Since a majority of time in Seronga is spent going about the daily business of food procurement, cleaning the ever entering sands from not the hourglass, but from one’s life, cleansing one's body (if not always one's soul), running around the village and plotting one’s next internet fix, the limited amount of free time one has must be spent on having fun, if for no other reason than that if not for some fun one would lose their mind, shit, ect. One must be creative in these “fun” pursuits, and in order to give my adoring fans a glimpse into what counts as “fun” in Seronga I’ve made my top twenty list of my favorite Seronga pastimes. You have to supply your own visuals, and it’s in the “you” form as I also do a lot of talking to myself here….
1) Teach yourself the harmony parts to Postal Service songs (thank you so much L-I’d kiss you if you weren’t back in America!!!) and then do high kicks to same during upbeat numbers. Contemplate writing and choreographing Broadway revival a’la “Mama Mia” and realize the report on Andrew Lloyd Webber you did while in London was closest you’d get to the Great White Way. Settle for Peace Corps being your current claim to fame (for now!)
2) Hunt down someone to open the computer lab at the school-this will take the better part of an hour and at least ten pula worth of airtime on your cell phone- (hopefully your buddy Eman, then spend a while wondering (again) why you don’t just have your own key?) and just wait. Eman will declare today a “work day”, proclaim that he’s very sad and wants to cry today and will put on the Usher “Confessions” album and the two of you will have a sing along. He will also cue up such gems as the Michael Boltan classic “Said I Loved You But I Lied”, along with every thug-tastic sad song that’s been released in the past two decades. Question Eman’s guaranteed melancholy disposition; realize that when you’re sad listening to sad music is funny and thank God for him.
3) Gaze down at your belly button and upon viewing the ring that is still there, have an argument with yourself as to whether this is your high school or college post break-up body, due to semi starvation and partial malnutrition in rural Africa. Rue the fact that no ex boyfriends are going to happen upon you on the road in Seronga. Thank god for Facebook, where they might. Wonder if you could ever maintain this in the presence of real food. Realize there’s no fricken way, and make a goal to get over body anxieties. You’ve got two years…
4) Come up with a convoluted and ridiculous plan to have a contest to name the lizard that lives in your windowsill. Think of some possible names yourself and realize you blew your cleaver name wad on those damn cats. Be cheered in the fact that you’ll probably be able to name some kids someday and realize you should practice with the lizard. Or not so much.
5) Write many, many semi coherent blog entries and letters home. This is fun in that in attempting to describe life here, you realize it could never, ever be done. You will never do it justice. As it is impossible, there is less pressure and thus you can just be wildly entertaining. Ha.
6) Make long and random lists of ….everything. Life goals, goals for the next year, six months, week, day, ten minutes, knowing that a grand and frightening majority will probably never happen. Make peace with that for about ten seconds and move on. Lists of favorite foods that you miss, reasons you’re happy to still be here, reasons you wish you were home, great things about Seronga/Botswana/Africa/ make a large and ongoing list to complete Vanity Fair magazine’s Proust questionnaire, dream of new and amazing half cocked ideas for ways you could change the world that again, will likely not pan out. All of the above to be written in crayon. Don’t take yourself too seriously.
7) Photography 101. There is no shortage of amazing, weird and wonderful things in Seronga and Botswana to take photos of. Favorite subject when all else fails? Self.
8) Repeat random and useless celebrity and entertainment gleaned from celebrity imported magazines as well as the fact that you often spend your precious internet time checking out people.com (and realizing you could be checking out like cnn.com if you were more of an adult…) to unsuspecting (and possibly unenglish speaking) villagers in effort to keep on top of useless celebrity knowledge game. Mentally go through the ever changing family tree of Brad and Angelina. Mourn the fact that you have likely ended your glory days as an unstoppable contender at Trivial Pursuit (the last 20 years) and Scene It.
9) Pedicure toes. Again.
10) Practice walking around balancing things on your head. I myself am up to quite a few steps before whatever thing I’m balancing falls off. If I put one arm up to support whatever it is I’m doing even better. In addition to being a fancy parlor trick, I figure this may be the one indicator that I’ve actually lived in Africa (as I suspect the tan may fade with time…)
11) Go through stockpile of magazines to determine the next short transitional style for hair and plot out who in this country might be qualified to perform the operation. Contemplate what it means that hair role models for now are Pink, Victoria Beckham, Katie Holmes and Agnyess Deyne. Make collage of pictures for back of door.
12) Plank position (like the up part of a push up). Done to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers “American Girl”. Hold until arms, legs, abs and other previously unknown muscles shake violently (generally the length of 1 song) laugh hysterically and repeat. This constitutes one set. Do three or four.
13) Baking. Like from scratch with a recipe book. Spend most of day wandering around village looking for eggs.
14) Pick up a few more languages. This may seem ridiculous in light of the fact that you are barely conversational in one, however. If one is going to suck at one African language, one can certainly handle being terrible at three or four. In all seriousness, learning the greetings to several of the other languages in my village-priceless. Seeing the toothless old people grinning and commenting that the Lekgowa now speaks Simbugushu and Seyai, heartwarming. Being unable to tell which tribe any of these toothless old people are from, and risking offending them (I've been told that these two tribes in particular really strongly dislike each other)- a little more dangerous, but i like to live on the edge. And I think they at least see I'm trying...
15) Cheerleading. Not the yea rah rah type, but the kind in which one runs around the village encouraging people to follow through with the things you've previously asked them to do for this or that project. This'll take a while.
16) Continue on with house decorating project. It only looks a little like an asylum now, and more like a standard issue padded room with pictures and writing everywhere. Surely there's a little more space over here....
17) Re-view every movie you have. Watch them again with the second commentary. Not the one with the director and the main stars, the one with the dolly grip and the sound guy giving their recollections of filming. Dream up additional alternate endings. Laugh out loud. This is your life.
18) Imagine the first thing you'll say to everyone upon arriving home. Stop that. It makes you homesick.
19) Read. Another. Book.
20) Gaze out at the day, the sunlight, the raindrops, the stars, the moon, the clouds, the clear sky, the delta. Walk through the village and find something to smile about. Great the children and the old ladies, the friends and the strangers who know your name when you might not know theirs. Write random things on the pavement at the school in chalk. DAnce to the song in your head (or on your ipod). Breathe in the air and do all the things you never had time for in your previous life. Express gratitude. Even when it's boring, this is an amazing experience you're having, and it only gets better with time.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Dear Grandma, Happy Birthday
I hope you have a most wonderful birthday a half a world away from me. It's times like this that I curse the skin you've always said was too thin, and wish for longer sleeves, it seems the ones on which I wear my heart aren't doing much to relieve the aching way in which I long to be near you today. I know the pain is normal, that it means I'm growing and that the discomfort is a kiln which is firing me to be a stronger tea cup or china or whatever antiquated piece of kitchen wear you use to make the analogy, but for now I just want relief in the cool calming waters that I know to be you. I miss you so completely, every day, but especially today.
If I were there I would kiss your face and "mess up" your hair. I would put lotion on you hands and you'd complain about how hot your feet are, while mine would be too cold, and you'd admonish me to wait, my time is coming. We'd trade shoes and you'd find something in a drawer or a closet or a book or a can or jar of something that you'd "been meaning to give" to me. You'd listen to my advice and suggestions cautiously or enthusiastically, scowling or grinning at my youthful certainty, or uncertainty. You'd tell me what to do, and I'd roll my eyes, knowing that you're probably right, but only taking it completely in later, on the drive home.
We'd eat too much, sugary and sweet and chocolatey and whatever newfangled health remedy you're trying after getting a crazy email forward about how it will change your life. The vinigar, the yougurt, the garlic, the vitamins, whatever, washed down with whatever chocolate or sweets you had in the house. Cause that's what you do at Grandma's. You'd shake your head and bitch and moan about my picky eating habits (which I promise you, are changing here)swearing that I was too old to act this way, and yet we'd dine on whichever meal you'd prepared especially because you knew I was coming, whichever items you could most recently recall as being my "favorite". I would listen for your ticking heart, and the whisp of the oxygen, and I would breathe in the familiar scent that I've never been quite able to find anywhere else on Earth, only hints of it, here, or there, which always inspire my heart to miss you and love you.
We would have long chats in which I'd speak too quickly and too loud, taking time to settle into the calm that you create in me. We would laugh until we cried, or really in your case, not really cry, but sort of, and then cry until we laughed again. We'd agree and disagree and agree to disagree. I'd shriek and you'd whisper, and we'd both use too many gestures. We'd talk until there was nothing left to say, but to just feel the space in the air left by the warmth of our words, the kind of closeness only those who have shared so much of their souls with each other over the years can create.
And I've been lucky. So lucky. Because not everyone has someone in their life who will proudly pull back their curtains and expose the inner workings of the dirty business of living a life. Not everyone is strong enough to show the shadows, and expose the mistakes, wear the failures like badges of honor. It seems small, and obvious, and yet it has the effect allowing anyone in your presence to take the risks that will make them a better person, that will make them stronger, that will allow them in turn to grow and reach and strive and yet to have the safty of knowing they can always come back home if the plan fails, if the lover is the wrong one, if the choice was mistaken, or the efforts in vain. Not everyone has someone who has lived such an extraordinary and yet ordinary life, and is willing to teach them the lessons, again and again until she is horse, and still repeat them no matter how many times I miss, forget, ignore, overlook or fail to learn them. And yet with every success, and even most failures, I know you're out there in the crowd, silently crying in your way, clasping your hands together with pride in the front row of the stage from which I live my life. And I'm so very, very, blessed.
So congratulations my dear, on completing another lap round the sun on this planet. And thank you for giving those of us lucky enough to live in your essence another year with you. I miss you bittersweetly, and love you completely, and cannot wait until we meet again.
I love you, Happy Birthday.
Your Granddaughter,
Jennifer Korrin Katchmark
If I were there I would kiss your face and "mess up" your hair. I would put lotion on you hands and you'd complain about how hot your feet are, while mine would be too cold, and you'd admonish me to wait, my time is coming. We'd trade shoes and you'd find something in a drawer or a closet or a book or a can or jar of something that you'd "been meaning to give" to me. You'd listen to my advice and suggestions cautiously or enthusiastically, scowling or grinning at my youthful certainty, or uncertainty. You'd tell me what to do, and I'd roll my eyes, knowing that you're probably right, but only taking it completely in later, on the drive home.
We'd eat too much, sugary and sweet and chocolatey and whatever newfangled health remedy you're trying after getting a crazy email forward about how it will change your life. The vinigar, the yougurt, the garlic, the vitamins, whatever, washed down with whatever chocolate or sweets you had in the house. Cause that's what you do at Grandma's. You'd shake your head and bitch and moan about my picky eating habits (which I promise you, are changing here)swearing that I was too old to act this way, and yet we'd dine on whichever meal you'd prepared especially because you knew I was coming, whichever items you could most recently recall as being my "favorite". I would listen for your ticking heart, and the whisp of the oxygen, and I would breathe in the familiar scent that I've never been quite able to find anywhere else on Earth, only hints of it, here, or there, which always inspire my heart to miss you and love you.
We would have long chats in which I'd speak too quickly and too loud, taking time to settle into the calm that you create in me. We would laugh until we cried, or really in your case, not really cry, but sort of, and then cry until we laughed again. We'd agree and disagree and agree to disagree. I'd shriek and you'd whisper, and we'd both use too many gestures. We'd talk until there was nothing left to say, but to just feel the space in the air left by the warmth of our words, the kind of closeness only those who have shared so much of their souls with each other over the years can create.
And I've been lucky. So lucky. Because not everyone has someone in their life who will proudly pull back their curtains and expose the inner workings of the dirty business of living a life. Not everyone is strong enough to show the shadows, and expose the mistakes, wear the failures like badges of honor. It seems small, and obvious, and yet it has the effect allowing anyone in your presence to take the risks that will make them a better person, that will make them stronger, that will allow them in turn to grow and reach and strive and yet to have the safty of knowing they can always come back home if the plan fails, if the lover is the wrong one, if the choice was mistaken, or the efforts in vain. Not everyone has someone who has lived such an extraordinary and yet ordinary life, and is willing to teach them the lessons, again and again until she is horse, and still repeat them no matter how many times I miss, forget, ignore, overlook or fail to learn them. And yet with every success, and even most failures, I know you're out there in the crowd, silently crying in your way, clasping your hands together with pride in the front row of the stage from which I live my life. And I'm so very, very, blessed.
So congratulations my dear, on completing another lap round the sun on this planet. And thank you for giving those of us lucky enough to live in your essence another year with you. I miss you bittersweetly, and love you completely, and cannot wait until we meet again.
I love you, Happy Birthday.
Your Granddaughter,
Jennifer Korrin Katchmark
11-03-2009 Hello, Sully.......
Welcome to this world, my new little prince. You are (really, besides your father who is more of an honorary member, kisses Martin) the first man to be born into our tribe. I have been awaiting your arrival here on Earth from the far off lands and waters of Seronga, and cannot wait until I get to hold your little face in my hands. It will be awhile, but you will know me. Before I came to Botswana a wise woman informed me that I had sent certain parts of myself ahead to Africa prior to actually coming here so that I would recognize the person I would soon become, and so I would feel more at home in my skin once I got here. I have left an equal amount of myself that side of the world, to keep watch over you and yours and be with you there as I am here.
You are a lucky one, little man, with the amazing family you’ve come into, and we will love you well. I cannot wait to impart with you all the mysteries that I have discovered, and cannot wait for you to teach me to uncover new ones as well. We will adventure, we will explore, we will learn and grow and we will love.
I am so excited you are finally here (or there, rather). Welcome to the world of life and all it’s mysteries.
I love you already.
Aunty Katch
You are a lucky one, little man, with the amazing family you’ve come into, and we will love you well. I cannot wait to impart with you all the mysteries that I have discovered, and cannot wait for you to teach me to uncover new ones as well. We will adventure, we will explore, we will learn and grow and we will love.
I am so excited you are finally here (or there, rather). Welcome to the world of life and all it’s mysteries.
I love you already.
Aunty Katch
Pet Sounds... Life in an African Village....
With a title like this one, you'd think that I'm about to wax poetic about all the raging parties in Seronga... Not so...
When I first arrived in Africa- or what I thought of as “real Africa”- the village of Moleps, my first few nights were… Interesting. The night sounds of an Africa village are an unfortunate symphony of the constant barking, braying, clucking, crowing, bleating, mooing and fornicating of the village animals. It crescendos at the full moon.
On the plane to Africa I had somehow managed to score a pair of earplugs (although how or why I would have needed them on the plane to block any noise out of my ambien and wine induced slumber is anyone’s guess) and then at my host family’s house I was reusing the “one time use only” charming blaze orange foam wonders to a point that lacked any semblance of hygiene to block out not only the sounds of the livestock but also the night sounds coming across the open rafter walls of my house. Luckily my mom sent more.
It was funny to me that I needed earplugs to block out the sounds of all the barnyard animals that wander the villages of Botswana day and night (this is the first time I’ve been to a country where they fence their yards to keep wandering livestock out, rather than in..) when I think back on all the places I’ve slept through noises of all kinds.
I’d slept through tons of movies played full blast, innumerable bandits toilet papering my house through my teen years, one year in the drunken, typically screaming haze that is a girl’s freshman dorm floor at college, 2 years in a house directly above both the Duluth fire station and the police station, (cue the blaring sirens at all hours of the day and night) on a hill in which semi trucks flew down the slippery winter hill throwing their jake brakes and screeching day and night. I slept through the city noise of London, near the Imperial War museum on the eve of an unpopular war and its frequent protests complete with drumming, singing and shouting. I’ve slept on a volcano that had been actively erupting and spent more time than I care to admit sharing a residence with an unruly cockatiel who didn’t completely understand what a sheet over his cage meant. I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.
Over time I have adjusted to sleeping through my new barnyard “neighbors” without the assistance of earplugs. At Scott’s camp I have been able to add lions, elephants and groaning hippos to the menagerie of animal night sounds I have slept through. On any given night anywhere near the water of the delta (of which now that it’s flooding I live within a half a mile of) there are so many frogs chirping and singing it sounds like some sort of crazy windchime. I have to admit on the extremely rare night of silence in my hut I have a rather difficult time falling asleep. Luckily, due to the reinvasion of my house by mice (and perhaps bats are what I hear scampering over my head upon a thin layer of nearly particle board that separates me from the invaders?) this isn’t often a problem. It seems the sounds must be sporadic and loudly disruptive to be my lullaby. Ah, Africa.
When I first arrived in Africa- or what I thought of as “real Africa”- the village of Moleps, my first few nights were… Interesting. The night sounds of an Africa village are an unfortunate symphony of the constant barking, braying, clucking, crowing, bleating, mooing and fornicating of the village animals. It crescendos at the full moon.
On the plane to Africa I had somehow managed to score a pair of earplugs (although how or why I would have needed them on the plane to block any noise out of my ambien and wine induced slumber is anyone’s guess) and then at my host family’s house I was reusing the “one time use only” charming blaze orange foam wonders to a point that lacked any semblance of hygiene to block out not only the sounds of the livestock but also the night sounds coming across the open rafter walls of my house. Luckily my mom sent more.
It was funny to me that I needed earplugs to block out the sounds of all the barnyard animals that wander the villages of Botswana day and night (this is the first time I’ve been to a country where they fence their yards to keep wandering livestock out, rather than in..) when I think back on all the places I’ve slept through noises of all kinds.
I’d slept through tons of movies played full blast, innumerable bandits toilet papering my house through my teen years, one year in the drunken, typically screaming haze that is a girl’s freshman dorm floor at college, 2 years in a house directly above both the Duluth fire station and the police station, (cue the blaring sirens at all hours of the day and night) on a hill in which semi trucks flew down the slippery winter hill throwing their jake brakes and screeching day and night. I slept through the city noise of London, near the Imperial War museum on the eve of an unpopular war and its frequent protests complete with drumming, singing and shouting. I’ve slept on a volcano that had been actively erupting and spent more time than I care to admit sharing a residence with an unruly cockatiel who didn’t completely understand what a sheet over his cage meant. I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.
Over time I have adjusted to sleeping through my new barnyard “neighbors” without the assistance of earplugs. At Scott’s camp I have been able to add lions, elephants and groaning hippos to the menagerie of animal night sounds I have slept through. On any given night anywhere near the water of the delta (of which now that it’s flooding I live within a half a mile of) there are so many frogs chirping and singing it sounds like some sort of crazy windchime. I have to admit on the extremely rare night of silence in my hut I have a rather difficult time falling asleep. Luckily, due to the reinvasion of my house by mice (and perhaps bats are what I hear scampering over my head upon a thin layer of nearly particle board that separates me from the invaders?) this isn’t often a problem. It seems the sounds must be sporadic and loudly disruptive to be my lullaby. Ah, Africa.
Highland Fling
I hadn’t planned to go to Maun, but when transport from Gumare back to Seronga went awry when the head nurse informed me that my only ride back to Seronga that day would be in the back of an ambulance with several drums of petrol (likely not completely properly closed and fuming like what) I decided to make a new plan in deference to my remaining brain cells. A few well placed calls informed me that I would have better luck catching a lift from Maun back home with the police from Seronga after the weekend, so Dudu and I made a plan to get to Maun.
As with most ventures through the metropolis that is Maun, it began with me texting the usual suspects about my impending arrival. “Rough” the dashing Scotsman I had met a few months back responded to the social calendar inquiry by asking if I had heard about the Scottish Burns Night. Indeed I hadn’t, although I had to admit the name, along with the brief text he had sent describing a night filled with “wit, poetry and whisky” in and of itself sounded quite promising. When he told me the level of dress was to be “formal” a glimmer of the party-dress girl I used to be danced to the surface of my mind. There are just so few events to which one can attempt to wear make-up and feel pretty in the bush! This was an opportunity, and I’m not one to look a gift donkey in the mouth. When I jokingly inquired about Tuxedos (thinking Bond, James Bond… What with all these gorgeously accented ex pats and pilots running around) and he text back “No…. Kilts.” Yeah. Like I was gonna turn THAT one down. I figured it’s still a cultural exchange, just a Scottish cultural exchange. And it certainly was.
As I was already in Gumare at this point Dudu and I then raided her closet for some suitably appropriate China shop attire. (I hate to say this for the complete political incorrectness of this but when I say “China shop” I’m not speaking about places peddling fancy wares such as china and perhaps flatware and pretty linens. But then perhaps you noted that when I mentioned the state of other marketplaces in the area. “China shop” means junk shops run by Chinese people. No one here seems to think this odd or offensive in the least. Just thought I should clear that up at the start). We made a plan with some dresses we thought would work and I mourned the fact that I couldn’t find a decent pair of heels in the Northwest region of the country. We headed out to the hitching spot in Gumare, thumbed a ride, and were on our way to Maun.
Now this happened to be Friday, and during the rounds of meeting up with the friends and associates I’ve somehow collected in Maun, we managed to get completely sidetracked by my friend “Canada”. He’s nearly Motswana, as his parents are missionaries and have lived in Maun most of his life. He is however, still pretty close to American (which I remind him about how he’s so NEARLY there all the time… Which he loves as much as you can imagine a typical Canadian would.) He ended up inviting us boating the next day, which was the day of the Scottish party, which he had no plans to attend.
The boating adventure ended up being just that, with us stopping to meet up with a friend of a friend of a friend who had all the tame zebras running around their yard that you see in my new photos. (Side Note: There are tons of Zebras in Botswana, and many of them are quite tame as they are not hunted, poached or eaten because they are the totem of the President of Botswana’s tribe. I’ve still never seen them get this close to humans. It was weird. I threatened them-although being in English I wonder if they understood- that they had better not trample me or my mother was going to be PISSED. Perhaps the threatening fist I shook at them made it clear. I’ll let the pictures tell the story…) Long story short (or really, told in parenthesis) after a brief run in with a hippo at close range, by the time we had docked the party had begun about an hour previously.
Now really, things never start on time in Botswana, so when we showed up nearly two and a half hours late, I thought we’d be right on time. It seems I forgot about the Brits and their “timeliness above all” which you’d think I would have really taken in after spending all this time with Simon, for whom half 4 means twenty past. We wandered into the entryway of the assigned seating formal sit down dinner function (mental note: not a good idea to try to sneak in two and a half hours late when you are seated at the host’s table… ooopps.) and I began the smile and feign ignorance apology dance. The whisky began to really flow soon after and all was forgiven.
It seems we were just in time for the actual main course of dinner, which was a lot of stuff that usually goes on my “scary food” list, but as I was trying to play “cultured” I sampled (most of it). The Haggis wasn’t as horrendous as I thought it would be so long as I focused on not thinking about what it was (intestines, nasty ground up bits,-google it). There was also a really amazing thing that was so damn close to a cheese cake that it nearly brought tears. The poetry was surprisingly (to me) pretty good, or if not good, at least sweet, considering the purpose of the night was to immortalize a man whose legend lies heavily in his sexual infidelities. The whole night had the effect of really transporting all present to the experience of a cold winter’s night in a Scottish pub, which is a pretty impressive feat in the heat of Botswana.
In the end, the only thing missing was the bag pipes, which it seemed even Rough couldn’t pull off managing to procure in Africa. The highlight of the evening ended up being the dancing, which the three actual Scots present attempted to teach the rest of us. Scottish dancing is all about being in pairs and constantly switching partners and (in the beginning at least) attempting to focus and count and attempt to go in the right direction. It was hilarious to watch what were undoubtedly a bunch of former prep school boys in their ties twirling around like little leprechauns (I know that’s Irish, but really, it fit) to some dance it appeared they may have mastered at some point in their lives in their Physical Education class and were just remembering in a whisky induced haze now. They were tossing Dudu and I around enough to nearly compensate for the fact that letting a man lead me while dancing is an art form I have not yet mastered.
During the breathless breaks between songs I realized how cool it was just to have a space in which to sit around and speak with people that didn’t carry the “thrill of the hunt” type atmosphere of most of the bars in Bots (or really, the world). Everyone kind of sat around drinking and talking and not necessarily trying to figure out whom was going to try to go home with whom. The dancing had broken the ice amongst people who would have normally spent the night only speaking after they had had their inhibitions worn away by the dulling effects of alcohol. Somewhere between the dancing and the raucous harmonizing of Auld Lange Syne at the bar at the end of the night with lyrics scribbled on a bar napkin and 10 people craning their necks to see and sing, I got a chance to speak with Rough and some of the other Scots and discovered that this is actually is how it is in Scottish pubs. Yeah, there’s crazy drinking (they’re kind of known for it after all) but there’s also this element of widespread socializing amongst the whole room through movement that I would say in American culture we’ve lost (if we ever had?) in the bump and grind of the clubs.
The whole experience made me certain that I need to follow through with the idea I’ve had since London (6 years ago now!!!) that I need to get to Ireland and Scotland for my 30th year of life (also quickly approaching) and with all the friends I’ve met from England, it seems I’ll have to make a few stops there as well. So much for the idea that living in Africa would cure me of my itchy feet…..Here we go again ;-)
As with most ventures through the metropolis that is Maun, it began with me texting the usual suspects about my impending arrival. “Rough” the dashing Scotsman I had met a few months back responded to the social calendar inquiry by asking if I had heard about the Scottish Burns Night. Indeed I hadn’t, although I had to admit the name, along with the brief text he had sent describing a night filled with “wit, poetry and whisky” in and of itself sounded quite promising. When he told me the level of dress was to be “formal” a glimmer of the party-dress girl I used to be danced to the surface of my mind. There are just so few events to which one can attempt to wear make-up and feel pretty in the bush! This was an opportunity, and I’m not one to look a gift donkey in the mouth. When I jokingly inquired about Tuxedos (thinking Bond, James Bond… What with all these gorgeously accented ex pats and pilots running around) and he text back “No…. Kilts.” Yeah. Like I was gonna turn THAT one down. I figured it’s still a cultural exchange, just a Scottish cultural exchange. And it certainly was.
As I was already in Gumare at this point Dudu and I then raided her closet for some suitably appropriate China shop attire. (I hate to say this for the complete political incorrectness of this but when I say “China shop” I’m not speaking about places peddling fancy wares such as china and perhaps flatware and pretty linens. But then perhaps you noted that when I mentioned the state of other marketplaces in the area. “China shop” means junk shops run by Chinese people. No one here seems to think this odd or offensive in the least. Just thought I should clear that up at the start). We made a plan with some dresses we thought would work and I mourned the fact that I couldn’t find a decent pair of heels in the Northwest region of the country. We headed out to the hitching spot in Gumare, thumbed a ride, and were on our way to Maun.
Now this happened to be Friday, and during the rounds of meeting up with the friends and associates I’ve somehow collected in Maun, we managed to get completely sidetracked by my friend “Canada”. He’s nearly Motswana, as his parents are missionaries and have lived in Maun most of his life. He is however, still pretty close to American (which I remind him about how he’s so NEARLY there all the time… Which he loves as much as you can imagine a typical Canadian would.) He ended up inviting us boating the next day, which was the day of the Scottish party, which he had no plans to attend.
The boating adventure ended up being just that, with us stopping to meet up with a friend of a friend of a friend who had all the tame zebras running around their yard that you see in my new photos. (Side Note: There are tons of Zebras in Botswana, and many of them are quite tame as they are not hunted, poached or eaten because they are the totem of the President of Botswana’s tribe. I’ve still never seen them get this close to humans. It was weird. I threatened them-although being in English I wonder if they understood- that they had better not trample me or my mother was going to be PISSED. Perhaps the threatening fist I shook at them made it clear. I’ll let the pictures tell the story…) Long story short (or really, told in parenthesis) after a brief run in with a hippo at close range, by the time we had docked the party had begun about an hour previously.
Now really, things never start on time in Botswana, so when we showed up nearly two and a half hours late, I thought we’d be right on time. It seems I forgot about the Brits and their “timeliness above all” which you’d think I would have really taken in after spending all this time with Simon, for whom half 4 means twenty past. We wandered into the entryway of the assigned seating formal sit down dinner function (mental note: not a good idea to try to sneak in two and a half hours late when you are seated at the host’s table… ooopps.) and I began the smile and feign ignorance apology dance. The whisky began to really flow soon after and all was forgiven.
It seems we were just in time for the actual main course of dinner, which was a lot of stuff that usually goes on my “scary food” list, but as I was trying to play “cultured” I sampled (most of it). The Haggis wasn’t as horrendous as I thought it would be so long as I focused on not thinking about what it was (intestines, nasty ground up bits,-google it). There was also a really amazing thing that was so damn close to a cheese cake that it nearly brought tears. The poetry was surprisingly (to me) pretty good, or if not good, at least sweet, considering the purpose of the night was to immortalize a man whose legend lies heavily in his sexual infidelities. The whole night had the effect of really transporting all present to the experience of a cold winter’s night in a Scottish pub, which is a pretty impressive feat in the heat of Botswana.
In the end, the only thing missing was the bag pipes, which it seemed even Rough couldn’t pull off managing to procure in Africa. The highlight of the evening ended up being the dancing, which the three actual Scots present attempted to teach the rest of us. Scottish dancing is all about being in pairs and constantly switching partners and (in the beginning at least) attempting to focus and count and attempt to go in the right direction. It was hilarious to watch what were undoubtedly a bunch of former prep school boys in their ties twirling around like little leprechauns (I know that’s Irish, but really, it fit) to some dance it appeared they may have mastered at some point in their lives in their Physical Education class and were just remembering in a whisky induced haze now. They were tossing Dudu and I around enough to nearly compensate for the fact that letting a man lead me while dancing is an art form I have not yet mastered.
During the breathless breaks between songs I realized how cool it was just to have a space in which to sit around and speak with people that didn’t carry the “thrill of the hunt” type atmosphere of most of the bars in Bots (or really, the world). Everyone kind of sat around drinking and talking and not necessarily trying to figure out whom was going to try to go home with whom. The dancing had broken the ice amongst people who would have normally spent the night only speaking after they had had their inhibitions worn away by the dulling effects of alcohol. Somewhere between the dancing and the raucous harmonizing of Auld Lange Syne at the bar at the end of the night with lyrics scribbled on a bar napkin and 10 people craning their necks to see and sing, I got a chance to speak with Rough and some of the other Scots and discovered that this is actually is how it is in Scottish pubs. Yeah, there’s crazy drinking (they’re kind of known for it after all) but there’s also this element of widespread socializing amongst the whole room through movement that I would say in American culture we’ve lost (if we ever had?) in the bump and grind of the clubs.
The whole experience made me certain that I need to follow through with the idea I’ve had since London (6 years ago now!!!) that I need to get to Ireland and Scotland for my 30th year of life (also quickly approaching) and with all the friends I’ve met from England, it seems I’ll have to make a few stops there as well. So much for the idea that living in Africa would cure me of my itchy feet…..Here we go again ;-)
Friday, February 13, 2009
Another Game of J-Kat and Mouse.....
Despite the fact that I’ve now been living in the bush for quite some time, I’m still not into my occasional roommates. I’ve chilled a bit on the lizards, when I see one scurry around as I come in the door I make a half hearted attempt to catch it and release it back into the wild. I’m no longer on a death mission with these guys. I don’t have the energy. I don’t send out a search and destroy mission like I used to, and I don’t really lose sleep over it anymore. I usually just inspect the seal on the duct taped protective barrier that holds the netting around my window. I verbally reiterate the agreement I thought we had, which is that I am ok living with them and cleaning up their shits so long as I don’t have to see them, and they keep the bug problem in check. I don’t think that as a landlord I’m asking too much, just some basic maintenance and discretion. They’re not holding up their end of the bargain.
But at this juncture the lizards are not the problem. Despite my best efforts to keep my place as unappealing to mice as possible (keeping two traps set at all time, keeping food in the fridge or closed cupboard) the mice have returned. I heard the little bastards the other night as I was sleeping, although at the time I convinced myself that at best it was a dream. Living in the size equivalent of a cardboard box (and a round one at that, which is a helluva thing for acoustics- you can never tell where the little bastards are hiding because the sound echoes off the round walls. I have to admit it gives him an advantage…) makes the idea of sharing it with anyone regardless of size or species unappealing.
The scurrying around had woken me several times during the night a few nights back, but in my sleepy confusion I decided it was likely just a lizard or one of those smallish (for Botswana) beetles that while small in stature can get underneath my rubbish bin (a bucket) and move the whole bloody thing. Although they can be a bit loud as you hear them scratching across the floor, we haven’t really had many troubles. The undeniable evidence that my wishful thinking that it was simply bugs or lizards was in vain was when I went to do some baking and found the mice shits in the cupboard. I’ve mentioned before, lizard shit is similar in appearance to mice shit, but has white stuff on one end. These were undeniably mice shits.
As it seems Seronga is too remote a place for Prince Charming to be dispatched to facilitate my rescue (and let me assure you, I would appreciate his presence in many more ways than one… I recently had to take apart, clean and reignite my gas refrigerator, and came to Dudu’s rescue when she left town and her sink clogged, which involved several drain-o burns and ended with me wrapping a towel around the end of her drain and blowing the clog out. Who knew I was so capable???) it seemed I was on my own.
I swore a little, cleaned the shits up, and moved the traps to what I imagined were more mice friendly trafficways. I finished my baking and went to bed.
“Now how on Earth did the mouse get into your house?” you ask.
Ah. Gentle American reader. There are some things about Botswana that will long remain a mystery, evading all hard earned wisdom and collective insight. This is why the concept of traditional medicine and a sort of black magic is so pervasive in Batswana culture, and one can find even very educated people who believe some of the stories of spirits flying around on loaves of bread at night to do their evil work. (I’m not kidding. I’ve had several nurses at my clinic tell me stories). As an American myself, I also feel that overall I should be able to walk into any unsavory situation, find the manager or person in charge (or at least the customer service hotline, generally manned by someone at a massive call center in India) and demand and explanation, an apology, and a discount on my next purchase. This doesn’t actually happen to be the way things work in Bots.. (although I did briefly consider calling the hotline that the President has set up and is manned by his personal secretary in order to field calls from any citizen in the country with a complaint about… pretty much anything. I’ve heard he speaks mostly English and I think we could probably be great friends…. But anyway).
Generally in Africa the questions of “how” or “why” are irrelevant in terms of the situation at hand, as it was with this one, and thus we must fall back on the ancient Afrikans traditional wisdom of “make a plan” as an answer to our burning moral and logistical questions. (And actually in this case, like all good murder mysteries, the mouse likely came into the house in the most logic defying and yet spine tinglingly satisfying of manners-through the front door. Since it’s been so hot I’ve taken to duct taping mosquito netting around the frame of my open door. It gets a bit sketchy around the bottom so I’ve resorted to just lining some what heavy things along the bottom of the frame- my shoes haven’t brought me this much joy and useful love since the States! Perhaps a stupid idea, but I’d love to hear yours….either way, the CSI mouse tracking light at the police station is down due to a problem with the generator, the solar panel and they have no transport to bring it here, so the true mode of entry will remain theoretical, like most things in Bots.)
Armed with the knowledge that there was indeed still likely a mouse in the house, I went to sleep. And what seemed like hours later (and in reality was closer to half and hour) I heard the tell tail ;-) scratching across the floor. I reached for my light and flashed it in what I hoped was the direction the sound was coming from. He looked at me, I looked at him, and he scurried back under the fridge. Now if you’re not familiar with the set up of my hut (please refer to pictures marked “my hut” on the picassa slideshow to the right of this page) the fridge is near the door. I again reset the mouse traps (nearly blocking the little bugger in, and pulled out the peanut butter. I placed some in the bottom of a jar in the middle of a bucket, thinking that if I could coerce him into this trap I may just release him. I put another dab of peanut butter in the direction of the traps.
Now I’m not a complete mercenary. As you can see I’ve given the little bugger options.
I turned off the light and sat on my bed (you bet your ass I was under that mosquito net) to wait for him. I watched him scurry out from under the fridge and start chewing on the netting that was now serving to keep him in my house. (Ok not such a brilliant move to keep the netting down during this process but hell, there were still mozzies and other creepy crawlers to worry about. Again, if you have any better ideas…..) I turned on the light and he started and hopped a few times and dove back under the fridge.
I decided it was time to step up my game. I found the long postal packing tube that P-funk had used to send me my kite back in September (yup, in the bush you hold onto strange things… Who am I kidding. I’m just the same pack rat I’ve always been!) I emptied a match box and put a bunch of peanut butter inside and slid it into the closed end of the tube. I thought if I could catch him going in there I could upend the tube and fling him outside.
See! At this point I was still thinking of catch and release!
It was the lizard that probably sealed the mouse’s fate in the end. As I was grabbing some duct tape for yet another convoluted plan a lizard darted out from behind the curtain. This was enough. All the animals were going to die tonight. I turned off my headlamp and waited to hear the next move from the mouse. The lizard scurried (and I hate to keep using the word “scurried” but this seems to be the only fitting description of how these little creatures move!) across all the papers and pictures I have lining my walls. I glared over at him and sent him a mental telegraph that he better not disrupt me in my hunt or he would seriously not only be evicted but also really dead. I heard the mouse in the bathroom and flicked the light on him. He started and climbed into the bottom cupboard. Which I promptly closed and locked.
I sat back again in the dark to ensure he was indeed in there, a suspicion confirmed when I heard him chewing through a plastic bag. I grabbed the duct tape and sealed him in there. Now the only thing left to do is wait. Which I’ve got plenty of time to do in Seronga.
I tried to play nice with the mouse and give him some options to get the hell out but as you can see, he just wouldn’t compromise. As I sit here writing (at 1:30 in the morning, incidentally) I bask in the glow of murderous torture. Back somewhere in the catacombs of my mind where my criminology degree resides I seem to recall that a reliable indicator for future murderer/sociopath/serial killers is taking joy in torturing and killing small animals. I wonder if being 27 I’ve outgrown the statute of limitations that says this generally begins in childhood. And then I wonder if any of the shrinks who decided this ever had to live in a round cement hut in a rural African village. In the end I figure I’ll probably be fine, as really, what the hell, the Peace Corps gave me psychological clearance to serve in this crazy place.
I can now hear him scratching increasingly desperately to get out. The only options he’s left with are poisoning himself by ingesting plastic bags, or attempting to chew through the duct tape seal (which I don’t think he can even reach with the door locked) which will certainly bugger up his tiny digestive system, starvation or suffocation.
I lay back in my bed (under the net, telepathic threats to the lizard ongoing) with the intention of deciding what spiritual path I might pursue now that Buddhism is so clearly off the table, and drift off to sleep victorious.
LATER THAT NIGHT
4:30am. Well I certainly am a smug bastard, now aren’t I? I seem to have overlooked one of the most important lessons from my last battle with mice-which is that they always come in twos. With his counterpart nestled (trapped) safely in the bottom cupboard of my cabinet, (which, it has incidentally just occurred to me, is where I have hidden my m&m’s from myself, so he’s not actually going to die of starvation unless chocolate kills mice like I’ve heard it can kill dogs… probably unlikely) the other bandit has decided to make his presence known. Wonderful. I flash the light at this one, we dance around the room trying to decide who’s going to run for safety first. I fake him out and he runs around the room, eventually setting off the trap, ensnaring his hind foot and tail. This of course sets him squealing, which sets me to squealing, so we’re squealing together in my room/house at 4:30 in the morning.
This lasts a few minutes (well I suppose it was seconds but you know how time moves slowly during these incidents) until I decide that one of us must take action to end this nightmare and it appeared with him writhing in the trap that it was gonna have to be me, as he was otherwise disposed. I stop squealing, which means I can now only hear his squealing, which is starting to turn my stomach. I’m shaking my hands around like a gay man at a fill-in-your-favorite stereotypical diva (Barbara Steisand, Madonna, Cher, Tina Turner ect) concert. (Most of which I’ve been to or would kill for tickets to- thus confirming to me that I must have been a gay man in a past life.) fanning prevent myself from heaving (ok, Sis, you win. I am not, nor shall I ever be the mighty hunter-woman-animal-killer that you are. I am the weakest link).
I grabbed for the nearest thing that falls into the “weapon” category in my overly exhausted mind, which happens to be DOOM bug killer stuff. The shit doesn’t really work on large spiders, so what I thought it was going to do to this beast is beyond me. It just caused it to scream louder. It briefly crossed my mind from my brief perusal of Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle” in college and extensive perusal of a Vanity Fair article on war crimes that what I was doing to this mouse probably more than constituted torture, cruel and inhumane treatment as I realized the DOOM had just covered the thing’s coat in a greasy film. I reached for the plastic dustpan and scooped him and the trap up and thrashed through the netting covering my doorway to get outside. I dumped him onto the step where he really began to thrash in earnest, and had gotten his leg free, and was now held in by just his tail.
Now I don’t know any of your feelings on retribution and karma, dear readers, but even on the few hours of sleep I had gotten I know that my aura was going to be more than mussed up if I didn’t end this thing pretty quickly. (Perhaps there are more than a few things previously dating a minister can’t clear up?) And so with that I wielded the plastic dustbin and bashed the mouse on the head. This caused him to seize and I began to gag. I won’t go into anymore detail than to say that there was blood, and that I, unlike the mouse, managed to keep my innards about me. My front step was completely gruesome.
THE NEXT MORNING
The next morning, in light of my grisly murder the night before, I couldn’t bear to deal with what was awaiting me in the cupboard. I could hear the other mouse in there crunching happily on my m&m’s and went about super cleaning the rest of my house (as any good psychopath avoiding a guilty conscience will do) so as to deter any other unwanted guests while I was away camping in the bush for the weekend.
My plan was now to wait until the 2 British guys (from Bana Ba Metsi that I had met a few weekends back) got here. We had planned to go camping at Tsodilo, but when transport fell through we decided to head out into the site where the Queen’s new backpackers will be put up (I’m not even going into the miracles of transport that did happen to get us out that side). Because a) there were two of them and b) I couldn’t handle another scene at my own hand, I decided to let the guys deal with it. With the machisimo that only 2 18 year olds can muster, they opened the door, assuring me that they dealt with such things as pythons and other beasts of the bush “all the time”. They began removing the contents of the cupboard slowly, when Drew yelped and Nick jumped out of the path of the mouse, who made a beeline under my bed.
THREE DAYS LATER
I would have to commission Drew to inform you of what the dead animals (it seems that lizard got his in the end as well) looked like at this point, but I can only tell you it was one of the worst smells I’ve encountered here or anywhere.
Until Next Time Then….. The End!
But at this juncture the lizards are not the problem. Despite my best efforts to keep my place as unappealing to mice as possible (keeping two traps set at all time, keeping food in the fridge or closed cupboard) the mice have returned. I heard the little bastards the other night as I was sleeping, although at the time I convinced myself that at best it was a dream. Living in the size equivalent of a cardboard box (and a round one at that, which is a helluva thing for acoustics- you can never tell where the little bastards are hiding because the sound echoes off the round walls. I have to admit it gives him an advantage…) makes the idea of sharing it with anyone regardless of size or species unappealing.
The scurrying around had woken me several times during the night a few nights back, but in my sleepy confusion I decided it was likely just a lizard or one of those smallish (for Botswana) beetles that while small in stature can get underneath my rubbish bin (a bucket) and move the whole bloody thing. Although they can be a bit loud as you hear them scratching across the floor, we haven’t really had many troubles. The undeniable evidence that my wishful thinking that it was simply bugs or lizards was in vain was when I went to do some baking and found the mice shits in the cupboard. I’ve mentioned before, lizard shit is similar in appearance to mice shit, but has white stuff on one end. These were undeniably mice shits.
As it seems Seronga is too remote a place for Prince Charming to be dispatched to facilitate my rescue (and let me assure you, I would appreciate his presence in many more ways than one… I recently had to take apart, clean and reignite my gas refrigerator, and came to Dudu’s rescue when she left town and her sink clogged, which involved several drain-o burns and ended with me wrapping a towel around the end of her drain and blowing the clog out. Who knew I was so capable???) it seemed I was on my own.
I swore a little, cleaned the shits up, and moved the traps to what I imagined were more mice friendly trafficways. I finished my baking and went to bed.
“Now how on Earth did the mouse get into your house?” you ask.
Ah. Gentle American reader. There are some things about Botswana that will long remain a mystery, evading all hard earned wisdom and collective insight. This is why the concept of traditional medicine and a sort of black magic is so pervasive in Batswana culture, and one can find even very educated people who believe some of the stories of spirits flying around on loaves of bread at night to do their evil work. (I’m not kidding. I’ve had several nurses at my clinic tell me stories). As an American myself, I also feel that overall I should be able to walk into any unsavory situation, find the manager or person in charge (or at least the customer service hotline, generally manned by someone at a massive call center in India) and demand and explanation, an apology, and a discount on my next purchase. This doesn’t actually happen to be the way things work in Bots.. (although I did briefly consider calling the hotline that the President has set up and is manned by his personal secretary in order to field calls from any citizen in the country with a complaint about… pretty much anything. I’ve heard he speaks mostly English and I think we could probably be great friends…. But anyway).
Generally in Africa the questions of “how” or “why” are irrelevant in terms of the situation at hand, as it was with this one, and thus we must fall back on the ancient Afrikans traditional wisdom of “make a plan” as an answer to our burning moral and logistical questions. (And actually in this case, like all good murder mysteries, the mouse likely came into the house in the most logic defying and yet spine tinglingly satisfying of manners-through the front door. Since it’s been so hot I’ve taken to duct taping mosquito netting around the frame of my open door. It gets a bit sketchy around the bottom so I’ve resorted to just lining some what heavy things along the bottom of the frame- my shoes haven’t brought me this much joy and useful love since the States! Perhaps a stupid idea, but I’d love to hear yours….either way, the CSI mouse tracking light at the police station is down due to a problem with the generator, the solar panel and they have no transport to bring it here, so the true mode of entry will remain theoretical, like most things in Bots.)
Armed with the knowledge that there was indeed still likely a mouse in the house, I went to sleep. And what seemed like hours later (and in reality was closer to half and hour) I heard the tell tail ;-) scratching across the floor. I reached for my light and flashed it in what I hoped was the direction the sound was coming from. He looked at me, I looked at him, and he scurried back under the fridge. Now if you’re not familiar with the set up of my hut (please refer to pictures marked “my hut” on the picassa slideshow to the right of this page) the fridge is near the door. I again reset the mouse traps (nearly blocking the little bugger in, and pulled out the peanut butter. I placed some in the bottom of a jar in the middle of a bucket, thinking that if I could coerce him into this trap I may just release him. I put another dab of peanut butter in the direction of the traps.
Now I’m not a complete mercenary. As you can see I’ve given the little bugger options.
I turned off the light and sat on my bed (you bet your ass I was under that mosquito net) to wait for him. I watched him scurry out from under the fridge and start chewing on the netting that was now serving to keep him in my house. (Ok not such a brilliant move to keep the netting down during this process but hell, there were still mozzies and other creepy crawlers to worry about. Again, if you have any better ideas…..) I turned on the light and he started and hopped a few times and dove back under the fridge.
I decided it was time to step up my game. I found the long postal packing tube that P-funk had used to send me my kite back in September (yup, in the bush you hold onto strange things… Who am I kidding. I’m just the same pack rat I’ve always been!) I emptied a match box and put a bunch of peanut butter inside and slid it into the closed end of the tube. I thought if I could catch him going in there I could upend the tube and fling him outside.
See! At this point I was still thinking of catch and release!
It was the lizard that probably sealed the mouse’s fate in the end. As I was grabbing some duct tape for yet another convoluted plan a lizard darted out from behind the curtain. This was enough. All the animals were going to die tonight. I turned off my headlamp and waited to hear the next move from the mouse. The lizard scurried (and I hate to keep using the word “scurried” but this seems to be the only fitting description of how these little creatures move!) across all the papers and pictures I have lining my walls. I glared over at him and sent him a mental telegraph that he better not disrupt me in my hunt or he would seriously not only be evicted but also really dead. I heard the mouse in the bathroom and flicked the light on him. He started and climbed into the bottom cupboard. Which I promptly closed and locked.
I sat back again in the dark to ensure he was indeed in there, a suspicion confirmed when I heard him chewing through a plastic bag. I grabbed the duct tape and sealed him in there. Now the only thing left to do is wait. Which I’ve got plenty of time to do in Seronga.
I tried to play nice with the mouse and give him some options to get the hell out but as you can see, he just wouldn’t compromise. As I sit here writing (at 1:30 in the morning, incidentally) I bask in the glow of murderous torture. Back somewhere in the catacombs of my mind where my criminology degree resides I seem to recall that a reliable indicator for future murderer/sociopath/serial killers is taking joy in torturing and killing small animals. I wonder if being 27 I’ve outgrown the statute of limitations that says this generally begins in childhood. And then I wonder if any of the shrinks who decided this ever had to live in a round cement hut in a rural African village. In the end I figure I’ll probably be fine, as really, what the hell, the Peace Corps gave me psychological clearance to serve in this crazy place.
I can now hear him scratching increasingly desperately to get out. The only options he’s left with are poisoning himself by ingesting plastic bags, or attempting to chew through the duct tape seal (which I don’t think he can even reach with the door locked) which will certainly bugger up his tiny digestive system, starvation or suffocation.
I lay back in my bed (under the net, telepathic threats to the lizard ongoing) with the intention of deciding what spiritual path I might pursue now that Buddhism is so clearly off the table, and drift off to sleep victorious.
LATER THAT NIGHT
4:30am. Well I certainly am a smug bastard, now aren’t I? I seem to have overlooked one of the most important lessons from my last battle with mice-which is that they always come in twos. With his counterpart nestled (trapped) safely in the bottom cupboard of my cabinet, (which, it has incidentally just occurred to me, is where I have hidden my m&m’s from myself, so he’s not actually going to die of starvation unless chocolate kills mice like I’ve heard it can kill dogs… probably unlikely) the other bandit has decided to make his presence known. Wonderful. I flash the light at this one, we dance around the room trying to decide who’s going to run for safety first. I fake him out and he runs around the room, eventually setting off the trap, ensnaring his hind foot and tail. This of course sets him squealing, which sets me to squealing, so we’re squealing together in my room/house at 4:30 in the morning.
This lasts a few minutes (well I suppose it was seconds but you know how time moves slowly during these incidents) until I decide that one of us must take action to end this nightmare and it appeared with him writhing in the trap that it was gonna have to be me, as he was otherwise disposed. I stop squealing, which means I can now only hear his squealing, which is starting to turn my stomach. I’m shaking my hands around like a gay man at a fill-in-your-favorite stereotypical diva (Barbara Steisand, Madonna, Cher, Tina Turner ect) concert. (Most of which I’ve been to or would kill for tickets to- thus confirming to me that I must have been a gay man in a past life.) fanning prevent myself from heaving (ok, Sis, you win. I am not, nor shall I ever be the mighty hunter-woman-animal-killer that you are. I am the weakest link).
I grabbed for the nearest thing that falls into the “weapon” category in my overly exhausted mind, which happens to be DOOM bug killer stuff. The shit doesn’t really work on large spiders, so what I thought it was going to do to this beast is beyond me. It just caused it to scream louder. It briefly crossed my mind from my brief perusal of Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle” in college and extensive perusal of a Vanity Fair article on war crimes that what I was doing to this mouse probably more than constituted torture, cruel and inhumane treatment as I realized the DOOM had just covered the thing’s coat in a greasy film. I reached for the plastic dustpan and scooped him and the trap up and thrashed through the netting covering my doorway to get outside. I dumped him onto the step where he really began to thrash in earnest, and had gotten his leg free, and was now held in by just his tail.
Now I don’t know any of your feelings on retribution and karma, dear readers, but even on the few hours of sleep I had gotten I know that my aura was going to be more than mussed up if I didn’t end this thing pretty quickly. (Perhaps there are more than a few things previously dating a minister can’t clear up?) And so with that I wielded the plastic dustbin and bashed the mouse on the head. This caused him to seize and I began to gag. I won’t go into anymore detail than to say that there was blood, and that I, unlike the mouse, managed to keep my innards about me. My front step was completely gruesome.
THE NEXT MORNING
The next morning, in light of my grisly murder the night before, I couldn’t bear to deal with what was awaiting me in the cupboard. I could hear the other mouse in there crunching happily on my m&m’s and went about super cleaning the rest of my house (as any good psychopath avoiding a guilty conscience will do) so as to deter any other unwanted guests while I was away camping in the bush for the weekend.
My plan was now to wait until the 2 British guys (from Bana Ba Metsi that I had met a few weekends back) got here. We had planned to go camping at Tsodilo, but when transport fell through we decided to head out into the site where the Queen’s new backpackers will be put up (I’m not even going into the miracles of transport that did happen to get us out that side). Because a) there were two of them and b) I couldn’t handle another scene at my own hand, I decided to let the guys deal with it. With the machisimo that only 2 18 year olds can muster, they opened the door, assuring me that they dealt with such things as pythons and other beasts of the bush “all the time”. They began removing the contents of the cupboard slowly, when Drew yelped and Nick jumped out of the path of the mouse, who made a beeline under my bed.
THREE DAYS LATER
I would have to commission Drew to inform you of what the dead animals (it seems that lizard got his in the end as well) looked like at this point, but I can only tell you it was one of the worst smells I’ve encountered here or anywhere.
Until Next Time Then….. The End!
No Such Thing As A Free Ride
I had arranged to get a ride from Maun back up to a place near Seronga in my usual way, which was to see someone I knew randomly driving past Bon Arrive, running out and flagging them down, and entering myself into the logistics of their trip. As usual for my travel experiences in Botswana, it quickly became an adventure.
I had gotten from Gabs to Maun in the mindbendingly cushiony comfort of a plane (thanks again RC!) and was now about to set out for home. From Maun to Seronga is the more logistically difficult leg of the journey, as when there’s not a direct flight to hitch on, it’s a long overland (and really overseas) journey, through a land of dirt roads and pothole filled asphalt, animals sauntering across the road blocking any path for vehicles (generally not intelligent enough to move out of the way, even with the prompting of the horn- but hey I suppose they are stubborn as mules- literally) and timing for mechanically challenged ferry with a last crossing of half 6PM.
When I last left Seronga there had been rumors about and sightings of buses and combis (largish vans) running public transport on my side of the delta. My incredulity at their reliability was confirmed as I saw both a bus and a combi paused in the famous “broken down” posture far from any areas that looked like “official” (ie a tire with a sign declaring “Paradise Bus Stop”) stops.
So I was left with my other option, which is to beg, barter or stow away on some form of transport going my side of the delta. I could technically get a bus to Shakawe, but my faith in the public transport on that particular route to have my bags arrive at their destination is not very strong. I avoid it at all costs. And then I would still have to make my way the ten k’s to the ferry, as well as a lift across all the way to Seronga. In this case Steve goes within 55 k’s of Seronga, a distance with much hitching potential with people going back and forth between their cattle posts. He was the best option I’d found so I jumped at the chance. He said he had several trucks going in the morning. I met him and the entirety of the Bana Ba Metse school the next morning at 9, and the adventure back to Seronga truly began.
I rode in the front of the cab of a large truck with Steve for the first leg of the journey, from Maun to Gumare, a journey fraught with radiator problems and stops to regulate on the boys in the back. I ate my complimentary peanuts and raisons from the plane ride and read my book. We got to Gumare and the two British guys I had been speaking with back in Maun were switching around their driving/sitting arrangements as Nick was tired of being squashed in the back with the boys. He and Drew are on their gap year and are volunteering as teachers with Bana Ba Metsi. They were just arriving back for their first day on the job after a 6 week holiday traveling around southern Africa. There is no easing back into work for he and Drew, as the first day is the day they transport all the boys from Maun to Bana Ba Metsi, English translation of which is loosely “children of the water”. It’s a school for at risk boys started and run by Steve, a former Peace Corps from the neighbor to my home state, Wisconsin. It’s located about 55 k’s from Seronga and I’ve found they often have fresh eggs and chicken for sale.
So we’re at the petrol station in Gumare and I was searching the freezer for one of the elusive unmelted ice cream bars (I figured I better get this last treat before I return to the bush- I failed this mission. The thing was nearly soup straight out of the freezer). I realized I was back in completely back up in the northwestern district of Botswana when without even the politeness of a greeting a well dressed woman at the petrol station demanded that I buy her one of the two packets of fries that were on the counter in front of her. I politely declined, suggesting that perhaps she should be buying me the chips as I was a guest in her country. She said no and informed me that I was beautiful and wanted to be my best friend. I grabbed poor Nick’s arm and replied that I already had a best friend in the whole world thank you very much.
We were still laughing about it when we got out to the trucks and the guys continued their negotiations for who was going to sit where. Drew jokingly suggested it was my leg of the trip to sit with the boys and I surprised him by taking him up on it. I think his subtle British teasing was caught off guard by my blatant American stubbornness and I scrambled over to the truck, ice cream steaming down my arm in delicate green trails (hey, it was mint).
I hoisted myself over the closed tailgate of the partially covered flatbed truck that stands higher than my head at the cab. 50 heads turned in curiosity to briefly acknowledge my arrival. Then they swiveled back to shouting in various tribal languages in support of the fight that had broken out.
I lunged into the middle of it, grabbing the two limbs nearest me (and hoping they belonged to the two boys participating in the fight) and squeezed, shouting in intelligible Setswinglish. I found the back of two necks and placed a hand on each of them and in a half calming, half threatening gesture I spoke more softly and sharply-not that my initial exclamation had quieted the shouts of the masses that had been encouraging the fight.
I had now shocked the travelers in this truck thoroughly. Not only was I white, and a woman, but I now I was telling them, a bunch of men (albeit exceptionally young men in this case) what to do. I could tell they didn’t completely know which of their cultural rules to follow, the ones about respecting and not questioning their elders or the ones about men being in charge of women. The look on my face encouraged them go with the first. The fighters disengaged.
“Are you sure you want to ride back there?” Drew called from down below on the ground. “I was just kidding when I said you should ride there.”
“Course,” I muttered back, continuing to wrench the fighters apart and directing them to sit away from each other. Drew is going to have 24/7 contact with these boys starting now now and I figured it might be nice to give him a few more hours of teenage boy free time before that. My memories and skills gleaned from my time as a “youth specialist” at my job with delinquent girls after college came flooding back to me as I settled into a half squatting position amongst an absolute tangle of limbs and heads, each of us casually crushing into the next in a manner so natural and common in Africa.
I briefly had a laugh to myself at the safety measures that are taken with transporting this many children this far of a distance and think back again to my days in the states. Back home anyone would shit a brick if a child was taken in a car without a seat belt. This truck didn’t even have seats, or really, closed off walls. The wind blew directly at us, half the children were draped on top of each other like puppies trying to both sleep and avoid the direct sun that was pouring in. The luckier ones were perched on the edge of a fuel drum or the spare tires. Some kind of sketchy foamy mats and cushions have been thrown into the back for the comfort of the travelers. There are nearly fifty people crammed in what couldn’t have been much more than maybe 10 by 15 feet of flatbed.
There have been many instances of travel in Africa wherein I find myself in those situations you see in movies wherein there are 15 people hanging off the back of a pickup truck somewhere (although in the movies they generally have big semi automatic machine guns, and here they usually just have a baby strapped to their back, another child holding their hand, a chart from the clinic in their arm, perhaps a bag in their other arm and a 5 kg sack of maze balanced on their heads). This particular episode I was experiencing would have fallen into the “refugees leaving a horribly war torn country” category. And these kids were just on their way to school. I will never have the patience to listen to someone complain about paying bus fees to transport their children three miles to school again.
I watched the sky appear to chase the truck for a while as the landscape rushed by over the tailgate. Drew texts to ask if I am ok back there and I text back “of course.” I looked over at the fighters, the larger of which is clearly pouting for my benefit, and decided that this probably isn’t his first school year at Bana Ba. It was the first day of a new school year and so this one is trying to jockey for position, and establish the power structure that will likely carry them through to the next year. The smaller boy appears to be Humbugushku, an ethnic minority in the area, and based on the nervous tension cascading through his tough demeanor, appeared to be new to the whole arrangement. All this is confirmed when I interrogate the older boy in between the fighters, and whom I immediately blamed for the fight that had nothing to do with him.
“Why are you allowing these boys to fight like children when they are at school to learn to act like men? You are clearly older and should be setting a better example!” I berated him in half Setswana, half English, with my favorite statement, “O A Ultwa?” (Do you understand?) peppered emphatically throughout. He looks surprised and slinks off to the back of the truck where he is out of my line of vision. Responsibility for oneself, much less another person can be a fuzzy concept here I’ve found. He clearly had nothing to do with the fight other than cheering for it, but I’ve found discipline is often an easier thing to enforce when you put it back on those you are trying to control. This group is ripe for positive peer culture.
Another boy had brought with him from home a small toy keyboard (with batteries! Very unusual around these parts!) and was playing it for no better purpose than to annoy those around him. As I was one of those people around him, I decided that this would not do. I informed him that I would be happy to listen to him play for the next five minutes, but then did not want to hear it again until Shakawe (where I would be ending my tour of duty in the back of the truck with the kids.) He looked confused and played on as I kept track on my watch. When I held out my hand after five minutes he placed it there without hesitation. When I think of how many hours I’ve spent trying to coax girls to give me tacks, staples, needles, pen parts or other sharp objects they were holding in their mouths in a threat to shallow them I am gobsmacked at how easy this is. It seems even naughty Batswana children are more well behaved than American ones!
At this point the bigger boy from the fight decides to start talking smack to me. He gave me a long convoluted story about how the smaller boy had been trying to eat out his brains, accusations which the younger boy was observing with a scowl on his face but not attempting to refute. The bigger boy asked if I was the smaller boy’s lawyer, and tells me he will be calling his own attorney to come and hear the case of what had just happened, and this bigger boy was certain he would be vindicated.
I listened to him for a few minutes, and having become the main attraction of the small space at this point, many of the rest of the fifty boys on the truck are waiting to hear how I will reply to this damning argument after I had come onto their bus and broken up a fight. (They couldn’t really avoid overhearing as this was a damn small space within which to fit this many people, and there were no other worthwhile distractions as they were already bored of each other, after having already been in the car together for the better part of a day.) I leaned in close to the bully, looked him straight in the eye, and slowly and carefully told him what I hope will be a life lesson that is permanently impressed upon his young mind.
“When you are speaking to a female (O a ultwa?) if you want her to listen to what you are saying (O a ultwa?) you must look in her eyes, not at her chest.”
The crowd of boys went wild, (although I’m still wondering how many actually understood what I was saying in English, and how many were just laughing that I’d told their big man off) and I added, “and good luck getting your attorney to come that side.”
He scowled and went back to pouting, with no further problems for the rest of the ride.
(which was, in fact, free). I hopped in the Seronga police vehicle at the ferry at Mohembo and was home sweet home soon enough… 9 hours later.
I had gotten from Gabs to Maun in the mindbendingly cushiony comfort of a plane (thanks again RC!) and was now about to set out for home. From Maun to Seronga is the more logistically difficult leg of the journey, as when there’s not a direct flight to hitch on, it’s a long overland (and really overseas) journey, through a land of dirt roads and pothole filled asphalt, animals sauntering across the road blocking any path for vehicles (generally not intelligent enough to move out of the way, even with the prompting of the horn- but hey I suppose they are stubborn as mules- literally) and timing for mechanically challenged ferry with a last crossing of half 6PM.
When I last left Seronga there had been rumors about and sightings of buses and combis (largish vans) running public transport on my side of the delta. My incredulity at their reliability was confirmed as I saw both a bus and a combi paused in the famous “broken down” posture far from any areas that looked like “official” (ie a tire with a sign declaring “Paradise Bus Stop”) stops.
So I was left with my other option, which is to beg, barter or stow away on some form of transport going my side of the delta. I could technically get a bus to Shakawe, but my faith in the public transport on that particular route to have my bags arrive at their destination is not very strong. I avoid it at all costs. And then I would still have to make my way the ten k’s to the ferry, as well as a lift across all the way to Seronga. In this case Steve goes within 55 k’s of Seronga, a distance with much hitching potential with people going back and forth between their cattle posts. He was the best option I’d found so I jumped at the chance. He said he had several trucks going in the morning. I met him and the entirety of the Bana Ba Metse school the next morning at 9, and the adventure back to Seronga truly began.
I rode in the front of the cab of a large truck with Steve for the first leg of the journey, from Maun to Gumare, a journey fraught with radiator problems and stops to regulate on the boys in the back. I ate my complimentary peanuts and raisons from the plane ride and read my book. We got to Gumare and the two British guys I had been speaking with back in Maun were switching around their driving/sitting arrangements as Nick was tired of being squashed in the back with the boys. He and Drew are on their gap year and are volunteering as teachers with Bana Ba Metsi. They were just arriving back for their first day on the job after a 6 week holiday traveling around southern Africa. There is no easing back into work for he and Drew, as the first day is the day they transport all the boys from Maun to Bana Ba Metsi, English translation of which is loosely “children of the water”. It’s a school for at risk boys started and run by Steve, a former Peace Corps from the neighbor to my home state, Wisconsin. It’s located about 55 k’s from Seronga and I’ve found they often have fresh eggs and chicken for sale.
So we’re at the petrol station in Gumare and I was searching the freezer for one of the elusive unmelted ice cream bars (I figured I better get this last treat before I return to the bush- I failed this mission. The thing was nearly soup straight out of the freezer). I realized I was back in completely back up in the northwestern district of Botswana when without even the politeness of a greeting a well dressed woman at the petrol station demanded that I buy her one of the two packets of fries that were on the counter in front of her. I politely declined, suggesting that perhaps she should be buying me the chips as I was a guest in her country. She said no and informed me that I was beautiful and wanted to be my best friend. I grabbed poor Nick’s arm and replied that I already had a best friend in the whole world thank you very much.
We were still laughing about it when we got out to the trucks and the guys continued their negotiations for who was going to sit where. Drew jokingly suggested it was my leg of the trip to sit with the boys and I surprised him by taking him up on it. I think his subtle British teasing was caught off guard by my blatant American stubbornness and I scrambled over to the truck, ice cream steaming down my arm in delicate green trails (hey, it was mint).
I hoisted myself over the closed tailgate of the partially covered flatbed truck that stands higher than my head at the cab. 50 heads turned in curiosity to briefly acknowledge my arrival. Then they swiveled back to shouting in various tribal languages in support of the fight that had broken out.
I lunged into the middle of it, grabbing the two limbs nearest me (and hoping they belonged to the two boys participating in the fight) and squeezed, shouting in intelligible Setswinglish. I found the back of two necks and placed a hand on each of them and in a half calming, half threatening gesture I spoke more softly and sharply-not that my initial exclamation had quieted the shouts of the masses that had been encouraging the fight.
I had now shocked the travelers in this truck thoroughly. Not only was I white, and a woman, but I now I was telling them, a bunch of men (albeit exceptionally young men in this case) what to do. I could tell they didn’t completely know which of their cultural rules to follow, the ones about respecting and not questioning their elders or the ones about men being in charge of women. The look on my face encouraged them go with the first. The fighters disengaged.
“Are you sure you want to ride back there?” Drew called from down below on the ground. “I was just kidding when I said you should ride there.”
“Course,” I muttered back, continuing to wrench the fighters apart and directing them to sit away from each other. Drew is going to have 24/7 contact with these boys starting now now and I figured it might be nice to give him a few more hours of teenage boy free time before that. My memories and skills gleaned from my time as a “youth specialist” at my job with delinquent girls after college came flooding back to me as I settled into a half squatting position amongst an absolute tangle of limbs and heads, each of us casually crushing into the next in a manner so natural and common in Africa.
I briefly had a laugh to myself at the safety measures that are taken with transporting this many children this far of a distance and think back again to my days in the states. Back home anyone would shit a brick if a child was taken in a car without a seat belt. This truck didn’t even have seats, or really, closed off walls. The wind blew directly at us, half the children were draped on top of each other like puppies trying to both sleep and avoid the direct sun that was pouring in. The luckier ones were perched on the edge of a fuel drum or the spare tires. Some kind of sketchy foamy mats and cushions have been thrown into the back for the comfort of the travelers. There are nearly fifty people crammed in what couldn’t have been much more than maybe 10 by 15 feet of flatbed.
There have been many instances of travel in Africa wherein I find myself in those situations you see in movies wherein there are 15 people hanging off the back of a pickup truck somewhere (although in the movies they generally have big semi automatic machine guns, and here they usually just have a baby strapped to their back, another child holding their hand, a chart from the clinic in their arm, perhaps a bag in their other arm and a 5 kg sack of maze balanced on their heads). This particular episode I was experiencing would have fallen into the “refugees leaving a horribly war torn country” category. And these kids were just on their way to school. I will never have the patience to listen to someone complain about paying bus fees to transport their children three miles to school again.
I watched the sky appear to chase the truck for a while as the landscape rushed by over the tailgate. Drew texts to ask if I am ok back there and I text back “of course.” I looked over at the fighters, the larger of which is clearly pouting for my benefit, and decided that this probably isn’t his first school year at Bana Ba. It was the first day of a new school year and so this one is trying to jockey for position, and establish the power structure that will likely carry them through to the next year. The smaller boy appears to be Humbugushku, an ethnic minority in the area, and based on the nervous tension cascading through his tough demeanor, appeared to be new to the whole arrangement. All this is confirmed when I interrogate the older boy in between the fighters, and whom I immediately blamed for the fight that had nothing to do with him.
“Why are you allowing these boys to fight like children when they are at school to learn to act like men? You are clearly older and should be setting a better example!” I berated him in half Setswana, half English, with my favorite statement, “O A Ultwa?” (Do you understand?) peppered emphatically throughout. He looks surprised and slinks off to the back of the truck where he is out of my line of vision. Responsibility for oneself, much less another person can be a fuzzy concept here I’ve found. He clearly had nothing to do with the fight other than cheering for it, but I’ve found discipline is often an easier thing to enforce when you put it back on those you are trying to control. This group is ripe for positive peer culture.
Another boy had brought with him from home a small toy keyboard (with batteries! Very unusual around these parts!) and was playing it for no better purpose than to annoy those around him. As I was one of those people around him, I decided that this would not do. I informed him that I would be happy to listen to him play for the next five minutes, but then did not want to hear it again until Shakawe (where I would be ending my tour of duty in the back of the truck with the kids.) He looked confused and played on as I kept track on my watch. When I held out my hand after five minutes he placed it there without hesitation. When I think of how many hours I’ve spent trying to coax girls to give me tacks, staples, needles, pen parts or other sharp objects they were holding in their mouths in a threat to shallow them I am gobsmacked at how easy this is. It seems even naughty Batswana children are more well behaved than American ones!
At this point the bigger boy from the fight decides to start talking smack to me. He gave me a long convoluted story about how the smaller boy had been trying to eat out his brains, accusations which the younger boy was observing with a scowl on his face but not attempting to refute. The bigger boy asked if I was the smaller boy’s lawyer, and tells me he will be calling his own attorney to come and hear the case of what had just happened, and this bigger boy was certain he would be vindicated.
I listened to him for a few minutes, and having become the main attraction of the small space at this point, many of the rest of the fifty boys on the truck are waiting to hear how I will reply to this damning argument after I had come onto their bus and broken up a fight. (They couldn’t really avoid overhearing as this was a damn small space within which to fit this many people, and there were no other worthwhile distractions as they were already bored of each other, after having already been in the car together for the better part of a day.) I leaned in close to the bully, looked him straight in the eye, and slowly and carefully told him what I hope will be a life lesson that is permanently impressed upon his young mind.
“When you are speaking to a female (O a ultwa?) if you want her to listen to what you are saying (O a ultwa?) you must look in her eyes, not at her chest.”
The crowd of boys went wild, (although I’m still wondering how many actually understood what I was saying in English, and how many were just laughing that I’d told their big man off) and I added, “and good luck getting your attorney to come that side.”
He scowled and went back to pouting, with no further problems for the rest of the ride.
(which was, in fact, free). I hopped in the Seronga police vehicle at the ferry at Mohembo and was home sweet home soon enough… 9 hours later.
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