"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.