This week we went “that side” to Jao Flats, an island community in the delta where Seronga clinic services a mobile stop. We loaded into the boat (“water ambulance”) and set out for the island. Along the way we saw over 15 crocodiles, and on the way back I remembered I had my camera. I was lucky enough that the boat driver, who has over 29 years of experience shuttling tourists in boats and planes to do this very thing, scouted and slowed the boat enough for me to shoot some pictures. I’ve added them to Picasa.
Was that me, whining and complaining about something earlier? Yeah, I feel sorry for me too.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
In which I literally take candy from a baby…..
Sometimes it all sucks. I hate Africa, and I wake up and open my eyes and close them again, hoping this was all a bad dream. I hope to be away, anywhere from here.
Luckily usually on these days something like this happens….
I was walking to the clinic and a bunch of school girls were passing me in the distance. They noticed me, looked at each other and whispered in consultation. They keep looking at me and then talking behind their hands (thank God I was lucky enough to transcend that high school fear of everyone talking about me, because here it’s actually happening, and obviously, it’s not my imagination and it’s in a foreign language, so I’ll never know what exactly they’re saying about me.) But there is no doubt they are talking about me.
One of them finally gets the courage to yell “Lorato!” (ha! The villagewide training is working!!!!)
“Eem” sounds like aim (kind of “yes, ma’am”) I yell back somewhat cautiously. It’s been a long day. I’m probably not in the mood. They immediately come running over.
“Give me sweets!” They chorus.
“Give me sweets,” I tiredly sing back, and mimic them by holding out my hand.
One of them reaches into her backpack and frantically searches for something, which she finds and deposits in my outstretched hand.
A piece of 10 theibe (cent) candy from the general store.
I’ll be damned.
Luckily usually on these days something like this happens….
I was walking to the clinic and a bunch of school girls were passing me in the distance. They noticed me, looked at each other and whispered in consultation. They keep looking at me and then talking behind their hands (thank God I was lucky enough to transcend that high school fear of everyone talking about me, because here it’s actually happening, and obviously, it’s not my imagination and it’s in a foreign language, so I’ll never know what exactly they’re saying about me.) But there is no doubt they are talking about me.
One of them finally gets the courage to yell “Lorato!” (ha! The villagewide training is working!!!!)
“Eem” sounds like aim (kind of “yes, ma’am”) I yell back somewhat cautiously. It’s been a long day. I’m probably not in the mood. They immediately come running over.
“Give me sweets!” They chorus.
“Give me sweets,” I tiredly sing back, and mimic them by holding out my hand.
One of them reaches into her backpack and frantically searches for something, which she finds and deposits in my outstretched hand.
A piece of 10 theibe (cent) candy from the general store.
I’ll be damned.
My independence day….
Friday, July 4th, 2008. One of the first in a long line of holidays that will pass by without fanfair in Botswana. Simon actually asked me if I was missing “all the turkey and bits…” I laughed my ass off and could barely tell him that was Thanksgiving.
I’ve missed plenty f 4th of July’s before, I usually had to work, and so it’s a holiday I can remember usually watching the fireworks and festivities out of my rear view mirror. That being said I have also had many, many good years filled with fireworks and sparklers and magic. I’ve had my share. So it wasn’t odd to not have a big to do, and to have it be like any other day. I was at the clinic, and the day prior the supplies truck had come and delivered many, many boxes. Two of the nurses and I began the process of inventory, which in and of itself is a logistical nightmare in its current methodology (project one: identified). We inventoried everything from an outdated sheet, and I was able to truly see for the first time how little this clinic has in the way of drugs and supplies to offer its patients (a fact only made more clear on my trips to the mobile stops and health posts later the next week, but that’s another blog…). I was looking around the empty, dusty, spidery, dark (the generator that supplies power is off during the day) room in dismay.
Then Christmas happened. In July.
We began to unpack the boxes that were filling the hallway which I had failed to completely notice before. Female condoms and birth control pills and depo, oh my!!! It was an absolute smorgasbord of drugs!!! They received penicillin, and vaccinations and gloves, creams and ointments and bandages. They received 12 cases of condoms. I was so happy I was shouting with what can only cornily be described as glee as we unpacked medical miracle after medical miracle. All these drugs were going to finally be available to the people (and especially the women and children of Seronga-) to have the freedom of reproductive choices, and the freedom from easily avoidable illness.
After we emptied the boxes out, inventoried, cleaned and reorganized the entire supplies closet (during which, I noticed, the three people with me worked through their lunch breaks to finish) I walked out into the sunlight. I peeled a perfectly juicy orange (which miracle of miracles didn’t have big annoying seeds) and walked down near the fence that separates the clinic from the marsh and trees that becomes the delta. I closed my eyes, let the breeze cool my hot sweaty face, and listened to the sound of children splashing in the water.
The truck only comes every three months, and inevitably the supplies will run as low as they were before this day. There won’t be enough birth control pills and depo to last as the central medical supply has to ration these items throughout the country, and we will run out. The women will again have unplanned or unwanted pregnancies and the children will have wounds that the nurses gallantly improvise to cover. The condoms will run out and HIV will spread. The problem is not quite solved. Not by a long shot.
But for today, for one perfect day, we have all we need. It’s all we can ask for.
I’ve missed plenty f 4th of July’s before, I usually had to work, and so it’s a holiday I can remember usually watching the fireworks and festivities out of my rear view mirror. That being said I have also had many, many good years filled with fireworks and sparklers and magic. I’ve had my share. So it wasn’t odd to not have a big to do, and to have it be like any other day. I was at the clinic, and the day prior the supplies truck had come and delivered many, many boxes. Two of the nurses and I began the process of inventory, which in and of itself is a logistical nightmare in its current methodology (project one: identified). We inventoried everything from an outdated sheet, and I was able to truly see for the first time how little this clinic has in the way of drugs and supplies to offer its patients (a fact only made more clear on my trips to the mobile stops and health posts later the next week, but that’s another blog…). I was looking around the empty, dusty, spidery, dark (the generator that supplies power is off during the day) room in dismay.
Then Christmas happened. In July.
We began to unpack the boxes that were filling the hallway which I had failed to completely notice before. Female condoms and birth control pills and depo, oh my!!! It was an absolute smorgasbord of drugs!!! They received penicillin, and vaccinations and gloves, creams and ointments and bandages. They received 12 cases of condoms. I was so happy I was shouting with what can only cornily be described as glee as we unpacked medical miracle after medical miracle. All these drugs were going to finally be available to the people (and especially the women and children of Seronga-) to have the freedom of reproductive choices, and the freedom from easily avoidable illness.
After we emptied the boxes out, inventoried, cleaned and reorganized the entire supplies closet (during which, I noticed, the three people with me worked through their lunch breaks to finish) I walked out into the sunlight. I peeled a perfectly juicy orange (which miracle of miracles didn’t have big annoying seeds) and walked down near the fence that separates the clinic from the marsh and trees that becomes the delta. I closed my eyes, let the breeze cool my hot sweaty face, and listened to the sound of children splashing in the water.
The truck only comes every three months, and inevitably the supplies will run as low as they were before this day. There won’t be enough birth control pills and depo to last as the central medical supply has to ration these items throughout the country, and we will run out. The women will again have unplanned or unwanted pregnancies and the children will have wounds that the nurses gallantly improvise to cover. The condoms will run out and HIV will spread. The problem is not quite solved. Not by a long shot.
But for today, for one perfect day, we have all we need. It’s all we can ask for.
Just another day at the office……
In which a child is born. Or in some cases, several.
During my first site visit to Seronga, I witnessed the birth of my first African child. It was an intense experience, watching that little soul fight his way into existence. I nearly passed out and the time was recorded by my watch. It was crazy. Little did I know.
Last week, as I was observing a child teething on some rocks she found while playing near the open sewage drain while her mother looked on bemusedly I heard some soft grunting coming from the “delivery room”. I walked in on a mother in hard labor, and as I turned to try to find something, anything, to wipe the sweat from her brow I heard the sharp first gasps of a child. She lifted up the blanket and the child lay in a pool on the bed between her legs. I tried to tell the mother in extremely broken Setswana that I would get someone (else, I guess I meant, possibly someone qualified to actually do something….) and yelled across the yard for the nurse, who casually muttered that he told her he would check her at 2:00 and these women never want to have a man help them deliver…
The time of birth was again by my watch. As I was the only witness to the birth who was luckily wearing one.
This week we were traveling around the delta to the mobile stops and health posts, areas so remote they made Seronga look like New York City. I think if you have a health emergency in one of these places it might be best to just take yourself out back in some cases, because they generally have one young and hardworking nurse and extremely limited supplies. I literally gave the nurse the pen I was using as he had nothing to write in the patients charts with.
We arrived in Gudikwa after traveling for two hours down bumpy winding paths that were the only roads that went to these places, and hadn’t been graded since the rainy season (or so the driver told me). I haven’t traveled on trails like this since I was a very small child when my dad would take me hunting and we would drive down two ruts in the forest. And occasionally those hunting trails were in better shape than these roads.
On the way out I rode in the back of the “ambulance” really just a truck with a topper. I was bouncing up and down in a manner such that I was nearly green with carsickness as I stumbled out and nearly kissed the ground upon our arrival. Shortly after our arrival at the health post, a woman arrived accompanied by a handful of elderly women who can really most accurately be described as “shriveled”. They were speaking Sasarwa (the “click” language) and the nurse from the health post informed me that these were the “midwives”. One of the group would occasionally look over at me and return my smile with a gummy or gap toothed grin. They were literally clucking around like a bunch of worried mother hens- the nurse informed me that this woman “had been pregnant for 10 months and no child had been born.” Even I have to admit, having seen an African woman give birth and immediately afterward look like she had just gone for a run after a big meal (they are very thin and usually don’t really show) this woman was as big as a house. She went into the “exam room” and the mother hens tried to follow her, but Nurse “Nightengale,” the dour faced (but generally caring and compassionate if often serious and strict) nurse from my clinic was having none of it. She allowed one woman, who was allegedly the mother of the pregnant woman and appeared to be older than dust to go in the room. They weren’t in there more than ten minutes when the door opened and a band of what appeared to be rope was tossed out onto the ground and the door was slammed shut again. One of the hens furtively scrambled over to retrieve the discarded object which the nurse informed me was intestines when I stage whispered (in English, I don’t know why I bothered) my inquiry as to its identification and purpose. Traditional medicine. I didn’t bother to ask where on the woman’s body it had been.
A few hours later we loaded up the ambulance to go back. The woman still hadn’t given birth. So we took her with us, back down the bumpy road-path to Seronga. We had to stop the truck several times along the way for the Nurse Nightengale to check how far the woman was dilated and several more times for the driver to do a few minor electrical surgeries to the truck. We arrived at the clinic and the orderly pushed the woman into the delivery room (first one on the new bed!!!) and we were there not more than ten minutes (I think it was probably 7, but my watch wasn’t the magic one this time) when she delivered. Then not more than five minutes later she delivered again, the second boy was breach, almost as if he were being pulled by foot by the first one (reminded me of a bible story the Rev told me once about twins and breach and birthrights that I unfortunately can’t remember all the details to.) I had no idea twins could come that fast!
Birth is indeed a miracle, and the one detail I have absorbed, quite fully, as a result of all this amazing birthing experience, is that I no longer have any desire to be a doula. I guess it’s something else to cross off the list. I’m pretty sure I’ll get more than my share of experience here over the next two years…
During my first site visit to Seronga, I witnessed the birth of my first African child. It was an intense experience, watching that little soul fight his way into existence. I nearly passed out and the time was recorded by my watch. It was crazy. Little did I know.
Last week, as I was observing a child teething on some rocks she found while playing near the open sewage drain while her mother looked on bemusedly I heard some soft grunting coming from the “delivery room”. I walked in on a mother in hard labor, and as I turned to try to find something, anything, to wipe the sweat from her brow I heard the sharp first gasps of a child. She lifted up the blanket and the child lay in a pool on the bed between her legs. I tried to tell the mother in extremely broken Setswana that I would get someone (else, I guess I meant, possibly someone qualified to actually do something….) and yelled across the yard for the nurse, who casually muttered that he told her he would check her at 2:00 and these women never want to have a man help them deliver…
The time of birth was again by my watch. As I was the only witness to the birth who was luckily wearing one.
This week we were traveling around the delta to the mobile stops and health posts, areas so remote they made Seronga look like New York City. I think if you have a health emergency in one of these places it might be best to just take yourself out back in some cases, because they generally have one young and hardworking nurse and extremely limited supplies. I literally gave the nurse the pen I was using as he had nothing to write in the patients charts with.
We arrived in Gudikwa after traveling for two hours down bumpy winding paths that were the only roads that went to these places, and hadn’t been graded since the rainy season (or so the driver told me). I haven’t traveled on trails like this since I was a very small child when my dad would take me hunting and we would drive down two ruts in the forest. And occasionally those hunting trails were in better shape than these roads.
On the way out I rode in the back of the “ambulance” really just a truck with a topper. I was bouncing up and down in a manner such that I was nearly green with carsickness as I stumbled out and nearly kissed the ground upon our arrival. Shortly after our arrival at the health post, a woman arrived accompanied by a handful of elderly women who can really most accurately be described as “shriveled”. They were speaking Sasarwa (the “click” language) and the nurse from the health post informed me that these were the “midwives”. One of the group would occasionally look over at me and return my smile with a gummy or gap toothed grin. They were literally clucking around like a bunch of worried mother hens- the nurse informed me that this woman “had been pregnant for 10 months and no child had been born.” Even I have to admit, having seen an African woman give birth and immediately afterward look like she had just gone for a run after a big meal (they are very thin and usually don’t really show) this woman was as big as a house. She went into the “exam room” and the mother hens tried to follow her, but Nurse “Nightengale,” the dour faced (but generally caring and compassionate if often serious and strict) nurse from my clinic was having none of it. She allowed one woman, who was allegedly the mother of the pregnant woman and appeared to be older than dust to go in the room. They weren’t in there more than ten minutes when the door opened and a band of what appeared to be rope was tossed out onto the ground and the door was slammed shut again. One of the hens furtively scrambled over to retrieve the discarded object which the nurse informed me was intestines when I stage whispered (in English, I don’t know why I bothered) my inquiry as to its identification and purpose. Traditional medicine. I didn’t bother to ask where on the woman’s body it had been.
A few hours later we loaded up the ambulance to go back. The woman still hadn’t given birth. So we took her with us, back down the bumpy road-path to Seronga. We had to stop the truck several times along the way for the Nurse Nightengale to check how far the woman was dilated and several more times for the driver to do a few minor electrical surgeries to the truck. We arrived at the clinic and the orderly pushed the woman into the delivery room (first one on the new bed!!!) and we were there not more than ten minutes (I think it was probably 7, but my watch wasn’t the magic one this time) when she delivered. Then not more than five minutes later she delivered again, the second boy was breach, almost as if he were being pulled by foot by the first one (reminded me of a bible story the Rev told me once about twins and breach and birthrights that I unfortunately can’t remember all the details to.) I had no idea twins could come that fast!
Birth is indeed a miracle, and the one detail I have absorbed, quite fully, as a result of all this amazing birthing experience, is that I no longer have any desire to be a doula. I guess it’s something else to cross off the list. I’m pretty sure I’ll get more than my share of experience here over the next two years…
In which hope is reignited…..
Although my world has been amazingly expanded by the steep and constant learning curve that is living in Seronga, it has been hard here. For reasons I didn’t anticipate. But then I guess if you could foresee the lesson plan of your life and the way in which the tests would be administered, you’d be much less likely to take the classes offered. (And you certainly wouldn’t join the f-ing Peace Corps!!)
After one of the more depressing weeks on record, thanks to a one two punch from the larium I’m required to take as a malaria prophylaxis (nightmares and scary hallucinations, I thought there was things and people in my room, bed space ect. and slept very little for three nights in a row) and my period, I was a weepy, emotional mess. The honeymoon of being at site wore off quickly.
At my lowest points, which can always be argued may simultaneously be my highest; I realized that I usually don’t feel this despondent unless I’ve had a major relationship fail. I cheered myself slightly be realizing that I need no man to help me to the depths of this kind of misery, which was strangely comforting. I can achieve copious amounts of melancholy by and for myself, as a result of my choices alone, rather than as a result of two people flinging themselves at the windshield of life and hoping for the best and failing. When you’re depressed strange things are enlightening.
Being in the mind-fuck that is living in a foreign country in a pretty alone kind of way, the me that I used to be questioned if I was just having a good old fashioned pity party. Doubt became my closest and constant companion. I struggled to determine if I was being unreasonable in these thought patterns that emerged from the sludge of the darkness in my mind; of wondering if I could really do two years here. I mean come on, I joined the Peace Corps to learn about myself, and learn to be self sufficient, independent, have adventures, which is exactly what was happening. So what was my problem?
There wasn’t a problem. I was just sad. And scared. And lonely. And somewhat bored. And pretty annoyed. A little bit stressed. Overridingly confused. These conditions cease to be problems when you begin to accept them as your reality. And realize that they will inevitably pass.
Sometimes I get caught in a web of trying to be this perfect version of myself, who is always self confident and certain of herself and her decisions. I’m harder on myself than I would be on anyone else, and in this instance wasn’t giving myself a break in realizing that although yes, there are plenty of people who live like this every day, and who have their whole lives, I am not one of them. Going without reliable electricity, no hot running water ever, and random running water at all and never being drinkable are things that might take a little getting used to. It’s hard on anyone being in a new place, much less one so different in every major way.
I come from a people who are by nature highly inquisitive, and to put it kindly, need to have constant reason for everything. I learned there is a major difference between making excuses for something and gracefully accepting your reality for what it is and moving forward. Rather than being a weakness to acknowledge the difficulties at hand for what they are, to give them credence in turn alleviates some of the power they hold.
In a place like Seronga, of so much want and need, it’s an interesting canvas from which to paint my own personal picture of these concepts and how they apply in my life. There is a difference between wanting people and needing people around, and there is a difference between giving and taking. Independence, interdependence and dependence are also different, and in this place it’s a little easier to get quiet enough to learn the subtle nuance. I am indeed learning the lessons I came here to learn, they’re just literally in different languages and shades of light and color than I expected.
I got through this past week, and now am more assured I will continue to do so, quite possibly for the next two years. I am very lucky to have great people. When I found myself unexpectedly crying I was often blessed to get a call from one of the fine people who care about me, or a piece of mail or a package. Kagiso, the Peace Corps volunteer who served in Seronga directly before me has taken to checking up on me, and his words mean so much in a way no one else’s on Earth possibly can, as he’s truly “been here.” Simon the British ex patriot has been absolutely essential. I also found comfort in listening to this song by Ingrid Michaelson over and over
“Keep Breathing”
The storm is coming, but I, don’t mind,
People are dying, I close my blinds
All that I know,
Is
I’m breathing now.
I want,
to change the world,
Instead, I sleep.
I want,
to believe,
in more, than you and me
All that I know is I’m breathing,
All I can do is keep breathing,
Now
All we can do is keep breathing
Sometimes, it’s enough to just be. The world will still need saving tomorrow. And I’ll still be in this place, where I have so many prime opportunities to work on that little task.
After one of the more depressing weeks on record, thanks to a one two punch from the larium I’m required to take as a malaria prophylaxis (nightmares and scary hallucinations, I thought there was things and people in my room, bed space ect. and slept very little for three nights in a row) and my period, I was a weepy, emotional mess. The honeymoon of being at site wore off quickly.
At my lowest points, which can always be argued may simultaneously be my highest; I realized that I usually don’t feel this despondent unless I’ve had a major relationship fail. I cheered myself slightly be realizing that I need no man to help me to the depths of this kind of misery, which was strangely comforting. I can achieve copious amounts of melancholy by and for myself, as a result of my choices alone, rather than as a result of two people flinging themselves at the windshield of life and hoping for the best and failing. When you’re depressed strange things are enlightening.
Being in the mind-fuck that is living in a foreign country in a pretty alone kind of way, the me that I used to be questioned if I was just having a good old fashioned pity party. Doubt became my closest and constant companion. I struggled to determine if I was being unreasonable in these thought patterns that emerged from the sludge of the darkness in my mind; of wondering if I could really do two years here. I mean come on, I joined the Peace Corps to learn about myself, and learn to be self sufficient, independent, have adventures, which is exactly what was happening. So what was my problem?
There wasn’t a problem. I was just sad. And scared. And lonely. And somewhat bored. And pretty annoyed. A little bit stressed. Overridingly confused. These conditions cease to be problems when you begin to accept them as your reality. And realize that they will inevitably pass.
Sometimes I get caught in a web of trying to be this perfect version of myself, who is always self confident and certain of herself and her decisions. I’m harder on myself than I would be on anyone else, and in this instance wasn’t giving myself a break in realizing that although yes, there are plenty of people who live like this every day, and who have their whole lives, I am not one of them. Going without reliable electricity, no hot running water ever, and random running water at all and never being drinkable are things that might take a little getting used to. It’s hard on anyone being in a new place, much less one so different in every major way.
I come from a people who are by nature highly inquisitive, and to put it kindly, need to have constant reason for everything. I learned there is a major difference between making excuses for something and gracefully accepting your reality for what it is and moving forward. Rather than being a weakness to acknowledge the difficulties at hand for what they are, to give them credence in turn alleviates some of the power they hold.
In a place like Seronga, of so much want and need, it’s an interesting canvas from which to paint my own personal picture of these concepts and how they apply in my life. There is a difference between wanting people and needing people around, and there is a difference between giving and taking. Independence, interdependence and dependence are also different, and in this place it’s a little easier to get quiet enough to learn the subtle nuance. I am indeed learning the lessons I came here to learn, they’re just literally in different languages and shades of light and color than I expected.
I got through this past week, and now am more assured I will continue to do so, quite possibly for the next two years. I am very lucky to have great people. When I found myself unexpectedly crying I was often blessed to get a call from one of the fine people who care about me, or a piece of mail or a package. Kagiso, the Peace Corps volunteer who served in Seronga directly before me has taken to checking up on me, and his words mean so much in a way no one else’s on Earth possibly can, as he’s truly “been here.” Simon the British ex patriot has been absolutely essential. I also found comfort in listening to this song by Ingrid Michaelson over and over
“Keep Breathing”
The storm is coming, but I, don’t mind,
People are dying, I close my blinds
All that I know,
Is
I’m breathing now.
I want,
to change the world,
Instead, I sleep.
I want,
to believe,
in more, than you and me
All that I know is I’m breathing,
All I can do is keep breathing,
Now
All we can do is keep breathing
Sometimes, it’s enough to just be. The world will still need saving tomorrow. And I’ll still be in this place, where I have so many prime opportunities to work on that little task.
How can you expect someone to demand or expect or even hope for better for themselves when they can’t even drink the water?
I recently learned that despite the fact that water in seronga does indeed occasionally run, many of the nurses from the clinic have their drinking water brought back in jugs from somewhere else.
I guess in some ways this isn’t that different from people drinking bottled water in the states, if people have access and money to do so, why not? But then I realized that what often causes the children to be sick is contaminated water and bad hygiene, which is, as a fellow American recently pointed out, a condescending euphemism for a number of social problems. After experiencing my own sickness and frustration with this, water and the lack thereof has taken a heightened place on my radar.
The water can be imbibed safely right from the middle of the delta that surrounds us. The same delta which flows haphazardly, cutting us off from most other places and making obtaining nearly any other supplies expensive and impossible. This luxury of clean water is available, for those of course, who have a boat to get to the middle of the delta, where the sea grasses purify and clean it. Despite popular tourist attractions that make it appear to the contrary, most Africans in and around the delta have been “developed” and westernized enough that they no longer have or use traditional makowas (boats) to travel the delta.
The water at this point has become a pretty strong metaphor for me. I’ve been suffering a bit in the sea of substance abuse and sense of defeatism present in this village (this culture?) to find the purpose in some of this. To understand why the people of the “Eden of Africa” are willing to suffer so much. To know how there can be so little in a land of plenty. It’s hard to help people who want something for themselves less than you want it for them, or when you think they deserve it more than they do.
Not a day goes by without someone (almost always a Motswana) trying to tell me how I need to “fix” something happening here, or implement change or essentially try to force it on people. And being an American, it’s nearly part of my nature to want to analyze and fix the “problem” of HIV, the lack of electricity, clean water, ect. and it’s a constant personal mental retraining process to remember why I’m here, how sustainable change happens, and that cultural shift must come from within the community and will take more time than I will be here.
I’ve tried explaining to those who are a little more sophisticated in their communication abilities (read: not constantly asking me and begging me for stuff) that I would give the people of Seronga the sun, moon and stars if they could figure out that that is what they want. I seriously have a drive to help “these people” like what. It’s so hard to remember that they have to want it themselves, and that part of my purpose here is to help the people of Seronga identify what could and would make their lives better. To help them develop and implement change and ideas for change. I would dig a ditch alongside the people of Seronga with a rusty can under the hot sun for the rest of my days here if I thought that would get this village clean, constant running water, but it’s just not a priority, or at least enough of a priority that people want to actively do something about it. So perhaps the water will be one of the things that bends me, as I constantly try to change it….
I guess in some ways this isn’t that different from people drinking bottled water in the states, if people have access and money to do so, why not? But then I realized that what often causes the children to be sick is contaminated water and bad hygiene, which is, as a fellow American recently pointed out, a condescending euphemism for a number of social problems. After experiencing my own sickness and frustration with this, water and the lack thereof has taken a heightened place on my radar.
The water can be imbibed safely right from the middle of the delta that surrounds us. The same delta which flows haphazardly, cutting us off from most other places and making obtaining nearly any other supplies expensive and impossible. This luxury of clean water is available, for those of course, who have a boat to get to the middle of the delta, where the sea grasses purify and clean it. Despite popular tourist attractions that make it appear to the contrary, most Africans in and around the delta have been “developed” and westernized enough that they no longer have or use traditional makowas (boats) to travel the delta.
The water at this point has become a pretty strong metaphor for me. I’ve been suffering a bit in the sea of substance abuse and sense of defeatism present in this village (this culture?) to find the purpose in some of this. To understand why the people of the “Eden of Africa” are willing to suffer so much. To know how there can be so little in a land of plenty. It’s hard to help people who want something for themselves less than you want it for them, or when you think they deserve it more than they do.
Not a day goes by without someone (almost always a Motswana) trying to tell me how I need to “fix” something happening here, or implement change or essentially try to force it on people. And being an American, it’s nearly part of my nature to want to analyze and fix the “problem” of HIV, the lack of electricity, clean water, ect. and it’s a constant personal mental retraining process to remember why I’m here, how sustainable change happens, and that cultural shift must come from within the community and will take more time than I will be here.
I’ve tried explaining to those who are a little more sophisticated in their communication abilities (read: not constantly asking me and begging me for stuff) that I would give the people of Seronga the sun, moon and stars if they could figure out that that is what they want. I seriously have a drive to help “these people” like what. It’s so hard to remember that they have to want it themselves, and that part of my purpose here is to help the people of Seronga identify what could and would make their lives better. To help them develop and implement change and ideas for change. I would dig a ditch alongside the people of Seronga with a rusty can under the hot sun for the rest of my days here if I thought that would get this village clean, constant running water, but it’s just not a priority, or at least enough of a priority that people want to actively do something about it. So perhaps the water will be one of the things that bends me, as I constantly try to change it….
These are the people in the neighborhood, in the neighborhood, in the neigh-bor-hood
There are definitely as many bright stars on the horizon of Seronga as there are in the African sky, it seems it’s just a matter of finding them!!! An astronomer I will become!!!
Several of the nurses I work with appear to be lit up by the fire of my enthusiasm, and seem to be genuine in their willingness to engage my banter of change and hope. They have been to additional schooling and have developed some great critical thinking skills, and generally speak pretty good English- which makes it easier for me. They are usually foreigners in this land themselves (often medical professionals in Botswana are from neighboring Zambia or Zimbabwe, or if they are Motswana, they are usually not living in their home village, so while they can give some insight into the culture, there are often cultural/village particulars that are difficult to pick up on or begin to understand directly.) and thus have been very understanding about my various bouts of homesickness (and there’s no people I’d rather be surrounded by than medical professionals for some of the physical sickness as well.) This “stranger in a strange land” condition effortlessly leads to a little bit of the “these people” mentality that is so dangerous, yet so easy to adopt when working with people, (and is extremely easy for me to fall into myself). I often have to employ those wonderful woodland hills redirect skills I developed when working with kids (I swear sometimes I could turn verbal water into wine….) When I can catch myself and them “these people-ing” I try to point out that no matter what, “these people” are human beings who deserve to live outside of the shadow that this HIV crisis, and appeal to their pride as Africans, it’s generally when the conversation can keep moving forward.
Standing on the shoulders of giants as I am in the Peace Corps who have come before me, sometimes I question if there is very much more I can do in the Seronga clinic, and the nurses and staff have expressed that they wholeheartedly support me in whatever community project I want to undertake. This is huge, in that sometimes the relationship between Community Capacity Builders and their clinics can be quite precarious, as the role is so broad that everyone is often left wondering what the PCV is doing (including, it may seem the PCV themselves).
In addition to the wonderful, dedicated people at the clinic here’s also the woman who lives on my “family” compound. The first day she stopped by my house with a “ko-ko” (rhymes with yo-yo, what you say when you enter someone’s fence or compound, even though they’ve already heard you approach, there are no doorbells where there are no doors….) and informed me of an event at the Kgotla, which is the governmental center of the village. She is my age and has no children, which in this country is generally a sign of some sort of self awareness, and really self value when you consider that engaging in the sexual politics and practices that come in this culture can mean a death sentence in the HIV roulette. She is very active in the community and although I’m not sure what precisely she’s saying about local politics in Setswana, the kind of passion she exhibits when she talks about the VDC (village development committee) needs no translation. She sings every night with the community choir that will be performing at some sort of competition in July-(now rescheduled to August) I go to the practices some evenings, there’s something so heartwarming and amazing about a culture in which no one is tone deaf and everyone has rhythm and can dance. They’ve written the music themselves in 4 and occasionally five part harmonies, and get very adamant about which movements should go with which lyrics. The choir is men and women of an impressive age range, and they all seem to listen and respect each other’s opinions, or at least don’t display the kind of “type a” pissing contests and inability to function that was a hallmark of my Peace Corps pre service training (love you CCB’s). Details and pictures and maybe, if I ever figure it out, video! to follow.
The captain of my Peace Corps Dream Team was drafted the other day, when I finally met the man whose name literally means help, and helpful he is! Thuso was born and raised in Seronga, and has a lot of big plans for his village. He’s a teacher and an internet man, he’s the one trying to get Seronga wired, and for that alone I should kiss the ground beneath his feet, as right now I make a minimum 3 hour one way trip over land and sea to get internet every other week in Gumare… He did some schooling in the states and Canada and thus speaks amazing English. He’s inspired and has organized a chess club and various other activities to keep the youth of the village busy or at least safe and occupied. He wants to start a pond near the school to bring specimens of the local fish and plants for the children to identify with the English names, the scientific names and the Setswana names. He has dreams of starting his own internet business, and with the government struggling to achieve a better balance between private sector and public assistance, this is a very real and exciting possibility. Meeting him completely revitalized my energy and focus, and I added finding him under successes on the huge piece of flip chart paper I keep up for exactly that purpose.
As I discover these people, who want to change the face of their community, I then search for the people who have the potential to benefit, both now and in years to come. There are tons of bright young children, and teenage girls, who look at me as I pass them in the roads and smile shyly, or better yet boldly, with confidence and maybe a little defiance, which I love. I can tell they have what they need to succeed and become the generation to change the course of their nation’s story, if given the proper tools and outlets.
It is for these people, and this potential for change and good that I can see that help me put up with the somewhat difficult hand I’ve been dealt. The challenge lies in reminding myself of this each and every blinking day….
Several of the nurses I work with appear to be lit up by the fire of my enthusiasm, and seem to be genuine in their willingness to engage my banter of change and hope. They have been to additional schooling and have developed some great critical thinking skills, and generally speak pretty good English- which makes it easier for me. They are usually foreigners in this land themselves (often medical professionals in Botswana are from neighboring Zambia or Zimbabwe, or if they are Motswana, they are usually not living in their home village, so while they can give some insight into the culture, there are often cultural/village particulars that are difficult to pick up on or begin to understand directly.) and thus have been very understanding about my various bouts of homesickness (and there’s no people I’d rather be surrounded by than medical professionals for some of the physical sickness as well.) This “stranger in a strange land” condition effortlessly leads to a little bit of the “these people” mentality that is so dangerous, yet so easy to adopt when working with people, (and is extremely easy for me to fall into myself). I often have to employ those wonderful woodland hills redirect skills I developed when working with kids (I swear sometimes I could turn verbal water into wine….) When I can catch myself and them “these people-ing” I try to point out that no matter what, “these people” are human beings who deserve to live outside of the shadow that this HIV crisis, and appeal to their pride as Africans, it’s generally when the conversation can keep moving forward.
Standing on the shoulders of giants as I am in the Peace Corps who have come before me, sometimes I question if there is very much more I can do in the Seronga clinic, and the nurses and staff have expressed that they wholeheartedly support me in whatever community project I want to undertake. This is huge, in that sometimes the relationship between Community Capacity Builders and their clinics can be quite precarious, as the role is so broad that everyone is often left wondering what the PCV is doing (including, it may seem the PCV themselves).
In addition to the wonderful, dedicated people at the clinic here’s also the woman who lives on my “family” compound. The first day she stopped by my house with a “ko-ko” (rhymes with yo-yo, what you say when you enter someone’s fence or compound, even though they’ve already heard you approach, there are no doorbells where there are no doors….) and informed me of an event at the Kgotla, which is the governmental center of the village. She is my age and has no children, which in this country is generally a sign of some sort of self awareness, and really self value when you consider that engaging in the sexual politics and practices that come in this culture can mean a death sentence in the HIV roulette. She is very active in the community and although I’m not sure what precisely she’s saying about local politics in Setswana, the kind of passion she exhibits when she talks about the VDC (village development committee) needs no translation. She sings every night with the community choir that will be performing at some sort of competition in July-(now rescheduled to August) I go to the practices some evenings, there’s something so heartwarming and amazing about a culture in which no one is tone deaf and everyone has rhythm and can dance. They’ve written the music themselves in 4 and occasionally five part harmonies, and get very adamant about which movements should go with which lyrics. The choir is men and women of an impressive age range, and they all seem to listen and respect each other’s opinions, or at least don’t display the kind of “type a” pissing contests and inability to function that was a hallmark of my Peace Corps pre service training (love you CCB’s). Details and pictures and maybe, if I ever figure it out, video! to follow.
The captain of my Peace Corps Dream Team was drafted the other day, when I finally met the man whose name literally means help, and helpful he is! Thuso was born and raised in Seronga, and has a lot of big plans for his village. He’s a teacher and an internet man, he’s the one trying to get Seronga wired, and for that alone I should kiss the ground beneath his feet, as right now I make a minimum 3 hour one way trip over land and sea to get internet every other week in Gumare… He did some schooling in the states and Canada and thus speaks amazing English. He’s inspired and has organized a chess club and various other activities to keep the youth of the village busy or at least safe and occupied. He wants to start a pond near the school to bring specimens of the local fish and plants for the children to identify with the English names, the scientific names and the Setswana names. He has dreams of starting his own internet business, and with the government struggling to achieve a better balance between private sector and public assistance, this is a very real and exciting possibility. Meeting him completely revitalized my energy and focus, and I added finding him under successes on the huge piece of flip chart paper I keep up for exactly that purpose.
As I discover these people, who want to change the face of their community, I then search for the people who have the potential to benefit, both now and in years to come. There are tons of bright young children, and teenage girls, who look at me as I pass them in the roads and smile shyly, or better yet boldly, with confidence and maybe a little defiance, which I love. I can tell they have what they need to succeed and become the generation to change the course of their nation’s story, if given the proper tools and outlets.
It is for these people, and this potential for change and good that I can see that help me put up with the somewhat difficult hand I’ve been dealt. The challenge lies in reminding myself of this each and every blinking day….
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