Joann Marie
Katchmark
Danelski
Joann Marie Katchmark Danelski, 60, died September 18, 2009 at her home on the St. Louis River with her family by her side. Her strength and endurance during her illness were sustained by her unwavering faith.
Joann was born June 26, 1949 in Sturgeon Lake, MN, the baby of 15 children born to Frank and Katherine Katchmark. She had attended the Sturgeon Lake and Willow River Schools. After graduation Joann moved to Duluth and worked for Cutler Magner Co.
She married Ken Danelski in 1968. Joann worked for the Duluth News Tribune until her diagnosis of cancer in 1992. Both she and Ken retired to focus on each other, their family and home.
Joann loved the outdoors and gardening and nature responded to her. She opened her home and gardens to friends and family and generously shared her time and talents with others. She planned parties, loved cooking and baking, decorating for holidays and making cards and games for her family. Her love of the St. Louis River has been captured in many of her photographs. Joann hiked her trails, kayaked, fished and enjoyed every moment of “her” rivers’ gifts. She taught her grandchildren the importance of gathering family and friends and to live each day to its fullest. Her zest for life was infectious to all who crossed her path.
She is preceded in death by her parents; brothers Ted, William, Florian and David; and sisters Patricia and Bernice.
Joann is survived by her husband Ken, of 41 years; sons Corey(Darcey) and Perry(Jill), both of Hermantown; grandchildren Megan, Madison, Austin, Mallory, Katie and Colten; brothers John(Bena), Bernard(Jeanette), Leonard and Frank; sisters RoseMarie(John)Thrun, Leona Bibeau, Leonilla(Jerry)Gilbert and Virginia(James)Zezuelka.
The family would like to thank everyone for their love and support. Her gifts will live on in the hearts and lives of her family and friends and all those she touched in life. “When my earthly life no longer exists, that I have pleased God with my earthly life and inspired others to believe in Him”---Joann.
Visitation Tuesday 5-7 PM with Rosary at 7 PM, all at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church, 2801 E. 4th St., Duluth. Visitation continues from 11 AM until the noon Mass of Christian Burial Wednesday at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church. Burial at Oneota Cemetery. Arrangements by Williams-Lobermeier Funeral Home.
This is the obituary of one of my great aunts. My father comes from an exceptionally big family, and I am sorry to say that many of these Aunties blend together in my mind, although many of the memories I have of these great women are of kindness and strong spirits. On my best days I hope that perhaps I am like them in some ways, and hope that I do justice to the example they’ve set for me. On my worst I am reminded of those who have been through so more than me and have still sparkled with a brilliant light of grace and strength and am reminded that I, too, am capable of this, and should bloody well stop whining.
Although I knew that life would continue on while I was away, these things are always hard to swallow, and can occasionally be made more so by the incredibly tangible distance between me and those I love. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to get to know Joann a bit more through the loving words posted by her family and friends on her Caring Bridge Website. It’s clear she was loved and appreciated by many, and will be greatly missed.
Here is one of the last entries on her Caring Bridge website before she passed:
“I was looking through some of Joann's photos and stuff by her computer today and ran across a story my mom saved about "The Power of Prayer" from the Duluth News Tribune. The story ran on Christmas Day of 1996. The story had featured Joann with her cancer and her faith. Here are some parts of the article.
"This Christmas, Joann Danelski could have been dying from lung cancer. Instead, she'd joyously celebrated the holidays at home with family and friends. Her cancer which had been doubling every six months, has unexpectedly stopped growing. Her Mayo Clinic physicians are astounded, and they believe Danelski when she tells them that this gift of life comes directly from family and friends who are praying for her, as well as from her own faith and positive attitude. "It's nothing short of miraculous. The doctor said to keep doing whatever I was doing. I said we pray alot. He said 'It's working.'" While Danelski believes prayer has helped her, she still expects to die from lung cancer. In the meantime, she takes care of her health and savors each day and her relationships to the fullest. "I've never asked God to take the cancer away. I've asked for help to live with this in peace, and it's happening," she said. "I've been given extra days and He's put me at peace with it."”
Rest Peacefully, Joann. Know that you’ve given me more inspiration and strength to continue striving for the sometimes seemingly insurmountable challenges I face here. Blessings of strength and grace to her family and friends who are missing her now, and navigating a new way of life without her. Peace be with you all.
Jen
Saturday, November 14, 2009
A Meeting of Note....
--------I wrote this one after a meeting we attended in Mid-August in Maun. The Seronga Men’s Sector had been invited (which is another word for commanded in Botswana) to give a report on the activities that we had carried out in the past year and the ones we planned for the next year to the National Men’s Sector Commissioner, who is the Commissioner of Police for Botswana. It was a big deal meeting and I went along mainly as a show of support and solidarity with the guys I’ve been working with, who have repeatedly been my inspiration here in Seronga. Many of the other village Men’s Sectors basically admitted they’ve done nothing, so Seronga was sort of the star of the show;-)---
We sat in the overheated conference room, despite rushing to be promptly on time we’re delayed as the Commissioner of police (whom I recently noticed in a photo in the national newspaper shaking the President of Botswana’s hand, I think he must be sort of a big deal) had forgotten the location of the meeting that he called. He arrived an hour late, taking the time to magnanimously greet each of us personally. He sat down and we yawned though the typical introductions, each person being acknowledged with an amount of clapping proportional to his position. The rest of us minions were relegated to self introductions, which sent my mind scurrying to recall all the formalities of the details I’m supposed to recite in order to properly do so.
It’s funny to me that no matter how many people appear to be in any given group I attend in this region of the country I’m generally somehow singled out. This time it was for the announcement that the meeting would be conducted in Setswana, followed by the joke that I would surely be fluent by the meeting’s end. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this particular one, and I smiled and he repeated the joke in English for my benefit. ( I don’t know why it was even discussed, as it ended up that the commissioner gave his speech in English and it was then translated into Setswana.)
The other piece of notoriety, besides of course the staring, which in a bigger village like Maun is usually at least somewhat cloaked in stolen glances rather than straight out gawking like it would be in Seronga, was the photography. The photographer, who had been introduced at the beginning as the something something of marketing went around the room taking sort of group pictures of the different villages who had sent representation.
Throughout the speeches and presentations she would take occasional pictures as well as filming, although in a land where there are few TV’s much less cable access on which to broadcast these boring meetings much less recording it for some sort of posterity, (and I certainly didn’t hear the “this meeting will be recorded for training purposes” disclaimer, although it certainly could have done some serious good) I couldn’t necessarily see the point.
The weird part came right in the middle of the commissioner’s speech, which she had previously been recording with the video camera. The photographer suddenly walked away from the tripod, grabbed her still camera, and began taking pictures of me. Like obviously taking pictures. Of me. Several of them.
I often joke about the paparazzi, so naming all the tourists who nearly reflexively take my picture from their hulking overland vehicles as they drive through Seronga. It seems they are shocked by the presence of my white skin, as though I am some sort of rare (albino?) animal in the bush. I generally like having my picture taken, but this was straight up weird. I tried to smile whilst looking at least mildly interested in the speech.
One of my personal greatest successes of the past quarter for me was to help the chairman-Mr. Khumalo, a police officer- of the Seronga Men’s Sector create a report of the activities we had done and were planning to do. It’s the next entry on the blog. It was a simple enough thing, just a word document that I inserted some pictures I took from various events we’ve had. It was one of those things that took very little time on my part, but meant a lot to him. It’s something so easy, and yet to see his face light up and his chest puff out when the pages came out of the printer made me realize it was going to be a bigger deal to him than that.
Through the course of my time here I’ve realized that capacity building is not just about teaching people to do things, as with most of these things we work on, the people know how to do what needs to be done. In my situation I’ve found it’s also important to help people chronicle their accomplishments, and in helping them acknowledge and feel pride in what they’ve done, to hopefully inspire and encourage them to do more.
So when the time came for Seronga to present its report most eyes in the room turned to me as though waiting expectantly for my presentation. Mr. Khumalo and I had previously agreed that rather he would give the report, and I whispered a few reminders and words of encouragement as he stood up to walk to the podium.
It’s typical in Botswana for people to just read exactly what they’ve got in front of them when they give a “report”. If then there are any questions, which are always repeatedly requested, if it can’t be quoted directly from the report, the question will be deferred. Mr. Khumalo and I have discussed this tendency at length, and talked about ways he could give a more enlightening presentation. He knows just as much if not more than me about what we are doing as the Men’s Sector, and thus we decided he should be the person to present (And there’s also the little part where I sort of subliminally refused. I don’t think I would be building anyone’s capacity but my own to present at an important meeting like this.)
It was more than enough reward for me when Mr. Khumalo went up to the podium to give his report. He handed a copy to the Commissioner of Police, who is the national head of the Men’s Sector for this year, and began. Khumalo positively sparkled. He made eye contact around the room, didn’t read from the report or repeat irrelevant information. He was confident and even made a few jokes. It was definitely the best presentation of the day, (and it helps that our Men’s Sector is one of the most active in the district) and the other Seronga Men’s Sector representatives we were with made several other relevant points about the importance of involving churches and traditional healers with Men’s Sector campaigns. It was definitely a day of pride and success for Seronga, the Men’s Sector and me.
We sat in the overheated conference room, despite rushing to be promptly on time we’re delayed as the Commissioner of police (whom I recently noticed in a photo in the national newspaper shaking the President of Botswana’s hand, I think he must be sort of a big deal) had forgotten the location of the meeting that he called. He arrived an hour late, taking the time to magnanimously greet each of us personally. He sat down and we yawned though the typical introductions, each person being acknowledged with an amount of clapping proportional to his position. The rest of us minions were relegated to self introductions, which sent my mind scurrying to recall all the formalities of the details I’m supposed to recite in order to properly do so.
It’s funny to me that no matter how many people appear to be in any given group I attend in this region of the country I’m generally somehow singled out. This time it was for the announcement that the meeting would be conducted in Setswana, followed by the joke that I would surely be fluent by the meeting’s end. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this particular one, and I smiled and he repeated the joke in English for my benefit. ( I don’t know why it was even discussed, as it ended up that the commissioner gave his speech in English and it was then translated into Setswana.)
The other piece of notoriety, besides of course the staring, which in a bigger village like Maun is usually at least somewhat cloaked in stolen glances rather than straight out gawking like it would be in Seronga, was the photography. The photographer, who had been introduced at the beginning as the something something of marketing went around the room taking sort of group pictures of the different villages who had sent representation.
Throughout the speeches and presentations she would take occasional pictures as well as filming, although in a land where there are few TV’s much less cable access on which to broadcast these boring meetings much less recording it for some sort of posterity, (and I certainly didn’t hear the “this meeting will be recorded for training purposes” disclaimer, although it certainly could have done some serious good) I couldn’t necessarily see the point.
The weird part came right in the middle of the commissioner’s speech, which she had previously been recording with the video camera. The photographer suddenly walked away from the tripod, grabbed her still camera, and began taking pictures of me. Like obviously taking pictures. Of me. Several of them.
I often joke about the paparazzi, so naming all the tourists who nearly reflexively take my picture from their hulking overland vehicles as they drive through Seronga. It seems they are shocked by the presence of my white skin, as though I am some sort of rare (albino?) animal in the bush. I generally like having my picture taken, but this was straight up weird. I tried to smile whilst looking at least mildly interested in the speech.
One of my personal greatest successes of the past quarter for me was to help the chairman-Mr. Khumalo, a police officer- of the Seronga Men’s Sector create a report of the activities we had done and were planning to do. It’s the next entry on the blog. It was a simple enough thing, just a word document that I inserted some pictures I took from various events we’ve had. It was one of those things that took very little time on my part, but meant a lot to him. It’s something so easy, and yet to see his face light up and his chest puff out when the pages came out of the printer made me realize it was going to be a bigger deal to him than that.
Through the course of my time here I’ve realized that capacity building is not just about teaching people to do things, as with most of these things we work on, the people know how to do what needs to be done. In my situation I’ve found it’s also important to help people chronicle their accomplishments, and in helping them acknowledge and feel pride in what they’ve done, to hopefully inspire and encourage them to do more.
So when the time came for Seronga to present its report most eyes in the room turned to me as though waiting expectantly for my presentation. Mr. Khumalo and I had previously agreed that rather he would give the report, and I whispered a few reminders and words of encouragement as he stood up to walk to the podium.
It’s typical in Botswana for people to just read exactly what they’ve got in front of them when they give a “report”. If then there are any questions, which are always repeatedly requested, if it can’t be quoted directly from the report, the question will be deferred. Mr. Khumalo and I have discussed this tendency at length, and talked about ways he could give a more enlightening presentation. He knows just as much if not more than me about what we are doing as the Men’s Sector, and thus we decided he should be the person to present (And there’s also the little part where I sort of subliminally refused. I don’t think I would be building anyone’s capacity but my own to present at an important meeting like this.)
It was more than enough reward for me when Mr. Khumalo went up to the podium to give his report. He handed a copy to the Commissioner of Police, who is the national head of the Men’s Sector for this year, and began. Khumalo positively sparkled. He made eye contact around the room, didn’t read from the report or repeat irrelevant information. He was confident and even made a few jokes. It was definitely the best presentation of the day, (and it helps that our Men’s Sector is one of the most active in the district) and the other Seronga Men’s Sector representatives we were with made several other relevant points about the importance of involving churches and traditional healers with Men’s Sector campaigns. It was definitely a day of pride and success for Seronga, the Men’s Sector and me.
Seronga Men’s Sector… Leading the Way Forward
Below is the report we submitted to the National Men's Sector Chairperson at the meeting described in the entry above. I had to remove the pictures as the internet here is too slow to upload them, but I've left the captions, I hope this doesn't make it too confusing.
The Ngambao Scouts Troup entertains the crowd at the November Men’s Sector Event, demonstrating the theme of “Men Standing Tall, Walking Proud and Taking Responsibility.”
Enclosed please find a report detailing the events to date as well as the future events planned to be carried out by the Men’s Sector in Seronga. We thank you for your past and continued support of this active and hardworking committee.
Men’s Sector Community Event:
“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”
Men’s Sector Participants competing in a “Tug of War”
On 22nd November, 2008, the village of Seronga hosted an event sponsored by the Seronga Men’s Sector with the theme “Men standing tall, walking proud, and taking responsibility.” Present at the event were the dikgosi of Seronga, Gudigwa, Gunotsoga, nursing representatives from the Seronga clinic, teachers from both the primary and junior secondary school in Seronga, members of the local and national police based in Seronga, as well as representatives from wildlife and BDF. Also present were the police chief from Gumare, the guest speaker Mma Knutson and nearly 400 villagers. The event began with a lively march in which the members of Men’s Sector Committee split into two groups and were led by the Scout Group down each road away from the Kgotla for a vigorous 3 kilometer round trip march. Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war representing the battle between HIV and ARVs to entertain the crowd.
In addition to the message being spread from the main stage, there were 2 side booths which continued to spread the message of Men’s Sector. Over 60 participants were awarded airtime, crisps, and oranges for their efforts in events in a challenging sexual health quiz. Villagers tested their knowledge of issues of HIV/AIDS health, prevention and transmission, PMTCT, IPT and reducing stigma. Each participant was corrected by a trained educator on any information they answered incorrectly or needed more information about. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. This event was funded with the support of the National Men’s Sector Committee.
Participants in the health quiz
Outreach:
Since it’s inception as a result of a workshop held at the Seronga Land Board by the Gumare Counseling Center, the Seronga Men’s Sector has developed a progressive list of goals aimed at reducing the transmission of HIV in Seronga and the surrounding area. It has been a top priority of the Seronga Men’s Sector to reach out to the traditional and faith based communities as a target audience through which to spread the message of reduction of HIV related health behaviors.
One of the Seronga Men’s Sector’s most active members is Mareko Gweexa. He is a boat driver for the Seronga Clinic as well as a widely respected Church elder. Mareko has been instrumental in securing audiences with a number of church leaders throughout the Seronga catchement area.
As a result of his perseverance members of the Men’s Sector were able to meet with 12 leaders of various churches at the village of Mokgacha on 31 May 2009 in order to educate them on the issues of HIV as well as to sensitize them to the goals of the Men’s Sector. The Men’s Sector members were also able to address the various congregations about HIV prevention, and directed them to access resources available in addition to the support of their faith based community. Church goers were encouraged to use condoms, to get tested with their partners, and to take their ARVs and other medications appropriately.
Mr. Gweexa also preached the message of Men’s Sector to 379 parishioners in Sepopa village on 8th August 2009. He gave a sermon spreading the message of the importance of men testing with partners and also challenging the message that using condoms is a sin. He expressed concern about the methods faith healers were using for the treatment of various ailments that may lead to an increased spread of HIV. He encouraged people to go to the clinic for treatment of their health issues, as well as to not mix ARV’s with traditional medicine. Mr. Gweexa emphasized that the role of the church needs to continue to be to provide support and comfort to those affected by HIV, and promote behaviors that prevent the spread of HIV.
Mr. Gweexa addressing the congregations of ZCC at Gudigwa
Another outreach with other members of the Seronga Men’s Sector occurred on 16 August 2009 in Gudigwa with church members from various congregations of ZCC. Mr. Khumalo introduced the members of the Men’s Sector and informed 128 church members about the Men’s Sectors goals and objectives, which was then reinforced when Mr. Gweexa addressed the congregation. The message was further emphasized when Mr. Binang Makgetho reiterated that the ZCC church has always encouraged people to know their status by going to the clinic to be tested as well as taking their medications appropriately. He stated that the ZCC has maintained a position whereby members are encouraged to have only one partner, as well as for younger members to wait until marriage to indulge in sexual activities. He restated that ZCC’s protocol regarding HIV and AIDS is to follow and promote the government’s initiatives regarding the prevention and treatment of HIV/AIDS, and that there is no contradiction between the teachings of the ZCC and the government’s programs. Mr. Makgetho encouraged the congregations present to become active members of committees such as Men’s Sector, and thanked the Seronga Men’s Sector for coming to spread their message at Gudigwa.
The Seronga Men’s Sector will continue in their outreach efforts in the coming year by taking advantage of opportunities to address various congregations of faith throughout the Seronga and surrounding areas as they arise.
Mr. Gweexa addressing ZCC congregations at Gudigwa
Education:
In the coming months the Men’s Sector will host 2 workshops involving the local medical professionals from the Seronga clinic, as well as community healers and faith based leaders from Mogotho to Gudigwa. The goal of these workshops is to facilitate a conversation between these three important and influential community providers of HIV treatment and support. We intend to create an atmosphere of open conversation so that each service provider can highlight the service they provide in promoting HIV prevention and support. We also want each sector to educate about and promote their best practices and ways these three sectors can network together to provide the best response to the needs of their respective communities.
Another goal that the Seronga Men’s Sector is working towards is sensitizing the Police and members of the BDF on issues of gender and gender based violence. We plan to hold short seminars on these topics based on the curriculum provided by Men as Partners. We hope through these events to promote discussion of gender issues and to find a common ground from which we can address gender based violence through the men and women involved in these traditionally male centric organizations.
STEPS film Series:
Two members of the Men’s Sector Committee will be going for a workshop at the end of August to be trained on the facilitation of screenings for the STEPS (Social Transformation and Empowerment Projects) films. The STEPS films are designed to promote discussion and debate through their content, which will be shown with the support of the Men’s Sector at various locations in Seronga that have access to a television and generated power. Supporting partners include: the Seronga Clinic, the Seronga Sub Land Board, Ngambao CJSS, and the Seronga Police. These locations together provide us with a wide variety of locations from which to reach the people from the various wards of Seronga village.
Successes and Challenges:
The Seronga Men’s Sector has had a productive year, and has many planned activities for the coming year. We have held a successful kick off event; we have done outreaches, and have plans for workshops and programs that have a great deal of potential. That being said, we also have some challenges we hope to overcome in the coming year. The Lay Counselor at the clinic (who is also a member of the Men’s Sector) reports that there is still a hesitancy of men to go the clinic with their partners for testing. Combating traditional beliefs about HIV continues to be a challenge, with a great deal of misinformation being perpetuated in the community despite our efforts at widespread education. Another of the challenges we face in the coming year will be the procurement of a DVD player with which to play the STEPS films on. Plenty of the local partners have televisions and generators they would be willing to help us with, but we have yet to find one that has a DVD player on which to play the movies. We will attempt to meet this challenge by requesting funding from various sources in order to procure a DVD player that can be moved from location to location with the films.
Conclusions:
The Seronga Men’s Sector is an active and hardworking Committee comprising of men and women from the various sectors of professional, village and traditional life in Seronga and the surrounding area. We have set high goals for ourselves based the top issues of concern as set out by the Okavango Sub-District’s Evidence Based Plan. Of these areas the Seronga Men’s Sector is primarily focusing on Men’s involvement and addressing myths and misconceptions. We consistently strive to meet these goals without being deterred by lack of resources or the rural nature of our village. The Men’s Sector is making important progress in reducing the spread of HIV in the village of Seronga through our outreaches, our efforts at education, and our community events. We will not be discouraged from meeting our goals, and will consistently increase our efforts to bring men to the forefront as leaders in addressing issues of HIV/AIDS.
The Ngambao Scouts Troup entertains the crowd at the November Men’s Sector Event, demonstrating the theme of “Men Standing Tall, Walking Proud and Taking Responsibility.”
Enclosed please find a report detailing the events to date as well as the future events planned to be carried out by the Men’s Sector in Seronga. We thank you for your past and continued support of this active and hardworking committee.
Men’s Sector Community Event:
“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”
Men’s Sector Participants competing in a “Tug of War”
On 22nd November, 2008, the village of Seronga hosted an event sponsored by the Seronga Men’s Sector with the theme “Men standing tall, walking proud, and taking responsibility.” Present at the event were the dikgosi of Seronga, Gudigwa, Gunotsoga, nursing representatives from the Seronga clinic, teachers from both the primary and junior secondary school in Seronga, members of the local and national police based in Seronga, as well as representatives from wildlife and BDF. Also present were the police chief from Gumare, the guest speaker Mma Knutson and nearly 400 villagers. The event began with a lively march in which the members of Men’s Sector Committee split into two groups and were led by the Scout Group down each road away from the Kgotla for a vigorous 3 kilometer round trip march. Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war representing the battle between HIV and ARVs to entertain the crowd.
In addition to the message being spread from the main stage, there were 2 side booths which continued to spread the message of Men’s Sector. Over 60 participants were awarded airtime, crisps, and oranges for their efforts in events in a challenging sexual health quiz. Villagers tested their knowledge of issues of HIV/AIDS health, prevention and transmission, PMTCT, IPT and reducing stigma. Each participant was corrected by a trained educator on any information they answered incorrectly or needed more information about. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. This event was funded with the support of the National Men’s Sector Committee.
Participants in the health quiz
Outreach:
Since it’s inception as a result of a workshop held at the Seronga Land Board by the Gumare Counseling Center, the Seronga Men’s Sector has developed a progressive list of goals aimed at reducing the transmission of HIV in Seronga and the surrounding area. It has been a top priority of the Seronga Men’s Sector to reach out to the traditional and faith based communities as a target audience through which to spread the message of reduction of HIV related health behaviors.
One of the Seronga Men’s Sector’s most active members is Mareko Gweexa. He is a boat driver for the Seronga Clinic as well as a widely respected Church elder. Mareko has been instrumental in securing audiences with a number of church leaders throughout the Seronga catchement area.
As a result of his perseverance members of the Men’s Sector were able to meet with 12 leaders of various churches at the village of Mokgacha on 31 May 2009 in order to educate them on the issues of HIV as well as to sensitize them to the goals of the Men’s Sector. The Men’s Sector members were also able to address the various congregations about HIV prevention, and directed them to access resources available in addition to the support of their faith based community. Church goers were encouraged to use condoms, to get tested with their partners, and to take their ARVs and other medications appropriately.
Mr. Gweexa also preached the message of Men’s Sector to 379 parishioners in Sepopa village on 8th August 2009. He gave a sermon spreading the message of the importance of men testing with partners and also challenging the message that using condoms is a sin. He expressed concern about the methods faith healers were using for the treatment of various ailments that may lead to an increased spread of HIV. He encouraged people to go to the clinic for treatment of their health issues, as well as to not mix ARV’s with traditional medicine. Mr. Gweexa emphasized that the role of the church needs to continue to be to provide support and comfort to those affected by HIV, and promote behaviors that prevent the spread of HIV.
Mr. Gweexa addressing the congregations of ZCC at Gudigwa
Another outreach with other members of the Seronga Men’s Sector occurred on 16 August 2009 in Gudigwa with church members from various congregations of ZCC. Mr. Khumalo introduced the members of the Men’s Sector and informed 128 church members about the Men’s Sectors goals and objectives, which was then reinforced when Mr. Gweexa addressed the congregation. The message was further emphasized when Mr. Binang Makgetho reiterated that the ZCC church has always encouraged people to know their status by going to the clinic to be tested as well as taking their medications appropriately. He stated that the ZCC has maintained a position whereby members are encouraged to have only one partner, as well as for younger members to wait until marriage to indulge in sexual activities. He restated that ZCC’s protocol regarding HIV and AIDS is to follow and promote the government’s initiatives regarding the prevention and treatment of HIV/AIDS, and that there is no contradiction between the teachings of the ZCC and the government’s programs. Mr. Makgetho encouraged the congregations present to become active members of committees such as Men’s Sector, and thanked the Seronga Men’s Sector for coming to spread their message at Gudigwa.
The Seronga Men’s Sector will continue in their outreach efforts in the coming year by taking advantage of opportunities to address various congregations of faith throughout the Seronga and surrounding areas as they arise.
Mr. Gweexa addressing ZCC congregations at Gudigwa
Education:
In the coming months the Men’s Sector will host 2 workshops involving the local medical professionals from the Seronga clinic, as well as community healers and faith based leaders from Mogotho to Gudigwa. The goal of these workshops is to facilitate a conversation between these three important and influential community providers of HIV treatment and support. We intend to create an atmosphere of open conversation so that each service provider can highlight the service they provide in promoting HIV prevention and support. We also want each sector to educate about and promote their best practices and ways these three sectors can network together to provide the best response to the needs of their respective communities.
Another goal that the Seronga Men’s Sector is working towards is sensitizing the Police and members of the BDF on issues of gender and gender based violence. We plan to hold short seminars on these topics based on the curriculum provided by Men as Partners. We hope through these events to promote discussion of gender issues and to find a common ground from which we can address gender based violence through the men and women involved in these traditionally male centric organizations.
STEPS film Series:
Two members of the Men’s Sector Committee will be going for a workshop at the end of August to be trained on the facilitation of screenings for the STEPS (Social Transformation and Empowerment Projects) films. The STEPS films are designed to promote discussion and debate through their content, which will be shown with the support of the Men’s Sector at various locations in Seronga that have access to a television and generated power. Supporting partners include: the Seronga Clinic, the Seronga Sub Land Board, Ngambao CJSS, and the Seronga Police. These locations together provide us with a wide variety of locations from which to reach the people from the various wards of Seronga village.
Successes and Challenges:
The Seronga Men’s Sector has had a productive year, and has many planned activities for the coming year. We have held a successful kick off event; we have done outreaches, and have plans for workshops and programs that have a great deal of potential. That being said, we also have some challenges we hope to overcome in the coming year. The Lay Counselor at the clinic (who is also a member of the Men’s Sector) reports that there is still a hesitancy of men to go the clinic with their partners for testing. Combating traditional beliefs about HIV continues to be a challenge, with a great deal of misinformation being perpetuated in the community despite our efforts at widespread education. Another of the challenges we face in the coming year will be the procurement of a DVD player with which to play the STEPS films on. Plenty of the local partners have televisions and generators they would be willing to help us with, but we have yet to find one that has a DVD player on which to play the movies. We will attempt to meet this challenge by requesting funding from various sources in order to procure a DVD player that can be moved from location to location with the films.
Conclusions:
The Seronga Men’s Sector is an active and hardworking Committee comprising of men and women from the various sectors of professional, village and traditional life in Seronga and the surrounding area. We have set high goals for ourselves based the top issues of concern as set out by the Okavango Sub-District’s Evidence Based Plan. Of these areas the Seronga Men’s Sector is primarily focusing on Men’s involvement and addressing myths and misconceptions. We consistently strive to meet these goals without being deterred by lack of resources or the rural nature of our village. The Men’s Sector is making important progress in reducing the spread of HIV in the village of Seronga through our outreaches, our efforts at education, and our community events. We will not be discouraged from meeting our goals, and will consistently increase our efforts to bring men to the forefront as leaders in addressing issues of HIV/AIDS.
An Appliance Rebellion....
(I wrote this one in about mid July when my fridge busted. It took nearly a month to get it replaced. Ah Botswana. Thank God it was winter then, as my gas just went out while I was gone over the weekend and the sight and smell of my fridge full of rotten food in the summer brought me to tears.)
In order to combat increasingly declining sense of accomplishment (I wrote this a while ago…) I have ceremoniously decided (upon of course the recent suicide of my refrigerator) that in fact all of my combined household appliances, as well as several of my electrical gadgets have an unspoken vendetta against me. I am currently unable to deny that these appliances will no longer be satisfied with successfully ensuring my madness, but rather are trying to completely eliminate me as a resident of my hut (perhaps they have formed an alliance with the mice and lizards life insurance co-operative). This new framework through which to view my appliances and living conditions allows me to believe that my lack of prowess in most matters domestic is indeed not my fault.
My fridge has been making idle threats for months, or actually since I’ve had it, and finally chose today (as of course, the day when I have recently returned from Maun through a relatively painless 6 hour ride with transport nearly the entire way, which for the non-hitching in Sub-Saharan Africa layman means that I was completely and totally weighed down with perishable groceries because I had the means to get them here in a reasonable amount of time) and being completely full to die.
My oven is in on the death pact, and has decided it’s not only the appliances in the house but also its human inhabitant that must perish. It chooses to ensure this by f*$#ing up every item resembling food (It even went a step further and destroyed the butter knife I had accidentally left in a pan of toasting bread the other morning- I am so not a morning person….) that touches it. I know this little bastard is planning on me actually starving myself by becoming so fed up with the under and simultaneously overcooked item of food I bring forth from its fiery bowels that I give up on myself.
At current I have gone through 2 cameras being completely wrecked by dust, and the third is making a funny noise when I turn it on. The first ipod I brought with me has died, and I’ve gone through two mini speakers. The solio solar charger has died a long time back, and I’m on my third cell phone and have broken at least two chargers thus far in my tenure.
I can assure you it’s not that I’m not taking care of these things. All of my electronics have their own little plastic bags that they live in, with all of their corresponding chargers and adaptors and accessories (it took Africa to descend on me but by God I might emerge slightly closer to organized!). I guess that the lessons on wants versus needs will just keep coming and by the end of this I’ll surely be able to deal with anything;-)
In order to combat increasingly declining sense of accomplishment (I wrote this a while ago…) I have ceremoniously decided (upon of course the recent suicide of my refrigerator) that in fact all of my combined household appliances, as well as several of my electrical gadgets have an unspoken vendetta against me. I am currently unable to deny that these appliances will no longer be satisfied with successfully ensuring my madness, but rather are trying to completely eliminate me as a resident of my hut (perhaps they have formed an alliance with the mice and lizards life insurance co-operative). This new framework through which to view my appliances and living conditions allows me to believe that my lack of prowess in most matters domestic is indeed not my fault.
My fridge has been making idle threats for months, or actually since I’ve had it, and finally chose today (as of course, the day when I have recently returned from Maun through a relatively painless 6 hour ride with transport nearly the entire way, which for the non-hitching in Sub-Saharan Africa layman means that I was completely and totally weighed down with perishable groceries because I had the means to get them here in a reasonable amount of time) and being completely full to die.
My oven is in on the death pact, and has decided it’s not only the appliances in the house but also its human inhabitant that must perish. It chooses to ensure this by f*$#ing up every item resembling food (It even went a step further and destroyed the butter knife I had accidentally left in a pan of toasting bread the other morning- I am so not a morning person….) that touches it. I know this little bastard is planning on me actually starving myself by becoming so fed up with the under and simultaneously overcooked item of food I bring forth from its fiery bowels that I give up on myself.
At current I have gone through 2 cameras being completely wrecked by dust, and the third is making a funny noise when I turn it on. The first ipod I brought with me has died, and I’ve gone through two mini speakers. The solio solar charger has died a long time back, and I’m on my third cell phone and have broken at least two chargers thus far in my tenure.
I can assure you it’s not that I’m not taking care of these things. All of my electronics have their own little plastic bags that they live in, with all of their corresponding chargers and adaptors and accessories (it took Africa to descend on me but by God I might emerge slightly closer to organized!). I guess that the lessons on wants versus needs will just keep coming and by the end of this I’ll surely be able to deal with anything;-)
Operation Dumbo Drop
(Disclaimer: The following is my interpretation of the events described hereafter, including my own observations of the situation in the delta and does not reflect any of Anna’s research findings nor does not contain her expert opinion on the matter of human elephant conflict in the Okavango delta)
Timeline: This event happened the first weekend in May. It just took me a while to get it together ;-)
Ok, it was really an airlift sort of mission, but I couldn’t resist the title.
It began, as things often can, in Maun. I had gone there for my last HIV test (still negative---whoo hooo!) with my friend Anna the elephant researcher (the last three words of which Simon often combines to become her de facto surname. The entry for her in his phone is just Anna Elephant. Nice) and her research assistant Eva. Her research base camp is out near Gunotsoga, where she lives on an island in the delta with her flamingo researcher husband. (Which sounds glamorous, but let me assure you, it’s a pain in the ass to hang out with people who live on islands. Mokoros and Hippos and Crocs, oh my. And for whichever reason it seems many of my friends this side do live on islands. Weird.) Add in Anna’s husband Graham and the house was soon full of people who had been in the bush too long, which tends to make for an exciting weekend.
The time we were there also coincided with the Maun festival, which is the closest thing to a live music festival I’ve seen in a while. It’s still Botswana, so it has a long way to go, but I can see the effort there, and think it has the potential to be amazing. Me being myself, I managed to help paint and ride on the top (I cannot get over this fairy princess problem I’ve got;-) of the Sefofane and Wilderness “Flying Rhino” float in the parade. (How do I manage these things? And who has the photos?)
So anyways being with Anna and Co. in Maun was good, as it’s always nice to be around a place with a few more amenities, as well as being able to get things done a bit easier. I’m not embarrassed to admit that being out in the bush for so long has made me forget how to competently operate a washing machine and thus ended up making everything I washed completely soapy. I attempted to remedy this situation by restarting the washing machine without soap and ended up watching the entire hour long cycle through the front end loaded window with altogether too much interest. I again blame bush life.
But this entry is supposed to be about elephants…
The incident I’m attempting to describe began altogether too early on a Thursday morning. We had celebrated our arrival back in Maun the night before a bit to vigorously, so when all of our phones began ringing at such an early hour as 7am we were less than charmed (although to be honest between the roosters and the sunlight streaming into my hut I’m usually up long before that in Seronga, but it would have been nice to sleep in!!!). On the phone was Simon, informing Anna that an elephant had been shot near their camps at Gunotsoga. Anna, of course being a vegetarian and an animal lover, as well as (duh) an elephant researcher had some vested interest in what was happening with this elephant.
Anna’s research is specifically on human elephant conflict, which is a problem with the large number of elephants as well as people in the delta. The number of people inhabiting the delta continues to increase, especially with improved access to health care as well as ARV’s being readily available.
As the human population increases in the delta, so do the number of elephants. As conservation has become “trendy” and more research is being done to learn about elephants (google: “Elephants Without Borders”) there have been increasing interventions by the Botswana Wildlife departments and improved sanctions against poaching. The growth of the tourism industry as a major contributor (it could be argued that tourism is one of the main pillars of the Botswana economy along with mining) to the economy has resulted in the government and tour operators having a vested interest in protecting one of the token animals of the fabled Big Five.
As both populations increase, as does the fight for resources, namely food, water and space. There is extremely little formal employment within the eastern side of the panhandle from which people can make a living. Thus the area’s main economy is based in subsistence farming.
In addition to having a plot “in town” people also continue to move out from the villages to settlements and cattle posts and fields to raise cattle and grow crops. Villagers tend to apply for fields from the land board that appear to have less bush overgrowth, which also means less work to clear, and are thus easier to begin farming. Now for those of you scratching your head in confusion as to why this is relevant I want you to ask yourself why these random bush plots would be cleared already. If they didn’t currently have things growing on them why would they be bad to try to plant crops or raise cattle on?
Gentle readers let me shed light on this perplexing issue. The farmers are placing their fields directly in elephant superhighways. To the farmers it makes sense to make use of the work the elephants have already done in clearing trees and stomping down all the brush. In theory a great idea. In practice, a bad one.
Before the rains come and when the land is dry the elephants often head out into the bush away from the delta to find safer and more plentiful watering holes and eating spots. They stay out there eating everything they can find until the rains come and they wait for the flood. When the flood comes they return to the delta, using the very same paths they’ve cleared the years prior and have likely always used. But now instead of their highway they find a farm, as someone has moved in while they were away and sown their seeds to grow all sorts of green and wonderful things for hungry elephants. No problem for them, they just push over whatever tiny fence the farmer has surrounded his crops with and eat everything in sight.
Which of course then leads to angry farmers. At this point score one team Ellies, they’re full and can for the most part still use their highway, someone’s just put in a fast food joint for them. While the farmer has probably lost his year’s livelihood. You can see where the conflict lies.
The only other time I have seen the sort of destruction which could compare to what elephants can cause is after a tornado back home. Seeing areas that elephants have crop raided or even passed through is very surreal. It seems they are at times very deliberate about which trees they choose to completely upend and which ancient roots they chose to pull out to nibble on. They selectively smash some areas to bits while others they seem to tip toe through with the grace of little nymphs. Very strange. They’re smart animals.
As part of her research and personal interest in elephants and the humans that live amongst them, Anna also does educational projects at the primary schools in the area. I’ve participated with one of her educational presentations and it’s interesting to note the children’s attitudes about these animals they live amongst. Although there are a few children who have never seen an elephant (this is rare) many of the ones who have express fear of the animals. It’s not common that elephants attack and kill people (although it can happen) but it only takes one instance in an area this size for all sorts of misconceptions to start.
Sidebar: Allow me to refer you to a blog written by Anna’s most recent research assistant, Eeva. She lived with Anna on her island camp for three months this year and kept track of her adventures that side. www.eevasafrica.blogspot.com
(There’s also a stellar-thanks a lot, Eeva, flattering photo ;-p of me doing some sort of horrible beer bong type activity called a shot gun. And I hate beer.) She details the nitty gritty of the research process more coherently than I do here, as well as providing interesting commentary on true bush tent style living. I make a few cameos as well.
So back to the morning in question. An elephant had raided a field near Gonotsoga. A farmer had attempted to protect his field. With a gun. And in the dark had shot the elephant. Not realizing that the elephant was female. With two small calves.
Elephants are extremely social animals. Whenever you see one alone, it’s likely an old bull that has been displaced from his herd by a younger male. These old bulls might run at you to screw with you, but are for the most part like your old uncle at your cousin’s Christmas party, still pulling the quarters out of young kids ears for fun after they’re much to old to find this amusing and constantly telling the same jokes as the previous tens years and laughing hysterically. In a word: pretty harmless. (ooops I guess that was two).
Most of the herds you see consist of many, many females and their young. As I learned in my first weekend out in the bush, these are the herds you don’t want to mess with. The mothers are interested only in protecting their babies, and let’s just say they don’t put the mock in “mock charge”. These ladies mean business.
So in this instance when the mother was shot the herd disbanded, or at least fled the scene. Elephants are one of the few animals who have been shown to exhibit signs of PTSD, so this was a bad scene. The babies, frightened by the shot, followed their mother rather than the herd, and the mother, being wounded and disoriented, separated from the herd. Momma and babies ran a ways into the bush and ended up near Anna’s camp. Which is where they were when Ian, the old ex pat elephant hunter living out that side, caught wind of the story.
After Simon’s call, Ian himself called, reporting that one of the babies was probably about three months, no taller than thigh high (and, Anna reported, likely still with pink ears) and most definitely still suckling. The other couldn’t have been older than three years, and would likely be able to fend for itself if it could return to the herd. There was limited information about how long the mother had been dead, or if the herd had been sighted anywhere nearby, and Anna could only speculate on whether the herd might come back near a wounded elephants for fear of endangering themselves, regardless of the presence of the calves.
By this time the tears of horror had evaporated into pure adrenaline in Anna. I could actually almost see the wheels in her head turning, as she and Eva and Graham discussed the possibilities for the baby. There was talk of catching it and keeping it in their vegetable garden while continuing to nurse it (of course old Ian had the recipe for elephant milk formula) as well as trying to get one of the local camps that specialize in elephant back safaris or elephant reintroduction into the wild to take on the calf. This ended up being the better and more realistic option.
As with anything in Botswana, this grand scheme required permission and often the permissions and bureaucracy needed to do most anything is mind boggling and confusing in its logic. This elephant situation was no exception. All wild animals in Botswana-especially the elephants-are property of the government. In this case the elephant had been identified as a “problem animal” by the farmer, who had shot it raiding his field. This in and of itself was not illegal. But in terms of the calves, there were no laws and indeed no precedent for what should be done in a situation like this one.
The ministry finally allowed that Anna would be permitted to intervene with the smaller of the two if she could find a place for it to go with the understanding that it would later be released into the wild. No camps would agree to make a move to do anything with the elephant until they had government permission. In a lovely and typical problematic case of Botswana circular procedural issues, the situation was at a standstill.
The information we were receiving (Which we later found to be all from villagers eyewitness accounts, rather than Ian the former elephant hunter himself. It was the fact that this information was allegedly coming from Ian that was the basis for many of the decisions that would be made throughout the course of the operation, as certainly a man who hunted elephants for most of his life would be able to accurately recount the details of the situation, namely the ages and conditions of the elephants involved. His reputation in Maun and indeed the whole of Botswana were what gave legitimacy to the claims. In the end it was a story that came across what was likely two different language barriers and an eighty two year old man’s less than stellar command of Setswana in the first place. But we’ll get to that part.) was that the babies were still near the dead mother whom the villagers were impatiently waiting to carve up for its meat (a common practice). I will now remind you of the little elephant psychology lesson about PTSD. Not good. Even baby elephants are sorta big, and a nervous three year old being protective of both itself and its younger sibling wouldn’t be something you’d want to mess with.
So Anna went into rescue mode, preparing letters and arranging meetings to get a plan sorted to rescue this baby elephant. The older one was determined to be able to fend for itself, but the baby was causing all sorts of worry. Anna called in all sorts of favors and resources to try to get a place to take this baby elephant. There was one camp who might take it, but the camp already had an orphan baby elephant (Who knew there was not only a problem with too many orphan children in Botswana but also orphaned elephants?) that they had managed to get to nurse from a lactating female. The camp managers very much doubted that the mother would have the energy or milk to provide for two babies, and indeed the introduction of another one might upset the balance of the herd.
Anna continued in her persistence, even sort of (well I don’t think “ambush” is the correct word, but maybe it’s close) “meeting” one of the managers from the camp at the airport. It appeared it was an American owned operation, and they happened to have some of the American owners in Botswana right now. The owners are apparently the type who buy luxury camps in the Okavango delta in order to occasionally turn up with their khaki outfits and belts weighted down with bush necessities like GPS’s and oversized Leathermans and fly around in helicopters to be the masters of all they survey. Yes, there are enough of these sorts of people running around Maun for there to be a “type”. Hell if the heir and the spare to the throne of England hang out here, why not all sorts of moneyed others?
This factor ended up pushing the whole operation in Anna’s favor, as it meant the owners would likely be keen for an adventure come rescue operation, and furthermore, the chopper was already fueled and in the air. It was arranged that a fixed wing caravan plane would also be commissioned for the rescue operation, and a veterinarian was also called in to oversee the progress. All the seats were to be removed from the caravan plane so that the baby elephant (once sedated by the vet) would be able to be loaded into the plane and taken to the camp, where it would hopefully get some elephant therapy to recover from its PTSD and become a productive and healthy member of a herd.
So in the midst of all the arrangements, Anna didn’t think to ask if she might be able to fly in the plane up to Seronga/Gunotsoga to meet the little ellie dude whose life she undoubtedly just saved until the plane was already gone. She’d done all that she could, and so we went about our evening, knowing that the whole operation would have to be completed soon, as it was winter, and night would soon be falling.
It was soon after the fixed wing plane took off however, that the problems began rolling in through various phone reports.
The first major problem was a big one. The mother was still alive! How can someone mistake a dead elephant? Anna reports that elephants in distress will flap their ears back and forth, especially to keep cool under the hot Botswana sun and due to their size the ears would have had to appear almost flag-like.
That the mother was still alive posed a problem because now there was the issue that it’s illegal to kill an animal which is the property of the government of Botswana without a permit. So now at this late point in the evening, the Vet who had arrived in the plane started making calls to the cell phones of various ministry officials who had already left the office for the day. He was able to get the necessary permission to kill the animal on the grounds of ending its suffering. Due to the size and the level of distress the animal had been under, the only humane way to do this at this point would be to shoot the elephant, and the only equipment appropriate for this would be a gun. And who is the only person that side whom is known to both have a firearm and the knowledge of how to shoot an elephant to properly kill it? Of course the hero (?) of the story thus far, Ian.
So the chopper heads over to Ian’s island to collect him and have him put down the mother. In the mean time more reports come in to us in Maun. It turns out the babies aren’t babies at all. While the elder appeared to be between 7 and 10 years old (Ian had earlier reported the elder was three), the younger was between 3 and 5. Likely not still suckling, and too big to be able to do anything to help it in any way.
So you can imagine the embarrassment and frustration that Anna was experiencing at this time. She had been running around the whole of Maun, appealing to various ministers in various departments of the national government to get this whole rescue operation accomplished only to have it be a tangled web of wrong information. In the end, most of the blame was transferred to Ian, whom at 82 years old is likely both unaware of the chaos he incited and furthermore likely quite unconcerned.
My take on it is that it was an amazing feat to have been pulled off in the span of a day in a village like Maun, in a country like Botswana, and really made me respect Anna’s passion for her subject and also her perseverance for her cause. I consider myself quite lucky to be in her sphere of influence. It made me realize what can be accomplished when you refuse to take no for an answer, and you’re determined to do something. The owners of the camps and planes were a little less than pleased (to put it mildly) about the incredible waste of money that the day had been, but despite the less than happy ending it made for a hell of an exciting day.
Timeline: This event happened the first weekend in May. It just took me a while to get it together ;-)
Ok, it was really an airlift sort of mission, but I couldn’t resist the title.
It began, as things often can, in Maun. I had gone there for my last HIV test (still negative---whoo hooo!) with my friend Anna the elephant researcher (the last three words of which Simon often combines to become her de facto surname. The entry for her in his phone is just Anna Elephant. Nice) and her research assistant Eva. Her research base camp is out near Gunotsoga, where she lives on an island in the delta with her flamingo researcher husband. (Which sounds glamorous, but let me assure you, it’s a pain in the ass to hang out with people who live on islands. Mokoros and Hippos and Crocs, oh my. And for whichever reason it seems many of my friends this side do live on islands. Weird.) Add in Anna’s husband Graham and the house was soon full of people who had been in the bush too long, which tends to make for an exciting weekend.
The time we were there also coincided with the Maun festival, which is the closest thing to a live music festival I’ve seen in a while. It’s still Botswana, so it has a long way to go, but I can see the effort there, and think it has the potential to be amazing. Me being myself, I managed to help paint and ride on the top (I cannot get over this fairy princess problem I’ve got;-) of the Sefofane and Wilderness “Flying Rhino” float in the parade. (How do I manage these things? And who has the photos?)
So anyways being with Anna and Co. in Maun was good, as it’s always nice to be around a place with a few more amenities, as well as being able to get things done a bit easier. I’m not embarrassed to admit that being out in the bush for so long has made me forget how to competently operate a washing machine and thus ended up making everything I washed completely soapy. I attempted to remedy this situation by restarting the washing machine without soap and ended up watching the entire hour long cycle through the front end loaded window with altogether too much interest. I again blame bush life.
But this entry is supposed to be about elephants…
The incident I’m attempting to describe began altogether too early on a Thursday morning. We had celebrated our arrival back in Maun the night before a bit to vigorously, so when all of our phones began ringing at such an early hour as 7am we were less than charmed (although to be honest between the roosters and the sunlight streaming into my hut I’m usually up long before that in Seronga, but it would have been nice to sleep in!!!). On the phone was Simon, informing Anna that an elephant had been shot near their camps at Gunotsoga. Anna, of course being a vegetarian and an animal lover, as well as (duh) an elephant researcher had some vested interest in what was happening with this elephant.
Anna’s research is specifically on human elephant conflict, which is a problem with the large number of elephants as well as people in the delta. The number of people inhabiting the delta continues to increase, especially with improved access to health care as well as ARV’s being readily available.
As the human population increases in the delta, so do the number of elephants. As conservation has become “trendy” and more research is being done to learn about elephants (google: “Elephants Without Borders”) there have been increasing interventions by the Botswana Wildlife departments and improved sanctions against poaching. The growth of the tourism industry as a major contributor (it could be argued that tourism is one of the main pillars of the Botswana economy along with mining) to the economy has resulted in the government and tour operators having a vested interest in protecting one of the token animals of the fabled Big Five.
As both populations increase, as does the fight for resources, namely food, water and space. There is extremely little formal employment within the eastern side of the panhandle from which people can make a living. Thus the area’s main economy is based in subsistence farming.
In addition to having a plot “in town” people also continue to move out from the villages to settlements and cattle posts and fields to raise cattle and grow crops. Villagers tend to apply for fields from the land board that appear to have less bush overgrowth, which also means less work to clear, and are thus easier to begin farming. Now for those of you scratching your head in confusion as to why this is relevant I want you to ask yourself why these random bush plots would be cleared already. If they didn’t currently have things growing on them why would they be bad to try to plant crops or raise cattle on?
Gentle readers let me shed light on this perplexing issue. The farmers are placing their fields directly in elephant superhighways. To the farmers it makes sense to make use of the work the elephants have already done in clearing trees and stomping down all the brush. In theory a great idea. In practice, a bad one.
Before the rains come and when the land is dry the elephants often head out into the bush away from the delta to find safer and more plentiful watering holes and eating spots. They stay out there eating everything they can find until the rains come and they wait for the flood. When the flood comes they return to the delta, using the very same paths they’ve cleared the years prior and have likely always used. But now instead of their highway they find a farm, as someone has moved in while they were away and sown their seeds to grow all sorts of green and wonderful things for hungry elephants. No problem for them, they just push over whatever tiny fence the farmer has surrounded his crops with and eat everything in sight.
Which of course then leads to angry farmers. At this point score one team Ellies, they’re full and can for the most part still use their highway, someone’s just put in a fast food joint for them. While the farmer has probably lost his year’s livelihood. You can see where the conflict lies.
The only other time I have seen the sort of destruction which could compare to what elephants can cause is after a tornado back home. Seeing areas that elephants have crop raided or even passed through is very surreal. It seems they are at times very deliberate about which trees they choose to completely upend and which ancient roots they chose to pull out to nibble on. They selectively smash some areas to bits while others they seem to tip toe through with the grace of little nymphs. Very strange. They’re smart animals.
As part of her research and personal interest in elephants and the humans that live amongst them, Anna also does educational projects at the primary schools in the area. I’ve participated with one of her educational presentations and it’s interesting to note the children’s attitudes about these animals they live amongst. Although there are a few children who have never seen an elephant (this is rare) many of the ones who have express fear of the animals. It’s not common that elephants attack and kill people (although it can happen) but it only takes one instance in an area this size for all sorts of misconceptions to start.
Sidebar: Allow me to refer you to a blog written by Anna’s most recent research assistant, Eeva. She lived with Anna on her island camp for three months this year and kept track of her adventures that side. www.eevasafrica.blogspot.com
(There’s also a stellar-thanks a lot, Eeva, flattering photo ;-p of me doing some sort of horrible beer bong type activity called a shot gun. And I hate beer.) She details the nitty gritty of the research process more coherently than I do here, as well as providing interesting commentary on true bush tent style living. I make a few cameos as well.
So back to the morning in question. An elephant had raided a field near Gonotsoga. A farmer had attempted to protect his field. With a gun. And in the dark had shot the elephant. Not realizing that the elephant was female. With two small calves.
Elephants are extremely social animals. Whenever you see one alone, it’s likely an old bull that has been displaced from his herd by a younger male. These old bulls might run at you to screw with you, but are for the most part like your old uncle at your cousin’s Christmas party, still pulling the quarters out of young kids ears for fun after they’re much to old to find this amusing and constantly telling the same jokes as the previous tens years and laughing hysterically. In a word: pretty harmless. (ooops I guess that was two).
Most of the herds you see consist of many, many females and their young. As I learned in my first weekend out in the bush, these are the herds you don’t want to mess with. The mothers are interested only in protecting their babies, and let’s just say they don’t put the mock in “mock charge”. These ladies mean business.
So in this instance when the mother was shot the herd disbanded, or at least fled the scene. Elephants are one of the few animals who have been shown to exhibit signs of PTSD, so this was a bad scene. The babies, frightened by the shot, followed their mother rather than the herd, and the mother, being wounded and disoriented, separated from the herd. Momma and babies ran a ways into the bush and ended up near Anna’s camp. Which is where they were when Ian, the old ex pat elephant hunter living out that side, caught wind of the story.
After Simon’s call, Ian himself called, reporting that one of the babies was probably about three months, no taller than thigh high (and, Anna reported, likely still with pink ears) and most definitely still suckling. The other couldn’t have been older than three years, and would likely be able to fend for itself if it could return to the herd. There was limited information about how long the mother had been dead, or if the herd had been sighted anywhere nearby, and Anna could only speculate on whether the herd might come back near a wounded elephants for fear of endangering themselves, regardless of the presence of the calves.
By this time the tears of horror had evaporated into pure adrenaline in Anna. I could actually almost see the wheels in her head turning, as she and Eva and Graham discussed the possibilities for the baby. There was talk of catching it and keeping it in their vegetable garden while continuing to nurse it (of course old Ian had the recipe for elephant milk formula) as well as trying to get one of the local camps that specialize in elephant back safaris or elephant reintroduction into the wild to take on the calf. This ended up being the better and more realistic option.
As with anything in Botswana, this grand scheme required permission and often the permissions and bureaucracy needed to do most anything is mind boggling and confusing in its logic. This elephant situation was no exception. All wild animals in Botswana-especially the elephants-are property of the government. In this case the elephant had been identified as a “problem animal” by the farmer, who had shot it raiding his field. This in and of itself was not illegal. But in terms of the calves, there were no laws and indeed no precedent for what should be done in a situation like this one.
The ministry finally allowed that Anna would be permitted to intervene with the smaller of the two if she could find a place for it to go with the understanding that it would later be released into the wild. No camps would agree to make a move to do anything with the elephant until they had government permission. In a lovely and typical problematic case of Botswana circular procedural issues, the situation was at a standstill.
The information we were receiving (Which we later found to be all from villagers eyewitness accounts, rather than Ian the former elephant hunter himself. It was the fact that this information was allegedly coming from Ian that was the basis for many of the decisions that would be made throughout the course of the operation, as certainly a man who hunted elephants for most of his life would be able to accurately recount the details of the situation, namely the ages and conditions of the elephants involved. His reputation in Maun and indeed the whole of Botswana were what gave legitimacy to the claims. In the end it was a story that came across what was likely two different language barriers and an eighty two year old man’s less than stellar command of Setswana in the first place. But we’ll get to that part.) was that the babies were still near the dead mother whom the villagers were impatiently waiting to carve up for its meat (a common practice). I will now remind you of the little elephant psychology lesson about PTSD. Not good. Even baby elephants are sorta big, and a nervous three year old being protective of both itself and its younger sibling wouldn’t be something you’d want to mess with.
So Anna went into rescue mode, preparing letters and arranging meetings to get a plan sorted to rescue this baby elephant. The older one was determined to be able to fend for itself, but the baby was causing all sorts of worry. Anna called in all sorts of favors and resources to try to get a place to take this baby elephant. There was one camp who might take it, but the camp already had an orphan baby elephant (Who knew there was not only a problem with too many orphan children in Botswana but also orphaned elephants?) that they had managed to get to nurse from a lactating female. The camp managers very much doubted that the mother would have the energy or milk to provide for two babies, and indeed the introduction of another one might upset the balance of the herd.
Anna continued in her persistence, even sort of (well I don’t think “ambush” is the correct word, but maybe it’s close) “meeting” one of the managers from the camp at the airport. It appeared it was an American owned operation, and they happened to have some of the American owners in Botswana right now. The owners are apparently the type who buy luxury camps in the Okavango delta in order to occasionally turn up with their khaki outfits and belts weighted down with bush necessities like GPS’s and oversized Leathermans and fly around in helicopters to be the masters of all they survey. Yes, there are enough of these sorts of people running around Maun for there to be a “type”. Hell if the heir and the spare to the throne of England hang out here, why not all sorts of moneyed others?
This factor ended up pushing the whole operation in Anna’s favor, as it meant the owners would likely be keen for an adventure come rescue operation, and furthermore, the chopper was already fueled and in the air. It was arranged that a fixed wing caravan plane would also be commissioned for the rescue operation, and a veterinarian was also called in to oversee the progress. All the seats were to be removed from the caravan plane so that the baby elephant (once sedated by the vet) would be able to be loaded into the plane and taken to the camp, where it would hopefully get some elephant therapy to recover from its PTSD and become a productive and healthy member of a herd.
So in the midst of all the arrangements, Anna didn’t think to ask if she might be able to fly in the plane up to Seronga/Gunotsoga to meet the little ellie dude whose life she undoubtedly just saved until the plane was already gone. She’d done all that she could, and so we went about our evening, knowing that the whole operation would have to be completed soon, as it was winter, and night would soon be falling.
It was soon after the fixed wing plane took off however, that the problems began rolling in through various phone reports.
The first major problem was a big one. The mother was still alive! How can someone mistake a dead elephant? Anna reports that elephants in distress will flap their ears back and forth, especially to keep cool under the hot Botswana sun and due to their size the ears would have had to appear almost flag-like.
That the mother was still alive posed a problem because now there was the issue that it’s illegal to kill an animal which is the property of the government of Botswana without a permit. So now at this late point in the evening, the Vet who had arrived in the plane started making calls to the cell phones of various ministry officials who had already left the office for the day. He was able to get the necessary permission to kill the animal on the grounds of ending its suffering. Due to the size and the level of distress the animal had been under, the only humane way to do this at this point would be to shoot the elephant, and the only equipment appropriate for this would be a gun. And who is the only person that side whom is known to both have a firearm and the knowledge of how to shoot an elephant to properly kill it? Of course the hero (?) of the story thus far, Ian.
So the chopper heads over to Ian’s island to collect him and have him put down the mother. In the mean time more reports come in to us in Maun. It turns out the babies aren’t babies at all. While the elder appeared to be between 7 and 10 years old (Ian had earlier reported the elder was three), the younger was between 3 and 5. Likely not still suckling, and too big to be able to do anything to help it in any way.
So you can imagine the embarrassment and frustration that Anna was experiencing at this time. She had been running around the whole of Maun, appealing to various ministers in various departments of the national government to get this whole rescue operation accomplished only to have it be a tangled web of wrong information. In the end, most of the blame was transferred to Ian, whom at 82 years old is likely both unaware of the chaos he incited and furthermore likely quite unconcerned.
My take on it is that it was an amazing feat to have been pulled off in the span of a day in a village like Maun, in a country like Botswana, and really made me respect Anna’s passion for her subject and also her perseverance for her cause. I consider myself quite lucky to be in her sphere of influence. It made me realize what can be accomplished when you refuse to take no for an answer, and you’re determined to do something. The owners of the camps and planes were a little less than pleased (to put it mildly) about the incredible waste of money that the day had been, but despite the less than happy ending it made for a hell of an exciting day.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
28 is GREAT!!!!
To all of you who sent me birthday well wishes and cards, letters, calls, gifts, packages, THANK YOU!!!! I was able to celebrate for about a week straight all across the great country of Botswana, and spend some quality time with all of those who have become my family here. To Rob, Kendyll, Damon, Ella, Todd, Adryan, Jules, Cait, Johnny, Andrew, Dudu, Vix, Elena, Patrick, Jamie, Drea, Tina, Tuan, Ricardo, Sara Lee, Anna, Graham, Cabrini, and all the party peeps, thanks for making it such a memorable week, and making “happy birthday” the most played song of my week.
To all those back home who contacted (or tried!) in some way or another, thank you for remembering me. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to accurately capture in words the disconnect I have grown to feel, and that comes and goes in waves, between here and there, but all of you that keep in touch remind me of who I am, and why I’m here. To me this is priceless, and is all because of you. Thank you.
Most of you who know me know that I tend to go through a little birthday trauma, with each new year on my years on this planet causing me stress about the age I am, what I’ve accomplished and where my life is going, and I’m happy to report 28 has not begun that way. There’s something about living my passion, and becoming at least a little more certain about what drives me and the direction I want my life to go that has brought some ease to this. Even on days when I’m miserable here, it calms me to remind myself how much this experience has meant and continues to mean to me, how much I have learned and grown and to know that any sacrifice I may have made to be here has been worth it.
It’s hard to believe I’ve now been away for 2 birthdays, but the “new normal” has become just “normal”. The ways of Seronga and Botswana come to bother and upset me less and less, and while a part of me struggles with this as complacency for the unacceptable, another part realizes I’m more productive when I can accept the realities of the place and just choose bits and pieces to hammer away at. If I want progress I have to start with the reality of where those around me actually are, not where they could be, and that is the ultimate challenge. I’m not going to change the world, but perhaps I can change a few lives. When I’m honest with myself I can see that I already have. Perhaps it’s this insatiable hunger for more and wishing for better for those that I work with here that will be the thing that burns me out, but for now I ride the waves, I search for the bright spots, I smile and wave at the children, and I hope for the best. It’s really all you can do sometimes.
My family will arrive soon, the first people who have known the “pre PC” me to set eyes on me in a year and a half. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was nervous, to show them the world in which I inhabit, the ways in which I interact with it and those who inhabit it, the person I’ve become. My excitement outweighs my nervousness though, and I’m completely filled with an overwhelming sense that I just NEED MY MOM. Just the thought of her here brings tears to my eyes. I need my sister to come here and look me over, and likely shout at me a bit (cause she’s so good at it) and I need Paul to keep the balance between us. I want to sink into the comfort of their familiarity. I need them to take me in their arms and to hold me, and to make life a little easier for a minute. I need to relax and breathe. I need to see this place through their eyes.
Living a life in which planning is so difficult, and disappointment and things not going that way you’d expect is the norm rather than the exception, I’ve realized that in some ways, I’ve been hesitant to really realize and accept that they are coming. I remember feeling a charge as they bought the plane tickets, and the email confirmation about the hotels in Capetown always make me smile, but it’s been hard to completely believe that they’re coming and everything will work out to bring them here. I have no tangible reason to not believe it, but I think small parts of me have been afraid to get altogether too excited. It has reduced the thrill of their arrival to a dull longing, which I’ve become so accustomed to in everyday life that this particular want has been tough to attend to. It’s tough for me to try to plan my next meal much further ahead than when I open my fridge (and hope that it’s still cold and working) so planning months ahead for their arrival has been a bit of a challenge to wrap my head around, and DO anything about. This has lead to a few logistical problems I’m coming to see, but as all things here, I’m sure it will be fine, although the time that they are in Botswana will certainly have quite a few elements of adventure.
All hesitancies and apprehension aside, I’m totally excited for them to arrive. We’re going to spend a fair amount of time in CAPETOWN, which I’ve heard is like heaven. My friend Dudu describes it as what happened when Africa and Europe had a torrid love affair that resulted in a magical city in South Africa. I simply cannot wait.
I’m going to post this blog now, and leave work and project related news for another update. Things are going well, the heat has returned, and I’ve got plenty of angsty rumination in the literary pipeline for those of you who dig that. Hopefully in the process of vacation and relaxation I’ll be able to write some more and post a few more stories and updates on here for you. Until then, wherever you are, thank you for your presence in my life and your continued encouragement and support. I am a very lucky woman.
To all those back home who contacted (or tried!) in some way or another, thank you for remembering me. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to accurately capture in words the disconnect I have grown to feel, and that comes and goes in waves, between here and there, but all of you that keep in touch remind me of who I am, and why I’m here. To me this is priceless, and is all because of you. Thank you.
Most of you who know me know that I tend to go through a little birthday trauma, with each new year on my years on this planet causing me stress about the age I am, what I’ve accomplished and where my life is going, and I’m happy to report 28 has not begun that way. There’s something about living my passion, and becoming at least a little more certain about what drives me and the direction I want my life to go that has brought some ease to this. Even on days when I’m miserable here, it calms me to remind myself how much this experience has meant and continues to mean to me, how much I have learned and grown and to know that any sacrifice I may have made to be here has been worth it.
It’s hard to believe I’ve now been away for 2 birthdays, but the “new normal” has become just “normal”. The ways of Seronga and Botswana come to bother and upset me less and less, and while a part of me struggles with this as complacency for the unacceptable, another part realizes I’m more productive when I can accept the realities of the place and just choose bits and pieces to hammer away at. If I want progress I have to start with the reality of where those around me actually are, not where they could be, and that is the ultimate challenge. I’m not going to change the world, but perhaps I can change a few lives. When I’m honest with myself I can see that I already have. Perhaps it’s this insatiable hunger for more and wishing for better for those that I work with here that will be the thing that burns me out, but for now I ride the waves, I search for the bright spots, I smile and wave at the children, and I hope for the best. It’s really all you can do sometimes.
My family will arrive soon, the first people who have known the “pre PC” me to set eyes on me in a year and a half. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was nervous, to show them the world in which I inhabit, the ways in which I interact with it and those who inhabit it, the person I’ve become. My excitement outweighs my nervousness though, and I’m completely filled with an overwhelming sense that I just NEED MY MOM. Just the thought of her here brings tears to my eyes. I need my sister to come here and look me over, and likely shout at me a bit (cause she’s so good at it) and I need Paul to keep the balance between us. I want to sink into the comfort of their familiarity. I need them to take me in their arms and to hold me, and to make life a little easier for a minute. I need to relax and breathe. I need to see this place through their eyes.
Living a life in which planning is so difficult, and disappointment and things not going that way you’d expect is the norm rather than the exception, I’ve realized that in some ways, I’ve been hesitant to really realize and accept that they are coming. I remember feeling a charge as they bought the plane tickets, and the email confirmation about the hotels in Capetown always make me smile, but it’s been hard to completely believe that they’re coming and everything will work out to bring them here. I have no tangible reason to not believe it, but I think small parts of me have been afraid to get altogether too excited. It has reduced the thrill of their arrival to a dull longing, which I’ve become so accustomed to in everyday life that this particular want has been tough to attend to. It’s tough for me to try to plan my next meal much further ahead than when I open my fridge (and hope that it’s still cold and working) so planning months ahead for their arrival has been a bit of a challenge to wrap my head around, and DO anything about. This has lead to a few logistical problems I’m coming to see, but as all things here, I’m sure it will be fine, although the time that they are in Botswana will certainly have quite a few elements of adventure.
All hesitancies and apprehension aside, I’m totally excited for them to arrive. We’re going to spend a fair amount of time in CAPETOWN, which I’ve heard is like heaven. My friend Dudu describes it as what happened when Africa and Europe had a torrid love affair that resulted in a magical city in South Africa. I simply cannot wait.
I’m going to post this blog now, and leave work and project related news for another update. Things are going well, the heat has returned, and I’ve got plenty of angsty rumination in the literary pipeline for those of you who dig that. Hopefully in the process of vacation and relaxation I’ll be able to write some more and post a few more stories and updates on here for you. Until then, wherever you are, thank you for your presence in my life and your continued encouragement and support. I am a very lucky woman.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Feel/Crash
Part 1: Goodbye
I had heard through the highly efficient gossip grapevine that is the main mode of communication amongst the foreign ex pat community in the widely sprawling but sparsely populated country of Botswana that my new friend had decided to leave. She hadn’t been here altogether too long, but I had looked forward to having another friend in the delta. I text her to see if it was true. When she confirmed her departure I asked if I could stop by and say goodbye.
In addition to knowing I was going to miss her, and wanting to see her off, in some weird way I also felt it my duty, having recently been promoted to the ranks of those who have been in country over a year to check in with her before she left. It’s a big decision to make, as we go through a lot and take a long time to get here in the first place. There was no thought that crossed my mind about trying to talk her out of it, it wasn’t about that. I trusted that she had thought about the decision from all angles, as I said, it’s a huge decision. My main concern was that she was at peace, and that it hadn’t been one particular incident that had pushed her towards leaving.
When you observe the trajectory of the Peace Corps cycle of emotions from arrival in country to departure, you notice that much of our time in this experience is spent feeling vulnerable and or depressed. Incidents that might be sort of a big deal or even a small deal on their own are constantly being coupled with various other discomforts and inconveniences, cultural miscommunications and various other emotional maladies that can make everything feel like a BIG DEAL. Occasionally smallish things, or things that you will adjust to or have the potential to change over time push you over the edge, and to everything you can just feel like saying “F*ck IT!!! I can promise you that every single person in every Peace Corps post in the world has experienced this particular sentiment, and sometimes you need to speak with one of the people who can understand the sentiment to get past it and keep going.
I wanted to provide the ear of someone who would be one of the last people she would encounter who would “get it.” Once she steps off that plane in the States, there will be very few if any people that understand much of anything of what she has just left. When she came here she came alone and when she gets back, she returns alone as well.
I arrived at her place, both the first and last time I would see her space, and it was all packed up (full disclosure: I just had a total Christmas in July. My new friend was incredibly generous in her departure. I may have just received the only non-stick frying pan in the Okavango delta.). We sat and chatted. She was indeed at peace, and very comfortable with her decision, and I had to agree that her reasons were nothing short of solid. It hadn’t been an impulsive decision or one certain thing. She felt it was time for her to go and in that I supported her.
Seronga being where it is (quite near the edge of the end of the Earth, which I believe is officially located in Gudigwa) I haven’t had too much exposure to those who have arrived recently. Peace Corps in Botswana is such that each year a cohort leaves and a new one arrives. So we’re all either the newbies or the old school. With this position of honor comes a certain amount of jadedness and increased cynicism amongst some of us that we try to be somewhat gentle in our exposure to the new class so as not to age them unduly before their time.
It’s a constant mini-circle of life. In May I got used to the idea that the people I’ve come to look to for many things were leaving, and that suddenly I would become the one who would be called on to help the fresh arrivals in any way I could to get through the hardest part of Peace Corps, the first few months in their new villages. I tried to remember what I would have wanted and what I felt I needed when I was in their position, and still try to consider them whenever I learn something new or gain a new resource. Although Peace Corps is a hugely individual endeavor it’s also essential that we work together and try to help each other out when we can, be it through helping each other make contacts and access resources or by just being there to listen and support each other.
Dudu (in Gumare) and I have long agreed that we aren’t the type of people with personalities that would get along or be friends in the States, with that being said I would be pretty fricken lost without her. It’s these sort of relationships based in proximity and circumstance and sharing similar geography and conditions that lead to the sort of odd affections we develop through this experience. An opportunity I was now going to miss out on with my new friend as she was leaving.
I wasn’t in any way mad or disappointed in her, as I said I understood her reasons. Through the conversation we had I noticed many things that struck me. In some ways it’s incredibly weird to see so much of the person I used to be in the new class, and see so much of those who have recently left in myself. Things I have come to have patience with or at least tolerate with the understanding that they are not changing any time soon, or that there’s ways of keeping oneself from being exposed to these upsetting things. You come to a point where you don’t think of it as ignoring or overlooking shocking or upsetting things but rather keeping your own sanity by not dwelling on them. Some of the comments she made and things she was displeased with about the culture or the country that I would have formerly agreed with wholeheartedly, I found that somewhere between here and there just came to accept or at least understand the reasons why things are the way they are.
As I sat nodding about and agreeing with some of the things she expressed indignation with that I have long come to accept as normal, I began to wonder: When did I stop feeling? When did these things that would normally upset me and rile me up cease to even cause a blip in my radar? Was this the emotional direction life in Botswana was taking me? Towards being so constantly immersed in conditions and instances of distress, and grief, circumstances of injustice and hopelessness that I would become emotionally exhausted by it all and begin to check out emotionally? That human suffering would be so part and parcel with daily life that I didn’t care anymore? Was I numb?
I had wondered the same thing on a few separate occasions in recent weeks when I’d felt my eyeballs begin to twitch. It would start when I was extremely frustrated, frustration happens daily in Seronga and it barely fazes me any more, but these were instances where no less than 10 things had suddenly derailed and I was at a loss for which direction to even move into next. My eyeballs would twitch and burn as I sat somberly away from people, a preemptive move I’ve found myself making without even realizing it, in order to keep from flipping out on people who have no contribution to or responsibility for my frustration but might otherwise find themselves in my path. More and more often lately I’ve found myself sitting, staring off into space, waiting for the dull rage to subside.
I realized later that the eye twitching is what usually happens before I cry, what used to be my last resort as a way to react to my frustration or other angsty situation I find myself in. I noted with slight disinterest that I don’t even bother crying anymore, as I’ve learned it does no good. Instead I send out a few choicely worded text messages to friends here whom I know can relate, and wait for the anger and ire to subside, the only joy I get coming from how entertaining or succinct I can be with my venom.
I wonder at this new phase, if it can be interpreted as growth or regression? Am I becoming more zen or just permanently pissed off? Do I even notice any more? I know I feel when I’m happy, because it seems the slightest things make me nearly euphoric which tends to be expressed through big smiles and dancing about, and yes, usually some text messages. When I’m happy I feel really happy. I appreciate and just love my life. I feel lucky and blessed for the opportunities and adventures I’ve had here. I feel any sacrifice I may have made to live this experience for two years has more than been rewarded. Much of the rest of the time I spend in a fugue of either frustration or avoidance of aforementioned frustration. Because if I can’t feasibly DO something about the situation that is irritating me, is there any point in feeling that irritation? If I ignore it, will it go away? Choose your battles?
Part 2: Crash
I revisited these ideas later that night. I left with a hug and well wishes when my friend Colin collected me from her house. I had invited her out for one last night of Botswana fun but she deferred with too much packing to finish. Fair enough. Colin and I went to pursue one of the main (only?) forms of entertainment in the area, heading out to the bar. For a few different reasons I wasn’t drinking that night, but as I have long maintained, I can have as much fun at a good party as the average bear whether I’m drinking or not. It was a long night; I saw a lot of friends, had a great time and was more than ready to go home by the end of the night without the alcohol that often fuels the sort of stubbornness that is what successfully keeps the party going in my system.
In the parking lot many of the revelers were a bit too drunk to be driving, which is a constant danger of being on the road in Sub Saharan Africa (the deadliest place for road accidents in the world). Colin and I got in the car and waited while the cars ahead of us did spin outs and screwed around on the dirt parking lot ahead of us. The squealing tires and flying dirt set the stage for stupid driving, and we just continued to wait back until all of the cars had gotten on their way. We didn’t want to be near any of them on the road as we made our way home.
When the noise and lights of a majority of the cars that were ahead of us were gone, we slowly pulled out behind a guy with a girl on the back of his bike. Outside this particular bar there is a curb along the dirt that breaks in one very small, very specific place so that cars can enter the gate without having to go over this curb. It’s hard to see in the day and nearly impossible at night, so for the most part cars just come across the dirt wherever they can.
This wasn’t what happened that night.
The driver of the bike pulled out of the gate wobbling back and forth a bit, his balance thrown off as he was searching for the break in the curb. As he drove out towards the road he was directly in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, also searching for the break in the curb, but deterred from that by the presence of the bike in the way. The oncoming vehicle swerved (a bit unnecessarily from what I could see from my front row vantage point) and overcorrected, and proceeded to roll three or four times. In excruciatingly slow motion.
The noise was horrifying. The screeching of tires was brief, but the sound of the metal impact on the ground burst forth again and again. The dust that was kicked up and floated in the jarring lights of the headlamps of the car as it rolled.
I began repeating Colin’s name like a question, the fear pulsing through my veins and making his name the only logical thing to ask, as though I expected him to answer that no, we hadn’t actually just seen that. He made a move to get away from the scene but from somewhere else I heard my voice say hesitantly, and then more insistently, “No. We can’t”. He grunted at me and jumped out of the car. I could see people running from in front of me towards the now mangled SUV, which was behind me. They flashed in front of the windscreen like a movie.
Now I was alone, which felt more frightening than anything so I got out of the car and followed the guy who had been riding the bike, his passenger and Colin towards the scene. Through the glow of the headlights, in the hazy smoke of dust and broken glass in the road laid the silhouette of a person. As I got closer I realized it wasn’t a silhouette, it was an actual figure, and it took me a minute to realize that indeed this person might be dead. It was my turn to pause. Colin had recovered from his initial shock and was now attending to the man in the road, asking him questions to determine his identity and injuries.
He had been the passenger in the SUV, and he had been thrown from the vehicle, the driver suffered minor injuries. He had just been getting a lift from this bar to the next, and thus no one really knew who he was. Suddenly there was an influx of drunk people on the scene, they were everywhere. For the most part we all knew each other as most of the white people know the other white people in this country. Most of them were drunk, and a majority of them panicking and talking too loudly, or even screaming. Their voices echoed in my head and I shook it to try to get them out. Colin somehow corralled them and put them somewhere, while other people that, while drunk, were also functioning took over.
In the white ex pat community in Maun it seems people exist almost on their own planet. They are the ones who own or run the lodges and tourism and hunting industries, they are the children of missionaries and other do-gooders, they are the foreign pilots, and they are the “founders” who 20 years ago realized all the lucrative business that could be made in the delta. The common law of going through “procedure” in Botswana and waiting for things forever often don’t apply to them. They have set up their world so that they aren’t too incredibly bothered or influenced by the constraints of life for the other local people. They’ve created their own universe to contain whatever it is they want, and they operate by their own rules. The whites had the vehicle moved to the side of the road, the victim on the way to the hospital and nearly everyone who had witnessed or been a part of the crash gone from the scene before the local police even got there. I remember thinking somewhere in my brain that it might indeed be possible to get away with a murder if you were white and in Maun. The thought made me shudder. I recently heard someone refer to NG11, 12 and 13 (which are the numbers assigned to Seronga and the surrounding areas) as the last frontier. If this is true, then Maun is certainly the Wild West.
Someone called a paramedic, who had likely also just left the bar, and he arrived and assessed the man’s injuries. He called for a blanket, it was night, it was cold and the guy on the ground was at risk of shock. I wordlessly handed over my sweater, and walked over to the fence where all the local Batswana were standing silently observing the wreckage from their front yards.
From somewhere in the depths of my brain came the Setswana words for “give me a blanket,” and I was given one, which I then put on the man on the ground, my sweater was now underneath him protecting his back from the broken glass. I stood there, gazing at the man groaning in pain, a large gash across his face, a stream of blood trailing through his long ginger hair and onto a river on the pavement. Colin was still talking to people around there, sorting things out, and I suddenly realized I was shivering, left only in a tank top.
I walked back to the car and got in and waited for Colin to finish his heroic duties, as there was nothing left for me to do once they loaded the injured man into the makeshift ambulance on the way to the hospital. I sat there in the car, still cold, but mostly numb.
Part 3: The aftermath?
The accident had scared me, but fear was quickly replaced by going into the “deal with it” (also known as “make a plan”) mode that has become the mainstay of my way of life here. Cars wreck. The phone network is out. Malaria. No petrol for the generator. Ferries break. The food is gone. HIV. Water goes out. Children are hungry. Elephants trample. TB. Animals are beaten. People die. Moving on.
People with resources deal with these conditions by imposing the strength of their will and the power of their money into attempts they can make at controlling the nature and conditions of life here. People without resources must trudge along, allocating their meager resources in an attempt to manage misery, while hope, ambition and inspiration are slowly leeched from their spirits. They get by however they can.
I’ve noticed this side we don’t often react to these things emotionally, even though that may have been our human instinct once upon a time. In the bush in Botswana, we make a plan, we deal with the situation at hand so as to move forward with whatever activity we were interrupted from to deal with this newfound inconvenience. A life threatening car crash falls into the same realm as running out of petrol, a minor annoyance to be “sorted out”. And on to the next party. Never mind the blood in the road.
Keep going.
And this is the way it must be. Because eventually it will be dark, and then there are animals, it will be cold, it will be too hot, the petrol will finish, the gas will finish, the ferry can’t go over the river in the dark, both ferries are broken, the rain will come, the rain will finish, there’s a flood, there’s a drought, the children are hungry, people come-people go, the pump is broken, the water is gone, the road is washed out, the generator is broken, the parts, keys, food, materials are too far, the electricity might be coming, the power is gone. Some of these things we can control or prevent. Others we cannot. Any of these conditions can be dangerous or at least highly inconveniencing, and we must thus be prepared to mitigate or ward off the repercussions, and of course make a new plan. There is little control and virtually no predictability. Each move one makes must be weighed against any number of conditions and factors which just cannot be predicted and we thus exist in a state of constant preparation for events and conditions for which we can never reliably plan.
It may not appear so, but we’re quite busy.
It seems that amongst all the time I seem to have found in my life in Botswana the minutes allocated for feeling have grown small. Although sometimes it seems like all I do is feel and ruminate about and pay enormous amounts of time to my feelings, in some ways it seems they’ve also become compartmentalized. Things to be reacted to and dealt with and put away rather than… Felt. The time to feel has been downgraded in priority, things to promote more important (“survival?”) tasks fill the time that might have formerly been used to sort out feelings. Finding and preparing food, fetching or boiling water, securing or waiting for transport to get the above or internet, or airtime, communicating with those not immediately present, cleaning my body or clothing or space, tasks formerly predictable and easy and commandable now time consuming and elusive for all planning purposes.
Emotions have become like most household chores, something to deal with in order of importance. Laundry and dishes, priorities, they must be dealt with when there is water, whether I’m in the mood or not, because who knows how long the water will last or when it will come again. I’ll really figure out how I feel later, when I’ve figured out how I’m getting to location a, b or c, and most of the while in planning (a futile exercise) spent being frustrated, such a constant state as to mask any other minor sub category. Emotions are summoned forth over surprising things, (a tiny child carrying his sibling on his back, a herd of half naked children running towards me, a co-worker giving me a piece of his fish, another reading something he really wants to understand and asking me questions) but more likely I don’t react to things I perhaps should have an emotional reaction to (All five of your children are starving?/ Another of your siblings has died?/ You have HIV? I’m sorry?) The emotions remain in the queue until they demand expression, which can come either from an explosion of some sort of emotional outburst (not extremely culturally common here) or more likely by pushing them deeper. We avoid and do something else to “deal” with the festering emotions.
We drink. We have sex. We sleep. We space out. We want to feel, or we want not to feel, we want relief from our lives. We want to feel good, or at least not feel bad.
When you think about how aspects of the above can reliably contribute to HIV, it puts the epidemic in a whole new light, doesn’t it?
I had heard through the highly efficient gossip grapevine that is the main mode of communication amongst the foreign ex pat community in the widely sprawling but sparsely populated country of Botswana that my new friend had decided to leave. She hadn’t been here altogether too long, but I had looked forward to having another friend in the delta. I text her to see if it was true. When she confirmed her departure I asked if I could stop by and say goodbye.
In addition to knowing I was going to miss her, and wanting to see her off, in some weird way I also felt it my duty, having recently been promoted to the ranks of those who have been in country over a year to check in with her before she left. It’s a big decision to make, as we go through a lot and take a long time to get here in the first place. There was no thought that crossed my mind about trying to talk her out of it, it wasn’t about that. I trusted that she had thought about the decision from all angles, as I said, it’s a huge decision. My main concern was that she was at peace, and that it hadn’t been one particular incident that had pushed her towards leaving.
When you observe the trajectory of the Peace Corps cycle of emotions from arrival in country to departure, you notice that much of our time in this experience is spent feeling vulnerable and or depressed. Incidents that might be sort of a big deal or even a small deal on their own are constantly being coupled with various other discomforts and inconveniences, cultural miscommunications and various other emotional maladies that can make everything feel like a BIG DEAL. Occasionally smallish things, or things that you will adjust to or have the potential to change over time push you over the edge, and to everything you can just feel like saying “F*ck IT!!! I can promise you that every single person in every Peace Corps post in the world has experienced this particular sentiment, and sometimes you need to speak with one of the people who can understand the sentiment to get past it and keep going.
I wanted to provide the ear of someone who would be one of the last people she would encounter who would “get it.” Once she steps off that plane in the States, there will be very few if any people that understand much of anything of what she has just left. When she came here she came alone and when she gets back, she returns alone as well.
I arrived at her place, both the first and last time I would see her space, and it was all packed up (full disclosure: I just had a total Christmas in July. My new friend was incredibly generous in her departure. I may have just received the only non-stick frying pan in the Okavango delta.). We sat and chatted. She was indeed at peace, and very comfortable with her decision, and I had to agree that her reasons were nothing short of solid. It hadn’t been an impulsive decision or one certain thing. She felt it was time for her to go and in that I supported her.
Seronga being where it is (quite near the edge of the end of the Earth, which I believe is officially located in Gudigwa) I haven’t had too much exposure to those who have arrived recently. Peace Corps in Botswana is such that each year a cohort leaves and a new one arrives. So we’re all either the newbies or the old school. With this position of honor comes a certain amount of jadedness and increased cynicism amongst some of us that we try to be somewhat gentle in our exposure to the new class so as not to age them unduly before their time.
It’s a constant mini-circle of life. In May I got used to the idea that the people I’ve come to look to for many things were leaving, and that suddenly I would become the one who would be called on to help the fresh arrivals in any way I could to get through the hardest part of Peace Corps, the first few months in their new villages. I tried to remember what I would have wanted and what I felt I needed when I was in their position, and still try to consider them whenever I learn something new or gain a new resource. Although Peace Corps is a hugely individual endeavor it’s also essential that we work together and try to help each other out when we can, be it through helping each other make contacts and access resources or by just being there to listen and support each other.
Dudu (in Gumare) and I have long agreed that we aren’t the type of people with personalities that would get along or be friends in the States, with that being said I would be pretty fricken lost without her. It’s these sort of relationships based in proximity and circumstance and sharing similar geography and conditions that lead to the sort of odd affections we develop through this experience. An opportunity I was now going to miss out on with my new friend as she was leaving.
I wasn’t in any way mad or disappointed in her, as I said I understood her reasons. Through the conversation we had I noticed many things that struck me. In some ways it’s incredibly weird to see so much of the person I used to be in the new class, and see so much of those who have recently left in myself. Things I have come to have patience with or at least tolerate with the understanding that they are not changing any time soon, or that there’s ways of keeping oneself from being exposed to these upsetting things. You come to a point where you don’t think of it as ignoring or overlooking shocking or upsetting things but rather keeping your own sanity by not dwelling on them. Some of the comments she made and things she was displeased with about the culture or the country that I would have formerly agreed with wholeheartedly, I found that somewhere between here and there just came to accept or at least understand the reasons why things are the way they are.
As I sat nodding about and agreeing with some of the things she expressed indignation with that I have long come to accept as normal, I began to wonder: When did I stop feeling? When did these things that would normally upset me and rile me up cease to even cause a blip in my radar? Was this the emotional direction life in Botswana was taking me? Towards being so constantly immersed in conditions and instances of distress, and grief, circumstances of injustice and hopelessness that I would become emotionally exhausted by it all and begin to check out emotionally? That human suffering would be so part and parcel with daily life that I didn’t care anymore? Was I numb?
I had wondered the same thing on a few separate occasions in recent weeks when I’d felt my eyeballs begin to twitch. It would start when I was extremely frustrated, frustration happens daily in Seronga and it barely fazes me any more, but these were instances where no less than 10 things had suddenly derailed and I was at a loss for which direction to even move into next. My eyeballs would twitch and burn as I sat somberly away from people, a preemptive move I’ve found myself making without even realizing it, in order to keep from flipping out on people who have no contribution to or responsibility for my frustration but might otherwise find themselves in my path. More and more often lately I’ve found myself sitting, staring off into space, waiting for the dull rage to subside.
I realized later that the eye twitching is what usually happens before I cry, what used to be my last resort as a way to react to my frustration or other angsty situation I find myself in. I noted with slight disinterest that I don’t even bother crying anymore, as I’ve learned it does no good. Instead I send out a few choicely worded text messages to friends here whom I know can relate, and wait for the anger and ire to subside, the only joy I get coming from how entertaining or succinct I can be with my venom.
I wonder at this new phase, if it can be interpreted as growth or regression? Am I becoming more zen or just permanently pissed off? Do I even notice any more? I know I feel when I’m happy, because it seems the slightest things make me nearly euphoric which tends to be expressed through big smiles and dancing about, and yes, usually some text messages. When I’m happy I feel really happy. I appreciate and just love my life. I feel lucky and blessed for the opportunities and adventures I’ve had here. I feel any sacrifice I may have made to live this experience for two years has more than been rewarded. Much of the rest of the time I spend in a fugue of either frustration or avoidance of aforementioned frustration. Because if I can’t feasibly DO something about the situation that is irritating me, is there any point in feeling that irritation? If I ignore it, will it go away? Choose your battles?
Part 2: Crash
I revisited these ideas later that night. I left with a hug and well wishes when my friend Colin collected me from her house. I had invited her out for one last night of Botswana fun but she deferred with too much packing to finish. Fair enough. Colin and I went to pursue one of the main (only?) forms of entertainment in the area, heading out to the bar. For a few different reasons I wasn’t drinking that night, but as I have long maintained, I can have as much fun at a good party as the average bear whether I’m drinking or not. It was a long night; I saw a lot of friends, had a great time and was more than ready to go home by the end of the night without the alcohol that often fuels the sort of stubbornness that is what successfully keeps the party going in my system.
In the parking lot many of the revelers were a bit too drunk to be driving, which is a constant danger of being on the road in Sub Saharan Africa (the deadliest place for road accidents in the world). Colin and I got in the car and waited while the cars ahead of us did spin outs and screwed around on the dirt parking lot ahead of us. The squealing tires and flying dirt set the stage for stupid driving, and we just continued to wait back until all of the cars had gotten on their way. We didn’t want to be near any of them on the road as we made our way home.
When the noise and lights of a majority of the cars that were ahead of us were gone, we slowly pulled out behind a guy with a girl on the back of his bike. Outside this particular bar there is a curb along the dirt that breaks in one very small, very specific place so that cars can enter the gate without having to go over this curb. It’s hard to see in the day and nearly impossible at night, so for the most part cars just come across the dirt wherever they can.
This wasn’t what happened that night.
The driver of the bike pulled out of the gate wobbling back and forth a bit, his balance thrown off as he was searching for the break in the curb. As he drove out towards the road he was directly in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, also searching for the break in the curb, but deterred from that by the presence of the bike in the way. The oncoming vehicle swerved (a bit unnecessarily from what I could see from my front row vantage point) and overcorrected, and proceeded to roll three or four times. In excruciatingly slow motion.
The noise was horrifying. The screeching of tires was brief, but the sound of the metal impact on the ground burst forth again and again. The dust that was kicked up and floated in the jarring lights of the headlamps of the car as it rolled.
I began repeating Colin’s name like a question, the fear pulsing through my veins and making his name the only logical thing to ask, as though I expected him to answer that no, we hadn’t actually just seen that. He made a move to get away from the scene but from somewhere else I heard my voice say hesitantly, and then more insistently, “No. We can’t”. He grunted at me and jumped out of the car. I could see people running from in front of me towards the now mangled SUV, which was behind me. They flashed in front of the windscreen like a movie.
Now I was alone, which felt more frightening than anything so I got out of the car and followed the guy who had been riding the bike, his passenger and Colin towards the scene. Through the glow of the headlights, in the hazy smoke of dust and broken glass in the road laid the silhouette of a person. As I got closer I realized it wasn’t a silhouette, it was an actual figure, and it took me a minute to realize that indeed this person might be dead. It was my turn to pause. Colin had recovered from his initial shock and was now attending to the man in the road, asking him questions to determine his identity and injuries.
He had been the passenger in the SUV, and he had been thrown from the vehicle, the driver suffered minor injuries. He had just been getting a lift from this bar to the next, and thus no one really knew who he was. Suddenly there was an influx of drunk people on the scene, they were everywhere. For the most part we all knew each other as most of the white people know the other white people in this country. Most of them were drunk, and a majority of them panicking and talking too loudly, or even screaming. Their voices echoed in my head and I shook it to try to get them out. Colin somehow corralled them and put them somewhere, while other people that, while drunk, were also functioning took over.
In the white ex pat community in Maun it seems people exist almost on their own planet. They are the ones who own or run the lodges and tourism and hunting industries, they are the children of missionaries and other do-gooders, they are the foreign pilots, and they are the “founders” who 20 years ago realized all the lucrative business that could be made in the delta. The common law of going through “procedure” in Botswana and waiting for things forever often don’t apply to them. They have set up their world so that they aren’t too incredibly bothered or influenced by the constraints of life for the other local people. They’ve created their own universe to contain whatever it is they want, and they operate by their own rules. The whites had the vehicle moved to the side of the road, the victim on the way to the hospital and nearly everyone who had witnessed or been a part of the crash gone from the scene before the local police even got there. I remember thinking somewhere in my brain that it might indeed be possible to get away with a murder if you were white and in Maun. The thought made me shudder. I recently heard someone refer to NG11, 12 and 13 (which are the numbers assigned to Seronga and the surrounding areas) as the last frontier. If this is true, then Maun is certainly the Wild West.
Someone called a paramedic, who had likely also just left the bar, and he arrived and assessed the man’s injuries. He called for a blanket, it was night, it was cold and the guy on the ground was at risk of shock. I wordlessly handed over my sweater, and walked over to the fence where all the local Batswana were standing silently observing the wreckage from their front yards.
From somewhere in the depths of my brain came the Setswana words for “give me a blanket,” and I was given one, which I then put on the man on the ground, my sweater was now underneath him protecting his back from the broken glass. I stood there, gazing at the man groaning in pain, a large gash across his face, a stream of blood trailing through his long ginger hair and onto a river on the pavement. Colin was still talking to people around there, sorting things out, and I suddenly realized I was shivering, left only in a tank top.
I walked back to the car and got in and waited for Colin to finish his heroic duties, as there was nothing left for me to do once they loaded the injured man into the makeshift ambulance on the way to the hospital. I sat there in the car, still cold, but mostly numb.
Part 3: The aftermath?
The accident had scared me, but fear was quickly replaced by going into the “deal with it” (also known as “make a plan”) mode that has become the mainstay of my way of life here. Cars wreck. The phone network is out. Malaria. No petrol for the generator. Ferries break. The food is gone. HIV. Water goes out. Children are hungry. Elephants trample. TB. Animals are beaten. People die. Moving on.
People with resources deal with these conditions by imposing the strength of their will and the power of their money into attempts they can make at controlling the nature and conditions of life here. People without resources must trudge along, allocating their meager resources in an attempt to manage misery, while hope, ambition and inspiration are slowly leeched from their spirits. They get by however they can.
I’ve noticed this side we don’t often react to these things emotionally, even though that may have been our human instinct once upon a time. In the bush in Botswana, we make a plan, we deal with the situation at hand so as to move forward with whatever activity we were interrupted from to deal with this newfound inconvenience. A life threatening car crash falls into the same realm as running out of petrol, a minor annoyance to be “sorted out”. And on to the next party. Never mind the blood in the road.
Keep going.
And this is the way it must be. Because eventually it will be dark, and then there are animals, it will be cold, it will be too hot, the petrol will finish, the gas will finish, the ferry can’t go over the river in the dark, both ferries are broken, the rain will come, the rain will finish, there’s a flood, there’s a drought, the children are hungry, people come-people go, the pump is broken, the water is gone, the road is washed out, the generator is broken, the parts, keys, food, materials are too far, the electricity might be coming, the power is gone. Some of these things we can control or prevent. Others we cannot. Any of these conditions can be dangerous or at least highly inconveniencing, and we must thus be prepared to mitigate or ward off the repercussions, and of course make a new plan. There is little control and virtually no predictability. Each move one makes must be weighed against any number of conditions and factors which just cannot be predicted and we thus exist in a state of constant preparation for events and conditions for which we can never reliably plan.
It may not appear so, but we’re quite busy.
It seems that amongst all the time I seem to have found in my life in Botswana the minutes allocated for feeling have grown small. Although sometimes it seems like all I do is feel and ruminate about and pay enormous amounts of time to my feelings, in some ways it seems they’ve also become compartmentalized. Things to be reacted to and dealt with and put away rather than… Felt. The time to feel has been downgraded in priority, things to promote more important (“survival?”) tasks fill the time that might have formerly been used to sort out feelings. Finding and preparing food, fetching or boiling water, securing or waiting for transport to get the above or internet, or airtime, communicating with those not immediately present, cleaning my body or clothing or space, tasks formerly predictable and easy and commandable now time consuming and elusive for all planning purposes.
Emotions have become like most household chores, something to deal with in order of importance. Laundry and dishes, priorities, they must be dealt with when there is water, whether I’m in the mood or not, because who knows how long the water will last or when it will come again. I’ll really figure out how I feel later, when I’ve figured out how I’m getting to location a, b or c, and most of the while in planning (a futile exercise) spent being frustrated, such a constant state as to mask any other minor sub category. Emotions are summoned forth over surprising things, (a tiny child carrying his sibling on his back, a herd of half naked children running towards me, a co-worker giving me a piece of his fish, another reading something he really wants to understand and asking me questions) but more likely I don’t react to things I perhaps should have an emotional reaction to (All five of your children are starving?/ Another of your siblings has died?/ You have HIV? I’m sorry?) The emotions remain in the queue until they demand expression, which can come either from an explosion of some sort of emotional outburst (not extremely culturally common here) or more likely by pushing them deeper. We avoid and do something else to “deal” with the festering emotions.
We drink. We have sex. We sleep. We space out. We want to feel, or we want not to feel, we want relief from our lives. We want to feel good, or at least not feel bad.
When you think about how aspects of the above can reliably contribute to HIV, it puts the epidemic in a whole new light, doesn’t it?
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