It is strange how terribly beautiful and sad it is to miss someone or somewhere. Where does the feeling come from, where does it sit? The pit of your stomach or the cradle of your vocal chords or the nape of your neck or just below that delicate curve where your ribs divide?
I have spent the past five months living in Botswana, missing America and a million things I couldn’t list on a list, and now that I’m suddenly back, I can’t help but miss in reverse. How did it happen? How did I end up back here, in my bed, a million miles away from everything that was just under my feet and in my arms and clinging to my legs – if the sandbag weight of a million thoughts and wishes isn’t enough to keep me grounded, how can I assure myself that I won’t just keep drifting from continent to continent against my will? I guess I assumed that I’d take the best back with me, I’d leave with a last look, a deep breath, a packed bag, and a locked door. I assumed that time would abide by my rules just this once, and let me glide through the months like they were my own, like plans were solid and my outlook stone.
And yet, how could I have anticipated the upheaval, the grab me by my toes and dangle me around, shake me till I frown, jingle my pockets till pula rains down kind of world shifting change? On that cool grey morning when we rolled out of bed and headed to the waiting cabs, how could we have known that I wouldn’t come back?
I never considered myself prescient, in fact, I know so little about the future that I often find myself worrying about it. However, I somehow can’t shake the feeling that I should have known this was coming, that something should have whispered it to me, a little bird should have chirped it, or a rare breeze swept a gust full of secrets into my oft-flooded dorm room. It seems so strange, even callous, that a place could let me leave it without saying goodbye, without warning me that it was going far far away for a long long time.
You can never be sure what the jacarandas know or the cracked dirt will show, yet I won’t take it personally. Sometimes the earth won’t disclose what you want it to.
So, I have a story to tell. It is long, and hot, and dry, and full of openings and closings of more things than veins. There are sand dunes and campfires, people of the unimaginable type, a one-horned oryx, an early morning airlift, and the unrealities that can only make you feel real. To start, it takes me back to Friday, October 3rd, and to end, it takes me out of Africa. Read as you will, I’ve been feeling lately that things will only make sense if you give them time.
It was in the middle of the Namib desert that things began to come apart. Sitting next to our campfire in the chill darkness of a starry night, my head began to swim with the voices of the people around me. We had watched the sun set across a deserted and surreal landscape just the hour before, and I had since consumed a good portion of our wine bottle. Thus, the strange sensation that I began to experience was at first silently excused. However, when Daniel offered me a piece of the meat that the boys had been braaing, the what-once-seemed-succulent beef suddenly transformed into a sickening lump in my throat. I grabbed D’s hand and asked him to walk me back to our tent.
Despite two flashlights, our path through the trees was dark and meandering. I was overcome by the overwhelming urge to fall into the sand, and it was only Daniel’s supporting arms that got me onto my bed. Eager to have the feeling, the embarrassment, and the problem go away, I reassured myself and him that I had probably just drunk too much, and I passed out.
A few hours later I awoke to Daniel by my side, wide eyed with concern. For a few moments I thought I was fine, until a rolling pain hit me at the bottom of my abdomen and I became a fetal curl of whimpering fear. “I drank too much and have cramps” I kept telling myself, but as Daniel fed me water and advil throughout the night, I wasn’t sure.
The next morning we woke up before dawn to drive out to the famous dunes of Soussusvlei, and I was feeling tolerably better. The hours in the car were not the most comfortable of my life, but I put anxiety and small pains aside to focus on the day’s exciting events. We watched a magnificent sunrise, climbed impossibly huge dunes, saw a one-horned oryx (the original unicorn), and eventually piled back into our cars to begin the almost nine hour drive back to Windhoek.
Open windows provided a cooling breeze and turned us into pale dust monsters, and we spent the majority of the trip listening to the same cd on repeat, dozing, or reading aloud to Raffa to keep him entertained while driving. I was feeling okay on the whole, but the strange distension of my stomach and an almost complete loss of appetite had me worried.
The night finished with a zebra/ostrich/alligator/oryx meat dinner, and we all fell asleep laughing.
It was around four am when I awoke Sunday morning. I was still half asleep when I suddenly realized that my bones felt larger than my skin, and I almost immediately began to shake violently. I was scared and confused, and yet didn’t want to overreact, so I lay quietly in the dark for a minute. However, my teeth soon began to chatter and I woke Daniel up with the noise and movement. He quickly put a palm to my forehead and told me I was burning up, and grabbed a bottle of water to pour me small sips. For about twenty minutes I couldn’t get my body under control – everything kept twitching in frightful intervals as Daniel calmly urged me to slow my breathing. Eventually, right before our 5:10 alarm went off, my arms and legs relaxed into stillness and I lay in exhaustion.
Our bus back to Gaborone was due to leave at six, and although Daniel wisely suggested that we go to the Windhoek ER, I was too concerned about getting back to Botswana to really consider it. So, I popped one of Anna’s Tylenol tablets and we all piled into a cab.
We sat on a street curb in the dark for about a half an hour, waiting for our bus to arrive. When a small combi-like vehicle pulled up in front of us, Anna, Daniel, Seb and I all exchange looks of disbelief. Despite my numb haze, I was still shocked by the size of the “bus” and the number of people waiting to board. Yet, with the tickets already paid for and a conductor-esque female calling our names, we had no choice but to throw our bags into the trailer attachment and step on board.
The high-ceilinged combi was clean and new, and yet from the moment we sat down I began to feel anxious. If twelve people had been passengers, perhaps it would have been tolerable, but as twenty or more piled in, I found myself rammed up against a window, and Daniel’s legs could barely fit into the space next to me. Even as all the seats filled up, more people took their places, standing in spaces that cannot be called aisles (Seb and Anna were plagued with the claustrophobic presence of a constant, looming shadow.) The women from the bus company and most of the passengers were all conversing in Setswana, so I couldn’t tell if there was reason for the crowding or the small car. Around six am, we hit the road.
Within about a minute of departure, my head was already rolling in half sleep. Yet the peace wouldn’t last for long, as a man sandwiched in the partitioned front of the combi cleared his throat and began to speak in grandiloquent rapture. “Praise Jesus Christ!” he yelled, and in the early dawn, the majority of our fellow passengers began to shout back at him. “Tell us Reverend!” a man in the back yelled, raising his hands and eliciting “amens” from the women in front of me. And the Reverend told him. He blessed our voyage at the top of his lungs, and then made a small movement that would be the start of a test of sanity. At the close of his abridged sermon, he leaned forward to turn on the cd player. Like a stampede of elephants, sound roared out of the speakers, blasting holes into my dazed mind and sending my eardrums into a fit of panic. For eleven straight hours, gospel music would blare, penetrating the deepest, most sacred parts of my brain and devastating my psyche. This tacky musical crusade was intrusive and offensive, but would prove to be only the outer layer of pain that would mark our journey.
Perhaps six hours into the morning’s heat, I began to feel a strange sort of stabbing in my right side. With each bump that we hit along the endless, impossibly dry road through the Kalahari, a terrifying pulse would ripple out in concentric circles from its abdominal origin. I’d spoken lightly with Daniel of appendicitis when we’d stopped earlier at the Namibian border crossing, but the symptoms he’d described didn’t seem to match. Now, as I sat there, confined to a rigid, upright state of mind and matter, my thoughts began to spiral into the vortex of medical maladies.
Hours passed, and I began to dissolve into a sort of whimpering delirium. The blank, sickly, never-ending expanse of bleached earth that flicked past the windows was poisonous and infectious, withering my mind to the brittle skeleton of a dying plant. I couldn’t read, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do much of anything except pray for the next fourfivesix? hours to pass in unconsciousness. At random moments, the combi would slow to swerve around herds of cows or goats obstructing our path, and as the wheels crunched stones, a vicious sort of panic would overwhelm me. We had to keep moving.
The only thing that truly kept me from crumbling was the constant, firm grasp of Daniel’s hand in mine. With a huge jug of water on the floor between us, each time I moaned a frightened request for help, he’d lift the jug up to my lips and help pour some water down my throat. He asked the bus company woman a few times about clinics on the way, but as each dusty town approached, our fear of unsanitary conditions and improper care would rise and loom. We let all the clinics pass. At one infrequent rest stop, an elderly American duo realized that they had cell phone reception again. After Daniel explained to the woman what was happening, she immediately began calling some doctors that she knew in Gaborone. Speaking on the phone and pressing my stomach, she attempted a mini diagnosis, but nothing was remotely conclusive. She offered me a small pill that she usually takes for stomach cramps, and I swallowed it numbly.
In the final hours of our hellish voyage, I dissolved into a state that verged on insanity. Each minute seemed a demon in itself, and no matter how I attempted to shift my body – a centimeter this way, another over there – my distended stomach and constant pain were impossibly present. The sun was sinking lower overhead, but the harsh heat of the air that rushed through the half-open windows remained a choking dry. With no phone and no watch, I had no sense of time or space, and when Daniel softly intoned the mantra “only a half hour more,” I was desperate to believe him. What I hoped were minutes ended up being close to two hours, and when we finally reached a section of Gaborone that I recognized, I was near complete panic.
As we pulled to a stop in a corner of the bus rank, people flooded out into the freedom of open space. The world was spinning around me and my legs felt non-existent as I stumbled out onto the sidewalk, falling into a collapsed sort of jumble. Seb, Anna, Raffa, and Helge, who had been separated from us during the ride, quickly grabbed Daniel and my bags, voicing concern and foisting over pula to help pay for a cab to the ER. Within seconds, Daniel had me by the hand and was guiding me through the bustling crowd of Batswana vendors, passengers, and cab drivers. My hair was wild and my clothes disheveled, and I could feel people staring at me as we passed.
The Gaborone private hospital was not the third-world horror that I had so frequently imagined, but it wasn’t the haven of sterile, orderly, we’ll-handle-it care that I had prayed for, either. Daniel got me admitted in no time at all (a force of nature, he is) and the nnese began going through the motions. The pain in my side and my back had reached an impossible level, and I lay on the scratchy white paper of the examination table, squeezing Daniel’s hand and letting tears flow down the sides of my face. Blood was drawn and I was stuck with an IV that began pumping the most blessed sort of painkillers into my bloodstream. I began to breathe a little.
I could write forever about the next day and two nights, but I will save the details for another time. Anyone who has ever been in a hospital knows the panic of the unknown, the isolation of a bed, and the long hours of a dark night. Multiplying those discomforts and fears by the confusion of broken language, miscommunication, IV’s that nurses refuse to re-insert, and the ever-present knowledge that Botswana is plagued by one of the highest HIV infection rates in the world, and you have my time in Gaborone.
The rays of sunlight that flooded my corner of the ward in those next 24 hours were the faces, smiles, and gifts of Anna, Seb, Daniel, and the UB crowd, and the constant knowledge that despite the situation, I was close to people that I loved and could depend upon, and who wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.
On Tuesday morning, I was flown in an air ambulance to the Four Ways hospital in Johannesburg. Penn’s insurance provider for students abroad is International SOS, and it was thanks to their quick action and informed concern that I was transported so quickly. Daniel accompanied me into South Africa, and we settled in for what was to be another ten days in hospital.
The specialist’s prognosis was horrible and terrifying when I was first admitted (severe kidney infection, probable development of an abscess, likely permanent damage, potential need for surgery) but the comfort of being somewhere these things could be handled was good. There is more to say than can be said about the mental mountains of my experience there, but I can summarize in a few lines. The entirety of my time in Johannesburg was a long tunnel of blinding extremes, pure terror, depression, numbness, sadness, relief, love, happiness, hope, and everything in between. I was pricked with needles more times than I can count, and fed health through my veins, and I was extremely lucky that my body responded well to the broad-spectrum antibiotics that the doctors prescribed it. Surgery was avoided, but stability was not regained. After a week of sitting at my bedside for long hours, reading me National Geographic articles, walking my IV drip through stony courtyards, and turning my tears into laughter, Daniel flew back to Gaborone and my mom flew to South Africa. Two days later the doctor told me that I had to return to the US.
What happened in that blur? IV’s were removed, phone calls were made, one pain faded and one pain struck. The minutes seemed to pass at a dizzying sort of distance, and I became obsessed with the thought of everything that was being ripped away from me. I never would get to say goodbye to the kids at Kamogelo, my roommates at UB, my professors, my friends. I would never walk to River Walk, dance at Fashion, fall asleep at Mexyland, or bake another batch of bagels. The mundane to the massive ran through my head in an endless reel of sadness and if you would have told me that I was back in the states already, I would have believed you.
Daniel packed up my life and flew back to Joburg on Friday. I got to spend a few last bittersweet hours with him, before we all returned to the airport and I said the hardest goodbye of my life. D flew back to Gaborone at 6:30, and my mother and I left for Paris at midnight. Over thirty hours in transit and I was back in Philadelphia.
To be back is to be between worlds, between continents, bobbing somewhere midway in the Atlantic, drifting slowly in ambivalence – a little bit this way, a little bit that way, always ending up with no net movement at all. It is the happiest sort of sad, and the saddest sort of happy – to know that I am safe and sound and that my body can work is a blessing of enormous size. But it is also a nagging cockroach that crawls through my mind, scurrying out in the dark to wriggle its legs in a pattern that says “so if you’re okay, why aren’t you in Africa?”
For the past ten nights I have lain awake in a painful sort of insomnia, watching life back in Gabs from my pillow perspective. I fast-forward ahead six hours, into the dark of the graduate village courtyard, and walk quietly beneath the windows of the people I love. I retrace corners of my own tiny dorm room, open cabinets to examine my treasured pots and pans, my spices, my plates, and readjust my eyes to the exact yellow dim of my old desk light. And if my consciousness begins to slip in the midst of crafting these delicate mental dioramas, I am awakened instantly by a panicked need to maintain hold of the city recreated in my head. It feels as though to stop imagining would be to let it go again.
I have missed these North-Eastern trees, the crisp cold of an October dawn, the grass on my lawn, and a million other things and people on this side of the Atlantic. However, I wasn’t ready to return to them, and I can’t bring myself to accept that I’m here. Each day in Gabs, no matter how challenging, frustrating, overwhelming, or hot, was a part of something that I knew was immense and beautiful. To have months ripped away from me in a single sentence was to lose the potential of those days, the content of which I had imagined and re-imagined a thousand and one times. Grand plans for travel and events, questions, friends, feelings, experiences – everything was suddenly gone.
One of the things that plagues me the most is knowing that I never got to say goodbye to the children at Kamogelo. A thousand times a day, their faces flick by on the slideshow in my mind, and I can feel their small hands in mine. I knew that I was going to have to leave them eventually, that I would go back to a life of luxury and safety and that they would remain as they were, exposed to conditions that they can’t yet fathom. And yet, I was hoping for something I guess, some closure, some way to explain what was happening and why.
Things will be okay, I know they will. I am blessed with life and health and love and memories, and the always beautiful prospect of days ahead. I am determined to make the best of the time I have now, to digest and reflect and speed up time into a full recovery. I still hold out hope for returning to Africa in December to travel with Daniel and Seb (it’s hard to let go of those Mozambique beaches and the magic of that travel companionship) but maybe that’s unrealistic. No matter, what happened didn’t seem too real itself, so I won’t rule out anything yet.
At the end of all this, and the beginning of everything else, perhaps the best part of the unimaginable is that as soon as it happens upon you, the world inevitably unfolds into a new and larger place. The people, the places, the events that I couldn’t have dreamed up five months ago, now reside in my head to be turned over at leisure. Despite the sad pain of all I'm missing and miss, I’m happy to know that there’s still a lot more exploring ahead.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
baking magic
SATURDAY: a pictorial representation (with a few of those word things too)
YES. WE. CAN (bake bagels)!!!!! I have not felt such joyous pride in a very very long time. These are the eight babies birthed on a Saturday morn. 4 have onions and garlic on them.
Want to bake along? Click here: Mmmmm
The most spectacular array of brunch munchings that mine eye has ever seen (or my tongue tasted). We forgot the lox and cream cheese, but cold cuts will do when this far from home.
The proud bakers
D: juggling/lounging on the only patch of grass on UB's campus
Anna enjoys the sunshine as much, if not more than, the next fellow.
The products of an afternoon.
Seb the drum man - doing his thing with Berman and his band.
Maitisong Theatre, Maru a Pula: Exodus Live Poetry show
Behold, the conjoined banana twins! (a real live natural phenomenon, purchased at the River Walk Pic n' Pay.)
The much anticipated peeling of the banana (s)
a successful operation. one banana, became two bananas, became four halfs, became none. mmm mmmm mmm.
I would write more, because I have more to write, but I have those strange Sunday eve pre-test jitters. Thus, I think it best to rest till tomorrow.
YES. WE. CAN (bake bagels)!!!!! I have not felt such joyous pride in a very very long time. These are the eight babies birthed on a Saturday morn. 4 have onions and garlic on them.Want to bake along? Click here: Mmmmm
The most spectacular array of brunch munchings that mine eye has ever seen (or my tongue tasted). We forgot the lox and cream cheese, but cold cuts will do when this far from home.
The proud bakers
D: juggling/lounging on the only patch of grass on UB's campus
Anna enjoys the sunshine as much, if not more than, the next fellow.
The products of an afternoon.
Seb the drum man - doing his thing with Berman and his band.Maitisong Theatre, Maru a Pula: Exodus Live Poetry show
Behold, the conjoined banana twins! (a real live natural phenomenon, purchased at the River Walk Pic n' Pay.)
The much anticipated peeling of the banana (s)
a successful operation. one banana, became two bananas, became four halfs, became none. mmm mmmm mmm.I would write more, because I have more to write, but I have those strange Sunday eve pre-test jitters. Thus, I think it best to rest till tomorrow.
Friday, September 5, 2008
a bunch of (red) delicious
Sebastian’s Surprise Party: A success! Anna, Daniel, Khwayze, Mex, Labo, and I all secretly collaborated to throw our baby Seby a 20th birthday bash last Saturday night. Anna and I spent the day searching for silly gifts and purchasing cake materials, and worked into the evening mixing and prepping a polka dot topped cake and some extra special chocolate cupcakes (nutella covering, of course.) The fellas acquired massive quantities of various beverages, and Mex graciously hosted the whole shebang at Mexyland. Labo blew up balloons and hung a pink toilet paper “SEB” sign in the studio waiting room, and almost all of the international students arrived around 8 pm to help with the birthday cheer. Despite a few slip ups and obvious hints, Seb was completely surprised by everything, and the night was an incredible concoction of sweet treats and loud beats. Dancing, spontaneous jam sessions, and a copious amount of happiness all put me to sleep rather early (I wandered into dream land while curled up beneath a desk in the studio – despite the noise) and Daniel and I left on the high notes of Rafa’s improvisational piano magic.
Return to Kamogelo: Wednesday morning, after my nine am class let out, Seb and I hopped the usual pattern of combis on a trek to Kamogelo. I wasn’t sure if school had started yet (I knew it was sometime in September,) but we decided to take the chance and see. Luckily, we were rewarded with the amazed stares of the children (who probably thought I was gone for good) and the happy “Dumela!”s from the teachers. It was an incredible rush to have the kids pile on top of me again, and I was overwhelmed by how much I had missed them.
It was also astounding to see how much some of them had changed in a month. Chris proudly stuck his tongue through the gap where his lower front teeth had been, and Francinah was babbling like a brook. Whereas her stares had been silent before, she clung to my hand and gazed adoringly throughout the afternoon, mumbling giddy chants and engaging with the other children in completely natural ways. The teachers had always treated her as if she was mentally challenged, but now she shows almost no signs of difficulty with comprehension. Her fluttering eye lashes and mini seizure-like moments are still visible, but otherwise she seems so much happier and active.
Hopefully, I will be able to return to Kamogelo for at least two hours every Monday and Wednesday – an addition to my schedule that I think will help break up the monotony that I sometimes feel looming.
Penn: I miss it. I miss each and every stone on Locust Walk, that crazy back-to-school excitement, the night outings and loud reunions and comfortable CLICK of a perfect place. I knew that being gone for a semester would be hard, and it is. Facebook doesn’t help me forget how much I’m missing in Philadelphia, and no matter the wonderful things I find here, I can’t help but yearn a little for Elmo and Houston and food carts and the Green.
Muffins: Now that Anna and I co-own our very own muffin tray (a cake pan too!) we have embarked on a glorious baking binge. Last week we made killer whole wheat banana muffins, and today we’re going to try a variation on the recipe, adding dates. Oh, the wonder of molded cooking trays! The possibilities are endless. We are self-sufficient. We are bakers.
Red Delicious Apples: I CRAVE. I dream. I spend at least 20% of my 24 hours salivating and fantasizing about the crunch of a bigger-than-your-hand, perfectly ripe, juicy, sweet, shiny red apple. Of all the food that I miss from back home, this Delicious tops the list. The thought of four more months without once sinking my teeth into this tree-grown treasure is really devastating. Yes, there are kiwi. There are pineapple. There are even pears. But apples? Johnny Appleseed didn’t make it this far, at least not with the good ones.
Michael Dignake: Thursday morning, Seb and I were treated by a two hour lecture/Q&A by Michael Dignake, a Motswana who was central to the ANC’s struggle against apartheid, and who was jailed with Mandela at Robben Island. Our Politics of South Africa professor (a baller himself,) had invited Mr. Dignake to speak, and it was an incredible opportunity to hear a first person account of events we’ve been learning about.
The Fresh Movement: Wednesday evening, Seb, Anna, Arnhild, and I attended a meeting of the UB Writers Workshop, otherwise known as “The Fresh Movement.” It was held in a big conference room, and I was surprised to see the group grow to over fifty people (maybe more). What was usually a group forum for writers to present their work and receive critique, this night transformed into a two and a half hour open mic session. The room was charged with energy, and all sorts of people and poets stepped forth to sing a song, drop a rhyme, or read some prose. There was a lot of hilarity (I don’t know where some of these acts came from), and also a lot of breath-holding moments (AIDS, heartbreak, disappointment – subjects that poetry begs to hold). I stood up and read something of my own as well, and it was a great feeling to introduce myself to new people, not just by presenting my face, but my words as well. Each day, I become more and more convinced that this is a nation of poets and emcees, because it is a rare circumstance in which I can’t find one, two, ten, or fifty present.
Finally: I’ve been feeling guilty lately and I think it merits a confession: Despite all of the above and before, I haven’t fallen in love with Gabs. When I walk around in the sunshine, my skin tingling with the heat, staring down at the glass speckled sand and measuring the length of the shadows cast by plants passed, I have the urge to apologize to the things around me. “Little cactus,” I mumble with dry lips and thick tongue, “I’m sorry that your green isn’t enough for me.” And to the birds that chirp in the still morning space between the freedom of darkness and the harsh rays of day, “I am sorry that I don’t always sing along.” It is strange for me to feel so disconnected from the earth, the very ground on which I walk, and the flora that buds gawky and sharp and brittle. But perhaps I need not apologize – I’m sometimes more than certain that my feelings are reciprocated, that this cracked land isn’t satisfied with me either. The grass has never padded my step or embraced me in a breezy fold, nor have the trees ever graced me with a rain of petals. It is me and the earth and we are not exactly cooperating. I haven’t passed judgments or pronounced ultimatums – I understand that all relationships develop differently. However, I’m hoping that a greater sense of place and comfort develops sooner rather than later, because this feeling of situational disconnect is both new and disgruntling.
Return to Kamogelo: Wednesday morning, after my nine am class let out, Seb and I hopped the usual pattern of combis on a trek to Kamogelo. I wasn’t sure if school had started yet (I knew it was sometime in September,) but we decided to take the chance and see. Luckily, we were rewarded with the amazed stares of the children (who probably thought I was gone for good) and the happy “Dumela!”s from the teachers. It was an incredible rush to have the kids pile on top of me again, and I was overwhelmed by how much I had missed them.
It was also astounding to see how much some of them had changed in a month. Chris proudly stuck his tongue through the gap where his lower front teeth had been, and Francinah was babbling like a brook. Whereas her stares had been silent before, she clung to my hand and gazed adoringly throughout the afternoon, mumbling giddy chants and engaging with the other children in completely natural ways. The teachers had always treated her as if she was mentally challenged, but now she shows almost no signs of difficulty with comprehension. Her fluttering eye lashes and mini seizure-like moments are still visible, but otherwise she seems so much happier and active.
Hopefully, I will be able to return to Kamogelo for at least two hours every Monday and Wednesday – an addition to my schedule that I think will help break up the monotony that I sometimes feel looming.
Penn: I miss it. I miss each and every stone on Locust Walk, that crazy back-to-school excitement, the night outings and loud reunions and comfortable CLICK of a perfect place. I knew that being gone for a semester would be hard, and it is. Facebook doesn’t help me forget how much I’m missing in Philadelphia, and no matter the wonderful things I find here, I can’t help but yearn a little for Elmo and Houston and food carts and the Green.
Muffins: Now that Anna and I co-own our very own muffin tray (a cake pan too!) we have embarked on a glorious baking binge. Last week we made killer whole wheat banana muffins, and today we’re going to try a variation on the recipe, adding dates. Oh, the wonder of molded cooking trays! The possibilities are endless. We are self-sufficient. We are bakers.
Red Delicious Apples: I CRAVE. I dream. I spend at least 20% of my 24 hours salivating and fantasizing about the crunch of a bigger-than-your-hand, perfectly ripe, juicy, sweet, shiny red apple. Of all the food that I miss from back home, this Delicious tops the list. The thought of four more months without once sinking my teeth into this tree-grown treasure is really devastating. Yes, there are kiwi. There are pineapple. There are even pears. But apples? Johnny Appleseed didn’t make it this far, at least not with the good ones.
Michael Dignake: Thursday morning, Seb and I were treated by a two hour lecture/Q&A by Michael Dignake, a Motswana who was central to the ANC’s struggle against apartheid, and who was jailed with Mandela at Robben Island. Our Politics of South Africa professor (a baller himself,) had invited Mr. Dignake to speak, and it was an incredible opportunity to hear a first person account of events we’ve been learning about.
The Fresh Movement: Wednesday evening, Seb, Anna, Arnhild, and I attended a meeting of the UB Writers Workshop, otherwise known as “The Fresh Movement.” It was held in a big conference room, and I was surprised to see the group grow to over fifty people (maybe more). What was usually a group forum for writers to present their work and receive critique, this night transformed into a two and a half hour open mic session. The room was charged with energy, and all sorts of people and poets stepped forth to sing a song, drop a rhyme, or read some prose. There was a lot of hilarity (I don’t know where some of these acts came from), and also a lot of breath-holding moments (AIDS, heartbreak, disappointment – subjects that poetry begs to hold). I stood up and read something of my own as well, and it was a great feeling to introduce myself to new people, not just by presenting my face, but my words as well. Each day, I become more and more convinced that this is a nation of poets and emcees, because it is a rare circumstance in which I can’t find one, two, ten, or fifty present.
Finally: I’ve been feeling guilty lately and I think it merits a confession: Despite all of the above and before, I haven’t fallen in love with Gabs. When I walk around in the sunshine, my skin tingling with the heat, staring down at the glass speckled sand and measuring the length of the shadows cast by plants passed, I have the urge to apologize to the things around me. “Little cactus,” I mumble with dry lips and thick tongue, “I’m sorry that your green isn’t enough for me.” And to the birds that chirp in the still morning space between the freedom of darkness and the harsh rays of day, “I am sorry that I don’t always sing along.” It is strange for me to feel so disconnected from the earth, the very ground on which I walk, and the flora that buds gawky and sharp and brittle. But perhaps I need not apologize – I’m sometimes more than certain that my feelings are reciprocated, that this cracked land isn’t satisfied with me either. The grass has never padded my step or embraced me in a breezy fold, nor have the trees ever graced me with a rain of petals. It is me and the earth and we are not exactly cooperating. I haven’t passed judgments or pronounced ultimatums – I understand that all relationships develop differently. However, I’m hoping that a greater sense of place and comfort develops sooner rather than later, because this feeling of situational disconnect is both new and disgruntling.
mine
The majority of last Friday night was nothing but laughter. It started off at the Gaborone Dam (as most Friday nights now do), with drinks on the sun-warmed rocks at the water’s edge, the hard sloping surfaces still radiating heat as dusk fell. It was Caitlin and the Penn Nursing students’ last night in Gabs, and the mood was slightly festive as a result. Khwayze, Ngozi, Mex, and Labo had joined our international exchange student crew, and in addition to Brianna’s spontaneous trimming of Daniel’s hair, (the strands were then burnt for fire,) rock adventuring, and mock photo shoots, a good amount of alcohol helped to keep the night bright.
After the sun had dropped into the cradling dip of the distant hills, we called some cabs and shifted the party to 25 degrees, an Indian restaurant at River Walk. The group population exploded as we merged with another bunch of exchange students, and sat down to feast at a twenty person, taffy-stretched table. People were up and down, in and out, bouncing around the restaurant and patio to smoke and chatter and engage in the type of hilarity specific to youth and unspecific to circumstance. Between bites of sweat-inducing curry and the flurry of glasses that shifted and lifted and landed in kaleidoscope patterns, everyone let loose.
It was only natural then, when the bill had been paid (an adventure in itself) and the stomachs massaged, to move on to the clubs. After quick stops at UB and Mexyland, where various revelers peeled off to deposit their bones in a bed, those that remained drove to Lizard Lounge. It seemed quiet for a Friday night (at least according to Mex,) but we were all itching to keep the hours flowing, so we entered anyways. Daniel and I were escorted inside for free, thanks to Mex’s smooth talking, and immediately the shutterbug half of our duo began to click and snap like castanets. Daniel had brought his professional camera along to do some publicity work for one of Mex’s clients, DJ ONKZ, who was playing at the club and for whom Daniel has been making cover art.
With everyone jiving in the green glow of the patterned lights, red lazers wiggling between bent backs and swinging arms, the atmosphere was thick and pulsing and entirely expected. The crew I rolled in with (Seb, Anna, Daniel, Mex, Ngozi, Kwayze, Labo, Brianna, Celene, and Franka) stuck close together, and despite a few aggressive men and the rebukes they necessitated, I didn’t feel threatened or unsafe. We all shifted between lounge area and dance floor, and Daniel continued to work the room with his third eye.
However, sometime in the swirl of the post-midnight darkness, as I eyes-closed my way across the terrain of rhythmic mountains, I felt Daniel’s hand on my shoulder and turned to see a panicked look in his eyes. “My camera’s gone,” he exhaled, and immediately dashed towards the bouncers at the exit, head twisting to scan the faces around him. The word spread like wildfire from one mouth to the next, and we all mobilized immediately. The panic of loss and violation and fear and anger welled up in everyone and it was evident in our sharp movements and frantic inquiries. The manager blocked all exits and told the guards to check everyone who left, and Brianna (a one woman wonder) began to interrogate everyone she encountered. Mex, Seb, and others dashed into the parking lot to find out if anyone had seen anything, and Anna, Ngozi, Kwayze, Daniel and I continued to scan the club and hover, with eyes wide, around the exiting patrons.
As if the horror of what had just happened wasn’t enough, things began to deteriorate within the club itself. It was around 3 am, and by this point the majority of the people inside were sufficiently intoxicated. While most who attempted to leave were only mildly annoyed by the bouncers’ pat-down policy, a few men got belligerent. In two or three cases, the bouncers began to smack them with open hands, pulling out nightsticks and beating them across the back. The exit space was dense and as each wave of violence hit, panic would ripple back through the crowd, shifting the amoeba of packed bodies away from the epicenter of the commotion. Occasionally, after someone was pushed outside and the doors were re-barred, we could hear the dreadful shattering of bottles hurled against the thick wood. The constant, violent banging from within a locked closet where two handcuffed men had been shoved, was also unnerving, and I found myself paralyzed with morose anxiety, flitting between Daniel and the safer interior of the club. I realize I’m lucky to have never before witnessed such physical violence, and this first bitter taste left me shaken. The sound of hard wood colliding with a man’s flesh, and the thwack of palm meeting face had me choking on my own passivity. The impulse to lash out with fist, to throw yourself at the prospect of blood and pain and bone crunching blows, is something that I will never understand.
To top the experience off, a succession of men attempted to latch onto me and dance as I stood against the wall near the exit, waiting for any sign of the camera. One in particular roughly grabbed my hips and began to shake me, leering drunkenly, until Seb quickly stepped in and pushed him off. The disgust and revulsion that I felt in that moment are unparalleled in my emotional memory – too great to prompt action or outcry, just silent loathing.
After a long tense period of searching and waiting and cross-fingered, cross-toed, cross-souled hoping, we piled into a cab and left the club. Exhausted and weighed down by disbelief, there was nevertheless the sense of true camaraderie and group injustice. Daniel said it best, in that if it takes an event like this to showcase the beauty and merit of friendship, then in a way we’re all lucky. The comforting arms of Anna, Ngozi, and Brianna, not to mention the genuine concern of everyone present, were incredible.
To add insult to injury, it turned out that my keys were stolen as well (they were in a pocket of Daniel’s camera bag since I hadn’t brought a purse out.) However, this inconvenience was more in the vein of dark humor, as there is nothing that a thief can do with my keys, except unlock the imaginary door that keeps out fear. Congratulations sir, you have made me feel vulnerable.
As a result of the loss of my keys, I was locked out of my room (bereft of phone, money, clothing, medication, etc.) until Sunday afternoon. I found out the hard way that the University of Botswana does not have a master key for the dorms (or, if they do, it is in S. Africa with an employee on leave – this was never cleared up) and cannot quickly or easily get yours replaced. Successive phone calls and desperate pleas for help will not do much good, because it seems that no precautions are taken for emergencies that occur on the weekends. FYI, if you plan on having a problem, schedule it for before 4:30 on Friday afternoon.
Thus, these words bring me to the word: possession. Daniel’s camera is one of his most cherished means of communication, and tool for creative production. It is valuable both monetarily and sentimentally, and its loss is an incredible blow. However, it is not a limb, a life, or an irreplaceable item, and we all recognize that. So what stings so much?
Perhaps is it the fact that someone, with disregard to Daniel’s feelings and circumstance, decided to deprive him of something that mattered a lot. To place your needs over those of another, particularly a complete stranger, has always struck me as particularly callous. Yes, the thief may have a family to feed, ARV’s to buy, etc. However, it is also just as likely that he stole Daniel’s prized possession so that he could in turn purchase something equally prized for himself. How is this justified? Are we right to mourn the absence of an inanimate object? How could we not? What is worth mourning?
Even before this incident, I had been meditating a lot on the nature of possession. Coming here, I’ve found myself lacking a lot of tangible, material conveniences. I no longer “possess” a washer/dryer, a printer, a bag of yarn and knitting needles, a house with a staircase, a dog, a car, a pile of sketchpads, a bookcase of books. Being away from these things that I tend to call “mine,” has made me realize that unless it’s inside of me, it’s as much my possession as it is not.
This has been a hard mental adjustment, and it has really forced me to examine the extent of my materialism. Living on a campus like Penn, it has been easy to leave my consumer habits unchecked – in fact, the environment encourages excess spending and a blind eye to true need. Over the past three months I have realized that there are aspects of this upper-class “American” culture that I really miss – the comfort, the fun, the ease, the care-free bubble. I would be lying if I said that I was truly willing to give up these things, because they add a certain cushion to life that can be quite nice. However, I believe I have come to more easily differentiate between personal desire and necessity, and this is a good thing. I have also come to realize that my definition of “self” has been greatly influenced by what I have perceived as uniquely “mine.” It is becoming much more important to me to think about what I am beyond the traits and tangibles I can display, because each day makes it more apparent that most of these are transient.
Perhaps, in the end, the only thing I can justifiably claim any true, consistent possession over – if I choose to - are the meditations, musings, and spontaneous flows of emotion that run through my head. And yet, when I finally close my eyes for the night, I think I’m more content to offer these forth to the ones I love, than to hold them all to myself. I’m as much the product of a group effort – a continuous flow of influence and nurturing – as I am the product of my own will and wishes, and these dual forces within me deserve recognition. As I have been blessed with the most spectacular people, I am happy to feel the pinch of their gentle molding. Clay is clay is clay, but the shapes it can make are more than the material itself can imagine. Although I still fear relinquishing my possessions, and myself, I’m slowly starting to realize that the less I’m afraid of losing, the more I can enjoy what I have. It seems that my continuous anxiety about losing an object, or a piece of me, always striving to maintain my “identity” through the objects or traits I have determined it by – it all just stops me from allowing more influences to affect me. At this moment, it is only the communal possession of connection, the other end of a bond, a group ownership of emotion and friendship and trust that I am most grateful for, and grateful that it can’t be stolen or lost or forgotten.
After the sun had dropped into the cradling dip of the distant hills, we called some cabs and shifted the party to 25 degrees, an Indian restaurant at River Walk. The group population exploded as we merged with another bunch of exchange students, and sat down to feast at a twenty person, taffy-stretched table. People were up and down, in and out, bouncing around the restaurant and patio to smoke and chatter and engage in the type of hilarity specific to youth and unspecific to circumstance. Between bites of sweat-inducing curry and the flurry of glasses that shifted and lifted and landed in kaleidoscope patterns, everyone let loose.
It was only natural then, when the bill had been paid (an adventure in itself) and the stomachs massaged, to move on to the clubs. After quick stops at UB and Mexyland, where various revelers peeled off to deposit their bones in a bed, those that remained drove to Lizard Lounge. It seemed quiet for a Friday night (at least according to Mex,) but we were all itching to keep the hours flowing, so we entered anyways. Daniel and I were escorted inside for free, thanks to Mex’s smooth talking, and immediately the shutterbug half of our duo began to click and snap like castanets. Daniel had brought his professional camera along to do some publicity work for one of Mex’s clients, DJ ONKZ, who was playing at the club and for whom Daniel has been making cover art.
With everyone jiving in the green glow of the patterned lights, red lazers wiggling between bent backs and swinging arms, the atmosphere was thick and pulsing and entirely expected. The crew I rolled in with (Seb, Anna, Daniel, Mex, Ngozi, Kwayze, Labo, Brianna, Celene, and Franka) stuck close together, and despite a few aggressive men and the rebukes they necessitated, I didn’t feel threatened or unsafe. We all shifted between lounge area and dance floor, and Daniel continued to work the room with his third eye.
However, sometime in the swirl of the post-midnight darkness, as I eyes-closed my way across the terrain of rhythmic mountains, I felt Daniel’s hand on my shoulder and turned to see a panicked look in his eyes. “My camera’s gone,” he exhaled, and immediately dashed towards the bouncers at the exit, head twisting to scan the faces around him. The word spread like wildfire from one mouth to the next, and we all mobilized immediately. The panic of loss and violation and fear and anger welled up in everyone and it was evident in our sharp movements and frantic inquiries. The manager blocked all exits and told the guards to check everyone who left, and Brianna (a one woman wonder) began to interrogate everyone she encountered. Mex, Seb, and others dashed into the parking lot to find out if anyone had seen anything, and Anna, Ngozi, Kwayze, Daniel and I continued to scan the club and hover, with eyes wide, around the exiting patrons.
As if the horror of what had just happened wasn’t enough, things began to deteriorate within the club itself. It was around 3 am, and by this point the majority of the people inside were sufficiently intoxicated. While most who attempted to leave were only mildly annoyed by the bouncers’ pat-down policy, a few men got belligerent. In two or three cases, the bouncers began to smack them with open hands, pulling out nightsticks and beating them across the back. The exit space was dense and as each wave of violence hit, panic would ripple back through the crowd, shifting the amoeba of packed bodies away from the epicenter of the commotion. Occasionally, after someone was pushed outside and the doors were re-barred, we could hear the dreadful shattering of bottles hurled against the thick wood. The constant, violent banging from within a locked closet where two handcuffed men had been shoved, was also unnerving, and I found myself paralyzed with morose anxiety, flitting between Daniel and the safer interior of the club. I realize I’m lucky to have never before witnessed such physical violence, and this first bitter taste left me shaken. The sound of hard wood colliding with a man’s flesh, and the thwack of palm meeting face had me choking on my own passivity. The impulse to lash out with fist, to throw yourself at the prospect of blood and pain and bone crunching blows, is something that I will never understand.
To top the experience off, a succession of men attempted to latch onto me and dance as I stood against the wall near the exit, waiting for any sign of the camera. One in particular roughly grabbed my hips and began to shake me, leering drunkenly, until Seb quickly stepped in and pushed him off. The disgust and revulsion that I felt in that moment are unparalleled in my emotional memory – too great to prompt action or outcry, just silent loathing.
After a long tense period of searching and waiting and cross-fingered, cross-toed, cross-souled hoping, we piled into a cab and left the club. Exhausted and weighed down by disbelief, there was nevertheless the sense of true camaraderie and group injustice. Daniel said it best, in that if it takes an event like this to showcase the beauty and merit of friendship, then in a way we’re all lucky. The comforting arms of Anna, Ngozi, and Brianna, not to mention the genuine concern of everyone present, were incredible.
To add insult to injury, it turned out that my keys were stolen as well (they were in a pocket of Daniel’s camera bag since I hadn’t brought a purse out.) However, this inconvenience was more in the vein of dark humor, as there is nothing that a thief can do with my keys, except unlock the imaginary door that keeps out fear. Congratulations sir, you have made me feel vulnerable.
As a result of the loss of my keys, I was locked out of my room (bereft of phone, money, clothing, medication, etc.) until Sunday afternoon. I found out the hard way that the University of Botswana does not have a master key for the dorms (or, if they do, it is in S. Africa with an employee on leave – this was never cleared up) and cannot quickly or easily get yours replaced. Successive phone calls and desperate pleas for help will not do much good, because it seems that no precautions are taken for emergencies that occur on the weekends. FYI, if you plan on having a problem, schedule it for before 4:30 on Friday afternoon.
Thus, these words bring me to the word: possession. Daniel’s camera is one of his most cherished means of communication, and tool for creative production. It is valuable both monetarily and sentimentally, and its loss is an incredible blow. However, it is not a limb, a life, or an irreplaceable item, and we all recognize that. So what stings so much?
Perhaps is it the fact that someone, with disregard to Daniel’s feelings and circumstance, decided to deprive him of something that mattered a lot. To place your needs over those of another, particularly a complete stranger, has always struck me as particularly callous. Yes, the thief may have a family to feed, ARV’s to buy, etc. However, it is also just as likely that he stole Daniel’s prized possession so that he could in turn purchase something equally prized for himself. How is this justified? Are we right to mourn the absence of an inanimate object? How could we not? What is worth mourning?
Even before this incident, I had been meditating a lot on the nature of possession. Coming here, I’ve found myself lacking a lot of tangible, material conveniences. I no longer “possess” a washer/dryer, a printer, a bag of yarn and knitting needles, a house with a staircase, a dog, a car, a pile of sketchpads, a bookcase of books. Being away from these things that I tend to call “mine,” has made me realize that unless it’s inside of me, it’s as much my possession as it is not.
This has been a hard mental adjustment, and it has really forced me to examine the extent of my materialism. Living on a campus like Penn, it has been easy to leave my consumer habits unchecked – in fact, the environment encourages excess spending and a blind eye to true need. Over the past three months I have realized that there are aspects of this upper-class “American” culture that I really miss – the comfort, the fun, the ease, the care-free bubble. I would be lying if I said that I was truly willing to give up these things, because they add a certain cushion to life that can be quite nice. However, I believe I have come to more easily differentiate between personal desire and necessity, and this is a good thing. I have also come to realize that my definition of “self” has been greatly influenced by what I have perceived as uniquely “mine.” It is becoming much more important to me to think about what I am beyond the traits and tangibles I can display, because each day makes it more apparent that most of these are transient.
Perhaps, in the end, the only thing I can justifiably claim any true, consistent possession over – if I choose to - are the meditations, musings, and spontaneous flows of emotion that run through my head. And yet, when I finally close my eyes for the night, I think I’m more content to offer these forth to the ones I love, than to hold them all to myself. I’m as much the product of a group effort – a continuous flow of influence and nurturing – as I am the product of my own will and wishes, and these dual forces within me deserve recognition. As I have been blessed with the most spectacular people, I am happy to feel the pinch of their gentle molding. Clay is clay is clay, but the shapes it can make are more than the material itself can imagine. Although I still fear relinquishing my possessions, and myself, I’m slowly starting to realize that the less I’m afraid of losing, the more I can enjoy what I have. It seems that my continuous anxiety about losing an object, or a piece of me, always striving to maintain my “identity” through the objects or traits I have determined it by – it all just stops me from allowing more influences to affect me. At this moment, it is only the communal possession of connection, the other end of a bond, a group ownership of emotion and friendship and trust that I am most grateful for, and grateful that it can’t be stolen or lost or forgotten.
Monday, August 25, 2008
f-word
ACADEMIA
Ah yes, that most exciting of topics! To begin, after a month of hustle and hassle and university red tape, we are registered! I can't think of a day in the past thirty that has not included some sort of trek across campus for registration inquiries, and I am beyond thrilled to be done with that process. Penn, next semester, will seem like a scary machine of efficiency.
I am also rather thrilled to report that our classes are...good. YES. I kid you not, and I will also be perfectly honest and admit that prior to the start of the semester, I was rather hush-hush terrified that University life would be sub par. Thus, I am happy and slurping up books like a good smoothie, and as Seb and I are taking all the same classes (a coincidence of interests) we are having a grand old time frolicking through new fields of literature and history.
The run down:
Introduction to Setswana
A loud, boisterous class comprised solely of international exchange students – introduction to Setswana teaches us how to click our “tl”’s and e-e our no’s. Our teacher is a wonderful mix of tolerant and firm, and she is really enthusiastic about our own contribution to the weekly lessons – much of the first hour is often devoted to breaking down and translating the slang terms we horde and reveal in class.
Setswana itself, and the way in which it is taught, in no way align with any preconceived notions of language adoption, but eish, we go with it. I’m not sure exactly how intense the evaluations/tests/work will be, but a little extra free time is never less than a blessing.
Critical Issues in Modern African Literature
Not the most fast paced or rigorous of courses, but with a reading list like the one prescribed, it’s hard to go wrong:
Negritude Poetry
Song of Lawino
A Grain of Wheat
Anthills of the Savannah
The class has been a little bizarre, because even though it’s for third years, the level of class participation usually hangs pretty low. Students here can be surprisingly demure, and often murmur responses instead of raising hands and pronouncing them loudly. However, I’m still having a jolly good time and the pass few lessons have seemed to amp things up a little.
The African Novel
So. so. so. GOOD. Despite the fact that the class is held at 7 am every Tuesday and Thursday (I know I know, only freshmen are stupid enough to fall into that trap) I don’t mind the early hour a bit. Again, like Critical Issues, the reading list would be enough to make a girl happy:
God’s Bits of Wood
In the Fog of the Season’s End
The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born
Sweet and Sour Milk
However, the cherry on top is the professor. Stately, of comfortable girth, impeccably well dressed, of poetic voice and turns of phrase, and impossibly, class commandingly, captivatingly, sage, this fellow is old school academia embodied. He always has neat tales of a Gabs of yesteryear up his sleeve, and although I can’t understand the jokes he makes in Setswana, they always get honest laughs.
Mfecane and the Settler Scramble for Southern Africa
Never heard of Mfecane? I hadn’t either. Thus, I am really incredibly glad to be enrolled in a course that examines this brief period of great violence, land dispute, migration, drought, etc. in Southern Africa of the early 1800’s. The best parts about the study of this period: the cause behind events is still hotly debated, and theboundaries that arose from the land divisions of the Mfecane gave rise to territories and states that now comprise SADC/Southern Africa. It’s more than wonderful to be able to study the roots of what’s alive around you, and it really helps to give new perspective to current events of the region. What’s more, the teacher is really commanding and knows his stuff, and I feel very welcome in the classroom. He also places an emphasis on discussing news events and the regional political situation, and it was great to briefly debate over Botswana’s actions/stance regarding Zimbabwe and Mugabe.
Politics of South Africa
Perhaps my favorite course. Seb and I signed up for it thinking that it was Politics of SOUTHERN Africa, but the misunderstanding has turned out to be a happy one. I learned more about South African politics, government, and history in the first hour of class than in all my accumulated twenty (one) years. Also, since South Africa is such a powerhouse in the region, their social, political, economic, etc. policies and practices often directly impact Botswana and neighboring countries. Our teacher, of a shiny bald head and flowery, flowing dress shirts, is still finishing up school work of his own (the class was foisted on him two days before it began) but I think it makes him even more intense about the material. Politics of South Africa is one of the only classes that we received a full-blown syllabus for (detailed outline of articles/readings required, and weekly topic breakdowns), and it demands the most in-class participation.
I find the course to be pretty challenging in many ways, especially since Seb and I, as foreigners, have come into it with a bit of a handicap. An incredible characteristic of a lot of people here, especially those studying political science, is a really detailed knowledge of regional politics – thus, we find ourselves uniquely stumped by some common questions about recent history. However, this is only more incentive to read and research. The class also makes me want to know more about my own home country, since I often find that I am called upon in classes to confirm or provide facts about the politics, government, and actions of America. My cheeks have flushed red more than once in stumbling over answers and I’d like to be a better ambassador.
To make sure that I don’t sugar coat things too much, I must once again pronounce my oft-repeated chant: “things are different here.” The classes involve much more dictation and note-taking than I am used to or comfortable with, and the difficulty we’ve had in getting books and reading materials from both the library and the book store is rather insane. A month into classes and some texts still have not arrived on campus. It also isn’t like the states where there are multiple outlets for purchasing texts – if it isn’t in the bookstore, it isn’t in the country. We’ve made do with borrowing materials and JSTOR’ing stuff (thank god for that one), but the near impossibility of finding a functioning printer here has hindered progress as well.
However, for whatever reason, I find that I am pleasantly non-plussed by this mess. Maybe I’ve finally sunk into the popular attitude here, or I’ve adopted a more passive outlook. Either way, it is nice to know I’m stressing less about inconveniences and daily “problems.” There is always maintenance issue that needs fixing, some task that needs completing, some office that needs visiting, and some contact that needs finding. Yet, chances are that on the way to do each of these things (minor annoyances that could be avoided completely if systems actually functioned here), I will meet a new person, laugh at some absurdity, or muse on some new thought, and really, so long as the dilemmas are benign, this isn’t so bad.
I spent the day lazily (after an incredible night of group dining and dancing) and am feeling a bit of that familiar Sunday crunch – but hey, it’s kind of a comfort since it just wouldn’t be the end of August/school without it. Seb, Daniel, Anna and I also spent the afternoon doing some research and planning for a trip to Namibia (!!) that we’re hoping to take over September’s week long break. I couldn’t be more excited to dust off my backpack in the closet.
What else to say? Perhaps a meditation worthy of an F-Word meeting. I think the thought that has been bothering me the most over the past few days is something that Daniel put into words: Feminism has yet to hit Botswana. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I am really so insanely uncomfortable here sometimes because of the way men treat me. It hit a boiling point yesterday when I was sitting outside my hostel, reading under a pavilion in the quiet, sunny graduate complex. Not more than a few pages into my book, I was disturbed by an incessant spate of shrill whistling from a window of a slightly visible undergraduate dorm. I looked up to locate the source, and found two men staring directly at me and waving like mad. I lowered my eyes to the page and kept reading, but the sound wouldn’t stop and only grew louder. This went on for about three minutes (which, in real time, is quite nerve-rackingly long). A moment after this round of annoyance finally ceased, a man walked up to me, stopped, inched a few feet closer, stared me up and down with an unnerving intensity, and then went on his merry way. This was followed quickly by the approach of a total stranger, who demanded two minutes of my time (from a far too invasive proximity) and proceeded to attempt to seduce me in a strange mix of Setswana and English. “I want a most beautiful girl,” he moaned, “a very most beautiful girl. Wena. You.” “Not an option,” I replied and smiled, my rage practically seeping through my teeth, and he swaggered into the hostel next to mine.
I am not a piece of meat, an object to buy, or an animal for observation. I understand that I am rather out of place here visually, and that my status as a foreigner often warrants more attention, but I can’t help but feel completely objectified and debased by countless approaches and rude comments. Wednesday, as my friend Brianna and I browsed shelves of hot cakes and bread loaves in a small bakery, a man yelled at me “Hello nice white lady! Will you give it to me?” I was shocked into open-jawed silence, and then blushed and turned away. Yet he persisted in inching towards me and jeering and I had to quickly leave the store because no one else seemed to find his behavior unacceptable enough to censor.
The other aspect of my extreme anger and sadness over this issue is that so much of the problem seems to center around the color of my skin. I honestly don’t think that it’s anything I’m wearing, saying, or doing that is attracting this attention, and it’s not because I’m Helen of Troy that men keep leering at me (this was never ever a problem before my arrival here.) So many times, when I am approached, my skin is brought up in the first sentence, or used in a creative appellation. “I am NOT ‘white lady,’” I want to scream, “I am Ilana and you know nothing about me so there isn’t any way in hell that you can be so intensely attracted as me to warrant your sleazy behavior.” Cultural differences, you might suggest – tolerance is necessary – but really, I’ve had more than my share of this nonsense.
The chauvinistic attitudes of this still extremely patriarchal society make me want to vomit when I hear them in daily conversation and see them in the actions of some people around me (even the educated, and otherwise enlightened,) and it is painful to think that only time and a generation gap of information will help to change things. The craziest thing is that the attitudes that stifle women and disenfranchise the female population here, stand in stark contrast with what I see as the incredible strength, independence, and pride of the women who are my peers. I hold an overwhelming amount of respect for most of the women that I’ve met here, especially for their confidence and bold mentalities, and I only wish that they would be held more highly in the minds of others here.
I don’t really know how to conclude this – no plan of action to change a nation, or real resolution for my own dejection. I don’t want to have to get more aggressive with my responses to unwanted advances, but I feel like I have no choice anymore. Maybe by embarrassing the next man who comes along and wants to solicit sex I can gain some small victory. But to put so much energy into an offensive, rather than just buttressing my defense, is a difficult thing for me to decide on.
The only positive spin I can put on this situation is that going through these daily moments of embarrassment and anger has really made me think a lot about feminism outside of Philadelphia and the comfortable environment I’ve always known. In a way, it makes an issue I’ve always cared about somehow more immediate. I also think that it is good, if difficult, for me to begin to solidify my own boundaries – to decide a bit more firmly how tolerant I will be with disrespect for my person, and to get better at picking my battles. It’s not that I’m looking to be more aggressive, but I think my “ignore it” stance of yore is definitely getting modified.
Ah yes, that most exciting of topics! To begin, after a month of hustle and hassle and university red tape, we are registered! I can't think of a day in the past thirty that has not included some sort of trek across campus for registration inquiries, and I am beyond thrilled to be done with that process. Penn, next semester, will seem like a scary machine of efficiency.
I am also rather thrilled to report that our classes are...good. YES. I kid you not, and I will also be perfectly honest and admit that prior to the start of the semester, I was rather hush-hush terrified that University life would be sub par. Thus, I am happy and slurping up books like a good smoothie, and as Seb and I are taking all the same classes (a coincidence of interests) we are having a grand old time frolicking through new fields of literature and history.
The run down:
Introduction to Setswana
A loud, boisterous class comprised solely of international exchange students – introduction to Setswana teaches us how to click our “tl”’s and e-e our no’s. Our teacher is a wonderful mix of tolerant and firm, and she is really enthusiastic about our own contribution to the weekly lessons – much of the first hour is often devoted to breaking down and translating the slang terms we horde and reveal in class.
Setswana itself, and the way in which it is taught, in no way align with any preconceived notions of language adoption, but eish, we go with it. I’m not sure exactly how intense the evaluations/tests/work will be, but a little extra free time is never less than a blessing.
Critical Issues in Modern African Literature
Not the most fast paced or rigorous of courses, but with a reading list like the one prescribed, it’s hard to go wrong:
Negritude Poetry
Song of Lawino
A Grain of Wheat
Anthills of the Savannah
The class has been a little bizarre, because even though it’s for third years, the level of class participation usually hangs pretty low. Students here can be surprisingly demure, and often murmur responses instead of raising hands and pronouncing them loudly. However, I’m still having a jolly good time and the pass few lessons have seemed to amp things up a little.
The African Novel
So. so. so. GOOD. Despite the fact that the class is held at 7 am every Tuesday and Thursday (I know I know, only freshmen are stupid enough to fall into that trap) I don’t mind the early hour a bit. Again, like Critical Issues, the reading list would be enough to make a girl happy:
God’s Bits of Wood
In the Fog of the Season’s End
The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born
Sweet and Sour Milk
However, the cherry on top is the professor. Stately, of comfortable girth, impeccably well dressed, of poetic voice and turns of phrase, and impossibly, class commandingly, captivatingly, sage, this fellow is old school academia embodied. He always has neat tales of a Gabs of yesteryear up his sleeve, and although I can’t understand the jokes he makes in Setswana, they always get honest laughs.
Mfecane and the Settler Scramble for Southern Africa
Never heard of Mfecane? I hadn’t either. Thus, I am really incredibly glad to be enrolled in a course that examines this brief period of great violence, land dispute, migration, drought, etc. in Southern Africa of the early 1800’s. The best parts about the study of this period: the cause behind events is still hotly debated, and theboundaries that arose from the land divisions of the Mfecane gave rise to territories and states that now comprise SADC/Southern Africa. It’s more than wonderful to be able to study the roots of what’s alive around you, and it really helps to give new perspective to current events of the region. What’s more, the teacher is really commanding and knows his stuff, and I feel very welcome in the classroom. He also places an emphasis on discussing news events and the regional political situation, and it was great to briefly debate over Botswana’s actions/stance regarding Zimbabwe and Mugabe.
Politics of South Africa
Perhaps my favorite course. Seb and I signed up for it thinking that it was Politics of SOUTHERN Africa, but the misunderstanding has turned out to be a happy one. I learned more about South African politics, government, and history in the first hour of class than in all my accumulated twenty (one) years. Also, since South Africa is such a powerhouse in the region, their social, political, economic, etc. policies and practices often directly impact Botswana and neighboring countries. Our teacher, of a shiny bald head and flowery, flowing dress shirts, is still finishing up school work of his own (the class was foisted on him two days before it began) but I think it makes him even more intense about the material. Politics of South Africa is one of the only classes that we received a full-blown syllabus for (detailed outline of articles/readings required, and weekly topic breakdowns), and it demands the most in-class participation.
I find the course to be pretty challenging in many ways, especially since Seb and I, as foreigners, have come into it with a bit of a handicap. An incredible characteristic of a lot of people here, especially those studying political science, is a really detailed knowledge of regional politics – thus, we find ourselves uniquely stumped by some common questions about recent history. However, this is only more incentive to read and research. The class also makes me want to know more about my own home country, since I often find that I am called upon in classes to confirm or provide facts about the politics, government, and actions of America. My cheeks have flushed red more than once in stumbling over answers and I’d like to be a better ambassador.
To make sure that I don’t sugar coat things too much, I must once again pronounce my oft-repeated chant: “things are different here.” The classes involve much more dictation and note-taking than I am used to or comfortable with, and the difficulty we’ve had in getting books and reading materials from both the library and the book store is rather insane. A month into classes and some texts still have not arrived on campus. It also isn’t like the states where there are multiple outlets for purchasing texts – if it isn’t in the bookstore, it isn’t in the country. We’ve made do with borrowing materials and JSTOR’ing stuff (thank god for that one), but the near impossibility of finding a functioning printer here has hindered progress as well.
However, for whatever reason, I find that I am pleasantly non-plussed by this mess. Maybe I’ve finally sunk into the popular attitude here, or I’ve adopted a more passive outlook. Either way, it is nice to know I’m stressing less about inconveniences and daily “problems.” There is always maintenance issue that needs fixing, some task that needs completing, some office that needs visiting, and some contact that needs finding. Yet, chances are that on the way to do each of these things (minor annoyances that could be avoided completely if systems actually functioned here), I will meet a new person, laugh at some absurdity, or muse on some new thought, and really, so long as the dilemmas are benign, this isn’t so bad.
----
I spent the day lazily (after an incredible night of group dining and dancing) and am feeling a bit of that familiar Sunday crunch – but hey, it’s kind of a comfort since it just wouldn’t be the end of August/school without it. Seb, Daniel, Anna and I also spent the afternoon doing some research and planning for a trip to Namibia (!!) that we’re hoping to take over September’s week long break. I couldn’t be more excited to dust off my backpack in the closet.
----
What else to say? Perhaps a meditation worthy of an F-Word meeting. I think the thought that has been bothering me the most over the past few days is something that Daniel put into words: Feminism has yet to hit Botswana. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I am really so insanely uncomfortable here sometimes because of the way men treat me. It hit a boiling point yesterday when I was sitting outside my hostel, reading under a pavilion in the quiet, sunny graduate complex. Not more than a few pages into my book, I was disturbed by an incessant spate of shrill whistling from a window of a slightly visible undergraduate dorm. I looked up to locate the source, and found two men staring directly at me and waving like mad. I lowered my eyes to the page and kept reading, but the sound wouldn’t stop and only grew louder. This went on for about three minutes (which, in real time, is quite nerve-rackingly long). A moment after this round of annoyance finally ceased, a man walked up to me, stopped, inched a few feet closer, stared me up and down with an unnerving intensity, and then went on his merry way. This was followed quickly by the approach of a total stranger, who demanded two minutes of my time (from a far too invasive proximity) and proceeded to attempt to seduce me in a strange mix of Setswana and English. “I want a most beautiful girl,” he moaned, “a very most beautiful girl. Wena. You.” “Not an option,” I replied and smiled, my rage practically seeping through my teeth, and he swaggered into the hostel next to mine.
I am not a piece of meat, an object to buy, or an animal for observation. I understand that I am rather out of place here visually, and that my status as a foreigner often warrants more attention, but I can’t help but feel completely objectified and debased by countless approaches and rude comments. Wednesday, as my friend Brianna and I browsed shelves of hot cakes and bread loaves in a small bakery, a man yelled at me “Hello nice white lady! Will you give it to me?” I was shocked into open-jawed silence, and then blushed and turned away. Yet he persisted in inching towards me and jeering and I had to quickly leave the store because no one else seemed to find his behavior unacceptable enough to censor.
The other aspect of my extreme anger and sadness over this issue is that so much of the problem seems to center around the color of my skin. I honestly don’t think that it’s anything I’m wearing, saying, or doing that is attracting this attention, and it’s not because I’m Helen of Troy that men keep leering at me (this was never ever a problem before my arrival here.) So many times, when I am approached, my skin is brought up in the first sentence, or used in a creative appellation. “I am NOT ‘white lady,’” I want to scream, “I am Ilana and you know nothing about me so there isn’t any way in hell that you can be so intensely attracted as me to warrant your sleazy behavior.” Cultural differences, you might suggest – tolerance is necessary – but really, I’ve had more than my share of this nonsense.
The chauvinistic attitudes of this still extremely patriarchal society make me want to vomit when I hear them in daily conversation and see them in the actions of some people around me (even the educated, and otherwise enlightened,) and it is painful to think that only time and a generation gap of information will help to change things. The craziest thing is that the attitudes that stifle women and disenfranchise the female population here, stand in stark contrast with what I see as the incredible strength, independence, and pride of the women who are my peers. I hold an overwhelming amount of respect for most of the women that I’ve met here, especially for their confidence and bold mentalities, and I only wish that they would be held more highly in the minds of others here.
I don’t really know how to conclude this – no plan of action to change a nation, or real resolution for my own dejection. I don’t want to have to get more aggressive with my responses to unwanted advances, but I feel like I have no choice anymore. Maybe by embarrassing the next man who comes along and wants to solicit sex I can gain some small victory. But to put so much energy into an offensive, rather than just buttressing my defense, is a difficult thing for me to decide on.
The only positive spin I can put on this situation is that going through these daily moments of embarrassment and anger has really made me think a lot about feminism outside of Philadelphia and the comfortable environment I’ve always known. In a way, it makes an issue I’ve always cared about somehow more immediate. I also think that it is good, if difficult, for me to begin to solidify my own boundaries – to decide a bit more firmly how tolerant I will be with disrespect for my person, and to get better at picking my battles. It’s not that I’m looking to be more aggressive, but I think my “ignore it” stance of yore is definitely getting modified.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
turn the page
The days seem to flick by and there is this strange and stubborn rebellion that my fingers and subconscious seem to be waging against me – thus, I haven’t written.
I’ve been thinking about this strike a lot recently – calmly assessing why I suddenly feel semi-repulsed by the thought of a paragraph, and I’ve formulated a few ideas.
1. What do you do when a travel blog becomes a … blog? The fancy first has dropped and now the generic second word is left to struggle valiantly. For the past three months I’ve been interacting with this space and thinking of it very specifically as a bowl into which I could pour my thoughts on being somewhere foreign. However, now that I can no longer deny the fact of my residency – my more than temporary position in this now familiar environ - I’m faced with the challenge of reforming my mentality.
Excuse me if this gets too meta, but how far internally do you dig when the external turns flat? It’s not that there isn’t a variety of things to deal with on the daily, it’s just that they aren’t popping or punching as much. How comfortable am I with that? I don’t know.
2. I think I am tired of documenting
3. Free form formulations might be better
4. I am a little consumed by the all or nothing mentality of record-keeping. The overwhelming personal responsibility of choosing what to keep and what to reject in the text-based memory of this time has loomed and lingered.
5. I shouldn’t worry so much about this
6. Kicking back means writing a little less
7. Kicking back means writing a little more
8. A balance is always ideal
9. Is it?
10. enough of this
In conclusion, I think I have to cut ties with the (undocumentation of the) past two weeks and let the present speak.
But before the scissors snip, some pictures and video of the visit to the Holy Cross Hospice that Pat, Seb, Ebony, and I made last Saturday [this one’s for you Becca!]
I’ve been thinking about this strike a lot recently – calmly assessing why I suddenly feel semi-repulsed by the thought of a paragraph, and I’ve formulated a few ideas.
1. What do you do when a travel blog becomes a … blog? The fancy first has dropped and now the generic second word is left to struggle valiantly. For the past three months I’ve been interacting with this space and thinking of it very specifically as a bowl into which I could pour my thoughts on being somewhere foreign. However, now that I can no longer deny the fact of my residency – my more than temporary position in this now familiar environ - I’m faced with the challenge of reforming my mentality.
Excuse me if this gets too meta, but how far internally do you dig when the external turns flat? It’s not that there isn’t a variety of things to deal with on the daily, it’s just that they aren’t popping or punching as much. How comfortable am I with that? I don’t know.
2. I think I am tired of documenting
3. Free form formulations might be better
4. I am a little consumed by the all or nothing mentality of record-keeping. The overwhelming personal responsibility of choosing what to keep and what to reject in the text-based memory of this time has loomed and lingered.
5. I shouldn’t worry so much about this
6. Kicking back means writing a little less
7. Kicking back means writing a little more
8. A balance is always ideal
9. Is it?
10. enough of this
In conclusion, I think I have to cut ties with the (undocumentation of the) past two weeks and let the present speak.
But before the scissors snip, some pictures and video of the visit to the Holy Cross Hospice that Pat, Seb, Ebony, and I made last Saturday [this one’s for you Becca!]
While Seb, Pat, and some local musicians were playing for the gathered patients, a frail yet energetic woman turned to me and smiled. Her cheeks were sunken in and her large eyes shone brightly out of dark skin pulled tight to hug her frame. Despite the obvious effects of the disease, I couldn't but help marvel at how beautiful she was, and how much stronger and more vibrant she must have been in years past. When she leaned forward a few moments later and told me that I was beautiful, I thought I might just sink into my seat and wither away with the weight of it all, or float off into nothingness because nothing could be lighter- the opposites converge.
To step outside of my head a little bit: let me proclaim my absolute adoration for my main companions, daniel and seb. It is impossible to describe how they infuse life with the most glorious of things, so I will leave it at saying I am deep sea, tall tree, hot tea, honey bee grateful for their presence. It is infinitely important to me to be able to process life with them through discussion and creative production, and if location makes a difference in perspective, so do good friends.
To step outside of my head a little bit: let me proclaim my absolute adoration for my main companions, daniel and seb. It is impossible to describe how they infuse life with the most glorious of things, so I will leave it at saying I am deep sea, tall tree, hot tea, honey bee grateful for their presence. It is infinitely important to me to be able to process life with them through discussion and creative production, and if location makes a difference in perspective, so do good friends.
more tomorrow - it's in the works, but we're headed out for the night and I can't quite seem to sew up the sentences I've composed.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
up high
*written on August 16th, but for whatever hesitancies that pass themselves off as justifications for delay, it wasn't posted. now, it is.
I’ve been walking around lately feeling like hot stretched glass, hoping for a breath of air to mold me fast. There is so much happening each and every day, in each and every way, and I feel myself getting quiet because of it. Does that make any sense? It feels sometimes like I’m sinking back into a corner because the only things left with any ability to handle the overwhelming absorption are my eyes.
I’m feeling uptight, and it isn’t right, because so much of what surrounds me is the essence of loosey goosey and free nights.
Our friend Anna made a brilliant and casual observation the other day: it is strange to be in a place without clouds, because we’re so used to relying on them to remind us the earth is moving and time is moving and life is moving. What do I look to now? Up above is just a blue, blank, endless expanse – how do I know that the days pass by at all? Do I count the number of red peppers that enter and disappear from my refrigerator? The number of cockroach babies that are born? The number of times I say ‘Dumela?’
I forget sometimes how much I crave a little order, a little pattern. The same breakfast every morning would suit me fine – just to remind me that although I can’t pat the doumbek, I can make some rhythm. This inaugural launch of classes has left my mind feeling a little helter-skelter, and I can’t hold onto minutes let alone hours. Wasn’t I just craving some excitement though? The winter was winding down and all I could think of was the New and the Good. It is funny how contradictory my subconscious can be.
Pots and Pans: I can honestly say that my newly forged relationship with my pots and pans and cutlery and plates and cups, is nothing short of sacred. Never before in my life have I truly valued such non-toy, non-gadget, non-novelty possessions. They are plain. They are not non-stick. They burn and they gunk and they chip. However, they allow me to function independently here, and that seems a miracle. Each morning, as I put a pot of water up to boil (to which will later be added the choke-inducing granules of coffee/chickory instant Ricoffy) I am flushed with a funny “grown-up” feeling, like I’m in fifth-grade again, playing mommy, puttering around and humming tunes. I turn twenty-one in about two months, so this make-believe seems a bit outdated, but I can’t help feeling the same things anyways.
Which brings me to the larger picture: I still can’t believe I’m here. Nothing and everything about my presence seems to link to my past, and I can’t seem to blend the images of childhood with what surrounds me now. If the world’s most aggressively cheek-pinching grandmother were to extend a long arm here, snabbing a thick piece of arm flesh betwixt her crushing fingers, I don’t think that even that reality check would snap me out of this stupor of incredulity. And it’s not just about the distance – it’s who I’m with and what I’m doing and how my days roll by. It’s the jam sessions and hospice visits and children’s names engraved in my mind. It’s the moon-like dam and travel plans and the impossible feel of a steady hand and sometimes I worry that on the far-off plane ride back home, I still won’t be able to tell you if it all really happened.
But that’s okay – what’s left in the imagination is better that way.
Keabetswe: Last Saturday, around one pm, Daniel, Seb, Pat, and I hopped into a cab driven by a man named Abdullah, and sped off out of GC. We were headed to Kumakwane, a village outside of Gabs, where a young man named Keabetswe lives. Keabetswe, whose age can’t be far off from my twenty years, has spent his entire life prostrate on a thinly padded mattress. From birth, his back has been frozen into curves and twists that render him paralyzed, and he can’t speak. Pat had met him earlier through his social work (and general life mission of making music and spreading a thick sweet jam of love) and learned from his family that he too, loves music. Thus, the impetus for our journey.
Scrunched into the back seat between Dan and Seb, a warm breeze blowing through the cracked windows, sent down from up in the strangely clear skies, I felt an elusive sense of calm. The route we took passed through Mogoditshane, and as I watched the normal turn to Kamogelo flick by, I marveled a little bit on this new trespass into uncharted territory (or course, this is a personal map of discoveries and demarcations). It is this strange feeling I keep having – as if my physicality is larger than myself, as if some part of me extends above Gabs, a little hovering presence over the spaces and places I’ve touched, and I can feel this air just pop when I hit a new section. I guess I could pinpoint it as the hyper-awareness of presence and absence, but I’ve talked about that already. What it really comes down to is this getting-to-know-you business of me and the city, because I can’t very well ask it out for coffee.
When we reached Kumakwane, the trip didn’t quite end. Nikola, a german woman who works with the Flying Mission, had given Pat directions to Keabetswe’s house. However, Kumakwane, like many other towns, is a place without road signs. The dirt roads and turns surround everything, and what looks like a perfectly proper route may just trail off into bush. For example, a landmark in the handwritten indications was “the new house with no roof,” and let me tell you, there are plenty of uncapped abodes.
After about forty-five minutes of Pat and Abdullah stopping locals to ask for directions (and also a few strange character encounters), we finally found a kind woman who hopped in the car and directed us there. She disappeared just as quickly as she arrived, and we were left at the stick fenced entrance to Keabetswe’s family’s compound. A woman greeted us in Setswana (the only language she spoke) and quickly began to move some plastic chairs into a dim, cool hut where Keabetswe lay.
We entered the structure and moved quietly around his form, his large eyes gazing up at us, his jaw hanging open in a huge, earth encompassing smile. I found it a little disconcerting at first to interact with someone who couldn’t respond, but I quickly reminded myself that there are many people in this world that I can’t speak with for various reasons. Seb and Pat pulled out their instruments, and as Pat tuned up, small children began to trickle into the hut. They stationed themselves, quietly, along the far wall, and sat with legs pulled up in silence. Their smiles were shy, and every now and then a new boy or girl would peek his or her head through the doorway, to be beckoned in by another little one. As the music began to play, I had to remind myself to breathe. Everything felt so still and constant and present, and the peace on Seb and Pat’s faces only reinforced it. They played a medley of Pat’s pieces (the soundtrack to our past few weeks) and the familiar tunes were once again infused with more memories and meanings. The look of pure enjoyment on Keabetswe’s face, delicious, delectable savouring of the moment and the sound – it was heart breaking and heart mending and heart making. If a plant seed cracks and new life is born with every true expression of happiness, then a field in this arid land turned green that afternoon.
keabetswe and family
daniel, pat, and seb - making their music
Pat and Seb played for about an hour, occasionally joined by Daniel on his harmonica, and it was brilliant. The children warmed up a little bit after I showed them my camera, and let them play around with picture taking (a sure fire trick for giggle inducing that I learned at Kamogelo,) and they eventually began to dance and clap. I tried playing hand games with two little girls, and we ended up with a kind of rhythmic musical patty-cake.
By the time we left, I felt both out of breath and full of it, and it was hard to tear away from the kids. Everyone thanked everyone with soft movements and low tones, and it was a humble bunch that piled back into Abdullah’s waiting car.
To do this event (and all to come) better justice, I highly recommend that you visit Daniel and Seb’s blogs (incredible, both.) They, with their own magical minds, capture much more than I could hope to present.
Daniel’s: http://reportswana.blogspot.com
Seb’s: http://sebswana.blogspot.com
Seb, Daniel and I just returned from an early afternoon trip to the Gaborone Sun, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything more surreal here. A ten minute walk from UB, (almost visible from the campus grounds,) is GC’s nicest luxury hotel, casino, and restaurant complex. I had never been before, but heard that the food was excellent and pricey, and that the pool was a little oasis. Strolling through the lobby in our swim trunks and bikini (singular), trying to look as nonchalant as possible (we didn’t think you had to pay for pool access, but we didn’t think you didn’t have to either), we were taken aback by the incongruity of the Gab Sun’s presence in Gaborone. It is clean, sparkling, lush, private, ritzy, smoothly efficient and so utterly normal that I almost choked. I was suddenly so bizarrely uncomfortable to be back in a setting that I wouldn’t have blinked an eye at three months ago, and I couldn’t help but fidget.
Thanks to the swimmer in Daniel, we sniffed out water and wound our way through softly carpeted corridors and out into the sunshine of a protectorate leftover. The grass was green and the palm trees swayed in the breeze, as glasses clinked and South African accents wound around the ears. Everything was pristine and white or beige and the water was a placid blue, if frigid. We shuffled around and settled into a few poolside chairs, whipping out the reading material and basking in the shifting sunlight (the great irony – a pool on a rare cloud-ish day). It was splendid beyond belief to just read in the open air for a bit, in part because I haven’t ever really sat outside here before without the constant bug in the back of my mind reminding me to be alert for approaching men. (A digression for later, but never before coming here have I felt so vulnerable or reliant on others because of my gender. It makes me angry.)
daniel, poolside, 'neath the african sun
We only stayed for a couple of hours, and then packed up and headed back through a breeze to UB. I am now sitting in my room typing, listening to the mingled sounds of a whistler’s rendition of “Amazing Grace” that wafts through my window, and the giggles, screams, and cries of one of my new suitemate’s visiting daughters. These are not unpleasant sounds.
and now, for a miscellaneous picture montage:
UB courtyard jam session
more fun at the gabs dam - lunar landscape
D and Pat the Great
Pat
lovey-dovey
international exchange student crew
(with our powers combined, we know a lot about beer)
I’ve been walking around lately feeling like hot stretched glass, hoping for a breath of air to mold me fast. There is so much happening each and every day, in each and every way, and I feel myself getting quiet because of it. Does that make any sense? It feels sometimes like I’m sinking back into a corner because the only things left with any ability to handle the overwhelming absorption are my eyes.
I’m feeling uptight, and it isn’t right, because so much of what surrounds me is the essence of loosey goosey and free nights.
Our friend Anna made a brilliant and casual observation the other day: it is strange to be in a place without clouds, because we’re so used to relying on them to remind us the earth is moving and time is moving and life is moving. What do I look to now? Up above is just a blue, blank, endless expanse – how do I know that the days pass by at all? Do I count the number of red peppers that enter and disappear from my refrigerator? The number of cockroach babies that are born? The number of times I say ‘Dumela?’
I forget sometimes how much I crave a little order, a little pattern. The same breakfast every morning would suit me fine – just to remind me that although I can’t pat the doumbek, I can make some rhythm. This inaugural launch of classes has left my mind feeling a little helter-skelter, and I can’t hold onto minutes let alone hours. Wasn’t I just craving some excitement though? The winter was winding down and all I could think of was the New and the Good. It is funny how contradictory my subconscious can be.
Pots and Pans: I can honestly say that my newly forged relationship with my pots and pans and cutlery and plates and cups, is nothing short of sacred. Never before in my life have I truly valued such non-toy, non-gadget, non-novelty possessions. They are plain. They are not non-stick. They burn and they gunk and they chip. However, they allow me to function independently here, and that seems a miracle. Each morning, as I put a pot of water up to boil (to which will later be added the choke-inducing granules of coffee/chickory instant Ricoffy) I am flushed with a funny “grown-up” feeling, like I’m in fifth-grade again, playing mommy, puttering around and humming tunes. I turn twenty-one in about two months, so this make-believe seems a bit outdated, but I can’t help feeling the same things anyways.
Which brings me to the larger picture: I still can’t believe I’m here. Nothing and everything about my presence seems to link to my past, and I can’t seem to blend the images of childhood with what surrounds me now. If the world’s most aggressively cheek-pinching grandmother were to extend a long arm here, snabbing a thick piece of arm flesh betwixt her crushing fingers, I don’t think that even that reality check would snap me out of this stupor of incredulity. And it’s not just about the distance – it’s who I’m with and what I’m doing and how my days roll by. It’s the jam sessions and hospice visits and children’s names engraved in my mind. It’s the moon-like dam and travel plans and the impossible feel of a steady hand and sometimes I worry that on the far-off plane ride back home, I still won’t be able to tell you if it all really happened.
But that’s okay – what’s left in the imagination is better that way.
Keabetswe: Last Saturday, around one pm, Daniel, Seb, Pat, and I hopped into a cab driven by a man named Abdullah, and sped off out of GC. We were headed to Kumakwane, a village outside of Gabs, where a young man named Keabetswe lives. Keabetswe, whose age can’t be far off from my twenty years, has spent his entire life prostrate on a thinly padded mattress. From birth, his back has been frozen into curves and twists that render him paralyzed, and he can’t speak. Pat had met him earlier through his social work (and general life mission of making music and spreading a thick sweet jam of love) and learned from his family that he too, loves music. Thus, the impetus for our journey.
Scrunched into the back seat between Dan and Seb, a warm breeze blowing through the cracked windows, sent down from up in the strangely clear skies, I felt an elusive sense of calm. The route we took passed through Mogoditshane, and as I watched the normal turn to Kamogelo flick by, I marveled a little bit on this new trespass into uncharted territory (or course, this is a personal map of discoveries and demarcations). It is this strange feeling I keep having – as if my physicality is larger than myself, as if some part of me extends above Gabs, a little hovering presence over the spaces and places I’ve touched, and I can feel this air just pop when I hit a new section. I guess I could pinpoint it as the hyper-awareness of presence and absence, but I’ve talked about that already. What it really comes down to is this getting-to-know-you business of me and the city, because I can’t very well ask it out for coffee.
When we reached Kumakwane, the trip didn’t quite end. Nikola, a german woman who works with the Flying Mission, had given Pat directions to Keabetswe’s house. However, Kumakwane, like many other towns, is a place without road signs. The dirt roads and turns surround everything, and what looks like a perfectly proper route may just trail off into bush. For example, a landmark in the handwritten indications was “the new house with no roof,” and let me tell you, there are plenty of uncapped abodes.
After about forty-five minutes of Pat and Abdullah stopping locals to ask for directions (and also a few strange character encounters), we finally found a kind woman who hopped in the car and directed us there. She disappeared just as quickly as she arrived, and we were left at the stick fenced entrance to Keabetswe’s family’s compound. A woman greeted us in Setswana (the only language she spoke) and quickly began to move some plastic chairs into a dim, cool hut where Keabetswe lay.
We entered the structure and moved quietly around his form, his large eyes gazing up at us, his jaw hanging open in a huge, earth encompassing smile. I found it a little disconcerting at first to interact with someone who couldn’t respond, but I quickly reminded myself that there are many people in this world that I can’t speak with for various reasons. Seb and Pat pulled out their instruments, and as Pat tuned up, small children began to trickle into the hut. They stationed themselves, quietly, along the far wall, and sat with legs pulled up in silence. Their smiles were shy, and every now and then a new boy or girl would peek his or her head through the doorway, to be beckoned in by another little one. As the music began to play, I had to remind myself to breathe. Everything felt so still and constant and present, and the peace on Seb and Pat’s faces only reinforced it. They played a medley of Pat’s pieces (the soundtrack to our past few weeks) and the familiar tunes were once again infused with more memories and meanings. The look of pure enjoyment on Keabetswe’s face, delicious, delectable savouring of the moment and the sound – it was heart breaking and heart mending and heart making. If a plant seed cracks and new life is born with every true expression of happiness, then a field in this arid land turned green that afternoon.
keabetswe and family
daniel, pat, and seb - making their music
By the time we left, I felt both out of breath and full of it, and it was hard to tear away from the kids. Everyone thanked everyone with soft movements and low tones, and it was a humble bunch that piled back into Abdullah’s waiting car.
To do this event (and all to come) better justice, I highly recommend that you visit Daniel and Seb’s blogs (incredible, both.) They, with their own magical minds, capture much more than I could hope to present.
Daniel’s: http://reportswana.blogspot.com
Seb’s: http://sebswana.blogspot.com
Seb, Daniel and I just returned from an early afternoon trip to the Gaborone Sun, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything more surreal here. A ten minute walk from UB, (almost visible from the campus grounds,) is GC’s nicest luxury hotel, casino, and restaurant complex. I had never been before, but heard that the food was excellent and pricey, and that the pool was a little oasis. Strolling through the lobby in our swim trunks and bikini (singular), trying to look as nonchalant as possible (we didn’t think you had to pay for pool access, but we didn’t think you didn’t have to either), we were taken aback by the incongruity of the Gab Sun’s presence in Gaborone. It is clean, sparkling, lush, private, ritzy, smoothly efficient and so utterly normal that I almost choked. I was suddenly so bizarrely uncomfortable to be back in a setting that I wouldn’t have blinked an eye at three months ago, and I couldn’t help but fidget.
Thanks to the swimmer in Daniel, we sniffed out water and wound our way through softly carpeted corridors and out into the sunshine of a protectorate leftover. The grass was green and the palm trees swayed in the breeze, as glasses clinked and South African accents wound around the ears. Everything was pristine and white or beige and the water was a placid blue, if frigid. We shuffled around and settled into a few poolside chairs, whipping out the reading material and basking in the shifting sunlight (the great irony – a pool on a rare cloud-ish day). It was splendid beyond belief to just read in the open air for a bit, in part because I haven’t ever really sat outside here before without the constant bug in the back of my mind reminding me to be alert for approaching men. (A digression for later, but never before coming here have I felt so vulnerable or reliant on others because of my gender. It makes me angry.)
daniel, poolside, 'neath the african sunWe only stayed for a couple of hours, and then packed up and headed back through a breeze to UB. I am now sitting in my room typing, listening to the mingled sounds of a whistler’s rendition of “Amazing Grace” that wafts through my window, and the giggles, screams, and cries of one of my new suitemate’s visiting daughters. These are not unpleasant sounds.
and now, for a miscellaneous picture montage:
UB courtyard jam session
more fun at the gabs dam - lunar landscape
D and Pat the Great
Pat
lovey-dovey
international exchange student crew(with our powers combined, we know a lot about beer)
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