As the plane landed in London, all of my African melancholy faded away and I was excited to see my old stomping grounds. I made my way through the airport to customs, smiling like an idiot at all the happy yellow signs of Heathrow airport welcoming me back to yet another of the places I consider an adopted home. Seven years both is and isn’t a long time, but I was ready for the reunion with this city (and of course my friend Jo) to begin.

Having just arrived from Botswana, where lines are the norm, and we’ve all come to learn to just stand in them patiently, I wasn’t at all fazed by the line at immigration/arrivals. I approached the unsmiling agent, handed him my pink passport and gave him my biggest dose of friendly African style greeting of “Hello! How are you?” complete with a big smile. I was soon reminded that here in London, that is interpreted as “crazy” and treated as such.

Unsmiling Immigration Official: “What brings you to London, Ma’am?”

Me (bristling only slightly that in the last 7 years I seem to have gone from “Miss” to “Ma’am”):

“Well I missed it! I studied here some years ago and….”

UIO (ignoring my charming story and flipping through my passport, which is a different one than I had at that time and holds no European stamps. This one starts In Africa as it’s my Peace Corps passport-the other one is expired) “Oh really. And where are you coming from?”

Me: “Africa! Or really, as one should be specific about this as it’s a whole continent, I was living in Botswana-I just finished the Peace Corps- and then I flew out of Jo-burg, but this most recent flight? Well it was from Egypt…….”

UIO (cutting me off): “And where are you staying in London?”

Me: “With my friend Jo! In Paddington!” (Which I know I had written on the little form that was right in front of him, but am quite used to answering tons of ridiculous questions asked by people who have the information right there in front of them.)

UIO: “Paddington is surely a big place. Any specific information about where your friend lives?”

Me (still smiling like a golden retriever): “Well I have it somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll pick me at the train station.”

UIO (sighing): “And how long will you be in London?”

Me (oblivious): Begin rattling off my itinerary to a man who clearly DOES NOT CARE.

UIO: “And what is your employment?”

Me: “Well I’m unemployed. And really homeless too, if you think about it! See I just finished the Peace Corps in Botswana……”

UIO (cutting me off): “Do you have a ticket to leave the UK Ma’am?”

Me (proudly): “Actually I do!” Begin repeating aforementioned itinerary.

UIO (cutting me off again): “May I see it, Ma’am?”

Me (riffling through my overweight carry-on bag that was put through by the ticketing agent in Jo-burg through just this type of friendly subterfuge): “Yeah, I’ll get it for you now. I’m so glad I had my shit together (insert noticeable eye roll from the immigration agent here) and printed them off in Botswana… Do you want to see all of them or just the one from Scotland to the States? They’re marked with the pink sticky tabs and the yellow highlighter.”

The Unsmiling Immigration Official reviews my travel document as I prattle on about my upcoming travel plans.

UIO (satisfied at finally finding confirmation that the idiot in front of him was not trying to stay in his country on any sort of permanent basis, and again cutting me off, whilst almost violently stamping my passport.) :” Thank you Ma’am, this will suffice. It seems as you are indeed leaving within the allotted amount of time I won’t have to ask you to provide proof of income (muttering)-as it seems you have none- and I have to remind you that you are (loudly) not permitted on this entry visa to work in the UK. Enjoy your visit.”

Me (suddenly realizing this man thinks I’m clearly some sort of terrorist): “Uh, thanks.” Repacking all my shit into my bag and heading to the baggage claim.

As I walked through the same duty free lined hallway I passed through to enter this country on another great adventure (with blinders on, as the amount of bright lights and perfume smells and just well, STUFF that lined the shops would have stopped me for at least a few hours if I so much as glanced left or right) I again grinned, happy to be back, and excited to see something familiar from my past. I grinned at all the people who were not waiting for me, and remembered meeting my former boyfriend here, as well as my mom and sister when they arrived.

I walked over to the cash machine and inserted my card, and punched in my code. Denied.

A small part of me was swept back to 7 years ago, when I arrived in this same airport, alone and more that slightly freaked out at the prospect of 5 months in a foreign country where I knew no one (with the exception of the location of some graves that apparently held some long dead ancestors that my great uncle had told me I should go visit). I was trying to call my mom to tell her I was in London with the calling card that she gave me. We had known it was going to be the middle of the American night when I got in, but she wanted me to call to let her know I was safe so I did. The card, which we thought would last at least few phone calls was finished in about 5 minutes (first lesson about foreign pay phones and calling cards learned the hard way) and I was suddenly alone in a very big city (at least until the study abroad babysitters came to collect me, when the flight with everyone else from the East coast arrived) and I was scared.

But the bigger part of me has been dealing with bullshit of this nature in foreign lands for the past two years, and simply knew it was a matter of making a plan.

I quickly cursed myself for impulsively buying the overpriced magnet of the green World Cup 2010 mascot in the gift shop in the airport in Jo-burg, as cashing in those Rand might have been enough to try to get a tube ticket at least to Paddington to meet Jo. The little guy is creepy and weird, but I was feeling nostalgic and wanting something to commemorate my time in South Africa leading up to the world cup. Here’s his picture.

Creepy, huh?

As it seems everywhere in the world besides the Maun airport that has wireless internets locks it down and makes you pay, using my laptop to get on Skype or the internet was quickly eliminated as an option.

My next move was to try to use my card to use the internets at the little kiosks (using one's card-three pound minimum-of course-plus international fees) to see if I could get a hold of my mom (unlikely as it was still early in the States and she's usually not on the internet unless I warn her that I might be) or the bank to sort this out.

My "make a plan" skills kicked in once I realized if I could get someone on Facebook who was in the States to call my mom to alert her to the problem she could probably call the bank and we could sort this out. A second cousin of my fathers was quickly found to attempt this duty and my mom was soon on the internet and calling the bank. (thank you so much Lori!!!!!)

After a few hours, a few international calls on my credit card (the irony of using my credit card to determine why I couldn't use my credit card was not lost on me) to determine why I couldn't use the damn thing to get cash or buy a train ticket and I was feeling an awful lot closer to the girl who was here 7 years ago. I had used the internet to ask Jo to come rescue me (bless my amazing friend's warm and wonderful heart, as well as the crazy technology of everyone having the internets on their phones. I did have my Botswana phone that I tried to get a sim card for but that particular machine was allied with the cash machine and the train ticket machine in rejecting me)and was waiting for her in the train station below the airport.

As I waited for Jo's undoubtedly smiling and distinctively unencumbered with luggage figure to emerge from one of the trains, I put my ipod in my ears and felt sorry for myself. This readjustment thing was going to be harder than I thought.I chided myself for the rookie mistake of forgetting to have my mom call the bank and remind them that I would be in the UK for a month (This lovely mistake was confirmed completely the next day when I tried to get cash from the ATM at Paddington station-thinking there was a perhaps a 24 hour hold or something to do with the British bank holiday-and the machine ate my card. Thanks, Visa. This leaves me with no credit card- it shut itself down from disuse from two years in Botswana without using it and now no cash card. Awesome). My ipod was playing a shuffle playlist apparently designed by the gods to bring me right back to all of the happiest times I ever had in Botswana.

I sat against the wall of the station surrounded by my bags and thought back to the disdain in the Unsmiling Immigration Official's voice as I explained my current (and flippant) life plan. I was homeless (and now looked it in the train station sitting against the wall surrounded by my worldly possessions) and jobless (although I did briefly consider that busking might be a positive career move for the time being, before remembering that I HAVE NO TALENTS past giving my friend's cheeky nicknames)and at this point at least, penniless.

Botswana and Africa seemed so close and yet so far away, and I was swept up in longing for the kindness so commonly and frequently shown by strangers there. In Botswana if someone had seen me sitting alone in a train station they most likely would have stopped and chatted with me. They would likely have inquired as to what I was doing alone in a train station,and when I told them what was happening, they would have shaken their heads, muttered "hey" in disbelief, helped me buy a train ticket to be paid back when we got to Paddington. I quickly realized this was not going to be what happened here in London when I briefly tried to greet someone and ask how the automatic ticket machine worked and they looked at me with complete fear in their eyes that a fellow human being might be speaking to them and needing something from them.

Jo rescued me soon after, and I only made friends with one African (the smiling Nigerian ticket taker on the train) on the way home. The impersonality of the western world is going to be a tough one to get used to, but as with all things, we move forward....

The sun rises over the horizon from the plane. A new day. The first out of Africa

I sit on the plane about to leave Egypt. I’ve only been here a few hours and I never even left the airport. But as I sit here, in this crazy luxury, (yeah it’s just coach, but I’m having some trouble schooling myself on how to use the in flight TV counsel thing in front of me) something pulls. I can’t even feel where exactly it’s coming from and yet something in my chest is physically hurting. I’m leaving Afrika. Like for real. When this plane takes off, I will no longer have my feet on the ground of the land that has been my home for the past two years. It’s a different panic than when I left London 7 years back, looking out the window of the black mini-cab, my mother and sister beside me and yet feeling strangely alone.

Back then I calmed myself with the knowledge that I could (and would) return, all the touristy/cultural things I hadn’t quite done would still be around and I could always come back and do them. London wasn’t going anywhere. I set myself a personal goal to come back and do England again, along with heading to Ireland and Scotland before I turned 30. It all seemed reasonable enough then, and now here I am, a year early even, on the plane to do just what I promised myself.

But Afrika is different. Sure there are plenty of things I didn’t get to see while I was here, touristy and otherwise. Many of the things I might have missed seeing are animals, or super old rock paintings or natural wonders that again, aren’t going anywhere (unless you listen to the conservationists, who will have you believe the animals, the delta, and the rock paintings will all be irrevocably changed in the next five years. Who knows. Maybe they will.) But the thing about Africa that has intrigued me and shaped me and will make me miss it is not the powerful natural beauty (although hanging out in the world’s largest inland freshwater delta hasn’t hurt for that) but the people.

And due to HIV/AIDS, the “scourge” that I was sent to Botswana to help reduce, eliminate, stop the spread of, educate about, ect-those people may not be there when I return. When the sweet people of my village would ask, “But when will you be back? (as if Seronga, a very healthy two if not nearer to three days travel from the capital city of the country which was at least a twenty something hour plane ride from Minneapolis away were just a quick hop and a jump to get to), I would have to answer honestly that I don’t know. The ex pats and white locals in Maun, more certain of the economics that dictate these decisions, asked the same question and followed it with insistence of “well you have to come back, we’ll just stick you up at fill-in-the-name-of-the-camp with our bed nights.”

Without a solid plan of what would be next in my life, or even how any income might be generated to possibly forecast when all this might actually happen, it was a hard question to answer. But like everyone who has come before me, and in everything I read, as I sat on that plane, I felt the pull. Africa is under my skin now, and I know that I’ll be back. The comfort of living in uncertainty that I learned within her borders now comforts me that although I might not be able to name how or when, (or with what money) I’ll be back.

As I crossed the border from Botswana to South Africa, a feat that took no less than an hour and a half, standing in a long line in weather of a temperature which has come be feel pretty damn cold to me (good luck MN winters), I was reminded that my sister country to the south will soon be hosting the World Cup. I have to be honest and admit that at first the idea of trying to go to a game of the 2010 world cup was an exciting one, hell I was already here, and I know enough people in SA that I could have certainly found some couch to crash on. This naïve excitement was soon replaced by the reality check of what a stupendous f*ck up the whole thing could and likely would be, and I sat back and smugly congratulated myself on my brilliant foresight in avoiding the whole circus and heading to London.

The further I got into SA, the more skeptical I became. Over and over again I saw workers working at a typical southern African pace to finish projects that should have been done long ago. When we tried to take public transportation, we had to inquire with no less than ten people as to how to find which route could take us to the Apartheid Museum (which they might want to brush up on as I would imagine there might be a few people wanting to go there, and not every person who pitches up in this country is going to have pockets bursting with money, as seems to be the general impression). When numerous people tried to rip me off, I chided them in my broken Setswana (and I just learned that SA officially has 11 languages, which explains a lot), which they laughed at and thought was perhaps Sesotho. Ishrugged and shook my head thinking of all the world’s people (mostly Americans from what I’ve heard about ticket sales) who were about to descend on this logistical African nightmare.

But then, as is always the case in southern Africa, we did find what we were looking for. The Apartheid museum. It was wonderful. As my eyes welled up with tears again and again (what!!?? They had an exhibit about Mandela. That man is so inspirational he makes me well up every time.) and I thought about what not only this country but in many ways this region has been through in the past hundred or so years. As I walked through the exhibits I thought about what I’ve learned from not only the black but the white South Africans I’ve come to know and understand here, and how many sides there are to every story. I was able to put my American cynicism and judgment aside (after all, we were going through some pretty big growing pains during the time Apartheid was being instated on our side of the pond as well) and feel true empathy for what this place and all it's people have gone through.

And I was reminded of the most important lessons that Africa offers up to those of us lucky enough to spend a decent amount of time here. The lessons are about hope. And perseverance. My time in southern Africa taught me a lot about holding out for things that I believe are important, even when it seems like they might never be accomplished, or are impossible. It taught me a lot about letting go of the things I previously thought to be important, or at least to question those things, as in a majority of cases I was hanging (sometimes quite desperately) onto a lot of stuff that didn’t truly matter.

The next day on the plane out of Africa I watched “Invictus” (more tears, this time because I missed all my South African friends and their crazy accents, and because hell, it’s a beautiful story, and more Madiba). For those of you who haven’t’ seen it- and I would highly recommend it- it’s about how after Apartheid the new South African sports ministry wanted to eliminate the name and colors of the national South African rugby team, the Springboks, as they considered them to be symbols of Apartheid and oppression. Mandela convinced them to keep the team, name and colors, and the team went on to win the 1995 South African hosted Rugby world cup (I have seen how passionate South Africans are about their rugby.. getting rid of the team would indeed have been a big problem.) and provide a unifying source of pride for the country.

As I reflect back on my so recently departed adopted homelands from the creature comforts and confusion of London, I am again warmed with excitement for South Africa again on the eve of their big show. Whether they are completely successful in their big debut onto the world’s sporting event stage, they have approached the big event with excitement and hope. I put my cynicism to rest, and my heart smiles on behalf of the country and continent that eagerly awaits its turn to shine and be acknowledged for something besides the heartbreaks and hardships which seem to be all one hears about from Africa on the evening news.

Good Luck South Africa. May your World Cup debut show the world all the good you have to offer.

“Invictus”

By William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

The fierce Seronga militia, ready to defend the humble hamlet in any battle....

(The title for this blog entry comes from the movie “Control” which I watched after a visiting Australian (Thanks Liam) put it on the hard drive of my computer. I found it a bit weird, but couldn’t get the band’s name that the movie was about out of my mind… and so here we are)

As the time approached for my family to arrive (back in late September.. yeah this is a bit of an old story, but it’s still cute to me) I began to look around my hut and realize some… “home improvements” might be in order. I was hoping to convince my mother that indeed I wasn’t living in the sort of squalor she imagined. The plan for when they came to visit was for all of us to spend at a night in the place so the family could really get the feel of bush life and what I had been describing about a night in a hut. As I thought about three members of my inevitably over packed American family arriving in Seronga I began to panic, and decided I needed to do a major and thorough cleaning (which ended up being really good-as despite risking heat exhaustion cleaning that oven all day I got rid of lots of shit-and the place probably needed it.)

Although I thought moving to Botswana would cure me of my pack rat habit, indeed in some ways it made it worse. I hate to shock you with this unsettling information, but there is no Target store anywhere on the continent. The dry goods store and hardware dealer in the village are only open until 5 on weekdays, and I’ve run into enough weirdly timed emergencies wherein I need strange things that I have come to save nearly everything.

Couple this with the fact that I have learned in this village how many uses there can be for what I previously would have considered garbage. As it seems the recycling center in Seronga is yet to be constructed (perhaps after the water treatment facility, road, bridge, electricity and Target store arrive… although I’ve heard a rumor that there is one in Gaborone) I also have guilty feelings about the bottles remaining from the products I’ve received from America. I’ve really begun to lose it when I see the plastic burning in the trash pile out on the compound. So thus I’ve become really creative.

Being that Febreeze has become a necessary substance in my time in Seronga (Thank you thank you thank you Keith for the influx of the stuff you brought when you came in November!) I had many empty bottles just hanging around behind my bathroom door, where I also have several million bottles of disturbingly colored water in case of emergency. There was also other spray or pump bottles that I had cleaned and saved, and the time had come to get rid of them. Remembering the Supersoaker water gun or hose fights we used to have around the neighborhood growing up, I decided to create little village militias and see what happened.

I put all the cleaned bottles in some plastic bags and set out to arm the neighborhood children with the next best thing I could think of to squirt guns. Anything that could pump out water. I walked to the first standpipe I saw near my compound and a gang of children came running at me top speed as expected. I had filled one of the bottles and sprayed the front line. They were a bit shocked and certainly confused.

Many of my little soldiers didn't have the fine motor skills or manual dexterity to operate any of the weapons that I gave them. But they sorted it out eventually..

Although not really on each other... but we had fun. Or at least I did.

These last days in Seronga are spent like pocket change deposited in the piggy bank of my memory, seemingly small, insignificant additions to the collective investment of all I have to look back on here. I run around pushing to fill each moment to its capacity, trying to squeeze out every ounce of meaning and significance. Once the dust in my head has settled and the fog has cleared I want to look back on these days with the proper amount of reverence and honor. I take mental pictures and actual pictures, trying to capture the essence of this place in jars like fireflies, running my fingers along the tapestry of life here to admire the tightness of the weave and the beauty of the texture.

I exist in the slow quick agony of time passing, and yet I feel I cannot fully absorb it, this life of mine that is ending. I paint with the children most days; we’re working on one last project of my vision and their design and talent. There could be no greater immersion into the heart of Seronga than to sit amongst the kids who have been my greatest hope for this place and listen to them speak to each other in their tongues that still remain foreign to me.

As in any other situation where an adult is present amongst a group of teenagers, they have a language of their own, in this case literally. Being such a strange exception to their culture, as white, as a female with some strange endowment of prestige within their village I think they evaluate me as an adult of such a strange combination of oddness that they trust me. I’ve set a precedent in which I speak to them quite openly in the hope of them doing the same, and me perhaps helping to guide them to hitch their wagons to a brighter star than to follow the paths of so many who have come before them and are now suffering the ravages of HIV. We’ve spent enough time together that when I ask them questions, even quite personal questions, they will answer me more frankly than many of the adults I’ve come to encounter here.

They have for the most part let me into at least the front foyer their world, and appear to enjoy spending time with me, yet I am not privy to all the secrets that pass directly in front of my ears. Every so often I will be granted a key, and English word or a word that I know or a translation tossed out in their acknowledgement of the doors and walls that still stand between us. I can get some of the words, generally not a whole phrase, so I’m left with a pirate’s trove of unlockable doors into their world. By the general inflection I can tell that it’s mostly about universal human things, the continuing wonders of teenage life, of awakened awareness, of seeing oneself as an individual, the curiosities of love and sex and relationships. I am far away in their discourse despite being presently physically near.

And yet I can tell I am close, on their map I am an ally at least, as they keep coming back to paint this wall that I have shown them, and they do it for no reasons their culture recognizes as valid, they come.

Each day, we unlock the door to the building, we take out the paints, we discuss the meaning in what we are doing, and how we want the messages to be conveyed. They try to defer to me as the adult and I refuse, not only allowing them creative control but insisting on it. We clown around and we work hard, and to my greatest joy I overhear a man on a donkey cart explaining the painting we are creating on this wall to his child next to him. I excitedly point this out to the teenagers I’m working with, whom in typical teenage fashion pretend not to care.

On occasion we will lift small children over the fence surrounding us and Bokamoso (whose name literally means “future”) teaches the small kids to write their names with markers and paper. They run by on the sandy road with their make-shift toys, riding headless sticks they imagine to be horses or perhaps donkeys and scream to get our attention. I take their photos, they babble at me in Se-yai. I bring some water bottles and spray them, they giggle and run around.

These are the days I hope they are all remembering a few weeks later when I have come to their classrooms to tell them goodbye, and that I am leaving now. Like I quickly learned to say “my name is not lekgowa, my name is Lorato” in their language, I have now mastered “I’m leaving tomorrow, I’m going back to America” strictly from repetition. The tiniest ones just repeatedly scream my name and smile and wave bye bye, my words meaning nothing to them, even in their own language. The ones I have taught to write their names in the sand with sticks appear slightly more bewildered, and the oldest ones that I would teach during days when there were no teachers look very alarmed. Some matter-of-factly ask when I will return, their patient smiles breaking my heart, and I use my other famous Setswana word, ga kitse (I don’t know). Some of them glare at me, others happily shout “go well” and some cup their hands over their mouths and raise their eyebrows while they smile, which to Americans is a gesture that indicates embarrassment, but here tends to have more “I’m upset” or “I’m shocked” meaning.

The teachers wish me well, and prompt the children to say “goodbye, Auntie, see you” in English, which they obediently do, but each of their faces peels a layer off my heart. Classroom by classroom I’m forced to repeat this ritual until I can’t stand it, and am forced to again and again lower very dark aviator sunglasses over my eyes, and back away smiling and waving, the tears burning the back of my throat until I can make it out the door, recompose myself, and head to the next room.

When the time comes to say goodbye to the oldest ones, we exchange email addresses (not that I would imagine many of them will have much better luck with getting internet access than I have), and in their faces I see them struggle between the manners they’ve learned, to not ask difficult questions of adults, and the fact that I've always offered myself as someone they could actually ask their hard questions to and I would do my best to answer them. They are caught between what they've lived their whole lives in their culture and what I've briefly taught them of mine. I know that they want to demand that I answer for myself, and I am a coward and cannot do it. They are still thoroughly Batswana, and thus can generally accept their lot in life without question, yet I can tell that many of them are not happy with me. I want to scream I am so frustrated that all I can leave them with are words and hugs and the promise to send photos. Instead I get into the car and allow myself to be driven away; glad I don’t have to be the one to actively walk away one more time on this day.

As I arrive at the airstrip to fly out of Seronga, I am grateful that the pilot is a close friend, and that the plane is full only of my baggage and truly Southern African Afrikaner men. They cannot by nature deal with females crying and emotions and will thus leave me completely alone. There is no comfort they can provide me with and none that I want from them. I curl up against the side of the plane in a small ball, pull down my aviators one last time and let the tears fall freely now, the engine is loud enough that the soft sobs that occasionally escape me don’t require acknowledgement. I am right, although Paul glances back at me a few times; they ignore me completely, and upon arrival at the Maun airport take me across the street and offer me whisky, which appears to be the salve for the African heart.It warms something inside of me, but it's not my heart, as that remains feeling cold and empty, missing the life I've just left and will not return to ever again.

taking off in Seronga

Landing in Maun

In which it ends as it began….

In tears.

On my first nights in Seronga I walked around my hut, hairless and confused, scared of every shadow of everything that moved (huge spiders, lizards and geckos on the walls, my own bald reflection in the mirror) as I tried to rid my hut of what I would come to learn are actually permanent amounts of sand and spider webs and set up the place in a way that would make it feel like a home or at least a place I felt I could be. I hung up photos from home and my favorite pieces of art on post cards, and put inspirational magnets on my non working fridge. As I did this I was usually crying, missing home and family and things that felt normal, desperately fighting the creeping feeling that I had made a colossal mistake which was about to evolve into a pretty epic failure.

And now two years later, as I walk around essentially taking apart the hut that has become my home, again I am crying. While I knew it would be no piece of cake to leave this place, I was unaware of the little slivers of pain I would encounter in preparing to leave that would rub raw the new skin I’ve grown since being here.

It seems it’s time to grow some more.

And while I’m ready, I’m also not.

I strip things off the walls of the hut that is home, some quotes and small passages are copied into my journal, most cards and letters read one last time in an attempt to copy them onto my heart. Photographs are stared at and the faces memorized in a desperate attempt to review what was once the starting line-up of my former pre-peace corps life and now sometimes appear like a police line-up of suspects and faded memories. The more reasonable part of me assures what has always been the larger, more powerful emotional, illogical part that when I get home, everything and everyone will fall right back into their rightful place, but doubts and fears crowd around like the ever present dust and sand of this hut. A lot has changed for all of us in the past two years. And the fact that I often forget Very Important Things that I’ve been told about by my family and friends (which breaks my heart on the regular) freaks me out to no end. There are Very Significant People whom I’ve never met, and am about to, and I feel almost shameful in presenting them with this bush-wacked, mentally and emotionally drained version of myself.

Simultaneously feeling constantly full and empty, whole and broken, I am very confused. Emotionally erratic. And numb at times. Very weird.

I stand out in my yard at the burn pile (sorry those of you worried about the environment but although Batswana may mostly burn their trash, and there’s no official “recycling” centers to be heard of anywhere in this country other than Gabs, they’ve got the reuse and refix thing down like what) burning elements of a life. It feels completely ridiculous to be doing this, but this is what we do with things we can’t use anymore in Africa. It’s hard because what I burn now doesn’t exactly feel like rubbish. Notes about projects and dreams which may or may not have happened. Heartfelt letters and cards from friends. Pictures of people back home (sorry guys, I can’t afford to bring or send them all home, I’ve kept the best of all of you) melt into the sand and I wonder if those people will recognize the bush chick they are presented with upon my plane’s final touchdown. Hopes and dreams and fears and plans all go up in smoke. It covers my skin and coats my hair as it blows up at me, entering my lungs and making my eyes water more than the tears that already drift down my cheeks. I wear the scent of my burned up life like a perfume, wanting some sort of physical essence on me to mark the pain I feel almost constantly these days. The smoke drifts past me and I struggle to let my feelings follow it into the atmosphere.

I have to be ruthless with the things I get rid of. I’m taking 50 bajillion planes between here and Minneapolis, and it seems baggage restrictions have changed quite a bit in two years. When I came here I managed to bring my body weight in luggage and not pay a cent of overage. Although my body weight has become less here, there’s no way I’m getting close to that and I can’t afford to ship much, either. I’ve become an expert at talking my way onto bush planes, but something tells me commercial flights might be a different story. I look ruefully at books that have changed my life, things people sent here as gifts or to make my life easier and I stress about leaving it all behind. I know they are only things, and that things can be replaced and in the end don’t really matter, but once a pack-rat always a pack rat. There are times when I arrive in the hut only to turn around and walk back away from it, unable to make any hard decisions about who to give what to and how. The hut itself is so small that any minor movement of stuff from one pile of indecisiveness to one of decision doesn’t lessen the chaos one bit.

Then there is the matter of whom to give what. Since the minute I arrived in Seronga people have been asking me for anything, everything, especially the clothes off my back. It’s an awkward conversation to have, especially when it’s repeatedly, but it usually ends when I promise them something, “lata”. Well it seems lata has come. And of course I can’t remember seven hundred some conversations of what was agreed upon, so how do I decide? I’d like to give things to those who need them most, but how do I know who needs what most? And would the old toothless woman who asks me daily for a few pula for local brew know what to do with a solar powered water purifier, even if she does need it most?

There are also times when I am feeling inspired, and I take a bag full of things I specifically want to give to this person or that. I can usually find them somewhere in the village and deliver things to them, maps, books, clothes, movies. We talk about what I’m giving them and why, and as we have these conversations I take mental pictures of these people and attach to those pictures feelings of love and joy. I try to not to think about whether they have HIV or AIDS, that they might be dying soon, or that these moments are likely “goodbye-forever.”

In the end I sold a great deal of stuff, an idea that might make some of you balk knowing the conditions that people here live under, but for me felt like the only fair and respectful thing to do. I simply couldn’t stomach the idea of coming here to teach self empowerment and that white people and black people are the same and that no, I am not rich, only to turn around and hand out things like Santa Claus on my departure. I sold clothes and shoes, random stuff, for 2 pula, 5 pula, 10 pula (to give you perspective, a can of coke is 5 pula, which is affordable to most of my village, and for clothes, no matter how worn out, that is cheap even for Africa. All those clothes that you donate to Goodwill, thinking you are surely clothing the whole of Africa? They are sold in markets in the streets, for much more than that).

It felt yucky to favor one group of people who were my friends over another, or to indulge that perceived white privilege or to have spent so much time telling those in the village that we are the same, only to show them exactly how different we are, that I can just give things away, when even they sell things that they make or buy in another village to each other. So after consulting with a few of my closest and most honest friends in the village I took a big suitcase full of stuff to the clinic and then to the tuck shop that I get most of my airtime from. With the young girl who worked there (a tuck shop is like a tiny little shack that sells small convenience type stuff) I showed her how she might display the things and how to actually give a little sales pitch. I also taught her how to figure out percentages, and each day she would write down what she sold, and figured out 25% of the total, which she was then given for her efforts.

village women and my co-workers at the clinic at my what-garage sale? It was really weird for me, but they had fun. I think in some weird way many of them had more fun with and were more excited with opportunity to buy stuff than the stuff that I had given them especially because it meant something to me. IDK...

In the end, I used the most of the money that I made from selling stuff to pay to ship home goodbye gifts that people made or bought for me. I know. I know. I KNOW. It's a sick irony I'm still trying pretty hard to come to terms with and I am relatively certain I will never be able to do it, or explain it, or anything other than that I understand in my soul that it's an irony of Botswana, and one of those things I'll never be able to make sense of in my brain and will have to just trust my heart on this one.

With the gifts I had tried to discourage them from doing this, for many reasons. I knew I would be traveling after and I wanted our memories to be not based in presents or gifts but experiences we had together and things we created together, like the public art and the workshops, but I couldn’t really find a way to respectfully and appropriately do that within this culture. Sometimes it seems American commercialism is our biggest export. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, and this is all very hard to describe in a way that makes sense to the Western mind, so I’ll just leave it at that.

One of the most adorable gift was from my closest friends Mr. Khumalo, who I did most of my men’s sector work with, and was the main organizer of my Seronga farewell party and who pitched up even though he was clearly ill. He and his wife gave me a wooden carved morkoro, the traditional boat used in the delta, with a note that said I should use it so I can find my way back overseas to Seronga someday.

It's funny, it was too big to fit in the box so I am carting this little guy on my UK adventure with me. The paddle (which I think is really a spoon, as in the delta they use a long straight wooden stick to pole rather than paddle through the river, which makes me suspect this may have been made by a Zimbabwean)makes me laugh for not only that reason, but I also like that it's as big as the boat, which would probably come in handy should I need to beat off any dikwenas (crocs) or dikubus (hippos)on my way in my little boat.

~Patty Loveless

Lately it feels I’ve performed a bit of a nasty trick on this village I’ve come to love. I came here and pushed and shoved and found my way into their hearts, I’ve become accepted and referred to as family, only to turn around now and leave, with the prospects of ever coming back very faint and fuzzy. The reality of keeping in touch is grim, with as much work as it’s been for me to attempt it over these months I can’t imagine it will be either easy, or when I’m honest with myself, likely for me to keep in touch with most people from here. When I consider the fact that it was my job to come to understand and care about these people, just as now its part of my job to leave, it all seems a cruel joke.

There are a few people within the village who have been sort of nasty to me lately, and I don’t blame them. Goodbyes are never easy, and everyone reacts in their own way. Some people appear to be quite alright with me leaving, by their understanding I’ve come from some far off planet they don’t understand, and they’re quite nonchalant that the time has come for me to go back there. Many of the men in the village who have offered to marry me and many of the old women who have offered to set me up with their sons have been alternating cold and super friendly in their last ditch efforts to seal the deal with me.

A person in the road translated for me the other day that an old man was yelling at me about why I’m not pregnant yet. When I asked a friend about this, he explained that people are a bit insulted that I’m not leaving with a baby that I’ve made here. People I’ve spoken fluent English with the entire time that I’m here have recently refused to speak it with me at all. It appears that they have now become upset that I cannot speak Setswana, as how else will I explain the Batswana culture to people back home if I don’t bring home a Motswana child that I’ve made here, and teach all of America to speak Setswana (good luck guys). These things seem funny to us as Westerners, but are very serious to the people from my village. Highly educated people are only half kidding when they confront me about these issues. I’m beginning to see that they are worried about their impact on me as much as I worry about my lasting impact on them.

In some vaguely American feeling ways that haven’t died in me here I feel strangely guilty about my ability and desire to leave this place. It’s hard to leave when I know that for people here it’s not an option. I can safely say that few to none of the people in Seronga will ever leave the continent of Africa, much less manage to make it into the United States, and yet I guess that’s my plan, to up and head back. It’s a horribly abrupt premeditated departure.

And just as it’s hard for some people here to say goodbye to me, I’m finding it difficult to say goodbye to them. I often lack the words (in any language, never mind the fact that we don’t exactly share one) to effectively communicate my feelings of how much these people and this place have touched my life, or the magnitude of what they have taught me. There has been a colossal shift in my perspective and how I see the world, and so much of that comes from the people I’ve spent time with here. I feel both like a child leaving home for a first day of school and a parent leaving their child with the babysitter for the first time.

Or perhaps there will be no babysitter. I won’t know for sure until after I’m gone, but I may not be replaced. In which case the baby—the village—may have to take complete care of itself. Which it is obviously capable of, hell the place has been here for quite a few years before me, and it’s not like I’m the first Peace Corps Volunteer to have served here. But I want the work we’ve done here to continue. I often think of my proudest achievement is that I myself don’t feel like I’ve done that much, rather I’ve helped others learn what they are capable of, how they themselves can make an impact, so what difference should my leaving really make?

I write my site report, a document intended to be less than four pages giving the basics of the village and yet the paragraphs keep coming. Notes about whom to contact in case of this or that, who can help with the transport of this or that, or who can provide you with vegetables, who has chickens, who might have spare petrol on hand. Last minute emergency numbers on a pad on the fridge. All for a person who may or may not come here.

With each little note, each small instruction, I find something growing in me, a hope that whomever encounters this place after me (be they Peace Corps or researchers or whomever) might feel the same love for it, approach it with the same passion, even as I wish it I know it is not possible. I know my experience has been unique, as they all inevitably are, but what other feeling can you have when leaving a place that has come to mean so much, has shaped you so powerfully? I want to screen them and run background checks! I want to interview and scrutinize any white person that comes through this village (as there is inherently a big responsibility in being white in this and I would wager many small African villages) for any reason to determine if they have it in them to fully appreciate this village for what it is, and to ensure that they will do all in their power to build it up, and love it and help it grow, and to protect it from harm. I can’t help but feel protective of Seronga, all the while knowing how I must let it, and all the people here, go.

As I prepare to leave Seronga, I’m struck by the similarities to the ways I felt when I left other places which have shaped me. They are places I think back to with longing, like in Minneapolis or Duluth. I drive away from these places that have challenged me in some way, that have earned my love with much more sadness than the places I left which have been lacking in personality. I never felt that sense of loss in leaving a suburb (sorry ghetto CR. And Shakopee, despite my residing in and decorating one of your houses, you were never home.)

Being the Lekgowa (white person) in such a small community, the people of Seronga are there and up in my business whether I want them to be or not (as I sit in the hut writing and coughing my lungs out half naked and sweating with fever, my sister Keitikile knocks at the screen door, as she’s heard me hacking and wants to know what the nature of my illness is. I give her the generic answer, which is flu, and she offers to send the children on the compound to the store for orange juice. When the co-op doesn’t have any, the children arrive at the screen door bearing armloads of green unripe oranges from the tree outside my window every few hours). People here know when I’ve been away for more than a day and want to know where I was and what I was doing and with whom, much like any parent of a teenager. If I’m out of the village for more than a few hours I know to expect phone calls and text messages, from people just wanting to “check me”. I know they care about me.

And I about them.

I feel, almost indignantly and surely unfoundedly, that I must prove that I know this place. This has been MY place, I have been hers, and we have been each others. I have in many cases taken “Seronga” as my de facto surname, many of my friends in other places know me as Jen Seronga, which is what they refer to me as over the radio in the bush planes. Seronga and I didn’t experience love at first sight, (or in this case first site), rather we had the sort of passionate love affair that grew over time, with each volley back and forth or challenge and reaction, with triumph and surrender. I feel a senseless possessiveness, as though the jealousy I’ve never quite come to feel over a lover is manifesting itself in my feelings of a place.

Somewhere along this journey, which started out as a difficult to fathom 27 months, the feverous countdown that ruled my first few months faded into the background, the march of time gone by getting bigger and the time remaining becoming smaller. At some point there was a shift and rather than a countdown, this became my actual life. It was no longer an experience with an end date but LIFE. Real life. I haven’t been on some escape or vacation or break the past two years, I’ve been living, and working, and even though sometimes I don’t take it seriously or convey that to those back home, it is.

And in that life there has been an investment.

I’ve given something here. Beyond the two years of my life and all that goes with that, I’ve given my passion and my energy and bits and pieces of myself. And it’s been good. And I’ve gained a lot. But at this point, any semblance of balance is long gone. There are elements of my life that involve mere survival, big elements, and it’s no way to become engrained in permanently living. Bush life is a hard life. And I’ve lived it. And now it’s time to be done.

I’ve come to care deeply about the people in and the essence of Seronga, and our stories have become interwoven. I’ve fought with and for and against this place, emerging from this battle bruised and battered and in some cases bleeding but in the end deeply and profoundly in love. As with any relationship that touches you so deeply to the core- how can you easily know when to say enough is enough? How do you calmly and gracefully walk away without the sting of little pieces of you being unceremoniously ripped out?

You don’t. But you leave it anyways, because it’s time. You trust that the words they’ve said a million times when it appears that a project or event is going to fall completely apart are true. “Don’t wodddy, Lorato. It will be Ohhh Kaaay.”

And you hope and pray, to their Gods and yours that it will.

So after over two years of life in Botswana, I managed to get my baggage that I'm traveling through Europe with (gee, was that me who said just seven short years ago that she had learned her lesson about this and would be properly backpacking through Europe when I did it next, only to be bringing a backpack...inside a rolling duffle? no! couldn't be. WILL I NEVER LEARN????) with down to my backpack packed inside my rolling duffle,some clothes to wear along the way, a few gifts and that is it. I think (hope, pray, ect) that the whole shebang is under 20 kgs (or we're going to rely on tears and mastercard to get that bag on the plane. or all 7 of them. eish.) Despite a Herculean effort on my part to get rid of stuff, including burning, burying, selling, giving away and just hiding and leaving stuff in secret piles from myself, I still had two boxes of stuff that I just could not part with and cannot bring with me. It's journals and baskets and kikois that I've acquired or been given that I want, but cannot take on 7 plane rides.

I had packed, repacked, and culled the boxes to the bare minimum and had sealed them. I was dreading the inevitable clusterf*ck of accomplishing anything to do with most anything in Botswana, but consoled myself with the fact that this would all be over soon, and this would be one of the last ridiculous things I would have to manage in Africa, besides getting myself off the continent.

So the other morning, Clara and I made our way to the post office early in order to ship three boxes (she had one to send as well) to the United States of America.

Below are pictures of what we accomplished.

We placed all three boxes on the counter, and told the guy they must all be shipped to the States. Now in the States, from what I can recall, and including all evidence I have based on the leftover postage tag on the box I am now sending back to it's homeland, when one ships something abroad, it is weighed and measured, information is typed into a computer, a total is given, and a neat little pinkish orange (and might I add presticky) white tag comes out with the amount of the postage, that money exchanges hands either through cash,(possibly check) or credit card, and a few forms are completed, attached to the box, and away it goes, arriving at it's destination in a few short weeks. Not so in Botswana. What a lovely and completely unexpected surprise!

Or not so much, as the only surprise was how much more ridiculous it was than even I anticipated.

Here of course there is no credit card machine at the post office, which I expected, so I had preplanned the route I was going to take to the nearest cash machine once I got a total. Predictably the total I was given was wrong, but I accounted for that and took out more than they said while Clara paid her total. This meant that Clara was given her stamps first. Yup that's right Stamps. Like you put on letters. Correction like you LICK and put on letters, except in the rest of the world they are like stickers these days. These boxes that weighed in the neighborhood of several kilos each (three and seven to be exact on my part. What? I had a lot to write in two years and many friends who gave me shit I couldn't part with when I left;-)

And we filled the things with STAMPS. THAT YOU LICK.

so as I said, since Clara had handed over her cash first, in a usual feat of Botswana brilliance despite the fact that I had the heaviest boxes she was given her stamps first. And as the post office is a government office, they never have enough of pretty much anything. Including large denomination stamps. So they give Clara her several hundred pula worth of stamps in the larger denominations. Then they give me my even more expensive total amount of the stamps for my smaller box. There were still quite a few stamps on each of these boxes, but we had used enough stamps that all the bigger denominations (and by this we mean like 4.60P, and 3.00P). So there were still lots of stamps on these boxes (see photos)

It was at this point, when we were already feeling a bit sick from all the glue that we had to ingest to finish off the first two boxes that the guy began handing over the pages of stamps required to send my largest and heaviest box halfway across the world. That's right pages plural.550.40 Pula worth of postage.... in 2.60 stamps. Which are round FIFA world cup stamps that you can cut out of a square outer ring to save space. And would have taken 6 years and the remainder of my patience for all things Botswana and I still had a week left in the country. Needless to say there were a lot. And we just stared at the post office guy.

And he stared back.

So we proceeded to make ourselves sick licking these nasty things (we had about ten stamps left when they brought us an ancient but useful looking roller-wetter thingy). As we are nearly finished, and have gone through a minor battle with this dude about whether we can put them on the bottom of the box, he then produces forms. Which we also have to put somewhere on this box.

At one point I asked what happens if all the stamps were to fall off, or if some of them did, as there were hundreds on the damn box and I was damned if this bloody thing was going to be returned to this bloody country for alleged lack of postage or some such false infraction. As some of the stamps are stuck on top of duct tape, and they are the lick and stick kind, this is a possibility in my American, preplanning, anticipate and prevent problems ahead of time brain.

His answer?

"They can't."

When I realized he had to then make a black stamp on top of each and everyone one of the hundreds of stamps already on the box I had to step outside and breathe through the rest of the process.

Those boxes may indeed arrive in America, but anyone working at the post office there is certain to have one helluva laugh.

THIS IS AFRICA.

My lighter box to be sent to the States

the heavier box

This is covered on all sides including the bottom. we had to fight with him about the form and whether the stamps could slightly cover each other. He seemed to think this was all our problem.

Mine and Clara's lighter boxes

“Be guided by the stars which you place well on the canopy of your night sky”- Mary Anne Radmacher

I sit. In the middle of the dark, in the middle of the night, in the middle of my yard, in the middle of a sleeping bag. The sobbing as subsided, which is probably good, as I can’t remember if my family is here, there are as many abandoned looking cars in the yard as usual. I sit under the Afrikan skies, waiting for answers, for some divine intervention to descend from the heavens and tell me what to do. For hours I’ve been sitting under these Afrikan skies, howling at the stars, in the end coming to the usual conclusion that this particular act has remedied nothing other than to take some of the pounding pressure off of my chest. Meanwhile my soul remains heavy and my brain foggy. I have no idea what to do. As Nathan has so eloquently reminded me tonight, no one is going to tell me what to do; I have to figure it out for myself.

Having this latest rug, the one filled with designs of staying in Botswana, pulled out from under me has put me into a tiny emotional tailspin. As if there is such a thing as a minor breakdown.

In trying to describe these feelings to friends from America who so graciously returned my panicked calls, this emotional volley back and forth between staying on another year and going, I realized I wasn’t certain either how to continue living in Botswana, or how to go back and resume living in the States. I suddenly didn’t know how to stay-or how to go. The result of this little crisis left me with extremely soar sinuses, puffy eyes and a burning, painful wondering in all this struggle and all this… everything, what exactly was I fighting for? And with whom?

In the past few years I’ve battled several demons here, not all of them self induced. It’s hard to place blame or declare victories in this particular war within me. The recipient of the reparations remains a mystery. I can’t see which way is up.

Because nothing is clear except the Afrikan sky. I wish my heart was the same, but instead it’s a mash up of confusion. I want to stay in Africa, I think, I want to stay in Botswana, but it’s hard to tell if that’s what I’m actually feeling or if I just don’t want to leave the children I’ve worked with here with as few options as when I found them. I never came here with the intent of being a savior, and quite frankly, babies are born and they die, and sometimes I look at them and wonder what their mothers were thinking bringing them to life under these conditions, in such numbers. It’s a cruel thought, but then being here on a humanitarian mission I have in some ways lost my humanity. I don’t want to, and never really had visions of saving people. I had hoped to try to inspire them to save themselves.

HIV is still here, by some estimates the numbers increasing from the time I arrived. Many of the living conditions I found here have not changed tangibly for the better, and that’s a hard way to leave the people I’ve come to know and love. While I very much doubt my staying in this country another year would make a big difference, I had some ideas born from what I witnessed in this place that I naively thought might change a little something at least, here or there. It is as it has always been for me, hard to let go. It’s difficult to look around and see success, which is why I think I chose to try to put it up on walls, in the form of community art. I’m not an artist, and I don’t know how to paint hope, but I think I found children who do, and I’ve given them paint.

I should go to bed soon. Nothing productive is coming from this exhaustion. Another day of not quite saving the world must be put to rest. I try to comfort myself with the thought that tomorrow I will paint with the children. The children who were born here, and aren’t the ones who died, they lived. They have defied the laws of the nature of this place to reach an age where they are aware of the world and the idea that it might possibly offer them more than what they’ve seen in their village. These teens are, as government mandates say “by virtue of their position,” survivors in my eyes. They both thrill and haunt me. And they seem to have reached out to me as a lifeboat, as some sort of magical white alien angel who can give directions to some sort of life, some sort of salvation beyond this village. And yet in less than a month I will leave them here behind, with only some vague lines and dots on a map embedded in lessons I hope they’ve found in my rambling speeches and overly personal probing questions to guide them toward the dreams they’ve shared with me.

To be the doctor that cures HIV. To be an artist or a graphic designer. To be a pathologist. To do these things, to become these destinies that they’ve held in their hearts like secrets because to voice ambition and hopes for their own futures in their culture is not accepted, to brag or achieve or be “better than” is not acceptable. Obedience and respect are paramount, staying with the group, for to stick one’s neck out and excel is considered bad form, and is often punished by their peers. And to dream of a bigger life, one outside Seronga, where one might do something more than farm and produce children, well there’s just really not anyone around who can fathom much less encourage that. Except for maybe me.

I tell them the things I was told as a child, that you can do or be anything you want. To them these are novel and new concepts. I weave for them stories of success, and tell them that with hard work anything is possible. These kids see me, so far from me home, following a dream that began as a hazy notion on a cold dark night and whether I like it or not, I’m a role model. I feel unqualified for this responsibility. And maybe I really haven’t been given this responsibility, maybe it’s all in my head.

Me. Yes me. The one who now cries in her yard in the middle of the night as I have no idea what direction I want my life to go. I’ve got ideas, but in steering by starlight I’m left in darkness, at least for now. I again look to the stars for answers and find only more unknown lands and constellations that while beautiful, lack the clear navigational bounds of the maps that have become my obsession.

Brixton would say things will look better in the morning. I lay my head down and cry until sleep creeps in and takes over, hoping that this indeed will be true.

“The possibility of untethering happiness and sadness from circumstance felt frightening and wonderful, like a new brand of freedom” Pam Houston.

After a few hours and a hellish night of crying and confusion and what feels like last minute arrangements with the Peace Corps administration to change the box I checked from “staying” to “going” I’m leaving Botswana. It seems so easy and is of course difficult (schlepping back and forth between every office with a fax machine in the village trying to send in forms) but the date is chosen, the money for a ticket home is being processed and I’m leaving.

It feels weird to have to change an entire life plan so quickly, but I guess since at this point I’m only living a year (or in the current case, a month) at a time it gives me a lot of freedom. I happen to be very skilled at meeting soulmate women named Jo from extreme western Minnesota who happen to be living in the UK at current, and both of these lovely ladies have agreed to host me during my spontaneously planned tour of the UK in June. When I studied in London with Jo(anna) in 2003, I said I would return there and visit London along with Ireland and Scotland before I turned 30 (ahhhhhh! Next year!!!) which was the only way to get myself on the plane to leave there the first time. With this deadline approaching, I thought now might be the time. This was confirmed when I text Jo(hanna) in Scotland and informed her that my Peace Corps plans had fallen through, and she, also being former PC whose plans went a bit awry, told me to book a ticket.

So I have.

Anyone with any contacts I should meet in London (1-11), Dublin (12-19), or Edinburgh (20-30) in June, let me know. I’m also making a one night only appearance in the big apple (NYC June 30-July 1) before I touch down in the mini apple (HEYYOOOOO Minnesota!!) on July 1. After that I have no plans.

Your move, Universe.

I continue to find it amazing and weird how if one is open to it, the universe will always provide what one needs, even if sometimes we are too dense to realize it at the time. As my time in Botswana comes to a bit of an unanticipated close (sooner than I expected, see most entries below) many of the dynamics of the friends I’ve made here have become strained in some ways. I think it’s natural that as “goodbye, possibly forever” approaches that there is a little stress involved, and it can get to be a nasty thing to deal with.

Many of my Peace Corps friends are dealing with their own burned out, ready to be done, not knowing what’s next or knowing what’s next and it’s hectic emotions or any range /combination of these feelings. Many of my researcher friends are dealing with finishing up their research and heading off to write, and my expats are dealing with another whole crop of temporary people leaving. The villagers are realizing I’m going and that they’ll probably never see me again. None of us know if I’m going to be replaced which is another dynamic in itself.

The Peace Corps volunteers that are leaving are like black holes hurtling through the universe, we are sucking the energy out of anything that passes by us. We’re exhausted, tired, and we stare at things a lot. We’re about to go through reverse culture shock, and when we get together it can often be like a supernova of moaning, low level hysterics, random tears and unsolicited anger, fear, or jubilation, at completely unpredictable intervals. We are unbalanced ions looking for the matching atom that can catalyze us out of this particular situation, and in the absence of that, we just bounce against each other in chaos.

Granted, it’s nice to not be going through all of this alone and there is obviously some comfort in knowing that other people feel just the way you do at this moment in time. There’s always someone to call and know that yes, they will understand you. And yes, being a friend entails being there for one another. But as this journey we’ve been on together comes to a close, we face a new challenge, and that is not one of being physically isolated from members of our own culture and alone anymore, as most of us have become pros at spending huge amounts of time as the only American in many kilometers. But we always know that when we do get to see each other, we know that the others are going through a similar experience. The challenge ahead is going to be a new one that each of us will be going through completely alone, that of being surrounded by Americans full time and knowing that few of them get what you’ve gone through. Reentering the atmosphere to find you don’t immediately recognize your own planet anymore.

Which in the end is ok. We’ll move on from this experience, readjust and be fine. But right now most of us are in the thick of it, experiencing a whirlwind of emotions and under a great deal of stress, either about our own or each other’s impending departure. This doesn’t lead to being the greatest of friends. Lately I’ve noticed us speaking to each other with more sharpness, or at times I’ll look over at a friend who is looking away with tears in her eyes.

Not that my friends are doing anything wrong. They, like me, are just living their experience. We are on one hell of an emotional rollercoaster. I know that I myself am currently no cup of tea to deal with. It’s to be expected, but it’s just hard. Sometimes you have to come to the conclusion that the friends that you have, and that are like a warm sweater or your favorite pair of jeans just aren’t the ones you need to wear ALL THE TIME. You might need to add a new item you’re your wardrobe of battle gear, one that serves to cover and protect an area of vulnerability you may not have known you had.

I remember when my friend Johanna was leaving for the Peace Corps three years ago. We had only met in about February, and I ended up being the one to drive her to the airport in June. We developed a close and fast friendship, one based in the knowledge that we would both be leaving each other for a long time, and that we wouldn’t be the sort of friends that are based in seeing each other all the time to meet for tea. I was sad that she was leaving as I liked her a great deal, but it was also comforting to watch someone go through what I myself would be going through in the next year. I would miss her in the immediate in my everyday life, but I wasn’t so used to her as being part of the fabric of my day to day clothes that I resolutely needed her for warmth. Johanna was like my ball gown, or my go-to little black dress, the perfect thing to find in your closet that makes you smile, and goes with everything.

I think that in her end of days before the Peace Corps I filled a certain role for Jo, I was someone who could quietly witness her experience without getting overly wrapped up in the emotional tug of war that went on as she prepared for her journey. Because I didn’t’ really know her “prethisbigthing”, I could just jump into her circus and play with the tigers with her without many questions or judgment. She gave me a map of how to move from one world to another, and in the year after she left, I followed it. During those last few days before she left for Georgia, she defined the parameters of her universe and I was lucky enough to be in the orbit.

Our friendship has grown over time and distance, and I’m looking very forward to seeing her and catching up on the past three years when I meet up with her in Scotland. She also had an abrupt end to her intended service, and having served in the Peace Corps herself there are just so many things that she “gets” without lengthy explanations. And yet her experience in Eastern Europe was undoubtedly different to one in sub-Saharan Africa, thus in being with her will hopefully move me a bit past this whole “Botswana is the center of the universe” thing I’ve been sucked into for the past few years. I mean it’s true, development and HIV and Batswana culture have pretty much been my life for a while, but I need to shake myself out of that mind frame a little, as I have a feeling not many people in America are going to be able to (or want to) listen to me ramble at length about these topics, which are never going to be the center of anyone else’s universe.

Enter Clara. It seems in the waxing hours of my time in Botswana that I’ve found another one of these versatile friends who came along just when I needed her. I actually met her in August at HOORC (Harry Oppenheimer Okavango Research Center) while I was pirating internet and waiting for a friend to finish with a meeting. It was like her second day in Bots and one of her advisors was introducing her around. As they passed me, he stopped, and despite not ever having seen me before in my life, began introducing Clara to me. As I began to speak his face lit up and he said “oh excellent, you ARE American, so is Clara.” She shyly shook my hand and we established that she was researching birds. I tried to explain that I wasn’t actually based in Maun, and didn’t know how great of a contact I would be, but I would try to introduce her around. As an extremely loud person, her quietness made me a little nervous, but we exchanged numbers and email addresses. I put her in touch with some of my friends in Maun, and didn’t see her much after that, as my work was really getting under way in Seronga, my family came to visit, ect.

As my service has continued on in Seronga, I have to admit that burn out has taken over quite a few aspects of my life. Over time I’ve gone from being the Seronga welcome wagon, hosting strangers and going out of my way to meet people and help them, to somewhat of a strange hermit. It’s not that I don’t want to meet new people; it’s more that I’m just tired. I’m tired of the energy required to give it the old Jen Katchmark “Heyya!” It’s been a struggle to fight against the limited communications with the outside world (read: The States) and I’ll be the first to admit that my efforts have slipped in the last half of my service. In the priority list of my life, new people have just fallen to the wayside. I know this isn’t good, and I’ve probably missed out on opportunities to have some really great relationships with some nice people. But I know a little part of me doesn’t want to take on the emotional work of getting to know new people, only to turn around and miss them and mourn them when I leave. It’s happened with the new houseboats people and the new Nigerian doctor and his wife. They’re right here in Seronga, and they’re really nice and friendly and keep inviting me over, but honestly, I just don’t have it in me. I’m running out of energy to give to new relationships, so I guess I’ve chosen to not really engage in them at all.

But I guess Clara made it in under the deadline. Because although I didn’t know it at the time, she needed to. From the time we met in August, Clara and I became the type of friends who would greet each other in passing (as is the custom of anyone in Southern Africa) and became familiar enough acquaintances that we didn’t have to put down a lot of the “new friend” groundwork. I seriously don’t know what changed about our intersecting social circles but suddenly we were seeing each other all the time. And shy little Clara reentered my life like a storm. I’m not even sure how exactly it happened, but all of a sudden Clara was on my constant texting list and we were always making plans that included each other. We went from nodding to each other in greeting to finishing each other’s sentences.

She’s come up to visit me in Seronga, and I’ve stayed with her in Maun. We talk a lot about our different experiences here, her having come on her own as part of her Fulbright scholarship and studying birds and not people. And yet there are some things about the expatriate life that are just constant and bond you together if you are one. She’s fresh and new in her excitement for her work, and her being American means that there aren’t the same sort of cross cultural struggles that can make making new friends under these conditions a pain in the ass.

It’s such a nice change to listen to her talk about her work (which is neither development or piloting nor tourism work, which seems to be the only other options of things people do here beside animal research) and her passion has reignited some of mine. With her I can talk about my feelings about leaving and the uncertainty of what’s next without it being the emotional mine field it often becomes with my other friends. Sure she’ll miss me, and I her, but we’re also both quite used to an existence unlinked to each other.

Not to say that it will continue that way. We’re already planning a road trip across the motherland at the end of summer (finances permitting). She’ll leave Botswana in August, and she also doesn’t exactly know what’s next.

I just feel so happy, and so lucky that the universe decided to bless me by giving me Clara (especially with all the cursing it I was doing when I first arrived in Seronga) and that my heart was open enough to invite her in. She came along when I thought my borders were closed to new visitors, and she turned out to be just what I needed.

Top: Clara and I at the animal party 2010

Bottom: Johanna and I before she left, 2007

“We are incomplete creatures. We cannot live alone; we cannot find our own meaning alone. We realize our potential, we become alive, only when we find ‘between.’”-Jonathan Haidt

While my village is Seronga, I have spent a fair amount of time in other villages in the delta, be it for groceries, banking, projects, internet, or sanity breaks. The one that has become my more commonly go to for most of the above is Maun. Although it is the farthest geographically of the villages I visit on the regular from Seronga, I can sometimes hitchhike there on empty bush planes. Maun is a big city compared to Seronga, and has so many amenities that some of them are usually working. Until you’ve lived a life of sporadic internet, water, electricity and let’s just really call it convenience, don’t judge.

So being that I have to pass through Maun to get to my village from Gabs or nearly anywhere else, and me being myself, I’ve made quite a social circle there. There are lots of young ex pats and pilots living and working in the place that is the “gateway to the delta”. It’s nice to get away from the constant development talk that seems to envelope all my PC friends when we do get together (even though that means I end up the unfortunate observer to enough pilot shop talk that I’m relatively certain I could fly a damn plane myself.) At the end of the day, with few Peace Corps volunteers near me, and none on my side of the delta, sometimes it’s nice to hear more English. And it’s a fun party town.

It’s with this in mind that I came up with the idea of having all my Peace Corps friends and my ex pat friends together to give Maun a proper farewell. So we rented a boat called “The Sir Rosis of the River” and that’s what we did. As there was limited space on the boat, we decided that it could start on the boat and continue after we docked at the Riverlodge. I was tired of pilots running around in their uniforms 24/7, so I declared that they would be forbidden from being pilots for a night, but rather a Pirate theme was necessary ( I also threw in Peace Corps, princesses and Peter Pan as theme options so as to not disclude anyone.) Few people actually came in dress but at least the pilots were dressed in something other than their uniforms. Throughout the course of the night many of my Maun friends showed up at the Riverlodge, and I got to say my farewells to many of them that I don’t usually see for one reason or another, be it that they are away at their camps or I’m in Seronga (I do spend MOST of my time in my village.)

So as the boat left the dock at the Riverlodge the passengers ended up being all Peace Corps volunteers, along with the Vixen and Clara. I began by trying to play good hostess and make sure everyone else knew Clara and Vixen, as the only non PCV’s, but my Peace Corps friends being who they are, all let me get through rather lengthy introductions of those two before informing me that they all knew Clara and Vixen. Egged on by my emotionally overwrought rambling of how I came to know those two, some of my buddies half heartedly insisted that I introduce everyone on the boat, even though after serving two years in the Peace Corps together, we generally know altogether too much about each other…

So back to the introductions. We all know I never need encouragement to run my mouth, but an interesting thing happened as I went around the circle (interesting for reasons other than the low flying plane that buzzed by shortly after I began—thanks Feeelix, you certainly do know how to make an entrance, although I have a feeling this was payback for me not moving the boat departure time to later). As I began jokingly introducing my friends to my other friends who already knew them, I realized how much I really LIKED everyone on the boat. I mean seriously, each person I looked at was someone I’ve shared something with here, either I’ve traveled with them, roomed with them, cried over the phone to them or they to me or usually both of us together, driven long distances with, shared good times and bad, and basically loved a whole helluva lot. And many of them had traveled insane distances to be here with me, flopping around in the Okavango Delta in the sunset (and Hairspray did it despite her personal policy of never swimming in water that’s not the ocean or a pool.)

We were pirated by some pilots who apparently begged borrowed and stole to get out to our boat and other friends met us in their boats along the river. Logistics had stressed me out as usual, but any effort spent was SOOOO well worth it, as I looked around and saw all my friends basking in what has become my paradise. I felt so grateful, and lucky to have met such an amazing group of people and to have shared the past two years and this experience with them. That boat might be named after a disease of the liver, but the organ that was currently afflicting me was the heart. It was completely full of love.

“Maybe the purpose of being here, wherever we are, is to increase the durability and the occasions of love among and between peoples.”-June Jordan

I recently returned from a trip to Maun sick as a dog. What started as a little tiredness and what I’ve come to call sexy bar voice (named as such after I first acquired the infliction, which had to do with spending time in smoky bars and screaming to be heard over loud bands in college. It usually went away on its own) has progressed quickly into a full blown “flu”. Now despite what we’ve all heard about the horrible diseases coming out of Africa, in reality there seem to be only a few. They are HIV, Malaria, TB and flu. “Flu” is the catchall for whatever else might possibly ail you that cannot be detected by one of the diagnostic tests for the other infections.

On the other side of this illness I’m left with only my own feverish recollection of my symptoms, which I’m relatively certain had something to do with sexy bar voice, which progressed into swollen closed throat to the point of waking up choking, which lead to phlegmy cough and feverish body aches. When it was just sexy bar voice I waited, as this one sometimes goes away on its own and generally has causal factors linked to my excitedly screaming too much. As I had been in Maun for my goodbye party, it seemed this one was a likely candidate. When I was still hoarse by Wednesday, I knew things were headed downhill.

When the painful throat began I started pushing fluids and ibuprofen, and I stopped by the clinic to check in on if it might be something serious. They only seemed to want to give me an injection (a move I’m certain has more to do with them getting a chance to stab me in my white ass than it does actually making me feel better because no matter what I’m sick with the clinic always wants to give me an injection.) I raided their ibuprofen stock and grabbed some throat lozenges (which are chalky and don’t work) and headed home. This would be the last time I left my hut in three days.

I laid around and rested, the kettle constantly boiling as I prepared myself some homebrew remedy that I think I inherited from some ex boyfriend’s mother as the gospel, as I can’t recall drinking hot lemon and honey water as a child. This mix was alternated with tea and regular water, with broccoli as the main food of choice, not because I wanted it, but because if I didn’t eat it soon it would go more off than it already was. Picking through that moldy mess alone took about an hour, and I prayed that stomach sick wouldn’t follow. At one point I can actually remember thinking how novel it was to feel like shit, but to have a completely different area of my body than usual be the center of my distress. I think I’ve prepaid on any future morning sickness, puking hangovers, or flu caught from a child who is in school with a bunch of other disease infested germ factories through my time of intestinal distress in Botswana. I’d like to think that my stomach has become iron clad, but I know the minute I reenter the States and all the preservatives and strange foods that I’ve been unwillingly weaned off for the past few years are going to throw me into a mess of stomach sick again.

So lying in my hut dying, I would have given huge amounts of money I don’t have for some chicken soup, but it’s certainly not a part of the typical Batswana diet, and thus not available in Seronga. The co-op (the only store in town) didn’t even have orange juice, although my host sister was kind enough to send the kids on the compound to my door with green unripe oranges plucked from the tree outside my window. I gnawed on them while watching episode after epsiode of Gossip Girl (until staring at the screen made my eyes ache).

During this time I would wake myself up in the night with a dry hacking cough that water alone could not quell several times a night. I would stumble out of my bed looking for water or SOMETHING only to get caught in my mosquito net-trip and fall, and grab around in the dark until I was drinking honey directly from the bottle. It seemed to be the only thing that would coat my throat. This happened several times a night until a stroke of genius hit and I realized that surely the Peace Corps must have given us something in our medical kit for this particular ailment before they sent us out into The Land Without Target (or pharmacies, or minute clinic, ect). So I fumbled around in the dark for that nearly empty toolbox and found that sure enough, there were 2+ year old cough drops. I popped one of those nasty soft bad boys in my mouth and drifted back into a feverish sleep, and woke up in the morning with the remainder in my cheek and pink drool on my pillow.

I spent the days restless and yet tired, and couldn’t leave my hut for fear of running into someone I didn’t have the voice to speak to. I’ve learned that when I’m really exhausted and on the verge of sick I can’t hear well, and my friend’s Afrikaans accent had been giving me some serious trouble when I left Maun. And he was speaking English. I knew I couldn’t manage to try to speak to people if I was going to have to decide which language they were trying to communicate with me in as well as responding in the Voice That Sounds Like She Smoked a Hundred Thousand Cigarettes.

I’ve found that being sick is one of the universal times that makes one miss one’s home and culture. I may be 28 years old, but you can bet your ass that I wanted nothing more than for my mother to rub my back, or for K-Train to make me chicken soup (likely from scratch, she’s domestic that way). Although I couldn’t really talk, I wanted to speak to the States so badly. It seems being ill was bringing on a terrible bout of homesickness.

I held out for most of the day, as I had to wait for it to become a decent hour to call America. I made a few calls, but it seemed that many of you were out enjoying springtime in the US (as winter descends on Botswana). Being “sick” is usually synonymous with “emotional” for me, so when I couldn’t get a hold of anyone I began pouting, which in the absence of any voice of reason to smack some sense into me quickly became a pity party of note.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had the sort of mind bending and soul crushing bouts of homesickness that were a hallmark of my first few (*8? *10?) months in Botswana. That sort of loneliness has to fade away, either on its own or by force, or I wouldn’t have survived here this long. I think knowing that I was going to be away from home for this long has sort of compelled me to push thoughts of home and people there further from my day to day mind, as if I thought about it as much as I used to, the pain would get to be unbearable. So as a coping mechanism, I think I’ve put you all on another planet; you are characters of some movie I remember seeing that used to be my life, but for right now only exists in a slow motion dream world.

Now that the time to reenter that universe is coming near, I’m struggling to remember all the storylines, the new characters that have come on in the episodes I’ve missed, and the details of the one I’ll soon again be playing. And all of this struck me a lot when I was ill.

After the “flu” incident I the cavity I had diagnosed but not filled in Gabs back in March flared up and I had to continue on with antibiotics and pain reliever drugs until I could get to Maun. (See previous entries.) Never in my life have I wanted so badly to be completely drug free within my body.

I survived Africa’s most recent attempt on my life, but the ache for home still remains. As my arrival in the motherland gets closer, it joins the emotional stew swirling wildly and erratically throughout my body. I guess if this whole experience hadn’t been worth it, it wouldn’t hurt so badly to leave, and time remains the only drug that will cure this ailment. And so I take each day as a pill, both bitter and sweet, as time takes me away from this world I will miss so desperately and into the one of my dreams.

It’s 11:30 at night. I’m huddled on the bench seat of a boat as it speeds through the darkness. The ebony sky meets the inky black water of the delta, with the stars overhead providing little in the way of light. The misty churning water from the outboard motor sprays up behind us like an angry apparition. The papyrus waves us by as we pass, concealing from view the night creatures whose hunt we may be disturbing. I shiver in the cool night air, as it whips by me I tuck my legs up under my skirt. I glance through the shadows at the Botswana Defense Force soldiers who wear lifejackets and are armed with semi-automatic weapons.

And I ask myself, an altogether not uncommon question in my life these days.….. How the hell did I get HERE?

My day had actually started quite well. My cooking/fridge gas had gone out the night before and after many previous knock down drag out episodes with the clinic I actually had an extra cylinder on hand. I changed it over and arrived at the clinic in the morning ready to begin what I imagined would be an extensive, headache inducing, tearful battle to replace the empty in anticipation of the next Peace Corps volunteer coming (I have no idea if I’ll be replaced or not, but it’ll be easier for me to wrangle the right people into replacing it than it will be for them.)

To my surprise Cliff, our principle registered nurse relented without a struggle and began to make arrangements to get the full cylinder to my hut and take the empty one back to the clinic. I was so surprised by this unexpected turn of events that I did something a little a bit out of character and asked if there was anything I could do to help him.

It’s not that I’m a cruel useless person who doesn’t help here. (After all, that’s sort of the point of Peace Corps isn’t it?) It’s that I don’t often ask if people at the clinic need my help because they then tend to put me to work doing the mindless pill counting type tasks that they are completely capable of doing and furthermore are being paid to do. I’m not here to take jobs from Batswana, and furthermore I don’t want to encourage the low productivity that is an epidemic in this country. I’m not going to do a task so that someone else can spend more time staring into space. I did plenty of this type of stuff when I first arrived in Seronga before I found my community projects, but since then I really don’t spend that much time at the clinic as I sort of just get in the way. My time in the community in meetings and creating projects has been much more rewarding and well spent in my eyes, so that’s what I generally do.

But on this fateful morning, exhausted, on call Nurse Clifford regarded me wearily and said that yes I could help him. He wanted me to go make copies. In Shakawe, 100k’s up the flooded out bumpy road and across a river.

Now I had had some plans of things I was hoping to get done this day, but I was so happy to know that I wasn’t going to have to beg and plead and cry to get my gas replaced that I agreed to his request. Having my gas replaced so painlessly already made the day feel like a success. I figured I would build the driver’s capacity by teaching him to use the photocopy machine at Shakawe. This time of year I seldom leave the village unless it’s absolutely necessary, as the road is often washed out from heavy rains and the current on the river at the ferry is strong and slows down the rate at which it can carry vehicles and people back and forth. Epic long waits for the ferry are normal this time of year, and the ferry docking point has no toilets, shops or even shade. It’s not something one does for fun. I wasn’t completely thrilled to be going back up the terrible bumpy road that I had just come down the day before, but I had a book to read and figured it would be fine.

I should have taken heed of the type of day this was really going to be when I arrived at Shakawe to find the photocopy machine there was out of toner. This would be a simple fix many other places on Earth, but in a place with no Office Max for about a bajillion miles this was not a problem that would probably get solved in my time left in Botswana. With a small sigh I realized that in order to get these copies I would have to go to Gumare.

So another hour and a half down a paved road, book finished and half an Oprah magazine retired to the dustbin of my memory, it was now midway through the day and I was getting slightly tired. When I arrived at the RAC in Gumare I took a deep breath and walked into the office I was supposed to make copies at only to find it broken. After consulting every person with access to a copy machine in the entire office block, and begging, pleading and finally probably stealing in the end, I had about half as many copies as had been requested of me, but it was going to have to be good enough.

Now I could get into a huge and extensive complaining session of all the things that were poorly planned or thought through about this task and this day, but so many of them are typical top daily life in Seronga that I will gloss over them. The main things that set my head twitching slightly with frustration were that Cliff hadn’t called ahead to ensure that a copy machine somewhere within a 500 kilometer radius was actually working before sending me on this goose chase. I also would have appreciated if once he did send me out he might have done it with enough diesel in the truck to get back. None of the government departments had diesel, and the truck was now down to less than a quarter of a tank. When we arrived at the petrol station, there was no diesel (also not rare), not that we could have bought any if we had had money because all the government purchases must be made with no less than five quotations, and then it must be done with a government purchase order. It will not be a disease or a wild animal that kills me should I not make it out of Botswana; it will inevitably be the bureaucracy. I won’t even go into the fact that the district sends us out reams of blank copy papers only to return back 500 k’s to fight with people about making copies on them.

And none of this incredibly frustrating situation would have even been worth mentioning had it not ended with me in a small boat in a hippo infested delta in the middle of the night in a flood. So back to that.

When we reached the petrol station at the junction of the main road, I saw that there were other people from the clinic there, loaded into a clinic ambulance from one of the villages on this side of the delta. It appeared that in addition to my crazy copy run there had been a boat dispatched from Seronga to Sepopa with patients who needed to go to the hospital. I looked at them and only half wondered why they hadn’t been sent with the copy task, but really at this point it didn’t matter. I realized I now had a choice to make.

Option one was to try to go back to Seronga with the truck I had come with, which at present did not have enough diesel to make it with few options for getting enough to make it all the way home. In my mind this truck was also running a relatively good chance of getting into trouble in the dark on the horrible bumpy road. I also took into consideration that it was already after four and the last ferry crossed at around 6, meaning we might well get caught in Shakawe for the night. The animals are moving at this type of year, and elephants are killing people on the regular in Gumare. It’s a good policy to avoid the roads at night.

Option two was to jump in to the other ambulance with the people going across from Sepopa to Seronga by boat. The boat driver who would be going was quite notorious for making many many unnecessary stops along the way to the boat station, but then the truck driver might do that as well, he had his whole family with us in the back of the ambulance. My currently frazzled nerves didn’t have a lot left on the old fuse. Taking the boat would potentially save me an hour and a night in the bush on the road with elephants. I wanted very badly to be done with this day and to get into my own, warm bed.

So of these two options the present flood made both of these less than optimal choices, but two years of scraping by in the bush have done nothing for me if not made me a fond fan of Russian roulette. Would I prefer to die by hippo or elephant? Would I like to suffer on land or on water?

Looking to take the easy way out, I jumped into the car that was heading for the boat. We of course stopped in several villages along the way, and then when we actually got to the boat launch (which the next day would be completely flooded out to the point that it was unusable) the boat driver got into the boat and zoomed away to try to find a place we could launch from for next time the boat came across (again why he didn’t stay with the boat and work on this during the day while everyone was at the hospital, I have no idea) after 20 minutes of him driving off somewhere in the river I began calling his cell, it was getting dark and we needed to move if we were going to make it home before it got too dark.

He eventually pitched up, and the auxillry nurse who had been escorting the patients, the remaining patient and his young child and I loaded onto the boat. I got out my ipod, opened my magazine, and prepared to relax through the hour and a half trip.

Not so, Lorato! About ten minutes in, something in the steering column snapped, the driver lost control of the boat and we drifted at a pretty good speed into the papyrus. The driver reversed and tried to straighten us, only to have us smack back into the reeds. The whiplash inducing jarring startled me and I looked up wearily from my magazine and asked the nurse what the problem was. It appeared the boat would now only make right hand turns. We couldn’t even really keep going straight ahead for any distance between the current and the curve of the floating papyrus islands. This was not a good thing driving on a winding delta river that carries on like a snake heading through the bush. This was a fuck up.

Now I will be the first to admit that I possess very little knowledge or understanding of most things mechanical. Prior to Peace Corps the only thing I used tools for was to indulge my hobby of putting together pre-fab furniture purchased at Target. However, living alone in the bush has caused me to develop a habit that I previously thought was a strictly male tendency related directly to their Y chromosome. “Cute shoes” Barbie appears to have somehow evolved into “Bushchick” Barbie in the past few years. This means that whenever something breaks (or appears to break) an overwhelming urge takes a hold of me. I find myself needing to hold tools in my hands and furrow my brow, hovering over the ailing thing trying to diagnose the nature of the problem despite never having witnessed the working parts in action before.

Despite the fact that I myself don’t have a car, several of my female friends here do, and it seems we find ourselves getting into crazy situations on the regular. My time in Botswana has thoroughly destroyed my former idealism that Prince Charming is indeed on the way on a white stallion to rescue me from these crazy situations, so I’ve had to pinch hit with enough broken things to become quite good at being a bush mechanic.

Africa seems to hate both electronics and mechanical themed items, and when a foreign produced thing that makes life more enjoyable or efficient shows up here Africa immediately goes to attack and destroy it. This includes vehicles, their engines, office machines (see above re copier machines) ipods, cameras, cell phones, printers, computers, pumps, generators and the list goes on. There is never enough spare, replacement or correctly fitting parts for anything, and most cars (and often bush planes) are held together with any number of curiously rigged temporary fixes. I have observed this, learned it, and try to live being always prepared to address any problem that may arise from these conditions.

It is with this in mind that I get out my red leatherman, turn the flashlight on my phone which I hold between my teeth, and climb under what I think is the steering column. I feel around for loose or broken things first off, and then follow that with a short bout of random banging the tool on things. I took a few things apart and put them back together with no success in diagnosing the problem. During this episode the boat driver and the nurse are sitting around as casually as if they’ve just gone on tea break chatting in a hybrid of Se’yai and Sembugushu. I mentioned to the boat driver that he might go to the back and see if he can find a way to detach the outboard motor from the broken steering parts and drive the boat from the back. He looks at me as though I’ve just grown a second head (English does that. But I really don’t have the Setswana for “drive shaft”. And I furthermore don’t know if boats have them.)

By this time it was getting increasingly dark. I looked over at the nurse, who is showing very few signs of attention much less concern. I’m tired, I’m extremely irritated, and I’m stuck on a boat in the middle of the Okavango Delta. Greeeeeeat.

I decide to use the other main tool for fixing and making plans that I have on me at all times. My phone. I go to call Cliff, the nurse who sent me on this hell voyage. No signal. Of course not. So I resign myself to drifting through the delta on a broken boat.

And I feel no real sense of urgency about this until I hear the hippos grunting from the papyrus near the boat. While I have a healthy fear of the animals that populate the area I live, they don’t generally cause me great fear or panic. I’ve got lots of animal researcher friends, and it seems that around cooking fires we spend a lot of time trading my crazy “development, Peace Corps, HIV/health policy and why-this-country/culture/people are bizarre or challenging” stories for their “this-is-why-these-big-crazy-African-animals-do-what-they-do-and-aren’t-people-so-totally-misinformed” fascinating facts. I’ve had enough run-ins with animals to have a good idea of what they will do in many situations and when there is really reason to be scared or not. I can look at a riverbank and have a pretty good idea of whether it’s a nice spot for hippos or crocs or elephants to hang out. It seems that in addition to the great resume building skill of “Bush Mechanic” I can add “African Animal Behavior Specialist” to my illustrious CV.

So while I know that tourists pay thousands of US dollars to come hang out in my neck of the bush and drive around in planes, boats and safari vehicles to see these animals, I’ve become accustomed to trying to stay out of their way. The animals that live in the protected parks and places where there are lots of humans are often quite used to people and if you don’t bother them, they won’t often bother you. But they’re still wild animals and this particular area is not a park. It’s the bush, specifically the river (which equals water and drinking and feeding and all sorts of guaranteed animal necessities) and I’m told that more people are killed in boating accidents with hippos than any other African animal. Being vegetarian, hippos generally kill you because you irritate them (say by driving around the delta in a boat that only makes right hand turns and keeps crashing into the papyrus where they are feeding, probably with their young, at night) they don’t bother with you after that. They leave you for the crocs, who will take your body and bury it, and finish you off once you’ve properly rotted. Several people in my village have died from hippo attacks while they were washing laundry or fetching water in the river already this year.

If for no other reason than to deny my mother the fulfillment of her ironclad foreboding that I’m going to die out in the bush, I decided it was time to make a plan.

I asked the nurse what his plans were. After staring at me blankly for a few seconds he looked down at his phone, which is on the other network and has signal. And no airtime. So he can’t call anyone. I looked at the boat driver, same thing. Helpful. They seemed to sense my impending panic, and began speaking to each other in their rapid fire African linguistic gumbo. I heard mention of trying to get to one of the camps in the area and asking for help. By my estimate, we had traveled about 15 minutes at proper speed which left us with anywhere from an hour and 15 minutes to an hour and a half to get back to Seronga. We couldn’t turn around and go back to Sepopa as the launch was flooded and we couldn’t get out to the main road or the village without a vehicle, the one we had arrived in had simply dropped us and gone back to the clinic at Sepopa, which would be empty at this time of evening. Although the current was presently working with us, heading around another churning curve could change that quickly. With our present course of action being the “right-turn-slam-into-the-reeds, reverse-backwards-into-the-current-and-float-out-into-the-middle-and-repeat” technique we weren’t making much headway and were wasting a lot of fuel.

Finally we got into cell range and I started making calls. The head nurse back at the clinic said he would contact the police and BDF (Botswana Defense Force-the military) to come and rescue us. I called the houseboats company that operates out of Seronga, but it seems they had had their opening of tourist season party that day and all their boat drivers were too drunk to be given the keys to the boats. We heard back from the BDF and they were refusing to come as they rotate camps every three months and none of them were familiar enough with the area to navigate it in the dark. The police boat was broken as well.

I began to consider that we might just spend the night on the river with these hippos. To distract myself I began reviewing what I might do should various horrible possibilities occur, alternating these visions with farfetched dramatic rescue fantasies. I half heartedly looked around for helicopter landing sites and began packing necessary survival tools in my bra for if we should be upturned by an angry hippo. I hadn’t planned on being on the boat that day and was wearing a skirt as it was laundry day, which irritated me thoroughly as I pictured swimming against the current with the damn thing dragging off me. My flip flops were in their last days, and wouldn’t be a huge loss but I would want them if I then had to walk a great distance. And how would I describe to people where I ended up should we shipwreck this stupid boat? Should we stop with this stupid ramming and just wait to see if someone could come tomorrow? By the time morning comes if we keep this up we will waste all the fuel and won’t be able to get home even if we can figure out how to fix the boat in the light. The delta channels are made up of lots of papyrus islands, which aren’t actually solid ground but floating bog like things. Papyrus is better than sandy banks in terms of croc habitat, but can be worse for hippos. What was the houseboats schedule of boats through to Sepopa? Where is the nearest landing strip, solid riverbank, and road? The lights on the boat are attracting mosquitoes; did I take my malaria meds today?

These factual/practical and fantastic/crazy thoughts swirled together slowly through my head like the river surrounding us, both disturbingly getting equal seriousness and consideration. (In hindsight it seems dramatic, but as I sit here recounting the night with Clara whom I was texting prior to the rescue, she confirms that indeed it was dramatic. This is my life…) I was exhausted, worried, hungry and really tired of situations like this not being extremely regular but at most times possible in my life. And it was really, really dark. The cell service had gone out again, and with nothing productive left to do to remedy this comedy of errors which began in search of photocopies, I lay down on the bench of the boat and went to sleep, the revving of the engine and the crashing of the papyrus lulling me into a strange dream world.

After a brief and fitful sleep I woke up and another hour or so had passed. We’d been on the river for about four hours. I was informed that after most of the district being called in search of help the clinic had gotten in touch with TD, the old man who recently retired from his job at the clinic and calls me his daughter. He knows the river well enough from a lifetime in Seronga and was willing to come out into the channels in the dark to lead the BDF boat to rescue us. It would take them an hour to get to us and another hour for us to get back home, but I would see my bed tonight.

So the boat driver finally agreed to abandon his ramming and reversing and pushed the boat into the reeds to park it. We sat in silence and I contemplated today’s course of events and how much of it was unnecessary and caused by a lack of preparedness. I’ve been in Botswana long enough to know that everything always seems to work itself out, but in the heat of the moment this one is usually a challenge. My patience has grown by leaps and bounds in the time I’ve been here, and I have remained calm in some pretty random and potentially frightening situations. In the current one, after raising my voice slightly a few times to remind the people technically in charge of this boat that they might take a bit of action to get us out of here, I hadn’t been freaking out too terribly. (As I write this a few weeks later I can’t even remember if I mentioned this whole scene to my mom) When there was signal I sent some text messages to my closest friends describing the utter ridiculousness of my life, but I was generally more certain than not I was going to survive this particular incident. And while this weirdness makes for great blog entries (at this point I begin naming and composing them in my head before I’m sure I know how it will turn out) it’s sort of a tiring way to live. Although there’s a certain beautiful simplicity of bush life that comes from the fact that there are just not too many options and thus decisions to make, this always trying to be ready for any crazy situation that might happen (and really, who could predict this one?) gets tiring. I know that America is going to be complicated in all the options and the fast pace and overwhelming presence of basic amenities, but my God in some ways it’s going to at least be EASIER.

It’s common for me to hear from Americans that they really admire what I’m doing (even thought I think we’ve all got a tenuous grasp of what that might be) but it’s been pretty hard for me to describe what exactly about this life is challenging. It’s hard to live in so much uncertainty, and not being able to control situations like this is really tough. As far as I can tell there is something in Batswana culture that makes them so calm and low key, they take situations as they come and rarely stress in situations like this. In times where my eye threatens to twitch out of my skull because I’m so frustrated when something has gone wrong that could have easily been avoided (regular basic maintenance on the boat, more tools kept in the locked compartment created for that purpose, a plan of action for emergency situations, the boat driver possessing a little more knowledge about how to properly drive and fix the boat) they are as cool as cucumbers, patiently waiting for the proper bureaucratic process to fall into place that may or may not remedy the situation.

I spend my life here trying to avoid any more discomfort than is already inherently present in my life, to eliminate possibilities for long periods of time spent hungry, thirsty, and uncomfortable or in some form of suffering or discomfort. The Batswana just accept this as their lot, and as they wait for the answers to magically reveal themselves as to how to get out of situations like this, there is no consideration on how to avoid it for the next time. There is a tremendous lack of planning or sense of urgency about anything here, despite my favorite phrase being that I’ll “make a plan” and my highest compliment to someone has become to call them “useful” or “prepared”.

I survived my late night boat trip, settling into my bed at 12:30 in the morning. Below is a photo of me and TD, my rescuer.

What could have been….

Up until recently, I was under the impression that I would be staying in Botswana for a third year of Peace Corps service. I had found an organization I could envision myself having a great experience with, accomplishing some of my goals, possibly undertaking one of my dream projects (or at least discovering if it’s possible) and making some decisions about grad school. I heard last week that the opportunity I was hoping for isn’t going to work out.

To look at it generally, Botswana seems to have been a tough country on my class of Peace Corps volunteers. Of the nearly 50 of us that have made it through the whole contract only me and possibly one other person seriously considered staying (Bots 6-the class that arrived the year before us- had 6 people extend for a third year of service). Through the history of Peace Corps in Botswana, many volunteers have extended, stayed, married locals or are currently back working in the country. It seems for us-Bots 7, Botswana pulled out all the stops. We’re ready to go.

For me a third year would have been a similar and yet completely different experience. I still would have had to say goodbye to Seronga, but it would have been goodbye with the possibility to come back for a visit at some point in the next year and see how things have been getting on without me, to smile at and meet babies born, to greet the elders, to check in with all my friends and co-workers. I would have still been feeling like I was doing something to champion the cause and meet the needs of those I’ve come to love in Seronga, albeit from a different level and a great distance from where I started. A surprisingly large number of people from the Okavango area make it down to Gabs on occasion, and I’ve rarely been in the city or most other places in the country without running into someone I know from my village or a surrounding one.

I would have served a third year in Gaborone (the capital city) and it would have likely been with an American based international NGO. There would have been some pieces that were still irritating, either for their Peace Corps or country and culture of Botswana bureaucracies. It would have been rewarding to know that I was taking what I’ve learned about the people I’ve come to know and love and I hope in my own small way understand. Professionally it would have been a great resume builder and an opportunity to help sort out more deeply what I want my graduate education to focus on.

But in the end it didn’t work out.

After I found out that company A wasn’t going to happen, I was again without a plan. While I’ve become pretty used to and adept at dealing with many aspects of my life being in constant limbo and uncertainty, this was sort of the straw.

When I was focused on a project with an organization I felt strongly about, I was completely willing to continue with what I felt was my mission here, and I felt a sense of purpose. I was settled in my heart and soul with staying. Another year of my life was worth spending on this cause, in this place with this culture. But once that was no longer a possibility, there was no way of making it fit. I had another phone interview with another organization, but I knew five minutes into the conversation that it wasn’t going to work. When I didn’t get a position at option A, it made me feel like my career was breaking up with me. When I spoke with option B, it was like being on a horrible blind date when you want to walk out after five minutes. That left option c, which was to head back to the States. It was the option my mother and many friends had been appealing to me to make for some time. But it was only after my heart was finished breaking that I could see inside it and make the decision with to choose this path. To come home.

I’m still pretty certain that the fall of 2011 will be the year I return to graduate school, so one item firmly on the docket of the next year of my life will be preparing for and applying to grad schools. This also means I need to sort out for good what exactly I’d like to be when I grow up. The past two years have brought me ever more deliciously closer to putting my finger on it, but before I make that major investment I want to know for sure that I’ll be able to get what I want out of it. I’ve got a good idea of the where I intend for that to be, but as usual with me, should a sexy opportunity not in the prescribed region turn up; I’m not going to eliminate it without careful (impulsive) consideration. Grad school can obviously be applied for from anywhere (as my Peace Corps cohort can attest- how these guys did it is beyond me, but I’m very proud to be a part of such an illustrious group) so that doesn’t really limit me.

In the end the future, and the geography in which that takes place, remain a mystery, for now.

So with options for staying carefully considered, I walk away from this part of my life, and I close this chapter.

Should I stay? Nope I’m going.

And on to the next.

This is a project I've had on my heart for a while. I envisioned for the children at the junior secondary school to be able to create Tibetan Prayer flags expressing their feelings about HIV and AIDS for "month of youth against HIV" (March in Botswana). I distributed information about the history of the prayer flags, along with the instructions that they were to express themselves in any langauge they felt appropriate. There are currently over 150 flags flying, with more in progress in at least 5 languages.

I had been looking forward to my upcoming vacation to Tanzania for some time. Village life was wearing on me, and the holidays had passed in their odd way of doing so here, by occurring with little fanfare and by leaving an empty sensation in my heart which I’ve come to learn is where “family” and “friends” generally reside. I don’t miss the commercialism or even the somewhat obligatory gift giving of the holiday season in the States but I do miss the ritual of celebrating with family. I spent this past holiday season with my adopted family, the Mcfarlanes on their island, and had exhausted a great deal of energy orchestrating a New Year’s Eve bash in the bush. I was ready for another piece of home, and it was coming in the form of my oldest friend, Nathan. I was meeting him in exotic East Africa, which I knew relatively little about past expecting there would be amazing food, great fabrics, better music, the Swahili language…. and a beach.

Dudu and I arrived in Gabs with the Vixen’s cousin Lloyd, and were staying with a former Peace Corps volunteer and friend of mine, Charles. His house is luxury personified for me; he’s got a pool, a bathtub (with HOT WATER) a washing machine and a tumble dryer. The first night we stayed there and had a nice dinner together with Charles and another American former Peace Corps/ex pat and the next morning he left for a business trip, but told us to feel free to stay in his home for another day until we flew into Dar es Salaam. Totally into the idea of saving money on accommodation in expensive Gaborone we decided to do just that.

The next morning Charles was walking out the garage door to the waiting car with his suitcase and as he was explaining to me the various doors to lock and keys for this and that, the power cut out. I had heard that especially in the lead up to South African’s World Cup celebrations this year that the occasional rolling black outs were becoming more frequent (Botswana imports nearly all of its power from its neighbors, the only power plant in the whole country is in the middle-in Serowe, which is-not coincidentally in the presidential family’s ancestral village. Whenever Namibia-who supplies the western side of the Okavango Delta panhandle- or South Africa-for the rest of the country-flips the switch because they need more juice it seems Botswana gets cut off) so to me this seemed normal. Charles appeared irritated at the turn of events but not confused, and for me being from a village where we never have real electricity (ie electricity not run from generators) none of this seemed terribly out of the ordinary.

Charles gave me some last minute instructions, promising to call me from his destination and was on his way. Dudu and I decided to run some last minute pre-vacation errands in the big city of Gaborone where we don’t get that often, so whenever we are there we have a list a mile long of things to try to get accomplished. We spent nearly a half hour smelling shampoos and marveling at the ingredients and packaging of conditioners (not exactly an efficient use of our time, but then it’s a sure sign of being bushwacked). We finished some high speed interneting, withdrew some cash to exchange to pay for Tanzania’s overpriced visa (100$ US!!!) had a great Indian food lunch and were just headed back to Charles’s with the hopes that the electricity would be back on so that we could wash our generally disgusting hand washed clothes. At this point everything I own is stretched out beyond recognition, and barring a complete wardrobe overhaul with new, properly fitting clothing (not gonna happen anytime soon) we were both excited at the prospect of trying to shrink things back to some semblance of a normal shape in the dryer.

To our dismay, not only was the electricity not on, but there was a new alarm blaring through the house. At just this moment Charles called, and I asked him about the new noise. It appears his house has several alarm systems, which like most things in Africa, work or don’t work properly at will. He tried to explain to me how to turn the system off, and I continued to try to disarm it for a half hour in vain. This is probably the point at which a normal person who has not spent little time in the developed world for the past two years might begin to suspect that something was seriously not right. Not being one of those people, and being quite used to things not working properly, I just accepted that even the big cities in Africa aren’t infallible, and chalked it up to another irritating problem which I had no ability to truly do anything about.

What we would learn later is that Charles’s house has another alarm system in place that I’m not certain that even he was completely aware of at the time.

This alarm was for when the wires of his electrified fence had been tampered with.

Someone had cut the electric fence.

And since there was no electricity to the house at the time, they were able to do so.

Oblivious to this fact (and later retrospectively, we realized that someone had likely been casing the house the whole day, waiting for the opportunity to carry out what they would wait until deep in the dark of the night to finish) we shrugged our shoulders and did what we were used to doing, which is making a plan. For a while we sunbathed and floated in the pool. Then we called Lloyd and asked what he was up to, and ended up going to his family’s house for dinner. He brought us back home around 10, at which point we were more than dismayed to find still had no power.

It was at this point that I realized something was very strange. Only Charles’s house and the gate next to it were missing power.

By now we were tired, irritated that our brief dalliance with luxury was being interrupted (sure, we were going on vacation but we would still be in Africa, and we were still generally broke, and really what we intended to do in Tanzania was “traveling” which on a Peace Corps budget generally involved some level of strange or uncomfortable conditions) and ready to move on to the next phase of our adventure. I called Charles to inform him of the continued alarm, which we could only both agree was weird, but as neither the security company nor the police had come, we didn’t really know what to do. So Dudu and I decided to just go to bed, and get up early and pack before our flight in the morning.

As is my habit, my clothing and stuff had basically exploded all over the room we were staying in. As we had intended to do laundry, Dudu’s had as well. Charles had told me where a torch was, and I grabbed that and headed back to the room to go to sleep. Dudu had locked the front door, but being tired and with the alarm still blaring, it appears that I didn’t do a very good job of ensuring that all the doors in the house were completely shut and locked.

It was an unfortunate series of coincidences and oversights.

We shut all the doors between our room and the blaring alarm and tried to go to sleep. As my (amazing, internet capable) phone hadn’t had time to charge without having electricity, I turned it off and put it in my purse so as to save battery in case we needed to make any last minute calls in the morning-which is something I never do. I always sleep with my phone in the bed with me, if not on my actual person in case of a random call or text from the States. I had consolidated many of the things I wanted to be certain to carry on to the plane with me rather than tuck in my checked bag in my purse, which was up on a table out of the chaos all over the floor. My laptop computer was out on the dining room table so that I would be certain to easily find it in order to send it with a driver who was coming to collect it in the morning to take to someone who would try to fix the broken back light. Dudu had forgotten her phone in Gumare. In another strange coincidence Charles’s house phone line had been disconnected for unknown reasons a few weeks prior, along with his internet.

The good thing was that Dudu and I are used to sleeping like puppies. Although the house has plenty of rooms and beds that we could have slept practically in different wings, we had decided to sleep together in the double bed in the room with the air conditioning.

Had we not made that simple decision, things could have gone very badly.

I woke up with the sensation of being unceremoniously jerked from slumber. As I came out of a deep sleep, I heard Dudu sleepily yet urgently muttering that she thought someone was in the room. I immediately told her it was a hallucination due to her malaria drugs (I used to be on the regime she takes and it made me have such terrible night terrors that the Peace Corps medical officer changed my meds-as we are required to take a malaria prophylaxis while serving in Botswana). As I said it I faintly saw a shadow pass through the doorway, which was the only source of light coming into a room in a house with no electricity at 3:30 in the morning. And I knew that it was not her malaria meds.

I woke completely with a gasp, terror tightly gripping my throat when I realized that indeed someone had been in the room with us. I could hear the alarm, which had been blocked out by several doors as we slept, as clearly as if it were in the room with us. The shrill sound had the effect it was meant to, which is to raise one’s anxiety level completely. This meant the doors had to have been opened, and both Dudu and I had been sound asleep. Which means there was someone, or perhaps several someones, in the house with us.

It was dark, and the combination of dark and a siren led to complete panic. My heart pounded and my stomach dropped out of my belly, and my guts began to churn. I’m not certain if we maintained some semblance of calm for each other’s sake, but we both moved towards the door; we needed to confirm our terror wasn’t a dream or the product of Dudu’s meds. A new level of panic descended as we peered out into the hallway to find each of the three doors leading through the corridor were completely open and the alarm blared as loudly as ever.

We shut and locked the door and stumbled back to the bed, the warmth of the place where our bodies had just been relaxed in a state of deep sleep the only comfort we could find to sooth our frightened nerves.

Not being one to ever sit very still, I quickly got up and looked for my purse and phone only to discover it was gone, and with it, I imagined any plans we should have to head out of the country on vacation (passport, credit cards, cash for visa, camera -all inside). Due to the chaos of our unpacked things being all over the floor of the room, Dudu’s stuff (purse, ipod, ect), which was also sitting out on the nightstand next to the bed, was left untouched. As Dudu opened the curtain she caught another glimpse of someone outside, so she whipped the curtain closed again and we turned off the torch, left now in total darkness.

Without a phone to call anyone, any lights to turn on to better ascertain the state of the house and the situation, and the knowledge that Dudu had left the house keys (which also had the all important gate opener on it, which was still working despite the power outage) on the table in the living room, we were officially trapped. I remembered that Jody Foster movie “The Panic Room” and in a moment of bemused distraction thought, okay, change the setting to a foreign country with different languages and you’ve officially got a more tension filled thriller. And I’m living it.

Huddled in shock, we tried to make a plan. Should we wait until it gets light and try to see if we could get out? I was against this plan, as we had no idea how many people there were in the house, what they wanted, or if they would come back. We knew at least one man had been in the room with us, Dudu had clearly seen his silhouette. He had just taken my purse, and didn’t appear to have any intention of doing us harm, but we didn’t know if he had seen us for sure which was why he left, or if he knew that we had seen him. We weren’t certain what we might do once we got out of the room as we didn’t have the house/gate keys, and we didn’t know how he had gotten in, or if he was possibly still in the house with us. Even if we did manage to get off the property out of the locked doors and electronic gate (locks in Botswana, rather than having a knob or toggle on one side and a key hole on the other, tend to just have key holes on each side), we had no phone to call anyone, and no numbers of anyone we could possibly call.

In my own mind I generally believe that taking action and trying to make progress is better than waiting. Although my patience has grown here in Botswana, this was one of those extraordinary moments when waiting was literally impossible for me to do. I was also relatively certain that the amount of anxiety I was feeling course through my body at this time was eventually going to fill my body with the type of poison and tension that would make me physically ill, so I decided we should move.

We reluctantly went with this plan. At this point, I knew the adrenalin in my body, which was easily amongst the greatest I have felt in my life, would quickly be transformed into the type needed to seriously hurt or kill a man if there came to be a confrontation. We searched the room for an appropriate weapon. I grabbed the wrought iron lamp (in another moment of bemused clarity, I realized it was very similar to one I had admired at Pier One Imports during my mad housewife phase, and was very thankful that Charles had had most of his American belongings shipped here. It was solid) which Dudu was cognizant enough to point out to me that I should remove the shade and bulbs so that I could swing it faster and also so that should we bash someone we wouldn’t cut our feet, which were bare as our shoes were in the front hallway. She’s amazing.

With Dudu carrying the torch, and myself with the lamppost, we carefully unlocked the door. We searched the rooms on the far side of the hallway first, as we didn’t want to get in front of someone trying to leave. No one in the bathroom or the other spare bedroom. We took another deep breath and headed down the hallway, towards the only way the thief could have been able to come in, and thus would have to go out and let’s face it, could probably still be.

We came to a point in the hallway where there were three options. We checked each of the rooms and headed for the main open (window filled and thus most terrifying) areas of the house. As we crossed the threshold something startled Dudu. It ended up being a light from the streetlamps outside (another modern marvel we aren’t accustomed to, streetlamps) but as she sort of yelped and flinched I shouted something unintelligible and wielded my weapon.

We scanned the room; the new shadows which were produced from the lights from the street outside dancing through the trees onto the walls of the living room proved almost too much for our nerves. I yelped again as I looked down on the couch and saw that a notebook that had been in my purse was tossed on it along with some receipts from my wallet. We saw that the keys were no longer on the table, which was a good sign that the thief had left, but a bad sign that then we in turn might be trapped in the house.

By this time the tension was nearly killing us so we moved faster, confident with each square inch of the house that we covered that the thief was gone. As we passed by the hallway leading to the front door we were once again confronted by a sight that while usually symbolizing hope and good prospects had come to this point to confirm worst fears, an open door. As we quickly approached it, certain now that we were at least in the house alone, if not the property within the gate, we saw something that made us stop cold. The thief had used the keys to unlock the door, unlock the burglar gates outside the door, and then put the keys back in the lock of the door, where they now shone at us in the light from the streetlamps.

Dudu lunged for the keys and began frantically pushing the button to open the gate. We were FREE!!! As I looked down at the front step I saw my bag and the remains of my purse. I gasped and grabbed my passport, the plastic bag in which I kept my digital camera (where the guy had left an external jump drive) and my wallet, empty of cash, but with ID cards, credit cards and phone card intact. He had taken my pink leatherman (Thank you so much for sending me the new one, K-train!!!), my digital camera, over a thousand pula cash, my cell phone, another cheap cell phone that I was going to use to have a Tanzanian sim card (sorry P, you’re not getting that one back…).

As we rushed towards another gate in the cul-de-sac that had a guard, and more importantly, lights, a wave of relief began to wash over me. We woke the guard (how helpful, a sleeping security guard) and asked him to call the police as there had been a burglary, he sleepily protested that he had no airtime for his cell phone. Ready to wring his neck (had he been awake, he might have noticed someone digging through Charles’s car… but I guess that’s not his job. And if it’s not in the job description in Botswana, there’s little to no hope of it getting done.) I then shouted at him to call the security company on his radio (-who were also supposed to be monitoring Charles’s house. We then watched them drive past the main road three times. They never did end up coming. Apparently they had called Charles’s gardener’s cell phone when during the day when the power cut, but as power cuts aren’t rare, he didn’t think anything was wrong.) My increasing hysteria eventually convinced the guard to do something, so I think he ended up calling the security company and them eventually calling the police.

It was during this time that one of the most unsettling aspects of living abroad became clear to me. Which is that foreign countries are just not America. This may seem obvious, and something that smacks you in the face each day, which it does, but it’s not until a situation where you really want the reassurance that comes from an American standard of service and responsiveness that you really realize it. Although I’ve got the policemen in Seronga trained pretty well (once we got past the calling my cell phone drunk in the middle of the night issue) that if I call they better get their asses to my house now now, in Gabs we were anonymous. And public services, like most everything else, don’t tend to work in the siren blaring, flashing lights, people-in-cars-move-over-to-the-side-of-the-road-or-you’ll-get-run-over-and-it-will-be-justified type comforting efficiency of American services.

About a half hour later a cop car slowly turns off the main road, and the yawning officer wants us to walk him through the house. It’s still dark in there, he’s got no torch, and he is unarmed. I refuse, and he laughs at me. He also doesn’t have any airtime on his cell phone for us to call anyone. He offers us no comfort. He sort of wanders around the house with bemused curiosity, picking things up to examine them with absolutely no concern for possibly tampering with a crime scene, but rather with an apparent interest to see what white people keep in their homes.

A half an hour after that another car of police officers arrives. This one at least had airtime, which I use to call B, as his number is one I have memorized, and ask him to call a few people on our behalf (This sets the Peace Corps safety and security process into action, which is, I believe, probably one of the best in the world, our man Thuso works miracles). Thuso arrives within minutes, and immediately hugs me and asks if I’m alright, at which point it occurs to me to tear up a bit.

The next few hours pass in a blur, filled with telling and retelling the story as the uncomfortably dark night gives way to day. Thuso works his magic to get the crime scene investigator to come by the house immediately, although any possible evidence was probably destroyed by the first officers on the scene. Although there were plenty of hot ticket items in the house, the only things stolen were mine (when I realized my laptop was also amongst the things now missing there was another gut clenching, knee weakening reaction which was the closest I came to an actual panic attack as I sank to the ground in an attempt to find the wind that was suddenly knocked out of me.… There was a lot of writing that I hadn’t properly backed up as it was still in progress. When you’ve got limited electricity the last thing you want to waste time doing when you’re trying to work is to decide which draft is most recent on any one of three places. Luckily I had recently backed up most of my pictures, so I only lost the last few months, and many of my friends had their copies, and music… Well my ipod had crapped out on me on Christmas day anyways—Nathan brought me another one from the States—it’s been an expensive year thus far…so it would just be a matter of throwing my external hard drive into the orgy of the illegally downloaded bonanza that is the hallmark of any Peace Corps event.)

The Peace Corps staff was extremely helpful throughout the ordeal, helping me replace my stolen living allowance cash and Thuso even rushing us to the airport so that we didn’t miss our flight. The thieves have used over 450 pula (about 75 dollars) worth of airtime—once even answering the phone when Thuso called them, which might hopefully give the police enough leads to try to track him/them down (but then being that it’s been two months since the incident, I’m not holding my breath on getting any of my stuff back).

Although the experience was one of the most frightening I’ve ever experienced, I quickly discovered the impact living in Botswana has had on my life. Despite being pretty much broke, having my most significant (and by that I mean mostly that they really help in maintaining my sanity in the bush) worldly possessions taken from me in what was an incredibly unsettling, invasive and terror inducing situation, I was almost immediately grateful. I had had someone with me, and I hadn’t been hurt. The thief had left me my passport, ID cards and credit cards, which basically meant I was still able to go meet Nathan on vacation. It could have been so much worse.

Once we were at the airport hours less than 8 hours after the incident , Dudu and I began to refer to the incident as the “bugglery” and stating that we had been “bugglah-d” playing on the Batswana accent in talking about it. We had to make a joke in order to keep our spirits up. We laughed uneasily about it, myself mostly to keep from dissolving in a puddle of tears. My level of anxiety remained through the roof, and my stomach and bowels took quite a while to recover (although this was tough to say if it was the impact of travel and constantly changing water or stress. I had a headache for most of vacation that felt different than the constant neck tension that I’ve come to self diagnose as dehydration but I’m overall pretty used to feeling kind of sick as normal.)

As we constantly checked in each other throughout the day, frequently touching each other’s hands or sneaking glances back and forth to make sure the other one was still there, we kept repeating how glad we were that the other had been there for it, and that we hadn’t been alone. I found myself extremely nervous when Dudu went to sleep on the plane, and found myself obsessively checking on her and silently hoping she’d wake up. I couldn’t’ really sleep or do much of anything requiring any level of concentration. Being alone, which I’ve also become to feel quite accustomed to here even in a room full of people, was a terrifying prospect. Through the whole of vacation I insisted on sleeping in the same bed as Nathan, even if we stayed in a room with two big beds. At one point when we met back up with Dudu the three of us all slept in one kind size bed. Dudu got up to go to the toilet, and came back into the room and lifted the mosquito net to crawl into bed. This woke me up and startled me and I was immediately screaming and grabbing around for Nate.

I’ve realized that being here, living in an experience where continuing to move forward focused mostly the methodology of making a plan and surviving has reduced the amount of time it takes an incident to transition from terrifying to what can be laughed about to nearly non-existent. Having little regular control over various aspects of my life has helped me accept things like this that happen. While my level of trust in things happening as planned has become nearly non-existent, my level of trust in strangers has generally increased (in the bush at least). Although I did my fair share of obsessive dwelling about what I had done wrong in allowing this incident to occur, I still stayed at Charles’s house on the way back through Gaborone back to the village. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it did definitely give me pause as to whether I wanted to live in Gabs next year, I’ve decided it’s not enough to deter my decision.

I realized what being a white person in the capital city of a southern African country means. Regardless of the reality, people think you have... stuff worth having. I’m not in Seronga anymore, where a luggage lock is what protects me from intruders at night. My village pretty much protects me and looks out for me. You don't get that as much in the big city. Despite my terror at the incident, I immediately understood how lucky I was that it was only stuff that was taken from me. The horror stories of the crimes committed in South Africa, of a long oppressed majority taking back power through both stealing and physical violence and even murder are common. I get that if I’m going to live in this place for the next year, the country bumpkin who has been living in the bush better recover her city girl ways pretty quickly.

In Seronga, the season has begun to change from that of complete body dehydrating, soul crushing, attention stealing, productivity sapping heat to that of unpredictable and inconsistent rains. Recently, on one of those strange weather days in which the only thing to consistently expect is the unpredictability of whether the days will be ruled by the last of the season’s unbearable heat or dominated by anything from a misty drizzle to a torrential rainfall, I was walking across the village. It was one of those vaporous hazes that begin delightfully refreshingly and end in the sort of hammering downpours that leave the road in Seronga a huge puddle full of dangerous alignment destroying ruts.

I was only about a few hundred meters into my cross village adventure when this lovely transition occurred. I sighed, accepted my fate and prepared to get wet. I attempted to minimize the mess I was about to become by taking the rain cover for my backpack out of its ingenious little hiding spot underneath it and covering my backpack in its bright yellow protection. As the rain fell harder I began cursing myself for never replacing my pink Minnie Mouse umbrella that I had handed to some children one day as I realized it was just broken beyond repair. The kids here can be quite innovative with their toy creation, making trucks that they steer along the village streets out of wire and tin cans, so I figured one of them would be able to use it for something.

Suddenly from my left, I hear a woman shouting at me. As the villagers seem to think that we will all melt if we get wet, I figured that she was shouting to have me come and wait out the rain on her porch. Knowing how long the rain might last, and feeling certain that all I wanted in the world at this moment was a glass of red wine and a hot bubble bath, and knowing the best I would do would be a cup of milky tea and a lukewarm bucket bath, I began contemplating the most effective way to decline (I have decided that there are really no good ways to refuse in Batswana culture. People will often protest and plead “Ga ke gane” –“I’m not refusing!” while simultaneously doing just that. To me this can be the only reason why people will usually agree to whatever one asks of them, only to completely neglect to follow through with that request, and then act surprised when I become confused and angry that the request has not been carried out. Anger is also something that seems to generally confound the people I interact with. Bold displays of emotion (-my specialty) are a bit taboo here, which is why people uneasily jump to attention when I have finally become frustrated to the point of tears here.)I just wanted to be home and done with this particular day.

I was startled out of my contemplation of the lost art of refusal when I realized the woman was running towards me. In her bra. With an umbrella. And she was shouting “Tsa! Tsa! (Here, take this!).

I gratefully accepted the umbrella, promising to return it tomorrow, and thanked the woman.

And once again, my village puts me in my place.

It seems I have the notably shitty habit of missing both of my sibling’s high school graduations which means I’ve had to experience the joy of the occasion from overseas (for Karly from England, for Keenan, Botswana-in my defense my brother was a little off the official schedule).

That being said, today I have experienced the miracle of internet strong enough to both download and upload pictures (and you “Yanks” say Thanksgiving is in November;-)and I received this picture of my little brother with his high school diploma. He’s worked long and hard for it, and I cannot begin to express how much pride I feel in him, today and every day. I hope that my joy is big enough to be felt across the seas, and that he feels my love from afar. I love you Naneek, and I’m so very, very proud of you!

I love you little boy,

Love Jenny

Below is my article that was featured in Peolwane Magazine, along with some pictures of the artist, GB (although in the magazine they put pictures of the mural we did at the clinic).

Sorry about the formatting.....

Throughout the past year, a group of students in the small Okavango village of Seronga have come together to create unique public art that has a strong message for their community. Story and photos by Jennifer Katchmark

'Broken Bottles, Broken Lives’ is a student produced work of art comprised completely of glass from crushed alcohol bottles using a mosaic technique. It is the latest in a collection of art pieces created by village youth that sends a strong message about alcohol and HIV and AIDS to the community.

Seronga is a rural village located on the eastern side of the Okavango Delta. In this difficult to access area, HIV has greatly impacted on village residents, few of whom have formal employment or other forms of income past subsistence farming. There are few recreational activities in this un-electrified village, and many people turn to drinking alcohol in their leisure time.

This project – designed and undertaken by the students themselves–addresses alcohol abuse and HIV and AIDS at a number of levels – HIV prevention, ARV adherence, and alcohol abstinence or moderate drinking. ARV refers to Anti-retroviral Therapy, medications administered to suppress an HIV-infected patient’s viral load, a programme currently offered free-of-charge in government medical institutions to all qualifying citizens.

“I have noticed that the use of alcohol often leads ARV patients to have poor adherence. They might forget to take their medicines on time, they might show up for clinic appointments under the influence of alcohol, or even not show up at all,” says Mr. Moloko Nkawana, a nurse at Seronga Clinic. “It’s difficult for them to understand the importance and regimen of the ARV medications if they are frequently drunk.”

Both ARVs and alcohol are synthesised in the liver; and the intake of ARVs and alcohol at the same time heavily taxes the liver, even possibly leading to liver failure. “The mixing of alcohol and ARV drugs can lead to harmful drug interactions and lessen the effectiveness of ARVs,” notes Mr. Nkawana.

Alcohol abuse has repeatedly and consistently been found to lead to an increase in new HIV infections in Botswana. Inebriation can lead people to become much less inhibited than they would normally be, and can lead to an increase of both unprotected and transactional sex, as well as having multiple and concurrent sexual partners.

These unfortunate facts are well known by the Ngambao Community Junior Secondary School HIV/AIDS club members, who recently came together to peer educate and raise awareness about HIV.

At a meeting earlier this year, it was decided that in addition to performing dramas and songs and holding prayer services about HIV, the club members also wanted to pass on their messages through community art projects.

“I want to see people–especially students–changing their unhealthy ways of abusing alcohol, contracting STIs and HIV, and the girls getting pregnant,” says club member Gabaitsiwe (GB) Ramogapedi, who designed the mural. “I hope that through these art projects we will see the Seronga community showing support to HIV positive people and forming more groups that denounce alcohol abuse.”

The youth began their community art campaign by painting a mural on the wall of the Seronga Clinic. They came up with several possible themes and collaborated with the clinic staff to choose the final message: ‘Knowledge is power. Know your status,’ which is written in both English and Setswana. They then added the national slogan: ‘O icheke.’ (Check yourself.) prominently on the clinic front wall, near the HIV testing room.

“Encouraging people to know their HIV status is the first step. Whether or not they test negative, an important message is to practice safe sex using condoms, to avoid HIV infection, or re-infection–and to avoid infecting others,” says Mr. Leonard Montsho, a nurse at Seronga Clinic. “If they test positive, we teach them how to care for themselves and how to live positively. This includes regular exercise, eating healthy foods, and – crucially–avoiding smoking and alcohol.”

In response to Botswana President Lt. Gen. Seretse Khama Ian Khama’s recent ‘Campaign Against Alcohol Abuse’–in which he limited the operational hours of bars and shebeens (village bars that serve local brews) and raised the alcohol tax, the students decided they also wanted to take action – and in an innovative way. They came up with the idea of using broken beer and alcohol bottles to create a mosaic which could both spread the message against alcohol abuse, as well as alcohol’s relation to HIV and AIDS. Using bottles would also emphasise the severity of the problem by showing just how many bottles litter many villages in Botswana, and thus how much alcohol is being consumed.

The challenges were many, beginning with how to create a design that would send a strong visual message without using words. After much consideration, the students found that glass colours would have the greatest impact. Brown bottles were more difficult to find, as people can turn them in for a deposit or more drinks. It was decided that red paint and clear glass would be used to create the important HIV ribbon, which would also serve as an ‘X’ through the alcohol bottle, sending the message to not drink. The word ‘NO’ is the only word present in the mosaic.

Many languages are spoken in Seronga and its surrounding areas, so it was important that the visuals transcended the language and cultural barriers. According to GB: “It was important to make the message symbolic, using few words, so that people who don’t speak the same language can still be impacted. They can also ask what the art piece means, which can start the conversation about alcohol and HIV. When they understand the problem, they can then explain it to their parents and other community members.”

The mosaic project also incorporated elements of conservation and environmental awareness, important themes in the unique ecological area of the Okavango Delta, asdiscarded bottles – often thrown and left lying on village roads and pathways – were the major materials used.

With their first success firmly under their belts, the students are now planning another mural – this time on the wall of one of the buildings at the kgotla (traditional court and meeting place) that was formerly used as a jail. It’s a very prominent place in the village that can be seen directly from the main road passing through Seronga, and also faces a shebeen. Its theme will be: ‘Your Life, Your Choice’–a visual representation of the behaviours that can lead to HIV infection – or non-infection.

The youth of Seronga have decided to take a bold stand against HIV in their village; and they want their work to influence future generations. Despite what could continue to be a legacy of alcoholism and new HIV infections, they look to the future with vigour and hope. They have taken societal despair and created something beautiful and meaningful that has the potential to help their fellow human beings. ■

U.S. rolls back AIDS drug prevention trial in Botswana

By Maggie Fox, Health and Science Editor Maggie Fox, Health And Science Editor Thu Dec 17, 3:48 pm ET

WASHINGTON (Reuters) – U.S. officials said on Thursday they will give up on a trial in Botswana that was trying to show whether it is possible to prevent HIV infections by taking a daily pill because too few people are being infected.

There are also problems keeping track of people enrolled in the trial, so it will be adjusted to show instead how well people can stick to the routine, the team at the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said.

The trial of 1,200 people was trying to see if people could prevent infection with the AIDS virus if they took a daily pill that combined two HIV drugs. It was using Gilead Sciences Inc's Truvada, a combination of two drugs called tenofovir and emtricitabine.

They did not release the data on how many people in the trial became infected. The researchers also said that there appeared to be no safety concerns with the treatment so far.

The study, called TDF2, is one of several globally looking at the new approach, called pre-exposure prophylaxis, or PrEP. The idea is that a daily low dose of the drugs, which interfere with the ability of the virus to replicate, could also lower the risk of infection.

It has worked in monkeys and researchers are keen to see if it could provide an easy and cheap way to protect people from the virus, which infects 33 million globally and has killed 25 million people.

"The TDF2 study will be adapted due to unanticipated challenges that make it very unlikely that the trial will be able to determine if tenofovir-emtricitabine is effective in reducing the risk of HIV infection," the CDC said in a statement.

"The trial protocol and timeline will be revised to focus instead on the other remaining study questions -- primarily behavioral and clinical safety and adherence."

The problem is that new HIV infections are becoming less common in Botswana, where nearly a quarter of adults are infected.

"While the trial met its original enrollment goals, this study will not be able to determine efficacy given much lower than anticipated HIV incidence in the study population (likely due to declining HIV rates in Botswana generally, and to extensive HIV prevention services provided to all participants), and challenges in retaining participants in this highly mobile population of young adults," the CDC said.

"The trial, however, will provide critical information on safety and adherence to help guide potential implementation planning should PrEP prove effective in other trials. "

Other, similar trials are under way in the United States, South Africa, Thailand, Brazil, Peru, Kenya, Uganda and elsewhere.

Researchers are also looking for other ways to prevent infection, including by circumcising men.

There is no vaccine against the AIDS virus yet although work continues to make one, and researchers are also working on testing microbicides -- gels or creams that could be used to help prevent sexual transmission of the virus.

(Editing by Jackie Frank)

Seronga Men’s Sector Event:

Traditional Healer/Midwives, Faith Based Leaders & Medical Professionals-

Working Together for Community Health.

On 8 December 2009 the Seronga Men’s Sector was the sponsor of a unique event bringing together traditional healers and midwives, faith based leaders and members of the medical community to address the spread of HIV in the greater Seronga area. The event was funded by the Okavango District Multi-Sectoral AIDS Committee (DMSAC).

The workshop was held at the Seronga Police compound and was facilitated by Ms. Celia Kauthemwa, health education technician from Gumare district health team and Mr. Emmanuel Segotso, a lay counselor and moruti from Gumare Counselling Centre. Dr. Mpata Lumbu and Nurse in Charge Florence Nkaelang from the Seronga clinic presented specific information regarding the issues they are encountering as medical professionals in the health facilities in the targeted area.

Also present were the dikgosi from Seronga and Gunotsoga, the councilor from Seronga, the Chair of the Seronga Men’s Sector Mr. Douglas Khumalo, the vice Chair of the Men’s Sector and master of ceremony of the day Mr. M Ramphisi, and the Peace Corps Volunteers from Seronga and Gumare, Ms. Jennifer “Lorato” Katchmark and Catherine “Duduetsong” Lecesse. Participants hailed from various villages, cattle posts and settlements from Mogotho to Gudigwa in Okavango delta area. They ranged in age from late twenties to 85 years old and were evenly divided in their capacities as traditional healers/ midwives and church representatives with 16 healer/midwives and 13 church leaders from various denominations.

Seronga Kgosi Maeze B Maeze welcomed the participants to the workshop, which was officially opened by local councilor Mr. Kotongwa. The format of the workshop was both lecture style and interactive, with participants playing an active role in sharing their experiences and having the opportunity to have many of their questions and concerns addressed by the facilitators. This equality based approach proved to be a very effective forum for all sectors to work together to trouble shoot and problem-solve various issues that were raised in a respectful and effective manner.

The goal of the workshop was to educate the targeted groups about HIV and AIDS and to discuss their practices to identify ways in which they can avoid the spread of HIV and to protect themselves and their patients and congregants from contracting HIV. Participants were informed of the differences between HIV and AIDS as well as practices such as using razor blades (or any other method of blood to blood contact) with multiple patients. They were also urged of the necessity of using latex gloves with their patients and were provided with a box of gloves in order to begin this new practice immediately. The healers/midwives were informed of various resources that they could reach out to in order to continue to acquire gloves for their practices. Traditional healers were encouraged to register their practices to legitimize their businesses and protect themselves in instances of accusation of malpractice or other controversy.

The views and customs of the traditional healers/midwives were quite openly shared with the medical professionals, giving them much greater insight into potential areas of conflict in various treatment regimens and traditional practices. There was an emphasis on how all involved sectors can work together and refer patients and clients to each other for complimentary treatments and services. Medical professionals urged the traditional healers to encourage their clients to bring their clinic health cards to their appointments for better coordination of services. The importance of bringing patients into the clinic in a timely manner, especially pregnant women who are in labor was emphasized as well as those showing symptoms of HIV or AIDS. Faith based leaders were implored to continue to support those in their congregations suffering from HIV and to encourage them to continue to adhere to ARV’s and the use of condoms.

Throughout the day participants repeatedly and enthusiastically expressed their understanding that they know they themselves cannot cure HIV and AIDS, and also showed a great deal of support and respect for the services provided at the local health facilities. Many reiterated their appreciation for the information they were given during the day and were pleased with the respect they felt they were shown by being targeted as important stakeholders in the prevention of spreading HIV. They expressed their intent to go back to their communities to continue to share the information they had been given.

Organizers of the event judged it to be a success, and feel it is an important type of event to replicate widely as these stakeholders have the potential to impact many members of their communities. Traditional healers, midwives and faith based leaders, while having a tremendous impact within communities have often been shunned or ignored by those attempting to address the spread of HIV. This workshop proved that when approached with respect and humility these important stakeholders can be eager to gain new knowledge and are even open to changing their traditional practices and beliefs and culture to better protect themselves and their clients from contracting HIV. Increasing their understanding of HIV/AIDS, prevention strategies and proper adherence to ARV’s may prove to be an effective way to reach populations who have been historically difficult to address and inform. Members of these important sectors of the community are very interested in improving the lives of those they serve by spreading messages of prevention in their unique capacities and should be utilized to the fullest. *** this is the report that Mr. Khumalo, the policeman from the Seronga Police and Chair of the Men's Sector Committee, and I put together. The original report is much cooler with the pictures artfully added in, but it appears blogger is a little past my area of expertise in terms of putting them where I want them ;-0

In Seronga, the village that-like Sleeping Beauty, nearly always seems to be sleeping (and is of course, not to be confused with New York, which from my startlingly foggy recollection of American geography-seems to have lapsed in the 20 months I’ve been away from it- is “the city that never sleeps”, or perhaps that’s Vegas? Either way-Seronga-completely different.) a certain time of month brings around the handsome prince known as Pula (money). With one brief brush of his lips the money is deposited, the cash is acquired (in Seronga all government employees-which is pretty much everyone- gets two days off each month strictly for banking. For many of us, the nearest branch of our bank is between 6 and god knows how many hours by car.) and a general state of Chaos ensues.

Now why, you ask, would an influx of cash be anything less than stupendous and gladly welcomed, Lorato, you evil Scrooge? In a village that clearly has so little? These people have surely worked hard for and earned each Thebe they are being granted. Surely when people have money they must feed their children and their animals sufficiently, and incorporate more vegetables into their diets. Everything must be better/easier/simpler with money! These good hearted villagers probably indulge is some harmless, (and especially in light of a first world expectation) extremely simple pleasures. And likely well deserved! These people have so little Lorato, why must you begrudge them their small pleasures that come with having some cash? Who let you into the Peace Corps anyways? Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of kind hearted humanitarian?

Yes gentle Readers. I too used to believe in this wonderful Botswana fairy tale, that this was a place where just a little cash could make such a big difference, and I believed in the power of the almighty dollar (Pula?) to really change lives, and solve things. Hell one reads about the wonders of microfinance (and increasingly sexy concept if it works as it’s purported to in other African nations, and believe me, I want in on some of those projects..) and how simple it is to make a small amount really felt in Africa, and you’d think that payday in Botswana would appear to be much like a Christmas every month end.

That’s exactly the problem. It’s the reason my mother spent most of my childhood proclaiming “Christmas comes but ONCE a year.” Through some stroke of genius, some infrastructurally cognizant wizard decided that all government employees in Botswana would be paid at the same time, which was then christened MONTH END. The few private enterprises appear to have followed, and thus THE ENTIRE COUNTRY GETS PAID AT THE SAME TIME. 12 times per year.

Yes, dear reader, I can see from your blank stare that you’re still not getting the picture I paint for you. I too remember what it’s like to spit and hit a Target store, and to have not one but four huge grocery stores and two Walmarts in any given strip mall complex. But alas the Target Empire has not yet crossed the ocean to Africa (although I stand eagerly on the shore of Botswana awaiting its arrival, oh wait, landlocked country, right….) And this means that there is a limited number of stores that carry foodstuffs and other items. And these limited numbers of stores are invaded as though by Vikings each month at month end. As such nearly entire employed population of most of Ngamiland district descends on Maun at once. In Maun, the ATM’s routinely run out of cash on any given day, but at month end, the line is not only long but usually hopeless. The buses are overfull, and the traffic on the road is more than dangerous, it’s deadly. Because an influx of cash means not only more drunks at any given hour of the day and night on the street grabbing you, but more frighteningly, drunk drivers. Sub Saharan Africa is not known as the deadliest place in the world for road accidents as some white elephant gift from the other regions of the world, it’s for real. I unfortunately know too many people who have died in road accidents here, including a Peace Corps volunteer who was killed the night before we received our site placements.

So aside from ransacked grocery stores, empty ATM’s, and deadly roads, what’s the problem, Lorato? The problem, dear friends, is the noise.

Now why would it be any noisier because of this mythical Month End you are wenching about? You’ve clearly got no grocery stores or ATM’s in Seronga, and there’s only one (dirt) road there that you should have no problem avoiding. What’s the problem, Princess?

MY BEAUTY SLEEP!!!!!!

As I write this it’s much much much past dark (quarter past 12 for those of you into the specifics) and I should be long asleep. And I was. The village was the sort of quiet you only get with a crescent moon, as it seems all the animals are resting their vocal chords (and their loins) in anticipation of the upcoming the extravaganza that is a full African moon.

And then the music begins pumping. In the middle of the night. And it’s not even a good song.

One thing that has never ceased to amaze me in a culture that is so incredibly communal is the lack of consideration that people seem to have for others. I have been woken up at each hour of the night by some guy listening to his music as loud as his car battery will allow (month end means he’s got money to put petrol in his car in order to run the battery or generator. If it’s the latter, the music must be that much louder to be heard over the whirring of the machine) and I have WALLS. Most of the village huts are constructed of reeds or mud. Not soundproof.

I have tried to be patient about this noise disturbance and chalk it up to cultural integration, but sometimes it’s ridiculous. Once a few months back I was awoken at about half eleven, by a horrible sexual American song from the mid 90’s (damn us and our crap cultural imperialism!!!) with a shit ton of expletives and gratuitous swearing. Now those of you who know me know that I consider swearing one of my absolute favorite filthy habits, but this song goes above and beyond.

In this half asleep daze, I forgot my flashlight but managed to remember to put on something “decent”. I stormed off into the overcast night with no moon to guide me towards the sound of the offenders. I clothes-lined myself half a dozen times with various wire fences and vines and trees that appeared to be running around, as I didn’t remember having this much navigational trouble in the daylight.

The sound was coming from an area deeper in the village than I usually wander even in daytime, and I could sort of tell I was headed in the direction of the floodplain, which as luck would have it, was flooded. As I heard the now familiar grunt of a hippo I tried not to think of the Kgosi’s story about the hippo he found resting at the kgotla in the early hours of morning. The kgotla is much further into the village from the water than I was at this immediate moment. As big as they are those guys are quick, and I wasn’t in the mood to try to negotiate with one of those guys as well as the music dudes.

After ten minutes and 6 thorns in my feet, I found the source of the noise. Two drunk guys whom I didn’t recognize (but then I was half asleep) smiled drunkenly and began the rigmarole of greeting me.

I cut them off, not even bothering to attempt to search my brain for some form of language these guys might understand. My wild hair, eyes, and gesticulations must have made my message clear, because once the shock of an angry white woman crashing their party and making demands in the middle of the night wore off, they began to laugh and walked in the direction of the volume button. I stomped away (as much as one can stomp on sand) and then called the police, thinking that if I had any more problems that they would be the next to deal with these guys (and probably in Setswana).

Now three of my village husbands, (true to the culture of the country there seems to be no problem among them that in one office there are three of them offering to negotiate cows for my hand in marriage, they all know about each other, and I just shake my head and wonder if anything I’ve been preaching about multiple concurrent partners and their negative impact on HIV has sunk in AT ALL. Although I’ve blunted and repeatedly rejected any of their attempted advances, I haven’t been able to shake them of the title, so when in Rome if you can’t beat them cause they are police officers, join them in what you desperately hope is a joke) are policemen, and I have to admit I may have been a bit overzealous in my initial training regimen with this poor police force.

When I first came to Seronga, in the Zen state I like to think on as “Scared Shitless” I did my best to communicate to the police office the duty of the police to protect me or Seronga would lose its Peace Corps. Perhaps I did a bit too well. When you call the police land line number, they are unable to call me back at night time because in the interest of controlling corruption all the outgoing lines are locked behind doors. So on the few occasions I’ve called in the evening or night they have to call me back on my cell phone from their cell phone. And what do they do with that prized number of the Lekgowa (white person) white person in Seronga? They push save.

In the beginning more than a few times I would then get drunken dials from various members of Seronga’s finest. Over time I’ve gotten all their numbers and thus know when to push ignore. We’ve come to a happy understanding.

But the point of the story is that in the process of calling the police and re-clotheslining myself back through the village to my hut, I managed to get lost. Not horribly, mind you, but lost enough. It’s amazing how much more difficult navigation becomes with no light. All huts begin to look alike, and you can’t follow your own footprints. So I trudged on in the direction that felt right and hoped that the cold weather meant that all those deadly poisonous snakes (puff adders, black mambas) that like to lie in the middle of sandy paths were in some sort of hibernation rather than plotting to kill me.

I’d like to say that to solve this conundrum I looked up at the sky and navigated by the stars (which would be so badass, but as I mentioned it was an overcast sky… and I couldn’t do it anyways) but in reality it was dumb luck (and the headlights of the police cruiser that was rapidly approaching my gate). I have to admit that this is the fastest I’ve ever seen any Batswana move in response to a request, but I quickly realized why this was when in response to my description of the problem each of the two officers in turn offered to inspect the inside of my hut for intruders, including my bed. I’d like to say I politely refused, but polite had nothing to do with my response.

So now it appears the distant pounding has ceased for a moment at least, and I must now rush to sleep before it pounds again. Time continues on, and there are fewer month ends ahead of me than behind me, and so I sink back into my pillow in gratitude for where I am right now, in my funny little village.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Lorato

Death is here. No matter how I may try to avoid it, to run or hide from it, death is in this village. It’s amongst the children, which for some reason feels like the biggest injustice of all. You can smell it, the sickness, and in contrast the health amongst them. One of the children moans in a decibel that reminds me of a kitten. When I heard him in the infirmary the other day I thought the woman in maternity had given birth, but when I glanced in and saw her still full belly I checked the other room.

His mother had been cradling him, and my mind struggled to slowly register the contradiction between what I was hearing and seeing. While I heard the shallow cries of a newborn, I saw that the limbs of this child were too long to be a newborn. When I got closer and saw his skeletal mouth full of teeth and head full of the fuzz of a newborn I knew something was incredibly wrong.

I checked his chart and sure enough he was nearly a year and a half old. I glanced at his growth chart, which had progressed for a short period and then plummeted towards the bottom of the chart. Prior to this I’d never thought of that line as what it is, an indicator of growth in relation to averages, of expectations, something that measures health in relation to the space that one takes on the planet, one’s height and weight, a record of growth, of progress. What this line appeared to me as that day was an indication of the decreasing space this child required on the planet, likely soon to be no space.

The nurse standing next to me noticed the change in my demeanor as I reviewed the chart. Failure to thrive was written nowhere but rather implied. The multiple HIV blood tests taken from the baby’s foot had not been returned from the lab in Gaborone, but there was no doubt that HIV was the culprit. Tears welled in my eyes and I looked away. I quietly asked the nurse in English if the baby would live through the night.

“You feel for the kid, huh?” he said sympathetically. “He’ll be fine, he’s a fighter, look how many times he’s been to the clinic and he’s still fighting!” his enthusiasm rang with the hollowness of we both knew was the reality of the situation. I went to find the child a rattle that was left over from the breast feeding promotion we had. I was trying to distract him from the agony of the nurses probing every tiny vein in his emaciated body in a valiant attempt to revive and rehydrate him. I grimaced when he went to put his left thumb in his mouth, he had used this particular method to comfort himself so frequently that he had sucked off much of the skin, and refused to use his right thumb. He also refused the offer of the rattle, the pain in his watery eyes accusatory; it was as though he was insulted by my feeble attempt to comfort him with a bloody rattle.

I walked out of the infirmary, helpless, hopeless.

The next morning I arrived at the clinic to find the child had indeed survived the night, and sent up some gratitude to the universe. The patients and I made our way down to the boat to travel across the river to the hospital in Gumare.

On that journey, somewhere between Seronga and Sepopa another child, a brand new baby, has died. The last breath has escaped her lips and there’s nothing any of us can do about it, least not me. On the shore at Sepopa the women call me over in English, which is how I am first alerted to the problem. The people in my village and all the surrounding villages have decided that I will learn Setswana by immersion if nothing else, or perhaps they’re just more comfortable speaking in their native tongue and hoping I understand through some magic Rosetta stone of the universe. But when I hear them speaking to me in careful English I can sense the urgency in the situation. I know that obviously there are sick people on the boat, it is the water ambulance after all, and so most people are being transported to hospital, but I hadn’t taken the time to consider the ratio of women to sick children until now. So I approach them, and they open the circle from which they were originally huddling around the silent bundle in one woman’s arms.

“Is this baby alive, Lorato?” I hesitate to look but know I must. I see the baby’s purple face, lips still wet with her first tastes of life and although I know the inevitable answer, I search her motionless, still warm body for signs of life. I lift her arm, still covered in the waxy coating of birth, and search for a pulse, my thumb big and awkward and nearly the size of her tiny wrist. I fumble around before realizing that one’s thumb has a pulse of its own, and thus I must use one of my fingers, but I find they’ve also developed a pulse of their own.

I feel my own heart begin to race as I search for life in this child, it’s a cross between taunting me with the strength of its pounding and my own desperation to give this mother another answer than what is now the truth. I begin to feel frantic and panicky, as though there is some cosmic move I can make to bring this child back from the other side, if I only knew it, if only. The women somberly look over me, patiently waiting to see if my white skin does indeed have the special powers of which they’ve only heard.

It’s like not knowing the answers on exam day, or every bad dream I’ve ever had where I cannot control the course of events in any way, like the other night when I woke up crying. I look around in a state of anxiety and insecurity, I want someone else to take this burden, I don’t know what to do, and I’m not the doctor. I want to scream it; I want to run away, I want to know how to handle this situation.

There is no way. I’m the only one who hasn’t accepted the inevitability of the situation. Life and death come every day to Seronga, and everyone seems to know the score but me.

Just when I think that my heart is finished, that it has shriveled and hardened into a little palm nut, covered in a hard, protective shell, it is broken again. A tender piece of flesh exposed, to the wind, to the world, to the hurt and it bleeds anew. A little river of pain flows through and I know I can still feel, and this feeling is sadness. And it is sprinkled with despair, and laced with hopelessness, and I can taste the pain, it springs bitter onto the tip of my tongue and it mixes with the bile of the rage which has risen in my throat, the indignation and confusion that although this matters, it doesn’t seem to matter.

I want to scream primally, I want to howl, I want to shake my fist at the heavens and demand that this child’s spirit and her life be returned to its rightful place here on Earth. But how can I do any of these things when the child’s own mother sits stoically next to the woman who holds her now lifeless child, the body of which sprung from her own body less than 12 hours previous. The tears stream silently down my own face, defying the dehydration that is my normal state of being to protest this awful situation.

What do you do? There’s nothing. I don’t mean to sound like a “save the children” ad here, and to be honest it frustrates me to describe the problem in any depth as I know from living here that there is certainly not an easy, and possibly not even a difficult implimentable solution to this problem, which surely will not be solved any time soon.

Why should I even write about it, to make all of you reading this have an idea of the shittiness if there’s nothing to be done about it? I guess I do it to get rid of some of the rage and sadness that lives inside me as a result of this experience. Parts of me are becoming hardened to this constant human suffering, but am I so different from people who work anywhere else doing this type of work? What about nurses and doctors in Emergency Rooms anywhere on Earth, or homicide detectives, or even teachers in some areas?

What obligation can I possibly have to each of these children? What can I do? I swear I would move mountains if I thought it would help…

I have no answers. This upsets me. I go on with life, not able to forget, but slightly becoming numb to the pain.

This day comes, as all do, to an end. Later, in the darkness of night I hear the rain begin to fall on the corrugated iron roof. I run outside, desperate to feel the rain on my skin, to cleanse me of this day. I look to the sky for answers and find my hot tears mixing with the cold rain. I yearn to have the lightning illuminate the world, and make it clear again, if only for a moment.

All Italicized lyrics from "One"-U2

It is a difficult thing for me to attempt to describe my experiences in Seronga. I tell stories that I hope give glimpses, of the sorrow, of the joy, of the essence of the place. I try to make aspects of most of it seem a little funny, or I try to find the poignant moment or the lesson learned. I’ve come to believe I’ve got a pretty good understanding of life here, and the motivations of the people, the reasons for their actions.

We’re one but we’re not the same,

We hurt each other and we’re doin’ it again.

The one area I can’t quite get around is the dying children. It’s an easy enough situation to overlook. In some ways I’m ashamed to say I try to stay out of that aspect of life here. I don’t attend all the funerals. I don’t even attend most of them. When I’m honest with myself, I have to admit I actively try to avoid them. What can one’s response possibly be when death is no longer a tragedy? I mean it is. It’s still a tragedy. But what is the proper word for it? How does one name the continuous state or condition of tragedy that has become a way of life?

I’ve noticed that African children aren’t really big criers. They don’t really cry because they’re tired, because if they’re tired, they are strapped to their mom’s back, which serves as their crib, and so they just go to sleep. They don’t really cry because they’re hungry, perhaps this is because they quickly get used to the feeling, or because their moms will just swing them around to nurse anywhere and everywhere. They don’t cry for many other reasons that I’ve seen children from my own culture cry, and a small part of me can’t help but speculate that it’s because they learn so early on that it really does no good. They’ll get what they get when it’s given to them, and in this culture it tends to be whatever is left over. There’s no use whining for something else.

(Worth noting: I might be wrong about this whole crying thing, as I was previously wrong on my “African children don’t crawl” theory, developed in part because I had never really seen it happen. It appeared to me that babies went from their moms back, being carried around- to walking. I mentioned this to a woman at the clinic one day and she laughed at me, told all her friends, who then also laughed at me, looked around the waiting room for a child of the correct age, picked it up, and put it on the floor in the crawling stance. She moved away and called the child and he crawled right to her. Touché. Perhaps these babies are just smart enough (or their mothers are) to not do too much cruising around in the loose sand full of broken glass and thorns.

But generally it’s got to be an injection, a serious injury or some pretty dire straights to get a child this side to cry.

A few weeks back I was at the clinic, trying to write or read or count pills or some other menial task that had been interrupted for what was likely a crap reason. I was about to leave the clinic, as it has increasingly become a difficult place for me to try to be for long periods of time, day in and day out, when I realized there were children crying. I have to admit I was surprised to find that I was in some ways deaf to the sound of children crying.

It’s often a haunting sound here. It’s a cross between a painful yelp and a prolonged moan. Sometimes I’ve noticed the children get so sick they don’t even sound like children any more, but rather some sort of injured animal, a sort of hoarse howling sob.

Just the other day I realized a child had followed me crying down the dirt road in Seronga for nearly ten minutes without me noticing until a car pulled up in front of me and asked, “Lorato, is that child crying for you?”

I looked back. The village is so full of children whom all know my name and scream it at me at any given opportunity that past indulging their fervent greetings I had no idea why the child was crying but walked back and picked her up.

As I’ve said before, I tend to get extremely mixed reactions from children here, from them running full speed from anywhere within eyesight to greet me in the village to shirking away in terror. I never know what reaction I’ll get, and have to admit I was a bit surprised when this child held up her arms in the universal “pick me up” way that makes even muddy or food covered children seem endearing.

I carried her along with my heavy bags, overloaded with at least two and a half litres of boiled, filtered and frozen water which I have to bring with me around the village daily in an attempt to stave off dehydration. I looked at the child and asked her what was the matter (I think) and told her to “quiet down” (didimala), which other than the Setswanafied English word of “sorddy” (sorry) is the only word of comfort I’ve really heard here.

The child eventually stopped crying and seemed satisfied to just follow me around for a while longer, to the co-op, the hardware store. At some point I looked back and had a gang of them following me like lemmings, rushing and nearly knocking each other over to help show me where the dish soap was.

One love,

One blood

One life you’ve got to do what you should

One life with each other, sisters, brothers

We’re one but we’re not the same

We’ve got to carry each other, carry each other…..

One

The other day I was walking home and heard the sound that my brain has recently begun to recognize again. Again it was a child crying. Not the I’m hungry, or thirsty, or that kid stole my toy, but the I’m in serious pain and I’m going to just cry myself into a state of passing out. I sighed and walked toward the sound. I found a child leaned up against a doorway, her torn and dirty dress hanging off her thin frame and a spot of sand in the front of her hair where she must have put her head onto the ground. She was half heartedly moaning, while someone on the other side of the piece of corrugated iron that was the door shouted at her periodically to stop. The other children played obliviously nearby, and the mother greeted me smiling when I entered the yard.

“What’s wrong with this child?” I asked her sharply, forgoing the usual series of polite greetings.

Realizing this wasn’t a social call, she thrust her chin in the child’s direction and indicated that “her hand was hurting.” I glanced at the child’s hand and saw that it was a swollen paw dangling at the end of a skinny wrist. The baby finger of her right hand was jutted out so far that it was perpendicular to her wrist, with a few small cuts between the last two fingers. “What happened?” I demanded from the mother.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. I asked for the card from the clinic and saw that the child had first been seen on Saturday. It was Wednesday. I read through the card, and asked why the child hadn’t gone with the water ambulance to Gumare, as she had been referred to do for an x-ray.

“I wasn’t there.” said the mother. “It was her grandmother, and there was no money.”

“No money for what?” I asked. (The water ambulance is free.)

“For lunch,” She answered.

Is it getting better?

Or do you feel the same?

Will it make it easier on you, now,

That you’ve got someone to blame?

I wanted to scream. Instead I indicated that the child should follow me to my house. Two of her sisters followed. Against any and all Peace Corps policies, I busted out my often self raided medical kit for some antibacterial ointment, band-aids, and grabbed an ice pack from my freezer. This would be a temporary solution as it was 105 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade today, and this family would have no freezer. I attempted to clean the small punctures in the skin where the flesh was beginning to pop out that suggested it might have been a bug bite gone terribly wrong, but also thought it might have been a puncture from rusty piece of something.

I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. And unlike many people who join the Peace Corps, this experience has done absolutely nothing to push me in that direction, as a matter of fact I am quite certain that is absolutely not what I would like to be when I grow up. I have seen and heard about more strange injuries here, including one of my favorite village kids, who somehow managed to get a boiling water burn on her vulva (her mother was ready to yank off the dressings to explain to me exactly what was going on but I deferred) than I could care to see or hear about for the entirety of the rest of my life.

I walked the child back to her yard and spoke to the mother again. I called a few of my co-workers, none of whom could remember this child that had apparently been consulted today (“Is it the one with the abscess between the thumb and forefinger?” one of my coworkers asked helpfully.) and asked them if the child showed a referral on her card for the hospital if she should go with the water ambulance tomorrow. There was of course no certain answer for this so I indicated to the mother that this injury was quite serious and the child needed to go to see the doctor at the hospital the next day. I have no idea if she will actually be able to go there, as their might be adults with more serious injuries…

Did I ask too Much?

More than a lot?

You give me nothing-now it’s

All I’ve got……

(Sidebar: I traveled to Gumare the next day, and at the hospital I saw that the child was there waiting with her mother to go to the hospital via the water ambulance. When I arrived at the hospital and I heard a tiny voice calling “Lorato” –which isn’t completely out of the ordinary in this village far from my own-what can I say, people know me ;-0. I looked over and saw the girl’s sister smiling and waving at me and the little girl with the hand injury right behind her, staring at me slightly suspiciously- she might be remembering the painful application of the bandaid… It was afternoon and her hand still hadn’t been looked at by the doctor. I later heard that the trip was a waste and that the doctor never saw her, but back at Seronga clinic they had lanced the wound and drained it, and the next time I saw the child she had a bandage on it and the finger was closer to straight. Later when I got to the clinic and again mentioned the case, the nurses again said that the mother was supposed to bring the child back again for re-bandaging as they were worried about the infection spreading. The next time I passed the house I told the mother she must bring the child in again- as it said, in English-so helpful- on her card. The child’s sister later brought her back to the clinic, I found the nurse on call and sort of dragged him out of his house (it was a holiday) and had him attend to it. I think it’s gonna make it….. Update: I saw the little girl the other day, she called my name from the school yard and waved at me, with her fully healed hand. I guess I’ve done something here;-)

You say:

Love is a temple, Love the higher law

Love is a temple, Love the higher law

You ask me to enter, and then you make me crawl,

I can’t keep holding on to what you’ve got,

when all you’ve got is hurt.

A few steps farther down the path to my house I saw my neighbor and greeted her.

I asked her where her child was and she looked at me curiously. “He died this year.”

“What?” I asked. “He couldn’t have died this year, he was only born this year and I saw you with him only a month or so back.”

Through much discussion and producing several points of reference from events in the village, and who had been here or at the cattle post we managed to pin it down to when I was gone in Gabs for training last month.

“He was veddy sick,” she said matter of factly, continuing on to list off diarrhea and vomiting (universal signs of dehydration, one of the most common causes of death amongst babies and small children in Seronga) as legitimate and worthy causes of death. I muttered how sorry I was, and continued on my way.

I ask myself, How many times can you walk away from these situations before you are classified as a monster? What can you do, to stay, to help, to solve? What does it mean to when I stop caring, or feeling?

When I came here because I wanted to DO something, what exactly was it that I thought I might do? I mean truly?

“Have you come here for forgiveness,

Have you come to raise the dead?

Have you come here to play Jesus,

To the Lepers in your head?”

Did I think I would really run around actively saving lives? I’m not the Doctor.

As I entered my house, hot tired, dehydrated, sad, I turned and shut both my doors to the world, to this day. One of my prayer flags got caught on the door in protest, as though reminding me to try to keep my heart open. I ignored it and walked to the bathtub where I turned on the tap to fill the tub with the murky brown water in which I bathe or just sit in to get relief from the heat. Much like I was surprised by the cries of the children this day, I was startled to find myself suddenly sobbing. The tears began pouring down my face like the African rains that had been refusing to come. My heart melted and burned, and I sobbed, trying to release this sadness inside of me.

Did I disappoint you,

or leave a bad taste in your mouth

you act like you never had love,

so you won't need to go without...

When I arrived in Seronga, due partially to my inexperience in living alone, and also to my former shortcomings in the field of planning and preparation, there were quite a few items I didn’t have, many of which it didn’t occur to me I might need. Nowhere was this deficiency more evident than in the kitchen.

When I visited my hut in during the weekend in which we viewed and took inventory of our future new homes and villages, (an exercise in which many of my Bots classmates were able to wander around their comparatively spacious accommodations- and really how much is there to explore in a one and half room hut- for somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 days, I myself had about 1 due to the fact that I Seronga is just so damn FAR from…. everywhere. I t took me two days to get there from Moleps and two days to get back) I have to be honest and admit that I spent a majority of that time cowering in the corner (or really rather not—round room-no corners), or later, when I realized the creepy crawlies that resided in the corners, huddled in the middle of my bed (possibly in tears) eating my processed cheese slices and bread which seemed to be the only logical thing that might be properly kept through a journey of that many miles (or really, Kilometers).

In the midst of my quivering period of self doubt, I managed to observe that there were about four plates and a few half sets of cutlery which I assumed should be fine as it seemed unlikely that I would have any houseguests. The few sauce pans and glasses and two coffee mugs that rounded out the happy cupboard seemed to sufficiently cover what would be necessary for me to (learn to) cook.

A few weeks later in the altogether overwhelming experience of shopping in the mall in Gabs for the supplies that were to furnish our homes for the next two years, ( I blew a quarter of my moving in allowance on a down comforter and would do it again in a heartbeat… somewhere in my head was a line from what was undoubtedly an old Martha Stewart ”Living” magazine from my grandmother’s house extolling the virtues of nice bedding… or perhaps that was an advertisement… whichever) I did manage to remember to spend altogether too much money on a non-stick (yeah right) cake pan and cookie sheet. And with that I survived happily enough. I didn’t even have proper pot holders until this past July (which I got from someone who was moving away) but they’re those crazy silicon bird beak looking things, the technology of which must just be beyond me….

I give these examples of my culinary shortcomings as an overly detailed account of how inept I am when it comes to matters of the kitchen. You can see the direction this would be going when I resorted to taking up baking as a hobby.

Busy the hands to quiet the mind? Feed the stomach to empty the brain? I have no idea what pseudo fortune cookie theory I was operating under at that particular time.

But discovering I had no measuring cups was likely one of those charming little mishaps that defined those first few months at site (and likely sent me crying to that overly-expensive-down-comforter-covered-bed. I cried enough in those first few months to certainly last me the next two years…) Depressed, determined and most of all, hungry, the perseverance I’ve found in myself (and has jumped in to save me through much more trying and traumatizing shit than I can name) kicked in and I decided that measuring cups were going to have to be a luxury for the moment (incidentally I now have two sets;-).

So I baked. I eyeballed and felt the weight of the ingredients. I experimented and tried new things. It probably wasn’t always exactly right, but at least sometimes, it worked. Things tasted generally ok. I ate them. I didn’t poison myself or others (that I know of). I can’t even begin to tell you the amount of pride I experienced, and the amount of confidence in myself I developed, and the hope that was fostered that I could indeed do this Peace Corps thing.

Because what does it mean to measure? How can one determine exactly how much of something one has in different situations, under different conditions? How does one measure things, especially abstract things like success? Or behavior change?

I think about this often, even more so when it comes time to fill out our quarterly Peace Corps reports, those nightmarish visions in excel friendly format (allegedly) wherein we’re supposed to compile numbers and write a short synopses to describe what it is we do and how many people we’ve “saved” from the scourge that is HIV in Botswana.

So every three months I find myself in a tailspin of self doubt and feelings of inadequacy and failure when I face the difficult task of quantifying the work I do into an easy-to-read numerical format.

I often find myself envying people serving in other Peace Corps countries, where the goals appear (although I’ve learned nothing here if I haven’t learned that appearances can be deceiving…) to be attached to programs with tangible outcomes.

“What did you do in the Peace Corps?” a Question I anticipate enjoying almost as much as the one about “Why are you joining the Peace Corps?” or “What will you do in the Peace Corps?” To be able to simply answer, “I dug wells.” Or “I grew gardens”. Some of the members of a former cohort often said (only partially in jest) “I saved babies”.

What does it mean to have lived a year and a half of your life in a place and still not completely have a handle on it?

What have I done in the Peace Corps….?

Ummmm…

Crickets chirping….

(I mean really, I’ve been writing this lengthy, overly wordy blog which many people swear they’ve been reading for a year and a half and they still ask me what I do… and I don’t blame them a bit. Personally, I like to think there’s been some growth, and professionally, I’ve got ideas, and some energy still, I’ve got a helluva lot of goals, and things I’d love to see happen… but it’s also really tough to explain in a way that seems meaningful to the average onlooker. When I try to describe what have been some of the more meaningful moments and life changing experiences I've witnessed and had myself here, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it can all start to sound a little kum-bah-ya and lame. I realize that. People say I'm doing good work over here, and I struggle sometimes to believe that is true, but it's the hope that I'm doing something that will incite change that gets me out of bed in the morning.)

As Americans (and especially as Americans with mostly American funders) we want results. We want numbers, we want hard facts, and we want success. We want gorgeous, Excel generated charts and graphs and spreadsheets that we can take back to show other Americans how successful we’ve been. These are our measuring cups. We want everyone to marvel at the cake we’ve baked, and we want to give them the recipe for success with exact and replicable ingredients.

But this is Africa. And more specifically, Botswana. And even more than that it’s Seronga, a tiny village in the heart of the Okavango delta and peoples whom even their own government often overlooks. We don’t eat cake here. And so I’m sorry. Success looks and tastes differently here. The measurements vary.

Because what can these numbers possibly mean? If it’s about numbers I can give you numbers all day, numbers that have been ascribed to me or to my accomplishments. I can give you my weight, my date of birth, my social security number, my high school and college GPAs, the score I got on any number of tests throughout my life, the number of stamps in my passport, any number at all that is supposed to have some meaning that in some way describes me. But do they? Can they tell you if I’m a success?

Ok then, lets talk experiences. If I gave you the name, presenters, brochure, location, duration, program from every class, speech, lecture, workshop, seminar, poetry slam, open mic night or reading I’ve ever attended that was supposed to in some way influence me or change my mind, could you from that calculate my risk behaviors?

Maybe. But probably not.

But it doesn’t exactly predict how I’ll act. And thus whether I’ll act in a way that might lead to me acquiring HIV.

So how can I report, honestly, that the guy over there that attended the workshop I’ve put on has been at all informed, has taken in the information presented to him in a meaningful way, that he relates to himself the benefits and risks of male circumcision and that his decision around this matter for himself might be changed. Can I report this quite honestly when I know for a fact he came for the free lunch?

And what about the woman over there, who just sat through the clinic health talk on multiple concurrent partnerships? Can she conceptualize what this means for her (sure she can repeat what has just been said, and she can tell me all day long what it is I want to hear.)? Does this mean that I can safely assume that she’ll have the sexual negotiation skills and confidence to confront her partner, and the independent financial resources to leave her partner should he refuse to give up his other wives, or even to go to the clinic to test for HIV with her? Is all this a success if it just ends up getting this woman a fresh beating?

You can see where the numbers and reporting are just the first wave of angst.

It’s hard to look at a report designed for the duel purpose of keeping track of what we’re doing (this is indeed the only evidence we submit that we are really doing anything-for those of us this far out it’s not like the Peace corps is just going to randomly wander through our villages-I’ll say it again, it’s a mission to get here) and reporting to funders (one might expect that it’s sort of in everyone’s best interest to produce high numbers of those reached- and thus effectiveness as it’s these funders who keep us in jobs-this has been a moral dilemma to me, as I had always envisioned the Peace Corps as a place in which the goal would be to “work myself out of a job…” And the HIV rate in this country has done nothing but go up since I’ve been here) and not feel a sense of confusion, and I daresay, failure?

Because really in the end, all the paperwork and reporting and questioning leads to one bigger, more personal end.

If the Peace Corps is my life (Which arguably it is, at least for these two years. It’s pretty difficult to separate the personal from the professional when you live in these circumstances, with these sorts of goals) and these are the predetermined measurements of my success, and I feel this much confusion and uncertainty over reporting my “accomplishments” and whether I’ve achieved success, then what am I doing? Am I doing the right thing? Must my goals and feelings of success as a person in an individual be intrinsically tied to the level of success present in this village-ie the increase or decrease in the number of HIV infections? Has this been worth it? Am I successful?

These are questions I ask myself everyday. And the answers have never come to me via the reports I agonize over and resignedly hand in every three months. I’ve had to redefine success. Again and again. And it rarely comes in a numerical form.

Because success has come to look and feel differently to me.

Do I know that making art projects around the village is going to have any impact whatsoever on the prevalence of HIV in my village, or in Botswana? Nope. But I do know that several children have taken a project through from design to completion and can see their efforts on the walls of their hometown. I can see in them a sense of pride in their accomplishment. Some of them have made a connection between the use of alcohol and HIV. Some have been inspired by the notion of recycling objects to make art.

Can I foresee if reading books in English and discussing the themes and watching the movies and journaling about their reactions is going to keep five precious girls from contracting HIV? I wish to God I could. But I can tell you that I have seen their comfort level of reading, comprehending and expressing themselves in English increase, for some of them, dramatically. And I am willing to bet that these skills will help them enormously when they’re in medical school, a plan that half of them have, with their primary goal to be to find a cure for HIV and to help their people.

So how do I measure success? I know it when I feel it.

I consider it a success when I see one of the nurses, after watching me practice reading aloud in English with some school children for 45 minutes while they waited for him to finish with patients so that he can help them complete a questionnaire they’ve been sent to complete, take real time to help them finish their assignment and make certain they understand. Last week a nurse shouted an answer at them from a doorway.

I consider it a success when the woman who sells me airtime texts me after I’ve given her some magazines because she’s expecting a child and wants to know more about healthy eating and how she should prepare health wise for the baby. Prior to my suggestion she had never before taken advantage of the library within 100 meters of the door of her shop.

The children with whom I practice writing their names and multiplication tables in the dirt have steadily decreased the time it takes them to answer my quiz like questions and increased their willingness to look me in the eye. Learning is becoming something that is fun for them. They’ve come to trust me and know I won’t beat them if they get the answer wrong.

And there’s no box on the form for that.

How much credit can I take for any of these things? Probably not much. But for me that’s the definition of Peace Corps. We don’t come here to achieve success in the typically American sense. We have to find it in other ways, to search and dig and redefine it for ourselves. For me that has meant that my feeling of success comes when others achieve something, when I see that they are becoming closer to their best selves, and that they are improving the way in which they interact with and manage their worlds and what they want from it, when they raise their own expectations of themselves and others.

Did I come here to solve HIV? Nope, that one is way bigger than me. Did I come here to personally have an impact on a massive reduction of HIV? Even at my vainest moments I’m not that delusional. Might I have helped someone who could potentially do these things for their own country? That’s the dream. Have I been successful? That’s the one I take to bed with me at night, and hope that in the end, the answer will come out to be a resounding “yes”.

The story of how I added “breaking and entering” to my laundry list of Peace Corps Accomplishments….

A few months back, I was walking home through the (hot) village around lunch time distracted in my usual fantasy about what I would be having for lunch. Alas, upon my arrival at the hut, not only was there was no grilled salmon waiting for me, there was another less delightful surprise. I had locked myself out of my hut.

How did you manage that, Lorato? Well it happened that I had left the skeleton key, which was what I used to lock the door from the inside at night, in the lock inside the door in the morning. I have a small padlock that I use to secure the deadbolt latch that Simon had installed for me on the outside of the door after my host family had been stealing from me using said skeleton key to open my door. The key for the small padlock was of course on the same key ring as the key which was still in the lock on the inside of the door. It was, as we say in Southern Africa a bit of a f*ck up.

Now I know myself, and I know that this is the type of shit that I’m generally known to do. As such I had tried to create a safety measure so that this very issue wouldn’t occur. I had attempted to preempt myself by putting a spare key up in the shade netting that creates the shady area on my “porch”. I instinctively reached for this key, smiling to myself in appreciation of my brilliance.

Which I immediately followed with a cursing of my stupidity. My constant use of what appeared to be the foolproof key plan, which entails clipping them to a karabiner so that I can always clip them to my purse, a bag or my person, so that I DON’T MISPLACE OR LOSE THEM, had recently caused just that to happen, in the process of clipping or unclipping the damn thing the keys had fallen off without me noticing. And thus the emergency replacement key had been promoted to the sole key to my hut.

Which was now on the other side of the door.

And the lunch clock was ticking.

So I quickly looked out into the yard at the gate, just to see if some Prince Charming slash Knight sort of fellow might instinctively know that his services were needed (it seems that Disney sponsored Damsel in Distress detector doesn’t quite pick up signal in Seronga. They must be in cahoots with the Orange and Mascom cellular networks.) and possibly pitched up outside my fence on his horse (with his locksmithing kit). No such luck.

Back to the old standby, making a plan.

I briefly stood back and assessed the situation. As I’ve said, I know myself and thus often arrange things in my life so that there is some emergency escape/contingency plan. I soon discovered that if I used my little pink mini leatherman (thank you thank you thank you K-Train-best gift EVER!!!) to unscrew the entirety of the door handle, I could probably shove something long and thin through the lock where the key was currently nestled. It would push the key out of the lock and the hopefully drop it just on the other side of the door. If I then pried a piece of the bottom of the door that was supposed to keep small creatures, like say, mice out (we all know exactly how well that has gone) and found another longer thin object through I could possibly hook the keys and pull them out, and thus unlock the door.

Which is what I did, in thirty minutes or less, just like the Dominoes Pizza guy (shit now I gotta add that one to the list of lunch fantasies). Who needs prince charming anyways?

Or: “The day the English died. (The Language, not the people….)”

Or: “You get what you need….”

Or: Goodbye… Again

I was having a little ambivalence about the title for this one…..

I’ve made lots of friends here… They just all seem to keep leaving.

In Botswana, the population is known for being pretty mobile. People are always traveling around the delta, going up and down, here and there, around. Very few professional people spend their working careers in their home villages with their families and are thus always going back “home” to visit or on leave. Government employees are supposed to transfer every three years, a policy designed to prevent corruption that tends to encourage a lack of connection and investment. This policy was often overlooked, until of course recently.

Since I’ve been here in Seronga, many of my buddies have left or are leaving. It’s sad, as just when you make a friend within a few months they leave! It started with Paul, the gentle Zambian nurse who had been in Seronga for 12 years! He left while I was away last October. I’ve met up with him in Maun but it’s not easy. Then Ma Sibindi, the kind Zimbabwean nurse whom I would run to crying, knocking on her door in tears when there were mice in my house, or no water or some other tragedy. She would open her arms and with a huge hug invite me into her house, telling me to make myself at home, or to go rest in her guest bed. She cooked for me a lot while Simon was gone when I first got here as well. I was just beginning to really bond with the kids she had living with her (pictured in the picasa album “the Zims that inspire me”).

When I met up with her at the Co-op on a random Saturday and she said the truck had come to pick her and she was on her way to her new clinic (And these things are so sudden! Nothing moves fast in government here unless it’s a car to take someone away.) and suddenly I’m acting very un-African and making a scene crying in the store.

Each of the other clinic nurses has applied for (and as I found out today, been granted) their transfer, which will leave me as the longest serving non-Serongan of the bunch. I understand, it would be hard for me to swallow the idea of staying in Seronga for longer than three years. It is discouraging as it makes me certain that many of the programs I might try to implement at the clinic won’t survive my own departure, as the nurses I have sold on this idea or that idea will leave. I’ve observed that if it’s not in the job description, regardless if it improves things or makes them more efficient, it likely won’t happen.

Outside of the clinic staff in the past months The Queen was deported (sort of) in March, and although she’d recently returned, now she’s left again until December, and she stays out on what is currently an island in the delta. When the waters recede a bit more she might be accessible by 4 wheel drive (which I don’t have anyways) but it currently requires a truck and a half hour in a boat to get to her. So it takes more than a little effort to meet up with her for tea.

Thuso (with his wife and adorable new baby) transferred to near Maun as of May first, and Golesadi at the Mortuary (internet!) who is one of the few people to invite me over and cook for me, and who also came to my house is gone as well. They are a little easier to keep in touch with via internet or phone, but they’re still not here to invite over for tea.

The kind Afrikaans couple who ran the houseboats (and would inform me of flights and transport to Maun) have left recently, and their young replacements are only temporary, and will leave in December.

Plenty of great people also come in and out of my life here and I know when I meet them one of us will be leaving. Some are backpackers, people here through short term contracts, researchers. When I finally got into this country after much fan fare and Peace Corps drama of leaving home I met some amazing Peace Corps volunteers who have of course since been blown to far corners of the country (although we’ve mostly done a pretty decent job of getting together every so often or at least keeping in touch). In some ways my social life feels more like a revolving door than any sort of solid support system. In Botswana it seems (cue the Lion King soundtrack) the circle of life, the cycle of beginnings and endings, or introductions and departures seems to happen much more smoothly and with much less drama than other places I’ve experienced these events. People fade in and out, one day they are here, the next they are gone, often without much acknowledgment at all. I never realized how much the rituals we have associated with these passages in the States have brought me comfort until now.

In the end it’s not the English speaking that I miss, but the welcoming way each of these people have related to me, and accepted me and my different culture. It’s a connection that’s difficult to establish through different cultures and languages. At the end of the day, yes I realize I’m here experiencing a cultural exchange. However, that aspect of life does tend to become tiring (read exhausting) as it NEVER STOPS. I cannot walk down the street without exchanging cultures, and in all reality, I’m generally spending so much time trying to understand the culture that I’m living in that I don’t really have a lot of time to devote specifically to sharing mine (although I have to admit, these occasions do come along) and sometimes when I do something that confuses or confounds people I just claim it’s because I’m American. This answer sometimes works. But it is a cop out as I only use that one when I am exhausted from explaining a bunch of other things.

I think anyone would agree that it’s more comfortable to spend your leisure time with someone for whom you’re not constantly having to explain this aspect or that of your background or culture. These are people I would consider friends, and hope to keep in touch with in the future. I’m used to having long distance friends at this point (although I do not look forward to trying to keep in touch knowing the limited means of communication in this country… or perhaps it’s just the delta), but I also really like having my friends that are HERE!.

You’d have thought all these goodbyes would have prepared me for the worst yet. The English English leaving. Back in May I walked over to Simon’s house and something wasn’t right. I walked past the gate and into the yard and finally into the house. He was packed. He had been saying for weeks (months, years?) that he would be moving out near Gunotsoga and Ronny to work on building the backpackers lodge. I guess today was the day that that was going to happen. (Or really the next day.)

Simon had some random people (they’ve rented a small cottage in the village with the late councilor’s wife and are supposed to be coming back from the Southern trip of South Africa sometime towards summer. So in short, they are more temporary, part time people.) who had stopped by to visit him and we talked and had sundowners, talking the local talk, keeping tabs on the movements of all the other ex pats.

They were drinking beers and I poured myself a glass of wine. I had a feeling I was in for a long night. The guests left and I quietly asked Simon what was happening. He answered, almost defensively, that he was moving everything, yes everything, out to the camp so that he could start really working on the backpackers. I picked at a hole that was starting in the knee of my jeans to divert my nervous energy. We’re not really known for our heartfelt talks, Simon and I, and when I express something anywhere close to a “girly” emotion either his gruffness increases to near unbearable levels or he goes eerily quiet. I kept tipping back my wine glass so as to conceal my tears and we sat in silence, the closest thing we have to a heart to heart.

I knew this move would be good for him, but at the same time I couldn’t help thinking about how bad it would be for me. Simon has been my go to guy here, the grumpy rusty old knight in shining armor whom I call in emergencies (after, of course, I compose myself from any lingering effects of a girly (read crying) response). I’ve lived here long enough and learned enough and become efficient enough at “making a plan” to know I can do it on my own, but that certainly doesn’t mean I want to.

I realized that this meant that the battles we would have about the presence of onions in the food (please no) would be over, and I would be able to watch any movie on any night I wanted now, instead of allotting all the cranky British ex pat worthy choices for nights we would watch together on his TV and saving all the musicals and romantic comedies for my little laptop in my hut. I would no longer be assured of a hot shower at his place or drinkable water to take when my water was out, and there would be no one I trusted with my life that was near when I would get scared of something in the night. There would be no one to gruffly remind me that things would be fine, to give me hope through the presence of his extreme cynicism, and no one to help me “make a plan”. (Well technically there would be someone, in fact a lot of someones. But you know how it is when you just want to hear it from that particular person who has previously filled that role so well.) The things I used to expect from Simon would now have to come from within me.

When I describe Simon to people, and when they first meet him, many people are a little shocked, or confused at the symbiotic relationship we had developed. Through his constant criticisms of nearly every move I make, and his steadfast stubbornness that there is one and only one correct way of approaching and issue and behaving in any situation (his way, or at least the British way) he has made me tougher and more resilient. I have had to learn when to push back and when to give in, as in some ways with him I have finally met my match in terms of someone capable of steamrolling people. It has been an exercise in tolerance and compromise. Through my optimism and energy, and the ways in which I have come to depend on him it has softened him, and filled the places in his life left empty by a lifetime of solitude. I’m someone he feels he has to take care of, and although he may complain about it, I know (mostly from other people telling me) that he misses me when I’m gone, and I him. We can’t put words to it (he even less than I) but there’s a love there, and the man has become like family to me since I’ve been here. He’s a difficult man, which is nothing new to me and perhaps even provides some of the comfort and familiarity I find in him.

In the end, despite the difficulty of our strange interdependence, I would rather have him here than not. He’s got an aerial antenna for his cell phone at his camp, and so for the most part he’s still only a phone call away, but the distance is still tangible. There’s no three times weekly evening dinners and movies, and when I find some guests to entertain, we can’t just go to Simons, which has been one of my favorite pasttimes.

I find myself pondering the sayings about continuing to keep one’s heart open to love and friendship and connection, and I have to be honest, sometimes I find that to be a really hard concept. There are times when I just want to shut people out rather than letting them in, to build up a wall to protect myself from future goodbyes and missing someone. I want them to stay firmly on the other side of the fence where I don’t have to care too much.

Alternately I want to cling. I want to intermix my being with someone else’s so as to feel that bond, that connection. I want someone to be right here living this experience with me, breathing the very air I exhale, I want to be completely in someone’s space, and know they aren’t leaving, that they’ll be around for a while. I want familiar connection to be the rule rather than the exception, and I want it to be simple, not Herculean effort. Instead of longing for someone in their absence I want to be overwhelmed by a comforting, familiar presence.

But that’s not the way it is, or the way it will be. Throughout the phases of life here, with its predictable unpredictability, the only constant continues to be that I don’t know what will happen next, and who will enter or leave my life. I guess it’s no different than life anywhere else, but much like the hot Botswana sun, here I’m just more aware of it. No matter what I may want, through this experience I will manage to get what I need. I continue to learn the difference, and try to appreciate living in moderation while existing in conditions of extremes.

Joann Marie

Katchmark

Danelski

Joann Marie Katchmark Danelski, 60, died September 18, 2009 at her home on the St. Louis River with her family by her side. Her strength and endurance during her illness were sustained by her unwavering faith.

Joann was born June 26, 1949 in Sturgeon Lake, MN, the baby of 15 children born to Frank and Katherine Katchmark. She had attended the Sturgeon Lake and Willow River Schools. After graduation Joann moved to Duluth and worked for Cutler Magner Co.

She married Ken Danelski in 1968. Joann worked for the Duluth News Tribune until her diagnosis of cancer in 1992. Both she and Ken retired to focus on each other, their family and home.

Joann loved the outdoors and gardening and nature responded to her. She opened her home and gardens to friends and family and generously shared her time and talents with others. She planned parties, loved cooking and baking, decorating for holidays and making cards and games for her family. Her love of the St. Louis River has been captured in many of her photographs. Joann hiked her trails, kayaked, fished and enjoyed every moment of “her” rivers’ gifts. She taught her grandchildren the importance of gathering family and friends and to live each day to its fullest. Her zest for life was infectious to all who crossed her path.

She is preceded in death by her parents; brothers Ted, William, Florian and David; and sisters Patricia and Bernice.

Joann is survived by her husband Ken, of 41 years; sons Corey(Darcey) and Perry(Jill), both of Hermantown; grandchildren Megan, Madison, Austin, Mallory, Katie and Colten; brothers John(Bena), Bernard(Jeanette), Leonard and Frank; sisters RoseMarie(John)Thrun, Leona Bibeau, Leonilla(Jerry)Gilbert and Virginia(James)Zezuelka.

The family would like to thank everyone for their love and support. Her gifts will live on in the hearts and lives of her family and friends and all those she touched in life. “When my earthly life no longer exists, that I have pleased God with my earthly life and inspired others to believe in Him”---Joann.

Visitation Tuesday 5-7 PM with Rosary at 7 PM, all at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church, 2801 E. 4th St., Duluth. Visitation continues from 11 AM until the noon Mass of Christian Burial Wednesday at the Cathedral Of Our Lady Of The Rosary Catholic Church. Burial at Oneota Cemetery. Arrangements by Williams-Lobermeier Funeral Home.

This is the obituary of one of my great aunts. My father comes from an exceptionally big family, and I am sorry to say that many of these Aunties blend together in my mind, although many of the memories I have of these great women are of kindness and strong spirits. On my best days I hope that perhaps I am like them in some ways, and hope that I do justice to the example they’ve set for me. On my worst I am reminded of those who have been through so more than me and have still sparkled with a brilliant light of grace and strength and am reminded that I, too, am capable of this, and should bloody well stop whining.

Although I knew that life would continue on while I was away, these things are always hard to swallow, and can occasionally be made more so by the incredibly tangible distance between me and those I love. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to get to know Joann a bit more through the loving words posted by her family and friends on her Caring Bridge Website. It’s clear she was loved and appreciated by many, and will be greatly missed.

Here is one of the last entries on her Caring Bridge website before she passed:

“I was looking through some of Joann's photos and stuff by her computer today and ran across a story my mom saved about "The Power of Prayer" from the Duluth News Tribune. The story ran on Christmas Day of 1996. The story had featured Joann with her cancer and her faith. Here are some parts of the article.

"This Christmas, Joann Danelski could have been dying from lung cancer. Instead, she'd joyously celebrated the holidays at home with family and friends. Her cancer which had been doubling every six months, has unexpectedly stopped growing. Her Mayo Clinic physicians are astounded, and they believe Danelski when she tells them that this gift of life comes directly from family and friends who are praying for her, as well as from her own faith and positive attitude. "It's nothing short of miraculous. The doctor said to keep doing whatever I was doing. I said we pray alot. He said 'It's working.'" While Danelski believes prayer has helped her, she still expects to die from lung cancer. In the meantime, she takes care of her health and savors each day and her relationships to the fullest. "I've never asked God to take the cancer away. I've asked for help to live with this in peace, and it's happening," she said. "I've been given extra days and He's put me at peace with it."”

Rest Peacefully, Joann. Know that you’ve given me more inspiration and strength to continue striving for the sometimes seemingly insurmountable challenges I face here. Blessings of strength and grace to her family and friends who are missing her now, and navigating a new way of life without her. Peace be with you all.

Jen

--------I wrote this one after a meeting we attended in Mid-August in Maun. The Seronga Men’s Sector had been invited (which is another word for commanded in Botswana) to give a report on the activities that we had carried out in the past year and the ones we planned for the next year to the National Men’s Sector Commissioner, who is the Commissioner of Police for Botswana. It was a big deal meeting and I went along mainly as a show of support and solidarity with the guys I’ve been working with, who have repeatedly been my inspiration here in Seronga. Many of the other village Men’s Sectors basically admitted they’ve done nothing, so Seronga was sort of the star of the show;-)---

We sat in the overheated conference room, despite rushing to be promptly on time we’re delayed as the Commissioner of police (whom I recently noticed in a photo in the national newspaper shaking the President of Botswana’s hand, I think he must be sort of a big deal) had forgotten the location of the meeting that he called. He arrived an hour late, taking the time to magnanimously greet each of us personally. He sat down and we yawned though the typical introductions, each person being acknowledged with an amount of clapping proportional to his position. The rest of us minions were relegated to self introductions, which sent my mind scurrying to recall all the formalities of the details I’m supposed to recite in order to properly do so.

It’s funny to me that no matter how many people appear to be in any given group I attend in this region of the country I’m generally somehow singled out. This time it was for the announcement that the meeting would be conducted in Setswana, followed by the joke that I would surely be fluent by the meeting’s end. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this particular one, and I smiled and he repeated the joke in English for my benefit. ( I don’t know why it was even discussed, as it ended up that the commissioner gave his speech in English and it was then translated into Setswana.)

The other piece of notoriety, besides of course the staring, which in a bigger village like Maun is usually at least somewhat cloaked in stolen glances rather than straight out gawking like it would be in Seronga, was the photography. The photographer, who had been introduced at the beginning as the something something of marketing went around the room taking sort of group pictures of the different villages who had sent representation.

Throughout the speeches and presentations she would take occasional pictures as well as filming, although in a land where there are few TV’s much less cable access on which to broadcast these boring meetings much less recording it for some sort of posterity, (and I certainly didn’t hear the “this meeting will be recorded for training purposes” disclaimer, although it certainly could have done some serious good) I couldn’t necessarily see the point.

The weird part came right in the middle of the commissioner’s speech, which she had previously been recording with the video camera. The photographer suddenly walked away from the tripod, grabbed her still camera, and began taking pictures of me. Like obviously taking pictures. Of me. Several of them.

I often joke about the paparazzi, so naming all the tourists who nearly reflexively take my picture from their hulking overland vehicles as they drive through Seronga. It seems they are shocked by the presence of my white skin, as though I am some sort of rare (albino?) animal in the bush. I generally like having my picture taken, but this was straight up weird. I tried to smile whilst looking at least mildly interested in the speech.

One of my personal greatest successes of the past quarter for me was to help the chairman-Mr. Khumalo, a police officer- of the Seronga Men’s Sector create a report of the activities we had done and were planning to do. It’s the next entry on the blog. It was a simple enough thing, just a word document that I inserted some pictures I took from various events we’ve had. It was one of those things that took very little time on my part, but meant a lot to him. It’s something so easy, and yet to see his face light up and his chest puff out when the pages came out of the printer made me realize it was going to be a bigger deal to him than that.

Through the course of my time here I’ve realized that capacity building is not just about teaching people to do things, as with most of these things we work on, the people know how to do what needs to be done. In my situation I’ve found it’s also important to help people chronicle their accomplishments, and in helping them acknowledge and feel pride in what they’ve done, to hopefully inspire and encourage them to do more.

So when the time came for Seronga to present its report most eyes in the room turned to me as though waiting expectantly for my presentation. Mr. Khumalo and I had previously agreed that rather he would give the report, and I whispered a few reminders and words of encouragement as he stood up to walk to the podium.

It’s typical in Botswana for people to just read exactly what they’ve got in front of them when they give a “report”. If then there are any questions, which are always repeatedly requested, if it can’t be quoted directly from the report, the question will be deferred. Mr. Khumalo and I have discussed this tendency at length, and talked about ways he could give a more enlightening presentation. He knows just as much if not more than me about what we are doing as the Men’s Sector, and thus we decided he should be the person to present (And there’s also the little part where I sort of subliminally refused. I don’t think I would be building anyone’s capacity but my own to present at an important meeting like this.)

It was more than enough reward for me when Mr. Khumalo went up to the podium to give his report. He handed a copy to the Commissioner of Police, who is the national head of the Men’s Sector for this year, and began. Khumalo positively sparkled. He made eye contact around the room, didn’t read from the report or repeat irrelevant information. He was confident and even made a few jokes. It was definitely the best presentation of the day, (and it helps that our Men’s Sector is one of the most active in the district) and the other Seronga Men’s Sector representatives we were with made several other relevant points about the importance of involving churches and traditional healers with Men’s Sector campaigns. It was definitely a day of pride and success for Seronga, the Men’s Sector and me.

Below is the report we submitted to the National Men's Sector Chairperson at the meeting described in the entry above. I had to remove the pictures as the internet here is too slow to upload them, but I've left the captions, I hope this doesn't make it too confusing.

The Ngambao Scouts Troup entertains the crowd at the November Men’s Sector Event, demonstrating the theme of “Men Standing Tall, Walking Proud and Taking Responsibility.”

Enclosed please find a report detailing the events to date as well as the future events planned to be carried out by the Men’s Sector in Seronga. We thank you for your past and continued support of this active and hardworking committee.

Men’s Sector Community Event:

“Men standing tall, walking proud and taking responsibility!”

Men’s Sector Participants competing in a “Tug of War”

On 22nd November, 2008, the village of Seronga hosted an event sponsored by the Seronga Men’s Sector with the theme “Men standing tall, walking proud, and taking responsibility.” Present at the event were the dikgosi of Seronga, Gudigwa, Gunotsoga, nursing representatives from the Seronga clinic, teachers from both the primary and junior secondary school in Seronga, members of the local and national police based in Seronga, as well as representatives from wildlife and BDF. Also present were the police chief from Gumare, the guest speaker Mma Knutson and nearly 400 villagers. The event began with a lively march in which the members of Men’s Sector Committee split into two groups and were led by the Scout Group down each road away from the Kgotla for a vigorous 3 kilometer round trip march. Throughout the day there were many songs, traditional dances, dramas, speeches, another performance by the Scouts and a tug of war representing the battle between HIV and ARVs to entertain the crowd.

In addition to the message being spread from the main stage, there were 2 side booths which continued to spread the message of Men’s Sector. Over 60 participants were awarded airtime, crisps, and oranges for their efforts in events in a challenging sexual health quiz. Villagers tested their knowledge of issues of HIV/AIDS health, prevention and transmission, PMTCT, IPT and reducing stigma. Each participant was corrected by a trained educator on any information they answered incorrectly or needed more information about. In addition over 30 people were voluntarily and confidentially tested by the Gumare Counseling Center. All of the attendants enjoyed a lunch of meat, samp, rice, salads and cool drinks. This event was funded with the support of the National Men’s Sector Committee.

Participants in the health quiz

Outreach:

Since it’s inception as a result of a workshop held at the Seronga Land Board by the Gumare Counseling Center, the Seronga Men’s Sector has developed a progressive list of goals aimed at reducing the transmission of HIV in Seronga and the surrounding area. It has been a top priority of the Seronga Men’s Sector to reach out to the traditional and faith based communities as a target audience through which to spread the message of reduction of HIV related health behaviors.

One of the Seronga Men’s Sector’s most active members is Mareko Gweexa. He is a boat driver for the Seronga Clinic as well as a widely respected Church elder. Mareko has been instrumental in securing audiences with a number of church leaders throughout the Seronga catchement area.

As a result of his perseverance members of the Men’s Sector were able to meet with 12 leaders of various churches at the village of Mokgacha on 31 May 2009 in order to educate them on the issues of HIV as well as to sensitize them to the goals of the Men’s Sector. The Men’s Sector members were also able to address the various congregations about HIV prevention, and directed them to access resources available in addition to the support of their faith based community. Church goers were encouraged to use condoms, to get tested with their partners, and to take their ARVs and other medications appropriately.

Mr. Gweexa also preached the message of Men’s Sector to 379 parishioners in Sepopa village on 8th August 2009. He gave a sermon spreading the message of the importance of men testing with partners and also challenging the message that using condoms is a sin. He expressed concern about the methods faith healers were using for the treatment of various ailments that may lead to an increased spread of HIV. He encouraged people to go to the clinic for treatment of their health issues, as well as to not mix ARV’s with traditional medicine. Mr. Gweexa emphasized that the role of the church needs to continue to be to provide support and comfort to those affected by HIV, and promote behaviors that prevent the spread of HIV.

Mr. Gweexa addressing the congregations of ZCC at Gudigwa

Another outreach with other members of the Seronga Men’s Sector occurred on 16 August 2009 in Gudigwa with church members from various congregations of ZCC. Mr. Khumalo introduced the members of the Men’s Sector and informed 128 church members about the Men’s Sectors goals and objectives, which was then reinforced when Mr. Gweexa addressed the congregation. The message was further emphasized when Mr. Binang Makgetho reiterated that the ZCC church has always encouraged people to know their status by going to the clinic to be tested as well as taking their medications appropriately. He stated that the ZCC has maintained a position whereby members are encouraged to have only one partner, as well as for younger members to wait until marriage to indulge in sexual activities. He restated that ZCC’s protocol regarding HIV and AIDS is to follow and promote the government’s initiatives regarding the prevention and treatment of HIV/AIDS, and that there is no contradiction between the teachings of the ZCC and the government’s programs. Mr. Makgetho encouraged the congregations present to become active members of committees such as Men’s Sector, and thanked the Seronga Men’s Sector for coming to spread their message at Gudigwa.

The Seronga Men’s Sector will continue in their outreach efforts in the coming year by taking advantage of opportunities to address various congregations of faith throughout the Seronga and surrounding areas as they arise.

Mr. Gweexa addressing ZCC congregations at Gudigwa

Education:

In the coming months the Men’s Sector will host 2 workshops involving the local medical professionals from the Seronga clinic, as well as community healers and faith based leaders from Mogotho to Gudigwa. The goal of these workshops is to facilitate a conversation between these three important and influential community providers of HIV treatment and support. We intend to create an atmosphere of open conversation so that each service provider can highlight the service they provide in promoting HIV prevention and support. We also want each sector to educate about and promote their best practices and ways these three sectors can network together to provide the best response to the needs of their respective communities.

Another goal that the Seronga Men’s Sector is working towards is sensitizing the Police and members of the BDF on issues of gender and gender based violence. We plan to hold short seminars on these topics based on the curriculum provided by Men as Partners. We hope through these events to promote discussion of gender issues and to find a common ground from which we can address gender based violence through the men and women involved in these traditionally male centric organizations.

STEPS film Series:

Two members of the Men’s Sector Committee will be going for a workshop at the end of August to be trained on the facilitation of screenings for the STEPS (Social Transformation and Empowerment Projects) films. The STEPS films are designed to promote discussion and debate through their content, which will be shown with the support of the Men’s Sector at various locations in Seronga that have access to a television and generated power. Supporting partners include: the Seronga Clinic, the Seronga Sub Land Board, Ngambao CJSS, and the Seronga Police. These locations together provide us with a wide variety of locations from which to reach the people from the various wards of Seronga village.

Successes and Challenges:

The Seronga Men’s Sector has had a productive year, and has many planned activities for the coming year. We have held a successful kick off event; we have done outreaches, and have plans for workshops and programs that have a great deal of potential. That being said, we also have some challenges we hope to overcome in the coming year. The Lay Counselor at the clinic (who is also a member of the Men’s Sector) reports that there is still a hesitancy of men to go the clinic with their partners for testing. Combating traditional beliefs about HIV continues to be a challenge, with a great deal of misinformation being perpetuated in the community despite our efforts at widespread education. Another of the challenges we face in the coming year will be the procurement of a DVD player with which to play the STEPS films on. Plenty of the local partners have televisions and generators they would be willing to help us with, but we have yet to find one that has a DVD player on which to play the movies. We will attempt to meet this challenge by requesting funding from various sources in order to procure a DVD player that can be moved from location to location with the films.

Conclusions:

The Seronga Men’s Sector is an active and hardworking Committee comprising of men and women from the various sectors of professional, village and traditional life in Seronga and the surrounding area. We have set high goals for ourselves based the top issues of concern as set out by the Okavango Sub-District’s Evidence Based Plan. Of these areas the Seronga Men’s Sector is primarily focusing on Men’s involvement and addressing myths and misconceptions. We consistently strive to meet these goals without being deterred by lack of resources or the rural nature of our village. The Men’s Sector is making important progress in reducing the spread of HIV in the village of Seronga through our outreaches, our efforts at education, and our community events. We will not be discouraged from meeting our goals, and will consistently increase our efforts to bring men to the forefront as leaders in addressing issues of HIV/AIDS.

(I wrote this one in about mid July when my fridge busted. It took nearly a month to get it replaced. Ah Botswana. Thank God it was winter then, as my gas just went out while I was gone over the weekend and the sight and smell of my fridge full of rotten food in the summer brought me to tears.)

In order to combat increasingly declining sense of accomplishment (I wrote this a while ago…) I have ceremoniously decided (upon of course the recent suicide of my refrigerator) that in fact all of my combined household appliances, as well as several of my electrical gadgets have an unspoken vendetta against me. I am currently unable to deny that these appliances will no longer be satisfied with successfully ensuring my madness, but rather are trying to completely eliminate me as a resident of my hut (perhaps they have formed an alliance with the mice and lizards life insurance co-operative). This new framework through which to view my appliances and living conditions allows me to believe that my lack of prowess in most matters domestic is indeed not my fault.

My fridge has been making idle threats for months, or actually since I’ve had it, and finally chose today (as of course, the day when I have recently returned from Maun through a relatively painless 6 hour ride with transport nearly the entire way, which for the non-hitching in Sub-Saharan Africa layman means that I was completely and totally weighed down with perishable groceries because I had the means to get them here in a reasonable amount of time) and being completely full to die.

My oven is in on the death pact, and has decided it’s not only the appliances in the house but also its human inhabitant that must perish. It chooses to ensure this by f*$#ing up every item resembling food (It even went a step further and destroyed the butter knife I had accidentally left in a pan of toasting bread the other morning- I am so not a morning person….) that touches it. I know this little bastard is planning on me actually starving myself by becoming so fed up with the under and simultaneously overcooked item of food I bring forth from its fiery bowels that I give up on myself.

At current I have gone through 2 cameras being completely wrecked by dust, and the third is making a funny noise when I turn it on. The first ipod I brought with me has died, and I’ve gone through two mini speakers. The solio solar charger has died a long time back, and I’m on my third cell phone and have broken at least two chargers thus far in my tenure.

I can assure you it’s not that I’m not taking care of these things. All of my electronics have their own little plastic bags that they live in, with all of their corresponding chargers and adaptors and accessories (it took Africa to descend on me but by God I might emerge slightly closer to organized!). I guess that the lessons on wants versus needs will just keep coming and by the end of this I’ll surely be able to deal with anything;-)

(Disclaimer: The following is my interpretation of the events described hereafter, including my own observations of the situation in the delta and does not reflect any of Anna’s research findings nor does not contain her expert opinion on the matter of human elephant conflict in the Okavango delta)

Timeline: This event happened the first weekend in May. It just took me a while to get it together ;-)

Ok, it was really an airlift sort of mission, but I couldn’t resist the title.

It began, as things often can, in Maun. I had gone there for my last HIV test (still negative---whoo hooo!) with my friend Anna the elephant researcher (the last three words of which Simon often combines to become her de facto surname. The entry for her in his phone is just Anna Elephant. Nice) and her research assistant Eva. Her research base camp is out near Gunotsoga, where she lives on an island in the delta with her flamingo researcher husband. (Which sounds glamorous, but let me assure you, it’s a pain in the ass to hang out with people who live on islands. Mokoros and Hippos and Crocs, oh my. And for whichever reason it seems many of my friends this side do live on islands. Weird.) Add in Anna’s husband Graham and the house was soon full of people who had been in the bush too long, which tends to make for an exciting weekend.

The time we were there also coincided with the Maun festival, which is the closest thing to a live music festival I’ve seen in a while. It’s still Botswana, so it has a long way to go, but I can see the effort there, and think it has the potential to be amazing. Me being myself, I managed to help paint and ride on the top (I cannot get over this fairy princess problem I’ve got;-) of the Sefofane and Wilderness “Flying Rhino” float in the parade. (How do I manage these things? And who has the photos?)

So anyways being with Anna and Co. in Maun was good, as it’s always nice to be around a place with a few more amenities, as well as being able to get things done a bit easier. I’m not embarrassed to admit that being out in the bush for so long has made me forget how to competently operate a washing machine and thus ended up making everything I washed completely soapy. I attempted to remedy this situation by restarting the washing machine without soap and ended up watching the entire hour long cycle through the front end loaded window with altogether too much interest. I again blame bush life.

But this entry is supposed to be about elephants…

The incident I’m attempting to describe began altogether too early on a Thursday morning. We had celebrated our arrival back in Maun the night before a bit to vigorously, so when all of our phones began ringing at such an early hour as 7am we were less than charmed (although to be honest between the roosters and the sunlight streaming into my hut I’m usually up long before that in Seronga, but it would have been nice to sleep in!!!). On the phone was Simon, informing Anna that an elephant had been shot near their camps at Gunotsoga. Anna, of course being a vegetarian and an animal lover, as well as (duh) an elephant researcher had some vested interest in what was happening with this elephant.

Anna’s research is specifically on human elephant conflict, which is a problem with the large number of elephants as well as people in the delta. The number of people inhabiting the delta continues to increase, especially with improved access to health care as well as ARV’s being readily available.

As the human population increases in the delta, so do the number of elephants. As conservation has become “trendy” and more research is being done to learn about elephants (google: “Elephants Without Borders”) there have been increasing interventions by the Botswana Wildlife departments and improved sanctions against poaching. The growth of the tourism industry as a major contributor (it could be argued that tourism is one of the main pillars of the Botswana economy along with mining) to the economy has resulted in the government and tour operators having a vested interest in protecting one of the token animals of the fabled Big Five.

As both populations increase, as does the fight for resources, namely food, water and space. There is extremely little formal employment within the eastern side of the panhandle from which people can make a living. Thus the area’s main economy is based in subsistence farming.

In addition to having a plot “in town” people also continue to move out from the villages to settlements and cattle posts and fields to raise cattle and grow crops. Villagers tend to apply for fields from the land board that appear to have less bush overgrowth, which also means less work to clear, and are thus easier to begin farming. Now for those of you scratching your head in confusion as to why this is relevant I want you to ask yourself why these random bush plots would be cleared already. If they didn’t currently have things growing on them why would they be bad to try to plant crops or raise cattle on?

Gentle readers let me shed light on this perplexing issue. The farmers are placing their fields directly in elephant superhighways. To the farmers it makes sense to make use of the work the elephants have already done in clearing trees and stomping down all the brush. In theory a great idea. In practice, a bad one.

Before the rains come and when the land is dry the elephants often head out into the bush away from the delta to find safer and more plentiful watering holes and eating spots. They stay out there eating everything they can find until the rains come and they wait for the flood. When the flood comes they return to the delta, using the very same paths they’ve cleared the years prior and have likely always used. But now instead of their highway they find a farm, as someone has moved in while they were away and sown their seeds to grow all sorts of green and wonderful things for hungry elephants. No problem for them, they just push over whatever tiny fence the farmer has surrounded his crops with and eat everything in sight.

Which of course then leads to angry farmers. At this point score one team Ellies, they’re full and can for the most part still use their highway, someone’s just put in a fast food joint for them. While the farmer has probably lost his year’s livelihood. You can see where the conflict lies.

The only other time I have seen the sort of destruction which could compare to what elephants can cause is after a tornado back home. Seeing areas that elephants have crop raided or even passed through is very surreal. It seems they are at times very deliberate about which trees they choose to completely upend and which ancient roots they chose to pull out to nibble on. They selectively smash some areas to bits while others they seem to tip toe through with the grace of little nymphs. Very strange. They’re smart animals.

As part of her research and personal interest in elephants and the humans that live amongst them, Anna also does educational projects at the primary schools in the area. I’ve participated with one of her educational presentations and it’s interesting to note the children’s attitudes about these animals they live amongst. Although there are a few children who have never seen an elephant (this is rare) many of the ones who have express fear of the animals. It’s not common that elephants attack and kill people (although it can happen) but it only takes one instance in an area this size for all sorts of misconceptions to start.

Sidebar: Allow me to refer you to a blog written by Anna’s most recent research assistant, Eeva. She lived with Anna on her island camp for three months this year and kept track of her adventures that side. www.eevasafrica.blogspot.com

(There’s also a stellar-thanks a lot, Eeva, flattering photo ;-p of me doing some sort of horrible beer bong type activity called a shot gun. And I hate beer.) She details the nitty gritty of the research process more coherently than I do here, as well as providing interesting commentary on true bush tent style living. I make a few cameos as well.

So back to the morning in question. An elephant had raided a field near Gonotsoga. A farmer had attempted to protect his field. With a gun. And in the dark had shot the elephant. Not realizing that the elephant was female. With two small calves.

Elephants are extremely social animals. Whenever you see one alone, it’s likely an old bull that has been displaced from his herd by a younger male. These old bulls might run at you to screw with you, but are for the most part like your old uncle at your cousin’s Christmas party, still pulling the quarters out of young kids ears for fun after they’re much to old to find this amusing and constantly telling the same jokes as the previous tens years and laughing hysterically. In a word: pretty harmless. (ooops I guess that was two).

Most of the herds you see consist of many, many females and their young. As I learned in my first weekend out in the bush, these are the herds you don’t want to mess with. The mothers are interested only in protecting their babies, and let’s just say they don’t put the mock in “mock charge”. These ladies mean business.

So in this instance when the mother was shot the herd disbanded, or at least fled the scene. Elephants are one of the few animals who have been shown to exhibit signs of PTSD, so this was a bad scene. The babies, frightened by the shot, followed their mother rather than the herd, and the mother, being wounded and disoriented, separated from the herd. Momma and babies ran a ways into the bush and ended up near Anna’s camp. Which is where they were when Ian, the old ex pat elephant hunter living out that side, caught wind of the story.

After Simon’s call, Ian himself called, reporting that one of the babies was probably about three months, no taller than thigh high (and, Anna reported, likely still with pink ears) and most definitely still suckling. The other couldn’t have been older than three years, and would likely be able to fend for itself if it could return to the herd. There was limited information about how long the mother had been dead, or if the herd had been sighted anywhere nearby, and Anna could only speculate on whether the herd might come back near a wounded elephants for fear of endangering themselves, regardless of the presence of the calves.

By this time the tears of horror had evaporated into pure adrenaline in Anna. I could actually almost see the wheels in her head turning, as she and Eva and Graham discussed the possibilities for the baby. There was talk of catching it and keeping it in their vegetable garden while continuing to nurse it (of course old Ian had the recipe for elephant milk formula) as well as trying to get one of the local camps that specialize in elephant back safaris or elephant reintroduction into the wild to take on the calf. This ended up being the better and more realistic option.

As with anything in Botswana, this grand scheme required permission and often the permissions and bureaucracy needed to do most anything is mind boggling and confusing in its logic. This elephant situation was no exception. All wild animals in Botswana-especially the elephants-are property of the government. In this case the elephant had been identified as a “problem animal” by the farmer, who had shot it raiding his field. This in and of itself was not illegal. But in terms of the calves, there were no laws and indeed no precedent for what should be done in a situation like this one.

The ministry finally allowed that Anna would be permitted to intervene with the smaller of the two if she could find a place for it to go with the understanding that it would later be released into the wild. No camps would agree to make a move to do anything with the elephant until they had government permission. In a lovely and typical problematic case of Botswana circular procedural issues, the situation was at a standstill.

The information we were receiving (Which we later found to be all from villagers eyewitness accounts, rather than Ian the former elephant hunter himself. It was the fact that this information was allegedly coming from Ian that was the basis for many of the decisions that would be made throughout the course of the operation, as certainly a man who hunted elephants for most of his life would be able to accurately recount the details of the situation, namely the ages and conditions of the elephants involved. His reputation in Maun and indeed the whole of Botswana were what gave legitimacy to the claims. In the end it was a story that came across what was likely two different language barriers and an eighty two year old man’s less than stellar command of Setswana in the first place. But we’ll get to that part.) was that the babies were still near the dead mother whom the villagers were impatiently waiting to carve up for its meat (a common practice). I will now remind you of the little elephant psychology lesson about PTSD. Not good. Even baby elephants are sorta big, and a nervous three year old being protective of both itself and its younger sibling wouldn’t be something you’d want to mess with.

So Anna went into rescue mode, preparing letters and arranging meetings to get a plan sorted to rescue this baby elephant. The older one was determined to be able to fend for itself, but the baby was causing all sorts of worry. Anna called in all sorts of favors and resources to try to get a place to take this baby elephant. There was one camp who might take it, but the camp already had an orphan baby elephant (Who knew there was not only a problem with too many orphan children in Botswana but also orphaned elephants?) that they had managed to get to nurse from a lactating female. The camp managers very much doubted that the mother would have the energy or milk to provide for two babies, and indeed the introduction of another one might upset the balance of the herd.

Anna continued in her persistence, even sort of (well I don’t think “ambush” is the correct word, but maybe it’s close) “meeting” one of the managers from the camp at the airport. It appeared it was an American owned operation, and they happened to have some of the American owners in Botswana right now. The owners are apparently the type who buy luxury camps in the Okavango delta in order to occasionally turn up with their khaki outfits and belts weighted down with bush necessities like GPS’s and oversized Leathermans and fly around in helicopters to be the masters of all they survey. Yes, there are enough of these sorts of people running around Maun for there to be a “type”. Hell if the heir and the spare to the throne of England hang out here, why not all sorts of moneyed others?

This factor ended up pushing the whole operation in Anna’s favor, as it meant the owners would likely be keen for an adventure come rescue operation, and furthermore, the chopper was already fueled and in the air. It was arranged that a fixed wing caravan plane would also be commissioned for the rescue operation, and a veterinarian was also called in to oversee the progress. All the seats were to be removed from the caravan plane so that the baby elephant (once sedated by the vet) would be able to be loaded into the plane and taken to the camp, where it would hopefully get some elephant therapy to recover from its PTSD and become a productive and healthy member of a herd.

So in the midst of all the arrangements, Anna didn’t think to ask if she might be able to fly in the plane up to Seronga/Gunotsoga to meet the little ellie dude whose life she undoubtedly just saved until the plane was already gone. She’d done all that she could, and so we went about our evening, knowing that the whole operation would have to be completed soon, as it was winter, and night would soon be falling.

It was soon after the fixed wing plane took off however, that the problems began rolling in through various phone reports.

The first major problem was a big one. The mother was still alive! How can someone mistake a dead elephant? Anna reports that elephants in distress will flap their ears back and forth, especially to keep cool under the hot Botswana sun and due to their size the ears would have had to appear almost flag-like.

That the mother was still alive posed a problem because now there was the issue that it’s illegal to kill an animal which is the property of the government of Botswana without a permit. So now at this late point in the evening, the Vet who had arrived in the plane started making calls to the cell phones of various ministry officials who had already left the office for the day. He was able to get the necessary permission to kill the animal on the grounds of ending its suffering. Due to the size and the level of distress the animal had been under, the only humane way to do this at this point would be to shoot the elephant, and the only equipment appropriate for this would be a gun. And who is the only person that side whom is known to both have a firearm and the knowledge of how to shoot an elephant to properly kill it? Of course the hero (?) of the story thus far, Ian.

So the chopper heads over to Ian’s island to collect him and have him put down the mother. In the mean time more reports come in to us in Maun. It turns out the babies aren’t babies at all. While the elder appeared to be between 7 and 10 years old (Ian had earlier reported the elder was three), the younger was between 3 and 5. Likely not still suckling, and too big to be able to do anything to help it in any way.

So you can imagine the embarrassment and frustration that Anna was experiencing at this time. She had been running around the whole of Maun, appealing to various ministers in various departments of the national government to get this whole rescue operation accomplished only to have it be a tangled web of wrong information. In the end, most of the blame was transferred to Ian, whom at 82 years old is likely both unaware of the chaos he incited and furthermore likely quite unconcerned.

My take on it is that it was an amazing feat to have been pulled off in the span of a day in a village like Maun, in a country like Botswana, and really made me respect Anna’s passion for her subject and also her perseverance for her cause. I consider myself quite lucky to be in her sphere of influence. It made me realize what can be accomplished when you refuse to take no for an answer, and you’re determined to do something. The owners of the camps and planes were a little less than pleased (to put it mildly) about the incredible waste of money that the day had been, but despite the less than happy ending it made for a hell of an exciting day.

To all of you who sent me birthday well wishes and cards, letters, calls, gifts, packages, THANK YOU!!!! I was able to celebrate for about a week straight all across the great country of Botswana, and spend some quality time with all of those who have become my family here. To Rob, Kendyll, Damon, Ella, Todd, Adryan, Jules, Cait, Johnny, Andrew, Dudu, Vix, Elena, Patrick, Jamie, Drea, Tina, Tuan, Ricardo, Sara Lee, Anna, Graham, Cabrini, and all the party peeps, thanks for making it such a memorable week, and making “happy birthday” the most played song of my week.

To all those back home who contacted (or tried!) in some way or another, thank you for remembering me. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to accurately capture in words the disconnect I have grown to feel, and that comes and goes in waves, between here and there, but all of you that keep in touch remind me of who I am, and why I’m here. To me this is priceless, and is all because of you. Thank you.

Most of you who know me know that I tend to go through a little birthday trauma, with each new year on my years on this planet causing me stress about the age I am, what I’ve accomplished and where my life is going, and I’m happy to report 28 has not begun that way. There’s something about living my passion, and becoming at least a little more certain about what drives me and the direction I want my life to go that has brought some ease to this. Even on days when I’m miserable here, it calms me to remind myself how much this experience has meant and continues to mean to me, how much I have learned and grown and to know that any sacrifice I may have made to be here has been worth it.

It’s hard to believe I’ve now been away for 2 birthdays, but the “new normal” has become just “normal”. The ways of Seronga and Botswana come to bother and upset me less and less, and while a part of me struggles with this as complacency for the unacceptable, another part realizes I’m more productive when I can accept the realities of the place and just choose bits and pieces to hammer away at. If I want progress I have to start with the reality of where those around me actually are, not where they could be, and that is the ultimate challenge. I’m not going to change the world, but perhaps I can change a few lives. When I’m honest with myself I can see that I already have. Perhaps it’s this insatiable hunger for more and wishing for better for those that I work with here that will be the thing that burns me out, but for now I ride the waves, I search for the bright spots, I smile and wave at the children, and I hope for the best. It’s really all you can do sometimes.

My family will arrive soon, the first people who have known the “pre PC” me to set eyes on me in a year and a half. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was nervous, to show them the world in which I inhabit, the ways in which I interact with it and those who inhabit it, the person I’ve become. My excitement outweighs my nervousness though, and I’m completely filled with an overwhelming sense that I just NEED MY MOM. Just the thought of her here brings tears to my eyes. I need my sister to come here and look me over, and likely shout at me a bit (cause she’s so good at it) and I need Paul to keep the balance between us. I want to sink into the comfort of their familiarity. I need them to take me in their arms and to hold me, and to make life a little easier for a minute. I need to relax and breathe. I need to see this place through their eyes.

Living a life in which planning is so difficult, and disappointment and things not going that way you’d expect is the norm rather than the exception, I’ve realized that in some ways, I’ve been hesitant to really realize and accept that they are coming. I remember feeling a charge as they bought the plane tickets, and the email confirmation about the hotels in Capetown always make me smile, but it’s been hard to completely believe that they’re coming and everything will work out to bring them here. I have no tangible reason to not believe it, but I think small parts of me have been afraid to get altogether too excited. It has reduced the thrill of their arrival to a dull longing, which I’ve become so accustomed to in everyday life that this particular want has been tough to attend to. It’s tough for me to try to plan my next meal much further ahead than when I open my fridge (and hope that it’s still cold and working) so planning months ahead for their arrival has been a bit of a challenge to wrap my head around, and DO anything about. This has lead to a few logistical problems I’m coming to see, but as all things here, I’m sure it will be fine, although the time that they are in Botswana will certainly have quite a few elements of adventure.

All hesitancies and apprehension aside, I’m totally excited for them to arrive. We’re going to spend a fair amount of time in CAPETOWN, which I’ve heard is like heaven. My friend Dudu describes it as what happened when Africa and Europe had a torrid love affair that resulted in a magical city in South Africa. I simply cannot wait.

I’m going to post this blog now, and leave work and project related news for another update. Things are going well, the heat has returned, and I’ve got plenty of angsty rumination in the literary pipeline for those of you who dig that. Hopefully in the process of vacation and relaxation I’ll be able to write some more and post a few more stories and updates on here for you. Until then, wherever you are, thank you for your presence in my life and your continued encouragement and support. I am a very lucky woman.

Part 1: Goodbye

I had heard through the highly efficient gossip grapevine that is the main mode of communication amongst the foreign ex pat community in the widely sprawling but sparsely populated country of Botswana that my new friend had decided to leave. She hadn’t been here altogether too long, but I had looked forward to having another friend in the delta. I text her to see if it was true. When she confirmed her departure I asked if I could stop by and say goodbye.

In addition to knowing I was going to miss her, and wanting to see her off, in some weird way I also felt it my duty, having recently been promoted to the ranks of those who have been in country over a year to check in with her before she left. It’s a big decision to make, as we go through a lot and take a long time to get here in the first place. There was no thought that crossed my mind about trying to talk her out of it, it wasn’t about that. I trusted that she had thought about the decision from all angles, as I said, it’s a huge decision. My main concern was that she was at peace, and that it hadn’t been one particular incident that had pushed her towards leaving.

When you observe the trajectory of the Peace Corps cycle of emotions from arrival in country to departure, you notice that much of our time in this experience is spent feeling vulnerable and or depressed. Incidents that might be sort of a big deal or even a small deal on their own are constantly being coupled with various other discomforts and inconveniences, cultural miscommunications and various other emotional maladies that can make everything feel like a BIG DEAL. Occasionally smallish things, or things that you will adjust to or have the potential to change over time push you over the edge, and to everything you can just feel like saying “F*ck IT!!! I can promise you that every single person in every Peace Corps post in the world has experienced this particular sentiment, and sometimes you need to speak with one of the people who can understand the sentiment to get past it and keep going.

I wanted to provide the ear of someone who would be one of the last people she would encounter who would “get it.” Once she steps off that plane in the States, there will be very few if any people that understand much of anything of what she has just left. When she came here she came alone and when she gets back, she returns alone as well.

I arrived at her place, both the first and last time I would see her space, and it was all packed up (full disclosure: I just had a total Christmas in July. My new friend was incredibly generous in her departure. I may have just received the only non-stick frying pan in the Okavango delta.). We sat and chatted. She was indeed at peace, and very comfortable with her decision, and I had to agree that her reasons were nothing short of solid. It hadn’t been an impulsive decision or one certain thing. She felt it was time for her to go and in that I supported her.

Seronga being where it is (quite near the edge of the end of the Earth, which I believe is officially located in Gudigwa) I haven’t had too much exposure to those who have arrived recently. Peace Corps in Botswana is such that each year a cohort leaves and a new one arrives. So we’re all either the newbies or the old school. With this position of honor comes a certain amount of jadedness and increased cynicism amongst some of us that we try to be somewhat gentle in our exposure to the new class so as not to age them unduly before their time.

It’s a constant mini-circle of life. In May I got used to the idea that the people I’ve come to look to for many things were leaving, and that suddenly I would become the one who would be called on to help the fresh arrivals in any way I could to get through the hardest part of Peace Corps, the first few months in their new villages. I tried to remember what I would have wanted and what I felt I needed when I was in their position, and still try to consider them whenever I learn something new or gain a new resource. Although Peace Corps is a hugely individual endeavor it’s also essential that we work together and try to help each other out when we can, be it through helping each other make contacts and access resources or by just being there to listen and support each other.

Dudu (in Gumare) and I have long agreed that we aren’t the type of people with personalities that would get along or be friends in the States, with that being said I would be pretty fricken lost without her. It’s these sort of relationships based in proximity and circumstance and sharing similar geography and conditions that lead to the sort of odd affections we develop through this experience. An opportunity I was now going to miss out on with my new friend as she was leaving.

I wasn’t in any way mad or disappointed in her, as I said I understood her reasons. Through the conversation we had I noticed many things that struck me. In some ways it’s incredibly weird to see so much of the person I used to be in the new class, and see so much of those who have recently left in myself. Things I have come to have patience with or at least tolerate with the understanding that they are not changing any time soon, or that there’s ways of keeping oneself from being exposed to these upsetting things. You come to a point where you don’t think of it as ignoring or overlooking shocking or upsetting things but rather keeping your own sanity by not dwelling on them. Some of the comments she made and things she was displeased with about the culture or the country that I would have formerly agreed with wholeheartedly, I found that somewhere between here and there just came to accept or at least understand the reasons why things are the way they are.

As I sat nodding about and agreeing with some of the things she expressed indignation with that I have long come to accept as normal, I began to wonder: When did I stop feeling? When did these things that would normally upset me and rile me up cease to even cause a blip in my radar? Was this the emotional direction life in Botswana was taking me? Towards being so constantly immersed in conditions and instances of distress, and grief, circumstances of injustice and hopelessness that I would become emotionally exhausted by it all and begin to check out emotionally? That human suffering would be so part and parcel with daily life that I didn’t care anymore? Was I numb?

I had wondered the same thing on a few separate occasions in recent weeks when I’d felt my eyeballs begin to twitch. It would start when I was extremely frustrated, frustration happens daily in Seronga and it barely fazes me any more, but these were instances where no less than 10 things had suddenly derailed and I was at a loss for which direction to even move into next. My eyeballs would twitch and burn as I sat somberly away from people, a preemptive move I’ve found myself making without even realizing it, in order to keep from flipping out on people who have no contribution to or responsibility for my frustration but might otherwise find themselves in my path. More and more often lately I’ve found myself sitting, staring off into space, waiting for the dull rage to subside.

I realized later that the eye twitching is what usually happens before I cry, what used to be my last resort as a way to react to my frustration or other angsty situation I find myself in. I noted with slight disinterest that I don’t even bother crying anymore, as I’ve learned it does no good. Instead I send out a few choicely worded text messages to friends here whom I know can relate, and wait for the anger and ire to subside, the only joy I get coming from how entertaining or succinct I can be with my venom.

I wonder at this new phase, if it can be interpreted as growth or regression? Am I becoming more zen or just permanently pissed off? Do I even notice any more? I know I feel when I’m happy, because it seems the slightest things make me nearly euphoric which tends to be expressed through big smiles and dancing about, and yes, usually some text messages. When I’m happy I feel really happy. I appreciate and just love my life. I feel lucky and blessed for the opportunities and adventures I’ve had here. I feel any sacrifice I may have made to live this experience for two years has more than been rewarded. Much of the rest of the time I spend in a fugue of either frustration or avoidance of aforementioned frustration. Because if I can’t feasibly DO something about the situation that is irritating me, is there any point in feeling that irritation? If I ignore it, will it go away? Choose your battles?

Part 2: Crash

I revisited these ideas later that night. I left with a hug and well wishes when my friend Colin collected me from her house. I had invited her out for one last night of Botswana fun but she deferred with too much packing to finish. Fair enough. Colin and I went to pursue one of the main (only?) forms of entertainment in the area, heading out to the bar. For a few different reasons I wasn’t drinking that night, but as I have long maintained, I can have as much fun at a good party as the average bear whether I’m drinking or not. It was a long night; I saw a lot of friends, had a great time and was more than ready to go home by the end of the night without the alcohol that often fuels the sort of stubbornness that is what successfully keeps the party going in my system.

In the parking lot many of the revelers were a bit too drunk to be driving, which is a constant danger of being on the road in Sub Saharan Africa (the deadliest place for road accidents in the world). Colin and I got in the car and waited while the cars ahead of us did spin outs and screwed around on the dirt parking lot ahead of us. The squealing tires and flying dirt set the stage for stupid driving, and we just continued to wait back until all of the cars had gotten on their way. We didn’t want to be near any of them on the road as we made our way home.

When the noise and lights of a majority of the cars that were ahead of us were gone, we slowly pulled out behind a guy with a girl on the back of his bike. Outside this particular bar there is a curb along the dirt that breaks in one very small, very specific place so that cars can enter the gate without having to go over this curb. It’s hard to see in the day and nearly impossible at night, so for the most part cars just come across the dirt wherever they can.

This wasn’t what happened that night.

The driver of the bike pulled out of the gate wobbling back and forth a bit, his balance thrown off as he was searching for the break in the curb. As he drove out towards the road he was directly in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, also searching for the break in the curb, but deterred from that by the presence of the bike in the way. The oncoming vehicle swerved (a bit unnecessarily from what I could see from my front row vantage point) and overcorrected, and proceeded to roll three or four times. In excruciatingly slow motion.

The noise was horrifying. The screeching of tires was brief, but the sound of the metal impact on the ground burst forth again and again. The dust that was kicked up and floated in the jarring lights of the headlamps of the car as it rolled.

I began repeating Colin’s name like a question, the fear pulsing through my veins and making his name the only logical thing to ask, as though I expected him to answer that no, we hadn’t actually just seen that. He made a move to get away from the scene but from somewhere else I heard my voice say hesitantly, and then more insistently, “No. We can’t”. He grunted at me and jumped out of the car. I could see people running from in front of me towards the now mangled SUV, which was behind me. They flashed in front of the windscreen like a movie.

Now I was alone, which felt more frightening than anything so I got out of the car and followed the guy who had been riding the bike, his passenger and Colin towards the scene. Through the glow of the headlights, in the hazy smoke of dust and broken glass in the road laid the silhouette of a person. As I got closer I realized it wasn’t a silhouette, it was an actual figure, and it took me a minute to realize that indeed this person might be dead. It was my turn to pause. Colin had recovered from his initial shock and was now attending to the man in the road, asking him questions to determine his identity and injuries.

He had been the passenger in the SUV, and he had been thrown from the vehicle, the driver suffered minor injuries. He had just been getting a lift from this bar to the next, and thus no one really knew who he was. Suddenly there was an influx of drunk people on the scene, they were everywhere. For the most part we all knew each other as most of the white people know the other white people in this country. Most of them were drunk, and a majority of them panicking and talking too loudly, or even screaming. Their voices echoed in my head and I shook it to try to get them out. Colin somehow corralled them and put them somewhere, while other people that, while drunk, were also functioning took over.

In the white ex pat community in Maun it seems people exist almost on their own planet. They are the ones who own or run the lodges and tourism and hunting industries, they are the children of missionaries and other do-gooders, they are the foreign pilots, and they are the “founders” who 20 years ago realized all the lucrative business that could be made in the delta. The common law of going through “procedure” in Botswana and waiting for things forever often don’t apply to them. They have set up their world so that they aren’t too incredibly bothered or influenced by the constraints of life for the other local people. They’ve created their own universe to contain whatever it is they want, and they operate by their own rules. The whites had the vehicle moved to the side of the road, the victim on the way to the hospital and nearly everyone who had witnessed or been a part of the crash gone from the scene before the local police even got there. I remember thinking somewhere in my brain that it might indeed be possible to get away with a murder if you were white and in Maun. The thought made me shudder. I recently heard someone refer to NG11, 12 and 13 (which are the numbers assigned to Seronga and the surrounding areas) as the last frontier. If this is true, then Maun is certainly the Wild West.

Someone called a paramedic, who had likely also just left the bar, and he arrived and assessed the man’s injuries. He called for a blanket, it was night, it was cold and the guy on the ground was at risk of shock. I wordlessly handed over my sweater, and walked over to the fence where all the local Batswana were standing silently observing the wreckage from their front yards.

From somewhere in the depths of my brain came the Setswana words for “give me a blanket,” and I was given one, which I then put on the man on the ground, my sweater was now underneath him protecting his back from the broken glass. I stood there, gazing at the man groaning in pain, a large gash across his face, a stream of blood trailing through his long ginger hair and onto a river on the pavement. Colin was still talking to people around there, sorting things out, and I suddenly realized I was shivering, left only in a tank top.

I walked back to the car and got in and waited for Colin to finish his heroic duties, as there was nothing left for me to do once they loaded the injured man into the makeshift ambulance on the way to the hospital. I sat there in the car, still cold, but mostly numb.

Part 3: The aftermath?

The accident had scared me, but fear was quickly replaced by going into the “deal with it” (also known as “make a plan”) mode that has become the mainstay of my way of life here. Cars wreck. The phone network is out. Malaria. No petrol for the generator. Ferries break. The food is gone. HIV. Water goes out. Children are hungry. Elephants trample. TB. Animals are beaten. People die. Moving on.

People with resources deal with these conditions by imposing the strength of their will and the power of their money into attempts they can make at controlling the nature and conditions of life here. People without resources must trudge along, allocating their meager resources in an attempt to manage misery, while hope, ambition and inspiration are slowly leeched from their spirits. They get by however they can.

I’ve noticed this side we don’t often react to these things emotionally, even though that may have been our human instinct once upon a time. In the bush in Botswana, we make a plan, we deal with the situation at hand so as to move forward with whatever activity we were interrupted from to deal with this newfound inconvenience. A life threatening car crash falls into the same realm as running out of petrol, a minor annoyance to be “sorted out”. And on to the next party. Never mind the blood in the road.

Keep going.

And this is the way it must be. Because eventually it will be dark, and then there are animals, it will be cold, it will be too hot, the petrol will finish, the gas will finish, the ferry can’t go over the river in the dark, both ferries are broken, the rain will come, the rain will finish, there’s a flood, there’s a drought, the children are hungry, people come-people go, the pump is broken, the water is gone, the road is washed out, the generator is broken, the parts, keys, food, materials are too far, the electricity might be coming, the power is gone. Some of these things we can control or prevent. Others we cannot. Any of these conditions can be dangerous or at least highly inconveniencing, and we must thus be prepared to mitigate or ward off the repercussions, and of course make a new plan. There is little control and virtually no predictability. Each move one makes must be weighed against any number of conditions and factors which just cannot be predicted and we thus exist in a state of constant preparation for events and conditions for which we can never reliably plan.

It may not appear so, but we’re quite busy.

It seems that amongst all the time I seem to have found in my life in Botswana the minutes allocated for feeling have grown small. Although sometimes it seems like all I do is feel and ruminate about and pay enormous amounts of time to my feelings, in some ways it seems they’ve also become compartmentalized. Things to be reacted to and dealt with and put away rather than… Felt. The time to feel has been downgraded in priority, things to promote more important (“survival?”) tasks fill the time that might have formerly been used to sort out feelings. Finding and preparing food, fetching or boiling water, securing or waiting for transport to get the above or internet, or airtime, communicating with those not immediately present, cleaning my body or clothing or space, tasks formerly predictable and easy and commandable now time consuming and elusive for all planning purposes.

Emotions have become like most household chores, something to deal with in order of importance. Laundry and dishes, priorities, they must be dealt with when there is water, whether I’m in the mood or not, because who knows how long the water will last or when it will come again. I’ll really figure out how I feel later, when I’ve figured out how I’m getting to location a, b or c, and most of the while in planning (a futile exercise) spent being frustrated, such a constant state as to mask any other minor sub category. Emotions are summoned forth over surprising things, (a tiny child carrying his sibling on his back, a herd of half naked children running towards me, a co-worker giving me a piece of his fish, another reading something he really wants to understand and asking me questions) but more likely I don’t react to things I perhaps should have an emotional reaction to (All five of your children are starving?/ Another of your siblings has died?/ You have HIV? I’m sorry?) The emotions remain in the queue until they demand expression, which can come either from an explosion of some sort of emotional outburst (not extremely culturally common here) or more likely by pushing them deeper. We avoid and do something else to “deal” with the festering emotions.

We drink. We have sex. We sleep. We space out. We want to feel, or we want not to feel, we want relief from our lives. We want to feel good, or at least not feel bad.

When you think about how aspects of the above can reliably contribute to HIV, it puts the epidemic in a whole new light, doesn’t it?

“What do you want for dinner, babe?” he asks.

I pause, his increasingly liberal use of that particular endearment, which falls from his mouth as naturally as water, jarring me a bit. It brings back a few too many memories I’m not in the mood to recount, but I shake it off. I have a gorgeous shirtless man in a sarong, in my hut, asking me what I want for dinner. As in he’s going to cook for me, again.

This is becoming quite the set up. I live my village life, he lives his vacation life and we meet in the middle for dinner, which he prepares as we have a glass of wine and discuss the intricacies of our days and our lives. I have no idea how he pulls these dinners together, what with food and planning meals being one of my less than strong points, but whatever he cooks is amazing, even through we eat it cross legged on my floor. It encompasses so much of what I’ve missed so desperately since being here that I often find myself in a delirium of happiness. It’s a time when life is exceptionally beautiful.

He’s got his hand on the refrigerator door, which his extreme eco consciousness will not allow him to open until I’ve responded. He’s also like that with water, hyper vigilant of how much trickles by as he uses it, in a pretty extreme contrast to my habit of listening to the sound of my toilet running or sink dripping as a comforting symphony. Needless to say there are a few things about the current arrangement that would eventually have to be ironed out, but I remind myself that it is temporary, which seems to make nothing matter too much.

I look up from my position on the floor of my hut, where I am making a sad attempt at painting a village scene with watercolors, an exercise that appears to be the extent of my inspired attempts at creativity. I raise my eyebrow incredulously in answer. He knows what’s in there better than I do, hell he put most of the food there.

“I dunno.” I finally answer. “That’s your arena, remember? Whereas mine is generally cleaning and…movie selection?” I looking around as though to search for some other task that falls within my realm of expertise but just shrug and smile. “But so long as there’s red wine to go with it, I’m sure I don’t care.” How we came to be in this pseudo relationship so quickly is beyond me. But I miss the feeling, and despite the temporary nature of this one, I let myself fall into its familiar comfort.

He smiles, ruffling my hair. “Why don’t we go into the village and have someone kill and clean us a chicken, and I’ll roast it over the fire I’ve been using to cook the beans outside. I noticed there’s lots of firewood around since they’ve been cutting space for the electricity.”

“Sure” I said. In my mind I was thinking this shouldn’t be too difficult, there’s always chickens running around, roaming as free as the livestock that threaten the safety of any road journey in a car in this country. “Village chicken. Good idea.”

My usual source of chicken generally tends to be when Bana Ba Metsi (the school for naughty boys up the road about 55 kms) puts their “chicken for sale” sign up when I happen to be driving by the school with someone who is willing to stop. Or when I get it from Maun (boneless, skinless, and heavenly) or best yet, from Nandos or Barcellos in Maun. They cook it up for me with peri peri sauce. But in Seronga, the chicken selection is… Limited. It’s a bit of a delicacy, despite all the little bastards crowing all night and waking me up in the morning.

So we set out. I was lucky enough to remember the verb for “to buy” and was able to impress him with my Setswana skills, except for the fact that “chicken” and “grandma” sound very similar in Setswana. I quickly found several people confused as to why I wanted to buy their grandmother. They became even more alarmed when they thought I not only wanted them to sell me their grandmother, but I wanted them to kill and clean her first. I had a few younger drunk guys who looked like they may have been willing, depending on how much Chibuku they would be able to purchase with the proceeds of the transaction.

Once I sorted out the chicken/grandma misunderstanding we had slightly less confusion, but still no bird. I went into all of the yards whose occupants I greet every morning on the way to the clinic but no one had any chickens to sell. The Zambian was confused; he had never been in an African village in any of the many countries he where he had lived where he hadn’t been able to quickly and cheaply procure a village chicken.

After about a half hour he began to make a plan B for dinner, but at this point I was on a mission. Like the homicidal apple trees from “The Wizard Of Oz,” there was no way, under any circumstances that I was willing to admit that Seronga was anything less than what it ought to be, and certainly not that it was lacking in any of the quintessential qualities of an “African village”. My little village was just as African and contained just as many village chickens as any other, if not more so. We WOULD have roast chicken for dinner.

Out came the stubborn streak, in addition to the cell phone. I started making calls to supplement my impromptu village tour. Many people told me to head out to “the lands,” or to try this person or that one, but none of these leads proved fruitful. I began asking after (and chasing) the chickens running around through the road, but when I asked, no one could sell me THAT chicken as it seems they weren’t the owner.

“What if I just killed this chicken right here?” I began to ask.

The old ladies laugh at my exaggerated pantomime, not even bothering to call my bluff.

Finally, about 45 minutes after the mission began my phone trilled with a number I don’t recognize. It’s the lady who owns the tuck shop where I buy my cell phone airtime when I’m between trips to Maun. She wants me to come to her shop in ten minutes and she’ll take me to the place where I can get the chicken. I smile triumphantly at the Zambian.

We collected some firewood from the trees that had been chopped down to make way for the electricity and walked towards the tuck shop.

I later heard that some of my female friends in the village-who had exhibited an acutely strange combination of thrilled joy for me that I was seen publicly with a man, and jealousy that I was seen publicly with a white man, were utterly scandalized when they witnessed us walking down the road, with the Zambian carrying the bulk of the firewood while I carried the dead cleaned chicken in a plastic bag at arm’s length.

“Lorato.” They chided me the next day in hushed tones, looking around to make certain no one else was listening as they recounted the details of my scandal. “Why did you let that man carry your firewood? That is a woman’s work! Now he is not going to think you are a good woman and he’s not going to want to marry you! You better hope he will have sex with you and you will get pregnant so at least he knows you can make babies.” They advised me earnestly. There have been few greater joys here in my time in Seronga than when I told them that not only did he carry the firewood but he cooked the chicken, and that, sorry girls, I had no intention of marrying him, or even trying to get him to marry me. They were mortified. I was ecstatic.

We arrived at the tuck shop where a gaggle of teenaged girls from the junior secondary school had gathered to buy flavored ice, sold in plastic sandwich baggies and a common staple of the children of Seronga’s diet. The tuck shop owner had decided that rather than close down the shop herself these girls would take us to the place to get the chicken. As they were teenage girls, there was no end to the giggling and nudging each other as they looked back at the Zambian and I. He reached out as though to take my hand and I slapped his away, but any hope I had of the village not assuming he was my boyfriend was futile anyways so I just shook my head and smirked at him.

We finally arrived at the house where one of the girls announced our intention of buying a chicken to the ancient woman seated on the ground cutting up a massive bloody carp (called bauble fish here, but still with just as many whiskers as a typical American catfish). She gestured as though to offer some of the fish for us to buy as well and I shook my head and turned away from the bleeding mound, more certain than ever that I would indeed pay whatever they asked for them to clean in addition to killing our chicken.

It was time for the show. A few of the girls began to chase the chickens around the yard, their embarrassment of their rural way of life when witnessed by two Americans overruled by their fear and respect for the punishment that might be inflected by the old woman on the ground if they did not successfully catch and kill this chicken, thus earning the old women money for traditional beer. One of the girls finally caught the chicken by the neck and thrust it triumphantly at us. I looked at the Zambian questioningly, having no idea in my pretty little head about what constitutes the ideal qualities of a village chicken.

“It’s all going to be tough anyways, this is Village Chicken,” He shrugged, describing it as though it were a name brand. “It doesn’t matter.”

I nodded at the girl to hand the chicken off to what might be either her mother or grandmother, who then made as though she was going to break its neck right there until I quickly covered my ears and shut my eyes. She laughed at my gory murder movie reaction and walked through the fence to the courtyard near the house from which I promptly heard a sickening last cluck and a snap. Seconds later she emerged with the dead chicken, its lifeless head now a handle by which to carry the bird. I shuddered and asked one of the teenaged girls to ask her to clean it. She looked pained, which cleared right up at the offer of ten additional pula.

Within twenty minutes we were on our way back to the hut, and that evening, we did indeed enjoy a roast village chicken. My capacity for cooking was of course, not built, but I do have an idea of who to go to next time I have someone offer to make it…. Maybe.

Yesterday I traveled from Seronga to Sepopa (1.25 hours over water, about 45kms as the crow flies from Seronga, but there’s no crows providing public transport, so over the river we go) via the clinic boat ambulance, and was then picked up by the Sepopa Clinic ambulance to travel the rest of the way by road to the district offices at Gumare. This route cuts the travel time on the journey from anywhere in the arena of 3 to 7 hours one way by road down to between 2.5 to 4 hours with the water/road combo. It’s definitely the way to travel, and I was excited to be taking the boat again as our ambulance boat has been in the shop for about 10 months.

Maybe it was my excitement over being on the water again, perhaps it was my rush to call the Sepopa ambulance to collect us, but somewhere in the transfer from the boat to the truck I managed to drop my phone. My very expensive, internet enabled, bright orange Sony Ericsson that had been a gift from a friend. I had just decried the fact that my phone was one of a kind in the delta, and was probably going to get stolen on my blog the day before.

I didn’t realize I had dropped it until I got to Gumare and was going to take the Sepopa clinic ambulance driver’s number so I could call to find out when they would be heading back to Sepopa. I couldn’t find my phone anywhere. I could hardly believe that I’d made the hour long journey without needing to text someone, but that’s apparently what happened. Panicked, I dumped the contents of my bag out onto the white sandy road in Gumare and began freaking out.

The nurse, the driver, and villagers in the back of the ambulance immediately began to look around and offer their phones to help me. A women riding in the front of the ambulance whom I didn’t know was already asking my number, which she then reported was ringing. Someone answered. I dashed to the back of the ambulance to see who had it. None of them. I ran back to the woman, confused. She handed me her phone. I asked the man who had answered how he had gotten my phone, completely bewildered at this point. It was Tom-Tom, a guy from Seronga who works for the Okavango Houseboats. They do transfers for clients who don’t fly into Seronga across the water from Sepopa to their various houseboats and bush camps along the river and into Seronga. He told me he found and recognized it was my phone and would be taking it to the police in Seronga.

It turns out my friend the police sergeant, who I’ve been working with on the Men’s Sector Committee as well as the social worker had by chance called my phone and had spoken to Tom-Tom and told him to bring it to the police station when he returned to Seronga. The police sergeant continued to answer the phone for the rest of the day, because, he explained, he didn’t want someone to call and get my voicemail and be worried, because he knows that Lorato always answers her phone (I think this caused a little confusion/alarm for subsequent people who called my phone only to have it answered by the Seronga Police, but we’ve got all that cleared up).

My phone was missing for less than an hour, and was waiting for me (along with some teasing) at the police station when I returned to Seronga that evening. From the time it got lost until I was reunited with it, no less than 4 people from Seronga area came up to me (in Gumare, Sepopa, at the hoof and mouth gate near Ikgoga) to inform me (in various languages) that my phone was at the police station in Seronga.

When I was reunited with my bright phone (which in the end, despite me trying to be discrete about having such a flash phone, was the reason it was returned to me) I called the managers of the Houseboats and the owner in Maun to compliment them on having such a trustworthy and honest employee, as well as thanking Tom-Tom and giving him a small reward and a note.

I was so touched by my village’s concern for me and amazed that my phone, which is likely worth at least a month’s wages around these parts, was returned to me. Thank you, Seronga. Bottom line? I heart Seronga and Seronga hearts me! (no matter what I say next week... Or tomorrow!)

Note: in order to understand this blog entry you may need a map. If you think that is tedious trying living this adventure;-)

“Come to Lusaka” he purred. Or rather he text me something completely different, using none of those words (at all), but instead sent something that if I read between the lines (literally?) may have subtly implied it. Knowing there was a real risk of me being girly and silly about the situation I held out. My response was coy (riiiight Katchmark, as you’ve ever been known to have been coy. It may have happened once around 1997 and you likely came across as autistic) and only slightly flirty, and the general commentary was work stuff.

Flirting over international borders (and thus text fees) requires a certain finesse. You don’t want to say too much, but you want to make use of the money you’re spending to send the communication. My favorite flirting method within the country’s borders via text involves leaving a lot of spaces and punctuation and using those stupid winky faces-which I never did with my old phone but with this new one I can’t even help it, I like those winking yellow faces. They have become so much a part of my vocabulary that I find myself writing them in my blog, where they’re not as yellow and cute and thus don’t make as much sense. ;-) Verbally I find myself searching the caverns of my brain which are filled with all these incredibly useful languages swimming throughout my head for something as satisfying and useful as the winking face from my phone. But I digress.

So when you’re sending a text message to another country on a Peace Corps budget you make use of every character you have. I can find myself revising my texts so as to use (what I find even dumber than the winking face- the shorthand) the least amount of characters in the most charming way so as to not go over one page for the better part of 15 minutes. I soon realized he felt the same and that became part of the game, which one of us could come up with the message filled with the most content, while using the least amount of characters or pages. Obviously there came to be quite a few misunderstandings and miscommunications.

My cell chimed again, this new chime on my new cell phone, the one that rather than blending in with all the other cell phones in the Northwestern District of Botswana is distinct and draws unnecessary attention [(this cell phone is gonna get me jacked. But it’s got Internet capabilities that have been saving my sanity. I have it connected to my hand at all times and sleep with it next to my pillow and take more care to know where it is at all times than I probably will with my future child (note to self, rethink personal breeding policy.)] Another text from the Zambian. I smile despite myself. This time he definitely means come to Lusaka.

I know for sure. Cause he kind of said it. Sort of exactly, in those words. I stand up from the step where I am perched outside the caravan, where I am “helping” with the vitamin A campaign and begin to pace, which is how I do my best thinking. I say “helping” because I don’t know how much assistance I am actually contributing to the success of the campaign by screening the children. My current function is to ask the mothers to see their children’s health cards, checking to make sure they are under five (a task that is then repeated when one of the nurse orderlies does it again in ten seconds) and then marking the back of their left hand with a black sharpie x. It’s a move that intrigues some of the younger ones, who are just figuring out that the hand I have just marked is indeed theirs, and a move in which the older ones that know me push each other out of the way to have anointed upon them like the oil of the sacred.

Other children, less enthusiastic. Cautious, wary, but willing to go under the felt tip. They examine their hands suspiciously, look to their little brother, their mom and their cousin, and seeing nothing amiss in their faces, look back at me and go back to playing, stopping every so often to leer at me suspiciously.

It’s the ones who have come from outside the bounds of my jogging route and fall within the age range of “stranger danger” that really go ballistic. They’ve never seen a white person before and now this new one, which they likely cannot even distinguish if it’s a man or a woman, is scarring their hand permanently. No thanks, Mom. Some of them scream and run for dear life before they even come near me. Their mothers laugh at them (these little guys are not laughing, they are genuinely terrified) and sometimes they lasso their children into getting their hand stamped. Sometimes the mothers look at me like “What? If I weren’t holding this child between me and you, I’d be crying too.” I generally let those ones go.

The head nurse has set an ambitious goal for us as a clinic and for our cahchement area. She wants us to distribute vitamin A to more than 100% of our target number. I hear this in the morning meeting and think, “hmmm. I knew the math isn’t generally the strongest subject but here’s a chance to build some capacity.”

“You want us to reach over 100% of the children?” I asked to make certain I had heard correctly.

The head nurse nodded impatiently-which seems to be the way she does everything when it involves me. I used to take it personally but I’ve learned that’s just her personality.

“And who will be on the committee to create the children that are not yet involved in our count so as to meet our more than 100% target figure?” I think I’m making a joke and smile. She thinks I am wasting her time and frowns. “Lorato.” She is using all three syllables of my name for emphasis of her impatience and irritation with my interruption during her speech. “There are many babies this side who are not registered as they are born at home. Their mothers (now the mothers are the recipients of her verbal ire) have not brought them to the clinic and they are not immunized for anything. It is our JOB (sharply and with emphasis) to find these children in the bush and get them their vitamin A.”

Her expression dares me to ask another question or make another (apparently asinine) comment. I mutter something about perhaps bringing the other inoculations the children might be missing so as to get them covered for everything they need. Her face softens “Ah my girl, that is a good idea. Smart girl” (Redemption! It certainly doesn’t usually come that easy).

So this door job, while appearing to be a demotion is actually better for everyone involved than the one they tried to have me do the day before, which was to actually administer the vitamin A (there’s that formal medical training that’s been so useful here…..). I got about three capsules in (vitamin A comes in liquid form in capsules that you cut the top off of and squeeze into the babies mouths) before a child was so frightened of me and worked himself into such complete hysterics that he spit the stuff all over the room.

Yes, Lorato, you can be excused from this duty.

Yessssss. Victory dance in the end zone!

So on this day I was relegated to bouncing the door. I checked the cards to see who would get inside the caravan of wonders. Obviously it took a lot of concentration. By early afternoon there was no one waiting. The sexy texting with the Zambian was a welcome distraction.

I sent a text to my conscience. He of course, being my hand selected Jiminy Cricket, told me to go for it. The independent consultant suggested that I just come and visit him in Maun. Opinion discarded. I called (or rather text) in the reserves, who refreshed my flirt addled mind of the steep visa fee for Americans traveling to Zambia, something the Zambian had avoided (or paid or whatever) by having worked there for nearly a year. I mean, we had had fun, but would it be a guaranteed 150 United States dollars worth of fun is I traveled there? Almost an entire month’s allowance? Plus transport and what? I called in the tie breaker, conscience number three (who’s as useless as me at making decisions and whom I call in when I want a tie breaker to turn in my favor) who started running the numbers on how many weeks I might feasibly have to go without leaving Seronga, having any fun, or say, eating. The phone was chiming like the symphony orchestra.

I was firmly on the fence when I suddenly looked around and wondered how I even got there. Was I seriously considering this? His visit to my place was one thing, we had fun check ya later. What would it mean to meet again?

Negotiations continued throughout the next week, (I went through an obscene amount of phone money between the international texts to the Zambian and to those in country I rely on to keep me sane and who serve consultative purposes). I decided that if I wanted my time in Botswana to be a sexy fun adventure, when someone offered me a sexy fun adventure I needed to say YES! So finally, with concessions made on both sides, it was decided that we would meet in Kasane.

He seemed pretty concerned with the logistics, and of course to make things even more difficult a week and a half prior to the big adventure my cell quit sending texts to Zambia. I could receive his and then I would either briefly call or email him back. He was leaving Zambia for the States within days of returning to Zambia from the Kasane trip and was understandably not interested in having stress, so as I was in the actual country to which we would be traveling, I was in charge of securing accommodation. It’s lovely having friends in low places as we got a great deal where we stayed.

So the plan was that we would each be in charge sorting out our own transport to get there, which for him would involve an unseemly amount of hours on a bus on the road and crossing through at least two (three?) borders. I myself would have to hitch hike up through the border into Namibia, cross into the Caprivi Strip, hitch across the entire strip, and cross through the border with Botswana again by 6PM, and then hitch through a national park and into Kasane. I guess in Peace Corps it’s not a romantic mini break adventure unless you need your passport and more than two forms of currency under a stringent time constraint.

As the day approached it became clear that there would be no time to screw around in leaving Seronga. I harassed my friends at the police to find out who would be heading up through Shakawe or to Maun so that I could get a lift. To add to the fun we had decided to make this trek on a Sunday, a day that there are noticeably less government vehicles and overland trucks on the road. Finally someone at the police committed that they would be leaving Seronga in a truck that had been in an accident and needed to go to Maun to be repaired at about 8:30am. This meant 9 at the absolute earliest (and I think it ended up being more like 9:30 before we made our way out of Seronga) in an already damaged vehicle. A super start to the journey.

We got to the ferry and I walked onto it and crossed ahead of the car I had been traveling with. None of the cars going across were headed to Namibia, so I walked down the road towards the turn that leads to the border. As I approached I saw a pick-up truck go by, and tried to hurry but with my tendency towards over packing (I only had my big backpack and my purse bag. This was packing light!) I was a tiny bit too slow. I’ve trained myself to move fast with baggage weighing a better percentage of my body weight but not that fast. The truck turned ahead of me and I kept walking (at the border I found out that that very truck had been going all the way to Katima Mulilo which was most of the way I needed to go. Dammit). I started down the road (I think it’s between 2 and 4Ks to the border of Namibia, but with a backpack on your back it feels considerably farther) and was soon picked up by a car that was going to the village nearest the border. I convinced them to reroute slightly and take me all the way to the border post and gave them a few extra Pula for their trouble.

When I finally got to the border, I dealt with the customs thing and sent the Zambian a text. This would be the last text we would have until I got back into Botswana as my plan to get a Namibian sim card for my phone had fallen through. We would now be traveling incommunicado and would just have to hope the other ended up at the place we were staying. Nothing like adventure.

I had waited at the border for about a half hour when the first car came by, relieving the beginnings of anxiety I was beginning to feel about this whole thing. It was somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 some kilometers I was trying to cover-which would be a quick day trip in the States, but here in Africa, hitch hiking across the elephant and livestock riddled Caprivi Strip, it was no joke.

The car that picked me up was one of these “South Africa’s answer to an American SUV” numbers. It looked like an armored Land Cruiser complete with a snorkel and a pop-up tent on the top. Inside was air conditioning, an enviable stereo system, and several forms of GPS, all of which were showing we weren’t even on a road right now.

The drivers were two white South Africans, only mildly suspicious of giving this crazy American a lift and super fun to chat with. The woman worked for a global mining company as part of the human resource development arm that chose promising kids in high school to sponsor through University and then gave them various technical internships with their company. She was really interesting and we chatted a bit about Peace Corps and the guy put a little Bruce Springsteen (which reminded me of my step dad and made me a little teary) on his stereo system. They were only going to Popa Falls but bypassed it and brought me to the junction of Divundu where I would need to catch my next lift, which would finally put me on the long stretch eastward to Katimo Mulilo (that’ll be car number four for those of you at home counting).

We wished each other well and they were on their way back to Popa Falls. I seem to have a lot of luck getting people to go out of their way to take me where I’m going, it happens in Maun all the time. I must have a charming personality or something ;-) I could tell they were nervous for me-it always seems to happen this way with hitching. I ask people for a ride and they sort of hesitantly agree-I’m guessing due to my toothy American grin and apparent harmlessness, and by the time they’ve dropped me where I’m going they become invested in me and nervous about my welfare for the rest of my journey. Would I like a cool drink, or did I want them to wait until I got my next lift? No I would be fine, it might be a while..

And it was. Hitch hiking in Africa is like gambling in Vegas (except occasionally more…… life or death?). You have to decide whether to take the first lift that comes along that may or may not go as far as you need to go, or you can wait for a vehicle that might be going farther, faster, but in doing so, lose time. Then there’s the whole price negotiation. Government vehicles are not technically supposed to pick people but often do, and are never allowed to take money. Private vehicles often expect you to pay an equivalent to what you’d pay on public transport if there was such a thing. I’ve found that white people never make me pay, as they generally know that I’m either a volunteer, a broke traveler, or they just cannot figure out why a white person is traveling without a car.

I walked up to the check point which was the best spot for hitching to Katimo. I chatted with the guards (who were of course impressed with my minimal grasp of SeHmbugushu) and realized “Dumella” meant nothing anymore. I was amazed that I could live this close to another country (Seronga is less than 110k’s from the Namibian border) and while both languages are prominent in Botswana, Setswana is completely foreign here. This town was currently less than 50k’s from Botswana, and I would wager many of the residents had never been there.

I waited for about an hour (picking up some language, obsessively checking my watch) when a combi (mini-bus) finally came through announcing it was heading to Katimo. I got in and of course we had to go back the other direction for fuel. This wasted about 30 minutes. I kept getting out my guide book and trying to estimate the distance, but quickly realized just past the gate I had been waiting at that the speedometer on this combi was not working. And we were not going any kind of fast. I had been making good time up until this point but was now losing time (and money, my first few lifts had been free).

I stayed in this combi for about two hours. One highlight involved a little confusion about where we were going. Somehow through all the new dialects I heard being thrown through the combi- the Caprivi Strip has more than 6 languages spoken throughout it, no wonder they don’t bother with Setswana, I overheard we would be traveling through someplace that sounded an awful lot like Angola. I thought they were talking about going to the border of Angola, the country directly to the north, which I was currently closer to than I was to Botswana. And am completely not allowed to go to. I know I should have researched the route a little better, but really, all I know about Angola is that there’s supposedly a shit ton of land mines there, which is what caused all their elephants to come to Botswana, many of the people from the delta are also refugees from there, and to quote a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, “Angola loves war.” I’ve also heard many horror stories about Americans (researchers) getting stuck between the borders of Angola and Namibia in the no man’s land. I’ve met a few people from Angola that say all that is mostly bad publicity and it’s a beautiful country with very nice beaches. I’m pleased to inform you that I did not in fact have the opportunity to conform or deny these conditions for myself as we never had to enter Angola but rather passed through the slightly desolate village of Kongola. Who knew?

But prior to the wayside rest stop of Kongola, I was still put putting away in this damn combi. About 100 kilometers short of Kongola, I realized we had been passed by many, many touring vehicles and several semi trucks. This meant we were currently traveling less than 50k’s per hour. I decided I needed to make a move or I was not going to make the border. I made the combi pull over and I got out, at a place in which the only indicator that it wasn’t the middle of nowhere was a bench with two young men sitting on it. I walked over to them and sat down.

Within five minutes a semi went past and as the young (black) men waved it continued on its way until I walked to the road, pulled up my sleeve and stuck my white arm out, at which point the truck laid rubber on the road to stop and began to reverse. The white privilege I admittedly have here does continue to trouble me, but I have to admit that for better or worse I take advantage of it. I also often wonder if there is any possibility of avoiding or somehow rejecting it. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

So we get in the truck and travel another 50ks or so and soon pass the combi I had been on. Progress, although not much, we were still being passed by many, many cars. When this semi (vehicle number 5 for those still keeping track) pulled over I was still freaked out about time enough that when the guy jumped out to check the tires and I saw a car go by I again pulled up my sleeve and stuck my arm out. Another car screeched to a stop and I realized too late what this probably looked like, some sort of kidnapping attempt. I thanked the truck drivers, grabbed my bag and jumped out of the cab and ran over to the car.

The white South African woman was not amused when I explained my situation. She had stopped because she thought I was in trouble. I apologized (while in my head wondering how far she was going to go and how fast) and asked where she was headed. Kongola (which I now understood I needed to go through to get where I was going). It was probably a bad move morally to flag this lady down but it was an excellent move strategically as it seems she was in a hurry. We quickly arrived in Kongola and she was happy to be rid of me. I guess the charm doesn’t work on everyone.

I encountered vehicle number 7 in the 6th hour of my travels at the filling station in Kongola. I was still looking at my watch like a crazy person calculating distance, time, speed limits, ect, and half heartedly wishing I had paid more attention in any math class I had ever had. I mentioned to some people sitting on the wall near the station that I needed to get to the border of Botswana before 6 and they laughed at me. Bad sign. I stood at the road and did the “my wrist is broken and thus flapping in the breeze” move that is the international African symbol for “I am hitching pick me up”. Within 20 minutes someone from the filling station is yelling something to me, with the key words being “Katimo”. Game on. I ask how much and get in the car.

I was hoping that asking “how much” in Setswana would buy me some points towards not being a tourist but a local, but when the guy didn’t answer immediately I knew this was going to be a challenge. The guy told me it was 60 bucks to Katimo (the Caprivi operates in three currencies, the Botswana Pula, the South African Rand and the Namibian dollar and sometimes even the American dollar due to it’s proximity to Zimbabwe, where the horrifically inflated Zim dollar has given way to trading being conducted exclusively in Rand or American dollars, with dollars being preferred. Of the 3 African currencies the Pula is constantly worth the most, but is traded equivalently with the Rand-which is worth slightly more than the Namibian dollar. So one’s best bet is trading in the SA Rand, as Namibian dollars are really not worth converting into if you can avoid it as the only place you can use them in Namibia and people in Namibia prefer the more valuable currency. Knowing this I had brought some Rand I had left over from the Mozambican adventure) and I saw the other people paying this so it was ok. I sat back and was thankful that most people in Southern Africa drive altogether too fast, as this was one time I would need it.

I sat back and continued reading my Botswana/Namibia tour guide book that I had brought for the map and was the only thing I had to read (traveling LIGHT!!!) and had lots of information about the history of the tribes in my area which I’d never bothered to pick up and read about. It wasn’t helping to give off the “I’m not a tourist” vibe but at this point I didn’t care. I continued to check my watch against the signposts and attempted to keep my panic to a minimum.

I began to try to ask the likelihood of catching a lift from Katimo to the border which was 70k’s. Once I crossed the border back into Botswana I would still have to get through the Chobe national park and into Kasane proper, a feat that would only be possible if there were still tourists coming through at the last minute on a Sunday night like myself. Best of luck, Jen.

The map was estimating it to be another 50k’s, from the border between Namibia/Botswana (which is called Ngoma gate) to Kasane. When I’m honest with myself (and of course anyone still reading this mess of a travel log) a measurement of distance in kilometers never means all that much to me. As with Fahrenheit, English, driving on the right hand side of the road in the left hand side of the car; it seems a solid grasp of the distance of a kilometer instead of a mile is just another aspect of the American mentality that I find are quite difficult for me to give up.

As we approach Katimo Mulilo, I was starting to realize the man driving the vehicle didn’t understand anything I was saying. Another man sitting in the back with me realized it at the same time and began interpreting. The man asked if I needed to get to

Ngoma. I said yes, and again asked if he knew of anyone going. Now came the time in which I would have the lovely experience of the opposite and just as prevalent response to my “white privilege” (karma karma karma) which is “white extortion”. The driver told me he would take me to the border for 400 pula which could more than get me from Seronga to Gabs and is (quite literally) highway robbery. I considered telling him to screw himself but realized both my Setswana and Afrikaans mastery of this particular endearment would be useless here. Instead I tried the sweet approach. I lied. I told the interpreter I had 60 rand and 100 pula and that was all I had, and that I was a volunteer and poor me. After much more back and forth between me, the interpreter and the driver he finally agreed to take me all the way to the border for 160 -100 pula and 60 rand.

When we let off the other passengers at Katimo Mulilo and they paid I realized I was not completely done with my negotiations. As per what in my experience appears to be typical African driving tradition we had to stop at the bottle store for beers (More mental math about how many beers they bought, how much I thought the driver weighed, if I saw him eating when he picked me at Kongola, how dehydrated might he be, how long we would be in the car-unfortunately drinking and driving have been taken to new levels in terms of acceptability in Southern Africa. It’s not a matter of if the person you’ll be riding with is drinking it’s more a matter of attempting to predict when they started and how much they’ve consumed) before we could get on the way to the border.

As we started going I attempted to “confirm” the details of the negotiations. In my mind I had decided that I was not going to pay 160 bucks in various currencies but 100 total. I got out my 60 rand and newly revised amount of 40 pula and showed the driver. He began to pitch a fit, and I claimed it was the interpreters fault and this was all I had. (In fairness, this amount was more than reasonable for the distance we had traveled. I was still sorta getting screwed, but I wasn’t getting screwed without screwing this guy as well. That’s what we call equality.) he made a face and I made a face and he muttered that he would “do me a favor”. And continued driving.

When we got to the border I rushed into the building and proceeded to search for someone to help me get my passport stamped. I was just beginning to wonder what would happen if I just jumped the border when a somber looking woman arrived and listlessly stamped my passport. I asked her where the border post to reenter Botswana was. She flapped her arm behind her to indicate “that way.” I thanked her and rushed out of the building.

And encountered the longest “no man’s land” between borders I’ve ever seen. I asked a man who was sitting near a truck how far it was across this bridge (which incidentally crossed over a river). He told me 5k’s. I grimaced. I could see that it wasn’t that far, but it was quite a ways, with a lovely hill just at the end before the building that was the border post.

So I hoisted my back pack more properly onto my body and strapped on all the clips and belts. I was going to have to make some serious time to get across this never ending bridge (of course right now there are no cars in sight) and make it through customs back into the Botswana side before the border closed. Botswana may not be a timely country for most things, but quitting time is one in which they are consistently quite prompt.

So I hauled on over the no man’s land back into Botswana. As I panted up the hill to the building I noticed a car pull away from the building and when I began waving to them they slowed to a stop. I rushed into the building, greeted the customs agents with some overly enthusiastic Setswana, said how glad I was to be home, and threw my passport at them and said “I’m coming.” (Which means “I’m coming back” but it seems the end got lost somewhere in translation. So it’s left as “I’m coming.”) I rushed back out towards the car and knocked on the window. It was an older white South African couple and they were surprised at the interruption. It seems they had stopped because the woman was on the phone getting directions. I breathlessly opened the backseat door and heaved my bag in while breathlessly asking for a ride and attempting the toothy grin crossed with slight desperation look.

They hesitantly agreed to bring me into Kasane (although really, I wasn’t giving them a whole lot of choice). Vehicle number 8 and hour number 9 last 50k’s. I rushed back to the border post, scribbled something on the customs forms, completed the cycle of appropriate greetings, got my passport stamped and rushed back out to the car. Through the course of our journey I made myself useful by dealing with the check point guards at the entrance and exits to the Chobe national park in Setswana (Where is this language coming from in me today!!??), gave a stirring narrative about the mating habits of red beaked hornbills (I think that’s what they’re called), explained why all the baboons were all sitting on the road (warmth) and provided general sparkling commentary on life in Seronga and the Peace Corps. By the time we got into Kasane they were not only ready to adopt me (or at least have me marry their son that happened to be my age- an engineer, perhaps I should have considered it-) but also to drop me exactly at the lodge I was staying at. Score!

They had each turned on an overhead light and the woman was fiddling with the GPS as well as examining her guidebook when the husband, who was driving, began to try to look at the map in yet another guidebook. At this point I was the only one paying complete attention to the road when I saw something large and grey up in the dusky shadows ahead.

“Elephants,” I said calmly, with that horrible tendency I have to use a calm voice in times when I should probably be shouting. (As opposed, of course, to using a loud voice when I should be quiet, which is much more common from me…I often have trouble yelling out BINGO as well. For a person with such a big mouth I have very interesting performance anxieties at the strangest times). “Ummm elephants. Elephants” I said with slightly more urgency but not more volume. I grabbed for the map book from the driver and he started. He put both hands on the wheel and slowed the car. There were about five of them crossing the road in front of us, a mothering herd, which is not the kind you want to get too close to, much less hit one with a car. Elephants are one of the most socially aware creatures on the planet and they would have killed us immediately if we had hit one of them.

I could hear the woman panicking a bit as I instructed the man to put the car slowly in reverse and leave the lights on. The elephants looked at us with slight disinterest and continued across the road, where they began nibbling on the trees. They were chewing on the ones that were left standing, as it seems either this herd or another one had come through this side earlier and decimated the rest of the area. It was an interesting juxtaposition between what appeared to be the relatively peaceful animals in front of us with the tornado like damage they can just as casually cause.

The elephants crossed and we kept on into Kasane, where the couple could not stop talking about how grateful they were that they had picked me and how I saved the day (ha) as they dropped me at the lodge. I thanked them again and walked through the gate. It seems the adrenaline rush I'd been riding from the exciting I’d had was running towards empty, and I just wanted a glass of wine and a hot shower.

There at the bar was the Zambian. Nearly ten hours, 8 cars and a few near death experiences and we were both here. It seems everything had gone according to plan….

The winds you know so well and the ones I am learning the songs of blow through this place, this city village we each think of as our own for different reasons. The winds blow out of doors and yet they come inside here, through this house, swirling and sashaying among the bones and rafters of all that is left of a place that may have once been a home. They bring with them a chill so comprehensive it remains in the house even when I throw open the curtains and the sun shines in. The house radiates cold in this generally hot place, and amazingly it doesn’t appear to be a feat of ingenuity in engineering. It’s as though all the passion that once lit it up with the fires of your love and rage for each other imploded into some supernova and was sucked out into some dark hole. And all that remains is this particular dark abyss.

This house is yours but it is I who dwell here. Maybe not live in it, but stay in it, hold keys to, refer to and use the same form of the verb I use to describe my own home in my village when people ask me where I stay. In this house we exist amongst the chaos and destruction of your former life. I wander through hallways and sleep in rooms with ghosts and I find myself in the shambles of someone else’s broken past. I call it yours, and know it is, and yet you’re not here, and all I can see of you in it is the sadness that descends onto your shoulders as you walk through the door. We can all tangibly feel it but on you I can actually see it. It trails behind you and drips down on you and threatens to suffocate you and I can’t free you from it no matter how I might want to try.

Despite being full of people this hallow empty wind makes the house seem vacant. I try to fill it, with people and food and laughter and light and music but the oppressive darkness always pushes through. The memories or pain or something I can’t quite see clearly follows us all around like shadows, if that were possible in the darkness. I can’t see it or name it or fix it or change it because it’s not mine, and for once I don’t want to.

The person I used to be would have picked up the broken and scattered pieces of you, meticulously cleaned them and forced them back together in the way I saw fit. I’d have created the image that I wanted to see, rather than waiting for you to reveal yourself to me or learning the one that is you, as you are, who you were. I’d do it; if for no other reason than to ignore the broken shards of me that are what really need healing and repair. Alternatively I’d look as deeply within you as you’d let me, I’d dig and pick and excavate and find some deep seated potential and I’d fall in love with it, not the you you are but the person I could see you becoming if only, if only- whether you wanted to become it or not.

We are each here in this house, this freezing house, together, two bodies, two beings, mostly alone together. Occasionally we bump into each other in the darkness. Sometimes we run directly at each other full speed smashing ourselves together in some attempt to avoid the dark and the shadows, hoping between the two of us to create some spark that can chase away this dark and this cold and this pain. We cling to each other for warmth and yet we feel nothing through this numbing, encompassing cold. You touch me, but I can’t feel you.

We’re in this house, the broken pieces in each of us here scattered around us. Yet we are not completely able to connect, to fill the cracks and chasms, to help each other become whole again. I rub the salve on your hands, hoping that in some way it can reach your broken heart. I wish it could sooth and heal you for your own sake. I know I’m not it, I never was and never could be but I can’t witness the ways you ache and not feel pain myself and want relief of some sort, for both of our sakes.

A story of my eternal African pessimistic optimism.

I recently returned to Seronga from training and holiday and have basically been away from my little village for somewhere near a month. Coming back has never been easy for me, and it’s the end of the Botswana winter, so despite the “lake effect” temperature regulation of the world’s largest inland delta outside my door, it still damn cold. People are sick with colds and flu and the clinic is pretty busy.

Not only has the clinic staff been busy but recently it seems as though I, too have been spending more time at the clinic than I particularly care to. Many of my projects at this point take place more in the community with various villagers and other organizations in Seronga. Perhaps the clinic is trying to tell me they miss me. Or perhaps they just realize I’m basically free labor and have decided to take more advantage of my skills. Either way it seems I’ve been put in charge of the World Breast Feeding week activities at the clinic.

As always I dislike being in charge of anything here, which is of course ironic given my tendency to love to control and be in charge of things in my former life. Here it is so clear to me that if I do things for people it ends up disempowering them more than helping. Teaching is another hurdle to overcome with cultural differences making it a bit difficult for me to try to teach those who may be older than me and unwilling to learn or admit they don’t know how to do something. I usually try to find a way to help people do things for themselves in such a way that they don’t have to lose any face.

The good news in all this is that in some ways I’m improving my listening skills. Sort of. I’m getting to a point where I can listen on average about ten seconds longer than I used to be able to before butting in with commentary, opinions and my personal favorite, solutions to whatever statements the speaker has yet to even make. It seems that my headstrong idealism rears its ugly stubborn head on occasion with less alarming frequency but what is likely increased intensity. I try and tackle it and keep quiet and smile politely like I know would be the better idea, but often fail. In attempting to keep myself in line I usually lose the battle quickly and end up pounding my fist on the nearest somewhat solid structure for emphasis while making an impassioned point attacking whichever injustice I’m observing (or imagining). I don’t blame the people here for thinking I’m crazy.

The aforementioned habits make me less than optimal for leading such campaigns which must be based in teamwork in order to be successful, but there is also my small personal issue rooted in the matter of the mixed messages about breast feeding being sent by the administration in this country. It’s one of those development things wherein the research and studies being done on (and to and in) this country to determine the best ways to prevent HIV takes forever to actually get disseminated. Botswana is one of the richest and more developed countries in Africa, yet we still suffer from a slowness in both movement supplies and information that is brain rattlingly frustrating.

Right now Harvard is working in partnership with hospitals in Gaborone performing studies about on the transmission of HIV through breast milk and the preliminary findings are that it may not be as big of a risk as previously thought. As Peace Corps volunteers we’ve been hearing about these trials for a year, although the information is not yet published. As various places in the country (read: rural and including Seronga) are often suffering from distribution problems with getting the formula where it needs to go, it seems a reasonable solution might be to encourage women who have a record of good adherence to ARV’s to breast feed.

Obviously the research isn’t complete and hasn’t been published (One of the frustrating things about being a Peace Corps Volunteer is that we have trainings wherein the best and the brightest are brought in to speak to us about the latest and greatest in the research and projects being launched to determine the best practices aimed at the reduction of transmission of HIV in Botswana. While I’m grateful to have such valuable information, it’s very, very difficult to attempt to convince any of my colleagues at the clinic to consider the possibilities. I’m not asking them to change anything, but even to consider our responsibility in not perpetuating misinformation is nearly impossible. It’s a very “written-rule/by-the-book” sort of culture, which can sometimes stand in the way of innovation, which I truly believe to be essential to this country slowing the spread of this virus. But I digress.) and I’m not about to suggest anyone do anything that might potentially put babies at risk of contracting HIV, but I feel we have a certain moral responsibility to honestly education women on their options, using the most up to date research we can give them in a land of no other resources through which a woman could do her own independent research to help her make a decision.

The official government sanctioned and distributed message is that HIV positive women are counseled on the advantages and disadvantages of breast feeding and are allowed to make the choice in the end for themselves. They are then in theory provided with formula with which to safely feed their babies should they choose. The reality I’ve found is that mothers are basically forced- through clinical coercion combined with public stigma- to formula feed. Again the importance of rule following as part of the culture prevents certain levels of critical questioning and open discussion, women just do as they’re told.

Formula feeding can be a risky endeavor when the supply of formula is often interrupted, the water and sanitation are difficult to maintain, and depending on the mother’s level of health, access to nutrition, adherence to ARV’s and other measures of PMTCT during pregnancy, breast feeding could be a way to at least help the baby along through its first few months when those vitamins and immunities are so essential. Just a few more pieces of this problematic puzzle.

So despite my general refusal to be in charge, and in addition to my incredibly extensive (read: ga gona siepe- which means there is nothing.) knowledge about anything related to breast feeding, I’m the boss. A bit reluctantly.

So after a full day (which is really a half day as per the culture of Botswana---man is it going to be hard to come back to the States after this) of World Breast Feeding Week planning activities [(I’m sure I’ll write more later, but all I’m saying right now is that when I’m in charge it means the babies are gonna race, two categories-runners and crawlers- to determine which baby is healthiest. I know there is almost no correlation but the people at the clinic seemed confused and intrigued when I suggested it, and so here we go. American culture exchange day!!!!) which is incidentally the first week in August for those of you who may be interested in commemorating] I was a little tired and frustrated and struggling to decide how I would spend the rest of my day.

It was a warm day, but windy, typical July weather which is the sort of cold warm confusion that I’ve come to think of as typically African winter. The sun shines with a lessened intensity and the wind is enough to keep you on your toes. The nights are extremely cold and yet the days get just hot enough in between the nights that one almost forgets the cold which has come before and will come behind each day. The dead of the Botswana winter is very much like a Minnesota fall or spring, so it feels very familiar in a confusing way to me, which is, when I think about it, how I’ve come to feel about Seronga.

As I’ve said, being that it is winter, it’s also cold and flu season in Seronga. One of the nurses, seeing that I had that bored look on my face which usually means I’m about to come up with an excuse to leave the clinic to go work on one of my other community projects, asked me to pack ascorbic acid (vitamin c).

The clinic is both the hospital and the pharmacy for the people of Seronga. The clinic is divided into several areas according to function. There’s an injection area, and area to dress wounds, a small maternity ward, and another room that would be like urgent care. In the consulting room one nurse consults the patients to determine what is wrong with them, and then in the dispensary the other nurse reads what is written on the patient’s health cards and dispenses the drugs that the first one recommends. The drugs come in in huge bulk containers like you would get at Sam’s club, which are then divided into small seed bags in common numbers of doses and labeled accordingly. The task of pill counting and packing is undertaken by anyone who happens to be around and not doing anything, and is mind numbingly boring, and most definitely not what I had in mind when I agreed to come to Africa to work with HIV, but something I often find myself asked to do.

I quickly packed a few hundred pills to show I was doing something the clinic staff considers to be “useful” while I plotted my escape. I decided to go next door to Okavango Community Trust to see what, if anything, was happening there.

A few weeks back I had stopped by the OCT office to try to send a fax and had promised one of the women I would come back again and try to help her feel more comfortable speaking English by chatting with her. I walked through the gate to find all of the staff at the Trust sitting in a circle in the yard. How they justify getting paid for this I will never know, but I try not to spend too much time around it because it makes me a little mad, as I know they are getting paid a decent salary to do just that, when that money could be used for so much more, or they could at least be doing something tangible to benefit the community. But how do you convince someone who is getting paid to do nothing that they should increase their workload to something, which then might potentially come with responsibility and dare I say actual stress of some sort?

I greeted everyone and sat down. I tried to make a little conversation and nobody was really interested in speaking English, which was what I explained I was here to do. The woman I had met a few weeks back was “tired” which seems to be a constant ailment in Seronga. “Tired” to me can generally be roughly translated to mean “bored”, which was what I was about to become in this crowd. For my hyperactive American brain this is something to be avoided at all costs, but I’ve found within Seronga this is often an only slightly negative state of being, and preferable to suffering through its alternative, which is being “too busy”.

So I quickly racked my brain for something to occupy and amuse me while not feeling such an incredible waste of time. I vaguely remembered that there was a lemon tree back by an abandoned house on the property (which is in and of itself a sad remnant of another community project which was sort of neglected and then basically destroyed by the very community it was put there to benefit, but that again is another story). I asked if perhaps there were any lemons growing right now. A small squabble broke out amongst the six of so people sitting in the circle about who was going to take me back to the lemon tree, or if they should just tell me there were no lemons (the little Setswana I can hear just comes in very handy sometimes.) I smiled and told them that I knew there were lemons and could someone please just take me back there?

My Setswana amused one of the old men, and he jumped up to take me, dragging along with him a reluctant younger woman. We walked back through the gates and past the abandoned house and toward the lemon tree. It was down a hill a ways, just short of the delta, so the wind that came over the hill was warmer in the sun. The smell of lemons wafted through on the breeze. I was briefly confused by the smell I always associated with summer coming at me in the dead of an African winter, but have come to know this constant slight sense of confusion to be normal.

I looked at it and was amazed at how many lemons were growing there, and quickly realized that this was a great resource that the community was just wasting. Not to mention a great source of cold preventing vitamin c. All my remaining shit attitude drifted away of the lemony breeze and I became excited at the potential I had uncovered to “build capacity” in my favorite sort of way, which was to help the community take better advantage of something already plentiful in their community. My eternal militant optimist busted forth from the darkness of my mind, and I became more and more excited to a point where I had eradicated flu (and probably HIV and TB) in Seronga in my little brain. Wishful thinking ;-).

I filled my bag with lemons and explained to the people in the circle that I would go home and make some foods with these lemons and come back the next day to have them taste them and teach them how to make some things with lemon, and by the way have you all ever tried lemons on fish? My enthusiasm was slightly catching, and the woman who had wanted to speak English was excited and I bounced off in a cloud of lemony scented pleasure and eager fervor.

I walked back through the village to my hut with a big Disney Princess smile, as opposed to what can occasionally be my Icabod Crane tendency towards shoving my nose quite antisocially and culturally insensitively into a book. I will not apologize for this habit as sometimes you do what you gotta do to get through the day as Seronga’s local celebrity (read: white person). For a long time there has been no such thing as anonymity for me in this village and sometimes I need to be mentally somewhere else to attempt to ignore this fact (I feel ya, Britney;-). The book reading used to occasionally become a really interesting habit that often caused me to risk my life when I would be reading something as I walked and nearly walked into one of the randomly placed grave sized holes that had been dug for the electricity poles. It was a close call more times than I care to admit. The things would pop up out of nowhere, completely unexpected when you consider how long anything usually takes here, these holes would appear quickly each day in different locations. Needless to say I made it through that little minefield with no major incidents. Just another little love tap from Seronga.

I got to my house and busied myself with sifting the tiny bugs out of the flour (a practice which disgusts and appalls me, and which I would avoid at nearly any cost except that the last five bags of flour I purchased already had them in it, and I cannot afford to keep throwing the shit out. I’m grossed out but am told that this is what most of the locals do-I guess the others just cook with them in there. I try not to think about it and keep repeating to myself, “When in Rome, when in Rome, when in Rome.”) to the beats of some new music that I had recently pirated from a friend (no shame, I’ve got no shame). I screwed up two batches of lemon bread nearly completely (Botswana has taught me to salvage, salvage in any ways possible) but was able to get something together to bring the people at OCT the next day.

I arrived bearing lemon bread pieces which in the States would have been sampled by a whole office but here in Botswana covered three and a half people (likely three but I begged one of the women to save a piece for the old man who had taken me back and climbed the tree to get the lemons down for me, but I very much doubt that happened. Whenever there is food present it is taken as custom that as much of whatever is there is supposed to be consumed immediately, I believe I’ve gone into the policy with leftovers before ie; there are none…ever. There is never any concern as to make sure there is enough for anyone else, and the idea of being rude by grabbing half of whatever is offered to you regardless of how many other people may be present is completely and totally foreign). I heard the Setswana words for “tastes good” while hearing the critiques of the item (too sweet) kindly stated for me in English, followed immediately by the inquiries as to why didn’t I bring more and when will I be bringing it again? “Thank you” is a statement I’ve come to not even dream might be heard.

I smiled through what were very close to gritted teeth and repeated my promise to teach whoever wanted to learn once they got hold of a bread pan and measuring cups (which can be purchased in the nearest town of Shakawe, and where a majority of the residents of Seronga go at least occasionally for some sort of supplies, or could even be borrowed from neighbors). Where there had been enthusiasm about the idea yesterday, today there was again the glazed over boredom and excuses as to why this baking project would be an impossible undertaking, why can’t I just make the bread again for them, I already know how to do it. I politely took my leave and went back to the lemon tree, this time collecting lemons to attempt to make lemonade for the staff at the clinic.

I bought some sugar at the co-op and mixed up several batches of lemonade for the staff at the clinic, touting it as “an American drink that we have in the summer,” while also babbling about the different uses of lemon and local honey (available care of our resident bee-keeper through the small store in town) in tea and as health improving “muti” (Setswana word for medicine, particularly “traditional” which in my culture would be “homeopathic” except here there doesn’t seem to be any requirement of any sort of evidence of these particular remedies working for what they are reported to heal, but then I suppose that is true of some things in the States as well.) with as much charm and enthusiasm as a “seen on T.V.” host of some late night infomercial. The response towards this effort was as enthusiastic as that reception at OCT, and I was again struck at how much I appreciate good old American polite dishonesty when it comes to my cooking slash drink making skills.

The whole episode reflects something I’ve found here, which is my seemingly never ending ability to cultivate hope and excitement, at least in myself, in this village that seems to so desperately lack both. I’ve often thought of myself as a pessimist, due to the fact that I can some up with 17 reasons your idea won’t work before you completely finish explaining it without blinking an eyelash. But here in Botswana it seems I’ve found new and formerly untapped wells of optimism, I often finding myself blatantly refusing that there are aspects of this or that idea or project that can’t work, and my problem solving skills have become frightening on occasion. I can “make a plan” to get things that might seem impossible on the surface accomplished or completed. It’s a quality I’ve come to admire in myself (but am, of course still very intimately in touch with my less endearing qualities-see above), and hope I can continue to harness it more effectively (and appropriately) when coupled with my newfound habit of patience (repeat to self: “will into reality, will into reality, will into reality”) which has come a long way in my time here.

We’ll see how it all goes after Breast Feeding Week ;-)

http://awoliam.blogspot.com/2009/06/saronga.html

Those amazing Australians (and American!)who built my solar shower have written about it (with pictures). Liam's blog captures the Africa you see when traveling, and as most of my family has quit the blog due to my recent existential leanings I thought I'd give you all another version of the hot shower story to check out.

Liam's a great writer if you want to catch up on the rest of his blog! It sounds like they're having a blast on their travels!

in which fairy tales have no happy endings.

It’s an interesting thing, this life we lead. We come, we stay, we bond. We connect. They become our people, this becomes our place. We join their tribe. We find our similarities and struggle to understand our differences. We try to speak with their tongue, to learn their ways. We teach them some of ours. We come to know them, to depend on them, to cry their tears with them and share their joys. They become part of us and we of them. And then we leave.

My friend, she is suffering. He has gone. He had to; it was part of the deal. They knew what they were doing when they got into it, or they thought they did, as we all think we do. We’re faced with a choice. We’ve got an idea of the outcome and yet we move forward. We choose love. We think it must surely outweigh any pain ahead. We risk and sometimes we lose.

The situation before me right now echoes my own past so exactly it takes my breath away. It hits me too close to home, although what happened then was a different home and it won’t be the same one I go back to. For now this is the new home, the new normal. I want to escape the whole situation, to run away from this pain I can see and feel and relate to so clearly I have to check my own pulse to know where her sadness stops and mine begins.

I want to run and hide from this pain I know so well and yet I won’t. I can’t leave her like this. I might want to, to hit the eject button on my own seat in this experience and get the hell away from this pain but when you chose love you fly with no parachute. There is only the freefall.

She is my friend. And she is suffering. She wears it well; she carries on about her days quite normally when viewed by the untrained eye. In the daytime her grief is less visible, unlike the battle ready armor of misery I tend to adorn myself with like a shield, thick ugly layers of mesh and netting and wool that makes anyone who sees me wielding it shudder. On her it is a light shawl, a scarf of linen or muslin, bright and airy in the sunshine. It is only noticeable from the outside when a brief shadow passes over her face. In the dark nighttime, or behind closed doors her tears soak through the pain and make it cling to her as a second skin. I hold her as she cries, wishing words actually existed that could truly bring comfort and knowing from my own past there are none.

She is my friend. And he is my friend. And I’ve promised them I’ll be there for them as the distance and time and space pulls apart the strands of what they had and stretches it thin. As this awful and yet ultimately healing trilogy distorts and rearranges and attempts to diminish what was there, and all of our feeble human minds attempt to remember what our hearts still ache for.

He was a sorcerer of numbers. He was a magician, an alchemist, a weaver of stories. He was saint and a charlatan and a man and a myth. He captured dreams through the lens of his camera and quoted facts and figures from his occasionally encyclopedic mind. He was my teacher and my student, describing faraway lands where the sisters of my sisters remain, and learning the places of my geography that remain uncharted. He was the ancient archetype and yet flesh and blood in front of me. He was all of these things, and of course more- there were shades and shimmers of him that changed with the sunlight, and the star shine. Amongst all his talents, all his colors, there is one thing that will remain, the thing I will remember him by. The man was a rainmaker.

He was supposed to come and go, just passing through. But he came and he saw and he stayed. And he brought the rain.

Although we existed in a place where the walls and surroundings looked real and solid and familiar enough, through the mists of the rains he brought they changed temporarily into something filled with a more dreamlike quality. My days and nights went from a routine I am altogether too familiar with and often bored by to become a new adventure every day. He remained concrete and yet vaporous throughout. He was there, he was not. He kept some of the tricks of his trade behind the curtain, for others he brought me center stage and made me his lovely assistant. He could disappear behind smoke and mirrors, and reappear right beside me. There were no white rabbits, no fancy top hats, and yet he brought that rain out of a clear and cloudless sky.

I looked at him sometimes and wondered “what if” without words. I never bothered to utter my musings out loud. I knew this was a monsoon that could not be recreated in any other setting; it only worked under these particular African skies, on these particular coordinates. When we talked, (we talked, we talked) and we sometimes mentioned other lands we had known, other seasons, never comparing them to this, but relating the particulars of geography that had proven elusive, difficult to navigate, or ultimately inhospitable. The changes in climate and peoples that defined a place We wondered, out loud, to our selves, whether we would each find a country and a land to call home, a people and place to satisfy our similar yet different cases of wanderlust.

He was able to create the mirage of what a life would look like, and I let myself be lead into that dream world for a bit. Through the mists of these pouring rains I could see it, and found myself looking at him and painting the picture myself. Occasionally I came up for air, taking a breath of reality to remind me where I was, and where I planned to remain. I saw parts of my village through his eyes, and I could see that some of my village saw him through my eyes as well.

I wondered briefly when he gazed at me what he saw. I wondered if he was able to see me through the mirrors and prisms, to find me amongst the shattered pieces of self and past and future lying in the confusion around me, the pieces that comprise my life through this looking glass. I wonder if when he looked at me he saw the figure of the person I’m wrestling with, or the one crawling out from the confines of my old skins and searching for the comforting encasement of my new ones. The person I’ve been, the one I’m becoming, and the somewhat messy space in between. Or if he saw through all of those layers to the core of me, the essence that embraces my bones, encases my heart, envelopes my brain and encircles my soul. Maybe he saw a glimmer of this person. Likely not. I may never know. And in the end it might not matter.

Because the man is a rainmaker. He came to bring the relief of a downpour, to summon the waters that will relieve the drought. He is not the gardener, the one who will catalogue the species and tend to the flowers. He is not the one who creates the potions that feed the roses and drive out the pests. He is not the one who will discover and map the landscape, he will not help build the fences and traverse the garden path. I have known some of those and the position is just not open right now. That man who will fill it will come later, when a few more things are completed.

This man was a rainmaker, and he served his purpose faithfully. He gracefully performed the dances that brought the rains. With the rains came all the things the land needs to survive, to produce, and to provide for her people. He summoned the pouring rains, the drenching waters that washed away the old and the dead, the rains that brought the refreshing calm. He reminded me that the rains will come again.

Like all rainmakers, he had to move on. Although sometimes I wished he could stay and make the rains for another season I know for now I’ve got enough water. When there is too much rain, it can bring a flood; the waters find a path on which to travel the lands until the landscape itself is ultimately changed. I’m not ready to succumb to the temperaments of this particular weather systems demands, or any others for that matter.

The man brought the rain. And I will always be grateful.

I gave them all for this project.

The beer bottle mosaic begins.

Pictures to follow… Soon… ish.

In the early days of the long road from vision to the reality of starting this project I had explained the concept to some of the Ngambao junior secondary school art students in Seronga (who really show an amazing amount of creativity and talent despite being raised in a relatively low access and resource poor area) trying to find simple English and Setswana words to embody the themes I hoped the project could convey. I told them I wanted to communicate the message that what the youth of Seronga have inherited are the shattered bottles and broken lives caused by alcoholism and HIV, but that as the next generation they are going to use what they’ve been given to create something beautiful and spread a new message, while outlining the relationship between drinking alcohol and impaired decision making that leads to the transmission of HIV. It’s a bit…. Obscure.

Needless to say there were lots of big hand gestures and much stuttering from me and lots of blank looks from them. I put it to the heavens and hoped for the best. A few weeks later (which was now a few months back) one of the students, GB (he has a crazy long Sets name and luckily enough for me goes by GB) found me at my usual spot at the school, which I’ve come to refer to as my office as it has a few virus ridden computers, air conditioning and electricity (sometimes) and when the gods smile, superslow internet. It also happens to be pretty centrally located at the school and I can keep an eye on what’s going on in the courtyard.

“Lorato?” he somewhat shyly called from the door (this was back in the day when although everyone was constantly calling my name as though it were going out of style they rarely had anything constructive to say, it appears they just wanted my attention). “Eeera?” I called back with a smile (loose translation, “Yeah?”).

“I have made this picture for your wall project.” He thrust the paper at me. I looked at it and a smile slowly crept across my face. It was a circle with a huge bottle in the middle, dividing the circle in half. It was wrapped in the AIDS awareness ribbon with the word “No” in bold across the bottom of the circle. On each side of the bottle curving along the circle and looking as though they were pressing their hands into the bottle were a man figure on one side and a woman figure on the other, both of their heads bowed as though in some sort of prayer. It was simple and symbolic, and would work perfectly for the materials and space and message we would be working with.

It was one of those moments in life that I’ve come to have faith will occur despite whatever odds are against me. It’s the frustrating (to other people) line I rely on when I can’t express or accurately describe something I want, and so I say “I’ll know it when I see it.” I saw this picture and I knew. Sometimes you just have to trust that someone else can know exactly what you’re trying to say and can create the exact vision you can’t describe yourself. And this kid could.

My eyes filled with tears and the kid looked alarmed (public crying-doesn’t happen here) and I shook my head and grabbed him in a one armed hug as we looked at the picture together. “It’s perfect. Thanks GB. This is going to be awesome.” I gave him a squeeze and let him go, and he smiled at me, shook his head and walked out the door. I kept that paper in a folder with me at nearly all times for the next few months. I would take it out and look at it whenever I was frustrated with the slowness with which the project was going forward. I pulled it out at meetings and dinners and bars and on buses to describe to people what I was doing in Seronga. They would nod and smile vacantly or occasionally comment “what a nice little art project” but I never cared because this thing was my baby. I felt a rather ferocious sense of protectiveness about it, as well as a blind faith that it would actually get created.

It was a Saturday morning a few months later and not atypically, things were not going according to plan (the irony inherent in the frequency with which the phrase “make a plan” passes both mine and many of the people I know in the delta’s lips will never be lost on me. It is relatively impossible to “make a plan” that is carried through to completion in its original incarnation). Today was the day we were finally going to put glass to wall and officially start the most exciting part of the long awaited mosaic project. I won’t detail all the nodding and smiling and paperwork bureaucracy it took to get this point (it was similar in terms of permissions and supply requisitions to the mural project) so as not to drive you all as crazy as it made me, but the idea has been over a year in the making (in my little brain at least). In the States it could have been done in maybe a few weeks or a month. Even in other places in Bots it might not have taken this long. There were lots of times I thought perhaps in my crazy brain is where the project would stay. But I kept slowly chasing this dream and last weekend I got to see it begin to truly become a reality.

I had discussed the plan for the day with Mpho (his name means “gift”) the advisor for the HIV club who was proving more supportive of the project these days than Jonny the art teacher, who had been my original partner in crime (it seems my loyalties can be quite negotiable when it comes to actually carrying one of these projects out) a few days before. I had found most of the bottles we would need by now [a feat that included wandering around the teacher’s housing as they partied and struggling to negotiate with the teachers for their brown bottles- a rare (the bottle store in Seronga rarely carries alcohol in brown bottles –so they were imported from somewhere overseas-ie across the river in Shakawe or something) as well as a hot commodity as they can be turned in for cash- as they finished them, a process which of course included them getting increasingly drunker and more difficult to understand-and negotiate with, as well as a few small dumpster diving expeditions and a few wine bottles contributed from my own personal use-what can I say? I’m dedicated. Mpho may indeed be more dedicated, his yard was the one where we collected all the bottles and thus now looked like a Shebeen-small local bar that serves traditional homebrew].

So I showed up and no one was around. It appeared the first task of the day would be to complete the scavenger hunt required to discover who was currently in possession of all the necessary keys to unlock the various rooms which held the supplies [It surprises me how much emphasis is placed on locking things up and protecting them- from what I’m not sure, theft? vandalism? only to have teachers frequently give any random student they happen to see the keys to deliver to any other random teacher, who indeed may or may not be where they are supposed to be. One amazing thing I’ve found in this village is that you can just call out to any child, give them anything from a folder of important papers to a fistful of cash, tell them to run an errand of any sort and they will do it (and come back with your change). I even gave a teacher 100.00 pula to buy 7.50 pula worth of paraffin. Then I left that school, went to another school and an hour or so later some random child approached me with my 100 pula and a message in broken English that “sorry there was no paraffin at the shop.”]

Two hours post scheduled start time we busted the first bottle. One of the most difficult aspects of this particular project was explaining the concept of a mosaic to people who had never seen one, and then inform them that we would be smashing glass with teenaged children and then try to convince them that I wasn’t crazy or homicidal. I had obtained both gloves and safety goggles for as many as 15 kids but of course the goggles were now nowhere to be found and so I just prayed to the “glass breaking around children” gods that no one took a shard in the eye, because as capable and competent as my coworkers at the clinic are, I don’t know that they have the tools to painlessly extract glass from eyes. (I’m happy to report that as of this writing we’ve had no eye related glass accidents, although knock on wood, cause they’re going to continue working on it next weekend when I’m on my way to Gabs for training.)

As is common for these sorts of projects at the beginning very few kids showed up, but being at the prime location (these poor kids even have to come to school on Saturday mornings for study) at the junior secondary we soon had lots of kids involved. I usually try to play supporting role in these projects, letting the kids do most of the work and the problem solving so that they can truly feel as though it’s something they’ve created themselves. I think my part mostly consisted of working through the background work with the other adults to get permission, funding and supplies. Although I couldn’t resist sticking on a few pieces of glass, a task for which I was rewarded with a tiny slice into my left index finger (thus I’ve even given blood for this project ;-)

So I stood back in the sun, away from the wall so I could see it becoming reality from a distance. As I was trying to become invisible so I could take out my camera and snap some candid pictures, I was struck by a little teary pride. GB, the boy who had created the design was now carefully sticking brown glass to the brown people he had envisioned for his project. He was working with other kids who had primed the spot on which he later sketched his drawing a few weeks back. Some of the boys were even doing the “girl’s work” of cleaning and scrapping the labels off of the bottles (yeah, that was my mandate too, gender neutrality in art project tasks aka: Lorato in Seronga, breaking down one antiquated sexual stereotype at a time…Those boys also swept and cleaned up after the project, I’m happy to report, although they tried to call a group of girls over to do it for them…)

At the clinic on Monday I gave a short report in the morning meeting that the glass project had begun. It turns out that some of the people at the clinic had seen it, thought it was cool and were now complaining and asking why I hadn’t done that project at the clinic instead of the mural. I didn’t have the heart or patience to remind them of the uproar they had made when I had introduced the idea of painting a mural on the wall.

Later when I was speaking to my friend Aniki I joked with her about just that. “Ah! Lorato!” she exclaimed. It seems people can’t actually say much of anything to me without beginning this way, by grunting and exclaiming my name in an almost indignantly sounding manner, no matter what the tone of the statement that happens to follow it.

“We can see now how well your projects are going. We may not have been willing to listen to you at first but now we can see. And even though we didn’t support you at first you never gave up and now we can see. You kept going. And people will see these projects for many years and they will say “Ah! That is Lorato’s project and she loved us and she made that painting and that glass project there because she loved us. And even though we didn’t believe her she didn’t give up. We can learn from you.” Aniki crossed her arms across her chest and gave an authoritative nod, as though she now considered me properly chastised.

And I smiled at her and shook my head. For once I didn’t try to side step taking credit and spout one of my usual mantras that “these projects are about showing people that if they want to have something beautiful to look at they can make it/ they don’t need lots of money from some white people to make it (the money is all from within Botswana through the district multisectoral AIDS committee-which is a long and convoluted process by which money that probably came from the States in some form is distributed through plans made by the local districts, but I digress)/and if they want to make a project they have to work hard/ and look what the children of Seronga can create aren’t they wonderful?” I just let the pride wash over me, and I felt very happy. I did make these projects because I love them, and I want them to have beautiful things, and because I believe that they can do anything they want. I’m proud that some people here get the message of working hard and creating for themselves that I am trying to send. And I feel fulfilled and honored that somehow I managed to take this idea from in my head, inspired by my disgust and frustration with the broken bottles under children’s bare feet to create something beautiful and lasting. It was so worth it. All of it.

One of my projects which has proven to provide me with the greatest amount of joy in Seronga has been my girl’s book club. The idea came when I was reading a copy of The Secret Life of Bees and thought about how much I would like to share it with girls here. I had had the idea in mind for a book club in which we would read The Diary of Anne Frank, but the copies were taking a little while to get here (but have now been delivered into my hot little hands thanks again Mrs. Payne and Rob!!!) so I decided to start with the three copies I had managed to snag that had been floating around in this country of the Secret Life Of Bees.

I got the blessing of the guidance and counseling advisor at the school and placed a notice up on the school bulletin board outlining my expectations. I attended a school assembly (which began at half six in the morning!!! Uhgh) to recruit girls to form the group. In the end I have always had more girls sign up than actually attend, but I’ve got about 5 who are consistent. We are midway through the book and with help from home I have been able to show them pictures of the iconic American events and products outlined in the book and have got a copy of the movie ready to watch at our end of the book celebration I’m planning.

The book club ends up being a hard sell to try to link in with what is supposed to be my main focus, HIV/AIDS, but I find that helping these girls read and discuss many of the topics raised in the book (in English no less!) has been really rewarding. The book has several relevant themes that cross cultures (racism, interracial/teenage dating, being an orphan, female empowerment and business ownership, ect) and it is very cool to be able to remind them that the book it set in 1964, which is two years before Botswana got its independence. It was the year that the Civil Rights Amendment was signed in the United States, giving black people the right to vote and now we have a black president. Race is still a pretty big issue in Botswana, and to be able to make such a powerful connection to a countries ability to change in such a short period is amazing.

I genuinely feel that as they practice reading and answering critical thinking questions, each girl comes out of her shell in a small way. They are very supportive of each other, helping each other along over difficult words, and are more willing to ask questions and share their opinions. As time goes on each girl is willing to read out loud for a longer period of time, and they’ve also become more comfortable when I ask them to act out a certain part to better envision how it plays out. Slowly but surely they are realizing that they have a forum from which to ask questions about their own culture as well as mine, and to discuss issues they find important. We recently read through a part in which the main character, a 14 year old white girl (which happens to be the age of most of the girls in the club) falls in love with a black boy. It was so cool to discuss love and dating with these girls, and to be able to help them think through aspects of dating within their culture that they may or may not agree with, and to discuss how to resist pressure from boys.

It has been a joy to try to bring the book alive for these girls who are so hungry for information and new experiences. Through some stroke of luck or serendipity, I found out that the councilor’s widow keeps bees. About a month ago I arranged for her to give the girls a short lesson and demonstration about how beekeeping works. The girls got to suit up in full beekeeping apparel and use the smokers and feed the bees. Anne gave them all some honey to sample and bar of beeswax soap. It was so cool to take them on the sort of field trip that was the highlight of being in school for me, being able to get out of the classroom and experience things, and it was a huge departure from the type of rote learning they experience in their own classrooms.

Last week I added journaling as a component of the book club. I give them questions about the book and their feelings about it and opinions. I've found the girls will "speak" more freely if you will on paper. I've recently found that I've got two aspiring female doctors and that one of them plans on curing AIDS. I am awed at the goals of these girls from this place so far away from.... everything. And so proud to be able to work with them.

After a past few months that rivaled my first two months at site for melancholy, hopelessness, irritation and plain old homesickness and angst, waiting it out has been the right answer yet again. I’ve got some projects that have made me feel a little bit of success, and also have the arrival of several visitors in the next year to look forward to.

Home Improvements…

In the past few months there have been great improvements to the hut (and surrounding areas) in Seronga. As follows:

The doctor is in. He has finally been moved into his accommodation at the police, and is fully relocated to Seronga. We now have ARV’s available to patients on a more regular basis, so now they don’t have to travel to Shakawe after their three month initiation period. Hopefully this will help less people default on their ARV’s. As both ambulance boats are still in the shop (along with the post boat since Jan of this year) the nurses are still having to get up at 4 in the morning to meet patients who have traveled from God knows where in the bush in the dark to get to the clinic to have their blood drawn. Everyone in Seronga is bumbling around at these insane hours because as the boats are in the shop, the road ambulances have to drive all the way around the delta- up through Shakawe and back down to Gumare, a journey that can take anywhere from 3.5 hours (best) to 7 or 8 (my worst nightmare days) one way. They have to leave by about 6 or 6:30 in order to get to Gumare in time to turn around and get back before the last ferry at 6:30. (It’s winter here now, so it gets dark earlier, which means there is less light by which to navigate crossing that dark, deep, churning, strongly flowing and cold water - which is just unsafe at night. Two words: Nvuvu/Kubu (Hippo) and Kwena (Crocodile) yup, you wouldn’t be wanting to cross that bad boy at night either). It used to be a bit more negotiable with the ferry operators and easier to convince them to go across just one more time, but not so much any more…

So in addition to the ngaka (Dr.) being able to dispense ARV’s, he can also deal with a bit more serious diagnosis and trauma. People also take his word more seriously than that of the head nurse, which is sort of dumb, but will help the patients in the long run. He is able to make more authoritative diagnosis and recommendation for the treatment of patients who have to be referred out of Seronga.

(In a previous incident the head nurse recommended that a patient be transferred at least to Maun as she suspected Gumare did not have sufficient resources to properly care for the patient. Because the protocol involves transferring a patient to Gumare first, the patient was airlifted out of Seronga to Gumare, where the patient lapsed into a coma, then the patient was transferred to Maun, and then onto Francistown when even Maun didn’t have sufficient resources to help the patient. It makes me shudder to consider not only the trauma the patient undoubtedly suffered through all that transport to places with insufficient resources but also the cost of the plane –someone paid for the following legs of airflights: Maun to Seronga, Seronga to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, again Maun to Gumare, Gumare to Maun, then Maun to Francistown and back. Not cheap for the government. I haven’t heard the outcome of this one.)

Although the ngaka is still on the road at least 2 days a week dispensing drugs to the other ARV clinics this side of the delta, it’s a helluva lot better to have him there more regularly. His arrival has caused the head nurse to rejoice (and say that she can now put in for a transfer- for which she is nearly due) and has greatly improved the availability of treatment for patients.

The Mural at the clinic. Is finished! I’ve noticed that community participation can often be hard to muster for these projects in Botswana, but I was determined to call in favors and even beg and plead if I had to. I am proud to announce that I didn’t lift a brush for this project. My job was all in the background legwork. For me it was more important to help empower the kids to design the words and carry the project from priming and sketching to completion.

One might argue that the idea of Peace Corps is to work along side of host country partners, but I find that it sent a powerful message to the kids when I got out the paints and brushes and said “go for it”. They looked at me incredulously, like isn’t she going to tell us what to do? I just tipped me chin at the wall and reminded them that they’re the artists and walked away. The adults at the clinic looked at me like I was crazy as well, but it proved an amazing time to teach a lesson in empowerment, that people will rise to a task put in front of them if you let them. It turned out beautifully, if not what I had originally envisioned. I’ve heard through various members of the community that the nurses and staff at the clinic are very proud of the mural, and I found it has been valuable in terms of people in the village see something tangible that they attribute to me, even though I continuously give credit to the children and the art teacher, and remind them that I only got the supplies.

Which had been a rather pain in the ass. I had started the background work back in December, and by the beginning of April the paint cans were ready to be busted open. I wrote no less than three versions of the same letter asking for permission to paint on the clinic which was faxed, hand delivered, and misplaced no less than 5 times. I made weekly calls and personal follow ups, and made a trip to Gabs and Maun that didn’t even end up with the supplies I wanted. My vision was changed several times as I had to convince the clinic staff to buy into the idea as well as try to get them to come up with a theme, which ended up being a play on the Bacon quote that was up not only at my high school, but also here at the Junior Secondary school (like a Jr. High or middle school back in the states). The mural proclaims “Knowledge is Power, Know Your Status”- in both English and Setswana, and the phrase O E Cheke which means get tested and happens to be this year’s theme from one of the major NGO’s that funds HIV projects.

My original vision was to get acrylics and have the art teacher design a proper mural with pictures rather than words on the side of the building, but I ended up with house paint and a smaller space on the front of the building. I’m not giving up on the actual picture mural idea, but the next big space that will fall prey to my attack will hopefully be the two walls on the corner of the main area in the town on the jail of the kgotla. It will probably take me the rest of my time here to get supplies and permission to carry out the design the art teacher has begun with the kids (he’s using aspects of the Sistine Chapel for inspiration-how incredibly cool is that!!!!) but if I can get it accomplished that would be one of the crowning achievements of my service. Wish me luck.

I’ve also recently heard that the teacher I’ve been working with these art projects on (who when we met used to come to work drunk a good portion of the days I saw him, but nonetheless is an amazing artist and really helps the kids become better artists as well by demanding a lot of them) has been working with some of the kids he described as “not so dumb” to have them write essays about what “knowledge is power” means to them. He’s offered a prize of 200p of his own money to encourage them. I had nothing to do with this, but am amazed at both his generosity and his willingness to go above and beyond the project to really get the kids thinking and expressing themselves. I’m very proud of him.

Other Art Projects!

Working with some of the teachers at the primary I have come up with a committee to work with the kids to use the remaining house paint (nothing gets wasted on my watch in Seronga!) to create a world map mural on the wall of the primary school. So far we’ve primed the spot with white, the map has arrived and been gridded (THANKS MOM!) and we will start painting this week. It’s going to be amazing to literally show the kids the world!

Along with that my long awaited project of creating a mosaic at the junior secondary has begun. I have been collecting different colors of glass for months in preparation for this and the area is primed and the sketch has been done. I realized a bit too late that brown glass can be collected and turned in for cash as they recycle the bottles and thus brown bottles were going to be a little harder to come by, but after several dumpster diving slash appeals to the village drinking crowds, I think we’ll have enough. (Everything you need to in Seronga is available if you ask enough people-see village chicken).

I was of course getting a little emotional as the artist, GB (he’s got a crazy long Setswana name and luckily goes by the nickname GB) sketched his design on the wall. I kept exclaiming how happy I was for him and he, being a typical teenager, rolled his eyes and called me crazy. But the wall is there, it’s sketched, and we’ll start breaking bottles this week. Pictures to follow!

Warmish Shower! I think when one is in the Peace Corps and adaptability becomes the only way in which to keep going, it has some deep effects on your personality. In some ways I’ve learned to either just put up with a lot of shit, or adapt. Once the decision is made to adapt, the idea of trying to work of improve something can occasionally be absurd. It becomes difficult to envision or hope for something better, no matter how easy it may be to accomplish.

This is how I had begun to feel about my bathing situation. When there is water in the village (an event that is occurring incredibly more frequently as a result of the old water guy-who is responsible for finding the fuel and transport to get to Teekae (about 15-20 kilometers outside of Seronga) being replaced by someone who apparently takes his job more seriously, or at least that’s what I’m hoping as it’s been a lot more consistent lately) I’ve taken to just heating up a kettle on the stove, mixing it with some cold from the tap, and splash or bucket bathing. It’s not optimal, but over the course of a year, I’ve come to accept it and even excel at it. You would be amazed how the girl who used to draw an entire Jacuzzi style bathtub full of hot steaming water every night for an at least 15 minute soak has come to be able to bathe completely with less than half a bucket of water. (And I feel pretty clean). So with acceptance came complacency in this case.

Until the Aussies came (see “Hostess with the Mostess”). They rigged up a series of black pipes found in Simon’s back yard to flow from my faucet out of my bathroom window, onto the roof next door, back onto my tub and to be plugged with a cork at about knee level (this set-up has recently been improved again by another visitor, a former Peace Corps who hung the pipe from the ceiling so it’s more like a proper shower. Amazing! You still have to use it in the middle of the day in order for it to be properly warm (forget trying to have a warm shower after an evening run) but is has also helped make me clothes seem cleaner when I do my laundry with slightly warmer water. Since the water is unfiltered as it comes in the house, heating it up in a plastic hose can tend to make it smell… interesting. At the end of the day (or really, make that the middle) it’s warmer and it’s wet. I’m happy.

Pack your bags!

My mom, Paul and Karly have booked their tickets to visit! They got an amazing deal on the flight and they arrive right in Maun. I’m already going nuts planning their upcoming adventure which will include the bush, the delta, Kasane and CAPE TOWN!!!! More on that but I am sooooo pumped!

It’s Electric?

Power is sort of, allegedly, kindof, maybe coming to Seronga. There’s all sorts of toxic smelling poles that the children have a great time playing on barefoot (and just make me cringe at the idea that as they climb on them they are inhaling those fumes but there’s no chasing them off, I’ve tried.) Word on the street, or really, the dirt road, is that they will be up and running by July. Righhhht.

From sometime around March/April 2009

It was a record setting year for floods, not only in my home state of Minnesota (or did North Dakota get credit for the flooding this year?) but also in the Okavango delta. It seems that this year the waters this side reached the second highest since the 1960’s. Whereas in Minnesota there may have been huge efforts at sandbagging and people’s houses may have flooded, the Eastern side of the delta saw people being relocated to tent communities and roads rendered impassable. And by roads I guess I mean road, as in the nameless dirt path that we travel back and forth on as our only escape from Seronga. Or I guess there’s always planes…. If there’s tourists…

The floodwaters seemed to peak in tandem with my foul period of discontent. As the extremely quickly flowing currents breached the banks of the river, flooded out the roads and made the ferry a somewhat dangerous option, it essentially stranded us on what sort of began to feel like an island in Seronga. As I’ve said, in Seronga we certainly didn’t have it as bad here as they did in other places, in Xakao many people had to be relocated from their homes into government or UNICEF or UN tents, and in Gudikwa people couldn’t get through the water to the clinic.

Months later the flood is still effecting us as the clinic has had to call in help in the form of helicopters and boats from the BDF and the government to administer to patients that are out of reach as we try to give every child that is under five a dose of vitamin A as part of a nation wide Vitamin A Campaign. The combination of the force of the current on the two outboard engines which run each of the two ferries at Mohembo that we must use to cross the river from this side (about 100kms up the road to the north only to turn around and head back south to get anywhere of note other than Namibia) as well as the increased traffic due to the electric company’s attempt to wire this side of the delta (think big heavy reels of cables, huge poles, many tools and huge trucks) have basically decommissioned three of the four engines. I’ve witnessed the ferry floating away down the river as one of the engines failed and the strong current caused it to drift past the waiting crowd as many people standing there yelled to the people that were drifting down the river on it (and I laughed and filmed). After about thirty minutes the BDF (Botswana Defense Force) boats came rushing out to rescue the people and an hour after that the boat managed to slowly make it’s way back up the river which made for a memorable (although not personal recording breaking) wait of just under four hours to cross the river on the ferry. (My personal record is 5 hours, and I’ve heard of people waiting 6. A friend from Maun recently drove the 350k journey from Maun to Shakawe only to find neither ferry working, with no one able to give her any information as to when one would be working again. She turned around and headed back down to Maun. With my groceries. That ended up being a long week….) For some reason someone cut down the last remaining trees that were on the East side of the delta at the ferry, which can make for some long, hot days of waiting next to cool deep water that you can’t swim in for the current and the monster crocs that are rumored to live near there as well as the hippos that can usually be seen on the far banks.

Our own clinic boats have been in the shop for 7 months for what has been called service and the boat driver at the clinic angrily tells me is routine maintenance that would take him two days at the most to complete, but it is the government’s policy that the service be done by those who get the tender (which from my understanding has to do with who will say that they will give the lowest price for something regardless of quality of service or timelines. This seems to be the case with whomever from Maun has won the tender to deliver gas cylinders as well. That guy has been promising to deliver the gas that I use to power my fridge and stove to cook for nearly three weeks. Luckily I’ve got friends in low places and have been able to beg a spare off someone in the interim, but that is astoundingly poor service.

The water was pervasive and encroaching, and it added to my foul mood by making me feel claustrophobic and desperate. Although I couldn’t see the difference unless I drove over the road to Shakawe, where the ferry may or may not have been able to cross, I felt the waters were drowning me. But then it could have just been my mood.

I had been in this country nearly a year and what precisely did I have to show for it? One men’s sector event, a painting, a mosaic project that will likely never start and a bunch of kids who know how to scream my name whenever they see me pass on the road. What seems like a ton of half started projects that I was really excited about but never went anywhere because when people had come to me saying “Lorato, we want to work with you on a project,” they meant, “Lorato, we want you to bring us some money from America, and no we have no plan or really any desire to actually put forth effort to get organized to make this project work, but once the money is here we can do all that hard work, not before to actually get the money. Can’t you wave your magic American wand? And no we really don’t want to listen to your suggestions because although you are American and white which means that you surely must have access to this money, or can’t you just ask some other rich Americans for the money, you are still a young girl and should not expect to tell your elders what to do, or god forbid to suggest what they are doing wrong.”

I still lose my patience (often). I haven’t been miraculously transformed into some sort of Mother Theresa figure of calm understanding amongst the village I live in. Although I love them I sometimes hate them. I am regularly frustrated with an alarming number of things that people around me just seem to accept as “normal”. At least once a month I need to get out of the bush to stay sane, which I think I initially considered to be weakness or a lack of toughness but am very slowly beginning to accept as just a smart policy. Add to that I miss my family and friends and it will be at least a year until I see many of them again and I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life type constant rumination and throw in a seemingly sent by God to push me over the edge style flood (or perhaps I’m just a bit histrionic) and you have a perfect storm of a mid service crisis. It seems that through all this I’ve stuck to my mantra, go hard or go home, even in my emotional breakdowns.

I have to admit that however much I was strongly disliking the flood (read: hating) it was completely amazing to see all that water. (Which I find myself saying, as we do in MN wahd-deR, which confuses the shit out of the local people, and I’ve taken to try to pronounce it as they do, wah-tah, which they laugh at. Oh well.) From the sky I flew from Seronga to Shakawe and could finally see that all the clumps of trees Simon called islands during the dry season truly were. All the places that just months before we had taken Simon’s truck joy riding across were now covered in a sparkling blue gown. Up until a large cow was killed by a croc this side the children would dart across the road in Mohembo and dance and play naked in the water that had previously covered the road but had now begun to recede. They splashed around and were happy. It was enough to make even my foul mood abate, at least for a while.

As the flood reached Seronga and passed, it took with it the tension and rage that seemed to be boiling to some terrible peak inside my soul. Things were still frustrating, and I was still feeling lonely and isolated, but it was less so now. The waters came, they asserted their force and their strength and then they slowly left. They washed away all the dirt and emotional shittiness that had built up within me like a slow release pressure valve. And as is its tendency, the flood will come again next year, but for now the water is fine.

Sometimes memories come, so vividly and sharply it pains me. They are like sparks that start a fire that I find myself stoking; sometimes casually and halfheartedly, bemused and only slightly interested. Sometimes the memory presents itself and I dive headfirst down the rabbit hole to follow it. I cling to it, searching the Kalahari Desert of my mind for kindling, blowing on the hazy smoke filled trenches of my brain with the intensity of the bellows of hell to keep it burning. I pour gasoline on the thing and inevitably, the intensity builds to a point where this fire has become out of control. I find myself lost in a bushfire of uncontrollable nostalgia.

I try to stop the thing, to escape the heat, to extinguish the flames but it’s too late. I’ve done it again and now I have to categorically burn each and every recollection I can find, occasionally throwing in plastic and all sorts of stuff that’s not real to fuel this mess. I must keep the fire going until it burns itself out, the toxic smoke of the untruths I’m attributing to you choking me and yet necessary. I burn a wide swath around the places that burn hottest, hoping that if I indulge this one, just this once, it’ll go away forever, or at least long enough to let me heal from these latest burns a bit.

On occasion the fire gets too hot and I sweat and I panic, I go a bit mad, I scramble to desperately try to create new memories. I try to make and have and do so much that whatever is left behind from before pales in comparison. In some ways it works, I succeed. Between here and there is no comparison. I am here and I wouldn’t change that. But to long for you, all of you, and home and what I left, to miss such silly things as to be hard to describe to those who live them every day, it’s difficult. To honestly describe yearning for pavement and streetlights and salads and bubble baths just becomes really strange. It’s difficult for me to believe I’m not crazy.

Sometimes I try to deny the reality of it all completely. I try to recreate the memories, or replace them with new ones, to make it all seem uglier so it’s not so painful. I try to make you into someone that would have been easy to leave, to forget, to let go of. Someone who’s not who you are. I try to create new memories; or to mold them out of clay or carve them out of wood or shape them out of metal, but they look garish and ridiculous next to the crystal clear recollections that hold the emotional bouquet of who I remember you to be. All of these new pieces melt away in the heat, and the flowers, which should wither and die in the flames, remain as fresh and when they first bloomed. There are times when I’m strong and can withstand the flames. There are times when I cannot. It comes down to a choice, because I can’t keep all these memories of you and still continue to become me. If I keep living this way, with memories of you starting these massive fires in my mind I will be left with nothing, having burned everything in my path, the charred remains of who I could have become all that remains. And I won’t do it.

I walk these coals, they have become familiar. They burn into the scars deep within me, searing not just my flesh but my bones, which feel as bleached and brittle and white as the bones of the elephant we found last week, dead for many years, and just as unable to hold up the person who must walk this Earth each day. And yet I do, and I can and I learn. I’ve danced before these particular flames before. I do it, I know it hurts, and yet I burn, I burn. I begin to relish the pain a bit, scratching at the blisters, watching them ooze and hoping this is the last case of arson, and knowing it’s not. The fire burns hotter and hotter, threatening to engulf me, and yet I know it never will. Not completely.

So I try, again and again, to put out the candle.

It could be any one of you, those I have known; some of you parade through my mind with the kind of demanding insistence uncharacteristic of you in real life while others of you visit with alarming irregularity, leaving my grasping and clinging for any morsel of our bond I can recall. I find myself audibly gasping in surprise as some wayward memory bursts into the forefront of my mind, much the way the word one might have been racking ones mind for a few weeks back will present itself too pointlessly and gracelessly late to be of any use, but is so winsome and shiny and appealing that one wants to shout it out from rooftops.

This memory has hijacked my attention, I’m suddenly miles away from whatever was happening at present, leaving the person I’m probably trying to have a conversation with (likely at least partly in another language which is another part of the brain that is constantly muddled entirely) irritated or confused. I look around me for someone to share it with, someone to laugh at the inside joke but there’s no one inside this joke with me, which leaves even me outside in the cold.

The bright shiny memory is followed by a hallow feeling of sadness that pushes the joy of the reminiscence back into the depths from whence it came, leaving me feeling alone and confused and filled with a longing for something unnamable and suddenly vague. It comes and goes so suddenly that I begin to doubt that the memories are even real, maybe it never even happened. Perhaps I never knew you and we never did that and that place doesn’t exist. There’s very little in the differences between this world I now inhabit and the one I thought I knew to effectively confirm or deny. My former life takes on a dream like quality.

The sad memories, of those with whom I’ve lost touch since I’ve been here, or whom I might not see again (for whichever reason) or places which no longer exist hold a particular poignancy. They rub up against the sharp corners of my mind where my will has stepped in to protect me from their innocent poison, for truly indulging them, for reliving them starts off a chain reaction which can only lead to dark places. These bittersweet memories are like soft velvety cushions, and I find myself falling into their soft luxury where the initial promise of comfort fades away and leaves me in pain on a bed of nails.

So I let you go, one by one, after the other, some of you slip away during the night, some of you must be pushed out the door, but I can’t do it any more. I can’t spend my time wondering what it is with you, and for you, I must just settle for the idea that maybe someday we’ll meet again. It’s too difficult to continue on being stretched across these oceans and continents. I must try to be just where I am, and not spend so much time where you are, at least in my head.

But I assure you it pains me physically; I can feel you stripped away as flesh from my bones, each one being torn away categorically and seemingly without reason. My logical mind tells me that you can stay, and rest comfortably in my soul while the irrational, emotional part pushes you out the door. It’s hard to give in this metaphorical grey spot, the place with and without you. There can be no more “I wonder what she’s doing,” or “I wish he could see this”. I have to hold you each in your place in my heart, and hug and kiss the image of you that lives in my soul and put you back on the deep dark shelf in the depths of my mind. And I have to forget about you for now.

I have to let you go.