Month End Madness!!!!

In Seronga, the village that-like Sleeping Beauty, nearly always seems to be sleeping (and is of course, not to be confused with New York, which from my startlingly foggy recollection of American geography-seems to have lapsed in the 20 months I’ve been away from it- is “the city that never sleeps”, or perhaps that’s Vegas? Either way-Seronga-completely different.) a certain time of month brings around the handsome prince known as Pula (money). With one brief brush of his lips the money is deposited, the cash is acquired (in Seronga all government employees-which is pretty much everyone- gets two days off each month strictly for banking. For many of us, the nearest branch of our bank is between 6 and god knows how many hours by car.) and a general state of Chaos ensues.

Now why, you ask, would an influx of cash be anything less than stupendous and gladly welcomed, Lorato, you evil Scrooge? In a village that clearly has so little? These people have surely worked hard for and earned each Thebe they are being granted. Surely when people have money they must feed their children and their animals sufficiently, and incorporate more vegetables into their diets. Everything must be better/easier/simpler with money! These good hearted villagers probably indulge is some harmless, (and especially in light of a first world expectation) extremely simple pleasures. And likely well deserved! These people have so little Lorato, why must you begrudge them their small pleasures that come with having some cash? Who let you into the Peace Corps anyways? Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of kind hearted humanitarian?

Yes gentle Readers. I too used to believe in this wonderful Botswana fairy tale, that this was a place where just a little cash could make such a big difference, and I believed in the power of the almighty dollar (Pula?) to really change lives, and solve things. Hell one reads about the wonders of microfinance (and increasingly sexy concept if it works as it’s purported to in other African nations, and believe me, I want in on some of those projects..) and how simple it is to make a small amount really felt in Africa, and you’d think that payday in Botswana would appear to be much like a Christmas every month end.

That’s exactly the problem. It’s the reason my mother spent most of my childhood proclaiming “Christmas comes but ONCE a year.” Through some stroke of genius, some infrastructurally cognizant wizard decided that all government employees in Botswana would be paid at the same time, which was then christened MONTH END. The few private enterprises appear to have followed, and thus THE ENTIRE COUNTRY GETS PAID AT THE SAME TIME. 12 times per year.

Yes, dear reader, I can see from your blank stare that you’re still not getting the picture I paint for you. I too remember what it’s like to spit and hit a Target store, and to have not one but four huge grocery stores and two Walmarts in any given strip mall complex. But alas the Target Empire has not yet crossed the ocean to Africa (although I stand eagerly on the shore of Botswana awaiting its arrival, oh wait, landlocked country, right….) And this means that there is a limited number of stores that carry foodstuffs and other items. And these limited numbers of stores are invaded as though by Vikings each month at month end. As such nearly entire employed population of most of Ngamiland district descends on Maun at once. In Maun, the ATM’s routinely run out of cash on any given day, but at month end, the line is not only long but usually hopeless. The buses are overfull, and the traffic on the road is more than dangerous, it’s deadly. Because an influx of cash means not only more drunks at any given hour of the day and night on the street grabbing you, but more frighteningly, drunk drivers. Sub Saharan Africa is not known as the deadliest place in the world for road accidents as some white elephant gift from the other regions of the world, it’s for real. I unfortunately know too many people who have died in road accidents here, including a Peace Corps volunteer who was killed the night before we received our site placements.

So aside from ransacked grocery stores, empty ATM’s, and deadly roads, what’s the problem, Lorato? The problem, dear friends, is the noise.

Now why would it be any noisier because of this mythical Month End you are wenching about? You’ve clearly got no grocery stores or ATM’s in Seronga, and there’s only one (dirt) road there that you should have no problem avoiding. What’s the problem, Princess?

MY BEAUTY SLEEP!!!!!!

As I write this it’s much much much past dark (quarter past 12 for those of you into the specifics) and I should be long asleep. And I was. The village was the sort of quiet you only get with a crescent moon, as it seems all the animals are resting their vocal chords (and their loins) in anticipation of the upcoming the extravaganza that is a full African moon.

And then the music begins pumping. In the middle of the night. And it’s not even a good song.

One thing that has never ceased to amaze me in a culture that is so incredibly communal is the lack of consideration that people seem to have for others. I have been woken up at each hour of the night by some guy listening to his music as loud as his car battery will allow (month end means he’s got money to put petrol in his car in order to run the battery or generator. If it’s the latter, the music must be that much louder to be heard over the whirring of the machine) and I have WALLS. Most of the village huts are constructed of reeds or mud. Not soundproof.

I have tried to be patient about this noise disturbance and chalk it up to cultural integration, but sometimes it’s ridiculous. Once a few months back I was awoken at about half eleven, by a horrible sexual American song from the mid 90’s (damn us and our crap cultural imperialism!!!) with a shit ton of expletives and gratuitous swearing. Now those of you who know me know that I consider swearing one of my absolute favorite filthy habits, but this song goes above and beyond.

In this half asleep daze, I forgot my flashlight but managed to remember to put on something “decent”. I stormed off into the overcast night with no moon to guide me towards the sound of the offenders. I clothes-lined myself half a dozen times with various wire fences and vines and trees that appeared to be running around, as I didn’t remember having this much navigational trouble in the daylight.

The sound was coming from an area deeper in the village than I usually wander even in daytime, and I could sort of tell I was headed in the direction of the floodplain, which as luck would have it, was flooded. As I heard the now familiar grunt of a hippo I tried not to think of the Kgosi’s story about the hippo he found resting at the kgotla in the early hours of morning. The kgotla is much further into the village from the water than I was at this immediate moment. As big as they are those guys are quick, and I wasn’t in the mood to try to negotiate with one of those guys as well as the music dudes.

After ten minutes and 6 thorns in my feet, I found the source of the noise. Two drunk guys whom I didn’t recognize (but then I was half asleep) smiled drunkenly and began the rigmarole of greeting me.

I cut them off, not even bothering to attempt to search my brain for some form of language these guys might understand. My wild hair, eyes, and gesticulations must have made my message clear, because once the shock of an angry white woman crashing their party and making demands in the middle of the night wore off, they began to laugh and walked in the direction of the volume button. I stomped away (as much as one can stomp on sand) and then called the police, thinking that if I had any more problems that they would be the next to deal with these guys (and probably in Setswana).

Now three of my village husbands, (true to the culture of the country there seems to be no problem among them that in one office there are three of them offering to negotiate cows for my hand in marriage, they all know about each other, and I just shake my head and wonder if anything I’ve been preaching about multiple concurrent partners and their negative impact on HIV has sunk in AT ALL. Although I’ve blunted and repeatedly rejected any of their attempted advances, I haven’t been able to shake them of the title, so when in Rome if you can’t beat them cause they are police officers, join them in what you desperately hope is a joke) are policemen, and I have to admit I may have been a bit overzealous in my initial training regimen with this poor police force.

When I first came to Seronga, in the Zen state I like to think on as “Scared Shitless” I did my best to communicate to the police office the duty of the police to protect me or Seronga would lose its Peace Corps. Perhaps I did a bit too well. When you call the police land line number, they are unable to call me back at night time because in the interest of controlling corruption all the outgoing lines are locked behind doors. So on the few occasions I’ve called in the evening or night they have to call me back on my cell phone from their cell phone. And what do they do with that prized number of the Lekgowa (white person) white person in Seronga? They push save.

In the beginning more than a few times I would then get drunken dials from various members of Seronga’s finest. Over time I’ve gotten all their numbers and thus know when to push ignore. We’ve come to a happy understanding.

But the point of the story is that in the process of calling the police and re-clotheslining myself back through the village to my hut, I managed to get lost. Not horribly, mind you, but lost enough. It’s amazing how much more difficult navigation becomes with no light. All huts begin to look alike, and you can’t follow your own footprints. So I trudged on in the direction that felt right and hoped that the cold weather meant that all those deadly poisonous snakes (puff adders, black mambas) that like to lie in the middle of sandy paths were in some sort of hibernation rather than plotting to kill me.

I’d like to say that to solve this conundrum I looked up at the sky and navigated by the stars (which would be so badass, but as I mentioned it was an overcast sky… and I couldn’t do it anyways) but in reality it was dumb luck (and the headlights of the police cruiser that was rapidly approaching my gate). I have to admit that this is the fastest I’ve ever seen any Batswana move in response to a request, but I quickly realized why this was when in response to my description of the problem each of the two officers in turn offered to inspect the inside of my hut for intruders, including my bed. I’d like to say I politely refused, but polite had nothing to do with my response.

So now it appears the distant pounding has ceased for a moment at least, and I must now rush to sleep before it pounds again. Time continues on, and there are fewer month ends ahead of me than behind me, and so I sink back into my pillow in gratitude for where I am right now, in my funny little village.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Lorato