28 days. I will be on Combivir for 28 days. For the length of a first timer’s stay in rehab, the length of time of an average menstrual cycle, I will be on this drug. Post Exposure Prophylaxis. It makes me nauseous, tired, and I struggle to keep my bowels about me. And yet, because of the events of a split second of my life, I will not cease it’s ingestion for 28 days.
It’s like the beginning of a pregnancy, I suppose, but opposite. The fluids of two bodies were exchanged, and I hope and pray to all that is holy that there is only one line on that test I will take in 28 days, and that it’s negative. I’m nauseas as hell, and usually in the morning, and should not drink alcohol due to its effects on my liver. I must remember to take it at the same time every day morning and night, and plan my day’s activities around my water intake and nearness of bathroom facilities. All this fun and I didn’t even get to have sex.
I will live through a month of uncertainty, in some ways better than the other uncertainties in my life here, as it has an end date. This makes it a bit more bearable, but still, the not knowing. Despite all the facts and figures being thrown at me, all the information available, and my dear friend in the States spending an hour on the phone with the CDC, the statistics of less than 1% chance doesn’t reassure me completely, as there are more than a few variables in my particular situation. I have nothing tangible to do but hope. The odds are good but not completely 100% and so there still remains an element of uncertainty. And nothing left to do but hope and pray against everything I know that after this month of not knowing I will remain HIV negative.
How did this happen? Quite simply, quickly, ordinarily as most moments do, even those which have the potential to change your life.
I was at the clinic. It was Friday, nearing lunch time, and one of the nurses was trying to finish up with the last patients that were in the waiting room prior to lunch. It was a mother and her child; they had traveled to the clinic from Gunitsoga, about a thirty minute drive down the horrible dirt road out of Seronga, towards Gudikwa. It would be difficult to catch a lift out that way regardless, but I shuddered to think of the mother and baby trying to hike in the midday heat. If they didn’t get finished before the lunch break (the only thing that ever happens promptly on time in Botswana) they would have to wait and leave after 2. In the interest of everyone involved but myself, in order to help everyone get where they were going in a timely manner, I agreed to perform the small task that would change my life.
The mother needed a consultation and the baby needed a vaccination. As our injection area at the clinic is incredibly cramped and small, there is no room for a proper table on which to sit a baby who is getting a shot. Usually the mother just holds their child, while the nurse gives the child the injection in their upper thigh. As the mother was in the consultation room, I agreed to hold the baby for the procedure.
I propped the baby on my lap, speaking in my strange language to the back of his little 4 month old head, murmuring something about how in just one quick second he was not going to be very happy, but not to worry as it would only last a moment. The nurse swabbed the area and prepared the syringe. He pressed the needle into the baby’s thigh. The baby predictably cried and squirmed. The nurse removed the needle and went to wipe away the tiny bit of fluid that seeped out of the baby’s thigh.
And accidentally plunged the needle into my own thigh.
He recoiled immediately.
I looked up at him in surprise, unwilling to completely believe what had just happened, but unable to deny it as a droplet of my own blood appeared on my skirt.
I look down at the crying child in my arms, the tiny possible carrier of such a deadly disease. I stammer, “What is the baby’s, is the baby, the mother,” I want to hand the child off to someone, to get away from it, and immediately feel guilty, judgmental, but my fear quickly overrules these emotions. The nurse, just as shocked as I am, quickly says “It’s ok, this baby is negative.” I look at the baby, fat, and healthy looking, it seems right that this is true. “The mother? The DBS? (Dried blood spot.- the test in which blood is taken from a baby’s heel and blotted onto a paper, sent to a laboratory in Gabs, and analyzed and returned to the clinic via the mail. It is the way to determine the HIV status of a baby.) Where is the baby’s DBS?” The baby is still in my arms and squirms and cries and I want to be away from him, far, away. I am nearing panic and am trying to remain calm so as not to drop this child, this innocent child, and trying to remind myself that he is just that, and innocent child.
The next few minutes pass in a blur, phoning the PCMO, panicking, trying not to panic, rationalizing. I go into the defensive mode of denial for a while, and eat lunch. I walk through the blazing heat to try to make a copy of the baby’s DBS report to fax to the PCMO, as I am thinking this is essential information for her to have, and of course no fax or copy machines in Seronga are working and I am pissed off.
I try not to think "Why me" because why not me? I'm human, no different from anyone else, just as susceptible to this disease as the next person. But I think it anyways. And I'm slightly mortified by my previous and lasting sense of invincibilty. I'm indignant.
I wish for the strength to bear this uncertainty alone, willing myself to remain calm and not to burden anyone else with this worry but I lack that particular strength. It seems unfair to bring anyone that cannot feasibly do anything into this surreal terror but as is her tendency, no matter where I am on Earth it seems my mother can sense my turmoil as only a mother can and chose that exact moment to text me. I ask her to call. She does and I try to downplay the situation, trying my damndest to convince myself and her that this is no big deal and all will be fine. I speak sharply and try to speak factually, playing up the things in my favor and downplaying the ones that suggest the true risk. I hear the tears in her voice and I demand that she not worry herself with this, that I will be fine.
She asks me if I’m scared.
I blink back tears.... And I lie to my mother.
“No,” I snap, only realizing as I say it how frightened I really am.
I chase away these fears and thoughts by conjuring up the blameless denial that has gotten me this far in Africa. “This is not happening to me, I will not allow it,” just as sternly as any parent admonishes their child.
And in response, a small, small voice inside me, one that I haven’t heard for quite some time wonders, “Maybe Africa just doesn’t want me here anymore.”
As long as I’ve contemplated coming to Africa, and joining the Peace Corps, there has been many, many times in which the sheer force of my will has prevented me from even entertaining the possibility of leaving. When people have asked me what I want to accomplish with my two years in the Botswana, they are often uncomfortable at the forcefulness with which I pronounce that my accomplishment will be to stay the whole time. I’m generally quite venomous when people gently remind me that it’s ok if I want to come home. It’s telling that it took another event completely outside of me to push the question into my mind- maybe more than whether I want to stay in Africa, I need to question the other side of the equation, whether Africa wants me here. Through the thefts, the sickness, the difficulty, the adjustments, the homesickness, the disappointments, and the relationship that has crumbled at least partially due to my decision to come here, I have rarely, if ever, considered if I should leave. As anyone who has ever been in a relationship with me can attest, I never did know when to give in, or how to quit while I was ahead.
In my darkest moments here, I’ve trusted that the stuff that has been happening has all been for a reason, to teach me something, with the really hard things maybe a lesson I’m not yet ready to understand the meaning of. I swallow the lump in my throat and rack my mind for the bright side, something to make this fear and uncertainty productive. All I’ve found at this juncture is that I now know intimately the feeling of anyone coming in to be tested and having any doubts about what will be revealed to them.
Today it’s a week since the moment that upset the balance of my life. Other than remembering to take my medication, I’ve found I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I can usually forget about the dark cloud looming over my future, and ignore the flattened plum-like bruise on the back of my right hand that indicates where they took my blood for the first round of liver function tests. I decline the wine at dinner and go to bed early. I reason that this is just like a completely irrational pregnancy scare and that in a month, and three months, and six months the tests I take will turn out just the way they always have, negative. Tomorrow I will return to my life in Seronga, where I left in a hurry one week earlier. I will continue my life as normally as possible. I will try to make it through the remaining three weeks of my sentence; I will try to adjust to the slightly off-ness of my new normal.
I will hope that by the sheer force of my will, I will be fine. I will repeat it like a mantra whenever I need to white knuckle way through this, even if my fingernails pierce the skin of my palms. I will breathe deeply and I will continue on in the only direction I know how to go, which is foward...
Thursday, October 30, 2008
These are the Facts...
I am behind on my writing. I want to just put a note up there for those who may have heard through other means...
Last Friday I was stuck by a needle that had just given a vaccine to an HIV neg baby.Unfortunately baby momma was HIV pos. This is both good and bad as it means that all the PMTCT measures were taken, however it also means that I had to go on PEP (Post Exposure Prophylaxis) a medication to prevent the transmission of HIV after a possible exposure. The Peace Corps responded quickly and well, and got me down to Gabs in a record 1 day (2 flights) and I was given the medical attention that I needed. I'm still processing the whole situation myself, and I've been given varying statistics as to the possibility of transmission, but with PEP I'm told there is a less than 1% chance of acquiring HIV. I'm very hopeful. The medication makes me very nausious and tired. I will be on it for 28 days. I take it every 12 hours and try to set an alarm to wake up really early so that I can go back and sleep through the nausea. I'm writing a blog about the emotional side of it, so more details are to follow. I'm not angry with the nurse or anyone involved, as these things just happen.
For those of you so inclined please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
I'll be fine.
Jen
Last Friday I was stuck by a needle that had just given a vaccine to an HIV neg baby.Unfortunately baby momma was HIV pos. This is both good and bad as it means that all the PMTCT measures were taken, however it also means that I had to go on PEP (Post Exposure Prophylaxis) a medication to prevent the transmission of HIV after a possible exposure. The Peace Corps responded quickly and well, and got me down to Gabs in a record 1 day (2 flights) and I was given the medical attention that I needed. I'm still processing the whole situation myself, and I've been given varying statistics as to the possibility of transmission, but with PEP I'm told there is a less than 1% chance of acquiring HIV. I'm very hopeful. The medication makes me very nausious and tired. I will be on it for 28 days. I take it every 12 hours and try to set an alarm to wake up really early so that I can go back and sleep through the nausea. I'm writing a blog about the emotional side of it, so more details are to follow. I'm not angry with the nurse or anyone involved, as these things just happen.
For those of you so inclined please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
I'll be fine.
Jen
Life at Seronga Clinic
I sit perched upon a broken stool as I stare out through the square space that comprises the dispensary window, and watch all the people on the other side. They wait patiently for their medications, drugs that will relieve some of their suffering, that will be their salvation, and that I sit amongst, unable to dispense. I again feel useless in a questionable mission. They chat amongst themselves, speaking of what I am unsure, as somewhere between my ears and my mind the rhyme and reason of this language is lost. I absorb but do not comprehend this musical speaking. They stare back at me, a fish in a fishbowl, and animal in a cage, a creature more exotic (and possibly more dangerous, based on the look in their eyes) than any animal that stalks their village at night.
At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.
The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.
It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.
At the other end of the benches where they sit babies dangle from a scale one by one, their weight measurement noted in their ragged charts by a disinterested nursing assistant. Some are used to dangling from this hook (which disturbingly appears to be the same sort of scale that is used to measure the weight of meat for sale at the butchery…) half naked in what looks like a large grocery bag with holes for their legs, and hang like sacks of potatoes. The younger ones seem surprised by their unexpected defiance of gravity, and startled by the lack of ground under their feet extend all of their limbs like little stars. Their look of complete surprise is priceless.
The nurse arrives, the words to effectively communicate with these patients spilling off his tongue like the rain shower we all so desperately crave. He distributes the small bags of medicines like Halloween candies to the hands of the waiting patients. In the next room bodiless voices in the same mysterious language float in, some urgent, others joking, all bathed in the static of the roger roger radio.
It goes on like this, day in and day out, each day like the one before and yet with an infinite significance to the ever changing cast of characters. Life will go on in the same way in Seronga, and I doubt I will find, despite my desperate searching, the switch to flip to change any of it. I wonder if I would want to, what difference it would make, if I would have the sensitivity to understand if it were for the better or worse.
The Condom Fairy...
They generally accept the condoms I offer them in the waiting area of the clinic, wrapped in packets of 12 (no baker’s dozen here.. despite being used to prevent not only STI’s but also to avoid a bun in the oven) in the news of the past weeks (it takes a while for printed news to arrive in Seronga). It’s mostly women at the clinic, occasionally for themselves but mostly for their children of which it’s common to see one in the belly, one on the back and one at their heel.
Some reach out and grab one or two packets from the boxful I carry, eager to get their hands on the thing that may stave off the virus that is slowly killing their village, their country, their continent. Some grab them as a statement to others, much in the vein of “setting a good example”, or to take advantage of something, anything being given to them by a white person. Others giggle bashfully, reluctant to admit that they may be having sex despite the bulge in their middle. Some are hesitant to accept them, not immediately understanding my strange accent exclaiming “dikondom” (the Setswana plural for condom) in a language that still may not even be their own. Some defer, as they have a small baby in their arms and by traditional custom are not supposed to be having intercourse until their child is of a certain age. I offer them some to “give to their friends”. They usually take them.
I have made tentative friends (although my white presence can never truly be trusted at face value; especially not as I hawk the implements for sexual activity- safe or otherwise) with the women who run (although not own) the businesses of this village. I have attempted to make a habit of taking up what Kagiso left off, encouraging the women to come to the clinic to get boxes to have available at their shops. They keep returning for more boxes, claiming at least to have run out.
My colleagues at the clinic seem to think my increased emphasis on condom distribution is ridiculous, standing by their belief that the people of the village are not actually using them. To this I innocently ask, “Well whatever are they using them for after they take them?” while readying my logic for an endless battle of reasoning and theorizing that may never get through to my coworkers. They seem to think that people are using them to decorate their houses or their health cards, or blow them up for their children as balloons, or worst of all, leaving them lying around. I demand to be shown these alleged atrocities, quite certain it’s not happening, and they laugh and shake their heads knowingly- silly Lorato…I respond, slightly irritated, that perhaps what they say is true, and is happening, but if of every 1,000 condoms distributed 1 box (100 condoms) are misused, that is still 900 that are potentially used correctly and are preventing HIV. My math does not impress them. Trying to convince a rural area with limited resources that some condoms may go to waste in order for some to be used is unfathomable.
My counterpart still doesn’t understand why condom distribution should be part of his job. I try again to lead him down the long path of explanations as to how it is relevant to his job as the PMTCT lay counselor. I establish that it is indeed his job to try to lower the number of HIV + women who become pregnant, and to encourage people to be tested and know their status. We get lost around the bend of trying to make his job of testing easier by helping to prevent people from having unprotected sex in the first place, with the main avenue of this being increased condom use.
I try to explain that at least when people have easier access to condoms, if they can grab them when they stop at the co-op or the bottle store as they are out doing other errands; at least they have less chance of forgetting them. Easy access means at least they’ll have them. What happens after that point is anyone’s guess.
Maybe a woman takes some condoms, holding them in a secret place, hoping for the courage to bring up the topic of safe sex to her husband, who may very well beat her for insinuating that one of them can’t be trusted or is sleeping around. Perhaps the woman with three children under five will wearily say “enough” and demand her husband use them so as to avoid yet another pregnancy. And perhaps that husband will leave her, easy enough to do in the land of lebolla and common law marriages and small houses, to sleep with someone more willing to have sex without one of those “wrappers”. Maybe the woman who is HIV+ will mention the idea of using a condom to the man who is paying her for sex, but doesn’t really press the issue, as he will pay more for sex without one. Perhaps a man knows that his small house is HIV+ and is attempting to protect his wife, but is unable to admit to her that he’s been with someone else and cannot bring up the topic of condom use. Maybe having condoms in hand could change the fate of these people, perhaps they’ll use them to protect themselves and live happily HIV free ever after.
I’ll never know which of these scenarios plays out, if all of them or none at all actually occur. They are all equally likely. I’m increasingly realizing the futility of changing the outlook of the entire village on sexual health, but I know that one of the keys to changing behavior is having the means to make a change. I have a hard time trying to press the Abstain, and Be Faithful elements of the ABC trinity of HIV prevention- to convince them of the virtues of monogamy when I know of no one whom has successfully lived the tenants of this theory. It’s a hard pill to swallow, much less distribute in this small rural village, I a culture that doesn’t necessarily seem up for it. Which battles am I choosing here? What are my best chances to make a difference?I choose to be the condom fairy, and hope that like all things magical in the mind of a child, it works.
Some reach out and grab one or two packets from the boxful I carry, eager to get their hands on the thing that may stave off the virus that is slowly killing their village, their country, their continent. Some grab them as a statement to others, much in the vein of “setting a good example”, or to take advantage of something, anything being given to them by a white person. Others giggle bashfully, reluctant to admit that they may be having sex despite the bulge in their middle. Some are hesitant to accept them, not immediately understanding my strange accent exclaiming “dikondom” (the Setswana plural for condom) in a language that still may not even be their own. Some defer, as they have a small baby in their arms and by traditional custom are not supposed to be having intercourse until their child is of a certain age. I offer them some to “give to their friends”. They usually take them.
I have made tentative friends (although my white presence can never truly be trusted at face value; especially not as I hawk the implements for sexual activity- safe or otherwise) with the women who run (although not own) the businesses of this village. I have attempted to make a habit of taking up what Kagiso left off, encouraging the women to come to the clinic to get boxes to have available at their shops. They keep returning for more boxes, claiming at least to have run out.
My colleagues at the clinic seem to think my increased emphasis on condom distribution is ridiculous, standing by their belief that the people of the village are not actually using them. To this I innocently ask, “Well whatever are they using them for after they take them?” while readying my logic for an endless battle of reasoning and theorizing that may never get through to my coworkers. They seem to think that people are using them to decorate their houses or their health cards, or blow them up for their children as balloons, or worst of all, leaving them lying around. I demand to be shown these alleged atrocities, quite certain it’s not happening, and they laugh and shake their heads knowingly- silly Lorato…I respond, slightly irritated, that perhaps what they say is true, and is happening, but if of every 1,000 condoms distributed 1 box (100 condoms) are misused, that is still 900 that are potentially used correctly and are preventing HIV. My math does not impress them. Trying to convince a rural area with limited resources that some condoms may go to waste in order for some to be used is unfathomable.
My counterpart still doesn’t understand why condom distribution should be part of his job. I try again to lead him down the long path of explanations as to how it is relevant to his job as the PMTCT lay counselor. I establish that it is indeed his job to try to lower the number of HIV + women who become pregnant, and to encourage people to be tested and know their status. We get lost around the bend of trying to make his job of testing easier by helping to prevent people from having unprotected sex in the first place, with the main avenue of this being increased condom use.
I try to explain that at least when people have easier access to condoms, if they can grab them when they stop at the co-op or the bottle store as they are out doing other errands; at least they have less chance of forgetting them. Easy access means at least they’ll have them. What happens after that point is anyone’s guess.
Maybe a woman takes some condoms, holding them in a secret place, hoping for the courage to bring up the topic of safe sex to her husband, who may very well beat her for insinuating that one of them can’t be trusted or is sleeping around. Perhaps the woman with three children under five will wearily say “enough” and demand her husband use them so as to avoid yet another pregnancy. And perhaps that husband will leave her, easy enough to do in the land of lebolla and common law marriages and small houses, to sleep with someone more willing to have sex without one of those “wrappers”. Maybe the woman who is HIV+ will mention the idea of using a condom to the man who is paying her for sex, but doesn’t really press the issue, as he will pay more for sex without one. Perhaps a man knows that his small house is HIV+ and is attempting to protect his wife, but is unable to admit to her that he’s been with someone else and cannot bring up the topic of condom use. Maybe having condoms in hand could change the fate of these people, perhaps they’ll use them to protect themselves and live happily HIV free ever after.
I’ll never know which of these scenarios plays out, if all of them or none at all actually occur. They are all equally likely. I’m increasingly realizing the futility of changing the outlook of the entire village on sexual health, but I know that one of the keys to changing behavior is having the means to make a change. I have a hard time trying to press the Abstain, and Be Faithful elements of the ABC trinity of HIV prevention- to convince them of the virtues of monogamy when I know of no one whom has successfully lived the tenants of this theory. It’s a hard pill to swallow, much less distribute in this small rural village, I a culture that doesn’t necessarily seem up for it. Which battles am I choosing here? What are my best chances to make a difference?I choose to be the condom fairy, and hope that like all things magical in the mind of a child, it works.
Botswana Wedding!!!
I recently crashed my first Motswana wedding here in the village. I had secured my invite (or really just the information that the event was happening, which I parleyed into an invite -from the sister of the bride- it's considered rude to not invite the entire village to a wedding celebration in this culture, but I still feel like I sort of crashed it) the way I do most things in this village, and really the way I did many things in the states, by wandering into the room (or yard in this case) and smiling in such a way that I hope no one wants to tell me to leave. The Bride’s sister had told me the festivities would be starting at 9 am and I was still early for the party when I smartly arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon.
I followed the sound of blaring music and saw all the children huddled as they do around the opening to the reed fence that comprised the yard. Once the adults inside noticed me they invited (or rather commanded) me to enter, and ordered a small child to find me a chair. As many of the older men and all the women were seated on the ground, I knew I had probably unseated someone important with my arrival. I kept on the stupid winsome grin so through the language barrier they knew I came in peace, and with openness, ready to do what they were doing, whatever they indicated was appropriate, that I was here to respectfully learn about and participate in their culture and this wedding. Can a smile say all that?
I've come to realize that no matter what I do or how much Setswana I learn, I will never completely be treated as an average member of this community. I will never completely blend in and will always be treated as an “honored” guest where ever I go. I will always be given a chair while women that are older or should demand more respect are seated on the floor or in the dirt. I will always be introduced and thanked as a guest of honor. They will repeatedly ask if I eat goat, the portions will always be embarrassingly large as a child looks hungrily on at my feet. I’m “special” here, for better or for worse. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a bit hard to accept when you feel a bit undeserving of all the fuss.
I would imagine that this is one of the things that make it difficult to go back home, to being "normal" and "average" again. These social niceties and signs of public respect are nice, if sometimes unnecessary. I go back and forth in my demeanor. Sometimes I want to be seen as a consultant who can help them come up with new ideas for helping things run more smoothly. I often crave the respect I feel I should be given for having four years of college, and having travel experience, and living in other cultures. I have a tough time deciding if I want to be seen as someone who’s the same as them, no expert, no one special, my white skin and American citizenship don’t mean anything significant. At the end of the day they still do and always will.
So the wedding. The bride and groom were dressed in what appeared to be their finest apparel, long dressy everything despite the fact that they were heavily perspiring in the heat. Their wedding party included all the children I had seen the day before dancing at the reed hut in town. They were now decked completely out with pink dresses (burgundy shirts and black pants for the boys), new hair, and occasional earrings or necklaces. The bride and groom walked out of the reed hut and everyone from the village was singing loudly, almost to the point of shouting, and if I hadn’t known it was a wedding celebration I would have been frightened. The wedding party and nearly everyone who wasn’t cooking piled into the back of a few trucks, which became loaded down to the point the axels it appeared the axels might break. The sing/shouting continued down the road. I was told they were going to take pictures of the wedding party down by the river. A note about photographs in Botswana. Unless specifically instructed to, people don’t smile for photographs. Even wedding photos. Every picture you see people are staring blankly into the camera or nearly glaring. This is why I try to take candid shots.
The wedding party was gone for nearly an hour, and everyone still back in the yard was milling around waiting or cooking. Just outside the reed fence where we had been sitting earlier someone had set up a canvas shelter with a few tables and chairs under it, and then a head table for the bride and groom, complete with upholstered living room chairs set like thrones. The thrones sat behind a table filled with several plastic flower arrangements that light up and change colors, as well as those plastic things that vaguely resemble fireworks operating on the same principle as the flowers. Around the rest of the area were traditional reed decorations and baskets here and there. Someone turned on the music and that continued to bump. One old woman danced feverishly by herself, seeming to be lost in the music, oblivious to the small children mocking her. I stopped to wonder if I would still be that cool when I am her age. I hope so. Finally the bride and groom returned, everyone yelling and jumping off the back of the dangerously overloaded trucks. The bride and groom walked unsmiling down the aisle, followed by their wedding party, who proceeded to dance for the next hour straight, performing the routines I had seen them doing the day before. The women of the village who are married wore brightly colored shawls to indicate this, the men had nothing in particular to denote their marital status. After the dancing the men gave speeches, and the dinner was served. As usual there was much pointing and whispering at me at this juncture amongst the women who were serving the food, undoubtedly wondering if I “et goat.” I smiled and waited patiently for the one who spoke the best English to approach me and ask (which is unfortunate because my taste for goat is something I can actually articulate in Setswana). I accepted the plate offered to me and declined the jar of mayonnaise and bottle of ketch up that came next (these are considered sauces to be used on rice, palache, or maze meal, they use these condiments as a sort of gravies.) As it was now dark and nearly 8PM I knew I had to make my way home, and paid some of the village children to lead me there.
I followed the sound of blaring music and saw all the children huddled as they do around the opening to the reed fence that comprised the yard. Once the adults inside noticed me they invited (or rather commanded) me to enter, and ordered a small child to find me a chair. As many of the older men and all the women were seated on the ground, I knew I had probably unseated someone important with my arrival. I kept on the stupid winsome grin so through the language barrier they knew I came in peace, and with openness, ready to do what they were doing, whatever they indicated was appropriate, that I was here to respectfully learn about and participate in their culture and this wedding. Can a smile say all that?
I've come to realize that no matter what I do or how much Setswana I learn, I will never completely be treated as an average member of this community. I will never completely blend in and will always be treated as an “honored” guest where ever I go. I will always be given a chair while women that are older or should demand more respect are seated on the floor or in the dirt. I will always be introduced and thanked as a guest of honor. They will repeatedly ask if I eat goat, the portions will always be embarrassingly large as a child looks hungrily on at my feet. I’m “special” here, for better or for worse. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a bit hard to accept when you feel a bit undeserving of all the fuss.
I would imagine that this is one of the things that make it difficult to go back home, to being "normal" and "average" again. These social niceties and signs of public respect are nice, if sometimes unnecessary. I go back and forth in my demeanor. Sometimes I want to be seen as a consultant who can help them come up with new ideas for helping things run more smoothly. I often crave the respect I feel I should be given for having four years of college, and having travel experience, and living in other cultures. I have a tough time deciding if I want to be seen as someone who’s the same as them, no expert, no one special, my white skin and American citizenship don’t mean anything significant. At the end of the day they still do and always will.
So the wedding. The bride and groom were dressed in what appeared to be their finest apparel, long dressy everything despite the fact that they were heavily perspiring in the heat. Their wedding party included all the children I had seen the day before dancing at the reed hut in town. They were now decked completely out with pink dresses (burgundy shirts and black pants for the boys), new hair, and occasional earrings or necklaces. The bride and groom walked out of the reed hut and everyone from the village was singing loudly, almost to the point of shouting, and if I hadn’t known it was a wedding celebration I would have been frightened. The wedding party and nearly everyone who wasn’t cooking piled into the back of a few trucks, which became loaded down to the point the axels it appeared the axels might break. The sing/shouting continued down the road. I was told they were going to take pictures of the wedding party down by the river. A note about photographs in Botswana. Unless specifically instructed to, people don’t smile for photographs. Even wedding photos. Every picture you see people are staring blankly into the camera or nearly glaring. This is why I try to take candid shots.
The wedding party was gone for nearly an hour, and everyone still back in the yard was milling around waiting or cooking. Just outside the reed fence where we had been sitting earlier someone had set up a canvas shelter with a few tables and chairs under it, and then a head table for the bride and groom, complete with upholstered living room chairs set like thrones. The thrones sat behind a table filled with several plastic flower arrangements that light up and change colors, as well as those plastic things that vaguely resemble fireworks operating on the same principle as the flowers. Around the rest of the area were traditional reed decorations and baskets here and there. Someone turned on the music and that continued to bump. One old woman danced feverishly by herself, seeming to be lost in the music, oblivious to the small children mocking her. I stopped to wonder if I would still be that cool when I am her age. I hope so. Finally the bride and groom returned, everyone yelling and jumping off the back of the dangerously overloaded trucks. The bride and groom walked unsmiling down the aisle, followed by their wedding party, who proceeded to dance for the next hour straight, performing the routines I had seen them doing the day before. The women of the village who are married wore brightly colored shawls to indicate this, the men had nothing in particular to denote their marital status. After the dancing the men gave speeches, and the dinner was served. As usual there was much pointing and whispering at me at this juncture amongst the women who were serving the food, undoubtedly wondering if I “et goat.” I smiled and waited patiently for the one who spoke the best English to approach me and ask (which is unfortunate because my taste for goat is something I can actually articulate in Setswana). I accepted the plate offered to me and declined the jar of mayonnaise and bottle of ketch up that came next (these are considered sauces to be used on rice, palache, or maze meal, they use these condiments as a sort of gravies.) As it was now dark and nearly 8PM I knew I had to make my way home, and paid some of the village children to lead me there.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
"Rough" and "Bruised", Goodbye to Hugh: The misadventures of Z the Queen and Me
I like to think of it as a reconnaissance mission...
We had mentioned the possibility of a meet up in Maun during my birthday weekend in the bush. As with most conversations that begin around a campfire you never know if these things will carry through. Dudu, V and I though it might be a great idea to make some friends with the bush pilots (a generally rough crowd of overgrown boys in planes who party hard and spend a lot of time in the clouds over the delta. At the end of the day they’re mostly male and have cute accents). Fast forward three weeks later and as IST (and thus the PC travel lockdown) came to a close V began the coordination of our efforts to meet for a weekend in the "big city". Dudu became incredibly ill and had to bow out, so it looked like it would just be V and I. She had found an empty flight in on Friday and I sat waiting for her in the little known area I like to think of as my own personal hideaway in the crow’s nest (that nobody’s ever heard about) at Bon Arrive (see blog about maun for the feel of this place).
We began our night at the Buck and Hunter, an unfortunately named bar (I’ll let you use your imagination for what beautiful rhymes can be made for that one after a few) that while ok fun, generally has the main advantage of being within reasonable walking distance from both P's house and the Bon Arrive. The Buck was a bit dead, so we caught a lift with my new friend Zeke to the Riverlodge, which was, as B says “bumpin'.” The ratio of men to women was exceptionally favorable, as it usually is in Maun at about five men to every woman.
I took advantage of these lucky numbers by fulfilling my stereotype as an American woman (and shamelessly exploiting what appears to be my “charming” American accent. Who am I to tell these people they’re wrong? I learned of this formerly overlooked little secret weapon later when some guy began arguing over nothing with me and his friend informed me that his buddy just wanted to hear me talk at any cost. Pretty lame. These guys seem to lack serious game, a result I’m sure, of living in the bush for too many months. I do have to say an American accent is exponentially more attractive than a particularly thick Boer Afrikaner voice, but whatever.) by striking up a conversation with the nearest decent looking guy. He ended up being exceptionally drunk and it was over before it started as he spilled his ecto-cooler looking drink (I found it was Cain and cream soda, a popular Afrikaner drink that is lethal in it’s sweetness) all over me.
Not to be deterred, I dragged V, ever the reticent wingwoman, over to another mixed group. Quickly realizing the new power dynamic of and possible blacklisting by the local women, as well as their potential irritation at the competition of V and I (she is seriously cute, and with a last name and pedigree that carries quite a bit of weight around these parts). I decided the best way meet the guys was to make friends with the girls. This also helps in screening for complete A-holes. I began chatting with some of the women near the bar, and was quickly intercepted by Hugh, the most genuinely nice pilot I've had the pleasure of meeting.
We had met on the house boat in Seronga the night of the cigarette lit adventure ride through the delta with Simon. I had learned at our initial meeting that Hugh was moving to Canada to be a bush pilot there at the beginning of October. I remembered this and asked how the planning was going. He mentioned that his going away party (along with that of three other pilots- it seems they come and go in waves) would be tomorrow and would I like to come? Hell yes I would like to go to what will likely be THE (as in only) party in Maun. We chatted for a while until I caught the eye of the man who will come to be known as “Rough”. (In the interest of anonymity, and my future potential book deal I've decided to come up with nicknames or use initials for many of the characters in the story, to protect both the innocent and the guilty. The exceptions to this are those whose characters tend to be too big for characterization or nicknames. Ie Simon. I’m sure you understand).
Rough was Scottish, his brogue worn away slightly by several years spent in America, a relocation he undertook upon turning 18 (more than a few years ago…) and having the realization that being born in America means he has duel citizenship. So he decided to take full advantage of that American passport. The slight loss of his accent was replaced with a certain American arrogance that faintly contradicted his British charm. Although he was tall, dark, handsome and generally clean cut, one could tell he was a little rough around the edges as are most of the men who choose to make their career in the bush of Africa.
He made a few initial flirtatious comments about how I was clearly an attractive girl who would be beautiful with hair, which turned me on my heel as I scoffed and tried to walk away, at which point he laughed and grabbed my arm and apologized. We settled into the sort of flirtatious banter that I realized I so desperately miss about the states. I’ve found most Africans don’t understand sarcasm, or dry humor, and thus my main ability to entertain and amuse is based solely on my inability to speak the language, and my intentions are all too often misconstrued. So after bit, post him storing my number in his phone with some notation of “Sinead” (that wasn’t in reference to her cover of the Prince song “Nothing Compares 2 U”) after my name we parted ways. He could have been everything I ever wanted in another life, before I had a good grasp on what precisely that was…
Moving on.
I went to retrieve V, who was deep in conversation with “Bruise” the pilot she had called dibs on previously. V, or the Queen as I like to call her, is so very lovely. She is strikingly gorgeous, exceedingly kind and generous, fiercely loyal and quite sharp to boot. I like her. She’s the best female friend I have in the vicinity of Seronga. Her family connections make her essentially an heiress of the delta, although she’d never act the part, or drop her name for her own benefit, although she can sometimes be convinced to do it for mine. All of these factors together make her a prime candidate to be a victim of these jackals that are the pilots. For Bruise is a flyboy, one of these Peter Pans of the Never Never Land that is the Okavango delta. They are young pilots from all over the English speaking world (accents! Everywhere, accents!) who have come to sow their oats in the wilds of Africa. They delight in a post collegiate extended adolescence; flying all over the delta by day and partying like it’s their second job at night. More than once I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a cockpit with a man who gave more than a suspicion of having been out partying the night before, although any one of them can and will readily quote you the regulation number of hours between last drink and take off.
So the flyboys are generally trouble. Interesting, well traveled, and fun, but trouble nontheless. They are much like modern day sailors. If one is the mature old age of 27 they have most likely previously encountered such trouble, it is rather easy to spot. ;-) However, at the tender young age of 22, the Queen is charmingly naïve in her assessment of the datability of these flyboys. So I try to watch out for her. But it’s still fun to witness the hunt in action. I mentioned it might be time to go and dragged V along towards a more sober looking pilot who was the friend of a guy who had proposed marriage to me earlier, and we were soon riding home with the wind in our hair.
In the darkish bar and with a few drinks under my belt, I took pause at the idea that Rough’s attractiveness could feasibly be caused by the ever present “Botswana goggles” that seem to be standard issue when one resides in the wilds of Seronga. I asked V about this and she was in no state to recall, having been cozied up to Bruise throughout the night. My theory was disproved the next day at lunch at the Buck when V and I ran into Rough and his (Irish!!! The accents!! Ahh!) friend who were in fact coordinating the very party we had been invited to that night.
Jackpot.
A few hours later…
We showed up at the pilot party in Z’s boss’s truck, as I had spotted the Z research emblem on the vehicle and immediately asked for a lift to the party; much to Z’s chagrin (she is notoriously shy). I had made it my personal mission that we were not paying for any taxis or combis (bus-vans) in Maun that weekend, and so we were relying on V’s good looks, Z’s charm and my assertiveness. It worked well. As we came through the balloons in the trees that designated the party house and went through the gate, I was extremely excited to spy a pool. Maun (and really, most of Botswana) is a notoriously hot place, and to know the location of a pool is better than gold. I decided that pilots and their tendencies aside, I needed to make very good friends with the inhabitants of this house.
As we arrived the dynamic was like a high school dance, a huge group of guys on one side of the yard, (except for the pig rotating on a spit) and a few girls were standing near some cars. By just walking in we had doubled the number of females at the party. These were again, lovely Maun odds. Hugh came up and greeted us warmly, being British and hospitable, and the other guys gawked at us from across the pool. They, being Afrikaans, lacked the same social graces without a little liquid courage. I preferred to sit by the pool. Which in the course of a half hour was entered gracefully by a few cannon balling young men. Being drenched already I of course decided if you can’t beat them….join them.
After the sun began to set more people showed up and it became a proper party. The pool was violated by both people and eventually a pig’s head, (after which I no longer felt like swimming). Throughout the course of the night Rough and Bruise showed up in another British invasion, and Z got to know Hugh a little better (which seemed appropriate as they are both leaving the country in the next month). Singing and dancing ensued, food and drinks flowed, and a good time was had by all.
Our Maun invasion was complete, and Z, the Queen and I all left the next day to give Maun a break and plot our next adventure.
We had mentioned the possibility of a meet up in Maun during my birthday weekend in the bush. As with most conversations that begin around a campfire you never know if these things will carry through. Dudu, V and I though it might be a great idea to make some friends with the bush pilots (a generally rough crowd of overgrown boys in planes who party hard and spend a lot of time in the clouds over the delta. At the end of the day they’re mostly male and have cute accents). Fast forward three weeks later and as IST (and thus the PC travel lockdown) came to a close V began the coordination of our efforts to meet for a weekend in the "big city". Dudu became incredibly ill and had to bow out, so it looked like it would just be V and I. She had found an empty flight in on Friday and I sat waiting for her in the little known area I like to think of as my own personal hideaway in the crow’s nest (that nobody’s ever heard about) at Bon Arrive (see blog about maun for the feel of this place).
We began our night at the Buck and Hunter, an unfortunately named bar (I’ll let you use your imagination for what beautiful rhymes can be made for that one after a few) that while ok fun, generally has the main advantage of being within reasonable walking distance from both P's house and the Bon Arrive. The Buck was a bit dead, so we caught a lift with my new friend Zeke to the Riverlodge, which was, as B says “bumpin'.” The ratio of men to women was exceptionally favorable, as it usually is in Maun at about five men to every woman.
I took advantage of these lucky numbers by fulfilling my stereotype as an American woman (and shamelessly exploiting what appears to be my “charming” American accent. Who am I to tell these people they’re wrong? I learned of this formerly overlooked little secret weapon later when some guy began arguing over nothing with me and his friend informed me that his buddy just wanted to hear me talk at any cost. Pretty lame. These guys seem to lack serious game, a result I’m sure, of living in the bush for too many months. I do have to say an American accent is exponentially more attractive than a particularly thick Boer Afrikaner voice, but whatever.) by striking up a conversation with the nearest decent looking guy. He ended up being exceptionally drunk and it was over before it started as he spilled his ecto-cooler looking drink (I found it was Cain and cream soda, a popular Afrikaner drink that is lethal in it’s sweetness) all over me.
Not to be deterred, I dragged V, ever the reticent wingwoman, over to another mixed group. Quickly realizing the new power dynamic of and possible blacklisting by the local women, as well as their potential irritation at the competition of V and I (she is seriously cute, and with a last name and pedigree that carries quite a bit of weight around these parts). I decided the best way meet the guys was to make friends with the girls. This also helps in screening for complete A-holes. I began chatting with some of the women near the bar, and was quickly intercepted by Hugh, the most genuinely nice pilot I've had the pleasure of meeting.
We had met on the house boat in Seronga the night of the cigarette lit adventure ride through the delta with Simon. I had learned at our initial meeting that Hugh was moving to Canada to be a bush pilot there at the beginning of October. I remembered this and asked how the planning was going. He mentioned that his going away party (along with that of three other pilots- it seems they come and go in waves) would be tomorrow and would I like to come? Hell yes I would like to go to what will likely be THE (as in only) party in Maun. We chatted for a while until I caught the eye of the man who will come to be known as “Rough”. (In the interest of anonymity, and my future potential book deal I've decided to come up with nicknames or use initials for many of the characters in the story, to protect both the innocent and the guilty. The exceptions to this are those whose characters tend to be too big for characterization or nicknames. Ie Simon. I’m sure you understand).
Rough was Scottish, his brogue worn away slightly by several years spent in America, a relocation he undertook upon turning 18 (more than a few years ago…) and having the realization that being born in America means he has duel citizenship. So he decided to take full advantage of that American passport. The slight loss of his accent was replaced with a certain American arrogance that faintly contradicted his British charm. Although he was tall, dark, handsome and generally clean cut, one could tell he was a little rough around the edges as are most of the men who choose to make their career in the bush of Africa.
He made a few initial flirtatious comments about how I was clearly an attractive girl who would be beautiful with hair, which turned me on my heel as I scoffed and tried to walk away, at which point he laughed and grabbed my arm and apologized. We settled into the sort of flirtatious banter that I realized I so desperately miss about the states. I’ve found most Africans don’t understand sarcasm, or dry humor, and thus my main ability to entertain and amuse is based solely on my inability to speak the language, and my intentions are all too often misconstrued. So after bit, post him storing my number in his phone with some notation of “Sinead” (that wasn’t in reference to her cover of the Prince song “Nothing Compares 2 U”) after my name we parted ways. He could have been everything I ever wanted in another life, before I had a good grasp on what precisely that was…
Moving on.
I went to retrieve V, who was deep in conversation with “Bruise” the pilot she had called dibs on previously. V, or the Queen as I like to call her, is so very lovely. She is strikingly gorgeous, exceedingly kind and generous, fiercely loyal and quite sharp to boot. I like her. She’s the best female friend I have in the vicinity of Seronga. Her family connections make her essentially an heiress of the delta, although she’d never act the part, or drop her name for her own benefit, although she can sometimes be convinced to do it for mine. All of these factors together make her a prime candidate to be a victim of these jackals that are the pilots. For Bruise is a flyboy, one of these Peter Pans of the Never Never Land that is the Okavango delta. They are young pilots from all over the English speaking world (accents! Everywhere, accents!) who have come to sow their oats in the wilds of Africa. They delight in a post collegiate extended adolescence; flying all over the delta by day and partying like it’s their second job at night. More than once I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a cockpit with a man who gave more than a suspicion of having been out partying the night before, although any one of them can and will readily quote you the regulation number of hours between last drink and take off.
So the flyboys are generally trouble. Interesting, well traveled, and fun, but trouble nontheless. They are much like modern day sailors. If one is the mature old age of 27 they have most likely previously encountered such trouble, it is rather easy to spot. ;-) However, at the tender young age of 22, the Queen is charmingly naïve in her assessment of the datability of these flyboys. So I try to watch out for her. But it’s still fun to witness the hunt in action. I mentioned it might be time to go and dragged V along towards a more sober looking pilot who was the friend of a guy who had proposed marriage to me earlier, and we were soon riding home with the wind in our hair.
In the darkish bar and with a few drinks under my belt, I took pause at the idea that Rough’s attractiveness could feasibly be caused by the ever present “Botswana goggles” that seem to be standard issue when one resides in the wilds of Seronga. I asked V about this and she was in no state to recall, having been cozied up to Bruise throughout the night. My theory was disproved the next day at lunch at the Buck when V and I ran into Rough and his (Irish!!! The accents!! Ahh!) friend who were in fact coordinating the very party we had been invited to that night.
Jackpot.
A few hours later…
We showed up at the pilot party in Z’s boss’s truck, as I had spotted the Z research emblem on the vehicle and immediately asked for a lift to the party; much to Z’s chagrin (she is notoriously shy). I had made it my personal mission that we were not paying for any taxis or combis (bus-vans) in Maun that weekend, and so we were relying on V’s good looks, Z’s charm and my assertiveness. It worked well. As we came through the balloons in the trees that designated the party house and went through the gate, I was extremely excited to spy a pool. Maun (and really, most of Botswana) is a notoriously hot place, and to know the location of a pool is better than gold. I decided that pilots and their tendencies aside, I needed to make very good friends with the inhabitants of this house.
As we arrived the dynamic was like a high school dance, a huge group of guys on one side of the yard, (except for the pig rotating on a spit) and a few girls were standing near some cars. By just walking in we had doubled the number of females at the party. These were again, lovely Maun odds. Hugh came up and greeted us warmly, being British and hospitable, and the other guys gawked at us from across the pool. They, being Afrikaans, lacked the same social graces without a little liquid courage. I preferred to sit by the pool. Which in the course of a half hour was entered gracefully by a few cannon balling young men. Being drenched already I of course decided if you can’t beat them….join them.
After the sun began to set more people showed up and it became a proper party. The pool was violated by both people and eventually a pig’s head, (after which I no longer felt like swimming). Throughout the course of the night Rough and Bruise showed up in another British invasion, and Z got to know Hugh a little better (which seemed appropriate as they are both leaving the country in the next month). Singing and dancing ensued, food and drinks flowed, and a good time was had by all.
Our Maun invasion was complete, and Z, the Queen and I all left the next day to give Maun a break and plot our next adventure.
Score another for Team Seronga...
From mid august:
It was Friday. It had been one of the longest weeks in my recent unreliable memory of record, and I was tired. I had spent most of the morning at the kgotla, listening to the choir perform and the lengthy process of distributing some blankets that had been donated for “destitutes” (all in Setswana, my second such meeting of the week. I think I’ll learn this language by sheer exposure despite my stubbornness and refusal to study it) which ended up being another fine lesson in those who have little making the utmost effort and putting the utmost integrity into distributing what little they have to those who need it more. I had walked into the local barbershop which is a reed walled tin roofed shack, wherein I had painstakingly attempted to explain the concept of a mohawk to the man who was clipping my hair. He claimed to understand English and I soon realized was nervous to be cutting a white woman’s hair. He was afraid to put the clippers anywhere near my scalp, and eventually I asked for the clippers, had him hold the mirror and ended up doing most of it myself. It was another example of how much I’ve let go of my own concept of the importance of hair, and the loss of my faith in the necessity of stylishness in Africa.
After failing to get the internet to work (an upsettingly common occurrence in Seronga) I gave up on everything and just started walking towards home. As I’ve mentioned it was Friday, and toward month end, which means people have been paid and have money, and thus they all want to play their music. Loudly. This is not uncommon. To my left I heard blown speakers projecting traditional music, complete with whistles in place of procussion (how this is “traditional” when the whistles sound like a combination of those cheap plastic things you get from the doctor’s office as a reward for not screaming at the top of your lungs during your shot, and have to fill with water to make work; and something from the dollar store, cracker jack box, or the like). To my right I hear some mega club remix of the “Lion Sleeps Tonight,” the irony of something like this being projected so loudly to be heard over the rumble of the generator powering the cd player (“in the village, the peaceful village”) was not lost me. Intrigued by both the hilariousness of the music and even more so by the hoards of children huddled near the opening of reeds that I assumed to be the doorway to a shebeen (traditional bar), I decided, despite my foul mood, to investigate further. I figured why not add to my shitty mood by checking out what sort of drunken debauchery these children are witnessing today (it’s completely common for children to be with their parents at these open air bars that serve “traditional beer” known as shake shake, chibuko, or as I like to think of it, “swill” and they are often ordered to play waiter or waitress to their parents by fetching them drinks.) Maybe it would be a nice opportunity to yell at someone for being an irresponsible parent. That would make me feel better…Right.
The children were everywhere, peering through the reeds, bouncing with that obscene looking hip thrusting dance to the music. They giggled and wiggled as I approached, and I craned my neck around the doorway to see what all this was about.
It was a dance class.
My bad mood immediately evaporated and I burst into a huge grin. One of the women who appeared to be teaching yelled, “Lorato, tsena,” (enter) over the thumping music. I sat down on an oil drum to watch.
A line of children and teenagers arranged by height, were dancing with choreography and steps, each different steps according to the various songs. Children that had only a few years of walking under their belts were performing relatively intricate steps at the front of the line. There was turning and direction changes, it was Texas line dancing to club tunes. It reconfirmed my notion that people in Africa are just straight born with a rhythm like no other. Everyone, it seems can naturally sing and dance.
More proof that just when I underestimate Africa, it responds by producing another amazing example of just how wrong I am…
It was Friday. It had been one of the longest weeks in my recent unreliable memory of record, and I was tired. I had spent most of the morning at the kgotla, listening to the choir perform and the lengthy process of distributing some blankets that had been donated for “destitutes” (all in Setswana, my second such meeting of the week. I think I’ll learn this language by sheer exposure despite my stubbornness and refusal to study it) which ended up being another fine lesson in those who have little making the utmost effort and putting the utmost integrity into distributing what little they have to those who need it more. I had walked into the local barbershop which is a reed walled tin roofed shack, wherein I had painstakingly attempted to explain the concept of a mohawk to the man who was clipping my hair. He claimed to understand English and I soon realized was nervous to be cutting a white woman’s hair. He was afraid to put the clippers anywhere near my scalp, and eventually I asked for the clippers, had him hold the mirror and ended up doing most of it myself. It was another example of how much I’ve let go of my own concept of the importance of hair, and the loss of my faith in the necessity of stylishness in Africa.
After failing to get the internet to work (an upsettingly common occurrence in Seronga) I gave up on everything and just started walking towards home. As I’ve mentioned it was Friday, and toward month end, which means people have been paid and have money, and thus they all want to play their music. Loudly. This is not uncommon. To my left I heard blown speakers projecting traditional music, complete with whistles in place of procussion (how this is “traditional” when the whistles sound like a combination of those cheap plastic things you get from the doctor’s office as a reward for not screaming at the top of your lungs during your shot, and have to fill with water to make work; and something from the dollar store, cracker jack box, or the like). To my right I hear some mega club remix of the “Lion Sleeps Tonight,” the irony of something like this being projected so loudly to be heard over the rumble of the generator powering the cd player (“in the village, the peaceful village”) was not lost me. Intrigued by both the hilariousness of the music and even more so by the hoards of children huddled near the opening of reeds that I assumed to be the doorway to a shebeen (traditional bar), I decided, despite my foul mood, to investigate further. I figured why not add to my shitty mood by checking out what sort of drunken debauchery these children are witnessing today (it’s completely common for children to be with their parents at these open air bars that serve “traditional beer” known as shake shake, chibuko, or as I like to think of it, “swill” and they are often ordered to play waiter or waitress to their parents by fetching them drinks.) Maybe it would be a nice opportunity to yell at someone for being an irresponsible parent. That would make me feel better…Right.
The children were everywhere, peering through the reeds, bouncing with that obscene looking hip thrusting dance to the music. They giggled and wiggled as I approached, and I craned my neck around the doorway to see what all this was about.
It was a dance class.
My bad mood immediately evaporated and I burst into a huge grin. One of the women who appeared to be teaching yelled, “Lorato, tsena,” (enter) over the thumping music. I sat down on an oil drum to watch.
A line of children and teenagers arranged by height, were dancing with choreography and steps, each different steps according to the various songs. Children that had only a few years of walking under their belts were performing relatively intricate steps at the front of the line. There was turning and direction changes, it was Texas line dancing to club tunes. It reconfirmed my notion that people in Africa are just straight born with a rhythm like no other. Everyone, it seems can naturally sing and dance.
More proof that just when I underestimate Africa, it responds by producing another amazing example of just how wrong I am…
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