We are living the bonus features

My friend Caitlin and I went walking the other day, it was Sunday and ahead of us we had a pool party at the Lemepe Lodge, which is a little motel with a pool and a bar where we can go hang out and have a drink or two and not draw attention as we would were all of us makgowa to turn up at a local bar or shebine. We were walking, doing our best to avoid the stares and calls of “Lakgowa” (white person, may or may not be derogatory, we can’t be sure) that seem to come from all the children that follow us wherever we go and I turned to her and asked, “Do you ever feel like maybe this isn’t really your life? I mean I know we’re here and that this is real and this is Botswana, and such, but do you ever feel like maybe this is like the Twilight Zone version of your life?” We laughed and then she said, “No, I think I know exactly what you mean. It’s like we’re living the bonus track at the end of the CD.” We laughed again and decided that what this is is the bonus features on a DVD, the path that few choose to travel (or in the case of the DVD’s-watch the extra features) and for those who do, you find out all sorts of interesting things you would have otherwise not known about life, Africa, yourself (or the movie or making thereof, actors, ect). The extras of the movie have often been my favorite part, and in some cases the reason I have fallen in love with a movie (in particular, the movie “Once.” What a killer soundtrack….) Living here it seems as though your life might just be continuing on back home, there’s just a stand in actor reading the lines you would have said. Or that your life is occurring as it is supposed to, just with the director’s commentary on. It’s just a weird type of off that you can’t quite put your finger on.

There are honestly times when I will be walking alone and look at the sky, or walk across the dirt path to see the neighbor children (who have called out to “Lorato, Lorato,” and when I actually come over have nothing else to say but stare shyly or peek out from their hiding places amongst their mother’s or sister’s legs) playing “baseball” whist running the bases backward and using the most interesting things they can find for bats and balls, with the lines for the bases (of which there are kind of five) drawn in the dirt as they would be in any small town back home in which there is no overly organized and fundraised community team. I think to myself, I could be anywhere, and it is really hard to remember that no, I won’t wake up and be back home, I can’t expect to run into any of you from home as I walk along the series of dirt paths that make up my new neighborhood, this is really Africa. Not that there’s any confusion that this is Africa, it’s just that I’ve made it my home in such ways that I have to mentally squint to remember what the place I’ve spent my whole life is like.

Yesterday I was at a clinic where I was supposed to be meeting with PMTCT (preventing mother to child transmission-everything is an acronym here) lay counselors to discuss their program, and when they weren’t there, we ended up asking the nurse midwife if we could just hang out with her for the rest of the day. She was fine with it, and proceeded to have us sit in on all the appointments that day, including family planning sessions, the pre and post natal care, and the pelvic exams. It was completely fascinating for me to sit there as these women stripped naked (no dressing gown) without much more than a glance in my direction and climbed up onto the table with no stirrups, lightbulb in the nurse’s exam light, no lubrication and no running water to warm the speculum, and doors that rarely stayed closed throughout the exam as there clinic’s only phone was in the room with us, and other nurses would often come in to answer it or to ask the midwife we were working with a question. I quickly realized what a unique opportunity this was to go through what is, in America such a personal process, (ah! Nudity!) with these women, and how they didn’t even blink. It made me so completely and totally grateful for all the amenities we have in American clinics that we take so for granted and have the nerve to complain when the Dr. is a few minutes late. It blew my mind. The midwife was very aware of what her clinic lacked, but improvised with such grace, and tended to her patients with such care and tough true concern, which is really the only way one can imagine discussing what is Botswana is often the undiscussable, sexual habits and politics with these women and young girls.

The clinic was what you would imagine an African clinic to be, a few small rooms surrounded by an open air waiting room, wherein women would come in the morning and just wait to be seen. Most things don’t happen quickly or even on time here and so people expect to wait for things. They sit patiently, these women, and the children wrapped and strapped to their bodies are quiet as well, unless one of the children is receiving a shot. The clinic is generally quite clean, but as with most of Botswana very dry and dusty, whenever the wind blows strongly you can taste it in your teeth. When the women finally come in to see the nurse they have their medical records with them. The standard record books are covered in magazine pictures and customized by these women, or more often, girls. They bring their own medical records to their appointments, as the Batswana tend to be a very mobile culture, they may return to their home clinic despite living far away to have a baby. When they deliver at the hospital they are given a new sheet to add to the book for their baby, and the two pages from their original book that have been torn out and completed by the Drs. I was amazed at both the efficiency and craziness of this medical records process, having of course, worked in medical records for a while myself. If the nurse sees something unusual or wants to consult with the Dr, the women have to come back again the next day or later in the week when the dr is there and do the whole waiting process again. Something else that struck me about the time in the office was that several of the women were having their first babies at 26 or 28, which implies that family planning methods are indeed something that women use here. All the women we saw that had been tested were HIV negative (YEAH!!), which the nurse said was very rare.

So moral of the story: say a little thanks the next time you are sitting in air conditioning at the clinic for the doctor who is making you wait 20 minutes after your appointment to see you. At least there’s a magazine in the waiting room, which has four walls surrounding it and several working lightbulbs!