I gave them all for this project.
The beer bottle mosaic begins.
Pictures to follow… Soon… ish.
In the early days of the long road from vision to the reality of starting this project I had explained the concept to some of the Ngambao junior secondary school art students in Seronga (who really show an amazing amount of creativity and talent despite being raised in a relatively low access and resource poor area) trying to find simple English and Setswana words to embody the themes I hoped the project could convey. I told them I wanted to communicate the message that what the youth of Seronga have inherited are the shattered bottles and broken lives caused by alcoholism and HIV, but that as the next generation they are going to use what they’ve been given to create something beautiful and spread a new message, while outlining the relationship between drinking alcohol and impaired decision making that leads to the transmission of HIV. It’s a bit…. Obscure.
Needless to say there were lots of big hand gestures and much stuttering from me and lots of blank looks from them. I put it to the heavens and hoped for the best. A few weeks later (which was now a few months back) one of the students, GB (he has a crazy long Sets name and luckily enough for me goes by GB) found me at my usual spot at the school, which I’ve come to refer to as my office as it has a few virus ridden computers, air conditioning and electricity (sometimes) and when the gods smile, superslow internet. It also happens to be pretty centrally located at the school and I can keep an eye on what’s going on in the courtyard.
“Lorato?” he somewhat shyly called from the door (this was back in the day when although everyone was constantly calling my name as though it were going out of style they rarely had anything constructive to say, it appears they just wanted my attention). “Eeera?” I called back with a smile (loose translation, “Yeah?”).
“I have made this picture for your wall project.” He thrust the paper at me. I looked at it and a smile slowly crept across my face. It was a circle with a huge bottle in the middle, dividing the circle in half. It was wrapped in the AIDS awareness ribbon with the word “No” in bold across the bottom of the circle. On each side of the bottle curving along the circle and looking as though they were pressing their hands into the bottle were a man figure on one side and a woman figure on the other, both of their heads bowed as though in some sort of prayer. It was simple and symbolic, and would work perfectly for the materials and space and message we would be working with.
It was one of those moments in life that I’ve come to have faith will occur despite whatever odds are against me. It’s the frustrating (to other people) line I rely on when I can’t express or accurately describe something I want, and so I say “I’ll know it when I see it.” I saw this picture and I knew. Sometimes you just have to trust that someone else can know exactly what you’re trying to say and can create the exact vision you can’t describe yourself. And this kid could.
My eyes filled with tears and the kid looked alarmed (public crying-doesn’t happen here) and I shook my head and grabbed him in a one armed hug as we looked at the picture together. “It’s perfect. Thanks GB. This is going to be awesome.” I gave him a squeeze and let him go, and he smiled at me, shook his head and walked out the door. I kept that paper in a folder with me at nearly all times for the next few months. I would take it out and look at it whenever I was frustrated with the slowness with which the project was going forward. I pulled it out at meetings and dinners and bars and on buses to describe to people what I was doing in Seronga. They would nod and smile vacantly or occasionally comment “what a nice little art project” but I never cared because this thing was my baby. I felt a rather ferocious sense of protectiveness about it, as well as a blind faith that it would actually get created.
It was a Saturday morning a few months later and not atypically, things were not going according to plan (the irony inherent in the frequency with which the phrase “make a plan” passes both mine and many of the people I know in the delta’s lips will never be lost on me. It is relatively impossible to “make a plan” that is carried through to completion in its original incarnation). Today was the day we were finally going to put glass to wall and officially start the most exciting part of the long awaited mosaic project. I won’t detail all the nodding and smiling and paperwork bureaucracy it took to get this point (it was similar in terms of permissions and supply requisitions to the mural project) so as not to drive you all as crazy as it made me, but the idea has been over a year in the making (in my little brain at least). In the States it could have been done in maybe a few weeks or a month. Even in other places in Bots it might not have taken this long. There were lots of times I thought perhaps in my crazy brain is where the project would stay. But I kept slowly chasing this dream and last weekend I got to see it begin to truly become a reality.
I had discussed the plan for the day with Mpho (his name means “gift”) the advisor for the HIV club who was proving more supportive of the project these days than Jonny the art teacher, who had been my original partner in crime (it seems my loyalties can be quite negotiable when it comes to actually carrying one of these projects out) a few days before. I had found most of the bottles we would need by now [a feat that included wandering around the teacher’s housing as they partied and struggling to negotiate with the teachers for their brown bottles- a rare (the bottle store in Seronga rarely carries alcohol in brown bottles –so they were imported from somewhere overseas-ie across the river in Shakawe or something) as well as a hot commodity as they can be turned in for cash- as they finished them, a process which of course included them getting increasingly drunker and more difficult to understand-and negotiate with, as well as a few small dumpster diving expeditions and a few wine bottles contributed from my own personal use-what can I say? I’m dedicated. Mpho may indeed be more dedicated, his yard was the one where we collected all the bottles and thus now looked like a Shebeen-small local bar that serves traditional homebrew].
So I showed up and no one was around. It appeared the first task of the day would be to complete the scavenger hunt required to discover who was currently in possession of all the necessary keys to unlock the various rooms which held the supplies [It surprises me how much emphasis is placed on locking things up and protecting them- from what I’m not sure, theft? vandalism? only to have teachers frequently give any random student they happen to see the keys to deliver to any other random teacher, who indeed may or may not be where they are supposed to be. One amazing thing I’ve found in this village is that you can just call out to any child, give them anything from a folder of important papers to a fistful of cash, tell them to run an errand of any sort and they will do it (and come back with your change). I even gave a teacher 100.00 pula to buy 7.50 pula worth of paraffin. Then I left that school, went to another school and an hour or so later some random child approached me with my 100 pula and a message in broken English that “sorry there was no paraffin at the shop.”]
Two hours post scheduled start time we busted the first bottle. One of the most difficult aspects of this particular project was explaining the concept of a mosaic to people who had never seen one, and then inform them that we would be smashing glass with teenaged children and then try to convince them that I wasn’t crazy or homicidal. I had obtained both gloves and safety goggles for as many as 15 kids but of course the goggles were now nowhere to be found and so I just prayed to the “glass breaking around children” gods that no one took a shard in the eye, because as capable and competent as my coworkers at the clinic are, I don’t know that they have the tools to painlessly extract glass from eyes. (I’m happy to report that as of this writing we’ve had no eye related glass accidents, although knock on wood, cause they’re going to continue working on it next weekend when I’m on my way to Gabs for training.)
As is common for these sorts of projects at the beginning very few kids showed up, but being at the prime location (these poor kids even have to come to school on Saturday mornings for study) at the junior secondary we soon had lots of kids involved. I usually try to play supporting role in these projects, letting the kids do most of the work and the problem solving so that they can truly feel as though it’s something they’ve created themselves. I think my part mostly consisted of working through the background work with the other adults to get permission, funding and supplies. Although I couldn’t resist sticking on a few pieces of glass, a task for which I was rewarded with a tiny slice into my left index finger (thus I’ve even given blood for this project ;-)
So I stood back in the sun, away from the wall so I could see it becoming reality from a distance. As I was trying to become invisible so I could take out my camera and snap some candid pictures, I was struck by a little teary pride. GB, the boy who had created the design was now carefully sticking brown glass to the brown people he had envisioned for his project. He was working with other kids who had primed the spot on which he later sketched his drawing a few weeks back. Some of the boys were even doing the “girl’s work” of cleaning and scrapping the labels off of the bottles (yeah, that was my mandate too, gender neutrality in art project tasks aka: Lorato in Seronga, breaking down one antiquated sexual stereotype at a time…Those boys also swept and cleaned up after the project, I’m happy to report, although they tried to call a group of girls over to do it for them…)
At the clinic on Monday I gave a short report in the morning meeting that the glass project had begun. It turns out that some of the people at the clinic had seen it, thought it was cool and were now complaining and asking why I hadn’t done that project at the clinic instead of the mural. I didn’t have the heart or patience to remind them of the uproar they had made when I had introduced the idea of painting a mural on the wall.
Later when I was speaking to my friend Aniki I joked with her about just that. “Ah! Lorato!” she exclaimed. It seems people can’t actually say much of anything to me without beginning this way, by grunting and exclaiming my name in an almost indignantly sounding manner, no matter what the tone of the statement that happens to follow it.
“We can see now how well your projects are going. We may not have been willing to listen to you at first but now we can see. And even though we didn’t support you at first you never gave up and now we can see. You kept going. And people will see these projects for many years and they will say “Ah! That is Lorato’s project and she loved us and she made that painting and that glass project there because she loved us. And even though we didn’t believe her she didn’t give up. We can learn from you.” Aniki crossed her arms across her chest and gave an authoritative nod, as though she now considered me properly chastised.
And I smiled at her and shook my head. For once I didn’t try to side step taking credit and spout one of my usual mantras that “these projects are about showing people that if they want to have something beautiful to look at they can make it/ they don’t need lots of money from some white people to make it (the money is all from within Botswana through the district multisectoral AIDS committee-which is a long and convoluted process by which money that probably came from the States in some form is distributed through plans made by the local districts, but I digress)/and if they want to make a project they have to work hard/ and look what the children of Seronga can create aren’t they wonderful?” I just let the pride wash over me, and I felt very happy. I did make these projects because I love them, and I want them to have beautiful things, and because I believe that they can do anything they want. I’m proud that some people here get the message of working hard and creating for themselves that I am trying to send. And I feel fulfilled and honored that somehow I managed to take this idea from in my head, inspired by my disgust and frustration with the broken bottles under children’s bare feet to create something beautiful and lasting. It was so worth it. All of it.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
The Secret Life of Bees... Revealed!
One of my projects which has proven to provide me with the greatest amount of joy in Seronga has been my girl’s book club. The idea came when I was reading a copy of The Secret Life of Bees and thought about how much I would like to share it with girls here. I had had the idea in mind for a book club in which we would read The Diary of Anne Frank, but the copies were taking a little while to get here (but have now been delivered into my hot little hands thanks again Mrs. Payne and Rob!!!) so I decided to start with the three copies I had managed to snag that had been floating around in this country of the Secret Life Of Bees.
I got the blessing of the guidance and counseling advisor at the school and placed a notice up on the school bulletin board outlining my expectations. I attended a school assembly (which began at half six in the morning!!! Uhgh) to recruit girls to form the group. In the end I have always had more girls sign up than actually attend, but I’ve got about 5 who are consistent. We are midway through the book and with help from home I have been able to show them pictures of the iconic American events and products outlined in the book and have got a copy of the movie ready to watch at our end of the book celebration I’m planning.
The book club ends up being a hard sell to try to link in with what is supposed to be my main focus, HIV/AIDS, but I find that helping these girls read and discuss many of the topics raised in the book (in English no less!) has been really rewarding. The book has several relevant themes that cross cultures (racism, interracial/teenage dating, being an orphan, female empowerment and business ownership, ect) and it is very cool to be able to remind them that the book it set in 1964, which is two years before Botswana got its independence. It was the year that the Civil Rights Amendment was signed in the United States, giving black people the right to vote and now we have a black president. Race is still a pretty big issue in Botswana, and to be able to make such a powerful connection to a countries ability to change in such a short period is amazing.
I genuinely feel that as they practice reading and answering critical thinking questions, each girl comes out of her shell in a small way. They are very supportive of each other, helping each other along over difficult words, and are more willing to ask questions and share their opinions. As time goes on each girl is willing to read out loud for a longer period of time, and they’ve also become more comfortable when I ask them to act out a certain part to better envision how it plays out. Slowly but surely they are realizing that they have a forum from which to ask questions about their own culture as well as mine, and to discuss issues they find important. We recently read through a part in which the main character, a 14 year old white girl (which happens to be the age of most of the girls in the club) falls in love with a black boy. It was so cool to discuss love and dating with these girls, and to be able to help them think through aspects of dating within their culture that they may or may not agree with, and to discuss how to resist pressure from boys.
It has been a joy to try to bring the book alive for these girls who are so hungry for information and new experiences. Through some stroke of luck or serendipity, I found out that the councilor’s widow keeps bees. About a month ago I arranged for her to give the girls a short lesson and demonstration about how beekeeping works. The girls got to suit up in full beekeeping apparel and use the smokers and feed the bees. Anne gave them all some honey to sample and bar of beeswax soap. It was so cool to take them on the sort of field trip that was the highlight of being in school for me, being able to get out of the classroom and experience things, and it was a huge departure from the type of rote learning they experience in their own classrooms.
Last week I added journaling as a component of the book club. I give them questions about the book and their feelings about it and opinions. I've found the girls will "speak" more freely if you will on paper. I've recently found that I've got two aspiring female doctors and that one of them plans on curing AIDS. I am awed at the goals of these girls from this place so far away from.... everything. And so proud to be able to work with them.
I got the blessing of the guidance and counseling advisor at the school and placed a notice up on the school bulletin board outlining my expectations. I attended a school assembly (which began at half six in the morning!!! Uhgh) to recruit girls to form the group. In the end I have always had more girls sign up than actually attend, but I’ve got about 5 who are consistent. We are midway through the book and with help from home I have been able to show them pictures of the iconic American events and products outlined in the book and have got a copy of the movie ready to watch at our end of the book celebration I’m planning.
The book club ends up being a hard sell to try to link in with what is supposed to be my main focus, HIV/AIDS, but I find that helping these girls read and discuss many of the topics raised in the book (in English no less!) has been really rewarding. The book has several relevant themes that cross cultures (racism, interracial/teenage dating, being an orphan, female empowerment and business ownership, ect) and it is very cool to be able to remind them that the book it set in 1964, which is two years before Botswana got its independence. It was the year that the Civil Rights Amendment was signed in the United States, giving black people the right to vote and now we have a black president. Race is still a pretty big issue in Botswana, and to be able to make such a powerful connection to a countries ability to change in such a short period is amazing.
I genuinely feel that as they practice reading and answering critical thinking questions, each girl comes out of her shell in a small way. They are very supportive of each other, helping each other along over difficult words, and are more willing to ask questions and share their opinions. As time goes on each girl is willing to read out loud for a longer period of time, and they’ve also become more comfortable when I ask them to act out a certain part to better envision how it plays out. Slowly but surely they are realizing that they have a forum from which to ask questions about their own culture as well as mine, and to discuss issues they find important. We recently read through a part in which the main character, a 14 year old white girl (which happens to be the age of most of the girls in the club) falls in love with a black boy. It was so cool to discuss love and dating with these girls, and to be able to help them think through aspects of dating within their culture that they may or may not agree with, and to discuss how to resist pressure from boys.
It has been a joy to try to bring the book alive for these girls who are so hungry for information and new experiences. Through some stroke of luck or serendipity, I found out that the councilor’s widow keeps bees. About a month ago I arranged for her to give the girls a short lesson and demonstration about how beekeeping works. The girls got to suit up in full beekeeping apparel and use the smokers and feed the bees. Anne gave them all some honey to sample and bar of beeswax soap. It was so cool to take them on the sort of field trip that was the highlight of being in school for me, being able to get out of the classroom and experience things, and it was a huge departure from the type of rote learning they experience in their own classrooms.
Last week I added journaling as a component of the book club. I give them questions about the book and their feelings about it and opinions. I've found the girls will "speak" more freely if you will on paper. I've recently found that I've got two aspiring female doctors and that one of them plans on curing AIDS. I am awed at the goals of these girls from this place so far away from.... everything. And so proud to be able to work with them.
Successful in Seronga!!!!
After a past few months that rivaled my first two months at site for melancholy, hopelessness, irritation and plain old homesickness and angst, waiting it out has been the right answer yet again. I’ve got some projects that have made me feel a little bit of success, and also have the arrival of several visitors in the next year to look forward to.
Home Improvements…
In the past few months there have been great improvements to the hut (and surrounding areas) in Seronga. As follows:
The doctor is in. He has finally been moved into his accommodation at the police, and is fully relocated to Seronga. We now have ARV’s available to patients on a more regular basis, so now they don’t have to travel to Shakawe after their three month initiation period. Hopefully this will help less people default on their ARV’s. As both ambulance boats are still in the shop (along with the post boat since Jan of this year) the nurses are still having to get up at 4 in the morning to meet patients who have traveled from God knows where in the bush in the dark to get to the clinic to have their blood drawn. Everyone in Seronga is bumbling around at these insane hours because as the boats are in the shop, the road ambulances have to drive all the way around the delta- up through Shakawe and back down to Gumare, a journey that can take anywhere from 3.5 hours (best) to 7 or 8 (my worst nightmare days) one way. They have to leave by about 6 or 6:30 in order to get to Gumare in time to turn around and get back before the last ferry at 6:30. (It’s winter here now, so it gets dark earlier, which means there is less light by which to navigate crossing that dark, deep, churning, strongly flowing and cold water - which is just unsafe at night. Two words: Nvuvu/Kubu (Hippo) and Kwena (Crocodile) yup, you wouldn’t be wanting to cross that bad boy at night either). It used to be a bit more negotiable with the ferry operators and easier to convince them to go across just one more time, but not so much any more…
So in addition to the ngaka (Dr.) being able to dispense ARV’s, he can also deal with a bit more serious diagnosis and trauma. People also take his word more seriously than that of the head nurse, which is sort of dumb, but will help the patients in the long run. He is able to make more authoritative diagnosis and recommendation for the treatment of patients who have to be referred out of Seronga.
(In a previous incident the head nurse recommended that a patient be transferred at least to Maun as she suspected Gumare did not have sufficient resources to properly care for the patient. Because the protocol involves transferring a patient to Gumare first, the patient was airlifted out of Seronga to Gumare, where the patient lapsed into a coma, then the patient was transferred to Maun, and then onto Francistown when even Maun didn’t have sufficient resources to help the patient. It makes me shudder to consider not only the trauma the patient undoubtedly suffered through all that transport to places with insufficient resources but also the cost of the plane –someone paid for the following legs of airflights: Maun to Seronga, Seronga to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, again Maun to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, then Maun to Francistown and back. Not cheap for the government. I haven’t heard the outcome of this one.)
Although the ngaka is still on the road at least 2 days a week dispensing drugs to the other ARV clinics this side of the delta, it’s a helluva lot better to have him there more regularly. His arrival has caused the head nurse to rejoice (and say that she can now put in for a transfer- for which she is nearly due) and has greatly improved the availability of treatment for patients.
The Mural at the clinic. Is finished! I’ve noticed that community participation can often be hard to muster for these projects in Botswana, but I was determined to call in favors and even beg and plead if I had to. I am proud to announce that I didn’t lift a brush for this project. My job was all in the background legwork. For me it was more important to help empower the kids to design the words and carry the project from priming and sketching to completion.
One might argue that the idea of Peace Corps is to work along side of host country partners, but I find that it sent a powerful message to the kids when I got out the paints and brushes and said “go for it”. They looked at me incredulously, like isn’t she going to tell us what to do? I just tipped me chin at the wall and reminded them that they’re the artists and walked away. The adults at the clinic looked at me like I was crazy as well, but it proved an amazing time to teach a lesson in empowerment, that people will rise to a task put in front of them if you let them. It turned out beautifully, if not what I had originally envisioned. I’ve heard through various members of the community that the nurses and staff at the clinic are very proud of the mural, and I found it has been valuable in terms of people in the village see something tangible that they attribute to me, even though I continuously give credit to the children and the art teacher, and remind them that I only got the supplies.
Which had been a rather pain in the ass. I had started the background work back in December, and by the beginning of April the paint cans were ready to be busted open. I wrote no less than three versions of the same letter asking for permission to paint on the clinic which was faxed, hand delivered, and misplaced no less than 5 times. I made weekly calls and personal follow ups, and made a trip to Gabs and Maun that didn’t even end up with the supplies I wanted. My vision was changed several times as I had to convince the clinic staff to buy into the idea as well as try to get them to come up with a theme, which ended up being a play on the Bacon quote that was up not only at my high school, but also here at the Junior Secondary school (like a Jr. High or middle school back in the states). The mural proclaims “Knowledge is Power, Know Your Status”- in both English and Setswana, and the phrase O E Cheke which means get tested and happens to be this year’s theme from one of the major NGO’s that funds HIV projects.
My original vision was to get acrylics and have the art teacher design a proper mural with pictures rather than words on the side of the building, but I ended up with house paint and a smaller space on the front of the building. I’m not giving up on the actual picture mural idea, but the next big space that will fall prey to my attack will hopefully be the two walls on the corner of the main area in the town on the jail of the kgotla. It will probably take me the rest of my time here to get supplies and permission to carry out the design the art teacher has begun with the kids (he’s using aspects of the Sistine Chapel for inspiration-how incredibly cool is that!!!!) but if I can get it accomplished that would be one of the crowning achievements of my service. Wish me luck.
I’ve also recently heard that the teacher I’ve been working with these art projects on (who when we met used to come to work drunk a good portion of the days I saw him, but nonetheless is an amazing artist and really helps the kids become better artists as well by demanding a lot of them) has been working with some of the kids he described as “not so dumb” to have them write essays about what “knowledge is power” means to them. He’s offered a prize of 200p of his own money to encourage them. I had nothing to do with this, but am amazed at both his generosity and his willingness to go above and beyond the project to really get the kids thinking and expressing themselves. I’m very proud of him.
Other Art Projects!
Working with some of the teachers at the primary I have come up with a committee to work with the kids to use the remaining house paint (nothing gets wasted on my watch in Seronga!) to create a world map mural on the wall of the primary school. So far we’ve primed the spot with white, the map has arrived and been gridded (THANKS MOM!) and we will start painting this week. It’s going to be amazing to literally show the kids the world!
Along with that my long awaited project of creating a mosaic at the junior secondary has begun. I have been collecting different colors of glass for months in preparation for this and the area is primed and the sketch has been done. I realized a bit too late that brown glass can be collected and turned in for cash as they recycle the bottles and thus brown bottles were going to be a little harder to come by, but after several dumpster diving slash appeals to the village drinking crowds, I think we’ll have enough. (Everything you need to in Seronga is available if you ask enough people-see village chicken).
I was of course getting a little emotional as the artist, GB (he’s got a crazy long Setswana name and luckily goes by the nickname GB) sketched his design on the wall. I kept exclaiming how happy I was for him and he, being a typical teenager, rolled his eyes and called me crazy. But the wall is there, it’s sketched, and we’ll start breaking bottles this week. Pictures to follow!
Warmish Shower! I think when one is in the Peace Corps and adaptability becomes the only way in which to keep going, it has some deep effects on your personality. In some ways I’ve learned to either just put up with a lot of shit, or adapt. Once the decision is made to adapt, the idea of trying to work of improve something can occasionally be absurd. It becomes difficult to envision or hope for something better, no matter how easy it may be to accomplish.
This is how I had begun to feel about my bathing situation. When there is water in the village (an event that is occurring incredibly more frequently as a result of the old water guy-who is responsible for finding the fuel and transport to get to Teekae (about 15-20 kilometers outside of Seronga) being replaced by someone who apparently takes his job more seriously, or at least that’s what I’m hoping as it’s been a lot more consistent lately) I’ve taken to just heating up a kettle on the stove, mixing it with some cold from the tap, and splash or bucket bathing. It’s not optimal, but over the course of a year, I’ve come to accept it and even excel at it. You would be amazed how the girl who used to draw an entire Jacuzzi style bathtub full of hot steaming water every night for an at least 15 minute soak has come to be able to bathe completely with less than half a bucket of water. (And I feel pretty clean). So with acceptance came complacency in this case.
Until the Aussies came (see “Hostess with the Mostess”). They rigged up a series of black pipes found in Simon’s back yard to flow from my faucet out of my bathroom window, onto the roof next door, back onto my tub and to be plugged with a cork at about knee level (this set-up has recently been improved again by another visitor, a former Peace Corps who hung the pipe from the ceiling so it’s more like a proper shower. Amazing! You still have to use it in the middle of the day in order for it to be properly warm (forget trying to have a warm shower after an evening run) but is has also helped make me clothes seem cleaner when I do my laundry with slightly warmer water. Since the water is unfiltered as it comes in the house, heating it up in a plastic hose can tend to make it smell… interesting. At the end of the day (or really, make that the middle) it’s warmer and it’s wet. I’m happy.
Pack your bags!
My mom, Paul and Karly have booked their tickets to visit! They got an amazing deal on the flight and they arrive right in Maun. I’m already going nuts planning their upcoming adventure which will include the bush, the delta, Kasane and CAPE TOWN!!!! More on that but I am sooooo pumped!
It’s Electric?
Power is sort of, allegedly, kindof, maybe coming to Seronga. There’s all sorts of toxic smelling poles that the children have a great time playing on barefoot (and just make me cringe at the idea that as they climb on them they are inhaling those fumes but there’s no chasing them off, I’ve tried.) Word on the street, or really, the dirt road, is that they will be up and running by July. Righhhht.
Home Improvements…
In the past few months there have been great improvements to the hut (and surrounding areas) in Seronga. As follows:
The doctor is in. He has finally been moved into his accommodation at the police, and is fully relocated to Seronga. We now have ARV’s available to patients on a more regular basis, so now they don’t have to travel to Shakawe after their three month initiation period. Hopefully this will help less people default on their ARV’s. As both ambulance boats are still in the shop (along with the post boat since Jan of this year) the nurses are still having to get up at 4 in the morning to meet patients who have traveled from God knows where in the bush in the dark to get to the clinic to have their blood drawn. Everyone in Seronga is bumbling around at these insane hours because as the boats are in the shop, the road ambulances have to drive all the way around the delta- up through Shakawe and back down to Gumare, a journey that can take anywhere from 3.5 hours (best) to 7 or 8 (my worst nightmare days) one way. They have to leave by about 6 or 6:30 in order to get to Gumare in time to turn around and get back before the last ferry at 6:30. (It’s winter here now, so it gets dark earlier, which means there is less light by which to navigate crossing that dark, deep, churning, strongly flowing and cold water - which is just unsafe at night. Two words: Nvuvu/Kubu (Hippo) and Kwena (Crocodile) yup, you wouldn’t be wanting to cross that bad boy at night either). It used to be a bit more negotiable with the ferry operators and easier to convince them to go across just one more time, but not so much any more…
So in addition to the ngaka (Dr.) being able to dispense ARV’s, he can also deal with a bit more serious diagnosis and trauma. People also take his word more seriously than that of the head nurse, which is sort of dumb, but will help the patients in the long run. He is able to make more authoritative diagnosis and recommendation for the treatment of patients who have to be referred out of Seronga.
(In a previous incident the head nurse recommended that a patient be transferred at least to Maun as she suspected Gumare did not have sufficient resources to properly care for the patient. Because the protocol involves transferring a patient to Gumare first, the patient was airlifted out of Seronga to Gumare, where the patient lapsed into a coma, then the patient was transferred to Maun, and then onto Francistown when even Maun didn’t have sufficient resources to help the patient. It makes me shudder to consider not only the trauma the patient undoubtedly suffered through all that transport to places with insufficient resources but also the cost of the plane –someone paid for the following legs of airflights: Maun to Seronga, Seronga to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, again Maun to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, then Maun to Francistown and back. Not cheap for the government. I haven’t heard the outcome of this one.)
Although the ngaka is still on the road at least 2 days a week dispensing drugs to the other ARV clinics this side of the delta, it’s a helluva lot better to have him there more regularly. His arrival has caused the head nurse to rejoice (and say that she can now put in for a transfer- for which she is nearly due) and has greatly improved the availability of treatment for patients.
The Mural at the clinic. Is finished! I’ve noticed that community participation can often be hard to muster for these projects in Botswana, but I was determined to call in favors and even beg and plead if I had to. I am proud to announce that I didn’t lift a brush for this project. My job was all in the background legwork. For me it was more important to help empower the kids to design the words and carry the project from priming and sketching to completion.
One might argue that the idea of Peace Corps is to work along side of host country partners, but I find that it sent a powerful message to the kids when I got out the paints and brushes and said “go for it”. They looked at me incredulously, like isn’t she going to tell us what to do? I just tipped me chin at the wall and reminded them that they’re the artists and walked away. The adults at the clinic looked at me like I was crazy as well, but it proved an amazing time to teach a lesson in empowerment, that people will rise to a task put in front of them if you let them. It turned out beautifully, if not what I had originally envisioned. I’ve heard through various members of the community that the nurses and staff at the clinic are very proud of the mural, and I found it has been valuable in terms of people in the village see something tangible that they attribute to me, even though I continuously give credit to the children and the art teacher, and remind them that I only got the supplies.
Which had been a rather pain in the ass. I had started the background work back in December, and by the beginning of April the paint cans were ready to be busted open. I wrote no less than three versions of the same letter asking for permission to paint on the clinic which was faxed, hand delivered, and misplaced no less than 5 times. I made weekly calls and personal follow ups, and made a trip to Gabs and Maun that didn’t even end up with the supplies I wanted. My vision was changed several times as I had to convince the clinic staff to buy into the idea as well as try to get them to come up with a theme, which ended up being a play on the Bacon quote that was up not only at my high school, but also here at the Junior Secondary school (like a Jr. High or middle school back in the states). The mural proclaims “Knowledge is Power, Know Your Status”- in both English and Setswana, and the phrase O E Cheke which means get tested and happens to be this year’s theme from one of the major NGO’s that funds HIV projects.
My original vision was to get acrylics and have the art teacher design a proper mural with pictures rather than words on the side of the building, but I ended up with house paint and a smaller space on the front of the building. I’m not giving up on the actual picture mural idea, but the next big space that will fall prey to my attack will hopefully be the two walls on the corner of the main area in the town on the jail of the kgotla. It will probably take me the rest of my time here to get supplies and permission to carry out the design the art teacher has begun with the kids (he’s using aspects of the Sistine Chapel for inspiration-how incredibly cool is that!!!!) but if I can get it accomplished that would be one of the crowning achievements of my service. Wish me luck.
I’ve also recently heard that the teacher I’ve been working with these art projects on (who when we met used to come to work drunk a good portion of the days I saw him, but nonetheless is an amazing artist and really helps the kids become better artists as well by demanding a lot of them) has been working with some of the kids he described as “not so dumb” to have them write essays about what “knowledge is power” means to them. He’s offered a prize of 200p of his own money to encourage them. I had nothing to do with this, but am amazed at both his generosity and his willingness to go above and beyond the project to really get the kids thinking and expressing themselves. I’m very proud of him.
Other Art Projects!
Working with some of the teachers at the primary I have come up with a committee to work with the kids to use the remaining house paint (nothing gets wasted on my watch in Seronga!) to create a world map mural on the wall of the primary school. So far we’ve primed the spot with white, the map has arrived and been gridded (THANKS MOM!) and we will start painting this week. It’s going to be amazing to literally show the kids the world!
Along with that my long awaited project of creating a mosaic at the junior secondary has begun. I have been collecting different colors of glass for months in preparation for this and the area is primed and the sketch has been done. I realized a bit too late that brown glass can be collected and turned in for cash as they recycle the bottles and thus brown bottles were going to be a little harder to come by, but after several dumpster diving slash appeals to the village drinking crowds, I think we’ll have enough. (Everything you need to in Seronga is available if you ask enough people-see village chicken).
I was of course getting a little emotional as the artist, GB (he’s got a crazy long Setswana name and luckily goes by the nickname GB) sketched his design on the wall. I kept exclaiming how happy I was for him and he, being a typical teenager, rolled his eyes and called me crazy. But the wall is there, it’s sketched, and we’ll start breaking bottles this week. Pictures to follow!
Warmish Shower! I think when one is in the Peace Corps and adaptability becomes the only way in which to keep going, it has some deep effects on your personality. In some ways I’ve learned to either just put up with a lot of shit, or adapt. Once the decision is made to adapt, the idea of trying to work of improve something can occasionally be absurd. It becomes difficult to envision or hope for something better, no matter how easy it may be to accomplish.
This is how I had begun to feel about my bathing situation. When there is water in the village (an event that is occurring incredibly more frequently as a result of the old water guy-who is responsible for finding the fuel and transport to get to Teekae (about 15-20 kilometers outside of Seronga) being replaced by someone who apparently takes his job more seriously, or at least that’s what I’m hoping as it’s been a lot more consistent lately) I’ve taken to just heating up a kettle on the stove, mixing it with some cold from the tap, and splash or bucket bathing. It’s not optimal, but over the course of a year, I’ve come to accept it and even excel at it. You would be amazed how the girl who used to draw an entire Jacuzzi style bathtub full of hot steaming water every night for an at least 15 minute soak has come to be able to bathe completely with less than half a bucket of water. (And I feel pretty clean). So with acceptance came complacency in this case.
Until the Aussies came (see “Hostess with the Mostess”). They rigged up a series of black pipes found in Simon’s back yard to flow from my faucet out of my bathroom window, onto the roof next door, back onto my tub and to be plugged with a cork at about knee level (this set-up has recently been improved again by another visitor, a former Peace Corps who hung the pipe from the ceiling so it’s more like a proper shower. Amazing! You still have to use it in the middle of the day in order for it to be properly warm (forget trying to have a warm shower after an evening run) but is has also helped make me clothes seem cleaner when I do my laundry with slightly warmer water. Since the water is unfiltered as it comes in the house, heating it up in a plastic hose can tend to make it smell… interesting. At the end of the day (or really, make that the middle) it’s warmer and it’s wet. I’m happy.
Pack your bags!
My mom, Paul and Karly have booked their tickets to visit! They got an amazing deal on the flight and they arrive right in Maun. I’m already going nuts planning their upcoming adventure which will include the bush, the delta, Kasane and CAPE TOWN!!!! More on that but I am sooooo pumped!
It’s Electric?
Power is sort of, allegedly, kindof, maybe coming to Seronga. There’s all sorts of toxic smelling poles that the children have a great time playing on barefoot (and just make me cringe at the idea that as they climb on them they are inhaling those fumes but there’s no chasing them off, I’ve tried.) Word on the street, or really, the dirt road, is that they will be up and running by July. Righhhht.
And the Flood Came.... 2009
From sometime around March/April 2009
It was a record setting year for floods, not only in my home state of Minnesota (or did North Dakota get credit for the flooding this year?) but also in the Okavango delta. It seems that this year the waters this side reached the second highest since the 1960’s. Whereas in Minnesota there may have been huge efforts at sandbagging and people’s houses may have flooded, the Eastern side of the delta saw people being relocated to tent communities and roads rendered impassable. And by roads I guess I mean road, as in the nameless dirt path that we travel back and forth on as our only escape from Seronga. Or I guess there’s always planes…. If there’s tourists…
The floodwaters seemed to peak in tandem with my foul period of discontent. As the extremely quickly flowing currents breached the banks of the river, flooded out the roads and made the ferry a somewhat dangerous option, it essentially stranded us on what sort of began to feel like an island in Seronga. As I’ve said, in Seronga we certainly didn’t have it as bad here as they did in other places, in Xakao many people had to be relocated from their homes into government or UNICEF or UN tents, and in Gudikwa people couldn’t get through the water to the clinic.
Months later the flood is still effecting us as the clinic has had to call in help in the form of helicopters and boats from the BDF and the government to administer to patients that are out of reach as we try to give every child that is under five a dose of vitamin A as part of a nation wide Vitamin A Campaign. The combination of the force of the current on the two outboard engines which run each of the two ferries at Mohembo that we must use to cross the river from this side (about 100kms up the road to the north only to turn around and head back south to get anywhere of note other than Namibia) as well as the increased traffic due to the electric company’s attempt to wire this side of the delta (think big heavy reels of cables, huge poles, many tools and huge trucks) have basically decommissioned three of the four engines. I’ve witnessed the ferry floating away down the river as one of the engines failed and the strong current caused it to drift past the waiting crowd as many people standing there yelled to the people that were drifting down the river on it (and I laughed and filmed). After about thirty minutes the BDF (Botswana Defense Force) boats came rushing out to rescue the people and an hour after that the boat managed to slowly make it’s way back up the river which made for a memorable (although not personal recording breaking) wait of just under four hours to cross the river on the ferry. (My personal record is 5 hours, and I’ve heard of people waiting 6. A friend from Maun recently drove the 350k journey from Maun to Shakawe only to find neither ferry working, with no one able to give her any information as to when one would be working again. She turned around and headed back down to Maun. With my groceries. That ended up being a long week….) For some reason someone cut down the last remaining trees that were on the East side of the delta at the ferry, which can make for some long, hot days of waiting next to cool deep water that you can’t swim in for the current and the monster crocs that are rumored to live near there as well as the hippos that can usually be seen on the far banks.
Our own clinic boats have been in the shop for 7 months for what has been called service and the boat driver at the clinic angrily tells me is routine maintenance that would take him two days at the most to complete, but it is the government’s policy that the service be done by those who get the tender (which from my understanding has to do with who will say that they will give the lowest price for something regardless of quality of service or timelines. This seems to be the case with whomever from Maun has won the tender to deliver gas cylinders as well. That guy has been promising to deliver the gas that I use to power my fridge and stove to cook for nearly three weeks. Luckily I’ve got friends in low places and have been able to beg a spare off someone in the interim, but that is astoundingly poor service.
The water was pervasive and encroaching, and it added to my foul mood by making me feel claustrophobic and desperate. Although I couldn’t see the difference unless I drove over the road to Shakawe, where the ferry may or may not have been able to cross, I felt the waters were drowning me. But then it could have just been my mood.
I had been in this country nearly a year and what precisely did I have to show for it? One men’s sector event, a painting, a mosaic project that will likely never start and a bunch of kids who know how to scream my name whenever they see me pass on the road. What seems like a ton of half started projects that I was really excited about but never went anywhere because when people had come to me saying “Lorato, we want to work with you on a project,” they meant, “Lorato, we want you to bring us some money from America, and no we have no plan or really any desire to actually put forth effort to get organized to make this project work, but once the money is here we can do all that hard work, not before to actually get the money. Can’t you wave your magic American wand? And no we really don’t want to listen to your suggestions because although you are American and white which means that you surely must have access to this money, or can’t you just ask some other rich Americans for the money, you are still a young girl and should not expect to tell your elders what to do, or god forbid to suggest what they are doing wrong.”
I still lose my patience (often). I haven’t been miraculously transformed into some sort of Mother Theresa figure of calm understanding amongst the village I live in. Although I love them I sometimes hate them. I am regularly frustrated with an alarming number of things that people around me just seem to accept as “normal”. At least once a month I need to get out of the bush to stay sane, which I think I initially considered to be weakness or a lack of toughness but am very slowly beginning to accept as just a smart policy. Add to that I miss my family and friends and it will be at least a year until I see many of them again and I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life type constant rumination and throw in a seemingly sent by God to push me over the edge style flood (or perhaps I’m just a bit histrionic) and you have a perfect storm of a mid service crisis. It seems that through all this I’ve stuck to my mantra, go hard or go home, even in my emotional breakdowns.
I have to admit that however much I was strongly disliking the flood (read: hating) it was completely amazing to see all that water. (Which I find myself saying, as we do in MN wahd-deR, which confuses the shit out of the local people, and I’ve taken to try to pronounce it as they do, wah-tah, which they laugh at. Oh well.) From the sky I flew from Seronga to Shakawe and could finally see that all the clumps of trees Simon called islands during the dry season truly were. All the places that just months before we had taken Simon’s truck joy riding across were now covered in a sparkling blue gown. Up until a large cow was killed by a croc this side the children would dart across the road in Mohembo and dance and play naked in the water that had previously covered the road but had now begun to recede. They splashed around and were happy. It was enough to make even my foul mood abate, at least for a while.
As the flood reached Seronga and passed, it took with it the tension and rage that seemed to be boiling to some terrible peak inside my soul. Things were still frustrating, and I was still feeling lonely and isolated, but it was less so now. The waters came, they asserted their force and their strength and then they slowly left. They washed away all the dirt and emotional shittiness that had built up within me like a slow release pressure valve. And as is its tendency, the flood will come again next year, but for now the water is fine.
It was a record setting year for floods, not only in my home state of Minnesota (or did North Dakota get credit for the flooding this year?) but also in the Okavango delta. It seems that this year the waters this side reached the second highest since the 1960’s. Whereas in Minnesota there may have been huge efforts at sandbagging and people’s houses may have flooded, the Eastern side of the delta saw people being relocated to tent communities and roads rendered impassable. And by roads I guess I mean road, as in the nameless dirt path that we travel back and forth on as our only escape from Seronga. Or I guess there’s always planes…. If there’s tourists…
The floodwaters seemed to peak in tandem with my foul period of discontent. As the extremely quickly flowing currents breached the banks of the river, flooded out the roads and made the ferry a somewhat dangerous option, it essentially stranded us on what sort of began to feel like an island in Seronga. As I’ve said, in Seronga we certainly didn’t have it as bad here as they did in other places, in Xakao many people had to be relocated from their homes into government or UNICEF or UN tents, and in Gudikwa people couldn’t get through the water to the clinic.
Months later the flood is still effecting us as the clinic has had to call in help in the form of helicopters and boats from the BDF and the government to administer to patients that are out of reach as we try to give every child that is under five a dose of vitamin A as part of a nation wide Vitamin A Campaign. The combination of the force of the current on the two outboard engines which run each of the two ferries at Mohembo that we must use to cross the river from this side (about 100kms up the road to the north only to turn around and head back south to get anywhere of note other than Namibia) as well as the increased traffic due to the electric company’s attempt to wire this side of the delta (think big heavy reels of cables, huge poles, many tools and huge trucks) have basically decommissioned three of the four engines. I’ve witnessed the ferry floating away down the river as one of the engines failed and the strong current caused it to drift past the waiting crowd as many people standing there yelled to the people that were drifting down the river on it (and I laughed and filmed). After about thirty minutes the BDF (Botswana Defense Force) boats came rushing out to rescue the people and an hour after that the boat managed to slowly make it’s way back up the river which made for a memorable (although not personal recording breaking) wait of just under four hours to cross the river on the ferry. (My personal record is 5 hours, and I’ve heard of people waiting 6. A friend from Maun recently drove the 350k journey from Maun to Shakawe only to find neither ferry working, with no one able to give her any information as to when one would be working again. She turned around and headed back down to Maun. With my groceries. That ended up being a long week….) For some reason someone cut down the last remaining trees that were on the East side of the delta at the ferry, which can make for some long, hot days of waiting next to cool deep water that you can’t swim in for the current and the monster crocs that are rumored to live near there as well as the hippos that can usually be seen on the far banks.
Our own clinic boats have been in the shop for 7 months for what has been called service and the boat driver at the clinic angrily tells me is routine maintenance that would take him two days at the most to complete, but it is the government’s policy that the service be done by those who get the tender (which from my understanding has to do with who will say that they will give the lowest price for something regardless of quality of service or timelines. This seems to be the case with whomever from Maun has won the tender to deliver gas cylinders as well. That guy has been promising to deliver the gas that I use to power my fridge and stove to cook for nearly three weeks. Luckily I’ve got friends in low places and have been able to beg a spare off someone in the interim, but that is astoundingly poor service.
The water was pervasive and encroaching, and it added to my foul mood by making me feel claustrophobic and desperate. Although I couldn’t see the difference unless I drove over the road to Shakawe, where the ferry may or may not have been able to cross, I felt the waters were drowning me. But then it could have just been my mood.
I had been in this country nearly a year and what precisely did I have to show for it? One men’s sector event, a painting, a mosaic project that will likely never start and a bunch of kids who know how to scream my name whenever they see me pass on the road. What seems like a ton of half started projects that I was really excited about but never went anywhere because when people had come to me saying “Lorato, we want to work with you on a project,” they meant, “Lorato, we want you to bring us some money from America, and no we have no plan or really any desire to actually put forth effort to get organized to make this project work, but once the money is here we can do all that hard work, not before to actually get the money. Can’t you wave your magic American wand? And no we really don’t want to listen to your suggestions because although you are American and white which means that you surely must have access to this money, or can’t you just ask some other rich Americans for the money, you are still a young girl and should not expect to tell your elders what to do, or god forbid to suggest what they are doing wrong.”
I still lose my patience (often). I haven’t been miraculously transformed into some sort of Mother Theresa figure of calm understanding amongst the village I live in. Although I love them I sometimes hate them. I am regularly frustrated with an alarming number of things that people around me just seem to accept as “normal”. At least once a month I need to get out of the bush to stay sane, which I think I initially considered to be weakness or a lack of toughness but am very slowly beginning to accept as just a smart policy. Add to that I miss my family and friends and it will be at least a year until I see many of them again and I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life type constant rumination and throw in a seemingly sent by God to push me over the edge style flood (or perhaps I’m just a bit histrionic) and you have a perfect storm of a mid service crisis. It seems that through all this I’ve stuck to my mantra, go hard or go home, even in my emotional breakdowns.
I have to admit that however much I was strongly disliking the flood (read: hating) it was completely amazing to see all that water. (Which I find myself saying, as we do in MN wahd-deR, which confuses the shit out of the local people, and I’ve taken to try to pronounce it as they do, wah-tah, which they laugh at. Oh well.) From the sky I flew from Seronga to Shakawe and could finally see that all the clumps of trees Simon called islands during the dry season truly were. All the places that just months before we had taken Simon’s truck joy riding across were now covered in a sparkling blue gown. Up until a large cow was killed by a croc this side the children would dart across the road in Mohembo and dance and play naked in the water that had previously covered the road but had now begun to recede. They splashed around and were happy. It was enough to make even my foul mood abate, at least for a while.
As the flood reached Seronga and passed, it took with it the tension and rage that seemed to be boiling to some terrible peak inside my soul. Things were still frustrating, and I was still feeling lonely and isolated, but it was less so now. The waters came, they asserted their force and their strength and then they slowly left. They washed away all the dirt and emotional shittiness that had built up within me like a slow release pressure valve. And as is its tendency, the flood will come again next year, but for now the water is fine.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Ruminate, deviate, palpitate, eliminate?
I know that it’s all simply homesickness, this longing for the place or times when the grass is or was (or perhaps just seemed) greener (or perhaps it's that there was grass? And not just sand?). Melancholy and loneliness are so easy to find here, living in the conditions that so easily foster missing and reminiscing. After all, here more than any other time or place I’ve experienced on Earth I am made aware on a more regular basis of the concept that it is just me and my mind, (strangely it seems these can occasionally separate into two independent beings) and that one can be a powerful one to distract.
There is a helluva lot of time here to think. To think, rethink, analyze, and reanalyze, to decide, to waver, to ruminate and to dwell. Occasionally home and all that we’ve left there can become a shining beacon of a heaven which we yearn to visit not because we want to actually be there right now but because all that’s there manages to represent an escape from our own minds. B even text me recently that at least when we get home we won’t have as much time to THINK. I’ve found I can while away hours and better parts of days fantasizing about home and the people I’ve left back there, writing and rereading letters and when it’s available searching the internet for the pictures and stories of those I love and miss. I think as with anything it can often represent an escape from what’s in front of us, of what’s here. It can definitely become an obsession. As with every fixation, though at first memories can be pleasant I find they can soon become longing, building up and toppling the house of cards in which I sometimes live. When I’m for some other reason vulnerable this reminiscence can become a big problem that can seductively lead me down a road to depression. So I’ve found I’ve had to force myself to try to forget some of you on occasion, to put you out of my mind for times in order to go about my day.
Because the reality is that I’m here, you all are not, what once was will never be completely as it was again, and although that’s ok, and even good, it’s hard to swallow. It can be hard to let go. To let you go, to let me go, to let everything that was live in the place it should be, the past. Certainly this is the order events of every day of every life, living the particular choice I’ve made just happens to offer a unique vantage point from which to view the progression of time and space. That and of course all the damn thinking.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to understand the point of all this thinking and remembering, and having fallen short of reaching that lofty goal I’ve settled for attempting to describe it. These next two entries are about some of what this crazy brain of mine gets up to.
Post Script: The time right around reaching the year mark was pretty tough for me and most of these particular rantings were written during that time. I’ve been waiting until I was a bit more in the clear to actually post them, so as not to make anybody panic. But this darkness has been a part of my experience and in the interest of being honest to my experience, I’m including it. Read on.
There is a helluva lot of time here to think. To think, rethink, analyze, and reanalyze, to decide, to waver, to ruminate and to dwell. Occasionally home and all that we’ve left there can become a shining beacon of a heaven which we yearn to visit not because we want to actually be there right now but because all that’s there manages to represent an escape from our own minds. B even text me recently that at least when we get home we won’t have as much time to THINK. I’ve found I can while away hours and better parts of days fantasizing about home and the people I’ve left back there, writing and rereading letters and when it’s available searching the internet for the pictures and stories of those I love and miss. I think as with anything it can often represent an escape from what’s in front of us, of what’s here. It can definitely become an obsession. As with every fixation, though at first memories can be pleasant I find they can soon become longing, building up and toppling the house of cards in which I sometimes live. When I’m for some other reason vulnerable this reminiscence can become a big problem that can seductively lead me down a road to depression. So I’ve found I’ve had to force myself to try to forget some of you on occasion, to put you out of my mind for times in order to go about my day.
Because the reality is that I’m here, you all are not, what once was will never be completely as it was again, and although that’s ok, and even good, it’s hard to swallow. It can be hard to let go. To let you go, to let me go, to let everything that was live in the place it should be, the past. Certainly this is the order events of every day of every life, living the particular choice I’ve made just happens to offer a unique vantage point from which to view the progression of time and space. That and of course all the damn thinking.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to understand the point of all this thinking and remembering, and having fallen short of reaching that lofty goal I’ve settled for attempting to describe it. These next two entries are about some of what this crazy brain of mine gets up to.
Post Script: The time right around reaching the year mark was pretty tough for me and most of these particular rantings were written during that time. I’ve been waiting until I was a bit more in the clear to actually post them, so as not to make anybody panic. But this darkness has been a part of my experience and in the interest of being honest to my experience, I’m including it. Read on.
The Arsonist
Sometimes memories come, so vividly and sharply it pains me. They are like sparks that start a fire that I find myself stoking; sometimes casually and halfheartedly, bemused and only slightly interested. Sometimes the memory presents itself and I dive headfirst down the rabbit hole to follow it. I cling to it, searching the Kalahari Desert of my mind for kindling, blowing on the hazy smoke filled trenches of my brain with the intensity of the bellows of hell to keep it burning. I pour gasoline on the thing and inevitably, the intensity builds to a point where this fire has become out of control. I find myself lost in a bushfire of uncontrollable nostalgia.
I try to stop the thing, to escape the heat, to extinguish the flames but it’s too late. I’ve done it again and now I have to categorically burn each and every recollection I can find, occasionally throwing in plastic and all sorts of stuff that’s not real to fuel this mess. I must keep the fire going until it burns itself out, the toxic smoke of the untruths I’m attributing to you choking me and yet necessary. I burn a wide swath around the places that burn hottest, hoping that if I indulge this one, just this once, it’ll go away forever, or at least long enough to let me heal from these latest burns a bit.
On occasion the fire gets too hot and I sweat and I panic, I go a bit mad, I scramble to desperately try to create new memories. I try to make and have and do so much that whatever is left behind from before pales in comparison. In some ways it works, I succeed. Between here and there is no comparison. I am here and I wouldn’t change that. But to long for you, all of you, and home and what I left, to miss such silly things as to be hard to describe to those who live them every day, it’s difficult. To honestly describe yearning for pavement and streetlights and salads and bubble baths just becomes really strange. It’s difficult for me to believe I’m not crazy.
Sometimes I try to deny the reality of it all completely. I try to recreate the memories, or replace them with new ones, to make it all seem uglier so it’s not so painful. I try to make you into someone that would have been easy to leave, to forget, to let go of. Someone who’s not who you are. I try to create new memories; or to mold them out of clay or carve them out of wood or shape them out of metal, but they look garish and ridiculous next to the crystal clear recollections that hold the emotional bouquet of who I remember you to be. All of these new pieces melt away in the heat, and the flowers, which should wither and die in the flames, remain as fresh and when they first bloomed. There are times when I’m strong and can withstand the flames. There are times when I cannot. It comes down to a choice, because I can’t keep all these memories of you and still continue to become me. If I keep living this way, with memories of you starting these massive fires in my mind I will be left with nothing, having burned everything in my path, the charred remains of who I could have become all that remains. And I won’t do it.
I walk these coals, they have become familiar. They burn into the scars deep within me, searing not just my flesh but my bones, which feel as bleached and brittle and white as the bones of the elephant we found last week, dead for many years, and just as unable to hold up the person who must walk this Earth each day. And yet I do, and I can and I learn. I’ve danced before these particular flames before. I do it, I know it hurts, and yet I burn, I burn. I begin to relish the pain a bit, scratching at the blisters, watching them ooze and hoping this is the last case of arson, and knowing it’s not. The fire burns hotter and hotter, threatening to engulf me, and yet I know it never will. Not completely.
So I try, again and again, to put out the candle.
I try to stop the thing, to escape the heat, to extinguish the flames but it’s too late. I’ve done it again and now I have to categorically burn each and every recollection I can find, occasionally throwing in plastic and all sorts of stuff that’s not real to fuel this mess. I must keep the fire going until it burns itself out, the toxic smoke of the untruths I’m attributing to you choking me and yet necessary. I burn a wide swath around the places that burn hottest, hoping that if I indulge this one, just this once, it’ll go away forever, or at least long enough to let me heal from these latest burns a bit.
On occasion the fire gets too hot and I sweat and I panic, I go a bit mad, I scramble to desperately try to create new memories. I try to make and have and do so much that whatever is left behind from before pales in comparison. In some ways it works, I succeed. Between here and there is no comparison. I am here and I wouldn’t change that. But to long for you, all of you, and home and what I left, to miss such silly things as to be hard to describe to those who live them every day, it’s difficult. To honestly describe yearning for pavement and streetlights and salads and bubble baths just becomes really strange. It’s difficult for me to believe I’m not crazy.
Sometimes I try to deny the reality of it all completely. I try to recreate the memories, or replace them with new ones, to make it all seem uglier so it’s not so painful. I try to make you into someone that would have been easy to leave, to forget, to let go of. Someone who’s not who you are. I try to create new memories; or to mold them out of clay or carve them out of wood or shape them out of metal, but they look garish and ridiculous next to the crystal clear recollections that hold the emotional bouquet of who I remember you to be. All of these new pieces melt away in the heat, and the flowers, which should wither and die in the flames, remain as fresh and when they first bloomed. There are times when I’m strong and can withstand the flames. There are times when I cannot. It comes down to a choice, because I can’t keep all these memories of you and still continue to become me. If I keep living this way, with memories of you starting these massive fires in my mind I will be left with nothing, having burned everything in my path, the charred remains of who I could have become all that remains. And I won’t do it.
I walk these coals, they have become familiar. They burn into the scars deep within me, searing not just my flesh but my bones, which feel as bleached and brittle and white as the bones of the elephant we found last week, dead for many years, and just as unable to hold up the person who must walk this Earth each day. And yet I do, and I can and I learn. I’ve danced before these particular flames before. I do it, I know it hurts, and yet I burn, I burn. I begin to relish the pain a bit, scratching at the blisters, watching them ooze and hoping this is the last case of arson, and knowing it’s not. The fire burns hotter and hotter, threatening to engulf me, and yet I know it never will. Not completely.
So I try, again and again, to put out the candle.
Let You Go....
It could be any one of you, those I have known; some of you parade through my mind with the kind of demanding insistence uncharacteristic of you in real life while others of you visit with alarming irregularity, leaving my grasping and clinging for any morsel of our bond I can recall. I find myself audibly gasping in surprise as some wayward memory bursts into the forefront of my mind, much the way the word one might have been racking ones mind for a few weeks back will present itself too pointlessly and gracelessly late to be of any use, but is so winsome and shiny and appealing that one wants to shout it out from rooftops.
This memory has hijacked my attention, I’m suddenly miles away from whatever was happening at present, leaving the person I’m probably trying to have a conversation with (likely at least partly in another language which is another part of the brain that is constantly muddled entirely) irritated or confused. I look around me for someone to share it with, someone to laugh at the inside joke but there’s no one inside this joke with me, which leaves even me outside in the cold.
The bright shiny memory is followed by a hallow feeling of sadness that pushes the joy of the reminiscence back into the depths from whence it came, leaving me feeling alone and confused and filled with a longing for something unnamable and suddenly vague. It comes and goes so suddenly that I begin to doubt that the memories are even real, maybe it never even happened. Perhaps I never knew you and we never did that and that place doesn’t exist. There’s very little in the differences between this world I now inhabit and the one I thought I knew to effectively confirm or deny. My former life takes on a dream like quality.
The sad memories, of those with whom I’ve lost touch since I’ve been here, or whom I might not see again (for whichever reason) or places which no longer exist hold a particular poignancy. They rub up against the sharp corners of my mind where my will has stepped in to protect me from their innocent poison, for truly indulging them, for reliving them starts off a chain reaction which can only lead to dark places. These bittersweet memories are like soft velvety cushions, and I find myself falling into their soft luxury where the initial promise of comfort fades away and leaves me in pain on a bed of nails.
So I let you go, one by one, after the other, some of you slip away during the night, some of you must be pushed out the door, but I can’t do it any more. I can’t spend my time wondering what it is with you, and for you, I must just settle for the idea that maybe someday we’ll meet again. It’s too difficult to continue on being stretched across these oceans and continents. I must try to be just where I am, and not spend so much time where you are, at least in my head.
But I assure you it pains me physically; I can feel you stripped away as flesh from my bones, each one being torn away categorically and seemingly without reason. My logical mind tells me that you can stay, and rest comfortably in my soul while the irrational, emotional part pushes you out the door. It’s hard to give in this metaphorical grey spot, the place with and without you. There can be no more “I wonder what she’s doing,” or “I wish he could see this”. I have to hold you each in your place in my heart, and hug and kiss the image of you that lives in my soul and put you back on the deep dark shelf in the depths of my mind. And I have to forget about you for now.
I have to let you go.
This memory has hijacked my attention, I’m suddenly miles away from whatever was happening at present, leaving the person I’m probably trying to have a conversation with (likely at least partly in another language which is another part of the brain that is constantly muddled entirely) irritated or confused. I look around me for someone to share it with, someone to laugh at the inside joke but there’s no one inside this joke with me, which leaves even me outside in the cold.
The bright shiny memory is followed by a hallow feeling of sadness that pushes the joy of the reminiscence back into the depths from whence it came, leaving me feeling alone and confused and filled with a longing for something unnamable and suddenly vague. It comes and goes so suddenly that I begin to doubt that the memories are even real, maybe it never even happened. Perhaps I never knew you and we never did that and that place doesn’t exist. There’s very little in the differences between this world I now inhabit and the one I thought I knew to effectively confirm or deny. My former life takes on a dream like quality.
The sad memories, of those with whom I’ve lost touch since I’ve been here, or whom I might not see again (for whichever reason) or places which no longer exist hold a particular poignancy. They rub up against the sharp corners of my mind where my will has stepped in to protect me from their innocent poison, for truly indulging them, for reliving them starts off a chain reaction which can only lead to dark places. These bittersweet memories are like soft velvety cushions, and I find myself falling into their soft luxury where the initial promise of comfort fades away and leaves me in pain on a bed of nails.
So I let you go, one by one, after the other, some of you slip away during the night, some of you must be pushed out the door, but I can’t do it any more. I can’t spend my time wondering what it is with you, and for you, I must just settle for the idea that maybe someday we’ll meet again. It’s too difficult to continue on being stretched across these oceans and continents. I must try to be just where I am, and not spend so much time where you are, at least in my head.
But I assure you it pains me physically; I can feel you stripped away as flesh from my bones, each one being torn away categorically and seemingly without reason. My logical mind tells me that you can stay, and rest comfortably in my soul while the irrational, emotional part pushes you out the door. It’s hard to give in this metaphorical grey spot, the place with and without you. There can be no more “I wonder what she’s doing,” or “I wish he could see this”. I have to hold you each in your place in my heart, and hug and kiss the image of you that lives in my soul and put you back on the deep dark shelf in the depths of my mind. And I have to forget about you for now.
I have to let you go.
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