In Setswana, a common question after the greeting of Dumella is “le kae”. The common response is “ke teng.” It means, quite literally “I’m here.” Now Setswana seems to be a bit of a rote learning process for me, in that the only things I’ve picked up have been repeated endlessly, or drilled into my brain through some crazy unknown force, or my feeble attempts at making jokes (o a fosa means, politely, “you’re lying”. I‘ve taken to using it to mean anything from “bullshit” to “no kidding,” and occasionally the proper translation of what I’m saying is “you, you’re lying.” It really throws people when I use it to describe someone else, and use it in the “you” form so it appears as though I’m saying “they, you’re lying”. What a mess.)
If I’m honest with myself (and via this blog, the entirety of the www exposed universe) it’s been a long time since I considered learning Setswana to be high on the priority list. I realized day one that I would never be fluent (when P asked during the first day of language training the difference between how to say light blue and light green, bless his heart, I knew it was quite nearly over for me) and although I’ve had some “come to Jesus” moments in which I got really fired up about learning it, I’m relatively ok with this inadequacy in myself (how’s that for personal growth and acceptance!). There are some exceptionally kind souls at the clinic who think they can burn the language into my head by speaking it nearly exclusively to me, which usually involves them speaking to me in Setswana, me translating what they’ve said to English, responding in English, and translating my response into broken Setswinglish. Out loud. I now understand why people are late for meetings here. Perhaps they are all teaching some idiot American Setswana. Oh, the patience they have! (which I subsequently doubt, like Setswana, that I will ever really learn).
But to depart from this language lesson (yeah, you’re welcome) the point of what I’m trying to say is that while I say the words that mean “I’m here” nearly a thousand times a day, they generally mean nothing. (And now where is she going?)
I’m here. I’ve finally come to accept it. I think the shock has worn nearly completely off into at least a mild bemusement. Things in general are less shocking, frightening, annoying, and tough to deal with. I laugh more. Yes- it’s occasionally still to avoid crying but it’s laughing nonetheless. Although Seronga and I are still engaged in what seems to be our never-ending battle of wills, it’s much friendlier, with me smiling out at the village and grinning “ha, you got me this time! Score one team you” when I am surprised by something I thought I knew. And I find myself pumping my fist much more gracefully and doing less end zone prancing on the days when I win. I find myself longing to get back to this place when I’m away for a while, and finally understand what Kagiso and Warona (the two PCV’s that served in Seronga before me) mean when they say they miss this place. Somewhere between lizards and losing sleep in the heat, this place became my home. And I love her…
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Ballet on the Beach....
Here they are.
I was just down on the beach. It still wasn't sunny, but it had been raining for days and I needed to do something. I needed to move.
So I did some handstands. Stretches. Cartwheels. Yoga poses. Ballet turns.
Leaps and jumps.
Just something to remind me of my body's strengths and capabilities. That I'm alive.
Then I noticed him.
He was sort of mimicking me. And I think at first it was a joke. But he sure was trying hard.
So I showed him what I was doing. I exaplined in broken Spanish, which was nearly a match with his native Portugese. Between that and his broken English we were in business.
At first his friends mocked him. I could tell even across languages and colors that this kid was being teased in a major way.
But then they joined in.
And he kept on going.
There was none of the usual. No begging. No whining. They asked for nothing but to learn.
I taught what my body knew. No music. Few words. Movement. Connection.
All of a sudden, on the beaches of Mozambique, I'm teaching classical ballet. I haven't practiced for years, but it's all still there.
I forgot I knew it but it came right back. I didn't know I had anything to give, but I found something. I forgot I had it, but it matters to them.
We danced. It was breathtaking.
They were amazing. Moments like these are why I remain in Africa. I am so grateful.
Photography by Adryan Caron.
To Catch a Thief.....
This blog is the result of pent up frustrations..... Proceed with caution...
Back in September, when I returned from training, I came home to a clean house. Living in Botswana marks one of the first times I've ever lived completely on my own. There is no longer anyone to blame my mess on, to nag about buying toilet paper when it runs out, or to help me remember where I put any number of items I'm prone to misplacing. Along with having to cook for myself (although really, thank God for Simon cause he takes care of a ton in this particular category) and clean up after myself, but also realize the beauty of a clean house after returning home after time away.
Despite the cleanliness after being away for a few weeks I found myself having a difficult time finding things. There seemed to be less cash around than I remembered hiding and locking behind doors and in drawers. I could have sworn I left some booze in the house. When I couldn't find my CD player which was the only thing providing me any sense of normalcy. I felt a fist of discomfort gripping my stomach. Someone had been in my house.
I had followed all the Peace Corps safety and security measures. I had put anything of value out of sight, locked everything behind cupboard doors and put the keys away. I had taken my laptop with me, but the more I looked around the more stuff I realized was missing. Trying to remain calm, which has been the most successful course of action I've found in these situations, I began to make a list of all the things I could remember as previously being here.
There had been no sign of forced entry. I knew that my landlord had the key, this seemed standard from my experience with landlords. I had even smiled and encouraged the girl that was my age who lived on my compound to feel free to charge her cell phone on the solar battery in my place whenever she needed to (in my attempt at neighborly friendliness). I hadn't seen her around when I returned home, which narrowed the suspect list. On the compound in which I live there were somewhere between 2 and 5 young teenagish boys that often play loud traditional music at obnoxious hours of the day and night. It was these boys I found myself confronting after "making a plan" and attempting to calm myself down from the rage and irritation I felt running through me. To accuse someone of stealing in Botswana is a serious deal, and it's made more so due to the fact that my family compound is owned by the sister of the Kgosi (chief) which makes things exceptionally difficult as involving the police then becomes a big problem. To have someone come into my house, with their key, as my landlords, in a foreign country and steal from me as I am living in their community, volunteering to try and help was a new level of low and betrayal for me.
So. I went to the door of the building of the compound that was showing the most signs of life. I greeted the boys with my best attempt at politeness and ungritted teeth with the usual greetings and informed the oldest person there (which ended up being the boyfriend of the sister on the compound whom I usually trusted) that some of my things were "missing" and that perhaps someone had "borrowed" them, but that I needed them back, "now now."
The next morning I opened my door to find three of the things I had realized I was missing as well as four things I hadn't yet discovered were missing. I informed the boyfriend guy that some things had been returned, but that I was still missing many of my things. He looked at the shoe prints in the sand outside my house and agreed that it was, indeed, the boys.
After realizing that indeed someone had been in my place while I was gone and stolen from me (most of the stuff had been locked out of sight) I tried to figure out what I hadn't yet discovered was missing. I don't know if you've ever been through a similar experience, or could ever realize what you have in your home at any given time, but I was having a tough time. I figured I was missing somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 pula (I usually had to have lots of cash on hand as the nearest bank is a flight away at Maun) -this was my best estimate- and there had been several times over the last month when I would be looking for my cash and be sure that there had been more there than currently was there. This is around a third of my monthly allowance. I was also missing some jewelery, batteries, food, random electronics, American cash, ect, ect, ect.
Things continued to reappear, generally at my prompting (read threatening)- mentioning that I would eventually need to go to the police, that Peace Corps would step in, so on, so forth. I sat down with the daughter (her mother is the Kgosi's sister has been there maybe twice since I've lived there) and her boyfriend and the boys. It was a highly unsatisfying meeting in which the boys smirked at me the whole time, and the sister gave her best impression of embarrassment. They admitted that the boys had taken the stuff, I encouraged them to search their rooms again for any additional stuff and was appalled at the amount of pens, nailpolish, plug adaptors and general loot that came out of there. I was trying my hardest to give them the benefit of the doubt and to trust that their sense of right and wrong and perhaps a sense of shame over their behavior would kick in, and in many ways I'm still waiting. I had hoped that I could trust them to just be honest about whether they had stolen anything else, and I've since discovered that they were actually capable of looking directly into my eyes and lying to me. We arranged a repayment plan, and I extracted a promise that they would replace the items that were eaten and drank.
I informed the Peace Corps and they have been working on continuously following up with the landlord, who is now there even less than before. Things have gotten a bit awkward as I have repeatedly had to ask them both for my things back, as well as to install the burglar bars they promised to install after the crazy dude came to my door in August. The guy had come to install them and put them on the wrong building completely. My solar battery has also been steadily dying (something that the district has told me is the landlords responsibility as they pay 300 pula per month for rent-which is supposed to include water and electric for that price) and I'm down to less than an hour of electric light at night, that of course is if I don't have to charge anything or don't try to hook my ipod up to the solar battery inverter to listen to some tunes. It's an either or type situation.
It's all been exceedingly awkward and unpleasant as time (and the deadlines in which they promised to repay me) have passed. I try to be polite and not have every interaction we have be about the stuff, but they began to treat me as though I was the one who had stolen from them when I would ask for my money. I've looked around the village and inquired as to options for other housing, on the police compound (full time electricity from the loud generator--- so worth it) there are no openings, the clinic can't even house their doctors. The school teachers are doubled up sharing and so there is no hope there. My options are...non-existent.
In mid December the Peace Corps called me with a report from the landlord that they were planning on evicting me at the end of the month, a report of which, of course no one had made to me. Among my alleged infringements were that I was not happy there based on how much time I spent at Simon's in the evening for dinner, as well as the fact that I was not feeding and taking care of the dog they had "given me for protection"(and who has incidentally lived there for at least as long as the previous Peace Corps before me). There was a laundry list of other things that together just ended up proving to me that I am not as wonderfully integrated into this culture as I had previously thought. The Peace Corps safety and security officer (who deserves a raise just for all the shit he has had to deal with as a result of my issues) came up and negotiated with the landlords so that it sounds like I can stay. The last I had heard they were saying they hadn't yet been paid from June (which isn't completely true as the PCV at the district office told me he has been seeing the expense reports for my housing and checks going through). More excitement sure to follow as I get back site.
I write this blog mostly as something to be included in what will end up being my record of the whole of my experience here. I'm not really incredibly bothered on an intense level about it on a daily basis about it, I'd just like this aspect of my daily life and Peace Corps living situation to be definitively over. It's been a long drawn out process, and at the end of the day, yes, it's just stuff. I'm eating the value of a quite a bit of stuff in relation to the way I live here, and it's just annoying. I'm more bothered by the lack of shame or personal responsibility I've seen from the people who are supposed to be my "family" here and taking care of me. My emotions on the whole thing go from rage and hurt to the sensation of a blunt sliver that's been stuck in the bottom of my foot to the point of infection, it's just really annoying and I want to be done with the situation and through with the awkward negotiations. I'm sorry to say that it has really been one of the things that has given me a sour taste about this culture, and yes I realize you don't make generalizations based on isolated incidents, but really, I am not their first Peace Corps Volunteer living on the property, and after speaking with the one who lived there before me he had his suspicions as well. The whole thing falls under the umbrella of "things I wish were different but aren't" at this point, life goes on, ect, ect. Whatever.
Back in September, when I returned from training, I came home to a clean house. Living in Botswana marks one of the first times I've ever lived completely on my own. There is no longer anyone to blame my mess on, to nag about buying toilet paper when it runs out, or to help me remember where I put any number of items I'm prone to misplacing. Along with having to cook for myself (although really, thank God for Simon cause he takes care of a ton in this particular category) and clean up after myself, but also realize the beauty of a clean house after returning home after time away.
Despite the cleanliness after being away for a few weeks I found myself having a difficult time finding things. There seemed to be less cash around than I remembered hiding and locking behind doors and in drawers. I could have sworn I left some booze in the house. When I couldn't find my CD player which was the only thing providing me any sense of normalcy. I felt a fist of discomfort gripping my stomach. Someone had been in my house.
I had followed all the Peace Corps safety and security measures. I had put anything of value out of sight, locked everything behind cupboard doors and put the keys away. I had taken my laptop with me, but the more I looked around the more stuff I realized was missing. Trying to remain calm, which has been the most successful course of action I've found in these situations, I began to make a list of all the things I could remember as previously being here.
There had been no sign of forced entry. I knew that my landlord had the key, this seemed standard from my experience with landlords. I had even smiled and encouraged the girl that was my age who lived on my compound to feel free to charge her cell phone on the solar battery in my place whenever she needed to (in my attempt at neighborly friendliness). I hadn't seen her around when I returned home, which narrowed the suspect list. On the compound in which I live there were somewhere between 2 and 5 young teenagish boys that often play loud traditional music at obnoxious hours of the day and night. It was these boys I found myself confronting after "making a plan" and attempting to calm myself down from the rage and irritation I felt running through me. To accuse someone of stealing in Botswana is a serious deal, and it's made more so due to the fact that my family compound is owned by the sister of the Kgosi (chief) which makes things exceptionally difficult as involving the police then becomes a big problem. To have someone come into my house, with their key, as my landlords, in a foreign country and steal from me as I am living in their community, volunteering to try and help was a new level of low and betrayal for me.
So. I went to the door of the building of the compound that was showing the most signs of life. I greeted the boys with my best attempt at politeness and ungritted teeth with the usual greetings and informed the oldest person there (which ended up being the boyfriend of the sister on the compound whom I usually trusted) that some of my things were "missing" and that perhaps someone had "borrowed" them, but that I needed them back, "now now."
The next morning I opened my door to find three of the things I had realized I was missing as well as four things I hadn't yet discovered were missing. I informed the boyfriend guy that some things had been returned, but that I was still missing many of my things. He looked at the shoe prints in the sand outside my house and agreed that it was, indeed, the boys.
After realizing that indeed someone had been in my place while I was gone and stolen from me (most of the stuff had been locked out of sight) I tried to figure out what I hadn't yet discovered was missing. I don't know if you've ever been through a similar experience, or could ever realize what you have in your home at any given time, but I was having a tough time. I figured I was missing somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 pula (I usually had to have lots of cash on hand as the nearest bank is a flight away at Maun) -this was my best estimate- and there had been several times over the last month when I would be looking for my cash and be sure that there had been more there than currently was there. This is around a third of my monthly allowance. I was also missing some jewelery, batteries, food, random electronics, American cash, ect, ect, ect.
Things continued to reappear, generally at my prompting (read threatening)- mentioning that I would eventually need to go to the police, that Peace Corps would step in, so on, so forth. I sat down with the daughter (her mother is the Kgosi's sister has been there maybe twice since I've lived there) and her boyfriend and the boys. It was a highly unsatisfying meeting in which the boys smirked at me the whole time, and the sister gave her best impression of embarrassment. They admitted that the boys had taken the stuff, I encouraged them to search their rooms again for any additional stuff and was appalled at the amount of pens, nailpolish, plug adaptors and general loot that came out of there. I was trying my hardest to give them the benefit of the doubt and to trust that their sense of right and wrong and perhaps a sense of shame over their behavior would kick in, and in many ways I'm still waiting. I had hoped that I could trust them to just be honest about whether they had stolen anything else, and I've since discovered that they were actually capable of looking directly into my eyes and lying to me. We arranged a repayment plan, and I extracted a promise that they would replace the items that were eaten and drank.
I informed the Peace Corps and they have been working on continuously following up with the landlord, who is now there even less than before. Things have gotten a bit awkward as I have repeatedly had to ask them both for my things back, as well as to install the burglar bars they promised to install after the crazy dude came to my door in August. The guy had come to install them and put them on the wrong building completely. My solar battery has also been steadily dying (something that the district has told me is the landlords responsibility as they pay 300 pula per month for rent-which is supposed to include water and electric for that price) and I'm down to less than an hour of electric light at night, that of course is if I don't have to charge anything or don't try to hook my ipod up to the solar battery inverter to listen to some tunes. It's an either or type situation.
It's all been exceedingly awkward and unpleasant as time (and the deadlines in which they promised to repay me) have passed. I try to be polite and not have every interaction we have be about the stuff, but they began to treat me as though I was the one who had stolen from them when I would ask for my money. I've looked around the village and inquired as to options for other housing, on the police compound (full time electricity from the loud generator--- so worth it) there are no openings, the clinic can't even house their doctors. The school teachers are doubled up sharing and so there is no hope there. My options are...non-existent.
In mid December the Peace Corps called me with a report from the landlord that they were planning on evicting me at the end of the month, a report of which, of course no one had made to me. Among my alleged infringements were that I was not happy there based on how much time I spent at Simon's in the evening for dinner, as well as the fact that I was not feeding and taking care of the dog they had "given me for protection"(and who has incidentally lived there for at least as long as the previous Peace Corps before me). There was a laundry list of other things that together just ended up proving to me that I am not as wonderfully integrated into this culture as I had previously thought. The Peace Corps safety and security officer (who deserves a raise just for all the shit he has had to deal with as a result of my issues) came up and negotiated with the landlords so that it sounds like I can stay. The last I had heard they were saying they hadn't yet been paid from June (which isn't completely true as the PCV at the district office told me he has been seeing the expense reports for my housing and checks going through). More excitement sure to follow as I get back site.
I write this blog mostly as something to be included in what will end up being my record of the whole of my experience here. I'm not really incredibly bothered on an intense level about it on a daily basis about it, I'd just like this aspect of my daily life and Peace Corps living situation to be definitively over. It's been a long drawn out process, and at the end of the day, yes, it's just stuff. I'm eating the value of a quite a bit of stuff in relation to the way I live here, and it's just annoying. I'm more bothered by the lack of shame or personal responsibility I've seen from the people who are supposed to be my "family" here and taking care of me. My emotions on the whole thing go from rage and hurt to the sensation of a blunt sliver that's been stuck in the bottom of my foot to the point of infection, it's just really annoying and I want to be done with the situation and through with the awkward negotiations. I'm sorry to say that it has really been one of the things that has given me a sour taste about this culture, and yes I realize you don't make generalizations based on isolated incidents, but really, I am not their first Peace Corps Volunteer living on the property, and after speaking with the one who lived there before me he had his suspicions as well. The whole thing falls under the umbrella of "things I wish were different but aren't" at this point, life goes on, ect, ect. Whatever.
Do they know it's Christmas time in Africa....?
So the festive season came to Botswana. It was marked by decorations being put up in malls (I happened to have been in Gabs, where they actually have malls, prior to Halloween, at which point they had already begun decorating for Christmas), more extreme heat, and horrible reception on the cell phones for the entire month... ( I apologize to those who spent so much time and effort trying to call or text only to get cut off....or for it not to have gone through at all- welcome to the frustrations that can encompass life in the bush).
Being so far away from home and the consumerism, wrapping paper and snow that marks the annual onslaught of the holiday season for me as a Minnesotan, Christmas was a bit different for me this year. On my last trip from Gabs I purchased some art supplies with the intent of making Christmas cards, and genuinely tried to make a few (I completed about three). Between trying to calculate the postal time it would take any cards I made to get to their destination (a feat which has become increasingly difficult as the boat that brings the post from Sepopa (after it makes a nearly 80 km journey over the land in a truck from Shaks) has broken down... allegedly to be repaired in the New Year. It recently took over three weeks to get a piece of mail from Seronga to Gaborone. I give up.) and feeling inspired and artistic and meaningful it was a struggle. It was sort of all I could do to just focus on vacation every day until I left. I apologize.
Whenever I thought of home and family and all the chaos that surrounds the holiday season, the parties, the traditions, I usually became completely uninterested in continuing the project. I found it was rather easy and maybe even pleasant to ignore the holidays, which had more to do with missing those I've spent every Christmas of my life with thus far than the fact that it really didn't feel like Christmas for me here. I would say the largest part of my bad Christmas behavior had to do more with avoiding the deep depression that was lurking around my life during that particular time than being a Grinch.
That being said I did do some things that indicate at least a half hearted effort to commemorate the birth of Christ. If nothing else it was really crazy to think to myself that it was two years ago Christmas Eve that I decided to undertake this crazy adventure of joining the Peace Corps. As evidenced by my continual attempt at stalking those from my former life on Facebook I realized I have been here long enough that people who weren't pregnant when I left have now given birth to new little ones. I've now been in Africa the better part of a year, with an entire next calendar year left on the docket, in addition to a little more. The juxtaposition of the time gone and time left has really been screwing with my head lately, with the panicky trio of "what have I accomplished, what can I expect to get done and how will it appear on my resume to convey the significance of my existence for this time period, and what on Earth am I going to do next?" running through my head where the visions of sugarplums should be. Go figure.
My attempt at a pseudo celebration of the Christmas holidays included the mistake of trying to watch "Fred Claus," (last year or the year before's Vince Vaughn Christmas flop, a movie my mom sent me in July that I had been saving to watch in an attempt to induce a more festive attitude around what I knew would be the hottest Christmas I've lived through to date). I attempted to view it with a few disgruntled Kiwis, who countered my constant questioning of "But do you have THAT in New Zealand," or "do you understand that as a Kiwi or is that just American?" (let me assure you they have an interesting relationship with American gross out physical or just straight stupid comedy) with a near constant stream of criticisms (deserved in my opinion) of the consumerism and ignorance of other cultures constantly present in American media. "Where are the children in Africa in this film???Don't they get a visit from Father Christmas??" G growled several times. I think in the end we called a draw, or at least agreed that the movie was complete shiiit (long I sound in deference to my Kiwi friend).
I spent the actual Christmas days with friends, preparing for our upcoming Mozambican adventure. We had a nice meal and listened to the neighbors music, which was as loud as it might be on any other Saturday. The festive day for us included unpacking (nearly completely) everything we had carefully packed into our undoubtedly oversize backpacks and having a fashion show, my propensity to strip down and try on anything put in front of me no matter how skimpy or horrendous earned me the nickname "Tanorexic" (which luckily was quickly forgotten by the time vacation started..).
One night we went to what would be termed a "field party" in the States, with some Motswana DJ's that are apparently hugely famous in South Africa and the UK. We were the only three white people there. We walked in and it began with people sort of ignoring us in an attempt not to stare, but while effectively running into us and occasionally spilling their drinks on us. It was a bit early in the night, but I was in the mood to dance, and they were spinning some exceptionally decent American tunes, so being as it's my tendency to be the first one out on the floor, (stone sober if need be, which was the case here) I grabbed some friends and started dancing. Soon enough our glowing white skin attracted some people to the front near the stage, and soon enough it was like fricken Brangelina was up in the club.
It's strange how just when I think I've adjusted completely to being in the minority I encounter another situation that throws me for a loop. The photography began. Now where I stay in Seronga, the only cameras in the village belong to me and any other tourists who might wander through. When people see me with my camera, they demand that I take a picture of them. This was a bit of a larger village, and despite the fact that many white people live in and around it, apparently three of us together is impressive. I kept seeing flashbulbs, and thinking that perhaps the DJ had a strobe set up. People were taking our picture. I kept looking behind me, certain that they were really taking pictures of their friends somewhere around us, but it wasn't the case. When I looked at the people from whom the flashes were coming, they were doing the whole nonchalant not-holding-the-camera-up-to-the-face-and-looking-sort-of-the-other-way thing I've done the precious few times in my life I've encountered celebrities. I elbowed my friends and we laughed, and occasionally started posing. I can only hope that shit somehow ends up on facebook.
The holiday also included many attempts by each of us at calls home, an exercise fraught with futility as my family had to call back somewhere in the neighborhood of about ten times. I spoke with Mom and Karly, the latter of which began by her asking me the brilliant question associated with the inherently offensive band aid fund raising hit from 1984 (incidentally a year BEFORE my sister was even born), titled "Do They Know It's Christmas Time at All?"
Apparently I was asleep for too much of 1984 (or have been mistakenly ignoring what must have been the highlight of the 1984 episode of I Love the 80's (-Ah VH1... I miss you). My sister asked me this question dead pan, and I obliviously answered her attempt at a joke, "Well, I suppose the music is maybe a bit louder than it would normally be on any other Saturday, and I guess that many of the people here are outside, and more families are together, but I don't suppose that's much different from what we do in the States. Although it is disarmingly hot." I've since looked it up on the Internet, and have posted the lyrics here so you can all groan at the inappropriate and condescending nature of this particular top 40 hit.
1: It's Christmas time
There's no need to be afraid
At Christmas time
We let in light and we banish shade
And in our world of plenty
We can spread a smile of joy
Throw your arms around the world
At Christmas time
2: But say a prayer
Pray for the other ones
At Christmas time it's hard
But when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing
Is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring
There are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
3: And there won't be snow in Africa
This Christmas time
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life
Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time again
BRIDGE:(Here's to you) raise a glass for everyone
(Here's to them) underneath that burning sun
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
END: Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
END: (repeat & fade)
Must I elaborate?
Being so far away from home and the consumerism, wrapping paper and snow that marks the annual onslaught of the holiday season for me as a Minnesotan, Christmas was a bit different for me this year. On my last trip from Gabs I purchased some art supplies with the intent of making Christmas cards, and genuinely tried to make a few (I completed about three). Between trying to calculate the postal time it would take any cards I made to get to their destination (a feat which has become increasingly difficult as the boat that brings the post from Sepopa (after it makes a nearly 80 km journey over the land in a truck from Shaks) has broken down... allegedly to be repaired in the New Year. It recently took over three weeks to get a piece of mail from Seronga to Gaborone. I give up.) and feeling inspired and artistic and meaningful it was a struggle. It was sort of all I could do to just focus on vacation every day until I left. I apologize.
Whenever I thought of home and family and all the chaos that surrounds the holiday season, the parties, the traditions, I usually became completely uninterested in continuing the project. I found it was rather easy and maybe even pleasant to ignore the holidays, which had more to do with missing those I've spent every Christmas of my life with thus far than the fact that it really didn't feel like Christmas for me here. I would say the largest part of my bad Christmas behavior had to do more with avoiding the deep depression that was lurking around my life during that particular time than being a Grinch.
That being said I did do some things that indicate at least a half hearted effort to commemorate the birth of Christ. If nothing else it was really crazy to think to myself that it was two years ago Christmas Eve that I decided to undertake this crazy adventure of joining the Peace Corps. As evidenced by my continual attempt at stalking those from my former life on Facebook I realized I have been here long enough that people who weren't pregnant when I left have now given birth to new little ones. I've now been in Africa the better part of a year, with an entire next calendar year left on the docket, in addition to a little more. The juxtaposition of the time gone and time left has really been screwing with my head lately, with the panicky trio of "what have I accomplished, what can I expect to get done and how will it appear on my resume to convey the significance of my existence for this time period, and what on Earth am I going to do next?" running through my head where the visions of sugarplums should be. Go figure.
My attempt at a pseudo celebration of the Christmas holidays included the mistake of trying to watch "Fred Claus," (last year or the year before's Vince Vaughn Christmas flop, a movie my mom sent me in July that I had been saving to watch in an attempt to induce a more festive attitude around what I knew would be the hottest Christmas I've lived through to date). I attempted to view it with a few disgruntled Kiwis, who countered my constant questioning of "But do you have THAT in New Zealand," or "do you understand that as a Kiwi or is that just American?" (let me assure you they have an interesting relationship with American gross out physical or just straight stupid comedy) with a near constant stream of criticisms (deserved in my opinion) of the consumerism and ignorance of other cultures constantly present in American media. "Where are the children in Africa in this film???Don't they get a visit from Father Christmas??" G growled several times. I think in the end we called a draw, or at least agreed that the movie was complete shiiit (long I sound in deference to my Kiwi friend).
I spent the actual Christmas days with friends, preparing for our upcoming Mozambican adventure. We had a nice meal and listened to the neighbors music, which was as loud as it might be on any other Saturday. The festive day for us included unpacking (nearly completely) everything we had carefully packed into our undoubtedly oversize backpacks and having a fashion show, my propensity to strip down and try on anything put in front of me no matter how skimpy or horrendous earned me the nickname "Tanorexic" (which luckily was quickly forgotten by the time vacation started..).
One night we went to what would be termed a "field party" in the States, with some Motswana DJ's that are apparently hugely famous in South Africa and the UK. We were the only three white people there. We walked in and it began with people sort of ignoring us in an attempt not to stare, but while effectively running into us and occasionally spilling their drinks on us. It was a bit early in the night, but I was in the mood to dance, and they were spinning some exceptionally decent American tunes, so being as it's my tendency to be the first one out on the floor, (stone sober if need be, which was the case here) I grabbed some friends and started dancing. Soon enough our glowing white skin attracted some people to the front near the stage, and soon enough it was like fricken Brangelina was up in the club.
It's strange how just when I think I've adjusted completely to being in the minority I encounter another situation that throws me for a loop. The photography began. Now where I stay in Seronga, the only cameras in the village belong to me and any other tourists who might wander through. When people see me with my camera, they demand that I take a picture of them. This was a bit of a larger village, and despite the fact that many white people live in and around it, apparently three of us together is impressive. I kept seeing flashbulbs, and thinking that perhaps the DJ had a strobe set up. People were taking our picture. I kept looking behind me, certain that they were really taking pictures of their friends somewhere around us, but it wasn't the case. When I looked at the people from whom the flashes were coming, they were doing the whole nonchalant not-holding-the-camera-up-to-the-face-and-looking-sort-of-the-other-way thing I've done the precious few times in my life I've encountered celebrities. I elbowed my friends and we laughed, and occasionally started posing. I can only hope that shit somehow ends up on facebook.
The holiday also included many attempts by each of us at calls home, an exercise fraught with futility as my family had to call back somewhere in the neighborhood of about ten times. I spoke with Mom and Karly, the latter of which began by her asking me the brilliant question associated with the inherently offensive band aid fund raising hit from 1984 (incidentally a year BEFORE my sister was even born), titled "Do They Know It's Christmas Time at All?"
Apparently I was asleep for too much of 1984 (or have been mistakenly ignoring what must have been the highlight of the 1984 episode of I Love the 80's (-Ah VH1... I miss you). My sister asked me this question dead pan, and I obliviously answered her attempt at a joke, "Well, I suppose the music is maybe a bit louder than it would normally be on any other Saturday, and I guess that many of the people here are outside, and more families are together, but I don't suppose that's much different from what we do in the States. Although it is disarmingly hot." I've since looked it up on the Internet, and have posted the lyrics here so you can all groan at the inappropriate and condescending nature of this particular top 40 hit.
1: It's Christmas time
There's no need to be afraid
At Christmas time
We let in light and we banish shade
And in our world of plenty
We can spread a smile of joy
Throw your arms around the world
At Christmas time
2: But say a prayer
Pray for the other ones
At Christmas time it's hard
But when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing
Is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring
There are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
3: And there won't be snow in Africa
This Christmas time
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life
Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time again
BRIDGE:(Here's to you) raise a glass for everyone
(Here's to them) underneath that burning sun
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
END: Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
END: (repeat & fade)
Must I elaborate?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Men's Sector 2008. A Success!
After many false starts and projects that only got as far as hopes, wishes and dreams in my overactive little imagination, the unbelievable happened! A successful event in Seronga! Although there are plenty of times I have experienced small successes, and moments of hope and pride and small triumphs that bring me joy, this was unprecedented.
I came to be involved with Men’s Sector (which is supposed to be male leaders in the community coming together and creating forums from which to help men address their issues and concerns surrounding HIV/AIDS) at the training to form the committee. There had actually been a bit of talk that was very discouraging for a white, western, “liberated” woman to hear that was women's fault when they were raped as they shouldn't be enticing men with their short skirts, and the reaffirmation that women were the property of their husbands as the husbands bought and paid for them with Lebolla, I figured the only way to help change these charming little misinfo's was to join them. So here I am.
The planning sessions for this event to "introduce the men's sector to the community" were too many in number, too long, tedious, overly focused (in my humble opinion) on the food, and nearly always completely in Setswana (which I really must get around to learning better).
It was an interesting thing for me to try to balance participation in the discussion with letting the committee make decisions on their own. I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut after we were all told to think about a theme for the event to present at the next meeting and I was the only one who had anything, which was unanimously approved without any other options offered up. After this I tried (big challenge for me) to just observe the planning process for this event. I wanted to see how the committee would set things up, to see what the organization would be and how things would work without much outside influence.
I offered to partner with someone to head the publicity committee (for which she promptly avoided doing anything, I found some ladies at the "restaurant" to help me) and took charge of the health quiz, which is one thing that wouldn't have happened without my involvement as no one saw any point to it. I recruited community members and some of the teenagers from the junior secondary school to administer the quiz so that they could educate people when they got answers wrong (in Setswana). It ended up working out really well as I wasn't really involved with the actual administering of anything, but rather overseeing the activity. I've noticed that often everyone is expected to participate in everything, and then you've got the problem of who deals with any problems that arise. It was a little awkward to get up on stage and interrupt the police investigator who was the chair of the committee, but hey, he was in charge..
I learned a lesson in trust when at one of the last meetings before the event, everyone began getting up and climbing into the backs of cars heading towards the police station. When I asked someone what we were doing they informed me that we were going to the police station to view the supplies and groceries that had been purchased for the event. I asked why, as we had just seen the receipt during the meeting. This apparently wasn't enough. We had to go look at the food, to ensure that indeed it was all there. When I asked my favorite question (what I've come to think of as "the second why") again, I was just told it was part of the culture. "But he's a policeman, don't we trust him?" This one is still a bit of a mystery to me.
The health quiz was a concept that was kind of tough to describe to the committee, but they sort of let me run with the thing on my own, which was good for the first event so that I could figure out what I wanted to happen as well. Education at a community event was a new concept, and one that got a little dicey at the actual event. At one point during the event the Men's Sector chairman tried to shut down the booth with the health quiz because the rest of the committee was complaining as they thought there were too many people waiting to take the quiz to win airtime (only cash would have made them more mob like) than there were people watching the dancing and songs. It took some firm negotiating to convince the chairman not to shut us down, but eventually I prevailed. I found myself thanking my lucky stars I had spent so much time building a relationship with him!
The event surpassed my expectations, which is the greatest gift I could have ever asked for. The health quiz happened, the entertainment was great, the food was chaotic but people were happy for the most part. I left the day with tears of joy flowing down my face. It was a shining of example of what I came here to do. And it only took 7.5 months!!!!!
I thought back to every time I've ever experienced tangible success before, at graduations, track meets, dance recitals, choir concerts. I remember the look on my mom's face, and how my grandma was always crying, how tightly my track coaches would grab me after a good race and how the director would beam after a great performance. I never understood until now that sometimes we can derive more joy from the accomplishments of others than we ever could with our own, that celebrating another's success could ever come to mean more to us than our own. It's another beautiful lesson I'll leave this village having learned.
“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”
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 several neighboring villages, 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. The weather was nice and not too hot, and although there were brief rain showers the Seronga Village Health Choir keep up the excitement by performing through the downpour! Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war 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. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the by Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. It was a successful day for the Seronga Men's Sector!
I came to be involved with Men’s Sector (which is supposed to be male leaders in the community coming together and creating forums from which to help men address their issues and concerns surrounding HIV/AIDS) at the training to form the committee. There had actually been a bit of talk that was very discouraging for a white, western, “liberated” woman to hear that was women's fault when they were raped as they shouldn't be enticing men with their short skirts, and the reaffirmation that women were the property of their husbands as the husbands bought and paid for them with Lebolla, I figured the only way to help change these charming little misinfo's was to join them. So here I am.
The planning sessions for this event to "introduce the men's sector to the community" were too many in number, too long, tedious, overly focused (in my humble opinion) on the food, and nearly always completely in Setswana (which I really must get around to learning better).
It was an interesting thing for me to try to balance participation in the discussion with letting the committee make decisions on their own. I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut after we were all told to think about a theme for the event to present at the next meeting and I was the only one who had anything, which was unanimously approved without any other options offered up. After this I tried (big challenge for me) to just observe the planning process for this event. I wanted to see how the committee would set things up, to see what the organization would be and how things would work without much outside influence.
I offered to partner with someone to head the publicity committee (for which she promptly avoided doing anything, I found some ladies at the "restaurant" to help me) and took charge of the health quiz, which is one thing that wouldn't have happened without my involvement as no one saw any point to it. I recruited community members and some of the teenagers from the junior secondary school to administer the quiz so that they could educate people when they got answers wrong (in Setswana). It ended up working out really well as I wasn't really involved with the actual administering of anything, but rather overseeing the activity. I've noticed that often everyone is expected to participate in everything, and then you've got the problem of who deals with any problems that arise. It was a little awkward to get up on stage and interrupt the police investigator who was the chair of the committee, but hey, he was in charge..
I learned a lesson in trust when at one of the last meetings before the event, everyone began getting up and climbing into the backs of cars heading towards the police station. When I asked someone what we were doing they informed me that we were going to the police station to view the supplies and groceries that had been purchased for the event. I asked why, as we had just seen the receipt during the meeting. This apparently wasn't enough. We had to go look at the food, to ensure that indeed it was all there. When I asked my favorite question (what I've come to think of as "the second why") again, I was just told it was part of the culture. "But he's a policeman, don't we trust him?" This one is still a bit of a mystery to me.
The health quiz was a concept that was kind of tough to describe to the committee, but they sort of let me run with the thing on my own, which was good for the first event so that I could figure out what I wanted to happen as well. Education at a community event was a new concept, and one that got a little dicey at the actual event. At one point during the event the Men's Sector chairman tried to shut down the booth with the health quiz because the rest of the committee was complaining as they thought there were too many people waiting to take the quiz to win airtime (only cash would have made them more mob like) than there were people watching the dancing and songs. It took some firm negotiating to convince the chairman not to shut us down, but eventually I prevailed. I found myself thanking my lucky stars I had spent so much time building a relationship with him!
The event surpassed my expectations, which is the greatest gift I could have ever asked for. The health quiz happened, the entertainment was great, the food was chaotic but people were happy for the most part. I left the day with tears of joy flowing down my face. It was a shining of example of what I came here to do. And it only took 7.5 months!!!!!
I thought back to every time I've ever experienced tangible success before, at graduations, track meets, dance recitals, choir concerts. I remember the look on my mom's face, and how my grandma was always crying, how tightly my track coaches would grab me after a good race and how the director would beam after a great performance. I never understood until now that sometimes we can derive more joy from the accomplishments of others than we ever could with our own, that celebrating another's success could ever come to mean more to us than our own. It's another beautiful lesson I'll leave this village having learned.
Here's my "press release" that will hopefully go in the Okavango newsletter with photos and such- I've added some to picasa as well, hopefully they show up.
Seronga Men’s Sector Event:“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”
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 several neighboring villages, 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. The weather was nice and not too hot, and although there were brief rain showers the Seronga Village Health Choir keep up the excitement by performing through the downpour! Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war 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. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the by Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. It was a successful day for the Seronga Men's Sector!
The Gentle Giant of Seronga... My African Education Continues
He smiles widely at me, the gaps between his teeth both prominent and unmistakably appropriate. He is a gentle giant, well over 6 feet tall, and his body sturdy and solid and constructed of a lifetime of strenuous hard labor, as though his muscles were spun from not muscle fiber but perhaps something much firmer, yet still softer than the cliché of steel.
When I hug him hello after one of us has been away for a while it’s as though I’m walking into the embrace of a huge tame grizzly bear, he could easily flatten me but has not the inclination, nor the desire. His hands alone are similar to paws in their expansiveness, and it is clear that they have been used to work very hard throughout his life. They are calloused and yet soft, and they envelope my hand completely as we shake hands before we hug. His complexion is very dark, but smooth, and it seems there is nearly always a glow of sweat around where his hairline would be, if it hadn’t receded back to a white ring around the back of his head and to his ears- he calls the sparse areas of hair on top the “short hair” and states that he never needs to cut those ones. He wears a lilac uniform to work at the clinic to identify him in his job as a nurse orderly, which corresponds beautifully with his dark skin.
We have a greeting of “ey hey” (which seems to be the Batswana way of showing recognition- their version of eureka! if you will) expelled from deep in our diaphragms that we loudly and jubilantly exclaim (repeatedly) upon meeting, it has become part of out routine, and is the reason he is convinced I will learn Setswana. In this practice he is one of my most consistent and patient teachers, on car rides from Gumare to Sepopa smooshed into the single bucket seat (really I’m nearly more on his lap than in the seat with him) in the front of an ambulance he teaches me to say things I should have learned at training. His English is very good when he is speaking, his comprehension when I am speaking is less, but he often complains of my funny accent (I’ve gathered that he learned English from South Africans and English descendents and my inability to say “wa-tah” (water) often confuses him as it seems when I say it it becomes more, as he describes it “ward-ar”) so I am more than partially at fault. Unlike some of my other coworkers he rarely asks me for anything, and is more than thrilled to trade vegetables for pens when he is in need, which is a form of commerce that works for both of us.
We have long talks at the clinic, or on drives, or as we walk home together along the bank of the floodplain. He tells me about his culture, his family, his past, and what is important. The descriptions are refreshingly simple. There is little ambivalence, and what uncertainty there is is quickly displaced by his willingness to learn, and possibly rework his understanding to include new information. He invites me to his “old plot” and gives me the grand tour of it’s one room, telling me how this is where he comes to eat the meal his wife prepared for him that morning and rest at lunch as it is much nearer to the clinic than his “new plot”. He shows me how he leaves his clinic uniform there and changes into his other clothes to travel the rest of the way home. He walks me around the yard, describing how he will replace the roof, or chop down this tree or that one, and which ones are “girl” trees (fruit producing) and which are boy trees. He walks me “halfway” (really the entire way) to the gate as I leave, for I am a friend, as opposed to an unwanted guest, who would have to find their way to the gate on their own.
He calls me his daughter and reminds me that I must come to visit my “mother” (his wife) as it is more appropriate for her to learn English from her daughter than from him. He himself learned English after his mother sold traditional beer and saved the money to send him to school. His father didn’t want him to go. His mother sent him anyway and she died shortly after, his father again forbids him to go. He got himself a job working for a teacher who in turn sponsored him at school, which he attended until grade 4. This was the end of his formal education. He then spent time working in the mines in South Africa where he improved his English, and moved back to Seronga to work at the Seronga clinic which opened somewhere in the late 70’s or early 80’s.
He tells me the year he got married to his wife, as well as the years they were born, and we each carefully do the math in our own heads, me waiting patiently for him to declare their respective ages and the length of their marriage. He is often off by a year or so depending on the actual date he is calculating, but I seldom correct him as a sign of respect, although he never seems offended when I correct him on something. For a man of 58 he is remarkably willing to accept the corrections of a young white girl. Each time he exclaims his own age, it’s as though it’s new or recently discovered information, he then moves on to the years his children were born, as well as which year he went to work in the mines in South Africa, when he’ll retire and let his children take care of him in Seronga. This is how he defines his life, by a series of important dates, never worrying about comparing himself to others, or whether it is enough, or if he has been happy. He does not define himself by what he has done necessarily, but what he has learned and who is in his life. I’m increasingly believing there’s something to his line of thinking.
He often gives me advice on how to live my life, and why I should so this or that, and one of my favorite topics (although this is funny as it’s growing to be one of my least favorite topics in speaking with anyone else) is why I must get married. He often tells me about how he loves his wife, and how he’s never had another wife or small house since he’s been married (and due to his earnestness, I believe him). He tells me that I must marry (and preferably a Motswana) so that I will have someone who knows how to take care of me, and which foods I like and how they should be prepared. When I protest that I am quite happy on my own (at least for the here and now) he just shakes his head and says “No Lorato, let me explain you”. And launches again into the way that his wife does his laundry and he goes to the store to buy her the sweets she likes. He speaks about how he knows white people, and although white ladies think they know how to take care of themselves and can be fine alone they are wrong. About this he is certain. His descriptions are so charming and sincere that I want to lean back into the fairy tale he presents and squeeze my eyes closed as though I am five and he is waxing poetic about fairies.
There are many lessons about life, and relationships, family, friends, Africa and…. Economics (?) from T
Here’s a funny lesson of late:
So in addition to working at the clinic he runs a garden on his land, and has several plots around town. He is quite the saavy businessman when he explains to me the prices of his produce depend on if people come to pick them up at his garden, or if he has to deliver them to town.
“Why T, I had no idea you had a car.” I said.
He looks as surprised as I do, briefly considering the fact that wait, did he perhaps have a car he had previously forgotten about? Having searched his memory and decided that no, indeed he doesn’t have a car, he slowly shakes his head and says, “No Lorato, I have no car.”
“But then why are people being charged for the fuel price of bringing the fruits and vegetables into town?”
“Because the donkeys, they need fu-el, Lorato. They are eating to get big and strong so as to pull the cart to town.” Satisfied with his answer he smiles and crosses his hands in his lap.
Touché, T.
When I hug him hello after one of us has been away for a while it’s as though I’m walking into the embrace of a huge tame grizzly bear, he could easily flatten me but has not the inclination, nor the desire. His hands alone are similar to paws in their expansiveness, and it is clear that they have been used to work very hard throughout his life. They are calloused and yet soft, and they envelope my hand completely as we shake hands before we hug. His complexion is very dark, but smooth, and it seems there is nearly always a glow of sweat around where his hairline would be, if it hadn’t receded back to a white ring around the back of his head and to his ears- he calls the sparse areas of hair on top the “short hair” and states that he never needs to cut those ones. He wears a lilac uniform to work at the clinic to identify him in his job as a nurse orderly, which corresponds beautifully with his dark skin.
We have a greeting of “ey hey” (which seems to be the Batswana way of showing recognition- their version of eureka! if you will) expelled from deep in our diaphragms that we loudly and jubilantly exclaim (repeatedly) upon meeting, it has become part of out routine, and is the reason he is convinced I will learn Setswana. In this practice he is one of my most consistent and patient teachers, on car rides from Gumare to Sepopa smooshed into the single bucket seat (really I’m nearly more on his lap than in the seat with him) in the front of an ambulance he teaches me to say things I should have learned at training. His English is very good when he is speaking, his comprehension when I am speaking is less, but he often complains of my funny accent (I’ve gathered that he learned English from South Africans and English descendents and my inability to say “wa-tah” (water) often confuses him as it seems when I say it it becomes more, as he describes it “ward-ar”) so I am more than partially at fault. Unlike some of my other coworkers he rarely asks me for anything, and is more than thrilled to trade vegetables for pens when he is in need, which is a form of commerce that works for both of us.
We have long talks at the clinic, or on drives, or as we walk home together along the bank of the floodplain. He tells me about his culture, his family, his past, and what is important. The descriptions are refreshingly simple. There is little ambivalence, and what uncertainty there is is quickly displaced by his willingness to learn, and possibly rework his understanding to include new information. He invites me to his “old plot” and gives me the grand tour of it’s one room, telling me how this is where he comes to eat the meal his wife prepared for him that morning and rest at lunch as it is much nearer to the clinic than his “new plot”. He shows me how he leaves his clinic uniform there and changes into his other clothes to travel the rest of the way home. He walks me around the yard, describing how he will replace the roof, or chop down this tree or that one, and which ones are “girl” trees (fruit producing) and which are boy trees. He walks me “halfway” (really the entire way) to the gate as I leave, for I am a friend, as opposed to an unwanted guest, who would have to find their way to the gate on their own.
He calls me his daughter and reminds me that I must come to visit my “mother” (his wife) as it is more appropriate for her to learn English from her daughter than from him. He himself learned English after his mother sold traditional beer and saved the money to send him to school. His father didn’t want him to go. His mother sent him anyway and she died shortly after, his father again forbids him to go. He got himself a job working for a teacher who in turn sponsored him at school, which he attended until grade 4. This was the end of his formal education. He then spent time working in the mines in South Africa where he improved his English, and moved back to Seronga to work at the Seronga clinic which opened somewhere in the late 70’s or early 80’s.
He tells me the year he got married to his wife, as well as the years they were born, and we each carefully do the math in our own heads, me waiting patiently for him to declare their respective ages and the length of their marriage. He is often off by a year or so depending on the actual date he is calculating, but I seldom correct him as a sign of respect, although he never seems offended when I correct him on something. For a man of 58 he is remarkably willing to accept the corrections of a young white girl. Each time he exclaims his own age, it’s as though it’s new or recently discovered information, he then moves on to the years his children were born, as well as which year he went to work in the mines in South Africa, when he’ll retire and let his children take care of him in Seronga. This is how he defines his life, by a series of important dates, never worrying about comparing himself to others, or whether it is enough, or if he has been happy. He does not define himself by what he has done necessarily, but what he has learned and who is in his life. I’m increasingly believing there’s something to his line of thinking.
He often gives me advice on how to live my life, and why I should so this or that, and one of my favorite topics (although this is funny as it’s growing to be one of my least favorite topics in speaking with anyone else) is why I must get married. He often tells me about how he loves his wife, and how he’s never had another wife or small house since he’s been married (and due to his earnestness, I believe him). He tells me that I must marry (and preferably a Motswana) so that I will have someone who knows how to take care of me, and which foods I like and how they should be prepared. When I protest that I am quite happy on my own (at least for the here and now) he just shakes his head and says “No Lorato, let me explain you”. And launches again into the way that his wife does his laundry and he goes to the store to buy her the sweets she likes. He speaks about how he knows white people, and although white ladies think they know how to take care of themselves and can be fine alone they are wrong. About this he is certain. His descriptions are so charming and sincere that I want to lean back into the fairy tale he presents and squeeze my eyes closed as though I am five and he is waxing poetic about fairies.
There are many lessons about life, and relationships, family, friends, Africa and…. Economics (?) from T
Here’s a funny lesson of late:
So in addition to working at the clinic he runs a garden on his land, and has several plots around town. He is quite the saavy businessman when he explains to me the prices of his produce depend on if people come to pick them up at his garden, or if he has to deliver them to town.
“Why T, I had no idea you had a car.” I said.
He looks as surprised as I do, briefly considering the fact that wait, did he perhaps have a car he had previously forgotten about? Having searched his memory and decided that no, indeed he doesn’t have a car, he slowly shakes his head and says, “No Lorato, I have no car.”
“But then why are people being charged for the fuel price of bringing the fruits and vegetables into town?”
“Because the donkeys, they need fu-el, Lorato. They are eating to get big and strong so as to pull the cart to town.” Satisfied with his answer he smiles and crosses his hands in his lap.
Touché, T.
Staggering Generosity: Stories of Kindness
I have recently been the recipient of the kind of generosity from strangers that I didn't know existed anymore. I can't say that as an American, in America, I would trust these sorts of things, but it has happened in Africa, and has helped open my heart even further to it's people and those I serve. Thank you to the individuals mentioned below, as you've lifted my spirit, regenerated my energy, and filled my soul with light, and just generally been so good to me. People like you make the world a better place!
It began with a man in my home state, MN. He stumbled upon my blog. He was fact checking some info that his friend who lives in Gaborone (the capital city of Bots) had told him. He emailed me (as so many tend to do, and keep it up, good or bad, I love to get people's reactions, or really just to see if anyone out there is reading. It's been a long time since hearing from strangers has been weird and is now one of the more interesting components of writing this blog) and we would write back and forth every so often.
The needle stick happened. Many people responded with kind words and messages of hope (and again thank you, I am so lucky. I do not take this blessing for granted).
Shortly after that post, I got a call from Nala, a doctor who stays in Francistown. She offered me many kind words and a place to stay should I ever make my way to Francistown. I thanked her for her kindness and stored her number in my phone.
On my way down to Gabs for follow-up testing after the needle prick I get a somewhat strange message that there is a package waiting for me in Maun. K, the man in Minneapolis has told his friend Carle about me, and Carle has sent me what is nearly a crate filled with nice food and supplies that are hard to impossible to find in the bush. I am in tears. Carle offered me a place to stay should I ever need it in Gabs.
Again, as an American, these tend to be the sort of interactions that we have become naturally wary and suspicious of. I decided to believe in the true goodness of people and take both these folks up on their offers. And I'm so glad I did.
Carle and his family showed me such kindness, opening their home to a complete stranger. They fed me, let me use their washing machine (this in itself was a miracle that nearly brought me to tears), their Internet and showed me better hospitality than a 5 star hotel. Carle took me to yoga and his wife K took me all over the city looking for reading glasses for Simon. I got to hang out with their darling little children and have the sort of experience that reminds me so strongly of a typical "home", or at least to what I've come to think of as home. We watched movies and funny American reality TV, and talked about books and music we'd enjoyed and places in the world one really must go. We spoke of psychology, philosophy, the politics of both the US and the southern part of Africa. I helped K and the children decorate their Christmas tree. Carle helped me find a new camera to buy as the one I had had crapped out on me, and arranged for a ride to Francistown so I wouldn't be stuck on the bus. I was staggered by their willingness to open their home to a complete stranger, and to be so incredibly kind.
In Francistown, when it became clear that I would be stopping there for the night, I hesitated. Nala had said to call, but it was very short notice and I would be getting in quite late. I took a deep breath and I called. She answered, delighted to hear from me and immediately offered up her home for the night. I arrived in Francistown near 11PM. She came to pick me up in the dark of the night in the middle of the city, no hesitation. She brought me to her home, mentioning landmarks along the way so that I could come back again next time. She had a meal warming in the oven for me and chocolate cake and tea after that. She had a magic phone that allowed me to call the states from an internal number (no long distance) and I was able to speak with family and friends for free. She let me use her Internet as well, and we had lovely conversations over the wonderful breakfast she cooked for me before taking me to some art shops and another pharmacy to look for Simon's glasses before dropping me at the bus rank. She is wonderful and giving, and the woman just amazes me as she herself is going through grieving a very recent death. I meant what I said to her when I told her that short of my own mother, if I ever needed someone to take care of me, let it be an African woman. They mother better than anyone on Earth, I would wager... For her to go out of her way for a stranger.. I smile when I think of her grace and healing presence.
I smile when I think of these new friends, who have opened up their homes to a stranger, and shown such generosity. I send up good feelings and hopes for happiness for the kindness of strangers, and how they have quite simply changed my life and altered my perspective, and made it possible for me to go back to my village ready to keep doing the work I do. I am so blessed to be so intimately exposed to the genuine good in the world, which I had no idea how thoroughly I would see when I signed up for a job that would naturally expose me to such hardship and sadness. Thank you again. You are amazing.
I tell this story to attempt to begin to thank those involved for their generosity, (although I have kept them somewhat anonymous at their own request). I tell it also in light of the season upon us, with the hope that it inspires those who are sharing this journey with me to ask themselves (as I now ask myself, every day) what kindness can you show to a stranger?
It makes a big difference.
Peace, Love, Gratitude, Hope, Kindness
Jen
It began with a man in my home state, MN. He stumbled upon my blog. He was fact checking some info that his friend who lives in Gaborone (the capital city of Bots) had told him. He emailed me (as so many tend to do, and keep it up, good or bad, I love to get people's reactions, or really just to see if anyone out there is reading. It's been a long time since hearing from strangers has been weird and is now one of the more interesting components of writing this blog) and we would write back and forth every so often.
The needle stick happened. Many people responded with kind words and messages of hope (and again thank you, I am so lucky. I do not take this blessing for granted).
Shortly after that post, I got a call from Nala, a doctor who stays in Francistown. She offered me many kind words and a place to stay should I ever make my way to Francistown. I thanked her for her kindness and stored her number in my phone.
On my way down to Gabs for follow-up testing after the needle prick I get a somewhat strange message that there is a package waiting for me in Maun. K, the man in Minneapolis has told his friend Carle about me, and Carle has sent me what is nearly a crate filled with nice food and supplies that are hard to impossible to find in the bush. I am in tears. Carle offered me a place to stay should I ever need it in Gabs.
Again, as an American, these tend to be the sort of interactions that we have become naturally wary and suspicious of. I decided to believe in the true goodness of people and take both these folks up on their offers. And I'm so glad I did.
Carle and his family showed me such kindness, opening their home to a complete stranger. They fed me, let me use their washing machine (this in itself was a miracle that nearly brought me to tears), their Internet and showed me better hospitality than a 5 star hotel. Carle took me to yoga and his wife K took me all over the city looking for reading glasses for Simon. I got to hang out with their darling little children and have the sort of experience that reminds me so strongly of a typical "home", or at least to what I've come to think of as home. We watched movies and funny American reality TV, and talked about books and music we'd enjoyed and places in the world one really must go. We spoke of psychology, philosophy, the politics of both the US and the southern part of Africa. I helped K and the children decorate their Christmas tree. Carle helped me find a new camera to buy as the one I had had crapped out on me, and arranged for a ride to Francistown so I wouldn't be stuck on the bus. I was staggered by their willingness to open their home to a complete stranger, and to be so incredibly kind.
In Francistown, when it became clear that I would be stopping there for the night, I hesitated. Nala had said to call, but it was very short notice and I would be getting in quite late. I took a deep breath and I called. She answered, delighted to hear from me and immediately offered up her home for the night. I arrived in Francistown near 11PM. She came to pick me up in the dark of the night in the middle of the city, no hesitation. She brought me to her home, mentioning landmarks along the way so that I could come back again next time. She had a meal warming in the oven for me and chocolate cake and tea after that. She had a magic phone that allowed me to call the states from an internal number (no long distance) and I was able to speak with family and friends for free. She let me use her Internet as well, and we had lovely conversations over the wonderful breakfast she cooked for me before taking me to some art shops and another pharmacy to look for Simon's glasses before dropping me at the bus rank. She is wonderful and giving, and the woman just amazes me as she herself is going through grieving a very recent death. I meant what I said to her when I told her that short of my own mother, if I ever needed someone to take care of me, let it be an African woman. They mother better than anyone on Earth, I would wager... For her to go out of her way for a stranger.. I smile when I think of her grace and healing presence.
I smile when I think of these new friends, who have opened up their homes to a stranger, and shown such generosity. I send up good feelings and hopes for happiness for the kindness of strangers, and how they have quite simply changed my life and altered my perspective, and made it possible for me to go back to my village ready to keep doing the work I do. I am so blessed to be so intimately exposed to the genuine good in the world, which I had no idea how thoroughly I would see when I signed up for a job that would naturally expose me to such hardship and sadness. Thank you again. You are amazing.
I tell this story to attempt to begin to thank those involved for their generosity, (although I have kept them somewhat anonymous at their own request). I tell it also in light of the season upon us, with the hope that it inspires those who are sharing this journey with me to ask themselves (as I now ask myself, every day) what kindness can you show to a stranger?
It makes a big difference.
Peace, Love, Gratitude, Hope, Kindness
Jen
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