Mice are not Nice....

A new and interesting twist on the same old murder.....

Like so many starlets at the academy awards who tearfully promise themselves they wouldn’t cry, I swore I wouldn’t write about killing mice again. I thought I had covered the whole genre, from trapping to poison to blunt object traumas to the head. I was certain that there was nothing left to say. And generally there wasn’t. Until of course last night.

I was sitting on my bed in a benedryl induced haze, waiting for the drugs to completely put me to sleep. I had been sick with some terrific stomach bug that had left me weak and tired, but as I had laid around for several hours already that day I was finding it tough to sleep despite being tired, so had taken the benedryl to knock me out. I was writing letters home which will inevitably arrive after the event I’m meaning to write about when I heard some soft tapping coming from near my door. I thought perhaps it was the little boy who lived on my compound coming to greet me. I had heard that he had come home earlier, and despite us not speaking any common language, we’ve become buddies.

I shouted a greeting at the door three times to no response. Finally I hauled myself off my bed and opened the door. What greeted me on the other side was not a smiling little boy but a mouse crawling up the inside of the netting I’d wrapped through my burglar door to prevent mosquitoes in the warmer seasons. I pushed open the door and he was dangling like Tom Cruise in one of the “Mission Impossible” films. I grabbed the dustpan from the floor and flicked him off the door into the night. Little did I know that would set the tone for the night…

Around eleven thirty I woke up in from a deep sleep in a big confusion. I heard splashing around in my bathtub. At first I thought perhaps the cork had come out of the piping I’ve been using to shower and the sound I was hearing was the water rushing out into the pipe into the bathtub. Upon closer inspection I saw a dark something in the corner of the tub. I had left a small amount of water in the bottom to rinse some of the laundry I had soaking in the morning as the water has been out. I didn’t remember leaving anything in the tub and as soon as I turned around to grab my headlamp the splashing began again and I had a strong suspicion as to the nature of the intruder.

When I shone the light in the tub it was indeed a mouse, attempting to climb out of my bathtub. A quick survey of the situation determined that he had probably come in through the slightly open window climbing in through a hole in the netting that surrounded the piping. Strangely enough this was not the first mouse I’d seen in a bathtub, the other one was in Maun at Anna’s house. She being a vegetarian and an animal lover that mouse was trapped and released. As I am not a vegetarian or an extreme animal lover, this mouse would not be experiencing the same fate.

I thought that the fact that I had not taken any drastic measures to disturb whichever animals were living in my ceiling making noise and waking me up all the time had been an appropriate enough attempt at hospitality. When I mentioned the intruders to my landlady she suggested that perhaps it was the mice that fly (bats) that had gotten up there and she would look for the hole which they were using to get in and block it. As there are holes all over I very much doubted the success that this mission would bring. She then asked if I had any poison to kill the mice in her house. I told her that I had something better and lent her one of my traps, secretly smug in my current lack of a mouse problem, due to what I considered good management techniques: read two traps and a shitload of poison.

KARMA. (sing-songy voice)

Once I got the headlamp out I was able to catch the little bastard between a shallow wash basin and a deep bowl, using his inability to properly swim to my advantage. I took my improvised trap out in the yard to make a plan. Every time I heard him scramble I yelped a little bit as well. I knew at that moment that bashing him wasn’t going to be an option, as last time that had ended badly. I had been nauseous and generally sick a majority of the week and wasn’t in the mood to lose what little might have remained in my stomach over yet another gory murder in my front yard.

Suddenly the bit of water in the bottom of the basin gave me an idea. Drowning! I’m not certain it was the recent studying I’ve been doing for the GRE about angles and geometry or if it was a drug induced hallucination of some sort. But I quickly decided drowning would be the most effective form of capital punishment. I grabbed a brick to place on top of the upturned bowl and ran for a bucket and the outside standpipe.

I opened the tap only to hear an unsatisfying hiss. No water. Well this would make drowning a more difficult option, but yet not impossible. There was also a bucket full of water in the bathroom, waiting for morning that I would usually use to wash my face. I was going to have to wander around with a dirty face in the morning but it seems knowing this mouse would be dead was worth it. I grabbed the water and went back to where my captive was held.

I carefully poured the water into the basin. Nothing. The water couldn’t get up in the bowl because of the air inside. I still cannot imagine what inspired me to attempt to defy the laws of physics or gravity or whatever scientific truth means that I had effectively created a little submarine bubble for this little bastard but that is exactly what happened. I tried a few times to tip the whole production to get the water up inside the bowl but my hands weren’t big enough to grasp the basin and hold down the bowl. The mouse would escape and swim around desperately, and I would squeal, and it was generally bad. So now I had a trapped mouse, a basin full of mouse shit water, and a brick on top. Prior experience told me crying wasn’t a helpful option in this scenario.

My benedryl addled mind could do no more. I was worried about leaving the whole production either too close to the house as he would inevitably try his little breaking and entering scheme again, or too far into the yard as I have a highly curious four year old little boy who is currently staying on the compound and had visions up him upending the thing and the mouse escaping in the morning. In my drug induced stupor of a brain the idiot mouse clearly had rabies as it was crazy enough to repeatedly try to enter my house (somewhere in my mind the exact diagnosis and suggested rehabilitative treatment was crawling it’s way out from the depths of my criminology and psychology degrees as I’m cross referencing my time at a law firm for the statues on capital punishment that I’d already sentenced this monster to.) and was going to attack the child before I got up and how would I live with that? It seems these bloody things are bent on making me lose sleep whether they’re dead or alive!

So I did something slightly crazy.

I went into my house and grabbed a pen and a post it.

I wrote on the note:

“Please kill the mouse”

And drew a sort of stick figure mouse drawing on it.


I have absolutely no idea whom I was appealing to, as the little boy likely cannot read Setswana much less English. I began to laugh hysterically and exhaustedly in my yard in the moonlight. Perhaps some Tokaloshi or an bilingual African spirit would take care of the job.

I woke the next day and looked at the whole set up in my yard and knew I couldn’t deal with that just then. When I came home from work the girl on my compound upended the whole mess and the mouse was indeed expired.

It just struck me that perhaps it was hypothermia. Eish.

Dithapi Trust

“I was lost because I didn’t have a sense of where to put my passion, and my fight.”
Angelina Jolie.

Although the similarities between myself and Ms. Jolie end abruptly after the characteristics of having a lot of energy, idealism and a certain level of feistiness (and perhaps eccentricity) are exhausted (as I can’t really see myself picking up Brad Pitt and adopting and birthing a crayola box brood of children) over the past few months in Africa I think I may have found a place to put my passion and my fight.

I’ve got this quote on my facebook page, and I’ve always been able to relate to the idea of not quite having “It.” Having found “it,” having achieved “it”, knowing what or where or who or how “it” is. Through the previous and continual confusion, lack of fulfillment, and search for meaning there has often been something missing from my professional endeavors. Although the expereinces have all taught me a lot, I’ve yet to find a place or a project that can hold my attention for longer than about 6 months (I usually end up staying a year just to make it appear that I’m not quite as impulsive as I may actually be on my resume). After a lot of soul searching, ruminating, bitching and moaning, I’ve come to surmise that part of the problem is that I’ve been racing down career paths that although intriguing, and often powerful, weren’t at all for me. I’ve taken many jobs that have bored me quite nearly to tears (although generally with really decent people) just to be around the people with the big time jobs (therapists, attorneys) that I thought I might want, and have used years of my life as an extended career day. I have had no idea what I want to be when I grow up (and really for the most part still don’t).

But I’ve got something in the mix.

I’ve been a bit reluctant to speak about it wildly, or to put it on my blog, as for a long time it’s been a very long shot project, a pie in the sky idea that would be a miracle if it occurs. I’ve been hesitant to fully reveal such a crazy plan, as if it fails then everyone will have read about it (a potentially embarrassing situation, and as I’m always so adamant that I don’t believe in embarrassment, what the hell am I afraid of…?). It’s not that I’m basing my entire service on it, or that I would feel that my time here was a waste, but I think I would possibly feel an acute sense of loss. It would public, and potentially painful to have so many witnesses to the birth and death of something that has been born of my very soul, and that I will have invested so much of myself and my sense of hope in to have it all be a failure would be devastating.

But that’s another lesson that Africa is teaching me with all the grace and kindness of one of Disney’s wicked stepmothers. When you’ve already given up (or in some cases, lost) most of what you hold dear to heart, you haven’t got much else to lose. And you should always follow your dreams (cue the Phil Collins theme song…) even if you’re not quite sure what those dreams completely are or how to achieve them. Hakuna matata and all that.

And so, with that overwrought introduction, (cut Phil Collins abruptly, call for the drumroll, please) I reveal the project that could keep me in this world through the looking glass longer than my allotted two years:

The Dithapi Trust of Seronga Village.

Part 1.) It began with my meeting with Thuso, the local math teacher, when I asked him what he would want to do if he could do anything in Seronga, what would it be? I told him to dream big (because at some point I got the idea in my head that one must “go big or go home”). He said that he would like to build a fish pond for the local children (he is also the advisor to the ecology club) to be able to learn about and identify the fish of the delta, and run some science experiments and gain a better understanding of their surroundings. Having just finished Pre-Service Training (the official brainwashing of the Peace Corps program) I was able to quickly see that this might not have much merit as a primary HIV and AIDS reducing program but resolved to think of a way to incorporate it, and in my mind I took on the fish pond as a exciting secondary project.
Part 2.) I mentioned the idea to Simon, who, at 60, in addition to getting older and slightly more cantankerous, is also at the prime age for beginning to contemplate the twilight years of his life and what contribution he’s made to the world. After mulling Thuso’s pond idea around in my brain I thought it would be lovely to also make the pond into some sort of tourist attraction, perhaps by adding a glass wall to the pond. It seems simple and easy enough. Nine months back when I arrived in Seronga, all shiny and new and idealistic, I think I charmed Simon a bit while he waited for the enthusiasm to wear off and the jadedness to set in. He is the type who has always been up for a challenge. Simon seemed to think it was all perfectly do-able, and in his mind there was no reason their couldn’t be a commercial fishery involved to make the pond more self sustainable, and I pointed out that something like that could also provide jobs for the community, who at that point were still begging me for money and jobs every day. The dream seemed to be moving right along in its own unlikely little phases.
Part 3.) Simon mentions the fish idea to Graham, who’s got his PhD and is married to Anna, who is getting hers doing elephant research down the road at her camp in Gunitsoga. They had joked about doing fish research while out fishing one day, and Graham mentioned that he would like to get some funding to do research so he could be closer to Anna. Simon mentions this and Graham seems interested. I mention the project to Dudu, who has experience in grant writing and getting funding, so I added her to the mix.
During one of our regular “sundowners on the floodplains” adventures in which we happened to have Thuso with us, Simon brought me to the site he had in mind. As the sun set over the old quarry, I got tears in my eyes. I am usually not one who is able to physically look at a space and envision what could go there. I have a wild, wild imagination and am a big dreamer, but I have trouble choosing paint colors because I cannot imagine what they will look like in different lights. But as I stood next to the ancient baobab trees that would be preserved to provide perfect shading over the large whole in the hill in which the pond could be built I could envision it. I suddenly understood what parents experience when they first see their new baby. So much pride and marveling at its beauty, and a nearly heart crushing joy and thrill at the potential a baby holds locked inside of itself. The fear that it might be hurt or fail in any way, and the powerful energy used to will for nothing bad to happen, and the realization of the helpless inevitability of the very fact that unimaginable things will occur. It was amazing, and despite having been there only once, I often see the place in my dreams.
Part 4.) We all met to discuss the idea for the project on Simon’s veranda. By this time the idea has been stewing around my brain for a few months, and as it has not lost any of it’s inertia in my own mind, and I was damn excited to have all these people who are interested in this project together in one spot. Anna and Graham have spent the last few years founding an animal preserve in Francistown, and are thus relatively experienced on the potential feasibility of something like this, and they seemed to be cautiously optimistic. I spent a long old car ride to Francistown (complete with a car breakdown to keep things interesting, but also to extend the length of the chat) with Graham, and was able to discuss the possibilities of the project. We had tossed around the idea of forming a private trust, and were sort of brainstorming names. We both liked the idea of using “Dithapi,” which is the Setswana word for fish (plural), but also wanted to incorporate the Seronga Village as part of it, as it will inevitably involve and benefit the community. Plus it invokes the importance of the people of the village and the village as an actual place worth being noted. Anna came up with the name we are using at this point, as if it is a trust it may be something that might be replicable if it’s successful in its initial incarnation in Seronga perhaps there could be other villages supported under the umbrella of the Dithapi Trust.

Parts 4, 5 and 6, and on and on and on…..
I’ve been running around the country speaking to people about this idea, including a few impromptu performances for the wildlife, fisheries and delta management departments in Maun. These meetings generally included lots of laughs at my introduction of myself as “Lorato” and my attempts to speak Setswana. As the meetings would progress eventually the fiery passion that I feel about the project would take over and despite my nearly complete and total lack of concrete knowledge about fisheries, business, non-profit management, ect, ect they were taking me quite seriously. In the end they would look me over with an air of slightly bemused satisfaction and much indication that they were impressed…. But…. This was a huge, multimillion pula project. Yes, it was certainly a great idea and would be wonderful for the village and the area.. But. They were honest with me in admitting that there were only two masters level fisheries people in the country, residing, of course, in Gaborone, the capital city two days journey from the site I have in mind. They questioned my knowledge of inputs and outputs and I again cursed my undergraduate degrees for not being in this very subject, or at the very least something business-like. They offered whatever support they could, always reminding me that in a few years the infrastructure (and bridge across the delta to the crazy place I live, a completed road, electricity) might be more appropriate to create and sustain something of this magnitude. They wished me luck and told me what I would need to do to get the land allotted to the project, as well as mentioning a few people I’d already been in touch with in the country who knew about fisheries.

I’ve since contacted and met several of the who’s who of fish farming in Botswana (the beauty of a small country is that everyone doing most projects can relatively easily be put in contact with anyone else looking to do a project. This part has been somewhat easy.). They all say it’s possible… But. There are a few people in particular that have done small model fish farms and I’ve learned a bit more about what it would take. Not Easy. At All. The main places where people are doing these sorts of projects are in or near Gabs, and electricity, reliable clean water, paved roads, no unreliable ferry boats to negotiate. The difficulties generally lie in the delicacy of fish farming and balance, as well as the economics of setting something like this up, which I have exactly nil experience with.

But along the way I continue to run into people who encourage me, that it is possible, somehow, someway.

Just this week I met with a consultant who happened to be in town working on a project with human animal conflict in the delta. I run into some of the most random and connected people this side! He suggested that for the educational part of the plan he could definitely help me package the thing so as to be supported by the government, which would be a first step (although damn, it seems like there are so many first steps. This is beginning to feel like some crazy tango I’ll never learn!) It seems so strange to not be going about something like this in my typical American way, to make a list, make a plan, and “git ‘er done”. It’s been a slow strange seduction of just when I think I’m ready to quiet my mind and put the issue, and this idea to bed, I manage to come across someone who has just a little more information, and teaches me about one more aspect I need to know in order to make this dream a reality. The whole progression has been very strange, and yet I feel it unfolding just as it’s supposed to. It’s hard for me to just flow with this one, but when I can I find it’s giving me pretty good results.

So I’m to the point where I haven’t given up on the idea, but I’m realizing it cannot be done in the time I have left here. And it’s also not something I would be willing to start and then leave and allow it to fall apart. I’m not ready to say Botswana is the place forever yet either. I want to see more of the world, as well as get some more education under my belt before I commit to undertaking what I suspect would be a life project. I’m quite seriously flirting with the idea of trying to set a time line in which to come back and undertake this thing once we have a little more infrastructures this side, in the form of electricity, a bridge, a paved road, ect. The project lives on in my heart, and it’s a very tough thing to not throw myself desperately at hoping that I can move it forward on the strength of my will alone. I've had the best results come to me through being patient and letting the passion I feel for the potential of this project keep me slowly chipping away at the numerous challanges in the way. It’s been a new thing for me to consider doing something I don’t have the inclination that I am more than capable of accomplishing it, to look into and dream about doing something for which I could possibly fail completely. Sometimes I think the only expertise I have to offer this idea is the love and passion I feel for it. Other days I am certain of it. But these are the kinds of things that happen to a soul in the depths of Africa.

We’ll see what happens…..

Ashes to Ashes... A death in an African Village

It’s a long one… Hopefully something to read over your lunch break at your desk?

“Jen? Jen, are you there?” In typical Botswana fashion there is a poor connection and a slight delay even between a town and a village less than a 45 minute bush flight apart. In typical Jen fashion, I have of course been sleeping with my cell phone in my very bed with me, and after wrestling it from the covers, have answered it before even completely waking up.

She took my thinly disguised grunt that was masquerading as the proper polite response as enough confirmation that I was indeed there. By the tone of her voice I could tell something was terribly wrong, and the next words out of her mouth confirmed it for me.

“Jen, we have a problem,” Debbie’s voice broke. At the sound of this my mind attempted to spring to full attention, and the voice in my head that I would next be attempting to project out of my mouth took on the tone of someone who is completely ready to move heaven and Earth to fix whichever problem we may be finding ourselves up against. Somewhere in the catacombs of my sleeping mind it occurred to me that whatever time it currently was in the morning was pretty early to already facing a problem, but this is Botswana, so in some ways, nothing surprises me. Except the fact that Debbie is crying.

In the short time I’ve known her; I’ve come to think of Debbie as remarkably strong. Not that remarkably strong people cannot cry, but it’s just something I haven’t yet experienced from her. She’s been through a great deal during her time on this planet, and always seems to react with Herculean grace, so for her to be calling me in tears at half six in the morning means the worst has happened. Before she could say anything more I sharply gasped in an attempt to take in the breath that seemed to be alluding me after having answered the phone in what was likely mid-snore. My muddled mind was able to deduce, through the hazy struggle of waking that despite being on my way out of dream world I was actually experiencing one of my worst nightmares. It seems I was the recipient of a phone call before the Minnesota Lutheran prescribed “civil hour” of 8 am, which could only mean one thing. Someone had died.

My brain went from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. My poor body struggled to keep up and in following the incoherent mumblings of my waking brain fumbled around in what I would imagine I thought was “make a plan mode” but really was a lot of getting tangled in my mosquito net and bedding. I attempted to as spring from my cocoon in what I imagined was an impersonation of a heroic leap. I immediately began pacing the one square inch of floor that was cleared enough for pacing (and by cleared I certainly don’t mean that it was free of the inevitable sand or thorns, a particularly sharp specimen of the latter which I immediately found with my left foot like a blinking heat seeking missile) and began to flounder around for the best tools with which to make a plan for the news I hadn’t yet received.

My first thought was Simon. Cold terror griped me. The logical part of my brain slowly and stubbornly sauntered after this idea despite the emotional part galloping off at a full sprint. In the quick flashes of multitasking my increasingly coherent mind was beginning to be able to accomplish I was able to identify the error in this idea. I live in Seronga with Simon, Debbie lives in Maun, and she had just gone home and wasn’t due back for a week or two. The village generally considers me to be what would effectively be Simon’s next of kin, and he would certainly be the first person they would call should something happen to me. It wouldn’t make sense for her to be calling me with this news.

“Jen, Willy Phillips has died. Anne is with him at the clinic. Is there any way you can go there?”

I feel the need break into the story at this point to give a disclaimer for the narrative that follows by admitting that the deceased was not one of my favorite people. We’ve got a few moral, ethical and political differences. In an attempt to not speak ill of the dead, I will make every attempt to not let that fact color my story unduly. We’ll see how it goes.

Willy Phillips is the councilor (Sort of like a mini-senator? Or sort of Governor? A Mayor? But then what would the Kgosi (chief) be? Well it’s tough to say, but he is a man with political power) of Seronga. His father was white and his mother was black, and his white third wife Anne is from Britain (I hate that I point these racial aspects of people out, but in my life here color is very relevant, and it’s also a part of the story. My life certainly is changing… Moving on). He is in many ways a man in between cultures, not quite white and not quite black, and in that way I can sort of relate to him, myself being not quite a villager and not quite an ex pat.

Debbie has known Willy for the better part of probably 30 years, and he is Godfather to her two sons, with whom I have also come to be friends. As she has become a great friend to me has so often been there for me in times of trial, I was desperate to return the favor to her in any way that I could. Willy has on occasion given me lifts back from Maun where he ends up spending a great deal of time in meetings for the district. In Seronga his campaign strategy has always been to give out free vegetables to his constituents, as well as to occasionally help people with lifts to funerals or to Shakawe to get their ARV’s.

In Seronga, it is a very patriarchic culture, and the people here come to think of the figures of government as their fathers or caretakers. There is a lot of dependence on the government and due to diamonds, and income from tourism, the fact is that the government does have money, they can and do provide. Willy is another example of this. I say this to give background to the type of figure Willy was amongst the community, and to illustrate the sort of figure he became immediately upon his death, and the way that the people reacted, and the string of small town controversies that ensued.

But back to that morning. I told Debbie of course I would go to the clinic and in fact I was on my way. Debbie laid out a plan (which of course ended up changing several times over the course of the next hour) and said she and her sons would be chartering a plane from Maun to Seronga. I quickly threw on the first clothes I could find from the pile of items which I have come to think of as clothing purgatory, clothes worn maybe once or twice, not clean enough to be hung back in the wardrobe, but also not dirty enough to go in the completely foul smelling wash pile. It usually consists of mostly pants and jeans, so from my wardrobe I found a freshly clean tank top and threw a do-rag (bandana or a Duk, depending on your cultural preference) on my ever expanding pile of unruly hair.

I called Simon as I brushed my teeth and gave him the news, as Patricia from the clinic called on the other line. The ambiance amongst the white people in Seronga is a strange thing, while we are all quite interdependent in terms of transport out and getting food and supplies in, Simon in particular has an interesting way of getting along with and relating to people. Most of the villagers think that we are all automatically friends because we are white (and generally think we are from the same place, -although the lot of us come from no less than three different countries- and despite the fact that I am the third Peace Corps to come through Seronga, many of the people say that Simon is my uncle or some other form of relation. I can’t completely figure out if this is due to the different ways in which the Batswana determine family relationships, or due to the fact that our cultures are more similar to each other-a point Simon would ardently disagree with- than to theirs or what). But despite this common belief among the villagers that we’re all one big happy white family, Simon and Willy haven’t gotten along for years. They “fell out” as Simon recounts it, a long time ago, although over what is a question with an answer as elusive as the one that accompanies the question “what does Simon DO in Seronga?” In the end it all becomes legend. As I seem to have become friends with Simon first this meant that by default I wasn’t very close with Anne and Willy. We weren’t unfriendly; we just didn’t ever hang out, or really communicate past the requisite greetings in the village. This was about to change.

Patricia continued to call back looking for me as Ma Willy (the other name for Anne, when a couple is married the wife becomes Ma whomever the husband’s first or last name is- they are interchangeable) is at the clinic and I guess at this point it has been decided that I, as a white person will know best what to do with this situation. I have to say, I have been lucky enough in my life to not have had to deal with a lot of death personally, and haven’t seen altogether too many dead bodies. That too was about to change.

I arrived at the clinic and was ushered into the room with all the beds, my authority regarding what to do about something finally being respected by my colleagues, of course at just the moment in which I have less of an idea of what to do than I ever had in my life. I had just seen Willy in Maun two days before, and had almost caught a ride back to Seronga with him (I had ended up hitching with the police instead). Now I enveloped his grieving widow in a sort of awkward hug as my colleagues faded back into the other rooms of the clinic. I searched my mind for comforting words for a virtual stranger, whom the world was treating as my sister. We awkwardly embraced and she quickly went back to cleaning and dressing her husband, a task which I did my best to help her with. I didn’t really have time to process the fact that I was now heaving the weight of one of the first deceased bodies I’ve ever had this much contact with around as his wife struggled to dress him. I was busy thinking of how hot it was already getting at the clinic.

After this task was thankfully finished we walked out to the front of the clinic, where I was immediately saved by Benson. Ben is my good friend who comes into town for a month once every three months as he works as a mechanic for one of the luxury camps in the delta. He is the Kgosi’s (chief’s) son, which makes him my cousin, a fact I had quickly informed him of the first time we met, and has served to keep him in generally gentlemanly like behavior ever since. He has been pretty good friends with Anne and Willy for a while, and had heard the news and had come to be of whatever service he could be to Anne. He also ended up being a huge help to me.

The first problem he solved was the driving. Now I’m not allowed, under any circumstances, to drive as a Peace Corps Volunteer. This is the type of stuff over which they will immediately send you home, so I wasn’t about to do it here, grieving widow or not. In addition, the car Anne had driven to the clinic in was Willy’s and was loaded down completely with stock for the shop he runs in town, as well as being a manual, on the wrong side of the car (for me). Ben came to the rescue to drive us around to search for the girl who ran the shop and thus had the keys. Being Seronga, and the time of day being morning meant that the Mascom cell signal was down, and so we thus had to drive around searching for her. We had to unload the stock into the shop (which is essentially a semi truck container with shelves inside) in order to free up the pick-up for whatever arrangements would lie ahead of us.

It was when we found Kay that I had the first opportunity to do the unsavory task which would become my main job of the day, which was to inform people of Willy’s passing. I quickly found there was no easy or pleasant way to do this so I sort of just went against everything that is generally a part of my nature and tip-toed into the news as gently as I could. Kay was upset, but I maintain that the nerves and framework of African women’s emotions are made of steel, and so she helped unload the contents of the truck into the shop, even directing us what needed to be reloaded to be brought back to the house as the tears slowly slid down her face.

I have to admit that I found a bit of comfort in unloading the truck, as it felt like a tangible thing I could DO to be helpful. My Midwestern roots demand that during a crisis I be USEFUL, and DOING something in order to be effective in any situation, in this case comforting the grieving. I then worked on arranging for Benson to meet Debbie at the airstrip and finding tea and such for the mourners that had slowly begun to arrive at the house. Debbie stepping in was a big help, as she’s a very take charge kind of woman, and this being my first funeral to help coordinate, I was very glad to have some guidance. My main job for the day ended up being to answer Willy’s phone, which lead me to perform my uncomfortable task many, many times, to perfect strangers whom I generally had no idea how they had known Willy or why they were calling. It could have been the garage in Maun or one of his oldest friends and I had nothing but the number on the caller ID (it seems Willy hadn’t really believed in storing numbers to the phone’s memory) and the voice on the line to guide me.

At Willy and Anne’s house the mourners kept coming, and soon nearly all the village elder men and women were there, and as the day went on, most of the village had come. Throughout the day the “plan” which is of course what always needs to be made in absolutely any case in Botswana had changed several times. The first and most pressing issue was getting the death to be certified by a doctor, which took a better part of the day under the hot African sun to complete. It was a horrifying circus of phone calls, pleas, threats, demands, planes, boats, trucks, interventions by councilors from other districts and a menagerie of various other government officials as well as the rescheduling of doctors scheduled to be administering ARV’s at several villages in the area to get a doctor here to confirm that our beloved councilor was indeed deceased.

There were enough different stories going around as to if and when a doctor was coming or whether we would have to drive with the body the one to three hours over the long dirt road the ferry at Mohembo to thoroughly confuse everyone involved, and as the mascom signal was still down, it was between my cell phone and Willy’s cell phone to get it all sorted. (Anne and Willy had a land line in the house, but no one but Anne and two of their house servants could go through their gate as they have three extremely vicious dogs who have been known to attack people and have been rumored to have put people in the hospital. So the planning was executed from the guest house. Just to add another element of fun to the day.) It was finally confirmed that the body was indeed deceased and more importantly that the generator was working and had been turned on at the mortuary. The corpse was finally transported from the clinic to the mortuary in the afternoon, setting off the first of many controversies that would occur in the next week.

The culture of the several tribes in the area demands that, amongst other traditions, the body be viewed by all of the mourners before it is buried. This means there should be witnesses through every step of the process. The staff at the clinic was rather insistent that someone watch as the doctor certified the body, although Debbie and Anne refused this. Again, I haven’t had much intimacy with the process of death in my own life and culture, so I didn’t know if this is common in my country or not. My understanding of this tradition here is to prove to everyone with their own eyes that the person has indeed died, rather than as in the Western tradition, to convey a last sense of goodbye. Anne of course, being English, felt that this was all a bit inappropriate, as having died of what was believed to be a heart attack, Willy’s coloring was not very good at this point, especially after having been in the heat for the better part of the day. Many of the villagers were sort of following what had become a regular convoy of vehicles around the village, arriving after us having walked, and sitting down in the sandy roadside whenever the ambulance with the corpse passed.

In a land of extremely strong traditional beliefs mixed in with that special brand of missionary Christianity fanatically popular in this part of Botswana, the basis for people’s beliefs can be rather difficult to describe to an outsider, as it tends to be much more complex than “because the bible tells me so.” I’ve often asked about details of traditional beliefs in relation to religious beliefs but have yet to get many profoundly satisfying answers. Much of what is “traditional” contradicts what I understand to be the teachings of the bible, or Christianity, but again I have to respect the villagers for being able to hold so many contradictory beliefs close to their hearts and not experience much confusion or fugue or angst about it. I can’t decide if it is the complexity or the simplicity of the whole situation that eludes me, but I’m often left with a sort of confused respect.

The one thing I do find quite amusing in regard to the religious diversity in Seronga is that despite nearly everyone in the village actively identifying with one sect or another of what they name as Christianity, we still also have our own family of Christian missionaries in Seronga. It sometimes strikes me as shades of The Poisonwood Bible, but then they and I don’t interact much past the transport and supplies issues either. I’ve gathered that their general outlook is that despite all being Christians, the villagers still have a lot of work to do on being properly saved. So in essence if you throw some traditional beliefs about spirits and witchcraft into the Christianity mixture this village is a regular holy rolling jamboree. It is, in a word, interesting. And soon came to be even more so.

Throughout the day there was great discussion of what the plans for burial would be. Debbie and the boys flew back to Maun in the afternoon, leaving me as one of the last voices of “Western reason”. I soon found that part of my job was to be the ambassador between the African and Western (I’ve always thought it weird that one of the terms for white people around these parts was Westerners, or Europeans. How can Europeans be called Westerners when we are only one time zone east of Paris? And how can Australians be called Westerners? They are so East, or even kind of Asian in some ways but we never call them that. How can I be called European when I come from the States? I’m at least as far removed from my European roots as most white Africans are, but they seldom refer to themselves as Africans. It’s always confused me, and I’ve never known the rules of this particular game, what people are usually referring to is someone’s classification as just white, but it seems we can’t just say it. Hmmm.) camps of opinion regarding what would be done next.

At some point during the day Anne decided it would be most appropriate to cremate her husband, and most of the Westerners agreed that as he is her husband (although they were, in some senses estranged, which added a whole additional element of things to be a bit sensitive about on many, many levels that I won’t get into) she had every right to do. I suggested that if this was indeed her decision she would have to somehow allow the villagers to have their ceremonies with the ashes as well. The logistics of getting the corpse down to Mahalapye (a two day journey unless planes were involved, and even then might be more than a day with transfers and what) and then back to Maun, where it was determined there must also be another memorial as Willy had spent most of his life there and had many friends who would not be able to make it on the long journey to Seronga, coupled with the Batswana tradition of burying on Saturday, (and this being Wednesday, and there was already another funeral that most of the village was meant to attend this weekend-who knew the scheduling of funerals in a rural Botswana village could be so difficult) put us out almost two weeks.

But it was more than timing that became a matata (problem). The villagers, represented by the elder men, felt that as their councilor and thus their father, they had just as much say as she did in Willy’s final resting arrangements. And burning was blasphemy. Anne tried to quote the bible with the idea of ashes to ashes, but methinks there may have been something lost in translation. During the heated discussion that ensued someone remembered speaking to Willy within the past 20 years and him saying that he wanted to be buried out back in his yard (under a big tree that of course ended up being in the flood plain- and incidentally under water at this exact moment). Another villager concurred that he had also heard Willy say this and soon nearly the whole village remembered having an intimate conversation at some point in their life with dear departed Willy about what to do when he passed. It became a virtual chorus. Anne was totally outnumbered. She conceded.

The next bit of drama involved an attempt to get permission to bury Willy under another tree in his yard, which was thwarted by a letter from the Land Board, arriving after the grave had basically already been dug and no less than 6 planes had been chartered to fly into Seronga for the funeral the next day. In a huge display of dramatics Anne got the village to support her in disregarding the Land Board’s decision, amongst them several members of the Land Board. And thus is the beauty of politics in Botswana. Everyone agreed Willy would have wanted it that way.

Sidenote: Let me just take this opportunity to let everyone know that my mom knows what I want done should I croak any time soon. I kind of talk about it all the time. But just in case there’s any confusion…. Burn me. Put my ashes in a bench at the Rose Garden overlooking Lake Superior. Don’t go crazy with some dumb flowers (sorry to every florist I’ve ever worked for- Karly you can go wild if you really must, but I’d really rather you throw some money at a charity or spend some time doing volunteer work while you think of me (humming the tune from “Phantom of the Opera” in my head… did I mention that some chick sang that at Willy’s funeral- acapella, accompanied by her ipod-which only she could hear? I live through the looking glass for Sheezy. Anyhoo.)) I want Shakespeare and show tunes at the funeral. Make it a party. Please serve pizza. The end. Peace Out.

It is standard mourning procedure that the entire village shows up at the home of the bereft to say prayers every day at 6 in the morning and 5 or six in the evening until the body is “at rest” read: buried. Anne initially tried to limit the prayer services to one day, with a break until the funeral but people just kept coming. I felt for her that in her husband’s death she was forced to play hostess. Willy’s position as the councilor of Seronga (and an official figure of authority, and thus most of the villagers “father”) meant that most of the village felt entitled to have the mourning process and funeral proceed in the traditional manner that they expected. Many of them stayed all day, and some even camped in tents on Anne’s lawn. In short, some never left. It is tradition to always be with those who are grieving in Batswana culture, but as a “Westerner” I found myself becoming increasingly annoyed.

After all, how can one properly fall apart with all these people around? From my strange new position of relevance at Anne’s side during these prayer services I was stunned to see how many women essentially threw themselves on Anne’s lap in grief as they came to pay their respects by greeting her. Sobbing and carrying on to his widow, and forcing her to comfort them. Sitting right next to her I caught more than a few of them, and spotted a few more as they swooned during the actual prayers. It felt a little over the top to my ethnically Lutheran sensibilities, and even the Catholic floating around in me kind of wanted to slap them.

Being from a Midwestern “casserole/hotdish” culture I found it quite rude (again, by my own standards) that so many people were going to show up and sit around, and not bring any food. By the first night I realized that no one was really making much effort to make sure that Anne had something to eat, and decided my duty would be to cook (which I don’t know if I’ve made it clear that I hate cooking?) some things that Anne could eat and have at least some leftovers to nibble on so she wouldn’t have to be bothered. This brilliant idea was quickly thwarted when I realized the next day that I had forgotten to factor in several elements of Seronga life that meant that most people here didn’t have a concept of leftovers.

In a world of communal eating, no refrigeration, little concept of budgeting leading to days toward month end with no food, an affinity for extremely carb heavy meals resulting in very full bellies, many mouths to feed and plenty of dogs around to take care of whatever scraps weren’t consumed, the idea of leftovers was completely foreign.

The first day I had brought a pasta dish which should have been enough for Anne and a few people to eat for at least two meals. As we couldn’t go into her house there was no other real place to eat than right there amongst the mourners. It felt incredibly rude to eat in front of people, but I reasoned that there was also an element of rudeness of so many people just showing up and moving onto someone’s lawn because of their beliefs, which were different than hers, and she was supposed to be mourning. One might wonder if perhaps Anne hadn’t thought about some of the finer points of difference between her and her husband’s backgrounds prior to their marriage (and indeed I did wonder, a great deal in fact) but at this late stage in the game it was all a bit irrelevant. So my hopeful little leftovers were soon consumed by the village elder men, who also had the nerve to make faces as they ate (hey I never claimed to be Martha Freaking Stewart but cut a girl a break, it wasn’t nasty face worthy!).

Three more days of this cooking and schlepping food across the village in the rain followed. The chaos at Anne’s guest house continued.

Mourning Management became my new job description during this week. I was rarely at the clinic and when I was there most of my coworkers were asking why I had left Anne. Back at the ranch, most of villagers spent their days sitting around, (which came to be quite a problem as it seemed that we were in the Serongan Monsoon Season- the few days out of the year that it rained or was at least misty for four days straight.) blowing the circuitry with their ever increasing number of cell phone chargers being plugged into too many adaptors in one outlet (I don’t blame them-free electricity!) and demanding hot water for tea. The old men seemed to sit (or place their walking sticks- I was constantly tripping like it was my job) directly in any pathway, chatting loudly in various languages (chatting loudly sounds like yelling and arguing to the untrained ear, and made finding a place to have a delicate phone conversation informing someone of a friend or family member’s death additionally challenging) while Anne and I and various other “Westerners” struggled to make lists of people who had called, who needed to be called back, details about tents and planes and transport and food and arrangements. Eventually, as is custom, Anne had to purchase a couple cows and goats to be slaughtered and get many bags of various starches brought over from her store to be prepared in an improvised kitchen of huge cauldrons over open fires which sprung up under corrugated iron roofs tied between trees and poles which appeared out of nowhere. The place was beginning to look like a refugee camp.

Eventually (FINALLY!) we laid Willy to rest. The funeral ended up being a big production of political grandstanding, advertising plugs for the funeral home, and eulogies galore. My personal send off ended up being that I threw together an impromptu choir to sing Amazing Grace (God bless the amazing harmonizing abilities of the Batswana. I was able to get the words for 4 verses –several via text message thanks to a certain missionary kid- I owe ya a beer, buddy- and main melody and they immediately harmonized with it, learning it in the span of an afternoon.) which is a bit more recognizable for the “Westerners” in the crowd than the Setswana hymns, which are pretty impossible to follow. I cut out during hour 3, as I reasoned that I had properly said my goodbyes.

The whole experience for me was a huge lesson in the pervasiveness of culture, and reiterated for me exactly how deep my own culture runs through my veins. It is in times of what would universally be considered trial that we most readily fall back into our own norms and values, and in which we become most quick to be irritated with and judge the beliefs of others. It’s the rituals and standards and expectations which we hold sacred that, when challenged, bring us most quickly to defend our own as right regarding issues that are so ingrained in us that we may have never questioned them before ourselves. These are the situations that may lead us to deem others as most wrong, strange, or in some way bankrupt when in reality they are just different, born out of the same sense of the respect for the sacred (although not observing it in the same ways) as our own. It has been one of my most valuable learning experiences in Seronga to date.

Let me be clear that I don’t mean to make complete light of the situation surrounding Willy’s death. I've observed that the Batswana tend to have what I would consider a more healthy viewpoint surrounding death, most specifically that it is indeed a natural part of the living process. Willy's passing is unfortunate, although he lived a long, productive life (he was 73) and did some positive things for the people of Seronga. I found the circumstances surrounding the whole process of the funeral rather than the death itself to be humorous, and as with most things in this village, if one does not laugh (at least a little) one may never stop crying.

So now, with the realization that I’ve wordily recounted the details of one funeral in a rural African village, and the contributing social and cultural factors that make it so interesting as a foreigner, as well as my own reactions in as many pages as I wrote my paper on Japanese policing techniques for my international criminology class which counted for 50% of my grade when I was schooling in London I shall sign off. With one of the longest run on sentences of my life. Cheers.

Willy Phillips, RIP
Died 28 January 2009, buried 1 February 2009

"Ke Teng"

In Setswana, a common question after the greeting of Dumella is “le kae”. The common response is “ke teng.” It means, quite literally “I’m here.” Now Setswana seems to be a bit of a rote learning process for me, in that the only things I’ve picked up have been repeated endlessly, or drilled into my brain through some crazy unknown force, or my feeble attempts at making jokes (o a fosa means, politely, “you’re lying”. I‘ve taken to using it to mean anything from “bullshit” to “no kidding,” and occasionally the proper translation of what I’m saying is “you, you’re lying.” It really throws people when I use it to describe someone else, and use it in the “you” form so it appears as though I’m saying “they, you’re lying”. What a mess.)

If I’m honest with myself (and via this blog, the entirety of the www exposed universe) it’s been a long time since I considered learning Setswana to be high on the priority list. I realized day one that I would never be fluent (when P asked during the first day of language training the difference between how to say light blue and light green, bless his heart, I knew it was quite nearly over for me) and although I’ve had some “come to Jesus” moments in which I got really fired up about learning it, I’m relatively ok with this inadequacy in myself (how’s that for personal growth and acceptance!). There are some exceptionally kind souls at the clinic who think they can burn the language into my head by speaking it nearly exclusively to me, which usually involves them speaking to me in Setswana, me translating what they’ve said to English, responding in English, and translating my response into broken Setswinglish. Out loud. I now understand why people are late for meetings here. Perhaps they are all teaching some idiot American Setswana. Oh, the patience they have! (which I subsequently doubt, like Setswana, that I will ever really learn).

But to depart from this language lesson (yeah, you’re welcome) the point of what I’m trying to say is that while I say the words that mean “I’m here” nearly a thousand times a day, they generally mean nothing. (And now where is she going?)

I’m here. I’ve finally come to accept it. I think the shock has worn nearly completely off into at least a mild bemusement. Things in general are less shocking, frightening, annoying, and tough to deal with. I laugh more. Yes- it’s occasionally still to avoid crying but it’s laughing nonetheless. Although Seronga and I are still engaged in what seems to be our never-ending battle of wills, it’s much friendlier, with me smiling out at the village and grinning “ha, you got me this time! Score one team you” when I am surprised by something I thought I knew. And I find myself pumping my fist much more gracefully and doing less end zone prancing on the days when I win. I find myself longing to get back to this place when I’m away for a while, and finally understand what Kagiso and Warona (the two PCV’s that served in Seronga before me) mean when they say they miss this place. Somewhere between lizards and losing sleep in the heat, this place became my home. And I love her…

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a lucky woman. Your thoughts, calls, prayers and well wishes (from all over the globe! How cool!) have meant the world to me in a tough time. I am happy to report that my body has adjusted favorably to the PEP, and that I only have 1.5 weeks left. Then a few tests over the course of the next few months and I will likely be awarded a clean bill of health. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

An Unintentional Rehab... An Unexpected Sentence... Where do I go from here?

28 days. I will be on Combivir for 28 days. For the length of a first timer’s stay in rehab, the length of time of an average menstrual cycle, I will be on this drug. Post Exposure Prophylaxis. It makes me nauseous, tired, and I struggle to keep my bowels about me. And yet, because of the events of a split second of my life, I will not cease it’s ingestion for 28 days.

It’s like the beginning of a pregnancy, I suppose, but opposite. The fluids of two bodies were exchanged, and I hope and pray to all that is holy that there is only one line on that test I will take in 28 days, and that it’s negative. I’m nauseas as hell, and usually in the morning, and should not drink alcohol due to its effects on my liver. I must remember to take it at the same time every day morning and night, and plan my day’s activities around my water intake and nearness of bathroom facilities. All this fun and I didn’t even get to have sex.

I will live through a month of uncertainty, in some ways better than the other uncertainties in my life here, as it has an end date. This makes it a bit more bearable, but still, the not knowing. Despite all the facts and figures being thrown at me, all the information available, and my dear friend in the States spending an hour on the phone with the CDC, the statistics of less than 1% chance doesn’t reassure me completely, as there are more than a few variables in my particular situation. I have nothing tangible to do but hope. The odds are good but not completely 100% and so there still remains an element of uncertainty. And nothing left to do but hope and pray against everything I know that after this month of not knowing I will remain HIV negative.



How did this happen? Quite simply, quickly, ordinarily as most moments do, even those which have the potential to change your life.



I was at the clinic. It was Friday, nearing lunch time, and one of the nurses was trying to finish up with the last patients that were in the waiting room prior to lunch. It was a mother and her child; they had traveled to the clinic from Gunitsoga, about a thirty minute drive down the horrible dirt road out of Seronga, towards Gudikwa. It would be difficult to catch a lift out that way regardless, but I shuddered to think of the mother and baby trying to hike in the midday heat. If they didn’t get finished before the lunch break (the only thing that ever happens promptly on time in Botswana) they would have to wait and leave after 2. In the interest of everyone involved but myself, in order to help everyone get where they were going in a timely manner, I agreed to perform the small task that would change my life.

The mother needed a consultation and the baby needed a vaccination. As our injection area at the clinic is incredibly cramped and small, there is no room for a proper table on which to sit a baby who is getting a shot. Usually the mother just holds their child, while the nurse gives the child the injection in their upper thigh. As the mother was in the consultation room, I agreed to hold the baby for the procedure.

I propped the baby on my lap, speaking in my strange language to the back of his little 4 month old head, murmuring something about how in just one quick second he was not going to be very happy, but not to worry as it would only last a moment. The nurse swabbed the area and prepared the syringe. He pressed the needle into the baby’s thigh. The baby predictably cried and squirmed. The nurse removed the needle and went to wipe away the tiny bit of fluid that seeped out of the baby’s thigh.

And accidentally plunged the needle into my own thigh.

He recoiled immediately.

I looked up at him in surprise, unwilling to completely believe what had just happened, but unable to deny it as a droplet of my own blood appeared on my skirt.

I look down at the crying child in my arms, the tiny possible carrier of such a deadly disease. I stammer, “What is the baby’s, is the baby, the mother,” I want to hand the child off to someone, to get away from it, and immediately feel guilty, judgmental, but my fear quickly overrules these emotions. The nurse, just as shocked as I am, quickly says “It’s ok, this baby is negative.” I look at the baby, fat, and healthy looking, it seems right that this is true. “The mother? The DBS? (Dried blood spot.- the test in which blood is taken from a baby’s heel and blotted onto a paper, sent to a laboratory in Gabs, and analyzed and returned to the clinic via the mail. It is the way to determine the HIV status of a baby.) Where is the baby’s DBS?” The baby is still in my arms and squirms and cries and I want to be away from him, far, away. I am nearing panic and am trying to remain calm so as not to drop this child, this innocent child, and trying to remind myself that he is just that, and innocent child.

The next few minutes pass in a blur, phoning the PCMO, panicking, trying not to panic, rationalizing. I go into the defensive mode of denial for a while, and eat lunch. I walk through the blazing heat to try to make a copy of the baby’s DBS report to fax to the PCMO, as I am thinking this is essential information for her to have, and of course no fax or copy machines in Seronga are working and I am pissed off.


I try not to think "Why me" because why not me? I'm human, no different from anyone else, just as susceptible to this disease as the next person. But I think it anyways. And I'm slightly mortified by my previous and lasting sense of invincibilty. I'm indignant.


I wish for the strength to bear this uncertainty alone, willing myself to remain calm and not to burden anyone else with this worry but I lack that particular strength. It seems unfair to bring anyone that cannot feasibly do anything into this surreal terror but as is her tendency, no matter where I am on Earth it seems my mother can sense my turmoil as only a mother can and chose that exact moment to text me. I ask her to call. She does and I try to downplay the situation, trying my damndest to convince myself and her that this is no big deal and all will be fine. I speak sharply and try to speak factually, playing up the things in my favor and downplaying the ones that suggest the true risk. I hear the tears in her voice and I demand that she not worry herself with this, that I will be fine.


She asks me if I’m scared.

I blink back tears.... And I lie to my mother.

“No,” I snap, only realizing as I say it how frightened I really am.

I chase away these fears and thoughts by conjuring up the blameless denial that has gotten me this far in Africa. “This is not happening to me, I will not allow it,” just as sternly as any parent admonishes their child.

And in response, a small, small voice inside me, one that I haven’t heard for quite some time wonders, “Maybe Africa just doesn’t want me here anymore.”


As long as I’ve contemplated coming to Africa, and joining the Peace Corps, there has been many, many times in which the sheer force of my will has prevented me from even entertaining the possibility of leaving. When people have asked me what I want to accomplish with my two years in the Botswana, they are often uncomfortable at the forcefulness with which I pronounce that my accomplishment will be to stay the whole time. I’m generally quite venomous when people gently remind me that it’s ok if I want to come home. It’s telling that it took another event completely outside of me to push the question into my mind- maybe more than whether I want to stay in Africa, I need to question the other side of the equation, whether Africa wants me here. Through the thefts, the sickness, the difficulty, the adjustments, the homesickness, the disappointments, and the relationship that has crumbled at least partially due to my decision to come here, I have rarely, if ever, considered if I should leave. As anyone who has ever been in a relationship with me can attest, I never did know when to give in, or how to quit while I was ahead.

In my darkest moments here, I’ve trusted that the stuff that has been happening has all been for a reason, to teach me something, with the really hard things maybe a lesson I’m not yet ready to understand the meaning of. I swallow the lump in my throat and rack my mind for the bright side, something to make this fear and uncertainty productive. All I’ve found at this juncture is that I now know intimately the feeling of anyone coming in to be tested and having any doubts about what will be revealed to them.

Today it’s a week since the moment that upset the balance of my life. Other than remembering to take my medication, I’ve found I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I can usually forget about the dark cloud looming over my future, and ignore the flattened plum-like bruise on the back of my right hand that indicates where they took my blood for the first round of liver function tests. I decline the wine at dinner and go to bed early. I reason that this is just like a completely irrational pregnancy scare and that in a month, and three months, and six months the tests I take will turn out just the way they always have, negative. Tomorrow I will return to my life in Seronga, where I left in a hurry one week earlier. I will continue my life as normally as possible. I will try to make it through the remaining three weeks of my sentence; I will try to adjust to the slightly off-ness of my new normal.


I will hope that by the sheer force of my will, I will be fine. I will repeat it like a mantra whenever I need to white knuckle way through this, even if my fingernails pierce the skin of my palms. I will breathe deeply and I will continue on in the only direction I know how to go, which is foward...

These are the Facts...

I am behind on my writing. I want to just put a note up there for those who may have heard through other means...

Last Friday I was stuck by a needle that had just given a vaccine to an HIV neg baby.Unfortunately baby momma was HIV pos. This is both good and bad as it means that all the PMTCT measures were taken, however it also means that I had to go on PEP (Post Exposure Prophylaxis) a medication to prevent the transmission of HIV after a possible exposure. The Peace Corps responded quickly and well, and got me down to Gabs in a record 1 day (2 flights) and I was given the medical attention that I needed. I'm still processing the whole situation myself, and I've been given varying statistics as to the possibility of transmission, but with PEP I'm told there is a less than 1% chance of acquiring HIV. I'm very hopeful. The medication makes me very nausious and tired. I will be on it for 28 days. I take it every 12 hours and try to set an alarm to wake up really early so that I can go back and sleep through the nausea. I'm writing a blog about the emotional side of it, so more details are to follow. I'm not angry with the nurse or anyone involved, as these things just happen.
For those of you so inclined please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
I'll be fine.
Jen

The Condom Fairy...

They generally accept the condoms I offer them in the waiting area of the clinic, wrapped in packets of 12 (no baker’s dozen here.. despite being used to prevent not only STI’s but also to avoid a bun in the oven) in the news of the past weeks (it takes a while for printed news to arrive in Seronga). It’s mostly women at the clinic, occasionally for themselves but mostly for their children of which it’s common to see one in the belly, one on the back and one at their heel.

Some reach out and grab one or two packets from the boxful I carry, eager to get their hands on the thing that may stave off the virus that is slowly killing their village, their country, their continent. Some grab them as a statement to others, much in the vein of “setting a good example”, or to take advantage of something, anything being given to them by a white person. Others giggle bashfully, reluctant to admit that they may be having sex despite the bulge in their middle. Some are hesitant to accept them, not immediately understanding my strange accent exclaiming “dikondom” (the Setswana plural for condom) in a language that still may not even be their own. Some defer, as they have a small baby in their arms and by traditional custom are not supposed to be having intercourse until their child is of a certain age. I offer them some to “give to their friends”. They usually take them.

I have made tentative friends (although my white presence can never truly be trusted at face value; especially not as I hawk the implements for sexual activity- safe or otherwise) with the women who run (although not own) the businesses of this village. I have attempted to make a habit of taking up what Kagiso left off, encouraging the women to come to the clinic to get boxes to have available at their shops. They keep returning for more boxes, claiming at least to have run out.

My colleagues at the clinic seem to think my increased emphasis on condom distribution is ridiculous, standing by their belief that the people of the village are not actually using them. To this I innocently ask, “Well whatever are they using them for after they take them?” while readying my logic for an endless battle of reasoning and theorizing that may never get through to my coworkers. They seem to think that people are using them to decorate their houses or their health cards, or blow them up for their children as balloons, or worst of all, leaving them lying around. I demand to be shown these alleged atrocities, quite certain it’s not happening, and they laugh and shake their heads knowingly- silly Lorato…I respond, slightly irritated, that perhaps what they say is true, and is happening, but if of every 1,000 condoms distributed 1 box (100 condoms) are misused, that is still 900 that are potentially used correctly and are preventing HIV. My math does not impress them. Trying to convince a rural area with limited resources that some condoms may go to waste in order for some to be used is unfathomable.

My counterpart still doesn’t understand why condom distribution should be part of his job. I try again to lead him down the long path of explanations as to how it is relevant to his job as the PMTCT lay counselor. I establish that it is indeed his job to try to lower the number of HIV + women who become pregnant, and to encourage people to be tested and know their status. We get lost around the bend of trying to make his job of testing easier by helping to prevent people from having unprotected sex in the first place, with the main avenue of this being increased condom use.

I try to explain that at least when people have easier access to condoms, if they can grab them when they stop at the co-op or the bottle store as they are out doing other errands; at least they have less chance of forgetting them. Easy access means at least they’ll have them. What happens after that point is anyone’s guess.

Maybe a woman takes some condoms, holding them in a secret place, hoping for the courage to bring up the topic of safe sex to her husband, who may very well beat her for insinuating that one of them can’t be trusted or is sleeping around. Perhaps the woman with three children under five will wearily say “enough” and demand her husband use them so as to avoid yet another pregnancy. And perhaps that husband will leave her, easy enough to do in the land of lebolla and common law marriages and small houses, to sleep with someone more willing to have sex without one of those “wrappers”. Maybe the woman who is HIV+ will mention the idea of using a condom to the man who is paying her for sex, but doesn’t really press the issue, as he will pay more for sex without one. Perhaps a man knows that his small house is HIV+ and is attempting to protect his wife, but is unable to admit to her that he’s been with someone else and cannot bring up the topic of condom use. Maybe having condoms in hand could change the fate of these people, perhaps they’ll use them to protect themselves and live happily HIV free ever after.

I’ll never know which of these scenarios plays out, if all of them or none at all actually occur. They are all equally likely. I’m increasingly realizing the futility of changing the outlook of the entire village on sexual health, but I know that one of the keys to changing behavior is having the means to make a change. I have a hard time trying to press the Abstain, and Be Faithful elements of the ABC trinity of HIV prevention- to convince them of the virtues of monogamy when I know of no one whom has successfully lived the tenants of this theory. It’s a hard pill to swallow, much less distribute in this small rural village, I a culture that doesn’t necessarily seem up for it. Which battles am I choosing here? What are my best chances to make a difference?I choose to be the condom fairy, and hope that like all things magical in the mind of a child, it works.

Botswana Wedding!!!

I recently crashed my first Motswana wedding here in the village. I had secured my invite (or really just the information that the event was happening, which I parleyed into an invite -from the sister of the bride- it's considered rude to not invite the entire village to a wedding celebration in this culture, but I still feel like I sort of crashed it) the way I do most things in this village, and really the way I did many things in the states, by wandering into the room (or yard in this case) and smiling in such a way that I hope no one wants to tell me to leave. The Bride’s sister had told me the festivities would be starting at 9 am and I was still early for the party when I smartly arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon.

I followed the sound of blaring music and saw all the children huddled as they do around the opening to the reed fence that comprised the yard. Once the adults inside noticed me they invited (or rather commanded) me to enter, and ordered a small child to find me a chair. As many of the older men and all the women were seated on the ground, I knew I had probably unseated someone important with my arrival. I kept on the stupid winsome grin so through the language barrier they knew I came in peace, and with openness, ready to do what they were doing, whatever they indicated was appropriate, that I was here to respectfully learn about and participate in their culture and this wedding. Can a smile say all that?

I've come to realize that no matter what I do or how much Setswana I learn, I will never completely be treated as an average member of this community. I will never completely blend in and will always be treated as an “honored” guest where ever I go. I will always be given a chair while women that are older or should demand more respect are seated on the floor or in the dirt. I will always be introduced and thanked as a guest of honor. They will repeatedly ask if I eat goat, the portions will always be embarrassingly large as a child looks hungrily on at my feet. I’m “special” here, for better or for worse. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a bit hard to accept when you feel a bit undeserving of all the fuss.

I would imagine that this is one of the things that make it difficult to go back home, to being "normal" and "average" again. These social niceties and signs of public respect are nice, if sometimes unnecessary. I go back and forth in my demeanor. Sometimes I want to be seen as a consultant who can help them come up with new ideas for helping things run more smoothly. I often crave the respect I feel I should be given for having four years of college, and having travel experience, and living in other cultures. I have a tough time deciding if I want to be seen as someone who’s the same as them, no expert, no one special, my white skin and American citizenship don’t mean anything significant. At the end of the day they still do and always will.

So the wedding. The bride and groom were dressed in what appeared to be their finest apparel, long dressy everything despite the fact that they were heavily perspiring in the heat. Their wedding party included all the children I had seen the day before dancing at the reed hut in town. They were now decked completely out with pink dresses (burgundy shirts and black pants for the boys), new hair, and occasional earrings or necklaces. The bride and groom walked out of the reed hut and everyone from the village was singing loudly, almost to the point of shouting, and if I hadn’t known it was a wedding celebration I would have been frightened. The wedding party and nearly everyone who wasn’t cooking piled into the back of a few trucks, which became loaded down to the point the axels it appeared the axels might break. The sing/shouting continued down the road. I was told they were going to take pictures of the wedding party down by the river. A note about photographs in Botswana. Unless specifically instructed to, people don’t smile for photographs. Even wedding photos. Every picture you see people are staring blankly into the camera or nearly glaring. This is why I try to take candid shots.

The wedding party was gone for nearly an hour, and everyone still back in the yard was milling around waiting or cooking. Just outside the reed fence where we had been sitting earlier someone had set up a canvas shelter with a few tables and chairs under it, and then a head table for the bride and groom, complete with upholstered living room chairs set like thrones. The thrones sat behind a table filled with several plastic flower arrangements that light up and change colors, as well as those plastic things that vaguely resemble fireworks operating on the same principle as the flowers. Around the rest of the area were traditional reed decorations and baskets here and there. Someone turned on the music and that continued to bump. One old woman danced feverishly by herself, seeming to be lost in the music, oblivious to the small children mocking her. I stopped to wonder if I would still be that cool when I am her age. I hope so. Finally the bride and groom returned, everyone yelling and jumping off the back of the dangerously overloaded trucks. The bride and groom walked unsmiling down the aisle, followed by their wedding party, who proceeded to dance for the next hour straight, performing the routines I had seen them doing the day before. The women of the village who are married wore brightly colored shawls to indicate this, the men had nothing in particular to denote their marital status. After the dancing the men gave speeches, and the dinner was served. As usual there was much pointing and whispering at me at this juncture amongst the women who were serving the food, undoubtedly wondering if I “et goat.” I smiled and waited patiently for the one who spoke the best English to approach me and ask (which is unfortunate because my taste for goat is something I can actually articulate in Setswana). I accepted the plate offered to me and declined the jar of mayonnaise and bottle of ketch up that came next (these are considered sauces to be used on rice, palache, or maze meal, they use these condiments as a sort of gravies.) As it was now dark and nearly 8PM I knew I had to make my way home, and paid some of the village children to lead me there.

In which she comes to an understanding with herself…

In which she comes to an understanding with herself…

The other night I sat on my clean sheets, a feat which in itself took an entire morning worth of effort after I realized that the line in my yard was only big enough to hold one, and had to improvise another line to dry the bottom sheet. I had cleaned the hut I live in, incense was burning. I had had a really nice dinner with friends, beef with fresh ginger and garlic on Simon’s veranda watching the sunset over the delta. I had heated up an extra kettle full of water and had a lengthy bucket bath (which in itself is a bit of an oxymoron) and used my nice lotions on my feet and hands. I was now relaxing in my home in my bed with a cup of tea and a book.

I received a call from the states; my friend spoke about all that is happening in Minneapolis, and asked if I missed life there. I immediately said yes, but as I said it, I was thinking about whether I would have rather been doing those things in Minneapolis today or the things I had done here in Seronga? I was suddenly aware I might be doing nearly the same activities in Minneapolis if I were there. I might be doing similar activities, but the exact experience I had today is only available here. I realized I wouldn’t trade this day. I missed those things about Minneapolis, but the feeling lacked a certain longing that has been a hallmark of my homesickness, and my inability to completely adjust and accept life here. Today I felt content. It surprised me when I recognized this.
I have finally arrived home in this place. The good has snuck up on me, as only good can, and instead of fighting and actively struggling against all the craziness and frustration of this place, I have surrendered to the simplicity life here has to offer. I am existing comfortably. I realized I am beginning to enjoy my own company, and being the sole occupier of the space I’ve been allotted. This is the first time I’ve truly lived alone. It’s always been a strange and somewhat frightening concept to me, but I find now that I look forward to the end of the day. I’ll hope for water and I’ll light candles in my bathroom by which to bucket bathe and decide which of my t-shirts smells the least, and crawl into my bed with my headlamp and a book.
A friend back home had given my contact info to a woman who is about to join the Peace Corps, leaving in a little less than a month. She had a few questions for me, and as I thought back on the last nearly four months I was completely blown away by how far I’ve come. I remembered the nervousness, excitement and the anxiety, and the constant up and down of preparing to leave one life for another completely. I considered the series of moments when I knowingly jumped into the great abyss of the unknown. I reflected on the advice I’d received, and the advice I would give, the places I’ve triumphed and the few I would have done differently. I breathed in, I breathed out. I was reminded again that I am breathing, each day, despite the hours that go by that feel like I’ve been holding my breath, or I can’t find the air through the sobs of frustration or anger or fear.
I’ve recently corresponded with a few people who have had their Peace Corps service interrupted or terminated. I’m actively worried about the safety of another close friend serving right now. In each case it has been something major that has happened to interrupt this experience for these people, major life changing or country of service changing events, the kind that make you re-evaluate things.
Although their personal well being in relation to themselves is foremost in my mind, it’s followed immediately by, “Oh wow, how hard would it be to have to leave a Peace Corps experience? What would I do if I had to leave here now for any reason?”
The thought, while not terrifying, rings more true perhaps as devastating. I think I’m learning to have less fear about what each day can bring in general, but the thought of leaving is pretty upsetting, or at least unsettling. I’m finding that not only would I stay here willingly; I would be upset if I had to leave. When did this change? When did these little rays of sunshine begin to poke their heads into what I’ve come to consider my funny little nightmare?
We chatted a while, and my friend asked me if I would have done anything differently, knowing all that I know now. Would I do it all again? I answered, without hesitation, yes.

There's a child in Africa...And this is her Playground....More lessons from the Children of Seronga

I’m beginning to appreciate the flip side of being the local freakshow, the monstrosity that makes children from way out in the rural areas who come into the clinic cry (I definitely give new meaning to the term “stranger danger”… Can you imagine if you’ve never seen a white person before as a three year old? And then you catch a glimpse of me at the clinic? Between the shots and the other scary things happening at that joint it will be a miracle if the kids ever go there as adults).
Yes, it means that I can never walk down the road anonymously, and that I must always be ready and willing to stop and greet people and smile, regardless if I’m having a bad day, trying to go for a run, scalding myself with hot tea as I hurry along, late for work (some things never change….) ect. However, there are perks to being the local celebrity, which come in the form of valuable lessons from the children of Seronga.
It’s funny, there are so many children here that I often hear them before I see them, I have to scan the horizon to find who is yelling at me or running full speed at me from any given direction. I recently have had children scream (in English) from places unseen that I am beautiful (thus giving new meaning to the phrase “kids say the darndest things,” especially in languages other than their native tongue…). I guess this is what happens in the absence of television. One of the few white people in town becomes the main attraction.
The volunteer before me brilliantly taught many of the village children to blow kisses, and many of them say “bye bye” which they greet me with regardless if I’m coming or going. Children generally have the most patience in teaching a person Setswana, they’ll repeat the same thing patiently for hours on end, and generally will speak English as well if they know it (unlike the adults, who will often pretend they don’t speak it, or truly don’t, and speak something else, but will often make their best attempts at communicating in English when they’re drunk…) Many of the ones along my route to work or on the paths I take through the village have been conditioned to call me Lorato (or at least know to after I don’t respond to the first 50 times they yell Lekgowa). I’m generally not a “kid person” but by golly these kids are melting my heart. I may even want some of my own some day…

I was sitting at one of the nurse’s homes over lunch (ha ha! They’ve taken pity on me and begun feeding me as any other helpless American wretch- lay off, I bring the food, she just cooks it like any good African Momma! What can I say, Simon’s been gone and thus my meals have been scarce. I cooked for myself the other day and thought I was going to die. Life is a lot different without a microwave, you try it!) the other day when I noticed some children playing, walking and climbing along one of the twisted fallen trees I’ve come to regard as the sculptures of Seronga. They’re beautiful, like huge chunks of driftwood in some ways, worn smooth by the sands and the wind. These trees are their jungle gyms, playgrounds of nature more pleasing to the eye than the toxic plastic monstrosities we have in the States.
I had a little photo session with the 2 boys that were there (along with the 10 children that joined them once I got out my camera.) I can never take a candid picture of anyone as they are always watching me, staring before I even notice they are there doing something I want to take a picture of, generally. The bonus of this is that I always have plenty of willing models. (I’ll try to add the pictures soon, but haven’t been having much luck lately).These playground trees are all over the village, twisted and reaching for the sky in ways I would like to encourage her residents to do. It’s a bit confusing as why no one has used them for firewood or lumber, but then resourcefulness is not a common trait here. However, the children prove time and time again that creativity is not a quality that is lacking in Seronga.
I was struck by it again the other day when I was walking along and a half dozen children, probably ranging between 4 and 10 years old (it’s hard to tell age on this side as people are even smaller than they tend to be in other villages because there’s not much food on this side of the delta. But that’s another blog) were scampering behind me. They were saying something I couldn’t understand, and bickering back and forth a bit, but I could tell the level of excitement was growing. I stopped and turned around.
I found 6 children, gazing up at me through broken fragments of beer bottle. Why is this charming? Because the beer bottle was brown, and as they looked at me through it, I was now brown like them.

Concrete Envy?

The more Peace Corps homes I visit, the more find myself comparing the pluses and minuses of Seronga and my little roundevel to any place and accommodation I see. Many of my fellow Americans have government housing; spacious, two bedroom wonders with an actual kitchen and a sitting/dining room. I’ve also seen some NGO’s that are in similar conditions and square footage as me.
The one feature I’m constantly in awe of, without fail? The large concrete patios and verandas. Anything that puts more space and distance between one’s home and the sand that finds it’s way into one’s home (and in my case-bed???) is highly desirable, and I find myself jealous of those with much concrete. Who knew! The Peace Corps causes me to continuously surprise myself.

Viva Botswana

Viva Botswana!
Hello all. I have arrived. A little update.

Temp: Heat, mostly mild, a little cold. My tan is increasing slowly. We are heading into winter here and it will only get worse. Luckily, Jo and I learned about “camping” while we were in Venice, so if it takes every item of clothing I have, I will prevail. I do not have enough warm clothes if you are quite desperate to send me a care package, think polar fleece. I am a size medium or large until I shed my MN winter layer or get a parasite.
Whichever comes first.

Most commonly worn pair of shoes: the electric blue crocs. I am a walking fashion plate.

Impressions: Immediate (glassy haze of confusion at the airport, which I expected and just hung out through and followed the chaos, as I listened to the others’ stories of my impressive sleep and followed along with the group doing yoga)- People will do anything for you to give them American dollars, so don’t worry P-funk, they’ll be plenty of helpers for you throughout the whole country. The next morning: of course we had too much baggage and had to wait for an hour for another small bus and I spent the time reveling in the verging on brisk air. The main way I knew I was in Africa- red soil. I had more flowery descriptions of the colors, but the paper is somewhere else. More on that later.

Country: We stayed in South Africa last night in a very posh hotel where I used the workout facilities (what what!!!), and now we are in a compound type hotel (read gates and such) in Gaborone, the capital City in Botswana. We are on lockdown because it’s not safe for our naïve asses to wander around without being robbed and abused and eaten by lions. We walked across the border and customs in S. Africa earlier today. We have been briefed by some current PCV’s and I am currently only losing my shit about learning the language. We’ll see how this goes. I’ve been pretty calm through the whole thing, which I suspect is shock, the jet lag hasn’t been the worst I’ve ever felt, as I suspected. This however, could be due to the amount of sleep I got on the flight-see flight.


Flight: We got on the plane mostly on time, and my new BFF forever Brent and I had a few glasses of red wine and then he revved up the saddest songs he could think of on the ipod and we sang duets until the Ambien kicked in. I then impressed the entire group by sleeping through the next 11 hours as we landed and refueled in Senegal, I ate a meal (which I vaguely remembered after some prompting- it was waffles) people repositioned me several times, and of course took my picture. …. Whatever. I am a champ.

People: People in the group seem pretty cool, and I think I fall right in the middle of neurosis and neurotic on each end of the spectrum. It’s inspiring to be with a bunch of people with likewise attitudes about things. Most of the people are in (or trying to stay in, more likely) relationships. Good mix of backgrounds and ages, ect.
Thoughts on shaving my head: as far as I’m concerned, still a go. A woman in our group already has hers done, and the estimated date is after the swearing in. I think I’d do it sooner, but I’m not completely ready, and I don’t want to do it during my home stay, because I’ve heard the host family might be offended, and or sad if I get rid of all my hair while I’m with them.

Jet lag: seems to be ok. We’ll see in the morning.

Things I’ve learned: not to use the internet at the same time as everyone else. Gets incredibly slow…and Takes nearly ten minutes just to get connected…
I have hesitated to journal and capture everything in pictures as this is my new home and not a place I am just visiting. I don't know if this will serve me well, but it's my instinct and I shall go with it.
Love you!
Jen

I don't deserve an Oscar....

I know this may come to you as shocking – strictly out of left field – especially for those of you familiar with my "healthy" sense of drama — but I do not deserve an Oscar. Although I would love to walk the red carpet in a fancy dress and expensive jewels (the Peace Corps may not break me of everything…) and although the kitchen sink of Hollywood gossip in my brain occasionally overflows onto unsuspecting bystanders- (hey am I not always the one you ask about "that one guy" in that movie that was nominated back in '04… and I can figure out who he is...…) not to mention my impeccable acting skillz... no, I don't deserve an Oscar.
Since we're discussing awards I don't deserve, (or rather I'm typing about and you're reading…) let's expand out the list…I also don't deserve a Tony, a Grammy, an Emmy, I'm not the "Best in Show" or most improved and I don't even deserve a little trophy with a soccer ball guy on the top… and I last I checked I wasn't up for a Nobel Peace Prize, (or any of the other Nobels for that matter …). "What are these newly developed (or more recently uncovered) delusions of grandeur about?" Ok I'll get to the point. I am joining the Peace Corps. I will be living abroad for two years on the salary of a local person. People live like this every day. I am not solving the HIV/AIDS crisis. I never owned a McMansion and thus am not giving one up. I don't even drive a nice car. When it runs. I am not sacrificing on a level of Mother Teresa. I say these things to give some perspective. When I speak about the Peace Corps, and when I answer the same questions over and over - (which I generally don't mind, much to my surprise) the most common reactions I get are shock, distaste, surprise, incredulity, disbelief, excitement, or some expression of "I wish I could do something like that, or I could never do something like that, or wow, you're so brave." Sure there's some element of truth to these statements; but I think these reactions tend to stem from a place in people where they think that they are not capable of "great things". You ARE. And, you CAN make a difference. You don't have to go live in a mud hut in Africa to make an impact, but just be aware and be willing to explore opportunities. Call your grandma. Hug your sister. Have a little more patience as you listen to that client/manager/customer service rep complain/berate/shirk responsibility. Take a deep breath and continue forward.
I want to be thought of as a woman taking risk in life to follow her dreams and touch some lives along with way. It is a very simple plan, and one that I would hope would be the more lasting impression on people than all the others of what a "sacrifice" I'm making or how challenging my life will be. It's true, my life will involve some level of sacrifice and hardship, on some levels I don't even know yet, but my driving force right now has a lot to do with I am still the same woman you knew, and will continue to know, on whatever levels we can reach out to each other over the time that I am gone.
So, delusions of grandeur aside, I'm going to the Peace Corps, folks. I'm going to Africa. And I'm going for 2.25 years. Aside from whatever this may mean to you, it means a lot of things to me. One of them is that I am scared. yup I have fears. I am nervous about a lot of things and spend a great deal of time being anxious. I might express these feelings to you. If I do it is because I trust you, believe you'll have helpful feedback, or sometimes just because you are there and I happen to know your name (and in all reality sometimes this is not even the case!) If (and really-when) this happens, please do not let the first thing out of your mouth in response be "well... you know you don’t HAVE to go." I realize this. I truly, truly do. I know my options, I know the choices, I signed the paperwork. I know I can back out until the minute I get on the plane, and I can get a plane out of there at any time. This is reality and I know the options, and in an attempt to put it most kindly, I know them better than you, and have already spent a great deal of time considering them. Please don't go for the easy default "solution" with me. Let me express my fears just as you've allowed me to express my hopes, my dreams and try to be with the experience as you've shared in my joy and excitement. Help me investigate these fears, and see them through and decide if they might be the big monster under the bed known as "fear itself.."
I know you're scared for me, and I am too. And I appreciate this from you, as I know it means you love and care for me. It's just that right now the fears are quite real for me, founded in reality or not. But so is the excitement, the joy, and the overarching feeling of this being my path, and something I need to do even if it scares me. Jack said to me once that good decisions do not come from excitement and good feelings alone, and doubts are part of making sound decisions. This idea has been on repeat in my head for some months. It has brought me much comfort as I've settled in to this emotional rollercoaster ride. Each day brings all of these emotions (and more) in a dizzying musical rendition of the life I've chosen. Enough blog inspired soap boxing from me. I wouldn't have it any other way.