He smiles widely at me, the gaps between his teeth both prominent and unmistakably appropriate. He is a gentle giant, well over 6 feet tall, and his body sturdy and solid and constructed of a lifetime of strenuous hard labor, as though his muscles were spun from not muscle fiber but perhaps something much firmer, yet still softer than the cliché of steel.
When I hug him hello after one of us has been away for a while it’s as though I’m walking into the embrace of a huge tame grizzly bear, he could easily flatten me but has not the inclination, nor the desire. His hands alone are similar to paws in their expansiveness, and it is clear that they have been used to work very hard throughout his life. They are calloused and yet soft, and they envelope my hand completely as we shake hands before we hug. His complexion is very dark, but smooth, and it seems there is nearly always a glow of sweat around where his hairline would be, if it hadn’t receded back to a white ring around the back of his head and to his ears- he calls the sparse areas of hair on top the “short hair” and states that he never needs to cut those ones. He wears a lilac uniform to work at the clinic to identify him in his job as a nurse orderly, which corresponds beautifully with his dark skin.
We have a greeting of “ey hey” (which seems to be the Batswana way of showing recognition- their version of eureka! if you will) expelled from deep in our diaphragms that we loudly and jubilantly exclaim (repeatedly) upon meeting, it has become part of out routine, and is the reason he is convinced I will learn Setswana. In this practice he is one of my most consistent and patient teachers, on car rides from Gumare to Sepopa smooshed into the single bucket seat (really I’m nearly more on his lap than in the seat with him) in the front of an ambulance he teaches me to say things I should have learned at training. His English is very good when he is speaking, his comprehension when I am speaking is less, but he often complains of my funny accent (I’ve gathered that he learned English from South Africans and English descendents and my inability to say “wa-tah” (water) often confuses him as it seems when I say it it becomes more, as he describes it “ward-ar”) so I am more than partially at fault. Unlike some of my other coworkers he rarely asks me for anything, and is more than thrilled to trade vegetables for pens when he is in need, which is a form of commerce that works for both of us.
We have long talks at the clinic, or on drives, or as we walk home together along the bank of the floodplain. He tells me about his culture, his family, his past, and what is important. The descriptions are refreshingly simple. There is little ambivalence, and what uncertainty there is is quickly displaced by his willingness to learn, and possibly rework his understanding to include new information. He invites me to his “old plot” and gives me the grand tour of it’s one room, telling me how this is where he comes to eat the meal his wife prepared for him that morning and rest at lunch as it is much nearer to the clinic than his “new plot”. He shows me how he leaves his clinic uniform there and changes into his other clothes to travel the rest of the way home. He walks me around the yard, describing how he will replace the roof, or chop down this tree or that one, and which ones are “girl” trees (fruit producing) and which are boy trees. He walks me “halfway” (really the entire way) to the gate as I leave, for I am a friend, as opposed to an unwanted guest, who would have to find their way to the gate on their own.
He calls me his daughter and reminds me that I must come to visit my “mother” (his wife) as it is more appropriate for her to learn English from her daughter than from him. He himself learned English after his mother sold traditional beer and saved the money to send him to school. His father didn’t want him to go. His mother sent him anyway and she died shortly after, his father again forbids him to go. He got himself a job working for a teacher who in turn sponsored him at school, which he attended until grade 4. This was the end of his formal education. He then spent time working in the mines in South Africa where he improved his English, and moved back to Seronga to work at the Seronga clinic which opened somewhere in the late 70’s or early 80’s.
He tells me the year he got married to his wife, as well as the years they were born, and we each carefully do the math in our own heads, me waiting patiently for him to declare their respective ages and the length of their marriage. He is often off by a year or so depending on the actual date he is calculating, but I seldom correct him as a sign of respect, although he never seems offended when I correct him on something. For a man of 58 he is remarkably willing to accept the corrections of a young white girl. Each time he exclaims his own age, it’s as though it’s new or recently discovered information, he then moves on to the years his children were born, as well as which year he went to work in the mines in South Africa, when he’ll retire and let his children take care of him in Seronga. This is how he defines his life, by a series of important dates, never worrying about comparing himself to others, or whether it is enough, or if he has been happy. He does not define himself by what he has done necessarily, but what he has learned and who is in his life. I’m increasingly believing there’s something to his line of thinking.
He often gives me advice on how to live my life, and why I should so this or that, and one of my favorite topics (although this is funny as it’s growing to be one of my least favorite topics in speaking with anyone else) is why I must get married. He often tells me about how he loves his wife, and how he’s never had another wife or small house since he’s been married (and due to his earnestness, I believe him). He tells me that I must marry (and preferably a Motswana) so that I will have someone who knows how to take care of me, and which foods I like and how they should be prepared. When I protest that I am quite happy on my own (at least for the here and now) he just shakes his head and says “No Lorato, let me explain you”. And launches again into the way that his wife does his laundry and he goes to the store to buy her the sweets she likes. He speaks about how he knows white people, and although white ladies think they know how to take care of themselves and can be fine alone they are wrong. About this he is certain. His descriptions are so charming and sincere that I want to lean back into the fairy tale he presents and squeeze my eyes closed as though I am five and he is waxing poetic about fairies.
There are many lessons about life, and relationships, family, friends, Africa and…. Economics (?) from T
Here’s a funny lesson of late:
So in addition to working at the clinic he runs a garden on his land, and has several plots around town. He is quite the saavy businessman when he explains to me the prices of his produce depend on if people come to pick them up at his garden, or if he has to deliver them to town.
“Why T, I had no idea you had a car.” I said.
He looks as surprised as I do, briefly considering the fact that wait, did he perhaps have a car he had previously forgotten about? Having searched his memory and decided that no, indeed he doesn’t have a car, he slowly shakes his head and says, “No Lorato, I have no car.”
“But then why are people being charged for the fuel price of bringing the fruits and vegetables into town?”
“Because the donkeys, they need fu-el, Lorato. They are eating to get big and strong so as to pull the cart to town.” Satisfied with his answer he smiles and crosses his hands in his lap.
Touché, T.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Staggering Generosity: Stories of Kindness
I have recently been the recipient of the kind of generosity from strangers that I didn't know existed anymore. I can't say that as an American, in America, I would trust these sorts of things, but it has happened in Africa, and has helped open my heart even further to it's people and those I serve. Thank you to the individuals mentioned below, as you've lifted my spirit, regenerated my energy, and filled my soul with light, and just generally been so good to me. People like you make the world a better place!
It began with a man in my home state, MN. He stumbled upon my blog. He was fact checking some info that his friend who lives in Gaborone (the capital city of Bots) had told him. He emailed me (as so many tend to do, and keep it up, good or bad, I love to get people's reactions, or really just to see if anyone out there is reading. It's been a long time since hearing from strangers has been weird and is now one of the more interesting components of writing this blog) and we would write back and forth every so often.
The needle stick happened. Many people responded with kind words and messages of hope (and again thank you, I am so lucky. I do not take this blessing for granted).
Shortly after that post, I got a call from Nala, a doctor who stays in Francistown. She offered me many kind words and a place to stay should I ever make my way to Francistown. I thanked her for her kindness and stored her number in my phone.
On my way down to Gabs for follow-up testing after the needle prick I get a somewhat strange message that there is a package waiting for me in Maun. K, the man in Minneapolis has told his friend Carle about me, and Carle has sent me what is nearly a crate filled with nice food and supplies that are hard to impossible to find in the bush. I am in tears. Carle offered me a place to stay should I ever need it in Gabs.
Again, as an American, these tend to be the sort of interactions that we have become naturally wary and suspicious of. I decided to believe in the true goodness of people and take both these folks up on their offers. And I'm so glad I did.
Carle and his family showed me such kindness, opening their home to a complete stranger. They fed me, let me use their washing machine (this in itself was a miracle that nearly brought me to tears), their Internet and showed me better hospitality than a 5 star hotel. Carle took me to yoga and his wife K took me all over the city looking for reading glasses for Simon. I got to hang out with their darling little children and have the sort of experience that reminds me so strongly of a typical "home", or at least to what I've come to think of as home. We watched movies and funny American reality TV, and talked about books and music we'd enjoyed and places in the world one really must go. We spoke of psychology, philosophy, the politics of both the US and the southern part of Africa. I helped K and the children decorate their Christmas tree. Carle helped me find a new camera to buy as the one I had had crapped out on me, and arranged for a ride to Francistown so I wouldn't be stuck on the bus. I was staggered by their willingness to open their home to a complete stranger, and to be so incredibly kind.
In Francistown, when it became clear that I would be stopping there for the night, I hesitated. Nala had said to call, but it was very short notice and I would be getting in quite late. I took a deep breath and I called. She answered, delighted to hear from me and immediately offered up her home for the night. I arrived in Francistown near 11PM. She came to pick me up in the dark of the night in the middle of the city, no hesitation. She brought me to her home, mentioning landmarks along the way so that I could come back again next time. She had a meal warming in the oven for me and chocolate cake and tea after that. She had a magic phone that allowed me to call the states from an internal number (no long distance) and I was able to speak with family and friends for free. She let me use her Internet as well, and we had lovely conversations over the wonderful breakfast she cooked for me before taking me to some art shops and another pharmacy to look for Simon's glasses before dropping me at the bus rank. She is wonderful and giving, and the woman just amazes me as she herself is going through grieving a very recent death. I meant what I said to her when I told her that short of my own mother, if I ever needed someone to take care of me, let it be an African woman. They mother better than anyone on Earth, I would wager... For her to go out of her way for a stranger.. I smile when I think of her grace and healing presence.
I smile when I think of these new friends, who have opened up their homes to a stranger, and shown such generosity. I send up good feelings and hopes for happiness for the kindness of strangers, and how they have quite simply changed my life and altered my perspective, and made it possible for me to go back to my village ready to keep doing the work I do. I am so blessed to be so intimately exposed to the genuine good in the world, which I had no idea how thoroughly I would see when I signed up for a job that would naturally expose me to such hardship and sadness. Thank you again. You are amazing.
I tell this story to attempt to begin to thank those involved for their generosity, (although I have kept them somewhat anonymous at their own request). I tell it also in light of the season upon us, with the hope that it inspires those who are sharing this journey with me to ask themselves (as I now ask myself, every day) what kindness can you show to a stranger?
It makes a big difference.
Peace, Love, Gratitude, Hope, Kindness
Jen
It began with a man in my home state, MN. He stumbled upon my blog. He was fact checking some info that his friend who lives in Gaborone (the capital city of Bots) had told him. He emailed me (as so many tend to do, and keep it up, good or bad, I love to get people's reactions, or really just to see if anyone out there is reading. It's been a long time since hearing from strangers has been weird and is now one of the more interesting components of writing this blog) and we would write back and forth every so often.
The needle stick happened. Many people responded with kind words and messages of hope (and again thank you, I am so lucky. I do not take this blessing for granted).
Shortly after that post, I got a call from Nala, a doctor who stays in Francistown. She offered me many kind words and a place to stay should I ever make my way to Francistown. I thanked her for her kindness and stored her number in my phone.
On my way down to Gabs for follow-up testing after the needle prick I get a somewhat strange message that there is a package waiting for me in Maun. K, the man in Minneapolis has told his friend Carle about me, and Carle has sent me what is nearly a crate filled with nice food and supplies that are hard to impossible to find in the bush. I am in tears. Carle offered me a place to stay should I ever need it in Gabs.
Again, as an American, these tend to be the sort of interactions that we have become naturally wary and suspicious of. I decided to believe in the true goodness of people and take both these folks up on their offers. And I'm so glad I did.
Carle and his family showed me such kindness, opening their home to a complete stranger. They fed me, let me use their washing machine (this in itself was a miracle that nearly brought me to tears), their Internet and showed me better hospitality than a 5 star hotel. Carle took me to yoga and his wife K took me all over the city looking for reading glasses for Simon. I got to hang out with their darling little children and have the sort of experience that reminds me so strongly of a typical "home", or at least to what I've come to think of as home. We watched movies and funny American reality TV, and talked about books and music we'd enjoyed and places in the world one really must go. We spoke of psychology, philosophy, the politics of both the US and the southern part of Africa. I helped K and the children decorate their Christmas tree. Carle helped me find a new camera to buy as the one I had had crapped out on me, and arranged for a ride to Francistown so I wouldn't be stuck on the bus. I was staggered by their willingness to open their home to a complete stranger, and to be so incredibly kind.
In Francistown, when it became clear that I would be stopping there for the night, I hesitated. Nala had said to call, but it was very short notice and I would be getting in quite late. I took a deep breath and I called. She answered, delighted to hear from me and immediately offered up her home for the night. I arrived in Francistown near 11PM. She came to pick me up in the dark of the night in the middle of the city, no hesitation. She brought me to her home, mentioning landmarks along the way so that I could come back again next time. She had a meal warming in the oven for me and chocolate cake and tea after that. She had a magic phone that allowed me to call the states from an internal number (no long distance) and I was able to speak with family and friends for free. She let me use her Internet as well, and we had lovely conversations over the wonderful breakfast she cooked for me before taking me to some art shops and another pharmacy to look for Simon's glasses before dropping me at the bus rank. She is wonderful and giving, and the woman just amazes me as she herself is going through grieving a very recent death. I meant what I said to her when I told her that short of my own mother, if I ever needed someone to take care of me, let it be an African woman. They mother better than anyone on Earth, I would wager... For her to go out of her way for a stranger.. I smile when I think of her grace and healing presence.
I smile when I think of these new friends, who have opened up their homes to a stranger, and shown such generosity. I send up good feelings and hopes for happiness for the kindness of strangers, and how they have quite simply changed my life and altered my perspective, and made it possible for me to go back to my village ready to keep doing the work I do. I am so blessed to be so intimately exposed to the genuine good in the world, which I had no idea how thoroughly I would see when I signed up for a job that would naturally expose me to such hardship and sadness. Thank you again. You are amazing.
I tell this story to attempt to begin to thank those involved for their generosity, (although I have kept them somewhat anonymous at their own request). I tell it also in light of the season upon us, with the hope that it inspires those who are sharing this journey with me to ask themselves (as I now ask myself, every day) what kindness can you show to a stranger?
It makes a big difference.
Peace, Love, Gratitude, Hope, Kindness
Jen
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Just like a tattoo...
A year ago today I got this tattoo, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of the other who bears the same markings. I’ll be walking along and glance down at my foot, thinking of the other foot that has often traveled a similar path, and does no more. A pair of cherries, connected at the stem, two women connected at the heart. When people in the village notice it, as they often do, as I live in sandals, they smile and comment, sometimes conversing in Setswana to determine the proper name for such an exotic marking. I smile and thank them, thinking of her. Whenever someone mentions it I speak of her, and that she has the same, and we got it together, as it feels and has always felt like a shared symbol, a half to a whole, something not quite mine and thus the shared property rights must be duly noted. I think of our feet, and how she always seemed to follow in my footsteps, and the richness our lives have taken on because of such a highly shared but incredibly unique experience. She is the only one who can truly know certain parts of me, has seen my life from the mirror’s perspective, knows my thoughts and can predict my intentions with an almost unsettling accuracy. In some ways we are opposites, in height and demeanor, in others so similar as to be startling. No matter where I go or how far I travel on this planet I carry her with me, in this marking we both share.
Love you, Sis.
Love you, Sis.
In which I get a white Christmas...
There were a few weeks that mail didn’t come to Seronga, and then a week that I was gone in Gabs with medical and thus not collecting the post. So when I finally got to the post office I had six packages waiting for me. It was incredible, so much loot I had to get a lift to my house (yes I am a very, very lucky girl!!). I opened a package from my mother which I knew would contain my CD’s and a new ipod (thank you again mom, this little machine is already changing my life!!!). I eagerly opened the box. As I lifted the flap back I am surprised to find white powder everywhere. I gingerly pick up the box and move to the stoop, wondering what sort of drug shipment had been confused with a box from my mom. I tried to blow the powder off, covering my front step in the process with a thin layer of white dust.
“Perhaps some drink mix gone awry?” I think to myself. I begin remove the items, most of which were clothes, from the box and discover the culprit. The box of baking soda I had asked my mom to send before I realized I could get it here (labeled as soda bicarbonate-who knew. I guess I should have paid more attention in Chemistry class, but really the guy who fell alphabetically after me and thus sat behind me just seemed so adept that it just seemed silly to argue with him) had exploded. And was now covering my front step. It might be a white Christmas indeed!
Thank you so much to all of those who sent me Christmas care packages. You are all amazing and I am so lucky to have such thoughtful people supporting my journey from all over the globe. You have really made my day, (week, year) and I am so grateful for your generosity and kindness, especially in a tough economic time of year (and really decade?). Namaste to you all. Know that I will pay it forward until I cease to walk this planet. I am so blessed.
“Perhaps some drink mix gone awry?” I think to myself. I begin remove the items, most of which were clothes, from the box and discover the culprit. The box of baking soda I had asked my mom to send before I realized I could get it here (labeled as soda bicarbonate-who knew. I guess I should have paid more attention in Chemistry class, but really the guy who fell alphabetically after me and thus sat behind me just seemed so adept that it just seemed silly to argue with him) had exploded. And was now covering my front step. It might be a white Christmas indeed!
Thank you so much to all of those who sent me Christmas care packages. You are all amazing and I am so lucky to have such thoughtful people supporting my journey from all over the globe. You have really made my day, (week, year) and I am so grateful for your generosity and kindness, especially in a tough economic time of year (and really decade?). Namaste to you all. Know that I will pay it forward until I cease to walk this planet. I am so blessed.
To my mother's "Other"
P-Funk.. I hope you had a wonderful, very happy birthday. I am so grateful for you every day that I am blessed enough to be breathing. I am so thankful you came into our lives, and take such good care of and show my mother so much loving kindness. Your calm steadiness and caring understanding are her beacon in the storm and as such you are also a source of strength and grounding for me. I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect match for her if I tried (although I will take a little credit for my wing man capabilities at the party that first night…). Thank you for all the happiness and pleasure you’ve brought to all of our lives, and thank you for looking after my mother and caring for her as I am a world away. It all means more to me than you can ever know.
Happy Birthday!
Jen
Happy Birthday!
Jen
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
A Woman of Africa: Part 1
She is a lovely British woman, Kenyan born with the sort of lilting musical accent my ears have been longing to hear after all these months of Simon’s gruffness and muttering. She enters the room with an incredible air of confidence; she carries herself exuding such a sense of capability and authority that I am immediately a bit intimidated and struck slightly wary, in the effect that only truly capable and approachable people have on me.
She is a lady. A proper lady. She sweeps into Simon’s house and I am quickly very impressed. I smile a shy half smile (so uncharacteristic of me!) and look down, wishing there was some way I could magically have the rough edges of myself buffered away to be like her. Although she has spent nearly her whole life in Africa, she is thoroughly British, and of the belief that there were no obstacles that can not be overcome with some tea and reasoning. I get the sense that there is no question on Earth that could render itself impossible for her to answer, and no problem that dare place itself firmly in her path; she could take it on and solve it without breaking a sweat and tackle a few of mine for sport. I get the impression that no would never be the answer she was given unless it was the one she requested. She is a doer, and yet had such an air of approachability and humble grace. If you have earned her respect she will indulge you, and if she thinks you are a reprehensible moron you would have to push her pretty far, and give her a glass of red, rather than her classic white, in order to get her to tell you outright (unless, of course you are trying to screw her or her business or one of her children over. Then watch out.)
I instantly respected her and wanted her as my friend, my mentor. I felt the childish urge to want her to like me. Over lunch we discussed some of the projects I'm working on, and she had showed what appeared to be genuine interest, and had ideas or suggestions or contacts for many of them. She always follows up with these contacts, sending the information or encouragement I needed at just the moment I was about to lose inertia, interest, and hope in my projects.
She is always crisp and fresh in unwrinkled linen, even when she’s not and it isn’t, you would swear this was the case upon recalling the details of her after she’s left the room. She is the epitome of a colonial African woman, and I would compare her to Merryl Streep in “Out of Africa” if it didn’t do her the injustice of implying that she was copying Merryl, rather than the seeming reality that Merryl got it from her. She walks with the purposeful grace and stride of a dancer, gliding through rooms, both commanding attention and offering tea.
She offered her home as a place I could stay in Maun, an offer I took her up on on my way back through for medical from Gabs. She led me to my own tent outfitted with a complete bathroom and a queen size bed. We had lovely dinners of fresh vegetables and wonderful, luxurious meats and cheeses. She spoke of her childhood and raising her children in Africa. We talked of our mutual love of Vanity Fair, and fresh vegetables, her battle with breast cancer, and the experience of boarding school. I paid full attention, trying to figure out how to be like her.
I quickly noted that she has really mastered the way to interact with men in this country, to use the authority vested in her to demand what she felt she or whatever cause she was petitioning for deserved, or was right, whilst charming the men and evoking them to offer her their help, service, counsel, advice, or opinion on how something was to be done. She depends on no man, and yet they clamour to help her. She is building a cottage on a plot in Seronga, and every time I am with her someone asks how it is going and how they can help her. It is extraordinary. She is extraordinary.
She is a lady. A proper lady. She sweeps into Simon’s house and I am quickly very impressed. I smile a shy half smile (so uncharacteristic of me!) and look down, wishing there was some way I could magically have the rough edges of myself buffered away to be like her. Although she has spent nearly her whole life in Africa, she is thoroughly British, and of the belief that there were no obstacles that can not be overcome with some tea and reasoning. I get the sense that there is no question on Earth that could render itself impossible for her to answer, and no problem that dare place itself firmly in her path; she could take it on and solve it without breaking a sweat and tackle a few of mine for sport. I get the impression that no would never be the answer she was given unless it was the one she requested. She is a doer, and yet had such an air of approachability and humble grace. If you have earned her respect she will indulge you, and if she thinks you are a reprehensible moron you would have to push her pretty far, and give her a glass of red, rather than her classic white, in order to get her to tell you outright (unless, of course you are trying to screw her or her business or one of her children over. Then watch out.)
I instantly respected her and wanted her as my friend, my mentor. I felt the childish urge to want her to like me. Over lunch we discussed some of the projects I'm working on, and she had showed what appeared to be genuine interest, and had ideas or suggestions or contacts for many of them. She always follows up with these contacts, sending the information or encouragement I needed at just the moment I was about to lose inertia, interest, and hope in my projects.
She is always crisp and fresh in unwrinkled linen, even when she’s not and it isn’t, you would swear this was the case upon recalling the details of her after she’s left the room. She is the epitome of a colonial African woman, and I would compare her to Merryl Streep in “Out of Africa” if it didn’t do her the injustice of implying that she was copying Merryl, rather than the seeming reality that Merryl got it from her. She walks with the purposeful grace and stride of a dancer, gliding through rooms, both commanding attention and offering tea.
She offered her home as a place I could stay in Maun, an offer I took her up on on my way back through for medical from Gabs. She led me to my own tent outfitted with a complete bathroom and a queen size bed. We had lovely dinners of fresh vegetables and wonderful, luxurious meats and cheeses. She spoke of her childhood and raising her children in Africa. We talked of our mutual love of Vanity Fair, and fresh vegetables, her battle with breast cancer, and the experience of boarding school. I paid full attention, trying to figure out how to be like her.
I quickly noted that she has really mastered the way to interact with men in this country, to use the authority vested in her to demand what she felt she or whatever cause she was petitioning for deserved, or was right, whilst charming the men and evoking them to offer her their help, service, counsel, advice, or opinion on how something was to be done. She depends on no man, and yet they clamour to help her. She is building a cottage on a plot in Seronga, and every time I am with her someone asks how it is going and how they can help her. It is extraordinary. She is extraordinary.
Elephant Graveyard
Piles of rough, scaly, dried skins are stacked up underneath a corrugated tin awning. The type of animal is mostly indistinguishable unless you look closely, and then it is possible to identify an occasional crocodile snout. Tiny chunks of the salt that preserves the skins spills off the heaps onto the ground. Across the yard in the sand, the jawbones of elephants are lined up like soldiers, the more recent kills still covered in bits of gristle and hairs while the older ones are bleached as white as the sand under the midday African sun. The skulls of other beasts, their dangerous horns lifeless in the sand, wait to be packed and labeled in boxes and shipped around the world to those who paid dearly for the privilege of ending the lives of these beasts.
As I wander around more I find the tannery, with the tiny old men hunched over carefully tanning the hides, using impossibly sharp knives to scrape away the remaining bits of flesh from the now soft, pliable furs. It is clear that they have learned these traditions from their forefathers, techniques passed down a long line from father to son for generations. Their feet are bare, calloused and hardened from walking many miles in the scorching sand and through the thorns of the brush, their thick toenails grown protectively long over their hardened toes. They are dressed in ragged “modern” working clothes, although I can easily picture them in skins of animals they have tanned previously. I imagine them doing the same thing around a fire in a village somewhere, scraping at the hides as they tell stories, as the children play and the women cook the meat from the hunt. The stillness in the air lends a sense of the sacred to this practice; the rains seem to be waiting for the men to give their signal to fall.
I walk into the warehouse, where the glassy eyes of the mounted heads gaze back at me. The head of an elephant, it’s ears at full staff as though he is listening for intruders regally regards anyone who enters the room, and one fights the impulse to bow to the fallen king in reverence and respect. Around the room skins are stretched tight over foam molds, the fur carefully styled to look “windblown”. Horns and tusks are mounted on wooden trophy stands, and elephant femurs have been fitted into lamps. On the opposite wall, brilliant paintings depicting bones and patterned skins of the beasts against wildly colored backgrounds are reminiscent of a combination of Georgia O’Keefe and Salvador Dahli. Below them are photographs of the animals in states of life and in death, shots from various angles to help the taxidermists achieve a realistic look for their eternal preservation.
Having spent my youth in the hunting-happy state of Minnesota, I have a certain appreciation and respect for hunting. For me it was very cool to get to see how those glassy eyed animals went from living in the wild to staring down at me fromthe walls of my uncle's homes. Granted, these are very different specimens but I got the idea.
I don’t have any particular moral issue with hunting, eating meat, ect and the operation before me appears to really make use of all parts and pieces of the animal, from the skins and bones to the meat that the villagers are called in to harvest after a kill. Where some people would think of this as gross, to me it seems quite the opposite, the very epitome of respect for the animal, to hunt it nobly, kill it quickly, and honor it’s spirit by making use of all the parts.
In addition, it seems that as the population in the rural areas of Botswana has increased, there has also been an increase in poaching. I've been told the populations of most animals in Botswana have gone down as the human populations have increased. Many people in other countries look at the hunting industries in Africa and think it's savage, or cruel, when in reality the people who run the hunting companies take pretty careful management of the animals, after all, if you're spending amount x to sell hunting experiences to Americans and other tourists, you're going to take care of that investment, and the hunting companies are sort of the ones who protect the animals from poaching and over hunting. I myself prefer the experience of what is known is photographic safaris, wherein you are attempting to shoot photos of animals to bring home rather than carcasses, but to each their own I suppose.
It's funny to me that when I was interviewing for site placement I specifically said I didn't need to be near the delta, and furthermore wasn't very interested in the animals and whatnot having had plenty of time watching National Geographic and Animal Planet in my day. I have eaten these words again and again as the delta and it's people continue to reveal their magic to me. I admit it, I was wrong...
As I wander around more I find the tannery, with the tiny old men hunched over carefully tanning the hides, using impossibly sharp knives to scrape away the remaining bits of flesh from the now soft, pliable furs. It is clear that they have learned these traditions from their forefathers, techniques passed down a long line from father to son for generations. Their feet are bare, calloused and hardened from walking many miles in the scorching sand and through the thorns of the brush, their thick toenails grown protectively long over their hardened toes. They are dressed in ragged “modern” working clothes, although I can easily picture them in skins of animals they have tanned previously. I imagine them doing the same thing around a fire in a village somewhere, scraping at the hides as they tell stories, as the children play and the women cook the meat from the hunt. The stillness in the air lends a sense of the sacred to this practice; the rains seem to be waiting for the men to give their signal to fall.
I walk into the warehouse, where the glassy eyes of the mounted heads gaze back at me. The head of an elephant, it’s ears at full staff as though he is listening for intruders regally regards anyone who enters the room, and one fights the impulse to bow to the fallen king in reverence and respect. Around the room skins are stretched tight over foam molds, the fur carefully styled to look “windblown”. Horns and tusks are mounted on wooden trophy stands, and elephant femurs have been fitted into lamps. On the opposite wall, brilliant paintings depicting bones and patterned skins of the beasts against wildly colored backgrounds are reminiscent of a combination of Georgia O’Keefe and Salvador Dahli. Below them are photographs of the animals in states of life and in death, shots from various angles to help the taxidermists achieve a realistic look for their eternal preservation.
Having spent my youth in the hunting-happy state of Minnesota, I have a certain appreciation and respect for hunting. For me it was very cool to get to see how those glassy eyed animals went from living in the wild to staring down at me fromthe walls of my uncle's homes. Granted, these are very different specimens but I got the idea.
I don’t have any particular moral issue with hunting, eating meat, ect and the operation before me appears to really make use of all parts and pieces of the animal, from the skins and bones to the meat that the villagers are called in to harvest after a kill. Where some people would think of this as gross, to me it seems quite the opposite, the very epitome of respect for the animal, to hunt it nobly, kill it quickly, and honor it’s spirit by making use of all the parts.
In addition, it seems that as the population in the rural areas of Botswana has increased, there has also been an increase in poaching. I've been told the populations of most animals in Botswana have gone down as the human populations have increased. Many people in other countries look at the hunting industries in Africa and think it's savage, or cruel, when in reality the people who run the hunting companies take pretty careful management of the animals, after all, if you're spending amount x to sell hunting experiences to Americans and other tourists, you're going to take care of that investment, and the hunting companies are sort of the ones who protect the animals from poaching and over hunting. I myself prefer the experience of what is known is photographic safaris, wherein you are attempting to shoot photos of animals to bring home rather than carcasses, but to each their own I suppose.
It's funny to me that when I was interviewing for site placement I specifically said I didn't need to be near the delta, and furthermore wasn't very interested in the animals and whatnot having had plenty of time watching National Geographic and Animal Planet in my day. I have eaten these words again and again as the delta and it's people continue to reveal their magic to me. I admit it, I was wrong...
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