bear hug

A riddle for you: how much happiness can three boxes hold?

The answer:











Thanks to the efforts of the Mother Bear knitters and some convenient connections and contacting on Abby’s part, we were able to hand out over 130 hand-knit bears to all of the children at Kamogelo. The pictures say it better than words (really, how can you translate such infinite smiles?) but I’ll add a few of those lettered things just to supplement.

Friday was already semi-special, as it was a fundraising day at Kamogelo. On such marked occasions, the kids bring in one pula each and are thus “allowed” to dress up in their fanciest finery. It was really shocking to see the kids in different clothes, as most wear the same things every day. The girls proudly twirled in their mix-matched and slightly worn skirts and dresses, while the boys stomped their feet to indicate that their kicks were not the same old footwear. Some children didn’t seem to participate (I am not sure if this was because they couldn’t spare the pula or because they didn’t have alternative clothing) but some went all out, like Bigani, whose ringworm has been healing quite nicely. His perpetually sleepy face looked particularly comical and bewildered, situated atop his baby blue tie and a much too big jacket.

Around 11 o’clock, all the kids filed into the cafeteria/big hall, as a car pulled down the dusty driveway. Gill, one of the Penn coordinators, was kind enough to receive and re-deliver the boxes of bears to us, and also took some great pictures of the event. With the children in lines, approaching one by one, Abby and I handed out beautiful, brightly colored bears as quickly as we could. The squeals of delight and BEAMING faces were enough to blind the delicate eye, and the sunshine outside really couldn’t compare. Clutching their plush possessions, the children gleefully rocked, tossed, hugged, and danced their bears across the floor. Aside from the unavoidable squabblings amongst young’uns over bear outfits and colors, the chatter in that room was of the most giggly and glorious I have ever heard for such a sustained period.


Great things followed the bear distribution as well, since Abby and I were fortunate enough to catch a performance of traditional dance and song when we returned to UB. Walking back to our hostel, we heard shuffling and laughter and voices, so we peeked around a corner to investigate. There, in the middle of a courtyard of sorts, was a huge “cultural troupe” of young men and women, dressed in traditional Tswana outfits, chanting and swaying in a rhythmic fury. A crowd of what appeared to be academics, professionals, and UB maintenance staff had gathered to watch, and the energy from the onlookers was manifest in all sorts of spontaneous and uncalled for audience participation. There were five incredible main male dancers, who occasionally raised their straw brush props suggestively, and they drove some of the older women in the crowd into an absolute frenzy. At one point, a middle aged cleaning woman ran up to one of the dancing men and stuck her derriere towards him, gyrating in a surprisingly provocative fashion. The crowd went wild of course, and more people began to join in dancing – many men and women shimmying up to the stage area to drop a few pula on the ground. We only caught the last 15 minutes of the performance, but what a show it was. It was especially nice to see some performance that is culturally specific to this country, since most of what we see here is greatly influenced by South African, European and other foreign cultures.




Last evening was the usual big crowd at dinner, Linga Longa, and Lizard Lounge, which is always enjoyable and wild. We’ve been spending a lot of time with a really awesome group of Batswana friends who we met at Fashion Lounge our first week here. They’ve been incredibly nice and really really fun to go out with, especially since they always end up introducing us to a few new people. There were a few “incidents” of note that gave the evening a certain flair (indulge me while I enumerate):

1) I WAS CARDED. almost. When our crowd of ten or so walked into Linga Longa last night, the man at the door singled me out and asked for my identification. A number of factors may have influenced my dramatic response, such as the two glasses of wine I had at dinner or my pent up frustration for constantly being mistaken for a child. However, regardless of specific causation, I let loose in my loudest, sternest, and most agitated raised voice. "ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME.” I glared. “I AM TWENTY YEARS OLD AND DON'T CARRY ID HERE AND WAS BORN ON NOVEMBER EIGHTH NINETEEN EIGHTY SEVEN AND SEE THIS BOY IN THE YELLOW SHIRT NEXT TO ME WHO JUST WALTZED THOUGH THE DOOR? HE IS A FULL YEAR YOUNGER THAN I AM." My arms were crossed and my body was rigid, and I imagine that i looked ridiculous. Nevertheless, my tactic was effective, because the man laughed, stepped away a few feet, and nodded the go ahead. I then huffed and puffed into the bar, rattled like a snake.

2) The second event, in keeping with the first, had to do with my age and appearance. While standing in the bathroom at Lizard Lounge, two Motswana women looked Abby and I up and down and then laughed. “Eh!! Mma-14’s!” I’m not sure if I’ve explained this here before, but Mma-14 is the name for the girls at the club who are under fourteen and slightly scandalous. Apparently they’re an attractive idea for some men here, because there are a few songs that warn of the dangers of tangling with them. Needless to say, Abby and I exploded with emphatic assertions of our ages, especially since I had been embarrassed once before that evening. Strangely, as our indignation turned into conversation, we forged a pretty solid drunken bond with the two women and ended up dancing the night away with them. One was a particularly encouraging instructor, and she insisted on demonstrating quite a few interesting shakes of the hip. I attempted to emulate and sometimes met with success. At the end of the night they invited us to a party they are throwing this evening, so there is potential for reunion. I really don’t think I will ever get over the freedom of friendship here. There don’t seem to be any rules or boundaries when it comes to forging friendships (no places where it is appropriate to attempt or not) and I’m really hoping that this casual style rubs off on me. I never quite realized how contained a lot of Americans are, and just how wary of strangers too.

3) A final, “interesting” encounter occurred at the bar early on in the eve. A slightly drunk Motswana man struck up conversation with me, and was very excited to tell me about how he thinks he’s going to Atlanta, GA soon. He kept asking me if there were a lot of black people there, and was also very curious to know if I "knew" tupac, snoop or kanye. I found myself giggling because I couldn’t quite tell if he meant "knew personally" or just "knew the music of,” and when I tried to clarify this matter, his response confused me even more. What was so odd about this fellow is that he seemed to have absolutely no conception whatsoever of just how large America is. I have never met anyone older than four who has such a strangely disproportionate sense of space and population size. He was amazed and mistrusting when I told him that Philadelphia's population was bigger than Botswana's, and when I drew an air map of the United States, the geography boggled him. He also was under the impression that everyone in America has attended live performances by all the big names in hip-hop, simply because we live in America. "I can't see them because I live in Africa" he told me, "but you are there so you've all seen them, right?" I then explained the concept of location and distance and how being situated in Philadelphia prevented me from traveling the country to hear various rappers. "OH! Philly!” he exclaimed. “Eve is from philly! do you know her?"

Finally, just before our friend MK graciously tugged me away (the fellow wanted personal info and I was having a hard time politely declining to give it) the man asked me with glittering childlike curiosity in his eyes if the Borat movie was real. As in, if it was an accurate portrayal of Jews, of Americans, and of life over yonder. He said that in Africa, everyone just looked at it like fact. I was struck into sobriety and told him NO, that it was a comedy and exaggerated, and his friend nudged him with an "I told you so." He then asked me if I was Jewish and if I was offended by the portrayal of the Jews in the movie. frankly, at that moment i couldn't remember how exactly they were portrayed, so I just shrugged and said "there have been worse depictions."

Regarding the Jewish thing (since I think enough related incidents have accumulated to be of note) I sometimes feel pretty uncomfortable here even though I don’t consider myself particularly religious. The other night at Bull and Bush’s monthly quizzo event, the South African host asked the question “In what month is the Jewish holiday Chanukah celebrated.” First of all, the Jewish calendar is different from the normal one, so that question doesn’t even make sense. Secondly, the host found it hysterical to call Chunakah “Heineken,” which was just silly at first but then became kind of offensive with an overkill of repetition. Additionally, there have been a few times (like the one mentioned above) where I’ve been asked to identify my religion, and while not exactly negative, the responses have not been warm.

Slightly unrelated, but in the same vein of questionable prejudices, is the common view of Indian and Chinese people here. There is a significant population of the former, and I have often heard Batswana describe them as rich and resented. Rajiv has gotten some really nasty comments from cab drivers, such as this one, when he tried to argue over an obviously inflated fare: “Eh, you Indians, you’re always doing this to us!” Apparently, the Indian community here is relatively insular and they have done pretty well for themselves with well run family businesses. The Chinese also seem resented and frowned upon at times, and I myself have witnessed some really negative behavior towards them. One girl at the hospice where Rebecca works, told her that she was the first Asian she had ever associated with and hates all of the others. I don’t want to generalize too much about a nation that is still new to me (my sample size for these observations is really small) but if what I’ve seen does apply to a larger group, it is pretty upsetting.


Today was a typical Saturday, with lots of lazy lounging, but I was in a really awful mood. Despite constant interaction with people here, I’ve been missing everyone back home really intensely. I’d like to dress up my feelings in more elaborate clothes, but the bottom line is that there are moments when I feel terribly lonely and isolated and a million years and miles away. It’s also just kind of odd, because the number of people here that I can call on to connect with is really really small, and while I adore them all, I sometimes find myself scanning the faces in my mental rolodex and wishing for a coffee date or picnic on the Green. I keep fantasizing about a chance encounter with someone from home in a store or a club, and I long for a night walk down Locust. However, I know I will just have to continue to resort to the brilliant magic of memory and emails the tide me over till the cravings pass. I’m annoying myself with my radical mood vacillations and sometimes brooding behavior, and I imagine others are peeved by it too. I try to remain optimistic that I’ll right myself rapidly, since I’ve never really failed to even out before. In the meantime, I attempt distraction.

electronica

The past few days have been a swirling, dusty, chalk of things – none of which really compelled me to write. I spent an hour and a half in the tech store yesterday trying to return an item, and thought the experience would send me over the edge. Rarely do I snap at people here (cultural differences! I tell myself when perturbed or confused) but a full half hour of the security guard at the exit telling me that I had purchased “white” not “pink” headphones [I swear I bought the pink] had me deep breathing and foot tapping. Strange feelings about passing the one month mark left my moods to groove in a pulse line pattern, and the onset of habit has me antsy as well.

I’ve found that there is a fine line between tourism and life, and I think I can only tell when it’s been crossed if I feel routine setting in. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it’s a strange thing to have spaces and places and faces suddenly seeming so familiar. Each additional time we stroll the leisurely two bends and three street crossings to River Walk, another roll of mental photos is added to the album and it is both encouraging and disconcerting to be collecting these images so rapidly. For example, the woman who aggressively begs in the parking lot is now watched for an easily avoided, and the bag checker at Pic n’ Pay greets us with a bright smile. The man at Incredible Connection consistently asks for our phone numbers and social schedules, and once even crept up behind me to say hello while I was looking at a rather small pair of shorts in another store. “You should purchase those,” he said, “they would look nice on you when you’re out.” “DUMELA.” I said.

THUS, in an attempt to cull the nice, to pick the berries from the non-edible bush, to find the beat in an over-instrumental-ized song, I present to you, THE GOOD:

During the same trip to purchase the pink headphones, I also made an incredibly, wonderfully, life-changingly good investment – I bought a small 80 pula portable ipod player. Bored to tears with the endless amount of “free play” in the classroom, I decided that if we can’t learn all the time, at least we can dance.
So, this morning, equipped with ipod and speakers (two items I still feel uncomfortable carrying around, but whatever, you do it for the kids) I patiently bided my time through assembly and breakfast and the ABC’s. At last, when Sisca sheepishly told me that she needed me to don my monkey suit and entertain [not in those words of course], I flipped the ON switch and pressed play.

The kids stood in a swarm around me, transfixed by the tiny electronics, as the beat of Yelle’s “Ce Jeu” began to thump its way into the air (http://www.myspace.com/iloveyelle). Within four seconds of the start I felt a sudden surge of energy from the small bodies around me, and as all 35 Batswana babies began to scream and gyrate, shaking their five year old hips and grabbing at my arms, I experienced for the first time here what one might call “euphoria.” It may very well be the closest I shall ever come to rockstar celebrity or a superstar rush. The kids were the happiest I have ever seen them and we did all the moves to the hokey pokey and then some. The boys were moving their feet like pros and the girls – I have never seen such rhythm. At one point, Amogelang and I started in with a sort of patty-cake routine that followed the beat, and we were able to coordinate well-timed turns and claps. I was giddy, I was giggling, I was swaying and it was goooood.

Exhausting my supply of French Electronica, I moved onto some Juanes, some Beatles, and some Amadou and Mariam. It was really surreal to be shouting over the noise “this is French!” or “this is Spanish!” The collision of cultures rocked me as much as my tiny dance partners.
After about 45 minutes of high-pitched squeals, I finally retired the gadgets and sent the kids to trace some letters. Bridget, wearing the same bright orange turtleneck that she has every day for the past month, buried her face in my jeans with a heart breaking hug and then bounced over to collect her workbook.



I feel an obligation to record this week more thoroughly. However, the name of the game is currently mundane, so I shall, warily, refrain. for the near and almost present future, I anticipate the best of zest, and shall deliver it when fully cooked.

infection

Considering that not much happened today, I find that the evening has settled in with a terribly dark wave of concern.

While sitting in class this morning, watching Sisca scold and hit the children who weren’t paying attention, I found myself wondering exactly what she was saying to them. She speaks in a garbled blend of Setswana and English, so I asked her to translate.

She laughed for a while, yelled some more, rapped Bridget’s shaved head, and said, “Eh, I tell them that’s how African children are! They learn from the whip not from the word.” Stunned, and feeling suddenly panicky, I opened my mouth to disagree – to force forth something, anything that could possibly begin to counter such a horrible statement. However, Sisca had already begun to review the different types of clothing we wear in the winter and I clamped my jaw in silence.

Five minutes later, when chatter on the rug began again, a laughing Sisca once more translated her torrent of reprimands. “Eh, I am saying they are not like white children, they don’t listen to words. They are black children. They are African children.”

This time, I was quicker, and replied in my most respectful tone with statements like “learning and listening have nothing to do with skin color,” and “it takes a while for ALL children to learn to listen to instructions.” Sisca smiled warmly at me – making it unclear if she understood or just thought I was naïve – and continued yelling.

I can’t decide which is sadder: that these poor children are being infected with thoughts that are just as damaging to the mind as the physical disease that has ravaged this nation, or that a grown woman, a mother, an accredited, kind, smart woman truly believes that her skin color in some way makes her different or inferior. And in the end, perhaps this kind of sadness really can’t be quantified, so comparison is irrelevant. It really makes me physically ill to imagine what is happening in these children’s minds as a result of these assertions.

Today was not the first time that Sisca said something like this. Maybe a week and a half into my time at the day care, she asked me to read to the children from a book of nursery rhymes. As I recited lines from Humpty Dumpty in my most animated voice (both high and lyrical from 10 years in children’s theatre), the kids repeated my words, mimicking my tones volume (as all small children are apt to do.) After just a few moments, Sisca began to laugh hysterically and started chiding them in Setswana, informing me that she was telling them to speak like “Black people.” “They are black,” she told me, “they cannot speak like you.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake her and tell her that my voice has nothing to do with my appearances, that it has everything to do with my parents, and my nationality, and where I grew up, and the shows I was in, and my personality. I wanted to spend a year telling the kids that they were wonderful and capable and fine, and could speak however they chose. I wanted to distribute books on civil rights movements, on biology, on history.

“Hey diddle diddle,” I said.



The other disturbing event that scarred the skin of the past few days was a brief encounter I had at River Walk on Sunday. Crossing the parking lot to reach a shop, Abby and I were suddenly confronted by a disheveled looking woman, who dropped a sack at my feet and began mumbling frantically, while searching her bosom for something inside. We were frozen in surprise as she pulled out a tattered passport and began to plead. “I am from Zimbabwe,” she gasped, “I have gotten stuck here, I need to get back home, I need you to help me, please I am stuck here, please. PLEASE. You must help me…” Strangely frightened by the desperation in her voice, we both automatically began to move away, stepping backwards in awkward unison – curtly, terribly, painfully, firmly refusing to let her continue.

I don’t know what made me shut off, because a few seconds later, around the corner and out of sight, I immediately regained feelings of overwhelming pity and guilt. My head was flooded with questions of “what could I really do to help?” “does she have family there?” “why didn’t I listen?” “should I have given her money?” “will she ever get back?” “how many people have walked away before?” and I felt so heavy that I could swear they were crushing me. Just that morning I had read about Morgan Tsvangirai’s decision to drop out of the run-off election, and this only compounded my confusion. How could this woman want to go back? What is she going back to? How many people would rather be in Botswana than trapped in Zimbabwe?



A lot of the events that I consider important in the past few days have been brief in actuality but of infinite mental duration. I keep replaying the moments mentioned, and each time they flash across my mind’s eye, my list of concerns and questions grows exponentially. Mainly I wonder how the national body can possibly fight so many things at once: HIV, regional instability, and the colonial infection of self-oppression.

Never Smile at a Crocodile

(Arrifa. sweet and usually silent)

(Laone: stellar at coloring and quick as lightning. also rather mischevious. her voice sounds like sticky candy)

(Mogomotsi: the other teachers call him the "bully," but I think he has been unfairly labeled. True, he kicks and punches as much as the rest of them, but the only reason this hurts kids is because he happens to be, by far, the biggest boy at school. Often, he uses his strong arm to get everyone to follow my directions. I think he's really smart, and sweet at heart.)

(Atang: SUCH a little charmer. He speaks English really well and loves to joke around with me. He also has some killer dance moves that he whips out when the teacher's gone)

For those of you who don’t know the song from Peter Pan, I suggest a good listen before reading any farther: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVWuAyWWuAU

According to my head teacher, this week’s “lesson plan” (a chart filled with words that doesn’t exactly fit my definition of a detailed outline of structured activity) is all about Wild Animals. Last week we covered farm animals (over, and over, and over), so it only makes sense to move onto the lions and hippos and such.

Since I quickly concluded this morning that endless hours were once again going to be spent in “free play,” I hung back during breakfast assembly to make a crocodile stencil, and then spent the next two hours cutting green paper and tracing 27 crocodilian outlines. Yesterday, I was thrilled to find some brass fasteners at a store in Game City, and they came in handy today as they make excellent jaw hinges.

The kids were fascinated by my mouth-chomping sample, and they colored furiously when I gave them a variety of green crayons. The range of motor skills is kind of mind boggling, as kids like Laone and Chris methodically cover all paper territory, while Francinah (who Sisca insists needs to go to a “special” teacher) scribbles chaotically without regard to lined boundaries.

Overall, I was really pleased to see them take such pride in their work, and they were much more focused and calm than usual. Perhaps because these kids really don’t have any personal possessions (aside from the clothes on their backs), they seem especially delighted by their own hand made novelties.

I couldn’t finish cutting everything out by the time they left for home, but I plan on returning Monday with the completed masterpieces. Crocodiles at the ready, we’ll learn the afore-mentioned song and most likely smile, despite the warning.



I am relieved that the day turned out so well, considering that it followed a slightly horrific night. I drifted off, exhausted, at around 10 pm, only to awake, panic-stricken and sweating around 2:30 am. I had been tossing and turning over a terrifying nightmare that can only be described as a twisted fusion of all the thoughts, articles, conversations, and news that has been running around in my head this past week. Mugabe, scenes from “El Orphanato” and my neighborhood at home were involved – a dark combination. Breathing deeply and trying to re-orient myself in the dark, I slowly realized that something was thrumming loudly next to my bed. I panicked all over again. The cricket had returned.

About ¾ of an inch long, the resident cricket is louder than my alarm clock and does not have a snooze button. While his kind might chorus sweetly on a summer’s night, they are the most absurdly disturbing things to have in your bedroom. Gathering courage (I was afraid to lift my back off the bed – you know, in case some monster crept up behind me) I stumbled through the dark and threw on the light switch, causing dozens of baby cockroaches to promptly scatter into corners. I then frantically began rummaging around my bed and through my closet, searching for the little bugger. I located it in the crack between the wall and my door, and captured it in a Tupperware container. As men were shouting outside my room and I was too paranoid to open a window, I slid a piece of paper under the Tupperware and taped the entire package shut, scribbling “CAUTION: Cricket Inside” and locking it out in the common room. While the cricket still chirped the whole night long, at least its prison walls muted the noise. This morning, between breakfast and teeth-brushing, I set the rabble-rouser free outside.


A variety of thoughts that have been accumulating in my brain:

A Most Unusual Thing: There is a very very small child in my class, named Bofelo. For a full two weeks I was under the impression that she was a boy (due to her shaved head, blue jump suit, and unisex name) but was informed recently that she is not. Aside from being wild, obstinate, and slightly sneaky, Bofelo didn’t seem too different from the rest of the crowd. It wasn’t until yesterday, when she lifted up her three layers of shirts, that I noticed anything strange. You see, protruding from Bofelo’s tiny stomach is what appears to be a rather long remnant of her umbilical cord. It is maybe two or three inches in length, and curves downwards. Perhaps this is not as rare as it seems to me (I’ve only ever seen innys and outies) but regardless, I was taken aback.

“They don’t all know.”: Just before lunch time, as the kids amassed outside around a blue tub of hand washing water, I sat in the classroom cutting out crocodiles. Snipping away at claws and tails, I was interrupted by the entrance of Mogomotsi (pictured above) who was pretending to hit his face, and who kept repeating what sounded like “BEATING!” Since the kids are always hitting each other, I didn’t pay much attention at first. However, after about 30 seconds, I realized that he was saying “BLEEDING” and I dashed outside. Standing with his head tipped back, amidst a pile of blood stained tissues, was gentle Karabo. Standing next to him, patting at his dripping nose, was Teacher Perpetua, who to my horror wore no gloves and was absent mindedly swatting at the crowding children with her stained hands.

I swooped down amongst the kids and shooed them away, and Sisca began to yell at Perpetua about keeping her hands clean. My panic was only exacerbated by Perpetua’s blank look and continued blood blotting, using the same unwashed hands to pick up the kids’ washing/drinking mug and slosh some dirty water over her fingers. She then put on a glove (what was the point now?) and threw the dirty tissues into the cardboard trash box – something the kids routinely rummage through. Almost ready to scream, I ran back into the classroom and grabbed an old Ziploc from my purse, insisting that Perpetua place them in the bag instead. I then brought the potentially bio-hazardous material into Sister Margaret’s office (she, thankfully, was appropriately alarmed) and she had me flush it down the toilet.

As I scrubbed my hands with soap, I asked the Sister if all of the teachers knew about first aid care and how to prevent transmission of HIV. “Eh, no” she said, “they don't all know.”

Abby and I had already been planning to put together first aid kits [a task she’s been stellar at fundraising for] and after this mess today, I requested that Sister Margaret allow us to give a first aid workshop for the teachers. I am so shaken up by what happened because some of these grown women – responsible for the health of children who are not being cared for to the full extent otherwise - don’t seem to be taking the appropriate measures to protect themselves OR the children. Especially because the day care is not certain about the status of all of the kids, I think it essential that everyone treat cuts and bloody noses with the utmost precaution.

The Do: A strange fact of appearances here is that the hair on everyone’s heads is usually not their own. Weaves, braids, curls, etc. are beautifully styled in a million and one different ways (really, it’s hard describe the intricacy of some of these top of head creations), and swapped out every few weeks when things get messy or someone gets bored. This high frequency of drastic change can be confusing for me in the classroom, as when Sylvia’s long braids morphed overnight into tiny one-inch knots, or when mini-fro-ed Sethunya (a girl) suddenly had a close army shave. For those who don’t add anything to their hair, the usual styling is a unisex short or shorter.

Each morning on our combie ride to work, we pass countless “hair salons” – shacks propped up on the side of the road – outside of which one can sometimes observe ladies in plastic lawn chairs with their braids in a medusa-like, work-in-progress state. We also pass a large factory that advertises its wears as “braids and curls,” and it makes me giggle to think of the nation’s hair just boxed up inside. Recently, as a result of all this fascinated observation, I have felt my fingers twitching and itching to braid, and I have started spending my afternoons unearthing my forgotten, girl-hood skills. So far I’ve re-mastered the French and the Standard, but it will take a lot of time and practice for me to get anywhere near the art of what I see daily.

On the Duo: Considering that we spend just about 24/7 together, and that we are both white, female, 20-something, and American, I guess it is not totally unreasonable for people to assume that Abby and I are “sisters” (disregarding, of course, all of our respective distinguishing features.) However, it is the other assumptions that have started to become frustrating.

Each day, Abby and I must take a total of four separate combies in order to get to work. We pay separately on each one (since we are different people and have different purses). However, more often than not, when I hand the driver my fare he will look at me expectantly, or make some odd remark suggesting that I pay for Abby or that she pay for me. This may sound trivial, but it gets to be annoying when it happens four times a day. Why must everyone assume that we function TOTALLY together? Abby and I have discussed this phenomenon (which extends beyond the combies) at length, and it has prompted a lot of thoughts on categorization and assumptions.

To begin with: the female thing. This is not America, or at least not the liberal, feminism empowered East Coast America that I have been lucky enough to know. There are moments here that border on chauvinistic, and we recently had an educated Motswana law student tell us that poor women shouldn’t get handouts because they are genetically inferior and that is their fault. The language of many local news stories on convicted rapists and wife abusers tends to sympathize with the man, and even personal ads seem oddly vulgar and sexist. Is our status as females the main determinant of the way people behave towards us?

Next: the minority. It is strange to title with this word, because what I experience as a white/Caucasian here is not what I have ever before associated with the “minority” category. In America, I feel like the term “minority” is usually attached to ideas such as “disadvantaged” or “discriminated” (broad generalization). Here, the “white minority” seems to come with a completely flipped series of associations. I find that people assume because of my skin (and possible other factors of course, such as my American accent) that I have a lot of money to throw around. Adults are constantly trying to sell me things, and children often ask for pula, and I wish I knew exactly why. Do the proposition rich Motswana in the same way? and if they don’t, does it have anything to do with my skin color? Is it JUST that I’m a foreigner with nice clothes? I don’t really know how or why, but I came her hoping that race wouldn’t be any sort of “issue.” Is it really not, or does it play into daily circumstances? How can it not? I feel my mind throwing brakes on writing any more – it is hard to sort out these thoughts and feelings while being extremely sensitive to sensitivities and PC territory. It is difficult to question when the questions feel kind of taboo.

Finally: Americans. Okay, so our reputation probably precedes us, although I don’t know how I’m possibly supposed to figure out what that is. Our country is so enormous and it exports so many tourists, I’m afraid to think of the impressions they have left behind. What am I expected to be?

Of course, these three factors are the most cliché and obvious, and there are other things to consider as well. However, they are the three that most frequently buzz questions in my head and its good to discharge some of the mental discourse.

The Stadium at Dusk: indescribably beautiful. As the sun sets behind the trees, a huge range of runners, walkers, stair climbers, and onlookers congregate to enjoy some exercise. The variety of people is really incredible, as I often see Botswana’s top national runners lapping small boys in bare feet – both pounding the track with equal determination. Aside from the usual catcalls and friendly taunts, the atmosphere is really pleasant, and everyone tends to encourage each other in their panting efforts. It is also really remarkable to watch the top athletes do their thing – I have rarely ever seen bodies so perfectly fast, tuned, and controlled, and it makes me want to pick up figure drawing again.

To seal this package: Abby just screamed “CAT!” and we all burst out of our bedrooms to see the feline break-in. Luckily, it jumped out the window again.

hey wena

(please note the blue clad boy in the back. his debut is stunning.)

some observations:

1) Man 0, Nature 738. No matter how many summer dresses I buy, it will still be winter. The mornings and evenings refuse to compromise, and despite my most optimistic and hopeful sentiments, it just keeps getting colder. Abby and I now ritualistically don the following layers: t-shirts, long-sleeve shirts, sweat-shirts, light jackets, scarves, gloves, and the occasional hat. They are shed at noon when the sun is high, and appear again with the advent of dusk.

2) If kids behave one day, they most certainly will not behave the next.

3) With an opulent amount of afternoon free time, one may do such productive things as braid one’s hair, grocery shop, or wait for the next day. With the nature of transportation and security as such, (it really isn’t good for me to wander the city alone) I find myself in a sort of accidental prison bubble, the boundaries of which are Kamogelo and UB. Even the sloth in me has officially tired of these easy confines, but I’m still working on ways to break out. Perhaps my mental explorations will just have to increase.

4) I AM studying English. While waiting in the short but endless line at the UB Post Office, I chatted a bit with a graduate student from the DRC. We went over the basics of where I’m from, where we’re staying, etc, and at last alighted upon the kicker that gets them every time: “What are you studying?”

I have begun to answer in a bit of a clown-like fashion, lifting my hands in mock hilarity and stretching my face to emphasize my “I know, isn’t it crazy?” tone. “English!” I guffaw, accurately anticipating the inevitable disbelief. Today, Joseph laughed like the rest and exclaimed “Why would you leave the states to study that here? I speak French, and can understand studying English, but you – it makes no sense!”

It was at this moment that something finally clicked. The truth is, I AM studying English. Really, I promise. It’s just that I’m not studying it in any way I expected. Rather than dissecting the foundations, I find myself looking at the by-products. The English I’m dealing with is messy and strange (to my ear) and is making me think much more about the classics and grammar and structure than Shakespeare ever did. Maybe things will change come Fall term, but for now, I’m getting my hands dirty.

5) One must empty a laundry bag in order for it to be effective. Having left my newly laundered garments inside the “laundry satchel,” I suddenly find that my floor has developed a strangely soft and lumpy texture.

6) The super markets are most likely always out of paper towels. Toilet paper is not a good substitute. (To wash vegetables with said roll is to ask for strange associations).

7) The little white man does not mean “go.” Although he appears frequently on the traffic lights, neither he nor his red counterpart seems capable of doing his job. It is strange when one-purpose machines are non-functional. Dear traffic light, we are not asking you to go above and beyond the call of duty. There is no undue pressure. You don’t need to be different. Please, just let me cross?

8) The environment of a communal kitchen can turn sour quicker than the milk in the fridge. It will most likely always be due to issues of pots, pans, and shelving.

9) A blanket is an entirely acceptable skirt. Cotton, Felt, Terry-cloth, or Fleece, if it is large enough to wrap around your hips (which may be very large if you live here), you are encouraged to do so. It can also be used to secure a baby to your back, because that is where a baby is most likely to be.

TH – SH – CH

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, up talkers and sentence trailers of all shapes and sizes. I am here today to perform an incredible magic trick that requires some audience participation. Now, please sit back, relax, and do your best to follow along.

To begin, press your tongue against the bottom ridges of your upper front teeth, making sure that the tip of your most magnificent mouth muscle is extended slightly beyond your pearly whites. [a pause: I understand that this may sound crazy, but please don’t question my instructions until the act is over.] Holding your tongue and teeth as such, I now ask that you exhale forcefully.

DID YOU SEE THAT? no? good. there is nothing to see. BUT, did you hear that? That delightful whooshing noise? That magnanimous TH-? To that muffled beauty we owe our THanks, our THoughts, our THeses, and our THursdays. Our birTHs, our deaTHs and our breaTHs. Without TH-, English would be lost and ugly (lacking paTHs and aesTHetics) and I fear that all BeTHs and THeodores would be nameless children.

Now now, please hold your applause until the end of the show. I still have SH- and CH- to demonstrate…


Teaching English to impressionable tots has turned out, strangely, to be something like a magic act. It requires the same deft hand, casual coercion of captivation, and impressive finales. Let me elaborate.

Starting Friday, I was given free reign to review the alphabet with my class of 5 year olds. I began by singing the ABC’s with them – a skill they mastered long ago - and then moved on to examine each letter individually. As I “B-buh”ed and “K-kuh”ed, I discovered that the five year olds of Kamogelo have never before been prompted to connect the letters and their associated sounds, and that they seemed transfixed by my strange noises. I also realized (based on the dropped jaws and slightly awe-struck glances) that the two permanent teachers I work with had never done this either.

Taking a moment to recover from a moment of paralyzing shock, I began the lesson again. Out of the 35 kids in my class, there are only one or two who can sit at attention for more than a minute, and that’s usually because these select few are too nervous or shy to speak anyways. This time, things were different. As I moved slowly through those glorious 26, casting the English spell, their eyes gleamed but their fingers remained un-fidgeting. Even with the troublesome G (here, it sounds like H) all gave a valiant effort.

The rush from this long-awaited moment of connection and comprehension had me floating on air. I think I got a little over-excited, as I began to launch into TH-, SH-, and CH-, and even encouraged them to sound out the words CAT and DOG, but I had too much momentum to stop abruptly. However, Sisca did not, and after about a half hour of instruction she told me to save it for the next week.

It is hard to pinpoint the precise origin of my elation, but I think I can list a few contributing factors.

1) I adore English l. It makes me giddy. A good sentence is like a ripe piece of fruit. Language is the trees, words are the leaves, life is the breeze. You understand.

2) Finding myself in an English speaking nation that doesn’t really seem to speak English, I cannot help but grimace over the jumbled mess of grammar that I find discarded in daily conversation. The way it has been explained to me is that Setswana is usually learned at home, and English is learned in schools as a semi-second language. Consequently, I sometimes find English here to be completely unrecognizable: the fractured fusion of English/Setswana sentence structures and the thick accent of rolling R’s leaves me feeling deaf. There have been instances when it takes me a full minute to realize that someone is speaking to me in English. To teach my beloved letters is to feel like I have some friendly influence over the tongue of this nation (in a non-colonial sense of course. the questions of “what right do I have to impose my pronunciations” and “who made me the end-all expert” and “why is American English any more correct than Botswana English” and “hey don’t I make mistakes too” pop up of course, but that is a matter for another meditation).

3) They finally listened. I had been feeling rather dejected over my continuing status as the Charlie Brown teacher (you know, “WAH WAH WAH” ) and praying for some of Aretha’s Respect. The few moments of silence that the children bestowed upon me were just enough to get me re-energized.

4) I have been reflecting a lot on Language and Communication since I arrived in Gaborone. Between my difficulties with public transactions, our trip to the open mic night, my sudden abundance of time to write and blog, and the various books, articles, signs, and faces I’ve been reading, I must say that I have come to a definite conclusion: I cannot imagine a completely illiterate life.

It is strange for my ears to be experiencing simultaneously sensations of both the greatest understanding and the most base incomprehension. When I’m on the playground with the kids, I can’t understand a word they’re saying and often feel frustrated and lost. Conversely, when Abby and I are holding a conversation and one of the other teachers joins in, I find that I have to slow and simplify my speech in order to make myself understood. Every few minutes I feel my brain flip from a position of embarrassed vulnerability to one of confident control, and back again.

So much of what I know about the world and myself has been developed through countless hours spent decoding, molding, and marveling over words and the puzzles they compose. I truly believe that one of the greatest gifts I ever received was alphabet instruction and books to read, and it fills me with a special sort of satisfaction to now be in a position to return the favor.

...

Ladies and Gentlemen, at the end of the day, I cannot perform the great feat of pulling rabbits out of my hat, or making a woman disappear. However, I believe that the one trick I have up my sleeve is certainly as magical.



A few notes on the weekend:

Friday: As expected, things quickly cheered up. Abby, Becca, Jen and I started the night early with dinner at Primi (our apartment gets hit by blackouts at six on Fridays, so it was kind of necessary.) Following pasta and outrageous storytelling [thanks, ACE] we sampled drinks at Linga Longa and ran into the UB IT guy and a clerk from the tech store (I am being completely serious when I tell you that meeting someone once, at random, is perfect grounds for friendship here.) We then grabbed Rajiv and Pratik (they were dining with a local group of Indian girls – more on that community later) and headed over to Bull and Bush.


Bull and Bush was…wild. We had heard that Friday nights were “groovy,” and expected a big turn out. However, we were not quite prepared for the thumping music and intensely friendly advances. Abby was in full out warrior mode and more than once rescued Jen, Becca, and I from unwanted arms. Despite the fact that someone stole 300 Pula from deep in my pocket (please don’t ask how, I have no idea) and that Abby started crying/laughing/crying over our string of bad luck, we had a splendid time.


The final stop of the night was Lizard Lounge – an insane venture considering that I had absolutely no money. In the greatest caper of my life (assisted financially by a kind fellow named Dan, and with encouragement from our cab driver Max) I pleaded a tipsy “ROBBERY” and weaseled my way into the club. There, I promptly began hiccupping, grabbed a couch, and called it a night. Abby, on the other hand, continued to dance the circle dance using moves the kids had taught us [I present to you, my heroine.]

Saturday: Cotton-mouth and re-hydration.

Sunday - I didn’t know he was looking at me. As I pet the black spotted fur, rough in a way but surprisingly soft, I concentrated on the low rumble of his purr and the rise and fall of his chest and it was only when I glanced to the left that I caught his huge, orange, luminous, gaze and felt something close to awe and closer to fear.

Our eyes remained locked for a few seconds, and it was I who broke the connection and stepped skittishly back. I don’t know exactly what I felt in that moment, or why my heart picked up pace and my breathing became quicker. Duma and Latotse (the Swahili and Setswana words for “cheetah”) have been raised from infancy in captivity and have felt countless hands upon their heads before mine came along. However, despite their credentials of “tame” and “playful,” I found myself instinctually intimidated by their musculature and confidence.



The two cheetahs, along with a pair of elephants, some warthogs, the casual springbok, two ostriches, two hyenas, and a large antelope with twisted horns were the extent of our sightings at Mokolodi Nature Reserve. Located just fifteen minutes outside of Gabs proper (beyond the dam and bulging slums), Mokolodi seems a small space for such a variety of wildlife. With a tour and petting time, we covered its grounds and were satisfied to finally see some “African animals.” [Our first game drive had been far less successful]


jumbled and fumbled, this post concludes.

(bah) humbug

Caveat Lector: I am highly disgruntled and mood rumpled. The following notes on the past 24 hours are not ones I’d prefer to be writing, but they’re a solid record of events. Hopefully by tomorrow I will have regained a cheery disposition and will be able to resume with observations of more satisfying substance.

Ahem.

I took off work today to journey to Immigration with Dr. “No-Nonsense” Oagile, to whom I am very grateful for her assistance as both interpreter and chauffer. I was also particularly tickled when, halfway to the office, she popped a Spice Girls disc into the cd player, and proceeded to sing along to “2 become 1.” At Immigration, the government officials – much like those everywhere – surveyed me with lazy eyes, handed over paperwork, and told me to come back next week.

There is nothing particularly unusual about most of the Student Visa requirements – admission letters, passport copies, etc. However, one document blew me away. The “Medical Report” that students must have a doctor complete was apparently written long before independence, and despite the efforts of Motswana doctors, the government still hasn’t gotten around to revising it. The paper reads as follows:

Republic of Botswana
IMMIGRATION ACT
(CAP. 25:02)

MEDICAL REPORT
(section 4(7) (e) and regulation (4))

I HEREBY CERTIFY THAT ON ___________________ at ______________ I examined ________________ and found him/her to be –
(1) not suffering from any of the disabilities referred to in Note 1: ____________
(2) not physically defective except (see Note 2): _______________
(3) not suffering from favus, framboesia, or yaws, leprosy, scabies, syphilis, trachoma, tuberculosis, or any other disease prescribed in terms of section 7 (c) of the Immigration Act.

Signature of Medical Practitioner __________________
Qualifications ________________
Address ______________________

Note 1: The disabilities referred to in paragraph (1) are:
(a) being an idiot;
(b) being an imbecile;
(c) being a feeble-minded person;
(d) begin an epileptic;
(e) having had a previous attack of insanity;
(f) suffering from constitutional psychopathic inferiority;
(g) suffering from chronic alcoholism.
Note 2: Any physical defects should be stated with an indication of their nature and extent.


“Physical defects?” “Being and idiot, an imbecile, feeble-minded?” “Being an epileptic?” The doctor at UB’s clinic was appalled that these forms were still being distributed, and my astonishment and concern is just as great. I have been told before that psychological services and treatment of mental disorders here are not quite up to “Western” standards (according to a UB student, there is one rehab clinic for the whole nation) but I simply can’t believe that this kind of language is still being used.

Of other concern are our latest problems with security, maintenance, and IT. Since I don’t know how to accurately assemble my frustrations on page, I will just throw it all out there:

Yesterday afternoon, Abby received a call from the UB Security office, asking her to return to the building to identify her stolen bag and camera. Off she went. These are the text messages I subsequently received from her –
Abby (16:15) – Got my bag and camera and the laptop is here too!
Abby (16:18) – Mildly awkward since I am sitting next to the guy [the robber] and he apologized. Ha
Abby (16:22) – said I don’t want to press charges but we have to see about Neo. Going to police soon
Abby (16:30) – The robber just asked me my room number to write in his statement. Ha! He is now helping the police give directions

These oddities were not the only ones of the ordeal’s conclusion. According to Abby, Neo’s laptop was returned, but all information had been erased. Additionally, within 24 hours of its disappearance, it had be resold TWICE. The thief is apparently a repeat offender and the police seemed to know him well. Yet, he was nevertheless allowed to spend the entire ride to the police station begging Neo not to press charges, and telling her about his family and financial problems.

Although one matter was put to rest yesterday, two more cropped up. I finally made a call to UB’s IT department, in a last ditch attempt to get skype working in my room. However, instead of helping me fix things, they informed me that Skype is “illegal” at UB and that all of our unknowingly unacceptable access would be immediately blocked. I pleaded with them to forget I said anything (really, I was on the verge of tears), but they said it was out of their control.

This morning, Dr. Oagile called the head of the department to argue our case, and what she was told is even more frustrating. It is neither a problem with bandwidth nor the facilities’ ability to access the program. Instead, it is that UB signed a contract with the local/national telephone service provider that stipulates that UB will ban all alternative avenues for similar communication. How are ANY international students supposed to contact family and friends without paying a fortune in phone bills? And yes, there are internet cafes in the area, but they close far too early (around 22:00) to make communication possible with anyone holding day jobs in the states (we’re six hours ahead).

The cherry on top has been our continuing sink issues (which should theoretically be gone since they just installed a new one). While Becca was filling a pot with water, the faucet shot off and scalding liquid exploded everywhere. The same thing happened two more times in the past few hours, and I have had to call maintenance, again, to get help. What is the official explanation for this absurd number of insanely simple problems? Nothing. Just that the people UB contracts apparently don’t know how to do their job.

Last evening, Abby and I attempted to drown this bitter taste in some fruity drink concoctions, but the attempt was only partially successful. We met two other American students at Linga Longa to watch the soccer game, and things were pretty pleasant. However, on the cab ride back, another cab attempted to pass ours and ran over a beautiful white dog in the process. We watched in horror as the dog attempted to get up, and was hit again by a car coming in the opposite direction. When our cab pulled up to the hit-and-run’s at a red light. the driver yelled and asked him why he didn’t stop. “Eh, I tried, “ he responsed, smiling broadly, “but it is dead.” His grin was brighter than his headlights and I thought I was going to be sick.

How to conclude such a sour soliloquy? I’m off to do laundry, so hopefully the suds and the impending weekend will wash away this mood.


Additional Edit: to snap things into perspective, I know life is good. really, I do. I am grateful for the luxuries I have known and the fact that I have people I love and want so desperately to contact (the root of my skype frustrations). There are much more terrible things going on (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/7452326.stm). However, I must allow myself the liberty of giving into my more petty frustrations every now and then, no matter the trailing guilt.

The Case of the Painted Portals

Approaching our dorm this early afternoon, I casually noted that all of the windows were wide open. Then, that the front door was open. Then, that every single one of our once-locked bedroom doors stood ajar. Abby and I gaped in horror, our nostrils filling with the thick smell of fresh paint, as we frantically began checking our closets and bags for passports, laptops, and credit cards.

Thankfully, all but Abby’s back pack and camera appeared to be in place, and we slumped into our metal chairs, breathing thoughts of “this could have been terrible.” Thanks to our Sherlock Holmes-ian detective skills, we quickly deduced the likely unfolding of events: painters came unannounced, painted our doors, and left without closing them. Either the color-sloshing men themselves or a thief on the prowl, nabbed the strangely inexpensive items, leaving the much more coveted technology and identification materials behind.

As I munched crackers, Abby called our friend Security who came to take a look around. After sagely surveying the tidy, un-looted space, he pronounced that it was necessary for us to file a complaint at the office, Block 104, and perhaps to take matters to the police. Abby, in the steam of her hard-boiling eggs, sighed the sigh of this-will-take-a-while, and we agreed to make the trip.

Twenty minutes later we were standing within the manila-colored walls of UB’s Security “building,” face to face with the paint spattered men we were accusing of negligence. Abby sat down next to a man in a fume mask and began to write her personal account of events, while I stood fidgeting, surveying the situation and taking mental note of the awkward proximity between the suspicious and the suspect.

The deposition process took about an hour (thank you, Rushdie, for the invaluable company) and was followed by a circuitous argument over what should be done next. The painter’s manager had arrived (slow blinking and slow thinking? not to be cutty but this was ridiculous) and while he admitted responsibility every now and then, he mostly held the hard line of incomprehension. The four Security officials standing around us all needed to have their say, and we spent considerable time making it clear that since our three other roommates were still at work, we could not be sure what of theirs was missing. The Security officials presented the paint manager the options of offering compensation or surrendering his employees for detention, and that only added to our discomfort. Finally, with much patient-voiced prompting on my and Abby’s part, we agreed to reconvene at 5:30, with all residents of our suite present, to make a final assessment.

Shortly after returning from the first round of security arguments, our ears were greeted by the sound of clanking keys, and the turning of a sticky lock. Into the suite bustled a small woman in headscarf (the keeper of the keys) and the rotund head of contracted maintenance. “We have to paint your front door!” he said, as if nothing in the past two hours had transpired. The painter behind him (the same one sitting next to Abby in security, writing his statement) began to complain that the door had been closed earlier and the paint disturbed, and that it had to be redone.

“How long will the drying door have to remain open?” Abby queried. The perpetually smiling, sometimes conniving manager consulted his hands. “24 hours.”
This is when Abby and I donned our sternest teacher faces and exclaimed in near unison, “UNACCEPTABLE.” The next ten minutes were spent explaining why it was not okay to leave our front door open overnight. The woman in charge of all the keys could not seem to communicate in either Setswana or English, as she confused everything with vacillating support – enthusiastically in favor of our security concerns one moment, and aggressively advocating painting the next.

Finally, a large can of light-bulb-yellow paint seemed explode above the painter’s head, as he proclaimed that the door could be painted tomorrow morning. We nodded frustrated acquiescence and they all filed away once again. The master key to all dorms remained, unnoticed, dangling in our front lock. “Mma,” we called to the woman who stood, translucently, between us and theft/rape/disaster/etc. Spotting the forgotten keys she laughed, retrieved them, and walked back into the dusk.

Jen, Becca, and I have just now returned from the second round of talks, and Abby and Neo are off to the police station to make their claims. Neo’s laptop was stolen (a discovery that sent WHAT IF panic through my entire body) but nothing else.

Again, I find myself both frustrated and dazzled by the stunningly slow pace of procedures here, and the strange methods of communication (or lack there of). There are moments when I feel like no one is speaking the same language, and yet even in the midst of a mini crisis like this, everyone remains lighthearted and willing to engage in communal negotiation (however inappropriate that might seem.) Mainly, I am really disconcerted by the unreliable nature of Security here, and feel like my privacy has been greatly violated (if we have to fear even our locked rooms being opened, where can we keep passports?)


Regarding the other painters of the day, the kids in my class dabbed blotches of blue, green, and red onto the “Caring for Our Bodies” worksheet I drew them. Toothpaste, Soap, a Toothbrush, a Washcloth, and a Faucet have never looked so vibrantly amorphous. Time passed much more quickly when everyone was engaged in activity, and it was the first day that I really felt like I was really contributing to the structure of the class (I’m usually just a swing pusher and tear wiper).

The kids have also been responding a lot better to me since I’ve memorized most of their names and am starting to note their quirks and preferences. I also experimented with a Time Out Chair today, when the kids started flipping their eyelids. Apparently a novel innovation (a smack is the standard punishment), Time Out had a pleasantly sobering affect on the wee instigator. After five minutes of silent wall staring, I looked her in the eye and pantomimed the bad behavior, shaking my head and forcing a stern expression. She nodded with grim face and returned to the rug a changed girl.

What else is there to say? My day has shifted between small and big troubles, and on this creaky swingset of life, the back and forth is unavoidable. Regardless, I am resolved to enjoy the pleasant, high-flying breeze it creates.

KHWEST - open mic night

Small, shirt tucked tightly into pants, trim figure with arms spread wide. His hands enveloped me as he kissed my forehead. “Mma,” he beamed, stretching his words like hot putty, “Mma, THIS is the Republic of Botswana.” His cheeks swelled and shifted up his face, the sun transplanted onto a drunk man’s pate. “Mma, you are always welcome here.”

I’m jittering with the rush of performance, the sound of the crowd, the wrinkle in time that somehow, in one evening closed the gap between there and here and that night and this night and fused the humanity that we try to separate into categories of race and nation, gender and religious persuasion, first and third, up and down.

I was shaking with the same adrenaline, feet tapping to the same urge of expression, the spark that opens mouths and moves tongues and spins threads of hope and doubt. There were MC’s and poetry, crude jokes and colloquy, things as they are and could and ought to be.

For just these hours I was anywhere, but most especially here. More firmly planted in this dry soil than ever before, dropping spores, sinking roots into the café floor. What I read was nothing much, nothing touched, just some jotted notes of self-expression. But it felt so good to present myself, to hear my name escape the speakers and fall on new ears, to push back fears, and to rip through a few lines of past time – slowly inching forward into the Now.

He spoke of a father’s neglect, She, of man’s disrespect: “Don’t FUCK with me.” A man calling himself DJ clown told us that he learned from cockroaches to stay in the kitchen and out of the bedroom. The comparison between Mugabe’s mustache and Adolph’s famous face drew gasps from the lungs around me, and when the young man with the striped shirt spoke of his girlfriend dying from AIDS, his positive test results, his last time on stage, we could only watch wide-eyed, wide-eared, with wide-fears. They were more than words and more than spoken and however honed the speaker’s skills in chiseling verse, it was expression in the raw.

I am so grateful for this night that it’s catching in my throat, and no matter the embarrassing intensity of a rhetorical lisp, I can’t help but breathe this wisp: what’s life without poetry?

the presence and absence of lions

It was a bizarre convoy of strangely-engineered trucks that rolled into UB at 7:30 on Saturday morning. When we were told to pack our bags for our Kalahari camping trip, I had envisioned a few tents under the stars, some pap in a pot, and perhaps a jeep for transportation. However, greeted with a veritable army of camp tour guides and trunks full of equipment, I soon realized that we were in for something of an altogether grander nature.

Abby, Jen, Becca, Julio, Lorato and I (more on these dear individuals later) all piled into a rugged jeep looking thing, and introduced ourselves to Joe, the driver and guide. Slightly hulking, Joe nonetheless had the smoothest smile I’ve ever seen, and we all quickly grew attached to him. Although he was born in South Africa, he refused to identify as Zulu or with any other group, and would only tell Lorato that he was Motswana. Christening ourselves “Team Joe,” we set off on the five hour drive to the Khutse game reserve.

Only about twenty minutes outside of Gaborone, the scenery changed drastically. The same flat, dry, shrub spotted land began to appear in larger and larger uninterrupted stretches, until we were driving for miles (or kilometers) without a soul in sight. The temperature – frigid in the morning – rose with the sun until we were all shedding layers in the heat, catching a thick, dust filled breeze in the open car. Often, along the one-lane highway, we would pass groups of children who would scream greetings, or herds of un-attended cows. There were more than a few occasions when I scrunched my eyes shut, waiting for the thwack of a bovine body against our car.

Although most of the time was spent in chatter or silent road-gazing, Joe occasionally pointed out the communities of traditional Tswana homes that dotted the landscape. With floors covered in cow dung, and roofs of dense thatch, the circular mud homesteads are still being built and maintained by modern Batswana. Usually surrounded by a plot of dust and a stick fence, the houses seem tidy and well organized. The simple structures and open planning stand in sharp contrast to the dirty jumble of cement and brick that is Gaborone, and the difference makes me wonder what has been lost in the development of the city.


After a few gas station breaks and many hours, we finally pulled through the gates of the Khutse game reserve. I’m not sure how the conversation got started, but Joe began to explain that the government of Botswana had been in some hot water recently for relocating the San (Bushmen) outside of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve (CKGR). According to him, the government had painted this move as an effort to help the San benefit from modern amenities and national services such as education. However, soon after the relocation, it was apparently revealed that the government intended to mine for diamonds in the newly vacated territory, and the issue went to court.

Another hour of driving through the game reserve, gleefully spotting groups of ostriches and gazelle along the way, we came upon a clearing known as “camp.” The trucks corralled in a circle and we all pitched tents and unfurled sleeping bags. For being out in the desert, things were incredibly cushy, and we lunched on china plates with tablecloths and tea.



The last drive of the day took us to sunset – an event better seen than written or read about. As we scanned the horizon for lions and the like, the brilliant rays of gold, pink, purple and red lit up the previously bland land. I had been prepared for this in a sense, as I’ve seen pictures of Kalahari evening before. However, what shocked me completely, was just how uninterrupted the skyline was – with land so flat and no structures in sight, the colors exploded in all directions and the earth seemed a perfect, sublime circle. Spinning around in the tall grass, we were all a little shutter happy and giddy with the sight.


With the sun’s rapid descent, the air once again grew cold and unwelcoming, and we all sped back to camp. We dined on steak and potatoes (a little too fancy for me) around the campfire, and sipped an assortment of intoxicating concoctions. Because I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, let me explain the altitude situation here. Whereas Philadelphia sits a squat, 40 ft. above sea level, Gaborone is 3,330 ft. up there, and boy does it affect the drinking. However it began, our lively conversations began to meld into one strange discussion of race issues in the United States and in Botswana. I can’t say that any of it made much sense, or that any conclusions were reached, but I was glad that the topic finally came up. I have yet to use this space to detail my thoughts on the subject, but they’ve been brewing for a while. My experiences here as a white, American, female (amongst other identifiers), have been thought-provoking.

I fell asleep listening to the beat of Thabo’s djembe, and strained vocals, and only awoke once in the night to make a quick dash for the bathroom. Quaking with the cold and for fear of lions (they’ve entered camp before), I peed faster than I ever thought possible and dashed back across the sand, stumbling in the holes of ground squirrels and collapsing into the tent.

The AM was slightly miserable – water had frozen overnight – and I dozed through most of the morning drive, missing a few ostriches. We made small talk as we packed up camp, and got a late start back on the road. The trip home was a bit of a mess – Team Joe’s car broke down on a deserted desert road, and we all had to crunch into the remaining vehicles and leave Joe to wait for help. I huddled in an open air car for the first stretch of the trip, but numb with cold, scrunched into the trunk of a land rover for the second. Looking out the back window, into the pitch black of the electricity barren night, I caught snatches of radio House music and English/Setswana conversation. Every now and then, a car would pass us in the opposite direction, its headlights illuminating the space around us. In these moments I would catch glimpses of thin figures strolling along the roadside, or the large eyes of resting cows. Wild ponies, goats, and dogs also populated the inky blackness. Nine hours later, and sick with the fumes from leaking gasoline, we found ourselves back in the comfort of our cockroach infested dorm. With a shower and a soft pillow behind me, I was happy to shut my eyes.

The Speed Queen

Yesterday was a teacher’s day, and thus Abby and I had a free 24 hours on our hands to enjoy as we pleased. After some grocery shopping, we decided to haul our rapidly expanding laundry bags to the fabled laundry room. In the heat of the two o’clock sun (14:00 here,) we wobbled across caked dirt, past valiantly struggling bushes, and towards UB block 475. Along the way, we stopped to ask one of the many resting groundskeepers to point us towards our destination. Kindly, she offered to lead us there, and began an elaborate and elongated process of standing up, dusting off, and inching forwards in a two-step shuffling manner. I mention this small event with its snail pace not because it was unusual, but because it is the norm. “There’s no hurry in Botswana” is not just a lackadaisical catch-phrase, it’s life.

After five minutes of our strange processional (two load-laden women trailing an intently casual Mma,) we arrived at the industrial washing zone. Surrounded by abandoned cars and wire fencing, the laundry area appears a strange place to get clean. We were greeted by a number of stern faced women who informed us that the laundry closed at 4:15 and that we were too late to do our wash. Abby and I checked the clock – it was 2:10.

With some sweet talking and promise of hurry (a suggestion greeted by skeptical eyebrow raises), we entered the building. What I didn’t understand is that my speed is not determined by how much I want to hurry, or try to hurry. Instead, it is the whim of stubborn Time that dictates my pace. Let me illustrate:

As we began to fill the gaping mouths of the metallic washers, we were approached by a large woman, layered in multiple colors of cloth. Introducing herself as “Flora,” she informed us that it was she who must “ready” the coin-fed machines, and that we were not allowed to insert tokens ourselves. This was a laborious process, as she moved like mud and had to test each machine to see if it worked.


Despite the fact that nearly half an hour had already passed, Abby and I settled in to read, assuming that the worst of the delays was behind us. How wrong. The washing machines are all stamped with the ill-deserved appellation of “Speed Queen,” and good lord she should be dethroned. The dryers stopped tumbling three times in a row, and each malfunction required another inspection from the rainbow mountain woman. Although Flora spoke English perfectly well, she did not seem to understand it when it came out of my mouth. I don’t know what train of logic I’m riding, but sometimes it seems like there are no other passengers in the car. For some reason, Flora was convinced that our laundry just wasn’t going to get done (it was still only 3 pm) and she even hip checked me when I approached a machine to fix it [I don’t think I have ever been so physically intimidated in my life.] As 4:15 rolled around, my clothes were only partially dry and I returned to my dorm damp and defeated.

Time, sometimes in the form of a heavy-stepping matron of the suds, just won’t budge. With deep breaths I attempt to adjust.

Of other note, we leave tomorrow morning, bright and early, for our group trip out to the Kalahari. We are just camping out for one night, but we have high hopes of seeing some elusive animals (and also of remaining un-eaten by said creatures.) Since it nears midnight and my cricket of conscience chirps about getting rest, I shall lay aside structural attempts and present instead some random thoughts. Enjoy the Chex Mix.


On Sass: If you give it, you must be able to take it. This is a general rule, but I find it especially handy on the playground. The girls of Kamogelo are particularly adept at directing the nasty eye, and for the past week I have been struggling to find an effective counter-look. My stern face failed (please, just try to imagine,) and my imploring eyes too. My attempts at “bored” and “sad” were also greeted with equal contempt. However, just this morning I was feeling quite sassy myself, so I threw a whopper back at the pink-clad instigator. Lo and behold, it disarmed her completely. She smiled, as if to say “congratulations! you finally figured it out” and flounced away to the nearest swingset.

On Names: Amogelang, Sethunya, Ketshepileone, Garata, Tebogo, Oteng, Gaolefufa, Boemo, Karabo, Arrifa, Kabatshabile, Mogomotsi , and Batsile to name a few. If you think they’re hard to spell, try pronouncing them. One six year old has been trying to help me with the sounds, but she usually ends up rolling in laughter before I get it right. Dear tongue, why so suddenly clumsy?


On Circle Dances: they happen on playgrounds, they happen in clubs. There is no thrill equivalent to entering the circle and having 30 five year olds mimic your shimmy.

On Cockroaches: they are still present.

On Sheep Noises: sometimes, when groups of men want to get Abby and my attention after failed shouts of “pretty baby,” or “hey lady,” they let loose a sound that I can only describe as a “baaa.” It doesn’t work.


On Goats: oft seen crossing the street, eating shrubs, or hobbling up and down dirt mounds, these city residents are hard to miss. Wednesday found one eating the sapling trees at Kamogelo, and Abby and a small boy successfully chased it off the playground. Following the frenzy, the creature promptly joined the rest of its clan to cavort with the free-roaming chickens.

On Missing: No matter my comfort level here, I still miss with a steady ache. I have attempted at times to confine said ache to a pinkie toe, or a shoulder, and to use the rest of my body to play and dance and laugh and enjoy. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t. Tonight, at a restaurant, a table of women randomly began chanting “OBAMA, OBAMA!” and I suddenly felt patriotic and homesick.

On “Here” being “Home”: For some reason I keep trying to assure myself that I’m “adjusted” or “settled,” but I think must linger in the limbo of “transitioning” for a while longer. This is good, not bad. But as you well know, I can be impatient.

On closing blog entries: when hard to do, it is best done abruptly.