Leah Hart spent a year in Botswana serving with the Peace Corps.
Here is her story — written during her service.
Hello, friends and family.
I’m in Africa!!! It doesn’t feel entirely real just yet, because we have been coddled by the Peace Corps so far with nice hotels and little exposure to daily life in a town or village. These are a few notable things so far:
1. It’s hot. Not too hot, just wonderfully sunny and warm. At night it’s cool.
2. There are goats everywhere, crossing the street and bleating outside the hotel lobby door.
3. We drove on the left side of the road during our 6 hour bus trip here from Johannesburg yesterday.
4. The border crossing was so easy! Everyone looked delighted to have U.S. visitors and said “welcome to Botswana” about a hundred times.
5. There is a church at the hotel. Or at least, a place where people gathered to worship (mostly through incredibly beautiful singing) this past Friday night. Apparently we will most likely be invited to go to church with our host families and I can’t wait.
There are 43 people in our training group. We will split into three groups on Monday and move to towns outside of the capital, Gaborone, where we are currently staying in a hotel. The age range is 22 to 75. It is a diverse group in other ways, too. Training will last 8 weeks and then we will receive a site assignment. We move in with host families on Monday. Training consists of 8am to 4pm days of sitting in sessions with our host country trainers (wonderful people who are making a difference in their country) and current volunteers (also wonderful people and so helpful) as they try to prepare us for what’s to come. It’s hard for them to address everything. So much depends on someone’s site placement and we won’t know that for weeks. I will probably have electricity and water at my site. But maybe not. I will probably make Botswana friends easily. But maybe not. I will probably experience discrimination as woman and feel as if I’m treated as an object . . . but it depends. That’s sort of how the discussion goes.
I am so happy to be here. It is still overwhelming to think about being gone for so long and missing all of you, of course, but something I’ve already started to learn is to relax and be in the moment. I am exhausted. Wisconsin is 8 hours behind Botswana time.
This is a repeat for some of you, but since it would be so lovely to receive mail, I’ll tell you again. ;) My mailing address during training is:
Peace Corps
Leah Hart
Private Bag 00243
Gaborone, Botswana
I hope you’re all doing well and enjoying spring!
love, leah
Dear friends and family,
I am currently shadowing a volunteer in Nata village in northern Botswana. While at the hotel in Philadelphia , a fellow trainee showed me an online video of the clinic at Nata, so I had a picture of the place in my head. Adding the smell and feel and taste is almost indescribable, but I will try.
Melody Jenkins (Mel) is our host. She is a fifty year old, single, no kids (by choice, she will have you know) second-time volunteer. She had an opportunity fall into her lap here when a documentary producer came through on a tourist trip and took up her cause at the clinic. She helped create a website, with Peace Corps’ permission (which was not easy to get), and now there is a trust that funds projects at the clinic and social work office in town.
Nata is a village of about 5,000 and it is poor. There are 400 orphans here. People are under-nourished. It is an isolated village, even though it is directly off a main road, there isn’t much around. However, it is a stopping place for tourists on the way to Victoria Falls in Zambia. Partly because of that and partly because of an open-minded, accepting kgosi (chief), it is extremely progressive in its HIV/AIDS response. This little clinic treats hundreds of people from the surrounding area. It recently became a registered ARV clinic (to their dismay, because now their patient load is overwhelming . . . there are 70 just in the village currently on the ARV medication). A patient becomes eligible for ARV’s when their CD4 count (a type of white blood cell) is below 200. In the U.S., it is under 300.
Mel has dabbled in several different projects. She helped register 800 orphans in the surrounding area. She trained staff at the clinic to use the three computers they had and couldn’t use. She registered a community support group and an HIV/AIDS education youth group who do dances and skits at all sorts of events as community-based organizations so they could get funding from the government. When she first came, she walked around the community and passed out condoms and asked people if they were tested. She’s pretty amazing . . .
Nata is beautiful. It doesn’t get as cold during the winter nights here . . . not lower than 40’s. There is a river (the Nata River) that goes through the town. Just north on the river is a bird sanctuary (I’m going to see those birds tomorrow, Grandpa). Chobe National Park is only 30K away, with elephants and lions and everything. There’s a lodge nearby with a pool that Mel can use. The stars and moon which was full the night before last are amazing.
There are lots of opportunities to generate income for the town from tourists. Mel is arranging a walk through town along the river, watching a woman make local fried bread, see basket-making, and watch the construction of a traditional home. She took us on the walk this morning. I think it will be very popular. I asked about seeing traditional dances. She says they’re working on it.
This is a breath of fresh air from pre-service training. Even though I have a great host family (whom I will describe in a moment), the training is exhausting. There are few hours of daylight to be active, study the language, or run errands. Most of our time is spent sitting in a classroom, learning about what may or may not happen at our site after we may or may not get sworn in as volunteers. There have been some great speakers from different government AIDS offices, but apparently (according to Mel) those offices tend to be corrupt and funding gets diverted to the employees of the offices rather than the orphans or sick for whom the money was intended. (Which is why Mel’s trust is so brilliant . . . no middle men besides a Peace Corps volunteer who literally can’t take any of the money or she’d get sent back home).
My host family’s last name is Moklogelwa. I don’t know the names of my grandmother and grandfather. They are mme (grandmother) and grrandfatha. I have a 20 year old host sister named Boi (pronounced Bouey) and a 3 year old brother named Gnose (“Nos”). He is precious. He calls me Auntie and loves it when I play the guitar. It is very typical to hit children (even so young) and so the children are extremely receptive to affection, unlike children in the U.S. (I think). If he is crying (maybe because grandma just whacked him for being “naughty”), and I pick him up and hug him, he is instantly happy. It has an immediate, visible affect that is rather heart-breaking.
The family is 7-day Adventist. They are not as strict as some Adventists (who are vegans) but they are certainly serious about their faith. We sing a hymn and pray every night before bed. They go to church on Saturday and strongly believe in keeping the Sabbath (Saturday). Church was three hours. #1 hymn-singing and a speaker/presentation about disabled people in Moshupa (the village I am in) #2 more or less adult Sunday school, discussing “How we know the bible is reliable” #3 a “normal” church service with hymns, the doxology, prayers, and a sermon
I have a room to myself in a fairly nice house and I feel completely safe and comfortable. I can cook my own food if I choose, but there is usually something being prepared when I get home from training and they always offer me some. I have tried goat intestine for the first and last time. I’ve eaten more kinds of porridge than I can remember, but I do know that the sorghum was my favorite and the sour porridge (they put cream of tartar in cornmeal and let it sit around the house and sour) is awful. I haven’t been given the traditional sour milk, but other volunteers say it’s not so bad. Few vegetables grow in Botswana — butternut squash (there is tons of it), potatoes, carrots, and onions. Everything else is imported. I crave fresh fruits and vegetables! I am so jealous of those who will soon be enjoying summer produce from the Farmer’s Market (or the Hart family garden). We have had salad for two meals at Mel’s house and I am in heaven.
In Botswana, one of the most noticeable cultural norms is the importance of greeting people. Everyone says “dumela, mma (to a woman) and dumela, rra (to a man)” before starting any kind of conversation. If you ask for directions (or anything) without greeting first, you will be ignored. So, the Setswana that I know mostly has to do with saying “hello, how are you, I’m fine, how are you” and I know it very well. There is a slow pace to life. People walk incredibly slowly through the village, partly to allow for all the greeting that has to happen. So far, I haven’t felt impatient about it (because I have absolutely no agenda before or after training) but I’m sure at some point I will want to light a fire under everyone’s feet.
Some other “cultural observations”: Saying thank you is rarely done (their greeting is like our saying thank you . . . I had no idea it was so important to us to say please and thank you until I found it lacking). People cut in lines if they feel they are in more of a hurry than the others. Gender roles are strictly defined, although younger generations are starting to “modernize” (men will help with housework and women will help generate income), especially in the cities.
People are friendly and gentle and they love Americans, although sometimes that comes from the perception that white people (especially Americans) are rich and therefore a source of handouts.
Okay, that’s enough generalizing. I have only been here for 12 days or so. Please take what I write with a grain of salt until you see Botswana for yourselves. ;)
I think of you fondly and often.
Love, Leah (Setswana name, Thapelo, meaning prayer)
Dumela, totlhe (greetings, all):
I am currently sitting in the Peace Corps office in Gaborone due to a change of plans that involved a loss of connection with a driver that was supposed to pick my friend Monica and me up to go off to our respective sites, Charles Hill and Kole. This sort of thing is a common occurrence, and I am quite enjoying this particular schedule faux pa because it means a night in a hotel (a shower is a rare gift . . . bucket baths just aren’t the same) and we can have a more leisurely travel day tomorrow, starting early. By 8pm or so, I should be in my new village, in a new house, and having, in general, a fresh start.
Kole is small. Less than 1,000 people (population isn’t really measured, I’ve decided . . . no one in Kole seems to know how many people live there. From what I saw, about 200, but it could very well be more). 2 main roads, a primary school (grades 1-7), a health post (smaller than a clinic), 2 police officers, and one phone, at the police “station.” There is no cell phone coverage (I will miss the weekly calls from my parents!), but there is internet 18 km away in a village called Ncojane. There is a volunteer, Susie, in Ncojane who has been here a year. I met her at site visit a few weeks ago and it will be easy to be her friend. She’s excited for me to come.
There is just too much to say, I’m going to have to be selective. Business first. My new postal address is:
Leah Hart
Post Box 42
Charles Hill, Botswana
Afrika
The old one (Private Bag 00243/Gaborone, Botswana) still works, it will just be held at the P.C. office or forwarded from here so it will take longer.
My housing situation in Kole is a bit . . . well, up in the air. I lived at a house that people say is “my house” while I was at site visit, but the government health workers at the clinic in Charles Hill who dropped me off said, “you shouldn’t have to suffer so!” and the health post RN Malebogo (who is great) was writing letters on my behalf to the gov’t office in charge of my housing to ask if I could move into the social worker’s house when she moves out on July 10th. I felt very well taken care of, even though the house is not much more than an empty cement block, it is certainly the sort of house I expected to live in when I signed up for the Peace Corps. The first night, someone dropped off a bed. The next day, an “ambulance” (meaning the covered pick up trucks that are provided for gov’t transport that sometimes take patients in the back) brought me a stove from the clinic to borrow for a few days. The clinic in Ncojane sent dishes and blankets. My neighbors helped replace a leaky gas regulator on my stove. Someone came to repair a broken window the day after I came on very short notice. So, even though Peace Corps Botswana is not typically the “typical Peace Corps experience” and I am the ONLY volunteer in our group with no bathroom in the house, no running water in the house, no electricity, no cell phone coverage, no post office, etc., I feel quite confident that I will be well-looked-after. Most likely I will be moved to gov’t housing (which would have electricity and running water – what luxury) sometime in the next two weeks. I am sort of doubtful that any of the borrowed items I used during site visit (like the bed and stove) will still be in “my” house when I get to Kole tomorrow. And I’m even more doubtful that it will be furnished by the matron (the woman in charge of the sub-district where I work- the over-seer for the gov’t health workers) as she is the one who provided (or didn’t provide in this case) transport to our sites. I am doing my best to give her the benefit of the doubt and not dread having to ask for reimbursements for electrical and water bills from her even though Susie tells me, “I’m not sure what that matron does . . . makes sure nothing changes, I guess.”
Even though I have done a bit of worrying about my housing situation, it’s amazing how insignificant it seems compared to the immensity of what we will be doing as volunteers for the next two years. I am so excited about the possibilities. We had our “swearing in” service yesterday, when we officially graduated from trainees to volunteers. Our country director, Peggy McClure (who is fabulous), gave an inspirational speech about looking forward to the time when HIV/AIDS takes its place with small pox and the plague in human history; the day when our children will be asking “what was that AIDS thing all about?” . . . and also, that future generations can say, “how fortunate you were to be in a position to do something so meaningful and such a critical time.” This stuff really sinks in when you start recognizing the impact of HIV/AIDS first-hand. My host family has had two family members (a neice and a cousin, I think) die in the past two months. I’m sure it was of AIDS-related illnesses, because the cause of death was supposedly “unknown.” They were “sick”. Monica’s host family had a friend who died of “a headache.” At the health post in Kole, there is a form that the RN has to fill out and send to the sub-district head (Charles Hill) at the end of every week. It is supposed to be a record of the diseases in the area and gives numbers of illnesses due to malaria, TB, etc. HIV/AIDS is not listed. TB is a fairly good tracker, though. 70% of people with TB are HIV positive. One of the other volunteers was watching her host dad die of TB (probably AIDS-related). Even that, as awful and heart-wrenching as it sounds, just becomes a part of “normal” life, even for us. I don’t think we’re hardened, it’s just “the way it is.”
So, on a lighter note, I had an amazing experience at the swearing in service yesterday. I was volunteered to do a short speech in Setswana because I have a good Setswana accent (according to my fellow trainees, but what do they know?) Well, apparently they were right, because the audience, including our host parents, government officials, training staff, and ourselves were overwhelming with their response: they oo-ed and ah-ed and sighed happily and gave me a standing ovation at the end and I got hugs from everyone at the head table when I was done. The host mom’s were crying and my teacher (who helped me translate and practice the speech) was so happy. It was a wonderful feeling to be able to express to them our gratitude in their own language. It was obviously well-received. My host mom kept saying, “I’m so happy . . . clever girl.” Today at the peace corps office, Peggy (director) said, “people are still talking about you. (The Associate PC director) Pinny says you were the best of any trainees that have spoken in Setswana at any event.” Wow.
Okay, enough bragging about myself. Monica is getting listless she is so hungry and we’ve had a stressful morning, so I have to close here. I think I will be in more regular email contact once I get to Kole since the post office in Ncojane has internet that Susie assures me is available to us.
I love and miss you all very much. You are in my thoughts and prayers.
love, leah
Dear friends and family,
Dumelang, tsotlhe!!! Life in Kole is much more slowly paced, and so I have lots of time to think about you all. I haven’t considered getting on a plane to go home yet, but I do miss you and appreciate any correspondence so much. Denise, thank you for the candle! And, Mom and Dad, of course, send an impressive amount of mail . . . thank you.
So, the journey to Kole involves a 6 hour ride on a paved road between Gaborone, heading slightly north and mostly west towards Namibia. Before you reach Ganzi (sometimes spelled Ghanzi, or Gantsi or any combination thereof, just like Kole is Kule on the map), turn left at the “junction” towards Charles Hill. Charles Hill is a settlement of about five different ethnic groups: Herrero, Bakgalagadi, Basarwa (San), Motswana, and Namibian to name those I have heard of, although there are those I haven’t. My friend Monica is there. She has the challenge of trying to mobilize a community that has absolutely no history of being a community with tribalism and ethnic and cultural divides . . . three previous volunteers have been unsuccessful in starting support groups or anything of the sort related to HIV/AIDS. So, create a sense of community and then mobilize them. Eish, I don’t envy her. She may be moving to a new community, which is a whole different story involving Peace Corps politics which I won’t get into, but it’s related to the fact that our two closest volunteers, Andrew (also in Charles Hill) and Susie (18 km south of Kole) are leaving for the States next week. They have both decided for very good reasons not to finish their two years. It seems to be a trend for Botswana volunteers and I’m beginning to wonder if Peace Corps Botswana should only be 1 year to start with and that way communities don’t have to be disappointed if volunteers leave before their term is up. Susie and Andrew broke the news to Monica and me on the same day (by coincidence) last weekend. It was sort of a shock and we felt a little bit like the rug was pulled out from under us at first, but once I was used to the idea of truly being the only lekgoa anywhere around Kole, I realized it won’t change my situation or experience that much. They are still lovely people who still have every intention of making me comfortable and happy in Kole and I am capable of being a happy and effective volunteer there.
I moved to a gov’t house with running water (luxury!) and have part of my furniture. So, my housing fiasco is still getting worked out, but I feel comfortable and people seem to be concerned about getting me the stove and gas-run refrigerator as soon as possible. They have even said that electricity will be installed. Complete luxury! :)
The staff at the health post have been extremely receptive and understanding about my role as a health care volunteer. Other volunteers have run into expectations of being at the clinic/health post 40 hrs/week. It’s difficult to do any sort of community mobilization from that position, but my co-workers seem to understand that I will be more effective if I am mobile. I have already been invited to teach a class in English (I will do a short HIV/AIDS education) in the standard 7 class at the primary school. I can, in turn, sit in on their Setswana classes. Since they speak Segkalagadi in their homes, the kids really are learning Setswana at a level that will be helpful for me. I also have a tutor. He is the standard 1 teacher. Most of the teachers are young men, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to tutor me, but he is an older gentlemen and therefore automatically more . . . respectful. (Two of the other teachers have proposed marriage . . . they must have had enough contact with Peace Corps in the past to have realized that Americans don’t require leboa, the fee for marriage which can be up to 20 head of cattle (40,000 pula)). I also have a “walking partner”. She is one of the FWE’s (family welfare educators) at the health post. We haven’t actually followed through on our walking date for 5pm after work every day yet because she’s in the process of moving, but I have been walking and it is completely safe to do it alone if I want or need to.
I think I have determined that the population of Kole is about 800 or 900. There is a big gap in the middle of the village where an air strip used to be (to fly in health care workers before the health post arrived). So, it was hard to tell, before I started walking around.
I am excited about the possibilities of doing HIV/AIDS education with the staff at the health post and then having them help me make an AIDS day for the community of Kole. We will serve lunch and tea so that people come and then present the history, modes of transmission, how ARV therapy works, time frame of the disease, behavior change methods, and most importantly, ANSWER QUESTIONS. Some of my fellow volunteers did a workshop for the Red Cross while we were still in Moshupa and the questions we got were surprising. (I feel like I’ve written this before, I hope I’m not repeating myself) . . . anyway, one woman asked how it was possible that a baby of an HIV + woman be born HIV – . . . it’s strange that PMTCT is so successful and almost every pregnant woman in Botswana is enrolled who needs to be enrolled (we are only missing about 4%) and yet that question is floating around. Eish.
I also think I have mental health skills to offer my co-workers and Kole. I hope to talk about “active listening” and “counseling skills” which are things that I only had three months of training for before working at Mendota for a year and a half . . . but still, they seem to be topics that are only talked about and not really practiced, even in the health care setting. Ultimately, my goal will be to increase cross-gender communication. As important as the extended family is in the history and culture of Botswana, the nuclear family unit seems to have no bearing and it is extremely uncommon to find a husband and wife actually living together and raising children together. They are working in different places and grandma has the kids. So, sexual relations happen between all kinds of people, and things like, “sexual history”, are virtually unheard of, especially if discussed between a man and woman. To change the HIV/AIDS situation in Botswana, something needs to happen regarding cross-gender communication, especially in the bedroom.
I’m out of time for the internet. I will write in the next two weeks.
Take care, I love and miss you very much!
love, leah
Hello, hello, hello,
I apologize in advance if this gets scattered or abstract or if I sound flustered . . . this past week has been a whirlwind of activity (who would have thought, in a small African village).
I spent the weekend in Charles Hill after a grocery shopping trip in Ganzi (which is a big deal . . . iceberg lettuce never looked so beautiful and fresh and green). There was a farewell gathering for Andrew, the DAC (District AIDS Coordinator) volunteer in Charles Hill. He is going home a year early to be with the love of his life and sail his boat down the coast of Maine. He is 60 years old and has done 8 years of Peace Corps service, as a volunteer and staff member. I could hardly wish anything different than for him to go home early. His office hosted a lovely party, and had really nice things to say to him and going away presents that they bought for him and his significant other who they met when she visited. It was an emotional day. The previous group of volunteers is half-way through their service, so they were on the way to their Mid-Service Re-connect in Gaborone. Susie, the volunteer in Ncojane arrived during the party and was in tears because she had just called to put in her notice, as well . . . so, we were saying goodbye to Andrew, and trying to support Susie in her decision (which she is still wavering about . . . we will hear a final, final answer about whether or not she is leaving or staying later this week).
There is a PMTCT drama competition in Ganzi on Aug. 4th. Every village is supposed to have a drama team. The theme is “Safe Preparation of Infant Formula” . . . Kole is in the process of forming their team (yikes! We are way behind schedule). I am on the catering committee for the event, besides making signs to advertise the event in Kole, and try to get potential drama team members to come to a meeting at the clinic (our 2pm meeting time yesterday was ineffective). I am also on the catering committee for a Crime Prevention workshop next week in Kole . . . Crime Prevention is a gov’t dept. that deals with cattle and goat theft. I was at a meeting at the kgotla, which was all in Setswana, and at the end they asked me what committee I wanted to be on . . . I thought I should probably be involved in whatever it was so I said, “ke batla go apaya (I want to cook).” And there, you have it, I’m on the catering committee for the Crime Prevention workshop. Stock theft is the primary concern of my kgosi and village headmen.
Since Andrew left, I am left in charge of forming our Village Multi-Sectorial AIDS Committee. This is an extension of the national program response to HIV/AIDS. There are District Multi-Sector AIDS Committees, but it seems they don’t reach the village level, where HIV work is most needed. So, the District AIDS Coordinators are supposed to form VMSACS . . . Andrew came to Kole a couple of weeks ago and we set a date for a training session where the whole village is invited and the DAC will explain what VMSAC is and who should be on the committee. (I apologize for all the acronyms, Botswana is FULL of them and it quickly becomes part of one’s vocabulary). So, I heard on Monday morning that the date we set wouldn’t work because the DAC (Theresa, Andrew’s counterpart) couldn’t attend. She was supposed to lead the training so we had to pick a different date. After the meeting about the crime prevention workshop, we had a two-hour meeting (in Setswana) picking a new date for the VMSAC training. Every once in awhile they would ask for my input, but I’m afraid they understand as much of my english as I do of their setswana at this point because I had to explain the same thing each time. They wanted to know: “What is VMSAC?” I said, “That’s what the training is for: to explain what VMSAC is and who should be on the committee.” They said, “Okay” and then a little while later would say: “Who is supposed to be on the committee?” Eish, it took forever and I felt confused and frustrated at the end of it all, realizing I was in a position of go-between . . . I have arbitrarily become the connection between the village heads of Kole and the DAC office in Charles Hill and those two things are worlds apart. The kgosi was upset that the nurse wasn’t at the meeting because this was an AIDS-related thing. One of the reasons for starting a “MULTI-SECTORIAL” committee is to help villages realize that AIDS is much more than a health issue. It affects all facets of life (and therefore all sectors of the village).
After picking the date, I called Theresa in Charles Hill, head spinning, asking for some advice about how to present VMSAC in a way that would make it more than a health care staff driven committee. She informed me that the old date we had would work after all and the new one wouldn’t, she would be at a conference in Gaborone. Deep breaths . . . I told the kgosi we would reschedule the training yet again sometime in August (or maybe September . . . it’s up to Theresa now).
The idea behind VMSAC is brilliant: churches, pastors, health care workers, members of local gov’t, school teachers, community members, traditional healers, NGO’s, etc would choose representatives to form an AIDS committee that would: 1. identify needs of the committee, 2. form a plan to respond to HIV/AIDS, 3. Mobilize resources, 4. report results to the district level in order to further address the needs of the community. This is the sort of thing that looks great in writing and I saw first-hand this week why it is hard to implement using a top-down approach. And I also am feeling rather desperate about needing to learn Setswana . . .
Besides that, there is a funeral of a prominent community member of Kole. This is a week-long event. Every evening at 5pm, we gather at the family’s home and there is singing, praying, and preaching by various kgosana’s (headmen). The man who died was the headmaster at the school in Karakubis, a neighboring village, for the past 8 years and he died unexpectedly of complications of appendicitis. So, we have lots of people from out of town staying in the village. After the half-hour service, food is served to anyone who needs it. Apparently, not every family would be expected to feed the attenders of the funeral events, but since this is a prominent family, everyone knows food will be there. I am seeing the Basarwa or San people (you know them as Bushmen, but that is considered a deragatory term) for the first time. They are tiny and light-skinned and they understand Setswana, but tend not to speak it so have the appearance of being mute. On Saturday, goats and cows will be slaughtered and on Sunday morning (around 5am) we will have the burial.
Tatlego, the female teacher at the school, has been telling me what to go to and how to dress and what my duties are “as a woman in the village of Kole,” she says, “You must help cook and serve food at the funeral one night. We will go tomorrow,” she informed me yesterday. I am so grateful for her direction. The nurse at the clinic also is there, helping me. I had them over for tea on Monday evening after the first funeral event. And I am invited to watch a movie with them on Friday . . . there is a strange mix of ancient customs and modern influences every day . . .
I am almost out of internet time. To be continued . . .
I love hearing from you! I will try to come to Ncojane almost weekly, so feel free to email updates about your lives.
Take care! XOXO
love, leah
Dumela, gape (hello, again).
I came to Ncojane again to meet with the Headmaster at the junior secondary school and have a conversation about the GLOW (Girls/Guys Leading Our World) club I am hoping to help start there . . . he is receptive to the idea of letting his teachers and students be involved. It’s sort of a tricky situation because there is an 8 day long event in December that is supposed to the the spring-board event to starting a leadership club. Speakers and workshops and lots of interacting with like-minded youth while discussing difficult topics that are taboo at home (HIV/AIDS, sex, healthy relationships, communication skills, decision-making skills, etc) are supposed to the the inspiration for a club to do their own activities in their school and community . . . only one teacher and three students can attend. So, with grace and diplomacy (and still lacking language skills), I, as a new pc volunteer, am supposed to at once introduce myself, select the “best” teacher, and tell them to select three of their “best” students, all without offending anyone. Eish! But I am very excited about this. It is partly possible because of the unfortunate news that Susie has finally made a decision to leave her service and return to grad school in the U.S. (in Boston). She has been so sweet the last week, giving me endless gifts of apples and tomatoes (produce is so amazing these days) in attempts to alleviate her guilt. I think she is making the right decision and I have tried not to add to the agony of her decision by telling her how much I will miss her. I will adopt Ncojane if we are doing regional events or, like GLOW, if older youth are involved.
To continue the comical/frustrating fiasco of attending and understanding meetings . . . last week Monica went to a PMTCT meeting in Ganzi. I wasn’t there because no one told anyone in Kole it was happening. It was to continue planning for the drama competition event in August. The meeting started at 9am. Charles Hill is at least a two hour drive from Ganzi, so the staff from C.H. arrived late. They spent about half an hour being reprimanded for being late and not taking the meeting seriously. They proceeded discussing the sub-committtees for the event and who was on them. Monica was wondering, as part of the publicity sub-committee, what her responsibilities would entail. They explained that publicity was letting people know about the event. Monica was grateful for the definition, but still feels at a loss for her actual role in the process. Perhaps the Ganzi District should form a publicity sub-committee to let the villages know when meetings in Ganzi are happening. Anyway, they then discussed when the next meeting to plan the event would be (and, I, for one, am hoping that some actual planning starts happening at this one or I will be partly responsible for there being no food at the event as I am on the catering sub-committee). The next meeting is next Monday. Monica was so bold as to suggest that the meeting start at 10am, since Charles Hill is two hours away from Ganzi (not to mention Kole which is three hours) and it’s unrealistic to believe everyone could arrive by 9am. Clinic staff aren’t on duty until 7:30am. If Pearl and I are serious about being there on Monday, we will go to C.H. on Sunday night and leave with them the next morning. The Kole drama team has come together surprisingly well. The last two practices fell through, but there is one today that I am pretty sure people will attend. They were hoping to practice over this four-day weekend and I was rightfully skeptical about that actually happening. Six people met at the clinic last week to write a script for a play and pick out songs for the performance. These people can sing and dance!
This morning, I went with Pearl on a “home visit.” I was excited, thinking we were doing PMTCT work and following up with mothers who hadn’t come on time for formula or something . . . but we were reminding people that tomorrow is Thursday. Every Thursday morning at 5:30am, those patients who are on ARV treatment are supposed to come to the clinic and get blood drawn for a CD4 count check. It is taken to the lab at Ganzi with the ambulance (remember ambulance is an old, white covered pick-up full of people who may or may not be sick and may or may not just need a ride to Ganzi for groceries). If an ARV patient hasn’t shown up for awhile, they are put on a list and Pearl takes the list and chooses a few, usually who live close to each other to go remind that tomorrow is Thursday and they should go get blood drawn. If it seems unreasonable to expect patients (who are presumably sick, since they need to be on ARV’s) to come to the clinic at 5:30am, there’s a good reason for it. The blood can’t sit overnight.
I was informed at 9am that there was a meeting at 9am at the kgotla about the crime prevention workshop (it’s this weekend, and, if you will recall, I am on the catering committee . . . I just volunteer for the same thing to make it easy for myself to remember what I’m supposed to do at each event). ;) I went to the kgotla to inform them that I wouldn’t be able to attend the meeting because I was going to Ncojane with the doctor, but please let me know when to show up to cook on Saturday. They said fine, the meeting probably wouldn’t start until 10am, come back then if the doctor hadn’t come. The doctor came, but didn’t stop in Kole. In a place where transport is so rare and coveted, it is so disheartening to see the vehicle that you actually knew was coming go flying by without you. So I asked for a ride with the clinic driver who was taking patients that needed to see the doctor in Ncojane. He said, “of course, but the car won’t start.” We fussed around under the hood for awhile and finally got it to start with some pushing. Then I piled in with half of the people who needed to see the doctor in Ncojane. The driver had to go back for the other half. Don’t ask me why they didn’t just wait in Kole for the doctor to come back through. And don’t think about it too much yourself, either, my brain is starting to feel rattled from shaking my head.
Hm, I accidentally brought you up to the moment and left out stories from earlier in the week. Yesterday, I got a cat. I heard from Andrew before he left that the owner of the gas station in Charles Hill had some older kittens that they were giving away for free. Monica had inquired for me, and sure enough, there were two, a boy and a girl, about 6 months, all shots taken care of. I took the girl home. Her name is Lefifi, Lefi for short (it means dark in Setswana). She is pure black and has semi-long hair. She is sooo pretty, and that is not just a biased pet-mom’s opinion. Batswana are supposed to be afraid of black cats, but the four Motswana who have seen her have been impressed. :) The owners gave me some cat food until I have a chance to go to Ganzi and get more, but she will eat people food, too, especially the canned fish that are so readily available (again, I don’t understand why, these fish are canned whole in tomato sauce. They smell horrendous and don’t seem edible for humans but people don’t feed their pets anything but pelutshe — paylaytche — cornmeal mush).
Ah! I have all kinds of “these people”-type statements coming out in this email. I apologize, I do know better than to generalize, but I guess it’s inevitable in the process of learning and (hopefully) coming to understand “these people.”
Anyway, Lefi seems to be adjusting surprisingly well to a new home. She is eating and using her litter box and sleeping with me and purring almost constantly just like she’s been there forever.
Tomorrow morning I am supposed to have a meeting with the Kgosi. I confirmed it this morning, so I think it will happen. I want to hear about the history of Kole and the political structure and demographics and his perspective on HIV/AIDS and how it affects his community. This is all part of the small anthropological study that Peace Corps assigns along with the advice to “relax and not try to start any projects and adjust to the language and culture in the first three months.” I hope it will be helpful in gaining perspective . . .
The funeral ceremonies that I mentioned in my last email continued all last week and culminated with the arrival of the body on Saturday night and the burial Sunday morning. For a country that has experienced a lot of death recently, they sure haven’t given up on the cultural practices for funerals, at least for important public figures as this teacher apparently was. Friday morning, I was at the school, “supervising” the fifth graders cleaning their classroom. Three girls did most of the work and all of the explaining to me about the process, which involved slopping buckets of soapy water on the floor and rolling up our pants and sloshing around in the cold water (brr!) to mop the extremely dusty, dirty floor. I finally understood after the fact that we were doing such a thorough cleaning because the school was hosting out-of-town guests for the funeral. We took all the chairs across the road to the family’s home where the services were held and secured all the books in locked closets because, Tatlego informed me, they would “walk off” with the guest teachers if we didn’t. It was the first time I had thought of the possibility of something being stolen in Kole, and I have my doubts that it would have happened. Tatlego attended the church of the man who passed away, so she gave me special insight to the funeral proceedings and took me by the hand (literally) to the proceedings. She was leading hymns and prayers and by the end of the week, I was not only recognizing melodies, but understanding phrases (Modimo wa rona, re kopa go botsa . . . Our God, we want to ask) . . . It was a wonderful opportunity for me to be “visible in the community.” While I was in Charles Hill, Monica’s counterpart told me that her aunt had seen me (the lekgoa) at the funeral and she thought it was nice that I was there. So, I am grateful, but found the whole process extremely exhausting and can’t imagine if I had actually known the man. The prayer service on Saturday was from 8pm to midnight and then the viewing of the body on Sun. morning started at 4:30am. The burial service started at 6:30am and ended around 10am. Then people were serving food at the family’s home until late in the afternoon. I have no idea where their energy came from, I couldn’t think of eating, let alone cooking.
Besides Tatlego, a new lady teacher, Lizzy, arrived last week. I like her so much. She has two daughters, one in first grade and one 9 month old and a nephew who she is registering as an orphan today while we are in Ncojane. Her younger sister, Lesedi (the sister to the father of Lizzy’s kids, actually, but Lizzy introduces her as her sister) is also staying there for child care and to “keep her busy” because Lesedi just failed out of University. Lizzy just arrived last Friday, so we have the common bond of being “new to Kole” (as she says). That family unit is fairly typical, by the way. They are all staying in the gov’t house provided for Lizzy . . . I assume it is against protocol to have extended family stay in the gov’t worker houses, but I know it is common.
That’s all for now.
THANK YOU . . .
Beth, for the package. I was delighted with the tea and lip gloss. :) The chocolate probably would not have survived, and I don’t mind the typed letter. Thank you, thank you.
Aunt Linda, for the lovely article and letter.
Mom and Dad, for your steady slew of letters . . . I don’t mind if you repeat yourself, Mom. ;)
And to all of you who sent emails.
Ka Lorato (with love),
Leah
Even though at times I still wonder why I didn’t request (or why Peace Corps didn’t figure it out for themselves) to be placed in a Spanish-speaking country. But mostly, I am so grateful to have a completely foreign experience. And to be forced to learn (still learning! can’t wait ‘til I say speaking) Setswana. Some of you may be dismayed at the news that, as a result, I have changed from a hippy, liberal Madisonite (bordering on socialist) to a raging capitalist. Maybe not quite raging, but still, I am gaining a new appreciation for the American Way. I’m not sure if I told the story of my friend Monica’s host mother in Moshupa expressing dismay that Oprah wasn’t going to build a school for Botswana, too (“We are suffering!” she said). This attitude, of wanting anyone but “myself” to relieve this so-called “suffering” is rampant. Besides, if by “suffering” you mean lacking cell phone network and living in an area with limited transport, well I seem to be surviving just fine. My colleagues are appalled that I am living without electricity and without a refrigerator (which is supposedly coming next week). I thought I would be forced to live more simply while serving as a PC volunteer. Instead, I find myself having to make the same sort of effort to reduce my consumption as I would in the States. Anyway, about capitalism, the lack of business sense continues to surprise me. The volunteers before us warned us that we would have to beg to spend money. I didn’t quite understand what they meant, until the first time I wanted to buy something that wasn’t readily visible at the store in Moshupa. I asked where to find the pens (in Setswana). The woman who I asked simply said, “I don’t know.” I tried again, “I want to buy pens. Do you have any?” It was like I was bothering her. “Do we have pens?” she asks her co-worker. They think about it for awhile and half-heartedly search in their immediate viscinity (at the cash registers) . . . needless to say, I gave up. “Customer Service” is literally a foreign concept. Interesting. With an astronomical unemployment rate, you would think it would be the ideal environment for entrepreneurs. Not so. At least not for the Batswana. ALL of the business owners are foreigners. In fact, shops are called “China shops” precisely because of this phenomenon. Several Indian and Chinese merchants have figured out that Botswana is an ideal place to have a business . . . there are customers because there is actually money in Botswana and there are no other shops because it hasn’t occurred to a Motswana to open one. Eish! Pick yourselves up by your bootstraps, people! But then, roughly 40% of your working class are infected with HIV. Okay, fine, I will cease begrudging you lack of business sense.
Last Saturday I did indeed cook for the crime prevention (as in prevention of cattle theft) workshop. The older brother to the kgosi gave welcoming remarks. For some reason he felt it necessary to mention his idea for the latest cure for HIV- drinking the sap of a local tree, I’m afraid I don’t remember the name of it. Good think it’s completely useless advice anyway. I am not particularly distressed that this old man is adhering to an old ideas (that sap does have medicinal properties) and refusing to recognize the impact of HIV/AIDS in his village or his country . . . I do wish he would keep his ideas to himself. My friend Thatlego (a teacher) presented an intelligent rebuttal to his remarks.
Susie is leaving tomorrow. It is almost a relief, she was wavering for so long (recently she had changed her mind to stay again and then finally made the final decision to go).
Last weekend, the teachers and women who I was cooking with made me feel particularly welcomed and at home in Kole. I almost shirked my duties as part of the cateringt committee because I woke up with a slight head ache and not really sure what to expect and feeling like I wanted a break. I considered staying home in bed or maybe going to Ncojane to help Susie pack. I managed to at least get out the door and then three of the teachers who were on their way to the workshop insisted I go . . . I’m so glad I did. I heard them say over and over, “Ah, Thapelo is doing well here, she is already adjusting. She is just like one of us.” etc., etc. I honestly don’t know exactly what it is that I am doing to “do well” but I am so grateful for their feedback. It balances out the inevitable moments of frustration. There are so many things I don’t know about how to be a “good African woman.” I am supposed to always leave a light on in my house after dark, for example. Explaining that I don’t want to waste paraffin doesn’t seem to be a very good explanation. At the funeral two weeks ago, while I was helping serve tea on Wednesday evening, my task was to pour cold water into the pots of heating water over the fire. An old man pointed to one of the pots and said something to me in Sekgalagadi. I assmed (never assume!) that he was telling me to pour the water in, which I already knew to do. As I started to pour, he stopped me and berated me (I don’t know what he said, but I felt berated) and everyone laughed and laughed. Someone translated for me so I would know what he said, “he says you don’t listen and you wouldn’t make a good wife.” I refrained from dumping the bucket of water on him but I did set the bucket down and make as graceful an exit as possible, knowing I was creating yet another offense by walking away from my duties. (That is the reason I “needed a break” from the funeral and didn’t go to the service on Thursday evening). This is exactly the sort of thing we were warned about in training when the current volunteers told us, “they will laugh at you, you have to have a sense of humor and be willing to laugh at yourself with them . . .” I thought I was Ms. Sense of Humor, but when little emotions are amplified by the feeling of being a foreigner in a foreign land, it gets harder to laugh.
Last Friday I received a package from the PC office . . . it was forwarded mail from Gaborone. It was so much wonderful support and good wishes from home all at once that it had the unintended effect of making me somewhat miserable . . . I dealt with the homesickness by writing a song. I will share the lyrics with you:
“I wonder why I choose to travel far
crossing oceans where they’ve gone before
doesn’t seem to matter
what I’ve left behind
or how good it is on the other side.
I hope that those who I have left behind
can feel the thoughts and prayers and dreams of mine
I send them often
back overseas, wishing desperately for those close to me.
And yet I’m grateful as I soon recall
that it is they who have sent me far
they form an anchor
in my soul that will keep me here to follow this call.”
So, that is dedicated to all of you.
I will try to briefly tell one more story (I have 7 minutes left of internet time) . . . On Monday I was told that I would have transport to a PMTCT drama competition meeting in Gantsi. I arrived at the clinic at ten minutes to 7am. At 7am, no ride, so I stopped at one of my co-worker’s houses and said, “I’m going to try to hike to the meeting.” After waiting for an hour and a half I got a ride with our own clinic vehicle going to Charles Hill. About 5 km outside of Kole, we got a flat tire. A police vehicle from Ncojane came by. They were going to Gantsi. I went alone (for a very bumpy ride in the back of the truck with no padding – ouch) and got to Gantsi about noon. I arrived a few minutes before the ride that was supposed to pick me up (they forgot me) from Charles Hill because it had made so many stops along the way . . . Monica was fuming but we were soon laughing and shaking our heads together about the ridiculousness of the transport situation.
Okay, that’s it for now. Love and miss you,
Leah
Greetings friends and family,
One of my fellow PCV’s and good friend Cassie who stays in Gantsi has a somewhat famous quote from our first week at site. “I feel awkward 100% of the time.” Monica modified it to her situation, “I feel confused 100% of the time.” I didn’t know what to say at the time and I think it’s because what I am is overwhelmed. I would compare the culture shock curve to highpointing . . . there are false peaks in sight all the time and each time you reach the crest of that false peak (of language proficiency or cultural understanding or level of comfortability with life in Kole) another peak lies in the distance. I am better at Setswana than I was when I came to Kole. But I have recently had the revelation that I really need to learn Sekgalagadi. And even the things I do understand about the language are sometimes not enough. This morning, I was at the school for their assembly before they close for a month-long break. One of the women who cooks for the school asked me if I would take her back to Europe with me when I left. I knew what she was saying but I still felt unable to reply. I am not going back to Europe because I’m not from Europe and I can’t take her and why would she want to go but I can’t say any of that without feeling like I might sound annoyed or condescending. So, I say, “ma?” Which means, “what?” and then I was reprimanded by my tutor who knew I understood and told me to respond appropriately in Setswana. “Ga ke kgone.” (I can’t). That was a perfectly satisfactory response, apparently, because she nodded approvingly. I forget that about three quarters of what the elderly people of Kole say to me is more like a quiz than a conversation. I used to think it was normal to greet in three different languages and with a few different phrases all meaning the same thing. Now I realize that was just seeing if I knew what I needed to know. Out of curiosity or genuine concern, I am not sure, but it is good practice whatever the intentions.
There is an inservice training for Peace Corps at the beginning of September. We have a community assessment assignment that is supposed to show the efforts we have made to integrate into the community and also to way out a work plan for the extent of our service. In training, the assignment sounded like work, but I am grateful to have something tangible to produce for Peace Corps. It is incredibly satisfying to see things on paper (for we, the academically inclined and verging on anally retentive Type A personality). I have a Setswana lesson plan, including language learning goals and total hours studied each month. I am still making progress with the GLOW (girls and guys leading our world) club for Ncojane. There is a country-wide activity called “Run for Life” that includes a half-marathon race in October. I have a team leader (although he is currently not well, so I hope he can recover in time for the race). A team takes a pledge for living a zero-transmission, healthy lifestyle and completes community projects to educate the community about what they are doing and why. The race is just for fun and for publicity. I will go pass out water if I don’t stick with the training regimen in order to actually participate. I am only about a week behind, currently.
I created a questionnaire to give to the teachers at the Primary School to get their view of gender roles in Kole. Understanding gender roles is relevant to understanding the spread of HIV/AIDS and so it’s one of the things our community assignment should address. I wrote the questions and passed it out sort of half-heartedly, thinking I already knew the answers. Men work at the cattle post, women cook and clean and care for the kids. It makes an agrarian society more efficient to have those roles designated and gender has historically been a way to divide societies. But of course it’s more complicated than that and I did learn new things from their answers. For one thing, I expected there to be generational differences (that young men and women would no longer adhere to the strict gender roles). Not so. The urban, rural divide is much more pronounced than the generational divide. Young people in Kole will imitate their parents unless they visit an urban area for an extended period of time, in which case they could choose to act differently at the expense of much harrassment from their elders. For example, the teachers at the school are mostly young men. They cook and clean and one of them has two orphans living with him from his extended family. I handed the survey out as another young man was hanging his laundry on the line. So, they are willing to step outside of their traditional role . . . but when they go home, the sisters and mothers will take over such “womanly” duties.
Gender roles aren’t inherently bad. I would say our society with currently more or less mumbo-jumbo gender roles isn’t exactly making the nuclear family unit function smoothly. However, when considering the spread of HIV/AIDS (not to mention womens’ rights), it is difficult for me to refrain from judgement. I am at risk of being culturally insensitive about this topic. There was a BONASU (blast these acronyms, I don’t remember what that stands for; Botswana National something having to do with AIDS) conference in Charles Hill on Wednesday. Monica got to attend, I was in Gantsi at an evaluation meeting for the PMTCT drama competition and to plan the regional competitions. She told me that the kgosi’s of the sub-district attended the conference and that the facilitator was excellent and the information was really good. So, I’m glad it happened and I’m glad she was there. One of the activities that involved group participation was: facilitator states X, if you think it’s true, raise your hands up high, if it’s false, keep them in your lap, if you’re not sure, put your hand under your chin and look thoughtful . . .
statement: “It is okay to hit your wife or girlfriend.”
Kgosis’ response: hands raised high
statement: “You can tell if a person has HIV/AIDS by looking at them.”
Kgosis’ response: hands raised high
statement: “You can get HIV/AIDS by sharing a fork with an infected person.”
again, hands up
You would hope these responses would be based on a language barrier as opposed to ignorance, but alas, the workshop was conducted in Setswana and the kgosi’s are quite well educated.
Mr. Moncho, my tutor and one of the teachers at the school, brought up that “cultural preservation” is more of a concern in rural areas in general (when he was completing the questions about gender roles). Language, traditional practices, etc. are adhered to for longer in rural areas. This is a good thing! But again, it becomes difficult to refrain from judgement or trying to “change things” when it comes to the spread of HIV/AIDS. When I interviewed the kgosi, Rra Ramoswaana, I asked him what issues were addressed at the kgotla meetings in Kole. He said kgotla meetings were where the community discussed any problems or met important political figures who visited the village. I knew that and wanted a more specific answer so I said,
“When was the last kgotla meeting and what was it about?”
“May 23rd and it was about cultural preservation.”
(Wonderful! I though, he had already expressed concern that the young people of Kole were going off to the cities, chasing after a Westernized lifestyle and shirking their duties at the cattle post and I shared his concern partly because it puts them at higher risk of infection to be such a mobile population exposed to higher-risk lifestyles).
“What was the main concern at that meeting?”
“We were saying that people should marry within their clans.”
I suppose that would be one way of ensuring cultural preservation. But still, the response surprised me.
Last weekend was the PMTCT drama competition in Gantsi. There was a meeting to finalize the details of the event on Thursday. I wanted to be sure to go so I could here straight from the horse’s mouth, as they say, that transport was being sent to pick up the team in Kole (I was skeptical after my personal experiences with promises of transport). I had a lovely time in Gantsi with Cassie that day. It was the first time I had been there without rushing around doing errands in order not to miss transport back to Charles Hill. Gantsi is an interesting place, only 10,000 people actually live there but it is close to the border of Namibia and there is a convergence of cultures. Herrero, Bakgalagadi, Basarwa, Batswana, and Afrikaners (quite a few of them). So, I enjoyed having a day not being busy taking advantage of the SPAR grocery store and plethora of other shops that seem to overwhelm such a small town. I stayed with Cassie who has four puppies and the Peace Corps bare minimum housing requirement of one room that fits a bed, a wardrobe, a table and a half-fridge. She does have electricity and she is neighbors with another peace corps volunteer who works for an organization called “True Love Waits”.
Anyway, the drama competition hoopla started Friday morning at 10am. I was supposed to meet with the catering committee at the RAC (Rural Area Committee). Everyone arrived around 11am and we were given a ride to the venue where we were to cook. We had tea and waited for the pots and pans to arrive. I visited with the other ladies and read a newsweek that Peace Corps sent me (which was really nice . . . that’s another idea for my wonderful, supportive family who send me packages!!!) :) To make a long story a little bit shorter, I ended up going around with the head of the catering committee to finally collect the pots and pans from various places in town: the schools, the wildlife department, and a restaurant. It was a process, they had written letters in advance to request the use of their serving bowls and spoons, etc. We had to sign a register and write down exactly the size and number of what we took. At the wildlife dept., they actually spray painted everything with a green mark. The lack of structure or formalities that one might expect in a third world country with sky-high HIV rates is . . . well, they aren’t lacking. Structure, formalities, committees, acronyms, meetings, conferences, workshops – there are plenty. I didn’t help with dinner on Friday because I wanted to be at the Primary School where the drama teams were going to sleep when Kole arrived. I should have helped with dinner. They finally got there at 11pm. I was no longer there at that point and got a call from my tutor saying, “can you come? We have a problem with accomodation.” I was given directions to tell them to go to Brigade, the place where we were cooking, for dinner (even after I had suggested we simply leave food at the school after it became obvious that Kole wasn’t arriving until very late). So, I had a ride from Cassie’s friend and got to Brigade first to find the doors locked, no food, no people. I called the woman who I was working with earlier. She told me that they had taken food to the school after all and gave me the number of the woman who was supposed to be there to meet Kole. I called her and she said, “I’m at the school, where are they?” I still don’t quite understand how they missed each other, but anyway, we all ended up at the school and I got the kids started eating while Pearl (my counterpart) made rather a spectacle of herself expressing her frustration and hunger and lack of sleep towards Kereng, the poor woman who was responsible enough to make sure Kole had food and accomodation. Again, to shorten the story, it all worked out in the end. I was at Brigade early the next morning, chopping onions and cabbage and mixing cabbage salad in huge tubs (with my hands and arms, there is no utensil for stirring that amount of coleslaw). I left Brigade about 11am so that I wouldn’t miss seeing Kole perform. They were wonderful, especially considering the circumstances (new team members and props they had never used). We got fourth place out of seven.
They have expressed interest in continuing to practice and perform at events like World AIDS day in September. I really hope I can keep getting them together, even if we aren’t traveling and performing, to give them something to do together that they enjoy. I might even teach them salsa or swing. And, of course, a little bit about HIV/AIDS.
Saturday night, I realized that one of the group members was ill during dinner. We ended up taking him to the hospital, and I had the honor (and I mean that, I was so touched) of being in the examination room with him. They gave him pain medication which he reacted to so he vomited, then the nurse tried giving him a shot of hydrocortisone to counteract his reaction and couldn’t find his vein. Then the doctor walked in (thank goodness!) and eventually we were on our way with more pain meds, antibiotics, and vitamins. I was also on a private mission to re-hydrate him because I am fairly certain that was the main reason for his fever. He did have an abscess on the side of his nose that was infected so it could also have been the cause (which is what the nurse said).
I have continued checking on him this week. He was supposed to go to Gantsi to visit the hospital for review from that doctor on Thursday and he didn’t go. I didn’t get a good explanation of why, but I can’t help feeling slightly responsible because I wasn’t there Wed. night to remind him or tell him what time to be at the health post to catch the ambulance. It is distressingly difficult for patients to actually get a ride on that ambulance. Once five people are in the back, no one is really interested in taking someone else along. Anyway, he is doing fine, obviously getting better on his own. I might offer to go with him next week if he isn’t totally healed.
On the ride home from the drama competition, I got up the courage to tell Pearl that I couldn’t ride in the back of an open pick up truck (according to Peace Corps rules) and asked her to take my place in the back of the huge flat bed truck that was transporting the group (about 12 of them) home. There were six of us in the cab which was quite crowded, especially after we stopped in Charles Hill to pick up the two babies of the PMTCT counsellor from Ncojane who was riding back with us. She tried to pass one child over to my kgosi’s older brother. He stoutly refused and she shot a pleading look over her shoulder at me. I didn’t hesitate, of course, and so I had a precious sleeping baby on my lap all the way back to Kole.
I was about to burst with gratitude after that weekend.
I hope this finds you all well. Please email or write when you can. Aunt Wilma, thank you so much for the package, I love ginger cookies and chai tea. Good choices! :) Mom and Dad, I got the travel mug, granola, face lotion, and orbit gum. Yeah!!! Thank you.
thoughts and prayers and dreams from me to you . . .
love, leah
Dear friends and family,
Dumela, gape.
It had been incredibly windy (meaning sand, everywhere!), but that part of spring is over and now it is beautiful. The nights are not as cold, I actually throw the blankets off sometimes, and in the morning I forget to put on my slippers which would have been miserable and unthinkable even a couple of weeks ago. There is a bush that is common ground cover with little yellow buds that I finally connected with a sweet new scent in the air. I noticed it when I was jogging the other night and actually thought I had gotten a whif of someone’s strong perfume as I went by. But it persisted. I am told that when it rains, the flowers open completely and I imagine it will be striking.
I am delighted to have our nurse back . . . she is rejuvinated after three weeks away at workshops and at home. She had me over for dinner and a movie on Sunday evening. Her daughter, Larona, is just over a year old and has more personality than any baby I have every met (sorry, Helena, I only met you briefly!) We were sleepy, wrapped up in blankets, watching a bad South African movie on TV and she was full of energy, using a wash cloth to dust everything in the living room (including us) and also wearing it as a hat occasionally.
Besides her adorable child, I am glad Twenty is back because I needed to talk to her about my relationship with Pearl, my counterpart. I got the unfortunate news last week that Pearl fits perfectly into the picture of immature, catty, jealous counterpart about whom we heard horror stories from our fellow Bots 5 volunteers. I knew we had communication issues, as I liked to say, but I honestly thought it was mostly due to language barriers and the fact that she is spacy. I’m afraid she isn’t as spacy or unintelligent as I thought. She has deliberately not informed me of important meetings or opportunities for transport to events in Charles Hill or Gantsi. I am finally understanding why. She is angry with me because I, “took her house” (I don’t know how thoroughly I explained that predicament but Pearl and I had a very civil conversation about it and she assured me that I should move into the house she had applied for because 1, I had applied for it first and 2, the gov’t is required to provide me housing and is not required to provide her housing because she is in her home village). Acting civil towards each other in public is very important. Genuine disagreement or argument is not appreciated. Culturally, it was more appropriate for her to express her frustration with the housing situation to someone other than me and to assure me that everything was fine. There could be other reasons, too. I’m white, which everyone is so unafraid to point out, and that means I have a lot of money, which I have almost given up trying to counter. (Relatively speaking in terms of the whole world, yes, I am rich, but in Botswana, I am not. This is not a poor country and Pearl’s salary is certainly more than my Peace Corps stipend . . . still, she manages to neglect supporting her two sons, from different fathers, neither of which live with her). Anyway, enough of that to avoid further catty-ness, but I feel like I have regained my place at the health post since Twenty came back and she has been reassuring and helpful about Pearl. Pearl and I will be fine. We haven’t been rude to each others’ faces, which, as I say, is important.
The Regional Drama Competition was last weekend. There were ten PCV’s in Gantsi for the event. I met some new people who have been here a year. It was fun, and I worked hard on the catering committee, endlessly chopping green peppers on Saturday morning. I had a great sense of accomplishment at the end of the weekend when I came into the kitchen before leaving and received warm greetings from my fellow cooks, (“T-Girl!” was my nickname). They pulled me into the storage room to make sure I got my share of the drinks that had been provided for the catering committee (Grape or Orange Fanta and Stoney Ginger Beer). They knew I liked Stoney best, I’m not sure how.
I was feeling guilty about being gone from Kole so often, partly because of my poor cat and partly because the phrase, “you’re never around,” from a villager actually gives me a physical pain in the chest. I don’t want to be a PCV who is using her time here as a vacation in Africa. But again, the nurse and Katlego reassured me that I am doing fine. I need to make the sorts of connections I have made by being involved with the event in Gantsi in order to be an effective HIV/AIDS worker. In a country as developed as Botswana, with so many organizations already responding to HIV, the biggest challenge I have is getting the “officials” in Gantsi and Charles Hill to include Kole, not to forget us, to send transport, to invite us to the workshops, etc, etc which doesn’t happen if there isn’t someone saying, “helloo, remember the settlement villages, please!” Even so, I’m afraid Kole is low on the pecking order. The transport for this last event arrived after midnight and everyone on the mini-bus from the Charles Hill sub-district had somewhere to sleep. Except for those from Kole who slept on the bus. In the morning, I saw one of the drama group members who had come to observe the competitions and said, “How are you?” “Not sharp!” Which was a funny, Africanz/Englishized response meaning, “not okay” and he explained what had happened with “boroko” (accomodation). I helped them find the person in charge of accomodation who showed them a room at the Senior School where they stayed for the rest of the weekend. (A common greeting in Gantsi area where there are lots of Africanz is: “Howzit?” and the response is “Sharp,” pronounced “Shop.”)
I asked Obusitswe, the garbage collector at the clinic, to look after Lefifi while I was gone. He did a wonderful job, and wouldn’t accept any money. The broom was moved, so I know he swept my house, too, which any good Motswana does once a day. And he changed the litter box even though I didn’t ask. I am hoping he will be available again when I go to Kanye (near Gaborone) in September for our two-week Peace Corps In-Service Training. Several of the Motswana, including Katlego who I consider a good friend, are afraid of Lefi. Cats, especially black cats, are associated with witch craft. So asking someone to cat-sit takes on a whole new meaning.
I think Kole’s Run for Life team is becoming a reality! There are at least four interested young men. Run for Life is an organization started by PCV’s in Botswana. The team signs a pledge to live a zero-transmission lifestyle. They train together for a half-marathon that was supposed to be in October. Luckily for us, the funding for the event has been delayed so the race won’t be until January or February. In the meantime, we can hold our own local race in conjuction with World AIDS Day in December. It is so good to have these concretely scheduled things in mind . . . it makes me feel useful.
Besides that, I am realizing that the Kole Youth are actually fairly organized. Those who were in the drama are the same youth who have formed soccer teams, volleyball teams, and other drama groups in the past. They have recently elected a new committee of youth leaders and are forming a schedule for the year. I am involved and it feels awesome and fragile at once. Those who are closest to me and most helpful are also cynical about the youths’ commitment. They say they are not “serious” and that I will get frustrated waiting for them to show up for practices. For now, I remain impressed and grateful at their level of involvement and commitment. They have continued to get together to practice songs and dances at the community hall about five days a week since the drama competition. I have told them about a drama workshop that the Botswana National Youth Council is planning for the Gantsi district in September and another one that Monica is going to plan for the Charles Hill Sub-District in December. I’m hoping those things keep them motivated.
September 30th is Botswana’s celebration of Independence. The youth are fundraising to be able to put on a talent show for the event and are planning a new drama.
This weekend, Katlego and Twenty have convinced me to go to D’Kar with them to see a Basarwa traditional dance festival. I was reluctant, not wanting to leave Kole again, but they assured me as someone who likes to dance that this event should not be missed. Besides, without them in town, my weekend nights would be lonely.
I miss you and think of you often. A few of you have asked for ideas for packages. I’m not hinting, it’s just a convenient way to let you all know at once. ;)
Multi-vitamins, candles, hand sanitizer, Paul Simon’s Graceland cd, more pens, more tea
Much love from across the Atlantic,
Leah
Friends and Family,
The task of conveying the last several weeks when I haven’t written only gets more daunting so I am finally going to try to catch up.
I spent two weeks at a Peace Corps training in Kanye, 80 km outside of Gaborone. It was a strange thing to stay at a motel with every meal served in steaming silver food warmers, an air conditioned training room, pens provided (pens are a rare commodity), and running hot water . . . ah, hot baths. There was a “football pitch” (soccer field) right behind our motel and we played after training every day. It was good to interact with the Peace Corps staff in a neutral, fun setting. Our group was unfortunately less than polite and gracious to our Motswana trainers and Peace Corps staff. Emboldened by weeks of experience as actual volunteers, I’m afraid they forget that they are dispensable. Two girls were actually written up for being disruptive during training. One of them during her presentation about her site asserted that “integration is a joke.” She is not as disastrous as her commentary makes her out to be when she is in her village, doing good work. It is a matter of semantics. Africanized British English doesn’t always come through clearly for our American English-oriented brains and “integration” was taken as “morphing into a Motswana.” Besides that slightly sour aspect of the two-week workshop, it was mostly like a delightful vacation. I roomed with Andrea and Stacy. Andrea is from San Diego. She is doing well at site which doesn’t surprise me at all. She is so sweet and sincere. Stacy is from Seattle, Washington. She is also fantastic. We have talked about hiking the Appalachian Trail together (with Cassie) after we get back.
I had a hard time soaking in all the suggestions we got during training. “You could do X and Y and Z and in your spare time, run a half marathon with your Run for Life team and re-evaluate and fix PMTCT in Kole.” (My Associate Peace Corps Director told me I don’t know anything about HIV/AIDS in Kole, which is sort of true). So, my being overwhelmed 100% of the time was only reinforced, even though it was also inspiring to hear about others’ villages and experiences.
I was nervous about coming back to Kole. For some reason it seemed like I would virtually be starting over after being gone for some time. I got back on Saturday evening and on Sunday, I went for a jog through the village. People waved and shouted and I did more stopping to greet than actual running, but the natural high that I got was just as intense as if it were purely exercise endorphins. They were happy to see me. I was relieved.
Right away on Monday, it was crunch time. The infamous VMSAC (Village Multi Sectoral AIDS Committee) training workshop was scheduled to start at 9am. I had set up chairs and swept out the community hall the day before, but besides that I felt clueless as to what preparations should be made. As usual, things fell into place and took care of themselves. The young women who I work with in the drama group prepared tea and lunch for a village crowd of about 40. Theresa, the District AIDS Coordinator, and Monica came from Charles Hill to conduct the training. The purpose of the committee is to coordinate and plan HIV/AIDS activities in the village and then report such activities to Theresa (who in turn reports to the District level at Gantsi). Then someone compiles all those activities and sends them off to PEPFAR in a report so that Botswana Gov’t can keep getting the HIV/AIDS funding it needs. Kole is one of the last villages in the country to form a committee. One of the activities during the workshop was to split into four groups and answer the following questions:
1. Is HIV/AIDS a problem in Kole? Are many people affected?
2. What are the problems with ________
a. prevention
b. care of PLWHA’s (people living with HIV/AIDS)
c. care and support of orphans and vulnerable children
d. stigma
3. What gaps are there in the services to address these issues and what new services or improvements can you suggest?
I was delighted. What a wonderful opportunity to hear what the villagers had to say about HIV/AIDS in their village. The answers were overwhelmingly, “Yes, HIV is a problem and it affects many”, “There is a lack of education in the village about prevention”, “the Home Based Care committee could be doing more to provide care to those who are infected/affected by HIV/AIDS”, “Stigma is a problem” . . . I didn’t understand everything that was said/written, but there was also consensus that the orphans were well taken care of because the S&CD (social and community development) Office dutifully distributes food baskets and school uniforms. Whether or not they are distributed to the children who need them most or used by the relatives is hard to determine.
The older brother to the Kgosi (he’s the one who suggested drinking tree sap to cure oneself of HIV) was in my group. He was sleeping through part of it and got up and left for part of it and I soon realized that he was being almost purposefully disruptive, clearing his throat loudly when people were talking, etc. At one point, he tapped my shoulder and said, “You answer these questions. And do it in English. We know nothing of these things.” Some other group members protested slightly and I pointed out that we had already answered most of them and in Setswana, but he got up and left again. Luckily that attitude (that HIV/AIDS and anything related, including talk of prevention, treatment, and care is a new-fangled thing brought in by white people who speak English) is not prevalent.
To diverge from describing the workshop and balance out my experience with Rre Ramoswaana, I was so proud to see that the youth are still meeting daily at the community hall even in my absence. They also put on a talent show to raise funds to buy their group uniforms and possibly sound equipment. They are still selling sweets, chips, choppies (gum), and oranges at the phone shop. On the way home from the workshop, Mma Maoto (one of the FWE’s Family Welfare Educators) at the clinic stopped me and said, “they want someone to speak at school tomorrow at 7am for ten minutes about HIV/AIDS, will you go?” I did, and the kids were receptive and the teachers praised my simple “Facts and Myths about HIV/AIDS” activity to high heaven. So, things are far from all bad and the young people seem to be incredibly receptive to me.
Have I told you about Run for Life? This was something else that happened in my absence . . . I’m not sure if that should be offensive or if I am doing a good job of making the community take ownership of these activities. Anyway, Run for Life is led by PCV’s all over Botswana. They form teams that run together and also do community mobilizing activities (health talks at the school, HIV awareness days, environmental health (pick up litter) day, etc) . . . there is a half-marathon race at the end of October in Gaborone. Teams can also host local races to raise awareness of Run for Life and promote healthy living in general. Team members sign a contract to live a zero-transmission lifestyle. I have a team coordinator packet with all kinds of information about training for a race, proper nutrition for runners, ideas for other team activities, and scheduled events. I had talked about the possibliity of having a team with Mokwaledi, one of the drama group members, who I knew liked to exercise (we had run together a couple of times). I left him a couple of articles from the Peace Corps newsletter about Run for Life as inspiration along with the Team Coordinator packet before I left for Kanye. He was at the workshop on Monday and said, “I found three others. We start tonight.” So, Thomas, the health auxilliary at the health post and he will most definitely be in the race in October. I and two girls, well, a small miracle would have to happen in the next five weeks, but we will maintain the team spirit anyway. Sagokatsang (20) and Olebogile (22) are my new running mates. They showed up Monday at 6pm sharp, matching t-shirts and stretch pants. I had heard from other PCV’s who have teams that running shoes are not generally favored by team members. At the end of the race last year, people were holding their shoes and running barefoot. Sure enough, one of the girls was in pink plastic flip flops and the other in slip-on flats. And no bras! Eish, I can’t imagine. I will have to get up the courage to ask them if they don’t have bras or if they prefer running without them for some masickistic (sp?) reason.
Twenty, our nurse, had to rush off to a workshop in Gaborone on Sunday morning, so I only saw her briefly before I left. I was sad to see her go so soon after I got back, but it has been sort of fun to have the responsibility of “checking” (go tlola) on her maid and baby girl, Martha and Larona (meaning ‘ours’). I go over in the morning and afternoon and have a lovely half hour or so of baby time to give Martha a break and to rejuvenate my spirits.
Where was I with the workshop? After the training, we elected a committee and the first meeting is tomorrow at 2pm. Before she left, Theresa told me, “Thapelo, try to organize an event by the end of the month. I want Kole to have an active VMSAC.” During the elections of the committee, someone said my name and Theresa informed them that I was on it whether I wanted to be or not.
They are constructing toilets at the health post. There is a pit latrine there now, but we are upgrading. There are about 12 workers who are there as soon as it’s light (shortly after 6am) and they mix cement by hand and carry it by the shovel full 30 feet or so to the spot where the building is. It is no longer remotely cool as I have been complaining about so frequently before. In fact, it is downright hot during the day. So it looks like rather miserable work. On Sunday morning when I went to visit Twenty who lives right behind the health post, one of the women workers saw me carrying groceries into the house. (When I got back I discovered the gas for my fridge was out so the groceries that I brought went to Twenty’s). She said, “mpe” (give me). I passed around a bag of apples. It was striking to me how much of a relief it was to give something tangible which we are so discouraged from doing and which I normally try to avoid at all costs. I think it was the first time I did anything remotely resembling a “hand out” since I’ve been in Kole. Later that day, I opened a letter from my mother that had a line from Cathy’s sermon (?) a book she is reading (?) . . . not sure, but anyway, it said something like: intense aversion for creating dependency or enabling laziness is all well and good. But what about compassion?
I am overwhelmed. I am happy. I think of you often and hope you keep up the amazing stream of correspondences. The last batch that I received all at once after being in Kanye made me sit on my couch and cry for about an hour, but it is absolutely necessary to know how much love and support you send my way. Thank you!!!
Love,
Leah
Dumela (Azoga – sekgalagadi),
This was Independence weekend. Last Thursday, President Mogae declared that Tuesday would be a holiday. Monday already was because Independence, September 30th, fell on a Sunday. So, we had a four-day weekend at the last minute, as per his majesty’s whim (Tautona Mogae – Big Lion Mogae). He is revered. Maybe because he gives his people extra holidays.
Anyway, the celebration was on Sunday, it started at 8am with a prayer service at the kgotla. There was a program that included performances from the very drama group I took to Ghanzi. They have been practicing, albeit sporadically and came up with two new dramas for the occassion, one of which was HIV/AIDS related. I’m so proud of them. They were busy practicing last night for another performance at an awards ceremony at the Ncojane Junior Secondary School next week. That brings me to beautiful moment number one:
Last night I joined them at the community hall for the first time in awhile, since Run for Life practices conflicted with theirs for the last couple of weeks. I’ve finally convinced the runners to run in the morning. It is cooler and then we have the rest of the day for things like drama practice. So, I’m with the group and they are singing and dancing and including me in their circle which is humbling and wonderful. I have to leave the practice early to check on Katlego and finish filling out our GLOW application form that was due today (that’s why I’m in Ncojane, I had to travel to a fax machine). ;) So, I walk out of the community hall, the singing following me, and turn around to enjoy the moment. The sun was a huge blazing orange ball setting behind the ridge that makes up the edge of the saltpan to the west of the village. There were camel thorn trees and traditional round chalets silhouetted against the most amazing sky I have ever seen.
Rainy season is here, which means more wind (yesterday we had a full-blown dust storm, pun intended) and a few drops now and then, but most excitingly at this point, it means clouds. Which means beautiful skies. The real rains will come next month, we hope.
That “moment” made me think of all my loved ones and of the bigger picture and of a Holy Presence and of how incredible it is that I have the opportunity to be here.
Much love from Botswana,
Leah
(How is it going at Kole) . . .
Dear friends and family,
I don’t know where to begin. Ga ke itse gore ke simolola kae. I will have to be categorical again, in order to organize the growing number of experiences that I am failing to tell you regularly enough.
Run for Life:
We have an additional team member. His name is Rider Pelo. He is the cousin of the Standard 5 teacher, Rra Pelo. Pelo means heart. So, we share a last name, sort of. Anyway, Rider is 24 yrs, involved with the drama group, and was running regularly before Run for Life started in Kole. He is in excellent shape, completely capable of running 21 km. His English is quite good because he is from Kanye or somewhere nearer to Gaborone. Since he has joined, the team communication has gotten better, as in, we understand each other about practice times and training schedules (I’m afraid those things are not in my Setswana vocabulary).
Mokwaledi continues to be the star of the team. He is only 19. I believe he has amazing potential as an athlete . . . perhaps to be an olympic runner. How can I help him with that? Hopefully Run for Life is a start. And doing things like feeding him dinner after we ran too late and his family went to bed after dinner without saving him food. That happened a couple of weeks ago. I was bathing and he knocked on the door. I finished quickly and went out expecting to find my neighbor who had invited me over for dinner (which is record book worthy in Botswana. Dinner invitations do not happen, you are just supposed to show up). Anyway, it wasn’t my neighbor, it was Mokwaledi who asked me in his broken English if I could prepare food for him. I was overwhelmed, grateful that he would ask me, and guilty that I was responsible for him being hungry at that moment. Mostly, though, I was beside myself because I couldn’t feed him. I didn’t have any gas to cook with and very little food because I hadn’t been to Ghanzi recently. I was grateful that my neighbor had offered to feed me. So, I took him next door and said, “Will you feed him instead?” Shadrack fed us both. That man in saintly. Earlier in the evening he had driven me down the road, stopping every kilometer so I could get out and spray paint a rock or tree with the number of kilometers we had gone from Kole towards Ncojane so the team could keep track of how far they were running. Mokwaledi and I were searching for the elusive 2 km mark and ended up getting to 3km before turning around, so that’s why he was late for dinner.
Keolebogile is the daughter of our local crazy person. I just found that out last week when she accompanied her mother to the hospital in Ghanzi on the ambulance. I was surprised. Her mother couldn’t have raised her. Sometimes the communal society that creates dependence and discourages taking responsibility for one’s actions is a wonderful thing. The extended family raised Keolebogile well. Anyway, she is the one who ran in pink plastic flip flops. She is 22 yrs old, tall and skinny. I could blow her 21 km. But she is prone to ankle injuries and last week she stopped after a kilometer and informed me that her heart wasn’t working well (Pelo yame ga e bereke sentle). Oh, dear. What have I done by taking responsibility for these kids being “healthy.” No wonder the villagers are skeptical of me and my work.
A side note about her mother. My fellow staff members at Mendota and I used to commiserate about having signs on our backs or foreheads or somewhere that said, “If you’re crazy, talk to me.” Even away from work, we found ourselves listening to people whose reality is slightly different from our own. On the bus, at the Memorial Union, walking down State St. I assume it comes from lacking the usual fear or standoffishness that people can’t help having towards someone who is actively crazy. Well, the sign followed me to Botswana. This woman is the daughter of a sweet old man who is also crazy but less active and therefore less noticeable. Bati on the other hand is quite mobile and with the change of season, her illness, whatever it is, is aggravated. During our morning prayer meeting at the health post, she comes in loudly greeting everyone (especially me). A quirk of hers is to collect various litter and items from the ground and keep them in various pockets in her numerous articles of clothing. While we were praying, she came up to me and started emptying the contents of her pockets into my hands, refusing my suggestion she should sit down by me and pray. She needed to unload first. I received a strange variety of things, including a condom wrapper, much to the amusement of my neighboring prayer-goers. I finally asked where she lived so I could take her home, but she had no interest in staying there once we arrived. The next morning, she was back at the health post and the FWE’s shared a tender moment with her, helping to rearrange her three skirts and pants in a more manageable fashion (as in, around her waist as opposed to around her ankles). She danced when they were done and went out smiling.
Segofatsang is related to Keolebogile somehow. But physical they are dissimilar. Segofatsang is shorter and very solid. She is 22 and has a beautiful laugh. She talks and laughs constantly while she runs which impresses me. She is very fast. She beats the boys sprinting, even Mokwaledi. I love it.
Thomas is our most sporadic runner. He is the health auxiliary at the health post. He is a blessing and a challenge for me. He speaks English perfectly and is also an outsider in the village. So, we vent to each other and I can ask him sensitive questions about how to follow village protocol. (It was he who was denied the use of the community hall for a karate/exercise group and for whom I wrote a letter to the VDC “clarifying the use of the community hall.”) He feels ostracized by Kole villagers, especially by the village leaders. He says, “They say I’m a drunk.” Well, you kind of are, Thomas. A couple weeks in a row, he was drunk on a Tuesday along with the health post driver. I know because I sat in-between them on the way to Ncojane in the ambulance, transporting patients to see the nurse there when ours was not around. They were passing a bottle of brandy. They thought my purse-lipped refusal of the bottle and reprimanding was cute, part of why I am so wonderful and attractive as their alcohol loosened tongues were repeating along with increased frequency of marriage proposals. So, I can’t rely on him completely, but he is such a valuable resource. He is smart, funny, and “born to teach”, as he says. He could do so much HIV/AIDS work with me and it would be helpful for him as well if I were including him in my work (entertaining him with something other than alcohol). As far as Run for Life, he is the oldest (25 yrs) and the other team members look to him as a leader. He is also very athletic, small and quick but his stamina isn’t good because he doesn’t hold himself back in the beginning.
I got disappointing news this weekend. I found out that the GLOW commitment I have on the same weekend is being held in Maun instead of Gaborone, so I can’t do both things after all. So, two other PCV’s who are taking teams to the race are going to have to take care of my kids, too. I am disappointed and feeling frazzled.
GLOW (Girls and Guys Leading Our World)
I have eluded to the history of it before, but I happen to have the specific information in my head at the moment, so I will tell you. It was started by PCV’s in 1995 in Romania. I don’t know what the specific situation was in Romania that inspired the volunteers to address gender-based issues, but I imagine it was similar to the plight of women in the rest of world: poverty, lack of autonomy, dependence (and therefore vulnerable to exploitation) on men. It is so wonderful to write those lines and know that all (I hope) of the readers will understand what I mean and not be offended. Explaining what GLOW is to the villagers has taken some tiptoeing around, trying not to criticize a culture that has hierarchical, deeply defined gender roles that put men above women in every sense. (Hence the dikgosi’s reaction to the question, “it is okay to hit your wife or girlfriend” . . . Absolutely). I had a disheartening conversation with Thomas last Thursday. “What about BLOW?” He asked, concerned that the boy-child was being left out of the gender empowerment equation. I said, the G stands for both guys and girls and I explained that this year there would be GLOW camp for both genders specifically because the gender empowerment is not supposed to focus on women. Men also suffer from gender roles that encourage them to have many sexual conquests in order to prove their manliness. He said, “Women can’t try to be men, they don’t know how to lead the world. They are going to get themselves in that position and then they will see how hard it is to be a man.” I was so upset it was hard to be coherent and articulate in my response. He is the new generation, the modernized Motswana man who dreams of having a wife someday (not the mother of his two children, but someone who he is really in love with, he says).
Our delegation got picked to go to the GLOW camp in December!!! I am delighted. We are going to hold our first GLOW club meeting next Wednesday. I have no idea what I will do for it . . . discussing the qualities of a leader and maybe an introduction to talking about gender roles and their implications for being able to accomplish our life goals.
There is a training of trainers meeting for all the PCV’s and local leaders (for me, it’s Katlego) on Oct. 27th and 28th in Maun. We will discuss all the activities for the camp and finalize a schedule and who will be leading each session. I will be teaching salsa classes at some point, using the metaphor of a partner dance to encourage gender equality, a partnership involving communication, respect, and fun.
Maun
I spent this past weekend in Maun with Monica and Cassie. Monica and I went to the National PMTCT Drama Competition, the culmination of all the other drama events with which I had been involved. I will not bother to pull you into the frustration that was trying to find out how to go, who to take, what transport to use, etc. The Ghanzi District and Charleshill Sub-District are fighting so the Charleshill Sub-District wasn’t considered “officially invited” (even though there was a project that got first place at Regionals and was going to Nationals from the Sub-District). So, no government transport could be provided for drama group representatives who we were hoping to take, to make a long story short. Monica and I got to go because we applied for imprest, money from the Dept of Health to reimburse us for lodging, food, and transport. I’ve never had a job where I could do that. It feels cushy, and yet another sign that this country is fine with or without us. I am so glad they let us stay.
Maun is the gateway to the Delta from the West. We got in around 12:30pm on Friday and the smell of rain was overwhelming. There were puddles. I think I was actually bouncing and clapping my hands in delight. Water! And green! There were palm trees, flowers, tall, tall trees . . . so much green. The backpackers hostel where we stayed was right on the river. There were outdoor, HOT showers and tents with mattresses on the ground which were quite comfortable sleeping quarters.
On Saturday when we got back from the competition, the owner of the hostel was on his way out to pick up some tourists who had gone on a dugout canoe trip down the Okavango River. He told us to come along and we jumped at the opportunity. I was in heaven, on the water, wind-whipped hair, sun setting, and birds everywhere. We got out to swim at a point that he assured us was safe from crocodiles and hippos. That was also heavenly. The most interesting site was a pair of Ground Hornbills. Hornbills are a common family (the bird in Lion King is a hornbill). But Ground Hornbills are endangered. They are huge, they look like small people hunched over in black cloaks with red around their thick beak and throat. The tourists who we were picking up were from Spain. They were on a bird-watching trip through Botswana. The next morning, drinking coffee at the open bar/restaurant, I had a lovely conversation with them. I surprised them with my Spanish and the older man was delighted to be able to speak to someone besides his traveling partner. He doesn’t know English. He said, “Diga a tu madre que te ha ensenado muy bien.” (Tell your mother she has taught you well). There you go, Mom. Be proud. J I was struggling to speak naturally because Setswana kept sneaking into my mental formation of sentences. “Hablas Espanol?” “Yes, ke hablo espanol . . . I mean, Eish!”
On Sunday, we went to the bus rank. There was the bus, rickety looking as it was on the trip to Maun. It was sitting in the gas station parking lot across from the bus rank and we went to talk to the driver about when it was going to leave. He said, “Can you fix this engine?” That is yet another assumption Batswana have about someone with white skin —- you are a handy person. My friend Hunter was put in charge of fixing two staplers at his clinic. I have been asked to repair an ancient sewing machine at the school. I wouldn’t know how to use the thing even if I could repair it. It’s from the 1930’s. Anyway, we regretfully informed the bus driver that we didn’t know how to fix the bus, so he said, “Then the next bus will leave tomorrow at 8:30am.” Oh. Okay, we will just go back to our Little Piece of Paradise. I was happy to stay an extra night, although it made Monday an exhausting day of travel. I got back to Kole at 10:30pm. My poor cat had ripped into the dry cat food bag because I hadn’t left enough days worth of food and couldn’t get ahold of Twenty (who has my key) to tell her to feed him. I’m glad he is resourceful. The gas cylinder for my refrigerator ran out while I was gone. So, my late night project was to cook something quickly that I could eat the next day, then switch the gas cylinder over from the stove to the refrigerator so I could keep the produce that I had brought from Ghanzi and also salvage a few things that hadn’t quite gone bad yet, some onions and a box of unopened grape juice. The rest, butternut squash, milk, some green pepper and cucumber, were stinky and had to be disposed of.
Scorpions
Monica told me her dog had found a scorpion in her yard the day before we left for Maun. Her dog tried to bark it to death, she said. I saw my first scorpion last night, scurrying around my yard when I went out to empty Lefifi’s litter box. It was rather alarming. I’m glad I had to use my flashlight. It was pitch black because it was cloudy. It looked like there might be rain and there was lightning. Still no rain for us, though.
Games and Puzzles
Denise sent me a wonderful package that included candles that make my house smell strongly of vanilla and lemon and other delicious things. She also sent a puzzle. It has been the perfect activity for the four or five Standard 5 boys that visit me on the weekends. They have been playing Uno and trying out the guitar. The puzzle is foreign to them, though, so they tired after an hour and one of them asked me, “Can we ask you about HIV?” My jaw dropped. I almost cried I was so happy. I got out my flip chart paper and bostick and markers (you can’t learn anything in Botswana without those three things) and we went through the 20 question HIV/AIDS knowledge quiz I got during training. I have a copy in Setswana. I think we had an hour long lesson. I’m a little worried that the parents of those boys will hear that I’m talking about sex when they come to my house. One of their mothers asked, “What do those children do at your house?” I said, “They play games,” keeping it brief partly to feel out why she was asking and partly because I only know how to say so much in Setswana and she is one who is barely impressed with my Setswana, wanting me to learn Sekgalagadi. She said, “Tell them to go home and work.” It started an interesting conversation about how children in the U.S. don’t work, but they take responsibility for their own lives for the most part when they move out and they do move out, physically away from their parents (which is strange to them). The biggest implication of this difference is that young parents in the U.S. take care of their children, of course with help from Mom and Dad. But here, it is very rare for a young mother to take care of her child. I had a baby, Mom, here you go. The men, at the mean time, are at the cattle post.
This is far too long. For those of you who don’t like to skim through these, I have taken up too much of your day. ;)
I love and miss you all dearly.
Love, Leah
October 31, 2007
Dear Friends and Family,
Weather:
It’s hot. Not at night, so sleeping is quite pleasant, but as soon as the sun’s rays hit the sand, the coolness of the night is forgotten. There are prayer meetings, asking for rain. Rainy season is a good time to hold these, the prayers are answered. However, rainy season does not mean days of cloudy, rainy days as one might think. It means wind (this wind must rival Iceland, Aunt Wilma), and if it hasn’t rained very recently that means dust storms. In the afternoon, the wind picks up, dust swirls in small funnel clouds, and dark clouds move dramatically across blue, sunny skies. It has the effect of the world wearing a a dark cap over blue, sunny hair that shows on the sides. It rains for 15 minutes at the most and then the clouds blow away. It is more calm at night, but the smell of rain is strong and the lightening is fantastic. Sometimes it sprinkles at night.
Mosquitoes:
They are there, in force, especially in Maun, near the river. It was a relief to get back to my own bed and mosquito netting after the GLOW weekend.
Girls and Guys Leading Our World (GLOW):
There was a training of trainers meeting in Maun this weekend. Katlego, as the leader of the delegation of girls who will be attending the GLOW Camp in December, was supposed to come with me to plan the event with the other Peace Corps Volunteers and Community Leaders who are taking delegations. (There are 10 delegations of boys and 10 of girls). I had a long meeting last week, called by the Guidance and Counseling committee at the school. They were concerned that Katlego would be representing the school while on “off’s” (vacation). It’s against policy, apparently. So, I suggested that we consider Katlego a “community leader” instead of a teacher and that she would only be representing herself and a few girls from the community, not necessarily in connection with the school. Surprisingly, that was convincing. Then we had the inevitable discussion about how I did not follow protocol in choosing the leader of the delegation. There should have been a meeting with all the teachers and they should have decided together who would lead the girls. I described the situation of being rushed to turn in the application. Katlego happened to be with me in Ncojane (she was hitch hiking to the clinic because we didn’t have a nurse here in Kole at the time) so she heard before anyone that Marakanelo Junior Secondary School in Ncojane wasn’t organized enough to send a delegation. So, really, her being picked was a series of accidents, was my plea. I apologized and assured them I would do things differently next time, but it was still hard to move on to the subject of, “What do we do from here?”
There is great concern about the liability of the school for these girls while they are at the camp. If something happened while they were on the road there, for example (road accidents are very common because of all the cattle, ostriches, donkeys, and goats that seem to spend the majority of their time on pavement), the school would have to explain where those girls were going and why. So, the headmaster wants to be sure the Education Officer in Gantsi is informed that schools from his district are involved. This means more official letters, ideally from GLOW itself rather than from the school or from me.
I am getting trained as a diplomat, which is an advantage I had not foreseen would present itself during my Peace Corps service.
The training of trainers meeting in Maun went well. There were 40 of us, going over the schedule for the camp, signing up for leading sessions, sharing ideas about what to teach the kids, and going over rules and regulations for the campers and what the expectations were for us as leaders. For example, questions about how luxurious the accomodation would be, or how nice the food would be (by the Batswana counterparts) had to be addressed. After the first rather embarrassing reminder that we were going to be at this camp for the kids and not for our own comfort or enjoyment, I thought those sorts of queries would cease, but not so, one woman in particular was very concerned about her comfort during the camp. (“Will we be reimbursed for food that we buy on the way there? What about for those of us who have to travel far? Do we get paid for our time? Can I stay somewhere else that’s nicer in Gaborone and just come to the camp when I want to be involved in a session?”) This woman is an unfortunate representative of a sense of entitlement that I’m afraid is rather rampant, especially among the educated population of Botswana.
My sweet Katlego was also not her usual stellar self. I’m not sure if it was to show off for her fellow conterparts or what, but she asked challenging questions that displayed a level of immaturity that surprised me. “Is “Lights Out” for everyone or just for campers?” And we had a long discussion started by her about whether or not the girls and guys should be kept at separate camps. This was a good discussion to have, although it displayed the lack of understanding on the part of the Batswana how much planning and organizing has already gone into the event. Changing the venue at this point would be impossible even if they managed to convince the leaders that the goals of the camp would be better met with both genders learning together.
There was quite a bit of drinking, by the counterparts, mostly. Although PCV’s do their fair share of “partying”, especially away from their sites, I am confident my colleagues would not show up to an official event/meeting drunk, and a few of the counterparts did. I hope the kids who complete the GLOW program will be more responsible when it is their turn to display leadership. Eish.
Run for Life: They did it! The boys ran the half marathon and girls did the 5 km race. I dropped them off at Monica’s place on Thursday night, gave them money for the weekend, and we exchanged phone numbers so I could be in touch with them over the weekend. On Friday, government transport took them to Gaborone. My friends Liz and Stacy who also took teams took care of their accomodation at a backpacker’s hostel outside Gaborone, near the Mokolodi Game Reserve (which sounds like a neat place for those of you who are considering a visit . . . there are permaculture gardens, composting toilets, and other conservation-focused projects that vary with the work of volunteer group). The race was on Sunday morning. I got a text message from Liz when it was over, “The race went well, I think everyone had a good time.” I called one of my girls and she said, “The race is not good!” (Hm, that’s a contradiction). It turns out she was only disappointed because they didn’t all win. Apparently the race wasn’t well monitored and there was a lot of cutting corners. The boys ran the half marathon in an hour and 5 minutes. They very well may have won if everyone had stuck to the course. I’m proud of them.
The way home was a bit harry for them. They got off at “the junction” (there is a turn off to Charleshill, 44 km before you reach Gantsi from Gaborone and 200 km away from Charleshill) in order to hitchhike. They didn’t make it to Kole and had to spend the night at Mokwaledi’s father’s house in Charleshill. I felt badly because they waited for quite awhile in the sun at the hiking spot without getting a ride. I was in Gantsi (on the phone with them, but unable to really do anything to help them; transport is a problem!), coming back from Maun, trying to arrange to bring gas back to my house. It has been over a month now since I ordered these gas cylinders. I am tired of not being able to cook. Supposedly it will come today. Re tlaa bona (we’ll see).
Drama Practice:
The out of school youth are still practicing at the community hall. I went last week and it was good to be back with them. After practice they all sat along the edge of the stage and one of them told me they were waiting for me to say something. I’m not sure how they knew that I wanted to ask them about the possibility of having an HIV/AIDS Peer Educator Mini Course early next year or about starting sports practices at the school (volleyball and soccer). I told someone and they told someone who told one of the youth who told the rest of the youth but it all happens so quietly that I miss it and instead it seems like telepathy is a normal and frequent form of communication throughout the country, really. Anyway, they said they would be interested in HIV/AIDS education. The next day, Pearl informed me that she wanted to teach the kids at the community hall about PMTCT. (Several of those girls already have kids and one is currently pregnant). The plan is to have a “preview” to the course in November, giving Pearl the opportunity to do her group education with a fancy flip chart that is provided to all lay counselors. Then on Tuesdays and Thursdays in January, I will teach the “course.” They will get certificates for being peer educators at the end of the course. They LOVE certificates. One of the teachers at the GLOW meeting this weekend wanted to get a certificate. (This is a training of trainers, isn’t it? She wanted to know).
Dance:
I miss dancing!!! I think I will have salsa classes after the HIV/AIDS education as a possible incentive for them to keep coming and also as a purely selfish form of entertainment.
Beautiful Moments:
I have spent quite a bit of time with Larona, my nurse’s 13-month old baby girl. Last week I gave her a bath for the first time, and it was so much fun. I adore her. If Twenty gets transferred, which is always a possibility, I will miss her baby as much as her.
I had a meeting with the kgosi to talk about VMSAC last Tuesday. He invited me to his house. His wife gave me lunch, in the formal Setswana way, which includes washing my hands in a bowl of water before eating. On the way out, she brought me a bag of fruit – oranges, pears and apples. (They know I don’t have gas and can’t cook . . . the village is jokingly referring to me as a destitute).
There was a rainbow on Wednesday morning last week. It was huge and entirely visible because the sky here is so vast.
Go Fetsa: (to finish)
I miss you. It is strange to think of the trees having lost their leaves and chilly days starting (although I’ve heard it has been unusually warm lately). Write me often so I don’t lose touch with that and everything else about home.
Much love from Botswana,
Leah
Dear Friends and Family,
HAPPY THANKSGIVING . . . I hope you are enjoying the good company of those
close to you. This weekend I will head to Gantsi to celebrate with 17 other
Peace Corps Volunteers. Some of them are travelling ridiculously far in
order to be with us, and I am already grateful for being able to have a good
group of people to be with when I am far away from you. Turkey is rare and
expensive here, so we are having chicken (which I actually prefer) and we
aren’t stuffing the bird(s) because it is much too hot to use an oven.
Grilled chicken for Thanksgiving in Botswana will have to do. I will miss
Dad’s cranberry chutney and Grandma’s pies. You can all eat twice as much
in my honor. ;)
Peace Corps Volunteers are expected to experience up’s and down’s throughout
their service. We were given a handout during training that describes the
emotional rollercoaster we are likely to have, month by month. I am right
on target. I have been in Botswana for almost exactly seven months. I am
feeling on top of the world, or at least on top of the rollercoaster, as it
were. This stage has lasted for a pleasantly long time . . .
I get up before the sun finds its way through my bedroom curtains, making my
cozy refuge under the mosquito net too warm for sleeping in. Last week it
was so warm that I didn’t bother heating water for a bucket bath. The water
that comes from tap runs warm at first since the shallow piping is heated
easily by the sun. I have a bowl of cereal (there is a nice granola at
Score, the most reasonably priced grocery store in Gantsi) that I mix with
Wheatabix, the English/South African/Botswana version of shredded wheat. As
of late, I stumble sleepily outside to water the “plot” (garden) and flower
beds that I have created. My neighbor graciously brought me a load of
well-composted goat manure and I turned it into the sand and watered it for
several days before planting seeds. The flowers have disappointed me, but I
have little green basil sprouts that make me unbelievably excited . . . the
prospect of creating green in the middle of the desert, and in the not so
distant future – pesto, is very satisfying. And I think the smell of Earth,
whether it is infused with Kalahari sand or Wisconsin Sandstone, is the
same. It was a nostalgic process, turning over the soil by the shovelful
and tossing away the stones.
One of my Standard 5 buddies is watering my garden while I’m away. I am
planning on being gone from Kole for much of December, first for GLOW camp
in Gaborone, then visiting my family in Moshupa, then on a Christmas trip
with Monica, Cassie, and Liz. Boago (my friend/helper/student) will take
care of Lefifi and watering the plants while I’m gone. He has already
refused offer of payment. It was actually his enthusiasm which made me
plant the garden in time . . . I was thinking of waiting until after
December so I could be around to water and look after the plants. He
insisted he would help me. He and two or three others consistently come to
my house on weekend afternoons to play Uno, Yatzhee, or put puzzles together
(sort of, in their own fashion). Last week for the first time, a group of
girls came. The gender roles that I know are entrenched in these young
people, especially in places like Kole which are not exposed to the media
campaigns showing fathers cuddling their babies, doing the washing, testing
with their partners, and in other ways being a “monna tota” (a “real man”),
become evident even during Uno games. The boys are bold, playing red on
green and accepting correction without pause, jostling each other between
plays, and responding to my teasing or attention with loud giggles. The
girls sit like statues, or deer in head lights, seemingly hardly daring to
breath. One in particular was put through some rare form of torture by
participating in her first Uno game ever. When it was her turn, her eyes
would dart wildly from the pile to her hand, panic obviously blocking any
ability to reason out which card to play. She would turn to the other girls
and whisper, “what do I put?”. . . every time. Poor thing. It got better,
but still, when there was a pause in play because someone was contemplating
whether or not to make the next person draw 2 or not, she would put her card
down, apologizing for holding up the game, thinking the only reason we could
be waiting would be because of her incompetence.
In general, both genders are taught obedience. It is a value, like being
kind or studying hard in school, or helping out your family. It is also
considered a trait of a good leader, according to Monica’s GLOW club girls
(she has already started a leadership club for the girls at the Junior
Secondary School in Charleshill, aged roughly 13-15). I may have mentioned
this in previous emails, but my immediate family was surprised when I told
them on the phone a couple of weeks ago that the kids are often left
unsupervised in their classrooms at school. The teachers have a meeting, or
need to discuss something (which happens at least once every day), and in
the mean time, they tell the students to read something or right an essay or
study and then they are left to their own devices. This will never cease to
amaze me, the fact that the school doesn’t burn down as a result of this
lack of supervision, I mean. The amount of learning that happens
unsupervised is not suprisingly less than satisfactory, but the obedience is
impressive. Every once in awhile, a Standard 1 or 2 will rush into a
teacher’s meeting crying because so and so beat them, meaning they were hit
(no mark or blood or evidence is necessary for this to be a serious offense,
but as far as I’ve seen, it has not occurred to any of their sweet, young,
obedient minds to misuse the power to get their classmates in trouble with
false claims of beating).
GLOW drama has subsided. Katlego apologized to the other teachers for not
following protocol in being chosen as the leader for the girls at GLOW
camp. They all apologized back and gave their blessing for the delegation
to go. I was not invited to Guidance and Counseling meeting where this all
happened which seems to me to be against their own rules of protocol and
confirms my suspicion that the protocol is rather arbitrary and a form of
expressing petty jealousy (i.e., the other teachers would have liked to be
chosen by Thapelo . . . sigh).
Speaking of pointless protocol, I was just handed the letter that Monica has
written and edited about 4,000 times in order to request transport from the
Council at Charleshill for her GLOW group and mine to travel to Gabs for the
camp. We need an address (the one of this office, which is the same office
to which we are writing) on the right hand side of the page at the top in
order to make a formal transport request. The implication being that
informal transport requests will be ignored. This is probably a result of
Monica’s less than tactful dealings with the transport officer. He adores
me (the “beautiful lady” who knows better than to speak several volume
levels above the listener which is an unwritten rule that Monica ignores and
therefore intimidates the —— out of people). So, hopefully I can go next
door and sweet talk him into explaining exactly what the problem is with the
transport request because the location of the address is obviously not
really of importance.
Eish, how did I get on the topic of protocol, I am trying to describe how
content I am in Kole, but I didn’t get past watering the garden. Well, let
me give you snippets of the last week to end with, Monica is on her way over
and I need to intercept her before she talks to Cris and demands why he
needs the address in a certain place on the letter . . .
I spent most of Saturday with Twenty and Larona, lazing around her house to
avoid the heat, but preparing, in spurts, the “venue” (raking under a tree
and piling up firewood) and food and music for a party we were having for
our Family Welfare Educators at the health post as well as two Kole teachers
who have been transferred. There is a committee of all the civil servants
in a village called the VET (Village Extension Team). They are supposed to
work together to enhance the village to which they have been assigned, but
mostly the committee turns into a support network for each other. They seem
to feel sentenced to the small rural villages, especially those without
network or paved roads. So, they have parties for each other. An official
“Savingram” (invitation letter) is sent out with a donation amount – if you
want to come, you donate (this party was 50 pula, which is small scale,
apparently). I was in charge of shopping which was quite the fiasco,
running around Gantsi, comparing prices, trying to decide what to get for
two teachers who were transferred down the road from Kole and rejecting
Twenty’s suggestion of getting them a sandwich maker. These boys are not
the type to make themselves a grilled panini for lunch in between classes.
Pelutche does just fine, as it does for the rest of the population. I ended
up getting them folding camping chairs and air time units for their cell
phones (they will have network in their new homes).
The party was lots of fun and we DANCED, which was the best part for me. We
had an exciting (at least for me) scorpion event. The first one, I pointed
to quietly and then what felt like mass chaos ensued — the head teacher was
airborne for a moment I think, and there were several shrieks. I wondered
vaguely if I should run away, but before I could act, my neighbor (Mr.
Pikane, the one who brought me the manure), took of one of his sandals
(which in hindsight seemed foolish) and killed it. He jumped back at one
point when picking it up after we thought it was dead but it was still
twitching its tail. He smacked it some more with his sandal and then
scooped it up and threw it in the fire. Two more were spotted and killed
later, but they were the light tan/small version which is apparently not
very poisonous. The one which inspired such fear is apparently deadly for a
small child and when I asked Shadrack (Mr. Pikane) afterwards if he had been
stung he said, “oh no, you would know, I would be on the ground shaking.”
Gotcha. Avoid the black scorpions. The teachers have given me further
advice about keeping rolled up sheets or towels under the doors of the house
so they don’t slip in, searching for respite from the rain.
Rain. It rained for two straight days this week which was as fabulous and
Earth-shattering as one can imagine it being in the desert. The smell is
overwhelming. The green hasn’t exactly burst forth as a result, but they
say things will start blooming once we get more rain.
The youth have been avid about coming to football practice. We also had a
volleyball match with the Botswana National Defense force last week. Our
team was mismatched and never played together before, but we were evenly
matched against the military men (for some reason) and we had a great time.
This weekend there will be a series of sports tournaments as part of the
celebration of National Road Safety Day. I am not sure why Kole was chosen
to host National Road Safety Day. One might think the kgosi advocated for
his village to host the event to show the national road people that there is
no road in Kole, but actually the kgosi is not terribly concerned about that
(he is fiercely proud of his traditional village). Rather, he has been
advertising a “beast” (the word for livestock) which he hopes to sell at
some point during the weekend at the committee meetings which are held to
prepare for the event.
I have to go, it is past our scheduled lunch time and the RAC has been
deserted as a result, so we should lock up the office and turn in our new
version of the transport letter.
In short, I am doing well. And, in line with Thanksgiving, I am so grateful
to be here and be doing what I’m doing (which I feel like I am not
describing well at the moment, I will have to write more soon) . . .
Although I do miss you dearly.
Much love from Botswana,
leah
Dumelang,
Hey! Unto you a child is born!
I couldn’t believe it was Christmas time leading up to today, but last night, I was missing all the traditions of my family: the tree, the eggnog and eight gazillion kinds of cookies, the Christmas Eve meal, church and music and candles, the reading of “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever”, and singing of carols around the piano, etc, etc. However, I am in one of the most beautiful places in Botswana and fortunate enough to be with very good people who care about me: Monica, Liz, Cassie, and Nadine. Nadine is 62. She is from Colorado. It has been her life long dream to be in the Peace Corps and she loves it here. She lives in Kasane and works for a child day care/orphanage that was started by a single Motswana woman who took care of orphans in her back yard when people really started dying in number about 10 years ago. She (Nadine) is so far the best hostess I can imagine, so attentive and relaxed at once.
I have had an extremely busy month, starting with GGLOW (Girls and Guys Leading Our World), then a quick trip to Kole, a funeral of a friend’s younger brother who was killed in a car crash (my friend was driving, it was night, there was a cow AND a donkey, the lights on the truck were not working properly, and they were drinking), a Setswana language workshop in Maun with four other volunteers where my Setswana skill and confidence improved, a wedding in Gantsi where I saw half of Kole and chopped green, red, and yellow bell peppers till my fingernails were embedded with those colors, and then this trip, starting off from Maun yesterday.
The 650 km ride to Kasane went surprisingly smoothly. I was staying with a pcv in Maun to save the money of staying at the backpackers place where the other girls were. I got to the bus rank at 5:15am and called them to make sure they were on their way. I was their wake up call, but somehow they miraculously made it on the bus (and I miraculously warded off a crowd from a couple of extra seats) and we pulled out by 6am, towards Francistown. We dropped off in Nata, where I shadowed Melody Jenkins during training. I became the unofficial transportation officer from there because I still had some connections from the time when I shadowed. Around holiday time, travel via public transport is a challenge, to put things mildly. Buses are FULL. For example, a 6am bus from Francistown left for Kasane on the 23rd at 4am, already full with no more sitting or standing room. The extra bus that was sent was full by 4:15am. So, even though there are combi’s and buses that pass through Nata to Kasane from Francistown, taking those was not an option. We hitch hiked and managed to get two 18 wheeler trucks which were traveling together from Johannesburg to Zambia. We went two in each and were safe and comfortable for the 300 km remaining of the trip. We arrived in Kasane at 4pm. Last night Nadine made us the treat of a seven layer dip with crackers and we enjoyed wine and a movie (Take the Lead – a dance movie with Antonio Banderas about an after school ballroom dance program in NYC based on a true story . . . I was in heaven). ;)
I need to back up. GGLOW was an amazing experience. It was a bit like the elated, free, totally happy feelings I associate with my time spent at Pilgrim Center. The plethora of goofy and religious camp songs I learned there came in handy. (They LOVE the beaver song, for those of you who are familiar with PC). Thirty girls, mostly aged 13-15, from all over Botswana, along with 20 Peace Corps volunteers and local leaders (teachers, clinic staff, drama group members, etc) comprised our camp. There was the same number of boys, holding camp across town from us. I call Gabs a town because it doesn’t feel remotely like a capitol city. It is quite common to wait for goats, donkeys, or cows to cross through the traffic. But for most of these young people, it was the first time they had traveled to Gaborone. I had the baby of the group with my delegation from Kole. She is only 11 but so smart and mature and proficient at English that the camp leaders gave me permission to take her. We were sitting together on the bus when we got to Gabs. She tapped my leg, “Where are we?” “Gaborone. Re gorogile (we have arrived).” pause “There are a lot of cars.” She is moherrero (a person of the Herrero tribe). She knows Setswana, but it’s more like her third language, English being her second. So, she speaks to me in English. With the other girls, though, I had the opportunity to practice my setswana a lot. They are natural teachers who don’t automatically switch to English in impatience if I don’t understand something the first time. By the end of the week, almost all thirty girls would address me only in Setswana. It was flattering. There is such an intimacy in sharing a language.
There was a theme for each day. 1. Goals and Values 2. Communication 3. Family and Marriage 4. My future 5. HIV/AIDS 6. Our Bodies 7. Gender Awareness
Most of the sessions were led by the Peace Corps Volunteers and local leaders. We tried to incorporate games and art and drama into almost everything, but there was some classroom-type learning (like the in depth anatomy and health lesson that Monica taught very well and the girls were very attentive even without creative teaching techniques because it is such new, fascinating, and important information that they are not taught in school). We did go on some field trips, as well. They had a tour of the University of Botswana (their one and only option if they want a University education in country, although the gov’t will pay for someone’s study abroad if the University doesn’t offer his/her program of interest). We spent Saturday at Chief Justice Unity Dow’s house in Lobatse, 45 km south of Gaborone. She is an amazing woman, mother, person, judge, and hostess who invited both camps to spend the morning at her house, fed everyone a delicious lunch, and then arranged for the kids to conduct a mock trial in the courthouse, down the road from her house. I am fairly certain that every child there will remember that day for the rest of their lives.
There were two guest speakers who came to share their experiences with our young ladies as Motswana women who had overcome gender obstacles to become who they are: respected leaders, one of them a member of parliament, the other a member of Emang Basadi (stand up, ladies!), a women’s rights organization that recently changed the law that used to change a woman’s status to that of a minor as soon as she was married (meaning she had to have her husband’s permission to take out a loan, buy a car, or do anything else a minor can’t do without their “overseer’s” permission). They had a tough message. Botswana is a progressive place, far ahead of most of the African continent in many ways, including gender equality. They warned against using gender inequity as an excuse for failing or choosing not to follow one’s dreams. They also warned against the attitude of “men vs. women”, and instead to realize that equality involves communication, understanding, and patience, rather than dominance . . . they were awesome additions to the camp.
At the end of the camp, we stood in a circle outside with lighted candles and each said what we learned that week. A common message from the girls was, “My mind was an empty vessel, but now I am filled with knowledge about how to follow my values and fulfill my dreams. Thank you to all the Peace Corps Volunteers who taught us and made this possible.” The girls were crying and clinging to us and each other that night, saying goodbye.
I could go on and on, but internet is expensive here in Kasane, being a touristy place. I will end here for now and try to catch up on the rest of the month soon. More details about the wedding and language workshop to come. :)
Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Much love and many blessings!
love, leah
Dear Friends and Family,
It is appropriate to use this greeting for several days into the New Year – Nwaga o mosha!!!There is a long email that I will not send because it is full of post-vacation funk. I was feeling overwhelmed, unmotivated, floundering in the freedom of the month of December when I thought of the return of responsibility (all kinds of potential to be “effective”) with no accountability (who would really know the difference if I just hung out in Kole for the next year and a half?) that is our Peace Corps service.
This will be more uplifting.
Peace Corps moments:
I was in Charleshill on my way home to Kole. I heard my name, “Thapelo.” I looked over to see Mighty (Maitumelo, one of my Glow girls). She was grinning. I walked towards her, relieved to see her as I already felt the “funk” start to lift. She was crouched over an open notebook, showing it to her friends. It was her Glow notebook, the schedule for the week with her notes from the sessions. Now I was grinning. “Stand up and give me a hug,” I said. Displays of affection often come in the form of commands. (“Bring me water,” a mother will tell her child, at that is her way of saying, “You are important, I care about you.”) Mighty did give me a hug, and it was wonderful. The other two girls were scandalized and giggled behind their hands.
The night before, I had another Peace Corps moment. My friend and tutor, a teacher at Kole Primary, Mr. Moncho (or Badisa, as I may have called him in previous emails) has been transferred. He was in the area because he needs to collect his things from Kole and he called me when he got to Ghanzi.
“Where are you?”
“Ghanzi.”
“Le nna.” (me, too)
Squeal of delight, “Can I see you?”
We went to the only restaurant in Ghanzi which is at the only lodge in town and talked and talked. He had wonderful news. He isn’t drinking. He gave me credit, but of course that is ridiculous, he made the decision not to drink. It is an especially impressive feat over the holidays. He went to Gabs to visit his brother who asked him to come specifically to drink beer with him. Badisa would go out to the bar with his brother and drink Iron Brew (a perfectly dreadful imitation of Dr. Pepper which is perfectly dreadful to begin with, if you ask me). And people asked, “Hela, monna. O nwa eng?” (Hey, man, what are you drinking?) And he told them, “Ke bojalwa jwame janoong.” (This is my beer these days).
He had medical issues for a few months before I arrived. It had depressed him and he turned to booze, making the issues worse (it’s some sort of kidney problem). Things improved when I came because I had him busy, tutoring me and also starting up sports again with the young boys and girls. But then he stopped getting his salary. He found out that the education department was considering withholding it permanently, as in, firing him, because he hadn’t followed the proper protocol in turning in doctor’s notices before his almost six weeks of absence from Kole in April and May this year. Luckily for him, the education office did not follow protocol either and no official notice was ever sent to inform him that his salary would not be paid. So, they couldn’t justify what they had done, and they simply transferred him and the salary will start this month.
I won’t go into the haggling and hassling and frustration I went through with my “drunken tutor” as I am embarrassed to admit I called him on occasion. Let’s just say I made my feelings about his drinking clear. He is a teacher and a role model and he tells the boys on his soccer team not to show up to practice hung over. In fact, he yelled at them for it, and the hypocrisy made steam come out of my ears. Somehow, we remained friends. As a traveled this past month and thought about going back to work in Kole, I had been feeling like making a difference “on the individual level” was not enough. When Badisa said, “you helped me . . .”, though, I was reminded that it is more than enough.
Incidentally, I have heard news of one of my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers doing wonderful work, addressing the problem of alcohol abuse which is rampant, positively rampant, in Botswana. Not only is it considered a status symbol to be able to afford to drink, it is virtually the only form of entertainment. The developing society is at a stage where they are not kept very busy with work because the government is doing an excellent job of providing for those who would normally be working their butts off to make ends meet. Healthy hobbies have not yet developed. All this not yet considering those who have turned to alcohol to deal with the stress of knowing you are HIV + or knowing you have lost most of your family because of some mysterious disease and people attribute the deaths to (although one instinctively knows this can’t be right) headaches. When drunk, one often engages in risky sexual behavior. So the spread of HIV is helped along and alcohol and HIV might have gotten their ugly heads together twenty years ago and planned the mass murder of this country.
Right, back to the positive aspect of this point, my friend Robert (one of those glorious 50 + volunteers) is in Pandamatenga, a village right on the border of Zimbabwe in the northeast. He has discovered, as many of us have, that drinking is a problem in his village. He happens to have a background in counseling. He wanted to get people talking about the issue, but it’s a tricky thing because the phrase “drinking problem” doesn’t mean anything yet. People aren’t necessarily embarrassed about drinking. It hasn’t been recognized as addictive and, unless it means you can’t pay for your family’s needs (which it often does), it is not a problem. Robert held an art contest for the kids. The theme was “How do you feel about people drinking in your family?” The winning pictures are apparently heart wrenching. Parents fighting while the kids watch, someone with HIV, drinking instead of taking ARV’s, and endless images of shebeens (small wooden stalls where locals always go to drink cheap local brew) and the red, white, and blue chibuku (also known as shake shake – it is a traditional beer that tastes like someone mixed bud light with sour milk and let it sit in the sun . . . you can always tell when someone is drunk off chibuku, they look slightly crazy, it is so strong) containers. These images, hung at the clinic, got people talking, so Robert didn’t have to start the conversation after all. He held a community meeting, though, and asked people to share in public what they thought of the pictures and what they thought of the drinking going on in the village. He will keep holding meetings, in whatever size group people feel comfortable, and offer his services as a professional counselor for those who decide they, personally, don’t want to drink anymore. If that is the only thing he did for the next year and however many months, he should still be granted sainthood in somebody’s church, somewhere.
The weather report for Kole is: hot and sunny. No rain. I couldn’t believe it after all the rainy weather we experienced in the north and at Victoria Falls. My house is hot. I don’t have screens on my windows. The mosquitoes are fierce, especially at dusk and dawn and during the night, when it would be wonderfully cool if I could open the windows. I might give in and open them tonight and deal with the infestation in the morning. I do have a mosquito net under which I would sleep comfortably amidst their buzzing.
My garden is growing, thanks to Bashi who is rightfully deemed “the most responsible youth in Kole.” He diligently watered the garden while I was away and fed Lefifi. I planted my garden twice. I thought that all the seeds had dried up and died when I went away for Thanksgiving weekend because it was hot and they didn’t get any water. Seeds are amazing things. So much life contained in such a tiny thing. Both sets of my planting attempts eventually sprouted, so now I have a hap hazard mixture of carrots and onions in two different plots. I thought I planted everything in the same spot, but apparently I take after my father in terms of organizing garden seeds. It has taken him about 20 years to get the now full proof system that he uses to know what he plants where.
This morning I woke up at 5:30am (already starting to sweat, even though the sun had just peeked over the horizon, so it was time to get out of bed). I went for a walk and came back and spent about two hours, trying to bring some order the onions and carrots, transplanting about half of each to two new beds. I also thinned the spinach and moved some of those plants. We will see if anything takes root.
My basil plants are looking lovely. Basil likes the desert, apparently. I think it is crazy to be so green and sprightly looking in such hot sun. I also have flat leaf parsley. The herbs are in big yogurt containers sitting on my back porch. Lefifi, who is ecstatic to have me back, was following me around as I worked this morning, meowing and rolling in the sand. He began wrecking havoc when he started rubbing his chin on the yogurt container edges and knocking them over. Eish! Katse yame! (Goodness, that cat of mine). None of the damage was irreparable, but he had to go inside for the rest of the morning.
I am anxious to start working with the school again. Lizzy and Basiame, two of my teacher friends, came by to welcome me back on Monday evening. They said they are planning on starting an HIV/AIDS club at the school and they want my help creating a curriculum for club activities. I am happy to help, of course, but I can’t help thinking that they should be concentrating on other things first. The situation at the school is as follows: there are seven classes to teach and four teachers. Katlego will be coming at the end of the week (she was sent to a workshop in Ghanzi). Perhaps another teacher will come in March. In the meantime, we still do not have a headmaster, we have a deputy headmaster, Mma Marambe. She might take over one of the two extra classes sometimes, but mostly, she has to act as the “school head”, being in the office. Mr. Pelo and I are still planning on continuing with the dance classes we started in November, as well, but I am of the humble opinion that the extra-curriculars should be second priority to actually teaching school subjects. But what do I know. I may offer to be a teacher for the next few months. Standard 7 is the only class that I could do because they know the most English and Setswana. I don’t think Mma Marambe would allow it, though. That definitely seems like something that would be against protocol.
I am waiting for the doctor’s vehicle to arrive from Charleshill so I can go to Ncojane with him and mail this off. So, I will close for now. Thank you for your patient reading if you have gotten this far. ;)
I love and miss you!
Leah (Thapelo)
Dear friends and family,
I cannot believe it is February. This short month will go by and then it will be March and then I will be 25 years old and then my sister will be married a few months after that and then I will have a year left in Botswana. Unlubievable, as my father would say.
My “projects” at the moment are as follows:
Anonymous friend: She is 23 years old, very pretty, very smart, and in the process of applying for her first job as shop assistant in Ncojane. I helped her write the letter for the application. I encouraged her to look beyond sweeping and mopping the “Ratamang General Dealer” and apply for University of Botswana. There is one small problem that she finally admitted to me. She only graduated from Form 3 (there are 5 “forms” in the equivalent of high school and 4 and 5 are like senior year. Completing form 5 is required to enter UB). In fact, in order to apply for this job, she finally bought her graduation certificate (JCE, Junior Certificate of Education). It cost 72 pula (12 USD) which she didn’t have at the time of graduation.
She opened up to me while I was walking her home the other night. She has a little girl, about a year and a half, I think. I knew her current boyfriend (her “husband to be”) is not the father of the child. He forgave her the affair, even though it resulted in a child, and they are still committed. I didn’t realize she was still having an affair (different guy this time).
Don’t be too harsh. This is done in order to get money for her and her daughter. The current man will buy her clothes (to compliment her very pretty figure) and milk and pampers. I am somewhat shaken by the news, though. (For one thing, the guy is a “friend” of mine and for some reason, I want to blame him). She told me in confidence (so if you are ever in Botswana, please keep it in your confidence as well), so I am not going to confront him. Instead, I asked her if she wanted advice. She said, “Yes, please!” I used the message that we tried to give the girls at Glow camp: You are in charge of your life. When she told me she was cheating on her boyfriend she said, “I hate myself.” I told her not to beat herself up for what she had done, but to pay attention to that feeling and to realize she was in charge of her decisions. If she felt bad after making a certain decision, make a different one next time. Mostly, though, I tried to tell her that I was supportive of her no matter what, and thanked her for sharing with me.
Her story is the story of so many young women in Botswana. Maybe more so than the story of young women who are faithful. My best teacher friend also had a child outside of her supposedly committed relationship. At least use a condom, people!
VMSAC Workshop: This is a more mundane subject but it requires lots of mundane tasks to be done and I like having “to do” lists every day. I typed and printed letters of invitation for the members of the committee and for guest presentors. I made certificates for the members (Congratulations for participating! . . . people LOVE certificates). I am finding quotations for catering. That means asking a few women to cater who are capable of going to Ghanzi to get food, buying it up front, cooking, and being reimbursed for their services later (meaning the women whose husbands have vehicles and who are in all other ways fairly well off). Then I make up two other “caterers” and make fake quotations for them (much too expensive to actually be chosen) because the government requires three quotations. Never mind that there ARE no caterers in Kole. Oh, yes, maybe I should explain, workshops need to be catered. That’s why you call it a workshop, to advertise that there will be food and therefore people will attend.
In this workshop, I will do my best to teach (with the help of a translator for the scientific language): What is a virus? What is the difference between HIV/AIDS? Where does HIV live? How is it transmitted? What is the window period? What is ARV treatment? What does resistance mean? What can we do as individuals to help fight HIV? What services are available in the sub-district?
That’s a lot. I am hoping to do it in 5 hours. Wish me luck!
GLOW: There continues to be petty politics at the school, especially related to Glow. It’s not just Kole Primary School. My friend Cassie offered to start a Glow club at the Ghanzi junior secondary school and was met with resistance. The subject of gender empowerment is touchy to say the least. It addresses so many cultural topics which Batswana feel foreigners are not qualified to teach (things related to sex, marriage, family, behavior). We definitely experienced tension at our camp because of this. A small example was the behavior in the dining room. Meal times were sort of a let down for those of us who have been “campers” before. Meals are supposed to be a communal, social time. The way things went at our Glow camp in December, the girls would straggle in in small groups, eat quietly, and leave. On the second day, someone suggested at the leader’s meeting that we make up some games to play or to sing songs (reminiscent of Pilgrim Center meal times, for those of you who know what that is like – not subdued). So, the next day, Patricia divided the room into three long tables and had the girls sit in the their “teams” from that morning. I don’t remember what she tried to do, but the activity sort of flopped and we let them eat quietly and leave as usual. I think partly the facilitators were too tired to get into it with the girls. Anyway, a few nights after that, the leaders meeting got emotional and the “racist” card was even pulled at one point. (We think we are better than the Batswana because we’re white and they’re black . . . this was particularly ridiculous because the woman who mentioned it was the counterpart to one of our black American volunteers . . . it was simply meant to be hurtful and it was). So, one of the more reasonable explanations for the Batswana facilitators being upset with the way things were going in camp was what had happened at mealtime: meals are meant to be eaten in silence. It is absolutely rude to “visit”. So, it was culturally offensive to encourage the girls to make noise.
To make a long story a little bit shorter, I am not going to try to pursue holding Glow club at the Primary School. I will have it at my house. And I may call it “English lessons” to really avoid any further complications. We will practice English and public speaking as part of Glow. And if my Glow girls decide on their own to be subversive and start calling the club Girls Leading Our World, I will not stop them. J
I am in Ghanzi at the moment, and I have the luxury of free internet, so I wish I could just write and write to you for hours. But that would be tedious for everyone involved and I have a line of 6 PCV’s waiting to use this free internet, too. We have four new additions to Botswana from the Kenya program which had to be closed for obvious reasons. They spent a month in consolidation not knowing anything about what was happening, when they would leave, where they would go. So, they are in majorly chilled out mode and seem to be handling the transition beautifully.
So, I’m cutting my usually obnoxiously long emails a bit short for their sake!
I love and miss you very much.
Love, Leah
p.s. I am eating rape (spinach, sort of) out of my garden! And fresh basil. Ahh.
Dear Friends and Family,
There is only one place to begin this time. The Central Kalahari Game
Reserve. One gets the feeling that everything began there. That once we
have managed to destroy the Earth with our over population and pollution, it
must continue to exist. It is timeless and beautiful. I am not
exaggerating, although I am admittedly going to be melo-dramatic and use
strings of adjectives to describe the trip to the CKGR. I was affected and
am still feeling a bit overwhelmed.
The trip was first planned in honor of Monica’s birthday (she turned 31 on
February 15th). We tried to think of something in the vicinity that would
be a “new experience.” Ghanzi is an interesting combination of cultures,
including the white farmers who own huge swaths of land in and around Ghanzi
where mostly Basarwa are employed as farm hands. These whites are
privileged (what’s new) and have the luxury of traveling and touring in
their own country. Brian, the District AIDS Coordinator volunteer in
Ghanzi, has gotten to know a few of these people through his negotiations at
their butcher shops to find just the right cut of steak and also through
meetings at the RAC where he works when the Farmer’s Association or Men’s
Sector is called in to help give input on HIV/AIDS plans for the district. So,
one of these farmers had off-handedly offered to take a group of us camping
in the CKGR. Brian called him to see if we could take him up on the offer.
John John obliged. (His father’s name is John, it’s tradition to take on
his father’s name but to differentiate he calls himself John John). He is
hard-working, oldest son (and therefore inheritor of the family farm) to an
Afrikaner woman from South Africa and a German/American turned South African
now 74 year old man who refuses to stop working as if he were much younger
(according to his son). We could not have asked for a better guide. John
John was generous, enthusiastic, and knowledgeable.
There were twelve of us, so we needed two vehicles. Our other driver/guide
was Gil. He is also from South Africa but has lived here for ten years and
says he wouldn’t live anywhere else (except maybe Taos, New Mexico which is
apparently very similar). He was a biology teacher for 12 years before
becoming a safari guide in South Africa, running a mechanic shop in Ghanzi,
and now trying his luck with the small number of tourists in Botswana as a
safari guide after several bad luck partnerships that have left him more or
less broke. He is 60 something and strawberry blond and freckled. We could
not have asked for a more kind or knowledgeable second guide. I sat in the
middle of the front of his vehicle most of the way and I think I managed to
get the bulk of his teaching, which obviously comes naturally to him. “That’s
a kori buster, they are quite rare in the world, but they are all over the
place here. There’s a secretary bird. People used to think they were
cleaning the ticks of the game but they are following the game for the
insects that are stirred up in their wake. They kill snakes with a blow
from one claw. If they haven’t killed it, they fly up and drop it. The
Gemsbok aren’t dropping (giving birth) this year along with the rest of the
game and I am buggered if I can figure out why.” He was delighted when we
finally saw a few Gemsbok calves. “Look at her, isn’t she beautiful?”
regarding any number of things, from the Hartebeest to a corn cricket.
I can’t possibly narrate the way it actually happened, but I will get right
to the exciting part and describe the animals we witnessed.
Gemsbok – These were almost constantly present. They give new meaning to
the term “broad-chested.” They have black and white masks on their faces
and long straight horns. Their bodies are black, fading into a light gray
towards their rear-end from which springs a surprising black horse’s tail. The
calves are reddish and look much like a cow’s calf, although they grow up to
be an utterly different creature. Gil figures the unicorn myths come from
Gemsbok. They often have one or more horns broken to various levels and
from a distance, if there were only one horn, it certainly would look like a
mystical thing. Brian, our dear Brian, has a bit of trouble hearing
(Botswana’s dust exacerbates any nose/throat/ear problems that people might
have and he constantly is stuffed up and full of ear wax). He consistently
called the Gemsbok (pronounced with a Spanish “G”, hard h) Games bock which
was a source of great entertainment. Very outdoorsman-like, squinting into
his binoculars: “We got some gamesbock here.” Brian would normally
consider a stay at the Holiday Inn camping, but this was different. People
who would ordinarily mind camping don’t mind in the CKGR.
Hartebeest – We only saw a few, and although tourists are notoriously not
excited by the various antelope, hoping for big cats and wild dogs instead,
I think I was most thrilled by the hartebeest and not just because it shares
my name. They are the fastest and biggest antelope. They are reddish
brown, with a long, long horse face. Their horns curve in the shape of an
“S” when seen from the side. They gallomping run is unmistakable. All four
legs come under them at once and then they stretch out (like a dog running
but it looks funny on a deer-like animal). They look like huge rocking
horses with beautiful horns. In fact, rocking horses should be called
rocking hartebeests from now on, as far as I am concerned.
Marabou Stork – It migrates from Northern Africa. It’s cousin, the White
European Stork comes all the way from Europe, mostly Holland. They sit in
huge flocks, or wheel together in a great cloud of long legs and flapping
black and white wings and big stork beaks. We saw our first Marabou sitting
on top of a tree right by the road. It stayed there and graciously let us
admire it’s long, long legs and pink face and throat before stretching out
its enormous wings, tipped with black, and soaring off to join the rest of
its flock.
Rollers, finches, kites, swallows, sparrows – I wish I could remember the
name of the one that quacks indignantly if disturbed to fly from the path,
although it is not a duck. It looks like a black quail. It was the black
something or other that starts with a “C” (Cracker, crackle, cracker?) It’s
cousin, the Red-crested C———— (light brown with a red crest) also flies
off in a huff, but it does so silently. One of the swallows also performs a
neat trick of singing a sort of visual onomatopoeia (sp?) in time with its
flight. It flies up and then gives out a gentle whistle that falls in pitch
along with its height.
Grandpa, it could have been these storks or the finches that you saw on the
television show “somewhere in Africa” where all the birds were swirling
against a pan. There were approximately a gazillion of them.
Let me explain the landscape a bit. There used to be rivers there, long,
long ago, before it became the arid desert it is now. The soil is still
rich, however, and varied. There is a new ecosystem about every kilometer,
or so it looks according to the extremely varied vegetation. There would be
pink blooming grass seeds (butterfly weed?), then a striking grass with a
three-seven seed pods sticking out flat on top, forming a meadow of star
shapes. Then there would be broad-leafed green grass and a trumpet flower
plant that was in bloom because it had rained recently. There is one road
(two dirt tracks with tall grass in the middle that is dangerous for a
vehicle not prepared to deal with the grass seed that will build up under
the hood and possibly “cook the engine” as happened to Gil previously and as
he adamantly warned the two other vehicles we saw on our trip). It is
necessary to have a GPS device, a map, and preferably an experienced guide,
although people are allowed to go in “at their own risk.” I don’t recommend
it. The road is clear in most places, but the space is so vast and the
landscape so deceptively different and then the same later down the road, I,
at least, would get turned around easily. The tall grasses, scrubs, and
acacia trees are interrupted only by the pans. There were five different
sets of pans in the small northern section of the CKGR that we saw. I
thought pans were always “salt pans” (that’s what they are here, we have a
pan to the southwest of Kole that is stark white and dusty unless there is a
lot of rain, I am told). Apparently, though, pans differ in soil type. Each
pan is suited to its own kind of wildlife. The grasses tend to be rich in
nutrients, ideal for grazing. Mostly, though, they are a haven for
predators who can see for kilometers across the stretches of short grasses,
easily tracking and chasing their prey. Cheetahs, especially, cannot hunt
in tall grass.
Cheetah –She was shy and trotted to look back at us from behind a bush. We
stayed that way for awhile. They have very small heads (for stream-lining),
long, heavy tails (acts as a rudder when turning sharply), double jointed
hips, and longer claws than usual (for gripping). They are quite literally
built for speed.
Leopard – She had just killed a small jackal and hung it in a tree close to
edge of the clump of trees which was her current refuge. She slunk low
through the grass away from the road and we mostly saw her spotted forehead.
It is unusual to see a leopard. I could very well have gone two years
without, so I was happy with this youngster.
Lions – Monica likes to say she doesn’t know Setswana. But for some reason,
when we drove by a grove of trees and she spotted the lions she said,
“Ditau, ditau!” (Lions, lions). Someone translated for Gil and he called
John John back over the radio (we were blabbing away and had missed them,
although I was looking under every tree and wishing there were a lion
there). There were two females and a male. The male was lying with his
butt to us, but then he scratched his ear and his great head and mane came
into view. They are breathtaking. He then rolled over and stretched like a
dog cooling off in the summer, belly up, limbs out. He laid that way until
we pulled off when he looked up and then crossed his front arms in front of
his eyes and laid back, to be better able to ignore us, I suppose. The
ladies gave more of a show. They yawned and got up and laid back down and
moved over to a different tree. None of them made a sound, though. Lions
are lethargic during the heat of the day (8 am to 6 pm). They hunt before
and after those times. Still, our guides advised us to stay put in the
vehicle. They don’t feel threatened by a vehicle as a unit, and they don’t
recognize anyone inside as a meal. However, if one is to separate
themselves from the unit and become an animal standing on its own, they
might make an exception about the heat and have a mid-day snack.
Giraffes – There were several giraffes. Gil says he has never seen so many.
We saw a group of 15 from a distance almost right away. They generally
travel in smaller groups because grazing is not usually good enough to
support a larger number. But this year, there has been rain. Not so much
that the animals weren’t flocking to the pans to drink from the pools that
form in the lowest elevations, but enough for us to see a heck of a lot of
giraffes. The best sighting, though, was a lone giraffe, an older male,
sent off to fend for himself. That’s how most of the animal societies work,
a male is the leader of the pack until he gets slow and then a new male
challenges, takes over, and sends grandpa packing. It’s bittersweet to see
these magnificent old males. Perhaps because of his age and experience,
this giraffe was not fearful of us and ignored us as he drank from a pool
near a clump of trees at the edge of a pan. Legs spread, head down, goofy
upward sloping body slumped over awkwardly. He stood up and walked away
slowly, stopping about 20 meters away and looking back at us, long enough
for some people to pose for a photo with him as their background.
Honey badger – I came from the badger state to another place with
badgers. They
raid bee hives for honey and are, in all other ways, tough. Lions think
twice about attacking a honey badger because the effort involved and
scratches incurred will hardly be worth the small meal. One of these tough
little buggers (as Gil says) ran down the road in front of us, rippling
along sort of like Whispy when she runs. J
Springbok – Aptly named, this small antelope has a spring that can only be
done justice by naming the animal after it. They have beautiful coloring
and small horns that curve out slightly at the top. They are light brown,
white, and black. Their Designer must have been going for a delicate,
refined, striking look.
The corn cricket – They are as abundant (and perhaps mundane) as
grasshoppers in Wisconsin. But they get special mention here because I had
seen them in Ghanzi before and, without the surrounding of the CKGR, they
seemed out of place and, more so, strikingly like small medieval knights in
colorful armor. You half expect them to wield a small shield and sword, or
to use their long antennae as such, fencing with each other. We had a
mascot corn cricket who rode most of the way on the hood of the car, hanging
on desperately to the waving antenna of the car, or seated more comfortably
on one of the windshield wipers. They look like a large cricket, but with
iridescent green, yellow, purple, and sometimes red shell. I am more fond
of them than our own crickets and grasshoppers back home because they lack
the annoying habit that my native bugs have of flying or jumping into you as
you walk. Perhaps they are held down by the weight of their armor.
The Sky – There was a moon so the view of the stars wasn’t as magnificent as
I have had the privilege of seeing in Kole (I swear, I have discovered new
galaxies here). But a moon meant one could walk to the lou (toilet) and
look out for snakes without a torch (flashlight) and also, one could look at
the herds of grazing antelope and wildebeest even at night which were our
company on the tau pan where we camped.
Wildebeests – There are black wildebeests and blue wildebeests. We saw the
latter, although they looked grey to me. They are decidedly not beautiful,
but I have been cured of my silly notion (from cartoons and Discovery
Channel shows where they are always portrayed as bumbling fools, being
caught by the crocodile or lion at the drinking pool) that they are not
magnificent creatures. They are. They have personality, too. In the
morning, the sun rose over the pan and we had our own nature show of the
wildebeests, especially the young ones, playing tag. They would kick up
their heels and run like crazy away from the herd, a few others would
follow, then they would all turn and run in a circle, kicking up their
heels, tails up, heads down, pawing the ground until an elder came and
rounded them up. But the game would soon start again and the resulting dust
was silhouetted against the sunrise. There was one crusty old man
wildebeest at a camp site where we stopped to have “tea” on Saturday morning
after a few hours of driving. He was not phased by us and refused to get
out of the road. Gil’s narration for him was, “I was here first and I will
be buggered if I am going any where. You folks can go around.” So, we did.
Speaking of which, the animals being there first and us folks barging in, I
mean, I cringe as I write to realize how many of the beautiful things we saw
were running from us. There was a tragic event of a kori buster chick being
killed by the trailer that was carrying the sleeping bags and tents which
would allow us to sleep comfortably and enjoy the serenity of the pristine
landscape. Pristine, that is, except for us. John John was driving the
truck when that happened and he got out and asked us with a strain in his
voice if the chick got away. Natalie and I were seated up on the bench
safari seat. We hadn’t seen it. Gil stopped behind us and picked it up and
tossed it into the bushes. “Sorry, Rra.” John John said. (He is a native
Setswana/Afrikans/English speaker). I thought he was apologizing to Gil who
responded, “Someone will benefit from that, JJ (meaning the body of the
chick). No one does something like that on purpose.” But John John
repeated, “Sorry, Rra.” And I realized he was talking to God. God is known
as Modimo (God), Kgosi (chief), Rre (Father), Morena (Lord), and Rra (Sir).
Later that night, around the campfire, he admitted he was still feeling
badly about the chick. “It’s human interference,” he said, “We make the
road, the bird travels in the road because it’s easier, then we come along
and kill her chick.” I was touched by his empathy for the mother who lost
her baby, as Natalie put it when we saw her fly away. We sat around the
camp fire late, drinking tea, and discussing our place as humans and the
juxtaposition that people who knew to appreciate places like the CKGR
experienced as we also were the ones who might make a gemsbok expose itself
to danger as it abandons its herd in a panicked attempt to run from the
vehicle, or the tortoises and snakes that use the clear path of the road as
well, not to mention the fuel we burned in order to traverse the landscape.
I forgot the Mozambiquen Spitting Cobra – It was about 2.5 meters long,
black, stretching across the width of the road as it zipped one way and then
the other, in an attempt to get back to its burrow, Gil said. That sighting
started a long story-telling venture about snakes, the most memorable of
which is the black mamba that Gil and his wife discovered in their house
around Christmas time this year. It was 12 feet long and as thick as Gil’s
arm (which isn’t that thick, granted, he is a small man, but still!) Mambas
are deadly, as in, there is no chance of survival if it gets a good bite. They
can stand up 2/3rds of their length. The cats alerted them to the snake’s
presence. They skirted an area in front of their bedroom door and hopped
over the bedroom entrance nervously for a few days. Then Gil found a pile
of snake poop in his shoe. He shone a flashlight into the dark corner,
behind a stack of old camping chairs and planks against the wall. There it
was. Dark grey, long smiling mamba mouth. He got a gun, pulled down the
chairs and planks and stood back. It stood up, taller than him at 2/3rds of
its length, weaving gently and hissing. He shot it five times. The
pictures his wife showed me made me shudder, not because of the brutal death
of the snake, but rather the fright of knowing that kind of snake lives in
the Kalahari with me. I am glad I have Lefifi. He will let me know if
anything tries to move in with me. My empathy for that creature is somehow
not remotely the same as for the kori chick.
Kori buster – It is protected. It is the heaviest flying bird, and it is
visibly difficult for it to get off the ground. Its wings pump, pump, pump
and then it is slightly airborne and then it flaps upward and swerves away.
They are big, taller then jackals moving through the short grass of a pan,
resembling a crane. They have tufted ears like a Great Horned Owl, light
brown in color.
Preparing for the trip and the food preparation and the sleeping
arrangements reminded me of a Boundary Waters trip. It was strangely
nostalgic to go to this completely new place. On the other hand, we had to
carry in all of our water and there were certainly no lakes to go for a
morning swim, with freezing water or otherwise. Our guides were impressed
with the group’s water usage. (Most of us are used to bucket baths). The
camp sites in the CKGR are outfitted with a pit latrine with a real toilet
seat (which is unusual outside of the CKGR, there seems to be a black market
for toilet seats and they mysteriously disappear from all other public
places). A slab of cement is poured around the toilet and a wooden
structure built in a little maze around it, so there is comfort and privacy.
Nearby, there is an ingenuis structure, the same round wooden structure
provides privacy, but there is an extra wooden beam across the top from
which hangs a metal 3 – gallon bucket (like one of our sap buckets). It has
a watering can head attached to the bottom. There is a wheel that opens and
closes the water flow. You can have a hot shower, with water heated over
the campfire, carried over in a bucket, poured into the shower bucket
(lowered by a simple pulley system), and voila! I think we should consider
this set up on the next Boundary Waters trip. Someone work on the watering
can head at the bottom of a bucket. Brilliant, I tell you. And we all used
less than 3 liters each to take a shower.
Still reading? Impressive. I am back in Kole now, typing on my laptop on
my table at home (for the first time). I have stretched a cable to my
neighbor’s house and am borrowing electricity from his house. Mr. Pikane,
the same neighbor who brought me goat manure for my garden, is one of the
many people who are making my Peace Corps experience downright luxurious. I
will run one light bulb off of this one plug, along with the computer and
printer. The most exciting part is being able to play music. I danced to
salsa music last night while doing dishes, preparing my bath, and putting
away camping supplies.
Love and miss you,
Leah
Dear Friends and Family,
I wrote the following mass email awhile ago. I haven’t had email access because I just spent the longest stretch in Kole since I got here. I feel a little overwhelmed to be in the big city of Ghanzi. :) I came for a Regional Peace Corps meeting. Several PCV’s were here and celebrated my birthday with me over the weekend. Thank you for all your birthday messages. It is bittersweet to feel so far and so loved . . .
I should add to the GLOW news below that I had my first meeting with 20 girls and it was as successful as I could have hoped. We meet again next Saturday (the 15th). I’m a happy volunteer!
March 1st
I keep thinking I have seen the most beautiful sky there is to see (the first “beautiful moment” that I told you about, for one). But then, there was the time when one of the Charleshill drivers was taking me home to Kole with long awaited gas cylinders for the stove and refrigerator. I thought his name was “kopa” as in “Ke kopa,” I am asking for. But it’s not, it’s Copper pronounced in Southern African English. Have I told you about the names? People have one Setswana, and one often very odd English? Magazine, Tigerfish, Good, G-string . . . I kid you not. Anyway, Copper was driving me home and the colors of the sunset were absolutely brilliant. Yesterday, the sky surpassed all previous attempts at awesome beauty. Lately, it has been blazingly hot, but without fail, a small storm blows in around 5 o’clock, dumps some rain, and leaves a sticky humid dusk in its wake. That’s sort of what happened, but there was more than one storm, from more than one direction, with clear patches in between, and it all hovered for the sunset. The result was a patchwork of swirling clouds and small rainstorms (none of which were actually above Kole) which had sheets of pink rain silhouetted against the sunrise. Directly above where the sun was setting, there were layers of purple, orange, and pink, and spaces of blue in between. Just when you thought, “This is as awesome as it gets,” there would be streaks of lightning amidst all the blazing color. It was truly indescribable, I swear to you I am not exaggerating and I am not doing it justice. I ran backwards, watching, dazed, then stopped and walked, then sat down, then ran a little more with tears on my cheeks because it was just too beautiful.
I know I should broaden the topics of my emails and pictures to include people and Earthly events. I will do my best. I just wish you could all see it, though. I was looking at that heavenly phenomenon and thinking, “There. That is heaven on Earth, right there. Between those clouds, right by that lightning. Yes, that is where one communes with a Higher Power.”
I am beginning to see that “work” moves in cycles. These past few weeks I have felt rather unproductive, going to the health post to help hap-hazardly with weighing patients, counting out pills to put in the little plastic bags in which they are dispensed, walking to the kgotla to see the chief about a VMSAC event at the kgotla, collapsing at 2pm and letting the heat of the day induce a coma-like siesta, jogging with my nurse or one of the teachers, and maybe playing football with the a few motivated, impressive ladies who wrote their own letter to the school asking for the use of the grounds and the soccer ball when the kids finish (around 6pm). I say maybe because the rain has made the field too muddy this week and sometimes the “ladies” are off in Ghanzi or Charleshill. So, there is this sort of daily routine but it doesn’t feel like I am accomplishing much. No project, no presentation, no class, no art project, no tangible, check-it-off-the-list kind of thing is happening at the moment. I print off a letter here and there to explain a proposal for some such project. There is a Community Health Talk where the VMSAC committee is going to supposedly teach the community what they learned at their workshop. Still, I have had a restless, okay, I need to find something useful to do on a regular basis to fill this time of just sort of hangin’ out, feeling.
Hopefully GLOW will provide the somewhat constant time commitment which I crave. We are supposed to have our first meeting tomorrow (Saturday) morning at my house. Ten girls are invited, including two of the ones who went to Gaborone for Camp GGLOW. (The third is at junior secondary school in Ghanzi). I have juice, hard candies, a pen for each of them, and a blank notebook for anonymous questions that they can write during the meetings to be discussed afterwards as a group and a loose agenda for planning, “What do we want to do as a GLOW club?” That may make me sound unprepared, but I am sooo ready for them. It will be hard not to put ideas into their little heads (I have a curriculum all worked out for anatomy lessons, confidence building activities, practice public speaking, etc.) but I want them to own the club with gentle guidance only. When Monica had her first GLOW meeting and passed the anonymous question notebook the girls wrote things like, “Can you get pregnant if you have sex in water? What do you do if you like a boy? How do you know what to study if you want to go on to college?” Etc, etc.
The reason it has taken so long to organize a first meeting is a packed schedule at school. With only four teachers and seven classes, it was hard not to feel like an intruder if I went during school hours to ask about something unrelated to the two subjects everyone was trying to teach at once. And if I asked any teacher individually, the answer was inevitably that the teachers would all have to discuss it together. Two more teachers came (still one short) so things calmed down and the schedule became more normal. But this quarter is the time for sports competitions. So, the kids are kept at the field after school until it’s time to go home. The only other free time in the schedule is taken up by choir practice for the Environmental Health Choir Competition (Environmental Health is the fancy term for garbage collection). The district apparently hosts a proudly musical group of garbage collectors, which I think is fantastic, but also (I can’t help it) amusing. The competition is in July and considering how last minute things usually are, these kids are going to be well prepared. So, that left me with Saturday, and to avoid the hoo ha of asking to use the school on a Saturday (I can hear it now, “But, Thapelo, what if someone is eaten by a lion during your GLOW club meeting at the school, we would be held responsible?!” . . . I am only exaggerating the slightest bit. The reason they didn’t want me to take the girls to GLOW originally was, “What if you hit a kudu (specifically a kudu, a certain kind of antelope) on the road and someone is hurt, who will be responsible?) Uh, there is free health care in this country. And the parents of Kole are quite unaware of the term “liability,” I assure you. Anyway, the meeting will be at my house. That will be a problem as soon as the head teacher gets wind of it because she will want GLOW to be under the supervision of the school with the “help” of the guidance and counseling committee. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
I don’t mean to sound cynical. It no longer is trying to go to school and listen to what once seemed an exceedingly long discussion over a trivial matter. For example, the chairs for the VMSAC workshop. There is a building for “Non-formal Education” which was exactly what we were doing. Perfect. There are no chairs, though, so we needed to borrow some from someone/where in the village. The school has chairs in a storeroom that were brought over the holidays. Brand spankin’ new. I assumed that since they were new, we shouldn’t bother to ask to use them because they would want them to stay siame (nice, ok). But then a committee member informed me that she talked to Mma Marambe (school head) who told her to tell me to write a letter to the school asking for the chairs. I did so. The day before the workshop I went to the school to “receive feedback,” as it is officially called. I knocked (ko’ko), entered a meeting with the teachers, and helped them review one of the tests they had recently written. Twenty or thirty minutes later they asked if they could help. I asked for feedback. They discussed. It was reiterated that the chairs were new and it was their understanding that they weren’t to be given out for outside events. Fine, that’s what I thought. No problem, I will look for chairs elsewhere. Mr. Sephiri, one of the guards at the health post, took me with his own vehicle and petrol to collect chairs from the kgotla the next morning. People are wonderful. Later, I was told that Mma Marambe was upset with the teachers for making my life difficult but they told her I didn’t seem to mind, and I didn’t.
In search of a light topic that won’t tempt me to sarcasm or snide remarks, I should entertain you a bit with the description of my culinary artistry while in Kole which is, sometimes, decidedly odd.
The first time it occurred to me to tell you about this was the time when I had absolutely no groceries in my fridge except for plain yogurt. I had to scrounge through the non-perishables on my shelves. Thankfully, I had some tid bits from care packages. Katie (Bartels) sent me M&M’s at some point. Mom and Dad often send hot chocolate packets in their letters. I didn’t particularly want dessert, but makeshift chocolate pudding was literally the only thing available at the moment. Unfortunately, plain yogurt does not make a good base for pudding. It was more like yucky, sour chocolate pudding with little bites of heavenly M&M in between. I think that was one of the nights I went to Katlego’s house at dinner time, which is the equivalent of asking for food. You will be dished a plate. If they only cooked for 4, then everyone will get a fraction less in order to make the 5th plate. Communal societies have some amazing qualities.
Before the CKGR trip, I had quite a few vegetables in the fridge. This was a novelty and I couldn’t let them go bad. So, I sautéed onions, green peppers and mushrooms and froze them. I didn’t bring any food back from Ghanzi after the trip so I was down to scrounging the shelves and cleaning out the freezer a few days ago. I had beans, the veggies (in their sad, soggy, thawed state), rice, and . . . ah, yes, good ‘ol plain yogurt. I burned the beans, thawed the veggies, threw it all in with rice and used the yogurt like sour cream. It was a weird fajita salad thing that was actually better cold the next day (maybe because I fished out the burned beans before I put it in the fridge).
I had two potatoes that were about to go bad. I wanted a way to eat them in something cold, so I made potato salad. Except I got impatient and mixed the dressing and boiled eggs in with the potatoes while they were still hot. I had boiled them too long, so the result was deviled egg mashed potatoes. Yummy. J
Mostly, I have fun cooking and I eat ridiculously well, considering that I live in a semi-arid desert climate. One of my favorite snacks is an apple, finely cut, with plain yogurt (I sound obsessed . . . I guess it’s good for you, and one of the only dairy products that is easily transported because it can be kept for a little while in the sun and still be ok), with a sprinkle of sugar and cinnamon. When the mangoes were in season, nutmeg instead. If I have fresh vegetables, I usually try to eat them raw. I have made interesting salads: shredded carrot, chopped green pepper, onion, tomato with a dressing of oil, vinegar, and (this is what makes it delicious) ginger! Lettuce doesn’t travel well and there seems to be only iceberg lettuce available in all of Botswana except for the expensive Woolworths grocery store in Gabs, so most of my salads are what a friend calls, “village salads.
Just sort of “hangin’ out,” as I said before, can be a good thing. Two nights ago I was at Katlego’s house, playing with her kids, waiting for her to come back from correcting tests so I could help undo her hair. She had a style that I really liked, long thin braids, but I liked it less when I realized how painstaking it was to undo it all. It took us three days of about 2 hours work each day. So, I was waiting to help her finish and having a ball with her two boys, Oratile (7) and Montate (3). We watched a bad TV movie while I took out the braids. We didn’t finish until almost midnight so she asked me to sleep over, partly to avoid the mandatory “walking me halfway” so late, in the dark, and partly for my company. Oratile wanted to sleep in bed with us, too, but she made him a bed on the floor next to us. He prayed for us before we slept. Katlego held my hand while we fell asleep.
Things can be very intimate here. I have been in the same room as someone who is bathing several times now (always women). This morning, I went to my friend Tshimoyame’s house to collect chairs she had borrowed because I want to use them for the GLOW meeting tomorrow. I heard the tell tale splashing from outside her door and said, “Dumela, Mma. Ke Thapelo. A o a tlhapa?” (Morning, it’s Thapelo, are you bathing? . . . there’s a thing in Setswana about stating the obvious. Unwritten language rule: if you see someone doing something, ask them if they are really doing that thing. Just to be sure, I guess). “Emma, tsena.” Yes, I am. Come in. She opened the door for me. I went in and we chatted while she bathed in about 5 litres of water out of a bucket. I handed her her towel when she was done. It’s not that there is a lack of modesty. Someone who she didn’t know came to the door later but she wasn’t fully dressed, she looked around quickly for a sarong to wrap around herself before she opened the door to greet them. It is intimacy between friends.
That is quite long enough for now. Thank you for reading.
Love and miss you dearly,
Leah
Dear Friends and Family,
The following was written on March 14th:
The Youth Drama Workshop starts tomorrow. Actually, the youth get picked up from their villages and taken to Charleshill on the back of a huge flat-bed truck (lori) tomorrow and the workshop will start Sunday, after a short ceremony with the Kgosi and some other community leaders blessing the event. I have learned to let things happen in their due course, so I was calmly waiting to hear from Monica (who was running around like a crazy woman in Charleshill, doing the bulk of the work, organizing catering, places for them to sleep, water jugs to be brought from the Water Affairs Dept., writing endless letters requesting the use of tables and chairs and pitsana – three legged black pots – to heat water for baths in the morning). She finally called and the message came to me from a construction worker next door. “Lelesha Lesedi!” Transport is arranged, due to arrive at 1pm. It will be a not so small miracle if that happens. She also wanted me to decipher the names of the drama group from the Kole registration list (names are unisex) to determine numbers of men/women and know where to house them when they arrive tomorrow. I wanted to visit the self-appointed leader, Cynthia (my jewel, as I think I have said before), to clarify who was coming and tell her to tell them to come to the Health Post at 1pm. She came to me first and we went together, walking around the village to tell the other youth. The walk was worth the exercise we were missing from football practice, which wasn’t happening anyway because of threatening rain clouds and chilly weather. And because our coach was at the bar.
We went to the bar to talk to “coach” because his girlfriend was one of the ones signed up for the workshop. He apparently told her that I needed to ask him permission to let her go. Why? Gender roles are taken seriously. You know the Fiddler on the Roof song, “Tradition!” It’s kind of like that, but instead, “It’s out culture!” I learned from a gender roles survey early on that a woman could not let anyone borrow something from the household without her husband’s permission, unless it had to do with the kitchen. I experienced that first hand when I asked Sophie to use her vehicle to move chairs from the school to the community hall for a VMSAC event and she was upset that I had asked her when her husband wasn’t home. We had to find him and ask before she could drive me over and help me take the chairs. (I am not above using gender roles to my advantage, as in having that same man who gave permission to use the koloi move the bulk of the heavy metal chairs. But he didn’t come along to help). Anyway, Shakes and Ola are not married so this asking permission thing seemed unecessary. Cynthia confirmed that it was peculiar, and we had a good time pretending to grovel to “Mr. King Shakes” as she called him on our way to ask that his girlfriend be able to travel 82 km away for 5 days. Eish! He blinked at me through alcohol-reddened eyes. I couldn’t help pursing my lips at him admonishingly and saying the ladies missed him at the pitch. He smiled and looked maybe just a little bit sheepish. I knelt down next to his chair. “I hear I need to ask you for something. (Ke utlwa gore ke tswhanetse go botsa sengwe) . . . Ke kopa gore Ola go ya ko Charleshill, go nale Drama Workshop.” He nodded and said, “Yah, yah, it’s okay,” and took another sip. Ola was standing a few feet away in the doorway to the bar. I gave her a discreet thumbs up and she returned it with a wink, cute pregnant belly protruding. “Tanki, Rra.” (Thank you, sir). Tanki is Afrikans, but for some reason, the Bakgalagadi seem to prefer it to the Setswana: Ke a leboga.
In Shakes’s defense, he has been great with this ladies football thing. He is one of three coaches, but he has been the most consistent (maybe to keep an eye on Ola, but still, it’s impressive the amount of time he has put in). There are semi-serious punishments for missing goals, goalies missing blocks, or, let’s see, what’s the thing I do a lot? Oh, horrible passes (the other team morphs into my team momentarily and only after I have passed directly to my opponent do I realize the error). We do five push ups. He does them with us, though, encouraging to go lower, lower, until we collapse – Ga ke kgone! I can’t! The other coaches tend to try to make the ladies be more serious than we would like. “No laughing!” Shakes doesn’t mind, though. He laughs with us. O a kgona. You can.
It seemed before that I was in a constant state of perplexed turmoil about how to handle “It’s our culture!” things with which I completely disagree, such as having to ask your boyfriend permission to do anything, let alone participate in a drama workshop. Conversations are nice. Asking permission is not. I have gotten to a more comfortable place (perhaps complacent) where it no longer feels like a moral dilemma. (How do I save Ola, how do I make an example of this situation, how do I change Shakes? . . .) That sort of pondering is obviously not helpful and is emotionally exhausting. Breathe. Just be. Follow protocol. Smile. Show the batho ba Kole (people of Kole) who you are. Much better.
Speaking of new realizations, I am embarrassed that I have harped on the richness of Botswana. Their diamonds, their government structure and what, what (that’s a Southern African English thing, what, what – meaning, roughly, “etc.”). I was humbled when I made the walk of the village with Cynthia today. These “youth”, 20-somethings, who I see in Charleshill and Ghanzi dressed up in clothes that might have come from Gap or some other store in West Town Mall, looking modern and well off, live their everyday lives in mud-walled, tin-roofed huts with no electricity. On days like today when it rained almost all day and was threatening to storm this evening, their outdoor fires are smoky and insufficient to heat water to a comfortable bathing temperature. Their younger brothers and sisters, the Kole Primary School kids, wouldn’t get a decent breakfast or lunch if it weren’t for the porridge or beans and samp that is served at break time (10 o’clock) at school. Most families eat one big meal at night. A plate is made up mostly of peleche – maize meal porridge made to a stiff consistency (cement-like, really) so it can be rolled into a ball and used to scoop up food instead of silverware, a small bit of meat and a tiny spoonful of “soup” (tomato, green pepper, carrot, or potato in MSG filled flavored broth, which is, ironically, “part of the culture”). On special occasions, there are salads, either beet root or cabbage salad. The uniformity of this meal is startling. Sophie doesn’t cook her peleche any differently than Katlego, than the Zimbabwean “auntie” at Twenty’s house, than the professional caterers in Gabs.
Seeing Keolebogile, one of my Run for Life girls, was especially striking for me. There were 8 people in their small Setswana kitchen (sticks stuck in the sand in a square around a fire), sitting and talking, babies draped over knees or slung to backs with polyester blankets. There were two small, small houses on the compound. I don’t know where all those people slept.
It seems odd that I am writing about this now. Shouldn’t I have noticed the poverty first and then seen the richness? Granted, there are days when I feel little to no sympathy for a situation that looks so poor, so sad, the structures so dillapidated, the clothing so dirty, the smell of woodsmoke so infused and the tell tale signs of Chibuku cartons about . . . there are opportunities here. The old American dream is actually possible in Botswana, so I sometimes feel like, “Well, you reap what you sow.”
Really, my delayed reaction to the way people live in Kole probably has to do with my defensiveness about me being a “lekgoa.” Although I try not to waste time or energy explaining something no one will ever believe, I can’t help it. I have repeatedly explained that I am not getting a salary for working here, that I am not rich, that if it weren’t for the Botswana government being generous, as they tend to be, I could not afford the house I stay in, etc, etc. But I cannot explain away reality. And the reality is, I stay in a two bedroom house, a very Western looking house with a porch and thick cement walls and a flushing toilet, all by myself. I have plenty of food. I have plenty of clothes. And my age mates are living with their grandparents in mud huts. Shame on me for thinking that they needed me to tell them how good they have it, as oppose to listen to their dreams for a life that happens to involve things that I have.
I have GLOW again tomorrow. My translator is not around, so I will have to do things in Setswana (they really need Sekgalagadi for me to know they understand), but we are doing an art project tomorrow, thinking about “Who Am I?” so hopefully the art will be self-explanatory. “Who Am I?” is a fairly foreign concept in a communal society. I want to encourage the girls to think simply about their likes and dislikes, their talents, their personal beliefs, their favorite color and then the idea of making individualized decisions about what they want to do in their lives doesn’t seem so impossible. Oh, this is me. I have control. I don’t want to do this because it isn’t me. I do want to do this, because that is what I would do.
I won’t have them go through all of that tomorrow. Tomorrow is just making name tags and personalized collages. But we’ll get there. J
It rained hard last night and all morning. It was one of those days that made you want to “stay in the blankets,” (go nna mo dikobo) as they say. I made a pot of chili instead and fed Cynthia after we walked all chilly evening. She ate an amazing amoung of chili for her tiny size, which was extremely gratifying.
At present . . .
I am in Ghanzi, on my way home from the long Easter weekend which I spent with 10 other volunteers, traveling to Maun, Etsha 6, and Shakawe. We went “Up North” to the Okavango Delta. We saw the Tsodilo Hills, a National Heritage site where the oldest surviving cave paintings still decorate the two hills that stick up out of an otherwise flattened landscape. It was a beautiful hike and an overall enjoyable trip. I am going home to start work on Guidance and Counselling activities for the month at school and to arrange for a football tournament/event involving mobile testing centers and possibly a soccer (football) player from the National team coming to address the crowd of Kole villagers about the importance of knowing one’s status and also men’s involvement in taking responsibility for the health of Botswana. (As of now, 66% of people who test are women).
The drama workshop last week was a huge success. I was so impressed with the kids and the instructors. The end result was a play that they performed in front of the strip of bars and shops in Charleshill. There was an audience of about 200 people to watch their message of nurturing relationships with love, trust, care, and communication (their idea completely!) in order to fight HIV. I will post pictures of that on facebook soon . . .
I love and miss you!
leah
Dear Friends and Family,
Dumelang! Le kae? (Where are you?) (Re teng . . . We are here). That is the most commonly used greeting for a group of people. For one person, you say, “A o teng?” (Are you there). The response is, “Ke teng.” (I’m here).
I am back in Kole after a long hiatus of life in civilization. I was held in Gabs by Peace Corps against my will for a few days after the medical office insisted that I go to South Africa for a medical check up. I was willing to have the medical check up, of course, but was frustrated that the office didn’t allow me any say in when it was. It meant missing a GLOW meeting in Kole and it’s difficult to have adequate communication with people via phone in Kole to explain a long absence. Anyway, I had to go to South Africa last week on Tuesday, with no return ticket at the time of departure, no negotiating. I really shouldn’t complain. It was a mini-vacation. The guest house where med-evacs stay is lavish. The bathroom had a heated floor. I brushed my teeth for an inordinate amount of time just to be able to stand on it. I think the last time I wrote about weather I was saying how hot it was. It’s gotten chilly. South Africa is even moreso. So, heated flooring was not a necessity, but a much appreciated luxury. Every morning we could order breakfast from the short menu that included an omelette and french toast (I had both and they were delicious). I had a cervical biopsy done in Pretoria. The biopsy results were all clear. No abnormal cells whatsoever. I got to go back to Botswana on Saturday. This was good news to me. I found out before I left that I was one of few Peace Corps volunteers accepted to help with Camp Hope.
An hour after I got back to Botswana, last Saturday, I was in a meeting with other counselors for Camp Hope. Camp Hope is a nation wide thing for kids who are HIV positive. The camp here is run by Baylor Clinic, a children’s clinic attached to the main hospital (Princess Marina) in Gaborone. The clinic takes care of about 1,500 kids in about a 100 km radius catchment area. There are many more who need the care in the rest of the country. They are hoping to build another children’s clinic in Francistown. Some (well-off) families bring their children from very far, as it is, since it is the only facility in the country with pediatricians.
The camp was four days of fun for the kids. Arts and crafts, sports, swimming, character development class, free time filled with camp games and songs led by yours truly J, a game drive in Mokgolodi Game Reserve just outside Gabs, a Mr. Bean movie, and the most popular event – Camp Hope Talent Show. We didn’t talk about HIV. Some counselors felt it would be a good venue to let the kids discuss with each other. But I tend to agree with the camp leaders that HIV is already enough a part of their life. It’s sort of in their face, as it is. There are sessions at the clinic for expressing anger at their parents for making them positive, for expressing grief at losing parents, for expressing confusion and sadness at their status . . . It is very rare that they get to feel like normal kids. We gave them that for four days. Sixty-five kids were selected for the camp. Fifty-eight came. They all had some particularly bad situation at home, or were very sick recently, or had stopped, for whatever reason, wanting to take their medicines. (One of my girls told me that her grandmother had made her stop). Stopping ARV therapy is very dangerous. The ARV’s slow down the replication process of the virus. If it is given a chance to replicate, it does so at an alarming rate, will weaken the immune system quickly, and, most worrisome, will have more opportunities to create a stronger strain of the virus that will be resistant to the ARV’s. Resistant strains will be transmittable. It’s a formidable thought. The kids would all take their meds together at meal time, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Doctors would pass out the little baggies that we had helped organize and label during check in and make sure everyone was taking everything properly (many needed redirection on their inhalers or how to use the syringes to get liquid out of medicine bottles).
As camps tend to be, it was a rewarding experience. This was especially fulfilling for me because it was the first time when I felt like, “Hey, this is what I came here for.” I knew, for sure, that I was reaching my target audience. I had the idea that I would be doing palliative care related to HIV/AIDS work. Since ARV’s, that kind of work has become less necessary and it is harder for an outsider to be in the position to do so. I crave that sort of first-hand contact, though. The smile of the boy whose doll I helped to dress in arts and crafts will be one of the things I remember about my Peace Corps service. The joy of one of my girls after having swum across the pool almost on her own is another. It was poignant to realize that these kids, full of life and energy and talent, were cursed with this thing that will eventually kill them, prematurely. Still, it is our job to support them while they are here, and treat them with as much normalcy as possible, not being too obvious in an outpouring of love that has a sense of urgency behind it.
There are privacy issues behind sharing too much about camp. We couldn’t take any pictures. Some parents/caretakers have refused to sign photo consents, not wanting anyone to know about their child’s status. Some kids are only partly aware of their status. They know they have to take meds, they vaguely understand they are sick, but the details of how they got sick and even what HIV is have not been explained to all of them, at their caretakers’ discretion (which is infuriating to me, despite my efforts to refrain from judgement).
I think this is the first time I have returned from time away from village life without experiencing some adjustment pains. I slipped easily into the weekend routine of washing clothes, reading a book (Anil’s Ghost, by the same person who wrote The English Patient, it’s excellent), checking my nurse’s baby who is no longer such a baby, playing the guitar ‘til my fingers hurt . . . It is reinforcing to feel that I came home. The smell of my house was familiar. Lefifi’s loud protests at my long absence greeted me even before I had stepped onto the porch. (Meooww, Meow, Meow, Meoooww). He has since attached himself to my lap. Even with only my own thoughts to keep me company for long hours, I do not find myself pining for people who I can’t talk to or craving the distractions and business of town/city life (which used to happen upon returning from Gabs).
There was a bit of sadness coming home, though. One of the patients at the health post who I visited with the nurse on home visits a couple of times (she was HIV positive) passed away. She was young. Late 20’s. I’m not sure if she has children, though I would be surprised if she didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the service, partly because it was too sad, and partly because I was getting over a “flu” that I picked up from a camp full of kids and needed rest. Funerals in Botswana are not conducive to rest. On Friday night, there is a prayer service that starts at 9pm and goes ‘til 4am. Then, at 5:30am, they start again. The burial service ends around 10am. Still not time to sleep, everyone goes back to the families home for lunch. Pearl and Twenty checked me on their way home from the funeral, so I could at least express my condolences to them. They knew her well, had been taking care of her for some time.
My sunflowers are growing very tall. I have tomato plants that I may have to dig up and put inside in buckets in order to protect them from cold that seems to be coming on at an alarming rate. I have a cantaloupe that is ripening nicely. My carrots and onions are almost all done. It feels like fall.
The next big event I am looking forward to is a Zebras 4 Life, Test 4 Life football tournament the first weekend in May. I will be attending meetings and visiting the District AIDS Coordinator’s office in Charleshill this week to get things organized. The plan is to have four men’s teams play on Saturday and two women’s teams on Sunday. There will be catered lunch for the players. They must have tested (they will wear a blue wrist band that says, “Ke itse seemo same!” (I know my status)) in order to play. Tebelopele is a nation wide organization that provides mobile testing centers for events like this. They are scheduled to come for the weekend to supplement Pearl’s capacity for testing all the players and (hopefully) a bunch of community members! Wish me luck. J
Love and miss you all,
Leah
Dear Friends and Family,
After less than a year at my Peace Corps site, I somehow have the connections and understanding of “how things work here” to have set in motion events of this past weekend. What I mean is, the Zebras 4 Life, Test 4 Life football tournament that I have been anticipating (and stressing about, really) was unbelievably successful. Perhaps my idea of success has changed since I came. Or the rest of life has become so much more comfortable that the frustrations with “work” (things that could have gone better during the event) are easier to bear. Regardless, I feel blessed.
Monica hiked to Kole on Friday to be with me throughout the event. She was the official photographer of the event (I will post her amazing pictures on facebook soon). She also helped me with logistics and reminded me of additions to the event which made it even more successful (condoms and condom demonstration, for example . . . 400 condoms were distributed to the mostly male crowd at the football tournament). Over 100 villagers tested. All 72 players tested, about half of whom had never tested before. The games were closely matched and exciting. The teams were presented with modest prize money and team pictures as thank you’s for participating. It’s a good thing Lesedi (Monica) was there. She was the one who insisted that testing be mandatory. I was ready to give in to the few players who were protesting that testing can’t be forced on people (it can’t). Monica took a stand. No, I am not forcing you to test. I am simply saying you can’t play in the tournament unless you do because that it is what you were invited here to do. Test and play in the tournament. So, do both or do neither. She was right. One young man who had been reluctant was delighted to find out he was negative. He was grinning and showing his Tebelopele Passport to Life to everyone (which is passed out to everyone who tests with a stamp of “positive” or “negative” and where the testee writes a pledge to staying negative or to a zero transmission lifestyle if he/she is positive).
This morning, a women’s team from Ncojane was transported to Kole as a favor by the BDF (Botswana Defense Force) boys to me. I don’t know why they always seem to be so willing to do things for me, give me lifts to Charleshill or Ghanzi, come play in a football tournament I sponsor, transport the ladies the next day . . . I guess being “montle” (cute/beautiful), according to them, has its advantages even though I get sick of their propositions. J The Kole ladies with whom I practice played the Ncojane team. I didn’t play since I was the organizer of the event and they had plenty of players, I wanted it to be their game. They won! I was so proud. Women’s football is very new here and it still resembles 2nd graders in the U.S., following the ball around the field in a clump, if left to its own devices. But the Kole ladies are starting to respond to the encouragement from their coaches (and me) when we say – “Bulago!” In Sekgalagadi, “Open up!” (Space out). The best part of this whole thing, I think, was seeing how proud the village women were of their daughters and nieces today. One of the catering ladies, Marea Ramoswaana, had to be directed off the field a few times by the referee when she got overly excited about a goal or near misses of goals from the Ncojane team. A venue where people are publicly praising young women for something positive is hard to come by. In fact, today was the first time I have seen it.
I guess I have to balance out every success and heart-lifting story with a little bit of the stark truth. I saw a young woman from Ncojane leave the Tebelopele tent where they “confidentially” test people and give them their results red eyed and sniffling. She spent the game with her head in her hands. I was asked to go find Panado (tylenol) for her. I wanted everyone to know their status. I didn’t think about the consequences of watching someone find out they were positive. It’s unbelievably frustrating and sad.
On Saturday morning, I was prepared to wait for hours for all the teams to show up and be able to start testing and playing games. I walked over to the field at the school at 8am (when I had told people to be there) and, to my amazement, there were two truckloads of young men, sitting in the back of their pick ups and doing sporadic warm ups with the balls they had brought (I had forgotten that detail, along with referees, which they also organized for themselves, I can hardly take credit for this event, I hope it doesn’t sound like I am bragging at all). They were from Charleshill. That means that after a night of drinking, these men got themselves out of bed, without alarm clocks (no such thing here) and organized their own transport, spending their own money on petrol, to arrive in Kole by 8am. It is at least an hour drive from Charleshill, depending on the condition of the road, the condition of the driver, and the condition of the vehicle. The BDF drove in with two Ncojane teams shortly after and the Kole team also materialized. We ended up waiting on Tebelopele to set up and get ready to test people. They arrived late the night before, bathed at my house, and went to camp out in the store room at the health post which I had cleaned out for them earlier in the day on Friday.
The Charleshill team ended up being the champions of the tournament, much to Monica’s delight. I am biased, of course, but I think the Kole players are actually the most talented. The thing is, these guys don’t practice together. Ever. They organized practices for the last week and a half or so, in preparation, but the same group of people was never there, depending on who had been called by their uncle or father to the cattle post. They are just so naturally talented and there is a deep understanding of the game and unbelievable field sense.
Although I had help during the event (I just sort of watched it all happen, to be honest), the preparation was largely done by me. This was a VMSAC event, hence the funds are coming from DMSAC at Charleshill Sub-District level. But (sh, don’t tell), VMSAC has not met in Kole in quite some time. I tried to have three meetings in order to plan for this event. Then I went to Gabs/South Africa. When I came back, I called an “emergency meeting” to no avail. So, I just did what needed to be done, writing letters and following up in Charleshill and Ncojane with the boys who I had asked to invite their teams. Mma Marambe, the school head, and my friend Katlego were instrumental in letting me use the school grounds for the games and testing site. The school kitchen was used by the catering ladies to cook lunch. The school chairs were set around the field for spectators. I also felt supported because Mma Marambe and Katlego were upset on my behalf that I didn’t seem to have much help from VMSAC members. I tried to tell them that I should be the one who was upset and that I was just glad it was happening and grateful for their support. “Ga ba go thusa, Thapelo!” (They don’t help you, Thapelo), they insisted on defending me. It makes me roll my eyes, though. I feel like people who are helping me do positive things insist on being negative to some extent, especially them. I think it comes from a society which is used to being critical. The traditional way of making any sort of decision concerning the community (the kgotla tradition) involves long discussions that often focus on “what’s going wrong?” and, it seems, less on, “what do we do to create positive change?”
My nurse, Twenty, also helped. Friday night, we borrowed speakers from the councillor from Kole (an elected local government official) and drove around the village, announcing the details of the event. This used to happen often in Moshupa. I remember thinking at first that there was a town crier, “Nine o’clock and all’s well!” But really, it’s just a common way of advertising community events. So, Twenty practiced her announcing skills, which are impressive, (I told her she had a new calling), and told everyone, “Bagaetsho, tsamaya ko sekolo sa lona, tsa pasa ya botshelo jwa gago, itse seemo sa gago! Re nale motshameko wa football! Go lebelela football le go itlhatlhobela mogare wa HIV, go botlhokotlhoko go itse seemo sa lona . . .” (and so on). “Ladies and gentlemen, go to the school and take your life in your hands, know your status. We have a football match! Watch football and test for HIV, it’s very important to know your status . . .”
The new group of volunteers is shadowing the “experienced volunteers” (that’s us! Yikes!) this week. I will have two people to escort on the transport adventure from Ghanzi to Kole on Wednesday and back to Charleshill where they will take the bus from Windhoek, Namibia that goes to Gabs on Sundays. The week after that, Natalie, the volunteer in Karakubis, 80 kilometers north of Charleshill, is having a going away gathering. It will be bittersweet. I have learned a lot from her. Her easy going, Georgia peach way is well-received by the Batswana and (it’s not easy to do this) she has won over the Bakgalagadi. The week after that, I will go to Gabs to help with some training sessions for the new volunteers. Before I know it, it will be June and then the end of June and then I will be on the way home for Rachel’s wedding! :)
I love and miss you. Keep sending news from home. Thank you for the letters and packages. They are precious to me.
From Botswana,
Leah
May 30, 2008
Dear friends and family,
Although I am not feeling particulary productive since the football tournament, it has been a wonderful month.
I had a Peace Corps trainee “shadow” me the second week of May. Her name is Kate, she’s a 50 + volunteer who spent her most recent years in Vermont living in community and helping to run a large dairy operation and a rather famous bakery (I forget the name of it now). The Vermont farm ladies decided to sell their cattle to the State of California after years of careful genetic selection and so Kate was free to do Peace Corps which is “something (she has) always wanted to do.” That’s the line for a lot of the older volunteers, now that their kids are grown and significant others either not around or willing to go along, Peace Corps Washington has taken advantage by recruiting 50 + ‘ers. I just found out recently that Botswana is a pilot project for the older volunteers. The culture here is very conducive to older volunteers’ success. They will receive so much respect automatically that the 20 somethings may never experience. When the girls and I were on Christmas vacation visiting Nadine in Kasane I remember being almost offended by how nicely the kids, especially, greeted Nadine on our walks to and from her home. I thought kids in Kasane were just more polite until I realized their clasping of hands and slight bow and subdued, “Dumela, Mma,” were all because she has gray hair.
Back to Kate and other trainees shadowing me and other volunteers in Ghanzi District . . . I was apprehensive about the role of “mentor” or “experienced volunteer” before them came, but it did come naturally to say, “This is what I’ve learned,” and share story upon story. The trainees all wanted to stay and shadow for the rest of their training weeks, but we sent them back to Molepolole after four days.
Monica and I were spoiled with government transport to and from Ghanzi to pick up the trainees. On the way to Kole, it was just Kate and me in the front of the pick up truck with a government driver. When we arrived, Kate admitted she had been freaked out during the drive. She said she was saying mantras to herself and keeping an eye on the spedometer and wishing there were less cows, “frolicking on the side of the road.” I remember feeling that way when I first rode to Kole, too. Is it necessary to go this fast? I would ask. The drivers’ philosophy is that the faster you go, the less you feel the bumps on the very bumpy road. I have come to agree with them, so 120km/hr no longer phases me. It will be helpful to have new volunteers to help bring their fresh perspective and remind me when I should be fearing for my life. The cows frolicking no longer makes me as nervous either. One morning on an ambulance trip to Ghanzi, I covered my eyes and squealed as my driver, Meroro, swerved around a group of cows on the road, barely slowing from highway speed. He asked if I was scared. I said, “Terrified!” And he laughed, but was serious in reassuring me, “Don’t worry, Thapelo, I can read their minds.” I think he is probably right. There is comfort in riding with an experienced government driver.
Kate and I walked around the village and I introduced her at the health post, the kgotla offices, and the school. Everyone assumed she was my mother, including a very young girl who is particularly fond of me (we spent an entire morning at the hiking spot together once and her mother kept reprimanding her for touching my hair, and I kept reassuring them that I didn’t mind); she pointed from quite far away, saying, “Thapelo le mmagwe! Thapelo le mmagwe!” (Thapelo and her mother).
I made chili and fresh bread and a salad with veggies we got in Ghanzi and fresh basil from the garden. Kate was beside herself. She was so complimentary of my cooking, my language skills, my attitude, etc, etc. Her visit was quite the ego boost. She also insisted I play the guitar and after playing a few songs we got to talking about music. She is a folk music fan and was saying my songs reminded her of Cheryl Wheeler, which is ridiculously flattering. I had her listen to Uncle Phil’s cd which she enjoyed very much. She said she slept better in Kole than she had since she arrived in country. For some reason Kole does seem to have a limited number of chickens and therefore roosters which reduces the noise level considerably in comparison to her home in Molepolole (or mine in Moshupa, for that matter). The hee-hawing donkeys are still around, but the breeding season is ending now and they make less of a ruckus these days.
Donkeys are an omni-present in Botswana. I distinctly remember the first night I heard the hee hawing in Moshupa. I was on malaria meds and went a little bit crazy at night. As I was drifting off the sleep, the “HGHEE, hghaww, HGHEE, hghaww” jolted me awake and I sat bolt upright, sure something awful was happening to someone nearby. The malaria meds not only enhanced donkey noises but made me paranoid; people were at the windows when I was sleeping and there were gigantic mosquitoes in the room. I woke up once with the distinct feeling of blood on my hands after having killed an imaginary mosquito in my sleep.
Monica woke up once imagining an over-sized donkey head at her window (again, malaria med induced hallucinations). This was after the night when there really were donkeys at her window. She heard them rummaging in her trash can and got up to chase three donkeys out of her yard, wearing a little pink nighty at three o’clock in the morning.
The most recent donkey experience was when I was waiting at the hiking spot to go to Ncojane to check on the house for the new Peace Corps volunteer. I was waiting with three other people. A group of young boys riding donkeys went by on the road and the young men with whom I was waiting decided to provide themselves with some entertainment in the meantime. They ordered the boys to line up their donkeys and then said, “Ready, Set, Go!” and they were off, racing to some undetermined point in the distance. I felt bad for them initially, but after awhile succumbed to laughter with the others partly because of the bizarre circumstance and partly because the donkeys, in their stubborn way, were staying in line, perfectly straight across, despite the boys hollering and side kicking.
This past week I went to Molepolole to meet the new volunteers and do a training session with them, “HIV/AIDS education for multiple audiences.” I basically reproduced the training I did for my VMSAC workshop and, although it wasn’t a scientifically in depth presentation, I wanted them to see what level they would be teaching, at least for villagers in remote areas. There are differences for teaching HIV/AIDS education here and in the U.S. Oral sex and needles are not a mode of transmission in Botswana, for example. There is also a lot more dealing with myths and ancient cultural traditions (sharing razors for circumcisions during bojalwe, the initiation ceremony for men, for exmaple, although that practice is dying out). Also, there are conspiracy theories about condoms that need to be dispelled. Worms and HIV are believed (although not commonly believed anymore) to live in condoms as a way for makgoa to do away with black people. When we were in training last year, there were absolutely no training sessions involving technical HIV/AIDS information. I learned a lot from my fellow trainees at a workshop they put on for the Red Cross in Moshupa, especially from Andrea, a ditzy, blond, California beauty who is brilliantly smart and was pre-med in college. She explained better than any expert or doctor I’ve heard in Botswana what HIV does in the body and how ARV’s slow down the replication process of the virus. I replicated what she taught us for the new trainees.
I was asked to do a session for safety and security at the last minute. This meant presenting with Thuso, who is such an amazing person it’s hard to do him justice in words. He is incredibly kind and takes his work very seriously. I met his family in Kanye last month (he was giving me a ride back to Ghanzi from Gabs) and it was touching to see him with his new baby girl and his oldest daughter who has down syndrome. He is a muscular, tough looking safety and security officer and yet gentle as a lamb with her. Anyway, I was helping to give him credibility during his presentation because we bratty, self-centered Americans think we know everything there is to know about Botswana after six weeks of training (that’s where the trainees are now) and sometimes roll their eyes at the Batswana trainers when they try to instill the very important concept of reporting safety and security incidents. I told examples of “incidents” that had happened to volunteers since I came and the response of the safety and security officer and other staff members at the office which has been overwhelmingly supportive for anyone who has had a break in or a violent crime or petty theft or property damage.
Training with the new volunteers was a reinforcing experience much like having the shadow-ers come stay with us. Standing there in front of the group I remembered so clearly sitting in those chairs (I can’t believe it was a year ago) and thinking how I couldn’t wait to gain the experience and knowledge base and level of comfortable-ness that those PCV’s who were our guest speakers obviously had. And now, that’s me. Woo-hoo! It’s a great feeling.
Like I said, I haven’t really been working. I helped Monica edit some proposals for activities that we will do together this coming year, but haven’t started implementing them yet. She wants to start a nation-wide campaign titled, “HIV stops with ME!” (Ke ka emisa HIV!) in order to promote personal responsibility, a much needed and much avoided topic in Botswana in general. We are also planning a drama competition and tour for the winning group in August.
Mostly, I have been preparing for the new volunteer in Ncojane. I helped get a house allocated from the VDC (Village Development Committee). It doesn’t have electricity, but it’s comfortable, much like mine. The trainees get their site announcements tomorrow (Saturday), and they visit their sites next week. So, counterparts for the volunteers are supposed to travel to Gabs on Monday and bring them back on Tuesday. While I was in Molepolole I got a call from the matron at Charleshill asking if I was bringing back the trainee with me on Tuesday. Nope, I will not be in Gabs, I am going to Kole tomorrow, I told her. That’s what I thought, I am just clarifying because the head nurse at Ncojane told me you would be bringing her. (The head nurse apparently thinks I am the counterpart. Eish!) So, it’s back to the grind stone of begging in the offices for transport, for furniture, for wiring for electricity, for gas cylinders, etc., but it will be much more rewarding if it isn’t for me, I think.
I have a change of address! Please send letters and packages to:
Leah Hart, PCV
Kole Health Post
P O Box 7
Kole, Botswana
AFRIKA
I have a request for package contents or for those of you who will be seeing me when I am home (July 2nd to the 15th!) I find great pleasure and comfort in music. I am grateful for the guitar I have here and play it often. However, I would like to have the option of listening to other peoples’ music. I would appreciate cd’s of your favorite songs. If those of you with burners and huge repertoires of music on your computers could create a few burned discs for me, I would be so delighted . . . (Chris G., Alan, Uncle Phil, Jonas???) . . . Thank you! And also, DVD’s! I am in the process of finally getting the software I need to be able to watch DVD’s on my laptop. Once I have it, it would be so lovely if I could have a girls’ night with my friends in Kole and watch a movie. Disney movies, documentaries, my favorites (Princess Bride, Chocolat, Good Will Hunting, Dirty Dancing, Rainman, etc.)
Thanks!!!
Love and miss you much,
Leah
Dumelang,
Last Friday night a Botswana Peace Corps volunteer was killed in a car crash near Francistown. She was a stellar volunteer, almost fluent in Setswana and very happy here. She was planning to extend her service for a third year, working with an international NGO, PSI, in Gaborone. She was due to visit home in 10 days. Her family is obviously devastated. Please remember Cathy and her family in your thoughts and prayers. It is shocking and sad to lose a colleague.
I wanted to share with you, not to depress you, but to let you all know how much I love you. Her death has reminded me of the fragility of this life.
love, leah
Hello! The following is a combination of two emails, so it’s rather huge. Hope you enjoy . . .
June 11th
Dumelang, Bagaetsho,
Kippie isn’t staying. She was going to be the volunteer in Ncojane, but due to outside factors (wanting to start medical school, a boyfriend at home) and, in her words, the “bleakness of Ncojane”, she is now back in the States. I am glad she was in touch with her lack of commitment rather than staying for a year and waffling about it which is what Susie did. It’s amazing the impact that a volunteer has on a village. Especially since, as a volunteer, it is sometimes easy to feel invisible, unnoticed, and, most frustratingly, ineffective. But once someone leaves, the village collectively frowns, eyebrows furrowing, perplexed, “Why wasn’t she happy? What did we do wrong? Why didn’t she talk to us about it?” I still get those questions regarding Susie. She was Ncojane’s first volunteer. Along with feeling guilty that she left, people are also quite willing to sing Susie’s praises now that she’s gone. “She was my friend. She was really helping. She was such a nice person.” Unfortunately she didn’t hear those things from them first hand, as I seldom do from villagers in Kole. Although, one of the silver linings to Kippie going is to hear from people that they are grateful I have stayed and will stay. “Didn’t she get some confidence from you, Thapelo? She could see you are happy in Kole, with no electricity, no transport, no cell phone, no what, what . . .” (That was Mma Maoto, one of the Family Welfare Educators at the Health Post). And Pearl, never one to mince her words, “I love you, Thapelo, I want you to finish your contract nicely. Don’t let her make you think you need to start school now, now, too.” They speculated about how Kippie was using Peace Corps for a free trip to Africa (which is sort of true) and maybe that she was too weak because she was so small (she was only slightly shorter than me and not particularly pettite, so at this point, they were grasping at straws). That conjecture was not true. Kippie is a tough cookie, toughened by a tough life and she wasn’t willing to put up with people making her feel so uncomfortable all the time.
She had nice, wise words for me when she left, telling me to be safe and not get too comfortable with things. “Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean it’s safe,” (that was in reference to the transport situation). It was nice to have her company for a few days. I stayed with her in Ncojane. I really had planned on staying with her frequently when she first arrived, if she needed/wanted that, and to help advocate for her house to get electricity and the appropriate furniture (the usual battles in the offices). So, when I realized she wasn’t coming back, I felt at a loss for what to do with myself until I went home for the wedding.
The day I got back after seeing her off on the bus in Ghanzi, I stayed in my house for an entire day, feeling sort of mopey, sleeping in, foregoing my daily jog, reading an entire book and cleaning an already clean house. Things feel cyclical. That was exactly the sort of day I would have had a year ago. And then, visitors started to come. People realized I was around and started “checking me” (stopping by to say hi). They brought small projects with them. An application for a women’s football kit (uniforms) from the Culture and Youth office. The girls need my help with the language on the form and also typing CV’s (resumes) for them. Then the Guidance and Counseling committee asked me to lead a team building workshop for the staff at school (apparently the petty gossip and undermining of fellow teachers has been particularly bad this year). I found out there was a kgotla meeting, the local politicians were there to hear complaints from the villagers. I have been to the kgotla offices often since I came, but never to a real kgotla meeting. There was an Independence celebration there, but it wasn’t a meeting. So, this very traditional thing was happening, but, still in a funk, I was undecided about going. For one thing, it is freezing again. Ridiculously cold. My poor tomato plants froze the other night. So, wearing a skirt, walking through the dusty cold and sitting on the cold sand, listening to Sekgalagadi which I still don’t completely understand didn’t sound like fun. I went over to Mma Pula’s tuck shop across the road from my place. I was borrowing a hammer. She chatted, as only Mma Pula can (extensively) and mentioned the meeting. I probed her for more details. What was the meeting about, would the councillors really act on the the complaints, and (lastly) should I go?
“Yes, you are staying in the village. You should go hear what they say, two minutes, five minutes.”
Well, I knew I wouldn’t get away with five minutes, but that was enough motivation for me. Mma Pula definitely knows best. I put on leggings under a skirt and covered my head with a scarf. I was greeted by several ladies when I walked into the kgotla and to the women’s side. One of them shared her blanket. I had prepared for the cold, but I hadn’t thought of the sun, which is still fierce even in the chilly air. I shaded my face and concentrated on the speaker, one of the politicians. He had given me a ride to Charleshill a few days before. We drove off the road to a cattle post where he greeted a group of people seated around a fire briefly. When he got back in the truck he turned around to tell me that it was almost election time for the councillors. “You have to greet when it’s almost election time. And give people rides, too, if it’s not election time I say I don’t have petrol.” So, politics are the same everywhere. I told him he was a sleazy politician and that now I knew his secret so he had to give me rides even if it wasn’t election time. He laughed.
Where was I? At the kgotla. So, Councillor Mokonyane is speaking, but it’s windy and Sekgalagadi sounds like Setswana with a mouthful of food to me, which is beyond my comprehension level. I was busy taking in the villagers, though, happy sitting there amongst familiar faces. I got little waves and nods and smiles. Then, a truck pulled up and a familiar figure, Fritz, who works with Cassie in Ghanzi, got out of the passenger side. He was not so discreetly scanning the crowd at the meeting. I can’t quite explain this, but I know I am integrated because I have magicly become part of the telepathic communication that happens between everyone. I somehow knew he was looking for me even though there was no good explanation for that. I had never seen him in Kole before and had no idea what he was doing there. So, knowing he wanted me, naturally, I sat quietly and did nothing, watching him look for me and making no effort to let him know I was there. That is also a very Motswana thing to do which used to infuriate me. It’s less infuriating if you do it yourself, too. He saw me and raised his eyebrows. I pretended not to see. He came to the entrance of the kgotla and gestured. It wasn’t until others pointed out that he wanted me that I grudgingly got up and went out to ask him what he wanted. Lunch. Which is precisely why I was playing hard to get. This is normal, though, outside government workers passing by someone they know in a village to get food. When a government officer goes on a “trip” to the farms or settlement villages, they are given stipend money. This is a silly thing to do because there are no shops where the officer might use the stipend to buy food. Besides that the money isn’t given in advance, but put on the pay check at the end of the pay period. So, it’s more like an incentive to make officers grumble less about going out to the boondox and sleeping in a tent and bathing in the cold, especially during winter. In my humble opinion, those of us who stay in the settlement villages should be given a stipend to feed all the officers who stop by asking for lunch. Fritz made off with some delicious rice and vegetable curry.
When Kippie and I were in Ncojane, we were staying at the head nurse’s house. Kippie’s house was not available (there were people staying there while they built a new clinic, although they promised they would be out by the time Kippie came). The head nurse was not around and generously offered her house. We arrived on Wednesday. On Thursday, I went to the clinic and was informed that “Mokgosi (the nurse) has a visitor, he wants you to make him lunch.” “What?!” I was particularly frustrated by this after having stepped out of my Motswana-mode with Kippie for the past 24 hours. Kgakololo knows me. She knew it would take some serious convincing to make me cook for a strange man. “Thapelo, he’s Mokgosi’s visitor.”
“Well, she’s not here.” I was not going to be swayed by her sweet reasoning.
She shook her head. “Thapelo.”
“He can make his own lunch.” I stomped out of the clinic, explaining to Kippie what she had said.
Sure enough, he showed up shortly before noon.
He sat down heavily on a couch and put his hands behind his head. “Kgakololo told you, didn’t she?”
“What?”
“I am asking for lunch.”
“Good for you.” (That is the translation of a statement of indifference that makes more sense in Setswana).
“Hey, Thapelo, are you refusing?”
“Refusing what?”
“To cook.”
“I cooked yesterday. I have left overs for my friend and me for lunch.” (I was feeling generous) . . . “You are welcome to those, but there’s no meat.”
“No meat?”
“She’s a vegetarian (referring to Kippie).”
“I want meat.”
I pursed my lips and looked away, ignoring him.
He laughed. “Come on, Thapelo.”
I looked at him sharply. Clearly, this man was dense. “You’re welcome to make whatever you find in the fridge.”
“I can’t cook.”
“You’re a baby?” (Children in Botswana are taught at a very young age how to cook).
“I have always been staying with a woman.”
I believe at this point you could see if not hear the steam coming out of my ears.
“It is not my responsibility to cook for you! If you want to eat, you’d better figure out how to cook or go ask for food somewhere else.”
I went off to check on Kippie who was in the bedroom, writing in her journal. She told me I had been infinitely patient and was handling him much better than she was. I didn’t know how to reply since I was more rude and short tempered and dismissive of him than I think I have ever been of anyone so far.
I heard him go into the other bedroom to lay down. Kgakololo came in shortly after. I went out to meet her.
“Don’t.” I told her firmly before she said anything.
“You haven’t cooked?”
“No, and you shouldn’t either, don’t cook for him, Kgakololo.”
She softened me with her laugh and smile and started taking chicken out of the freezer. We had a lengthy, serious conversation about men’s expectations of women in Botswana. She is getting married next month to a man I know from Ghanzi. I grilled her about who did what in the house when he was around (they have two children together). She assured me their relationship was “balanced,” as she put it.
“I can sit while he changes the baby, or while he cooks, it just depends on our schedule, who has worked or if one of us isn’t feeling well. It’s just like that.” I nodded, satisfied, but still kept my arms crossed, feeling guilty for not helping her and berating her for giving in to any man.
“Why can’t he cook himself?” I demanded.
“Ah, Thapelo,” she soothed. “He’s always had a mother or sister and now he’s married.”
Sleazeball, as I will refer to him henceforth, woke from his beauty sleep to eat the pasta, chicken, and veggie stew she made. He started the conversation that usually leads to proposal (How often are you in Charleshill? …) and laughed at my scathing looks and biting responses about how I am not interested in babies who wear wedding rings.
I don’t think that particular incident determined Kippie’s decision but it may have helped put things in perspective for her. She was so unwilling to do what I did, be a hostess, if grudgingly. And, although I felt strongly about the issue of a man demanding food from someone just because she is a woman who is staying at the house of another woman he knows, I wasn’t actually stressed by it. I almost felt as if I were playing the part of the angry lekgoa. I might have cooked for him on a different day, without Kippie to be in solidarity with.
I’ve been ending a lot of sentences with prepositions. Sorry, Mom. My language skills become less in English even as other languages expand.
The team building workshop at school was supposed to happen today but we were missing a key player (namely, the teacher with whom most people have an issue with at the moment). So, it’s postponed, which is good, I want to get some materials from Sarah, the volunteer with True Love Waits in Ghanzi, and her counterpart, the Dutch minister, Jan Wessels who is the closest thing to a saint I may have ever met. They have done some great team building with the youth who work for True Love Waits, an abstinence education NGO. On Saturday, I went to a premiere of a movie that Sarah wrote the script for (there I go again! How should I write that? Anyway …) It’s called, “Worth the Wait.” Very real issues, very true to Botswana, were displayed in a dramatic, but not over the top way. It was brilliant. The actors were members of Seetebosigo (meaning don’t visit at night, also the word for the month of June). Four actors from the group ran mine and Monica’s drama workshop. They became a professional group after proving they were reliable and talented and organized for several years in Ghanzi. Finally, they are getting funding from the government (surprised? If anyone needs funding for anything, ask the Botswana government. They love giving money). The group in Kole is aspiring to this, as well. I know there are a few that are capable and dedicated right now. The others need some convincing. That’s another side project at the moment, trying to get them registered as a group so they can start to advertise themselves and be eligible for funding.
Anyway, this movie. It’s about 45 minutes long and the ending is open, so there’s potential for a sequel (written by yours truly and other Ghanzi district volunteers, is the idea).
June 16th is the Day of the African Child, commemorating those children who died during apartheid in South Africa (I think). The committee has put together a few events as fundraisers for the Kgotla celebration that will happen next Monday. One of the fundraisers was a dance event at the Community Hall. It was awesome. I got roped into taking money at the door, but I still got to see all the acts. My GLOW girls can bust a move! I was so proud. And there were three boys who were doing traditional dance, which is very repetitive and seemingly unskilled unless you are a dancer yourself in which case you never get tired of watching, wide eyed and open mouthed at the poise and precision which it requires.
One of the boys who danced is the one who came to me about his girlfriend. Have I told you this? Probably not because it’s controversial. He is 21. His girlfriend is 17. Illegal, to start with. She isn’t really his girlfriend, just someone he slept with. Okay, so what’s the problem? That was, depressingly, my initial response, because that story was in no way out of the ordinary. She was pregnant. Oh, my. I felt so many things at once as he was talking, the hot sun on my cheeks under my sunglasses as I squinted at him, concentrating on his broken English/Setswana accented with Sesarwa (he’s a small Mosarwa boy). Frustration. Cultural judgement. Confusion. Detachment, it isn’t my problem. Then I pulled it together. “Okay, what do you need?”
“I need advice, man, I didn’t want this in my life right now!”
“Don’t you use condoms?” I couldn’t help sidetracking and lecturing a little.
“I’m a Mosarwa. I’m addicted to sex without condoms.”
“Whatever.” I didn’t know where to start so I just sighed and shook my head.
“I didn’t expect her to get pregnant.”
I laughed, as did his friend who was standing with us. “You’ve made a discovery. That’s how people get pregnant, sex without condoms. Honestly, E________.”
He smiled and shifted nervously.
I tried not to be mean. “What does she want?” I asked quietly.
“She doesn’t want it either.”
“Has she mentioned abortion?” I didn’t want to put the idea in his head.
“It’s illegal.”
“I know, is that what she wants?”
“She doesn’t want to go through with the pregnancy.” He was being awfully politically correct.
“Tell her to come talk to me.” I told him. “I will make some calls and find out what her options are. Give me two days.”
He squeezed my hand, hard. “Two days. She is supposed to go back to school next week.”
“Fine. Two days.”
Two days later, I had the name of a doctor in Gabs and he had arranged bus money for them both. I haven’t seen her, but according to him and his huge smile, things are, “Grand,” and she’s doing fine.
It was a powerful lesson in service. Peace Corps service. Doing what they want even if it doesn’t line up with what you or someone else might want for that person.
But I draw the line at cooking lunch for strange men. Sometimes. J
June 26th Dear friends and family,My head is filled with things to tell you. I have a hard time making sense of the soup of cultural observations and idiosyncrancies which I have noted lately.
Speaking of soup, I have a new recommendation for butternut squash soup (you may remember that it is winter here and that one of the limited winter vegetables is butternut squash which is available in 20 pound sacks or individually). I love it! The last time I made the soup, I put a chai tea bag in while it was boiling (thank you, Beth). Delicious.
I guess the most striking observations really have to do with how I have changed or how my perspective has changed since coming here. For example, a year ago, it might have been disconcerting or annoying or at least surprising when a truck full of five people stopped at my gate at 10 am on a Wednesday morning and said, “Hello, Thab-za! We are asking for accomodation.” (Re kopa boroko). I’m sure I would have stuttered and clarified what they were asking a few times and checked out the details of the situation: Do you have your own food, where are you bathing, do you require mattresses and blankets or do you have your own? Etc, etc. I would have wracked my brain for the training session that addressed that particular situation and I would have been wary of being taken advantage of. (Just because I’m a lekgoa they assume I can give them all boroko might have been my paranoid conclusion). My reaction, as of yesterday, was to be totally non-plussed.
“Of course,” I didn’t hesitate or bother to start organizing logistics in my head. It turns out they were quite self sufficient, cooked for themselves, arranged their own blankets and mats on the floor and organized bathing times so that I was in no way impeded in my nightly and morning routine. They were lovely.
Frank was the leader of the group. He used to be a PMTCT lay counselor (like Pearl, my counterpart) in a nearby village, a Basarwa settlement called New Xanagas. The X is a click, but it is mispelled because the Basarwa languages are so misunderstood and not taken seriously by the Botswana in general, unfortunately. There are seven main clicks in the most commonly spoken Sesarwa language in Ghanzi District, Naro. There is X, Q, Cl, Gl, . . . and I forget the rest, but anyway, New Xanagas should actually be New Qanagas. Forgive the tangent, I was saying, about Frank, that he used to be a lay counselor at their clinic and was recently hired as a program director at True Love Waits, the NGO in Ghanzi. Another tangent: If you would have asked me before coming to Botswana, “What do you think of an abstinence-only education program that will not, out of principle, teach young people how to use condoms or distribute them,” I would have scoffed. Terrible idea, unrealistic, morally uppity and perhaps making the situation worse by denying young people the right to know about and use condoms. So besides disliking social programming and being a raging capitalist, I am apparently now conservative. True Love Waits is doing perhaps the most effective AIDS work in the whole country. It’s mostly because their management of funds is actually effective, the team has an amazing, uncharacteristic work ethic, and the founders are (this doesn’t explain it entirely, but you will just have to trust that I’m not being bigoted when I say this) white. But it’s also because their message is so greatly needed: Kids, wait. Please wait. To have sex, to have kids, to drink yourselves senseless like your parents . . . at least finish school first.
So, Frank and four other True Love Waits members slept at my house last night. A two-bedroom house that does not feel too big for my cat and me was not at all too crowded with six of us. I enjoyed them very much and was glad I didn’t have to stay in an empty house after they were gone. I went on the road with them to Charleshill today. I will go to Ghanzi tomorrow (there’s a cattle show that is apparently not to be missed) and then Gabs on Sunday. I have my yearly dental and medical check ups and then I fly home on Tuesday. I am sort of stressed about that, weirdly. Already letting the U.S. tendency to tense up and hurry affect me . . . eish.
The TLW people were in Kole to show the movie, the premiere of which I attended in Ghanzi a couple of weekends ago. Apparently I was in the news at that event. As soon as I had network after it was shown, a bunch of people called me – “I saw you on the news!” It was fun. J I’m famous. Anyway, they showed the movie at the community hall in Kole. It was packed, despite the cold and the uncomfortable venue. No chairs, tile floor, if you forgot your fuzzy warm blanket to sit on, you were stuck standing or sitting on the cold floor. I love watching the kids at this kind of thing. They pile on top of each other like puppies. There are different social rules. There is an obviously mentally slow (I forget all politically correct phrasing, you’ll have to forgive me) girl in standard 2. She sat down in between two Standard 5 boys. That was not the appropriate place but no one made her feel unwanted. They simply pointed out where she should go (with the other girls her age) and told the other kids to make a path for her, “O kopa tsela.” She dutifully stood up and walked to the indicated spot and sat practically on top of two other girls who did not react in a negative way at all. One did gently remove her dress from under her, but it was not an expression of annoyance, simply of necessity. “Hey. I’m taking my dress from under you. Okay, there.” All with a slight smile of welcome and general acceptance.
I am full of tangents. Tangent soup. The movie was well-received. There is the slightly disturbing fact that people at every showing (I’ve been at three now) laugh in the scene where a main character finds out he is HIV +. I guess it comes from inability to accept the idea, or lack of appropriate responses. It can’t actually be funny. The TLW’s members are as baffled by it as I am and I was relieved by their news today that the junior secondary school kids who saw the movie cried instead of laughing. Maybe this nation as a whole will learn to deal with HIV afterall.
After the movie, there was a brief discussion when community members gave feedback about what they would like to see in the upcoming part 2 of the film. Things like, wanting Johnson to deal with his status positively and be open about it (that was from one of the ladie’s soccer coaches). And Katlego wanted them to talk about education. The “good girl” in the film goes off to University at the end. Katlego wants to see what happens to the characters who rely on their parents’ cattle for their source of income and the way to achieve all their little hearts desire. That is a well-used and frustrating phrase that teachers “this side” (in the West, where cattle farming is still by far the most common occupation) hear all too often from their students. “What do I need an education for, my father has cattle!”
I have also changed my attitude about “work.” I have fewer things to report for PEPFAR and Peace Corps this quarter. After the football tournament in May, I did very little “events” or “workshops” or other typical “mobilizing activities” as the Botswana government AIDS response plan likes to call the things they fund. And yet I am more fulfilled than ever, feeling more blessed than ever, writing songs more freely than ever, cleaning a little less obsessively, and being less afraid to make mistakes with my Setswana. I’m not sure why that is, I am just more relaxed, I guess, less self-concious and less likely to assume every comment that makes me uncomfortable was stated with that intention. Also, I continue to feel loved and accepted. Peal and I are getting along very well. She called my chai butternut squash soup, “Delicious,” when she came over to check the True Love Waits people yesterday. I play Uno with Katlego’s kids at least once weekly and in between games we have discovered the joy of airplane rides on Thapelo’s legs and also the “flipping thing” which I’m pretty sure is what I called it when I was young and would climb up Dad’s front and do a back flip while he held onto my hands. They can be awfully naughty, but never enough to keep me away. Montate, the youngest, just turned four. He chews on the Uno cards in between playing, barely able to keep his attention on the game for a full round, and it helps occupy him. Still, I would rather the cards last for the next year so they don’t beg and beg for me to get new ones once they are all chewed beyond recognition. So, I attempt to explain that he can’t play if he chews on the cards. He becomes suddenly deaf during this explanation. I try discipline and even grab cards out of his hands which he is chewing, convinced he’s doing it on purpose now, just to make me mad. Then I come across a yellow 5 that has a chunk out of the bottom. “See!” (Bona) I thrust it at him. “What is this?” (Ke eng?) “Yellow!” He shouts joyfully. It is just impossible to stay mad. J And he is definitely learning those four colors nicely.
For those of you who will be at the wedding, you can try to make sense of the rest of the soup kgantele janoong (later on). Otherwise, be well, I love and miss you.
Leah/ Thapelo
Dumelang, Bagaetsho!
My visit home was wonderful. The wedding was beautiful and I saw so many people who I had been missing terribly and I swing danced AND salsa danced. :)
The morning after I got back to Botswana, I was called into the Peace Corps office to be given the sad news that I am being sent home. I am refraining from telling the whole story. It’s too much and too personal to say in a mass email. I just wanted to stop you from spending unecessary shipping costs for letters and packages.
I have gotten such positive feedback for the novels I send you from Botswana! :) I will send a few more cultural observations and descriptions of what closure was like, for my peace of mind, as well as yours, perhaps.
Thank you for your continued support, thoughts, and prayers. I am heartbroken to leave early but, as I told my parents last night, home is a wonderful place to go.
Love,
Leah
Dumelang,
So, WHAT HAPPENED??
Peace Corps as an organization has changed over the years. The safety and security of volunteers is a subject for hot debate in the offices of higher up’s in Washington D.C. Peace Corps headquarters. A new director came to Botswana along with my group of volunteers (Bots 6) last year. So, in part, my leaving is the result of this broader context, an office that is rather paranoid and disconnected from their volunteers, and a director who had her reputation on the line because she had been accused of being too “soft.”
With that in mind, I am going to give an outline of what happened, although I will refrain from divulging every personal detail. I assume you welcome the discretion, but if you do want to know more, feel free to ask. I am not embarrassed by the circumstances which led to my resignation.
The decision by my director was based on three different incidents:
1. I dated the Peace Corps doctor (the doctor who took care of us as Peace Corps volunteers). He was part-time, our relationship was brief, and, I did not realize at the time, against policy. I was reprimanded and he was asked to resign (which he did, gladly, having two other jobs and not being thrilled with the work). I wrote a letter of apology to my fellow volunteers and was put on probation through June this year (meaning that Peace Corps was “keeping an eye on me.”)
2. There was a “safety and security incident” (I was physically assaulted) at a neighboring village to my site at the end of March. The safety and security officer from Peace Corps visited the offender, was reassured that the incident would not be repeated, and a report was sent to the Washington office detailing the incident and the response. The official response from Peace Corps Washington suggested that I return home for my safety. Peggy (the director) and Thuso (the safety and security officer) and I (concerned for my own safety for obvious reasons) disagreed with the official response from Washington and Peggy allowed me to continue my service.
3. I had a mid-service medical appointment the day before I left for my visit home, at the end of June. At the appointment, I turned in a receipt showing antibiotics I had purchased in Ghanzi. (Volunteers are expected to report all illnesses and treatment so that the medical office can update medical files accordingly). I was told I could receive reimbursement for the antibiotics. I left the receipt with the nurse who gave it to the administrator. The nurse had noticed that there were two pregnancy tests listed on the same receipt. I assured her I was not asking for reimbursement for those tests and, rather sheepishly, realizing what she might think, assured her the tests were not purchased for me. They were purchased for my village (Kole health post does not carry pregnancy tests, as I learned after the young couple asked me for advice about their “situation”). The administrator who received the receipt was uncertain about the amount he was supposed to reimburse, since the nurse didn’t explain that I was only being reimbursed for the antibiotics. He brought the receipt to Peggy, concerned that the pregnancy tests were for me. She decided, in my absence, that this was yet another potential safety concern.
When I got back from Rachel’s wedding, I was called in for a meeting and, without a chance to explain about the pregnancy tests (my conversation with the nurse was apparently not enough), was told that I had engaged in too many risky behaviors as a volunteer and could either resign or be administratively separated.
According to my friend and fellow volunteer, “Peace Corps blows big balls.” (I apologize for the crudeness. It was a welcome description at the time, and I still appreciate her sentiment). I was angry and hurt by the news, incredulous, and, maybe the worst part of it, felt terribly misunderstood.
However, I experienced a surge of support from my Batswana friends on my way out. The Batswana Peace Corps staff shook their heads in amazement and (three of them shared with me) total disagreement. Everyone who I called and told expressed dismay. They were unbelievably sensitive, anticipating my feelings of being a disappointment, of not wanting to let them down, etc. They, unprompted, sent me text messages or called me to say, and I quote:
“You were loved from the beginning and will always be loved.” (driver in Charleshill)
“I’m so sorry, gal! I know how much you loved this place!” (teacher in Kole)
“It’s not supposed to be this way, but keep your head up!” (nurse in Kole)
“It isn’t fair, but everything happens for a reason.” (old language teacher)
“Go tla siame!” It will be okay (District Officer at Charleshill)
“There are so many ways. O tla boa!” You’ll come back. (Peace Corps driver)
This is just a sampling. They were truly amazing. Fellow Peace Corps volunteers in my group were also supportive. Brian made me one last meal and heated one last round of pots of water for a hot bath at his house and he wouldn’t let me do the dishes. I didn’t get to see Monica, but we cried over the phone together. Cassie and I are still in denial, I think. I stopped by my friend Andrea’s to find Lauren had traveled four hours to be there to say goodbye. (I was giving Andrea my cat). They assured me that I was a “superstar” and expressed great concern about, “Who will speak at our COS? No one else speaks Setswana!”
With their help, I started focusing on the positive part of coming home. Although I am frustrated to leave on someone else’s terms, and I do wish I could have spent more time working in Kole, I have had several reasons to believe in that cliché phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”
I got home just in time to apply for UW-Madison as a special student in order to finish up my pre-requisites for nursing school. I had random encounters with everyone I would have wanted to say goodbye to on my way out of Botswana, including getting to see, hug, and tickle, one last time, my now 4 year old host brother in Moshupa. I had bought presents from Wisconsin for my closest friends, which turned into heart felt going away presents.
Reflections
I have told you, in sporadic tid bits, about Botswana. You know that there are beautiful skies. You know that there are poisonous snakes. You know that the cuisine is not terribly varied, and also that every guest will receive a plate of food. You know that water is scarce and so the people worship it, even in their language (pula!).
At the risk of repeating myself, I am going to tell you about Botswana again, as if someone has asked me to summarize my experience of it. (No one has asked; humor me). ;)
Geography
Botswana is a sub-Saharan African country that is roughly the size of Texas. The southeastern part of the country has an extensive rainy season that fills dry beds until they are rushing, white water rivers. There is varied topography which creates expansive views of valleys and rolling hills, dotted with rock outcroppings that glow pink in the sunset. (Picture the Lion King). In the northeast, there are savanna grasslands. The northwest is comprised of the great Okavango Delta, an impressive network of rivers, wetlands, and forest that nurtures thousands of bird species and other wildlife. The Kalahari Desert expands over the central and southwestern regions, covering about two thirds of the country. Lions, leopards, cheetahs, giraffes, zebras, countless antelope (gemsbok, springbok, hartebeest, dik-dik, impala, kudu, etc.), elephants, water buffalo, rhinoceros, ostrich, warthogs, hyenas, and wild dogs roam the wilderness, of which there is plenty because there are less than 2 million people living in Botswana.
People
In the southeast are the Tswana tribes. The majority of Tswana people live in South Africa, but the arbitrary border between Botswana and South Africa left a sizable amount of Tswana people near Botswana’s capital, Gaborone. They are the country’s dominant tribe. Their language, Setswana, is one of two official languages. The other is English. There are countless other tribes and sub-cultures. The Bamambagushu (sp?) (river people) live in the Okavango, quietly navigating the waters in dugout mokoro boats. The Bakalanga (known for their pride and their high level of education) inhabit the northeast and weave baskets from the grasses that grow in their savanna. The Basarwa, or bushmen, are a fascinating tribe of tiny people with light skin, high cheekbones, and very round buttocks (where energy is stored in times of famine and upon which children can sit while the traditionally nomadic tribe roams across the Kalahari). It was legal until the 1970’s to hunt Basarwa, because they were so different from other tribes in Botswana, it seemed they were not human. They are the subject of an exasperating amount of anthropological study, and still are the most oppressed group of people in sub-saharan Africa. The Bakgalagadi are the people of the Kalahari. Staunch traditionalists, they adhere to strict rules of the kgotla tradition which punishes thievery and rewards honesty. As with all human societies, there is stratification amongst the tribes. From my observations in the western part of the country, the hierarchy is roughly: Batswana (the father east, the better), Bakgalagadi, Baherrero (from Namibia), Basarwa. The Bakalanga think of themselves as above it all, but are really a peripheral group.
History
Botswana, once known as Bechuanaland, asked from protection from Britain during the Boer Wars in the mid 1800’s. Boers, Dutch immigrants who claimed their new African home as their God given right and enslaved people to work on their farms, had already conquered much of South Africa and were pushing north into Botswana. After becoming a protectorate of Britian, however, the Boers were thwarted and the Batswana enjoyed continued peace. In 1964, Britain informed them of their independence, which is still celebrated, with much enthusiasm, during the last weekend in September.
Politics
Botswana is called a democratic republic. In practice, however, it is a socialist state. The government provides jobs to almost 50% of the population. Education is free. Health care is free. Food is available to those who need it. Orphans are cared for by government offices in the rare case of a child who is not taken in by extended family. Batswana elect members of parliament, from which a new president is chosen every four years by the current president. There is a bi-partisan system, although the opposition party is barely represented in parliament (2 members out of 14, if I remember correctly).
Education System
Influenced by the British, there is a Western style of education. Primary school (standards 1 – 7), junior secondary school (Forms 1,2, and 3), and senior secondary school (Forms 4 and 5) reflect elementary, middle, and high schools in the U.S. Children start at the age of 7, with several exceptions, especially in the rural areas, where 14 year olds can be found in Standard 2, having spent their childhood looking after the livestock at their family’s cattle post. There is one university in Botswana, the University of Botswana or UB. Since the government recognizes its limitations in higher education, it pays for those pursuing higher education to take courses abroad, in the U.S., the U.K., or Australia, if the course which the individual wishes to pursue is not offered at UB.
Cultural Notes
Elders are highly respected. Respect is shown to elders by young people by proper greetings (clasped hands, a slight bow), by speaking quietly, and by following orders without question or complaint. Obedience is so ingrained in youth that a classroom full of students might sit for a day at school with no teacher to supervise them and no harm would be done.
Greetings are important, as are the hand shakes that accompany the greeting. When money or a gift is exchanged, the giver hands it to the receiver with his/her right hand, palm open, while the left hand rests on the right forearm or holds the right arm below the elbow (as in when greeting). The person receiving does so with both hands, palms up and open (especially if he/she is younger than the giver).
Hospitality is guaranteed. However, people are not necessarily warm and outgoing to guests. Batswana are reserved. Besides, it is widely understood that hospitality, especially to anyone remotely related (which everyone seems to be in Botswana, however distantly), is a must. So, there is no need to overcome the fear that a guest might have that he/she is intruding, which would be the case in the U.S. Hospitality includes food and a comfortable bed with plenty of blankets in the wintertime.
HIV/AIDS
We Westerners like statistics. Luckily, Botswana is a place with enough infrastructure to satisfy this strange craving. In 2005, 35% of pregnant women in Botswana were HIV positive. Seventeen percent of the sexually active population (defined as ages 15-49) were positive. Remember that pregnant women are a higher risk group, since they have obviously been engaged in unprotected sex, hence the higher prevalence rate in that population. The numbers are not finalized for 2007 (the National Coordinating AIDS Agency has promised to report accurate statistics every two years), but it is expected that they will be lower. The peak of the epidemic is over (we hope) since education campaigns, ARV medication, and increased medical staff have been implemented since 2003. There are cultural expectations which are barriers to the slowing of the epidemic. Women don’t want to use condoms because they want to get pregnant in order to prove their fertility/marriageability and to gain the rights of womanhood (respect as an elder of the community). Men are encouraged to have multiple sexual partnerships in order to appear manly. Multiple, concurrent partnerships by both men and women are common and accepted. There are words in Setswana for “my mistress”, “my little mistress” (not very serious), “my big mistress” (has been going on for some time), my “part-time mistress” (she stays far away), etc., etc. The language has recently developed corresponding names for the male “small houses” (affairs).
HIV/AIDS work as a Peace Corps Volunteer
I am optimistic that the rate of HIV infections in Botswana will continue to decrease. The government, in its typically socially responsible fashion, is spending resources to ensure it, and the country is receiving unbelievable support from outside donors. In order for the money to be sustainably spent (and not just thrown at the problem, as some critics say is happening), education, especially for youth, is key. Peace Corps volunteers are devoting much of their time and energy to exactly that. Changing future sexual behaviors of the upcoming generation in Botswana will allow them to remain HIV negative, and to live full, productive lives.
Closure
I welcome any questions you have about Botswana or my time there. This is my last mass email about Botswana! I hope you have enjoyed. :-)
Love,
Leah/Thapelo