When I first came to Seronga, I had a generally difficult time integrating into the village. I think it’s hard whenever and wherever you’re the new kid in town, but it’s even more so when you are one of the only white faces, from a different culture completely and barely speak any of the language. I had a tough time specifically distinguishing amongst all the people constantly greeting me and being introduced to me, and identifying who in the village would be helpful to undertake and collaborate on projects, who glimpses my white face and sees me as an open bank, and who actively wants to harm me in some way.
On my first visit before I moved here at the end of June, I was walking through the center of the village with my counterpart and a man came up to me, seemingly drunk but speaking excellent English, though murmuring, as is occasionally the custom here. He asked my name, as most people do, and when I told him “Lorato” he scoffed and asked for my “real” name, which has since become a sign that sets off warning bells in my head.
I looked at my counterpart for help, but as we had met the day before and I had spent the entire day not knowing he was my counterpart, he was pretty tough to try and read. I didn’t want to be rude to someone who could end up being important, (or just as crucial to note in African culture-related to someone important) but this guy gave me the creeps. He kept leering at me and then began talking about us being together, which really began to worry me, and I gave my standard issue lie that I was married. He babbled on, increasingly incoherently and animatedly about how I was so pretty I should have many boyfriends, and he would be mine for this village. We just needed to get to know each other.
At this point my counterpart, oblivious to my discomfort, began laughing and I slowly tried to but more space between myself and this man. When he grabbed my arm, I wrenched it away, and walked quickly away, into which direction I didn’t know but I knew I needed to get out of here. My counterpart eventually followed, laughing about how I didn’t need to worry about that one, he’s “psychotic.” Which made me feel a LOT better, or really, not so much.
When the man showed up at the clinic the next day, and walked straight up to the caravan where I work, one of the nurses began yelling at him and chased him away, explaining that he always harasses women and especially white ones, and that another volunteer who had been here before me had had a great deal of trouble with him. She explained that he was “psychotic” (at which point I began to question if there was a language translation problem, or why they were tossing that word around so freely) and also that he had fried his brain from using too many drugs. Apparently the nurses at the clinic gave him an injection once a month that calmed him down. Great.
When I got back to training I spoke with the security people at the Peace Corps, and asked what had happened with him previously, the answer I was given was that he was a nuisance, but considered to be harmless. Other than occasionally following me around the village and sometimes grabbing my arm, which I generally responded to by yelling at him or ignoring him, I haven’t had very much of a problem with him, until now.
In many ways I was caught up in a moral dilemma, having a psychology degree and understanding that the behaviors of a mentally ill person should not be addressed in the same way as those of a “normal” person. Being a generally non-violent person it was hard for me to envision following all my male co-worker’s advice to “kick him” and “beat him” and chase him away. I was stuck between trying to be a role model for how to treat those who are mentally ill, and having a stalker.
Having never really been one to take to much shit from guys (I’ve been known to swing at men that I thought were disrespecting my friends, and also to scream that "I pity the fool that tries to f*ck with me...." there are plenty of witnesses to this ladylike little display...) and having very briefly trained with a friend’s dad who is a boxer, I generally don’t have a lot of apprehensions about my safety or ability to defend myself if push came to shove. I’ve often claimed to be “scrappy”. I’ve gotten right back up in the face of men who have tried to intimate me in foreign languages in foreign countries. I’ve taken some sucker punches in my day, and feel generally confident in my ability to react to most given situations. That being said, I’ll generally do nearly anything in my power to keep it from coming to a confrontation. Although my key ring has a pocketknife on it, I would really hesitate to use it for the risk of exposing blood in such an HIV infested area. All this is, of course coming from the me who has never had a constant and grating mentally ill stalker.
I hadn’t seen much of the guy for a while, apparently the nurses at the clinic drive around and find him around the 20th of every month and give him the injection that keeps him calm. It’s high tourist season in the delta, which means there are lots of white people everywhere which seems to generally agitate him. These factors together produced the perfect storm of conditions that caused my week to go from bad to worse.
I had been having a bit of a rough week (see last entry) and had been running pretty often to quiet my mind and let off steam. I was walking through the village from the internet that had gone out as I was trying to read (never mind respond to) my email for the third time in two days. I stopped by the bakery and purchased a 50 pula cell phone recharge card that didn’t work, and was very near my limit of being very pissed off. I focused my entire mind on the run I was planning. I was interrupted from my last chance at mental solitude when my stalker friend came up to me in front of probably 50 white tourists and began the whole “I want to get to know you” routine complete with arm grabbing.
I pulled my arm away and began screaming all sorts of things I’m unwilling to repeat here and stomped away. When he followed me one of the male tourists asked if I was having a problem, and I said some more less than demure things to him as well.
When I got home I did not pass go or collect 200 dollars, pula or anything but got straight into my running gear and put on my occasionally working ipod. Today I was lucky and it did. I went on my run, noting that the guy was at the tuck shop at the end of my path. He followed me a bit of the way, and I ignored him and kept going. When I returned from my run he was at the tuck shop further from my house. The sun was setting and dusk was falling as I reached my compound. My phone rang and I was so happy to talk to my sister that I went into the gate of my compound, into my house, opened the window and sat in the breeze while we chatted. I forgot about the guy completely.
Until I heard a knock on my door. I had a feeling I knew who it was without looking. I was still on the phone with my sister, and called out to see who was there, and couldn’t hear the response. I opened the door.
There he stood, on my doorstep, flanked by the two teenaged boys who seem to live on my compound and whom I hire to beat the sand out of my huge carpet and formerly to kill lizards. He smiled a creepy smile and began muttering about someone in the village selling chickens. I began bellowing that he couldn’t be here and needed to get the hell out, and yelling at the boys (who speak very, very little English) that he was not allowed to come to my house, and they needed to tell their father (who luckily enough was staying in Seronga this week- prior to Monday I didn’t even know I had a host dad). I slammed the door and realized my poor sister had heard everything on the phone, and was millions of miles away, and how terrible that must be to overhear something like that over an ocean and several thousand miles.
I heard the gate opening and closing and got off the phone with my sister and went immediately into the “dealing with the situation” mode that was only possible rather than crying because I had already filled my quota for tears this week. I tried calling the police, a number that rang and rang without answer. I called my counterpart and heard my voice rising to a pitch of near hysteria and told him to come over. I heard the gate again and it was my host dad, fastening a chain and padlock on the gate. He came to my door apologizing that the man had come in, and saying that he had been absent. He told me his mother lives next door and that the neighbors had been instructed to chase him away if he comes around again. My counterpart showed up and reminded me that I should “kill” the guy if he came back. He called another guy at the clinic who said we should deal with it tomorrow. I called the PC safety and security officer who finally got the police on the line and they came to my house, encouraging me to call them on the main line and they would pick up next time, and the younger officer gave me his number, which made me wonder again if he was trying to help me or wanted me to “check him”.
After all the commotion and my sister calling back to make sure I was ok, I sank deeply into a combination funk of feeling helpless and sorry for myself. I reasoned and screamed with the powers that be in the Universe in my head. I pouted that I’d like a moment, just one hot minute break from these challenges. Although I’m grateful for all that I’m learning here, I’d like a day off. One day when I can just go through even a few hours without a major pain in the ass moment, free of crazy stalkers, and not filled with unlimited amounts of disappointments in the form of people not doing basic tasks that would make the world, the organization involved, the way things run a little easier. Or even something occurring at its scheduled time, following a protocol that makes actual logical sense. Where things happen as expected for just a few minutes, and when I can know that a call from home won’t have a completely shitty connection and cut out after 45 minutes. I cried and grunted and moved the heaviest piece of furniture I can move by myself in front of the door. Eventually I exhausted myself of feeling sorry for myself and fell into a fitful sleep. In the morning I realized I should be thankful it was a night without hallucinations.
As with everything that happens here, there are lessons to be learned, and they are as follows:
1) It really pisses me off that men have the power to intimidate women this way, and in relation to men we have to always be thinking about the question of what are they capable of, how much danger am I in, what will I do? When people wonder why women tend to over think things it seems clear to me that it comes at least partially from these sorts of situations.
2) It angers the shit out of me that other men think they can be the knight and “save” or “protect” a woman in this sort of situation, and
3) I was pissed at myself for being caught between desperately just wanting some man to come in and take care of me and kick this guy’s ass and desperately not wanting to feel like some damsel in distress, and know how to once and for all take care of this situation myself. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to feel pity and patience for this man or kick him with all I had.
4) I realized how much I was truly in love with Seronga and how much I would fight to stay here, and how difficult I would find it if the security people had to pull me out of here, to restart in another village.
5) Finally I realized that from here, things can only get better…
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