Simon Says.....

Simon Says…
After what I would consider to be a fairly harrowing first night at site, I was thrilled when my host sister (the woman who lives in my compound) stopped by with news that there was an event at the kgotla, which is the cultural and governmental center of the village. I had been just wandering around amongst my possessions (it seems that in addition to ignoring the Peace Corps 80 lb weight limit I have no sense of what it means to “travel light” when relocating for the third time in as many months) trying to figure out where in the world “in it’s place” was for most of my shit and was happy for the distraction. Community entry and integration here I come!!!
So I followed the sound of music and singing as I couldn’t remember exactly where the kgotla was, and came upon what was most of the village seated around a sort of stage. I was able to fly kind of under the radar at first as shortly after I arrived, my phone began to buzz (why I put it on vibrate I’ll never understand as it’s no problem for cell phones to ring all the time here, and people will always interrupt what they are doing to answer it as incoming calls are free. Even if they are giving a speech. If you have to call someone back you have to pay for it.) and so I of course answered it.
It was Simon.
Introducing: Simon the British ex pat, also known as “Uncle Simon” and “crazy Simon”, or really, any combination therein, and who shall, I would imagine, play a central role in the saga that is my life here in Seronga. He’s a lovely British man who has been away from native English speakers for long enough that he’s prone to muttering, and occasionally talking to his dogs.
Although I have since grown accustomed to his particular accent and combination of speech and growling, at first I was having a tough time understanding him. During my first visit to Seronga as my counterpart showed me the town he was sure to point out the important locations of all the “white people” (not sure if this was to assure me that there were indeed other white people here or if he was operating under the assumption that I would feel more comfortable around white people or what. As it turns out a strong understanding and ability to communicate in English is what really does it for me regardless of skin color.) and I thus knew where Simon’s office was in relation to the clinic. I told him I would meet him there.
Simon looks a bit like a combination of Grizzly Adams and Fidel Castro, with piercing blue eyes and a cigarette constantly dangling out of his mouth, or threatening to burn down to a nub of ash on his fingers. He was shouting gruffly into the phone in that way the English have of not really shouting, and I waited patiently as he finished.
“Hello luv, how do you find Seronga?” he asked. I had text him the first time I came to Seronga and he had called me the night before but the ferry and the exceptional lateness with which I got in had put a screeching halt to that.
“How would you like to see the bush?” he growled. “We’ve got some Spaniard over at the Poler’s and her Brazilian husband and my friend Ronny has to move a truck and we have to use a boat and we’d do a bit of camping maybe throw together some food and see some animals how would you like that?”
Although the Peace Corps warns us about “the dangers of bitter ex-pats,” and the terrible effect they can have on your integration into the community, what I’d heard of Simon from both the PC’s that have met him and also my coworkers at the clinic is that Simon is very much a part of the community. He has many connections in the area and knows where to get nearly anything you need. He keeps the village drunks who hang out in the shibeens in line, gives the children lifts in his truck, and is invited to weddings and events and goes to the kgotla. I immediately decide rules and policies be damned, if I was going to be placed so far away from other Peace Corps and native English speakers, the hell if I’m going to say no to the first invitation I receive to see the bush and speak English, whether it be from an ex-pat or not.

Sidebar: written later- Simon has proved to be absolutely essential to my sanity and survival here in Seronga. (This is a fact I’ve confirmed with Kagiso, the PCV who was here before me.) For all his gruffness and roughness around the edges, he is a completely sensitive and caring soul, and has taken great care of me since I’ve been here. He’s been gone up the river for a few days and I miss him a lot, although I am faring better than I thought I would.

So we decide to meet at 1. I went back to the open air festivities at the kgotla and made my big debut. Although I like attention as much as (hell let’s be honest, probably more than) the average bear, I didn’t quite know what to do with so many people staring at me. Culturally, staring is not really rude here, so between 200 and 300 children and adults alike gawked openly at me, wondering why this new lekgowa was hanging out at their cultural event, rather than just passing through the village on their way to the delta as most white tourists do. It was a bit like that dream where you show up at school with no pants on, and can’t find them or cover yourself and people are staring at you. Except it’s real.
Determined to act “normal” and in the absence of the ability to really communicate with anybody as it’s tough to tell who can speak English and my Setswana sucks once I get past greetings, I picked up a baby. Just one that was wandering around. This seems a crazy and random and maybe even dangerous thing to do in American culture, but here it’s completely normal, and took the spotlight off a bit. The child stared at me in shock, but eventually got over the fact that I’m white and went back to gurgling. My host sister is a member of the community choir which I have subsequently kind of joined and they were performing, and there were skits and speakers. Finally a woman that works at the clinic offered me a chair and I was able blend into the crowd a bit more. I overall enjoyed the experience. And I soon learned that this is all only the beginning.