When Seronga Gives You Lemons

A story of my eternal African pessimistic optimism.

I recently returned to Seronga from training and holiday and have basically been away from my little village for somewhere near a month. Coming back has never been easy for me, and it’s the end of the Botswana winter, so despite the “lake effect” temperature regulation of the world’s largest inland delta outside my door, it still damn cold. People are sick with colds and flu and the clinic is pretty busy.

Not only has the clinic staff been busy but recently it seems as though I, too have been spending more time at the clinic than I particularly care to. Many of my projects at this point take place more in the community with various villagers and other organizations in Seronga. Perhaps the clinic is trying to tell me they miss me. Or perhaps they just realize I’m basically free labor and have decided to take more advantage of my skills. Either way it seems I’ve been put in charge of the World Breast Feeding week activities at the clinic.

As always I dislike being in charge of anything here, which is of course ironic given my tendency to love to control and be in charge of things in my former life. Here it is so clear to me that if I do things for people it ends up disempowering them more than helping. Teaching is another hurdle to overcome with cultural differences making it a bit difficult for me to try to teach those who may be older than me and unwilling to learn or admit they don’t know how to do something. I usually try to find a way to help people do things for themselves in such a way that they don’t have to lose any face.

The good news in all this is that in some ways I’m improving my listening skills. Sort of. I’m getting to a point where I can listen on average about ten seconds longer than I used to be able to before butting in with commentary, opinions and my personal favorite, solutions to whatever statements the speaker has yet to even make. It seems that my headstrong idealism rears its ugly stubborn head on occasion with less alarming frequency but what is likely increased intensity. I try and tackle it and keep quiet and smile politely like I know would be the better idea, but often fail. In attempting to keep myself in line I usually lose the battle quickly and end up pounding my fist on the nearest somewhat solid structure for emphasis while making an impassioned point attacking whichever injustice I’m observing (or imagining). I don’t blame the people here for thinking I’m crazy.

The aforementioned habits make me less than optimal for leading such campaigns which must be based in teamwork in order to be successful, but there is also my small personal issue rooted in the matter of the mixed messages about breast feeding being sent by the administration in this country. It’s one of those development things wherein the research and studies being done on (and to and in) this country to determine the best ways to prevent HIV takes forever to actually get disseminated. Botswana is one of the richest and more developed countries in Africa, yet we still suffer from a slowness in both movement supplies and information that is brain rattlingly frustrating.

Right now Harvard is working in partnership with hospitals in Gaborone performing studies about on the transmission of HIV through breast milk and the preliminary findings are that it may not be as big of a risk as previously thought. As Peace Corps volunteers we’ve been hearing about these trials for a year, although the information is not yet published. As various places in the country (read: rural and including Seronga) are often suffering from distribution problems with getting the formula where it needs to go, it seems a reasonable solution might be to encourage women who have a record of good adherence to ARV’s to breast feed.

Obviously the research isn’t complete and hasn’t been published (One of the frustrating things about being a Peace Corps Volunteer is that we have trainings wherein the best and the brightest are brought in to speak to us about the latest and greatest in the research and projects being launched to determine the best practices aimed at the reduction of transmission of HIV in Botswana. While I’m grateful to have such valuable information, it’s very, very difficult to attempt to convince any of my colleagues at the clinic to consider the possibilities. I’m not asking them to change anything, but even to consider our responsibility in not perpetuating misinformation is nearly impossible. It’s a very “written-rule/by-the-book” sort of culture, which can sometimes stand in the way of innovation, which I truly believe to be essential to this country slowing the spread of this virus. But I digress.) and I’m not about to suggest anyone do anything that might potentially put babies at risk of contracting HIV, but I feel we have a certain moral responsibility to honestly education women on their options, using the most up to date research we can give them in a land of no other resources through which a woman could do her own independent research to help her make a decision.

The official government sanctioned and distributed message is that HIV positive women are counseled on the advantages and disadvantages of breast feeding and are allowed to make the choice in the end for themselves. They are then in theory provided with formula with which to safely feed their babies should they choose. The reality I’ve found is that mothers are basically forced- through clinical coercion combined with public stigma- to formula feed. Again the importance of rule following as part of the culture prevents certain levels of critical questioning and open discussion, women just do as they’re told.

Formula feeding can be a risky endeavor when the supply of formula is often interrupted, the water and sanitation are difficult to maintain, and depending on the mother’s level of health, access to nutrition, adherence to ARV’s and other measures of PMTCT during pregnancy, breast feeding could be a way to at least help the baby along through its first few months when those vitamins and immunities are so essential. Just a few more pieces of this problematic puzzle.

So despite my general refusal to be in charge, and in addition to my incredibly extensive (read: ga gona siepe- which means there is nothing.) knowledge about anything related to breast feeding, I’m the boss. A bit reluctantly.

So after a full day (which is really a half day as per the culture of Botswana---man is it going to be hard to come back to the States after this) of World Breast Feeding Week planning activities [(I’m sure I’ll write more later, but all I’m saying right now is that when I’m in charge it means the babies are gonna race, two categories-runners and crawlers- to determine which baby is healthiest. I know there is almost no correlation but the people at the clinic seemed confused and intrigued when I suggested it, and so here we go. American culture exchange day!!!!) which is incidentally the first week in August for those of you who may be interested in commemorating] I was a little tired and frustrated and struggling to decide how I would spend the rest of my day.

It was a warm day, but windy, typical July weather which is the sort of cold warm confusion that I’ve come to think of as typically African winter. The sun shines with a lessened intensity and the wind is enough to keep you on your toes. The nights are extremely cold and yet the days get just hot enough in between the nights that one almost forgets the cold which has come before and will come behind each day. The dead of the Botswana winter is very much like a Minnesota fall or spring, so it feels very familiar in a confusing way to me, which is, when I think about it, how I’ve come to feel about Seronga.

As I’ve said, being that it is winter, it’s also cold and flu season in Seronga. One of the nurses, seeing that I had that bored look on my face which usually means I’m about to come up with an excuse to leave the clinic to go work on one of my other community projects, asked me to pack ascorbic acid (vitamin c).

The clinic is both the hospital and the pharmacy for the people of Seronga. The clinic is divided into several areas according to function. There’s an injection area, and area to dress wounds, a small maternity ward, and another room that would be like urgent care. In the consulting room one nurse consults the patients to determine what is wrong with them, and then in the dispensary the other nurse reads what is written on the patient’s health cards and dispenses the drugs that the first one recommends. The drugs come in in huge bulk containers like you would get at Sam’s club, which are then divided into small seed bags in common numbers of doses and labeled accordingly. The task of pill counting and packing is undertaken by anyone who happens to be around and not doing anything, and is mind numbingly boring, and most definitely not what I had in mind when I agreed to come to Africa to work with HIV, but something I often find myself asked to do.

I quickly packed a few hundred pills to show I was doing something the clinic staff considers to be “useful” while I plotted my escape. I decided to go next door to Okavango Community Trust to see what, if anything, was happening there.

A few weeks back I had stopped by the OCT office to try to send a fax and had promised one of the women I would come back again and try to help her feel more comfortable speaking English by chatting with her. I walked through the gate to find all of the staff at the Trust sitting in a circle in the yard. How they justify getting paid for this I will never know, but I try not to spend too much time around it because it makes me a little mad, as I know they are getting paid a decent salary to do just that, when that money could be used for so much more, or they could at least be doing something tangible to benefit the community. But how do you convince someone who is getting paid to do nothing that they should increase their workload to something, which then might potentially come with responsibility and dare I say actual stress of some sort?

I greeted everyone and sat down. I tried to make a little conversation and nobody was really interested in speaking English, which was what I explained I was here to do. The woman I had met a few weeks back was “tired” which seems to be a constant ailment in Seronga. “Tired” to me can generally be roughly translated to mean “bored”, which was what I was about to become in this crowd. For my hyperactive American brain this is something to be avoided at all costs, but I’ve found within Seronga this is often an only slightly negative state of being, and preferable to suffering through its alternative, which is being “too busy”.

So I quickly racked my brain for something to occupy and amuse me while not feeling such an incredible waste of time. I vaguely remembered that there was a lemon tree back by an abandoned house on the property (which is in and of itself a sad remnant of another community project which was sort of neglected and then basically destroyed by the very community it was put there to benefit, but that again is another story). I asked if perhaps there were any lemons growing right now. A small squabble broke out amongst the six of so people sitting in the circle about who was going to take me back to the lemon tree, or if they should just tell me there were no lemons (the little Setswana I can hear just comes in very handy sometimes.) I smiled and told them that I knew there were lemons and could someone please just take me back there?

My Setswana amused one of the old men, and he jumped up to take me, dragging along with him a reluctant younger woman. We walked back through the gates and past the abandoned house and toward the lemon tree. It was down a hill a ways, just short of the delta, so the wind that came over the hill was warmer in the sun. The smell of lemons wafted through on the breeze. I was briefly confused by the smell I always associated with summer coming at me in the dead of an African winter, but have come to know this constant slight sense of confusion to be normal.

I looked at it and was amazed at how many lemons were growing there, and quickly realized that this was a great resource that the community was just wasting. Not to mention a great source of cold preventing vitamin c. All my remaining shit attitude drifted away of the lemony breeze and I became excited at the potential I had uncovered to “build capacity” in my favorite sort of way, which was to help the community take better advantage of something already plentiful in their community. My eternal militant optimist busted forth from the darkness of my mind, and I became more and more excited to a point where I had eradicated flu (and probably HIV and TB) in Seronga in my little brain. Wishful thinking ;-).

I filled my bag with lemons and explained to the people in the circle that I would go home and make some foods with these lemons and come back the next day to have them taste them and teach them how to make some things with lemon, and by the way have you all ever tried lemons on fish? My enthusiasm was slightly catching, and the woman who had wanted to speak English was excited and I bounced off in a cloud of lemony scented pleasure and eager fervor.

I walked back through the village to my hut with a big Disney Princess smile, as opposed to what can occasionally be my Icabod Crane tendency towards shoving my nose quite antisocially and culturally insensitively into a book. I will not apologize for this habit as sometimes you do what you gotta do to get through the day as Seronga’s local celebrity (read: white person). For a long time there has been no such thing as anonymity for me in this village and sometimes I need to be mentally somewhere else to attempt to ignore this fact (I feel ya, Britney;-). The book reading used to occasionally become a really interesting habit that often caused me to risk my life when I would be reading something as I walked and nearly walked into one of the randomly placed grave sized holes that had been dug for the electricity poles. It was a close call more times than I care to admit. The things would pop up out of nowhere, completely unexpected when you consider how long anything usually takes here, these holes would appear quickly each day in different locations. Needless to say I made it through that little minefield with no major incidents. Just another little love tap from Seronga.

I got to my house and busied myself with sifting the tiny bugs out of the flour (a practice which disgusts and appalls me, and which I would avoid at nearly any cost except that the last five bags of flour I purchased already had them in it, and I cannot afford to keep throwing the shit out. I’m grossed out but am told that this is what most of the locals do-I guess the others just cook with them in there. I try not to think about it and keep repeating to myself, “When in Rome, when in Rome, when in Rome.”) to the beats of some new music that I had recently pirated from a friend (no shame, I’ve got no shame). I screwed up two batches of lemon bread nearly completely (Botswana has taught me to salvage, salvage in any ways possible) but was able to get something together to bring the people at OCT the next day.

I arrived bearing lemon bread pieces which in the States would have been sampled by a whole office but here in Botswana covered three and a half people (likely three but I begged one of the women to save a piece for the old man who had taken me back and climbed the tree to get the lemons down for me, but I very much doubt that happened. Whenever there is food present it is taken as custom that as much of whatever is there is supposed to be consumed immediately, I believe I’ve gone into the policy with leftovers before ie; there are none…ever. There is never any concern as to make sure there is enough for anyone else, and the idea of being rude by grabbing half of whatever is offered to you regardless of how many other people may be present is completely and totally foreign). I heard the Setswana words for “tastes good” while hearing the critiques of the item (too sweet) kindly stated for me in English, followed immediately by the inquiries as to why didn’t I bring more and when will I be bringing it again? “Thank you” is a statement I’ve come to not even dream might be heard.

I smiled through what were very close to gritted teeth and repeated my promise to teach whoever wanted to learn once they got hold of a bread pan and measuring cups (which can be purchased in the nearest town of Shakawe, and where a majority of the residents of Seronga go at least occasionally for some sort of supplies, or could even be borrowed from neighbors). Where there had been enthusiasm about the idea yesterday, today there was again the glazed over boredom and excuses as to why this baking project would be an impossible undertaking, why can’t I just make the bread again for them, I already know how to do it. I politely took my leave and went back to the lemon tree, this time collecting lemons to attempt to make lemonade for the staff at the clinic.

I bought some sugar at the co-op and mixed up several batches of lemonade for the staff at the clinic, touting it as “an American drink that we have in the summer,” while also babbling about the different uses of lemon and local honey (available care of our resident bee-keeper through the small store in town) in tea and as health improving “muti” (Setswana word for medicine, particularly “traditional” which in my culture would be “homeopathic” except here there doesn’t seem to be any requirement of any sort of evidence of these particular remedies working for what they are reported to heal, but then I suppose that is true of some things in the States as well.) with as much charm and enthusiasm as a “seen on T.V.” host of some late night infomercial. The response towards this effort was as enthusiastic as that reception at OCT, and I was again struck at how much I appreciate good old American polite dishonesty when it comes to my cooking slash drink making skills.

The whole episode reflects something I’ve found here, which is my seemingly never ending ability to cultivate hope and excitement, at least in myself, in this village that seems to so desperately lack both. I’ve often thought of myself as a pessimist, due to the fact that I can some up with 17 reasons your idea won’t work before you completely finish explaining it without blinking an eyelash. But here in Botswana it seems I’ve found new and formerly untapped wells of optimism, I often finding myself blatantly refusing that there are aspects of this or that idea or project that can’t work, and my problem solving skills have become frightening on occasion. I can “make a plan” to get things that might seem impossible on the surface accomplished or completed. It’s a quality I’ve come to admire in myself (but am, of course still very intimately in touch with my less endearing qualities-see above), and hope I can continue to harness it more effectively (and appropriately) when coupled with my newfound habit of patience (repeat to self: “will into reality, will into reality, will into reality”) which has come a long way in my time here.

We’ll see how it all goes after Breast Feeding Week ;-)

The Secret Life of Bees... Revealed!

One of my projects which has proven to provide me with the greatest amount of joy in Seronga has been my girl’s book club. The idea came when I was reading a copy of The Secret Life of Bees and thought about how much I would like to share it with girls here. I had had the idea in mind for a book club in which we would read The Diary of Anne Frank, but the copies were taking a little while to get here (but have now been delivered into my hot little hands thanks again Mrs. Payne and Rob!!!) so I decided to start with the three copies I had managed to snag that had been floating around in this country of the Secret Life Of Bees.

I got the blessing of the guidance and counseling advisor at the school and placed a notice up on the school bulletin board outlining my expectations. I attended a school assembly (which began at half six in the morning!!! Uhgh) to recruit girls to form the group. In the end I have always had more girls sign up than actually attend, but I’ve got about 5 who are consistent. We are midway through the book and with help from home I have been able to show them pictures of the iconic American events and products outlined in the book and have got a copy of the movie ready to watch at our end of the book celebration I’m planning.

The book club ends up being a hard sell to try to link in with what is supposed to be my main focus, HIV/AIDS, but I find that helping these girls read and discuss many of the topics raised in the book (in English no less!) has been really rewarding. The book has several relevant themes that cross cultures (racism, interracial/teenage dating, being an orphan, female empowerment and business ownership, ect) and it is very cool to be able to remind them that the book it set in 1964, which is two years before Botswana got its independence. It was the year that the Civil Rights Amendment was signed in the United States, giving black people the right to vote and now we have a black president. Race is still a pretty big issue in Botswana, and to be able to make such a powerful connection to a countries ability to change in such a short period is amazing.

I genuinely feel that as they practice reading and answering critical thinking questions, each girl comes out of her shell in a small way. They are very supportive of each other, helping each other along over difficult words, and are more willing to ask questions and share their opinions. As time goes on each girl is willing to read out loud for a longer period of time, and they’ve also become more comfortable when I ask them to act out a certain part to better envision how it plays out. Slowly but surely they are realizing that they have a forum from which to ask questions about their own culture as well as mine, and to discuss issues they find important. We recently read through a part in which the main character, a 14 year old white girl (which happens to be the age of most of the girls in the club) falls in love with a black boy. It was so cool to discuss love and dating with these girls, and to be able to help them think through aspects of dating within their culture that they may or may not agree with, and to discuss how to resist pressure from boys.

It has been a joy to try to bring the book alive for these girls who are so hungry for information and new experiences. Through some stroke of luck or serendipity, I found out that the councilor’s widow keeps bees. About a month ago I arranged for her to give the girls a short lesson and demonstration about how beekeeping works. The girls got to suit up in full beekeeping apparel and use the smokers and feed the bees. Anne gave them all some honey to sample and bar of beeswax soap. It was so cool to take them on the sort of field trip that was the highlight of being in school for me, being able to get out of the classroom and experience things, and it was a huge departure from the type of rote learning they experience in their own classrooms.

Last week I added journaling as a component of the book club. I give them questions about the book and their feelings about it and opinions. I've found the girls will "speak" more freely if you will on paper. I've recently found that I've got two aspiring female doctors and that one of them plans on curing AIDS. I am awed at the goals of these girls from this place so far away from.... everything. And so proud to be able to work with them.

Successful in Seronga!!!!

After a past few months that rivaled my first two months at site for melancholy, hopelessness, irritation and plain old homesickness and angst, waiting it out has been the right answer yet again. I’ve got some projects that have made me feel a little bit of success, and also have the arrival of several visitors in the next year to look forward to.

Home Improvements…

In the past few months there have been great improvements to the hut (and surrounding areas) in Seronga. As follows:

The doctor is in. He has finally been moved into his accommodation at the police, and is fully relocated to Seronga. We now have ARV’s available to patients on a more regular basis, so now they don’t have to travel to Shakawe after their three month initiation period. Hopefully this will help less people default on their ARV’s. As both ambulance boats are still in the shop (along with the post boat since Jan of this year) the nurses are still having to get up at 4 in the morning to meet patients who have traveled from God knows where in the bush in the dark to get to the clinic to have their blood drawn. Everyone in Seronga is bumbling around at these insane hours because as the boats are in the shop, the road ambulances have to drive all the way around the delta- up through Shakawe and back down to Gumare, a journey that can take anywhere from 3.5 hours (best) to 7 or 8 (my worst nightmare days) one way. They have to leave by about 6 or 6:30 in order to get to Gumare in time to turn around and get back before the last ferry at 6:30. (It’s winter here now, so it gets dark earlier, which means there is less light by which to navigate crossing that dark, deep, churning, strongly flowing and cold water - which is just unsafe at night. Two words: Nvuvu/Kubu (Hippo) and Kwena (Crocodile) yup, you wouldn’t be wanting to cross that bad boy at night either). It used to be a bit more negotiable with the ferry operators and easier to convince them to go across just one more time, but not so much any more…

So in addition to the ngaka (Dr.) being able to dispense ARV’s, he can also deal with a bit more serious diagnosis and trauma. People also take his word more seriously than that of the head nurse, which is sort of dumb, but will help the patients in the long run. He is able to make more authoritative diagnosis and recommendation for the treatment of patients who have to be referred out of Seronga.

(In a previous incident the head nurse recommended that a patient be transferred at least to Maun as she suspected Gumare did not have sufficient resources to properly care for the patient. Because the protocol involves transferring a patient to Gumare first, the patient was airlifted out of Seronga to Gumare, where the patient lapsed into a coma, then the patient was transferred to Maun, and then onto Francistown when even Maun didn’t have sufficient resources to help the patient. It makes me shudder to consider not only the trauma the patient undoubtedly suffered through all that transport to places with insufficient resources but also the cost of the plane –someone paid for the following legs of airflights: Maun to Seronga, Seronga to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, again Maun to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, then Maun to Francistown and back. Not cheap for the government. I haven’t heard the outcome of this one.)

Although the ngaka is still on the road at least 2 days a week dispensing drugs to the other ARV clinics this side of the delta, it’s a helluva lot better to have him there more regularly. His arrival has caused the head nurse to rejoice (and say that she can now put in for a transfer- for which she is nearly due) and has greatly improved the availability of treatment for patients.

The Mural at the clinic. Is finished! I’ve noticed that community participation can often be hard to muster for these projects in Botswana, but I was determined to call in favors and even beg and plead if I had to. I am proud to announce that I didn’t lift a brush for this project. My job was all in the background legwork. For me it was more important to help empower the kids to design the words and carry the project from priming and sketching to completion.

One might argue that the idea of Peace Corps is to work along side of host country partners, but I find that it sent a powerful message to the kids when I got out the paints and brushes and said “go for it”. They looked at me incredulously, like isn’t she going to tell us what to do? I just tipped me chin at the wall and reminded them that they’re the artists and walked away. The adults at the clinic looked at me like I was crazy as well, but it proved an amazing time to teach a lesson in empowerment, that people will rise to a task put in front of them if you let them. It turned out beautifully, if not what I had originally envisioned. I’ve heard through various members of the community that the nurses and staff at the clinic are very proud of the mural, and I found it has been valuable in terms of people in the village see something tangible that they attribute to me, even though I continuously give credit to the children and the art teacher, and remind them that I only got the supplies.

Which had been a rather pain in the ass. I had started the background work back in December, and by the beginning of April the paint cans were ready to be busted open. I wrote no less than three versions of the same letter asking for permission to paint on the clinic which was faxed, hand delivered, and misplaced no less than 5 times. I made weekly calls and personal follow ups, and made a trip to Gabs and Maun that didn’t even end up with the supplies I wanted. My vision was changed several times as I had to convince the clinic staff to buy into the idea as well as try to get them to come up with a theme, which ended up being a play on the Bacon quote that was up not only at my high school, but also here at the Junior Secondary school (like a Jr. High or middle school back in the states). The mural proclaims “Knowledge is Power, Know Your Status”- in both English and Setswana, and the phrase O E Cheke which means get tested and happens to be this year’s theme from one of the major NGO’s that funds HIV projects.

My original vision was to get acrylics and have the art teacher design a proper mural with pictures rather than words on the side of the building, but I ended up with house paint and a smaller space on the front of the building. I’m not giving up on the actual picture mural idea, but the next big space that will fall prey to my attack will hopefully be the two walls on the corner of the main area in the town on the jail of the kgotla. It will probably take me the rest of my time here to get supplies and permission to carry out the design the art teacher has begun with the kids (he’s using aspects of the Sistine Chapel for inspiration-how incredibly cool is that!!!!) but if I can get it accomplished that would be one of the crowning achievements of my service. Wish me luck.

I’ve also recently heard that the teacher I’ve been working with these art projects on (who when we met used to come to work drunk a good portion of the days I saw him, but nonetheless is an amazing artist and really helps the kids become better artists as well by demanding a lot of them) has been working with some of the kids he described as “not so dumb” to have them write essays about what “knowledge is power” means to them. He’s offered a prize of 200p of his own money to encourage them. I had nothing to do with this, but am amazed at both his generosity and his willingness to go above and beyond the project to really get the kids thinking and expressing themselves. I’m very proud of him.

Other Art Projects!
Working with some of the teachers at the primary I have come up with a committee to work with the kids to use the remaining house paint (nothing gets wasted on my watch in Seronga!) to create a world map mural on the wall of the primary school. So far we’ve primed the spot with white, the map has arrived and been gridded (THANKS MOM!) and we will start painting this week. It’s going to be amazing to literally show the kids the world!

Along with that my long awaited project of creating a mosaic at the junior secondary has begun. I have been collecting different colors of glass for months in preparation for this and the area is primed and the sketch has been done. I realized a bit too late that brown glass can be collected and turned in for cash as they recycle the bottles and thus brown bottles were going to be a little harder to come by, but after several dumpster diving slash appeals to the village drinking crowds, I think we’ll have enough. (Everything you need to in Seronga is available if you ask enough people-see village chicken).

I was of course getting a little emotional as the artist, GB (he’s got a crazy long Setswana name and luckily goes by the nickname GB) sketched his design on the wall. I kept exclaiming how happy I was for him and he, being a typical teenager, rolled his eyes and called me crazy. But the wall is there, it’s sketched, and we’ll start breaking bottles this week. Pictures to follow!

Warmish Shower! I think when one is in the Peace Corps and adaptability becomes the only way in which to keep going, it has some deep effects on your personality. In some ways I’ve learned to either just put up with a lot of shit, or adapt. Once the decision is made to adapt, the idea of trying to work of improve something can occasionally be absurd. It becomes difficult to envision or hope for something better, no matter how easy it may be to accomplish.

This is how I had begun to feel about my bathing situation. When there is water in the village (an event that is occurring incredibly more frequently as a result of the old water guy-who is responsible for finding the fuel and transport to get to Teekae (about 15-20 kilometers outside of Seronga) being replaced by someone who apparently takes his job more seriously, or at least that’s what I’m hoping as it’s been a lot more consistent lately) I’ve taken to just heating up a kettle on the stove, mixing it with some cold from the tap, and splash or bucket bathing. It’s not optimal, but over the course of a year, I’ve come to accept it and even excel at it. You would be amazed how the girl who used to draw an entire Jacuzzi style bathtub full of hot steaming water every night for an at least 15 minute soak has come to be able to bathe completely with less than half a bucket of water. (And I feel pretty clean). So with acceptance came complacency in this case.

Until the Aussies came (see “Hostess with the Mostess”). They rigged up a series of black pipes found in Simon’s back yard to flow from my faucet out of my bathroom window, onto the roof next door, back onto my tub and to be plugged with a cork at about knee level (this set-up has recently been improved again by another visitor, a former Peace Corps who hung the pipe from the ceiling so it’s more like a proper shower. Amazing! You still have to use it in the middle of the day in order for it to be properly warm (forget trying to have a warm shower after an evening run) but is has also helped make me clothes seem cleaner when I do my laundry with slightly warmer water. Since the water is unfiltered as it comes in the house, heating it up in a plastic hose can tend to make it smell… interesting. At the end of the day (or really, make that the middle) it’s warmer and it’s wet. I’m happy.

Pack your bags!
My mom, Paul and Karly have booked their tickets to visit! They got an amazing deal on the flight and they arrive right in Maun. I’m already going nuts planning their upcoming adventure which will include the bush, the delta, Kasane and CAPE TOWN!!!! More on that but I am sooooo pumped!

It’s Electric?
Power is sort of, allegedly, kindof, maybe coming to Seronga. There’s all sorts of toxic smelling poles that the children have a great time playing on barefoot (and just make me cringe at the idea that as they climb on them they are inhaling those fumes but there’s no chasing them off, I’ve tried.) Word on the street, or really, the dirt road, is that they will be up and running by July. Righhhht.

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…..

"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…

Ballet on the Beach....

Here they are.

I was just down on the beach. It still wasn't sunny, but it had been raining for days and I needed to do something. I needed to move.

I was mostly just fooling around and spacing into my own world.

So I did some handstands. Stretches. Cartwheels. Yoga poses. Ballet turns.

Leaps and jumps.

Just something to remind me of my body's strengths and capabilities. That I'm alive.

Then I noticed him.

He was sort of mimicking me. And I think at first it was a joke. But he sure was trying hard.

So I showed him what I was doing. I exaplined in broken Spanish, which was nearly a match with his native Portugese. Between that and his broken English we were in business.

At first his friends mocked him. I could tell even across languages and colors that this kid was being teased in a major way.

But then they joined in.

And he kept on going.

There was none of the usual. No begging. No whining. They asked for nothing but to learn.

I taught what my body knew. No music. Few words. Movement. Connection.

All of a sudden, on the beaches of Mozambique, I'm teaching classical ballet. I haven't practiced for years, but it's all still there.

I forgot I knew it but it came right back. I didn't know I had anything to give, but I found something. I forgot I had it, but it matters to them.

We danced. It was breathtaking.

They were amazing. Moments like these are why I remain in Africa. I am so grateful.

Photography by Adryan Caron.

Men's Sector 2008. A Success!

After many false starts and projects that only got as far as hopes, wishes and dreams in my overactive little imagination, the unbelievable happened! A successful event in Seronga! Although there are plenty of times I have experienced small successes, and moments of hope and pride and small triumphs that bring me joy, this was unprecedented.

I came to be involved with Men’s Sector (which is supposed to be male leaders in the community coming together and creating forums from which to help men address their issues and concerns surrounding HIV/AIDS) at the training to form the committee. There had actually been a bit of talk that was very discouraging for a white, western, “liberated” woman to hear that was women's fault when they were raped as they shouldn't be enticing men with their short skirts, and the reaffirmation that women were the property of their husbands as the husbands bought and paid for them with Lebolla, I figured the only way to help change these charming little misinfo's was to join them. So here I am.



The planning sessions for this event to "introduce the men's sector to the community" were too many in number, too long, tedious, overly focused (in my humble opinion) on the food, and nearly always completely in Setswana (which I really must get around to learning better).

It was an interesting thing for me to try to balance participation in the discussion with letting the committee make decisions on their own. I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut after we were all told to think about a theme for the event to present at the next meeting and I was the only one who had anything, which was unanimously approved without any other options offered up. After this I tried (big challenge for me) to just observe the planning process for this event. I wanted to see how the committee would set things up, to see what the organization would be and how things would work without much outside influence.

I offered to partner with someone to head the publicity committee (for which she promptly avoided doing anything, I found some ladies at the "restaurant" to help me) and took charge of the health quiz, which is one thing that wouldn't have happened without my involvement as no one saw any point to it. I recruited community members and some of the teenagers from the junior secondary school to administer the quiz so that they could educate people when they got answers wrong (in Setswana). It ended up working out really well as I wasn't really involved with the actual administering of anything, but rather overseeing the activity. I've noticed that often everyone is expected to participate in everything, and then you've got the problem of who deals with any problems that arise. It was a little awkward to get up on stage and interrupt the police investigator who was the chair of the committee, but hey, he was in charge..

I learned a lesson in trust when at one of the last meetings before the event, everyone began getting up and climbing into the backs of cars heading towards the police station. When I asked someone what we were doing they informed me that we were going to the police station to view the supplies and groceries that had been purchased for the event. I asked why, as we had just seen the receipt during the meeting. This apparently wasn't enough. We had to go look at the food, to ensure that indeed it was all there. When I asked my favorite question (what I've come to think of as "the second why") again, I was just told it was part of the culture. "But he's a policeman, don't we trust him?" This one is still a bit of a mystery to me.

The health quiz was a concept that was kind of tough to describe to the committee, but they sort of let me run with the thing on my own, which was good for the first event so that I could figure out what I wanted to happen as well. Education at a community event was a new concept, and one that got a little dicey at the actual event. At one point during the event the Men's Sector chairman tried to shut down the booth with the health quiz because the rest of the committee was complaining as they thought there were too many people waiting to take the quiz to win airtime (only cash would have made them more mob like) than there were people watching the dancing and songs. It took some firm negotiating to convince the chairman not to shut us down, but eventually I prevailed. I found myself thanking my lucky stars I had spent so much time building a relationship with him!

The event surpassed my expectations, which is the greatest gift I could have ever asked for. The health quiz happened, the entertainment was great, the food was chaotic but people were happy for the most part. I left the day with tears of joy flowing down my face. It was a shining of example of what I came here to do. And it only took 7.5 months!!!!!

I thought back to every time I've ever experienced tangible success before, at graduations, track meets, dance recitals, choir concerts. I remember the look on my mom's face, and how my grandma was always crying, how tightly my track coaches would grab me after a good race and how the director would beam after a great performance. I never understood until now that sometimes we can derive more joy from the accomplishments of others than we ever could with our own, that celebrating another's success could ever come to mean more to us than our own. It's another beautiful lesson I'll leave this village having learned.

Here's my "press release" that will hopefully go in the Okavango newsletter with photos and such- I've added some to picasa as well, hopefully they show up.

Seronga Men’s Sector Event:

“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”

On 22nd November, 2008, the village of Seronga hosted an event sponsored by the Seronga Men’s Sector with the theme “Men standing tall, walking proud, and taking responsibility.” Present at the event were the dikgosi of several neighboring villages, nursing representatives from the Seronga clinic, teachers from both the primary and junior secondary school in Seronga, members of the local and national police based in Seronga, as well as representatives from wildlife and BDF. Also present were the police chief from Gumare, the guest speaker Mma Knutson and nearly 400 villagers. The event began with a lively march in which the members of Men’s Sector Committee split into two groups and were led by the Scout Group down each road away from the Kgotla for a vigorous 3 kilometer round trip march. The weather was nice and not too hot, and although there were brief rain showers the Seronga Village Health Choir keep up the excitement by performing through the downpour! Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war to entertain the crowd.

In addition to the message being spread from the main stage, there were 2 side booths which continued to spread the message of Men’s Sector. Over 60 participants were awarded airtime, crisps, and oranges for their efforts in events in a challenging sexual health quiz. Villagers tested their knowledge of issues of HIV/AIDS health, prevention and transmission, PMTCT, IPT and reducing stigma. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the by Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. It was a successful day for the Seronga Men's Sector!

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

Life at Seronga Clinic

I sit perched upon a broken stool as I stare out through the square space that comprises the dispensary window, and watch all the people on the other side. They wait patiently for their medications, drugs that will relieve some of their suffering, that will be their salvation, and that I sit amongst, unable to dispense. I again feel useless in a questionable mission. They chat amongst themselves, speaking of what I am unsure, as somewhere between my ears and my mind the rhyme and reason of this language is lost. I absorb but do not comprehend this musical speaking. They stare back at me, a fish in a fishbowl, and animal in a cage, a creature more exotic (and possibly more dangerous, based on the look in their eyes) than any animal that stalks their village at night.

At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.

The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.

It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.

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.