A day in the life she lives in Africa…

Is a full one indeed, especially during Peace Corps training.

Since I’ve been here, my time has not been my own, which for the first few weeks was fine. The Peace Corps keeps you pretty much on lock down initially, which is a good thing to do as the culture shock is still raging, and the safety and security people have you running scared from your own shadow. I experienced much of the same types of insecurity and fear that I faced in London, without the benefit of amazing tourist attractions and a new musical every night. Luckily for me, I have been through some of this before, and know it doesn’t last forever. I’ve gone from feeling as though I’m floating above my body watching with a combination of bemusement and amazement to feeling very much in my skin, and being surprised to be comfortable there. I’m beginning to feel more at home here, and with that, I am facing a new discomfort in being comfortable. I feel a sneaky sense of betrayal (to whom?? for what???) at being ok in my new surroundings. I guess sometimes I wonder what was so wrong with the life I lived before this?

I tend to hit a new realization every day, first and foremost the one that I live here in Botswana, and then any of a number of lesser yet important details. I have discovered that because one creepy guy grabs me in the street doesn’t mean they are all going to, and furthermore, this same shit happens at home and I know how to deal with it there. The same girl from MN still lives somewhere inside me, and knows that there are a-holes and amazing people everywhere you go. She is occasionally hard to find, the girl from the Midwest, as she has taken a new name and cut off her hair, and is trying her damndest to speak a new language and blend with a new culture. I find myself writing her letters, this new person who has taken residence in my body, giving her encouragement and laughs that she will need to keep this living in Africa business up.

Enough existential bs for now, let’s talk about what I do in a day.

I wake up in the morning to the sound of dogs and roosters, “waking up” being the key terms as sometimes they try to keep my up all night (thank you again mom for the earplugs). The alarm on my watch goes off at 6:13 and again at 6:37 just to make sure I’ve truly gotten up. As the days get shorter and the light becomes less, it takes more for me to get out of my bed and face the meat locker (exaggeration) my little concrete house with the tin roof has become overnight. Central heating is not a concept that has not yet arrived in Africa. Being in the southern hemisphere means I am going through the longest winter of my life, winter being a relative term as I sweat my butt off every day during the day.

By the second time the alarm goes off I have either heard one of my family members moving or have come out of the cocoon I sleep in and realize I’m in Africa. This realization is sharp and new nearly every day, as I haven’t dreamt that I am in Africa yet, and only had my first dream that involves someone I know from here a few nights back. So know that you all live very vividly in my dreams, and I am sad to leave you every morning. ( a note on dreams: the PC antimalarial drug of choice is Larium, which has the side effects of nightmares, hallucinations and disrupted sleep. The side effects I have experienced so far have to do with sleeping very lightly, similarly to when I was young and would over drink and pass out, and be able to hear what was happening and not really respond. Anyhow, while I’m sleeping I’ll dream that bugs, snakes and mice are crawling in my bed with me- although I generally keep to one genre of scary shit at a time, come to think of it, it might be nice to have everyone at once, they could kill each other off and leave me alone. I’ll work on that one…)

I step out of my bed and onto my concrete floor and take stock of any new bites that may have occurred overnight, I think I have figured out how to trick the bugs as well, the nurse can’t seem to figure out if they are flea bites or mosquitoes, but I’ve taken to putting on bug spray before I go to sleep (my dog nose is so confused here, they are so many new smells!!!). A note on bug bites, being sweaty/smelly, sunburn, DUST, bucket bathing, feeling dirty, insomnia, hot/cold, new or crazy food, queasy stomach ect. I’ve managed to stay pretty philosophical about these issues to date, and as I am usually discovering that one or a few of these things are generally occurring at any given time, I take special note of any moment when my attention is not on any or all of the above and am grateful for this.

It sounds strange, but finding yourself in such a completely new life situation really does strip a lot of bullshit away and give you the opportunity to take stock and have gratitude for what positive things you do have going on. Don’t get me wrong, I still get toxic as hell, and can bitch and complain with the best of them. It’s just funnier for me to laugh hysterically and think either, this is the Peace Corps, or this is Africa and move on. There’s not much else I can do.

I decide if I’m grateful to be in Africa today or not, and then I consider again with the Peace Corps being the subject. I’ve learned it is essential to separate them in my mind, for if it was one big conglomerate, I’d usually be pissed off about something. One or the other is usually challenging me. So I make the choice early and plan the day accordingly.

I throw on a sweatshirt or one of my new fleeces (thank you Lightning, you are amazing!!!) and step on the scale that my family has graciously provided me, I use it to have something to do while I try to remember how to greet them in Setswana. I recently noticed (after almost a month of half heartedly weighing myself -it’s in kilos I think) the thing is off by nearly ten clicks. Oh well, such is life in Africa. So I fill my pockets with my retainer (which I wear all the time now, I have no idea what that’s about….) my toothbrush, toothpaste, cup, cell phone (just in case one of you fine people calls me!!!) toilet paper, and grab my bucket, which is filled with yesterday’s t-shirt and underwear and soapy water, throw on my flip flops and head out to the neighbor’s yard and the pit latrine. I do that business, I come back to the water pump in my yard. I brush my teeth as I watch the sun rise, and I spit on the fence. This is a very nice time of my day, because sunrises are so universal, it makes me feel connected to something steady and familiar. The smell of smoke, which is generally the garbage burning and is in the air constantly, reminds me of being at the cabin growing up. I rinse out my laundry and head back over to the neighbor’s yard to hang it. (the underwear hangs in my room, for those who are keeping track. I don’t care, but it’s a cultural thing I guess….) Now that my multitasking is done for the day, I put a little bit of cold water from the tap into my bucket and take it in to my host mom-a wonderful robust woman who is everything you could hope for in a good African momma, speaks little English and calls me “my daughter” and envelopes me in hugs all the time,-who has been heating water for me on the stove or over the fire, mix it with the cold and wash my face with it. I recently figured out how to set up a mirror in my room in the windowsill so I can actually see myself (after a few weeks of rarely having a mirror, and having cut my own hair, I look, as my boy Brent calls it, a hot mess) to put my sunscreen on, and pluck my eyebrows (a little eyeshadow compact, yes I brought make-up to Africa, and I have to tell you, it’s what has kept me sane on the exactly two occasions I have worn it. and yes, my eyebrows are another vanity I have kept up with. I shave my legs about every two weeks.) And so after I have dressed in whichever clothes I think are going to keep me warm for the morning and cool throughout the rest of the day (inevitably wrong choice, waddayagonnado?), and whichever sandals are hurting my feet the least, I go out to greet the rest of my family. Greetings are important in Botswana, as are leave taking phrases, and I have recently been enlightened as to how to convey that I am going to sleep, rather than putting the baby to sleep. Either seems accurate to what I am doing in my humble opinion, but a linguist, I am not. My family has been laughing about this one for three weeks and finally decided to tell me a few nights back. Hmmm.

So my mom has cooked me porridge (called borobga) and I make my lunch, which is generally some strange and unbalanced combination of things (cornflakes, yogurt, and apple) that only I would think are fine together, and hope that my host family does not think my eating habits are typical of all Americans…

My friends (and neighbors and language group) Caitlin (AKA Gorata, letter g = h sound which is another form of the word love meaning “to love,” whereas I am just “love.” the Batswana frequently laugh at the two lekgowa (white people) girls with the similar names) and Pedro (Thatho) walk through my yard and we walk down the goat and donkey paths to out language instructor’s house. We attempt to avoid all the aforementioned animals (and also chicken’s) shit as we travel, but this is near impossible. We soldier through one of the three most difficult Bantu languages to learn for a few hours, and then generally walk to the “center” a cramped church school called Hope something blah blah the main selling points of which are the tree in the front yard I can climb, the flush toilets and running water. At this point we are joined by 52 of our other closest friends AKA Bots 7, where we listen to presentations and generally endure mild chaos and confusion for the day until they let us go, after which we rush (rush being the operative word as NOTHING happens quickly in Africa) either to the internet café, the store to get something for dinner, or straight home if we have received mail or a package that we have to carry slash we need to hide and get home before dusk. When I get home after training I usually immediately bathe, as I have to bathe before it gets dark at all or it will be more difficult to heat the water and be somewhat warm for my bath, which is in a basin not a tub and for which I am, interestingly, nearly never completely naked. I then choose from my least dirty clothes that fall into the pajama category and try to plan how I will remember how to say anything in Setswana to my family. I then sit down to watch the TV that has been blaring nonstop all day with my family, the program selection on the one channel (BTV) in the country being one of the following, interspersed with American or African music videos and anti-stigma HIV ads; an Australian weight loss show, a top chef type show, a British luxury travel show, American WWE, a show with Holly Robinson Peete that was probably canceled in the states a few years back, or a drama called “beautiful people” also American. On Sunday we are lucky enough to have Botswana Pop Star, which is relatively untalented people who sing old American pop songs (think Whitney Houston pre crack and Bobby Brown) and looks like cable access with the karaoke back up Muzak. They rarely get the lyrics right and this is never one of the judge’s critiques. Then the news is on in Setswana and we eat dinner at the coffee table (9 PM is the magic hour for English news and (worth noting-) sign language edition!. I’m in bed long before this but can usually hear the headlines as I’m drifting off to sleep). Dinner is generally chicken, and a big serving of whitish carbs and some spinach (good night!!) or cabbage/beetroot combo (sad face). Then I study Setswana or more likely read whichever trashy South African magazine or month old People magazine I have managed to scam for a while, and pass out around 9PM wondering what the next day will bring.

This is my life, and I’ve come to find it beautiful. Mostly.