After a past few months that rivaled my first two months at site for melancholy, hopelessness, irritation and plain old homesickness and angst, waiting it out has been the right answer yet again. I’ve got some projects that have made me feel a little bit of success, and also have the arrival of several visitors in the next year to look forward to.
Home Improvements…
In the past few months there have been great improvements to the hut (and surrounding areas) in Seronga. As follows:
The doctor is in. He has finally been moved into his accommodation at the police, and is fully relocated to Seronga. We now have ARV’s available to patients on a more regular basis, so now they don’t have to travel to Shakawe after their three month initiation period. Hopefully this will help less people default on their ARV’s. As both ambulance boats are still in the shop (along with the post boat since Jan of this year) the nurses are still having to get up at 4 in the morning to meet patients who have traveled from God knows where in the bush in the dark to get to the clinic to have their blood drawn. Everyone in Seronga is bumbling around at these insane hours because as the boats are in the shop, the road ambulances have to drive all the way around the delta- up through Shakawe and back down to Gumare, a journey that can take anywhere from 3.5 hours (best) to 7 or 8 (my worst nightmare days) one way. They have to leave by about 6 or 6:30 in order to get to Gumare in time to turn around and get back before the last ferry at 6:30. (It’s winter here now, so it gets dark earlier, which means there is less light by which to navigate crossing that dark, deep, churning, strongly flowing and cold water - which is just unsafe at night. Two words: Nvuvu/Kubu (Hippo) and Kwena (Crocodile) yup, you wouldn’t be wanting to cross that bad boy at night either). It used to be a bit more negotiable with the ferry operators and easier to convince them to go across just one more time, but not so much any more…
So in addition to the ngaka (Dr.) being able to dispense ARV’s, he can also deal with a bit more serious diagnosis and trauma. People also take his word more seriously than that of the head nurse, which is sort of dumb, but will help the patients in the long run. He is able to make more authoritative diagnosis and recommendation for the treatment of patients who have to be referred out of Seronga.
(In a previous incident the head nurse recommended that a patient be transferred at least to Maun as she suspected Gumare did not have sufficient resources to properly care for the patient. Because the protocol involves transferring a patient to Gumare first, the patient was airlifted out of Seronga to Gumare, where the patient lapsed into a coma, then the patient was transferred to Maun, and then onto Francistown when even Maun didn’t have sufficient resources to help the patient. It makes me shudder to consider not only the trauma the patient undoubtedly suffered through all that transport to places with insufficient resources but also the cost of the plane –someone paid for the following legs of airflights: Maun to Seronga, Seronga to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, again Maun to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, then Maun to Francistown and back. Not cheap for the government. I haven’t heard the outcome of this one.)
Although the ngaka is still on the road at least 2 days a week dispensing drugs to the other ARV clinics this side of the delta, it’s a helluva lot better to have him there more regularly. His arrival has caused the head nurse to rejoice (and say that she can now put in for a transfer- for which she is nearly due) and has greatly improved the availability of treatment for patients.
The Mural at the clinic. Is finished! I’ve noticed that community participation can often be hard to muster for these projects in Botswana, but I was determined to call in favors and even beg and plead if I had to. I am proud to announce that I didn’t lift a brush for this project. My job was all in the background legwork. For me it was more important to help empower the kids to design the words and carry the project from priming and sketching to completion.
One might argue that the idea of Peace Corps is to work along side of host country partners, but I find that it sent a powerful message to the kids when I got out the paints and brushes and said “go for it”. They looked at me incredulously, like isn’t she going to tell us what to do? I just tipped me chin at the wall and reminded them that they’re the artists and walked away. The adults at the clinic looked at me like I was crazy as well, but it proved an amazing time to teach a lesson in empowerment, that people will rise to a task put in front of them if you let them. It turned out beautifully, if not what I had originally envisioned. I’ve heard through various members of the community that the nurses and staff at the clinic are very proud of the mural, and I found it has been valuable in terms of people in the village see something tangible that they attribute to me, even though I continuously give credit to the children and the art teacher, and remind them that I only got the supplies.
Which had been a rather pain in the ass. I had started the background work back in December, and by the beginning of April the paint cans were ready to be busted open. I wrote no less than three versions of the same letter asking for permission to paint on the clinic which was faxed, hand delivered, and misplaced no less than 5 times. I made weekly calls and personal follow ups, and made a trip to Gabs and Maun that didn’t even end up with the supplies I wanted. My vision was changed several times as I had to convince the clinic staff to buy into the idea as well as try to get them to come up with a theme, which ended up being a play on the Bacon quote that was up not only at my high school, but also here at the Junior Secondary school (like a Jr. High or middle school back in the states). The mural proclaims “Knowledge is Power, Know Your Status”- in both English and Setswana, and the phrase O E Cheke which means get tested and happens to be this year’s theme from one of the major NGO’s that funds HIV projects.
My original vision was to get acrylics and have the art teacher design a proper mural with pictures rather than words on the side of the building, but I ended up with house paint and a smaller space on the front of the building. I’m not giving up on the actual picture mural idea, but the next big space that will fall prey to my attack will hopefully be the two walls on the corner of the main area in the town on the jail of the kgotla. It will probably take me the rest of my time here to get supplies and permission to carry out the design the art teacher has begun with the kids (he’s using aspects of the Sistine Chapel for inspiration-how incredibly cool is that!!!!) but if I can get it accomplished that would be one of the crowning achievements of my service. Wish me luck.
I’ve also recently heard that the teacher I’ve been working with these art projects on (who when we met used to come to work drunk a good portion of the days I saw him, but nonetheless is an amazing artist and really helps the kids become better artists as well by demanding a lot of them) has been working with some of the kids he described as “not so dumb” to have them write essays about what “knowledge is power” means to them. He’s offered a prize of 200p of his own money to encourage them. I had nothing to do with this, but am amazed at both his generosity and his willingness to go above and beyond the project to really get the kids thinking and expressing themselves. I’m very proud of him.
Other Art Projects!
Working with some of the teachers at the primary I have come up with a committee to work with the kids to use the remaining house paint (nothing gets wasted on my watch in Seronga!) to create a world map mural on the wall of the primary school. So far we’ve primed the spot with white, the map has arrived and been gridded (THANKS MOM!) and we will start painting this week. It’s going to be amazing to literally show the kids the world!
Along with that my long awaited project of creating a mosaic at the junior secondary has begun. I have been collecting different colors of glass for months in preparation for this and the area is primed and the sketch has been done. I realized a bit too late that brown glass can be collected and turned in for cash as they recycle the bottles and thus brown bottles were going to be a little harder to come by, but after several dumpster diving slash appeals to the village drinking crowds, I think we’ll have enough. (Everything you need to in Seronga is available if you ask enough people-see village chicken).
I was of course getting a little emotional as the artist, GB (he’s got a crazy long Setswana name and luckily goes by the nickname GB) sketched his design on the wall. I kept exclaiming how happy I was for him and he, being a typical teenager, rolled his eyes and called me crazy. But the wall is there, it’s sketched, and we’ll start breaking bottles this week. Pictures to follow!
Warmish Shower! I think when one is in the Peace Corps and adaptability becomes the only way in which to keep going, it has some deep effects on your personality. In some ways I’ve learned to either just put up with a lot of shit, or adapt. Once the decision is made to adapt, the idea of trying to work of improve something can occasionally be absurd. It becomes difficult to envision or hope for something better, no matter how easy it may be to accomplish.
This is how I had begun to feel about my bathing situation. When there is water in the village (an event that is occurring incredibly more frequently as a result of the old water guy-who is responsible for finding the fuel and transport to get to Teekae (about 15-20 kilometers outside of Seronga) being replaced by someone who apparently takes his job more seriously, or at least that’s what I’m hoping as it’s been a lot more consistent lately) I’ve taken to just heating up a kettle on the stove, mixing it with some cold from the tap, and splash or bucket bathing. It’s not optimal, but over the course of a year, I’ve come to accept it and even excel at it. You would be amazed how the girl who used to draw an entire Jacuzzi style bathtub full of hot steaming water every night for an at least 15 minute soak has come to be able to bathe completely with less than half a bucket of water. (And I feel pretty clean). So with acceptance came complacency in this case.
Until the Aussies came (see “Hostess with the Mostess”). They rigged up a series of black pipes found in Simon’s back yard to flow from my faucet out of my bathroom window, onto the roof next door, back onto my tub and to be plugged with a cork at about knee level (this set-up has recently been improved again by another visitor, a former Peace Corps who hung the pipe from the ceiling so it’s more like a proper shower. Amazing! You still have to use it in the middle of the day in order for it to be properly warm (forget trying to have a warm shower after an evening run) but is has also helped make me clothes seem cleaner when I do my laundry with slightly warmer water. Since the water is unfiltered as it comes in the house, heating it up in a plastic hose can tend to make it smell… interesting. At the end of the day (or really, make that the middle) it’s warmer and it’s wet. I’m happy.
Pack your bags!
My mom, Paul and Karly have booked their tickets to visit! They got an amazing deal on the flight and they arrive right in Maun. I’m already going nuts planning their upcoming adventure which will include the bush, the delta, Kasane and CAPE TOWN!!!! More on that but I am sooooo pumped!
It’s Electric?
Power is sort of, allegedly, kindof, maybe coming to Seronga. There’s all sorts of toxic smelling poles that the children have a great time playing on barefoot (and just make me cringe at the idea that as they climb on them they are inhaling those fumes but there’s no chasing them off, I’ve tried.) Word on the street, or really, the dirt road, is that they will be up and running by July. Righhhht.
Showing posts with label Birthday Botswana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Birthday Botswana. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Life at Seronga Clinic
I sit perched upon a broken stool as I stare out through the square space that comprises the dispensary window, and watch all the people on the other side. They wait patiently for their medications, drugs that will relieve some of their suffering, that will be their salvation, and that I sit amongst, unable to dispense. I again feel useless in a questionable mission. They chat amongst themselves, speaking of what I am unsure, as somewhere between my ears and my mind the rhyme and reason of this language is lost. I absorb but do not comprehend this musical speaking. They stare back at me, a fish in a fishbowl, and animal in a cage, a creature more exotic (and possibly more dangerous, based on the look in their eyes) than any animal that stalks their village at night.
At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.
The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.
It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.
At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.
The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.
It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sting Operation. A Tutorial on actions to be taken when a Scorpion has entered your bed....
I knew when I put my arm back above my head that it wasn’t a bee, a wasp or any kind of small bug. I had just had the pleasure of being stung by a rather large wasp that had invaded my mosquito net the previous Monday, and so was quite familiar with the lovely feelings and particular curse words that accompany that particular experience. This pain was new and strange. It was near my left shoulder, and went both up and down my arm simultaneously, and was both stinging and numbing, with twinges of sharp pain and burning. Although it sounds like the general symptoms of a pretty horrific STI (if not in the proper geographic place on the body), due to the rapidity of its onset, I concluded it was a scorpion sting.
We were lying on J’s bed, singing along with his newly purchased pirated copy of “Rent” (damn I love that movie!) waiting for the apple pie to cool. All was right with the world. Whichever law of the universe says that when things are too good, something bad must happen was suddenly enforced. Either that or karma, actually.
About a month back K and I had gone out to the bush for my birthday celebrations. In the processing of zipping the tent she was stung on her finger by an elusive and fast departing enemy, which we were unable to find in the darkness to positively ID. At the time, this seemed to me to be shades of slightly hilarious. We consulted our host, a guy who had lived in and around the bush for most of his life, but due to having a few drinks in him was more than slightly unhelpful. K took some antihistamine and we went to sleep, although I did periodically wake up throughout the night and than wake her up to make sure she was still alive (what a good friend I am). She did not appreciate this. Her hand was sore for a week
As the sensations of burning, shooting, stinging and slight numbness that K had described were now running up and down my arm into my fingers, I had a pretty good idea of which bandit had assaulted me. I yelped and grabbed my arm, disrupting J right in the middle of the duet we were performing while viewing Mimi’s first scene in the movie. I whipped back the duvet we had been laying on and saw him. About the size of my pinky finger and nearly translucent, he was scurrying for cover.
Since J is more afraid of creepy crawlers that I am, he darted towards the door. I grabbed his empty wine glass and upended it, trapping the intruder in a glass coffin. We put him on the desk, theorizing that we would kill him through either suffocation or starvation. Neither of which was, in the end effective. (We got him the next day when R, an Eagle Scout whose phone was of course off when I called in a panic, suggested that we gas him by throwing a few alcohol rubbing pads in there with him. That did the job. PCV’s are SO resourceful.)
After we had imprisoned the culprit and I had assured J that there were no more scorpions in the bed, I joyously began the next natural course of action in a situation like this. I text messaged K. She was of course thrilled to laugh at me, and I was laughing right along with her. We quickly went through our running tally of shitty things that had happened to us since being in country (including but not limited to scorpion stings, stalkers, site relocation, mice, bank issues, thefts, weight lost or gained, length of water outages, housing problems, and sicknesses, and decided that we were now equal and one of us would have to work on one-upping the other, so we could alternately tease or brag to the other about how much rougher or easier we have it).
Then I text the PCMO, my mom, and most of my close PC friends in country, and some that I’m not in regular texting contact with as it was a holiday and text messages were cheap that day. Leave it to me to want to have to best story of the weekend. J was doing the same, although not mentioning it was me that got stung, only that there had been a scorpion in his bed, so that his story would sound better. So there we are, side by side, my arm pulsing, the characters of Rent singing, and both of us ignoring everything to text everyone that wasn’t with us what was happening. Only in the PC. The next round of incoming texts were, of course from people we hadn’t even initially text who had heard the story from texts they had received from others and wanted details. Ah, the PC “network”.
The PCMO called several times, asking about the make, model and color of my scorpion, and advised me to take a benedryl. I did so, and then she called back, telling me not to go to sleep. We ate the apple pie, which did sort of take the pain away temporarily. As the first and main thing you want to do after taking a bendryl is go to sleep, I made a list of people J should call if he awoke to find me dead or otherwise not breathing and laid down to watch the rest of the movie. The PCMO called a few more times, we went to sleep, and I’ve lived to tell the tale of another African adventure. What Next?
We were lying on J’s bed, singing along with his newly purchased pirated copy of “Rent” (damn I love that movie!) waiting for the apple pie to cool. All was right with the world. Whichever law of the universe says that when things are too good, something bad must happen was suddenly enforced. Either that or karma, actually.
About a month back K and I had gone out to the bush for my birthday celebrations. In the processing of zipping the tent she was stung on her finger by an elusive and fast departing enemy, which we were unable to find in the darkness to positively ID. At the time, this seemed to me to be shades of slightly hilarious. We consulted our host, a guy who had lived in and around the bush for most of his life, but due to having a few drinks in him was more than slightly unhelpful. K took some antihistamine and we went to sleep, although I did periodically wake up throughout the night and than wake her up to make sure she was still alive (what a good friend I am). She did not appreciate this. Her hand was sore for a week
As the sensations of burning, shooting, stinging and slight numbness that K had described were now running up and down my arm into my fingers, I had a pretty good idea of which bandit had assaulted me. I yelped and grabbed my arm, disrupting J right in the middle of the duet we were performing while viewing Mimi’s first scene in the movie. I whipped back the duvet we had been laying on and saw him. About the size of my pinky finger and nearly translucent, he was scurrying for cover.
Since J is more afraid of creepy crawlers that I am, he darted towards the door. I grabbed his empty wine glass and upended it, trapping the intruder in a glass coffin. We put him on the desk, theorizing that we would kill him through either suffocation or starvation. Neither of which was, in the end effective. (We got him the next day when R, an Eagle Scout whose phone was of course off when I called in a panic, suggested that we gas him by throwing a few alcohol rubbing pads in there with him. That did the job. PCV’s are SO resourceful.)
After we had imprisoned the culprit and I had assured J that there were no more scorpions in the bed, I joyously began the next natural course of action in a situation like this. I text messaged K. She was of course thrilled to laugh at me, and I was laughing right along with her. We quickly went through our running tally of shitty things that had happened to us since being in country (including but not limited to scorpion stings, stalkers, site relocation, mice, bank issues, thefts, weight lost or gained, length of water outages, housing problems, and sicknesses, and decided that we were now equal and one of us would have to work on one-upping the other, so we could alternately tease or brag to the other about how much rougher or easier we have it).
Then I text the PCMO, my mom, and most of my close PC friends in country, and some that I’m not in regular texting contact with as it was a holiday and text messages were cheap that day. Leave it to me to want to have to best story of the weekend. J was doing the same, although not mentioning it was me that got stung, only that there had been a scorpion in his bed, so that his story would sound better. So there we are, side by side, my arm pulsing, the characters of Rent singing, and both of us ignoring everything to text everyone that wasn’t with us what was happening. Only in the PC. The next round of incoming texts were, of course from people we hadn’t even initially text who had heard the story from texts they had received from others and wanted details. Ah, the PC “network”.
The PCMO called several times, asking about the make, model and color of my scorpion, and advised me to take a benedryl. I did so, and then she called back, telling me not to go to sleep. We ate the apple pie, which did sort of take the pain away temporarily. As the first and main thing you want to do after taking a bendryl is go to sleep, I made a list of people J should call if he awoke to find me dead or otherwise not breathing and laid down to watch the rest of the movie. The PCMO called a few more times, we went to sleep, and I’ve lived to tell the tale of another African adventure. What Next?
Friday, September 26, 2008
Botswana Birthday!
As with all Katchmark women (or at least the ones who at one point resided at 2438 in Coon Rapids) I tend to like to celebrate my birthday. A lot. I warn people about its approach from months off, and like to get at least a good 2 weeks to a month mileage out of “my special day”. As it turns out my time in Botswana has been no different.
It began when one of my PCV buddies came to Seronga as she had an event with her NGO and brought chocolate as a birthday present. We then had dinner with Simon and we mentioned that my birthday was coming and he a bit drunkenly wrote down the date, and muttered that we would “make a plan”. We then spent the weekend in the bush, complete with super close elephant and hippo sightings and barbeque and my friend V even made me a birthday cake. I was feted with bottles of African liquor and marshmallows and granadilla yogurt and it was a great party. They actually sang happy birthday with at least 5 different forms of the English accent (Australian, English, Irish, American, and southern African). It was cool.
Tuesday was my actual birthday- (it began with B calling to serenade me with Frank Sinatra singing happy birthday from his ipod.) and I had made brownies (no measuring cups again!!! And they were good!) and I was running around the village distributing m&m covered birthday brownies to all my buddies (and the extremely destitute man who always begs me for chibuku). The Kgosi in particular was amused with my attempt at cake. I had several different Setswana infused attempts at the happy birthday song and all the children who had given up on begging from me were pleasantly surprised at their half hearted attempts being rewarded with a sweet (although many of them got the oranges and various other remnants left in my fridge that had to be disposed of before leaving for such a long time. They were still happy as ripe oranges are a treat here too).
I been trying to hitch a flight to Maun to begin the journey to the Peace Corps In Service Training that I had to make the seemingly endless trip down to Kanye for. I checked the houseboats company who subcontract with the bush pilots out of Maun during the brownie tour of Seronga and ended up being in luck. There was an empty game flight going back to Maun that afternoon. I rushed home to get prepared to close up the house and get down to Maun. I checked the mail, cried over my birthday packages and then it was over to the “airstrip”. I got there early enough that I had time to sit with my buddy the air traffic controller (whose name means “judgment” in English and really just spends his time writing down the numbers and getting signatures of planes that land.) The plane landed to pick up the tourists and the pilot jumped out.
The accent hit me first. British. Scruffy dirty, and giving off the distinct impression of being hung over. He greeted the tourists who were going to take the game flight and I introduced myself. He was exactly the type of bad boy that I'd been known to fall for in a former life. As he walked to the end of the tarmac and turned his back to the crowd to pee, (in and of itself not extremely odd behavior in a land where toilets and pit stops are few, and the overpowering smell in the heat of the porta potties you do find is enough to make even those with the worst sense of smell cringe.) I realized I was potentially in big trouble. The beautiful thing about getting older is that I am sometimes wise enough to more clearly see the trouble that has always been completely visible to everyone but myself from a mile away. The other beautiful part about being older is that although I know better, I can still claim to be too young to care. And so although there was clear and present danger ahead, I tossed my head (now such a less effective move without hair) and walked right into it.... or rather climbed into it. As in the cockpit of the plane with this British devil. Happy Birthday to me. We chatted for a minute, (or spoke as much as two people can over the roar of a small engine taking off on a tennis court covered runway) and he told me his name (his name for these purposes will be "Bruise", for reasons to be revealed in a later blog entry.) and I immediately recoiled. It turns out V had been speaking of this very pilot earlier in the weekend, and as the saying goes, chicks before... well in the interest of not being completely vulgar online (hi grandma!) I'll let you fill in the blanks there the hint is that it rhymes. I immediately discretely (again as discretely as one can be being so close to the person next to you that you're constantly bumping each other... or was that an accident.. never mind) text v asking her if she was sure she wanted dibs (all the while thinking perhaps there might be a cultural confusion with the concept of dibs or at least a technological problem with v being out in the bush. No such luck). After my party this weekend I was increasingly coming to appreciate v as a friend, and in the interest of not losing her, (in a land of HIV gone wild and not a huge amount of reliable dating prospects, there are even less cool girls you can trust, the women of my village have a tendency to scoff at my attempts to "blend" as they seem to think I'm after their men. and let's be honest their men are proposing to me daily. I'd be pissed at me, too) so I toned down the flirtatious "Jen of the party" vibe and as is sometimes typical of men Bruise didn't seem to be able to read my thoughts and didn't realize he no longer had a chance.
The banter continued and eventually because I love my birthday I mentioned this fact to Bruise, also asking him where the party was in Maun that night. He speculated that because it was my birthday perhaps I'd like to fly the plane. Well hell yes I want to fly the plane if for no other reason than to brag about it on my blog! With that innocent question Bruise set off a month of "yes" the likes of which are seldom seen in the Jen in America which seems to come completely naturally to the Jen in Botswana.
So after a bit more mild flirting and plane flying we landed in Maun, a glorious 45 minutes after taking off on a drive that takes between 10 and God knows how many hours. I went immediately across the street from the airport to Bon Arrive' a little restaurant coffee shop and really bar that is the place where the who's who of Maun hangs out because it's the first thing that you see when you come out of the airport. So it's the quintessential place to scope and be scoped; a combination of the people who basically run the town, the flyboys, the tourists, and those who want to be seen with (or become acquainted with, I've found that when you're poor and in the Peace Corps it helps to have friends with connections) one or all of the above. Eventually P arrives and we get to having a few drinks and talking, and I'm running my mouth about my latest and greatest ideas about fish in Seronga, and soon enough we've made friends with a good number of pilots and such. As we get home the international birthday well wishes ensue, and by the end of the night I was drifting off to a happy 27 year old sleep. The festivities of course continued for the next week at least, with birthday packages and cards waiting for me when I got back to site a few weeks later. I have to say that all in all, my first African birthday was a smashing success.
It began when one of my PCV buddies came to Seronga as she had an event with her NGO and brought chocolate as a birthday present. We then had dinner with Simon and we mentioned that my birthday was coming and he a bit drunkenly wrote down the date, and muttered that we would “make a plan”. We then spent the weekend in the bush, complete with super close elephant and hippo sightings and barbeque and my friend V even made me a birthday cake. I was feted with bottles of African liquor and marshmallows and granadilla yogurt and it was a great party. They actually sang happy birthday with at least 5 different forms of the English accent (Australian, English, Irish, American, and southern African). It was cool.
Tuesday was my actual birthday- (it began with B calling to serenade me with Frank Sinatra singing happy birthday from his ipod.) and I had made brownies (no measuring cups again!!! And they were good!) and I was running around the village distributing m&m covered birthday brownies to all my buddies (and the extremely destitute man who always begs me for chibuku). The Kgosi in particular was amused with my attempt at cake. I had several different Setswana infused attempts at the happy birthday song and all the children who had given up on begging from me were pleasantly surprised at their half hearted attempts being rewarded with a sweet (although many of them got the oranges and various other remnants left in my fridge that had to be disposed of before leaving for such a long time. They were still happy as ripe oranges are a treat here too).
I been trying to hitch a flight to Maun to begin the journey to the Peace Corps In Service Training that I had to make the seemingly endless trip down to Kanye for. I checked the houseboats company who subcontract with the bush pilots out of Maun during the brownie tour of Seronga and ended up being in luck. There was an empty game flight going back to Maun that afternoon. I rushed home to get prepared to close up the house and get down to Maun. I checked the mail, cried over my birthday packages and then it was over to the “airstrip”. I got there early enough that I had time to sit with my buddy the air traffic controller (whose name means “judgment” in English and really just spends his time writing down the numbers and getting signatures of planes that land.) The plane landed to pick up the tourists and the pilot jumped out.
The accent hit me first. British. Scruffy dirty, and giving off the distinct impression of being hung over. He greeted the tourists who were going to take the game flight and I introduced myself. He was exactly the type of bad boy that I'd been known to fall for in a former life. As he walked to the end of the tarmac and turned his back to the crowd to pee, (in and of itself not extremely odd behavior in a land where toilets and pit stops are few, and the overpowering smell in the heat of the porta potties you do find is enough to make even those with the worst sense of smell cringe.) I realized I was potentially in big trouble. The beautiful thing about getting older is that I am sometimes wise enough to more clearly see the trouble that has always been completely visible to everyone but myself from a mile away. The other beautiful part about being older is that although I know better, I can still claim to be too young to care. And so although there was clear and present danger ahead, I tossed my head (now such a less effective move without hair) and walked right into it.... or rather climbed into it. As in the cockpit of the plane with this British devil. Happy Birthday to me. We chatted for a minute, (or spoke as much as two people can over the roar of a small engine taking off on a tennis court covered runway) and he told me his name (his name for these purposes will be "Bruise", for reasons to be revealed in a later blog entry.) and I immediately recoiled. It turns out V had been speaking of this very pilot earlier in the weekend, and as the saying goes, chicks before... well in the interest of not being completely vulgar online (hi grandma!) I'll let you fill in the blanks there the hint is that it rhymes. I immediately discretely (again as discretely as one can be being so close to the person next to you that you're constantly bumping each other... or was that an accident.. never mind) text v asking her if she was sure she wanted dibs (all the while thinking perhaps there might be a cultural confusion with the concept of dibs or at least a technological problem with v being out in the bush. No such luck). After my party this weekend I was increasingly coming to appreciate v as a friend, and in the interest of not losing her, (in a land of HIV gone wild and not a huge amount of reliable dating prospects, there are even less cool girls you can trust, the women of my village have a tendency to scoff at my attempts to "blend" as they seem to think I'm after their men. and let's be honest their men are proposing to me daily. I'd be pissed at me, too) so I toned down the flirtatious "Jen of the party" vibe and as is sometimes typical of men Bruise didn't seem to be able to read my thoughts and didn't realize he no longer had a chance.
The banter continued and eventually because I love my birthday I mentioned this fact to Bruise, also asking him where the party was in Maun that night. He speculated that because it was my birthday perhaps I'd like to fly the plane. Well hell yes I want to fly the plane if for no other reason than to brag about it on my blog! With that innocent question Bruise set off a month of "yes" the likes of which are seldom seen in the Jen in America which seems to come completely naturally to the Jen in Botswana.
So after a bit more mild flirting and plane flying we landed in Maun, a glorious 45 minutes after taking off on a drive that takes between 10 and God knows how many hours. I went immediately across the street from the airport to Bon Arrive' a little restaurant coffee shop and really bar that is the place where the who's who of Maun hangs out because it's the first thing that you see when you come out of the airport. So it's the quintessential place to scope and be scoped; a combination of the people who basically run the town, the flyboys, the tourists, and those who want to be seen with (or become acquainted with, I've found that when you're poor and in the Peace Corps it helps to have friends with connections) one or all of the above. Eventually P arrives and we get to having a few drinks and talking, and I'm running my mouth about my latest and greatest ideas about fish in Seronga, and soon enough we've made friends with a good number of pilots and such. As we get home the international birthday well wishes ensue, and by the end of the night I was drifting off to a happy 27 year old sleep. The festivities of course continued for the next week at least, with birthday packages and cards waiting for me when I got back to site a few weeks later. I have to say that all in all, my first African birthday was a smashing success.
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