Pap

Snot seems to be a very important theme these days (ahem, this is for the Rushdie readers.) Clad in their green sweatsuits and motely assortment of shoes, sweaters, one-mittens, and beanies, each precious and petite person also had gobs of snot clinging to their upper lips. I feel like I am covered in spit and slime and baby kisses, and while it’s a pleasant glaze on the one hand, I desperately crave a shower (they finally tiled the floor today, so that’s not really an option.)

On the subject of bodily fluids, we also dealt with the scary one today. I was in the midst of a massive pile on the rug, when all of a sudden a small boy with a plaid shirt started screaming, and clutching at his mouth. I tried to get the kids to move away, but of course, fascinated, they only jumped on him. When I say that blood was pouring from somewhere on his face, I mean pouring. Streams of the thick red landed on his pants and trickled over his hands and dropped on the rug and the floor. I didn’t know what to do – I was the closest “teacher” nearby and so I should have helped, but I was torn in two and frozen. Half of me wanted to grab him and carry him and wash him off, but the other half of me was thinking about AIDS and death and panicking a little bit. Luckily, another teacher swooped in and administered to his cut/bloody nose/lost tooth/I’m not sure. However, there were drops of blood on the floor that the kids were pretending to step on and a mop to soak them up didn’t seem like the best chosen tool.

It was just really strange. I don’t want to make a bigger fuss over infection than the other teachers at the day care center – after all, they know these kids far better than I do and are also aware of their status as the orphans of AIDS infected parents. However, I can’t ignore it either and it is something that legitimately terrifies me.

On the lighter side, the kids are incredible. They are so full of energy and affection – within minutes of entering the room I had three on my lap and two more braiding my hair. The language barrier makes things a little frustrating – they really only speak Setswana – but when you’re just trying to communicate about pushes on swingsets and where to sit at lunch, it really isn’t that bad. They chatter a lot though, and I’m really curious about what they’re saying.

The kids range from age 2-6, but I was mostly with the older ones today. Once Abby and I start with lesson plans and a bit of a routine, I hope to spend more time with everyone.

I am so exhausted at the moment, and I can’t really determine why. Probably a combination of four hours of serving as a human jungle gym, the hot hot sun, and a little bit of a realization of just how hard life is for some here. I can’t go into it at the moment because I haven’t fully articulated these thoughts for myself yet, but I’m really just starting to understand some things I’d always thought I had a grasp on.

"this is me"

I write now with the strange taste of phane worms and Cadbury chocolate in my mouth.

We have just returned to the graduate hostels from an incredibly full (and outlook improving) day. It began at nine when we all assembled in UB’s counseling and career services center (a building akin to the temporary trailers that my high school used while under renovation) to listen to various campus officials describe to us the many ways we could be beaten, robbed, raped, or harassed (don’t worry mom, they just want us to be careful.) While it was never stated completely outright, there were many allusions to a correlation between the increase in crime on and around campus, and the increase in the number of immigrants in Gaborone. While the tension in Gaborone over illegal immigration has not yet reached the point of South Africa’s terrifying current state, it is definitely present here. The three UB students who are serving as our mentors and guides were present as well to inject a dash of carefree enthusiasm into the cautious words of parental figures.

At the orientation, we also received a bit more information about the social scene, which has recently been impacted by new laws passed that mandate an earlier close of clubs and bars (boo.) However, not to fret, for while it is common for the military to disperse late night clubbers, many establishments successfully remain open past two am. Some cultural quirks were also explained, such as that when Botswana stand in line, they do not leave each other much space (aka people will touch you.)

Finally, with stomachs rumbling, we paid our cash deposit and received the holy grail. no, I mean the lost ark. wait, IT WAS A CELL PHONE. I hate to admit it, but my step got a little bouncier.

Following orientation, we went to one of the UB refectories for a lunch that reminded me a lot of the fare at Fatou and Fama [you know the spot, my dear West Philadelphians.] Needless to say, I was greatly pleased.

The next three hours of the day were spent touring Gaborone by bus. The population of Botswana (1.7 million) is far less than even the population of Philadelphia, and so the city proper quickly seeps into surrounding villages where most people live. Due to Gabarone’s incredible growth rate, it is slowly pushing the village on whose land it was built, closer and closer to the South African border. We visited this village and met with a Junior Chief, who, despite the name, was actually quite old, and had blinging sunglasses that prompted Abby’s comment: Flava Flav. He only spoke Setswana, but he led us to an enclosure with many grazing cows, and explained that these cows has been arrested for eating someone’s harvest. Yes, you read correctly. They are currently under supervision until their owner can pay a fine.


The Junior Chief also showed us the traditional village hut in which legal proceedings are held for cases of petty theft and domestic affairs (things that are too small for the higher courts - think marriage disputes, mediation, division of land, insolent children, etc.) Lawyers are not allowed in these spaces (each individual represents him or herself) and thus the proceedings usually take no more than an hour. Corporal punishment is still practiced, and a penalty might include a fine and a few lashes with a switch across the bum. However, it is only the men that receive corporal punishment (how do I feel about this? It is like the question of women in the American military. I still have not formulated a clear response.)


Driving around Gaborone was rather incredible. Along the sides of the road were countless tables on which trinkets were scattered, and many reclining men and women tending to their wares. As empty streets flickered by, I caught glimpses of tiny children in brightly colored shirts standing in the middle of the dust, which seemed to have seeped into the walls of squat white houses they emerged from.

Our bus tour ended as the sun began to descend, and we left the main road to head to a traditional dinner at the home of a Motswana woman. It has been raining an unseasonable amount here in Gaborone, and as the stars emerged tonight, lightning flashed and spread across the endless sky. The mood on the bus was light, but there was something large and thick and heavy about the night outside. We eventually pulled off the road and into the dust (I could see nothing beyond the bus) and walked through some scrub into the most incredible home I have ever seen. Covered with the traditional thatch, the architecture was both round and square, all soft hues of red wood and glowing candlelight. Another blackout had rolled through a half an hour before, and we had to stumble past the sofas, bookcases, children’s drawings, and tables to reach the back yard. What greeted us was more than just smiling faces (and there was a bevy of them,) but cushioned wooden benches, a crackling bonfire, and a table full of traditional Setswana food. Our hosts were a family of friends (I never quite figured out the relations of everyone) both young and old, and they encouraged us to sample a bit of everything (sorghum, pounded beef, tripe, pap, a spinach-like leaf, and biscuits.) The highlight of the meal was the crunchy phane worm, found only on the Mophane tree in the north. Thank goodness it was too dark to see what it looked like, because it was crunchy and salty and I’m pretty sure I ate its head.

Dinner was followed by dancing and song, and we all contributed our own bit of flavor to the meal. One of our hosts, a young Motswana, rapped in a blend of Setswana, English, and I don’t know what else, but his words were beautiful, and the nodding heads in the firelight held me a little spellbound. A younger boy performed his own rhyme, the jist of which was “Motorola, coca-cola,” and all the Penn students sang the Fresh Prince theme song (it actually happened. I swear. In the middle of Southern Africa.) Despite the fact that I/we’ve only been here for four days, something in the moment felt completely natural. Neither our hosts nor the other interns felt like anything less than family, and in the common light of the fire, I almost could have sworn I was home.

The sky is larger here than anywhere else, and the stars shine more brightly, and more vividly than my eyes have ever experienced them before. It was mesmerizing to gaze heavenwards, and the longer I looked the more stars seemed to appear, materializing out of the blackness that had just barely hidden them. The haze of the milky way and the warmth of the fire against the night’s chill was something to be savored, and the chocolate I later munched on the bus wasn’t nearly so sweet in comparison.

Before I settle in to sleep, I would just like to repeat the words of the Motswana woman who designed and resides in the house that hosted us this evening. When asked to introduce herself, she merely spread her arms wide and smiled. “I don’t know who I am,” she told us, “but this is me.”

If something ever was loud enough to echo across the cavern of this magnificent sky, I believe that was it.

Cabin Fever

*written shortly after midnight this morning. although delayed in posting, I leave it raw because tampering with past words when trying to record moments just seems wrong.

Alright, so the last entry was rushed, typo-ridden, and dry like the biscuits served on South African Airways. Let me add a little flavor (hot sauce? garlic? mango? whatever you fancy.) Like kids (or grandmothers) on bicycles, it takes a bit of practice before you feel the breeze in your hair.

A cast of characters perhaps?

ENTER, stage left, right, and center, THE COCKROACHES:
The University of Botswana graduate dorms are, apparently, a pleasant paradise for our tiny friends. My suite has successfully sprayed an entire can of DOOM since our arrival, and I have stopped tallying the insect fatalities. On our first night in Gaborone, we experienced one of the frequent blackouts (there are energy problems in South Africa,) and we spent two hours chasing roaches by candlelight.

THE CATS: there is a family of black bodied, white pawed cats that inhabit the trashcans outside our rooms. They screech late at night and it sounds like murder, which has caused me to jump and check my locks more than once.

LORATO: her name means love in setswana, and it is quite the appropriate moniker. With a laugh like boiling water, she has thus far been our most tremendous chaperone, guidebook, entertainment, and friend. She shows up at random times (always without warning) and offers to take us out shopping, eating, drinking, etc. At the moment, she is our sole connection to Gaborone social life and a car. She also really enjoys Hunters Dry Cider.

THE INTERNS: Residing in the graduate hostels are 13 students from Penn, and three law students from the University Cincinnati. We’ll all be interning in different fields, but I’ll be working most closely with the lovely Abby, at the Kamogelo Day Care center. Our dearest Brazilian, Julio, is present and accounted for as well (if anyone was wondering).

*Abby, Rebecca, and Jen are my suitemates, along with two older Botswana women (I cannot yet tell whether we are a nuisance as newcomers, or welcome company.)


As of now, that is the extent of our world. Since we don’t yet have cell phones, it is difficult to contact cabbies, and until instructed as to proper etiquette and how to determine routes, the combies are off limits (privately owned, but government controlled vans that serve as public transportation). It is apparently not too safe to walk anywhere at night, so we’ve really yet to step far outside the University boundaries.

To get a little personal (don’t worry, I won’t pull any moves), the days and nights have been a strange, strong brew of intense feelings. I never thought I would miss water and vegetation so much, and it has taken an arid, land-locked nation to remind me how much I enjoy my greenery. It also never quite registered with me that I have spent my entire life on a river or a coast, and it leaves me a little panicky when I think about how far away the ocean is.

I also find that “WHAT?” has set up camp in my head. He has a sleeping bag, a tent (I could feel the pegs being hammered into my soft skull) and a loud, stern, booming voice. WHAT skips rocks through my brain at random intervals, causing splashes that sound like questions, that sound like worries, that sound like fears. At stores and restaurants I also have to repeat his name, kindly, and with an imploring, “please forgive me, I’m a silly foreigner” look, because the blend of Setswana and English (heavy in the rolling, lolling R’s) is a bit tricky for my ears.

Things are brighter in the daylight and darker at night (logical, but it always catches me off guard), and more than a few tears have dampened my University of Botswana issued pillowcase. Honestly, it’s the songs that get me. A little “I wish that I knew what I knew now, when I was younger” and I’m a lump of mush. Otherwise, aside from a few acute moments of discomfort and longing, I’m A+, top notch, FDA approved, stamped sealed and sent, good.

These long entries have me feeling a little self-conscious, a little indulgent, a little embarrassed – I don’t know what I’m looking to write but my production feels muddled and blah blah bland. Hopefully once I get out into the city and start doing some research (with the aid of the library and the internet,) things will be a little less amorphous. Dearest friends, family (and anonymous internet community?) please humor me, I just removed the training wheels.

Dumela

There is always a bit of pressure on the first words of something - just the slightest extra weight to anchor a beginning. If not, the start might just drift into the middle or the end and this would be inappropriate, for everything usually has an order.

My order: After months of talk and preparation, I finally set off last Wendesday for 7 months in Gaborone, the capital city of Botswana. I will be working at an internship until the last month of July, and will begin classes at the University of Botswana in August. Land-locked, and situated just above South Africa, Botswana is known for its incredible stability and wealth of natural resources (think diamonds.) I don't want to sound too much like wikipedia just yet since I'm still working on my own voice, so you can reference it for yourselves.

The trip here was incredibly long. Philadelphia to London, London to Joburg, Joburg to Gabs. It took about two days, and more than the shifting of the hours or the cramped seating, I was much more disoriented by the silence. I didn't really speak to anyone except to order coffee or board a flight, and I was forced to reflect a lot on what I where I was headed, and what I was leaving behind. I tried to speak to my seatmates on all three flights, but only the last obliged. The first man, small and bearded, began weeping as soon as we sat down. He didn't seem to speak much English, but I was grateful for his quiet and his melancholy. He seemed to be feeling similar things and I appreciated the privacy we gave each other. On the flight out of Heathrow, I had the window seat and tried to strike up conversation with my purple-clad South African neighbor. However, after about five minutes of me babbling about my excitement and worry, she abruptly informed me that she was on her way home to her mother's funeral. It is interesting that people can be traveling to the same place for so many different reasons. Movement is necessary for all, but you can never really predict why. My final friend by proximity was an Egyptian man, headed to Botswana for the day. He was an operations manager for Shell, and handing me his business card, told me to ring him if I ever made it to Cairo. My best friend on the trip was Egger's You Shall Know Our Velocity, which I finished en route, and it was appropriate text for the time (I strongly encourage reading it if you haven't.)


Things have been slow, yet interesting since I landed in that last (terrifyingly) small, propellered plane. Gaborone is a city, but unlike any I've ever seen. No building rises above a few stories, and the houses and stores sprawl across a relatively dry and barren landscape. The highest point in Botswana (a hill) can be seen from most points, and the majority of the water resides in the Gaborone dam (a beatiful spot to have drinks and watch the sun set). People seem to mainly speak Setswana, but Enlish peppers dialogue and I can communicate with most. As we've driven around (escorted by Lorata, a wonderfully friendly UB student,) we've seen some "lower income housing areas" (what some may deem slums), and cows grazing on the side of the road. The language and dress is also slightly different. Otherwise, the malls and restaurants are pretty Westernized and I have to remind myself sometimes that I'm incredibly far away from home.


The current situation in South Africa, with the burning of Zimbabwean refugees and general unrest, is pretty terrible. It headlines the Gaborone newspapers, and I've spoken a lot with Botswana about the politics and relations between countries. Eveyone I've met so far (which is not that many) are incredibly well informed about regional and American politics (they know way more than I do, and it has been embarrassing to admit the gaps in my knowledge.)

Right now, this feels to me to be a lot of bland, verbal vomit, so I think I'll break and gather my thoughts before spewing more into the internet air. There are a lot of things churning around in my head at the moment, and I want to make sure to articulate them all, in a fashion worth writing and reading.

A mission statement feels appropriate for this blog: I came to Botswana to absorb something new, to observe life in a different space, a different place, and to assess myself and my thoughts in a different context. I've only ever known the world from one vantage point, and I am eager to widen my view. I also came to make friends, to help in whatever way I can, and to connect with another section of humanity's geography. This blog is a space for reflections, a way for me to keep in touch with the ones I love, and hopefully a way to assemble my random thoughts and feelings into an eventual, meaningful whole. I can't predict how things will progress, how I will change, or even how often I will be updating this space, but I'll do my best to record an inconsistent life consistently.