As we drive out of the bustling capitol city of Gaborone (on the luxurious bus known as the Intercape –similar to a Greyhound- or as it will remain in my memory, “the magic bus”) on our way to Jo-burg for the first leg of our vacation, my Peace Corps buddies and I paused to reflect. We had all immediately upon meeting expunged some of what I’ve come to think of as typical “toxicity” complaining about our sites and cultural struggles. We were ready for a break. Don’t get me wrong, the people I was with love villages the way I love Seronga. If anyone talked a word of smack about any of the places we’ve come to think of as home (other than ourselves of course) we’d go rounds like the “Sharks and Jets”. Existing in a foreign culture is a constant internal fugue of a battle between indignation, acceptance, understanding, and striving for change. My friend A captured it exactly when she stated “I’m just ready to be confused and slightly offended by a new and different African culture and language for a while.” She certainly called that one.
As we crossed the border (and event marked by the introduction of a young man whom shall remain known as the Mexican Harry Potter- he turns up later in the story) for the first time in nearly 9 months to South Africa, vacation officially began. It was weird to retrace our steps from when we first got here and the people we were then. As we got nearer to Jo-Burg we noticed McDonalds and other cosmopolitan establishments, and the kind of scenery that totally resembles places in Arizona or California. You could have totally told me that’s where we were and I might have believed you. These things hadn’t struck us the first time through when we were green off the plane. Back then I was busy waxing poetic about the red dust of Africa (which incidentally is not very common in my new home of Botswana… The dirt is nearly white in Gumare but that is as close to interesting dirt as I’ve come across here…) to notice that the “villages” we were driving through would now strike me as incredibly suburban…
To be in a major (sorry Gabs) capitol city for the first time in nearly a year was incredibly weird. It was like stepping out of the life I know I live for some strange alternate reality. Not to say that I didn’t enjoy it, it was way easier to do than I thought it would be. We had great food in Joburg, I got my hair cut (I cannot tell you how exciting that was!! A shoulder massage by the shampoo lady! I was nearly brought to tears by the “almost Aveda” scent permeating the air…) and we were again on our way. It was strange to be able to speak English and realize everyone would automatically understand you, and I found my Setswinglish phrases hard to completely let go of. It got worse the farther from home we got.
The next day we again took another magic bus (with movies and air conditioning! What!?!) and as we crossed the border to Mozambique what began as a light drizzle became a deluge of rain shortly before we reached Maputo. The bus broke down (only for about an hour and a half) and in flooded streets we arrived at our backpackers. A was now coming a bit out of her Bendryl induced coma to enjoy the festivities. We could find nothing but soggy burgers and Fanta to compliment the diet of Fanta and bread that we had been enjoying all day to this point, but it was all still in good fun. The landscape had come to be increasingly tropical and beautiful and more closely resembling my preconceived notions of what I thought Africa would look like pre-PC. It was the next morning that we entered the hell bus portion of our journey.
The next leg of our journey is a bit traumatizing to recount and large gaps have likely been struck from the record that is my memory, but I’ll just say that it put my 14 hour overnight Semanta Santa Barcelona to Seville trip to shame. The highlights were being able to buy some fresh fruit that must be some member of the mango family from the aisle of the bus and then having standing-while-the-bus-is-moving-over-horrifying-flooded-out-ruts contests with A once the crowd thinned out after our bus change during the last four hour leg of the trip. I now realize that I am completely amiss in calling the 10.5 hour bus trip from Maun to Gabs the “dehydration express.” I have now realized that the Vilanculous Express is the rightful holder of that title as there is only 1 sanctioned potty break, and no hoof and mouth gates or ID check points on which to relieve oneself. What a new and fun learning experience!
It was once we arrived in Vilanculous that the translation fun for which this blog entry is titled occurred. The national language of Mozambique is Portuguese. Which I’ve heard resembles Spanish. When I was in Costa Rica for two weeks in high school I was dreaming in Spanish so I figured this would be easy! In my own mind I am still very able to pick up languages quite easily (with of course the exclusion of the Bantu family of languages which I’ve determined I have little hope of ever understanding). I was ready for this challenge.
Walking along the streets of Vilanculous a strange thing happened. I started hearing select words in Setswana. What??!! This is impossible. I determined that this must be the local tribal language. (Which I have since been told does not resemble Setswana in the slightest.) Oh boy. I was hearing this craziness and continuously reconfirming with C- she was having none of my delusion. Upon arriving in Moz, we would often try to speak English, or when the locals appeared to be confused by that, we would go for the ever less likely option of Setswana. In an irony befitting of these conditions I could not evoke the Spanish that danced like sugarplums in my head for all of pre service training and prohibited my intake of Setswana. By the end of the trip I was speaking a very poor combination of Setswana, English, Ubonicks and Spanish complimented by sweeping gestures that might resemble Central Asian Sign Language.
At one point I decided to delve completely into “cultural integration” and thought it would be entertaining to learn to say “two headless hammerheaded sharks” in the local language. (We had found them on the beach. It made sense at the time.) We were lucky in several instances to have with us our very own Mexicans, (it seems we again ran into our buddy the Mexican Harry Potter from Jo-Burg and adopted him and his sister into our motley crew) who in addition to providing us the idea of “an hour without a Mexican” (a play on the title of a film a few years back with great concept and crap execution) that we constantly made fun of… and to translate the Portuguese (and our crazy American demands- sometimes in places where you can walk into an actual restaurant you get crazy expectations in your head about what might be a reasonable request-no onions?) with their Spanish skillz.
One thing I unexpectedly, (but happily) got a vacation from was my status as “strange white rich person”. One of the first things I noticed as we disembarked in Vilanculous was that no one was staring at us because we are white. It took me a while to settle back into the policy of not greeting every single person that walked by me. When the Mozambicans did approach us, it was rarely to beg, more often it was to sell us something they had made or caught. I noticed that they addressed us with the inclusive salutation of “my sister” rather than the exclusive “Lekgowa” which emphasizes our differences. Several times we asked people to help us find something, which in Botswana (for me at least) can often end with a held out hand, whereas in Mozambique it was just a wave and a smile. Now I realize the grass is always greener, but I left feeling distinctly jealous of Peace Corps Vilanculous.
All this aside, I am happy to be back in Seronga. People greeted me in my village like I had been gone for decades, and immediately set about teaching me how to say in “compliments of the New Year” in Setswana. At least there are always some places one knows what to expect…
Friday, February 13, 2009
Mo Mesticals, Mo Problems: Tales of a Mozambican Adventure
Mo mesticals, mo problems: Tales of a Mozambican Adventure
In retrospect, it was my own fault…..
A and C had announced their intention to do a Christmas/New Years Mozambique holiday back in September, and I was honored to be on the invite list. Along with Rainbow Brite, there were four of us, and this is, in my humble opinion, absolutely the only number of humans with which to travel. Two and you might get sick of each other, 3 you’re likely to have an odd one out, any more than 4 and there’s no chance of fitting in one room together, and finding enough bus seats is a trauma. This way we can split into twos and everyone is nearly always happy.
I told them I wouldn’t be able to really help with the planning of the vacation (what with all my copious amounts of internet time I simply cannot imagine why not) but promised to be thrilled with whatever they came up with so long as it encompassed a beach (and seafood). I let them know I trusted them completely and told them to tell me when and where to show up and who to cut a check to.
In retrospect the bright side of the needle stick incident (and let’s all remember, there’s a positive side to every situation, and I’m thankful that this one did not end in a positive HIV status!!!) is that I was able to have one of the most productive days in the last 6 months of my life while in Gabs- I got my passport visa for Mozambique (as well as my replacement mouth guard… what what!) and many other errands done. The visa business is the only reason I had any idea when we were even going to be in another country. I heard about the name of the village location I would be staying at from another PCV completely as there was another group going to Mozambique during that time and she had spoken with Rainbow Brite about our itinerary.
I’ve discovered that this is the type of traveler I occasionally like to be (Although I tend to be the tour guide Nazi with my mom and sister. I have also been blessed to find enough friends who like planning trips in my life that many times I’ve been able to just exist in a state of ignorance and show up with a smile and some sunscreen). I seem to like the element of surprise on my holidays. Just showing up and doing whatever I’m told to do and I’ve been generally thrilled with the results. This might sound lazy of me (and of that fact you would be correct…) but every ship can only have so many captains and I always thought I looked better in the Skipper’s stripes!
So what is the point of confessing my deepest darkest travel secrets to the world via this blog, besides of course providing you all with cheap laughs(?) I felt I must give you some background from which to understand what occurred on the Mozambican holiday.
So off I go, eager for my adventure to a country I knew nothing about. In my defense I did buy a travel magazine with the word Mozambique in big bold type on the cover- the pictures were beautiful- but I didn’t really get around to opening the free with purchase map or reading any of the articles until we were well into the country. I certainly wasn’t as prepared as A, who had compiled a list of useful phrases in Portuguese such as, “Am I being arrested?” and “Are you married?” She also took it upon herself to figure out the details of the currency exchange rates, and I have to tell you, by the time we crossed customs in Mozambique and were withdrawing what ended up being the fourth currency we were operating in from the cash machine (the first three were Pula, Rand, and American dollars) we were having a challenge finding the correct coins and bills to buy a drink. They had started mentioning the Mozambican money back at a bar in Jo-Burg, (I’m of the belief that they may have specifically waited for me to be a bit off my game…) and they quickly informed me (before hiding their grins behind their hands) that the currency of Mozambique was the “mestical.”
Yup that rhymes with exactly the male body part that is immediately brought to mind when the word is said out loud. (Pause for you to try it. Ok. Moving on). They let this little joke ride just long enough for actual learning to occur in my brain, and I was stuck with it for vacation. When I couldn’t manage to make my brain evoke mestical, I usually came up with metrical, madrigal, or magical. None, of course, which are correct. (the currency of Mozambique is called the meticais, although for your next Mozambican holiday I recommend using mestical for it’s hilarity inducing properties. Hell, use it for the currency for your next vacation to Mexico. It’s funny!) It became a running joke through the holiday, bartering with the locals in mesticals, (we undoubtedly got screwed left and right on this one), making bets and dares in increments of 100,000 mesticals, (the exchange rate is 24 to 1 with the American dollar) and making up rap song titles using our new beloved currency.
Now why where would we get the idea what we could use mesticals as the theme for song titles you ask? Well this stems from the incident in which I may have accidentally cut my head on the gate that stood between me and the beach at the backpackers we were staying at. It was a tricky descent to navigate when sober, in the daylight when it was dry, so it was completely understandable that the rainy and wet, dark, slightly intoxicated conditions I was operating under I may have slipped. The cut was tiny, but the next morning I made the joke that I had given myself a “Drunken Gash.” Now if this isn’t the perfect name for a band I’m not sure what is!?! I may have even seen them on MTV during my formative years of hair bands and sad country music!
The band idea was provoked by the entertainment at the bar and restaurant we stopped by after our amazing New Year’s Eve dinner (I swear I may have died and gone to heaven. Fancy, nice food, Edith Piaf on the stereo, my girls around me, it was amazing!!!) was this South African chick with fluorescent Barbie inspired extensions in her hair singing covers to bad 80’s songs to a karaoke machine. She even had wardrobe changes. We speculated that she might belong on a cruise ship somewhere and immediately decided to form our own band of us doing covers of her covers. The marketing joke for this particular idea was to give away a free bottle of Arby’s Horsy Sauce to anyone who bought a copy of our first CD, which would be recorded live at TGI Fridays. I have to say that one of the most entertaining parts of this vacation was to be able to make wildly ridiculous jokes that didn’t have to be explained through a ten minute back story. With Americans you all just “get it”. I didn’t realize how much I had missed that.
With all this hilarity, you might wonder if anything went wrong on this vacation. Up to now it sounds like all laughs sunshine. Of course we had some mishaps. There were some episodes that would have made the cut for National Lampoons African Vacation. It rained over half the time we were on holiday, but of course generally not while it would have had a lovely cooling effect while we were on any of our massively long and miserable bus rides. And the rain I speak of was not a little Botswana style afternoon shower to cool us down and then allow us back out to frolic on the beaches. It was torrential, occasionally painful or blinding downpours. There was no hot water at the backpackers we spent most of our time in Vilanculous at, or really even solid walls to provide much mosquito protection. We were all sandy, cold and wet for much of the time, as was nearly all of our stuff. I’ll let you imagine how all that began to smell. Don’t forget to add in the saltwater. The buses we had to take left us with people literally sitting in our laps and on our armrests, with small children vomiting from the sickness that comes from standing in the aisle and a straight diet of Fanta, bread and candy that appears to be a common meal on Mozambican 12 hour bus rides with loud Portuguese music and bad pop songs in English playing the entire way. There was literally so little leg room that at one point I woke up and couldn’t feel my feet. With A’s help I maneuvered them up only to be confronted by cankles and feet that resembled hooves. A and C accidentally left things at one of the hostels. My wallet was MIA for a while. Rainbow Brite got what was probably third degree sunburns on the backs of her thighs, and I cut my foot pretty badly (narrowly missing my tat… that one’s gonna leave a scar) during our snorkeling boat adventure (probably needed stitches but what can you do?). How did we make it through the vacation without killing each other you ask? How can this possibly go down in my memory as one of the most fun vacations ever?
Throughout the course of the trip we came up with a brilliant concept I plan on implementing on every trip I ever take again (consider yourself warned). This is known as the blame game. We decided early on in the trip that we would each take a day in rotation to be held responsible for anything we might be pissed off about, or that went wrong. It had the effect of making everything into a joke and preventing a lot of tension or frustration from building. An excerpt below.
Me: “Rainbow Brite, why did you make it rain on our vacation today? And why am I hungover? Why did you make me cut my foot on that coral?”
RB: “I don’t know, Jen, but I certainly am sorry. All these things certainly are my fault. I’ll work to make the sun shine tomorrow. Preferably out your ass. And that cut will certainly always remind you of what a fun time we’ve had in the rain on this vacation, won’t it?”
Cue the hysterical laughing from all involved parties and witnesses. And a great time was had by all….
In retrospect, it was my own fault…..
A and C had announced their intention to do a Christmas/New Years Mozambique holiday back in September, and I was honored to be on the invite list. Along with Rainbow Brite, there were four of us, and this is, in my humble opinion, absolutely the only number of humans with which to travel. Two and you might get sick of each other, 3 you’re likely to have an odd one out, any more than 4 and there’s no chance of fitting in one room together, and finding enough bus seats is a trauma. This way we can split into twos and everyone is nearly always happy.
I told them I wouldn’t be able to really help with the planning of the vacation (what with all my copious amounts of internet time I simply cannot imagine why not) but promised to be thrilled with whatever they came up with so long as it encompassed a beach (and seafood). I let them know I trusted them completely and told them to tell me when and where to show up and who to cut a check to.
In retrospect the bright side of the needle stick incident (and let’s all remember, there’s a positive side to every situation, and I’m thankful that this one did not end in a positive HIV status!!!) is that I was able to have one of the most productive days in the last 6 months of my life while in Gabs- I got my passport visa for Mozambique (as well as my replacement mouth guard… what what!) and many other errands done. The visa business is the only reason I had any idea when we were even going to be in another country. I heard about the name of the village location I would be staying at from another PCV completely as there was another group going to Mozambique during that time and she had spoken with Rainbow Brite about our itinerary.
I’ve discovered that this is the type of traveler I occasionally like to be (Although I tend to be the tour guide Nazi with my mom and sister. I have also been blessed to find enough friends who like planning trips in my life that many times I’ve been able to just exist in a state of ignorance and show up with a smile and some sunscreen). I seem to like the element of surprise on my holidays. Just showing up and doing whatever I’m told to do and I’ve been generally thrilled with the results. This might sound lazy of me (and of that fact you would be correct…) but every ship can only have so many captains and I always thought I looked better in the Skipper’s stripes!
So what is the point of confessing my deepest darkest travel secrets to the world via this blog, besides of course providing you all with cheap laughs(?) I felt I must give you some background from which to understand what occurred on the Mozambican holiday.
So off I go, eager for my adventure to a country I knew nothing about. In my defense I did buy a travel magazine with the word Mozambique in big bold type on the cover- the pictures were beautiful- but I didn’t really get around to opening the free with purchase map or reading any of the articles until we were well into the country. I certainly wasn’t as prepared as A, who had compiled a list of useful phrases in Portuguese such as, “Am I being arrested?” and “Are you married?” She also took it upon herself to figure out the details of the currency exchange rates, and I have to tell you, by the time we crossed customs in Mozambique and were withdrawing what ended up being the fourth currency we were operating in from the cash machine (the first three were Pula, Rand, and American dollars) we were having a challenge finding the correct coins and bills to buy a drink. They had started mentioning the Mozambican money back at a bar in Jo-Burg, (I’m of the belief that they may have specifically waited for me to be a bit off my game…) and they quickly informed me (before hiding their grins behind their hands) that the currency of Mozambique was the “mestical.”
Yup that rhymes with exactly the male body part that is immediately brought to mind when the word is said out loud. (Pause for you to try it. Ok. Moving on). They let this little joke ride just long enough for actual learning to occur in my brain, and I was stuck with it for vacation. When I couldn’t manage to make my brain evoke mestical, I usually came up with metrical, madrigal, or magical. None, of course, which are correct. (the currency of Mozambique is called the meticais, although for your next Mozambican holiday I recommend using mestical for it’s hilarity inducing properties. Hell, use it for the currency for your next vacation to Mexico. It’s funny!) It became a running joke through the holiday, bartering with the locals in mesticals, (we undoubtedly got screwed left and right on this one), making bets and dares in increments of 100,000 mesticals, (the exchange rate is 24 to 1 with the American dollar) and making up rap song titles using our new beloved currency.
Now why where would we get the idea what we could use mesticals as the theme for song titles you ask? Well this stems from the incident in which I may have accidentally cut my head on the gate that stood between me and the beach at the backpackers we were staying at. It was a tricky descent to navigate when sober, in the daylight when it was dry, so it was completely understandable that the rainy and wet, dark, slightly intoxicated conditions I was operating under I may have slipped. The cut was tiny, but the next morning I made the joke that I had given myself a “Drunken Gash.” Now if this isn’t the perfect name for a band I’m not sure what is!?! I may have even seen them on MTV during my formative years of hair bands and sad country music!
The band idea was provoked by the entertainment at the bar and restaurant we stopped by after our amazing New Year’s Eve dinner (I swear I may have died and gone to heaven. Fancy, nice food, Edith Piaf on the stereo, my girls around me, it was amazing!!!) was this South African chick with fluorescent Barbie inspired extensions in her hair singing covers to bad 80’s songs to a karaoke machine. She even had wardrobe changes. We speculated that she might belong on a cruise ship somewhere and immediately decided to form our own band of us doing covers of her covers. The marketing joke for this particular idea was to give away a free bottle of Arby’s Horsy Sauce to anyone who bought a copy of our first CD, which would be recorded live at TGI Fridays. I have to say that one of the most entertaining parts of this vacation was to be able to make wildly ridiculous jokes that didn’t have to be explained through a ten minute back story. With Americans you all just “get it”. I didn’t realize how much I had missed that.
With all this hilarity, you might wonder if anything went wrong on this vacation. Up to now it sounds like all laughs sunshine. Of course we had some mishaps. There were some episodes that would have made the cut for National Lampoons African Vacation. It rained over half the time we were on holiday, but of course generally not while it would have had a lovely cooling effect while we were on any of our massively long and miserable bus rides. And the rain I speak of was not a little Botswana style afternoon shower to cool us down and then allow us back out to frolic on the beaches. It was torrential, occasionally painful or blinding downpours. There was no hot water at the backpackers we spent most of our time in Vilanculous at, or really even solid walls to provide much mosquito protection. We were all sandy, cold and wet for much of the time, as was nearly all of our stuff. I’ll let you imagine how all that began to smell. Don’t forget to add in the saltwater. The buses we had to take left us with people literally sitting in our laps and on our armrests, with small children vomiting from the sickness that comes from standing in the aisle and a straight diet of Fanta, bread and candy that appears to be a common meal on Mozambican 12 hour bus rides with loud Portuguese music and bad pop songs in English playing the entire way. There was literally so little leg room that at one point I woke up and couldn’t feel my feet. With A’s help I maneuvered them up only to be confronted by cankles and feet that resembled hooves. A and C accidentally left things at one of the hostels. My wallet was MIA for a while. Rainbow Brite got what was probably third degree sunburns on the backs of her thighs, and I cut my foot pretty badly (narrowly missing my tat… that one’s gonna leave a scar) during our snorkeling boat adventure (probably needed stitches but what can you do?). How did we make it through the vacation without killing each other you ask? How can this possibly go down in my memory as one of the most fun vacations ever?
Throughout the course of the trip we came up with a brilliant concept I plan on implementing on every trip I ever take again (consider yourself warned). This is known as the blame game. We decided early on in the trip that we would each take a day in rotation to be held responsible for anything we might be pissed off about, or that went wrong. It had the effect of making everything into a joke and preventing a lot of tension or frustration from building. An excerpt below.
Me: “Rainbow Brite, why did you make it rain on our vacation today? And why am I hungover? Why did you make me cut my foot on that coral?”
RB: “I don’t know, Jen, but I certainly am sorry. All these things certainly are my fault. I’ll work to make the sun shine tomorrow. Preferably out your ass. And that cut will certainly always remind you of what a fun time we’ve had in the rain on this vacation, won’t it?”
Cue the hysterical laughing from all involved parties and witnesses. And a great time was had by all….
Monday, January 19, 2009
"Ke Teng"
In Setswana, a common question after the greeting of Dumella is “le kae”. The common response is “ke teng.” It means, quite literally “I’m here.” Now Setswana seems to be a bit of a rote learning process for me, in that the only things I’ve picked up have been repeated endlessly, or drilled into my brain through some crazy unknown force, or my feeble attempts at making jokes (o a fosa means, politely, “you’re lying”. I‘ve taken to using it to mean anything from “bullshit” to “no kidding,” and occasionally the proper translation of what I’m saying is “you, you’re lying.” It really throws people when I use it to describe someone else, and use it in the “you” form so it appears as though I’m saying “they, you’re lying”. What a mess.)
If I’m honest with myself (and via this blog, the entirety of the www exposed universe) it’s been a long time since I considered learning Setswana to be high on the priority list. I realized day one that I would never be fluent (when P asked during the first day of language training the difference between how to say light blue and light green, bless his heart, I knew it was quite nearly over for me) and although I’ve had some “come to Jesus” moments in which I got really fired up about learning it, I’m relatively ok with this inadequacy in myself (how’s that for personal growth and acceptance!). There are some exceptionally kind souls at the clinic who think they can burn the language into my head by speaking it nearly exclusively to me, which usually involves them speaking to me in Setswana, me translating what they’ve said to English, responding in English, and translating my response into broken Setswinglish. Out loud. I now understand why people are late for meetings here. Perhaps they are all teaching some idiot American Setswana. Oh, the patience they have! (which I subsequently doubt, like Setswana, that I will ever really learn).
But to depart from this language lesson (yeah, you’re welcome) the point of what I’m trying to say is that while I say the words that mean “I’m here” nearly a thousand times a day, they generally mean nothing. (And now where is she going?)
I’m here. I’ve finally come to accept it. I think the shock has worn nearly completely off into at least a mild bemusement. Things in general are less shocking, frightening, annoying, and tough to deal with. I laugh more. Yes- it’s occasionally still to avoid crying but it’s laughing nonetheless. Although Seronga and I are still engaged in what seems to be our never-ending battle of wills, it’s much friendlier, with me smiling out at the village and grinning “ha, you got me this time! Score one team you” when I am surprised by something I thought I knew. And I find myself pumping my fist much more gracefully and doing less end zone prancing on the days when I win. I find myself longing to get back to this place when I’m away for a while, and finally understand what Kagiso and Warona (the two PCV’s that served in Seronga before me) mean when they say they miss this place. Somewhere between lizards and losing sleep in the heat, this place became my home. And I love her…
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…
Sunday, January 11, 2009
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.
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.
To Catch a Thief.....
This blog is the result of pent up frustrations..... Proceed with caution...
Back in September, when I returned from training, I came home to a clean house. Living in Botswana marks one of the first times I've ever lived completely on my own. There is no longer anyone to blame my mess on, to nag about buying toilet paper when it runs out, or to help me remember where I put any number of items I'm prone to misplacing. Along with having to cook for myself (although really, thank God for Simon cause he takes care of a ton in this particular category) and clean up after myself, but also realize the beauty of a clean house after returning home after time away.
Despite the cleanliness after being away for a few weeks I found myself having a difficult time finding things. There seemed to be less cash around than I remembered hiding and locking behind doors and in drawers. I could have sworn I left some booze in the house. When I couldn't find my CD player which was the only thing providing me any sense of normalcy. I felt a fist of discomfort gripping my stomach. Someone had been in my house.
I had followed all the Peace Corps safety and security measures. I had put anything of value out of sight, locked everything behind cupboard doors and put the keys away. I had taken my laptop with me, but the more I looked around the more stuff I realized was missing. Trying to remain calm, which has been the most successful course of action I've found in these situations, I began to make a list of all the things I could remember as previously being here.
There had been no sign of forced entry. I knew that my landlord had the key, this seemed standard from my experience with landlords. I had even smiled and encouraged the girl that was my age who lived on my compound to feel free to charge her cell phone on the solar battery in my place whenever she needed to (in my attempt at neighborly friendliness). I hadn't seen her around when I returned home, which narrowed the suspect list. On the compound in which I live there were somewhere between 2 and 5 young teenagish boys that often play loud traditional music at obnoxious hours of the day and night. It was these boys I found myself confronting after "making a plan" and attempting to calm myself down from the rage and irritation I felt running through me. To accuse someone of stealing in Botswana is a serious deal, and it's made more so due to the fact that my family compound is owned by the sister of the Kgosi (chief) which makes things exceptionally difficult as involving the police then becomes a big problem. To have someone come into my house, with their key, as my landlords, in a foreign country and steal from me as I am living in their community, volunteering to try and help was a new level of low and betrayal for me.
So. I went to the door of the building of the compound that was showing the most signs of life. I greeted the boys with my best attempt at politeness and ungritted teeth with the usual greetings and informed the oldest person there (which ended up being the boyfriend of the sister on the compound whom I usually trusted) that some of my things were "missing" and that perhaps someone had "borrowed" them, but that I needed them back, "now now."
The next morning I opened my door to find three of the things I had realized I was missing as well as four things I hadn't yet discovered were missing. I informed the boyfriend guy that some things had been returned, but that I was still missing many of my things. He looked at the shoe prints in the sand outside my house and agreed that it was, indeed, the boys.
After realizing that indeed someone had been in my place while I was gone and stolen from me (most of the stuff had been locked out of sight) I tried to figure out what I hadn't yet discovered was missing. I don't know if you've ever been through a similar experience, or could ever realize what you have in your home at any given time, but I was having a tough time. I figured I was missing somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 pula (I usually had to have lots of cash on hand as the nearest bank is a flight away at Maun) -this was my best estimate- and there had been several times over the last month when I would be looking for my cash and be sure that there had been more there than currently was there. This is around a third of my monthly allowance. I was also missing some jewelery, batteries, food, random electronics, American cash, ect, ect, ect.
Things continued to reappear, generally at my prompting (read threatening)- mentioning that I would eventually need to go to the police, that Peace Corps would step in, so on, so forth. I sat down with the daughter (her mother is the Kgosi's sister has been there maybe twice since I've lived there) and her boyfriend and the boys. It was a highly unsatisfying meeting in which the boys smirked at me the whole time, and the sister gave her best impression of embarrassment. They admitted that the boys had taken the stuff, I encouraged them to search their rooms again for any additional stuff and was appalled at the amount of pens, nailpolish, plug adaptors and general loot that came out of there. I was trying my hardest to give them the benefit of the doubt and to trust that their sense of right and wrong and perhaps a sense of shame over their behavior would kick in, and in many ways I'm still waiting. I had hoped that I could trust them to just be honest about whether they had stolen anything else, and I've since discovered that they were actually capable of looking directly into my eyes and lying to me. We arranged a repayment plan, and I extracted a promise that they would replace the items that were eaten and drank.
I informed the Peace Corps and they have been working on continuously following up with the landlord, who is now there even less than before. Things have gotten a bit awkward as I have repeatedly had to ask them both for my things back, as well as to install the burglar bars they promised to install after the crazy dude came to my door in August. The guy had come to install them and put them on the wrong building completely. My solar battery has also been steadily dying (something that the district has told me is the landlords responsibility as they pay 300 pula per month for rent-which is supposed to include water and electric for that price) and I'm down to less than an hour of electric light at night, that of course is if I don't have to charge anything or don't try to hook my ipod up to the solar battery inverter to listen to some tunes. It's an either or type situation.
It's all been exceedingly awkward and unpleasant as time (and the deadlines in which they promised to repay me) have passed. I try to be polite and not have every interaction we have be about the stuff, but they began to treat me as though I was the one who had stolen from them when I would ask for my money. I've looked around the village and inquired as to options for other housing, on the police compound (full time electricity from the loud generator--- so worth it) there are no openings, the clinic can't even house their doctors. The school teachers are doubled up sharing and so there is no hope there. My options are...non-existent.
In mid December the Peace Corps called me with a report from the landlord that they were planning on evicting me at the end of the month, a report of which, of course no one had made to me. Among my alleged infringements were that I was not happy there based on how much time I spent at Simon's in the evening for dinner, as well as the fact that I was not feeding and taking care of the dog they had "given me for protection"(and who has incidentally lived there for at least as long as the previous Peace Corps before me). There was a laundry list of other things that together just ended up proving to me that I am not as wonderfully integrated into this culture as I had previously thought. The Peace Corps safety and security officer (who deserves a raise just for all the shit he has had to deal with as a result of my issues) came up and negotiated with the landlords so that it sounds like I can stay. The last I had heard they were saying they hadn't yet been paid from June (which isn't completely true as the PCV at the district office told me he has been seeing the expense reports for my housing and checks going through). More excitement sure to follow as I get back site.
I write this blog mostly as something to be included in what will end up being my record of the whole of my experience here. I'm not really incredibly bothered on an intense level about it on a daily basis about it, I'd just like this aspect of my daily life and Peace Corps living situation to be definitively over. It's been a long drawn out process, and at the end of the day, yes, it's just stuff. I'm eating the value of a quite a bit of stuff in relation to the way I live here, and it's just annoying. I'm more bothered by the lack of shame or personal responsibility I've seen from the people who are supposed to be my "family" here and taking care of me. My emotions on the whole thing go from rage and hurt to the sensation of a blunt sliver that's been stuck in the bottom of my foot to the point of infection, it's just really annoying and I want to be done with the situation and through with the awkward negotiations. I'm sorry to say that it has really been one of the things that has given me a sour taste about this culture, and yes I realize you don't make generalizations based on isolated incidents, but really, I am not their first Peace Corps Volunteer living on the property, and after speaking with the one who lived there before me he had his suspicions as well. The whole thing falls under the umbrella of "things I wish were different but aren't" at this point, life goes on, ect, ect. Whatever.
Back in September, when I returned from training, I came home to a clean house. Living in Botswana marks one of the first times I've ever lived completely on my own. There is no longer anyone to blame my mess on, to nag about buying toilet paper when it runs out, or to help me remember where I put any number of items I'm prone to misplacing. Along with having to cook for myself (although really, thank God for Simon cause he takes care of a ton in this particular category) and clean up after myself, but also realize the beauty of a clean house after returning home after time away.
Despite the cleanliness after being away for a few weeks I found myself having a difficult time finding things. There seemed to be less cash around than I remembered hiding and locking behind doors and in drawers. I could have sworn I left some booze in the house. When I couldn't find my CD player which was the only thing providing me any sense of normalcy. I felt a fist of discomfort gripping my stomach. Someone had been in my house.
I had followed all the Peace Corps safety and security measures. I had put anything of value out of sight, locked everything behind cupboard doors and put the keys away. I had taken my laptop with me, but the more I looked around the more stuff I realized was missing. Trying to remain calm, which has been the most successful course of action I've found in these situations, I began to make a list of all the things I could remember as previously being here.
There had been no sign of forced entry. I knew that my landlord had the key, this seemed standard from my experience with landlords. I had even smiled and encouraged the girl that was my age who lived on my compound to feel free to charge her cell phone on the solar battery in my place whenever she needed to (in my attempt at neighborly friendliness). I hadn't seen her around when I returned home, which narrowed the suspect list. On the compound in which I live there were somewhere between 2 and 5 young teenagish boys that often play loud traditional music at obnoxious hours of the day and night. It was these boys I found myself confronting after "making a plan" and attempting to calm myself down from the rage and irritation I felt running through me. To accuse someone of stealing in Botswana is a serious deal, and it's made more so due to the fact that my family compound is owned by the sister of the Kgosi (chief) which makes things exceptionally difficult as involving the police then becomes a big problem. To have someone come into my house, with their key, as my landlords, in a foreign country and steal from me as I am living in their community, volunteering to try and help was a new level of low and betrayal for me.
So. I went to the door of the building of the compound that was showing the most signs of life. I greeted the boys with my best attempt at politeness and ungritted teeth with the usual greetings and informed the oldest person there (which ended up being the boyfriend of the sister on the compound whom I usually trusted) that some of my things were "missing" and that perhaps someone had "borrowed" them, but that I needed them back, "now now."
The next morning I opened my door to find three of the things I had realized I was missing as well as four things I hadn't yet discovered were missing. I informed the boyfriend guy that some things had been returned, but that I was still missing many of my things. He looked at the shoe prints in the sand outside my house and agreed that it was, indeed, the boys.
After realizing that indeed someone had been in my place while I was gone and stolen from me (most of the stuff had been locked out of sight) I tried to figure out what I hadn't yet discovered was missing. I don't know if you've ever been through a similar experience, or could ever realize what you have in your home at any given time, but I was having a tough time. I figured I was missing somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 pula (I usually had to have lots of cash on hand as the nearest bank is a flight away at Maun) -this was my best estimate- and there had been several times over the last month when I would be looking for my cash and be sure that there had been more there than currently was there. This is around a third of my monthly allowance. I was also missing some jewelery, batteries, food, random electronics, American cash, ect, ect, ect.
Things continued to reappear, generally at my prompting (read threatening)- mentioning that I would eventually need to go to the police, that Peace Corps would step in, so on, so forth. I sat down with the daughter (her mother is the Kgosi's sister has been there maybe twice since I've lived there) and her boyfriend and the boys. It was a highly unsatisfying meeting in which the boys smirked at me the whole time, and the sister gave her best impression of embarrassment. They admitted that the boys had taken the stuff, I encouraged them to search their rooms again for any additional stuff and was appalled at the amount of pens, nailpolish, plug adaptors and general loot that came out of there. I was trying my hardest to give them the benefit of the doubt and to trust that their sense of right and wrong and perhaps a sense of shame over their behavior would kick in, and in many ways I'm still waiting. I had hoped that I could trust them to just be honest about whether they had stolen anything else, and I've since discovered that they were actually capable of looking directly into my eyes and lying to me. We arranged a repayment plan, and I extracted a promise that they would replace the items that were eaten and drank.
I informed the Peace Corps and they have been working on continuously following up with the landlord, who is now there even less than before. Things have gotten a bit awkward as I have repeatedly had to ask them both for my things back, as well as to install the burglar bars they promised to install after the crazy dude came to my door in August. The guy had come to install them and put them on the wrong building completely. My solar battery has also been steadily dying (something that the district has told me is the landlords responsibility as they pay 300 pula per month for rent-which is supposed to include water and electric for that price) and I'm down to less than an hour of electric light at night, that of course is if I don't have to charge anything or don't try to hook my ipod up to the solar battery inverter to listen to some tunes. It's an either or type situation.
It's all been exceedingly awkward and unpleasant as time (and the deadlines in which they promised to repay me) have passed. I try to be polite and not have every interaction we have be about the stuff, but they began to treat me as though I was the one who had stolen from them when I would ask for my money. I've looked around the village and inquired as to options for other housing, on the police compound (full time electricity from the loud generator--- so worth it) there are no openings, the clinic can't even house their doctors. The school teachers are doubled up sharing and so there is no hope there. My options are...non-existent.
In mid December the Peace Corps called me with a report from the landlord that they were planning on evicting me at the end of the month, a report of which, of course no one had made to me. Among my alleged infringements were that I was not happy there based on how much time I spent at Simon's in the evening for dinner, as well as the fact that I was not feeding and taking care of the dog they had "given me for protection"(and who has incidentally lived there for at least as long as the previous Peace Corps before me). There was a laundry list of other things that together just ended up proving to me that I am not as wonderfully integrated into this culture as I had previously thought. The Peace Corps safety and security officer (who deserves a raise just for all the shit he has had to deal with as a result of my issues) came up and negotiated with the landlords so that it sounds like I can stay. The last I had heard they were saying they hadn't yet been paid from June (which isn't completely true as the PCV at the district office told me he has been seeing the expense reports for my housing and checks going through). More excitement sure to follow as I get back site.
I write this blog mostly as something to be included in what will end up being my record of the whole of my experience here. I'm not really incredibly bothered on an intense level about it on a daily basis about it, I'd just like this aspect of my daily life and Peace Corps living situation to be definitively over. It's been a long drawn out process, and at the end of the day, yes, it's just stuff. I'm eating the value of a quite a bit of stuff in relation to the way I live here, and it's just annoying. I'm more bothered by the lack of shame or personal responsibility I've seen from the people who are supposed to be my "family" here and taking care of me. My emotions on the whole thing go from rage and hurt to the sensation of a blunt sliver that's been stuck in the bottom of my foot to the point of infection, it's just really annoying and I want to be done with the situation and through with the awkward negotiations. I'm sorry to say that it has really been one of the things that has given me a sour taste about this culture, and yes I realize you don't make generalizations based on isolated incidents, but really, I am not their first Peace Corps Volunteer living on the property, and after speaking with the one who lived there before me he had his suspicions as well. The whole thing falls under the umbrella of "things I wish were different but aren't" at this point, life goes on, ect, ect. Whatever.
Do they know it's Christmas time in Africa....?
So the festive season came to Botswana. It was marked by decorations being put up in malls (I happened to have been in Gabs, where they actually have malls, prior to Halloween, at which point they had already begun decorating for Christmas), more extreme heat, and horrible reception on the cell phones for the entire month... ( I apologize to those who spent so much time and effort trying to call or text only to get cut off....or for it not to have gone through at all- welcome to the frustrations that can encompass life in the bush).
Being so far away from home and the consumerism, wrapping paper and snow that marks the annual onslaught of the holiday season for me as a Minnesotan, Christmas was a bit different for me this year. On my last trip from Gabs I purchased some art supplies with the intent of making Christmas cards, and genuinely tried to make a few (I completed about three). Between trying to calculate the postal time it would take any cards I made to get to their destination (a feat which has become increasingly difficult as the boat that brings the post from Sepopa (after it makes a nearly 80 km journey over the land in a truck from Shaks) has broken down... allegedly to be repaired in the New Year. It recently took over three weeks to get a piece of mail from Seronga to Gaborone. I give up.) and feeling inspired and artistic and meaningful it was a struggle. It was sort of all I could do to just focus on vacation every day until I left. I apologize.
Whenever I thought of home and family and all the chaos that surrounds the holiday season, the parties, the traditions, I usually became completely uninterested in continuing the project. I found it was rather easy and maybe even pleasant to ignore the holidays, which had more to do with missing those I've spent every Christmas of my life with thus far than the fact that it really didn't feel like Christmas for me here. I would say the largest part of my bad Christmas behavior had to do more with avoiding the deep depression that was lurking around my life during that particular time than being a Grinch.
That being said I did do some things that indicate at least a half hearted effort to commemorate the birth of Christ. If nothing else it was really crazy to think to myself that it was two years ago Christmas Eve that I decided to undertake this crazy adventure of joining the Peace Corps. As evidenced by my continual attempt at stalking those from my former life on Facebook I realized I have been here long enough that people who weren't pregnant when I left have now given birth to new little ones. I've now been in Africa the better part of a year, with an entire next calendar year left on the docket, in addition to a little more. The juxtaposition of the time gone and time left has really been screwing with my head lately, with the panicky trio of "what have I accomplished, what can I expect to get done and how will it appear on my resume to convey the significance of my existence for this time period, and what on Earth am I going to do next?" running through my head where the visions of sugarplums should be. Go figure.
My attempt at a pseudo celebration of the Christmas holidays included the mistake of trying to watch "Fred Claus," (last year or the year before's Vince Vaughn Christmas flop, a movie my mom sent me in July that I had been saving to watch in an attempt to induce a more festive attitude around what I knew would be the hottest Christmas I've lived through to date). I attempted to view it with a few disgruntled Kiwis, who countered my constant questioning of "But do you have THAT in New Zealand," or "do you understand that as a Kiwi or is that just American?" (let me assure you they have an interesting relationship with American gross out physical or just straight stupid comedy) with a near constant stream of criticisms (deserved in my opinion) of the consumerism and ignorance of other cultures constantly present in American media. "Where are the children in Africa in this film???Don't they get a visit from Father Christmas??" G growled several times. I think in the end we called a draw, or at least agreed that the movie was complete shiiit (long I sound in deference to my Kiwi friend).
I spent the actual Christmas days with friends, preparing for our upcoming Mozambican adventure. We had a nice meal and listened to the neighbors music, which was as loud as it might be on any other Saturday. The festive day for us included unpacking (nearly completely) everything we had carefully packed into our undoubtedly oversize backpacks and having a fashion show, my propensity to strip down and try on anything put in front of me no matter how skimpy or horrendous earned me the nickname "Tanorexic" (which luckily was quickly forgotten by the time vacation started..).
One night we went to what would be termed a "field party" in the States, with some Motswana DJ's that are apparently hugely famous in South Africa and the UK. We were the only three white people there. We walked in and it began with people sort of ignoring us in an attempt not to stare, but while effectively running into us and occasionally spilling their drinks on us. It was a bit early in the night, but I was in the mood to dance, and they were spinning some exceptionally decent American tunes, so being as it's my tendency to be the first one out on the floor, (stone sober if need be, which was the case here) I grabbed some friends and started dancing. Soon enough our glowing white skin attracted some people to the front near the stage, and soon enough it was like fricken Brangelina was up in the club.
It's strange how just when I think I've adjusted completely to being in the minority I encounter another situation that throws me for a loop. The photography began. Now where I stay in Seronga, the only cameras in the village belong to me and any other tourists who might wander through. When people see me with my camera, they demand that I take a picture of them. This was a bit of a larger village, and despite the fact that many white people live in and around it, apparently three of us together is impressive. I kept seeing flashbulbs, and thinking that perhaps the DJ had a strobe set up. People were taking our picture. I kept looking behind me, certain that they were really taking pictures of their friends somewhere around us, but it wasn't the case. When I looked at the people from whom the flashes were coming, they were doing the whole nonchalant not-holding-the-camera-up-to-the-face-and-looking-sort-of-the-other-way thing I've done the precious few times in my life I've encountered celebrities. I elbowed my friends and we laughed, and occasionally started posing. I can only hope that shit somehow ends up on facebook.
The holiday also included many attempts by each of us at calls home, an exercise fraught with futility as my family had to call back somewhere in the neighborhood of about ten times. I spoke with Mom and Karly, the latter of which began by her asking me the brilliant question associated with the inherently offensive band aid fund raising hit from 1984 (incidentally a year BEFORE my sister was even born), titled "Do They Know It's Christmas Time at All?"
Apparently I was asleep for too much of 1984 (or have been mistakenly ignoring what must have been the highlight of the 1984 episode of I Love the 80's (-Ah VH1... I miss you). My sister asked me this question dead pan, and I obliviously answered her attempt at a joke, "Well, I suppose the music is maybe a bit louder than it would normally be on any other Saturday, and I guess that many of the people here are outside, and more families are together, but I don't suppose that's much different from what we do in the States. Although it is disarmingly hot." I've since looked it up on the Internet, and have posted the lyrics here so you can all groan at the inappropriate and condescending nature of this particular top 40 hit.
1: It's Christmas time
There's no need to be afraid
At Christmas time
We let in light and we banish shade
And in our world of plenty
We can spread a smile of joy
Throw your arms around the world
At Christmas time
2: But say a prayer
Pray for the other ones
At Christmas time it's hard
But when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing
Is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring
There are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
3: And there won't be snow in Africa
This Christmas time
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life
Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time again
BRIDGE:(Here's to you) raise a glass for everyone
(Here's to them) underneath that burning sun
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
END: Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
END: (repeat & fade)
Must I elaborate?
Being so far away from home and the consumerism, wrapping paper and snow that marks the annual onslaught of the holiday season for me as a Minnesotan, Christmas was a bit different for me this year. On my last trip from Gabs I purchased some art supplies with the intent of making Christmas cards, and genuinely tried to make a few (I completed about three). Between trying to calculate the postal time it would take any cards I made to get to their destination (a feat which has become increasingly difficult as the boat that brings the post from Sepopa (after it makes a nearly 80 km journey over the land in a truck from Shaks) has broken down... allegedly to be repaired in the New Year. It recently took over three weeks to get a piece of mail from Seronga to Gaborone. I give up.) and feeling inspired and artistic and meaningful it was a struggle. It was sort of all I could do to just focus on vacation every day until I left. I apologize.
Whenever I thought of home and family and all the chaos that surrounds the holiday season, the parties, the traditions, I usually became completely uninterested in continuing the project. I found it was rather easy and maybe even pleasant to ignore the holidays, which had more to do with missing those I've spent every Christmas of my life with thus far than the fact that it really didn't feel like Christmas for me here. I would say the largest part of my bad Christmas behavior had to do more with avoiding the deep depression that was lurking around my life during that particular time than being a Grinch.
That being said I did do some things that indicate at least a half hearted effort to commemorate the birth of Christ. If nothing else it was really crazy to think to myself that it was two years ago Christmas Eve that I decided to undertake this crazy adventure of joining the Peace Corps. As evidenced by my continual attempt at stalking those from my former life on Facebook I realized I have been here long enough that people who weren't pregnant when I left have now given birth to new little ones. I've now been in Africa the better part of a year, with an entire next calendar year left on the docket, in addition to a little more. The juxtaposition of the time gone and time left has really been screwing with my head lately, with the panicky trio of "what have I accomplished, what can I expect to get done and how will it appear on my resume to convey the significance of my existence for this time period, and what on Earth am I going to do next?" running through my head where the visions of sugarplums should be. Go figure.
My attempt at a pseudo celebration of the Christmas holidays included the mistake of trying to watch "Fred Claus," (last year or the year before's Vince Vaughn Christmas flop, a movie my mom sent me in July that I had been saving to watch in an attempt to induce a more festive attitude around what I knew would be the hottest Christmas I've lived through to date). I attempted to view it with a few disgruntled Kiwis, who countered my constant questioning of "But do you have THAT in New Zealand," or "do you understand that as a Kiwi or is that just American?" (let me assure you they have an interesting relationship with American gross out physical or just straight stupid comedy) with a near constant stream of criticisms (deserved in my opinion) of the consumerism and ignorance of other cultures constantly present in American media. "Where are the children in Africa in this film???Don't they get a visit from Father Christmas??" G growled several times. I think in the end we called a draw, or at least agreed that the movie was complete shiiit (long I sound in deference to my Kiwi friend).
I spent the actual Christmas days with friends, preparing for our upcoming Mozambican adventure. We had a nice meal and listened to the neighbors music, which was as loud as it might be on any other Saturday. The festive day for us included unpacking (nearly completely) everything we had carefully packed into our undoubtedly oversize backpacks and having a fashion show, my propensity to strip down and try on anything put in front of me no matter how skimpy or horrendous earned me the nickname "Tanorexic" (which luckily was quickly forgotten by the time vacation started..).
One night we went to what would be termed a "field party" in the States, with some Motswana DJ's that are apparently hugely famous in South Africa and the UK. We were the only three white people there. We walked in and it began with people sort of ignoring us in an attempt not to stare, but while effectively running into us and occasionally spilling their drinks on us. It was a bit early in the night, but I was in the mood to dance, and they were spinning some exceptionally decent American tunes, so being as it's my tendency to be the first one out on the floor, (stone sober if need be, which was the case here) I grabbed some friends and started dancing. Soon enough our glowing white skin attracted some people to the front near the stage, and soon enough it was like fricken Brangelina was up in the club.
It's strange how just when I think I've adjusted completely to being in the minority I encounter another situation that throws me for a loop. The photography began. Now where I stay in Seronga, the only cameras in the village belong to me and any other tourists who might wander through. When people see me with my camera, they demand that I take a picture of them. This was a bit of a larger village, and despite the fact that many white people live in and around it, apparently three of us together is impressive. I kept seeing flashbulbs, and thinking that perhaps the DJ had a strobe set up. People were taking our picture. I kept looking behind me, certain that they were really taking pictures of their friends somewhere around us, but it wasn't the case. When I looked at the people from whom the flashes were coming, they were doing the whole nonchalant not-holding-the-camera-up-to-the-face-and-looking-sort-of-the-other-way thing I've done the precious few times in my life I've encountered celebrities. I elbowed my friends and we laughed, and occasionally started posing. I can only hope that shit somehow ends up on facebook.
The holiday also included many attempts by each of us at calls home, an exercise fraught with futility as my family had to call back somewhere in the neighborhood of about ten times. I spoke with Mom and Karly, the latter of which began by her asking me the brilliant question associated with the inherently offensive band aid fund raising hit from 1984 (incidentally a year BEFORE my sister was even born), titled "Do They Know It's Christmas Time at All?"
Apparently I was asleep for too much of 1984 (or have been mistakenly ignoring what must have been the highlight of the 1984 episode of I Love the 80's (-Ah VH1... I miss you). My sister asked me this question dead pan, and I obliviously answered her attempt at a joke, "Well, I suppose the music is maybe a bit louder than it would normally be on any other Saturday, and I guess that many of the people here are outside, and more families are together, but I don't suppose that's much different from what we do in the States. Although it is disarmingly hot." I've since looked it up on the Internet, and have posted the lyrics here so you can all groan at the inappropriate and condescending nature of this particular top 40 hit.
1: It's Christmas time
There's no need to be afraid
At Christmas time
We let in light and we banish shade
And in our world of plenty
We can spread a smile of joy
Throw your arms around the world
At Christmas time
2: But say a prayer
Pray for the other ones
At Christmas time it's hard
But when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing
Is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring
There are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
3: And there won't be snow in Africa
This Christmas time
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life
Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time again
BRIDGE:(Here's to you) raise a glass for everyone
(Here's to them) underneath that burning sun
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
END: Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
END: (repeat & fade)
Must I elaborate?
Monday, December 15, 2008
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.
“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!
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!
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