Pula! (poo-lah)

Chinese New Year

2012-01-30T05:21:00.000-06:00

I've been talking so much about the daring do's of kids in New Xade that I forgot to mention a very important weekend, Chinese New Year! I happen to be in my friend Kelly's village over the holiday picking up supplies for the kiddies, so I stayed for dinner...

My first tomatoes (after investing over 100 US bucks and before the plants got trashed again last weekend)

Kelly Liu and I sharing Tsa Siu Bao that she, camilo, and Alison made by hand from scratch!

Kelly's Eggplant dish which I shamelessly devoured over the weekend

Kelly's Longlife noodle dish which I also devoured

Firework(s)! The "Golden Shower" (Try not to giggle)

"CAAAAALLLLVIIIIN!!!!"

2012-01-30T00:15:00.002-06:00

I take it back, these kids are driving me crazy. Though, like the thorn I stepped on yesterday afternoon, I have to admit, or is it "I hate to admit," it's not their fault, it's really mine. I've turned into Uncle Wilson from Dennis the Menace, "DENNNISSS!!" or is it, "CALLLLVVIINN!!" Either way, I'm a cranky old scrooge and every time the kids come to ask me for water for sweets for shit, I'm reminded of how little I have, which is pretty petty since I have so much... Luckily, kids have thick skin and no understanding of the english language, so within minutes, all is forgiven and the next day we can continue our *friendly* banter. (Photo above, students outside doing traditional dance, or at least what they know of it)

I was left alone with one of the standard one classes, a group of 60 little ones. My head ached after half an hour when they realized that I'm not a normal teacher and that I dont have the guts to tell them to shut up. Screaming, crying, laughing, singing, some were even covering their ears to drown out the noise. Finally I took charge and told them all to "shhh!" and the kids, being kids imitated me, "shhhhh!" I pulled out a book and decided to read them out loud. Read to all 60 of

them. Students were demanded patience as I read slowly in my best Ms. Lewis from the 2nd grade voice and rotated the book around the room for them to see pictures. (Photo to left, the standard 1 class I'm working with, before they received a gift of coloring books. The task for the day, color in the entire sheet of paper and then scratch out a picture)

Since they didn't understand my words, they turned it into a game. When the book came around to them, they would squeal, hop on the tables to get a better view and grab it with their itty bitty hands. By page 5 I was wrenching little fingers away from the pages, telling kids to sit down, and the headboys were out of their seats monitoring the kids behind me. 60 kids is hard to manage. After a point, things got so chaotic, kids were falling from their chairs and I had to be mean again. I grabbed one particular kid, the policewoman's son ironically who had spit on me the day before, and brought him outside to scold him. He babbled some english words at him, knowing he couldn't understand what I was saying, but hoping that my tone would convey my message, and ushered him back inside... (Photo Below, Mma Leswa Dula teaching the kids outside, making a traditional cloth doll to teach body parts)

Puzzles and Coloring Books

2012-01-27T01:06:00.001-06:00

Our standard 1 class this year has 120 students and only 2 teachers. It's like a circus of tiny babies in there. Well some are babies, some look to be around 12 years old and still mix up the only 2 english words they know, "hiiii" and "byeee." I've spent the past couple of days visiting these classes for about an hour or two, teaching them how to do jigsaw puzzles and helping the teacher prepare coloring materials for the class. In addition to being understaffed this year, we are also underfunded. No new materials for 120 standard 1 students. No photocopy machine either, so we have resorted to tracing old coloring pages 120 times so the students have something to do during the day.

A few kids have taken to following me home after school. The same kids who used to visit before, but now they're 1.5 years older, less neurotic, and I can communicate with them better. I've been in a good mood lately, so I gave 2 girls some water and they sang and bounced around in their cups like I'd just given them the cure for cancer. They came back the next day, and then the next. On day I said no, not today. They begged and begged. Finally, one pulled out a small coin, 10 thebe (about 1.5 american cents), "I will buy water ! I want to buy water!" I laughed. Why not do a little role playing? "Sure" and I took the 10 thebe coin. They danced around again, screaming happily. "3 cups!!" she demanded from me. One for each little girl on my porch. So I got them 3 cups and a pitcher and they sipped happily exclaiming how good the water was.

I realized this morning that as much as I cringe from the pitter patter of feet on the concrete patio, as much as I hate venturing out in the sun to shut the gate that they always leave open and unlocked, as much as I hate being woken up from a nap by a small boy in my backyard drinking from my tap, I'm going to miss their shrill voices.

Standing in a hot sweaty afternoon classroom with 60 kids, watching them stare at a Hannah Montana jigsaw puzzle for the first time in their lives, play with the pieces, discover its edges, its dips, its handles, its colors. Watching them 10 minutes later fit their first pieces together. 1 hour later, one of the groups had finished their puzzle and then went on to undo it and redo it 3 more times... It was nice. Even if, when I left, they sang to me in an itty bitty chorus, "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"

IgnorANCE is Bliss...

2012-01-19T11:19:00.001-06:00

I’ve lately been ignoring some of the younger kids who visit my place. Not that I mean to be rude, but I just don’t feel like being polite. They come knocking, running all over my yard, and looking at me, asking me for crayons and things, which is fine, except that I don’t have crayons and things and I never had crayons and things and I don’t know how to say “I don’t have crayons and things.” Usually, it ends up with me sitting there with the kids for a while until they get the message. But lately, it’s just me coming out saying something in Setswana, saying something in English and then coming back inside to continue whatever it was I was doing while they stand outside looking confused. I’m pathetic…

Moon Myths

2012-01-10T00:51:00.000-06:00

The moon has been bright, full, and round lately. Sitting in my porch,
swatting away mosquitos, my friend and I were chatting about nothing
and everything at the same time. After a while, I found myself staring
absent-mindedly at the moon when my friend looked at me, contemplated
my gaze and said, "In New Xade, they say that if you stare at the moon
for too long, it sucks you in and deposits you in a pit latrine..."

...I kept staring, willing the celestial powers to do its worst.

2012-01-05T08:22:00.001-06:00

It is so hot you can hear my sweat sizzle as it pours off my forehead
and onto the sandy ground below-- correction, it is so hot that my
sweat turns to steam as it pours off my forehead and attempts to hit
the sandy ground below. It is so hot that when I turn my foot walking
outside I'm worried about the sand burning my toes than my ankle being
twisted. It is so hot that walking 1/2 a block gives me a 3rd degree
burn through my umbrella and layers of sunblock. It is so hot that the
streets of New Xade are eerily quiet, every animal and human being
standing deliriously underneath shade of some kind, staring into the
distance eyes lolling and mouth slightly parted. It is so hot that my
laundry dries within 5 minutes of being hung outside. It is so hot
that everything in my house is hot to the touch, including my
bedsheets. It is so hot that all but 3 of my garden plants have not
only withered but completely disintegrated into thin air leaving no
trace behind but a few dried up crumbs...

it is hot.
worst off, not only is my electricity still uninstalled, leaving a
mess of wires and a huge gap in my heart where the solar panels used
to fill... but the water went out last night leaving me scrounging for
buckets and savoring every drop I use for my bath. Sitting there in my
aluminum tub at 4PM on a Thursday afternoon, I had a moment, however,
of peace. Something eloquent and profoundly simple about sitting in a
tub taking a bucket bath on a hot afternoon, where you have to save
every drop of water, count every ounce to make sure that you leave the
tub clean, then suddenly realizing, this is the most comfortable
you've been all day today and that there is no difference whether you
get out now or spend an extra hour or so just lounging in the aluminum
casement naked and for the first time this week, cool. Cause you know
that within ten minutes of getting out, you're going to be hot again,
wishing that you could just start sweating...or at least turn the
electricity on so you can get a fan going...

2012-01-04T12:20:00.002-06:00

Happy New Year everyone! It is hot hot hot here now and it's hard to feel sane. My electricity is still out (it's been a month and 2 weeks now) and so I'm looking for relief anywhere i can find it, bathtub, hot coffee, ginseng tea that my mom sent. Sweat sucks but it's better than internally combusting from the heat. Life by candlelight is certainly an experience. I was eating dinner tonight (freeze dried beef terriyaki sent from my brother!) and could only just sit there and eat. Normally I watch a movie or read a book or something. But because there's no electricity, my activities were limited. It was nice. Just sitting and enjoying the taste of good food, watching the sun go down. I can see how there is value to eating blindfolded/in the dark (isn't that a new restaurant trend?). In bad news, my friend thato says that the water will likely run out tomorrow. So I've prepared by doing all my laundry and filling my bottles and buckets.

I hope you all had a wonderful new year. I spent mine in the company of friends in Tsodilo hills, a holy place full of ancient rituals and mysteries surrounded by cave paintings from as old as 4000 years.

2011-12-24T02:07:00.004-06:00

This Christmas, I am going to do something a little different than usual (not that being in Africa is all that "same" as usual). This Christmas, in light of some of the tragedies occurring around me, including and especially the death of 2 young peace corps volunteers in neighboring Mozambique, I want to remember the blessings of my (now) 25 years of life...

So here's a Christmas toast to... being alive and safe... the prolonged celebration of my 25th birthday... being with new friends that ease the ache of the unknown and make you look forward to the next day... having old friends and good family that somehow know when to call or what to send... receiving phone calls from local friends updating me on the happenings of their lives... angry elephants on the side of the road and the men who are brave enough to step out of their trucks to scare them off... standing among a wilddog pack as it rips apart the remnants of an eland's insides and knowing that 5 brawny alpha-men are watching my back... a hand-raised meercat that took a cat nap in my lap... massive dogs who think that they are lap dogs and try to crawl into your lap... lions that start to pounce on you just to hear you scream...

...trips with crazy companions into strange countries... discovering that in Botswana there is, indeed, fine wine and good food and interesting company, especially when you least expect it... toasts with glasses of ten dollar bubbly in pink plastic cups... making thai green curry with pork found (with a yelp and a cheer) in the supermarket... watching iron chef duck challenge... my parents who helped me to appreciate Elvis Presley, Brahms, and Schumann before I discovered the likes NSync, Smashing Pumpkins, and Bon Jovi... Charles Schultz' Christmas Special... the hope of a storm on Christmas Day to cool off the ground as rain hits the pavement with a sizzle and a steam... Christmas music stashed on my computer as a last minute thought from friends and family... Christmas cookies... and of course, an infinite God who became finite and still watches over us even though we've distilled his life to weekly spectacles in a misguided steeples, silver bells, and silent nights

2011-12-13T12:29:00.001-06:00

Ga go na "nna" mo "teame"

2011-12-11T00:40:00.001-06:00

Dec 7, 2011, a camp with youth. Teaching them to work together-- actually, learning that the lesson will have to be more basic than that: work. Complaints that the activity is too hard, that the challenges were set up incorrectly, that we are not telling them how to succeed. The work is too dirty, we haven't been provided with tea, we're too tired, and my personal favorite, I haven't dressed correctly for this exercise, you didn't tell me to. Lesson #2: life is hard-- obstacles to what they want to achieve will be much larger than a gum pole, much heavier than a rock, much more difficult to maneuver through than a couple of ropes and a tire swing. To succeed, they will have to get dirtier, make more sacrifices, fail more often, and stop pointing fingers at those too meek to defend themselves. Day 2, 11 AM: Question posed. Change your attitude and keep going, or end this now? Commit, or walk away? I want to tell them, this is their choice. Don't do this to please me. This is not my mandate, not my community, not my life. Whether they succeed or fail has no consequence on me. This is not my fight. But instead, I keep my mouth shut as the facilitator brings each team member down notch by notch. Exposing their egos until they are forced to themselves as they are. Forced to decide: do I change, or do I go? Day 3, 6PM. A truck appears at the campsite with 3 young boys blasting music with wide grins. Thinking they can come crash our party for some free food and a tent to sleep in. I watch as the team's egos abruptly return, eager to please the young visitors. I send them home. The next day, I get a rude visit from the young driver I sent home and some youth, my youth. He's angry because I refused to pay for his little visit yesterday, that I told his boss about his rude behavior. I am given a verbal slashing, each of my questions met with more excuses, excuses so large I can feel the weight of them clamping my brain shut. Without the security and isolation of a remote camping ground, I can find no confidence to fight back. I lose face in front of the youth, my youth. I gesture with my arms. They point fingers at me, at the boss, at the facilitator. Finally I've had enough, take it up with your boss, this has nothing to do with me. Just get the hell out of here. As the truck drives away, I turn and punch the air with my fists. This is not my fight.

10 Babies

2011-12-01T04:33:00.001-06:00

I only have a brief few minutes to pen this cause i'm trying to conserve battery life for those inevitable idle hours when the sun is about set and the only thing I want to do is zone out with the Duffy family...

This week, New Xade received a lot of new residents, folks who used to be squatters in Ghanzi. The government is relocating them back to the settlements. My youth friend says this is going to have a lot of unintended negative consequences as most of the relocatees are elderly, poor, or orphans (also known to my horror as the Ghanzi streetkids). The New Xade kids are curious enough, but these kids have been a particular cause of stress in my life. The Ghanzi streetkids are the gangs of tiny people who roam the streets of Ghanzi diggin through garbage cans, climbing into white people's trucks, and touching me in inappropriate places if I don't give them food or money. Now they are here. In my village. In my home. They have already broke into the boarding master's house (in daylight in front of the guards?) and ransacked his place. My tent (which was being stored there) was taken out of its bag and kids attempted to set it up. The tent's bag and the rain guard are still missing, but luckily, it's still usable. So i don't really care. I just feel bad for the boarding master. He received notice of transfer a couple of weeks ago, so I wouldn't be surprised if he just decided "Good riddance..." and hightailed it out of here with the traditional ceremonious drunken party. I got to meet one of the new relocated families today at the clinic. A really sweet wrinkled looking middle aged couple who smiled at me through the nurse's english introduction and laughed nervously when I acknowledged them. Skinny as twigs, with a newborn baby. Baby was born on 10/31/2011 but looked like he was only a week old. Baby is baby #10 and, to the nurse's chagrin, all 9 siblings are still alive and kicking. Which means, they need assistance. Furthermore, mother's milk producing abilities is severely limited, meaning that the baby needs formula, and asap. The nurse asked me where my counterpart (the social worker) was, so she could get them some help. I shrugged-- "Ghanzi." I answered. "but I'll call her and tell her to come back..."

In other news, I had 2 simultaneous meetings today. One with the youth, we are going on a team building outing next week. And one with the OVC caretakers who are discussing a community garden. I'm not pushing too hard for any of these projects to come to fruition, but once in a while someone says something that gives me a glimmer of hope and a taste of excitement. Then, I can't help but be dreamy eyed for a moment and wonder at the possibilities...

I just hope no one breaks into my house while I'm gone.

SA Pictures

2011-11-24T03:18:00.001-06:00

A car-tripping, wine-tasting, chocolate-eating, hill-rolling, garden-browsing, trampoline-jumping, beach-walking, penguin petting, zebra seeing, warthog watching, french-food eating, fashion shopping, mountain climbing- great time!

Photos of vacation days in Durban, Addo, Franschoek, Stellenbosch, and Capetown, South Africa. Damn straight, you better be jealous ;)

2011-11-24T03:01:00.001-06:00

I am traveling to a larger town to purchase some items this weekend. Normally, out of necessity, I split the trip into 2 days because of the bus schedule, but it just so happened that my first lift said he was going almost all the way to my final destination, according to his schedule, we would arrive no later than 8PM. So I decided to go with him.

We would have arrived at 8PM, except that along the way we stopped to help a truck who was stuck in the mud. My lift, a naked American Semi-truck was a powerful machine with no cargo. The truck that was a stuck was a flatbed truck with 3 trailors (not as powerful but still pretty damn big). It had tried to make a u-turn and got stuck in deep deep sand. So, my driver, me, and a fellow hitchhiker set to towing this guy (and all his cargo) out using only a neon orange nylon packing rope (no tow rope?). Naturally, 2 hours later, the rope was ripped to shreds, the victim truck moved about 3 inches, and we had attracted an impressive gathering of male egos (and their tiny little sedans) all attempting to help by shouting out advice: Attach the rope there! Why don't you try wedging rocks under that tire? No, attach the rope to the trailor? Use larger rocks! Give it more power! No rock the truck back and forth. Move forward! FORWARD! Support the horse! Anyone have a chain? Anyone have a chain, indeed. By our calculations, the tow would've taken less than 10 minutes had we had a proper chain to begin with.

As night fell and the truck and all its cargo came no closer to freedom, my driver decided to abandon this guy to the crowd of useless dogooders and get on our way. Rain clouds grew thick, the sun went down, and wild animals began to emerge from the bush to drink from the cool puddles in the pavement. I arrived at my final destination at midnight after driving countless goats and bulls off the road and stopping for a moment to admire the illuminated bulk of a large elephant (complete with curving white tusks) as it ambled its way across the highway.

2011-11-23T08:44:00.001-06:00

http://newswatch.nationalgeographic.com/2011/11/20/reaching-out-to-communities-in-botswana/

A friend sent this to me, New Xade in National Geographic

Mosquitos

2011-11-21T23:46:00.001-06:00

I dont know why, but for some deluded reason when I'm lying in bed at night and I hear a mosquito next to my face, i think that somehow if I flail my arms around until I sweat, I stand a chance of squashing said bug. It never works.

2011-11-19T10:32:00.001-06:00

As i stepped out this of my house at 6AM in the refreshingly cool morning air and I saw a thin metal tipped arrow sitting in my front yard, I couldn't help but realize how exceptionally unique my peace corps site is. Yeah, things don't work as well in a settlement as they do in proper villages, we may not have tarred roads, grocery stories, reliable water, or a post office, but not many people have the opportunity to live for 2 years in an area with a unique group of people with a unique set of challenges. Yeah, these challenges are often not overcome, but sometimes, I allow myself the slightest peep of hope when I see a bright young student exhibit faithfulness in a small responsibility, or a government worker look at a person I've been working with and say, "hey, that kid. he's special. he's going to make it."

My solar panels were unceremoniously torn from my walls and roof yesterday in preparation for proper electricity. For the time being, I am living in the dark, relying on headlamps, candles, friends and neighbors and my previously -charged AA batteries (thank you dear brother for having the foresight to send me with those). Other than the extreme heat and multiple bouts of boredom, I'm getting along fairly well. I'm EXTREMELY lucky that the rain has come this weekend or I would be crying in my bathtub trying to get cool. Someone here said that God has heard my cries. I'm trying to just take it for what it's worth and not think skeptically, well if God heard this white person's cries for weather relief, what about all those other cries for things like food, water, poverty and pain relief? When things get really bad (and so far they haven't, even when I was lying in bed at 7PM last night wondering what on earth I could do without electricity), I can always sit and ponder the hope that one day soon I will have proper electricity, enough to run lights, high-velocity fans, and best of all, run a refrigerator. (Cold water, iced coffee, unspoilt milk, and the ability to preserve leftovers! HERE I COME baby!)

Water To Wine

2011-11-16T03:49:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago, I went to Gaborone City to celebrate the Peace Corps' 50th Anniversary with a bunch of volunteers and Peace Corps friends. The celebration involved lots of inspirational videos, an open bar, and a craft shop. I brought a bunch of stuff from artisans that I'm friends with, sold a lot of it, then had a drink, and promptly felt woozy and dizzy from the heat and dehydration. I spent the activity lying in the shade of a very nice American home in Gabs.

The next day, I traveled to Kanye, a large village nearby, to hang out with the new group of peace corps trainees. I answered questions about living in the bush, being a volunteer, and other things (activities, technology, the San, food and travel options...) and then back to Gabs for a day of medical appointments (Good news, my teeth are not going to fall out but apparently I clench my teeth so hard that I popped out a filling. I have to continue wearing a mouth guard for the foreseeable future.)

Finally, finally, when all this was over, I boarded an early morning bus to Johannesburg, South Africa for a nice long vacation. From Jo'burg, my friends and I argued over taxi fare with a taxi driver who drove us to the airport where we caught a flight to Durban. At Durban, we rented a car and spent a week relaxing on the beachfront (thanks to Amanda and Todd's family for the timeshare!).

From there, we drove to the Addo Elephant sanctuary where we stayed in a converted (haunted) castle-tower B&B in an orange orchard, picked citrus, and drove through the animal reserve watching elephants spray each other with water and warthogs run. We even got to see lions...

From Addo, we drove to Franchoek, a wine making french inspired village situated in the valley of 2 gorgeous mountains. We tasted wine, ate good food, and walked around the neatly trimmed streets admiring the local crafts. It was at Franchoek that one of us noticed just how clear and gorgeous the tap water was, and we cheered over glasses of it during our fancy seafood dinner.

From Franchoek, we wine-tasted our way to Stellenbosch, another wine making community that was also home to a SA university. It had a very university campus feel. Coffee shops, art stores, gelato, clothing, fashion, bikers and runners, liquor stores, and the occasional street-man asking for change.

Then from Stellenbosch we drove to Capetown where we hiked table mountain, met the penguin colony on boulder beach, and said goodbye to civilization. A flight, bus drive, overnight, early morning taxi, and bus drive away, I arrived exhausted in Ghanzi only to be met by the harassing street kids, a man who shoved his penis in my face, and an old man who begged away half of my lunch. Back in Ghanzi.

My stomach has been completely spoiled the past 2 weeks and I couldn't bring myself to buy anything other than the basics for food which is fine cause I still dont have a fridge and it is so f*ing hot here that I don't want to eat anyway. I waited 6 hours for a hitch, crammed in the back of a truck with my souveniers of wine and olives, and arrived at home at 9PM exhausted and gross after the long truck ride (with at least 3 pairs of dirty feet shoved into my new linen shorts the whole way). Sunny can't have nice things. Sipping on tap water here, my first reaction was to wretch. It tasted like sewage. Since when did I get so picky?

Back at site today, a lot has happened while I was gone. For 1, 3 teachers have transferred out. Our boarding master is being replaced by another man and a matron, and my friend Thato received a transfer notice for Ghanzi. The electricians are also making quick work of our solar panels to make way for proper electricity. Which means that they're taking away my precious electricity and replacing it who knows when. I'm devastated. I'm planning on hiding from these guys until the very very last minute.

A rumor has reached the ears of New Xade residents. An herb trader in Maun has been turned into a snake via witchcraft. I am assured that the lady-victim has not COMPLETELY turned into a snake, rather, just her body from neck down (and phew, I was worried).

Goat Attack

2011-10-27T10:23:00.002-05:00

Last Saturday, Peace Corps Botswana had a party for the Peace Corps' 50th anniversary. Lots of folks came to celebrate the anniversary, including RPCV's who were here with the first wave of PCV's back in 97. After the party, I went to the training site for the new group and hung around, answering questions and sharing stories of what it's like to be a Peace Corps Volunteer in Botswana.

The Peace Corps gave me a lift today from the training site to the capital, where i have some medical appointments and on the way, we hit a goat in slow motion. We were crossing a bridge and suddenly the beast was standing in the middle of the road. staring us down. There was nothing we could do but watch as the goat approached. Before the collision, our driver even had time to say, "... there's nothing I can do. Sorry!" and "THUNK!" or more like "THANK!" the goat went down. We stopped as abruptly as we could, and turned to look back. There was the goat... on all 4 legs looking shocked but none too worse for the wear except for a blotch of red on its head. Scattered in the street was our front license plate and one of the goat's horns. Goaty promptly ran off, stunned, leaving his horn in the road like a discarded junk food wrapper. Luckily for all of us, the truck was big, or the goat would've rolled over the windshield and crushed the car, instead it just got de-horned. De-horned. Ouch, I wonder if it feels like getting your nails ripped out...

Picture: Trainees in training

Ke a sha (I am burning)

2011-10-18T05:10:00.002-05:00

It's 12PM and I'm sitting in my darkened living room in my underwear. Too much information? Probably, but I don't care. Ever since moving to New Xade, I have been forced to be ok with my body, my friends' bodies, complete strangers' bodies. In my house, in friends' houses, on combis, busses, and grocery stories. Male and female appendages everywhere. And it's hot. Too hot. So hot that walking home puts you in a trance, but you know you have to keep going or you won't live to see tomorrow. Ke a sha, I am burning.

NXYO Movie Show

2011-10-16T04:19:00.001-05:00

At 4 PM on a Saturday Night, when the streets of New Xade are usually filled with little boys with wire trucks and old men with beer bottles, a mob of children are crowding around the entrance of the dilapidated Community Hall, begging passers-by for 1 pula to see the Television-Show. What is going on? The New Xade Youth are having their first weekly film screenings.

Beginning at 3PM every Friday night and ending at 7PM on Sunday, the youth are screening movies to the community at the low rate of P1 (approximately US 13 cents) for children, P3 for adults (and P2 for youth committee members). If you are lucky enough to scrounge up P1 worth of coins, you can push your way past the sticky fingers of unlucky children, enter the darkened room of the community hall, pick your own plastic lawnchair, and enjoy the audio and visual effects of Terminator 3, The Green Zone, and other such Action Movie "Classics."

An advertisement on the wall of the building reads "Come enjoy films of Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee!" But really, we all know that no one cares if it's Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, or Matt Daemon, so long as there is action, suspense, and lots and lots of noise. And just in case I forget to mention, unlike the bar down the street, this busy establishment is 100% alcohol-free (as a I told a young teenager standing outside defiantly sucking on a large bottle of black label). At 8PM last night, the exhausted youth returned to my house clutching P24.50 worth of coins, in the American equivalent of pennies and nickles. We may have broken even financially, but for all intents and purposes, this activity was pure profit.

2011-10-06T09:45:00.001-05:00

After 1.5 months in country, I still do not know the proper response to a knock at the door when I'm lying stark naked in the bathtub...

A Bunch of Little Hair Things

2011-10-05T10:04:00.001-05:00

My hair is long enough now that I can hold it up using 3 small hair things. I was putting my hair up today when I thought, there must be something profound about this movement...

Here it is: Life is sometimes like those hair-things. You need more than 1 small elastic to hold your life together.

In my case, there are lots of small things that hold me together. Food is one. Coffee is another. The dream of going to graduate school is yet another. My constant SMS's to friends here, the hope of seeing one good project to completion, the garden in my backyard, all small things that, in large concentrated doses sometimes give me much grief, but in combination, hold me in one piece, keep me from going insane.

I woke up this morning with the full intention on spending the entire day out in the community giving our village development committee computer training. I waited for them all morning, working on grad school applications, next thing I know, it's 4PM and I've been staring at admissions websites all day, eyes bugging out of my head. How did this happen? Where did the day go? Too much of a good thing can really drive someone crazy...

a rock and a hard place

2011-10-03T07:35:00.001-05:00

lately i've been finding myself stuck between a rock and a hard place. or is that all the time and lately i've been more noticing of it? Maybe one end of botswana there's a big rock, and at the other end there's a huge hard thing.

...

anyway. I find myself not enjoying going out and not enjoying staying in. I have funding for projects that are not yet ready for funding and waiting for funding for projects that don't have any sort of funding. There is simultaneously a lot going on and nothing going on. A lot happening that isn't right, but would take forever if it were right. My garden has stunted growth, so i locked my gate, yet the goats are jumping the fence now with more and more ease (it's like one of my nighttime fantasies-oh-wait-is-this-real episodes when I'm trying to fall asleep, counting goats jumping my gate, then of course getting their leg caught and screaming for help all night). I am social and yet i have no idea what's happening in the village at any given time. I have friends, yet I find myself helpless when I need help...

in a nutshell, i miss home and i'm running out of things that help bring relief.
8 months till home.
Not that I don't love it here. But the men and the phone calls, the solicitations, the toner-less printers, the bureaucracy, the rules, the boob grabbing, fat calling, begging for food, water, airtime, money, and the absolute indisputable truth that murphy's law (everything that can go wrong will go wrong precisely at the wrong time) is the only thing that is ever reliable... it's getting tiresome.

From my facebook

2011-09-18T05:10:00.005-05:00

ME: someone just came to my door and started laughing, "were you sleeping?!" he asked between guffaws. Is that his way of saying that I look like shit?

SOMEONEHERE: yah.its a polite Tswana way of saying u r looking awful

2 nights ago, I stayed up till 11:30 PM working on my grad school resumes (11:30 is super late, relative to my normal 8PM bedtime). Prior to 7AM the next morning, I was awoken by our weekly "driver convention" next door. Blasting music, 10 or so guys, lots of trucks. Couldn't get back to sleep so I reluctantly got up and went about my day. Couldn't focus on anything, couldn't finish any task I started. Sat around, lay down, worked out, read, sat around, sat some more, felt miserable. After my daily work out (which was punctuated with lots of pauses, heaving, pacing, and brow-wiping) my body ached all over and I decided the day was doomed. Housework would have to wait.

I went to bed (after watching Die Hard I, Die Hard II is scheduled to run in the Sunny Theater tonight) at the healthy hour of 8PM last night and woke up at 8AM reluctantly refreshed. Half an hour later, I got a knock at my door from a friend come to charge his phone at the Sunny Cell-Phone Charging Stand, and the above facebook situation happened.

So, I look a little haggard lately. I guess that's what comes from being drained. It's amazing how little I can do here compared the bustling crazy person I was back at home, every moment of every day scheduled to the max. I've been told lately to enjoy the next 8 months, do everything I want to do and not look back and say I wasted my time. But it's hard. I'm limited. Physically, emotionally, opportunistically. My village isn't exactly "the village."

A friend lent me the book "The Boy who Harnessed the Wind" and I finished it in a few days. It was a good, uplifting read. For those of you who haven't heard of it, the book is written by a boy from a small farming village in Malawi who survived a famine, had to drop out of school, and built a windmill out of junkyard scraps. People thought he was crazy, but out of sheer will power and creativity and a knack for engineering, the boy finished the windmill, generated a lot of press, and got sponsorship to go to school (he was 2007 TED fellow).

It's amazing how one child in a tiny resource-less village could do something so amazing. It gives me hope and makes me want to go out there a build a windmill. Or at least help some young genius boy to build a windmill. His story could never have happened without a lot of help from his friends and later, strangers who heard his story. Life is funny isn't it?

Sorry this isn't one of my more poignant entries. I'm mostly rambling. I've lately been questioning my role and my impact here. William Kamkwamba's story and the story of most of the youth here has made me realize that people can not "be made," they can only be given lucky breaks to become the people they were meant to become. Maybe that's what we Peace Corps volunteers (and not just PCV's but anyone in the right place at the right time) is meant to do, help someone else get to the next step in their life journey.

Case and Point: "Leon" is a pastor from Zimbabwe who, when he wad a child, was asked by a local PCV to water his garden while he was on vacation. Though the whole community laughed at the PCV, saying the boy was too young, Leon relished the responsibility and grew up to be a pastor and humanitarian, working to help relieve poverty among the San living in squatter camps by giving them jobs, relocating them to better plots in proper settlements, handing out food and plastic sheets to those who live in shacks made of grocery bags.

Case #2: My friend Dr. Chawarwa is a native-Zimbabwe scholar and teacher for D'kar, a nearby settlement. He fills various capacities, so it is hard to give him an actual title. On a long 8-hour car trip to Gaborone one day, he told me the story of how he got his big break, or rather, many many small breaks. He was originally enrolled in a University in Southern Africa. One winter, after visiting various offices in search of better opportunities, his nagging paid off, he got a break, a one-way ticket to America. Unfortunately, without a round-trip ticket, he wasn't eligible for a U.S. visa. So a friend in England turned his one-way into a roundtrip to London, where someone else traded it in for a roundtrip to America. He then forged an invitation letter from a Peace Corps volunteer who was his teacher when he was younger, got a visa, and showed up on the front steps of his PCV friend who had no idea that he was coming. The PCV was teaching (or enrolled in?) a university somewhere in the midwest, where Dr. Chawarwa (then a young teenage Mister Chawarwa) got a partial scholarship to study. Mr. Chawarwa got his degree while working full time as a dish-waster. Eventually, Mr. Chawarwa got a scholarship from a local church to pursue his doctorate, and now he is Dr. Chawarwa with a lovely wife and 2 beautiful daughters making a huge impact in the D'kar area.

After telling me his story, Dr. Chawarwa went on to impart some wisdom. "Some people are put into your life just to help you get on to the next step. When that step is done, you may never see them again, but it is okay to let them go."

Bakery Handover

2011-09-14T08:41:00.004-05:00

I read an article today about a mobile TB X-Ray van that is traveling around places in Europe checking at-risk populations (homeless people, drug users, etc.) for TB. I wonder if such a tool could be rolled out here in Botswana, or more specifically, here in the Ghanzi settlements. TB is the biggest health risk for people here, as many of them are far from clinics or health posts and live in places with poor ventilation in close proximity with others.

I helped a little bit at an event in Xade this morning (and I'm likely to return in the afternoon to help break down). This event has riddled me with weariness and a little unease all week-- culminating yesterday morning, when a local government employee reproached me for not showing up at an 8AM planning meeting. The friend I was walking with and I responded quite indignantly-- how can we come to a meeting we were never informed about? I have to admit, that response was loaded with more meaning than I meant it to be. The fact is, I did not find out about this extremely important event until 5 days prior, and only when an officer from Ghanzi asked if she could stay at my place this week while she prepared. And even then, I was not told why she needed accommodation. I only found out later when someone asked "if I were going."

So all week I've been going about my regular business, checking in only at night to see how preparations were going. At first I felt guilty for not being more involved with an event that my department was helping to run. Then I was a little indignant that no one asked me for help or sent me a proper invitation, the Botswana way of notifying important people of important events. The only official invitations I've ever received here are for social things like baby or bridal showers. I guess I'm not an important person. So this morning, the morning of, I wandered the streets of New Xade looking for some way to help. I found it in the kitchen, peeling and dicing over 10km of carrots and onions. My arm felt sore and stiff after who knows how long, and, inside, my pride was hurt that this was all I could contribute. My counterparts had all but left me alone in the kitchen with boxes of vegetables, so after I finished carving up the last carrot in my possession (there were plenty more, but I'd have been darned if I were caught in the kitchen alone much longer) I wandered off muttering under my breath about "what I really came here for" and "I wasn't going to be the only one working."

Truth is, I wasn't the only one working. People all around me were working (albeit at their own paces), they were just socializing with each other too. And I, being too lazy to attempt to decipher their words, felt neglected and unimportant. I watched "Devil Wears Prada" for the umpteenth time last night and Stanley Tucci's words had been echoing in my ears ever since, "...this place, where so many people would die to work, you only deign to work."

Do I only deign to work in New Xade, being awed by the place I am in and the people I am with only when it brings me some sort of prestige or importance? A white photographer was at the event today and I couldn't help but try to stare him down-- what are you doing in my settlement, I thought. Don't you know this is my territory? My pictures are so much better than yours. Yeah you get to sit at the head table, but I, I choose to sit with the people. And then I purposefully started a conversation with the person next to me just to look important.

At the end of the day, there was nothing that I did that made me stand out as an important person, nothing that would warrant me a special introduction to the District Commissioner or get my photo taken by the white photographer. In fact, one of the "ordinary people" even yelled at me to get them food since I was in the "important person food line." I realized then that there was nothing I really could have done to make me stand out, that I am, indeed, just as ordinary or even more ordinary than the next person. All I really did today was cut come carrots and encourage those behind the scenes to take breaks, eat lunch, sit down for a moment. I stood and smiled at the VIP's as they piled their plates high with the food that a handful of women and men have been slaving over before the crack of dawn this morning. I stood behind the serving lines as the "regular people" came for their portions, surging the serving window and then the kitchen door until both had to be closed. I nodded at those who stepped forward to do odd jobs that they saw were needed, wipe down the chairs, stack the plates, refill the food bowls, get more drinks. I stood and watched and thought about the person I used to be (the one who always had to be the hardest worker and the best performer) and the person I was today (the one who stood out of the way and avoided eye contact with intimidating-looking officials, who waited to see if someone else was going to do that first.)

I didn't come here to work someone else out of a job, I came here to help create jobs. But, odd, that wasn't what was going through my head as I helped to dice and dish and clean. I saw the privilege that comes with position in this world. Food was piled high on plates and then left uneaten moments before the everyday people food ran out and people searched the trash for discarded scraps. Even the weight differences between the first eaters and the last eaters was apparent. This must be what America looks like to foreigners, we are the head table who gets their first pick in everything from food to technology, religious ideals, computer equipment, healthcare, and they get whatever is leftover. Our excess. I'm not saying that this system is fair or unfair, or that this perception is even true. It's just the way it is perceived here. No wonder my penpal students have no hesitation about asking their friends in Spain for their old, used things.

History has shown us that progress and technology can only be achieved when there is time for luxury created by excess (take for example the industrial revolution which led to a surge in technology, arts and culture). Unfortunately, excess is not a luxury many people can afford here.

Photos from top to bottom: the "every day" people line up at the foot of the bakery doors to watch the event, a local artisan displays her ostrich eggshell jewelry craft (best quality I've seen so far), a choir team shows off their dance moves.

Highlights from the New Xade Dance Competition

2011-09-13T05:29:00.000-05:00

Party Pooper

2011-09-11T00:38:00.001-05:00

I opted not to go to a party last night in preference to my warm bed at 7PM. I was feeling stupid and lame until I got a phone call from a friend at 9. It was about a favor I did for her on friday, but still, a phone call from a friend who wasn't at the party either. I felt better about myself and was able to go back to sleep. And good thing too cause the party is still going on. I was woken at 6:30 by music outside creeping its way past my green foam earplugs.

Yard Clearing Take 2

2011-09-10T08:54:00.001-05:00

I cleared my yard again for a couple hours today. Oddly though, it wasn't as enjoyable as it was last week. In fact, it was a little on the side of painful, especially in the lower back area. The whole time, I was thinking about what a friend of mine said last time he saw me cleaning. "You are fighting a losing battle." Though the sun sucked, the dust sucked, and the thorns really sucked, I decided in the end: better to fight a losing battle than not fight at all.

Long Rides Home

2011-09-09T11:58:00.004-05:00

The ride to and from Ghanzi does not get any more bearable over time. Indeed, on some days, it seems to have gotten worse. But what has changed is how quickly I forget the pain after I land. Afterall, what's the point on dwelling on your pain and suffering if it's over and you can't do anything to change it?

We drove home today in an open back pick up. I remember as a kid, I would watch movies where people rode in the backs of pick ups (usually with a yellow lab or a golden retriever). I thought it was so cool. I remember my first back of a pick up ride. It was in my dad's big black toyota tacoma. The wind blowing in my hair, the sun on my face, the thrill of using your full body to brace yourself against potential dangers. We made it all of 5 yards down the driveway before my mom freaked out.

Now, I readily and happily pop in the front seat if it's offered to me (and that's rarely). The ride home today, in all aspects but length, was exactly the same as my first truck ride, except after how many times? the experience was so much more different. The wind knotted my hair, the sun burned my lips, and oh, I got the full body experience as my muscles tensed and sweat dripped from every crease in my body... my limbs braced against potential dangers, gravel flying and smacking me in the arm like sharp bee bee's, leaving small white scars that I find days later once my skin has browned to a crisp and think, "where the heck did that come from?!"

But as soon as we landed at the front steps of my house, I leapt out, unpacked and cursed at my squashed bananas, stripped of my day clothes into my work-out clothes, and pumped bottles of sand (my make-shift weights) for half an hour. I'm actually looking forward to my next trip to Ghanzi, I didn't have time this trip to stop at the liquor store. ;)
(Photo: my friend Ntamo grinning at me from the coveted front seat)

Lethargy Strikes

2011-09-07T02:12:00.005-05:00

I was supposed to go to Ghanzi today to collect some papers and go grocery shopping. I have 3 eggs and half a liter of warm unrefrigerated milk in my open non-working fridge.

But something's been fighting me for a few weeks and yesterday it started winning. I slept little last night and had lots of strange, intense dreams. Woke up with a crick in my neck when it was still dark outside and decided that today I would hide. There was some internal struggle, but gradually I realized that no one cares whether I go to Ghanzi today or go to Ghanzi tomorrow. No one knows what I do on a day to day basis anyway. I could catch up on my grant writing today. My blog writing. My letter writing...
Or I could just watch movies and stay in bed.

I tried being productive, but without coffee (I'm out of coffee... I tried drinking that nescafe stuff but for some reason i couldn't even swallow it. What's happened to me? Have I gotten picky?) productivity is a fruitless endeavor. Thank goodness for phone service, I was actually able to get quite a bit of stuff done over the phone.

Tomorrow is a new day. Besides if I had gone to Ghanzi, I wouldn't have found out that the projects have gotten more donations! So thank you everyone who has donated (see progress to the right). It's a wonderful contribution to an otherwise fruitless day.

Photos of our penpal kids after receiving a package of T-shirts and books from our partner school in Spain. Aren't they goofy? :)

Tour Ya Botswana

2011-09-05T01:08:00.001-05:00

Tour Ya Botswana is an annual road cycling challenge that raises money for causes in Botswana.

This September, Tour Ya Botswana will raise funds for the Kings Foundation, a Christian organization that trains community leaders in running recreational activities for youth. I've asked the Kings Foundation to consider coming to New Xade to help train our OVC support group leaders. One of our volunteers, was trained by the Kings Foundation several years ago. I have seen for myself the kind of confidence, leadership skills, and practical skills they can offer.

Please consider supporting the Kings Foundation or Tour Ya Botswana
http://www.touryabotswana.org/

2011-09-04T04:40:00.002-05:00

I just spent a couple hours outside in the morning sun (natura tanning) sweeping my massive driveway. And yes, I said sweeping and I said massive.

If you've been following my blog you know that i have a minor obsession with my yard. The first thing I noticed when i arrived in Botswana was everyone else's obsession with their yards. Every morning, it is the eldest daughter's duty to sweep the entire compound with a straw broom. (Traditional brooms here have no handles, so women are bent over double doing this, sometimes with a child on her back. Ouch). So, I made it one of my 2 year goals to maintain my own yard, as a gesture of integration. It's good for the body, good for the spirit, and, as an added bonus, not attractive to the little ones. Though oddly, whenever Botswana men find me doing yardwork, they tend to think that I'm open for "hitting on." I think that visions of domestic bliss dance through their heads.

So far, it's worked pretty well. I've met many people by spending time outside sweeping and weeding. I've gotten a lot of comments (my favorite being, "you're not afraid to work hard!") including one this morning from a guy who taught me the setswana word for sweeping the yard. I dutifully repeated the word and promptly forgot it. Nodded and smiled, and continued my sweeping. I think it started with a "T..."

It took hours and I think I disturbed a beetle nest, as around 30 large (about 1") yellow reddish cockroach-like beetles swarmed my broom at some point. But, despite the inevitable temptation to think of this work as a little bit pointless (C'mon, sweeping Sand? in a Desert?!), I persevered as part of my new "healthy body healthy mind" Peace Corps attitude. (Plus, I had a brownie this morning and felt like earning some extra calorie-burning points.) I felt like a cross between a batswana housewife and Will Smith's son from the Karate Kid. Wax on, wax off. I did Tai Chi with my broom. Sweep Sweep Swoosh Swoosh. I was Avatar, the last wind bender. I was Poe, the Panda. I was Jackie Chan in his younger films when he was the Tom Cruise of Asian Actors (before white people turned him into a cartoon character). I evicted plants, thorns, dust, and dirt from my yard with a single blow from my fearless broom. Kachow.

Sweeping Time is definitely a good time to think about life. It's almost like a meditation (except it can be slightly painful if you're not paying attention because of all the spikey plants). Not claiming that sweeping leads to enlightenment, but after watching the entire Avatar Series and Kung Fu Panda this week, and having a bit of a confrontation with some of my inner demons, I began to think a little about my family's heritage, my own cultural identity and psychology. Peace Corps service definitely shits on your image of yourself. It takes all of your insecurities and, in 2 years, tweezes out each thread of pain in your life and wrings it like a wet towel. I'm not sure if I'll come out of this a better person, whatever "better" means, but I'm pretty sure I'll come out alive. And much changed.

One definitive conclusion I came to today, those who hard on themselves are often hard on others.

Books Books Everywhere...

2011-09-02T01:25:00.004-05:00

Bookeths Bookeths Everywhere, but alas cantst thou not findeth me a booketh to read?

Thanks to the Botswana Book Project, New Xade has oodles of wonderful (and relevant, and some not so relevant) books for the community! Ranging from Young Adult Historical Fiction to agricultural techniques to craft making (and my personal favorite, volume 12 of a dermatology encyclopedia).

Unfortunately, it don't fit. We need more bookshelves!

I'm raising money for book shelves (the price is higher than in the states because, funny story, one can not purchase wood in the middle of a dry sandy desert!). We are going for chip board here and they have to be custom built because, funny story, one can not purchase bookshelves in the middle of a dry sandy desert!

Please consider making a contribution to the starved readers of New Xade. The books are many, the workers are few (but mighty), the funds are zero.

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=637-098

Santa Klaus of the Kalahari

2011-08-29T10:56:00.004-05:00

Today, I came to our classroom to deliver color copies of letters that have been written by our Pen Pal School in Spain. In addition to letters though, they sent some books, t-shirts, and a special package for one of our students as well. I felt strange, walking to school with a big box, and even stranger walking into the classroom with this big box and not opening the box for the students to see. We decided to let the students look at the books tomorrow when I have my camera, but of course, the teachers had to look at everything first. I was trying not to feel appalled when 2 teachers on 2 separate occasions took the special package (some clothing and books for one of the students from her penpal) and dumped the contents on their desks, looking at every item of clothing and making comments in Setswana, it's like they'd never seen a turtleneck before, the entire rest of the class gathered in a large circle around the desk. I know it's not polite of me to comment on these things, and I'm trying to find some rationale for understanding why these things happen here and why in particular I feel like they shouldn't happen here. The student was present, nothing was stolen, and the student didn't seem in any way upset by the public pronouncement of her gifts. In fact, when I gave the bag to her, it seemed like her smile could have lifted her into the air, it was so big. We are holding a random drawing for the t-shirts tomorrow. The names of all of the students who participated in the letter exchanges "seriously" are going to be put in a hat and drawn at random. "Serious" participation was determined by the teachers and based on whether or not the student wrote back to their penpals consistently. I know I have my favorite students… maybe that's why I felt like the system was a bit subjective. If it were up to me, I would've rigged it so that the students I like, the ones that I feel are doing an honest job of writing letters, would benefit the most. I guess that's why I'm not a teacher. I couldn't handle the pressure! Also, I STILL can't remember most of my kids' names...

In other news, I signed onto facebook today and was greeted with this message:

...and I still do.

Language

2011-08-27T06:13:00.001-05:00

If anyone wants to give me problems about not being able to learn the language here beyond a simple greeting, I want to give you the names of the people I am working with in the craft shop here... it might shut you up.

Mmutla Maipelo, Gabomphie Lobelo, Dipolelo Talelo, Kebonetswe Gakeitsewe, Mosadiwadikgaba Xerabe, Sekaka Sebetsaphuduhudu, Qubae Xhurukhwe, Kadishuba Tuela, Nxautwe Modisa, Lesheto Senkelathipane

Among Odd Days...

2011-08-26T12:58:00.003-05:00

Today was an odd day among odd days. I woke up earlier than usual and went to school as soon as it opened to collect letters from our Pen Pal exchange Program. Then I reluctantly climbed in the back of a pick up truck and went to Ghanzi to do 5 things:

1. look up how to get an exemption certificate for tax and duty fees
2. collect boxes of donations for the kids
3. get a signature for water reimbursement
4. find out when the assistant district aids coordinator is coming to visit
5. collect a letter of support from the district aids coordinator.

1. we can't get a certificate until the day the items are delivered
2. the lady who has the key to the storage room is out at a funeral
3. the chief who signs my papers is out at a workshop
4. the ADAC is out at a site visit
5. the DAC is out sick.

So I sat in a lodge and ate pizza with some PCV's all day.

TADA! The end.

Thanks to everyone who has donated and who plans on donating and who might just donate on a whim. I very much appreciate it!!!!!!

-Sunny

Computer Project, Live Donations!

2011-08-24T03:05:00.001-05:00

I am happy to report that:
Donations for the New Xade computer project have gone live!
Please visit this link to donate: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=637-097

That said, I saw a baby goat today. My friend said it was probably born just this morning. Its umbilical cord was still attached and the mom looked like "she's still waiting for the afterbirth to drop." I could've done without that last detail (and the new dead bird on my porch that i have yet to clean up...)

Cheering Squad

2011-08-22T08:19:00.002-05:00

It's good during weeks like these to know that I have a cheering squad back at home for me.

A long time ago, a good friend once told me, "The world does not revolve around you." It was one of the most defining moments of my life.

Right now, I am sitting in my house, working on my blue linoleum dining table off of my solar electricity, listening to my ipod spew out last year's music, the same albums over and over again because that's what I'm comfortable with. I'm fighting feelings of guilt, frustration, loneliness, anger, and resentment. Guilt because I am here and not outside doing what I think I "should" be doing-- whatever that is. Frustration because I'm not capable of doing more, better, faster; that the food here is so not to my liking that I'd rather not eat, that my projects are at a standstill or the teachers are too busy to work with me. Loneliness because I can't relate right now to the people outside my windows, to the children who climb over my gate despite my threats to call the police. Anger because things don't go as I think they should here, they are always too slow, too inefficient, too many papers have been lost and it's too damn impossible to get anything printed. Resentment, because sometimes I DO think to myself, "it's because of these people that I am here." These people. This term is not something I ever thought I'd utter, yet it pops into my head more often than it should. Every time I look out the window and see my gate left open and a cow munching on my garden plants, I think: these people, every time someone wakes me up in the middle of the night to charge their phone, these people, every time I hear a horror story about a child raped or woman beat up, these people. Every time an obnoxious man hits on me or a drunken woman walks down my street singing out loud to herself, these people.

The reality is, it's easier to be frustrated and point fingers at people than it is to go out there and experience and re-experience the reality that people here live in every day. It's not as simple as the picture that the commercials paint on TV of crying naked children covered in layers of mud and dung, but it certainly isn't the linoleum blue dining table and ipod reality that I live in on a daily basis. On a day like this when the wind is howling so hard that I have to strain to get the door open and chase the windows shut, people have to huddle under a bunch of sticks to keep the sand out of their breath. These people.

The world does not revolve around me. I am just as unrelated-able to these people as they are to me. I sit here in my concrete bubble so sure that the world out there is out to get me, that people are talking about me, why doesn't she come to the office? Why doesn't she like sitting here with us and shooting the shit? When is that grant coming? Why isn't she doing more, better, faster? And maybe some people are, but I'm willing to bet that the majority of people aren't. They're more worried about getting firewood for nighttime, passing the day pleasantly, wondering how their family is. The reality is, I'm sitting here doing the exact same thing, wondering about my next meal, my next vacation, my family at home. It's a horrible experience to realize this about yourself, that you're a self-centered, self-righteous wimp... It's hard lesson to learn, to accept that I'm not superhuman and that I can't and don't have to be completely perfect and happy and adventurous here all the time. Maybe if I finally accept that, I'll be able to be happy and perfect and adventure again sooner rather than later... maybe then I won't be so scared of these people... but for today, I'm going to give myself some slack. Besides, the wind is so strong, I'd probably pull a Mary Poppins the instant I stepped outside.

The Ramones

2011-08-21T06:07:00.002-05:00

I haven't posted music lyrics on my blog since I was a kid, but today this one seems wildly appropriate. I woke up with this song on my brain. All I wanna do today is listen to this song and finishing the movie "The Tourist" which I saw the first few minutes of in a bus. Of course, I don't have these two items in my collection, even though I have all sorts of media that I'm never going to watch, like various car shows and horror movies and music that drives me insane (Backstreet Boys, Elevator Jazz, the Soundtrack of Romeo and Juliet, the Ballet) that come on at the most inopportune times, like now, coming in after an infuriating wrestling session in my garden with a bunch of crooked sticks, string, and shade netting to Billy Gilman singing a joyous rendition of "One Horse Open Sleigh" ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding!

Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go I wanna be sedated
Nothin' to do and no where to go-o-oh I wanna be sedated
Just get me to the airport put me on a plane
Hurry hurry hurry before I go insane
I can't control my fingers I can't control my brain
Oh no no no no no

Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go I wanna be sedated
Nothin' to do and no where to go-o-o I wanna be sedated
Just put me in a wheelchair get me to the show
Hurry hurry hurry before I go loco
I can't control my fingers I can't control my toes

Oh no no no no no
Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go...
Just put me in a wheelchair...
Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba I wanna be sedated
Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba I wanna be sedated
Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba I wanna be sedated
Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba I wanna be sedated

2011-08-20T01:17:00.001-05:00

I found 2 dead birds in my yard. I tried to scoop them up 3 times but was too freaked out. Dead birds freak me out more than anything else dead. Finally I used my rake and a broken bucket and poked them inside, screaming. Then dumped them on the other side of my fence. I was in my yard gardening later that day when I saw kids walking by and pick up the birds, talk about it, show it to me, and then leave with it... I wonder what they're going to do with them.

The Waiting Game

2011-08-12T08:58:00.001-05:00

I'm still waiting to hear back from Peace Corps about the next steps for this grant, but so far, I'm feeling really good about it. Thanks you guys!

I'm finally (finally?) starting to exhibit some wear and tear from all of these crazy truck rides. My back is hurting, and not my lower back which usually hurts, but my upper back/shoulder area. It's painful and I've been spending some time each day to stretch it out, though I'm probably the last person to know what kind of stretches are good and what kind are bad. I'm pretty sure my tail bone has been bruised too.

This all became acutely clear today after I traveled an hour in one direction just to get a bar of chocolate. And then of course an hour back with melted chocolate. Not to mention the day of waiting in-between. I got crammed behind a very oblivious and large young man who made me want to poke him when he fell asleep with his legs spread out among the 18 of us stuck in that truck. He rolled over and kicked and crushed our bags, our food, our appendages. He was so obnoxious, even in his sleep, that we all stared at him for most of the ride. I particularly enjoyed pondering the grease trail that his head left on the window where his head rolled. It was like tracking the sludge marks of a sea snail...

The Great Cow Escape

2011-08-02T00:18:00.002-05:00

The sun is rising over New Xade this morning. I woke up at 6AM and couldn't get back to sleep. The chickens are crowing, I bet they're thirsty. The water is still out, though the water department did send relief trucks this week to fill the water tower for us. That means that at 2pm yesterday, we all rushed to the pipes with buckets and bottles to fill whatever vessels we could with water.

I went to the office yesterday morning and met my friend Gakeleswe who was dancing around the slippery steps. You're dancing! Your're happy! I said. Yes! she answered. If someone is so happy, he or she could die! She laughed and then danced around more. I met one of my counterparts for the first time in weeks. He pulled me to him while we talked, Everything is just ok, he said, I'm just thirsty.

I came home to news that one of our peace corps family fell off a horse and broke her leg. This comes on the heels of hearing that another of our volunteers had to go home on emergency leave because there was a death in her immediate family. My head has been in a daze ever since. Then I got an email about the OVC grant I wrote months ago, I have to send in 3 quotations for every item in our budget and a support letter from the district aids coordination (DAC) office. This would be all fine and dandy, except that we have no stores in New Xade and no transportation. I anticipated this months ago, but I guess I forgot, and things have changed within the support group. I no longer have the enthusiasm I used to.

I spent the afternoon blowing steam off in what's left of my garden, replanting a once- successful tomato plant that the cows and goats ate to a pathetic little stump. I planted big branches into the ground as a makeshift fence and ran string along side it. It's no defense against goats and other livestock, but at least it makes me feel good. It's temporary until I can get my hands on some shade-netting. As a final measure, I cut down acacia thorn branches (thorns as long as 2") and spread them out along the fence perimeter.

Last night I heard noises outside my house that sounded like construction. I thought perhaps someone was lifting lumber... in the middle of the night. I tried to ignore it until 8PM, when I grabbed a flashlight and, shaking, went out into the moon-absent darkness to check it out. I stood at the corner of my front porch shining the light into the recesses of my yard trying to see what was going on, looking at neighbors, looking down the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some kids playing, a donkey eating a tree by my fence. I couldn't figure out where the noise came from, so i took a step forward into the side yard, then around the corner, there, surrounded by bush, I came face to face with a large black cow who was drinking from the leaky pond in my backyard. I freaked out. He freaked out. He started running and I bent down to pick up a rock. I chased the cow around my yard until he tried to escape via the back gate which was closed. Stupid cow. I opened the front gate and tried to chase him out there, but he went back to the water pool, which coincidentally is right next to my newly renovated garden and precious tomato stumps.

When I went back to get him, I found 2 more cows. They freaked, I freaked out more and threw rock after rock at them, chasing them from my garden. Don't worry, I wasn't shooting to kill. I was afraid I would get trampled. Sometimes I lost sight of the black cow, until it's glinting eye caught the light. I chased the cows around in circles in my pajamas and flip flops until they finally left and I retired to my house, hoping no one saw the crazy white person. When I came in, I saw that my new warm sweat pants (gifted to me by steph) was covered in makgunda thorns and my flip flops were poked through with acacia thorns.Bird feathers and animal shit clung to the thorns like bits of sticky caramel popcorn. Defeated, I shed my shoes and did what I could with my pants. I went to sleep feeling dirty, the sharp ends of makgunda making it's way from pants to skin to bloodstream. I have no clean clothes. There is no water.

I spent the night inbetween sleep, trying not to clench my teeth, dreaming about quotations, the DAC office, and friends from the clinic back at home. I had bitter sweet dreams, sweet dreams, and just plain annoying ones where my dreams mimicked the hectic days of my life, chasing down store owners for donations and officers for signatures. I plotted and planned how to proceed with this grant. How to itemize the budget in such a way as to facilitate the collection of quotations. How to get transportation to collect quotations. How to get transport to bring the supplies back to New Xade. How to get out of this without a hit on my own finances. One trip to get quotations alone can cost me upwards of 50 bucks. How to get people to help me. Who can I count on? What am I doing? Who am I doing it for? There are currently 3 mac computers at the school for the teachers. The teachers say that they are broken. Sketto thinks they are lying. An old New Xade PCV says they simply don't know how to use Macs. What is a mac doing in the middle of nowhere anyway?

2011-07-29T04:33:00.001-05:00

7-29-2011

I’m hiding out in my house today. Under my warm covers. I’m working, grants, papers, blogs, emails. But mostly I’m hiding out. I miss normality.

Every time I think of something that used to be normal, I’m reminded how abnormal it is here.

Water: water outage for the past 3 days, children, cows, goats, birds, roaming the streets, making noises, searching for something as essential and simple as water to drink, bathe in, wash their clothes. My jo jo tank is drained and has been for weeks, so now instead of shaking my head and saying “Ga go na metse,” when I see children coming, I run into another room and hide.

Food: I overate all week. I feel sick. Instant noodles, Mexican food, ramen, cake, muffins, sandwiches. And last weekend, my friend told me about how her organization’s cleaner’s children died of malnutrition. She told me this over wine, cheese, and crackers.

Wine: I bought a P62 bottle of Baronne last week. I drank half the bottle in one sitting not thinking about how P62 could’ve bought someone food for a week—or a substantial amount of chibuku, the nation’s traditional alcoholic brew. One bottle of wine, 10USD, something that I would’ve joked about in the states as cheap, is such a treat here that I cried when I pulled out the cork.

Sex: Sex in the states, this intimate, private moment. Now when I think of sex, I think of parents having sex in their huts as their children watch, primary school students having sex in front of their peers in the hostels, children having sex with men, children having babies, babies dying in childbirth because their mothers are only 12. Do women here enjoy sex or has it turned into yet another dirty requirement of life, like alcoholism, clogged outhouses, starvation and drought?

When, if ever, will I be able to enjoy the things I used to enjoy without feeling guilt, anger, frustration, annoyance, privilege? …there are children pounding on my door again now, peering into my bedroom windows. Children, when will they return to their normal states in my head and cease to be these fearful creatures that haunt me in my dreams?

Last night I had a dream that someone was watching me in my sleep. Watching me from the crack in my window shades. I knew it because I could hear their chewing. They were eating popcorn and watching me like a movie reel.

-------

6:40 PM-- Challenges are easier to deal with when you have the courage to face them.

I went outside today after a long day in bed to fetch some water and collect a bill from a friend. Stepping out into the sun really wasn't as intimidating as I thought it would be, as sometimes it is. The sound of children's laughter made me smile. My yard, though people had been through it, around it, and up to my doors and windows the past few days, was relatively untouched. The laundry I left hanging, unstolen. I came home and some kids followed suit a few minutes later. But instead of knocking on my door like good little children, they went to my bedroom windows and knocked. I came out, in a huff, and they ran up and around, I met them back on my front porch and yelled a fury no sunny has ever yelled-- basically, I said "you have no manners, you can't do that. Go!" I was proud of myself. I fear no retaliation-- I hope. Then again, these kids really could make my life a living hell if they knew how to push my buttons right.

Seeking Library Help

2011-07-28T07:29:00.001-05:00

This is a shot in the dark, but if anyone reading this knows an organization who would be interested in donating $400 towards the purchase of bookshelves for our Adult Education Reading Room, please let me know. We are looking to construct bookshelves in order to better organize and thus utilize our books. I can vouch for the Reading Room's use and effectiveness in this community and I believe it is a worthwhile endeavor.

Cows on parade

2011-07-27T09:14:00.001-05:00

If you liked Chicago's "Cows on Parade" exhibition, then you're in for a REAL treat. Today, New Xade very own Cows on Parade exhibition began as for the umpteenth time since my arrival, cows of every color, age, and species, wandered the streets, mooing desperately in search for water. I joined them for a brief moment, mooing myself, as I rung out my half-cleaned detergent-filled laundry from a distillery in my bathtub of dirt, clothing, and various bits of organic matter in order to make space for a quick bath. The water was so dark that I couldn't see 1/2" past the surface-- however, I will maintain till my dying day that the cheap dyes in my Pep-purchased towels are the cause of this visible anomaly and not actual filth.

2011-07-26T06:51:00.004-05:00

Hi Everyone, Blog friends, family, countrymen, fellow-world-(wo)-men (for those of you who appreciate politically correctness),

I'm writing to ask for assistance from those of you who have been following my blog.

I am working with the primary school to get computer equipment (16 computers) for a teaching lab (also open to the community). I am hoping to raise about $3,200 for all the computers and shipping (possibly more depending on customs fees). We are getting the machines from an organization in the UK called Computer Aid International. So far I have around $1,200 in pledges from family and friends, and I still need much more, so if it is in your heart, please send me an email at lin.sunnyc@gmail.com with the following text:

"I, ______, pledge to support the New Xade Computer Project with a tax-deductable donation of $________ through the Peace Corps Partnership Program. My Email address is: ___________"

A big thank you to those who have already pledged. Your support is not just going towards the effort of alleviating poverty in New Xade and educating youth and children, it is also helping me to stay sane.

---------
If you would like to help in another way (notice the change in font to signal a change in subject), the school is trying to start an art program and has asked me to help find donations of art supplies (paints, brushes, papers, anything). I won't be heading the program, but I said I would try to help out anyway I can. The kids here may not be the best at sports or writing, math or science, but they are damn good at the arts! So any donation would not go unappreciated. If interested, please email me for details

In other news, the first annual general meeting of the New Xade Youth Organization went swimmingly. 200+ youth gathered at the kgotla and listened to music, words of encouragement, watched dances from local performance groups. I had a blast even though I had no idea what was going on until I had a chance to type up the meeting minutes afterwards. I am very proud of the youth here for their enthusiasm and hard work. The next meeting is next week, and we will be raising money for our NGO registration fees.

Photo on the upper right is a picture of me at the AGM looking very official, introducing the board members in my very poor setswana. but don't be impressed, because no understood the mumbling idiot peace corps volunteer and the ended up introducing the board again after I did it!

The picture on the bottom right is my friend Ketelelo with the banner he painted for the organization. (I sure hope the Omang (ID registration) office lets us keep the name "new xade youth organization" or he's gonna have to make a new banner!)

Missionaries and Meetings

2011-07-13T11:16:00.002-05:00

Missionaries and Meetings

Yesterday morning, I was enjoying my ritualistic morning cup of Starbucks Via when I got a phone call from our recently absent youth officer asking me if I knew about the Peace Corps volunteers that are now at the church in New Xade. “No…” I said, scanning my head for possibilities. He told me to come right away.

I arrived a few minutes later (luckily I was already dressed) and met 50 white people and a giant commercial bus. 12 of them were from the states, the rest from South Africa. They were missionaries here for a few days to do whatever the church wanted of them. Bicky arranged for a prayer walk later that day, and then they engaged in some kid play—balls, skits, face paint, tickle fights, general walking around with kids attached to each limb.

As I watched the young missionaries make their way around the village with a gaggle of our children, I grew nostalgic the days where I was one of those young missionaries. A child on each arm, and one sitting in my head, plaiting my hair. Giving away pipe-cleaner eye glasses and blowing bubbles in the middle of a rural dirt street, sweat and dust clinging to my skin. The days of relentless activity, the nights of deep sleep…

Our youth organization met for the first time today. 6 young men and I sat down to make preparations and bang out the agenda for Saturday’s kickoff event. Dance groups, snacks, music, speeches, and all-around an exciting time. “Halala! Halala!” as they say here.

Though the past few months have painted me to be a cynic of community organization, I find myself having faith in this merry band of young people. I realized that these guys have one very important feature to their advantage that I didn’t plan for—Fun. Halala! Halala! They laughed as we disbanded at the end of our 2 hour meeting. At the last minute, I snapped this photo in hopes of one day having it framed as the beginning of a beautiful thing.

Monster from the Sea-beyond

2011-07-10T03:17:00.006-05:00

***Keep holding for news of how you can help—New Xade Computer Project***

July 10, 2011

11 months from yesterday, I will be officially released from Peace Corps Service as aRPCV (i.e. Returned Peace Corps Volunteer). How exciting!

I have a feeling that the vast majority of New Xade residents were drunk last night. I watched from my window as two ladies stumbled down the road in the winter wind in the middle of the afternoon. I was approached by two men who had been partying since 2 AM the night before. Two lady friends visited me with beers in hand and asked me to listen to the party going on down the street at one of the houses.

I paint a dire picture when I talk about these things, but the truth is, as my friend said so clearly (and yet slightly slurred) last night, “What else is there to do in a settlement on Saturday night?” I had just finished my first (albeit only) beer. What else IS there to do? I encouraged my friends to relax tonight and have fun. One of them had just had a baby a few months ago and her sisters are visiting. Goodness knows, she is going to miss her family when they leave next week. So they should have fun on a Saturday night. (As a precaution, she told me she's going to sleep on the floor next to the baby so she doesn't accidentally roll over him in her sleep)

But as I wake up this cold blustery morning and look out my windows at the desolate and empty landscape beyond, I remember those who suffer for alcoholism in this village. It’s not my friend or the government workers who live in nice concrete houses that block out most of the wind and cold on a day like this, it’s the people who call this village their life, the adults and kids who live in houses like this one. The families who, right now, have to buckle down under blankets in the freezing wind—I’d rather be drunk through the winter too. I remember in my early days, I would walk around the village and encounter whole compounds full of drunk adults, red, white, and blue cartons of Chibuku, the traditional brew, strewn around in the sand, young children, not yet potty trained walking around bottom-naked licking the insides and asking me for money or sweets as I pass by.

That’s the real reason I choose not to walk around anymore. I hate seeing the shabeens. I hate seeing the children. I hate being asked for money to buy a guy a drink, for sweets, for the very shirt off my back. I know if I give these things away, I won't hear the end of it. My friend Ketelelo came over the other day and said he was very hungry and wanted pizza. I told him I didn’t have anything and stood with him outside for nearly an hour, listening to his stomach grumble. I was tired and mostly annoyed to have to entertain company with a happy smile pasted on my face.The day after that, Ketelelo led games for kids in the OVC support group for 3 hours.

I wonder if I’m mixing up the stories here. I've been telling myself for a whole year: "feeding children is not your job." But if a hungry child comes to my doorstep again and again, and this hungry child is someone I now consider my friend, someone who I respect and admire, am I supposed to turn him away? The lines between right and wrong are muddled—what am I doing here but encouraging and enabling people to be the best they can be? Maybe sometimes, all someone needs is a hot meal. What kind of monster have I turned into?

2011-07-05T08:25:00.003-05:00

**Interested in giving me a hand?? Hold for news on possible fundraising drive for Computer donation project!!!**

July 4

The water is out in New Xade today, and thanks to the kids who perpetually haunt my house, so is the water in my reserve “jojo tank” (rain water tank). I’ve resorted to the bottles that I keep on the top of my fridge. Bottles of months-old water that I save for occasions like this one. Except today, I have 2 guests. Which means, no water and a toilet full of sewage. Being actually thirsty and/or not having a constant, reliable supply of water really makes one dig down deep into one’s primal roots. Survival of the Fittest, “No, CHILD, you can NOT have my water… it is MINE. and No, DEAR CHILD, I am NOT from China. Yes, I know I have funny shaped eyes. No, you don’t have to show me again how funny shaped my eyes are.”

Yes you heard it, I have been brought down to my childhood days where mocking of my racial features was just another part of everyday life. Today it was 7. 7 pairs of mocking eyes, 7 shrill voices pretending to speak Chinese. I asked one little fella how HE liked it when people made fun of his language. I emphasized my point by clicking crudely a few times. He turned to his companion, asked, “what did she say?” the companion said something back, the child looked at me, and then squeezed the edges of his eyes and continued mocking the language of my ancestors. I should’ve whipped out a Bruce Lee move and whacked his sorry butt, but alas, I am not a stereotype. The closest I get to a kick on a daily basis is bumping my fridge door shut with my knee when my hands are full.

I got asked today for money by an adult who I consider an enlightened friend. When I tried to explain that he was a teacher and makes more money than I do, he waved me off with a gesture of his hand and looked down at the papers he was marking. Ouch. Hours later, I was approached by the craft shop keeper who I offered to help procure funds for start-up funding. She, another lady, and I worked on the “budget” for the upcoming year and thus I was presented with a request: buy us a truck. Um, let’s put that on hold, shall we? What else do you need. The final budget was for P35,400, or roughly $6,000. Whatever happened to those infomercials: “For only $50, YOU can help someone start a small business!” I have been fooled. I wonder how successful people would be if they had access to the following workshop: Budgeting 101 for Businesses. We’ll have it a 5-star hotel in Maun, fully catered with Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, and 2 Teas, and we’ll make sure that everyone has their own room—or else it’ll be our heads at Evaluation time. And I’m not kidding. I’ve seen heads roll because someone didn’t get their own room, or do the tea right, or the food wasn’t enough…

That’s enough of my jaded personality for one day. On the upside, we delivered the books to the school today. I had a good time reading “Goodnight Moon”

Happy July 4th Everyone!

7-5-2011
I found out why the water went out. The guys who man the pump refused to check it yesterday because there were lion prints in the area and a donkey was found mauled close by. I’ve been told that there are wildfires in the CKGR nowadays, causing the animals to escape to the edges of the reserve (i.e. New Xade.)

My friend and I were discussing the (sometimes) long days where we spend the whole day in bed. She said sometimes she’ll be lying in bed watching the sun set and she’ll suddenly realizes, “I forgots to move!!!”

I helped someone fix their tv today. Well I didn’t exactly help them. Pax called me over on my way home from the learning center and asked me to fix his TV. What I did was watch and make Setswana noises of disbelief every time the dvd player open and closed its mouth on its own accord, like a petulant child refusing to take its medicine. Then he suggested satellite. We flicked on his satellite decoder only to be confronted with the message “No Signal.” I suggested we call someone else with a TV to see if maybe the signal was out in all of Xade. Then Mr. Pax went outside, fiddled with the satellite dish, and Elmo’s voice came blaring on in (almost) high def, drowning out the sound of the diesel generator. “Poor Humpty Dumpty!” Elmo sighed after Gordon told him that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put the poor egg back together again. The signal was clearer and stronger than any of my TV sets back at home. Lucky Pax, I couldn’t help thinking, at least he has Elmo to keep him company. I have no clue where his wife and kids are today. Actually I do have some clues, them folks not from around here, probably back in their home village, or Namibia, where I think they have some family. (Photo of Pax's Kids, note the awesome haircut on his adorable son.)

A quick thanks to my brother who sent me this genius little drink mix called “mia” or “mio?” ee-ay-oh…

Dizzy Mornings

2011-07-03T11:50:00.003-05:00

I woke up this morning before the sun came up dizzy out of my mind. The world stopped spinning at 11AM, I got out of bed at 1PM. And was in and out of bed all day, and barely saw the sun. I'm a little depressed.

Yesterday was fun though. I went to the OVC support group, and met little Regina, a Standard 2 girl who played with me for hours, playing catch with a tennis ball. She was too young to be greedy for food, clothing, jewelry, etc. All she wanted from me was to play catch. She put me in such a good mood that when her older sister, Standard 6 Naledi, asked me for my gloves, I merely shrugged and said no.

I can't remember the last time I played catch.
(Photo of Regina later in the week at my house playing cats cradle with the net for oranges on her head)

President's Day

2011-07-01T01:47:00.004-05:00

Today is a holiday. I thought I would look forward to it, but I find myself dragging my feet getting out of bed, wishing I could stay asleep just a little longer, maybe all day so that the weekend would go by faster. But 10 hours of sleep, apparently, is enough for my body and I find my restlessness pulling me out of bed and toward the instant VIA coffee my brother sent me. Starbucks has revolutionized Peace Corps Service.

Today I'm not sure what I'll do. Like any other day, I'll probably go out a bit, and then hang inside most of the day, except today, unlike regular work days, I won't have the fear of being asked, "are you not on duty?" hanging over my head. (People ask me this when they see me out of the office. The mentality here is, you get paid to be in the office not necessarily to do work, so doing work at home is a bit of a confusing concept for my friends and coworkers). Peace Corps Volunteers are always on duty...

I've picked up knitting again, thanks to a friend who sent me yarn. It's nice, but it's really just a substitute for a warm body or someone to just sit with. I've only been back in my village for a few days, and I'm already feeling pangs of lonliness-- but then again, I remember my first few months here when every day was a struggle and the moment I returned home, sometimes, I'd already be making plans to get out again.

American Rock is blaring from a pickup truck outside my house. John Mellencamp's "I need somebody." I need somebody... You need somebody... It's strange that I'm hearing most of these songs for the first time here in Africa.

Africa...

Africa.

Btw. Is it wedding season?

Someone just came by asking to borrow P1000. hahah, if I had P1000... I probably would've hired a car to get out of here for the long weekend. Then he said, how is Xade? You are always alone. Must be boring.
Yeah.
Little does he know I have a secret technological portal to the outside world in the form of a little USB modem. muahaha-muahahahaha!!

2011-06-28T06:03:00.002-05:00

6-28
It's noon time in the Kalahari Winter and I'm watching a manic ant panic around in circles on my front porch. It reminds me of a donkey that got shot in the ass and is running around in circles unsure of where the shot came from and why his ass hurts. I'm afraid it's D-Day for this ant, I wonder if ants can go insane.

It's too hot to sit outside anymore, but it's way too cold to sit inside. So I mosey inbetween the two. I sit outside with my book until I'm so hot I sweat and break out in rashes, then I sit inside and wrap myself up in a scarf, hat, and gloves until I think my neighbors must think I'm crazy for sitting inside. Usually it's 2 minutes in and 2 minutes out. I'm not getting much done.
Well, I just got back from our MST, or "Mid-service training" with the peace corps in gaborone. Afterthat, I helped a friend to start off a map project in a Baobab school in Gabs, and then after that, I went to a Meet n Greet with Michelle Obama, and then collected 12 boxes of books for my village. Then, it was back on the bus and off to New Xade. It was an exhausting week, but a productive one.

Unfortunately, no one in my village will ever really know what I've been doing. All the comments I ever get are, "Where have you been?" "How was the U.K.?" and "I thought you transferred." I dont know where they get these ideas. I haven't been on vacation for months. sigh. One lady even went so far as to deny me a ride home yesterday, saying the ambulance was full. What a degrading feeling. Sometimes I don't know why I'm here or why I even try to work so hard. That's the biggest problem with being from the states, we try so hard to be efficient and effective, but in this particular post, there are so few resources and projects to work with, it's hard to be efficient and effective. A lot of the work we do as Peace Corps volunteers is behind the scenes, maybe even not "work" but just getting to know people at our own houses. Just because people don't seem me throwing big events and at the front of a large crowd doesnt mean that I haven't given up a lot to be here. What they really want here, I guess, is for me to sit outside and shoot the shit with the locals.

In other news, I have internet access now, after months of running around, gathering bank statements, residence permits, photocopies of passports, making phone calls, visiting the Botswana Telecommunications Center, and calling the lady at the Be-mobile store in the mall (who knows me by name and account number now-- she has photographic memory). I was so happy the day I submitted my contract, then months later, I received my mobile modem, today 4 days later, the modem actually works. Now, for the small price of P290 a month, I can connect with friends and family across the world, submit reports as timely as possible, and look up grant and project opportunities from the ease and comfort of my own (cold) couch. My friend fears I will become addicted soon-- I think she's right. I already feel my mind running 5x faster than normal, running through the possibilities, making lists of people to email, sites to visit, and things to research. Of course it isn't nearly all work, a lot of fun and games too. Let's just say facebook and gmail haven't seen this much activity on my account in one year.

I don't regret not having internet for the past year. In a way, I almost regret getting internet now. My respect goes out to those who still don't have internet or cell phone service and chooose to live that way. I'm not going to sound needlessly down on myself, I have to admit that honestly, my site is one of the more challenging ones, but I have friends here who still don't have electricity or running water. WIth this one development, such a weight has been lifted and I realize just how posh my life is, aside from the terrible transportation situation and the misconceptions (or cynisicm) of my community, I'm pretty well off.

I've picked up a project that I think is much more worth my time now. The New Xade Craft Shop. The Shop is called "Khimahe," in seganacui it means, "To stand on one's own." This enterprise if the baby of a group of people in New Xade how form the board for this organization. The shop buys up products such as eggshells from an ostrich farm nearby and hires local craftmakers to turn the products into jewelry, hunting sets, costumes, or skins such as these:

A peace corps volunteer in Maun has set up an online craft shop with the help of a company in the states. If we can get our quality of goods up, we'll post some things on there soon.

As usual, thanks for all the encouraging letters, comments, emails, and postcards. It's really great to hear from you all and I miss you a lot. Thanks for keeping up with my blog! Given that I'm just over the 1 year mark, I expect I should be writing something a little more introspective and dramatic soon, once I've had some time to digest what's happened to me. For now, i'll just leave you with this haiku:

5 months, no cell phone
12 months, without internet
See you in one year!

2011-06-18T10:55:00.005-05:00

6-18
The day before June 16, The Day of the African Child, I went with my friend Kago to slaughter the 3 cows we purchased. Some how, the first cow escaped the crawl, so me and 12 guys jumped into a caged pick up and went chasing after it through thorns and over trees, bush, and rock with a shot gun. We were 3 KM into the bush when we got a flat tire and the cow escaped. What a day.

Photo: New Xade Dance troupe before the June 16 performance

A few nights ago, I received a call from a friend in New Xade at 7:30 PM. Ditau raises chickens and paints pictures like me. He paints abstracts about HIV and its effect on the people of Botswana. He bought a copy of "The Gods Must be Crazy" just to show me. "Are you watching the lunar eclipse?" he asked. No. But i didn't tell him that I was already in my pajamas and snuggling up to my blankets in bed. I crawled out of my warm comfort and stood outside in socks and flipflops, my glasses perched on my nose, my breath coming in frost puffs, and looked up at the night sky. Milky way, stars, comets, and most prominent, a bright orange moon looking very much like a half eaten cookie-- the Lunar Eclipse. I got a text from Hannah in Groogtlate and I sent one to another friend in Botswana, "Go Outside. Look at the Moon. It's the Lunar Eclipse." For a moment, I felt like the big blue sky was no longer an infinite stretch of universes, but that it was small and comforting, like a baby blanket I used to hide under as a child, or my dorm room ceiling which I spent countless hours staring at and pasting small plastic glow in the dark stars on. For a moment the sky wasn't a vast stretch of unknown nothingness, but it was the one thing that connected me with everyone I love so far away. It was a moment I never want to forget.

"We don't remember days, we remember moments."

"Remember this moment," my friends here tell me. Good ones are few and far between, but we need them to get by, to remind us of why we're here.

6-13

Today was a ridiculous day. Woke up at 5AM after dreaming all night about my top teeth falling out to catch a ride that was supposed to leave at 6AM. I sat outside in the cold morning air staring at the milkyway until the truck pulled out and I cursed my exposed toes for existing and my deluded mind for wearing sandals in a Botswana winter morning. We arrived in Ghanzi just after 8AM, when I quickly bee-lined my way to the Botswana Telecommunications Company to ask them why the data card I put in my iphone last week does not allow me to connect to the internet. The nice lady asked me to call the customer service line who immediately after looking up my account asked me, "are you using an iphone?" Why, yes. I said. She said that they are unable to automatically configure it, but she could give me instructions on how to manually configure it myself. I thanked her profusely, told her she has no idea how much this means to me, and pulled out a pen.

Instructions, simple. Settings> General> Network> APN= "internet.be", Username and Password= Blank. Turn it off, then turn it back on. "Ok!" I said, thanked her again and asked her name. "You are speaking with Wame" she said. "Wame!" I exclaimed, "My Setswana name is Wame!" "AO!" she exclaimed back, "really!" I felt like we bonded and that finally the universe may be smiling at my existence in Xade.

After I hung up on Wame, I tried the simple instructions. Turned my phone off and held my breath. When the phone dinged back on, I turned on safari— no avail, but would I like to connect to the wireless network Thompson718blahblahblahblah? I tried again, Settings, Off, On, Safari. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again Nothing. Finally, I connected onto the wifi network in the store and sat, dejected, reading the little snippets of emails that google conveniently shows you on the inbox screen. After a few minutes of surfing my messages but not comprehending much of what I was reading, I returned to the kind lady at the counter and told her, at her inquisitive glance, no, the phone doesn't work, but I guess I didn't expect it to. I'll have to buy another handset. She said, maybe you can try the sim card in another handset. Yes, thank you. I said. And I left the store. At least I tried.

My next stop was the RAC where I had to type and print letters regarding the 10L an hour leak in my bathtub, and a letter requesting assistance from the buildings department for my OVC centre plans. My office—hell no. I went straight to my friend Sentile, and walked in on her having a conversation with her good friend who just accepted a multi-pula job offer with a private American investment company. After she finished her phone call, she looked at me and said, "Wow. My friend thought that the news would make my day, but I think it made me more disappointed. Do you need to use the internet?" She asked. No, just print something. "Go ahead," she said, "I'm going to step outside." Out she went and I took over her computer, scanning her computer for viruses first and updating her anti-virus software as courtesy to her kindness. Letters done and printed, Sentile came back and we vented to each other about our responsibilities and how we always we feel like we have our hands tied. Frustrating. I left her with a convince-less word of encouragement and left to get photocopies, signatures, and deliveries. The photocopies required a mild amount of flirting, a certain about a charm, and a lot of thick skin as I had to appeal to a group of skeptical smile-less women to help me out. "Who are you and what are you doing this for?" they asked me. I'm a volunteer… I said… then quickly added, "With S&CD!" And they silently raised their eyebrows—meaning "OK" in Botswana.

Photocopies made, I walked over to the S&CD offices in search of my supervisor. She was rushing around making coffee or something and refused to look at me for a few minutes. Finally I addressed her in the hallway, do you have a few minutes? No. she said. I am busy. And she ran off again. Ok that's fine. Patience. I thought. Patience. I sat in her office and texted a friend, "Tell me it's ok to crap on my supervisor's desk…" When her office was taken over by a group of people who paid no attention to me, I moved to another office, then another office, then another office, finally ending up in the Chief's office, the head of the department, the man whose office is actually respected. The Chief is a tall man with good looking facial features, thick framed glasses and no hair, always meticulously dressed in a dark suit. I'm scared of him. I sat there for 20 minutes before I realized that no one was looking for me and I ventured out again. I found my supervisor, finally alone in someone else's office and showed her my papers. She responded by asking me about projects that she wants me to do but I haven't done. Then told me I have to find the chief to sign these papers. Um. Ok.

Where is the chief? I asked someone passing by, he's in a meeting. Um. Ok. Well I need these papers signed, it's super quick, just a reimbursement letter. He's in a meeting in old council (6 blocks away), why don't you just have your supervisor sign it. Cause she won't. OH, ok. When will the chief get back? I don't know, he's been there all day. You should just go there. I should just go there. So I went there and I pulled the chief of the department out of a huge important meeting just so he could sign my water reimbursement papers and I cursed my supervisor every step of the way. I came back to Sentile's office to vent. Did you manage? She asked. I told her they made me run around in circles. "Oh shame," she said. Then in walked a new peace corps volunteer whose office Sephiwe shares. Dan, the PCV, and I got to talking as Sentile quickly excused herself, "I think I'm going to cry, I'll let you two catch up" she said and she went out the door.

Yah, things are a little frustrating here, I told Dan. But… doable. Dan and I met other PCV's for lunch at the local lodge where I tried my best to paste a cynical but honest smile on my face and encourage the new ones in their new adventure over the same bland tasting pizza and bland tasting alcohol they serve every time I come here—but at least this place is my own. I call this lodge my home and the servers and receptionists all know me. I relaxed a bit. Then I ran off and the rest of the day pretty much went the same.

Flirting and charming my way into the letter delivery room, having to defend myself against some guy who claimed that I ignored his call one day. Looking for photocopy machines, being bounced from room to room, department to department, asked suspiciously, "who sent you here?" and asked flirtatiously "who are you?" I wound up ride-lessly at the post office to pick up 6 care packages my brother sent me, only to be chased into the office by my friend Kago asking me, "Are you almost done? Pax is leaving now and they are waiting for you outside!!" Ten minutes of waiting later, Isaiah came in with a stern look on his sunglassed face tapping his watchless wrist. A few more minutes of waiting later, we all 3 watched as the Post Office attendant meticulously enter all the packages into the computer system, check the codes, checked the price, stamp stamp stamp stamp stamp, sign sign sign sign sign, and finally give me my ten cents of change before he let us grab the packages and scram. And indeed the truck was waiting. The flatbed pickup truck with no less than 20 local sitting inside staring at me with no less than 20 pairs of local eyes. Isaiah, Kago, and I dragged my care packages behind us in 2 huge bags and tossed them into the truck before climbing in. If I hadn't been already red from the one drink I had at lunch time with the americans, I would've turned bright red just then. But Kago commented merely by saying, " if you were my sister I would do the same." So to my amazing brother, thousands of miles away, thanks. I love you, man.

Year 2

2011-05-31T09:53:00.004-05:00

I've been told year 2 of Peace Corps service can start out slow. I don't doubt that. Things have come to a standstill as the government strike wears on our tired souls. Schools have reopened but the Xade primary school still runs at half capacity, and with exams on the way,the remaining teachers are worried that our kids won't be able to pass on to the next level of schooling. As a result, priority is given to preparing students for exams and my english club and pen pal program are on hiatus. no news yet on grants for our OVC group either, which is just fine since our volunteers are no where to be found in the first place. the Youth organization fell into a premature coma as secondary students left the village in a mass exodus for the new school term. And I sit at home day after day, typing up a grant proposal one painful letter at a time, sometimes with just my 2 index fingers for dramatic effect. The weather has turned traumatically cold and as one travels throughout botswana, the changing colors of leaves are a nice relief to the normal monotony of greens and browns of the usual desert schematic. it is an awful irony to be sitting on the front porch at 6 in the morning, watching droplets of your breath busily freeze into misty white crystals while pondering what type of nothing you will spend your day doing today. usually after my morning cup of coffee, i crawl back into bed and only get up when I feel inspired to do something.

not all things are down though, the click-botswana blog has gone up and the people there have done an excellent job creating the site http://www.click-botswana.com/blogs.php i'm quite happy with the way it looks, though i think the writing currently leaves something to be desired. my friend Lucie and I came up with the blog title: Stepping up for Botswana.

Greetings! Penpal letters from Spain!

2011-05-11T13:40:00.004-05:00

Photo on Left: The chicken Diana and I slaughtered when she visited.

I wish I could post more photos tonight, but internet isn't great. To those of you who receive my newsletters, sorry for the long delay for the April issue! Things have been rather chaotic the past few weeks.

The good news is, the Botswana Book Project has gathered the funding it needs and has sent a shipment of books to Botswana. We will receive them by the end of June and all 3 of the New Xade projects have been selected as book recipients! That means that if I manage to get transportation for our books, the primary school library will receive 7 boxes of books, the adult education center will receive 7 boxes of books, and the S&CD OVC project will receive 7 boxes of books!

I have not yet managed to write something for the click-botswana blog. I'm having difficulty thinking of something to write about and getting inspiration for it. Unfortunately, I have to meet with my friend this week and I was hoping to have something to show him by tomorrow... help?

Our standard 7 students finished their first letters to their penpals in Spain last week! I sent them out a couple days ago and am excited for the schools' response to them. I have to admit, I was a little discouraged about the content of the letters. A lot of students did their best and wrote about their lives, the community, and the school, but a lot of other students copied each other, copied the letters that they received (including sentences like "I am from Spain" and "I am a sikh") and asked for things like clothing, electronics, and a plane ticket to Spain to live with the other students. They wrote things like "We are the poor people," "We don't have money for food," "We are hungry" and other statements like that. In the end these same students signed off with comments like "I want to be your best friend," "I love you 100%" and other words of admiration.

It was disheartened to read some of these letters and a little upset. It would be one thing if people were starving on the street, but I don't believe they are... I think some people in my area, especially some of the kids in my village, have been so conditioned to manipulate outsiders' perspective of their situation for handouts that they feel no qualms about asking anyone and everyone for handouts... and using any method of convincing to do so. I constantly get approached by people on the road or in the clinic, "Wame, I am hungry. Give me food." And it makes me mad that these kids would do this to another kid who lives across the world from them who just wants to be their friend and engage in cultural exchange. Once again-- different if it were true and they really were desperate, but I don't believe they are. The government does too good a job handing out foodbaskets and feeding kids at school. Speaking in such dramatic tones makes a mockery of real suffering. All too common occurrence here in Botswana: I'll walk into an office and see someone working. I'll comment, "Wow, you're working hard" and they'll respond, "Yes, too hard. We are suffering." Suffering. Some people don't really know what suffering is... it makes me sad to people use the word so liberally when there really are people out there suffering.

Truck Breaks Down!

2011-05-09T02:40:00.002-05:00

5/3

Home alone again for what feels like the first time in months. I’m falling into my old routine again, office, school, learning center, walking around, coming home, eating, eating, cleaning, swatting away little children. After an unwelcome visit by 10 children or so, who, for this first time since I’ve been here I actually see as children and not mysterious little creatures from the bush (which is actually not a good thing since now I’m not hesitant to just kick them out when I want), I’m sitting at home trying to decide what to write about for my first blog entry on click-botswana.com. I’m finding it difficult to figure out. Especially since another child just came over… He literally stood in my door talking and talking and talking while I physically took him by the shoulder and guided him out, then ignored him, then told him straight up to go on home (all of course with a lovely smile). But he didn’t leave. He kept popping his head in and out in and out, talking to me, begging me for things, asking me for things, not leaving, what is this, what is that, what is this called, who gave you that? Can I have a pen (I gave him one last week which he didn’t return) Can I have a book? Can I can I can I... GOOD GOD CHILD, LEAVE.

Thoughts like this one is why I’m finding it difficult to write a public blog… people would think I’m a child-hater.

AUGH. Good energy gone. The time for inspired writing is gone. Now I’m just sleepy and annoyed. Good mood bad. Poop.

5/5/2011

What an exciting past few days. I went to Ghanzi yesterday to retrieve some packages. (Thanks so much Dan and Jeannie for the care packages!! I was in material heaven last night sitting a sea of ramen noodles, graham crackers, candy, and other goodies!) I only got like 6 hours of sleep the night before, so I decided to make this trip as simple as possible. Get in, get the packages, get out.

I arrived at the clinic around 7:30am to wait for a ride. I sat there watching cars go by until 9:30. We left some time later and arrived in Ghanzi around 10:30; except we arrived at the hospital which is at least 2k from town. So I and the policewoman had to find a lift into town. I finally got to the post office at 11:30 only to meet a huuugee line. Though the strike is technically over, the employees didn’t get what they wanted so they are continuing the strike, some, like our teachers, are still striking, others have returned to work but are doing a “slow down” that is, they’re sitting there but they’re not working. (I’m told that nationally, 4 people have already died in this country due to the strike. Not sure if that’s true). The post office must’ve been in slow down mode—or I hope so, but I’m not sure cause the post office is usually hella slow anyway. In any case, I waited at the clinic for 2 hours. I didn’t get out till 1:30PM. I’ve learned early on not to count the number of people waiting in line in front of you when you’re in Botswana. The Batswana have a habit of saving their spots, leaving the line, and returning once their spot is closer to the front, so for us that means that as soon as we get in front of the line, people start to appear out of the woodwork, cutting you, the people in front of you, and the people in front of them. It’s miserable if you’ve been waiting on your feet in a crowded, unventilated post office for over 2 hours.

I finally got my package and thought, well it took me 4 hours to get here, 2 hours to get my package, maybe I’ll only have to wait 1 hour for a lift, and then the drive will only take half an hour! Wishful thinking, but it’s nice to wish sometimes. Surprisingly, I really didn’t mind the wait except that my legs were hurting from standing and sitting in an uncomfortable position either on the floor or in a truck all day. I went to the hiking stop and sat down with my book and waited for the ambulance to come. The ambulance came and left and then came back again at 4PM. We departed Ghanzi, made a few obligatory stops at the gas station for paraffin and the grocery store for food, and then we were on our way. I fell asleep cause I was so exhausted and only woke up when the truck shook violently a few times, banging my head on a grab bar on the side of the truck and leaving a couple nasty bruises. About 1.5 hours into the ride the truck shoot again violently then rumbled to a stop on the side of the road. Soon the driver came and let us out of the truck. We stretched and some of us started walking in one direction, I didn’t know what was going on till I saw the truck. The wheel had spun clean off and the truck was at a crazy angle on the dirt road, the exposed gears dug into the sand. Shit, I thought. One of the men with me, who had sat in the front of the truck, said he had prayed to Jesus that we’d be ok in the accident. He told me this with a smile. Then he said, I am Jesus! I am Jesus! I think I knew what he meant but I couldn’t help but be a bit turned off by the way he was proclaiming himself.

The sun was setting a bright crimson red, a sphere of blinding light that I just couldn’t help but stare at as it disappeared beyond the dusty horizon. It was eerily quiet. No sound of animals or birds or insects, just quiet, until a lonely cricket began to chirp. Shortly before the sun completely disappeared, I began walking in the direction of Xade, leaving everyone else behind. I was looking at the wild melons growing on the side of the road and wondering if they were ripe to pick. I wasn’t thirsty though. After I was far enough away, I took a smoke, ate some cookies I had on me, and looked at my phone… 2 bars. I didn’t know who to call or how to ask for help, or even if anyone had called for help already. I glanced back at my company, some sitting and eating, tending their kids, and others wandering around with their phones stretched out like they were looking for water with a stick. I texted another Peace Corps volunteer, the last person I spoke to… “Ride broke down. I’m stuck on the road to Xade.” Useless. I didn’t know who else to call. A teacher? My counterpart? Peace Corps? Finally, I waved over a young girl. “Network!” I said. She replied with a shrug. “Network,” I said again, “e teng” (It is here). She shrugged again and gave me the Botswana sign for “there is nothing.” I insisted again. She responded. “No network.” Finally I waved at my phone, Tla Kwano, come here, Bona, see, Go na network, there is network. She came over, then waved at another girl who also came over. “Call someone” she said. “Who? I don’t know anyone” Call Ofense. She said. I don’t know Ofense’s number. She rattled off the numbers, I pushed them into my phone and then handed it to her, “You talk to him…” A brief conversation, and the girl hung up. He is calling someone to come for us. BX is coming, she said.

Moments later a car passed by headed toward Ghanzi. It stopped to talk to our driver and then kept going. Then another car passed, another, and then another—all in the wrong direction. Some stopped, others kept going. It was getting dark, I was cold, but the stars were out and I wasn’t anxious. Finally, an open pick up truck arrived and stopped. The back was empty. People started talking, The girl pointed at me. I grinned not knowing what to say and pointed to my phone. Was this Ofense? Or had someone called someone else? Did I cause trouble? We climbed in, I lugged my bag full of care packages and goodies with me, suddenly feeling very foolish when there was barely space enough for all of us to fit inside. An old man next to me with his knees up to his chin began coughing and spitting out foamy white sputum. He smoked. I was sure he had TB. His cane poked into my foot as we settled in, and then we started moving. Slowly at first, the wind was cold but the sky was gorgeous. Then a large flatbed rattled in. Pax. Someone had called Pax. The clinic driver jumped out and said he would go with him. Someone else wanted to go to, but one of the young men laughed, you want to sit in Pax’s truck? (I figured he was saying) You’ll freeze by yourself! There was a mumble of assent and we were on our way again. The wind whipping in my hair, the dust getting into my eyes. As we drove, Pax’s tall headlamps followed us all the way to Xade, illuminating the dust that the truck kicked up. Aside from an occasional rumble when the trucks hit gravel, the road was silent. For such a large vehicle, the quiet was odd to me. It was eery. At once the truck’s lights looked like a ghost following us, and an angel. I couldn’t decide which it was, then I decided it was best not to think of these things as I have lately been terrified of the dark.

We arrived in Xade around 7:30, everyone got out of the truck early on except me, the girl I was with, and another man. We stopped at the hostels, the girl came out and we appeared to be waiting for her. Should I get out here? I asked. No the man said. Then we waited some more. Someone came by and shone a flashlight into the truck. Who is there? He asked. The man answered “Roy Sesana, Sefofane, and lekhoa.” Lekhoa, that’s me. I double took—Roy Sesana? The Roy Sesana? Roy Sesana is a famous founding member of the First Peoples of The Kalagadi, the political group that first fought for the San’s rights against relocation. I was sitting in the truck this whole time with Roy Sesana? And Sefofane! A once incredibly active community leader for OVC activities! I was sitting in the truck with my personal heroes, my New Xade legends this whole time! For the rest of the ride, I barely uttered a peep, but when I got out of the truck, I bowed a lot and said a lot of gracious thank yous. They thought nothing of me, helped me out of the car, and were on their way. When I got home, I couldn’t help but shake my head and wonder what opportunities I missed—but then again, I realized that this is me. And I can’t help but be who I am in a place like this. The only things I have here is myself and I’ve to be true to that. I’m a shy, introverted, private person who does not do well with intimidating public figures. I did my best, I didn’t screw up. At least I wasn’t complaining.

5-6-2011

We have a new teacher at the primary school. Her name is Mabubi (ma-boo-bee). I can not make this shit up.

Snapshot of my life

2011-05-02T03:40:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting on dried curly nuts under a tree tapping into an ngo's
wireless internet that somehow someone forgot to put security on and
now on one in the village has the IT nohow to fix it. I'm stuck
outside of New Xade because the lift I came with broke down. I have
welts on my face from the mosquitos that bit me up last night. I look
like I got into a bad fight. I have cigarettes in one pocket and a box
of matches and my phone in the other. I smell horrible. I haven't
spent quality time in my village in weeks. I have two alternatives
now, wait at the hitching post for who knows how many hours for a ride
(it took me 7 hours to get out of New Xade on Saturday), or go to the
bank, insert my American ATM Card, take out P300 and lend it to the
man who gave me a ride last week so he can buy petrol and bring me
home. I've already lent out P200 to another man to buy car parts. At
this point in my service, pretending that I'm broke is not worth the
cost of being stuck here for much longer. I'm not sure if I'm looking
forward to going home. On the one hand, it's home, I can sleep, I can
wash my clothes, I can bathe. I can eat my own food. On the other
hand, there's no cell phone service, there are bugs galore, and there
are children who harass me for sweets, apples, tea, peace jobs and tv.
It's time to accept it and proclaim it: I am a rich american.

2011-05-01T05:37:00.001-05:00

4-29
Killing Chickens, Newborn Babies, & Child Labor

I came home from vacation and met Diana, a Peace Corps Trainee who
arrived for service only 3 weeks ago. Diana, a.k.a. Mpho, is one of
around 30 new volunteers who are currently undergoing the 2 months of
grueling language and culture training that me and my friends went
through exactly 1 year ago. I still cannot believe it's been a full
year already.

Diana came home with me to New Xade to see what it's like to be a
Peace Corps volunteer. In keeping with the tradition of shadowing, I
gave her a full tour of New Xade, introduced her to my friends and
counterparts, ran her through a quick synopsis of my weekly schedule
(Uh… I spend a lot of time working from home…) and then had her kill a
chicken for dinner. Though… we didn't exactly kill it. One of my
little friends Bilal (16 y.o. but is so small he could pass for a 10
y.o., when I met him he had dropped out of school and was running
around the neighborhood with a wheelbarrow collecting water and
firewood for his family. Since then, he has reentered school and is
now speaking in broken English.), ran into us at the local bar and
sold us a P25 live chicken which we brought home and tried to butcher
for dinner. After several pictures and many unsuccessful tries, I
realized that we lekhoa are just incapable of killing our own food. I
asked Thato for help. Thato introduced me to Qaasi, a san lady with a
small child on her back who came over and killed the chicken
"Batswana-style."

Batswana style is the most terrifying way of killing an animal I have
ever heard of. Qaasi grabbed our poor chicken (who already had minor
cuts on its neck due to our unsuccessful attempts to give it a quick,
merciful death) by the head and swung it around and around a few
times, like a key lanyard on a college campus. But the chicken didn't
die there. Neck broken and dizzy, it lay there in the dirt opening and
closing its eyes and refusing to pass away peacefully. In the end,
Qaasi had to do this twice before I gave in and cut its throat. The
chicken lay there dying and bleeding as we watched in horror for
nearly 10 minutes. In its final moment, it spazzed, throwing itself
into the puddle of its own blood before finally expelling its last
breath. All the while, Qaasi had a newborn baby tied to her back,
cooing softly. It was the oddest irony I've experienced in a while.
The baby watching us and the chicken with her big eyes the chicken
blinking back, staring at its killers, trying to deny death. The old
cock gasping its final breaths, neck broken. In the end, I told Diana,
I think every American should at one point kill their own food. If I
really took the time to think about it, I probably would become a
vegetarian after this. But no, instead, I took a long time butchering
the animal with Qaasi, defeathering the chicken, cleaning out the
guts, and making chicken fajitas, chicken soup, and roasted chicken.
-----

That afternoon, when Bilal came to drop off the chicken, he and the
chicken's owner a man whose sobriety was slightly questionable, asked
to be given the peace job of cleaning my yard. Alas, after spending
over P500 cleaning my yard this year, the damned weeds are back. He
and Bilal offered to do it for P150, which is P50 less than my last
"employees." Sure, I said. Bilal then tried to bargain with me, "P60,
P60" he said, motioning to him and his older friend. The man made a
look like "Oh my god… no no" he said, "P150". I clarified to Bilal
"P75, P75." And he nodded, thrilled to be given a real job.

Come early tomorrow morning, I told them. Bilal came at 7AM and woke
me up with a gentle call of my name, saying his older friend was out
"drinking tea." Sure, I said. I'm going to clean here, he said,
dressed in an oversized trench coat that reached the ground. Sure, I
said. He confirmed the price, "P75, p75" Sure I said, and went back to
sleep. Bilal woke me up again at 8AM asking for matches. I gave him
some matches and some candy and he disappeared again. At 10:30 AM, I
came out of the house matchless and no one was around. The old man
never showed up. I wasn't surprised, I was actually quite relieved, I
didn't want to pay a man just so he could turn around and drink it
off. I like the young kid and I didn't like the influence these
alcoholics might have on him.

At 12:30 Bilal showed up again with another young boy, this one didn't
look like he could be older than 12. "2" he said, "P150, P75 P75
each!" He said. Sure, I said, and remembered to smile at the kids, and
then went inside. Twenty minutes later, another knock. This time 6
boys at my door. "4!" Bilal said. This one this one this one, not this
one, not this one, he pointed to the youngest boys. The youngest boys
yelled out "5! 6!" in protest. "ok, 4," I said. "You're in charge."
Bilal nodded and then pointed to the boys and motioned to the areas
they were in charge of cleaning. Sure, I said.

Ten minutes later, Bilal again. "I am going to get my wheel barrow."
Sure. 5 minutes later, "those boys are fighting." I came outside, and
the boys argued in mixed Sesarwa and English in front of me. "He wants
to go home!" the one pointed at Bilal and accused. "No, I don't" Bilal
said. They looked at me expectantly and I just stared back. "Aren't
you going to get your wheelbarrow?" Bilal didn't answer. Instead they
two started arguing again, taking the argument out onto the lawn. I
played with the youngest ones until Bilal came back and motioned to
his friends, "The guys are sharp" he said, "Sharp guys! Sharp guys! I
am coming." And he started walking to my gate.

I called after him, sure. Then I reminded him, "You're the boss. You're boss."

"I am boss" he said. "I am working" he said, pounded his shirtless
chest and puffed himself up.
-----

Yesterday, Diana and I went to visit the school. Classes are still in
session, but the teachers are no longer teaching, since they're on
strike. The students are just sitting there, I'm told. As we walked
through the school yard, the kids screamed and poked their heads out,
yelling my name, yelling out Lekhoa and pointing, and asking us for
sweets. As I entered the school office, I caught a glimpse of the
teacher I'm working with. She was at school! I was so thrilled. Last
time I talked to her she said she was on strike and we couldn't do the
program we wanted to because of it.

"You're not on strike!" I said, coming into her classroom with the
wide-eyed Standard 1 students, happy to see her, giving her a hug. The
hug felt natural, it felt right. "I decided not to strike anymore" she
said, "I realized it was useless. We're not going to get anything." I
was so proud of her for working when everyone else wasn't. My old
counterpart, Ntamo, also is refusing to strike. Quality people,
quality friends, I thought to myself. I sure do know how to pick 'em.
As we left the school, we were stopped by a small mob of young girls.
"Wame!" they called out. And we talked in Setswana, me, Diana, and the
girls. I was so proud of my girls, proud of Diana even, proud of
myself for knowing Setswana. They gave us hugs and held our hands and
for the first time since I got here, I didn't feel like they just
wanted something from me. It felt nice to be hugged. It felt nice to
see their smiles. Even the shy ones spoke.

Cough it up to the one year mark, to Diana's presence, to a nice
Easter vacation… must we really ruin things by trying to identify the
cause for this sudden pleasantness of life?

2011-04-24T14:11:00.004-05:00

I had an ideal easter sunday morning! went on a horseback safari with friends Amanda and Todd, got to meet a beautiful horse named seeshaw (or something) and rode with giraffes, zebras, and antelopes! In the back of this picture, there is a family of giraffes (see more pictures on that other tab).

I think I'm in love with horseback riding.

Afterwards, we went to a farmers market and had cappucinno's latte's and croissants at a cafe with homemade chutney and hot sauce. I wish I could've stayed longer; they sold ducklings, homemade jam and salsas, large american-style muffins, pineapple beer and other goodies.

It is going to be incredibly difficult to tear myself away from this place. The sound of the river, fish jumping, birds cooing, bats flapping, good food, a hot open air shower, a nice tent, drinking and eating at leisure without having to face the challenges of flagging down and negotiating with taxi drivers, walking on hot, dusty roads, getting stuck in bad traffic, waiting in long lines at the atm, and what I'm dreading most, finding transportation to my village.

But all good things must come to an end... right? :(

Happy Easter Everyone!

Public Blogging?

2011-04-23T03:28:00.007-05:00

There's a crazy dog here who spends all day in the corner of the guest kitchen staring at a round nut from one of the trees. If you manage to grab the nut and throw it, the dog chases it, grabs it, and puts it in the exact same spot in the guest kitchen, then lies down in front of it and proceeds to stare at it again. It's amazing. It's kind of what I imagine my life might be like if I went crazy, maybe from spending my whole life in a place like this. Maun is beautiful, and this backpackers is great, but there's not much in terms of productive things one can do here if you're not in the business of tourism. Yesterday, probably because of the presence of Prince Harry and his posse, the bar was bussling with activity by 9AM, people were taking all shorts of liquor shots while I was still eating my breakfast! And by shots, I don't just mean your normal brunch delights like bloody mary's and mamosa's I mean tequilla and double-vokda shots! Serious stuff!

I am really seriously bummed this morning. The internet wasn't working last night and isn't working again yet. I was looking forward to spending some time sending emails and browsing the net. I was so looking forward to it, that I bought P80 worth of internet (100mb). If the internet is out all weekend… sniff. I don't want to think about such horrible things.

---
internet is back. Sigh. I am cheating by purchasing internet and not doing it the "peace corps way" i.e. walking 5 miles to get free internet?

---

There's a site called Click Botswana (http://www.click-botswana.com/blogs.php) that has a bunch of blogs it looks like from locals in Botswana about all sorts of different subjects. I had the good fortunate to make a friend who works for the company and who pitched the idea of starting a volunteer blog on what it's like to be a volunteer in Botswana. The blog would hopefully raise awareness on volunteerism in Botswana and generate support for NGO's in need. It's exciting and it's definitely new territory, especially since I'll be gingerly straddling the lines between the sometimes embarrassing honesty that sometimes characterizes my writing, the responsibility of being politically correct that comes with being a Peace Corps Volunteer, and the subject of volunteerism and NGO capacity building which to me is still a relatively new field.

At the risk of getting too carried away with my own excitement, here are a number of topics I was thinking of addressing that would hopefully be interesting and p.c. at the same time:

development and establishment of small NGO's
the importance of NGO networking, small success stories of NGO collaboration
getting input from community stakeholders, often from the most unexpected places
Community contribution: getting community support from a community that is impoverished-- how does one get resources from a resource-less and ego-less society?

Are there any other topics or human interest stories I've already written about or told you guys about that you think would make a good entry on this blog?

Thanks in advance for the input!
And by the way, this is the best Saturday morning ever-- lying in a hammock riverside on a sunny, breezy morning drinking a bloody mary, checking my email, and reading a good book. There's something that seems so incredibly sacred about this moment... Amen.

-Sunny

2011-04-22T07:18:00.001-05:00

Prince Harry is sitting here chillin just at Backpackers, aaaaaaand I
had no idea who he was till just now.

Apples and Tigers and Rhino's, OH MY!

2011-04-21T02:21:00.003-05:00

This week, I went to complete the mural at the Little Friends Center in Serowe that I started in January. The Little Friends Centre is an all-community run preschool for OVC children (cutest children in the world.)

They just recently built a brand new classroom made completely out of donated materials and labor. I thought the effort was completely amazing, especially considering how difficult it has been for me to mobilize my community to do anything-- but the situations are completely different. One is a relatively well-off community, the village where the first Botswana President (and current Botswana President lives) and the other is a San resettlement where 99% of the villagers are on welfare (I exaggerate, I'm not sure the exact percentage). There is no comparing the two.

You may remember the little Tigger from above, but what you would not recognize are the little flowers below, flowers that the kids put on themselves with their adorable little hands. This is the brain child of Patti Koenig, the PCV who works in this village. Patti is a wonderful lady who I am very sad to report is leaving us for the States for 2 hip surgeries. This is her last week in Botswana and I'm going to miss her very much.

After we finished the wall, Patti took us to the Rhino Sanctuary for a short game drove during which we saw: Rhinos, Zebras, Eland, Dukers, Impala, Springbok, Wildebeasts, and plenty of small and large birds. I couldn't believe that in 2 hours on this game drive, I saw more animals and got closer to these animals than I did in 8 cumulative days in the CKGR.

Right now, I'm sitting in a backpackers camp in Maun enjoying a cup of (free) instant coffee and a bacon egg breakfast sandwhich, listening to a little Bob Marley and watching the travelers around me from all over the world lounge around with nothing to do. Backpackers are incredibly interesting places to spend your time. There are people from everywhere here doing the most fascinating things.

The reason why I decided to come here for the Easter Weekend is actually kind of funny. Coming from Serowe, I had to pass through Maun to go home. This week, all the government workers in Botswana are on strike. They are demanding a raise on their salaries, they report that they have not received a raise in 5 years even though the price of living has gone up, and though the government is willing to give them 2% (? i thought it might be 6%, not sure), they want 16%. So they are striking for the first time in Botswana history. No teachers in the classrooms, no drivers at the clinics, or nurses in the area, or men manning the border posts (well not totally no, just a few people, for minimal efficiency).

As a Peace Corps volunteer, I am not supposed to get involved and I'm actually rather glad. I don't know how I feel about the strike. All I know is without public transportation to New Xade I won't have a ride home for a few days and that masses of government workers with big signs dancing down the street and chanting and singing is really cool to see. They look so happy. My friend the teacher says she's enjoying herself in New Xade, relaxing without work to do. I can't imagine a picket line in New Xade, no one important would be around to watch!

I miss you all so much. Lately I've been missing home a lot and feeling very moody because of it. I hope you are all ok, have a wonderful Easter.

True Story

2011-04-16T07:39:00.003-05:00

I'm sitting in the outdoor portion of a cafe in Gabs when an elderly white lady sidles by my table into the glass wall next to me. I smile politely and say, "Yeah, that glass is pretty clean..."

-----

"I'm a woman today, I'm told. I caught and killed a chix."
-Hannah, PCV Grogtlaate Settlement.

City Fever

2011-04-15T08:54:00.008-05:00

I've been in Gaborone for almost a week now doing various activities from medical appointments, kids camps, and grant writing workshops. Whenever I think of the city, I get excited, like my trips in will be like vacation. Well, the truth is, it is and it isn't. It's so great coming in and getting things done, like getting my teeth taken care of and applying for a mobile internet modem (they couldn't find one in time for me, so they are shipping one to Ghanzi). But on the other hand, coming from a very small rural settlement to the big city with a giant list of things to do is immensely tiring. The list usually looks something like this:

order something from the internet
call someone
meet up with someone
pick up a form
ask someone about something
buy asian food
buy white food
buy food
drink lots of coffee
have a cocktail
get salad
buy cookies

I can always think of one more task I have to complete, or item that would be really awesome to get. I get sent by other people to do stuff to like, get this picture printed, find a book, pick up specialty food items. Of course it's my pleasure to do these things, but at the end of the day, I collapse white-faced and drained in whatever bed or couch I'm crashing in and think-- wow, when can I go home?

Scenes from Gaborone (Pronounced Phlegm-ah-bore-own-nee):
1. In the morning, I walk down the street to my dental appointment and a security guard yells out "CHINA!" when he fails to get my attention, he yells out louder, "HEY! LADY! CHINESE LADY!!!" I keep walking, pretending he's not there and later send the following text to my friend, "'Hey Chinese Lady!"' Rawr. Fucker."

At lunchtime, some men approach me at the bus rank, "hey china!" I don't respond. "China!!" Silence. "Korea?" More silence. "Japan? ... South Korea?" I keep walking, "Hey lady, where are you from?" I have to smile, but I keep walking. I hear them calling after me. "Where you from? ...Botswana??"

At dinnertime in a busy mall, I walk past a big black man carrying a briefcase and looking very important. As we cross paths, he whispers low and soft in my ear without looking back at me, "China."

2. I woke up this morning feeling quite lonely. It's a big city and for the most part, I am alone. Some volunteers chose to make close circles of friends here. I can see how this can be done. The missionary couple I met this weekend, their church friends, local volunteers, members of my friends' circles from ghanzi, hip hop clubs, ethnic groups... but for some reason I choose to remain anonymous. Maybe I'm a masochist and I like being lonely.

I walked to my appointments feeling a little down and out, tired and limping cause I sprained my knee again. When I stopped in a china shop to pick up a power adapter, I struck up conversation with the chinese lady behind the counter. For me, this is a regular occurrence. For these ladies though, I think it makes their day. When I walk in the stores, I can see the shop owners looking at me, examining my face, my clothes, my tan, my girth, seeing if they know me, where I'm from. The conversations usually go something like this:

"Can I have 2 adapters please?" (in English)
"Yes, here. 20 pula." (in English) Eyes scan my full body, searching for something. What?
"Thank you." Pause. A little hesitation. I'm wondering if I really want to start this... "Are you from China?" I ask (in English)
Eyes look up, a little curious. "Yes... you?" (in English)
"I'm from America, but my parents are from Taiwan." (In English)
Her voice quickens a bit "do you speak Chinese?" (In English)
"Yes, a little. I can hear but not speak" I say (in Chinese)
Woman is excited now. "OH! something something something something economics, something something politics, something something food!" (in Chinese I don't understand completely)
Polite nodding. "yes yes yes! OH yes! Yes I will visit your part of China soon. Yes, where is that again? Blah blah district? OH yes I know that district!" Blatant lie. "What is your name? Oh Fung! Yes I'm Ling. Oh yes. I will come next time I am here. I live..." (switch to English) "far away... about 10 hours... driving.... driv--- driv---" (switch to Chinese) "Far, I live far. I work... ah...." (in English) "Nevermind."

Exit Sunny with new adapters, big smile and new friend who I will likely never see again because I'm too embarrassed that I can't remember her name or understand anything she just told me.

3. There's a pedestrian overpass at the main bus rank in Gabs that I have to pass periodically for various reasons. Each time I've passed this overpass, there is a lady sitting on it with a young child begging for money. She doesn't make eye-contact with any passerbyers. She chooses to sit with her hands held out and her eyes cast downwards. I'm so used to these guys in Chicago and New York that I pass by without thinking. Today, I realized that she's the only beggar I've ever seen in Botswana and I wondered... what's her story? I thought of stopping to talk to her, in whatever Setswana I could manage, but by then I was already through the overpass. Pandhandlers in America are so common, but here, it's a rare thing to see. I think it's cause the government has such an extensive welfare system and generally speaking, the people take responsibility for their less fortunate family members. Still... I wonder. What's her story?

4. I'm walking through an arts and crafts fair where for once people are not heckling me at all. As I'm passing a sweets booth I hear a call, "Wena! Tla Kwano! Come here!" I hear this a lot, sometimes I answer, sometimes I don't. I generally know how the conversations usually go, this one was no different. I turn around, "Nna?" (Meeeeee?)
The women squeal with delight. "Ee!! Wena!! Tla Kwano!" (Yes you, come here!)
I walk over. "Dumella Bomma." (Hello Ladies)
Cacophany of noise from the 3 women talking over each other. "Ke batla..." (I want) "...o montle!" (you are beautiful)...."ditsala wagago" (your friends)
From this and previous experience I gather they think I'm pretty, they want to be friends. Now, I used to be creeeeped out whenever women approach me and say "I want to be your friend." but I'm finding it's a rather harmless common occurrence that usually involves an exchange of phone numbers, a brief explanation of who I am, where I got my setswana name, and where I'm from, and then lots of laughing, "ee!!" (yes) "wa itse!!!" (you know) and "aoo! weno, o mostswana!" (you are motswana). I normally never hear from these women again, or if I do, I don't know who they are and I usually just say "eee" in agreement over the phone until they hang up.

This time, was no different. I told them in my simple setswana where I was from, what I'm doing, and where I live. And amidst laughter, explanations of what my setswana name means, introductions, and exclamations of amusement, we exchanged phone numbers and I was on my way.

From Silvia's Facebook Page...

2011-04-13T02:06:00.001-05:00

"There are ... other kinds of dreams. Dreams in which failure is
feasible. Honorable ... Worlds in which recognition is not the only
barometer of brilliance or human worth. There are plenty of warriors
that I know and love ... who go to war each day, knowing in advance
that they will fail. True, they're less successful in the most vulgar
sense of the word, but by no means less fulfilled." Arundhati Roy

The Botswana Book Project

2011-04-08T08:47:00.003-05:00

Dear Friends, Family, and Readers!

I just got an email from the coordinator at Botswana Book Project that a HUGE shipment of books (20 pallets, close to 40,000 lbs, roughly 30,000 books) have been selected, gathered, and is ready to ship from Atlanta, Georgia to Botswana so that our readers in Xade and Botswana beyond can enjoy all manner of bookage! They are just $2,800 short on shipping costs. If anyone is interested in being a part of this project, please visit the "Want to Help" tab on my blog to see what you can do to help.

Thanks!

Photo: Pam Shelton, Coordinator, and crew at the book warehouse

I look like a Peace Corps Volunteer

2011-04-07T05:08:00.004-05:00

I definitely look like a Peace Corps Volunteer lately. Dirty clothes, ragged, droopy eyes, bandana, cargo pants, chacos and giant backpacking bag filled with clean underwear and nothing else. Yes. This is the life.
---

I had a dream last night where I went to some canyons in a bright red boxy jeep and drove to the top of the highest cliff. Right at the top, the surface was so small that the driver and I couldn't see where we were going. One tap on the gas pedal and we inched forward right off the cliff. We fell and fell and fell, all the while I was too afraid to open my eyes. I tried to convince myself to open my eyes, at least to enjoy this plummet cause the view must be spectacular, but I couldn't. All I kept thinking about was, how much is this going to hurt? Is there any possibility that I could be saved? Is there anything I can do to save myself? lessen the pain? induce a heart attack before my body was crushed on impact? Would I end up lying awake on the ground in pain and for how long would I have to endure it before death would take over? And then... at least I'll be able to determine the great mystery of what comes after life. The lady in the car with me, an American missionary in Botswana, took my hands in her own and started praying. Her hands were warm and dry and she kept saying, "God, give us trust."

---

Was it strange going to the CKGR so soon after my first trip? No, in fact, in that respect, it was probably one of the best decisions I've made here so far. Was it difficult? Yes. I don't realize how taxing the trip is on me, physically, until I come home and ate all the junk food I have in my house. We had a full crew this time around, 8 people in total. Drivers, Mechanics, Social Worker, Lorry Attendants, and Peace Corps Volunteer. I sat on the middle seat, which is nothing more than a piece of plastic over a sheet of foam on top of the overheated engine. We drove around 10 hours a day, which meant, by day 4 I was nothing but a quivering, sweaty mess of a person with a very sore buttbone.

Entry written on my ipod 4/3/2011

I smell like a mix of mildew, berry soap, and poo. It's night 2 of ckgr trip "the return." as I write this, nearly 50 kids are outside my very thin tent, waiting for their dinner to finish cooking over the fire. It's 8:30 pm and I am lying in bed. I would like to find a comfortable excuse to go outside and mingle, but unfortunately it's Setswana hour at camp CKGR and my attempts to socialize remain unnoticed. Can't blame them, with my tan and the darker than usual darkness outside, it's hard to notice this particular Lekhoa. I guess I just wish I'd said goodnight before sneaking into my tent for the night. (Photo: kids waiting for their Paleche (porridge) in the morning at Old Xade)

This trip is a pick up trip, we're picking students up for the new term. I've been dreading the trip in some ways. Mostly I was worried that the supposed dread of going back to school would cause the children to be all gloom and doom and ruin my own mood and fragile positivity. The first child we met a Kaudwane refused to be consoled and cried for the better part of an hour while we were getting ready to leave. The next stop, Kukame, yielded less dramatic results, though the general atmosphere was quite sober in comparison to the screaming and singing in the drop off trip. We stopped next at Kikao, where we spent the night only a week ago. This time, we only stayed for lunch, but the same families came out to greet us and have lunch together. By have lunch together, I mean we ate and they watched, father, mother, children, goats, and dogs.
(Photo of children at Metsiamanong, CKGR settlement at nightfall)

I ended up giving away half of my lunch, including an untouched package of grapes :( but I guess it was worth it. I don't think they'd ever had grapes or tuna fish before. The whole lunch hour(s), I couldn't help but feel strange about the whole situation. Coming from a new generation of do good-ers who don't do hand outs, it was strange to feel as though this situation called for it. They didn't beg or ask or whine, they merely accepted with gratefulness not only mine but everyone else's leftovers. I found myself wondering if I was doing the right thing, and brainstorming all the negative potential consequences of my actions. Was I demasculating the father? Encouraging a bad stereotype? Increasing dependence? making them feel inferior? What if one of them had an allergic reaction? Or choked? What if god forbid, I caused a death???! (Photo: my friend Dikgologo (meaning "environment") and her friend in Metsiamonong. She said her mom sent them here so they wouldn't get pregnant. Her friend responds to this with a crumped face and an indignant, "they're just jealous")

In the end I decided this is a situation where no amount of theorizing could produce a right answer. This was one of those times where the right decision could only come from being in the right moment at the right time. I realized that, like many of the other experiences I've had here, I could never prepare myself mentally or anticipate every need because the situation is so new, different, and unexpected. All I can do is make the decision to jump in head first, all in and hope that whatever wits and resources I have around me will be enough to save me when I start flailing.
(Photo of Mma Selena and her kids at Kikao. The very clueless child took this one)

It's strangely exhilarating to be a part of something so foreign when you've deluded yourself into thinking that you've already seen everything this world has to offer. It's even more exhilarating to realize that the only way you were able to experience this new thing was by being in it and not just watching it. This is truly not tourism, though I've certainly passed by my share of tourists during my time here, this is peace corps and all the crazy mysterious and sometimes kooky and humbling situations being a PCV puts you in. (Photo: Kids run amuck in the truck at Old Xade while we're waiting to leave for the morning)

So, peace corps, this point goes to you. Couldn't be here doing this thing no white person has ever done without you. And yes, in this situation, I am white. (Though people in Kikao all thought I was Chinese. If I don't correct ppl, does that mean peace corps and America loses the credit, and therefore I am not doing my job?)

P.S. students are definitely not melancholy anymore. They can't seem to stop talking to each other. It's fascinating watching teenagers flirt after being separated from each others for so long. I guess some behaviors are universal.

2011-04-01T02:56:00.002-05:00

3-31-2011

Hopefully by this time tomorrow, I’ll be on my way to the CKGR again, this time to collect the kids. I have my reservations about this trip—I mean reservations in addition to the normal concerns about getting into a truck and entering a roadless, waterless, network-less land with nothing but open skies and lions to keep you company. At least this time I know what practical challenges I have in front of me. I have reservations because this is a “Pick-Up” trip, not a “Drop-Off” trip. As my friend Cherry explained to me today, Drop-Offs are drastically different from Pick-Ups. In Drop-Offs, the kids are excited to go home. They sing, they scream, they dance, and they yell the driver’s name whenever we get within 30km of a settlement. In Pick-Ups, the kids are terrified of going back. They scream, they scream, they scream, and, I’m told, if they have the guts, they scream while they run away. My counterpart says she doesn’t have time for that—it’s either get on or get left behind. If someone runs away, she’s not going after them. There’s some wisdom to that attitude, there’s also some callousness. If I absolutely had to choose one camp or the other, I think I’d say it was wisdom, I’d choose to leave them behind. To be honest, there are too many kids to pick up and the CKGR is too big to go looking for just one. If I had to leave my comfortable home and my warm, happy family for a cold, unfamiliar, and anonymous hostel, I’d scream and run away too. But don’t tell Cherry I said that. Who knows, my opinion may change.

Cherry says that some people here just don’t care about the San children. I can see that. On my trips to Ghanzi, I see the kids picking through their garbage in their tattered, dirty clothes, asking for money, licking old Styrofoam lunch trays like dogs. People ignore them, myself included. It’s just what we do. The other day, I saw a safari bus in front of the white-person grocery store. The kids swarmed it like a pack of vultures on a corpse, next thing I know, the kids are inside the bus exploring the seats, the windows, the engine. The amused and/or terrified Lekhoa (White people or, literally translated, Ocean Vomit) are lounging with them, talking to them, hoping, I’m guessing, to inspire them to pursue another life.

School is not compulsory here. These kids have chosen a life of freedom on the street, away from the barbed wire of the hostels, away from the freedom of education. I don’t know if anyone ever sat them down and convinced them that education is important. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had. Cherry’s organization is dedicated to the education of San Children. They used to drive around the streets in their trucks and pick up kids to bring them to “drop out camp” and convince them to go back to school. Of course, now, they register the kids and ask permission from their parents, but the concept is the same: Take a kid off the street, show him a good time, stimulate his mind, and convince him that education is worth pursuing. To be honest, I don’t know if I totally believe it myself-- I know too many people here who have education and nothing else. I also know plenty of people who have lots of things and no education. There’s a lady that’s infamous around New Xade for being drunk. Ironically, she is one of a handful of New Xade adults who has her Form 5 certificate (high school diploma). When she gets drunk, she yells and curses in fairly fluent English. It always surprises me.

The New Xade Coolway Bar burned down yesterday afternoon. My friend Kago, the policeman, told me this when we ran into each other at the white-person supermarket in Ghanzi. At first I was shocked, was anyone hurt? Is everyone ok? Yes he said, then with a smile, maybe now the old men won’t drink so much. Kago is a stand-up guy, he’s never once hit on me and I’ve never seen him bring one drink to his lips. He checks on me when I’m sick and called me when he found out my mother was in the hospital. His livingroom has got 2 pieces of furniture: a TV stand and a neon pink beanbag chair. He’s going on vacation today until Mid-May. He’s taking a certificate course, I think in computers. He says he wants to get another job. He says New Xade is getting too difficult for a policeman. I’m going to miss him, though since I’m being honest in this entry, I’m going to admit that I’m skeptical that he’s going to get another job. Jobs are difficult to come by here, and I see too many people who do nothing in good jobs and too many people who do too much who have nothing.

My friend Bicky is one of the latter. He’s the coordinator of the Orphan Support Group and has been for the past 3+ years. He’s a hardworking father of 5. The problem is, he’s self-employed and highly idealistic. In 2009, he was the preacher at the church. He left that job in 2010 to become a safari guide. In 2011, he returned to New Xade because his family needed him. Now he’s starting 3 different enterprises: running a tuckshop, raising goats, and campaigning for political office. At public events, if he’s not involved in the planning, he’s walking around with a baseball cap, a large plastic bag full of Cheese Curls, and a fisherman’s vest. The fisherman’s vest has airtime cards and candies strategically hanging out of its pockets. “Ey-time, ey-time, ey-time!” he calls, like a hotdog vendor at a baseball game, “Suh-weeeeets!” I bought a “Love Lollipop” from him for 1 pula at the TB event. “It’s very nice!” he said.

Bicky is building an outdoor kitchen, a veranda, and a chicken coup simultaneously in his crowded front yard. When I last spoke to him in person, he basically told me he was done with the support group, “This village doesn’t care,” he said, wiping concrete dust from his forehead and keeping one eye on his fat 2-year-old son wearing pink hand-me-downs. “If I hadn’t given so much of my time to this group,” his voice trailed off, “I could be a rich man.” He reminds me of my father who used to walk around the house in his underwear, singing his favorite song from Fiddler on the Roof, “If I were a rich man, didee didee didee didee didee dum.” Now my father’s rich, but he’s too busy to call.

Ketelelo says he wants to be a doctor because he doesn’t want to be poor like this, he motions to his grandmother’s straw hut in New Xade. His grandmother looks at me from behind a stick fence and smiles shyly as she prepares dinner. Take a picture of the people in CKGR, he tells me. Take a picture and show it to them, that way they can see how remote they are.

---
A married San couple living in the CKGR won a court case a few weeks ago, giving them rights to re-open a borehole in Mothomelo, a settlement in the southern half of CKGR. I can say with some pride that I’ve been there and I’ve seen the borehole. It’s nothing more than a pipe coming from the ground, but it signifies decades of defiance and the end of centuries of pure hunting-gathering living. It signifies a new kind of development, one not dictated by the rules and whims of the developer. It signifies an unknown future, full of hope and potential, or disappointment and frustration. To read more about the court case, click here. I'm just kidding, click here.

Some Pictures from the Month Of March

2011-03-30T04:57:00.004-05:00

CKGR- March 2011

2011-03-30T04:50:00.001-05:00

3-16-2011

I have a theory that for every activity we do in life, there is a
certain amount of confidence that we must need in order to do it. Each
activity calls for a certain level of confidence to perform. I call
this confidence the "confidence level of activation", for short C sub
A or CA—sort of like the activation energy of a chemical reaction.

At any given moment we have a certain level of overall confidence
(a.k.a. C) that is comprised of two confidences: 1. Confidence in the
self or CI, and 2. Confidence in the outside world, CE, Confidence of
the self is the confidence you have in your own abilities,
competencies, experiences, and energies. Confidences of the outside
world are made up of your confidence in the abilities of others,
including the kindness of strangers, your partners, team members, and
friends, confidence in the situation the specific activity calls for,
and confidence in randomness, luck, God, kharma, the universe or
whatever philosophy of the world you prescribe to.

In order for us to attempt a desired activity, our total confidence
level (C) must meet or exceed the confidence level of activation for
that activity, (CA). Thus, if C ≥ CA, then an activity happens.

It stands to follow that for us to succeed as Peace Corps Volunteers,
the following MUST hold true:
CI + CE ≥ CA

Or else, we will most likely be found stuck in our homes all day
watching the same Friends episodes over and over again.

Example: You are a Peace Corps Volunteer living in a very busy and
urban city. The city is known for its high danger levels. Almost every
day a white person like you is robbed while the locals stand by and
watch (they think you're rich). Your CE is low. BUT, this week, you
have been working out and you feel really good about yourself. You
have confidence in your large impressive body, your ability to fight,
and your keen observation and judgment skills, your CI is high. Every
morning, you have to leave your house at 6am to go to work.
Currently, the sun rises at 5:30 so you have no trouble seeing far
distances that early in the morning. Plus there is a fair amount of
human traffic at that time. The CA for going to work in the morning is
fairly low. Thus when you add CE and CI to get your overall confidence
level C, C is still ≥ CA. You are able to go outside this morning
and walk your regular route to work.

Example 2: You live in a sad little rural village. You've had a rough
few months. Everyone feels sorry for your situation. You can't stop
whining about how things are going. You cry a lot. You feel like
there's something wrong with you, you feel stupid, inept, and a
whiner. You hate whining but you have to do it anyway. Whine, whine,
whine. Nothing you have tried so far has succeeded. You question your
very existence. Your CI is low. You are traveling this week to a place
you don't know. It is a very urban place full of strange looking
people. They speak a language you don't understand; strangers are
stopping you on the street to sell you things, harassing you for
blocks as you walk to get away from them. Every few minutes, you sense
someone's hand in your backpack fishing for your wallet or cell phone.
Your CE is also low. At the end of your travels, you have to go to the
bus rank and start your journey home, but something holds you back.
You don't what it is. The CA for bus travel is fairly low, after all,
all it takes is sitting for a few hours. You're baffled at your
paralysis until you realize… the sum of your CI + CE is far too low to
reach the CA threshold for bus travel. You're screwed. That's an
overly dramatic version of what happened to me on my way home for
Victoria Falls a few weeks ago. But I made it, alive. How? I increased
my CI by theorizing really dorky and inane mathematical equations for
why I am being such a wuss.

…..

Today was "TB DAY" or Tuberculosis Commemoration Day. It was put on by
the VMSAC—I think, though I do believe it was the brainchild of one
motivated person. I was asked to come, though I was busy running
around doing other things during the event. The event "started" at
6:30. 7AM found me moseying to the event site. 8AM found me still
waiting alone at the event site. 10AM found me walking away to another
meeting while the originally scheduled 7AM event was still happening.
1PM found me moseying back to the event just in time for snacks. 2PM
found me going home, lunch still not served. 4PM now finds me sitting
in front of the fan typing this entry and wondering if I should tape a
sign to my door, "Danger: Tired Lekhoa, please come back tomorrow."
Tswee Tswee, Please, Kelapile. Ke kopa go boa Kamoso, I'm tired,
please return tomorrow…

…..

When I walk through the school or see children on the street now,
instead of looking at me suspiciously and whispering, they all give me
thumbs up and big smiles. Today, while I was waiting for the TB event
to happen, a group of 12 children were singing songs, and one of them
was dancing on the way to school. They saw me, paused to coordinate
their musical talents, and then began a roaring rendition of a popular
local song using my name. The kids waved and gave me thumbs up's as
they walked past. When I walked through the school yard yesterday, the
tiniest little people emerged in the doorway, first grade heads
fighting to see me and give me the "thumbs-up." Even the school guard
flicks me his thumb at me as I walk past. I'd like to say I didn't
start this little trend, I'd like to say that I did start this little
trend. Truth is, I don't know how we started this little trend… but,
after 10 months at site, it's kinda sweet when the babies are no
longer running away from me out of sheer horror.

…..
Today, someone called me fat. This time, I said, "Nope. I'm the same.
I'm just wearing a sweatshirt." Take that!  insert cheeky thumbs-up
here.

3-17-2011

Makgunda Tales

I started to clean the Makgunda from my lawn again. Thato says, now is
the time to do it cause they're still small. They pods don't fall out
as easily, and so the work is less painful and actually somewhat
enjoyable. After the rain the soil is so loose, you can actually walk
around the yard and kick the Makgunda out of the ground. Yesterday, I
spent 3-4 hours bent over pulling Makgunda out from the ground with my
bare hands. It was surprisingly easy and incredibly rewarding. I was
amazed at my own ability to stay bent over like that for so long—that
is until I couldn't walk the next morning.

In one of the forgotten corners of my yard (my plot is shaped in such
an awkward manner that there are many of these forgotten corners) I
noticed that I've not been the only casualty of the Makgunda war.
Spread out among thick patches of makgunda thorns, impaled like
corpses on pikes that ancient cultures used to scare away intruders,
were all manner of buglife—a dead butterfly, a dungbeetle in
mid-flight, a lady bug, bugs with delicate, exposed wings who had the
misfortune of getting snagged on a tiny makgunda spike and left to
shrivel up and die in the hot African sun.

As so much of the tone of this blog has been inadvertently shaped by
this particular weed, I wanted to share a recently discovered fact
about Makgunda that I thought you'd all like. My friend and science
buff Ketelelo says that the Makgunda invasion is a recent phenomenon
and, in fact, when people moved here in 1997, there were no makgunda
plants. Seems domestication and development has had some unforeseen
side-effects. My theory? Due to all the new gated plots protected from
domestic and wild animals alike, makgunda roam free, their growth
ungoverned by the all-important laws of nature.

3/19/2011
I woke up this morning and watched a tiny lizard chase mosquitos
around my window. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep last night, I
have a lot on my mind. For one, I wish I had internet access. I really
miss all of my friends and the instant access I used to have to them
and everything that comes with them, escape, familiarity, comfort.
For two (Is that a phrase?) I'm experiencing a situation that seems to
have no right answer. And for three (might as well continue), I am
supposed to go to the CKGR today with the hostel students except no
one has told me what I need to bring, or when we're leaving, or who
I'm going with…

Number one pretty much explains itself. Chances are, if you know me
and we've talked or written sometime in the past 10 months, I've been
thinking of you. Recently I've been craving someone to talk to. Not to
complain or whine but just to talk, to have some semblance of
normality, to laugh. But given that my phone doesn't text to
international phone numbers and I have no email access, I've had to
settle for talking to my brother or blabbing my uncontrollably through
texts to friends here. If you know me, you know that's never good.
Hannah, my friend in a similar remote situation, and I have been
looking into the option of getting a small device called a d-o-n-g-l-e
that would open the portal to the internet world. Unfortunately, she
was recently told by our phone company that such a device is not
available for people in our situation, though internet is not
impossible. If we wanted, we could spend P500 on a modem + P1 for
every MB we download. Fantastic, if we were rich. So for now, internet
is out of my grasp.

2—I have a habit of letting people use my fridge and my electricity. I
try to live my life by the golden rule: do unto others as you would
have them do unto you (Despite popular culture, guys, this rule does
not come from the Bible. I've watched a lot of movies lately that
reference this from the Bible, I don't know where they get that from.
This is more like Kharma, very different from Bible.) Anywho… since
I've been working a lot with the youth lately and enjoy their company,
I've been letting them hang out in my house, even when I'm not home.
At first, I noticed small things. The books on my shelf were out of
order, dishes had been used (but washed!). I didn't say anything. I
figured I should be happy that people feel comfortable in my house.
Then my ipod was getting used, sometimes even taken from my bedroom.
My 2 earbuds are broken. Though in my heart of hearts, I trust the
guys who use my house implicitly, I couldn't help but begin to get
paranoid, noticing things that might have been moved, used, or taken.
Anywho, I wasn't expecting to lend anyone my keys yesterday, but one
thing led to another, and when I came home in the afternoon, my
computer had been used and unplugged, and my ipod harassed. I sent an
sms out that said, Hey I like that you feel comfortable in my house,
but try not to use my stuff…

Another story, I went to the cattlepost with another youth yesterday.
The cattle post is basically a large stretch of land that people have,
in addition to their own homes "in town," where people keep their
goats and cows. I have a youth-friend whose mother stays at the
cattlepost fulltime. I asked her to take me there yesterday, as part
of a language lesson. Normally it's a pretty long walk, a few
kilometers, a few hours. People here sometimes do it every day,
carrying jugs of water, blankets, food, or other items!

The cattle post was so cool. I met my friend's mom, a smart looking
san woman who was playing a traditional guitar-type instrument made
out of an old can, sticks, and wire. I asked her if I could take a
picture or video, and she held her hands out as if to ask for money.
No, mom. Is what I would've said if I were in my friend's position.
I'm not sure what they discussed exactly, but my friend did have a
talk with her mom. After the talk, mom acquiesced and later asked me
take a video so she could see herself. On the way home, we took a
donkey cart. The donkeys were so stupid and terrified by their
situation, that they actually ran into a few bushes and got us stuck.
The donkeys were beaten so badly during the trip that one was bleeding
from a few places. Luckily, my animal-rights convictions aren't very
strong or I would've abandoned ship. One of the ladies who was with us
protested on behalf of the animal and actually did leave.

Overall, the trip was awesome and the donkey ride was so cool. But at
some point last night while I was recalling all this to my brother, I
remembered that during the walk, my friend had my phone and checked
how much airtime I had. She said, wow you have a lot of airtime, and I
thought, I better drill it into her head that that airtime is not for
her to use and that I am not rich. So I launched into a lengthy
explanation of why I had so much airtime on me. Last night as I was
thinking about this, I actually got mad. Why would she think it was ok
to check my airtime? That's just rude. On top of the snooping around
my house, taking of small things, and using my stuff that these youth
already do while I'm gone.

Well anyway, this is my 2nd dilemma. I trust that these guys don't
mean any harm, but I can't live like this anymore. I feel like that
teacher in high school who tries too hard to be everyone's friend. The
horrible thing is, I know that if I stopped being so cool, these kids
really wouldn't come over anymore. And that's sad. So… how do I win?
Can we find a middle ground?

And finally, #3, the CKGR. A few days ago, my counterpart asked me if
I wanted to go with her to the CKGR to deliver the hostel students
back to their parents. I've been wanting to go since the start of my
service, so I immediately said yes. I even stuck to "yes" when, a few
days later, she called to tell me that she could no longer make it,
could I go without her. She said I would be going either Friday or
Saturay, whenever she could finish the arrangements. Every time I
asked her what was up she said she'd tell me later. As of now, I still
have no news about what time I'm going, what I need to bring, and if I
need to prepare my own water or food, pots, bowls, etc. The only news
I have heard is, I might be able to borrow a tent from Tamaga and that
Tamaga will tell me what I need to bring. Well Tamaga, o kae? Where
are you? Lol, I'm sure they're much too busy to worry about little ole
me, so I'll just sit tight until they get around to it.

Oh and I now have a bug infestation. They've gotten into my cereals.
Sad thing is, I'm still eating the cereals anyway. Can't afford not
to. Milk with a side of breakfast bug anyone?

3/24/2011

I know this has been a long entry, but I hope you stuck to it so far!
Cause it's worth it. I just got back from the CKGR yesterday and it
was such an amazing trip. Now that I've been there and seen what all
the fuss is about, I feel like I really understand the
relocation/development situation more. And the best news is, people
have been treating me differently since I got back, or maybe I've had
a change in attitude as well?

The CKGR is beautiful and I had the honor of visiting every one of the
settlements there. We were dropping the kids off at their homes for
the school break. We drove the students in a flatbed truck, but they
were so happy to be going back that they didn't seem to mind. I
believe most of them stood up and sang the whole way there! Every time
we got close to a village, the kids would start to scream and sing and
shout out the driver's name. Hurry up! Let's go!! I've never seen the
kids so happy. Best of all, their families seemed equally happy to see
them. I did not see a drop of alcohol out there, and to my surprise
everyone seemed not only sober, but well nourished, well clothed,
busy, and overall, well, happy.

I also got to see some animals. In total, I saw ostriches, springbok,
eland, wildebeasts, gemsbok, snakes, vultures, lots of assorted birds
and bugs, and (supposedly) lions (everyone else saw them, but my eyes
are spoilt by hours in front of the computer monitor so I couldn't see
them  ). Unfortunately, I didn't whip out my ultra-cool Nikon D50 and
instead shot photos with my handy Canon Super-Old-Powershot, so I
don't have any quality pictures of animals.

The trip took 4 days and 3 nights to complete. The first 2 nights, the
"crew" and I pitched our tents in the settlements. The 3rd night, we
slept by the side of the highway. Each morning, we'd wake up, break up
camp, start a fire, cook some breakfast (bread, pb&j, beans and
chakalaka (spicy vegetables), and maybe potato chips (French fries)).
We'd drive for a few hours, stopping periodically to let the trucks
cool off (the grass kept getting stuck in the radiator, causing the
engine to overheat). We'd stop mid morning to collect firewood, and
then carry on to the next village. We'd stop for lunch, cook something
simple for the kids (paleche or rice and butternut squash), then we'd
carry on till mid afternoon, pick up some more firewood and then
continue on to our final destination. I tell ya, sitting in a huge
flatbed truck all day can be mad tiring! At night, I would bathe by
moonlight using only a small bowl of water and a washcloth. It was
tough, but it was so worth it.

A few final notes, I got to see lots of snakes getting killed. It was
terrifying. The kids would go running from the trucks every time we
stopped to pee, gather wild berries or fruits, and hunt snakes for
fun. They came out of the bush ones carrying a really fat 4' long
snake that they had just killed and asking me to take a picture. I
didn't want to encourage them (how noble of me  ) so I didn't take
any pictures. But the thing was a monstrosity. And finally, I found
out today my mom went to the hospital yesterday from pain. The doctor
thinks it has something to do with her last surgery, something
(hopefully) minor. In any case, if you're the praying kind, please
keep her in your prayers, if not, keep her in your thoughts. Let's
hope that it remains minor.

3/28.2011
It's not normal for a 24 year old grown "woman" to be afraid of
thunderstorms. Something got into me last night and I shook like a
child. I used to be deathly afraid of the dark. I would hide under
layers of blankets until I fell asleep sweaty and exhausted at night.
My dad installed a night-light and curtains for me, to give me the
illusion of safety, but the noises of the wind at night scratching
against my windows and doors and the shadows cast by my furniture,
clothing, and even the bed itself would sometimes haunt me until sleep
overcame. The one feeling I know now that characterized this fear was
loneliness. I would sometimes scream, but most nights I lay in quiet,
my mind telling me that my imagination was being irrational. I learned
at an early age to overcome fear in solitude. Even if I screamed, I
knew no one would come for me but my own boogeyman, humiliation and
shame, and worst, dependency.

I regressed last night. It's like my mind wasn't even in my own head.
I was 8 years old again, hiding under the blankets. The darkness of
the sky took hold of my house and shook it with a force I'd
experienced many times before but not in this way. Even as I lay in my
bed with my eyes wide open, I could see nothing. It was like being
dropped in a hole a mile deep, like lying awake in hell. Once in a
while, lightening lit up the sky and my room and I saw shadows,
glimpses of what was there and what wasn't. Up until my teenage years,
I imagined uncontrollably that a man was following me around
everywhere I went, his twisted, boney face blurred by the window panes
at night. Last night, he didn't return, but other things did,
characters that seemed intimately familiar but I couldn't recognize, a
man with his mouth stitched shut, the crusts of blood and dirt still
clinging to his pallid face where a dirty needle penetrated his skin,
a woman, a corpse of her past, haunted by melancholy, the very
personification of loneliness and gloom, my greatest fear of becoming.
They wandered around my room, in the windows, in the shadows, looking
for nothing in particular, silent, as if in a daze, figments of my
imagination, and they knew it. As soon as they came, they would
disappear, like the lightening as it struck earth. I fell asleep with
my hall light on and my ipod shouting in my ears. When I woke up, the
sky was calm and the moon was bright once again.

3/29/2011
When your impression of the world pops like a bubble…
Go for a walk.
That seems to be my MO. When things get overwhelming, I walk in one
direction without stopping until I am too tired to keep going. It
gives me time to think, something new to see, mellows me out to get
away by myself, feel adventurous, maybe a little dangerous. Back in
the states, I used to just get in my car and get lost somewhere in the
city. Senior year of college, during exam week, I drove west along
Lake Michigan until it got dark. Today I went into the Bush north of
home and kept walking, following the cattle tracks, until I could no
longer decide whether to keep going or turn back. So I sat where I was
in silence for a few moments. Who'd have thought that way out there in
the bush, there would be so many people? I ran across a bush house
complete with fence, metal doorframe and metal door. It was just out
there, no tire tracks, no footprints leading to the front door. It was
a little eery. And actually, I first noticed a wad of rags and
clothing stored up in a tree near the house. I was scared for a moment
because I thought there was a person up there watching me, taking a
nap, or worse, dead. Then I noticed all the spiderwebs on it and
figured, it was just a bunch of rags. I kept going and ran into a
hobbled donkey who stared at me for as long as I stared at him. It
felt like it should've been one of those enchanted moments where
little red riding hood wanders into the woods and meets a magical
talking creature. The donkey didn't talk, nor did it impart or
otherwise inspire any wisdom. It just freaked out a little bit and
hobbled away awkwardly behind a bush. It had a cowbell strapped to its
neck. I guess somewhere out there, someone doesn't want to lose this
particular donkey. I think it watched me walk away from behind the
shrubbery, like I used to do when I was a kid spying on other kids and
I thought no one could see me if I hid behind a tree. A few minutes
later, I heard people's voices. I couldn't figure out where it came
from, but I tried to hide behind a bush. I felt ridiculous. I mean,
who tries to hide from a bushman in the bush? They probably knew
exactly where I was before I even heard them coming. Once the people
got close, I tried to hide behind a shrub, turns out they were just
kids and they started running away as soon as they got near me. So my
little adventure into the bush wasn't so adventurous after all, turns
out I was in someone's back yard the whole time. Here's the kicker, I
even had cell phone reception.

2011-03-06T01:56:00.000-06:00

Being in the Peace Corps for over 10 months, after this long, I've almost forgotten who I was and I'm starting to become who I'll be.

When I decided to accept my peace corps invitation back in february 2010, I remember thinking to myself, Hell, girl, this isn't going to be easy. But I consoled myself by telling everyone else, I'm not doing this for the day to day enjoyment, I'm doing it for who I'll be when I get back.

I can tell you now, after 10 months, the statement still holds true, but in a lot different a way than I expected. When I left Philly so many months ago, I left a confident, cocky, tight-assed, woman with a mandate to send a message to the world. I wasn't exactly sure what that message would be, but whatever it was, I figured, would be phenomonal, world changing, in-your-face type stuff. I was a rebel without a cause, a self proclaimed lonely savior of society, the bearer of some cosmic truth. I was a punk.

Today, as I sit on a friends' couch and contemplate the past months, I realize that I am no longer that woman. In a way, I am a deflated shell of that person-past. Here, I am nothing. I have nothing going for me. I have no special talents, I don't have a sparkling personality. I am neither respected for my skills nor admired for my intellect or humour or good will. My shortcomings are not only blown out of proportion here but take more precedence in the way I am esteemed by every person I pass on the street-- I am short, I am fat, I am asian-looking, I have no lineal claim to American identity, I am good for two things-- making babies and giving an african man a passport to the states. In short, I feel sometimes like a piece of meat.

Some women here have managed to rise above the catcalls on the street, the constant feeling of dirtiness and nothingness. Some people don't mind having to flirt with 10 different ment in order to get signatures. I feel like a dirty whore. Some people manage to laugh about the situation, some people find projects to get invested in, people to become friends with, a grant proposal or job report to become immersed in, children to bceome obsessed with. I see the children in my schools and towns, and their tattered clothes and greedy eyes, dirty hands, hungry hearts don't shake me up inside anymore. I look away, I avoid contact, I walk faster, I cross the street. I enter the schools and recognize children by their ripped clothes, the same pink underwear or old donated boy scout uniform they wear each day and I am thankful for the familiarity.

Before,everyday, I felt like I had a future. A place to be, a destination to reach, a rainbow at the end of my journey, and at the end of that rainbow, a pot of gold guarded by the soldier of hard work and good fortune. Today, my future is today's evening. My present is my past. My past is an unattainable blur. Each day brings small successes or great deflating failures. The unexpected can be adventurous, even if it is something as small as a bat in the living room, a knock on the front door, or a new flower on an old plant. I have become someone who turns to anyone and everyone for support and advice. I have become someone who strains to listen intently to every conversation, take notes on people's suggestions, and gives no advice, brags no success story, and has no words of wisdom. I do what I can when I can and on days where things are just not going right, I cut my losses short and head home for the bubble bath.

Progress to me means getting a ride out of my village with a different truck, rather than the same old naueating lifts. Progress means getting a gas tank with less than 48 hours of grueling footwork to get quotations, paperwork, signatures, and carbon copies. Progress to me means stepping out of a classroom feeling as though one student out there got something out my lesson, even if 10 failed to show up at all. Progress is learning Jessica's name and encouraging her to write even though she may be one of our worst students. Progress is receiving an email from an unknown stranger who found my blog or sitting in a bus next to an educated motswana and having a conversation about the village I'm in and receiving an unexpected blessing and word of gratitiude.

I came to school last Monday afternoon for English Club and found that not only the teacher I was working with wasn't there, but neither were the students. I wasn't suprised. I merely smiled at the kids milling around the school yard, sat down on an old tire under a tree, and opened a chidlren's book I borrowed from the local educaion center. I started to read "the Giving Tree" out loud and a crowd gather to look at the pictures and repeat every sentence I read out loud. It was probably the best English Club I've ever had.

I guess moments like these is what makes the Peace Corps the "peace" "corps." I'm finally starting to accept in my heart that to survive in this service, you have to give up all hopes of a grandiose and trumpeting celebration of the service of humanity and instead realize that it's the day to day life that matters the most here.

2011-03-01T03:49:00.001-06:00

UPDATE FROM BOTSWANA BOOK PROJECT

This is the first of a number of updates directed to all of you who
are registered as recipients of the 2011 Book Container, which is
tentatively arriving at the end of June. As soon as I have a better
ETA, I'll send it.

The selection in this container should be the best EVER as I am
spending 3 weeks in Atlanta Georgia, home of the BFA warehouse (my
supplier). I am personally selecting the majority of books, although
the Kirkwood High School in Missouri has collected 5,000 children's
books in a massive book drive and they are delivering them to me this
week. That means I only need to choose about 20,000 from the warehouse
boxes….
Such back breaking work but such fun, too!

I've been updating the Botswana Book Project website with the latest progress…

The only snag left at this point is that we are short by $5,000 in our
shipping fund at Books For Africa…so we need cash before we ship!

I'm asking you all to contact anyone at home (USA), family or friends,
who might contribute even $10.00 to the fund. The little donations
add up as I found out last year, when over $6,000 was donated in small
amounts by generous Americans over an 8 week period.

All they need to do is look at www.booksforafrica.org and click
"DONATE TO PROJECT", then click "BOTSWANA".
The instructions there are clear as to how to make an online donation.

Be sure to check out the www.botswanabookproject.org website to read
some of the letters sent by Peace Corps volunteers. Those letters
keep me going with my efforts. They are so eloquent as to the need
for books.
If you wonder what the warehouse looks like, I'll be updating the
website every night with photos…over the past 2 days I selected and
volunteers boxed over 3,000 books… Hundreds of picture storybooks,
easy readers, novels for young readers and for teens, health and
medical books, and many general library books. Everything in
excellent condition! I will continue to select books until the 20
pallets are full...about 25,000 books
In all.

Best,
Pam

Jan/Feb Pictures

2011-02-23T07:30:00.004-06:00

Pictures that I'm mass posting. From top to bottom cause I dont have time to make this pretty :( if you got my newsletter you already have these.

1. Kids play a game teaching teamwork and the affect alcohol abuse can have on life performance, thanks to Shannon Commers who led this activity. (December Lifeskills Workshop)

2. Sunrise over the field next to my house around 7 after I chased the goats out of my yard.

3. My butternut squash flowers. I've got a teenie tiny squash now but it's shrivelign up. :(

4. Chloe and I have cucumber spa mid-morning session

5. Sushi Night at Chloe's House.

The BSA Comes To New Xade

2011-02-22T07:15:00.005-06:00

2/20/2011 The BSA Comes To New Xade

The Botswana Scouts Association came to New Xade this weekend. The BSA is just like our BSA (Boy Scouts of America) except they include girls in their membership. 3 trucks pulled in Friday night carrying 10 or so Scout leaders from the National HQ in Gabs and a Scout troop from the Ghanzi Senior Secondary School. All week our local scouts practiced pounding on the drums in preparation for their arrival. The weekend event is to commemorate the Scouts’ 104th Anniversary in Botswana.

Saturday Morning, I woke up bright and early to prepare drinks for our OVC support group. The weather was cool for once and I found myself singing U2’s “It’s a beautiful day” as I carried two coolers full of juice drinks, ice bottles, cookies, and footballs to the little wards waiting for me at the local church. A total of 19 tiny kids arrived at the church at 9:05 AM and peppered me with one question: “give me my ball, give me my ball.” (First off, that’s not a question. Second, it’s not your ball. And Third, no.)

My friend Ketelelo, 19 years old, is the one responsible for this operation. Ketelelo is the only volunteer for the group who I have ever seen working with kids. Unfortunately, most of the year, Ketelelo is at school in Ghanzi. This is only the 2nd time the group has met since my service started in June. The first time was during another school holiday, when Ketelelo was home. It seems, without Ketelelo, no one, not the volunteers nor the kids, wants to meet. With Ketelelo around, all I have to do is ask and suddenly I’ll have 20-30 little orphans at my disposal. Whenever Ketelelo comes to visit me, he always has 2-3 little ones in tow. This is so and so, he introduces them to me as though he were introducing a peer. They are normally too shy to respond, but I take their hand anyway and shake them in Botswana style and invite them to come into my house; when they do, they sit quietly and gaze at the pictures on my wall as though they were First-Years at Hogwarts expecting the photos to come to life. Whenever Ketelelo’s around, I’m not afraid of these kids, they become as shy and meek as baby sheep and I love ‘em.

Last week, Ketelelo came to visit me while I was soaking in the bathtub. This isn’t a rare occurrence in daily Batswana life, I’ve personally walked in on people bathing twice. Unfortunately, I ain’t a Motswana and instead of yelling out “YO!” like they do when they hear someone at the door, I sunk deeper in the water and pretended not to be home… which didn’t work since my front door was open and the screen door was locked from the inside. Quite stupidly, I also left the bathroom door open. I couldn’t get up or out without being seen or heard. I lay in the tub for what felt like 10 minutes while Ketelelo and his little friends knocked, called my English and Setswana names, went to my windows, and knocked some more. I realized I couldn’t get away with hiding, so I finally came out of the tub, maneuvered my way into a towel without being seen, and emerged rubbing my eyes and pretending that I’d fallen asleep and oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t come out earlier. At the sight of the strange lekhoa in a towel, the 2 tiny kids Ketelelo was with giggled uncontrollably. Later, as Ketelelo left my house, I yelled after him, “You are always surrounded by kids!” He turned and smiled and said, “They’re my friends,” and then walked home into the sunset, really.

Well, Ketelelo, his brother Kebabonye, and I are about to embark on another strange journey, the Youth Club. Last week, while Ketelelo was over, we got to talking about the Youth Center again and he made a strange comment. “The youth center’s not far,” he said, “the problem is, the Youth don’t know how to use the equipment. And they only want to watch TV, they say the other activities make them tired.”

In case you don’t know, the “youth center” here is a small room converted from the Community Hall. Since I arrived in June 2010, I’ve wanted to relocate the youth center to an all-accessible dedicated building in the center of town. The youth officer at the time, now long transferred, told me that it would be an excellent idea. The current center, she said, was too far, inaccessible to electricity, and difficult to supervise. I thought that was the reason it wasn’t used. The Youth Center, aka this tiny little room, is full of toys and things that any youth in America would dream of having: an electric keyboard, electric bass, electric and acoustic guitars, a drum set, a snooker (or pool) table, a ping pong table, a dart set, a punching bag with boxing gloves, badminton rackets, birdies, nets, monopoly, scrabble, chess, tv, stereo set, everything short of an x-box (without electricity, about ½ of this equipment is useless, which I find funny…). The youth don’t know how to use the equipment, how simple an explanation; so this proposed youth club would provide coaches for different activities every other week (or so). I’m trying to make this as simple as it possibly can be. The ultimate goal being: decrease in alcohol abuse.

Though I’m still not holding my breath… because of my personality, I’m presenting a list I’ve formatted of all realistic things that can go wrong:

Ketelelo goes back to school in March & youth stop coming, club fails (like the OVC support group)
No funding granted for food & youth stop coming, club fails
No funding granted for generator for electricity & youth stop coming, club fails
No support from community coaches, youth stop coming, club fails
Youth don’t come in the first place, club fails
I become the only volunteer/leader of the club & decide that the responsibility isn’t worth the reward, club fails
Confusion regarding scheduling/time, club fails (yes, likely)
Youth come for food, games, and fun, but continue to drink or become alcoholics anyway… club fails (hehehe, but I won’t be around to realize that…)

On the other hand, if things go well, here are the potential benefits:

Decreased alcohol and drug abuse among youth in NX
Decrease in teenage pregnancy rates due to the awesome mentoring relationships I’ll build with the girls
Because I’m in PC Botswana I have to say this as well: decrease in HIV/AIDS prevalence rate among youth in NX (cause you know... decrease in alcohol means decrease in irresponsible sexual behavior, though increase in social activities may result in increase in sexual partnerships… leading to an increase in multiple concurrent partnerships (MCP) resulting in higher HIV prevalence. Reminder to self: if this takes off, dedicate a session every now and then to life skills lessons, i.e. how to use a condom, decrease MCP, promote safe male circumcision)
Increased school performance
Increased self-esteem and local leadership among youth
Increase in community participation in community service/youth events- That’s a biggie.
Increased funding due to increased activity leading to improved equipment/ renovation of youth center/ possible funding to build the dream-center closer to town (I have to comment on the wonderfulness of Nikki, an architect in Ghanzi who is helping me to get excited for and plan this center. She is a creative worldly type who wants to recruit the kids here to help build walls and other components of the project using local materials and resources. She is also helping to keep me sane.)
Increase in personal friendships with local volunteers and youth

On a third hand, or you may use a foot if you so choose, if nothing happens at all, at least I can say I tried.

All this to say, the Scouts came to New Xade, had a presentation which I missed cause I was with the OVC’s, then planted a whole bunch of little tree-lings in the village. I retired for the day because I can’t be caught outside in the heat or I’ll melt, and then returned in the evening for a bonfire which happened past my bedtime, so I went home before the fire started. But I managed to meet a lot of cool people and see the kids dressed up in little uniforms and learning to march, led by our scout leader, a reaaally little kid around 3 feet tall wearing a baby blue baret and leading teenagers twice his age and height. I got a lot of encouragement and tips for the youth club, and most unexpectantly, I got contact information for the officer at the department of public health who’s in charge of alcohol abuse initiatives. Apparently, there is a lot (too much someone said) money set aside for these initiatives, and if things go well, I may get the funding I need not only to run the club, but set up a permanent, flexible alcohol-free structure for the youth to access every day. (Oh, and I got a scout shirt myself!!)

I found out a few days ago that a PCV Couple who are friends of mine will be returning to the states this upcoming week due to a medical condition. I am seriously bummed about it. :(

2/22/11

I just wanted to make a public announcement, Ketelelo found out his exam results this week, he got first class! (the best you can do) Congratulations Ketelelo! This kid is going places.

Another update, yesterday I went to my English club but the students weren’t there. No problem. I sat down in the middle of the school yard on an old tire under a tree and read out loud children’s books including “the giving tree.” A real rocking moment. The kids liked it so much we read all 3 books I had 2-3 times each.

Also this morning we had our first youth club meeting to discuss logistics and the plan for the new year. 3 Girls and 10 Boys showed up, along with the Youth Officer, Police Officer, and Agricultural Officer-- the best turnout for any meeting I've had so far. Though they all wanted me to run the meeting, I ended up, as usual, sitting on the sidelines listening to the setswana conversations that ensue. Well, we never got to the programming part of the agenda, and I was barely able to communicate what I wanted to communicate- but none of that really mattered to me. What we did end up doing (during this unexpectantly long 2 hour meeting) was convince the youth officer to keep the recreation room open from 8am to 4pm Monday-Friday and 8am to 7pm on Saturday. Congratulations Youth! I can honestly say that aside from assembling this meeting, I had nothing to do with this victory as it was all done in Setswana.

Wanna Help? Donate to the Botswana Book Project

2011-02-11T00:08:00.001-06:00

http://botswanabookproject.org/how-to-help-page.html

2011-02-10T09:59:00.000-06:00

February 7, 2011

I think it's about time for another update. True, the past few months
have been filled with a lot of angst, a lot of quiet moments filled
with not-so-quiet thoughts of desperation and anxiety, loneliness, and
not very well thought-through phone calls or emails home… true, my
site is a challenging one, located 100km on a dirt road away from
everything civilized: electricity, internet, post office, clean water,
grocery stores, a bank, and when I first began, phone service… true,
I've often felt isolation and self-pity for my situation, no one
understands what it's like here, nobody knows my sorrow…

Thanks to a pile of girly magazines and months of waiting though, I am
feeling better. I've realized that my situation now is the lot that I
was given—and according to an issue of "Shape" Magazine, I should
start to learn to "want what I have." So this week's mantra, composed
in pixels and framed in the black plastic of my cheap black and white
phone is, "I want what I have."

My hair is reaching a funny stage where every day it wakes me up with
a surprise. Sometimes the hair is sticking 3.5" straight up. Sometimes
it's flat on just one side. Sometimes it looks perfectly styled and
wild. I can run water or gel through it and make it to do funny stuff
and, surprisingly, it's making me feel more feminine than ever. When I
go to the grocery store in Ghanzi, the women there tell me that I'm
"beautiful"--- "beautiful" is a really common word here. When I flip
through magazines, I secretly connect with the models who have short
hair and I feel like I've been invited into their little club. Though
on the flip side, if I haven't had time to gel it or run water (or
more likely, sweat) through it, it falls flat on the sides of my face
resulting in a rather unflattering "Susie" haircut from Calvin and
Hobbes.

I try to keep myself positive when I go outside and talk with people.
I try to smile and be patient whenever meetings get cancelled or
postponed and no one tells me. I've learned to have low expectations
for event turnouts and bring a book with me whenever I'm supposed to
meet with someone somewhere. I try not to take it personally when no
one is around and I find out that everyone was at a football match or
dance competition that I wasn't invited to. I try not to cry every
time Peace Corps issues a new policy I'm not made aware of, sends out
an invitation via email that I found out about after the deadline, or
asks me to do things that that have no idea how difficult it is for me
to do…

2/8/2011
I got hit on yesterday by a 20-year old 7th grader. "Hey lady!" I hear
from across the school yard. The kid has a surprisingly low voice for
a primary school student…

2/10/2011
I'm writing this from the side yard of my friends' place in Ghanzi. I
got stuck here today after my ride had to stay here due to an extended
workshop. I ran to Pep, a local convenience/clothing store like
clothing-obsessed CVS and bought underwear and a towel. My friends are
away teaching an aerobics class, leaving me sitting in their yard to
swat away some incredibly scary looking mosquitos. The mosquitos are
especially present at this house. I don't know why. What's more, they
are the deadly looking kind, large with black and white stripes, long
skinny legs that girate up and down like a humping dog as they suck
the life-blood from your legs. They especially love my ankles. Such is
my life.

I've started teaching an English Club at school. On the first day, I
asked my students to write down a goal they have in life, "I want to
be the captin of my football time," one student wrote. "My time is
danjorus"

I saw a warthog last week. Then I saw it's baby trotting behind it.
"Oops," the driver said as we drove by, "I killed one of the babies."

The heat is so hot here that my blood boils when I step outside. The
sun is so strong that any bugs living in my hair are instantly baked.
I misstep on any sandy road in Xade and the top of my foot gets
burned. On Monday, I traveled one block away, sweating like a fat
person on a treadmill, and realized that I forgot some papers. I bent
down in my bag to look for them and fell over, half conscious.

The Mosquitos have notified the swarm of my existence. They taste
fresh blood. They have come in numbers to execute me. As I write this
I am sitting in the sun like a crazy person, stomping my feet and
looking very much like a cheerleader who has been dropped on the head
one too many times.

If you know me at all you know there are 2 things in the world that I
hate more than donkeys: heat and mosquitos. God damn…

3 Stories One Lesson

2011-01-26T04:26:00.001-06:00

1/25/2011 3 Stories, 1 Lesson.

Unfortunately I am well aware of how lame I sound when I say that for
the past 2 weeks, my gardening has kept me alive and occupied. Though
plans had failed, meetings were abandoned, and projects forgotten,
twice and sometimes three times a day, I could look forward to
bucket-watering my watermelon and squash plants, watching my tomato,
pumpkin, and herb sprouts grow, and devising plans to build a fence.
During the days I could not get out of my bed, let alone stand the
heat of the sunlight against my eyes and skin, the garden got me
outside, sweating, tanning, and moving—and yes, sometimes I would even
pull out a chair and sit next to the garden, staring at the plants and
hoping to see them grow just a little bit.

Of course, if you follow my blog, you know that after a mundane story
like this, I have to say something overly dramatic, negative, and
disastrous. Well here it is: I hate goats. They came into my yard this
weekend and trampled everything, leaving piles of goat poo smashed
into my front porch with long white goat hairs clinging to them. I
came home yesterday and found that the part of my garden where my
beautiful squash plants were growing—my pride and joy—were completely
destroyed. There are 3 small stubs remaining, their leaves all eaten
off, the 2-month old bodies of their brothers and sisters strewn
across the sand as the sun zaps whatever is left of their short lives.
The other plants were also trampled, but I care about them less… what
baffles me is that the ugly, yellow, wilting watermelon plants were
left untouched even though they were only inches away. I guess squash
leaves are tasty—reminder to self, if the squash plants start growing
again, eat their leaves before the goats get to them.

This is going to sound totally whiney, but I spent this morning locked
in my house unwilling to do anything but watch tv shows and leaf
through the Tai-Chi and Yoga books my brother sent me. I deluded
myself into believing that I was "learning" these forms, and thus,
spending my day in a productive manner. In actuality, I couldn't face
the sight of the garden outside. Around one o'clock, I heard my
Setswana name from the porch and met 3 girls who often come over to
goof around. The littlest one, the newest of the gang, I'll call her
"Wee-wee," always asks me for money, for food, for sweets, water,
whatever I happen to have in my hand. She said "Mpha!" give me, and
another girl, who is normally a pain in my butt, I'll call her
"Wah-wah," surprised me by scolding Wee-wee. "Nyaaa! Nyaa!" Wah-wah
said. And then Wah-wah looked at me and smiled and repeated, "Nya!"

I have trained them.

For that, I smiled and sat outside with them and watched them play for
15 minutes or so. And by "play" what they did was sweep the massive
amounts of goat poo and goat hairs from my front porch. After Wah-wah
and Wee-wee left, I went outside and repaired my garden.

Who would've thought that the horrors of my first few months here
would turn out to be my saving grace?

-----
Yesterday, I had my first English Club. Well, sort of. I arrived at
the school at 3PM only to find the teachers in a meeting. They had
said they would do English Club with me but perhaps they forgot I was
coming. I didn't really care, this is what I expect nowadays whenever
I have an appointment, or meeting, or project. Things don't really
happen the way they do in the states. I sat at the school and chatted
with the cleaning ladies who are friends of mine. When the teacher I
work with finally came out, she apologized for the inconvenience and
suggested that we start next week, in the meantime, would I be willing
to do something with the standard 7 students? Surely, I said. I was
in a good mood. I went to the Standard 7 classroom where the teacher
introduced me (but really, do I need an introduction? Everyone knew
who I was). I was left alone with 30 7th graders. First, I went around
and asked everyone to stand up, tell me their names, ages, and
something interesting about themselves. Boy, was that a mistake. The
first kid stood up, said his name was peter, he was 13, and…. and…
and… if he weren't a dark shade of brown, he would've turned bright
red. He stared at the table and everyone in the room laughed at him.

"Can someone help Peter? What is interesting about him?" I asked the
class, drawing on techniques that my own teachers used to use on me.
"Anyone?" There was a small meeting at Peter's table and Peter
finally looked up and muttered, "I Am A Boy," each word emphasized as
if being read for the first time. "Thank you, Peter," I said, "that
is… interesting!"

I looked at the student next to Peter who stood up, said his name was,
"blah blah," and announced to the class, "I am 13... I am a boy."
Thank you blah blah… next?

Thirty 13 to 16 year olds then went one by one around the room, told
me their indistinguishable click-filled names, their ages, and their
genders. Oh boy.

The next exercise I did with the kids is an exercise I learned from
another PCV here, a cognitive behavioral psychologist named Pat. Pat
works in the schools. One day she sat down with her kids and asked
them, "How are you doing?" The class said in unison, "I Am Fine." Pat
laughed, the students laughed, and Pat said, "How are all of you fine?
Certainly you can't all be fine!" She then talked about the importance
of thinking outside the box. Everyone here always answers. "I am fine"
to the question "How are you?" She went around the class and asked
each student to provide another answer to "how are you" that wasn't
"I'm fine." Some students said "I am not fine!" or "I am happy!" or "I
am cool!" one enthusiastic student even shouted, "I am Fantastic!"
Pat's personal focus here is to teach the people of Botswana how to
think critically, or as we've abbreviated in our talks, how to think.

I started my talk to the class by telling them that I wanted to talk
to them today about "how to think." They stared at me like "ok crazy
lady…" The next 40 minutes felt like pulling teeth. For the first 20
minutes, the only answer I could get out of these kids to "how are
you?" was "I am fine." Only one student really got the point of the
talk, and she responded, beaming with pride, "I am fine. How are you?"
I couldn't disappoint her so I said… "Ok, that's good… anyone else?"

After picking on a handful of poor students whose names I could
remember, I started going crazy and throwing out suggestions like "I
feel like dancing!" and dancing around the room a bit. The kids loved
that. Eventually we came up with the following short list of answers
to the question "how are you?":

How are you?
I am fine. How are you?.
I am not fine because I have a headache.
I am not fine because I do not feel well.
I am shy.
Dancing!
Singing!
Excited!
and my own personal contribution, "Fantastic!" (after which I had to
explain to them what "fantastic" meant)

By the end of the 40 minutes, though, I am proud to say that I think
at least one student really got into my talk. It's a shame I have the
memory of an ant cause I can't remember her name, but I was happy that
she and her friends came up to me after class and asked for my number
and if they could visit on Saturday. It's not much, but it's a start!!

After Wee-wee and Wah-wah visited today, I thought, "I guess this is
what Peace Corps is about. Being here long enough that kids can feel
safe enough to come to your house even if you don't do a thing with
them but watch them play."

-----

The day before yesterday, I was in Ghanzi to meet some representatives
from the U.S. Embassy. These officers came to do some first-hand
scouting of the settlements to investigate the possibility of forming
Community Trusts for San villages such as New Xade. They gave me a
lift to New Xade in a sweet air-conditioned silver 4x4 equipped with
GPS, electric fridge, and satellite phone; and I showed them a bit of
the Village while men, women, and children alike followed us around
and asked for money. One old guy actually stood there for a good 20
minutes just staring at the truck, finally he had the balls to walk up
to it and touch it. Ironically, he did this while we were discussion
the development of the San and how, before they were relocated, some
of the Batswana had brought them to Ghanzi, shown them a house and a
car, and said, "You will have things like this."

We had some good talks and I learned some things I didn't know, but
most importantly, I learned a lot of things that I already knew. It
felt good to think that the conclusions I came to myself were
supported by the opinions of the people here. It amused me that the
Americans pulled out their little gadgets and maps as soon as we
pulled onto the dirt road. It's exactly what I would've done if I had
just arrived from the States. It's exactly what my brother and father
will do when they visit me. Oh how we westerners love our gizmos and
gadgets; I realize that now, I can probably do just fine without them!
As I was saying goodbye to the Embassy men in the late afternoon, we
shook hands and one of them politely commented, "You're one of the top
notch PCV's for positivity." I asked him if he was kidding. He said,
not at all. What a validation! "I'll be living off of that for
months," I beamed at him.

-----
All that said, I'm going to try to do what my friend Lucie has told me
to do and not focus on the negatives. So, a toast to the casualties of
my trampled garden: here's to the future, to new beginnings, new
sprouts, lessons learned, compliments on my positivity, and an
opportunity to… well to do what I'm not exactly sure, but I'm sure
it'll come to me after a few more drinks! Clink Clink! (I'm drinking
ice water. I finally got my fridge working again. Oddly enough, on
very hot days, cold water has the same effect on me as alcohol.
Hiccup!)

Oh, and this weekend, I got bitten by a tick! It was gross and creepy
and painful… and actually kind of cool, but that's a story for another
day. 'Cause How am I? I am tired.

2011-01-21T04:37:00.002-06:00

Picture of the Rains coming in Serowe (patti's village, where we painted Pooh) btw, this is her view every evening from her front step.

1-18-2011

Wowee, 2011. I came home yesterday in Pax’s big flatbed truck. It was me, Pax (a tall Herero man who wears a cowboy hat and chews tobacco and speaks very little English), Tamaga (a light skinned San man, my counterpart, who has a strange resemblance to a young version of my father, thin but starting to show a belly, a weird sense of humor but always has a joke ready in a slightly crooked smile), and Isaiah (pronounced “EEE-ZAI-AH,” a short, skinny Motswana who always wears a bright red trucker hat and a pair of sunglasses, I’ve only seen his eyes on 3 occasions thus far). Pax speaks very little English, but because we travel so often together, I like to think that we’ve become good friends. I play with his kids and his large herero wife at home sometimes, even though none of them speak English either. These 3 guys are like my leprechauns at the end of a treacherous rainbow, whenever I come home from a long trip and see them in Ghanzi, waiting for me to ask them for a ride, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside, give them each a big handshake, and think, “Man, I like New Xade.”

Around 4PM yesterday, Pax, Isaiah, Tamaga, and I pack into the cab of the big flatbed truck and load in a dozen or so kids from the Ghanzi farms on their way to school. We also pack in some villagers, including some friends of mine, and all our little parcels and packages of food and material from the town. As we set off on our regular route, Tamaga occasionally turns around to ask me how I’m doing. I’m starting to feel more tired than I’ve felt since I arrived in Botswana when he turns around and asks me, “What are you expecting?” Huh? I thought for a second that he was speaking in reference to the men I finally hired to clean the makgunda from my yard, why would he ask me that? He pointed to the sky ahead which had grown eerily dark and cloudy. “Rain?” was my answer. “Pula!” he said, and then Pax did a funny sort of high-pitched Speedy Gonzales laugh as he pulled out of a pothole in 1st gear, slammed on the gas, and leaned back in his seat so his large body was a flat as a plank. The truck rumbled and jumped and I looked behind me at the people and kids wrapped in their blankets as their bodies bounced a few feet off the bed of the truck.

A few minutes later, I watched out of the window as the rain came and eventually turned into torrents. Behind me, in the truck, not a person could be seen. Everyone hid, lying flat against the flatbed with their blankets held over them. They looked like one large, shivering patchwork quilt. Tamaga looked behind us and asked me guiltily if I had any blankets or a jacket I could lend them. I had nothing, and my own hair was standing straight up and down on my arm in defiance to the cold weather. A few minutes later, no sooner had the storm died down when I heard a very loud, almost cartoon like “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!” A tire had deflated. The sound was so cliché, I almost thought it was a joke.

Everyone climbed out of the truck, me last, cause I was convinced it wasn’t real, and the men got to work. They were like a well-oiled machine. 3 men salvaged parts from 2 extra tires in the back. 1 man began unscrewing the bolts from the flat, and Pax stood and watched. The kids and the women, eerily enough, immediately ran to the bush on the sides of the road and picked berries from the trees. A few minutes later, they had moved beyond my line of vision, but I swear to God, I could still hear a harvesting noise, like the sound of a stick on a washboard or wooden fence, that sounded almost exactly like the sound effect in the video game Age of Empires, when the peasants are gathering food. I don’t know how much time passed, but soon enough later (after I helped to unbolt 3 screws from the tire—why on earth do these massive tires require 10 bolts to keep them on? What genius engineer decided 10 was optimal? I bet he just thought 10 was a pretty number but never thought to himself what the practical implications of “10” are!), another truck drove by and all the women and children gathered their stuff and switched vehicles. Tamaga suggested I go with them if I wanted to go faster, I said I was ok to stay. And I was. I was enjoying myself quite a bit. After the truck had left, he then said, “This is why there are no women in Botswana, you see how those women reacted? As soon as there is trouble, they run away.”

As the men started cleaning up their handiwork, Tamaga showed me some wild green things that he said provides salt, I imagine he was replenishing his electrolytes after all the hard work of changing a tire from a large flatbed truck. It tasted pretty good and I felt pretty cool, standing there in the aftermath of a storm, eating wild green things, in the wide open bushland. I’ve realized I’ve spent so much of my life in enclosed places, my house, the car, the office, the city, that being out there surrounded by trees and clouds for as far as the eye can see--- it was really pretty neat.

1-20-2011
The Stuff Even Peace Corps Can’t Prepare You For

When you join the Peace Corps, I’d say they do a pretty good job of sending you pamphlets, letters, packets, and papers to prepare you for your journey. They brief you on medical tips, traveling tips, packing tips, working, language, and culture tips, and they tell you that the trip will be hard, you will miss your family, you may even see people die. But nothing they can tell you or write to you about can prepare you for that moment when the frailty of life lays out in all its glory naked in front of you.

Almost a month ago, my friend died. Only this week did I have the guts to face our friends about it. I found out details about her death that I never wanted to know. Details that made her absence even more real and finite. Her shop is closed, locked up indefinitely; her house, empty and dark. Her family, I’m told, has left town for the time-being, perhaps to grieve, perhaps to brood. Her death, not only unexpected, was wrought with mysteries and frustrations. Apparently, she didn’t have to die. Apparently, someone did something wrong after the accident, and her life could’ve been saved.

2 weeks ago, our village had a funeral for a 5 year old. Today, an 8 year old was raped and another child ran away from the hostels all by himself. I sat next to my counterpart as he held my hand in his lap and buried his head into his arm. When he looked up, his face was puffy, but his voice was calm. We talked about our options. Then we stopped talking. We had no options. The best we could hope for was that a car from Ghanzi would find the child. We had no resources, no transport, no back up plan. I could tell he was disappointed. Maybe it was his face mirroring back at me, but I thought I also saw failure there. Failure to intervene in time, failure to stop more pain from entering this community, failure to be able to do anything about it. At that moment, I realized. No amount of Peace Corps programming, no volunteer project, no youth center or tutoring program I can create in my 2 years here could be enough to pull these people out of the intense feeling of failure and misery they endure on a day to day basis, the result of being displaced from their homes and cultures and told to live in a world and life that is void of options. It’s like walking in a desert at noon with the sun burning a hole through your back, your head, your feet, and not seeing a single tree to hide under. I know that feeling now.

The moment before my counterpart appeared, I was thinking about what could happen here that could help these people, a conversation I have with myself daily. The only conclusion I come to these days is education. Like my counterpart, there exist a handful of bright, motivated, hard-working individuals who want nothing more but a tertiary degree so that they could be successful, and in Tamaga’s case, so that he could come back and help his community. If only there existed some fund that would do just do that. Send a hardworking San individual to school, regardless of his age or sex or occupation, so that he could return to this community and be the one to empower, teach, and guide his people. No more black and white talk about “these people,” no more complaints of communication or cultural barriers, no more feeling of defeat and failure at the hands of an educational institution, no more coming home from secondary school just to be a drunken bum, like your mother, your father, and your uncles before you…

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1.21.2011 As of right now, the child who ran away from the hostels is still missing. It's been around 29 hours and it's been raining intermittently. My counterpart estimates he may have gotten as far as 20 km as of last night. Ghanzi is around 108 km away. No one has seen the child on the road yet. We all hope he is doing ok. We still don't have a vehicle to go looking for him.

2011-01-17T02:22:00.001-06:00

having a really really hard time getting out of bed these days.

2011-01-06T10:14:00.002-06:00

Today, I wanna go home. (Despite the awesomeness pictured above)

Happy New Year

2011-01-05T08:49:00.002-06:00

Happy New Year Everyone!

I'm at a bit of a loss for what to write today. I'm in Serowe, the village of the President and past Kings helping a friend of mine paint her preschool (pictures to come). We just returned from our New Year Vacation in Namibia.

I'm at a loss for words today. I found out just an hour or so ago that a good friend of mine passed away during the new year holiday in a car accident. She was supposed to come with us on our Namibian Vacation to Swakopmund (beach) and the dunes (see picture above), but she got turned away at the border because (being not an american-- she's from China) she needed (and didn't have) a tourist visa. I promised to call my friend once we arrived, but I didn't have enough air time to make an international call, so I kept putting it off. Once we got back to Botswana, I saw that she had called me, and I thought, i'll call her once I've gotten some rest. I kept putting it off again. Finally, after a day of hard painting Pooh Bear and Tigger's in Serowe, I received a call from Jeffrey, a mutual friend from Zimbabwe (An american, zimbabwean, and chinese trio are we), saying she had passed away. I couldn't believe him. I called several people in Ghanzi just to check, i was sure that this was a horrible joke. I told myself, if this is a joke, I'm never going to talk to these guys again. My friend reminded me, If it isn't a joke, you won't be talkin to her again anyway.

It seems wrong and cliche of me to tell you all to remember your loved ones this New Year, to call them, and keep in touch, because you never know what the next day may bring... but I feel so guilty for not taking my own advice this week. In the end, my friend is gone and we're the ones who are suffering her loss.

Happy Holidays!

2010-12-29T04:33:00.001-06:00

Dear Blog,

‘Tis the season for love and giving and friendships and new starts. The workshop has come and gone, so have friends, my birthday, and soon, Christmas (As I write this, it is Christmas day). It’s hard to believe that it’s Christmas. It’s been grueling hot here in New Xade the past week. All I do all day is lay around trying to lose consciousness so I don’t have to deal with it. The workshop was a hit with the kids, we had an average of around 55 students each day (minus the 2^nd day which was rained out). Though there was a huge language barrier, the kids had fun, and at the end of the day, I think that’s what matters. I’m not going to lie to myself and say that that’s all that matters, and maybe by saying that I’m showing that I have far too high expectations for myself here, but I’d like for them to receive the message I meant to portray, that is: work together to combat the threat of alcoholism. The temperature of the youth here can sometimes be toxic, they all know each other so well, but still there is a lot of fighting and teasing, and peer pressure, I’m sure. The past few weeks have been a good time to meet new kids and get to know the ones I’ve already met. It was busy, tiring, and sometimes awkward or crazy, but now it is Christmas week and I’ve had the village, for the most part, to myself and it’s been a nice peaceful respite. In a couple days I’m going to take my chances and try to get out of here so I can enjoy a short vacation in Namibia with some friends. When I get back, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t have too much planned. I guess we’ll see, friends, we’ll see. I miss you all a lot,

-Sunny

Happy Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T12:26:00.002-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

happy thanksgiving to all family and friends everywhere. I'm going to take a break from my normal stressful lament to say happy thanksgiving and express my gratefulness to everyone who has been a part of my life, who continually support me through good times and bad, and who has helped me to become who I am today and who I will be tomorrow. I am so incredibly blessed to have you in my life, to have had the experiences and the friends I've had. It's been a great life and am looking forward to more great adventures and meeting new people along the way. After all, people are the best part of living. Ke batho. It is people.

happy thanksgiving to all!

2010-11-25T01:01:00.001-06:00

11-20-2010 A Botswana Baby Shower

Today was my friend and neighbor’s baby shower. I bought her a gift and the requested “gate fee” (a Johnson’s baby product) and showed up at the indicated time (4:30 PM). It was the friendly neighborly thing to do. As usual, there wasn’t much for me to do there since half of the guests hadn’t arrived yet and preparations were only a third of the way in. I lounged around before I got sent home to fetch someone’s phone I was charging. Then I got sent home for ice. Then I got sent home for my camera. Then I got scolded for not having battery life in my camera. Then I got sent home to charge someone else’s phone. Then I got sent home to retrieve meat I was storing in my fridge for them. After a while I got sick of getting sent home and just stayed home. I mulled over the day’s events includingthe Annual General Meeting for our Orphan Support Group for which I lent the group P410 of my own cash since our coordinator didn’t have any money to buy petrol and snacks for the AGM.

He had called me in Ghanzi, saying he had a big mathata (problem) and that without food, no one would come to this vital meeting. I had given him letters requesting donations last week as per his request, with the understanding that he would travel to Ghanzi and ask stores for donations. But he hadn’t done so. He said he was planning on using his own money to donate some snacks, but his wife’s payment check hadn’t been deposited in the account yet. A big mathata, he said.

I was stuck between a rock and hard place. I had just taken out the rest of my pula to cover the costs of my upcoming trip to Maun/Francistown and the big wad of cash was burning a hole in my conscience. In the end, I took out what excess I might need for things like food and saved a small amount for the bus fare. I lent it to the coordinator under the impression that it was essential for our little CBO to move forward and he, his wife, and I went shopping for snacks. I was relieved to find that snacks actually cost less than what I had anticipated, but instead of returning my money, the coordinator insisted on adding more food, candy, and drinks to the shopping cart. Later, he would tell me, he was planning on using P200 of the Support Group’s money, money that he had taken to deposit in the bank but never did. He promised he would return to me P200 since it was technically the CBO’s money.

In the end, he spent all that I had given him, bought petrol, and I waited in the car while he ran errands, thinking about what had just happened. I fueled his car with my money... Apparently he did have his own money on hand and I felt like a first class fool for feeling that I had to put my personal finances on the line for the sake of our organization.

I was mulling these things while I raked my yard, getting pricked with makgunda and getting rained on when a troupe of women who don’t speak a word of anything-to-do-with-lekoa came and basically stole water from my rain water tank without asking. I was slightly livid. Then one of the teenagers who I knew told me, “when are you going to give me your shoes?” I’m sure she was referring back to a past conversation in which I may have been misunderstood as saying “I will give you my shoes.” But this put me in a sorely bad mood. I resumed raking in the rain and simultaneously put in a call for help from another PCV about what to do regarding the financial situation I was in.As I was beginning to explain to her the situation (i.e. vent), the phone cut out, the network died. I somehow wasn’t surprised. A few minutes later, I was summoned to the baby shower to help braai.

I showed up and one of the women said, “Do we put the foil on now?” I said, “You don’t know how to braai?” She said, “No.” Then I said, “Oh… and you think I know how to braai…” She said, “Yes.” Then I said, quite loudly and with a slight guffaw, ”Oh… God help you…“ and was called into the house where the rest of the women had gathered.

Inside was muggy and hot and filled to the brim with women forced to wear skirts and shed their shoes by tradition. We waited for another 30 minutes inhaling the scent of each other’s’ feet until the guest of honor came out wearing nothing but an embarrassed look, a black bra, a pair of red boxer shorts, and condoms tied to both her earrings. “Here comes the charlot!” they yelled. After opening prayers, welcoming remarks, and introduction of guests—essential to all Botswana ceremonies, workshops, presentations, and apparently, baby showers-- we thus proceeded to play a game of introduction, in which everyone was given a piece of yarn and for every time we were able to wrap the yarn around our finger, we had to say something about ourselves, until the yarn ran out. Then we played a game where everyone had to cut a piece of yarn and then compare the length of their yarn with the size of Seboku’s pregnant belly. Those whose yarn failed to wrap around her circumference were punished by getting attacked with baby powder. (I, of course, didn’t understand any of this game until after the punch line was given, and I wasn’t handed the yarn so I didn’t participate).

Then came a game in which we had to go around and guess the baby’s name. More people in the process were baby-powder-punished for speaking out of line or making crude jokes. In the end, the losers (I don’t know how they were determined) were further punished by being forced to dance in the center of the room. After that was over, we were all forced to stand up and dance in our spots, or risk further “punishment.” A conga linewas formed in the small space to the sounds of “I will not say Ching Chang, I want to say Ching Chong,” leaving a spot in the middle where everyone, except me, took turns jumping into the circle and “getting down!” (they yelled) or else risk getting baby-powdered. I refused and, instead, thought seriously about the implications of a group of women dancing and yelling “get down!!” at each other from a feminist point of view. I realized at this point I was taking myself way too seriously, but lacked the energy to force myself to “get down” with them despite everything. Boy, those women know how to dance!

Then came a drinking game! Seboku got to choose 3 victims who raced to chug a glass of grape juice. The winner was punished. More dancing ensued.

Then, more people were chosen by Seboku. The chosen ones had to bring a coin to the center of the room while holding the coins between their knees. Then they had to drop the coin onto a paper plate. Those who failed were punished by being forced to dance while getting baby-powedered. The dancer was SO good that she got to choose more people who were punished and had to dance. Baby powder flew, more dancing ensued. Then everyone had to get up and dance, and people who didn’t get up fast enough or who were eyeballed by the M.C. got baby-powdered (i.e. Me.)

Afterwards, we played my favorite game. Guess the gender of the baby and guess the date that the baby will be born. I thought there would be no winners or losers in this game. But alas, I was incorrect, the pregnant woman lost and got punished. Afterwards, I was hoping we would guess the size and weight of the placenta as well, but instead, we danced.

Then everyone except me played a game in which Seboku was asked how on earth she wound up dressed in nothing but red boxers, a black bra, and condom earrings with a big belly. First she said she ate a lot of beans. Then she ran out of ideas, so other people took turns making up stories. As the game went on, someone would call out a “dipotso,” or question, and challenge the story line. An addendum to the story would be made. Then another question was called, another addendum. This continued for what felt like hours and I began to despair and realize just how cranky I was and how much I was beginning to hate Setswana. The game would’ve been hella fun had I understood anything or sat next to some friends, but as it was, I just stood by the door and tried to get some relief from the hot muggy air without drawing attention to myself. After what seemed like forever, it was 10PM and Seboku was finally asked to string all the story pieces together. There were loud claps, a closing prayer, and heaping plates of paleche, coleslaw, pork, Boer worst, and chakalaka were served. A few women instantly got up from their seats, put on their shoes, and drank in the cool thick air outside. I ate Botswana style with my bare hands and felt very cultured while we all sat (or stood) and chewed in silence. Then the music came back on and people began dancing. I went home.

Oh and by the way, during the orphan support group meeting, we had way too much food because only 20 people showed up, he told me to expect 150. In the end, the agenda wasn’t complete because there weren’t enough people there. We postponed the meeting to January. Then there was a scramble as everyone grabbed the leftover food and drink. I watched my hard earned money walk away in the form of biscuits and cheese curls clutched in the fists of toddler, teenagers, dogs, and elderly alike.

11-21-2010

I woke up at a 7:20 AM to the sounds of rushing water a few feet away from my head. As I gained consciousness, I realized that, despite my locked gate, someone had come into my compound and was getting water from the rain water tank that stood right outside my bedroom window. I weighed my options: be a creeper and scare him from my window, spy on him as he leaves to see who it is, go outside guns blaring to shame him into asking permission, or let it go and lock the tap after he’s gone. It’s not that I don’t want to give people water, it’s just that it’s not drought season and if they use the water for things like laundry now, they won’t have any water later for things like drinking or bathing. The fact is, the reason we don’t have water is because the pump at the borehole malfunctioned. This usually doesn’t last more than a day, but if a hoard of people come and take the water from the rain-water-tank (I will refer to this thing as a “jo jo” tank or a “metsi ya pula”- metsi is water, pula means rain) every time the tap goes out to do their laundry or whatever, we’ll all be fucked when we actually need water. This is a concept that is truly a non-african ideal; saving for a rainy day. No one here does it, it’s simply not in the culture.What really gets me is that I haven’t even used my own metsi ya pula yet. I haven’t needed to, I store some extra water in a 1 liter bottle for these occasions and wait till the borehole pump begins working again.

That said, I spent the next 30 minutes sleepily rummaging through the odds and ends in my house to find a small padlock, which I found, and quietly fetched some water for myself and locked the tap. (I decided to do my own laundry since everyone else in the village is benefiting from my tank now except me). As I was scrubbing away at a skirt in my bathroom sink with the tiniest bit of water I could use, I heard a commotion outside followed by a knock on my door. I held my breath. Another knock. I stopped scrubbing and started to knead silently. “Wame!” I heard a small girl’s voice. “Wame!” I thought about a drunk looking man who stopped by my house last night asking for water. Thato, my neighbor was just then carrying a liter of water out of my house to give to the water-maintenance people who were preparing to go to the borehole and fix the problem. I was whining to her about all of the people coming to get water from the tank when it’s not even drought season, so at the time, I looked at the man and his empty bottle and said no. Then Thato gave the man some of the water in the liter bottle I gave her and said she’d refill it from whatever was left in her pipes. I felt like a miser.

“Wame!” A sharp rasp on my window. “Wame! I am asking for water!” the voices subsided for a few seconds and then I heard another sharp rasp on the window in my bedroom. “Wame!” This time there were two voices, one sounded like an adolescent boy. “Wame!!” I could feel their eyes burning a hole through my walls, searching for signs of “Wame.” “Wame!!!” I could hear footsteps around the side of the house, the back of my house, then to the front again. “Wame! I am asking for water!” the voices suddenly got shriller, more desperate. I stopped kneading my skirt and stared straight ahead at the bathroom wall. I knew I was safe in this room, that no one could see me. I could essentially hide here forever and people would think I wasn’t home. But… the bible verse about Jesus asking for food and drink came into my head. I argued with myself, this wasn’t the same situation. These people aren’t thirsty—or are they? How cruel am I for denying people water! Please come back another time, I thought to myself. Come back later, when I’m in a better mood. Besides, it’s too late now to come to the front door. What would I say? I was sleeping? I was bathing? I was listening to music? I was paralyzed. “Wame!! I AM ASKING FOR WATER! WAME!!” I stood there staring straight ahead, my hands still soaked in soapy water. For what seemed like forever, I was in an imaginary standoff with the invisible voices outside. Then the noises started to fade and I realized that the girl was still yelling my name as she left the compound. “Wame! I am asking for water! Wameeee…” Then silence. I waited. I sat on the bathtub and waited some more. I padded softly to my spare bedroom in the back of my house and lay down. I waited some more. Finally, I emerged and peeked through my window.

There was no one in my yard, they had been polite enough to close the gate after them. Then I saw them, a group of girls ranging from very small to my age having a conference of sorts on the street outside my house. They stood around with empty water bottles. They were probably trying to figure out what to do.I felt horrible. There had to be another option. Other people with jojo tanks, the public jojo tanks, the ones at the clinic, the rac, the school, the hostel, I could name them all. I still felt horrible. What did they do before I came? When the house was empty for a few months and the jojo was locked? There had to be another option. I’m not turning them out on the street dying of thirst. I had already given P410 people to a cause I thought was desperate, P410 is 20% of my monthly allowance! I followed the ridiculous social guidelines and gave P100 to my counterpart’s farewell party. I bought a gift and a “gate pass” for the babyshower yesterday that cost me nearly P80. That’s nearly P600 of gifts in just one month! On top of that I had already given out all of my own water bottles. I had lost kitchenware, Tupperware, hardware to random strangers. I charge a minimum of 10 phones a week. Hell, I’ve devoted 2 years of my life to this place. Now they’re asking mefor water?

I remember back when I first arrived and kids started showing up at my place with big empty jugs asking for water from my tap. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were doing this because they were too lazy to walk to the public taps and I was a closer, more ignorant option. Later that month, I went away for a couple of days and Thato said that the tap outside my house was left open and was spewing water onto my lawn.

Thato. Thato, the saint. What would Thato do?

An hour later, the water came back.

2010-11-17T07:00:00.002-06:00

There’s a popular song here that includes the lyrics, “I don’t want to say ching chang, I want to say ching chong.” “Ching chang” is the kindly phrase that the tswana men use to describe the chinese language, much like the feeble attempts at the click that we use when we are pretending to speak the san language.

Well, if I had a ten bucks for every time I heard someone say “ching chong” or “ching chang” due to my presence, whether or not it was directed at me, I’d retire a happy person now and go back to the states. Today was no different. Except this time, after lunch, to add insult to injury, someone I consider my friend from the clinic in New Xade approached me and asked in the most wiley, self-arrogant manner, “How tall is a China Man?”

Let me premise the rest of the story by telling you first and foremost: I’m having a bad bad day. Possibly the worst day since that weekend I spent locked in my house crying right before Halloween. I woke up angry. Received text messages and phone calls that made me angry. Forced myself to participate in the many fun fun fun icebreakers reminiscent of childhood summer camps (I’m actually quite proud of myself for just doing it). And skipped half of the morning to go “home” (i.e. the couch I’m crashing on, I'm at a workshop) to cry, sleep it off and figure out myself before I totally snap. Given my incredibly poor mood, the reasons for which I will not go on about here, I thought I was surprisingly calm when I answered his question, “How tall is a chinaman?”

“Have you ever seen a chinaman?” I asked
“Yes” he said
“Then you tell me… Why are you asking?”
“Just answer the question, how tall is a china man?”
My eyes narrowed, “How tall is a Botswana man?”
He laughed as if this was funny. “Yes, He is.” He said.
“Yes he is what?” I asked. Goddamn it, I knew his meaning but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being understood.
“He is” he said laughing. What really gets me upset is that this man is probably the shortest grown-man in Botswana