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.