quiet

a robed Wendy, and friend. she's as close to a school mascot as you can get, since she's been cared for by the staff of Kamogelo since she was just a few months old.

my class of characters.
sethunya and atang are dancing up front, bridget, benjamin, and tebogo, are being cheeky behind them. katso, chris, bofelo, emmanuel, etc., round out the crowd in back.

Chris - black cap. We got a bandaid for his finger on Friday, and the nurse cleaned it out with some antiseptic.

And so it goes, another lazy morning. I’ve been alone here for the past three days, and the solitude is morphing into something of a tangible companion. Abby, Julio, Pratik, and Rajiv flew down to Capetown Saturday morning, and Jen, Dave and Hong drove to Joburg. In a rare moment of practicality, I opted out of both trips, deciding to save some money for the future travels that promise both adventure and expense.

I usually have a hard time with empty spaces at home – the hours stretch and the minutes avalanche and I tend to end up with a whole lot of nothing for a whole lot of nothing. Time Crunch is my preferred morning breakfast, and it’s usually the only thing to get me moving for the day. However, this leisurely weekend has somewhat surprised me.

Saturday morning didn’t start off so well – I woke up with the heaviest imp on my chest, and he just kind of sat there for an hour, goading me. The light was peeking through the curtains (covered in what could be the ugliest green and pink pattern I’ve ever seen) but I couldn’t really find a reason to get up. Run in the stadium? and then? read? and then? surf the web? and then? walk to buy eggs? and then? it was a vicious spin cycle and I found myself on the verge of pillow tears. It’s incredible how the wanderlust works. It seems, that no matter where I am, my mind is tugging to travel farther than my body. Even in the middle of southern Africa, with a world of the New surrounding me, I can still feel the weight of the mundane.

Eventually, I tumbled out of my sleeping bag (I like the close feel of zipped up security) and went about the morning routine. A few minutes into teeth brushing, Nina called, to remind me that a letter had arrived for me the day before. I quickly threw on some clothes, and ran to her hostel.

The envelope was square and white, and I waited to open it until I was again cross legged on my bed. As the first few words from my dear friend Christina spilled out, “Safe Travels” by Peter and the Wolf happened to start humming out of my computer. It’s become a bit of a theme song for me (listen, if you haven’t) and the combination had me sobbing, because I have so much and I love so much and am loved so much and it’s not just words or memories or songs or sounds, but the breath of a living emotion. And when you remember that that respiration floats in the air around you, no matter how far you are from its source, well, you cry.

I know this isn’t in any way a new sentiment, but it’s the first time I’ve really truly felt it resonate in all the empty caverns of my person. I guess one of the things I struggle with in thinking and recording is the constant knowledge that nothing and everything is new. I know that whatever I’m feeling has been felt before and will be felt again, in greater and lesser quantities, for bigger and smaller reasons, articulated in ways and words that I can’t hope to touch. I know, I’ve read it, and thus I’m sometimes swept by the self conscious awareness of my own trite words. And yet, when the human experience reproduces inside of me, when ages of articulation modify and rematerialize in my brain, I just can’t hold it back. And if I sound naïve, or young, or sheltered, or repetitive? I guess we all just keep repeating ourselves and each other, until we finally hear things with our own inner ear. Ah yes, you finally think, now it is clear. Translation isn’t limited to language.

So Saturday and Sunday were spent with a renewed bounce in my step, and a bit of added purpose in my stroll to and from the grocery store. I cooked lunch and dinner with a fierce sense of proud independence (loneliness’s older, prettier, wiser sister), and read and skyped and thought with the same determination. Not much was accomplished except connection, but for once I think I’m okay with that.

Sunday night, my friend MK was kind enough to invite me to join the crowd at a braii, and I happily tagged along. The chatter was refreshing, as was another taste of residential life, but unfortunately my stomach started hurting again and I called it an early night with a good book in bed.

One thing I realize is that I haven’t talked much about is the books I’ve been reading. Although I’ve had an abundance of free time, I strangely have read less than expected. Regardless, I am always very conscious of the way absorbed words influence my thoughts, and so in the interest of full disclosure, I think it’s best to reveal my latest biblio-acquisitions. Thus, a run-down:

Dave Egger’s ‘You Shall Know Our Velocity’: I read this on the plane rides over, and it was a perfectly timed event. If you haven’t read it yet, I would recommend with complete enthusiasm. It’s a really incredible meditation on travel, giving, taking, help, harm, time, obstacles, hope…too much to capture in a sentence, and all wrapped in a story that makes you not forget. It is also solitary in a way that keeps reverberating.

Salman Rushdie’s ‘Shalimar the Clown’: Chasing ‘Midnight’s Children’ (an all time favorite), it didn’t quite fill the giant footsteps. However, it did take me to Kashmir, and that was interesting, considering I’m in Botswana. It’s amazing how many places we can
be at once.

Sara Gruen’s ‘Water for Elephants’: entertaining, and fast paced. A good substitute for easy access to dvd rentals.

Jonathan Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels’: really fantastic – I only knew it as an abridged children’s story, and the satire had me laughing unexpectedly. I’ve been starting and stopping in the progression of pages, so I have yet to reach the conclusion. Swift’s thoughts on the New, the Unfamiliar, the observation of and interaction with such – these are good for mental dialogue.

Borges: (thanks D,) a constant and incredible companion. The moments he fills are lucky ones. If this won’t make your brain churn, nothing will. I’m grateful for the questions he poses and the worlds he conjures – I don’t always know that I’d ever make it there on my own.

Beryl Markham’s ‘West With the Night’: loaned to me by a friend here, I have been tearing through the pages and mining each for the gems it holds inside. The back cover is coated with Hemmingway’s praise for this particularly unusual author, and although I know reading the full thing is best, I feel that I must quote a few of the things I’ve jotted into notebooks:

“So there are many Africas. There are as many Africas as there are books about Africa – and as many books about it as you could read in a leisurely lifetime. Whoever writes a new one can afford a certain complacency in the knowledge that his is a new picture agreeing with no one else’s, but likely to be haughtily disagreed with by all those who believe in some other Africa […] Being thus all things to all authors, it follows, I supposed, that Africa must be all things to all readers.” (8)

“Boredom, like hookworm, is endemic.” (9)
[So true, so good]

“I could never tell where inspiration begins and impulse leaves off. I suppose the answer is in the outcome. If your hunch proves a good one, you were inspired. If it proves bad, you are guilty of yielding to thoughtless impulse.” (46)
[This has been cycling in my head a lot – are my actions impulse or inspiration? The former endows me with a sense of embarrassment, while the latter gift pride and happiness. How long will it take to tell?]

“I had always believed that the important, the exciting changes in one’s life took place at some crossroad of the world where people met and built high building and traded the things they made and laughed and laboured and clung to their whirling civilization like beads on the skirt of a dervish. Everybody was breathless in the world I imagined, everybody moved to hurried music that I never expected to hear. I never yearned for it much. It had a literary and unattainable quality like my childhood remembrance of Scheherazade’s Baghdad.” (150)
[Unlike Beryl, I think I’ve always longed for it, and have for many years suffered the wanderlust for this imaginary blend of the foreign and epic, this perfect “crossroad” of dreams and reality. However, Beryl does go on to reflect that the biggest changes in her life were sparked by the smallest and most unexpected occurrences, in the most common situations. This has given me much to think about here.]

Thus, I conclude with words half my own, and thoughts that mingle in the great ballroom of collective consciousness.

goodnight, gabs

wave

So today, at last, after a few days of hasty harried typing and phone-calling, I finally gave Sister Margaret my 7 page UNICEF project proposal. When I went into work on Tuesday, worried about requesting an extension on the proposal, Sister Margaret kindly told me to ignore the higher-up’s demands, and to take a few more days. Apparently, the woman at the church who controls things around here has been very secretive about information in the past, and Sister M. didn’t think that she was being honest about the deadline. So, early Tuesday morning, Sister Margaret dropped me off at Game City, and I spent an hour or two wandering the wal-mart like aisles, taking notes on the cost of classroom materials, cleaning supplies, etc. I also made a phone call to UNICEF Gaborone, and confirmed that there never was and never will be general project proposal deadlines. Thanks.

Tuesday afternoon and all day Wednesday were spent asking a few more questions and muddling through the mixed up figures I’d received from the church. The UNICEF people were unresponsive to my email inquiries regarding proper proposal structure (the guidelines I’d received originally were a little too basic) so I did my best to craft a simple, yet specific enough request for a little over one million pula (divide by six for a dollar amount.) This number was based on an ideal projected budget for the Sept. 2008 – Sept. 2009 school year, and included the purchase of a new combi and a continuation of the yearly 10% pay raise for all staff (to encourage retention). It also requested funding for a new mini-jungle gym and more food, along with other necessary items. I drew up excel spread sheets for all the categories (that took some time, considering my amateur use of the program) and also attached copies of the student profile forms that I hope can be implemented.

When I handed it to Sister Margaret, half of me wanted to snatch it right back again. What if I didn’t ask for enough? What if I asked for too much? What did I leave out that could have helped? Everything about it felt so shaky and unreliable, and aside from the formal language, there is nothing I’m really be sure about. I did my best to present accurate figures, but between funding guesstimates and my lack of business/financial/etc. experience, I could only use logic and grammar to convey our best request. To tell the truth, if I were UNICEF, I’m not sure that I would be okay with funding an organization like Kamogelo that lacks so much in terms of financial accountability. I know they have before, so I have hopes that they will again, but goodness gracious it all makes me anxious. Never before in my life have I ever so seriously considered the benefits of an M.B.A (dad, don’t laugh).

Going a little out of order in the day’s chronology, our combi ride back from work today was kind of hysterical. We hopped the Mogoditshane 7 as per usual, and settled into the second row bench seat to gaze out the window and listen to radio static and American pop songs. Two stops later, however, our calm was interrupted by a man in a white hat and yellow tinged eyes, who sat down in the front seat. Glancing back at Abby and me as the combi started rolling, he began to speak loudly in Setswana with his friends, obviously about us, his eyes flickering between our faces. His voice was slightly sniveling and I could only imagine the jokes he was making (his friends were in stiches) and Abby and I both began to fume. “Stop.” we told him when he began to swing his hand at us in caressing motions but instead he began to whine, “babies babies, you are soooo beautifullllllll, I will marry youuuu, I want to marry youu.” Well, Abby and I were slightly overwhelmed and completely trapped (the car was packed and moving) and we began to shake our heads vehemently, but five minutes later, with an unbroken stare, he was still going strong. “Baby baby baby give me your number, soooo beautifull, give me your house number,” he droned. At this point, discomfort transitioned into comedy and we began to laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of his aggression and persistence. “I’m married,” Abby told him, flashing a silver ring that circled her right middle finger. He continued on. “babbyyyyyyyyy, baby, baby, soooo beautiful.” “I have a baby” I told him. He paused for a moment, slightly taken aback but continued all the same. Finally, after another five minutes, he quieted down and left us to our laughter. This is nothing of real note or consequence, I just find daily interactions like this to be completely baffling.

And now, what I’ve been stalling. I’m having a hard time finding words to write about this – not because I lack the adjectives, but because I’m afraid to turn a child’s pain and sadness into just another snippet of my experiences, a page in my journal. In one way, I see writing as a means of suspending a moment, making emotions available for first time experience or voluntary reliving. However, I also see it sometimes as the attempt to shrink and capture those things that happen inside us, things of such immensity that I’m afraid to diminish them with small words and sentences.

Around 10:30 this morning, I attempted to fill up some down time in class with a review of the ABC’s. The kids still constantly confuse T/J/I (can you blame them?) as well as S/Z and M/W, so repetition seems the best solution. About halfway through the alphabet, somewhere between M and Q, Chris stood up in front of me, and extended his right middle finger. Glancing down, I noticed a slight discoloration and some strange swelling, but as he didn’t seem to feel any discomfort (he was smiling in his presentation,) I asked him to sit down and wait for Z.

Following the conclusion of this 26 note concert, I took Chris into Sister Margaret’s office, where she and a social worker were conversing. They spoke to him for a minute, and he muttered back at them, eyes downcast and feet turned inwards. Based on Sister Margaret’s clicking noises, I could tell it wasn’t ringworm or a rash, and I anxiously awaited the translation. Finally, she looked up to me and said “this is abuse.”

“What?”

“This is abuse. His mother got angry with him and burnt him with plastic from the fire.” I was speechless for a second, then choked out some questions. Apparently, he wasn’t doing anything wrong, she just began scolding him and then dripped a hot plastic bag on his finger, causing pretty bad burns. The social worker clucked at the offense, moaned about how it is a shame that she won’t be at the school tomorrow to speak with the parent, and Chris and I were left to walk back to the classroom.

In the few steps from the office door to our own, I felt a world of things collide. My emotions were rising in my throat and I wanted so badly to crouch down on his level and look him in the eye and hug him and reassure him and remind him that people love and that people can be kind and that when things are right in life you can feel safe with your family and especially the woman who birthed you. Yet, it was in silence that we walked over to the outdoor spicket, where I motioned to him to hold his finger under the cold water. It was the only thing I could think of to do that would in someway acknowledge his injury, and reinforce his decision to tell me about it. My tongue lay limp in my mouth, and by the time I’d decided that it didn’t really matter if he could understand what I said to him, so long as the tone was kind, he was running back into the classroom, smiling and yelling again.

These kids are so incredible, and so full of life – so willing to ignore every bad thing around them in favor of playground laughter and silly faces – and I’m sitting here with tears running down my cheeks because I just don’t understand what I don’t understand and I don’t understand, not understanding to the point of a lot of raw nothingness. And this is not because I’m some great humanitarian – I struggle constantly with selfish desires and procrastination and laziness and all those things that effect how much I give and how much I help and how much pride I can have in my work – it’s just that I’m here in it, so it hits me now. To me, it’s just this giant tidal wave that keeps on rolling, and if you stand on the sand long enough, it will wash you under too.

Mma Money

Ughh. ughh ugghh arggghhhhhhh. I wish I had words to describe how frustrated I am, but guttural intonations seem to be the only thing that’s burbling forth. The realities of “development” hit me like a train today and I find myself splayed on the tracks, watching the remaining clouds of black smoke, slowly drift into the soul-swallowing sky.

This morning was bitter cold and grey and tired, and I was looking forward to a little cheer from the children when we arrived at Kamogelo. However, before I could make it into the breakfast hall (where steaming vats of porridge waited) Sister Margaret beckoned to me and told me that she needed to speak with me in her office. I was nervous for a split second, until she launched into an urgent request for help. Apparently, the UNICEF project proposal is due tomorrow (I didn’t even know she’d been working on one) and she didn’t understand new guidelines for submission.

Speaking calmly (and actually kind of excitedly – it seemed like some sort of indication of action/progress/momentum) I told her not to worry and that I’d be happy to help. I read over UNICEF’s project proposal guidelines, and they’re really very straightforward and reasonable. They only fund short-term, specific projects, so they ask for an outline of current and future budget plans, proposals for project monitoring, progress indicators, data collection, analysis, public availability, a timeline for execution and some other basic organizational things. Apparently, Sister Margaret had submitted a few proposals in the past (before she had these guidelines) so she also had them available for me to reference.

So far, so good.

Yet, when I began to ask basic questions about financial records, annual funding/donations, expected expenditures, etc. I was met with a blank stare. It turns out that no financial documents ever reach Sister Margaret, but instead are held by the “bursar” of the Catholic Commission that heads the Kamogelo Project. This all stems back to the previously mentioned fact that the Sister has no direct access to funds or accounts for the day care. I immediately requested to call this bursar, and found another voice at the end of the line, but not much help. The woman I spoke to was one of the crankiest I’ve ever tele-encountered, and she insisted that I come visit her office if I wanted any information.

Thus, at about 9:45 am, Sister Margaret and I piled into the Kamogelo car for the twenty minute drive to the church. Reaching our destination, she ushered me into a snug, heated, squat building, and through a few rooms into the “bursar’s office.” What greeted me was shocking to the point of hilarity. An older, hunched woman, wrapped in blankets, sat at a desk with hundred pula notes stacked in front of her. All around, piled in groups of five to eight, were gigantic binders, crudely labeled in black marker (most dating back a few years.) These, I was informed, were the financial records for the church, as well as for all of the projects that fall under the Catholic Commission, the umbrella organization the funds Kamogelo.

Plucking up my courage and taking a few deep breaths, I began to slowly and cheerily inquire:
1) Who funds Kamogelo? How much money do they give annually?
2) What is the current balance of Kamogelo’s account?
3) How much money is allocated for monthly expenses?
4) What bank is used?

If my questions were straight lines, then the “answers” I received were Gordion knots. But what sort of sword do I have to slice through them? What I gathered, after an hour of increasing confusion, is that Mma Money (as I took to thinking of her) is not the world’s best bookkeeper. In fact, she is most likely the world’s worst. She hadn’t gotten around to filing, or even holding onto any information about Kamogelo for the year 2008, and even older paperwork was jumbled, providing no accurate trends or base figures. I managed to glean that the Diocese of Gaborone designated P200 000 specifically for Kamogelo in July of 2006, but Mma Money had no way of telling me the current balance, or providing any tangible record of how that money had been spent. Why? Because the money was never transferred into the sub-account that the Commission established for control over Kamogelo’s funds. Why? Because only ORFUND (the other consistent donor) can put money in this account. Thus, the “designated” P200 000 might as well have been imaginary. “Eh, there is a small balance,” she told me. “I think P5000.” You think? I think that there are children who need to eat and food that can only be purchased with money, and I think that they are relying on you to keep track of all this for them. I think I am going to scream.

ORFUND seems to have been donating P50 000 to Kamogelo every three months, but until just recently, this money was reserved specifically for teacher salaries (I saw them, they’re meager at best.) This seems good news, but considering that Mma Money insisted that their deposits were irregular and unreliable, I don’t know how to count ORFUND’s help as a future certainty. Even if there was still some pula left from the Diocese, and ORFUND did give consistently, I’m not sure that it would be enough. The day care doesn’t seem to have a cap on how many children it accepts, and prices for food and various other necessities are rising.

I left Mma Money’s office clutching a few copies of a June Standard Bank statement, and was ushered immediately into the office of the Catholic Commission’s national coordinator. My talk with her was brief, yet terrible, since she informed me that Kamogelo is a Project of the Church and all funds need to go through the church (thus severely complicating my hopes for financial independence and a PayPal account). She also informed me that SHE was the one writing the UNICEF proposal, but that I couldn’t see a copy of the project plans because she hadn’t typed it yet. How am I to assemble my part of the packet (budget work, etc.) if I can’t see hers? She was curt, and we walked back to the parking lot.

Accompanying us back to the day care was a new volunteer nurse (a very welcome addition to the Kamogelo clan.) She didn’t say much on the ride, but I did learn that she moved to Gabs from Tanzania in September of 2007, and still hasn’t managed to get her nurses license here. Apparently, (a fact confirmed by my friends in the Health Department) the applications are backed up by a few YEARS, making the process impossible. Hopefully, while she waits, she can do some good for our kids.

Aside from my own panic over the impossibility of this overnight request, (I’ve resigned myself to pleading for an extension in the morning – I just don’t have enough information about anything to submit something legitimate) I am terribly disheartened by the lack of organization here. From top to bottom, and bottom to top, Botswana seems to lack any sort of group motivation or national momentum. The misunderstanding, ignorance, or apathy regarding methods of organization, systems, processes, etc. run so deeply they’d be harder to mine than diamonds. Growing up in the states, I never realized how steeped I was in notions of assembly line manufacturing, optimum efficiency, ticking-clock mentalities, and cog in the machine purposes. I feel like there is a certain work ethic or drive that is just absent here, closely related to a faulty system of incentives. I know this sounds like a massive generalization, but every single Motswana I have ever spoken to here (really, I swear) has categorized Batswana as lazy and unmotivated. Of coure, I have met exceptions, but even these people peg their compatriots as such.

Along with the snail pace of technological development (EVERYTHING is paper here), the thought of the time it will take for mentalities to change is almost paralyzing. The mindset of the older generation seems intractable, and I can feel the nation’s growing pains in my own bones. It makes me wonder how anything manages to run as it is, and it hurts my head to even begin to imagine some sort of systemic overhaul. How in the world can these things be fixed? I was trying to sound hopeful when I spoke to Sister Margaret about some of this – suggesting that perhaps the younger generation will grow up with a greater knowledge of the world and more incentive to achieve – but she just poo-pooed it. “Some will change, yes, but most will think that this is the way to live.”

The words that now lie on the tip of my tongue are as follows: I’ve taken political science classes, I’ve read about development projects in national newspapers, I’ve seen documentaries, I’ve read books, I’ve attended lectures, and now I’m finally living the true knowledge of a third world quagmire.
However, I hesitate to fully release this utterance into the open because a part of me fears gaining anything from such a terrible situation, even if that gain is only mental. It is natural to me to scrape out the good from even the most horrible of experiences, but I am overwhelmed by guilt at the thought that at the end of seven months I will fly back to Philly with new knowledge and these children will be left to grow up. I hope to aid them significantly while I’m still here, and am in no way giving up, but I just am slightly flattened by the heavy, hard fact that I can’t change their lives or cure AIDS or give them chocolate cake and free internet and trips to the park and a carefree existence. Limitations, of any kind, do not sleep soundly in my brain.

warthog

Goodness gracious - in an attempt not to fall so terribly behind in this dear travel log, I post the scattered skeleton of the creature that was this weekend. Like Thursday, I have the notes of thoughts that will hopefully be re-composed into a melody soon. For now, just whistle.

Kudu Lodge - a stunning, water side spot. I honestly don't think I've ever been somewhere so simultaneously lush, sun-lit, warm, luxurious and enchanting. Despite the necessary ingestion of malarone and the ever buzzing wasps and mosquitoes: Heaven.

Clean sheets! A real bed! A change of scenery! Warmth! Elation!Down by the dock

A three hour tour: (left to right) Pratik, Me, Dave, Abby, Julio, Rajiv.

A snake bird - when they swim, only their long necks and heads stay above water, a sight that is very reminiscent of a vertical snake. They spread their wings and sun themselves because their feathers are far less than waterproof.cold feet

NEVER smile at a crocodile. We got far far far too close for comfort.Hippos - massive lumps that resemble resting rocks. Their skin and fat and limbs just kind of smoosh into the mud, making them look incredibly comfortable and incredibly calm.Ze Girraffes!!!! Too far away for any sort of spot sighting, but even from a distance they're gangly, wonderful things.mmm. words? I'm not sure I can muster any.

The Botswana/Zimbabwe border

The gap between Zimbabwe and Zambia (Victoria Falls)

CAUTION: this may involve me jumping off a bridge.
I'm safe! I'm sound! Don't worry!
The most lovely and majestic VictoriaBig Baobab Tree

lionsssss

safari field trip!

kung fu

An apologetic note: I've been dutifully discharging information immediately after absorption, but yesterday afternoon, the minutes caught up with me. After uploading some pictures and video from our incredible field trip, I promptly fell asleep. The nap was followed by Becca's goodbye dinner (she heads back to Philly today) and more sleep. Alas, I depart for Chobe/Victoria Falls in t-20 minutes (!!!), so time is a scarce substance.

I've jotted notes about Thursday's events, and I'll add them the weekend closes. For now, it's purely visual.

fugees

The morning began in an irksome way, when I once again found the shower to be occupied by Mma Dioka, one of our flatmates. I didn’t have enough time to wait for her to finish her routine, so that meant another day of frizzy ponytails and that strange feeling of clean dirtiness. I know this sounds small, but a quick rinse can wash the brain as well.

The slightly worn and dusty feeling is accentuated by the fact that someone at UB decided to shut down the laundry facilities. According to Flora (think Speed Queen), the University is no longer purchasing the “tokens” that the machines take, because no on is on campus. Excuse me, excuse me, I think you’ve made a mistake. I AM ON CAMPUS. WE are on campus. The entire graduate population that houses here over winter break is on campus. Blatant disregard for a human presence is not something I take kindly to.

When I called Gill, a supervisor, about the problem, I was greeted with a rather curt redirection, which amounted to a dead end. When we tried to solve the laundry situation on our own, by contacting med students living at the Penn flats, we were again reprimanded by Gill for subverting the hierarchy and acting independently. Hand wash/hang dry is an option (although I’m afraid to leave my clothes on the line due to all the warnings about theft) but that was once again rendered impossible since our water was shut off this afternoon. There is apparently a laundromat about 20 minutes away, but I dread the haul and the long wait for peach scented, tumble dry product. We leave for our trip to Chobe and Victoria Falls on Friday, so I’ll have to work something out by then.

Despite this dry start, the day shaped up to be kind of interesting. I called Emeldah (the social worker) at 7:50 am, and she informed me that she was missing a ton of paperwork for Kamogelo’s application (teacher’s certificates, medical forms, land lease, inspection reports, etc.) I spoke to Sister Margaret about the worrisome state of affairs, and she immediately began to click her tongue at the ineffectual mode of communication and transportation here. Apparently, the chain of submissions is as follows: the social worker at Kamogelo submits the papers to a representative from the local office of social services. The representative then reviews the application, makes inspections, writes their own report, and sends it to the main office for committee review (this is where Emeldah comes in.) Sister Margaret insisted that all the paperwork had been completed and submitted to the local office, and so I requested contact information for the person she handed it to.

Instead of scribbling a phone number, she told me to get in the day care’s combi, and go there directly. Thus, at 10:30 am, I hopped in the car with a few other staff members, and we meandered our way down dusty roads.

The usual combi-window sight
a close up of a typical house - cinderblocks and corrugated metal roofing. lots of people sitting outside (for how long? an hour? a day? the stretches of stillness seem endless)

It is funny, but that short drive made me realize how little of Gabs and the surrounding villages I’ve seen. I take the same combi route to Mogoditshane every day, so I guess I’ve kind of adjusted to tuning out the normal sights. A few fresh roads and passerby had my eyes freshly scanning the tall brown bush and squat grey cinderblock houses.
The Social Services center was surprisingly colorful, and crowded with women and men milling about doorways and leaning against walls. I felt kind of uncomfortable since I was obviously out of place and the focus of many persistent, if friendly, stares. However, the wait was relatively short, and I was soon ushered into a cool, dark, open room to speak to someone in the “know.” I was feeling pretty excited about the adventure of forward momentum, but this quickly screeched to a halt as frustration rolled in. The woman I spoke to kept telling me that the case worker, Portia, was busy, and she refused to tell me if I could retrieve the papers and deliver them myself. The Kamogelo social worker who came with me, also seemed to get frustrated with my attempts to clarify my knowledge of the situation, and I felt a bit of an authority struggle edging onto the scene. I kept asking for contact numbers so that I could locate the forms, but it was only at the very end of the discussion (when I attempted to pet egos by sympathizing with how busy they were) that they agreed to let me help a bit. I ended up calling Portia later in the day, and she strangely informed me that she had already given Emeldah the papers. A long long time ago. She also assured me that she would get in touch with Emeldah to figure things out. I wanted to place faith in her intentions, but an hour later I called Emeldah to see if she’d received any word. Nope. Tomorrow, I will continue with the Sherlock Holmes hunt for the missing application. The good news at least, is that Sister Margaret thinks she has copies of all the documents, so the day can be saved if necessary.

one of the social services office. it is always surprising to me how much of life here is conducted outdoors.

I don’t want to underestimate the social worker’s abilities to get things done, but I’m also afraid to place too much trust in their assurances. It’s a tenuous situation when a deadline is present.

A few more highlights from the day (highs and light, both things that cheer):

Yesterday, while I was handing out the children’s letter tracing books, the mischevious Bofelo (of an ever gleaming eye) started singing the popular Timbaland/One Republic song “Apologize.” As he soulfully crooned “it’s toooo laaaaaate,” a few more kids joined in with words and humming. I was tickled by this American pop culture apparition, and added my voice to the mix – something which startled Bofelo into fits of giggles.

Pleased by his pleasure, I downloaded the song last evening and carried it in today on my ipod. We sang a few Raffi songs in the morning (“Brush Your Teeth” has become an ever-requested hit) and then I asked Bofelo to leave the rug and to stand next to me at the front of the room. I gave him an encouraging pat on the back, and then pressed the play button, motioning for him to do his thing. Blushing, beaming, and carefully awaiting the advent of each repetition of the chorus, he proudly performed for his laughing classmates. The best thing about that moment, and about many moments today, is that I’ve begun to feel a really personal connection with the kids as individuals. I no longer to rely so much on observation to know who is making whom cry on the rug, or who is most likely to sit by himself on the playground. I also have gotten a lot more comfortable in joking with the children, as funny faces are only perfected with trial and error reaction notation. A few kids, like Chris, Mogomotsi, Amogelang, and Sethunya, really seem to get the system of positive reinforcement I’m attempting to work in, and they are always eager to show me that they’re following directions. Finally, the babies no longer cry so much when I try to help them (a lot were frightened by me) and instead greet me with thumbs up and cries of “teachaaaa!” Of course, my class still frustrates me with devilish inattention and rowdy behavior, but those are five year olds for you.

Finally- I slept for two blank hours when I got back from the day care, and awoke too late in the day to feel comfortable walking alone to get groceries. Thus, I called a cab and spent a few minutes purchasing some eggs, chicken, broccoli, and brussel sprouts at Pic n’ Pay. I then hailed a cab man for the return trip, which turned out to be a bit of a gem.

The sun was setting as we pulled out of the parking lot, and the Fugees’s “Killing Me Softly” was drifting around the interior of the beat up car. Nestled in the back seat with my groceries and evening thoughts, I began to drift into the infinite space of imagination, when the cab driver muttered under his breath. “My plans,” he said. “My plans are not working out.” I was going to leave him to his own soliloquy, not quite sure what he meant, but I was feeling a little lonely and decided to break the conversation seal. “What plans?” I asked. It turns out that Mark, a twenty three year old Zimbabwean, has his eyes on Australia, where he hears he can make some quick money. He’s been in Botswana for a while, but finds the unemployment rate and general financial situation to be really frustrating. He works as a translator for the local courts during the day, and uses his car as a cab as night, a grueling schedule. He gave me his number for future use (a common cab thing here) and thanked me for the conversation. Despite the fact that I’ve talked with plenty of other cabbies, my brief conversation with Mark had me a bit reflective. Perhaps it was the fact that he’s only two years older than I am, or that he’s so obviously filled with dreams, plans, and aspirations, or just that he seemed to want nothing but a little connection. Regardless of precise cause (sometimes it’s better to leave it without), I’m thankful for the tiny journey.

baby steps

Context (2)

The combi station, not to be confused with the bus rank (over the bridge and through the phane worm piles). Abby and I take the 4 from UB to reach this point each morning, then the 7 out to Kamogelo. the trek, in sum, takes approximately an hour, depending on how quickly the combis fill up and whether or not their engines start (we've been pushed by helpful passerby more than once.) The typical passenger load for a combi is 16-17, but i've been in one with 19 before. The age range of combi riders always amazes me - babies as well as the venerable aged clamber in and out with equal facility.

Stands like these surround the station, and line the roads throughout Botswana. Every stand sells almost exactly the same things (chips, lollipops, oranges, bananas, and other candies) and i still can't quite figure out how all the food gets to these remote locations, and especially how it could be cost efficient for the stand owners to sell such small things for such small sums. As I've written before, so many of the people here seem to create "jobs" out of thin air. I'm really interested in the employment situation here and would like to spend some time learning more about it.

Like the Tuck Shops, hair cutting and braiding booths dot the roadsides. This example, replete with profile illustrations, is one of my favorite.

The morning routine - sometimes there is more singing, but this is the basic pre-breakfast assembly

Chasing a night of that thick kind of darkness, today was surprisingly good. Breakfast was served up on the later side, since one of the day care workers forgot the kitchen keys at home, and that helped to speed up the morning. There was also a small outdoor assembly around 10:30, during which a few members of the Rotary Club of Gaborone presented the children with books and videos that had been collected and donated by the kids at Northside Primary School. It was a little funny to watch the presentation, since the Rotary Club men were using it as a photo op, complete with a Rotary club banner and nice table display. However, the only other people present were about one hundred distracted kids sitting in plastic chairs, Abby and me, and the Kamogelo staff. The kids seemed slightly interested, but not completely elated, while the Rotary Club representatives were giggling and jovial. This is in no way meant to condescend or diminish the import or kindness of the donation, but the whole scene made me think a lot about the strange stratum of satisfaction that spans between giving and receiving. I’ll leave it at that.

The other interesting part of my morning was my talk with Sister Margaret about bank accounts and PayPal. It is my long term goal (since I have so many more months here) to help Kamogelo straighten out its finances and get some solid, consistent funding sources in line, so I went to her office to chat about such matters. Unfortunately, things seem to be in quite the tangled mess. Sister M. was incredibly vague about where their money is coming from now (apparently, an umbrella organization in Canada that pays the teachers’ salaries, and funds other things in Gaborone) and it was eventually revealed that the school does not have its own bank account. All previous donations have been deposited into a teacher’s private account, and then given to the school in cash for use.

I attempted to explain to the sister that this was not a sustainable solution to the donation problem, but she told me that they also were not allowed to apply for an account until the day care was licensed. Apparently, they applied for a government license two years ago, and their application seems to have been lost. They applied again in September, but she wasn’t sure if the application was received. I finally managed to get a contact number for a government worker (I think she’s with the Department of Social Services) and called her this afternoon. The good news is that the committee to review license applications meets in August, and that a license would indeed open the door to potential qualification for various funding programs. However, the woman I spoke with is not even sure that Kamogelo’s application is complete at this point in time. I will speak with her again tomorrow once she has checked.

Although it’s a slow and muddled start, I’m glad to know about this now and I’m looking forward to helping roll things along. If a private account can be established, so can a Paypal account for their website, and this would open the door to much more international help. I am incredibly relieved and newly motivated to work on something that really has the potential to affect positive growth after I leave Kamogelo and Botswana. I don’t want to get too hopeful – high expectations about rapid change and easy solutions are never a good idea here – but at least the optimism star twinkles brightly.

A final bit of news – a few weeks ago, Becca spotted a sign in the River Walk movie theatre bathrooms that advertised free film showings for orphans in the area. Abby called the number listed, as well as a few bus companies (the theatre will pay for transportation too) and incredibly, stupendously, amazingly, the result is a field trip! On Thursday, we will take approximately sixty children (the two older classes that Abby and I work with) to the movies for a novel treat. I haven’t been this excited since Ms. Frizzle and the gang boarded the Magic School Bus for a tour of Arnold’s body.

midnight

I should be sleeping but can't and i miss home terribly and that is so silly because i'm the one who never misses much of anything related to where i'm not but suddenly i think i'd sing for a month straight in a bird chirpy happy voice if i could get a patch of grass and some trees and gather the loving loved close and just dip toes in water and laugh about things that aren't sad or frustrating or having to do with poverty and disease and hell, i'm in the least third world of the third world (isn't this just one world?) which would probably push it up to somewhere closer to comfort so i have nothing to complain about right? and it is hard to be consistently alone in a way that i'd forgotten about because it's not just about physical presence but about tiny pings in your mind from all the bouncing and breaking and expanding it's doing and that's the optimistic version. If i think about time i get lumps in my throat and a piece of me breaks off and wanders away and whispers into a very tiny quiet corner so that no one can hear (but it blushes all the same) what am i doing here? how did i get myself into this? i drove with my eyes closed and lost track of the road and now there isn't a map i can buy that will lead me to anywhere familiar because i have oceans to cross and coughs to twirl around and blood to avoid and these speedbumps of anger and annoyance and sadness and missingness and discouragement and those long stretches of coastline wind blowing sun glowing territory are few and far between.

guilt, check. if i weren't so hell bent on detailing this circus procession in my head I'd delete this now. perhaps, in the morning.

cam jansen

This morning, a bite between egg whites and toast, I came to the sudden realization that I have yet to fully detail the spots in which I spend most of my time. In order to ameliorate this situation, I have resolved to snap the shutter on some of our most consistent visual encounters.

Thus, I begin with the first installment of a series I would like to call Context.

my perch. I have to lock my computer in the closet, or put it on the floor each time I leave the room, on account of the fact that people have attempted to reach/break through bars and windows to snatch electronics at UB.

bed and bulletin. the marks of a living space

a slowly filling closet.

the view from my window - if my neighbors keep their curtains open, it's a nice substitute for a television and reality shows. A few nights back, I was treated to a lovely, gloves off, catfight (of the human variety). For at least an hour, two American women aired their dirty laundry for the entire graduate complex to sniff and grimace at.

Ah yes, the kitchen/common room. Often filled with good aromas, laughter, and hundreds of baby cockroaches. Ants have recently joined the party.

Six women, one kitchen, one fridge. I hold reign over half of the lowest shelf, and due to the overflowing content of vegetables throughout, it is not uncommon to be bopped on the head by a tumbling carrot when I attempt to access my stash.pots, pans, soap, suds, heat

view from our kitchen window