My village has five wards, eight tuck shops and 11 bars. We have 10 churches and 12 traditional healers. There are two schools, one clinic, a kgotla and a day care center for orphans. The village is flat except for a single, steep hill on the south west side. Thirty precarious minutes will bring you to hill’s peak where you can see all the way to Gaborone in the east and clear to Kanye in the west: a giant green blanket with dips and climbs, like rippled ocean. Beyond this hill there are graveyards and beyond a hundred headstones there is a river dropped into a shallow valley. The river scatters trees and grass and cows along its banks. Local residents avoid this place for fear of snakes and curses. In its abandonment it becomes well suited for picnics and books and solitude.

My village is plain and peaceful. Miles of land dotted with shade. Tiny roudeval huts and make-shift hair salons and a lady selling oranges by the bus stop.

I take endless photographs and spend hours jogging through sunsets, sunrises, dirt roads, people, gardens, children, crops, cattle… trying to hold and articulate some fragment of a place that’s seeped inside of me: now owning little pieces of my history and identity.

You will see me in three weeks and we will catch up and I will fall into rhythm and you will forget that there is another world living inside me. Another home. With shops and churches and schools and rivers and all those people. All that personality. And I will carry them around and you will not be able to see but I will carry them and hope and pray and try to keep them heavy. To feel the weight of these things. Of them. Of once upon a time. When I was here. And this was mine. If only for a space.

We sit in the living room and talk together for the last time. My mother got “saved” last year and now wants to pray for me before I go. Idnil shuts the door so mother can close her eyes and speak for a long time in Setswana. At the end Naillil translates while my host mother sits patting my thigh and wetting her eyes and sighing out those blessings for me.

We do our traditional things together. Pel plays with my hair, Naillil practices her Chinese words, Idnil poses for pictures and Are giggles and climbs onto my lap. The boys aren’t home but mother calls my father at the gold mine in South Africa and we stumble through a Setswana farewell. I leave them with little gifts: American tea bags, dangly earrings, a tie, a deck of cards, a bottle of lotion, crayons and, of course – Scrabble: the miraculous little game that allowed us to bond in those first mute and awkward months of my homestay.

Before leaving I decide to take one more memorable trip to the pit latrine. I walk past the old bicycle holding up the orange tree. The fire pit where I’d stirred rice for my mother at twlight. The low, thorny tree that had once nearly blinded me on a night-time stroll to the latrine. The grass that Odnam and I had cleared with shovels. The stone I’d sat on for hours hand washing clothes. The spicket where I’d fetched water for my morning bath.

On the way back I check my watch and know I need to hurry to catch the first combi back to my village. I round the orange tree and see Pel sitting alone and staring at me with giant sad eyes.

Pel, my little imp. I lean down to kiss her and she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back and I marvel at how tall and sweet she has become in just two years. At one time Pel spent many devious hours trying to charm her way into my room and then, once inside, would steal little bits of paper and food and hair elastics to get my attention. She once took a pen and scribbled all over the Scrabble board. When I scowled at her she laughed and laughed.

But here was baby Pel, all grown up to five years old -- and so affectionate now. I kiss her forehead and tell her and I love her and go inside to begin the rest of the goodbyes.

Usually Naillil and Idnil walk me out but Are is crying this time so they stay back to hold and soothe her. I hug everyone at the gate and turn with a big sigh.

The tall bushes hide them after a minute and I stare out across this poor little ward and will myself to remember the roudeval huts and soccer-children and broken trees and branch-fences and cactus plants. I’m deep into this before I realize that Pel has been trailing me down the path. I laugh and squeeze her fingers and she does not smile at me. I say goodbye and I love you again in Setswana but she does not turn back. And so we walk like that. Me in front and Pel behind. All the way down that path. All the way around the bend. All the way to Ame’s house. And there she stops. I’m watering now and she’s waiting and we hug once more. With that Pel and I start walking in different directions. I step three paces and look over my shoulder. She does the same and we wave to each other. I step three more and wave again and she does too. I think we waved ten times before I couldn’t see her anymore. And each time I turned Pel did too. And each time I lifted my fingers, Pel lifted hers back. And with that I said good-bye to Lekwapagne and the Elopmar family. And with that I made peace with little Pel.

My “yard sale” was really more of a “house sale” since putting things outside would have involved a number of environmental challenges (pecking chickens… hungry dogs… blazing sun… petty theft… sand… bugs…)

So instead I invited the village inside. At first I felt a bit nervous about opening my tiny home to potential throngs of shoppers but after the first few hours I realized I was having fun with it and forgot all about my anxiety. Yes, little things were stolen. A few dishes were broken. Someone stained a shirt. The price tags were jumbled. Sand and dirt and baby drool were scattered all over my floors. Someone left their bra in the t-shirt pile.

But even with all these minor inconveniences it really was just an easy, informal, amusing day. Mostly women came and chit chatted with me for a while and then handed me their babies so they could strip down in the sitting room and try on my clothes. Then there was the ooo-ing and ahhh-ing and butt-slapping and cackling and chattering and laughing while I held the mirror for them.

The kids were equally entertaining – holding up item after item from the One-Pula-Box and saying to me “Ke bo kai?” to which I’d answer “One pula!” and they’d giggle and squeal and fight over who-would-get-to-buy-what-when-mummy-gives-us-a-pula. The American games also caught their attention and led to tiny tornadoes of dice, checkers and jacks being strewn over every available surface. (Travel Yahtzee, as it turns out, is not an easy game to explain in one’s second language)

And my friends came too. With cards and hugs and little presents. With promises to write and visit and open their home to me when I returned. And when would I return? And why exactly was I going? And how long was the trip? And what do you eat on an airplane?

(Air travel is a hot-topic among Batswana… I think they still can’t quite fathom that we’re capable of such a thing. I once invited the Peace Corps African Continent Director to speak with my PACT Club about international health and, instead, the kids grilled him about his airplane trip for 20 minutes. One girl who is nearly 17 even turned to him and asked, in all seriousness: ‘Can you see God from up there?’)

In the end I made less than 100 USD and donated the rest to the village’s orphan center. I also made a little closure—not the deep kind, but a start. The acquaintance-villagers hugging me good-bye. Making little endearments that roughly translated to “it was amusing to watch you for 2 years.”

I also said good-bye to Adlih and Savid today. Two of my closest friends in the village. Adlih traveled an hour from the school she’d been transferred to last month. She hugged me hard and long and laughed at me when my eyes watered.

And Savid. Savid stood in my kitchen and smiled. He was leaving for Zimbabwe on the 12:00 bus. He was buying shirts and games to take home to his children. And he was smiling at me as I broke and broke. So many things I’d wanted to say: Write me. Remember me. Stay safe. Please be safe. But instead I just crumbled all over and into his white t-shirt. And he held me, waiting for it to pass. Tightly. Gently. Pulling me in and in. Right there in my kitchen with the naked women trying on clothes and the teenagers stealing things and the chickens swaking through the door. When it passed he squeezed my arm one last time and flashed his whites and was gone.

It’s hard to feel the significance of a transition while you’re moving through it. It’s hard to know the scope.

But I felt Savid. The depth and the fear. The uncertainty. I felt all of him. And all of this.

This morning I participated in running an event for the Kagisano Women’s Shelter. I’ve been part of a team of volunteers working with this organization for over a year. Last year we helped secure a grant to open a second branch of the center. Now Botswana has two shelters for women and children survivors of gender based violence—the original in Gaborone and the new one in the country’s largest village: Molepolole.

In addition to opening the new center, the grant also allowed us to hold a number of community awareness events. Today’s event was a Kweneng District poster contest and debate. Ten schools participated in the event and two in the debate. We had guest speakers, snacks, brochures, media coverage, prizes, a trophy -- all arranged through our ambitious team of Batswana counselors and American volunteers.

Such a powerful day. Somehow it ended up that all the poster finalists were male students and all the debate participants were female. We interviewed the men standing by their graphic, disturbing, enlightening posters. They told us how the images reflected violence they’ve seen in their villages and theories they have on ways to reverse the trends of gender based violence in Botswana. They spoke in soft and articulate English. Humble and strong.

The women were equally powerful but far less reserved. The women debaters stood at the podium shouting at one another and quoting the Bible and shaking their fists. I’ve seen about a hundred passionate student dramas in this country but nothing quite as evocative or poignant as ten teenage women debating the moral and cultural implications of domestic violence reporting. The topic they’d spent two months preparing for read:

“Women who do not speak out about their partner’s abuse and infidelity are showing respect and integrity.”

If I had the time or space I’d go into the points these girls made. The way one side argued that perpetrators of violence deserve love and forgiveness. The way the other side retorted that the GBV is linked to the spread of HIV and teaches children to use violence for problem solving and conflict management. I do not have space. But I have videos. And memories. Ask.

It’s difficult to do the event justice but, suffice to say that this was one of the most fulfilling projects I’ve participated in in two years of service. Not simply because the students and community were so engaged, but also for what happened after:

Sweeping. Stacking chairs. Moving tables. Removing the posters. Emptying the trash. People keep coming up to say good-bye and thank you and what an event and then Lesego comes and I hug her and she says:

“You know, we’ve secured funding to do this again next year. We want it to be an annual event. Can you send us all the templates you used for planning, invitations, judging, scoring and the agenda?”

!!!

This is one of those rare and spectacular moments in an international pubic health career where Things Actually Work. Not for me. Not for the participants. But for the FUTURE.

This is, dare I say it: Sustainable!

And oh irony of ironies: I literally had sat in an the Peace Corps Country Director’s office five days ago, blabbering through my close of service interview and I’d actually said: “Yes, well, I’ve learned quite a lot about capacity building and skills training but I still feel somewhat mystified by sustainability…”

And not that this day revealed any epiphanies about the how-to of sustainability but it DID give me renewed confidence in the idea that it is p o s s i b l e to make changes and advances that continue.

Lesego is a gem. Kagisano is an absolute god-send for this country. I’m sure it is everything about the people and the organization and nothing about me -- but to have p a r t i c i p a t e d. To have been there. To have had something to contribute. Templates. How simple. How trite. How phenomenally reassuring.

In ten days I close my service and return to the U.S. as an international public health professional. I have a Master’s degree, a two year Peace Corps service, an armful of doubt and a pinch of hope. There are so many systematic, bureaucratic, financial, logistical, sustainable problems I see in development work. And then there is a silver lining: when a project works. when people learn. when someone says – “we want to do this again… this time without you.”

How nice to have been needed. And to be unnecessary.

Close of Service Medical Screening is a 3-day circus of invasive exams, uncomfortable samples and thorough disease testing. On top of these medical-festivities are seemingly endless administrative duties of report writing, financial closings and a paper-work-check-list with a whopping 46 items.

Today I managed to get 28 of those little boxes checked and most of my medical awkwardness sorted. By late afternoon I was finally exiting the dentist office and searching for a combi to begin the 2 hour trek home.

Damn. All that paperwork and dashing between appointments— now I’m confused about how to get back…

Do you need help?

I’m always embarrassed when I look lost in a place I consider “home”. Suddenly I’m a tourist and I feel the need to speak in Setswana or use a cultural hand symbol to prove I belong.

Uh… yeah—I can’t remember which way it is to the combis from here.

The man points me in the right direction. He’s smiling so I do what I always do when I’m far and someone’s being kind: I ask for a ride.

The smiling man can’t, but the guy behind him is going that way and, yes, he can take me—let’s go.

Hitching is Oh So Easy in Botswana. It’s a great way to meet friendly people, save some cash and shave hours off your trip.

So my 30 minute commute to the rank is sliced to 10 and two minutes later I’m launched into the get-to-know-you-banter with my driver. Here are the typical interview questions:

Where are you from?

What are you doing here?

How long have you been here?

When are you going home?

What do you make of our country?

When can you take me to America?

(and, smiling) Why don’t you marry a Motswana guy and stay?

My driver and I make our way through this set and still have 5 minutes to the rank. We slide into post-small-talk silence. Batswana are good at silence and I’ve come to enjoy it here. I begin to rest after a very long day.

We go through two more traffic lights and I can see the rank approaching. At the third light we stop and my driver turns to stare at me. I stare back and wait. He finally says:

What is it like to be a white person in Botswana?

I am so surprised by this question that I laugh. He laughs too. We’re uncomfortable together for a minute.

At the time I think I said something like:

Er... it’s nice… but sometimes hard because everyone notices you. Sometimes I wish I was black.

And he said something like:

Ah—but if you were black I wouldn’t have given you a ride.

And we laughed together because it was terrible and true and we were out of time.

But what a question. ‘What’s it like to be a white person in Botswana?” It’s something I stopped thinking about a while ago and something I think about every day. It’s hard to explain but, since being asked this, I’ve felt a need to articulate it.

Being white in Botswana is luxurious and horrific—almost simultaneously.

Being white in Botswana goes something like this:

- Everyone wants to talk to you and take your phone number

- Everyone wants you to give them money and food and take them to America

- People give you the good seat on the bus

- People rob you on the bus

- Kids want to shake your hand and mimic your voice

- Kids scream at you if they’ve never seen a white face before

- Women younger than you admire your clothes, hair, skin, body, accessories, makeup, music, books, etc.

- Women older than you scrutinize and criticize your clothes, hair, skin, body, accessories, makeup, music, books, etc.

- Hitching drivers rarely charge you for the ride

- Hitching crowds push you to the front so you can hail a ride for the group

- Students feel more comfortable talking with you about sex and problems and emotions

- Students feel more comfortable disrespecting you because they know you wont use corporal punishment

- If you’re thin you “look just like typical white woman” (is this good?)

- You are fat you “look just like a traditional black woman” (is this good?)

- Colleagues come to you for professional help and training and support

- Colleagues assume you’ll do all the work for them once you’re involved

- Strangers like to touch your hair

- Strangers like to touch you – a lot

- Shop and restaurant owners give you special treatment and lots of attention

- Shop and restaurant owners charge you more than other customers

- Taxi drivers are constantly shouting to you and offering a lift

- Taxi drivers are constantly shouting at you for refusing to pay more than the locals

- Men all want to date you, marry you, sleep with you

- Men all want to be seen with the white and not, necessarily, with the woman

- Other white people want to meet you and hear your story and become friends

- Other white people want to bitch about the culture and compare survival-stories and inspire your empathy

- You are never alone

- You are often lonely

- You are constantly learning about cultural differences and traditional norms and Tswana history and relational expectations

- You are constantly learning how little you know

These, of course, are generalizations and not always the case. Still, they are what comes to mind when I think about this question. So much privilege and opportunity mingled with so much frustration and awkwardness. Peace Corps has this cheesy little slogan that says “It’s the hardest job you’ll ever love” … but like so many clichés, most days it’s spot on.

It’s been pouring for a week. My shoes and trousers caked with wet sand. The clothes I washed 4 days ago still hanging-- wearily waiting to dry.

School opened again this week. Students shiver in damp classrooms. The teachers sip tea and go home early.

Quiet village.

Empty roads.

Sullen cattle.

Lethargy.

Darkness.

I wait too. Hugging a hot water bottle. Bundled in the few clothes and blankets that still remain inside my bare, little house.

and counting. 25… 23…

Today is 18. Two and a half weeks to go. Restless, if not impatient.

At 5:00 tonight the light changes. A golden streak climbs inside the window pane and rests there. Staring at me. Waiting for me to notice.

Grey breaks.

I go outside to see sunrays softening the horizon. The kids playing. Laughter. The neighbor’s humming. A rising moon. Laundry ballet. Donkey cart rattle. Far off bar music. Smoke. Footprints. Crickets. Life leaking back in tiny shards of color and sound.

Will I be still like this? Will I be able to hear? Will the light wait for me? Will I catch it? Any of it?

18 ahead.

744 behind.

What lessons do we take from time and distance and difference and poverty and solitude and quiet and space? What do we leave? Forget?

My most profound moments are wrapped inside interludes. Inarticulable:

the air between people. the background of photos. the aftermath of rain.

and of all the other

irrelevant,

significant

seconds

that have made this so much larger than ‘an experience’.

She agreed to take home a suitcase for me. Two months ago this seemed like a godsend: I’d be able to travel after service with just my backpack and wouldn’t have to pay exorbitant fees to ship things home.

We had planned The Big Pack for Monday night. We ate dinner and procrastinated.

Two months ago this seemed like a great idea. On Monday night I started to feel unprepared. It seemed rash to be packing already.

Still, I knew I’d decided this months ago. There was no other way. And just like the process of Getting Here, I knew the process of Leaving would sometimes required that I turn off the rest and just put one foot in front of the other.

At 9:00 I finally padded to my room and returned with an armful of clothes. From there I took pictures and posters off my walls. Sorted through jewelry. Wrapped my favorite mug. Labored over the book shelf. Pulled the crayon drawings off my fridge.

It took an hour. Just one hour and my little life was piled right there on the coffee table.

It doesn’t look like much, I said.

And Jenah laughed.

And I laughed.

And I was happy she was there with me in my little house with my little pile of life.

We fit the whole thing into one suitcase. We pre-packed my Kilimanjaro bag. Everything fit there too. With extra space even.

In less than two hours we’d finished. My suitcase and backpack and daypack sat in a line along the orange curtains. I flip flopped through my house. A “final sweep” Dad used to say when we were leaving the summer house. I swept over and over. I paced. Jenah caught me staring at a bare wall where the shadows of my pictures still remained.

Come on. She said. Let’s go outside.

We sit on my porch sipping cocoa beneath the banana tree silhouette and the Milky Way smear and a billion blinking stars.

I say thanks and my voice shakes.

There is a conversation I can’t remember. There is laughter.

After, it feels easier to be inside. I pinch the last bits of tape off my walls and rinse out our mugs and say good night. My room looks like 2008. My luggage like the day I left.

Maybe we have to go back before we can go forward. I lie in bed reminiscing. Playing it over. A song without a chorus. Sad in places and loudfasthigh in others. Frequent crescendos. And the finale -- just now starting to fade.

Two years ago Ronny sat with both Chacos crossed against floor of his hut dishing me home-brewed beer and spouting cynical, development theory. We talked for hours about his service and I fell into one of those career-crushes where a man’s brain shadows his scraggly, blonde beard and musty, village odor.

In the years since then, Ronny and I have christened many nights with international aid philosophy and sustainability debates. We’ve sat on the bus rank pavement shouting at each other over plates of papa and disturbed the campfire with capacity-building rants. Still, the most profound thing Ronny’s ever said to me was on that cement floor of his hut, the first night we met:

“Ask.”

It seemed easy enough until language and culture and distance and pain start chipping at the edges of seemingly simple relationships. Then it gets hard. People don’t answer or can’t answer or can but haven’t found the space to answer well. And so you learn when you can ask. Where you can ask. And, of course, what you can ask.

And what you can’t.

_________________

Tsang is making jewelry out of magazines in my sitting room. She’s nervous because her friends Lindi and Maikano were meant to come too, but had to go to the Lands to help their families instead. I invite the village kids over to learn the craft and take the pressure off poor Tsang who’s rolling her beads so tightly the wire won’t fit through them anymore.

And so eventually we fall into that soft rhythm of passthescissors helpmewiththisclasp yesthatsperfect banter that comes after an hour of bead making.

Rebat is a village-kid-guest. She’s young and so gets bored with the bead rolling after a while. She wants to talk about church and church spills into traditional worship and worship into healing and the kids are talking and I start asking and Tsang has a story and I ask and ask and ask because the time and place are right and Tsang has A Story.

“I would never go to one of those traditional doctors,” Rebat declares while looking through a bead to admire her toes.

“Well, your mum takes you to church every week, right?”

“Yes, and we don’t go to those traditional ones ever.”

“But a lot of people in the village still do, right?”

“Yes.” Tsang whispers into her pressed ruler.

I turn from Rebat to watch Tsang dotting the evens and then the odds. Preparing for triangles.

“Do you know people who go, Tsang?”

“Yes.” Her pencil glides between the magazine and ruler’s edge.

“Do the traditional doctors help people get better?”

“Sometimes, I think.” Scissor scissor scissor

“Have they helped you get better?”

Dot

“Well…”

Dot Dot Dot

“ …they came for me once.”

Tsang picks a thorn off the table and uses it to guide the roll of her first bead. She glances up to find me waiting.

“It was night time and they took us to a mountain.”

“Us?”

“Five kids.”

“All children?”

“Yes. Girls.”

“You wanted to go?”

“No. My grandmother made me go.”

“Why?”

“The doctor told us we needed to eat a root.”

Rebat’s toes have lost their allure and she is staring at Tsang. The other children are also quiet. Modia, who does not speak English, is staring at our faces for a clue.

“Did it taste bad?”

“I didn’t eat it.”

“Was the doctor angry?”

“No.”

“Why would he have wanted you to eat a root?”

Shrug

Pause

“They said we needed protection.”

Tsang puts down her bead and rests an arm across her knees. She looks timid. Or was it tired? I remember she sighed before she said:

“They told us we were in danger. That someone was trying to hurt us and if we ate the root we’d be protected.”

________________

I have developed a Kumakwane-visitor-repertoire. As the Botswana volunteer famous for the most international guests (11 total) I have fine-tuned the Southern-Botswana Tour Extravaganza! Here are the activities offered to guests at Hotel-Bontle:

Picnic in Thamaga atop the geographically bizarre rock formations

Visit to the traditional home of my host family in Molepolole

Tswana cooking lessons from my Giam (a feast of chakalaka, modombe dumplings and spicy chicken)

Tour of the 2,000 year old rock paintings in Manaya

Swimming and sunbathing at the natural pools inside the Kanye gorge

Walking tour of Kumakwane (at dawn for sunrise and photography enthusiast)

Game drive and camping at the Mokgolodi Park in Gaborone

Souvenir and craft shopping at the Main Mall outdoor market

And my personal favorite: a visit to the art studio of Mochedisi Geneva.

Jenah and I schedule a trip to Mochedisi’s studio just days after she arrives. I had sold her the idea with imagery of a quaint village corner with rounedval huts turned to studios and shops--- one for sculpture and pottery, one for glass and the last: Mochedisi’s studio, a small room stuffed with baskets and tapestries, paintings and iron sculpture, rock jewelry and wooden crafts.

“He’s amazing… and so versatile -- a jack-of-all-trades,” I’d called into her room.

“And his pieces are more unique than anything I’ve seen in Gabs or the pottery studios or even up in the Delta craft shops,” I assured her as we packed lunches.

“And really, Jenah, he’s just such a kind and interesting man. You’re going to love him.”

Poor Jenah didn’t need the convincing. She’s an artist herself and the appeal of quality, African crafts is something she developed long ago in her travels through Egypt and Ethiopia.

Still, I was excited to show her Mochedisi’s amazing work. I was proud to know him and to know of him and to have his number in my phone even.

“My aunt met him back in November and my sister and brother-in-law took his painting lessons when they came for their honeymoon. He helped them make two beautiful tapestries—I’ll show you them sometime. The lesson and the tapestries were my wedding presents to them.

That’s weird, his phone’s not even ringing.”

I find the number of the glass studio that sits adjacent to his shop and call them next.

“Hello, I’m just checking that you’re open today.”

“Yes, we are.”

“And Mochedisi, is he there at his shop today?”

There’s not a pause. There should be, but there’s not.

“Mochedisi’s dead.”

“What?”

Louder

“Dead. He’s dead.”

“What? How? The artist? The artist, Mochedisi Geneva?”

“Yes.”

“But… but when?”

“Aaaahhhh… January…? Yes, end of January, I think.”

“But from what? How?”

“Malaria.”

“Malaria?”

“Malaria.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes. Very sad.”

Now there is a pause. An enormous hole. I lean against the kitchen table and swallow.

“We’re coming.”

_________________

His studio is locked up tight. We press against the windows. Jenah gasps and points to different pieces. I stare at the table where he worked with Heather and Tim for hours on their tapestries.

I remember he was playing traditional music and singing. I remember he was guiding Heather’s hand and smoothing out the purples. And stopping to re-knot his dreaded pig tails.

It had gotten dark that first day. It had been hours but they still weren’t finished. He laughed at my concerned face and piled us into his truck for a ride home through the dusk. All the way to Kumakwane. And again in the morning. Six hours of painting total. I gave him a tip and he gave me a free tapestry and I fell into one of those creative-crushes where a man’s kindness illuminates his talent and flair.

_______________________

We tiptoe around the glass studio. Crystal drops hang from shelves and walls and sprinkle the tables. Blue and green and white. Billions of glass droplets. Jenah’s holding a bowl and I’m walking in slow circles. Waiting.

When they enter I sadsmile sad and say “I’m so sorry” and it’s awkward and they sadsmile back and we stand between the drops of glass like that for a long time.

Ask.

“So, how did it happen?”

“He’d gone to Zimbabwe to see his family. They think he caught something there.”

“Yes, the man on the phone said malaria.”

The woman looks at the floor and is silent.

Ask.

“So why wasn’t the malaria treated?”

“Oh, he was treated. He knew something was wrong and went right away. As soon as he came back.”

“But then the medicine should have healed him…?”

Someone sighs.

“Well, they thought maybe it was an allergic reaction to the medicine.”

“To malaria medicine? Can that happen?”

“He got red. So red. His skin was even…”

The man holds out his arm and makes a scratching motion over the skin.

“It was an open casket… but just to look at him…” He trails off shaking his head.

“Yes.” She says. “It was very bad. His face was burned with it.”

I am choking on the silence.

Ask.

“But how could malaria medicine do that? Didn’t the doctors see and change it?”

“It was too late.”

The woman drops her chin and whispers: “Some say he was poisoned.”

I meet Jenah’s eyes.

Ask.

“In Zimbabwe?”

“Yes. By people there. People who were jealous.”

“Jealous? Why?”

“Of his success.”

“But to poison him for it?”

“It happens here. Jealousy is strong. They curse to cure it.”

“It doesn’t sound like malaria.” Jenah says.

“No, it doesn’t,” I say.

“No, it doesn’t,” the man says.

“No, it doesn’t,” the woman says.

Ask.

“How long did it take?”

“A couple of weeks.”

Ask.

“Is his girlfriend ok? I met her here often.”

“She’s gone home to Zimbabwe.”

Pause.

“He was so young.”

“Yes.”

Ask.

“Do you know how old?”

In Botswana they don’t say numbers. They use birth years for age.

“1987.” She says.

And I stop asking.

Our Close of Service conference has come and gone. Heaps of bureaucratic paperwork and exercises about proper closer and that twinge in my throat as someone distant and significant hugs me goodbye forever.

In addition to preparing us, Peace Corps was also thanking us. One night they piled our remaining 48 volunteers (originally 61) and took us to a game park at sunset. We were greeted with picnic tables of mimosas and then ushered onto three large vehicles for our twilight game drive. After a six elephants, three kudu, tiny warthog babies and a journey of giraffe we came across a clearing in the bush. It was dark by then and someone had set a bonfire.

At the bush “braii” (bbq) we got to enjoy traditional Tswana fare (butternut, chicken, papa, cold slaw) mixed with rare American delicacies like garlic bread and hard, red, seedless watermelon (Botswana’s watermelons are typically soft, pink and besieged by seeds, so we were particularly impressed with this desert and filled our plates with giant juicy slices)

In addition to the braii there were several other decadent meals and the Counterpart Dinner where the dessert bar was almost as long as the dinner buffet. Three volunteers gave speeches in fluent Setswana and five Batswana health professionals thanked us and a representative from the United States Embassy gave a poignant speech that left us feeling appreciated, heroic and nostalgic. We wore dresses and ties and took millions of photos hugging our counterparts.

By the end of the weekend everyone’s stomachs ached after the dramatic shift from village fare to the American-style feasts. On the last morning I carried this ache under a heap of papers and a gnawing sense that I didn’t have the words to say good-bye. And sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes we said “Oh, I’m sure I’ll see you again” or “You’ll be in Gabs before you go, right? Call me.” Sometimes we avoided eye contact. Sometimes we squeezed hands and said nothing.

Brad hugged me and said “we did it” into my hair. And that was enough.

_________________

Back in the village I spread the stack of papers across my couch and tables and start drafting a “to do” list. I have 8 weeks and one US visitor remaining plus three reports, a week of medical appointments and 22 documents to complete. The list makes me feel more organized but I still find myself lying awake in bed and thinking of people’s faces and counting weekends.

In the last weeks before leaving America I dreampt over and over that I’d lost my shoes. Different scenes but in every one I was frantically searching for my boots. Someone assured me it was just transitional stress and a fear that I wasn’t prepared.

My dreams have become more vivid again. Especially since the conference.

In the one that returns I am standing in our school hallway and the electricity is out. I’m fumbling for the key to my office and it is pouring outside. The building is empty and when I look down the hallway I see a locked door with a small window. Beyond the window are hundreds of my students and they are pressed against the glass and calling for me. The rain is beating so loudly and I look at them and then the floor, and then back to them. They continue banging and calling to me. Over and over. And I stand in that long, dark hallway with a broken key and a locked door. And I am frozen.

Next week we go on lock down for the last two months before close of service. This means volunteers are scrambling for our last social moments together. Parties and camping trips and dinners… tonight is my first quiet Friday in a long time.

At sunset I walked to Giam’s for one of her fabulous Tswana meals. The kids were dancing in bare feet and the shabines were blasting traditional music and the sun was setting gold behind a stretch of soft blue clouds.

Late now. I shuffle home to cows competing with bar songs and crickets and stars whispering the melody. My yard is all sand and sleepy chickens. Our banana tree sways in the cool air. Botswana’s autumn rolling in.

Time slips through this hour glass. I remember the way home and family and friends used to ache in me. I marvel again at human resilience and adaptation: fascinated by how happy I have come to feel in this bizarre and beautiful world.

The lights are out on my right. The neighbor’s fire smoldering to my left. I open a window and say good night to them and to this little village and to another day in a place that I will leave but which will not leave me.

Next week we go on lock down for the last two months before close of service. This means volunteers are scrambling for our last social moments together. Parties and camping trips and dinners… tonight is my first quiet Friday in a long time.

At sunset I walked to Giam’s for one of her fabulous Tswana meals. The kids were dancing in bare feet and the shabines were blasting traditional music and the sun was setting gold behind a stretch of soft blue clouds.

Late now. I shuffle home to cows competing with bar songs and crickets and stars whispering the melody. My yard is all sand and sleepy chickens. Our banana tree sways in the cool air. Botswana’s autumn rolling in.

Time slips through this hour glass. I remember the way home and family and friends used to ache in me. I marvel again at human resilience and adaptation: fascinated by how happy I have come to feel in this bizarre and beautiful world.

The lights are out on my right. The neighbor’s fire smoldering to my left. I open a window and say good night to them and to this little village and to another day in a place that I will leave but which will not leave me.

I hear them coming and freeze. Terrified. Niwde drops Ohpm onto a chair in the office and people begin crowding the door. He is hysterical and sobbing—and he can’t catch his breath.

__________________

Things move so slowly in Botswana. Most days I try to deep-breathe the impatient Bostonian out of me but then there are moments when the pace is unacceptable. When speed and time and urgency are essential.

___________________

The story has been told to me and by me a million times:

Last year’s Sports Day where 3 children were left in this state for 2 hours.

The student who died of asthma just two months after I arrived.

The boy who drown in the pool of rain water.

Jen’s student who complained of a heart pain and died an hour later.

The Head of Department is calm. Disturbingly so. She saunters out to the school combi and we are told they can’t take us to the clinic—they are on their way to Gabs. I’m asking everyone to use their car and everyone is staring at me blankly. His head is on my shoulder and he is hyperventilating and coughing and terrified. I say it’s okay—we’re going now, we’re going soon, it’s okay

in part to reassure myself.

Maybe it didn’t take a 5 full minutes for the Head of Department to get her car. Maybe it was my fear or impatience. Maybe it was her age. I said is she here yet? She’s coming. Now—is she here now? She’s coming. What is taking so long? Doesn’t anyone else have a car?

She arrives and I have to commission two male teachers to help me carry him to the vehicle.

Ohpm is one of the tallest boys at school. Athletic and handsome and popular. I hold the shell of this in my arms as we drive to the clinic. He looks exactly like a baby. And he’s turning blue. He looks exactly like he is dying.

________________________

The clinic is empty. Not one person in sight as we pull up. I race out of the car screaming “Ko ko!” (the Batswana sound for knocking) “Ra batle thuso ja nong!” (We need help now!) No one comes so I begin opening doors and calling louder.

Eventually, I come across one of the cleaners and a family welfare educator. They stare at me, tsking my audacious behavior. I stare back furious at their complacent response.

Both ladies stroll out to the car and look at the boy and there is so much silence surrounding his gasps and sobs.

The head nurse patters across the yard to us—clicking her pen and surveying the scene.

At this point I stop speaking. My voice is very small and my insistence irritating. This is not how they do things. I may be making it worse.

Mma Idalt finally asks for the boy to be taken into the clinic. I watch as the nurses turn him. I wait and wait as they call his name and shift him around the table. Eventually I walk outside.

On the broken bench I am praying and counting minutes. At 4 Mma Idalt presses him against the wall and pours medicine down his throat. I can hear his breathing subside and mine return.

_________________________

Ophm’s father is called. He tells us he is working at the primary school, just behind the clinic. Still, he takes 30 minutes to arrive.

Ophm’s asthma occurred in Mma Gnasid’s science class. She was performing an experiment. As she poured the ethanol Ophm immediately began gasping.

Mma Gnasid asks Ophm’s father why he didn’t tell the school about his son’s asthma so she could take proper precautions. The father shrugs and claims not to have known. The mother left him 10 years ago -- that was really more her sort of thing to deal with.

__________________________

Back at school the teachers approach to ask if Ophm is okay. The track and field coach says Ophm often had asthmatic problems during training.

You didn’t tell anyone?

The parents are supposed to come with a note from the doctor.

But you could have told us.

He always recovered.

___________________________

The head of department and I sit in the office. She’s staring at her notebook. I’m staring at my desk.

That was scary.

Yes.

I never waste time with these things. I’ve seen it too many times.

I look at her. Trying to hide my awe and outrage.

I lost a nephew that way. 12 years old. By the time he got to the clinic they had already pronounced him dead.

Yes, time is so important. It determines everything in these cases.

And then my husband. A diabetic. No one knew. When the stroke came, again, we were too slow.

She tells me story after story and I’m clutching the arms of my chair and I’m teetering between compassion and fury.

______________________________

Teacher blames father.

Father blames mother.

Coach blames parents.

And blame I culture where emergencies do not elicit urgency.

Still, he survives. This time.

I spend the afternoon talking to the classes about safety. I write down allergies and take the names of the asthmatic children and plead with them to bring medicine, inhalers and doctor’s notes to the guidance office.

The nod at me. They say “Yes, Mma” in unison.

________________________________

My walking pace has slowed in Botswana. I am adept at waiting in queues for hours. Meetings that cover two items and run for 4 hours no longer phase me. A 10 mile trip in a friend’s car requires no less than an hour and five stops. Events start, religiously, 2 hours after the program states. Sermons and ceremonies can run all day and all night.

I am better. Not perfect, but better. I still tap my foot and doodle in the margins and day dream with abandon. But I am better.

Every once in a while you get to stop being “culturally sensitive” and “adapting”. Every once in a while that American-ism makes sense and you get to say that out loud.

Out.

Loud.

And here I thought I’d be relieved.

I’ve been here long enough now to have annual nostalgia. I get sentimental when the trees turn purple and romantic when festive season arrives and elated when plowing begins (not only for fresh produce but also for the sense that my poorest students are finally getting enough daily food)

I’m currently entering my third autumn in Botswana. Amazing to think it’s been that long.

But not all my nostalgic moments here are positive. There is, of course, the frustration of the water outage in summer which follows the wonder and horror of spring mating season (wherein farm animals charge one another and make the most ungodly sounds -- terrifying my repressed ‘city girl’)

Still, I’ve learned to cope quite well with living off stored water and ignoring immodest cows. These are easy compared to other annual traditions. Or should I say Another. There is really only one I dread:

Sports Day.

Sports Day is a loved by students and loathed by volunteers. Last year my kids were made to run in the hot sun for hours without water or food. I arrived at the field at 3:00 to find a group of them sobbing and heaving under trees. Their friends told me they had been like that for hours. Teachers lounged under a shaded tent and explained to me that the children were “being dramatic” and “just tired”. When I finally got the worst of them to the clinic the head nurse said the same thing. When I petitioned the Headmaster for an intervention he told me the sick children were “lazy” and “making excuses not to participate.”

That was last January. The only day of my entire service that I have ended in furious tears.

And so Sports Day came again this January. Prior to the event I schemed a million ways to avoid it but all my plans and distractions fell through. In the end, I found myself crawling to school with a pit in my stomach and a distinct sense of fear. Fear that I wasn’t big enough for this. That something could happen and I’d be alone. That I’d make a mistake.

And I prayed. One of those little prayers that you mean deeply but find faith in the granting hard to believe. I prayed for wisdom and the ability to help. And I prayed that my students would be okay.

By 9:00 the kids were on the field running and cheering wildly for their teams. I felt an enormous relief when 10:00 rolled around and there was still a cloud cover blocking the heat.

But at 11:00 the sun won out. A predictable desert pattern but I still felt duped. The kids started sweating and they fell into the shade after their races, encircled by concerned friends and makeshift, paper fans. Twenty-odd “supervising” teachers read books and told jokes and gossiped under the tent.

______________

My house is less than a quarter mile from the track and when Ms. Enawstuk arrived with a car I immediately begged her to take me home. I commissioned two men to ride with us.

At my house I have buckets and buckets of stored water in preparation for the village’s frequent water outages. My kitchen is filled with bottles and my end tables and nightstand are old jam containers from the school kitchen, washed out and used for water storage. Ms. Enawstuk and the men looked at me warily but eventually agreed to assist with the Crazy Lekgoa dragging her end tables and kitchen contents into the car.

Once back at the field I set up a water station out of the back of Ms. Enawstuk’s car. I sent my favorite students out to advertise the water stand and, within an hour, had a line of kids greedily pushing cups and bottles at me, begging for refills.

I went home to re-filled the buckets three times that day. I’m guessing I distributed nearly 500 gallons of water to 340 students in the course of six hours.

These are the comments I remember from those hours:

From a student: We are much better this year, Mma Charles. You have helped us.

From a teacher: So the students are really supposed to drink before the races? I thought that would give them cramps and make them sick…?

From a student: You are a good person to take care of us like this.

From a teacher: You spoil them with this water. It makes them weak.

From a student: But who will do this for us next year? How will we tell them we need this?

From a teacher: It’s too much, Bontle. It’s 4:00. We’re on the last race—they’ll never drink all that.

From a student: You have a good heart, Mma Charles.

__________________

HIV prevention work rarely has tangible results. I’ve earned the affection of some students and colleagues but have I really helped them? Are they practicing safer sex? Do they know how to use a condom correctly? Can they differentiate between myths and facts about STDs and HIV? Do understand the risks of multiple concurrent partners? Will they continue to go to traditional healers who claim to heal HIV? Are they going to live past forty?

I don’t know these answers. I won’t ever know these answers. And I have accepted this as part of the deal. Prevention is, at the start, a blind effort. A hope. A wait.

But in the back of that little Toyota, for one minute, things were different. I was educating teachers. I was modeling safe exercise preparation. I was teaching students how to care for their friends. I was watching kids become physically revived from hydration. I was explaining the importance of water.

Just water.

________________

Sports day ended at 6:00 on Friday night. On Saturday I learned that a boy had died at my friend Jen’s school. He had come off the track and complained that his chest hurt. The teachers waited and then took him home and left him there, alone. His parents found him dead.

At Monday’s morning assembly I stood in front of the students for the first time in two years of service. I was shaking from nerves and emotion and praying they didn’t notice. I spoke for 5 minutes about dehydration, heat exhaustion, asthma, heart health, and proper nutrition. I implored them to take care of themselves and of one another as they exercised this season.

It was nothing. It was 5 minutes and water.

But it’s one of those moments that will color my memories of Botswana. Three months from now when this world is tucked inside photo albums and nostalgia Sports Day will be moments where I’ll remember I was really here. Really real. And for a minute—really helping.

One of the other volunteers asked me to lead a staff development session at her school today on young learner lesson planning. I taught this session to three groups of volunteers last year so I readily agreed to present to a Batswana class as well.

The thing about taking on tasks in Botswana is that the preparation and stress and detail put into planning can be shockingly successful for one event and infuriatingly futile for the next.

For example, I once was in a state of panic because I desperately needed to return a pair of trousers and had lost the receipt. My fellow volunteer listened to me moan about this for two hours before saying, “Listen, this is either going to be the most difficult process you can image or the easiest thing in the world—it’s a total fluke here how things turn out.”

Indeed.

I walked into the shop and the manager took one look at the trousers and immediately handed me cash (and I had paid with credit!)

Okay, so back to the workshop.

Well, it DID actually turn out to be successful but the details of Getting There were just maddening. And amusing. Well, amusing in retrospect.

Here’s how the day went...

This morning I double checked the transportation log and saw that, yes, I had indeed booked the van two weeks ago for this event and, yes, the driver was aware of the trip. But then at 9:00 Mr. Eltneolep received a fax inviting him to a workshop this same afternoon, at the same time as my workshop.

So, Bontle, we’ll have to find a way for me to get to the workshop.

Well, can you drive your car?

No, it must be the school van.

But I booked the van first.

But I need it too.

But we can’t both have it.

But I need it.

But I booked it first.

But I need it too.

Arg!

I finally manage to get someone from the other school to agree to drive me home at the end of my presentation which will allow Mr. Eltneolep to be transported to his workshop as well.

But when that fire goes out I suddenly realize that the van is gone from the school parking lot. The driver remembers that he has to take me at 1:00, right? I call him. He doesn’t understand my Setswana over the phone. I ask a colleague to call him. He doesn’t answer. I call the person he’s with. She answers and tells me the driver has left her and he’s off getting petrol. She doesn’t know when he’ll be back to pick her up but, yes, she’ll remind him he’s taking me to Thamaga at 1:00.

ARG!

At 12:20 I step into my final class of the day and try to be discrete about peeking out at the school gate to see if the van has returned. At 12:50 the transport has still not arrived and now it’s started to downpour. The bell rings for lunch at 1:00 and the kids are shrieking from the rain and I’m hurdling puddles to make it back to the office to grab my things because the van has FINALLY arrived. I leap over the hallway of children and clear the guidance office queue and make it to the van, sloppy and exhausted by 1:05. Mr. Gnegonom looks back from the driver’s seat, chewing lazily on his plate of paleche.

Mr. Gnegonom we have to go—I’m going to be late and there are 50 teachers waiting for me!

It’s raining.

Yes, I know but I’m late.

But it’s raining.

Yes, I know but…

This continues for a while and eventually I give up. When Gnegonom finishes his lunch we drive around the back of the school to pick up Mr. Eltneoloep who stands laughing in the doorway of the kitchen and refusing to walk the two feet to the van in the rain. I beckon him urgently from the window but he will only consent once I’ve opened the door and cleared a path so he can make a running leap and slide into the vehicle. ARG!!!

Finally we are driving towards the school exit and I am a starting to feel relief when I’m besieged by a floury of Setswana which brings the van to a halt again. This time for 15 minutes. I ask what we’re waiting for and get ambiguous replies and resolve to practice deep breathing in the back seat until the vehicle moves again. Eventually, 5 teachers pile into the van.

Where are you going?

Home.

But why are you coming with us?

Because it’s raining.

But…

Oh.

So it’s this point that I “get it” and I feel so humbled by it. The thing is—my American values have been blinding me all day. My need to be well-planned and detail-orientated and profession and punctual has made me totally self absorbed. I’ve been trying to be responsible and get where I promised to be when I promised to be there but the priorities motivating my Batswana colleagues have been much different. For the Batswana, the important thing today was to help one another and sacrifice for the greater good and put other people’s needs before their own (and definitely before the clock!). If things didn’t work out perfectly it would be okay because at least everyone was helped by the van. A collective, community based culture and ethos.

And so, yeah, I booked the transport first. And it wasn’t “fair” that I was 30 minutes late to a presentation in front of 50 colleagues. And it wasn’t “fair” that I was embarrassed and felt unprofessional. That was annoying.

But, in the mean time, a giant van carried one woman to Gabs and back, two teachers to their workshops and five staff to their homes—all without getting anyone soaked in the rain.

Oh, and we saved petrol.

Two years and still Such An American. But at least the epiphanies come now. Slow and reluctant. But they come.

I live on a family compound in a little pink house next to the landlords’ larger pink house. The landlords have two kids and a dog and a cat and a million chickens. The dog is my favorite. I love to come home after a long day and sit in the sand, rubbing Molly’s belly. She’s started to anticipate it and will chase after me and lie down in front of my feet until I consent. She has giant sad eyes which I find soothing and compassionate in a way I can’t explain.

Molly has had three litters since I arrived. 23 puppies all together. In this last litter the puppies lived for three months and then one by one began dying. Earlier this week the last one died.

Molly died today.

________________

The landlord came over to check on me tonight. I stood in my doorframe (as I always do) and he stood on my stoop facing the horizon (as he always does) and we chit chatted about work and the weather. And I said “What happened to all the dogs?” and he said “Well, we don’t really know.” And I said “But it was so sudden—all at once like that.” And he said, “They may have been poisoned. But did you see the chicks? My God we are so fortunate with all these new chickens!”

My best friend in the village can’t understand Americans and pets. She talks about it all the time—genuinely fascinated by our attachment to animals and confused at how we can build such fondness for dirty cats that exist to catch mice and mangy dogs that exist to protect the house.

Sometimes I theorize that it’s our individualistic culture that tends towards solitude and yet finds that privacy can be enhanced by a connection with a silent, soft and affectionate being. Sometimes I think it’s evolution past the strict hierarchical culture that sees animals as merely functional and disposable. Sometimes I just think it’s excess money and time that has made us develop new interests and hobbies beyond survival tasks. Sometimes I think we’ve got it all wrong and we’d be better off ignoring them like the Batswana.

____________

Molly crawled under the banana tree at the edge of our yard and died there today. The kids told me but I wouldn’t look. She laid there for seven long hours before the landlord finally removed her.

There have been moments here that I’ve wanted desperately to be invisible. There have been days I’ve nearly begged my skin to turn black.

But I’ve never so badly wanted to be Motswana, as I did today.

Savid and I meet at the village bus stop which may have been a mistake. We are quite visible there and the things he tells me are too painful to hide. I spend a lot of time blinking over and over to keep the water out of my eyes. I concentrate on ignoring the stares of neighbors and from bus windows, patterened with gawking eyes. Savid is oblivious—or perhaps too indignant to care. He has had enough of this country. He is leaving from rage and fear and betrayal.

______________

Ian Khama’s presidential campaign promised social improvements through heightened discipline. He has not failed in administering this discipline. It is impressive and a bit daunting. Many Batswana are not pleased with the 70% tax increase on alcohol or the early closing of public bars. People also complain about the skyrocketing traffic violation fines which, for some offenses, soared from P50 to P1000.

When Khama took office, he meant business. He wanted a sober nation. A safe nation. He also wanted a fair nation. One where only legal Zimbabwean refugees resided. Where citizens could live without the fear of being robbed or assaulted by desperately the poor who had fled their country. And so we began to see more and more deportation vehicles-- stuffed to the brim and heading back to the border. For many Batswana, this was a relief. But for those on the inside, the process seemed haphazard and unjust. One minute they were working, tending the same garden that had employed them for six years, and the next, the police had come and swept them up. Papers and pleas were ignored. Reasons withheld. It was a rapid and merciless process. In the final week of November, Botswana deported 4,000 Zimbabwean refugees. A great cleanse. Though not flawless.

______________

When they came for him there was the natural shock, but Savid had been through this before. He was polite and compliant—calmly unfolding his UN refugee documents and waiting for the expected pardon.

The police glanced at the documents and told Savid to put them away. It was not their job to determine his status, but merely to take him as instructed. Savid protested, insisting that he had a right to know his offense but the officers merely grunted and began attaching handcuffs to his wrists.

“This is unnecessary. I will go with you freely. I merely ask to know my offense.”

“It’s a protocol. I’m sorry—we are required to use these.”

Savid’s hands were fastened behind his back and he was led from the garden to the police vehicle. Friends and coworkers and garden customers stood gaping at this abrupt display. Some called out to ask what had happened. Some ran to the police, demanding an explanation. But Savid couldn’t answer and neither could his escorts. He was Zimbabwean. That’s all the justification they had and needed. He would have to wait for more answers.

__________________

Savid was taken to his home and told to pack a bag. He did this reluctantly, still pleading for reason and urgently displaying his passports and papers. The policemen had waning patience and gruffly zipped his bag and reapplied the cuffs. They then drove him 50 kilometers to Molepolole where Savid found himself penned inside a vast cage. There were over 1,000 of them—men on one side and women and children on the other. All Zimbabwean. There were tents but no roof. Someone took Savid’s bag and he would not see it again for four days.

And then the rains started. Cold, hard rains.

Botswana’s rains tend to come staggered—a few hours of downpour and then blazes of sunshine before the next spell. A cloudy day here and there. A brief quenching followed by thick humidity.

There are 340 days of sunshine and blue skies in Botswana each year.

Savid watched the sky cloud over and the wind rise. He hugged his t-shirt against his skin and found his way into a damp tent. From there he watched the rain fall for three days straight. No one came for him. No one responded to his pleas for clarification or his belongings or even a single warm garment. He and the thousand other refugees huddled in confusion and a mounting rage. Waiting and shivering.

It is hard to deal with such mayhem in these uncomfortable weather conditions. It must have overwhelmed the officers, for no one appeared during those days. Rain does much to impede the work flow here in Botswana.

Savid ate three small meals of undercooked porridge each day. He would not step into the showers and when I asked him why he looked away with such disgust it turned my stomach.

“The prison was a pen for animals and I believed I would die there.” He said to me, shaking his head back and forth. “I thought I was finished.”

“And I was angry.” He has stopped looking at me now. “Not at them but me—to die this way. I could have been home—fighting for a cause! Dying for our freedom. But instead I was dying here—in the arms of my protector. And for what…? For what…?”

And I am blinking water

Locked on his sunken eyes and blinking blinking

________________

On the fourth day the rains finally stopped. By noon prison operations had resumed and Savid spotted the Police Chief walking just beyond the chain link fence. He called to her, begging for a moment. Just a word.

The Chief responded to this emotional plea and told Savid there was a protocol he must follow before speaking with her.

But he had taken these steps many times, he insisted. He had asked for a meeting and been ignored time and time again.

The Chief look sideways at Savid. His wrinkled forehead and hollow cheeks. His refugee documents pressed against the fence. There were mountains of others behind him. A list of pleas that preceded him. A protocol that was meant to be followed.

Maybe the Chief knew there had been a mistake. Maybe she merely liked the shape of Savid’s eyes. We call them miracles because the explanations elude us.

And so they did, when Savid was called to her office that afternoon. And when Savid was discharged.

“Maybe God put you here to meet good people,” said the Chief upon Savid’s release.

Savid stared at this good woman and felt gratitude and vulnerability and danger.

Outside the prison gate things had changed.

Savid’s space and God and “good” had been revised.

The Chief’s theory seemed possible. And unconsoling.

_______________

The sun is in my eyes now and I’m squinting up to see him. To read the lines on his face at the end of this nightmare story.

I will go now.

Where?

Home. To Harare.

Will it be dangerous?

Yes, but perhaps no more dangerous than here.

What has your wife said?

She’s coming for festive season. Her and three of my children. We will plan then.

And what will become of your refugee status?

I will lose it. The UN does not approve of my return. They will make me write a document, saying I voluntarily return to Zimbabwe, fully aware of the risks to my life and safety.

And you are?

I am.

And I am blinking blinking blinking

When we got to the hill it was already 4:00. Just three hours before dark. They’d told us to park at the base and look for trails but all we could see were thorny cow paths that twisted and vanished through the brush. Mari shrugged and we set out. It was only a hill, after all. If we got too tired we’d just turn back.

An hour and a half later we had scaled the rock face of Otse Hill. We had also learned that the “hill”-designation was a phenomenal understatement. Three thousand vertical feet had brought us to peak after peak. When we were certain we’d conquered our “hill” there was another summit, cresting in the background. We huffed and puffed and pressed on. At some point we agreed to stretch our distance so the rock landslides we unearthed wouldn’t keep tumbling onto the person hiking in the rear. At another point I stopped looking down to keep our steep vertical from giving me vertigo.

At last we peaked. The summit held the pride and exhaustion and splendor that mountaintops are famous for. We turned in slow, panoramic circles-- gasping at the dramatic expanse and absorbing the landscape in silent awe. The pictures muffle its depth and quiet the colors. Still, we remember the majesty of that vibrant green ocean and the way it impressed upon us a sense of being very strong and infinitely small. All at once.

Dappled in that exquisite landscape were Images that have come to mind

now

and

Then

A monkey’s glare. A summit sign reading “wisdom”. Two frightened deer. A crystallized rock. And a very small hut that sat at a peak, adjacent to ours.

Maybe these things have significance. Maybe they are nothing but garnish. But I remember them now. And I remembered them Then. Then. Just two days later. When our world crashed and spun and slammed us harder than we’ve ever known. And when everything stood still. When we were small. Smaller than a breath in all that vast terrain. When we were practically nothing at all. Then.

_________________

Jessica you should have asked someone!

I did—we stopped in the village in Otse and asked for directions.

But what did they say!? They just let you go?

Well, yeah. I mean, they looked at us like we were kind of crazy but I just thought that was because it’s so high. You know—it’s the highest point in Botswana.

They looked at you like that because it’s cursed!

Lesego, I really don’t think—

I’m telling you. You’ve heard the story of those two lovers who went up and never came back.

But Lesego that’s just a story.

No it’s not. It’s cursed and now you are too. That hill is the place where our traditional healers get their power. That’s why. You shouldn’t have gone there. You should have asked first.

Lesego, I think you’re overreacting a bit. It was fine. Really. We are fine.

But you should have asked. Don’t ever do that again.

_____________

At first I can’t stop hyperventilating. I’ve never hyperventilated before and I find myself fascinated and disturbed by the sound. Still, I know I am not hurt and so I watch it play out. Like a spectator. A bystander who clasps her hand against her lips and tries to keep her eyes open.

For all I knew it took an hour. Time crawling like that. At first sadistically. And then, it seemed, to help us.

I remember blackness and scrawls of light. I remember Mari steering frantically. I remember hearing my name called and I can’t answer.

When the car stops I manage to breathe again and Mari says: There is blood in my mouth. And she says it over and over. And I’m scared and there are people everywhere. At all the windows.

______________________

When we get out of the car we hug each other and look at the damage. Our audience confirms that we are not hurt and then shouts at us to collect our things.

They are coming now! They are going to rob you! You must remove all your things from the car! Quickly!

Mari leans against the hood and breathes and asks about the police. A tow truck arrives. I find lip gloss and passports and cell phones and pens. They have stolen our leftovers from the restaurant and a package of gum. I find this sad and confusing.

The other car is also smashed but he’s walking. People tell us to sit down but I can’t help feeling like there’s something I should be doing. A man in the crowd catches my eye and I lock on him. He is soft. He says he will take us to the hospital. After the police come.

____________________

And so the police come. There are blue blinking lights. There are x-rays. There is a mechanic’s shop. There is a car rental company. There is a neck brace.

There is Mari in the gate, looking weak and exhausted. Hugging me goodbye.

There is an airplane.

____________________

Three days later I am feasting with a group of volunteers. Turkeys and pies and cocktails and cigarettes. At the end of the night we lie in the yard and stare at the stars. My neck is throbbing but I am elated.

Someone decides we should honor the holiday by sharing about the things we are grateful for.

The funny kid says turkey. The sentimental says all of you. Someone talks about their family. Someone describes their village. I look at my arms and legs and I breathe in and out. I’m thankful for that. I say this and people nod and sigh and do not understand.

There are bruises all across my pelvis from the seatbelt. I have been on pain medicine for a week for my neck. I have trouble sleeping and exercising because of the ache.

I also walk and cook and laugh and teach and lie on a blanket with my friends feeling enormously grateful.

Were we cursed or blessed?

Maybe neither. Maybe both.

Maybe we were just reminded of our size. Our infinite irrelevance. Our source of respect.

Three thousand feet above sea level.

360 degrees and spinning.

It is good to feel small. It is right.

My sister and brother-in-law found the lightening storm particularly fascinating. They watched it arriving for nearly an hour and then stood on my porch snapping photos of spidery bolts, golden clouds and the wind-swept terrain. When the rain became too hard we watched from inside as the sky rolled upon us and the earth seemed to melt in a sigh – or a song.

The farmers and cattle have their own, far more noble, reasons for rain-relief. I, on the other hand, am just thrilled to have hardened sand beneath my morning run.

On Friday morning I left at 5:15, as always, jogging towards the pink sunrise. This has, and is, and will always be one of my Most Serene Spaces: privacy in a giant expanse of twisted trees and drifting cattle

cool morning

soft air

and a horizon freshly painted, just for me, every day.

Today I’m gliding over dirt paths and the storm’s misty residue. It’s been 20 minutes or so when I come upon a giant smoking tree. The sight is so unexpected that I run past and spend the next ten minutes rationalizing it.

It must be a method of clearing the land, I reason. Certainly a farmer is close by, prepared to control the burning and later chop up the tree for firewood. I pace on with uneasy resignation to this explanation.

Or, I tell myself a mile later, or it was some type of traditional worship… some healer is carrying out a ceremony or burning the bush for a medicinal concoction. Maybe the smoke is to dry out herbs or perhaps the ash is used in some type of curative mixture.

I am exactly half way through my run and the reasons seem weaker with each step.

Turn right to finish the loop or turn back to retrace my steps and find the tree.

I check my watch. 5:45. The stillness is profound. Too early for farmers and healers. And too far out.

I turn back.

This time when I approach the tree, its smoke has turned to giant flames. I advance to see that the trunk has been torn in two splintered halves. The gash is nearly vertical—attesting to a tool quite different from an axe or saw. I feel the spongy, wet earth beneath me and remember the storm. There is lightening in this tree. And it is very much alive.

The tree’s torso lies in a long stretch against the earth. I consider the surrounding bush in all its dry growth and thick vegetation. Bush-fire stories feel haunting and real. My house and neighbors feel close.

And so I begin.

Giant fistfuls of wet sand crash into the flames. Over and over I lean to collect the dirt and quench the tree’s blaze. At one point I pick up a fallen branch to chip away the smoldering bark. It falls to the ground in black chunks—sizzling into the piles ash.

I alternate between the sand strategy and branch beating for ten minutes before the flames dissolve and the smoke is controlled. I step away to survey my work and see finite success: the tree sits stifled and grey, yet still pulsing with energy. Small remains of embers and smoke appear to taunt. The potential for another ignition seems more than likely.

I check my watch again: 5:55. I can be back to the village before 6:15. If I sprint 6:10. People will be awake by then. I can tell someone.

I remember that the closest fire station is 40 km away in Gaborone.

I remember that my landlords leave for work at 6:00.

I remember that the neighbors speak only Setswana.

What’s the word for lightening? I know fire. I know tree. But how do I say burning? Should I call the Kumakwane police?

I am calm but anxious. Perhaps I was in the right place at the right time but does Fate stop there? Certainly people have taken wrong measures in those right places. Certainly I’d be held accountable if acres of bush burned down.

But Fate didn’t stop there.

Just five minutes after leaving the tree I come across three men walking towards their cattle post. This was miraculous for the following reasons:

1. I have been running this route for over six months and have Rarely seen another person in the lands before 6:30.

2. Most Kumakwane farmers are older and illiterate – these three men were in their 20s and spoke fluent English.

3. The majority of those who work out in the lands do so alone—herding cattle or repairing fences or collecting firewood. These were three.

4. And they had a shovel.

______________

On Saturday morning I return to the lands with Heather and Tim. They stop to take photos of dawdling cows and enormous centipedes and bright red sand bugs. When we finally come upon the tree we find a farmer busily hacking at the stump. He has even pulled his truck into the bush to collect the massive trunk and branches. I greet him and he looks up with a smile.

A rain storm and a truck-full of firewood all in one week: a farmer’s paradise, I think.

How wonderfully bizarre to have participated.

It’s hard to write this. The sensation of something so significant. So totally beyond my control.

I’ve postponed it for a week now.

And so here I am. 30 years old and 1 week.

________

There were 8 of us. And no moon. A stillness I found appropriate.

At night there were campfire songs and drinks and a slew of debaucherous games. But the day times had a certain tranquility.

We canoed out to the islands in swimsuits and water bottles.

We hiked small peaks to capture the dam’s crystal expanse.

We swam against currents, testing our strength.

We spent hours reading in the humidity and silence.

Someone had a bag of candy that we passed around for hours in our shaded nook. And someone had a bottle of champagne. And someone had cava.

And the sun set in pale pinks. Not dramatic. Or vibrant. But gently passing to dusk. Subtle and striking.

I will remember all of this. But more profoundly two hollow moments and the way they flooded with so much of my nostalgia and anticipation.

Lying flat on my back beneath the white milkyway. Listening to campfire banter and watching stars shooting across that great stretch of night. Over and over. Feeling genuinely happy. And full. And peaceful.

Waking up on the morning after my birthday to run 10 miles. My longest run ever. To prove or confirm something. Our dog trailing me through the bush. No human sound or sight but the beating of my breath. So fully alive. So strong.

In my 20s I worked as a director, teacher and marketing representative. I earned my MPH. I lived in England, China and Africa.

In my 20s I learned humility. I learned passion. I learned chemistry. I crossed paths with the infuriating and the fascinating. I discovered the things that I am not. I found the pieces that now define and inspire me. I came to understand that these things and people and places exist and are waiting for me.

I am excited and a little scared for this decade. I’ve made my goal list. I’ve said my age out loud.

And now I wait. In the wake of a Boston bar party and a Botswana camping trip. In the aftermath of a solitary trail run. In the fading hum of candles and cakes and presents and cards and wishes and Acceptance.

I wait.

To see what will come to me.

To see what I’ll pull to me.

And how my little life will go.

___________________

I turned thirty in Botswana.

At Mmadinari Dam.

In a blaze of African summer.

In awe and anxiety.

In gratitude and hope.

Traveling to a campsite in central Botswana we find ourselves muscling the masses on elections weekend. President Khama has given everyone the day off so they have time to make it to their home villages and wait in the 7 hour lines to cast their votes.

People groan about the travel, but softly. There is An Awareness here. Zimbabwe and South Africa bulging at the seams and straining the borders. Election days go differently there.

On Monday morning the Deputy School Head stands before our student body and nearly shouts the words

“Not one drop of blood was shed!”

I stare at her poised there with pride and passion. I feel the significance. The students are encouraged to be proud of their nation’s stability during these elections. They are also persuaded to work towards lives that sustain and promote Botswana’s unique and profound state of peace.

Several times each month I engage in the Getting-To-Know-You banter with Batswana. Americans have their own set of traditional inquiries on employment, the weather, family, etc. The Batswana nearly always ask me the same string of questions:

Which country do you come from?

How long have you been here?

What are you doing here?

What do you think of our country?

In response to the last I typically comment on Botswana’s natural beauty or the warmth of the people. And they nod and reply:

“Ah, and we are peaceful here. A very peaceful nation.”

Botswana was not a colony of Britain, it was a protectorate. It earned peaceful independence in 1966. It has never had a civil war. Its 8 major tribes reside in harmony and tolerance of one another.

At some point in my service I began to take advantage of these facts. I got bored of people telling me how peaceful Botswana is. I numbed to this predictable praise.

And then Election Day came and went as every other day has in quiet, sunny, serene Botswana. And then I looked at my map again: Zambia pouring frightened refugees. South Africa still on the mend from apartheid. And all the horrors that sit and stir in the wake of Uganda, Sudan, Rwanda, Kenya

and

so

on.

“Can you believe this?” Hael says out of nowhere.

I look up from my book.

She’s bright from the light pouring through the bus window. And from Something else.

“I just can’t believe we’re sitting here, Living in an African country—and with these elections… right now there are elections going on. And nothing, nothing at all. Just another day.”

We sit there like that. Half comprehending the novelty. Attempting to sense the weight of These Things.

The bus window flashes light and dust and green. We watch it. We feel grateful. Or as grateful as we can - two privileged, sheltered, curious American girls, learning perspective. And the importance of an absence. And the value of a Stillness.

I lost most of my tan in America which disappointed me but seemed to make quite an impression on my students…

“Mma Charles… you have changed! You look so nice now--- so white!”

Color and shades are significant here. Since everyone has black hair and black eyes, skin tone becomes crucial to identity. In my first months people I met kept referring to others as “that black one” which left me completely baffled as I stared into the sea of black faces surrounding me.

Even more confusing was the opposite. One day I was attempting to check out at grocery store when the manager directed me to “that cashier there… the white one.” I scanned all 8 tills before turning back to him for help. “Right there baby—the white one… you see her there.” I most certainly did not see any white people anywhere. Eventually, he brought me down to the third register and deposited me in the line where I found a female cashier with light brown skin. This, I learned, was African’s “white”.

Ofet is a “black one”. No mistake about that. He might be the darkest boy at our school and this deep complexion makes his teeth and eyes glimmer in the perpetual smile he’s always donning. Ofet flirts with the girls and makes his classmates laugh. He comes to club meetings and sits in the back row cracking jokes with the other boys. When I glance at him he bites his lip and slaps his neighbors quiet. He is one of the few boys who greets teachers with full formality (hands clasped, small bow, “dummella mma” “dumella rra”).

I don’t know Ofet as well as other students but I like him. His energy and charm are impressive. The sweetness he preserves in popularity is rare.

On my first day back someone handed me a program with Ofet’s image on the front page. The photocopier had been broken and left ashy lines across the white and turned Ofet’s face into a shadow. Though too dark to see his features, the shape of that black silhouette was unmistakable. The program trembled slightly in my hands so I put it down on the desk and waited. The others waited too. Eventually someone took the program away.

_______

On the far stretches of the village, beyond the lands there is a large sand pit. Rumor has it that the man with the permit to this land had been meant to use it for agricultural purposes. People were surprised, therefore, when the man began digging up the sand with giant cranes and trucking it out of the village to be sold. Surprise quickly turned to frustration when the massive trucks began polluting the village with dust storms and noise for long hours each day. Over time this frustration became anger when the trucks gained momentum and went tearing through town leaving pedestrian villagers terrified for their lives.

I don’t know what comes after anger but I’m sure, whatever it is, it sits there now and waits to explode.

________

The week before I returned the rains began. Giant heavy drops in the south and massive balls of hail in the north. In Serowe the village was destroyed by hail storms but in Kumakwane we dealt with the expected: soggy paths and restless cattle and dirty donkey carts and the return of myriad mosquitoes.

On the first day the sand dunes grew damp and hardened. On the second they began to fill. On the third they were deep enough to swim.

And it was the weekend. So the kids went swimming.

____________

In the 18 months since my arrival two of my volunteer colleagues have rescued drowning children from pools.

The vast majority of Batswana children do not know how to swim because a) their country is land locked b) rivers and lakes are thought to be cursed by witchdoctors so no one swims in them and c) the nations pools are usually restricted to expensive hotels and upperclass back yards where Batswana children rarely find themselves.

____________

People don’t talk about the details here. It’s taboo. If I asked they might tell me but I spare them this discomfort. All I know is that Ofet went swimming with a group of children at the sand dunes. When he started drowning no one was a strong enough swimmer to save him. They watched him drown. And on October 6th, they buried him.

____________

Before I left for Peace Corps my advisor asked me if I was ready for all the death I would see in these two years. He was preparing me for this plagued continent. He was referring to HIV and, at the time, it scared me.

HIV doesn’t scare me that way any longer. Now there are bigger ghosts. Negligence. Poverty. Alcoholism. Logistics. Carelessness.

The causes of death here are so casual. So shockingly simple. Sometimes they can be explained and many times they cannot. Accidents without fault. Consequences without cause. People slip away and the grieving comes and goes. Not insincere but also not prolonged. How could they bear to fully mourn them all?

____________

The first time a student told me they’d rather have TB than HIV I looked at her with such horror that I’m sure she was embarrassed. Later she explained to me that tuberculosis kills you quickly and with HIV you can live for years and years. With the government providing ARV therapy those years have now turned decades. HIV doesn’t look so bad compared with the other options. Most days you can hardly see it at all.

_____________

Sometimes I get frustrated over the lack of urgency I see towards the crisis of HIV. I rue the international donors for inspiring Botswana’s dependence. I question my own presence and how it’s limiting local investment. I teach impassioned classes on HIV prevention where the students stare at me blankly.

But how can I blame them? Their classmates and siblings are dying of drownings and asthma and car accidents and all manner of tragic, startling cause. Meanwhile, their mothers and fathers are going to the clinic every month to pick up free medicine and free foodbaskets and living well into their fifties.

____________

It’s more shocking than depressing. The thought that those who make it past HIV have so many other hurdles to cross. And the thought that so many of these hurdles are easily evaded. Preventable.

I am a Lifeskills Peace Corps volunteer. I teach HIV prevention.

But who teaches the rest? The Life-Stuff: swimming, crossing the road, dealing with an emergency…

Maybe we started in the wrong place.

Maybe we’ve been too narrow.

Seven months left of service. Retrospect enlightens. and humbles.

Johannesburg airport.

2:01 p.m.

Thursday, September 10

5 hour lay over

Between Worlds.

Anticipating the novelty and nostalgia of home has consumed me… mildly in the impending months and then intensely these last few weeks and then desperately in the final days.

I dream of them. Romantically. Urgently. Literally. I see their faces and wake up feeling restless.

Heather’s engagement ring.

Linnea’s first baby.

Peter’s new fiancé.

Robin’s belly.

Grandpa’s eyes.

Eli’s independence.

Kris’ job.

Denise’s third.

Kerry’s love.

Mum’s health.

Erin’s house.

We are forced to shut these things off. To be present. To be available. To be Here.

And then, one day, someone lifts the blindfold and says

It’s okay. You can look now.

And in that looking swarms a thousand shadowed emotions: stifled joy and hushed grief and the type of yearning that grows from three decades of love for a place and people and planet that turns quite well in your absence.

This is the pressing sentiment as I zip my bags. As I lock my door. As I say goodbye to the neighbors.

This swarms through me when we lift off and I look down at that patched brown desert and that hot white sun and know that This too, will be a space I miss and crave and wake up restless for on the Other Side.

This transient world. Lucky me to have arrived in time for airplanes and volunteerism and an adventure and a freedom unknown to previous generations.

Lucky me to have loved with such variety and range.

Idling between worlds and feeling the bite of bitter and the soft of sweet coloring them both.

Lucky lucky lucky me. To be nourished and to ache with such intensity.

In the center of my village lies a shallow dam where water pools in the rainy season. Three gardens surround this little dam selling spinach, onions, and beets. In America we score the shelves for non-pesticide, non-genetically-modified produce. In Africa I find these luxuries at every corner. Not, of course, without the occasional grains making their way into my stirfry… and the notorious Batswana onions that nearly melt my contacts with their potent and juicy vapors. Even so, I’m spoiled on these vegetarian delicacies in my village. Many days I have to remind myself to eat protein. Among the heap of things I’ll miss from Africa, sunsets and produce are high on the list. _______ Sivad is buried inside yellow flowers and spinach blossoms when we first meet. He greets me in English and flashes a white smile that traps the sunlight and wrinkles his face deep with ebony. Sivad dons stained trousers and a purple button-up shirt that holds a long tear, exposing his shoulder. These will be the same clothes I see him in every day of our impending friendship. He is the first Zimbabwean I meet in Africa.

In the beginning, Sivad gave me giant fans of spinach and refused to accept payment. Over time I came to compensate this generosity with baked goods and photographs from America. One day Sivad told me he loved to sing and wished he cold record his voice that echoed so well in his empty little house. I loaned Sivad a small recorder which he received with such joy and enthusiasm that it almost made me sad.

On Valentine’s Day the village kids were over baking and making cards for their parents when Sivad knocked on my door. I opened it to his whites and a nervous laugh as he handed me a vase filled with plastic flowers. The kids peeked out behind me as I shoveled oatmeal cookies into a plastic bag and thanked him for his visit and the gift.

Last week Sivad sent me a message saying that his wife and son were visiting from Zimbabwe and he’d be very happy if I’d come to meet them. I set to work baking treats and polished off my spinach, knowing Sivad would shower me with veggies when I met him at the garden.

The sun was beginning its decent when I arrived at the gate and used the Setswana words for knocking: “Ko ko!” Sivad’ youngest son, Yule, was playing alone beneath the gate. He greeted me shyly before spearing the fence with a long twig. I’d never seen Yule before but he smiled with Sivad’s shape and so I asked for his father. Yule paused his fence-assault and pointed the stick to the garden’s edge where Sivad waved and headed towards us, whites blazing.

Normally, the process of learning another person stretches between years and events and conversations. Occasionally, however, there are moments when the act of experiencing another person is pressed into a very small space. All at once the blinds raise and the colors cascade and you are left with a profound sense of awe and guilt.

Sivad greets me and introduces Yule before swinging the boy onto his back. It’s late in the day so Sivad locks the garden and we head off to meet his wife.

On the way to Kris’ family gatherings I have him quiz me on names and occupations so I can make polite conversation with his relatives. As we walk to Sivad’ house I slip into this strategy. Sivad obliges and answers my questions with a frown.

Maybe I’ve missed some social taboo, I think while glancing at his clouded face. I become silent and Sivad sighs. That breath breaks off a little piece of him that tumbles out and stands between us. I wait.

“Her name is Rotiat and she is a primary school teacher. We… um… She lives 40 kilometers north of Harare. With our four children. Two boys and two girls.”

I smile and ask the names of his children. Sivad sulks out four long and beautiful names. I repeat them to savor the stretched syllables and rhythmic sounds. I tell him that these names are lovely and he nodds. In the year I have known Sivad, I have never seen him without a smile. It’s his trademark. It’s his charm.

I also have never heard him mention a wife. Or children.

“You know, Jessica.” He sighs, looking away from me. “You know I left them six years ago. In 2003 I left them because of That Man. Since then I have seen them one time in 2005 and one other time: now.”

Uki bounces on Davis’ back and giggles, still swaying his wooden sword.

“I have suffered, Jessica. I cannot return because That Man… he hates refugees. When there is a problem he will kill us first. He will blame us. And these little ones” he squeeze Uki’s legs, “These ones are wiped out. Like nothing. Just destroyed… I cannot put them in that danger. And so I am here.”

Sivad’s pace grows slower and more labored with each sentence. I “tsk” and shake my head from side to side and reach up to smooth the back of Uki’s shirt. Sivad swallows.

“Last month my wife sent me a message and told me our oldest daughter is pregnant. My baby girl. I did not believe her until she came here and told me in person. You have not seen me this past week, Jessica. But I have been bad. So bad.”

As we approach the compound I see three very small stone houses, turned into one another to form a square. The fourth edge is a rusty bar-front with the windows boarded up. Teenage girls stand in the house’s doorframes, holding their brooms and staring out at me. I greet them and they watch me in silence. Blinking and blank. My presence confusing them.

Sivad’s house is one very small, dark cement room. It is smaller than my parent’s bathroom in America. In the corner there sit two small pots and a shelf that holds tea and flour and a jar of peanut butter. The single window drops light onto a chair and a thin sofa where Rotiart sits folding blankets and beckoning me to come inside.

Uki crawls onto her lap as Rotiart and I make small talk and become comfortable with one another. When we have discussed the children and her job and my family and the weather I ask her how she and the children are doing with the situation in Zimbabwe. I ask her I she feels safe.

Rotiart sighs and exchanges a glance with Sivad.

“We are not very safe there, you know. We hear things. They are close to us… even now. And we have heard that He wants to reintroduce the Zimbabwean currency, can you imagine? How can we live? There is no economy.”

“The Rand,” says Sivad. “The Rand is strong. That should be where we move but That Man is just terrible. He will give us nothing.”

Rotiart’s eyes sparkle with rage and fear. “You see that there?” she says pointing to the peanut butter jar. “How much do you think that costs there?... two dollars!” she exclaims holding up her fingers, “Can you imagine!? For one jar.”

I look at my bag from the garden overflowing with spinach and onions and carrots. I have spent 8 Pula or $1.10 to buy enough vegetables for an entire week. Half a jar of peanut butter in neighboring Zimbabwe.

“That’s all they know is dollars,” says Sivad. “There are no coins so everything is a dollar… a piece of fruit… a loaf of bread… all one dollar.”

We continue to discuss Zimbabwe’s shattered economy and political leadership. Sivad and Rotiart swing from enraged to despondent and back again. When the conversation lulls, Rotiart offers me paleche which I know I should accept to be polite. But I look at that peanut butter jar and shake my head and apologize.

“Next time, Rotiart. I should be going. It’s getting dark.”

Out on the road Sivad and I walk in silence and I look at him out of the corner of my eye. The last arc of orange has slipped behind the treeline and the twilight turns him grey. Whites stay hidden behind his lips.

“They go on Sunday, can you believe it? She tells me Uki has school starting on Tuesday and they must go.”

Sivad’s visit with his wife and son will be 9 days long. One and a half days for each year he’s been away from them.

“I am thinking this must change. They must come to me or we all must go or…” his voice trails off in the narrowness of options.

When we reach the road’s end I persuade him to leave me and return to them. He nods and touches my arm lightly. Before turning he flashes his whites and I see a glimmer of the man I knew before, inside the darkness of the person I know now. flash

It is hard to touch people here. It is harder to be touched. Language and culture and wealth form walls that I climb but cannot cross.

Until today, Sivad was the garden-guy. The Valentine smile. The bloke singing himself to sleep.

Those whites are distracting.

Produce and sunsets. And Sivad. I’ll miss Sivad. The outside he always donning and the inside he opened today.

On my walk home I pass nurses from the clinic and students from my school and the tuck shop owner and the neighborhood kids and my landlady. I know their names and their jobs and the way their eyes sparkle when they smile. I know their houses and their hair-dos and their voices.

I know nothing.

Botswana’s national government pays school fees and funds uniforms for orphans who register with the village social worker. The program assists nearly a fifth of the students at my school and over a quarter at the Kumakwane primary school. In general, children’s educational needs are met.

But as with all social welfare programs, there are exceptions. The exception at my school are those children who have not been orphaned. The poor without excuse. These ones are left.

The PACT club can name these kids and want to donate the funds they raised at the beauty contest towards buying school uniforms for them. At first I find this unsettling. What if we miss someone? What if it becomes a popularity contest? What if the kids feel embarrassed by being singled out?

My concerns are listened to and promptly ignored. The PACT kids make a list and the guidance counselor narrows it down. By Friday I have a paper with 5 names.

The students are called to see me during tea break. As they enter the guidance office I am hit with a thick and pungent odor of sour sweat. I beckon them to sit, but they stand-- nervously staring at me.

The school has just ended two weeks of exams and this week the students are being punished for the tests they failed. Most teachers administer a beating for wrong answers. Since Botswana’s Ministry of Education only allows 5 strokes for each punishment, the teachers go question by question. A student with 10 incorrect answers could receive 50 strokes in one class. I had spent most of the week consoling the kids and passing out bandaids.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”

Ten eyes move back and forth across my face. The tallest boy relaxes his shoulders. I look at him and smile.

“Thapelo. I need you to translate for the others, okay?”

He nods and looks at his feet and laughs: this is novel.

The students line up to show me their uniforms. One girl’s jersey is ripped at the elbows and tattered around the sleeves. Another boy’s trousers reach only to his shins and are deeply stained. Several of them don’t have button-up shirts or sweaters at all.

I write the sizes and their requests. Thapelo translates clumsily.

“Ask them which item is most important. If I only have enough money for one, which do they need the most.”

After a few minutes I finish the list and look up to dismiss them. They stare back at me with deep and serious eyes. Five of the smallest children at our school. Tiny from malnutrition and manual labor and stress. They wait for me. I take too long. I stall. For no reason. Or maybe for guilt. Or maybe for hope. As though there were anything I could do in that square room and pinch of proximity.

When the door closes after the last, I sit there in something of a residue. The paper in my hand feels light. Like air.

After a few minutes I smooth out the paper and wipe my face. I walk into the hall where the space is white and stable. Where 340 bodies dilute the scent of a few and all my senses dull.

In America kids fund raise with bake sales and car washes and Girl Scout cookies.

In Botswana kids raise funds with beauty contests.

You’d be shocked how many beauty contests I’ve seen in this country. One at school, one at the mall in Gaborone, one at the preschool… I’ve been invited to about 20 others. At some point I started declining because I couldn’t bear the blatant superficiality. Plus, the outfits are just offensive. Truly, no 14 year old girl should be prancing down a runway in a mini-skirt and halter top. And if you think that’s a conservative view, consider the cultural dynamics.

How to explain youth and sexuality in Botswana…?

Maybe the clearest example of this tension was demonstrated by the host family I lived with during training. If you remember, my family had 7 kids who all loved to sing and dance. Every day I’d come home from training to find the group of them jumping and shaking and spinning around the living room to African music videos on tv (yes, they had a tv but no running water).

One day I arrived to find the kids particularly enamored by a South African video where the super star sang a 30 second chorus and spent the rest of the time thrusting her body around in a green half-shirt and tight go-go shorts. As the video played, my four sisters shrieked and giggled and talked excitedly to one another. At some point I found myself watching 15-year-old Naillil. When she noticed my attention she replied with a guilty glance and said: “Ah - these girls are beauty. But they bring shame to their families in those clothes.”

So entertainment culture poses an interesting juxtaposition here in Botswana. On the one hand people are fascinated by the flashy media images and sexy modern entertainment but on the other hand there remains this very conservative, traditional undercurrent that makes the whole scene risqué and controversial. Nowhere is this dichotomy more evident than in the beauty contest.

And so this is the dilemma that comes crashing towards me in the first PACT meeting of last term.

“Mma Charles can we please, pleeeeeeeease have a beauty contest this time…?!”

I’ve heard the same plea for three terms and each time managed to dodge the request by suggesting other fundraising ideas. Last summer we had a cinema and drama event and the term after that we made and sold jewelry out of magazines.

“But you said we could this time. Can’t we? We’ll do all the work. We’ll work Really Hard! We can raise money for the poor people.”

Sigh. I’m doomed by my affection for all those pretty black eyes and big smiles.

I agree to help them put it together and they cheer and I say:

“No shorts! And No Mini-skirts!”

And they scowl but get over it and run off to find CDs so they can start practicing the parades.

Two months later I’m sitting in the music room and the kids are blasting American hip hop songs from our one radio attached to our one working socket.

The 10 contestants have been perfected their parades but are frantic over the outfits. The older and wealthier students have torn apart their houses to find jeans and dresses and shoes to fit the poorer girls. As always, I am impressed by the sense of community and the willingness to contribute that is such an integral part of this culture.

I’ve follow their lead and done my part by donating three pairs of high heeled shoes to the event. The girls wobble around in them and practice kicks and twirls while I sit in the back and silently pray that no one falls over and breaks their ankle.

When the day of the contest rolls around all the ankles are still in tact but just about everything else has gone wrong.

- Three of our 10 contestant are an hour late due to mothers, aunts and neighbors fretting over the quality of their hair-dos

- The local radio station has come to MC the show but just told us there will be no guest musician (as we advertised to the village for the past 3 months)

- Parents are protesting that the candy sales prices are too high

- There’s a broken door in the back of the school hall where children slip into the performance without paying

- The traditional dance group and three of our sports teams have made it to the nationals and are away for competitions this weekend—depleting out audience by hundreds.

- One girl has started crying because she’s decided she’s simply too shy to answer the social welfare questions that will be posed to the contestants after the final parade (but not, apparently, too shy to parade around in a dress in front of 400 audience member…?)

- Of the five student performers who have agreed to dance and sing between parades only two of them have CDs that work in the radio station’s equipment

- Two teachers have arrived to help with the show but I get call after call from the others expressing their regrets.

- Each time the student MC announces a parade the girls shriek from the dressing room and complain that they need more time (this is due, in large part, to the one mother who’s managed to sneak into the back and is giving meticulous attention to the task of sticking feathers and beads into her daughters hair)

- Oh, and I’m sick. Sicker than I’ve been in years. Sore throat and fever and chills. I’m popping cough drops and pain killers and stomping out all these fires and kicking myself a million times for agreeing to this.

Still, we survive. The contest runs from 2:00 – 6:00. The feather-girl wins and the smallest contestant comes in second and the girl with a learning disability comes in third. My friend from Gabs (my favorite taxi driver) rescues us by arriving in MC-Hammer garb and lip synching to songs between parades. The radio station finds a guest speaker to present about drug and alcohol abuse. The girls all manage to answer the health questions at the end of the show. We raise 600 pula.

This event took place back in June but I was so sincerely traumatized by the accompanying mayhem that I’ve been hesitant to write about it. Since then I’ve sworn off helping to organize big events and to ever attend another beauty contest in my life.

But then yesterday we had our last PACT meeting of the term and I brought in photos from the contest. The kids circled me, squealing and shrieking and laughing at the images.

“You are so beautiful in this one!”

“See, in this one she looks like an princess!”

“Oh her body is so nice—So Nice!”

“Those shoes matched the dress perfectly!”

“Your answer there was great… see how you’re moving your hands!”

“Ah—that one… that one is just lovely!”

And so I go the Half-Full route and decide that, despite my attachment to perfection, the day was not a complete wash.

For one, the contestants felt pretty-- that in itself is an achievement for a teenage girl. And they did get practice thinking through questions like “Why did you join PACT?” and “How can you help to improve the health of your community?” and “What is the biggest challenge to Botswana’s social welfare?” Plus, we raised money and the kids who weren’t competing got experience with leadership and event-planning.

“Mma Charles! Next term we should do a Beauty Contest with girls AND boys!”

She flashes me a giant smile and runs her fingers through my hair and says

“Pleeeeeeeease!”

Oh, and they also learned how to be desperately charming and dangerous convincing. I’ve recorded it all here in case I’m tempted to succumb again.

Boys.

You think they’re hard to manage in your life? Try dealing with all those normal frustrations, confusions and miscommunications and then adding a pinch of cultural relativism and a dash of language barrier and a fistful of societal quirks.

Voila… complete mayhem!

So I’ve had my fair share of maddening moments with the opposite gender in this country but last week was particularly harrowing. In this man’s defense it is only fair to give you a proper preface to Batswana Love Dynamics… after which I’ll let you decide if he’s is

a) Normal

b) A Stalker

c) Pathetic

d) Desperately in love with me

Now, I can see you reflecting on my phenomenal character and famous good looks and instinctively leaning in to circle letter (d) but allow me to sidetrack you for a moment with a brief review of romantic societal norms in southern Africa.

So, first, a cultural lesson.

Then the story of Baba a.k.a. The First Man Who’s Made Me Feel Irresistible and Irate All at Once

Alright, culture:

To the American mind, Botswana’s love culture is a land of phenomenal ambiguity. It begins with a language that uses the word “rata” to mean both love and like. In turn, without proper context, the audience who hears you exclaim “ke a go rata!” might not know if you’re referring to zeal for a passionate lover or fondness of a warm plate of semp and dinawa (just about the most unhealthy conglomeration of carbs, oil and protein you can fathom but a Damn Tasty Dish… I rata semp and dinawa thata!)

Alright so the language thing seems minor because how many times have you bellowed out “oh I LOVE this song!” and moments later hung up the phone with your hubby citing the clichéd yet affectionate “love ya!” Sure, there are ambiguities in English too but, for some reason, the manifestation of this love elusiveness is far more influential in Botswana.

The first time I noticed it was during a class on love and dating where my teenage students were asked to explain their understanding of a number of words relating to the theme.

What does it mean to have a “crush” on someone?

It means you love them but can’t have them.

What does it mean to “date” someone?

It means when you’re in love with them and take them out to get to know them more.

What does it mean to “be dating” someone?

It means no one else can love her because you agree to only love each other.

Hm.

Then there was the day when the teacher women took the village women to the kgotla for a court case in front of the chief. The village women had been threatening to hurt the teacher women… and why? Well, I asked one of the teachers and she said:

“You know, these male teachers just love everyone. They have a wife but they go out and love the village girls and then they come back and love us teachers and it creates problems for everyone.”

Yikes.

So “love” sometimes gets a bad rap here in Botswana. And it’s also frequently degraded to the level of flirtation wherein a man can meet you once and get your number and then text you the next day “I love you. When can I see you again?” Last weekend a friend of mine was dancing with a man in a club in Gabs and he leaned in and said “I just love you!” (that was a record - we toasted tequila to his remarkable efficiency)

So aside from semantics the other thing to understand is frequency. Now, as a seasoned American flirt, I can pitch with the best of them when it comes to dating etiquette and appropriately Playing The Game. We all know, for example, that you don’t call for 3 days after the phone-number-exchange and you always let the phone ring twice before picking up (so as not to seem too eager). You also never admit to being available both weekend nights (despite the fact that you’ve bought a pint of icecream and planned to watch the Rocky movies marathon-style if he fails to ask you on a date by Wednesday). Oooo, that’s another one—no accepting dates on a Thursday for a Friday… who the hell does he think he is calling less than 24 hours before we’re supposed to go to the North End for a fancy romantic dinner?!

Ahem—where was I?

Frequency, right. Okay, so maybe American dating-norms are a bit too prudish or arrogant but image yourself in a land where No One Fears Looking Desperate… Can you picture it? Well, allow me to illustrate the oddity… this is male behavior that is, not only tolerated, but also encouraged…

- Hounding her friends for her contact information and personal details

- Sending her text messages that liberally use the word “love” mere hours after you’ve met her

- Rapid-fire calling with little attention to the fact that she keeps rejecting your calls

- Sappy voicemail messages not once but THREE times on the first day after meeting

- Continuing this barrage of contact efforts for a full two weeks despite the fact that she responds to NONE of the calls, texts or messages

This was Baba’s routine from July 4th – 14th to my great dismay. The friend who had drunkenly passed on my contact information refused to reveal herself which was smart on her part but infuriating to me. Still, I had seen this routine go down with friends in the past and figured that enough ignoring would eventually send the message.

By the 10th day I was sincerely impressed with his persistence and a little annoyed since my voicemail box kept getting filled and my text message beeps kept going off in class. Still, I was determined to wait him out and not succumb to the gnawing urge to pick up the phone and scream “Leave me alone, you freak!” (I’d been warned that negative attention often backfired and the playing-hard-to-get interpretation tended to mask even the most candid of rejections)

So, day 10 goes like any other day: I go to school, I come home, I go for a run, I come home, I cook dinner, I go to bed. With one Glaring Deviation…

When I come home from my run I find a little blue note slipped under my door:

“Hi Jessy. I just stopped by to say hi. This is my number. Hope to see you soon. ~ Baba”

I am flabbergasted. (I think flabbergasted is a word that’s used too freely in normal conversation but I assure you this was warranted…)

For one, Baba lives 30 minutes from my home which means 50 minutes at rush hour. Helluva hike at 6:00 at night.

Then there’s the fact that he found my house which means he was driving around the village asking people where the white girl lives.

And THEN in the awareness that, had I not been out on a run, I would have had to face this guy and do what... freak out because he’s acting like a stalker? Demonstrate cultural flexibly and invite him in for a cup of tea? Refuse to answer the door? Sound my hand-held-rape-blow-horn?

So, yeah, I was a little shocked and also a little unnerved. I called a few friends who got me to relax by reminding me of Batswana dating norms but then also encouraged me to relay the details to the Peace Corps Safety and Security Officer “you know, just so it’s on file… just so he knows…”

I never neglect and opportunity to contact the incredibly-attractive-and-protective Peace Corps Safety and Security Officer (you might remember him from earlier blogs) so I call him and he asks a number of questions and takes notes and tells me to send a single, direct message to Baba saying that I am not interested in seeing him again and that his texts, calls and visits have made me feel uncomfortable.

I do this and Baba stops and all is well.

Remember how in the last blog I was craving the clamor of a Boston night? This week I’m craving all those pretentious, American, yuppie bachelors in white button up shirts drinking captain and coke and playing up their best aloof posture while trying to smile at you with that air of charm and subtlety. I am WAY better at That Game.

Guh. Boys.

Well, I guess it’s all part of the acclaimed cultural-exchange.

Travel has this phenomenal ability to make you crave the novelty of other-ness and simultaneously yearn for the comfort of all those things you’ve Learned and Known and Become from years of static living.

Arrogant American Boys: keep up the good work… consider it part of your cultural identity.

And Single American Girls: hang in there… things could be worse…

It’s freezing here but every night I sleep with the fan on to drown out the racket.

I literally c r a v e the sounds of a Boston night over this village clatter.

Traffic? Sirens? Car alarms? Drunk neighbors? Melodious compared to the average evening in Newtown Ward of Kumakwane Village.

I keep expecting to get used to it. It’s been 15 months… isn’t there a point of acclimation I’m supposed to reach in all of this?!

It’s 8:32p.m. and I’m exhausted from a cold I’ve been fighting (winter here, remember) but there’s no way I can go to sleep. Why not? Well, allow me to play for you My Lullaby…

There are 7 neighborhood dogs that live within a 50 meter radius of my house. If a goat or chicken happens to wander into one of these dog’s respective territories they go absolutely ballistic. On and on. Barking frantically. Since I arrived my landlord’s dog has had two litters… her 4 remaining puppies bark with just as much zest and hysteria as the older dogs. I have come to loathe the pets in this country.

But not more than roosters. Hell No. My friend Rahj grew up in Gaborone and drives me home to the village now and then. He’s a city boy through and through and when he arrives at noon and hears the rooster he says “Woah… you have roosters here?! Do they crow when the sun rises-- is that actually true?” Uh, yeah. Sun rises at 6:00. Sure, he crows at 6:00. He also crows at 4:00, 3:13, 2:41, 1:56, 1:18… you get the point. Damn bird never stops. Batswana eat just about every species of animal… roosters are an exception. I find this enormously disappointing.

Style. Oh Style. Toothless and drunk Style. He loves to sing. He takes care of my landlady’s gardens and changes my light bulbs now and then. He loves to sing. L o v e s T o S i n g. Style sings all through the night. Competing with roosters and dogs. When he wakes up at 4:00 to heat water on the outdoor fire for the family’s baths… he’s still singing. I prefer his drunken murmurs to the dog’s tirade… but still.

Kumakwane does not have a village newspaper… or any newspaper for that matter. It also does not have a town hall, a radio station, a clerical phone line or a website. The great majority of Kumakwane families do not have cell phones. Parent and grandparent generations have a high illiteracy rate. So how does the kgosi share information with his village residents? Easy: he has a government vehicle drive through the village at 9:00 in the evening (when everyone is safely home from the lands, work, school, etc… a Captive audience) broadcasting important announcements. In the past year I’ve heard this imperious vehicle shrieking about parliament meetings, kgotla gatherings, civilian weddings, community events, court cases and funerals. The loud speakers that broadcast our local “news” can be heard all over the village. It is so phenomenally loud that I honestly believe it could sit in one central spot and be heard by all 3,400 villagers. But, alas, that is not How Things Are Done in Kumakwane. Nope. Instead the vehicle circles the village for hours at a time repeating its announcements in piercing repetition. Sometimes I use this as an opportunity to practice my Setswana listening skills. Sometimes I bury my head under my pillow and curse.

Crickets. They’re nice, right? They remind you of summer. They have that kind of purring, rhythmic sound, right? WRONG. They’re beasts. They breed in my pipes and I swear they’re getting bigger. My house is all hollow cement walls which means one thing: echoes. Such infuriating echoes! Can I justifying spending a heap of money on carpets just to muffle the sound of crickets? I develop sincere empathy for those plagued by the locust in Exodus.

My neighbors in the roundeval hut spend winter nights huddled around their fire. Their fire happens to be a whopping 10 feet from my bedroom window. Family banter is fine. Sometimes they sing and that’s actually lovely. But there are four kids and someone just had a baby. Yup, you guessed it: a Colicky Baby. And so when the baby cries and the toddler whines and the teenagers fight and the mother yells I want to bang on my window and reprimand the whole dysfunctional lot. God, can you image there was a time when all the village families were that transparent?!

Sigh, alright 8:47. Fan time. Ear plug time.

Who’d have ever guessed that of all the things to miss I’m sitting here craving the raucous commotion of a Monday night in Somerville…?

(And here you’d hoped I had something profound to say ;)

Someone recently asked me three challenging questions regarding Peace Corps. Responding to them required quite a bit of self-reflection and I think the answers might give you a peek into some of what I’m experiencing out here…

*What are some things you wish you’d thought about before going into the Peace Corps?*

This is a great question and one I had to think about for a while. I guess I wish I’d thought a bit more about the implications of leaving for 2 years at 28 verses my one year trip to China at 23. These two travel experiences have been VERY different and I didn’t realize how much harder Botswana would be due to length of time and the life experiences I’d be missing.

When I was in China I really felt like things stayed the same at home. There were minor changes but, in general, I came back to the same world I left. I remember thinking several times when I was in China that I missed my family but I had so many friends in Hangzhou that I didn’t really miss my friends.

Botswana at 28 is quite the opposite. Since I’ve been away I have missed 3 weddings, my sister’s engagement, the birth of 5 babies, and my grandmother’s death. Also, eight of my friends got pregnant and I’m going to miss 5 of their baby’s births. More Life Events happen when you’re 28 then do when you’re 23 and it’s very hard to be so far away when your world is being re-written in so many ways.

I don’t regret that I left. I don’t regret that I’m here. I love Botswana and this experience is changing and improving me in ways I never thought possible. But there are sacrifices.

My sister’s been engaged for a year and I haven’t seen her ring or hugged her. I’ll never be a part of her wedding planning. I’ll never be able to go to her bridal shower or shopping with her for dresses. I also didn’t get to say goodbye to my grandmother and when I finally do I’ll be talking to a headstone. I wasn’t able to be there for my family when they were grieving her death. I didn’t get to celebrate my 1 year anniversary with Kris. These things are big. Huge. These are things I sacrificed for a career choice and a personal growth experience. And most days they are worth it. And some days they are not. And I wish I’d thought more about that before I left.

*Things you wish you’d known before leaving for Peace Corps*

I wish I’d known how to protect my computer from viruses. And I wish I’d brought more music and movies. Now, in lieu of the last question this answer might seem very superficial but I think it’s something that should be said and I think it’s something that people Don’t Say because they fear the implications of media-escapism. Well, yes, tv, movies and music are fairly mindless ways to spend your time but here’s the thing: you need it. Very few Peace Corps volunteers are placed in urban sites which means the bulk of us find ourselves in small, remote villages where we don’t speak the language and relationships are difficult to make and harder to develop. You are a person like me who craves long, deep conversations and meaningful relationships. So cooking dinner with my colleagues is fun and taking walks with my neighbours is great but at the end of the day it’s me in a quiet room, in tiny house feeling Lonely. And to be honest—loneliness is alright. It’s good in many ways because it slows you down and gives you time for self reflection, creative expression, exercise and sleep. I really believe that this loneliness and boredom has put me in the most healthy psychological/physical/emotional and spiritual state of my life.

BUT

It’s still loneliness. There entire days I don’t speak to anyone. Last week I went to bed at 9:00 every night. Today I haven’t left my house and don’t plan to. Some of it is a choice to just escape cultural awkwardness and some of it is not. Either way, at the end of the day when I’m feeling homesick or frustrated with language or in need of a good long chat or just phenomenally bored—it is really nice to put on a movie or some music. And I don’t think it makes my experience any less profound or effective… frankly, I think it keeps me sane. That and running. But I knew that about running before I came. I wish I’d brought an extra pair of running sneakers.

*How do you feel about the experience now that you’re there?*

Hm. This is very broad. I think a lot of my understanding of this experience will come in retrospect but at the moment I feel quite good about being here. I really love Botswana and this has surprised me since a flat dessert with boring cuisine and dry history was not my ideal placement for Peace Corps. I had envisioned war-torn Cambodia or dramatic South Africa or delicious India… Botswana had only come up once in my MPH studies as “a place with a lot of AIDS orphans”. Aside from that I didn’t know the first thing about Botswana and I think that has made it all the more amazing to be here. Someone said it so perfectly to me once… they said:

“You were placed in Botswana because you never would have come here on your own… you’ll visit Kenya and Uganda and Tanzania at some point, those countries are on your ‘to do’ list… but Botswana never would have crossed your mind… and now you get to experience it so fully.”

Whenever I get envious of Peace Corps volunteers serving in West Africa or South East Asia I always think of that and feel better. And so, yeah, I’m happy I’m here. I’m happy I’m learning about grassroots international public health work. I’m glad I’m learning the value of solitude. I’m relieved to learn that my friends and family haven’t forgotten me. I’m proud to see I can survive here and learn a language and handle rats and deal with bucket baths and survive without a buzzing social network.

God, I feel like I could talk about this for ages but I guess to answer your question, yes, I feel good about the experience. It has not come without sacrifices but I think it has been worth it for what I’m learning about my career choice and how I’ve been able to experience a different version of life and of myself.

Every day I have moments when I have to step out of myself and decide if I’m doing it right.

Is this project sustainable?

Am I capacity building?

Does this contribute to the stop of HIV?

Are they acquiring skills?

Am I too involved?

Will this make a difference?

Every project gets analyzed a million times. Every intention dissected.

International public health work forces you to struggle with your humanity. Maybe all acts of charity do but here it is so palpable. And persistent.

My human (and American) flaws make me proud. They make me success-driven and results-oriented and in need of praise, recognition and control.

At the same time I’ve got this engrained ethical code that compels me to Empower: to inspire my colleagues, to strengthen my students, to raise role models. To build the capacity of this village. To teach risk reduction they can practice and develop knowledge they can use to examine behavioral patterns and societal norms. To transfer skills that can enhance their professional lives and arouse compassion to provide more care for their families and community.

To leave something.

Anything.

Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I find myself knee-deep in the latest child-rights-drama-performance and wondering…

Why am I leading this alone?

How is this making any difference in HIV prevention?

The social worker had invited us to the “Day of the African Child” Celebration in Mmankgodi. All I had to do was get the 30 kids to put on a drama about protecting children’s rights.

Piece of cake. We started planned. We held practices. We made costumes.

Somewhere in the middle of all those preparations I realized that I didn’t have the slightest bit of drama experience, nor could I understand the bulk of the Setswana script. I also didn’t know any songs or even the history of “Day of the African Child.”

What the hell was I doing?

This was A Mistake. No doubt about it. I was committing the carnal crime of international development work:

I was leading a project alone—without local leadership. And without proper skills.

Bad bad bad volunteer.

But sometimes the universe throws you a bone.

My big break was a workshop that took me out of the village for a full week.

At first I was frantic and narcissistic…

How will they practice without me? Who will lead? What if they have questions?

I wrote detailed notes.

I assigned a director.

I scheduled practices.

The kids nodded and smiled and assured me that everything would be ready when I returned from the workshop on Monday. I bit my thumbnail nervously. The drama was meant to be performed on Tuesday. In front of 600 people. Mmankgodi was providing transport and food… what if it didn’t work out? I’d be held responsible (pride)… I’d look like a failure (success-driven)… I’d be criticized (need for praise, recognition, etc.)

I shuffled off to my workshop and, for a week, resisted the urge to call into school and see how things were going.

At last the workshop ended and it was Monday. I showed up early to school. The kids said they’d missed me and there had been some fighting and one practice had gone badly and they weren’t sure if they were ready. I squeezed their shoulders and reassured them and quelled the anxiety rising in my voice. Our last practice was scheduled after classes, from 3:00 – 5:00. We were leaving at 7:00 the following morning.

By 4:00 they had finally all gathered in the music room and I was checking my watch in an obsessive compulsive rhythm. But in the middle of all that nervous tension I started to notice changes…

For one, the drama had been totally revised. My idea had been replaced for a plot more closely aligned with the day’s theme.

The script had also been re-written… by one of the students.

The student teacher—Mma Tuwe was standing in the corner. She had been supervising all the practices since I left. No one had invited her—she just saw a need and started coming.

And there were other colleagues in the room too. There was Pegosotso, a volunteer from a local NGO. She had been holding a special lifeskills session with our guidance classes when she heard about the drama. She started coming to practices and in the past week had taken on the much needed role of their leader and director.

Matching t-shirts had been donated from the drama department.

A black curtain was on lend from the science lab.

The drama instructor made an appearance to guide them through the songs and choreograph their last dance.

The guidance teacher watched from the door—encouraging the younger students with smiles and cheers.

Surprise was not the word.

I was elated.

All these professionals were working together. The students were fully invested in a project that they’d created and developed. The school departments were offering support with props and supervision. I’d never seen this type of cooperation and community at my school. Or anywhere in my village, for that matter.

I sat on a desk in the back of the music room and watched the play unfold and the facilitators respond. I smiled when the kids looked back at me and applauded when the curtain fell. I surrendered all of those human, American, Bostonian tendencies and just

watched.

Humility is often painful and occasionally rewarding.

I knew that the only reason these people had worked together so completely and so passionately was because my absence had left the need. I was grateful for this. And embarrassed.

We’ve turned the corner on our service. Just eleven months left.

What will remain after I go?

What will I have inspired?

What will I have left?

What will grow in my absence?

I loosen the grip ever so slightly and—to my surprise—things balance perfectly without me.

Maybe part of my impact on them will be felt in the process of fading.

Maybe part of their impact on me will be recognized in this blaze of their strength.

I have a long list of goals for this final year.

Perhaps the most valuable will be, simply, my disappearance...

In Chinese the word for “foreigner” directly translates to “outsider”. In Setswana the word simply means “other”. Still, I feel more outside in Africa than I ever did in Asia.

Being Always Outside can be infuriating—especially after living here a year.

- Why do the cars still stop me on the road?

- Why do the children still ask me for money?

- Why do people incessantly touch my hair/skin/clothes?

A new Peace Corps volunteer arrived in Kumakwane today. Twenty-five year old black kid from Georgia. Looks remarkably like my village neighbor. I smile at him and offer to show him around and try to keep the jealousy from creeping into our get-to-know-you banter.

Just once I’d like to be invisible here.

But the outsider label is not always negative. Being invisible has its perks. And one of those perks is that you are, quite simply, Not Real.

At first being Not Real made people feel safe to gossip with me. I know who’s sleeping with whom, why the computer teacher fought with the Setswana teacher and which school administrator is thought to be developing a mental illness. I also know why the village women hate the teacher women (yes, sex—everyone’s favorite cause of chaos) and which students take condoms from the clinic and who was being reprimanded in the Headmaster’s office last Monday.

I could continue. Despite all the loneliness of this life I cannot complain of boredom: I feel like I’m an extra in a soap opera every day.

But, then, of course there is evolution.

It may have been hitting the one year mark. Or perhaps they saw that I was finally comfortable here. But all of a sudden the gossip developed into something far more serious. And far more concerning.

They started confiding in me.

Maybe this kind of pain exists everywhere and I just don’t see it because I’m always a member of the Involved Inside instead of the Neutral Outside. Maybe this country holds an immense ache that goes ignored more times than not. It would take me a long time to explain to you why I have this sense of a deep distrust between Batswana but I feel it intensely. A distance from one another. A guard.

A student once submitted a paper to the question box that read:

“Why do all girls hate each other?”

In an interview with the social worker she told me that, yes, rape cases do happen but mostly go unreported:

“Even when the parents know they usually just ask the perpetrator to pay them money and then everyone forgets about it.”

Everyone knows I was an English major in undergrad and got my Public Health degree in post grad. They know I am not qualified to give them anything. But still, they come. Because there are so few places to go. Because they are overflowing with these things.

- A student lingers outside the office. I call her in and she closes the door. Rubs the back of her neck. Looks out the window. Bites on the end of her pen. She has come to tell me she’s a lesbian. And that she’s afraid. They publicly whip homosexuals here. They believe such behavior is “of the devil". She wants to stop feeling this way but she can’t make it go away.

- In the empty computer lab my colleague’s eyes water as he’s recounting the story: that party where his best friend told him There Was Talk. Gossip about his promiscuity. Concerns about his reputation. He hadn’t had a partner in 2 years. He just couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of it. Or the implications. Or the threat.

- We’re sifting through paperwork and chatting about the weekend when she tells me she’s not sleeping. We discuss diet and stress but it’s neither. Her mother died of a sudden stroke just last year and now she cant stop thinking about her own death. She’s deeply concerned about having her will authorized. She’s 43.

- She stops me in the hall at 5:00. I’m exhausted and running to the store for milk so I can make it home before dark. But two hours later she’s still sobbing on the desk about the discomfort. Discharge and itching. She’s had it for two years now. We go to the clinic the next day and the nurse tells her she must ask her mother to bring her to Thamaga for an appointment with the doctor. And she sobs and sobs.

I am carrying a dozen more stories like these. More as of late. And the sources more shocking: people I rarely talk to coming to find me. Spilling everything.

I research homosexuality and grief counseling and STDs. Stress, insomnia, promiscuity, domestic violence, neglect, bullying… I distribute ridiculous little stacks of highlighted pages from the internet. And I say my prayers every night. And sometimes in the morning. And sometimes between classes.

I am coming to believe that the way a language develops its greetings can reveal immense truths about the corresponding culture and reality.

In America we ask “How are you?” and we answer “I am well.”

In China they ask “Have you eaten?” and they answer “We have.”

In Botswana they ask “Where are you?” and they answer, quite simply,

“I am here.”

So I left Botswana. For two weeks.

Amazing vacation on the Greek Islands with Kris. Feta cheese and olives and seafood and sunsets and the ocean have never ever tasted so good. I spent a lot of time staring at Europeans with their blonde hair and long cigarettes and fast walking fast talking fast living pace.

I was mildly culture-shocked but mostly with the minor details:

The newspaper is just one giant sad story.

There are no black people in Greece.

Waiters become sincerely distressed when you order red wine with fish.

A cocktail in Greece costs as much as a week’s groceries in Botswana.

Spending an entire day with someone I love brings a forgotten flush of happiness.

The decent into Botswana on Sunday morning was dreary and stale. I looked out the window at that long brown desert and felt the thick of loneliness and solitude and difference rise into my throat. The other passengers filed off and I waited in H3. Preparing. Or maybe just delaying.

I’ve been back for three days. Pushing through sluggish hours. Counting weeks on the calendar. Tolerating small talk with neighbors. Fabricating excuses for solitude.

It is hard to come back to this un-life and un-home that is my life and my home but not. Just not.

Tonight I go out for my run at 5:00. I’ve just returned from a sexual abuse presentation by the Ministry of Health to the students at my school. The presentation adds to my sour mood and I plan interval training at the track with the hope that adrenaline masks my depression.

Eight laps before the footballer villagers take over the track and field. I scowl at them and head toward the bush.

I’m 40 minutes into the run before I lift my head. I don’t realize I’ve been staring at the dirt like that until I see my edges mingling with the air and color and energy that Is Botswana.

At the time I knew I’d never be able to write it but here I am… trying anyway…

A family files out of the bush in one long line. Women carrying firewood on their heads. Children walking barefoot. The father greets me with weathered skin and gentle eyes.

A donkey cart trudges through the sand. (Sometimes Batswana greet with gestures instead of words) The old man swings his whip in a circle over his head. His wife cracks a wrinkle smile at me and pulls her shawl up to her chin.

The sun sets beautiful in Greece but even that glittery ocean and seagull sky cannot compete with a Wednesday night in Botswana.

Botswana is the only place I’ve been on the planet where the entire sky—all 360 degrees of it—holds kaleidoscope color. Every cloud streaks paint. Even the sand turns orange and purple in the fading of a day.

Botswana feels like an old lover who turns his head just so in the light… or laughs with a tone that sparks your nostalgia... and there you are staring at him and feeling a closeness and an urgency you thought you’d lost.

I’ve been back for three days. But tonight I came home.

I recently submitted this piece for a Peace Corps story contest…

In the first three months of service my sole responsibility was to perform a community needs assessment. This involved holding interviews, administering surveys and organization hours of observation. At the end of the third month I had a 100 page site report and an enormous heart ache.

Botswana is not like other African countries. In my village there are satellite dishes and painted houses and well-fed dogs. Of course there are also shanty houses and roudeval huts and poor children. The difference is that even the poor families are taken care of by the federal government. Destitute families receive food baskets, OVCs have their school fees paid and when drought assaults this dessert, there’s a job relief program for the country’s many farmers.

Botswana takes care of its people. Still, the nation’s rate of HIV is 2nd highest in the world with nearly 33% of the population infected. 1 in 3.

And so this is the reality I thought I had stepped into: politically stable Botswana with an economic safety net and a wealth of diamond revenue. Perfect storm for my mission: to build the local capacity towards achieving effective HIV prevention work.

But even before my second foot had landed, things began to change.

It started with the student’s needs assessment at the school where I’ve been stationed. Just a simple survey with 21 quantitative questions and three qualitative questions. Clean language. Straightforward themes. Easy work.

Or so I thought.

When I had finally collected the surveys from all 340 students I began to tabulate the data. What I found were a plethora of disturbing facts that characterized these children’s reality.

The data confirmed that children were not being fed enough food. That teachers were being physically abusive under the guise of legal corporal punishment. Young girls were involved in relationships with staff members. Teachers were insulting and embarrassing their students publicly. Many classes were missed regularly by teachers and, as a result, the student’s academic scores were dropping.

When I distributed these survey results to the teaching staff they immediately began flipping through the pages and mocking the student’s complaints. Later, in their private interviews, many teachers explained to me that they could not be “open” to their student’s personal needs. They didn’t have time. They didn’t have energy. With hundreds of students, monthly exams, and extra curricular obligations… how could the personal be met without sacrificing the academic?

The teacher support-system was clearly absent. So where did these children get mentorship, supervision and care? I began to ask questions about other areas of their lives.

The great majority of Batswana citizens subsist off small scale agricultural work. While this makes many families self-sustainable it also keeps parents away from their children for months at a time. As the parents leave the village to plow, weed and later harvest the family land, children stay behind to care for the home and attend school. Many children are left alone in their homes for nearly half of every year.

Closed teachers and absent parents. In my first month of service it became abundantly clear to me that the children in my village had little to no support system outside of their peers. This had enormous implications for their emotional health but further ramifications for HIV prevention and risk reduction. No role models, no adult supervision, no personal accountability and no one to listen. If these children weren’t given a platform to voice their physical need for food or their legal concerns about abuse… what else was not being said? What other needs were being neglected?

When I was finally able to tackle some of what I’d recorded in the needs assessment, I first went to the school’s PACT Club. PACT stands for Peer Approach to Counseling Teens and the group of students meets twice each week. The PACT group in my village, however, had been inactive for nearly two years. The problem? Enormous student interest but no teacher facilitator.

At our first meeting we talked about what it means to “Counsel Teens” and how we, as a group, might do more to help our peers. Students suggested recruiting more PACT members, presenting on health themes at morning assembly and referring troubled students to the guidance and counseling teacher. We wrote these ideas on the board and made a plan for each strategy. Once we had flushed out their ideas I suggested something that a fellow PCV had started in her village: A Student Question Box.

The PACT members seemed intrigued by this idea and over the next few months we established a system for the Question Box. First, the idea was presented and approved by the administration, then it was announced to the student body and, finally, the box was placed in the school lobby. In the first week we received nearly 50 questions and the PACT students worked together to answer each inquiry. Questions and answers were then reviewed by the school’s headmaster and posted in the court yard for the student body to read.

The system worked well but was not developed without difficulty. In the first week, for example, teachers protested the box for fear that a complaint would come in about their class or their teaching style. In response we announced that all personalized questions and complaints would be given to the school administration and not posted publicly.

Then there was the issue of position. Where could we place the poster so students could read it without being chased away by teachers? And who would monitor the posters so they weren’t damaged by other students. The PACT club brainstormed solutions to these questions and eventually created a rotating system of poster-monitoring at lunch and tea times.

Finally there were the questions themselves. Some weeks there were too many to answer. Other weeks the questions were too difficult to answer. Some weeks the administration got upset because there were too many questions about dating and not enough about academics.

We dealt with each hurdle as it came. A Question Box Committee was formed. A peer-support training session was held for PACT members. A deal was struck with the administration so that theme that appeared more frequently (such as dating) would be reported to the guidance teacher so she could arrange special classes and guest presentations on these “hot topics”.

The question box has been in place for nearly 8 months. It is, by no means, a solution to our student’s problems but it is a start. And it has given them a voice.

In 8 months we have helped students cope with a number of issues arising from problems such as bullying, gossip, homosexuality, physical abuse, pregnancy, sex, hygiene, corporal punishment, teacher respect, family pressures, academic challenges, self esteem, etc.

The students concerns have helped to inform the establishment of new school rules and teacher accountability as well as the topics for the school’s weekly health themes. A number of students have come to the guidance office for help with issues they had voiced anonymously through the Question Box. The village social worker was contacted and asked to set up a weekly meeting with our school’s guidance office so she can meet privately and regularly with students who needed her services.

The school’s staff is still suspicious of our “dangerous” little box but the accountability it has laid upon teachers and the voice it has given students is invaluable. We will deal with suspicion and fear if it means that more students will be helped and more PACT members will be trained on peer counseling.

HIV prevention work involves, foremost, risk reduction. I cannot be certain that my students are protecting themselves from HIV but I do know they have started to talk about a number of their life risks and receive advice and strategies for coping with those risks.

Each week our little box fills up with deeper questions and more urgent needs. I can only hope that one day the pain and need inside this box will subside. Until then, we collect on Mondays, answer on Tuesday and post on Wednesdays. One week at a time.

The village kids always come to greet me on my way home from work.  Lately they’ve developed this routine of hanging around and asking to help me prepare dinner. It’s adorable.  They peel onions and measure water for the rice and carry the scraps out to the chickens.  After everything is prepared and boiling away on the stove we play Go Fish and Uno in my livingroom until their parents call them home for supper. 

  I love this routine.  I look forward to seeing them.  It’s nice to come home to someone.  Or many little Someones.    Today was my one year Peace Corps anniversary.  I flew out of Boston exactly 365 day ago.   The kids didn’t know this.  I almost forgot myself until I was walking home with two enormous bags of groceries and watching the sunset and greeting the villagers and marveling at how familiar this has all become in just a year.   As I approached my house the kids ran up laughing and squealing.    “Look, Jessi! Look!”   On my porch there sat four flowers that had been placed on top of notebook paper.  The paper held giant pencil letters that read:   “Dear Jessica, I give you these flowers.  We have been friends since you came. From Soma”     I’d trade a standing ovation and ten bottles of champagne for the feeling I had when I read that note.    I Belong. I Fit. I am Here. I am Happy.   And a little boy who doesn’t know what day it is or why my eyes are watering has wrapped his arms around my waist and made everything Perfect.

 

It’s just camping. I’ve gone camping a dozen times since I’ve been here and there have been parts of this experience where normal day-to-day living felt more like camping than anything else. Still, it’s Easter weekend and I’m excited for a trip with 10 friends to northern Botswana.

Jenah and Aaron are two Kenyans who have lived and worked in Pikwe for 16 years and offer to bring us to their private camp site on the Letsibogo Dam. We load up their truck with tents, sleeping bags, groceries and booze. We arrive at dusk on Friday.

It’s hard to do the experience justice so I will simply say that it is true that absence can illuminate affection. And remind.

I have not seen a body of water in one full year. Rivers, yes. Ponds, yes. But this was no pond. This was an enormous pool, no less than 100 miles in circumference. Gorgeous in its breadth and with the garnish of picturesque islands and exceptional serenity.

We set up camp on a ledge overlooking the banks and facing the sunset. In three days we see two wedding parties and one family picnic. Otherwise the view and peace are completely ours.

Canoeing, hiking, jogging, fishing, grilling, drinking… everything a camping trip should be.

Still, there were moments when I caught them stopping mid-task to stare out and breathe the beauty and experience that unexplainable human fascination with water in its vastness.

I spent Sunday morning crossed legged on a rock for several hours. Feeling all those things that can never quite make their way to us in the absence of nature and stillness. Maybe you were there with me. Thirty five relatives in a room where I should have been and where you were leaving us. We say goodbye in different ways. And in different places. I sat in my Paradise and you in yours and things aligned.

I used to work for an ESL school in downtown Boston. One of my most vivid memories from that school was “The Mice Day” when the office was invaded and I found myself perched on my desk and screaming hysterically.

Not a mice fan.

Not at all.

So what occurred after That Mice Spotting was very predictable: the rest of the office girls start screaming, the boss comes in and makes fun of us, the exterminator is called and POOF the mice are gone. End of story.

Ohhhh the things we take for granted. To think that I am n o s t a l g i c for that experience in light of tonight.

Tonight I go through my normal routine. Cook dinner, clean dishes, study Setswana, write some emails, etc. It’s 9:00 and I’m ready to settle in for my favorite dessert of cornflakes and sugar (blissfully forgetting my once-upon-a-time decadent American desserts) when all of a sudden a little face peeks out at me from behind a living room chair.

I am instantly weak with fear. It’s strange. I feel my whole body get frail and queasy. I put down the cornflakes and start pacing the house.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…whatdoido?... whatdoido?

I continue this for a while and then realize I really DO need to do something or else I’ll be forced to spend the night atop my coffee table.

And so I strategize.

It’s phenomenal the things you’re capable of when you don’t have any alternatives. I am certain in America I’d be shrieking and calling for the neighbors. Instead I do the following:

I close the door to my bedroom and bathroom.

I open the front door of the house.

I take the mattress off my bed and prop it on its side between the livingroom door and the front door.

The mattress makes my living room into a kind of corral so that when the mouse runs it will be forced to circle the room or run out the door. I’m banking on the hope that fear makes it choose the door.

Once I’ve set up this route I need to find a way to scare the mouse out of his hiding place without inducing my own terror. Again, I strategize:

Okay, the mouse is behind the basket.

(Cripes that’s a long tail… is this a rat!?)

I can poke it a bit with this long stalk of sugar cane.

I can avoid getting in its path by poking from on top of this chair.

And so, here is my horrified climax and your amusing image:

Me. On a chair. In pajamas. Clutching sugar cane. Poking at a rodent.

And

To my great surprise and relief

It works!

The mouse (or, perhaps more accurately, Rat) races around the room and out the door and is gone

And I

I am left shaking on top of that chair and compiling the next strategies…

Call the landlady.

Buy mousetraps.

Check for holes.

Keep sugar cane on hand.

Eventually I dismount and settle back into the sofa. I feel quite proud of my controlled hysteria and methodical resolution. Still, I prop my feet off the floor and check behind the couch eight times before resuming the cornflakes.

The recent entry “On Love and Loneliness” quotes a conversation between three d i f f e r e n t people. Holly and Brad’s thoughts are not mine. Mine are actually quite opposite of theirs.

To paraphrase, I believe that, while some relationships are finite, many are not. And although I sympathized with Brad and Holly who felt like they were “losing” relationships back in the States— their experience also helped me see and understand how fortunate I am to have such an enormous network of supportive and reliable friends.

My experience in Peace Corps has done nothing but magnify the strength and consistency of my relationships at home.

I am so sorry if any of you misread this entry. It was meant to express gratitude, not fatalism.

So a crazy thing happened last week. I got Bored. Really Bored. And it didn’t go away. And hasn’t now for 2 weeks.

This has been a very peculiar experience for me as “boredom” is not a state I’ve ever experienced in great length. I’m American. I’m Bostonian. By definition that means I construct activity and stress and action as though my life depends on it.

Dinner parties, house parties, birthday parties, the gym, clubs, girls-nights, date-nights, working late, working dinners, family dinners, trips, holidays, hiking, happy hour, movies, musicals, plays, the ballet, weddings, wedding showers, baby showers…

and that’s not all—there are the events but then there are also The People…

In Boston there are people Everywhere: work people, family people, high school people, college people, grad school people, neighbor people, gym people, coffee shop people, party people, travel people…

Oh, and now that those people have gotten married and started having babies it’s People x 2 (or in Denise’s case, 4!)

And so boredom is not really much of a hurdle back in Boston. Which means that my first quiet year in Africa has felt like an enormous SIIIIIGH.

Not that I don’t miss all those people and events madly—just that for the first time in my life I’ve had heap of space and energy and time and solitude to do My Stuff.

And my stuff has been great. Now I run every day, write every day and floss everyday. I’ve also refined my cooking skills (sorry Kris, still veg) and developed a cleaning-habit that’s teetering on the edge of obsessive compulsive (my floors will never be free of desert sand… I am not yet resigned to this).

I now can communicate at a conversational level in Setswana and I’ve spent a chunk of time exploring and experiencing a spiritual peace which I would never in a million years be able to explain to you in type (incentive for a coffee date in 2010?).

I’ve also developed an acute passion for my career in international public health and have begun to define the areas of this field that inspire me most and which will guide my job search when I return home.

So, yes, Year One has been Productive. Important. Evolutionary. And I am certain I’m a healthier and happier person now than I ever was 12 months ago.

B U T

self improvement has its limit. And I reached that limit last week. On Monday.

Suddenly, things felt stale. Same running route. Same dinner options. Same work routine.

I started sleeping more.

I stopped writing.

I started to loathe flossing.

Peace Corps gives us this “emotional map” that plots out the typical highs and lows that we will experience in our 2 years of service. Brad snorted when he saw it: “Yeah so looks like we’ll be depressed 50% of the time… thanks for preparing us.”

But the lowest low? One Year mark.

And so here I am. Right on track. Not depressed but definitely losing interest in self actualization and career epiphanies.

And so what happens when Jessica Charles Gets Really Bored?

Well, the sleeping/flossing symptoms began first but then something totally surprising happened:

The Little Things got bigger. And then beautiful. And then Striking.

It was the craziest thing and I still don’t fully understand it but it happened. It was as if someone splattered color all over my tedious little black and white routines.

And started painting…

My walk to school is 10 minutes on a flat, sand road scattered with goats, chickens and dust. I walk this road four times each day—Monday through Friday. But one morning the tiniest of the village girls came up to join me on this 6:45 trek to school. She started talking to me in Setswana and I understood her. And so we had a conversation. And somewhere in that conversation she took my hand. And we walked like that for 10 minutes.

The task of cutting an African watermelon should not be underestimated. A) they are huge B) the rind is as hard as cement C) the 2-pula-kitchen-knife has seen sharper days. So it’s 8:00 at night and I’m whittling away at that watermelon and feeling tired of the task and I consider music but I’m too lazy to find a CD and I consider just slicing off a bit but then what else am I going to do with my night so I spend the 30 minutes dicing up this watermelon but at 8:20 I start to hear something. At first I think I’m hearing things. Then I think I’m going crazy—but eventually I realize that the noise is quite real and phenomenally beautiful: my neighbors are singing. Maybe 20 of them. Something deep and gentle. It’s the end of the month so the men are home from the mines to supply the baritones. And so I open my window and the night pours in that thick song and cool air. And I polish off the watermelon to the music of a Tuesday night in Kumakwane.

Mr. Gneom is working on his 3rd master’s degree. Every few weeks he’ll hand me a paper to edit or elicit a conversation from me on the state of the international economy. On Friday I glanced over his shoulder, “Eh. Globalization. That’s a good one.” “Not just globalization.” He replies and raises the paper to read: “Discuss the influence of globalization on democracy in the developing world: include both challenges and opportunities.” He watches my face light up and kicks out a chair for me. What then ensues is a heated discussion complete with passionate hand gestures, fiery opinions and dramatic examples. Other teachers stop to listen. Mr Gneom slams the table a bit and speaks too loudly and writes furious notes. And I sit there spouting off about global politics and soaking up his energy and feeling acutely invigorated.

Since beginning our Setswana lessons Rati has requested American pizza, American cookies and American photos. Despite the fact that Peace Corps is paying her by the hour I oblige to these requests because, really, what else am I going to do with all my free time? So I dish out a bunch of food and photos for the first 6 months of our lessons in an effort to enhance our “cultural exchange”. And it doesn’t bother me too much but sometimes I wonder at the balance of this supposed “exchange”. And then it’s Wednesday night at 5:00 and I’m heading to Rati’s house for my lesson and I’m dragging my feet because, like everything else, I’m bored with lessons too. Rati and I push through the lesson and at 5:55 she stands from her seat and disappears into the back room. I check my watch and tap my feet and yawn. When Rati returns she is cradling a giant watermelon, five sticks of sweet root and a bag of maize. I squeal. Yes, squeal. There is no other word for it and I’m not proud of it but I can’t help it. I squeal. Now—appreciate this: I’m vegetarian. I live in a desert. I can only get my groceries on the weekends. I then have to lug those groceries on stuffed combis and dirt roads to get them home from Gaborone or Thamaga so, really, my shopping is confined to the weight I’m willing to heft around for 2 hours. Many a week I’ve had to forgo the apples or canned tomatoes or tuna. And watermelons? Forget it. And so I squeal.

A child and a song and a conversation and gift.

I am learning so much here. Just by standing still.

Maybe it was the wine. It could have been the wine. But, whatever it was, there was this moment when the energy changed. You wouldn’t have noticed it unless you were one of the three of us. Sitting at the edge of that bar table. Talking over the music. Forgetting, for a minute, that we were at a party with 20 of our friends.

I’m just saying… you can’t force things. Friendships have a limit. We’re friends Here. We’re friends Now. I don’t expect anything more.

But you must believe there CAN be more…? Some people are capable of maintaining long term friendships… and some people get a lot from the friends they’ve had for years.

Honestly, Jess, think about your oldest friends… what do you really ‘get’ from them?

I have lots of long term friends… good friends…

But that’s perseverance… and after a while it’s just forced. It has to be. People change. I expect my friends to change. And because they change I expect them to stop being my friends at some point. There’s no hard feelings. It’s just finite. That’s the reality of human relationships.

But that expectation limits you… don’t you think? If you’re always expecting people to change and evolve past your friendship-- then you’re never fully investing in them. Your philosophy makes you hold back… and if you’re holding back, how do you ever know the real potential of your friendships?

Maybe you don’t. But, I’m telling you-- it’s safer-- no, smarter, that way. No one gets disappointed. No one gets hurt.

Brad wears a red bandana and a button-up shirt. Last month he dredded his hair and it’s finally looking nappy enough to qualify as proper dreds. Blonde hair, blue eyes, sarcastic wit, intelligent banter, life of the party… that’s Brad. He’s addictive. People fall for him all the time.

And then, apparently, they fall away.

No, Brad, I agree. Especially since coming to Peace Corps. I totally believe that now.

Holly has been listening to the conversation for 10 minutes in silence. When she speaks her voice trembles in a way that makes me look at her a moment too long. She wears a purple sundress and long curly hair. She sips red tinted vodka through a straw.

Holly’s been here a year longer than us and she can feel it. And I can feel it. The thickness of Away. The attention to Change.

People disappoint you. People forget. The oldest, deepest friendships I’ve ever had just felt apart as soon as I cam here.

Holly talks into her vodka and Brad smirks at me over the rim of his glass.

You know what it was-- they knew I was happy here… they knew I had met a nice guy… and that seemed to be enough… and so one by one they just stopped writing.

This is that strange little island between stone sober and sloppy drunk where people get cynical, emotional or philosophical. We manage to reach all of three of these and sit in silence for a moment. The music and the lights and the booze feel far away.

All of them?

Yup. Every one. Even my most of my family. I’m going home in 3 months and I have no idea who will be there. Or how I’ll be with them. I mean, how do you go back to those relationships now that you know how shallow they are…?

Brad slams down an empty beer glass and lets out a brash sigh.

Yup and That’s Is Life. That’s people, Hol. It stops sucking so much when you stop expecting everyone to love you eternally. That’s not realistic. It’s society. It’s movies.

But there are exceptions, I say staring at him and holding the air like that.…Brad, come on, you have to admit there are SOME people in your life who’ve stayed. You must have some people who you still enjoy… who still fill you after years of friendship…

Sure, some. But they’ll go. And I won’t ask them to stay.

Someone throws a round of shots on the table and the music leaks in and Holly gets dragged to dance and Brent gets snapped into a photo and I’m left standing on that tiny little island with the weight of a very heavy ache that is not my own.

_________

That conversation happened well over a month ago but I have played it over in my mind so many times since then.

People let you into their Pain here in a way they never would at home. They’re more open here because they have to be. There is only so much solitude and difference and stillness that one person can hold on their own.

And so I pick up this thing they’ve placed on me. And I look at it long and hard. And I realize it is true… this painful reality…. but also relative…

like so many truths.

I don’t relish seeing people in pain. I care about Brad and Holly and I hate to see them hurting.

But something about that conversation did help me. Like someone stretched out the spectrum in front of me. Like a map or an ocean. And I looked at that space for a long time and saw myself there and felt incredibly lucky. And incredibly comforted.

Thank you to the Email Writers who talk me through my days.

Thank you to the Package Senders who break the monotony with surprises.

Thank you to the Letter Writers who give me pieces to hold on to.

Thank you to the Phone Callers who nourish me with voice and laughter.

Thank you to friends, families, colleagues, classmates, professors, old friends, new friends, best friends, boy friends, and even strangers who have taken the time in big and small ways to support me in this experience and affirm their commitment to whatever level of relationship we’ve built.

This is the time when it counts. This is the time when it is needed and appreciated without the shadows and distractions of home.

Some relationships are finite, yes. But there are also those that are strong and constant.

I am incredibly alone here.

But I have never felt so far from loneliness.

The race was meant to start at 6:00 with registration at 5:00. It was 8:30 when we finally stood at the starting line.

Jaclyn had organized this 10K “Race for Life” to get her village exercising and then follow the event with a day of health games and activities to teach the community about HIV/AIDS. She invited 10 of us to run and help out with the post-race events.

I am a 5:00 runner. 8:30 in northern Botswana feels scorching in comparison. I also have never run in an organized race. I also didn’t realize they’d be driving us 10K into the dessert on a giant bus with no available water. By 8:30 I’m parched and my stomach is in knots.

The bus stops on the paved road between Bobonong and Semolale. We file off and I watch as the men begin urinating on the side of the road, the women slip off their shoes and the makgoa (us whities) stretch our legs.

The makgoa are in running sneakers, nylon shorts, sports bras and t-shirts. The Batswana are in bare feet, skirts, slippers and tank tops (sans bra). It is not one group verses the other but the contrast is hard to miss.

Although nearly 200 people registered for the race there are less than 60 who attend. Jacyln has promoted the event to 3 villages and had an overwhelmingly positive response which, unfortunately, was foiled by the death of two villagers in Semolale.

Batswana bury on Saturdays. Only Saturday. At 6:00. Only 6:00.

The Semalole kgosi (chief) had wanted to run the race as well and petitioned the village to hold the funerals as early as possible so everyone could make it to Jackie’s event. But like all cultures, grieving can not be rushed. None of the 100 registered Semolole residents were able to attend the race. (A sad but vivid reminder of the event’s core purpose)

During training Peace Corps gave each of us a tiny, hand-held blow horn which they advised us to sound for our neighbors and then explain that the noise signifies we are in danger and need help.

I am highly amused by the fact that Jacyln’s emergency blow horn starts the race. (I’m sure the Peace Corps Safety and Security Officer would be slightly less amused)

Alright so, I run a 10 minute mile. I’m slow. I know. But—jeeze…

The men are literally a mile ahead of me within the first 30 seconds. Truly. It’s a long, flat stretch of highway but suddenly I cant see them anymore.

The women. The women are just hilarious. They sprint. Then stop. They laugh. They walk. They carry their shoes. They run beside us. Fall behind us. Sprint ahead of us. I’m purely entertained. My stomach ache goes away.

By 6k Jackie and I have out-run most of our female companions. I’m in a groove but bored with the desert landscape. Fortunately, I’ve given my camera to one of the nurses who keeps appearing in the village ambulance to snap photos and cheer us on with wild waving. His energy is contagious and hilarious.

In the final 2k Jaclyn turns and smiles at me.

We’re making pretty good time, she says (also a 10-minute-miler). For the end we’ll get to go through the village.

There are times here when I feel like a day in Africa could be any day in the States. There’s a routine. meals. friends. a job. a rhythm.

And then there are days—well, moments really—where Africa pours all over me with such style and simplicity that I seem to fall in love a thousand times.

2k through the village and I am falling falling.

The funerals have ended and the people come out of their roudeval huts to watch us run by. The donkey’s stare. The goats scatters. The kids are laughing and screaming hellohellohello. Someone hanging her laundry stops to wave.

The simplest of images but I am elated. Love is that way, isn’t it? The ordinary turned exceptional. The average, invaluable.

There is a hill that rises to the kgotla’s finish line. Two village men join us to sprint this last stretch and escort us over the finish line.

Girl 2! Girl 3!

We dole out sweaty hugs and snap a million photos and marvel at how we’ve placed among the girls at the crawl of 58:36 (the 40 men who’ve been finished and lounging in the shade for 20 minutes humble us).

Helluva first race. My adrenaline-buzz feels like it lasts for hours.

In the post-race activities there are swarms of children in frantic disarray. Fruit and cheese sandwiches are distributed (a h u g e struggle for poor Jaclyn to convince her village leaders that serving chips and soda at a HEALTH fair would send mixed messages about the nutrition) and then the children are ushered towards The Tent.

Now, don’t get me wrong—The Tent is a circus of fun activities and games and prizes but to the Confined Booth Workers it also resembles a torture chamber:

Africa sun + 200 excited kids + closed space = Sauna-Like-Temps

I stand at my booth for 5 minutes before recognizing how close I am to passing out. Someone lifts the flaps on the far side of the tent and a breeze makes its way through the humid space. I regain stability.

The raised flaps are essential but they do create a problem for my particular booth. I have been given The Most Fun of all the game stations and I’m very proud of this. The kids usher through the poster-HIV-quiz and then come to me before carrying on to the “Proper Condom Use” station (where they must correctly put a condom on a cucumber without being able to see their hands).

Still, despite the cucumber-humor, I win for general entertainment. At my booth they get d a r t s .

The challenge for the kids is to get the dart to pop a balloon and then answer the HIV-related question inside the balloon correctly. The challenge for me is to keep the kids from crushing each other in line, darting each other in their excitement or nailing someone outside the tent through the open flaps. Oh—and the balloons on the clothes line keep needing to be replaced… now remember… take the dart from the kids F I R S T before attempting to replace balloons (I manage to engrain this after nearly being dart-ed 10 times…)

I think the Run for Life pictures are my favorites so far from the Peace Corps Planet. The faces that day. The energy. I’ve looked through them a million times… from the barefoot runners to the balloon kids to the post-festivities bonfire and sangria.

Ah, Africa.

Falling

Falling

Falling

Once a year Botswana’s secondary schools have “Sports Day” where the kids spend an entire day completing for a place on the school sports teams. I have an NGO meeting in the morning and so I don’t return to campus until 3:00.

When I walk into the yard the first thing I notice is that all the kids are eating. This is unusual and so I think “Wow, that’s nice that they’ve arranged for two tea times… the kids definitely need the extra nutrition after exercising in the sun all day.”

Not so.

As I enter the lobby I’m shocked to see two young girls lying flat on their backs. The girls are crying and heaving. Their friends hover in anxious energy, fanning them with books.

What happened?

This one has been crying for an hour. She says she can’t breathe.

This one fainted. She can’t speak.

I check their pulse and then run to find help. On the benches beyond the lobby ten teachers sitting eating lunch. When I beckon them to come in and help the girls they tell me not to worry. The girls are just tired. They’ll be fine in a few minutes.

I can feel myself begin to panic.

Back in the lobby the students have carried in a third child and the three of them sit together gasping and wheezing and crying.

How long have they been like this?

A while.

Maybe an hour.

Why aren’t they going to the clinic?

Silence.

I am not trained for this. I don’t understand the severity. I can’t even speculate on the cause. I don’t have a car or a first aid kit or even a bottle of water. But as I watch those girls gasping I know they are in acute pain and thick fear.

I do the only thing I can think of: I make a scene.

I demand that the teachers come and tend to the girls.

I demand that the Head PE teacher brings her car to take them to the clinic.

I express my outrage that this 3:00 meal is LUNCH and reprimand the staff for allowing children to exercise for the entire day without food or water.

The teachers continue to justify and downplay the girls’ condition and I continue to escalate.

Someone brings a bottle and the head PE teacher starts pouring cap-fulls of water between the girl’s lips. It is the first water they have had all day.

Mr. Iteom finally pulls around in the car and we carry out the three girls and place them in the back seat.

The group of teachers munch away on their lunches, watching us leave.

It is a bumpy, five minute ride that feels like eternity. The movement of the car seems to make the girls’ condition worse and they sob against one another’s shoulders, panting and moaning. I lean back and hold onto their fingers and breathe with them.

In and out. Just like this. That’s right. In and out. We’re almost there. Big breath now. Come on—big breath. In and out. Good. We’re almost there.

When we arrive at the clinic I run in to tell the nurses to come quickly. We have an emergency.

The nurses help me carry the girls inside. They give them medicine. They take their temperature. They take their blood pressure. They fill out papers. The girls stop crying.

Mma Dali is the head nurse. A thin old lady with a stern voice and flat demeanor. Perhaps she has seen too much. Perhaps her compassion is spent. These are the things I tell myself so I am able to keep smiling at her. So I am able to still the shaking in my voice.

No, these children are not asthmatic. They are just tired from running.

They’ve been wheezing for over an hour. That’s more than fatigue.

I checked their names on the list. They’re not asthmatic.

So how are the children on the list diagnosed with asthma?

Just by observation.

But don’t you observe a problem with these girls? If it’s not asthma, then what is it?

If I ran up the road I’d be tired too.

But this one’s chest is hurting. She says it’s very painful. What could that be?

It’s not asthma. She’s just tired.

I want to scream. The negligence at school and now this trivializing infuriate me. I smile at Mma Dali and thank her for helping the girls breathe again. She says your welcome and walks away from me.

When Mary comes to check on the girls I sigh. Mary is a soft, rolly polly nurse. She is incredibly kind and genuine. She is my favorite of all the clinic staff.

Mary does not coddle the girls. She listens to my account of the last hour and then looks at the students for a long time. After several moments she addresses the oldest girl:

Did the teachers make you run?

Yes.

Did you tell them you didn’t want to?

Yes.

Mr. Iteom jumps in with a monologue about the teams and the timing and the race selection and the competition results and I think he says something ludicrous about needing to win before I cut him off and ask the girl:

Which teacher forced you to run when you didn’t want to?

Mr. Desimochi.

I ask the next girl.

Mr. Desimochi.

And the last.

Mr. Desimochi.

The ride back to school gives me time to cool down which is fortunate and necessary. It is 4:00 when Mr. Iteom gives the girls their lunch. It has been a long, hot day. These girls have had a single piece of bread prior to this meal. They eat with silence and ceremony.

On the way to find the headmaster I vow to keep it short and direct:

Three girls were taken to the clinic this afternoon. They were struggling to breathe and no one helped them for over an hour. They were forced to run. This cannot happen in the future. Teachers must be told not to pressure or force their students into activities that exhaust and weaken them. It is dangerous. We do not have a school nurse. We are not equipped to deal with emergencies like this.

The headmaster scowls and takes me outside.

Mma Charles the students want badly to win. They pressure themselves into to these extremes.

Sir, they were crying and gasping. They did not want to run those races.

Children say things to make you believe they were wronged. But these same children are the ones misbehaving in class and refusing to participate in PE classes. They must participate.

I agree sir, I think it’s very important for them to participate in gym class but I also think there need to be limits so that students who are weak or malnourished or unhealthy do not become sick from excessive exercise.

Mma Charles I tell them they must report their health problems but they ignore me. Last month a Form 3 student came to tell me he couldn’t play the recorder for his music exam because of asthma. Form 3! Three years at this school and he didn’t ever report this to us. Now suddenly he can’t play for the exam.

Sir, this is different.

Their parents don’t even take them to the clinic. Do you know most parents have never even picked up their children’s birth certificates?!

But sir, that’s my point—if the parents are negligent we have to be even more careful so that children don’t get sick or hurt at school.

These children need disciple. They need to keep active. Do you know there is still theft happening every day in our school? If children are not kept active they begin to steal from one another…

This goes on for another 30 minutes or so. The headmaster tells me story after story of naughty, disrespectful students. When he dismisses me I say

“I appreciate your concern for the safety and health of our students.”

And he says “Yes.” and walks away from me.

____________

I will speak to Mr. Desimochi. I will visit the girl’s parents. I will speak to the PE teachers and to the students in the guidance classes. I will research and print facts about healthy, safe exercise that highlight the importance of food, hydration, stretching, and rest. I will distribute these facts. It is possible that these gestures will raise resentments.

And so this is where responsibility and relationships collide. Compelled to address this blatant neglect but with enough tact and respect to preserve the politics that are so essential to the sustainability of everything I do.

A daunting exercise in balance. And yet essential.

Last July we teachers sat on folding chairs in our student’s yard. We sang songs and said prayers and then walked to the cemetery to say goodbye to her. She also could not catch her breath. She also was not on the list. She also had a pain deep inside her chest that would not go away. And did not.

That was six months ago. Just half a year.

There are things we repress.

And things we forget.

And then there are things we ignore.

My house is a little cement block lodged between The Haves and the Have-Nots.

When I first came to Kumakwane I only saw the Haves. I had been living in a desperately poor part of Molepolole that made Kumakwane look like Rodeo Drive in comparison. People had houses… real houses. With colored paint on the outside and even TV satellite dishes. There were rose bushes and doorbells. Some of the kids had bicycles and all of the neighborhood dogs looked like they were being fed (in Molepolole the dogs were emaciated and frail).

I remember thinking how tragic it was that I had been sent to such an affluent village when there were hundreds of impoverished communities all over this country. At one point I even asked the Peace Corps Country Director about this and, although she assured me that need was a factor for placement, I still had my doubts.

Over time the color on those houses began to fade. If you weren’t looking for it you’d never have noticed. But it was happening. And as those colors faded I started to see the shape and size of things I could not see before.

The first thing I noticed was the size of the neighborhood kids.

My landlady lives in an enormous pink house and has her daughter’s hair plaited in a different style each week. Every Saturday Retabile’s hair gets her 100-pula-updo. Her brother, Omosa, is six years old but to look at him you’d guess ten. Omosa’s shoes have lights in them that flash when he races his bicycle around the house. I have timed him once in a running contest and it took him 1 minute and 13 seconds to round the house. Quite a circumference.

Omosa and Retablie’s house can be seen out of my bedroom windows. My livingroom windows look to a very different scene.

If I look out my north windows I see a tiny roudeval hut. The hut is made of mud and straw and inside that hut there is a mother and her five children: Tebogo (17), Thato (13), Oabona (11), Enob (6) and Meba (5). This family has no electricity and no pit latrine. They get their water from a pump on the edge of their property. They cook their meals on an outside fire.

Retablie is 9 years old and stands 7 inches taller than Thato at 13. Omosa is 6 and stands a full foot taller than Meba at 5. Retabli’s name means “Praise the Lord” and Omosa’s name means “Gift”. Oabona has two lazy eyes, one of which was half closed at birth. Her name means, simply, “She sees.”

There are other neighborhood kids that live in roudeval huts and come into the landlady’s yard to play after school. Ngele is nine years old. Her arms and legs are bone and her school uniform hangs off her tiny waist—three sizes too big. Ngele has the most beautiful smile I have ever seen—even with both eyes full of conjunctivitis. Every afternoon Ngele’s caretaker goes to work and leaves her in charge of watching her two sisters: Loratile (3) and Bakanya (2).

On Saturday morning the kids in the pink house get up early to play in the yard. Retabile cries when Omosa won’t play with her. Omosa gets bored with his bike and knocks on my door for sweets. Sometimes they go inside the big house to watch TV.

On Saturday mornings the kids in the roudeval hut get up to do chores. Their mother goes to work as a cleaner in Gaborone and the kids spend the day tending their garden and washing dishes and sweeping the hut. As they work they sing. Quite loudly. So loudly, in fact, that sometimes it gives me a headache. One time I stood up with my book clenched in a fist and prepared to slam my window With Significance… but Meba was playing in the dirt and Thato was scrubbing clothes and Enob was patting the dog and I suddenly looked ridiculous in my angry defense of sustained silence.

There are other shapes and sizes I have begun to see in my village. Some of the most profound have come on my 5:00 runs… that black and white hour of dusk. That prelude to the waking of a world. Just the outlines. But vivid now. So shockingly apparent that’s its hard to remember a time when they didn’t move me. When the village was all color and I was just barely awake.

- From a string of huts I hear a woman shouting to her children. Within seconds of her summoning a barefoot, half naked child comes tearing out into the road. The child chases a single goat across the shrubs and thorns and up and down a muddy hill. I marvel at his ambition and the goat eventually succumbs and trots off to join the rest of his herd. The boy stumbles down the hill and passes me. His eyes are still half shut with sleep. He is smiling.

- Beyond the damn there is a long road. Up and down makes one mile—perfect detour when you need to extend a run. At the end of this road there are a cluster of shanty houses with torn roofs and rusty water pumps. I have only run there once because the scent of human waste was enough to make me desperately nauseous. There were people everywhere. Living and breathing That. Maybe hundreds of them.

- A little girl drops the weight of her wheelbarrow and stops to watch me run by. She cannot be more than 7 and is wearing bare feet and a white dress, ripped at the sleeve. I don’t know how far she is going but she looks incredibly tired already. She is carting two enormous barrels of water. It is 5:30 in the morning. It is still quite cold.

- The man corrals 30+ cows into a pen made of tree branches. The cows bellow and trot fretfully. They know long before I do. The shot startles me as the beast drops and two young boys approach to start the cleaning.

- Lovers walk home in the last drops of 5:00 dark. Perhaps lover is the wrong word. The girls look tiny. Like babies. Or dolls.

Vision is such an illusion. Those things I saw in June. Those things I see now. What will I see in a year? What shapes would appear in a decade? What lines in a lifetime?

It’s pitch dark at 5:00. Grey at 5:30. But I can hardly see a thing by 6:00.

So I am philosophically torn on the issue of grants. Grants are, after all, GIVING money to people instead of training them on how to raise the funds themselves (teach a man to fish… blah blah). B u t grants are also a way to work with local leaders and educate them about the importance of development planning, project design, budget projections, timeline forecasting, success indicators, monitoring and evaluation, etc. (most grant applications require detailed descriptions of all this and more to even be considered for funding).

As I make my way to the clinic I considering all this as the ghosts of my graduate school professors haunt me with the hailed international aid mantras: “Sustainability! Capacity building! Community mobilization!”

It’s the third time I have met with the Home Based Care Volunteers about the Peace Corps Partnership Grant and it is the third time I have felt sincerely conflicted about this project.

What inspired the project in the first place were some 20+ interviews I held with community stakeholders in my first months at site. I closed each of these interviews with the question:

“How would you like to see Kumakwane improved in the coming years?”

Nearly all of my interviewees… policemen, nurses, teachers, the kgosi… all of them had the same answer:

“More clinic vehicles so pregnant women and those with health emergencies can make it to Thamaga in time.”

Thamaga Hospital is nearly a 30 minutes drive from Kumakwane. While the distance is its own hurdle, the lack of an emergency vehicle and on-call driver is even more of a challenge. Last July a teenage girl died of asthma in the middle of the night. Each year women go into labor and die before they make it to the hospital.

These things are avoidable.

And so I began working with the clinic’s 14 Homebased Care volunteers to draft a letter to the Village Development Committee outlining our project goals and proposal (nothing starts in Botswana without the approval of the kgosi, his counselor and his 6 headmen; i.e. the VCD). Ms. Sebabi has agreed to attend the monthly VDC meeting with me and present the letter.

Today I have come to the clinic to meet with the 14 ladies and brainstorm how we will raise 25% of the vehicle funds which are required before the PC grant committee will commit to raising the remainder of funds.

We crowd into a tiny room with no windows, a single desk and three chairs. This is the where the volunteers meet each Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning for meetings. The translator gets one chair, the secretary another and Ms. Sebabi the third. The other twelve volunteers sit on the floor. I stand on the left side of the room looking down at this sea of broad skirts and colorful headscarves.

After the prayer I begin my brief presentation about grant logistics and budgeting. The interpreter translates and the ladies listen politely. At the end I outline the role and responsibility of the Home Based Care team:

- Ms. Sebabi will present the plan to the VDC in the first week of February.

- Three volunteers and the translator will meet with me for an hour each week to work on the application.

- All volunteers will meet for two hours on Wednesday mornings to plan and implement fundraising activities for the required 25%.

The ladies nod at me but begin whispering to one another as soon as I’ve finished. I can feel their reluctance and struggle to understand the Setswana as they murmur to one another. I’ve sensed this hesitation in the first two meetings and I do not understand it. Today I’ve intentionally outlined strict expectations so as to inspire their commitment and perhaps uncover some of their reservations.

On the way to the clinic that morning I promised to abandon the entire project if the reluctance continued without explanation.

As I sat there watching the ladies converse and shake their heads I felt my frustration surface. What was I missing? Why was there this lack of enthusiasm? T h e y had suggested this project to me. They had agreed to this in previous meetings. Was it a mistake to even suggest this? Did they think it was a handout and lost interest when they realized they’d have to contribute? Maybe grants are all wrong. Maybe those professors were right. Maybe I’m just giving fishes.

I finally ask the translator for an explanation.

“It’s the 25%.” She says. “They don’t see how they can do it.”

This question came up at the last meeting and I respond in the same way: “We are 15 people with a number of skills. We can hold bake sales, organize a walk-a-thon, make jewelry, or coordinate a fundraising event like a soccer game or talent show. I will help you. We can do it together.”

This is translated as it was last week but the murmurs continue and the uneasiness in the room grows. After several more minutes of mumbling I turn to the translator again.

“Please tell them that I understand if this feels like too much work for them. Please tell them I can try to help in other ways if the grant work is too intimidating.”

Mma Sebabi likes to pretend that she can’t speak English as a way to inspire my motivation to learn Setswana. She is normally very convincing but this time lets her guard down and turns to me:

“Bontle, we want a car but this is so expensive. We are old ladies. How can we raise these big monies? We want you will help us with a garden.”

The other ladies seem to hold their breath and look at me apologetically. Somehow they have come to believe that I will be disappointed with a smaller project and so have been hesitant to tell me their concerns.

The translator fills in the gaps.

“You see a clinic vehicle would cost nearly 50,000 pula and it would take the ladies years to raise a quarter of that. But for a long time they’ve been trying to start a garden to grow food for their poor and ill patients who are unable to maintain their own lands. The VDC has given them a plot of land but they don’t have money to buy the seeds, fencing, or farm tools. They’d like to work with you on this project instead of the vehicle.”

I am so relieved that I start laughing and the ladies faces turn from concerned to confused. I use my broken Setswana to assure them…

“Eee, bo mma! Ke batla go thusa. Re tlaa dira tshingwana ya morogo. Go siame… go sentle!”

(“Yes, ladies! I want to help. We will do the garden. It’s ok… this is good!”)

The ladies look sincerely relieved and the tension drains out of the room. We discuss logistics once more and this time they agree whole heartedly to the time and fundraising commitments.

When I turn to leave one of the ladies pieces together a broken English sentence:

“Bontle, you are beautiful.”

And I know this has nothing to do with my appearance and everything to do with the hurdle we have just conquered.

“Ke a le bo ga, mma. Wena… o a montle thata!”

(Thank you, mma! You are also very beautiful.)

_______

In pre-service training Peace Corps told us if we initiated 20 projects we might see just a third of these actually develop. They also told us to budget our time according to our expectations but then double it to match the reality of working at the pace of this culture.

I remember thinking this had to be an exaggeration meant to scare us and keep us humble. I’ve managed projects before… I can organize and inspire people. I can make things happen.

But, again, I am learning.

Project design in this culture is not about simply performing a needs assessment and writing a project proposal. It is not confined to paperwork and meetings.

Projects here require trust. And relationships. They require patience and dedication. They require cultural sensitivity and humility. They require a translator and a kgosi and a sea of head scarves nodding “yes” because they Truly Believe In It... not because the lekgoa is standing at the front of the room looking keen.

I still have a heart for the vehicle project. I still want children to stop dying of asthma and mothers make it through their labors. But buying a vehicle is not my role here. My role is to listen and to empower. Maybe in 2 years all I’ve have to show for my efforts is a garden. But there is so much worth growing there. There is so much potential for more.

Seeds and a fence and some tools.

And the energy of 14 ladies who care.

And can.

And do.

I feel bad about writing less blogs but, the truth is, nearly 10 months have passed and I suppose things are just becoming “normal”. The sunsets still awe me and the donkey carts still amuse me and the cockroaches still disgust me but, all in all, I suppose things feel relatively routine. Again human resilience impresses me… if you’d ever told me I would one day look FORWARD to a warm bucket bath or an afternoon of handwashing my clothes in the sunshine I would have thought you were crazy. But here I am. Month ten. Living in Africa. And loving it. All of it.

So there has been relatively little drama these days but more pronounced has been the opportunity to develop my humor and, more specifically, the Ability To Laugh At Myself.

It started a month ago when I tripped over my fan chord and skinned my elbow on the cement floor of my living room. I stood up bleeding and laughing and wondering how I would ever survive these blistering days without a fan (ice water and cold showers have been shockingly sufficient). After that I pinched a nerve in my neck and lost the use of my left arm for 3 days (This was solved by a massive steroid shot… I’ll let you guess the part of your body they christen with this blessed cure… Not Fun). Then I went running in the rain and broke my ipod. Irreplaceable. (though Prince Kris still manages to come through with the gift of a “Shuffle” replacement). A few weeks later a synching-mishap erases all my Itunes music. (A collection which has only taken me 2 decades to compile) Somewhere in between all this I manage to break a wineglass, a mirror and a bowl.

This, mind you, is January.

Just January.

And so I learn to laugh. And yes, occasionally scream, but mostly to laugh and accept that a broken arm will heal and lost music will be replaced and, one day, I will charm someone into giving me a ride in their car so I can purchase and deliver a new fan to the village. Patience is the virtue but humor the sedative.

So I thought I’d write about today. One more day of minor mishaps but, mostly, just another day in Botswana.

Today’s hurdle was The Rain.

The rain here creates… er… complications.

This morning I ran around Gabs for 4 hours in the rain to collect rent money. This little ritual must be performed once every 3 months and involves hiking to the Ministry of Education to get a voucher and then across town to the Revenue Department to cash the voucher (always, ALWAYS an hour + wait in the queue) and then back to where the Ministry is to put the cash into my landlady’s account and then, finally, at last, back to the bus rank to return to the village.

Today’s trip took ages because of the rain. I attempted to pass time with a soggy magazine but found myself completely distracted by the task of dodging drips from the combi roofs and window seams. By 9 a.m. I was soaked to the bone. In a vain attempt to keep dry, my combi compatriots shut all the vehicle windows which left us, not only wet, but also swathed in thick humidity and the tang of twenty-five sweaty bodies.

My sixth combi of the day rolled into Kumakwane at 11:35 making me just in time for the 6th Guidance period. Mma Domida and I have agreed to team teach this term and this week is my week. Normally Mma Domida and I watch each other’s lessons to enhance our skills-exchange but today’s she’s had to leave on an errand and I am left alone.

It is rare for me to be rushed or stressed here in Botswana’s warm and relaxed culture but today is an exception. In the 5 minutes before class I change out of my mushy jeans, brush my damp hair, grab the lesson plan and an armful of books and race to class. Two PACT students find me speed walking across campus and stop to help me with the books.

But Mma Charles how will you get there?

What do you mean? The class is in the School Hall…

Tsiamo and Eunice take a minute to consider my appearance and then look towards the Hall with an expression of sincere sympathy. Both girls’ uniforms are completely drenched and they have rolled the cuffs of their pants and are walking around in bare feet. Although on normal days students get beat for not having their shirts tucked in, today I notice that all the students are permitted to be sloppy, damp and shoeless. I follow Tsiamo’s gaze to the Hall and realize that the campus is a swamp of muddy water. Although there are cement walkways between most classrooms, the Hall is an obvious exception.

Eunice takes one last look at my grey dress pants and high heel sandals before beckoning me to follow her (don’t look surprised… did you really think I’d join Peace Corps and then magically turn into a hippie?!)

The swamp between the Hall and the Home Ec lab has 8 waterlogged bricks which the students tell me I must use to cross. The stones are placed at a precarious distance from one another and I become acutely aware of my small stride. In one last futile attempt I scan the grounds for options and realize I am stuck: cross the swamp or skip the class. The 35 students in the Hall have come outside to watch my wobbly moment of decision.

Tsiamo and Eunice start to giggle and this makes me laugh and shrug: If I fall, I fall. I’m sure I could manage to teach the class in muddy pants.

Tsiamo takes an armful of my books and urges me to be brave

“Just try Mma Charles… you can do it!”

Eunice starts out in front of me and reaches back to hold my wobbly fingers and balance me across the pond.

When we reach the other side the students are clapping and I have turned a lovely shade of red but, thankfully, I am still relatively dry.

I pass out the books, teach my class and 40 minutes later I’m back at the edge of the pond contemplating the stress of a return trip.

The students offer to help again but this time I skip the performance and opt for total resignation. In one swift moment I slip off the heels and roll my pant legs up to my knees and wade through the muck to the other side. The students are laughing hysterically and my legs are covered in muck but it feels right for us all to be in muddy feet anyway.

Just another day in paradise. Just another reason to laugh.

Last term I initiated a project with a donor in America called “The Africa Library Project” (ALP) in an effort expand Kumakwane’s only library. This library is located inside the junior secondary school where I work. It is the size of a school classroom with 10 scantily clad shelves of books. Although the schools library committee has a staff chairman and 8 student “monitors” who meet regularly, the library resources are too minimal to provide much work for these motivated members. The students complain that books are torn and out of date and that their favorite subjects ( ) are poorly represented among the available texts. Kumakwane’s village residents never visit the library because they know it’s had the same meager collection for nearly 20 years.

Through the ALP, professionals in Botswana and Lesotho may submit a description of their village and 3 letters from community stakeholders requesting and justifying expansion of their library resources. If your application is accepted, ALP will run a book drive where, for 4 months they promote your school’s needs. Interested donors receive copies of the letters, quotes and photos to inspire their contributions. Schools may receive up to 1,000 books from the ALP drive, postage covered in full.

When I learned about the project I was elated. For the past two years our school’s academic rank has been dropping lower and lower. Whereas we were once ranked first in our district, we are now mid-range alongside many of the larger, more rural junior secondary schools. Many teachers and students attribute this drop in our position to the student’s floundering English language skills. Although at first I thought this might be an exaggeration, I was soon convinced after teaching our Form 1 guidance session where nearly all the children were unable to understand me. This poor performance was concerning. How could these children make it through the next 3 years of all-English classes with all-English exams and go on to all-English universities? Without language skills they were sure to underachieve and with Botswana’s limited economy this could lead them into a myriad of professional, personal, financial and even health problems.

One day I managed to ask a Form 1 class why the thought their English skills were so poor. A handful of students blamed their “lazy” English teachers (typical teenager-response) but a number of them also criticized the library. “We’re never even allowed to go in there,” one student told me. “The teachers say we talk too much in the library but there’s nothing to read so what else can we do?”

I presented the ALP project idea to the Library Committee in late September and they pounced on the idea. This was incredibly encouraging as nearly every project

I have initiated in my school has met resistance from teachers who claim they are “too busy to help.” (True in some cases though I’ve been around long enough to know that the majority of them head home for their afternoon siesta at 1:00 and never return). So the response was heartening and I immediately began to romanticize the possibility of finally harnessing their energy for skills transfer and capacity building. With the books as my “carrot” I could get students and staff to learn effective research skills, powerful letter composition and the importance of data collected for inspiring donor support. All this would have to be done in English which would allow for language training at the same time.

I was also excited to think that the success of this project could propel students and teachers to work with me on other, more challenging initiatives that I cannot (and will not) pursue without their participation.

So with all this in mind we launched into the project in early October. For weeks I worked with the student library monitors to write their letters and I taught committee members to interview people in our community as a means to collect quotes that reflect our need. Letters and quotes all needed to be typed which gave me a chance to train them on microsoft word skills. As a finale I had the kids pose in various places around the library to, again, show our donor that we have the need but also (as I explained to the students) to show that we have safe, available, clean facilities where we can safely and responsibly store the books.

By November we were finally done. I sent the application, letters, quotes and pictures to the Africa Library Project in November 12th. Everyone eagerly awaited a response.

When two weeks passed without a reply from the donors I decided to send the files again. But when another month passed I began to worry. I asked my aunt in the States to see if she could contact the Africa Library Project to make sure they had received our application.

A week later my aunt sent me this email:

“After you told me about the African Library Project, I called their office in CA. Maybe you've heard from the woman in charge by now, but if not, she told me she wasn't sure what to write you and so she hadn't responded. Apparently, they have a program for mostly primary schools in Botswana and are working with the Ministry of Education, so she doesn't know when they would be able to do something for your school. My impression is "don't hold your breath." She seemed like a nice person, but I think she should have at least answered your and others application, simply to acknowledge it if nothing more.”

I was devastated.

School was starting again in just a week and the students would be asking about the project. I didn’t know how to tell them that all their efforts had been futile and the books would not be arriving.

But then—out of the blue—my friend Jennifer writes to tell me she’s assembled a box of used books that she’d like to send to our school. Novels, national geographics and other texts were on their way and could I just confirm the right address for her so she can get them on their way?

I was stunned. Jennifer has no idea about our need for books—or about the project—or about the disappointing news I was about to convey.

Jennifer’s books arrived in Gaborone last week. Five days before the start of the new term. Surreal.

________

Jennifer’s books were a miracle but still only about a 10th of what the students had expected to receive from the Africa Library Project.

I am hoping to contact the ALP again next year and research other book donors in Europe and the States. If you have any information about book donor agencies or would like to get rid of that old box of novels in your basement… please contact me! (misscharles@hotmail.com)

I’ve attached here one of the ALP application letters if you are interested in reading it. This letter was written by Lorato Blanken, the 15 year old student chairwoman of the Kumakane Junior Secondary School Library. Lorato has been a member of the library committee for the past two years and this month will begin her final year at our school.

She wrote this letter in October:

Dear American Donors

My name is Lorato Blanken from Kumakwane Junior Secondary School and I’m writing this letter to request books from you as the American donors to help us by supplying us with some books like novels, textbooks and other books as this will help the students in their studies. It is hard for us students to use the books available because its either they are outdated or one needs the book being used by another students. The books can only be used whilst in the library as there are few of them because some of the books we have got worn out. The government is not able to supply the school with books as it has to help other schools with the same problem.

There are two schools in our village but this is the only place with a library. However it is so unfortunate that this library is small and has a high shortage of books. The books available are either of an old version or look old. Students normally prefer to study in the classroom because a large number of students at the library lead to inability to share the books as they would be looking for the same information. The books can only be used whist in the library as there are a few of them because some of them have gotten worn out.

If we had the books we could borrow the books from the library to use at home, in class and for extended study (daily from 2:00 – 3:30). We could use the books for improving our English as it is our second language and we can even use the books in our leisure time. Other pupils from the primary school can come and borrow the books from our library and this would help them improve in their studies.

Thanks for considering our request and we look for to hearing back from you. It will be a pleasure to receive books from you as this will help us greatly.

Yours Sincerely,

Lorato Blanken, Student Library Chairwoman

The sun is setting when I arrive in Thamaga tonight… rain cloud grey and sun orange smudge against mountains and stretches of horizon. I am toting umbrella and groceries when the sky begins to dribble in prelude to tonight’s storm. It has stormed through the last three nights and walking down the street I swear I can pick out the farmers – those faces vibrant with relief.

But there are no farmers on the street tonight. Just barefoot children and package-balancing women and this sun burnt lekgoa waiting to get home. I approach the bus stop and prepare my “dumellas” but before I can start the greetings I am distracted by a floury of movement.

The couple stands close to one another and I cannot hear their words. His back is to me but as I approach I can see her face change suddenly from anger to terror. There are three slaps before the first punch. Chin, eye, stomach stomach stomach

I am running.

And then I am screaming.

The man stops hitting her and turns to stare at me, perplexed. The bus stop crowd inches closer. Three police men cross the road. The woman begins to cry.

Physical abuse happens in every country on the planet but the fact that it can occur on the street in Botswana infuriates me. I saw the same scene in China five years ago and it turned my stomach to knots. This time I explode.

I am certain that my anger surprises the man because he stand there staring at me as I berate him and continues staring when I petition the police to drag him away to jail.

But even in my torrent I know it is not that easy.

The police talk to the couple for a long time. A combi comes and the bus stop empties of pedestrians. The rain continues. I grind my teeth and watch as the woman shakes her head and the man rubs her shoulder and the police tap their feet, impatient.

Eventually a policeman turns and explains to me that the woman has agreed to come to the station and make a report. I sigh prematurely and watch, in dismay, as the man ushers his girlfriend to the side and talks quietly against her cheek. This scene lasts and we know. Me and the entourage of policemen. We know he is winning.

Before they translate for me I know she has decided not to report.

She tells the policemen this and they may as well have shrugged.

This indifference seems to bury her.

She lowers her body to the ground and sits there crying.

I do not have the Setswana but I crouch in front of her and touch her arms. She has not and will not look at me. She weeps into the tails of her head scarf.

I say those things that we’ve designed for moments like these: You are beautiful. You are strong. You do not deserve to be hit. No man should hit you. No one should hit you. You must protect yourself.

I believe she understands me but I ask a police officer to translate anyway. He does. And she cries and cries and will not look at any of us.

Time passes and it is getting dark. I call the Thamaga volunteer for advice and she tells me that the woman can report to the health clinic at the hospital if she feels uncomfortable going to the police. This also is translated but the woman stares into the sand and I know it means nothing. She is silent. And there are reasons.

These women allow this to happen to them because they refuse to report.

I glare at the police officer.

And what happens if she reports?

We interview her and the man. We record her account of their history.

And then?

Well, we can only prosecute him for the current episode, not the past history. Sometimes we give a fine. Sometimes jail time.

How much jail time?

A maximum of 6 months.

And when he gets out? How is she protected when he is released?

The police officer looks at woman and sighs.

I wouldn’t report either. I tell him.

He nods and continues staring at the woman.

You know my friend works in Thamaga and last month a teacher at her school tied up his girlfriend and set her on fire. He nearly killed her.

This gets the officers attention again and he looks at me and shakes his head in sympathy.

Two weeks after the episode he was back teaching at the school. The other teachers shook his hand when he returned.

You see. Says the police officer. No one will report. This is the problem.

So can I report this situation? Can you take me to the station as a witness?

No. Sigh. No, miss. The report has to come from the victim.

So how does a burn victim who is barely alive report?

I’m sorry miss, that is our system.

When the woman stands I petition her one last time to report but I know the attempt is futile. I give the officers my information and I know they will not call me to testify.

They three leave and the woman leaves with the man in tow. I watch them walk down the street and I watch them cross and I watch them get into a cab and I watch them leave.

The bus stop has filled again and there are two rainbows arching through the clouds. They are enormous, those rainbows. They are the biggest rainbows I have ever seen. Vast beams. Immense arches.

And I

I

i

am a speck.

On Friday Mr. Gneom stood before the morning Assembly explaining funeral logistics to the students. The kids listened intently nodding “Eeh, Rra.” (Yes, Sir) to requests that they sing hymns, wear their uniforms and be respectful at all times.

Now, I know you are all very sad. Mr. Gneom said in conclusion. But I want to remind you that this service is not a time to cry and upset the family.

Eeh, Rra.

We expect you to be composed and polite. Students who become very emotional and weep will not be helping the family. Is that understood?

Eeh, Rra.

At morning assembly students stand in a square of long straight lines and teachers arrange themselves along the edges to supervise. I turn to Ms. Gnsid and ask her why the children are not permitted to cry.

We just don’t want them distracting people with their emotions.

Do most Motswana try not to cry at funerals?

She looks at me and smiles.

No, Bontle. We cry. You will see.

____

There are no tears at the memorial service and there are no tears the evening before the funeral when they gather at the family’s house for a final meal together.

On Saturday we arrive, as is customary, at 6:00 in the morning to view the body. People are somber but silent in their grief. There are hymns and prayers to follow and then the coffin is loaded into the hearse and the procession begins. Most people walk the half mile to the cemetery where we form a ring around the coffin. A man is handed a tattered garbage bag from which he extracts several bunches of plastic flowers. These are placed on the coffin while hymns continue. The crowd’s melody aches with sorrow and yet people are resolutely composed throughout the service.

It is nearly 8:00 when the last prayer is said. The sun has risen and is starting to warm us. I stand between two graves piled with rocks and covered in the arches of low green tents. The bushes and weeds at my feet are dry and sharp with thorns that catch and pull at my long skirt.

At 8:10 there is a heavy silence where the minister sighs deeply. He gives a final solemn nod to the men on his sides and they begin to work. The crowd stills as funeral pieces are removed: the stands, the wood, the soft green mats. When they have finished the coffin looks remarkably bare and incredibly small. The men position themselves at the four corners and, in unison, begin to lower the casket into its grave.

They turn the knobs no more than three times before the children start falling. One by one I watch them collapse between the graves. They are sobbing and leaning heavily against one another. Their fathers come to scoop them off the ground and carry them to grassy areas beyond the crowd.

Ms. Elitsab is standing beside me and we lean down to console two children. We rise after a few moments because their grief has begun to break us just as deeply.

Once the coffin has been fully lowered the men form two long lines along the grave’s periphery. There are three shovels resting against the pile of dirt and, one by one, men take turns covering the grave.

This process takes nearly an hour. We sing hymns the entire time and at one point I look behind me where the teenagers are pressed against their parents legs or stroking one another’s hair. Their pain weighs heavily on us and Ms. Elitsab begins to speak with me in a low voice. She is a strong, thick Motswana with deep, velvet eyes. Her voice anchors me and we comfort each other in this soft and subtle gesture of conversing.

When the last of the dirt and stones have been piled onto the mound, the children approach to sprinkle tiny handfuls of sand across the grave. Before leaving the cemetery we form an aisle for the family’s vehicle to pass through and the crowds file behind them out of the gates.

A colleague approaches me as we are exiting.

What did you think of your first Botswana funeral?

Your services are beautiful.

This is how we bury Motswana, he says.

My eyes must look very heavy because he adds,

Don’t worry, Bontle. You’ll get used to it.

As planned I spent the day typing and researching in an effort to recuperate from an emotionally draining week.

At mid-day I had recovered my optimism and decided to look back over my notes from yesterday.

As I read through the officers words, the thought struck me that maybe the he had been embellishing. How could an organized, developing suburb of Gaborone allow traffic accidents to repeatedly take the lives of their child citizens?

Surely he had exaggerated.

And then I found two articles:

Yes, it really happens...

http://allafrica.com/stories/200807141718.html

And, yes, the village has reacted passionately, even violently… with little government response…

http://www.corpun.com/bwj00612.htm

Kumakwane must have two primary schools. One is not enough. This is our biggest needs.

Why do you think this? Is it the teacher shortage?

No, Bontle. Because they’re dying.

The teachers?

No. The students.

Silent look of horror.

The kids from Newtown Ward have to cross the main road to get to school each day. And sometimes they’re just not careful enough.

Have cars actually hit the children before?

Every year we lose two or three this way.

I walk back slowly from the kgotla. I think of Sanoj and Oletum. People stop to greet me but I am heavy from the week and forget the formalities.

Tomorrow I will stop asking questions. Curiosity has consequences. And resilience limits.

Sanoj Mesiog is one of our Form 3 students. She’s about to graduate from Kumakwane Junior Secondary School at the end of the year. She is in the Scripture Union Club and plays on the school soccer team. She also has a history of asthma and struggles with peaceful breathing on a daily basis.

Last Saturday night Sanoj couldn’t catch her breath. In Kumakwane the health post closes at 4:00 and afterhours emergencies are sent to Thamaga Hospital… 40 kilometers away.

Sanoj’s family is very poor. They do not have a car or a phone. Like most Batswana they refuse to leave their homes at night for fear of being robbed or assaulted.

Sanoj’s mother held her through the night but early Sunday morning the girl began coughing blood. She died before the sun rose.

____

It is coincidence that I have planned an interview with one of the police officers today but it is fortunate. I have questions. And I am angry.

The officer tells me that there is an ambulance available in Kumakwane but that it sometimes takes hours to find and wake a driver and get the patient to Thamaga. The officer tells me that this is a major concern for the village as many pregnant women go into labor in the evening and weekends. Many of these poorly timed pregnancies have dreadful outcomes.

Still, I know Sanoj’s parents did not call for an ambulance and this makes me furious. I cannot understand why they wouldn’t have tried to help her.

And then the officer says something that clarifies this seeming negligence:

It’s cheap, the ambulance. Less than 50 pula. Maybe even 20.

20 pula is 3 dollars and 30 cents. Sanoj’s family didn’t have it.

When I heard the news at 7:30 this morning I was enraged to think that a young girl could die from a preventable problem like asthma.

But it wasn’t asthma that killed Sanoj. It was poverty.

_____

The sun is setting at the memorial service. The students have come in their uniforms and us women arrive in skirts and head coverings. We sing hymns and pray. I understand nothing of the service so pray silently to myself

I pray for her wrinkled, barefoot, weathered mother

I pray for her tiny cement house with no glass in the windows.

I pray for the one chicken.

I pray for the beer cans littering the yard.

Our chairs are perched beneath a thick tree and the branches hang down so low they are nearly touching our heads. These branches weep yellow leaves on us throughout the service.

No one cries. Life is cheap in Africa. And expensive.

I hold a leaf between my finger and thumb and bite down hard on my lip.

Oletum is built like most Batswana teenagers: tall and lanky. What strikes you about him immediately are two enormous black eyes framed by thick, curly lashes. He looks young for 15 but speaks proficient English through a voice crackling with puberty. He is my neighbor.

In Botswana it is acceptable to stop by for a visit without calling ahead. This is actually a sign of genuine friendship and so, if someone “checks” you, you should be quite flattered. The downside is that being “checked” also puts you at a risk of being caught in your sweat pants, with your hair in a knot, washing your socks in a bucket. Irrelevant in Botswana. You drop the socks and heat up the kettle for tea.

The first time Oletum checks me he asks for help with his English homework. I’ve been missing my ESL tutorees back in Boston so I quickly agree and send him off to retrieve the novel he’s been assigned. Oletum returns 6 hours later and says his parents had made him go to The Lands to work for the day. It’s late now and he’s sorry but maybe I can help him in school tomorrow.

The second time Oletum checks me he asks for video games. I’m not sure why he assumes that I have video games but, oddly enough, Kris has just sent me a package with the video game in it. I tell him that the package should arrive in a week or so.

This second check happens on a Monday.

Oletum checks me again on Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Each time asking for the game. The following Sunday the game finally arrives and Oletum is elated. He runs off to play it on the school computers.

Ten hours later Oletum returns looking exhausted. It’s after dark and he should not be out (all Mostawan are locked in their houses by 7:00 every night. “Avoiding thugs” they say). I collect the game from him and wish him good-night.

Oletum shifts back and forth on his feet and does not begin to leave my porch. There is something heavy in his eyes and I ask him how he’s feeling.

He does not hesitate.

“Hungry.”

His eyes drop and the shifting accelerates into a nervous sway.

“Havent you eaten today?”

“No.” he says to the floor. “No. Not all day Ms. Charles and then my parents gave my dinner away.” There is a twinge of anger in his voice that breaks me.

“Gave it away? Who would they give it to?”

“We had visitors. They needed to be fed.”

___

My weeks in Botswana seem to have themes. This week’s theme was Child Hunger. The morning after this visit from Oletum (which culminated with bulky sandwiches, of course) I’m helping a few girls in the computer lab. Somehow we start talking about public punishment.

Have you ever seen a child punished publically?

Oh yes. At the kgotla.

How was he punished?

Beat. With a stick.

Who punished him?

The parents first and then the land owners.

Land owners?

Yes, he had stolen food from the Lands.

When did that happen?

Silence.

Did that happen recently?

Nervous laughter.

How many times has this happened?

Many times, Ms. Charles. Many times.