.
I’ve since covered every crack and crevice and possible point of entrance for both lizards and the bugs that are their food source with duct tape. My thinking is that if I cut off their food source I will also deter the lizards from coming in. The fact that I have to keep my door open when I’m home to let in light and air is a bit of a problem in my deterrence scheme, but I tend to watch the door and guard it carefully. The duct tape has lead to an interesting decorating schema in the house, but one I appreciate for its functionality rather than fashion.
Simon Says.....
Simon Says…
After what I would consider to be a fairly harrowing first night at site, I was thrilled when my host sister (the woman who lives in my compound) stopped by with news that there was an event at the kgotla, which is the cultural and governmental center of the village. I had been just wandering around amongst my possessions (it seems that in addition to ignoring the Peace Corps 80 lb weight limit I have no sense of what it means to “travel light” when relocating for the third time in as many months) trying to figure out where in the world “in it’s place” was for most of my shit and was happy for the distraction. Community entry and integration here I come!!!
So I followed the sound of music and singing as I couldn’t remember exactly where the kgotla was, and came upon what was most of the village seated around a sort of stage. I was able to fly kind of under the radar at first as shortly after I arrived, my phone began to buzz (why I put it on vibrate I’ll never understand as it’s no problem for cell phones to ring all the time here, and people will always interrupt what they are doing to answer it as incoming calls are free. Even if they are giving a speech. If you have to call someone back you have to pay for it.) and so I of course answered it.
It was Simon.
Introducing: Simon the British ex pat, also known as “Uncle Simon” and “crazy Simon”, or really, any combination therein, and who shall, I would imagine, play a central role in the saga that is my life here in Seronga. He’s a lovely British man who has been away from native English speakers for long enough that he’s prone to muttering, and occasionally talking to his dogs.
Although I have since grown accustomed to his particular accent and combination of speech and growling, at first I was having a tough time understanding him. During my first visit to Seronga as my counterpart showed me the town he was sure to point out the important locations of all the “white people” (not sure if this was to assure me that there were indeed other white people here or if he was operating under the assumption that I would feel more comfortable around white people or what. As it turns out a strong understanding and ability to communicate in English is what really does it for me regardless of skin color.) and I thus knew where Simon’s office was in relation to the clinic. I told him I would meet him there.
Simon looks a bit like a combination of Grizzly Adams and Fidel Castro, with piercing blue eyes and a cigarette constantly dangling out of his mouth, or threatening to burn down to a nub of ash on his fingers. He was shouting gruffly into the phone in that way the English have of not really shouting, and I waited patiently as he finished.
“Hello luv, how do you find Seronga?” he asked. I had text him the first time I came to Seronga and he had called me the night before but the ferry and the exceptional lateness with which I got in had put a screeching halt to that.
“How would you like to see the bush?” he growled. “We’ve got some Spaniard over at the Poler’s and her Brazilian husband and my friend Ronny has to move a truck and we have to use a boat and we’d do a bit of camping maybe throw together some food and see some animals how would you like that?”
Although the Peace Corps warns us about “the dangers of bitter ex-pats,” and the terrible effect they can have on your integration into the community, what I’d heard of Simon from both the PC’s that have met him and also my coworkers at the clinic is that Simon is very much a part of the community. He has many connections in the area and knows where to get nearly anything you need. He keeps the village drunks who hang out in the shibeens in line, gives the children lifts in his truck, and is invited to weddings and events and goes to the kgotla. I immediately decide rules and policies be damned, if I was going to be placed so far away from other Peace Corps and native English speakers, the hell if I’m going to say no to the first invitation I receive to see the bush and speak English, whether it be from an ex-pat or not.
Sidebar: written later- Simon has proved to be absolutely essential to my sanity and survival here in Seronga. (This is a fact I’ve confirmed with Kagiso, the PCV who was here before me.) For all his gruffness and roughness around the edges, he is a completely sensitive and caring soul, and has taken great care of me since I’ve been here. He’s been gone up the river for a few days and I miss him a lot, although I am faring better than I thought I would.
So we decide to meet at 1. I went back to the open air festivities at the kgotla and made my big debut. Although I like attention as much as (hell let’s be honest, probably more than) the average bear, I didn’t quite know what to do with so many people staring at me. Culturally, staring is not really rude here, so between 200 and 300 children and adults alike gawked openly at me, wondering why this new lekgowa was hanging out at their cultural event, rather than just passing through the village on their way to the delta as most white tourists do. It was a bit like that dream where you show up at school with no pants on, and can’t find them or cover yourself and people are staring at you. Except it’s real.
Determined to act “normal” and in the absence of the ability to really communicate with anybody as it’s tough to tell who can speak English and my Setswana sucks once I get past greetings, I picked up a baby. Just one that was wandering around. This seems a crazy and random and maybe even dangerous thing to do in American culture, but here it’s completely normal, and took the spotlight off a bit. The child stared at me in shock, but eventually got over the fact that I’m white and went back to gurgling. My host sister is a member of the community choir which I have subsequently kind of joined and they were performing, and there were skits and speakers. Finally a woman that works at the clinic offered me a chair and I was able blend into the crowd a bit more. I overall enjoyed the experience. And I soon learned that this is all only the beginning.
After what I would consider to be a fairly harrowing first night at site, I was thrilled when my host sister (the woman who lives in my compound) stopped by with news that there was an event at the kgotla, which is the cultural and governmental center of the village. I had been just wandering around amongst my possessions (it seems that in addition to ignoring the Peace Corps 80 lb weight limit I have no sense of what it means to “travel light” when relocating for the third time in as many months) trying to figure out where in the world “in it’s place” was for most of my shit and was happy for the distraction. Community entry and integration here I come!!!
So I followed the sound of music and singing as I couldn’t remember exactly where the kgotla was, and came upon what was most of the village seated around a sort of stage. I was able to fly kind of under the radar at first as shortly after I arrived, my phone began to buzz (why I put it on vibrate I’ll never understand as it’s no problem for cell phones to ring all the time here, and people will always interrupt what they are doing to answer it as incoming calls are free. Even if they are giving a speech. If you have to call someone back you have to pay for it.) and so I of course answered it.
It was Simon.
Introducing: Simon the British ex pat, also known as “Uncle Simon” and “crazy Simon”, or really, any combination therein, and who shall, I would imagine, play a central role in the saga that is my life here in Seronga. He’s a lovely British man who has been away from native English speakers for long enough that he’s prone to muttering, and occasionally talking to his dogs.
Although I have since grown accustomed to his particular accent and combination of speech and growling, at first I was having a tough time understanding him. During my first visit to Seronga as my counterpart showed me the town he was sure to point out the important locations of all the “white people” (not sure if this was to assure me that there were indeed other white people here or if he was operating under the assumption that I would feel more comfortable around white people or what. As it turns out a strong understanding and ability to communicate in English is what really does it for me regardless of skin color.) and I thus knew where Simon’s office was in relation to the clinic. I told him I would meet him there.
Simon looks a bit like a combination of Grizzly Adams and Fidel Castro, with piercing blue eyes and a cigarette constantly dangling out of his mouth, or threatening to burn down to a nub of ash on his fingers. He was shouting gruffly into the phone in that way the English have of not really shouting, and I waited patiently as he finished.
“Hello luv, how do you find Seronga?” he asked. I had text him the first time I came to Seronga and he had called me the night before but the ferry and the exceptional lateness with which I got in had put a screeching halt to that.
“How would you like to see the bush?” he growled. “We’ve got some Spaniard over at the Poler’s and her Brazilian husband and my friend Ronny has to move a truck and we have to use a boat and we’d do a bit of camping maybe throw together some food and see some animals how would you like that?”
Although the Peace Corps warns us about “the dangers of bitter ex-pats,” and the terrible effect they can have on your integration into the community, what I’d heard of Simon from both the PC’s that have met him and also my coworkers at the clinic is that Simon is very much a part of the community. He has many connections in the area and knows where to get nearly anything you need. He keeps the village drunks who hang out in the shibeens in line, gives the children lifts in his truck, and is invited to weddings and events and goes to the kgotla. I immediately decide rules and policies be damned, if I was going to be placed so far away from other Peace Corps and native English speakers, the hell if I’m going to say no to the first invitation I receive to see the bush and speak English, whether it be from an ex-pat or not.
Sidebar: written later- Simon has proved to be absolutely essential to my sanity and survival here in Seronga. (This is a fact I’ve confirmed with Kagiso, the PCV who was here before me.) For all his gruffness and roughness around the edges, he is a completely sensitive and caring soul, and has taken great care of me since I’ve been here. He’s been gone up the river for a few days and I miss him a lot, although I am faring better than I thought I would.
So we decide to meet at 1. I went back to the open air festivities at the kgotla and made my big debut. Although I like attention as much as (hell let’s be honest, probably more than) the average bear, I didn’t quite know what to do with so many people staring at me. Culturally, staring is not really rude here, so between 200 and 300 children and adults alike gawked openly at me, wondering why this new lekgowa was hanging out at their cultural event, rather than just passing through the village on their way to the delta as most white tourists do. It was a bit like that dream where you show up at school with no pants on, and can’t find them or cover yourself and people are staring at you. Except it’s real.
Determined to act “normal” and in the absence of the ability to really communicate with anybody as it’s tough to tell who can speak English and my Setswana sucks once I get past greetings, I picked up a baby. Just one that was wandering around. This seems a crazy and random and maybe even dangerous thing to do in American culture, but here it’s completely normal, and took the spotlight off a bit. The child stared at me in shock, but eventually got over the fact that I’m white and went back to gurgling. My host sister is a member of the community choir which I have subsequently kind of joined and they were performing, and there were skits and speakers. Finally a woman that works at the clinic offered me a chair and I was able blend into the crowd a bit more. I overall enjoyed the experience. And I soon learned that this is all only the beginning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)