I realized this weekend that it is much easier to feel like a real live Peace Corps volunteer when you are hot, sweaty, and exhausted, with blisters on your hands after a day of hard manual labor. Even though we all tried our hardest to enter Peace Corps without expectations, on some level I think most of us envisioned ourselves hard at work building things and working outside in some tropical setting, even after we were told that we were placed in offices and clinics in a mid-income country. It's what most people picture when they think of the Peace Corps, so it was very satisfying to have a day where we were doing exactly that. Mike, one of the Peace Corps volunteers up in Francistown, the second largest city in Botswana, works at a community center that focuses on orphan care in one of the more poverty stricken areas of the city. Usually on Saturdays, orphans from the surrounding area gather at the center to play football (soccer), have fun on the playground, and eat a meal provided by the center, but this week, Mike called on any available Peace Corps volunteers to come down to the center and help with some development projects he had planned. Eight of us were able to make it, and he put us to work tilling the soil for a planned community garden, clearing some land for a basketball court, starting a compost pile, and lining the driveway with tires so cars would avoid running over the football field. We arrived around 8am, and by lunch, we had accomplished more than any of us thought we could accomplish in one morning. The garden plots are ready for planting, the basketball court is about ready for cementing, composting has begun, and no one will be driving over the football field anytime soon. We were an absolute mess, covered in dirt, sweat, bruises, and blisters, but absolutely excited to have done something concrete and visible. Since Botswana is a mid-income country and we are mostly here to work on HIV/AIDS issues, we don't often get to see the results of our work. We discuss, educate, and attempt to work on behavior change, but never know how much of what we teach is taken home and used. Statistics can be helpful in the long run, but we are only here for two years, and it is very likely that we will never know how much of an impact we've really had on people's lives here. It can be very frustrating to work on programs without seeing results, so the occasional physical projects we come across can be very rewarding, and very helpful in boosting morale. And to see the kids get really excited about what we were doing, and wanting to help dig and rake, was just icing on the cake.
Of course, this weekend was Halloween in the States, so we couldn't let the occasion pass when we were already gathered together. We did the best we could to celebrate like we would back home, complete with candy corn, Thriller, and costumes thrown together from china shops or whatever we had at the house (one volunteer was a tree). We had a great time, even if we may have gotten a few extra stares from locals as we walked the streets of Francistown in our costumes.
Halloween is a fun holiday, and it was nice to be able to celebrate it, but it was a reminder that the real holidays will arrive quickly and that for the first time, I'll be thousands of miles from home and family and tradition. I'm a real sucker for the holidays, especially the tradition part, so I'm not expecting this to be easy. Luckily, our Peace Corps group has formed its own little family, and while I'm sure I'll still miss my real family like crazy, I think I'll survive. We already have our Thanksgiving menu planned out (although if anyone wants to send over anything to help make our feast more home-like, we would really appreciate it), and we're planning a big vacation to Victoria Falls and Zambia for Christmas. Even if I know I'll miss home, I can't help feeling like this will probably be one the more exciting holiday seasons I'll ever have!
Monday, November 1, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Life in a Picture
10/19/10
Sometimes I have the sneaking suspicion that I am actually living inside a child's drawing. You all know the kind I mean. The drawing with the straight line through the middle of it, with nothing below it, and bright blue skies above it. Puffy white marshmallow clouds often make an appearance. Green bushes and trees and maybe a large pink flower populate the horizon, and perhaps there is a small house with two windows and a triangular roof. And of course, the yellow sun smiles down from a corner, its rays reaching straight down to earth. Sometimes I walk out my door and it is all there before me, in bright Crayola colors. The rocky red-brown dirt stretches out before my feet like a carpet until it meets with a green line of acacia trees and bushes and perhaps a small hut with a cone shaped roof. From the roofs and tops of trees, the sky expands out, a blanket of impossible blueness above me, with the sun beating down its greetings overhead, daring me to be unhappy for even a moment. Really, sometimes the blue of the sky is so bold as to be impertinent, especially when one is trying to enjoy a bad mood. Sometimes the sky tries so hard to be blue that it actually reaches into purple, and then the lavender blossoms of the October trees fade into the sky at the horizon.
Other times, I find myself walking home in quite a different child's picture, this time dampened with the sprinklings of a little black rain cloud following high above me. Blue skies can be seen on all sides as I walk under its shadow, and the sun peeks in from a corner, smiling in amusement at the efforts of the small renegade cloud before quickly reasserting its dominance over the skies.
And now my little black rain cloud has followed me home, and I don't care if my neighbors all think I'm slightly deranged for standing under its showers, determined to get at wet as possible before it goes away. This is my first rain since May.
It's remarkably difficult to take things seriously when you suspect that you live in a child's drawing, but as a Peace Corps volunteer, I am obligated to serve where ever I am placed, imaginary or not, and to be serious on occasion, or I'd never get anything done. It is with great pride then, that I announce that I have managed to be serious long enough to get my first Peace Corps project off the ground and running. Yes, our first baby care class at Madiba Health Post was held this morning. The head nurse and I taught three pregnant women and one breastfeeding mother about the ins and outs of having a healthy pregnancy, from fetal development to nutrition to infection prevention. Our small class didn't have a lot to say, but they answered questions when asked, laughed in all the right places, and even showed special interest in exercise during pregnancy. I'm hoping to figure out a way to incorporate some appropriate stretches and exercises into one of the future classes, so if anyone has any expertise, be sure to let me know. Our turnout wasn't exactly what we'd expected, but it's a good starting place. As people keep telling me, there's a lot to be said for the education of even one person.
When I am not busy being serious, I am often living in dreamland, reading books upon books, which may account for the flights of fancy my imagination has been taking lately. The Peace Corps office has a small library, and volunteers are constantly exchanging books, but even that is not enough to keep up my appetite. I am forced to break my principles and read electronic books on my laptop, downloaded for free through Project Gutenberg, a wonderful site devoted to making all the old classics whose copyrights have expired available to the public at no cost. It has allowed me to read books like Jane Eyre, Peter Pan, and A Tale of Two Cities, and to reread favorites such as the Anne of Green Gables series and Romeo and Juliet. I never will like reading on a screen, though. There's something so satisfying about curling up with an actual book and turning real pages that a computer could never replace it.
And now it is time to be serious again- only this time I am serious about making dinner, since I have brought home boneless chicken breasts, a rare treat in these parts. Living in this culture that can't live without its precious meat, I am somehow becoming more and more of a vegetarian every day, and can't figure out why. I'm in no danger of becoming a real vegetarian though- my current excitement at the idea chicken cutlets is too great for that!
Sometimes I have the sneaking suspicion that I am actually living inside a child's drawing. You all know the kind I mean. The drawing with the straight line through the middle of it, with nothing below it, and bright blue skies above it. Puffy white marshmallow clouds often make an appearance. Green bushes and trees and maybe a large pink flower populate the horizon, and perhaps there is a small house with two windows and a triangular roof. And of course, the yellow sun smiles down from a corner, its rays reaching straight down to earth. Sometimes I walk out my door and it is all there before me, in bright Crayola colors. The rocky red-brown dirt stretches out before my feet like a carpet until it meets with a green line of acacia trees and bushes and perhaps a small hut with a cone shaped roof. From the roofs and tops of trees, the sky expands out, a blanket of impossible blueness above me, with the sun beating down its greetings overhead, daring me to be unhappy for even a moment. Really, sometimes the blue of the sky is so bold as to be impertinent, especially when one is trying to enjoy a bad mood. Sometimes the sky tries so hard to be blue that it actually reaches into purple, and then the lavender blossoms of the October trees fade into the sky at the horizon.
Other times, I find myself walking home in quite a different child's picture, this time dampened with the sprinklings of a little black rain cloud following high above me. Blue skies can be seen on all sides as I walk under its shadow, and the sun peeks in from a corner, smiling in amusement at the efforts of the small renegade cloud before quickly reasserting its dominance over the skies.
And now my little black rain cloud has followed me home, and I don't care if my neighbors all think I'm slightly deranged for standing under its showers, determined to get at wet as possible before it goes away. This is my first rain since May.
It's remarkably difficult to take things seriously when you suspect that you live in a child's drawing, but as a Peace Corps volunteer, I am obligated to serve where ever I am placed, imaginary or not, and to be serious on occasion, or I'd never get anything done. It is with great pride then, that I announce that I have managed to be serious long enough to get my first Peace Corps project off the ground and running. Yes, our first baby care class at Madiba Health Post was held this morning. The head nurse and I taught three pregnant women and one breastfeeding mother about the ins and outs of having a healthy pregnancy, from fetal development to nutrition to infection prevention. Our small class didn't have a lot to say, but they answered questions when asked, laughed in all the right places, and even showed special interest in exercise during pregnancy. I'm hoping to figure out a way to incorporate some appropriate stretches and exercises into one of the future classes, so if anyone has any expertise, be sure to let me know. Our turnout wasn't exactly what we'd expected, but it's a good starting place. As people keep telling me, there's a lot to be said for the education of even one person.
When I am not busy being serious, I am often living in dreamland, reading books upon books, which may account for the flights of fancy my imagination has been taking lately. The Peace Corps office has a small library, and volunteers are constantly exchanging books, but even that is not enough to keep up my appetite. I am forced to break my principles and read electronic books on my laptop, downloaded for free through Project Gutenberg, a wonderful site devoted to making all the old classics whose copyrights have expired available to the public at no cost. It has allowed me to read books like Jane Eyre, Peter Pan, and A Tale of Two Cities, and to reread favorites such as the Anne of Green Gables series and Romeo and Juliet. I never will like reading on a screen, though. There's something so satisfying about curling up with an actual book and turning real pages that a computer could never replace it.
And now it is time to be serious again- only this time I am serious about making dinner, since I have brought home boneless chicken breasts, a rare treat in these parts. Living in this culture that can't live without its precious meat, I am somehow becoming more and more of a vegetarian every day, and can't figure out why. I'm in no danger of becoming a real vegetarian though- my current excitement at the idea chicken cutlets is too great for that!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Preparation isn't Everything
10/13/10
I was prepared. I'd made signs and invitations in English and Setswana. I'd given a presentation to my clinic staff. I'd spent hours on a friend's computer doing research, and knew all of the effects and side effects of pregnancy and all the possible complications and warning signs. I had handouts on nutrition and the do's and do not's of pregnancy, and had 20 copies of each made (no small feat in Botswana). I had information on gestational diabetes, high blood pressure, and fetal alcohol syndrome, and knew all of my stages of fetal development. I had a notebook, a binder, a sign in sheet, and name tags. I knew women who were very excited about the class, and some who wanted to come even though they already had kids. The clinic staff was enthusiastic and telling everyone who came in about the class, and I was slightly worried that we would have more attendees than would be manageable.
I should have known.
I knew that no one would be there exactly at 2pm. Nothing starts on time in Botswana, so I waited patiently and without concern as the time passed and 2:30 came and went. By 3pm, however, I was slightly concerned. By 3:15, I had given up, and had put everything away and was chatting with one of the nurses about the heat and telling her stories about snow in New York, when a young woman showed up at the door, asking where the 'workshop' was. And that was it. One person. Weeks of preparation for an project that everyone thought was needed and useful, from my clinic staff to Peace Corps staff to local people on the street, and only one person turned up.
I could be disappointed. I could be negative and let this color my whole Peace Corps experience, and let myself spin back down into feeling useless and homesick. I could give up the whole project. In fact, if I thought that the lack of attendance showed that there was no interest or need for the project, the only responsible thing to do would be to give up the project. I can't teach something that people don't feel the need to know. But I honestly don't think that's the case here. My counterpart has been a nurse in Botswana for years, and she saw the need to teach new mothers how to have healthy pregnancies and births and how to care for their newborns before I even brought up the project idea. And I've never been met with anything less than enthusiasm when discussing the class with local women. Clearly, I will not be giving up on this so easily.
But why didn't anyone show up, if people seemed so enthusiastic? I was a little stumped at first, but after talking to my clinic staff and the one woman who did show up, I'm kicking myself for not seeing the obvious. We wanted to hold the class in the afternoon because that is when the clinic is the least busy, and we could put all our focus into the class. This makes sense until you realize that there must be a reason that people come to the clinics in the mornings and not the afternoons. Botswana is a morning oriented country. Work starts at 7:30am here. Everything opens at 7:30am. People are up with the sun, and generally have the majority of their chores for the day finished by noon. Afternoons are for relaxing, even at work. Lunch hour ends at 2pm, but not a lot gets done between then end of lunch and the end of the work day. I didn't really understand this before, and I still don't really understand it now, but that's the way life is here, and I'm not going to change it. If you want to do something serious in Botswana, the afternoon is not the time to do it. The most obvious reason however, is one that I should have seen immediately. We were asking pregnant women to walk to the clinic in the midday sun of the African summer! Walking around at 2pm in the full sun is uncomfortable enough, and I try to avoid doing it- I can't imagine doing it while pregnant. I wouldn't have come, either.
Every meeting in Botswana ends with a 'way forward', so I'll wrap up this entry with our 'way forward'. Our new strategy: captive audience. Our first class has been rescheduled for next Tuesday at 7:30am, when the clinic opens to long lines and crowds of people. All pregnant women who are waiting to be seen for regular checkups will be redirected to the class before being seen. This would never, ever fly in the US, and in fact would probably cause considerable outrage by ladies waiting to be seen who have other things to do with their day, but here in Botswana, this plan has serious potential. People here are used to waiting, and I have yet to see an outraged Motswana. And this is not my plan, but the plan of the midwife, who is co-teaching the class and who is responsible for seeing all pre-natal visits. Let's hope it works!
In other news, I had a fantastic time camping out in the salt pans at the beginning of the month, and will try to post some pictures. It's so liberating to finally be able to travel and see the rest of Botswana (and other Peace Corps volunteers)! It definitely makes sticking it out at site easier when you have something to look forward to. Although right now, my most anticipated events tend to be the times of day when I have running water. Now that it's summer and every day is over 90 degrees, my water seems to be on vacation. Since coming back from the pans, I haven't had an entire day with running water yet. It's especially fun when you've walked at least 6 or 7 miles, have been working and running errands all day, you have no clean clothes left, and you walk in your door in desperate need of a bath due to smelliness and sweatiness, turn on the water, and......nothing. It's my favorite part of the Peace Corps. My new favorite hobbies include collecting water in containers of all shapes and sizes, and turning the faucet on and off, whether the water is on or not. Either I turn it on and off in the pathetic hope that this will somehow make the water flow, or I am turning it on and off to admire the gush of water on the rare occasion that it's on. I am picturing my return to America being very much like the scene in Castaway when Tom Hanks spends his first night in civilization turning the lights on and off. Only I will be standing at the kitchen sink, joyfully splashing in the overabundance of running water. And showering. I anticipate setting a full week aside for showering.
On that happy thought, I'll end this entry, and hope for water when I get home!
I was prepared. I'd made signs and invitations in English and Setswana. I'd given a presentation to my clinic staff. I'd spent hours on a friend's computer doing research, and knew all of the effects and side effects of pregnancy and all the possible complications and warning signs. I had handouts on nutrition and the do's and do not's of pregnancy, and had 20 copies of each made (no small feat in Botswana). I had information on gestational diabetes, high blood pressure, and fetal alcohol syndrome, and knew all of my stages of fetal development. I had a notebook, a binder, a sign in sheet, and name tags. I knew women who were very excited about the class, and some who wanted to come even though they already had kids. The clinic staff was enthusiastic and telling everyone who came in about the class, and I was slightly worried that we would have more attendees than would be manageable.
I should have known.
I knew that no one would be there exactly at 2pm. Nothing starts on time in Botswana, so I waited patiently and without concern as the time passed and 2:30 came and went. By 3pm, however, I was slightly concerned. By 3:15, I had given up, and had put everything away and was chatting with one of the nurses about the heat and telling her stories about snow in New York, when a young woman showed up at the door, asking where the 'workshop' was. And that was it. One person. Weeks of preparation for an project that everyone thought was needed and useful, from my clinic staff to Peace Corps staff to local people on the street, and only one person turned up.
I could be disappointed. I could be negative and let this color my whole Peace Corps experience, and let myself spin back down into feeling useless and homesick. I could give up the whole project. In fact, if I thought that the lack of attendance showed that there was no interest or need for the project, the only responsible thing to do would be to give up the project. I can't teach something that people don't feel the need to know. But I honestly don't think that's the case here. My counterpart has been a nurse in Botswana for years, and she saw the need to teach new mothers how to have healthy pregnancies and births and how to care for their newborns before I even brought up the project idea. And I've never been met with anything less than enthusiasm when discussing the class with local women. Clearly, I will not be giving up on this so easily.
But why didn't anyone show up, if people seemed so enthusiastic? I was a little stumped at first, but after talking to my clinic staff and the one woman who did show up, I'm kicking myself for not seeing the obvious. We wanted to hold the class in the afternoon because that is when the clinic is the least busy, and we could put all our focus into the class. This makes sense until you realize that there must be a reason that people come to the clinics in the mornings and not the afternoons. Botswana is a morning oriented country. Work starts at 7:30am here. Everything opens at 7:30am. People are up with the sun, and generally have the majority of their chores for the day finished by noon. Afternoons are for relaxing, even at work. Lunch hour ends at 2pm, but not a lot gets done between then end of lunch and the end of the work day. I didn't really understand this before, and I still don't really understand it now, but that's the way life is here, and I'm not going to change it. If you want to do something serious in Botswana, the afternoon is not the time to do it. The most obvious reason however, is one that I should have seen immediately. We were asking pregnant women to walk to the clinic in the midday sun of the African summer! Walking around at 2pm in the full sun is uncomfortable enough, and I try to avoid doing it- I can't imagine doing it while pregnant. I wouldn't have come, either.
Every meeting in Botswana ends with a 'way forward', so I'll wrap up this entry with our 'way forward'. Our new strategy: captive audience. Our first class has been rescheduled for next Tuesday at 7:30am, when the clinic opens to long lines and crowds of people. All pregnant women who are waiting to be seen for regular checkups will be redirected to the class before being seen. This would never, ever fly in the US, and in fact would probably cause considerable outrage by ladies waiting to be seen who have other things to do with their day, but here in Botswana, this plan has serious potential. People here are used to waiting, and I have yet to see an outraged Motswana. And this is not my plan, but the plan of the midwife, who is co-teaching the class and who is responsible for seeing all pre-natal visits. Let's hope it works!
In other news, I had a fantastic time camping out in the salt pans at the beginning of the month, and will try to post some pictures. It's so liberating to finally be able to travel and see the rest of Botswana (and other Peace Corps volunteers)! It definitely makes sticking it out at site easier when you have something to look forward to. Although right now, my most anticipated events tend to be the times of day when I have running water. Now that it's summer and every day is over 90 degrees, my water seems to be on vacation. Since coming back from the pans, I haven't had an entire day with running water yet. It's especially fun when you've walked at least 6 or 7 miles, have been working and running errands all day, you have no clean clothes left, and you walk in your door in desperate need of a bath due to smelliness and sweatiness, turn on the water, and......nothing. It's my favorite part of the Peace Corps. My new favorite hobbies include collecting water in containers of all shapes and sizes, and turning the faucet on and off, whether the water is on or not. Either I turn it on and off in the pathetic hope that this will somehow make the water flow, or I am turning it on and off to admire the gush of water on the rare occasion that it's on. I am picturing my return to America being very much like the scene in Castaway when Tom Hanks spends his first night in civilization turning the lights on and off. Only I will be standing at the kitchen sink, joyfully splashing in the overabundance of running water. And showering. I anticipate setting a full week aside for showering.
On that happy thought, I'll end this entry, and hope for water when I get home!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Fitting In
Despite the arrival of summer in Botswana, bureaucratic confusion and lack of resources holding up my projects, and the fact that I am still owed large amounts of money by the runaway t-shirt man and a neighbor who doesn't like to pay for his electricity, I am having a good week. I can't explain it. There's no reason for it. The fact of the matter is that as I was staring out of the combi window, squished in the back as usual, watching the everyday chaos that is the Mahalapye mall at the close of business hours, the thought came to me: I like it here. I didn't mean to think this, and I never expected to think it. The thought floated up from nowhere and popped into my head, and surprised as I was to find it there, I discovered that I agreed, and allowed the thought to stay. I have no idea how long this thought will stay with me. It's quite possible, and even probable, that it will disappear as quickly as it came. For now, though, it is here. Maybe it's the bright yellow flowers that have sprung up everywhere in the last week. Maybe I'm still riding a post-IST wave of positive thinking, although I don't remember thinking this positively at IST. More likely, I think it is that I'm allowing myself to feel more open here. For a long time, I was on my guard all time, preventing harassment, unwanted attention, and even possible crime by refusing to speak to anyone. For a while, it seemed that even saying 'hello' to man was an invitation for a proposal, and that every conversation with any local was a stressful lesson in cultural differences. I looked the other way when passing people, and cringed when I heard someone call out “Lesh!!” (my Setswana name is Lesego, and Lesh is the nickname). I still have days like that, but lately I have been better about ignoring rude people and being friendly to everyone else. I even smile at people now! While I have been better about being open and treating people like neighbors instead of enemies to be avoided, I have also begun to feel more accepted in my community. I'm not sure which came first, but I think they may go hand in hand. I feel like I belong, so I am treated like I belong.
Some hints that I am starting to fit in:
-Most of the combi drivers know me and know exactly where to drop me off. None of them have called me 'baby' in weeks, and instead, some have started to call me 'sister'.
-The bus callers no longer yell “Gabs! Gabs!” in my face when I pass them (since all white people are assumed to be going to Gabs), and the taxi drivers no longer fall over themselves to bring me to the nearest lodge.
-I no longer quite know what to do with myself in crowds of non-Peace Corps white people. When I see a tour bus stopped in front of the grocery store, my instinct is to turn around and walk away to avoid the awkwardness. This should be fun when I get back to New York.
-When someone yells “Lesh!!” from across the street, I no longer cringe and pretend I didn't hear. I turn around, smile, and greet the other person- and lately, I have even started recognizing some of these people who seem to know me so well! This one is a patient at the clinic, this one is a student at the school, this one sells oranges at the bus rank....someday, I may even know their names.
-In taxis and on combis, people no longer stare at me as I get in. I have no idea if I've really met all these people or if they're just used to seeing the white girl in town, but I appreciate the lack of attention.
-I know exactly when to avoid the grocery stores and the atms (late afternoons at the end of the month when everyone gets paid, in case you're wondering), but I'm no longer afraid of the chaos and the long lines. Over thirty minutes in line to use the outdoor atm? No problem. There's a curb to sit on, and I'm sure I'll find someone interesting to talk to.
-I know three different ways to get to my clinic from my house, and the positives and negatives of each route (Is it too windy for the sandy path? Do I mind pushing through throngs of schoolchildren today?).
-In the two weeks since IST, I have only been proposed to once. This may be a record.
-I know which store to go to for every item I want, and where the best prices are- even though I'll still end up just going to Spar to get everything so I don't have to wander around town and check all of my bags at each store.
-I know better than the post office workers how much a stamp costs.
-My Motswana accent is close to being perfected. I now communicate mostly through various forms of “Ah!”, which can be used to express any emotion, I no longer use contractions, and I begin almost every sentence with “Ga ke re...” (“isn't it”), even when speaking to other Americans. This may also be fun when I go back to New York.
-My favorite 'fitting in' moment so far: I enter the internet cafe, and to my surprise, there are two very non-Motswana teenagers talking to the lady at the desk, who is by now a friend of mine. It's obvious that they're American, and when the leave, they struggle with the Setswana words for 'thank you', and end up asking the lady how to say it. She looks at me in shared amusement, and we both start to laugh as she tells them to ask me. I am a mess, even by Peace Corps standards, with my hair in braids, wearing an outfit I wouldn't be caught dead in if I were in America, and these blonde haired, wide eyed kids look at me in confusion as I tell them:
“Ke a leboga!”
Some hints that I am starting to fit in:
-Most of the combi drivers know me and know exactly where to drop me off. None of them have called me 'baby' in weeks, and instead, some have started to call me 'sister'.
-The bus callers no longer yell “Gabs! Gabs!” in my face when I pass them (since all white people are assumed to be going to Gabs), and the taxi drivers no longer fall over themselves to bring me to the nearest lodge.
-I no longer quite know what to do with myself in crowds of non-Peace Corps white people. When I see a tour bus stopped in front of the grocery store, my instinct is to turn around and walk away to avoid the awkwardness. This should be fun when I get back to New York.
-When someone yells “Lesh!!” from across the street, I no longer cringe and pretend I didn't hear. I turn around, smile, and greet the other person- and lately, I have even started recognizing some of these people who seem to know me so well! This one is a patient at the clinic, this one is a student at the school, this one sells oranges at the bus rank....someday, I may even know their names.
-In taxis and on combis, people no longer stare at me as I get in. I have no idea if I've really met all these people or if they're just used to seeing the white girl in town, but I appreciate the lack of attention.
-I know exactly when to avoid the grocery stores and the atms (late afternoons at the end of the month when everyone gets paid, in case you're wondering), but I'm no longer afraid of the chaos and the long lines. Over thirty minutes in line to use the outdoor atm? No problem. There's a curb to sit on, and I'm sure I'll find someone interesting to talk to.
-I know three different ways to get to my clinic from my house, and the positives and negatives of each route (Is it too windy for the sandy path? Do I mind pushing through throngs of schoolchildren today?).
-In the two weeks since IST, I have only been proposed to once. This may be a record.
-I know which store to go to for every item I want, and where the best prices are- even though I'll still end up just going to Spar to get everything so I don't have to wander around town and check all of my bags at each store.
-I know better than the post office workers how much a stamp costs.
-My Motswana accent is close to being perfected. I now communicate mostly through various forms of “Ah!”, which can be used to express any emotion, I no longer use contractions, and I begin almost every sentence with “Ga ke re...” (“isn't it”), even when speaking to other Americans. This may also be fun when I go back to New York.
-My favorite 'fitting in' moment so far: I enter the internet cafe, and to my surprise, there are two very non-Motswana teenagers talking to the lady at the desk, who is by now a friend of mine. It's obvious that they're American, and when the leave, they struggle with the Setswana words for 'thank you', and end up asking the lady how to say it. She looks at me in shared amusement, and we both start to laugh as she tells them to ask me. I am a mess, even by Peace Corps standards, with my hair in braids, wearing an outfit I wouldn't be caught dead in if I were in America, and these blonde haired, wide eyed kids look at me in confusion as I tell them:
“Ke a leboga!”
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Apologies and Updates
To be perfectly honest, I am slightly afraid to begin this entry. It's been so long since I wrote an entry, that I am afraid that either I will find that I have forgotten how to write and everyone will be disappointed, or that I will find that I have too much to write about and won't finish until morning. I'll try to keep a good pace without leaving anything out.
First, I feel that I should provide some reason for not writing for almost two months. Sadly, I have no good reason, but I'll try to explain anyway. I would love to say that I was too busy, but that's certainly not the case at all, although hopefully someday it will be. The truth of the matter is that I simply didn't have anything to say, at least not anything that I wanted to put onto a public website. I said in my last entry that I was starting to feel at home here and that life was beginning to feel ordinary. If I was living an ordinary life and nothing seemed momentous and important, then what could I possibly write about? I know it's hard to fathom that living in Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer can be boring and mundane, but I assure you that it can be, and often is. I went to the clinic in the mornings, puttered around, helping in various small ways, went home for lunch, and spent my afternoons and weekends getting to know my community resources, grocery shopping, and doing laundry. I was still on lockdown, so travel and adventure were out of the question, and being settled and comfortable in my house and community, nothing seemed extraordinary to me. Nothing to write home about, so to speak.
Let me also explain that while my living situation was becoming so settled, my emotions were still anything but. Yes, I got used to life here, but I'm still getting used to living so far from home. I've never been one to be homesick (well, at least not in the last 10 or 15 years, in case anyone who knew me back then is reading and wants to call me out on this). I'd go off on my adventures without looking back, and although I'd be happy to see my friends and family again, I was usually sorry to come home and would miss the place I'd left for weeks afterward. I still miss some of those places today. I think if you'd have asked some of my friends and family about their concerns regarding me joining the Peace Corps, at least a few would have said that there was a good chance I'd fall in love with my assigned country and never want to come home. I can say now with great confidence that they should no longer be concerned about that. I like Botswana, I like most of the people I've met, and I think I'm going to like my work here very much, but I have not fallen in love with it, and I don't think I ever will. That's been hard for me to accept, and I didn't know how to express that without the negativity. I also have been more homesick here than I ever expected to be, and that's difficult for me to say too, akin to admitting weakness. My family has gone through a lot of major changes since I left, and it's been tough to sit it out here without participating and with minimal communication. My family might be challenging sometimes, but they're probably what I miss the most. I have great friends here, but I've also found it tough to not be able to talk to my old friends whenever I want to- and even harder to miss their weddings! I miss being able to drive, I miss going to church, I miss being a youth minister at AYM, I miss being the Girls 4 cabin counselor at Camp Adventure, I miss mountains and lakes and the ocean, I miss real trees, and I miss speaking fluent, fast English and being understood. And daily hot showers. And having a kitchen table. And knowing what the heck is going on in the rest of the world.
Anyway, the point is that following my birthday, I had over a month where I walked the balance between not having anything to say and following the old rule: “if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.” Hence the lack of blog-writing.
You might be adding up the time, and realizing that I haven't accounted for the last few weeks. Don't worry, I'm getting there. From August 25th to September 9th, I was in Gaborone for in-service training, along with all the volunteers in the Bots 9 group. We lived at a lodge for two weeks, spending our weekdays at lengthy training sessions on such topics as project management and volunteerism, and our nights and weekends generally re-living the college dorm experience, complete with 80's night and karaoke. Gaborone is a relatively small but modern city, with government buildings, large churches, many lodges, and several mall areas. Our lodge was walking distance from the Riverwalk Mall, which could be compared to just about any mall on Long Island. It has clothing stores, home goods stores, a book store, a few overpriced specialty shops, a movie theater, two enormous American-style grocery stores, and restaurants and a coffee shop- you can even get pizza there (which we did, of course, on the first day). We spent a lot of our time there, but I'll highlight some non-Riverwalk IST experiences. One night our lodge was overrun by poets of every southern African nationality, and we were invited to attend their poetry slam/open mic in the conference room. I'm not especially into poetry, especially spoken poetry, but having nothing better to do, I went with a few other volunteers. I am so glad I did. Although spoken poetry still feels a little awkward to me, these people were amazing performers, and they incorporated so much passion and music into their work that I felt lucky to be in the audience. A very talented Bots 8 volunteer performed an song, and at some point, she must have mentioned me to them, because before I knew it, I was up on the stage. I didn't have anything prepared (certainly nothing original) and I know it wasn't my best performance, but everyone was very supportive, and it felt great to be included in the group.
Another night, we heard that a local cafe/bar was having a salsa night, and since one of our volunteers had done a previous term of service in Mexico, and it happened to be his birthday, we decided to go. We spent an hour learning and practicing salsa in someone's hotel room, and were eager to get to the bar to try it for real. However, when we got there, they were cleaning up, and there was no music playing! Salsa night was canceled, but we were a determined group of people without a backup plan. After many rounds of negotiations, the bar was re-opened, another volunteer sped over with some salsa music, drinks were provided at a discounted price, and the dancing began. We were practically the only ones there, but we can make our own party, and it ended up being a pretty good night. Who'd have thought I'd learn to salsa in Botswana?
The best experience by far, though, was our day at Mokgolodi Game Reserve. About a half an hour outside of Gaborone, Mokgolodi contains all kinds of animals that are allowed to roam the reserve, including leopards, giraffes, rhinos, and wildebeest. Unfortunately, we arrived around midday, which is apparently naptime for most of the wild animals of Botswana. We did, however, get to see kudu, hippos, warthogs, baboons, and many, many impala. Not very impressive, you might think. We thought the same. Until we got to the hyenas and cheetahs, of course. The hyenas are kept in an enclosure, but they were lounging near the fence. There are some hyenas on the reserve that are allowed to roam freely, but these spotted hyenas were raised as pets until their owner got nervous when they appeared large enough to eat his small children. I don't blame him- hyenas are much larger in person than I'd imagined them to be! The cheetahs are also kept in an enclosure, but having paid extra and signed the required waiver, we were allowed inside with them. We had no idea what to expect as we went through the double gate in our safari jeep- it felt a little like being in Jurassic Park. We were told that these cheetahs were twin brothers, orphaned at a young age and rescued and kept by the reserve. They are now 14 years old, old men in the cheetah world, although still pretty active around feeding time or when taunted by impalas hanging around outside the enclosure. When we met the first one, though, he was napping on the side of the dirt path. Our guide got out first, walked over slowly, and then stooped down and began stroking the cheetah's head and rubbing and tussling it as if it were an oversized house cat. We held our breaths- until the purring started. Powerful purring, loud enough to be heard by everyone and to be picked up by the weak microphone on my camera's video recorder. Each of us took our turn, careful to follow the guides instructions to touch only the cheetah's head and to approach from behind him. The fur on his head was matted and a bit rough, but he leaned into each touch and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the experience. I longed to touch the rest of his fur, which looked much softer and shinier, but as I enjoy the use of both my arms, I didn't dare. We stayed with the first one for a long time, getting more and more comfortable with the idea that we were petting a cheetah, even through a scary but thrilling moment when the cheetah rolled over as a volunteer was petting him, and reached out his arm so that his paw was resting on the volunteer's arm. Eventually, though, it was time to move on and meet the other cat. This one, too, was napping, and barely noticed our arrival and consequent petting and photo-taking. He was darker in color than the other, with more prominent markings, and stretched out sleeping in the sun, he reminded me of a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip. As we took turns petting, I looked back through the brush to the other cheetah, and to my shock, he was no longer lounging, but walking straight toward us! Jealous of our attention to his brother, he sauntered past us and meaningfully plopped down next to his brother and stretched out lazily. Of course we set out petting and photographing both cats immediately until it was finally time to leave and finish our game drive. We met up with the rest of our group at the reserve's restaurant, where we learned never to order calamari in the desert, and then piled into the combi and headed back to the hotel and Riverwalk, where a bunch of us went out for Indian food. All in all, I would say that it was a very successful day. How many people can say that they have petted a live cheetah?
IST ended with a language exam (my score was intermediate high) and a counterpart workshop, where our counterparts and supervisors were invited to spend two days working with us to shape our plans for the rest of our service. Luckily, I have a wonderful counterpart, and we had already taken time to discuss all of these things, so everything went smoothly. Now I am back in Mahalapye, and slowly starting to figure out how to turn these plans into a reality. I have two major projects at the clinic that should be implemented within the month, and I'm pretty excited to have something concrete to do. The first is a baby care class, inspired by the events described in previous entries, which showed the difficulty of caring for a newborn with little education or support. The class will be held every Tuesday afternoon, and it will cover subjects such as nutrition for the pregnant or breastfeeding mother, forming a birth plan, caring for the newborn at home, and emergency care. It will be a 10 week course, and parents who attend each class will receive a certificate at the end. My counterpart is a midwife, and while I have been working on the structure and curriculum for the classes, she will be teaching the bulk of the material. She's as excited as I am, and is even talking about expanding the class to other clinics if it's successful at ours. The other project is not quite as far along yet, but I don't think it will be too difficult to plan and implement. Our clinic is a youth friendly clinic, but currently, it is youth friendly in name only. The nurses are trained to be sensitive to youth, but no special effort is made to reach out to that population. This new project will require that every Thursday afternoon will be reserved for youth only, giving young people the chance to utilize the clinic without being surrounded by crying babies and potentially critical older relatives and neighbors. We will have educational material available, extra efforts will be made to ensure privacy, HIV testing and counseling will be available, and we will hold games and activities to draw the youth in. I'm a little concerned that the hours (2-4:30pm) will be too restrictive for youth attending school, but we have a number of out of school youth in the area, and in Botswana, the definition of youth extends to 29 years, far past school age. We'll see how it works out and how well attended youth hours will actually be.
I'll try to update more frequently than once every couple months, but don't hold it against me if I don't. Maybe it will mean that I'm finally busy and doing something meaningful with my time here!
First, I feel that I should provide some reason for not writing for almost two months. Sadly, I have no good reason, but I'll try to explain anyway. I would love to say that I was too busy, but that's certainly not the case at all, although hopefully someday it will be. The truth of the matter is that I simply didn't have anything to say, at least not anything that I wanted to put onto a public website. I said in my last entry that I was starting to feel at home here and that life was beginning to feel ordinary. If I was living an ordinary life and nothing seemed momentous and important, then what could I possibly write about? I know it's hard to fathom that living in Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer can be boring and mundane, but I assure you that it can be, and often is. I went to the clinic in the mornings, puttered around, helping in various small ways, went home for lunch, and spent my afternoons and weekends getting to know my community resources, grocery shopping, and doing laundry. I was still on lockdown, so travel and adventure were out of the question, and being settled and comfortable in my house and community, nothing seemed extraordinary to me. Nothing to write home about, so to speak.
Let me also explain that while my living situation was becoming so settled, my emotions were still anything but. Yes, I got used to life here, but I'm still getting used to living so far from home. I've never been one to be homesick (well, at least not in the last 10 or 15 years, in case anyone who knew me back then is reading and wants to call me out on this). I'd go off on my adventures without looking back, and although I'd be happy to see my friends and family again, I was usually sorry to come home and would miss the place I'd left for weeks afterward. I still miss some of those places today. I think if you'd have asked some of my friends and family about their concerns regarding me joining the Peace Corps, at least a few would have said that there was a good chance I'd fall in love with my assigned country and never want to come home. I can say now with great confidence that they should no longer be concerned about that. I like Botswana, I like most of the people I've met, and I think I'm going to like my work here very much, but I have not fallen in love with it, and I don't think I ever will. That's been hard for me to accept, and I didn't know how to express that without the negativity. I also have been more homesick here than I ever expected to be, and that's difficult for me to say too, akin to admitting weakness. My family has gone through a lot of major changes since I left, and it's been tough to sit it out here without participating and with minimal communication. My family might be challenging sometimes, but they're probably what I miss the most. I have great friends here, but I've also found it tough to not be able to talk to my old friends whenever I want to- and even harder to miss their weddings! I miss being able to drive, I miss going to church, I miss being a youth minister at AYM, I miss being the Girls 4 cabin counselor at Camp Adventure, I miss mountains and lakes and the ocean, I miss real trees, and I miss speaking fluent, fast English and being understood. And daily hot showers. And having a kitchen table. And knowing what the heck is going on in the rest of the world.
Anyway, the point is that following my birthday, I had over a month where I walked the balance between not having anything to say and following the old rule: “if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.” Hence the lack of blog-writing.
You might be adding up the time, and realizing that I haven't accounted for the last few weeks. Don't worry, I'm getting there. From August 25th to September 9th, I was in Gaborone for in-service training, along with all the volunteers in the Bots 9 group. We lived at a lodge for two weeks, spending our weekdays at lengthy training sessions on such topics as project management and volunteerism, and our nights and weekends generally re-living the college dorm experience, complete with 80's night and karaoke. Gaborone is a relatively small but modern city, with government buildings, large churches, many lodges, and several mall areas. Our lodge was walking distance from the Riverwalk Mall, which could be compared to just about any mall on Long Island. It has clothing stores, home goods stores, a book store, a few overpriced specialty shops, a movie theater, two enormous American-style grocery stores, and restaurants and a coffee shop- you can even get pizza there (which we did, of course, on the first day). We spent a lot of our time there, but I'll highlight some non-Riverwalk IST experiences. One night our lodge was overrun by poets of every southern African nationality, and we were invited to attend their poetry slam/open mic in the conference room. I'm not especially into poetry, especially spoken poetry, but having nothing better to do, I went with a few other volunteers. I am so glad I did. Although spoken poetry still feels a little awkward to me, these people were amazing performers, and they incorporated so much passion and music into their work that I felt lucky to be in the audience. A very talented Bots 8 volunteer performed an song, and at some point, she must have mentioned me to them, because before I knew it, I was up on the stage. I didn't have anything prepared (certainly nothing original) and I know it wasn't my best performance, but everyone was very supportive, and it felt great to be included in the group.
Another night, we heard that a local cafe/bar was having a salsa night, and since one of our volunteers had done a previous term of service in Mexico, and it happened to be his birthday, we decided to go. We spent an hour learning and practicing salsa in someone's hotel room, and were eager to get to the bar to try it for real. However, when we got there, they were cleaning up, and there was no music playing! Salsa night was canceled, but we were a determined group of people without a backup plan. After many rounds of negotiations, the bar was re-opened, another volunteer sped over with some salsa music, drinks were provided at a discounted price, and the dancing began. We were practically the only ones there, but we can make our own party, and it ended up being a pretty good night. Who'd have thought I'd learn to salsa in Botswana?
The best experience by far, though, was our day at Mokgolodi Game Reserve. About a half an hour outside of Gaborone, Mokgolodi contains all kinds of animals that are allowed to roam the reserve, including leopards, giraffes, rhinos, and wildebeest. Unfortunately, we arrived around midday, which is apparently naptime for most of the wild animals of Botswana. We did, however, get to see kudu, hippos, warthogs, baboons, and many, many impala. Not very impressive, you might think. We thought the same. Until we got to the hyenas and cheetahs, of course. The hyenas are kept in an enclosure, but they were lounging near the fence. There are some hyenas on the reserve that are allowed to roam freely, but these spotted hyenas were raised as pets until their owner got nervous when they appeared large enough to eat his small children. I don't blame him- hyenas are much larger in person than I'd imagined them to be! The cheetahs are also kept in an enclosure, but having paid extra and signed the required waiver, we were allowed inside with them. We had no idea what to expect as we went through the double gate in our safari jeep- it felt a little like being in Jurassic Park. We were told that these cheetahs were twin brothers, orphaned at a young age and rescued and kept by the reserve. They are now 14 years old, old men in the cheetah world, although still pretty active around feeding time or when taunted by impalas hanging around outside the enclosure. When we met the first one, though, he was napping on the side of the dirt path. Our guide got out first, walked over slowly, and then stooped down and began stroking the cheetah's head and rubbing and tussling it as if it were an oversized house cat. We held our breaths- until the purring started. Powerful purring, loud enough to be heard by everyone and to be picked up by the weak microphone on my camera's video recorder. Each of us took our turn, careful to follow the guides instructions to touch only the cheetah's head and to approach from behind him. The fur on his head was matted and a bit rough, but he leaned into each touch and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the experience. I longed to touch the rest of his fur, which looked much softer and shinier, but as I enjoy the use of both my arms, I didn't dare. We stayed with the first one for a long time, getting more and more comfortable with the idea that we were petting a cheetah, even through a scary but thrilling moment when the cheetah rolled over as a volunteer was petting him, and reached out his arm so that his paw was resting on the volunteer's arm. Eventually, though, it was time to move on and meet the other cat. This one, too, was napping, and barely noticed our arrival and consequent petting and photo-taking. He was darker in color than the other, with more prominent markings, and stretched out sleeping in the sun, he reminded me of a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip. As we took turns petting, I looked back through the brush to the other cheetah, and to my shock, he was no longer lounging, but walking straight toward us! Jealous of our attention to his brother, he sauntered past us and meaningfully plopped down next to his brother and stretched out lazily. Of course we set out petting and photographing both cats immediately until it was finally time to leave and finish our game drive. We met up with the rest of our group at the reserve's restaurant, where we learned never to order calamari in the desert, and then piled into the combi and headed back to the hotel and Riverwalk, where a bunch of us went out for Indian food. All in all, I would say that it was a very successful day. How many people can say that they have petted a live cheetah?
IST ended with a language exam (my score was intermediate high) and a counterpart workshop, where our counterparts and supervisors were invited to spend two days working with us to shape our plans for the rest of our service. Luckily, I have a wonderful counterpart, and we had already taken time to discuss all of these things, so everything went smoothly. Now I am back in Mahalapye, and slowly starting to figure out how to turn these plans into a reality. I have two major projects at the clinic that should be implemented within the month, and I'm pretty excited to have something concrete to do. The first is a baby care class, inspired by the events described in previous entries, which showed the difficulty of caring for a newborn with little education or support. The class will be held every Tuesday afternoon, and it will cover subjects such as nutrition for the pregnant or breastfeeding mother, forming a birth plan, caring for the newborn at home, and emergency care. It will be a 10 week course, and parents who attend each class will receive a certificate at the end. My counterpart is a midwife, and while I have been working on the structure and curriculum for the classes, she will be teaching the bulk of the material. She's as excited as I am, and is even talking about expanding the class to other clinics if it's successful at ours. The other project is not quite as far along yet, but I don't think it will be too difficult to plan and implement. Our clinic is a youth friendly clinic, but currently, it is youth friendly in name only. The nurses are trained to be sensitive to youth, but no special effort is made to reach out to that population. This new project will require that every Thursday afternoon will be reserved for youth only, giving young people the chance to utilize the clinic without being surrounded by crying babies and potentially critical older relatives and neighbors. We will have educational material available, extra efforts will be made to ensure privacy, HIV testing and counseling will be available, and we will hold games and activities to draw the youth in. I'm a little concerned that the hours (2-4:30pm) will be too restrictive for youth attending school, but we have a number of out of school youth in the area, and in Botswana, the definition of youth extends to 29 years, far past school age. We'll see how it works out and how well attended youth hours will actually be.
I'll try to update more frequently than once every couple months, but don't hold it against me if I don't. Maybe it will mean that I'm finally busy and doing something meaningful with my time here!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
A Quick Birthday Update
Today is my birthday, and I have absolutely no plans. I thought I would be depressed by this, but it's actually a bit freeing. Usually I set up all kinds of plans and expectations only to be disappointed when they fall through- I don't have a very good track record when it comes to birthdays. This year, however, there is no way I will be disappointed. After being woken up at 6am by my family calling from New York to wish me a happy birthday, I went back to bed, and at noon, I am still there. In a few minutes, I will head out to town to use the internet and pick up some groceries, and that will be the extent of my birthday activities.
I did celebrate a little yesterday, with a birthday lunch at Mike and Geri's. Actually, it was more like a birthday feast, easily the best meal I've had since moving to Botswana. They grilled three enormous T-bone steaks and served them with chard, carrots, and potatoes, topped off with homemade carrot cake and Oreos for dessert. We sat for hours, feasting and discussing various issues surrounding our work here and sharing experiences. I am very lucky to share my site with such amazing, generous people.
As a quick follow-up to the previous entry, the baby is home and doing well. She spent four days in the hospital on IV antibiotics, having been diagnosed with an infection probably acquired during birth, and came home on Thursday afternoon. I've been over almost every day since, and have found some great new friends in Shana and Wilton. Shana knows me well enough to understand that I have a weakness for babies, and hands her baby over to me almost immediately upon my arrival. The baby is still tiny, but she is growing some extremely pudgy cheeks, and is the most alert newborn I have ever seen. She looks around at everything with her enormous eyes, trying her hardest to focus on things she couldn't possibly see clearly yet so that she often looks cross-eyed. Wilton and I discuss differences in culture and politics in Botswana, Zimbabwe, and the United States, and while we all share a collective homesickness, we also share an appreciation for where we are. I have been lending them movies, and Shana is now among the throngs of young women who have fallen under the spell of 'The Notebook.”
At some point between the MosadiMogolo match and this four day weekend, something changed for me. I can't quite figure out when or how it happened, but somehow I feel different. All of a sudden, life here isn't such a daily struggle. Small tasks and chores are no longer exhausting events, but mindless activities. Evenings are still long and boring, but I don't spend them listening for strange sounds and wishing to be home. The bus rank no longer feels overwhelming and chaotic, and crowded combi rides are routine. Even the small kids shouting 'lekgoa' at me as I pass have become just part of the scenery. Everything feels, well, ordinary. I get still get mental flashes reminding me that I am living thousands of miles away from home in Africa, but they don't get to me the way they used to. Of course I still miss my family and friends, but it's tolerable now. I don't spend every day in an active struggle not to call the country director to ask for a plane ticket home. I'm not saying that this is the end of my homesickness and that everything will be easy from here on out. In fact, I'm sure that's not the case at all. But this crazy Peace Corps experience is now my life, for better or for worse, and maybe I'm finally beginning to accept it.
I did celebrate a little yesterday, with a birthday lunch at Mike and Geri's. Actually, it was more like a birthday feast, easily the best meal I've had since moving to Botswana. They grilled three enormous T-bone steaks and served them with chard, carrots, and potatoes, topped off with homemade carrot cake and Oreos for dessert. We sat for hours, feasting and discussing various issues surrounding our work here and sharing experiences. I am very lucky to share my site with such amazing, generous people.
As a quick follow-up to the previous entry, the baby is home and doing well. She spent four days in the hospital on IV antibiotics, having been diagnosed with an infection probably acquired during birth, and came home on Thursday afternoon. I've been over almost every day since, and have found some great new friends in Shana and Wilton. Shana knows me well enough to understand that I have a weakness for babies, and hands her baby over to me almost immediately upon my arrival. The baby is still tiny, but she is growing some extremely pudgy cheeks, and is the most alert newborn I have ever seen. She looks around at everything with her enormous eyes, trying her hardest to focus on things she couldn't possibly see clearly yet so that she often looks cross-eyed. Wilton and I discuss differences in culture and politics in Botswana, Zimbabwe, and the United States, and while we all share a collective homesickness, we also share an appreciation for where we are. I have been lending them movies, and Shana is now among the throngs of young women who have fallen under the spell of 'The Notebook.”
At some point between the MosadiMogolo match and this four day weekend, something changed for me. I can't quite figure out when or how it happened, but somehow I feel different. All of a sudden, life here isn't such a daily struggle. Small tasks and chores are no longer exhausting events, but mindless activities. Evenings are still long and boring, but I don't spend them listening for strange sounds and wishing to be home. The bus rank no longer feels overwhelming and chaotic, and crowded combi rides are routine. Even the small kids shouting 'lekgoa' at me as I pass have become just part of the scenery. Everything feels, well, ordinary. I get still get mental flashes reminding me that I am living thousands of miles away from home in Africa, but they don't get to me the way they used to. Of course I still miss my family and friends, but it's tolerable now. I don't spend every day in an active struggle not to call the country director to ask for a plane ticket home. I'm not saying that this is the end of my homesickness and that everything will be easy from here on out. In fact, I'm sure that's not the case at all. But this crazy Peace Corps experience is now my life, for better or for worse, and maybe I'm finally beginning to accept it.
Tangled
The day started out exactly as I thought it would, with me hitting the snooze button and protesting the injustice of having to be up with the sun on a Sunday to an invisible audience. I stumbled through my morning routine (which has been whittled down to about 10 minutes), and sleepwalked to my clinic. I arrived seven minutes late, and was met by three members of our Mosadi Mogolo team. Three. Of course, this was also exactly what I expected. I always thought I had trouble showing up to events on time, but my habitual tardiness is nothing compared to that of nearly everyone here. Time runs differently here, and outstanding patience is the norm. There is never any fear that an event will start without a key person, or that a bus will leave while someone is using the restroom (or bush...). People here like to say that they respect and value people more than time, and while one might argue that making people wait isn't exactly showing respect, I guess they have a point. In any case, the three were soon joined by the rest of their teammates, who trickled in one by one, in no particular rush. Our transport, which was one of our district's ambulances, showed up 30 minutes after we were supposed to have left. Thirty minutes after that, we were finally on our way to our match in the neighboring village of Tewane, with the team crammed in the back of the ambulance.
Tewane is a very small village, and as the driver of the ambulance joked to me, it's not much more than a settled cattle post. There is a clinic there, but it falls under my clinic's ultimate responsibility. Despite their size, however, they have a team in the tournament, and they were well prepared to host us. We arrived at about 9am, and already the staff was hard at work cooking and setting up for the event. We were served tea and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Note that those are two different types of sandwiches here- peanut butter sandwiches and jelly sandwiches. I was laughed at when I suggested putting them together. I didn't get to eat anything though, because I waited for everyone else to go first, and then was called by my counterpart to head over to the field to help set up before it was my turn. I wasn't too upset though. Tea isn't really my thing, and 9am is a little early for peanut butter sandwiches, anyway.
If I hadn't realized before what a big event the Mosadi Mogolo World Cup is before, I sure know it now. Chairs were set up for the spectators, the field was marked, and a DJ was hired to provide traditional music. By 10:30am, the tournament finally began. While the other two teams played the first soccer match, my team was the first to go through the quiz portion. The entire quiz was in Setswana, so I really don't know any of the specifics, but I do know that the questions were about HIV/AIDS transmission and the PMTCT program, that it involved a demonstration of proper formula feeding technique, and that while my team did the best they could, they definitely struggled. I believe stage fright was their excuse. The questioning took a lot longer than I thought it would, and I was nearly as relieved as my team when it was over. We watched the rest of the first game together, and then it was our turn to play. As I mentioned before, I am not quite a Mosadi Mogolo yet, so I wasn't allowed to play. Eleven of our players went out with bright green jerseys and played their hearts out. They did well despite their lack of practice and some injuries, but it wasn't enough to defeat the other teams. I, on the other hand, was fighting a small battle of my own. The day was bright and sunny, and I had realized early on that I had forgotten sunscreen. I stayed in the shade as much as possible, but between the sun and the lack of food early in the day, I had set myself up for a long day. I ate some peanuts and raisins at the start of the first game, but I knew it wasn't enough. When halftime came around, I ate an orange, just like the rest of the players. Halfway through the orange, however, I realized that the thought of one more bite made my stomach twist, and that if I didn't find a seat somewhere fast, I was going to end up on the ground. Finding no available chair, I squatted in the dirt and put my head down, and stayed like that for quite some time, willing my food to stay in my stomach and my dizziness to subside long enough for me to stand up. Eventually one of the women on the team noticed me and offered her chair, where I stayed for the rest of the two games. By the end of of the final game, I was feeling slightly better, especially because I thought that the end of the games meant that I would soon be at home. I was wrong, as usual. We stayed to help pack up, and then we all made our way over to the community center where we were served traditional Setswana food for dinner. I choked some down, and waited, feeling guilty for not mixing in with everyone else and getting the most out of the experience. Finally, it was time to go. The ambulance brought us back to the clinic, and I walked home, feeling better and better as I got closer and closer to my bed.
Sadly, my bed would have to wait a while longer. On my family compound, there are four houses- mine, my landlord's, some lady's, and one very tiny shack occupied by a young Zimbabwean couple with a brand new baby. The new mother, Shana, is a patient at my clinic as well as my neighbor, so I'd been following her case pretty closely. She came into the clinic on Monday with some bleeding, and we sent her to the hospital, sure that they would deliver the baby by the end of the day. Instead, she stayed in the hospital, and didn't deliver until they finally did a c-section on Wednesday night. By Friday, she and the baby were home. This is Shana's first baby, and she is here in Botswana without a mother, sister, or an aunt to help her out, so I was sure to check on her on Friday and Saturday, and helped with washing the baby and answering some basic questions. She was doing pretty well, so I almost didn't check on them after the MosadiMogolo match. I was feeling sunsick and tired, it was already dark, and everything seemed to be going okay for them. However, I had promised that I would check on them when I got home, so I knocked on the door. The father, Wilton, was watching television, and Shana was lying on the bed next to the baby. “She's feeling a little warm today,” Shana told me casually when I asked how the baby was doing. The one room cement house was sweltering even in the chilly winter evening, so I wasn't surprised. Then she added that the baby hadn't been feeding well, a very alarming sign in a newborn. I unpeeled the layers of blankets to find a flushed, sleeping baby. Leaving all the blankets off, I ran to my house and dug through my Peace Corps health kit to find a disposable thermometer. I ran back and stuck it under the baby's arm, and made awkward conversation as we waited for the result. The minute passed, and I took the reading-102F. I'm not a doctor, but even I knew that was too high- it would be a high fever for me, let alone a 3-day old newborn. I texted my own mom as well as the head nurse at my clinic, who both confirmed that the baby would need to see a doctor as soon as possible. Not knowing how to go about this on a Sunday night in Botswana, I knocked on the door of my landlady, who is also a nurse in my district. She was horrified that the baby had been home all day with such a high fever and that she hadn't known about it, and after scolding the parents, she quickly arranged for transport to the hospital. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the car holding the baby in one arm and comforting the now frightened and sobbing new mother with the other. Bed was a distant dream. Fear is contagious, and I spent the car ride anxiously monitoring the baby's breathing and looking for signs of febrile seizure. We pulled up in front of the emergency entrance, and the three of us entered with no idea of what to do or where to go. I looked to the parents for direction, but they were looking to me in the same way. Finally someone told Wilton where he had to go to handle paying and checking in, while Shana and I were pointed in the general direction of the emergency room. In the emergency department, there was no receptionist at the desk. Every bench in the waiting room was full, mostly occupied by tired mothers and small children with dull, glassy eyes wrapped in blankets. It was obviously a busy night, but no one seemed rushed, and the bright lights and beeping machines and general atmosphere of chaos and slight panic found in any ER in the US was definitely missing. Instead, the room was dim and quiet, and the atmosphere was subdued, with an air of impatient resignation. Someone mercifully made room for Shana to sit down, since she was still recovering from her c-section, but I stood holding the baby while we waited, fighting hard to push away the dizziness and nausea I had been feeling earlier. We waited and waited, and Wilton came back, and we waited some more. No one seemed to be moving, so Wilton took the baby while I ventured into the actual emergency room to investigate. A man with a chunk of his leg missing was calmly rolled in past me on a stretcher, and two nurses sat at a small desk evaluating a patient. Upon questioning them, I learned that the hospital only keeps one doctor on duty in the emergency department after 4:30pm, and they were waiting for him to return from a call. This seemed an unacceptable and ridiculous policy to me, but there was nothing to be done about it. Eventually I cornered a nurse and explained our story, and she was able to give the baby some medication to keep the fever down while we waited. Shortly after that, we pushed our way into the consultation room regardless of whether it was our turn or not, and had the baby evaluated. The fever had barely budged, and the nurse decided (surprise, surprise) that the baby would have to see a doctor. They situated Shana and the baby with a bed. No one had any idea when the doctor would be coming back, and it looked like it would be a long night. I was prepared to settle in for the long haul, but Wilton made arrangements for someone to pick us up and bring us home for the night, while Shana would stay with the baby. I didn't like this arrangement one bit, since it would mean leaving them alone, but the point was made that if they were admitted at 2am, I would have no way to get home, so I reluctantly agreed. I left Shana with strict instructions to text me with any news or developments, and met our ride outside and went home at around 10pm. Finally faced with the opportunity to sleep, I was no longer tired. Actually, that's not accurate at all. I was exhausted beyond the point of sleep. I texted the nurse at my clinic and my landlady to let them know how the baby was doing, and spoke to my mom on the phone to debrief the evening's events. I took some medicine for the headache my fatigue had burst into, made myself something to eat, and wandered around the house aimlessly. Eventually, Shana texted me to let me know that they had been seen by the doctor and been admitted overnight, and I was able to settle down and head off to sleep.
The next morning, I arrived at work hours late, having beaten my alarm clock into submission when it rang at 7am. Everyone was very nice about it, and I ended up sitting in a room with our community health educator and our community mobilizer chatting about recent events. They were concerned about the baby of course, but they had more news for me: Eva had passed away over the weekend. I was saddened, especially thinking about her family, but not surprised. We were supposed to go for a follow up home visit the week before, but when it was time to go, we were informed that she had been admitted to the hospital. She was so weak and so sick that I couldn't help but feel a little relief for her, knowing that she's beyond suffering now. I didn't know her personally, not enough to truly mourn, but she will always be with me. She was the first AIDS patient I ever met, and she will live on as my motivation for working to prevent suffering like hers.
I knew when I was assigned with work in Botswana as a health volunteer specializing in HIV/AIDS that I would see all the comings and goings of life, births as well as deaths, but there is no way to understand what that really means until you really experience it. I am still at the beginning of my service, and I still don't fully understand it, but I am beginning to see that I will not be able to observe these events as an detached bystander. I have been here at site for less than two months and I am already tangled up and involved beyond my expectations, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Tewane is a very small village, and as the driver of the ambulance joked to me, it's not much more than a settled cattle post. There is a clinic there, but it falls under my clinic's ultimate responsibility. Despite their size, however, they have a team in the tournament, and they were well prepared to host us. We arrived at about 9am, and already the staff was hard at work cooking and setting up for the event. We were served tea and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Note that those are two different types of sandwiches here- peanut butter sandwiches and jelly sandwiches. I was laughed at when I suggested putting them together. I didn't get to eat anything though, because I waited for everyone else to go first, and then was called by my counterpart to head over to the field to help set up before it was my turn. I wasn't too upset though. Tea isn't really my thing, and 9am is a little early for peanut butter sandwiches, anyway.
If I hadn't realized before what a big event the Mosadi Mogolo World Cup is before, I sure know it now. Chairs were set up for the spectators, the field was marked, and a DJ was hired to provide traditional music. By 10:30am, the tournament finally began. While the other two teams played the first soccer match, my team was the first to go through the quiz portion. The entire quiz was in Setswana, so I really don't know any of the specifics, but I do know that the questions were about HIV/AIDS transmission and the PMTCT program, that it involved a demonstration of proper formula feeding technique, and that while my team did the best they could, they definitely struggled. I believe stage fright was their excuse. The questioning took a lot longer than I thought it would, and I was nearly as relieved as my team when it was over. We watched the rest of the first game together, and then it was our turn to play. As I mentioned before, I am not quite a Mosadi Mogolo yet, so I wasn't allowed to play. Eleven of our players went out with bright green jerseys and played their hearts out. They did well despite their lack of practice and some injuries, but it wasn't enough to defeat the other teams. I, on the other hand, was fighting a small battle of my own. The day was bright and sunny, and I had realized early on that I had forgotten sunscreen. I stayed in the shade as much as possible, but between the sun and the lack of food early in the day, I had set myself up for a long day. I ate some peanuts and raisins at the start of the first game, but I knew it wasn't enough. When halftime came around, I ate an orange, just like the rest of the players. Halfway through the orange, however, I realized that the thought of one more bite made my stomach twist, and that if I didn't find a seat somewhere fast, I was going to end up on the ground. Finding no available chair, I squatted in the dirt and put my head down, and stayed like that for quite some time, willing my food to stay in my stomach and my dizziness to subside long enough for me to stand up. Eventually one of the women on the team noticed me and offered her chair, where I stayed for the rest of the two games. By the end of of the final game, I was feeling slightly better, especially because I thought that the end of the games meant that I would soon be at home. I was wrong, as usual. We stayed to help pack up, and then we all made our way over to the community center where we were served traditional Setswana food for dinner. I choked some down, and waited, feeling guilty for not mixing in with everyone else and getting the most out of the experience. Finally, it was time to go. The ambulance brought us back to the clinic, and I walked home, feeling better and better as I got closer and closer to my bed.
Sadly, my bed would have to wait a while longer. On my family compound, there are four houses- mine, my landlord's, some lady's, and one very tiny shack occupied by a young Zimbabwean couple with a brand new baby. The new mother, Shana, is a patient at my clinic as well as my neighbor, so I'd been following her case pretty closely. She came into the clinic on Monday with some bleeding, and we sent her to the hospital, sure that they would deliver the baby by the end of the day. Instead, she stayed in the hospital, and didn't deliver until they finally did a c-section on Wednesday night. By Friday, she and the baby were home. This is Shana's first baby, and she is here in Botswana without a mother, sister, or an aunt to help her out, so I was sure to check on her on Friday and Saturday, and helped with washing the baby and answering some basic questions. She was doing pretty well, so I almost didn't check on them after the MosadiMogolo match. I was feeling sunsick and tired, it was already dark, and everything seemed to be going okay for them. However, I had promised that I would check on them when I got home, so I knocked on the door. The father, Wilton, was watching television, and Shana was lying on the bed next to the baby. “She's feeling a little warm today,” Shana told me casually when I asked how the baby was doing. The one room cement house was sweltering even in the chilly winter evening, so I wasn't surprised. Then she added that the baby hadn't been feeding well, a very alarming sign in a newborn. I unpeeled the layers of blankets to find a flushed, sleeping baby. Leaving all the blankets off, I ran to my house and dug through my Peace Corps health kit to find a disposable thermometer. I ran back and stuck it under the baby's arm, and made awkward conversation as we waited for the result. The minute passed, and I took the reading-102F. I'm not a doctor, but even I knew that was too high- it would be a high fever for me, let alone a 3-day old newborn. I texted my own mom as well as the head nurse at my clinic, who both confirmed that the baby would need to see a doctor as soon as possible. Not knowing how to go about this on a Sunday night in Botswana, I knocked on the door of my landlady, who is also a nurse in my district. She was horrified that the baby had been home all day with such a high fever and that she hadn't known about it, and after scolding the parents, she quickly arranged for transport to the hospital. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the car holding the baby in one arm and comforting the now frightened and sobbing new mother with the other. Bed was a distant dream. Fear is contagious, and I spent the car ride anxiously monitoring the baby's breathing and looking for signs of febrile seizure. We pulled up in front of the emergency entrance, and the three of us entered with no idea of what to do or where to go. I looked to the parents for direction, but they were looking to me in the same way. Finally someone told Wilton where he had to go to handle paying and checking in, while Shana and I were pointed in the general direction of the emergency room. In the emergency department, there was no receptionist at the desk. Every bench in the waiting room was full, mostly occupied by tired mothers and small children with dull, glassy eyes wrapped in blankets. It was obviously a busy night, but no one seemed rushed, and the bright lights and beeping machines and general atmosphere of chaos and slight panic found in any ER in the US was definitely missing. Instead, the room was dim and quiet, and the atmosphere was subdued, with an air of impatient resignation. Someone mercifully made room for Shana to sit down, since she was still recovering from her c-section, but I stood holding the baby while we waited, fighting hard to push away the dizziness and nausea I had been feeling earlier. We waited and waited, and Wilton came back, and we waited some more. No one seemed to be moving, so Wilton took the baby while I ventured into the actual emergency room to investigate. A man with a chunk of his leg missing was calmly rolled in past me on a stretcher, and two nurses sat at a small desk evaluating a patient. Upon questioning them, I learned that the hospital only keeps one doctor on duty in the emergency department after 4:30pm, and they were waiting for him to return from a call. This seemed an unacceptable and ridiculous policy to me, but there was nothing to be done about it. Eventually I cornered a nurse and explained our story, and she was able to give the baby some medication to keep the fever down while we waited. Shortly after that, we pushed our way into the consultation room regardless of whether it was our turn or not, and had the baby evaluated. The fever had barely budged, and the nurse decided (surprise, surprise) that the baby would have to see a doctor. They situated Shana and the baby with a bed. No one had any idea when the doctor would be coming back, and it looked like it would be a long night. I was prepared to settle in for the long haul, but Wilton made arrangements for someone to pick us up and bring us home for the night, while Shana would stay with the baby. I didn't like this arrangement one bit, since it would mean leaving them alone, but the point was made that if they were admitted at 2am, I would have no way to get home, so I reluctantly agreed. I left Shana with strict instructions to text me with any news or developments, and met our ride outside and went home at around 10pm. Finally faced with the opportunity to sleep, I was no longer tired. Actually, that's not accurate at all. I was exhausted beyond the point of sleep. I texted the nurse at my clinic and my landlady to let them know how the baby was doing, and spoke to my mom on the phone to debrief the evening's events. I took some medicine for the headache my fatigue had burst into, made myself something to eat, and wandered around the house aimlessly. Eventually, Shana texted me to let me know that they had been seen by the doctor and been admitted overnight, and I was able to settle down and head off to sleep.
The next morning, I arrived at work hours late, having beaten my alarm clock into submission when it rang at 7am. Everyone was very nice about it, and I ended up sitting in a room with our community health educator and our community mobilizer chatting about recent events. They were concerned about the baby of course, but they had more news for me: Eva had passed away over the weekend. I was saddened, especially thinking about her family, but not surprised. We were supposed to go for a follow up home visit the week before, but when it was time to go, we were informed that she had been admitted to the hospital. She was so weak and so sick that I couldn't help but feel a little relief for her, knowing that she's beyond suffering now. I didn't know her personally, not enough to truly mourn, but she will always be with me. She was the first AIDS patient I ever met, and she will live on as my motivation for working to prevent suffering like hers.
I knew when I was assigned with work in Botswana as a health volunteer specializing in HIV/AIDS that I would see all the comings and goings of life, births as well as deaths, but there is no way to understand what that really means until you really experience it. I am still at the beginning of my service, and I still don't fully understand it, but I am beginning to see that I will not be able to observe these events as an detached bystander. I have been here at site for less than two months and I am already tangled up and involved beyond my expectations, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Mosadi Mogolo
written 7/7/10
In two weeks, I will officially be a mosadi mogolo. Mosadi mogolo means 'old lady' here, which is most definitely not a derogatory term at all here. Rather, it is used to show respect, or when applied to someone who is obviously not an 'old lady', to draw out a chuckle. Of course, I am not an old lady, but according to the official rules of the Mosadi Mogolo World Cup, I will qualify as one when I turn 25 in two weeks. This brings back a memory of 10th grade history class, when one of my classmates declared to the teacher that life pretty much ends once you turn 25- not knowing that the next day was the teacher's 25th birthday. Now it is my turn, and 25 does not sound old at all, and life had better not end for me in two weeks. All that will happen, I am quite sure, is that I will finally be able to rent a car and book any hotel room I want in the US, and apparently, I will become a mosadi mogolo here.
The Mosadi Mogolo World Cup is my first community event here in Botswana, and our entire sub-district is participating, with nearly every town, village, and catchment area represented. The event is run by our district health team, and it involves a World Cup football (soccer) series in which only women over 25 years old can compete. There are weeks of matches, which will culminate in a World Cup final in about 3 weeks. The score of the football match is not the only factor in winning the cup, however. After the match, each team faces off to prove their knowledge of HIV/AIDS and the PMTCT (prevention of mother to child transmission program) program. Their score on the quiz round is added to their score in the football match to determine the winner. The event was run last year, but this is the first year that my clinic has put together a team, which started holding practices on Monday. We are the definition of underdogs, with very little skill and not even enough players to fill all the field positions, much less the reserves. But we have heart. These ladies, ranging in age from 25 to older than 60, show up for an HIV/AIDS study session every day from 2-3pm, and then practice from 3-5pm. They have a coach who runs drills and urges them to “kick with power”. It is a pretty funny sight, to see all these women of various ages and states of physical fitness running and kicking across the field, with their small children trailing after them laughing and imitating. I've never seen anything quite like it, but I admire them. They are serious during the study sessions, and ask questions about difficult English words like 'cryptococcal meningitis' and 'immunodeficiency', and they seem to really enjoy themselves out on the field. I hope they do well in our first match, which will be held on Sunday.
A few entries ago, I was explaining, and almost lamenting, that I didn't have a lot of activities to fill my days with. This has changed drastically in a very short time. Now I have all sorts of demands on my time, and I wonder how I will be able to keep this up once I really start working on projects. My clinic is demanding more and more of time as the H1N1 campaign rolls forward. As many as 50-60 people will show up in one morning to get the vaccine, and for an already understaffed clinic that also must attend to every other health need the community has, the situation can become overwhelming quickly. I am not allowed to administer vaccines, but just collecting the charts and documenting the vaccines takes a bit of the pressure off the nurses. I also answer the phone (although I don't think this helps much- Setswana is tough enough for me to understand in person, let alone on the phone, and I always have to get someone else anyway), find lab results, and count pills (but I don't distribute them, as that would be another big no-no for a PCV). The clinic is chaotic and crowded in the mornings, but empty and sleepy in afternoons, so I think if my clinic had its way, I would be there every morning. Of course, Botswana is a very morning-oriented country, so every other organization or school I want to meet and work with also wants me to come in the mornings- and there's only so many places I can be at once! To my clinic's dismay, I spent the first hour of the morning today at the local primary school, and I will be spending the entire day, morning included, at the senior secondary school. I understand that the clinic is busy and needs extra hands, but at some point we need to compromise. Peace Corps volunteers are supposed to be working on capacity building projects and community programs and education, not doing simple tasks that anyone can do and that the clinic staff will have to do on their own once the volunteer leaves. It's like hiring a teacher, but keeping her in the back office making photocopies. Of course I'll do the smaller tasks too. The clinic needs help with them, and I'm here to help. I'm not above it. But it's not all I should be doing. My primary job should be promoting the clinic's agenda and message out in the community and in the schools, and working within the clinic to help it provide better service to its patients. Putting stickers in charts is important, but not something to spend 20 hours a week doing.
Along with the needs of the clinic, the meetings I have had in the last couple weeks are slowly turning into real demands on my time. As I noted in previous entries, the secondary school is going to take a lot of my time, probably almost as much as the clinic. Yesterday, a man from the technical school stopped by the clinic to ask if I could help out with some life skills and health education issues, and I am waiting for his call to set something up. And today I spent part of my morning at a local primary school, and it looks like I will be spending a significant part of my time there, too. The kids range in age from 6-15, and although I will primarily be working with the guidance teacher on life skills and health, I'll probably also be helping out the teachers with their lessons, especially the English teachers. I was introduced to the entire school this morning, which was quite an experience. At the beginning of every day, the kids gather in lines according to age group in front of the school for the 'assembly'. Once gathered, they sing several songs (mostly religious, as is common anywhere in Botswana- it's also co-run by the Catholic church, so it makes even more sense here), and are spoken to by the headmaster, the guidance teacher, and a nun (also a teacher). Parts of these speeches seemed to be a practiced dialogue, and the kids knew all the responses. Because this is a primary school, everything was in Setswana, so I didn't really get a lot of it. After the speeches, it was my turn. As usual, I was introduced as being from the UK. Apparently the people here don't recognize accents well, because I've been told that I am from England, Australia, and South Africa- anywhere that there is an abundance of white people. Today at the clinic, I was told that I have a European voice. When I corrected the teacher and told the kids that I was from America, I got a collective awed gasp from my audience, followed by a louder one when I said that I was from New York. New York is one of the few American cities that everyone here recognizes, and I always get a good reaction when I tell people I lived near there. I blame Jay-Z, since I can't get through two days here without hearing “Empire State of Mind”. Anyway, the kids were very attentive, even if they were a bit giggly, and soon my part of the show was over. They sang a couple more songs, and were dismissed. Even the dismissal was orchestrated- the kids peeled off in their lines row by row while singing “We Are Marching in the Light of God”, and headed off to class. I stuck around and met the teachers, who seemed unconcerned that all of their students were sitting in their classrooms unattended while they were introduced to the strange American. After our meeting, I entertained the guidance teacher's class for a few minutes before heading back to the clinic while she attended to something. The kids in the class were 7 and 8 years old, and their English skills were minimal, so we were a bit limited. I taught them the word 'map' and drew one to show where I was from, and had them point out Botswana. Classes for this age are usually taught in Setswana, but when they are older, they will be taught in English only. This seems a little strange to me, almost like the kids are set up to fail. Some kids don't even speak Setswana at home. In Mahalapye this is less of a problem, but in some parts of the country, many people speak Kalanga or Sesarwa or Afrikaans at home. As one PCV put it on her blog (this won't be exact, but it was a good example), imagine growing up speaking English at home, but then starting school at age 6 and being taught in Spanish only. You are then taught French using Spanish, and when you hit high school, you are expected to learn everything else- science, math, history- in French, your third language. It would get a little confusing, to say the least. I can't imagine having to do it, but I'm impressed at how well these kids adapt to it. I'm having trouble just learning Setswana! I'm waiting for the guidance teacher's call to find out when I'll be headed back, to help out on a regular basis, but I think it will be soon.
Not only do I have these schools and my clinic playing for my attentions, but I'm also supposed to be doing my community assessment, and I still haven't met with even half the groups that I wanted to meet with. I also still have to make it over to the hospital and the prison, even if it's just to find out more about their services and their connection to the community as a whole. I'm just going to take it week by week for now. I have plenty of time before In-Service training at the end of August, and even more time before my term of service in Botswana is over. As I was standing this afternoon with the sun beating down on my head, watching my mosadi mogolos running down the field through the dried grass and into the deep blue sky, the woman organizing the team mentioned that she hoped for a better team next year. I looked at her and agreed that next year we would have enough time and experience to pull together a very strong team- and then realized what I said. I will be here next year. I'm not just passing through, and I am not just a visitor. I don't have to get everything done in the next few weeks, because my departure is not imminent. I live here, and this is my community. I'm not staying forever, but I am staying. It's not something that I can come to terms with yet in the evenings, when often all I can think about is home and family and friends, but there in that field today, I accepted it without thinking. I will be here next year.
In two weeks, I will officially be a mosadi mogolo. Mosadi mogolo means 'old lady' here, which is most definitely not a derogatory term at all here. Rather, it is used to show respect, or when applied to someone who is obviously not an 'old lady', to draw out a chuckle. Of course, I am not an old lady, but according to the official rules of the Mosadi Mogolo World Cup, I will qualify as one when I turn 25 in two weeks. This brings back a memory of 10th grade history class, when one of my classmates declared to the teacher that life pretty much ends once you turn 25- not knowing that the next day was the teacher's 25th birthday. Now it is my turn, and 25 does not sound old at all, and life had better not end for me in two weeks. All that will happen, I am quite sure, is that I will finally be able to rent a car and book any hotel room I want in the US, and apparently, I will become a mosadi mogolo here.
The Mosadi Mogolo World Cup is my first community event here in Botswana, and our entire sub-district is participating, with nearly every town, village, and catchment area represented. The event is run by our district health team, and it involves a World Cup football (soccer) series in which only women over 25 years old can compete. There are weeks of matches, which will culminate in a World Cup final in about 3 weeks. The score of the football match is not the only factor in winning the cup, however. After the match, each team faces off to prove their knowledge of HIV/AIDS and the PMTCT (prevention of mother to child transmission program) program. Their score on the quiz round is added to their score in the football match to determine the winner. The event was run last year, but this is the first year that my clinic has put together a team, which started holding practices on Monday. We are the definition of underdogs, with very little skill and not even enough players to fill all the field positions, much less the reserves. But we have heart. These ladies, ranging in age from 25 to older than 60, show up for an HIV/AIDS study session every day from 2-3pm, and then practice from 3-5pm. They have a coach who runs drills and urges them to “kick with power”. It is a pretty funny sight, to see all these women of various ages and states of physical fitness running and kicking across the field, with their small children trailing after them laughing and imitating. I've never seen anything quite like it, but I admire them. They are serious during the study sessions, and ask questions about difficult English words like 'cryptococcal meningitis' and 'immunodeficiency', and they seem to really enjoy themselves out on the field. I hope they do well in our first match, which will be held on Sunday.
A few entries ago, I was explaining, and almost lamenting, that I didn't have a lot of activities to fill my days with. This has changed drastically in a very short time. Now I have all sorts of demands on my time, and I wonder how I will be able to keep this up once I really start working on projects. My clinic is demanding more and more of time as the H1N1 campaign rolls forward. As many as 50-60 people will show up in one morning to get the vaccine, and for an already understaffed clinic that also must attend to every other health need the community has, the situation can become overwhelming quickly. I am not allowed to administer vaccines, but just collecting the charts and documenting the vaccines takes a bit of the pressure off the nurses. I also answer the phone (although I don't think this helps much- Setswana is tough enough for me to understand in person, let alone on the phone, and I always have to get someone else anyway), find lab results, and count pills (but I don't distribute them, as that would be another big no-no for a PCV). The clinic is chaotic and crowded in the mornings, but empty and sleepy in afternoons, so I think if my clinic had its way, I would be there every morning. Of course, Botswana is a very morning-oriented country, so every other organization or school I want to meet and work with also wants me to come in the mornings- and there's only so many places I can be at once! To my clinic's dismay, I spent the first hour of the morning today at the local primary school, and I will be spending the entire day, morning included, at the senior secondary school. I understand that the clinic is busy and needs extra hands, but at some point we need to compromise. Peace Corps volunteers are supposed to be working on capacity building projects and community programs and education, not doing simple tasks that anyone can do and that the clinic staff will have to do on their own once the volunteer leaves. It's like hiring a teacher, but keeping her in the back office making photocopies. Of course I'll do the smaller tasks too. The clinic needs help with them, and I'm here to help. I'm not above it. But it's not all I should be doing. My primary job should be promoting the clinic's agenda and message out in the community and in the schools, and working within the clinic to help it provide better service to its patients. Putting stickers in charts is important, but not something to spend 20 hours a week doing.
Along with the needs of the clinic, the meetings I have had in the last couple weeks are slowly turning into real demands on my time. As I noted in previous entries, the secondary school is going to take a lot of my time, probably almost as much as the clinic. Yesterday, a man from the technical school stopped by the clinic to ask if I could help out with some life skills and health education issues, and I am waiting for his call to set something up. And today I spent part of my morning at a local primary school, and it looks like I will be spending a significant part of my time there, too. The kids range in age from 6-15, and although I will primarily be working with the guidance teacher on life skills and health, I'll probably also be helping out the teachers with their lessons, especially the English teachers. I was introduced to the entire school this morning, which was quite an experience. At the beginning of every day, the kids gather in lines according to age group in front of the school for the 'assembly'. Once gathered, they sing several songs (mostly religious, as is common anywhere in Botswana- it's also co-run by the Catholic church, so it makes even more sense here), and are spoken to by the headmaster, the guidance teacher, and a nun (also a teacher). Parts of these speeches seemed to be a practiced dialogue, and the kids knew all the responses. Because this is a primary school, everything was in Setswana, so I didn't really get a lot of it. After the speeches, it was my turn. As usual, I was introduced as being from the UK. Apparently the people here don't recognize accents well, because I've been told that I am from England, Australia, and South Africa- anywhere that there is an abundance of white people. Today at the clinic, I was told that I have a European voice. When I corrected the teacher and told the kids that I was from America, I got a collective awed gasp from my audience, followed by a louder one when I said that I was from New York. New York is one of the few American cities that everyone here recognizes, and I always get a good reaction when I tell people I lived near there. I blame Jay-Z, since I can't get through two days here without hearing “Empire State of Mind”. Anyway, the kids were very attentive, even if they were a bit giggly, and soon my part of the show was over. They sang a couple more songs, and were dismissed. Even the dismissal was orchestrated- the kids peeled off in their lines row by row while singing “We Are Marching in the Light of God”, and headed off to class. I stuck around and met the teachers, who seemed unconcerned that all of their students were sitting in their classrooms unattended while they were introduced to the strange American. After our meeting, I entertained the guidance teacher's class for a few minutes before heading back to the clinic while she attended to something. The kids in the class were 7 and 8 years old, and their English skills were minimal, so we were a bit limited. I taught them the word 'map' and drew one to show where I was from, and had them point out Botswana. Classes for this age are usually taught in Setswana, but when they are older, they will be taught in English only. This seems a little strange to me, almost like the kids are set up to fail. Some kids don't even speak Setswana at home. In Mahalapye this is less of a problem, but in some parts of the country, many people speak Kalanga or Sesarwa or Afrikaans at home. As one PCV put it on her blog (this won't be exact, but it was a good example), imagine growing up speaking English at home, but then starting school at age 6 and being taught in Spanish only. You are then taught French using Spanish, and when you hit high school, you are expected to learn everything else- science, math, history- in French, your third language. It would get a little confusing, to say the least. I can't imagine having to do it, but I'm impressed at how well these kids adapt to it. I'm having trouble just learning Setswana! I'm waiting for the guidance teacher's call to find out when I'll be headed back, to help out on a regular basis, but I think it will be soon.
Not only do I have these schools and my clinic playing for my attentions, but I'm also supposed to be doing my community assessment, and I still haven't met with even half the groups that I wanted to meet with. I also still have to make it over to the hospital and the prison, even if it's just to find out more about their services and their connection to the community as a whole. I'm just going to take it week by week for now. I have plenty of time before In-Service training at the end of August, and even more time before my term of service in Botswana is over. As I was standing this afternoon with the sun beating down on my head, watching my mosadi mogolos running down the field through the dried grass and into the deep blue sky, the woman organizing the team mentioned that she hoped for a better team next year. I looked at her and agreed that next year we would have enough time and experience to pull together a very strong team- and then realized what I said. I will be here next year. I'm not just passing through, and I am not just a visitor. I don't have to get everything done in the next few weeks, because my departure is not imminent. I live here, and this is my community. I'm not staying forever, but I am staying. It's not something that I can come to terms with yet in the evenings, when often all I can think about is home and family and friends, but there in that field today, I accepted it without thinking. I will be here next year.
Independence Day
written 7/4/10
Today, I cleaned my house, had friends over for the afternoon, grilled burgers, ate junk food, and drank wine. Sounds like a fairly typical low-key 4th of July doesn't it? If you can overlook that we were the only 4 people celebrating the 4th for miles and miles, the burgers were grilled and eaten indoors, we were all wearing sweaters and fleeces, and there were certainly no fireworks, I guess it was. It was actually a pretty nice day, overall. I love having people over, and can't wait until I have my house really set up the way I want it- with a table and chairs and maybe an area rug- so I can do it more often. I also can't wait until we all have the freedom to visit each other whenever we want. Ironically, our Independence Day plans centered on our very lack of independence. Our Peace Corps group is currently on lock-down, which is the 2-3 month period between the end of pre-service training and the beginning of in-service training when we are not allowed to leave our sites unless it's for official Peace Corps business. We are supposed to be spending all of our time integrating into our communities, which I can understand, but it also leads to a lot of volunteers going a little stir- crazy, especially on weekends, and especially, especially on holiday weekends. There's only so much community integration a person can handle, and only so much community integration the locals will tolerate before they start thinking we're a little strange. Thank goodness my village has 3 other Peace Corps volunteers so we can visit each other without ever leaving site.
While we all reminisced and talked wistfully about firework shows we were missing back home, I couldn't help but think that here in Botswana, we have a pretty impressive show in the sky every night. Last night I was outside my house after dark (which almost never happens), and happened to glance up. In Molepolole, I often stared into the night sky, mesmerized by the stars that could never be seen a mere hour away from New York City, prompting my host mother to shake her head at the crazy American- apparently star-gazing is not a popular activity here. Last night, however, I found that the night sky in Molepolole was nothing compared to the night sky here. I'm sure the show is even better in the tiny villages without any electricity, but there are no streetlights in my part of town, and no one uses their outdoor lights around here, so there was very little to pollute the view. I said before that I find the dark oppressive here, and I do. It wraps around me like a blanket- some nights I can almost touch it. The stars, then, are all the more powerful, their light piercing through the tangible darkness and reaching down to the earth from the heavens. They are strong, and they are many. People are always talking about the African sky in some romantic way, imagining an bright orange sun setting over a wide, hazy savannah, perhaps with a giraffe off in the horizon. Or maybe they imagine a deep blue sky spread over a vast landscape of foreign trees and dirt roads, with white clouds far off above them. These images catch my imagination, too, and they certainly exist here. The sky here has a personality and moods of its own, reflecting the people and the lands it covers. The cheerful, solid blue the sky takes on nearly every day here certainly matches the attitudes of the Batswana I meet every day. Despite poverty, HIV, unemployment, and other hardships people face here, I have never seen a Motswana greet without a smile and a handshake, and the music people play is unfailingly upbeat and optimistic. And indeed, how can you wallow or mourn with the bright blue sky looking down on you every day? It's no coincidence that their flag is the same color as their sky.
No matter how beautiful or how symbolic the daytime sky can be, however, it is the night sky that captivates me and draws me in with its mystery. The African sky is no less impressive after its majestic sunset. Without tall buildings and trees to obstruct the view, the sky stretches up from every corner of the earth. It's easy to see how the ancient people believed the sky to be a dome over the land, separating the heavens from the earth, the point at which mortal meets immortal, and time meets eternity. In a way, the night sky is where time meets eternity: we see the stars today as they were millions of years ago. We see light from the past, even from the beginnings of the universe when it all began. Millions of years from now, the light our own star gives off today, the light that we see and work and play by, will be seen lightyears away. Our time on this earth will have long past, but in that moment, something of it will live on. The stars are countless, forming pictures across the sky. Some of these pictures are familiar from the northern sky despite their strange new positions, but some are new and nameless to me. They converge in a great bright strip, the Milky Way, clearly visible to me for the first time in my life. I stare straight into the center, trying to imagine the innumerable far-off planets and solar systems that must accompany each distant star, then look away, off into deep space, picturing new galaxies in the darkest patches of sky, where the stars are too far away to be seen with the naked eye.
Somehow, I don't think I'll miss fireworks too much while I'm here.
Today, I cleaned my house, had friends over for the afternoon, grilled burgers, ate junk food, and drank wine. Sounds like a fairly typical low-key 4th of July doesn't it? If you can overlook that we were the only 4 people celebrating the 4th for miles and miles, the burgers were grilled and eaten indoors, we were all wearing sweaters and fleeces, and there were certainly no fireworks, I guess it was. It was actually a pretty nice day, overall. I love having people over, and can't wait until I have my house really set up the way I want it- with a table and chairs and maybe an area rug- so I can do it more often. I also can't wait until we all have the freedom to visit each other whenever we want. Ironically, our Independence Day plans centered on our very lack of independence. Our Peace Corps group is currently on lock-down, which is the 2-3 month period between the end of pre-service training and the beginning of in-service training when we are not allowed to leave our sites unless it's for official Peace Corps business. We are supposed to be spending all of our time integrating into our communities, which I can understand, but it also leads to a lot of volunteers going a little stir- crazy, especially on weekends, and especially, especially on holiday weekends. There's only so much community integration a person can handle, and only so much community integration the locals will tolerate before they start thinking we're a little strange. Thank goodness my village has 3 other Peace Corps volunteers so we can visit each other without ever leaving site.
While we all reminisced and talked wistfully about firework shows we were missing back home, I couldn't help but think that here in Botswana, we have a pretty impressive show in the sky every night. Last night I was outside my house after dark (which almost never happens), and happened to glance up. In Molepolole, I often stared into the night sky, mesmerized by the stars that could never be seen a mere hour away from New York City, prompting my host mother to shake her head at the crazy American- apparently star-gazing is not a popular activity here. Last night, however, I found that the night sky in Molepolole was nothing compared to the night sky here. I'm sure the show is even better in the tiny villages without any electricity, but there are no streetlights in my part of town, and no one uses their outdoor lights around here, so there was very little to pollute the view. I said before that I find the dark oppressive here, and I do. It wraps around me like a blanket- some nights I can almost touch it. The stars, then, are all the more powerful, their light piercing through the tangible darkness and reaching down to the earth from the heavens. They are strong, and they are many. People are always talking about the African sky in some romantic way, imagining an bright orange sun setting over a wide, hazy savannah, perhaps with a giraffe off in the horizon. Or maybe they imagine a deep blue sky spread over a vast landscape of foreign trees and dirt roads, with white clouds far off above them. These images catch my imagination, too, and they certainly exist here. The sky here has a personality and moods of its own, reflecting the people and the lands it covers. The cheerful, solid blue the sky takes on nearly every day here certainly matches the attitudes of the Batswana I meet every day. Despite poverty, HIV, unemployment, and other hardships people face here, I have never seen a Motswana greet without a smile and a handshake, and the music people play is unfailingly upbeat and optimistic. And indeed, how can you wallow or mourn with the bright blue sky looking down on you every day? It's no coincidence that their flag is the same color as their sky.
No matter how beautiful or how symbolic the daytime sky can be, however, it is the night sky that captivates me and draws me in with its mystery. The African sky is no less impressive after its majestic sunset. Without tall buildings and trees to obstruct the view, the sky stretches up from every corner of the earth. It's easy to see how the ancient people believed the sky to be a dome over the land, separating the heavens from the earth, the point at which mortal meets immortal, and time meets eternity. In a way, the night sky is where time meets eternity: we see the stars today as they were millions of years ago. We see light from the past, even from the beginnings of the universe when it all began. Millions of years from now, the light our own star gives off today, the light that we see and work and play by, will be seen lightyears away. Our time on this earth will have long past, but in that moment, something of it will live on. The stars are countless, forming pictures across the sky. Some of these pictures are familiar from the northern sky despite their strange new positions, but some are new and nameless to me. They converge in a great bright strip, the Milky Way, clearly visible to me for the first time in my life. I stare straight into the center, trying to imagine the innumerable far-off planets and solar systems that must accompany each distant star, then look away, off into deep space, picturing new galaxies in the darkest patches of sky, where the stars are too far away to be seen with the naked eye.
Somehow, I don't think I'll miss fireworks too much while I'm here.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Life Goes On
And life in the Peace Corps inches on slowly. This weekend, the 4th of July will pass by without the usual fireworks and pomp and circumstance, and next week will bring the 3 month anniversary of our arrival in Botswana. One of the phrases most likely to be heard from a Peace Corps volunteer (I may have even already used it in this blog) is that the days drag on slowly, but the months fly by. I am finding this to be true, although it is the evenings more than the days that drag on for me. The days pass rather quickly, and I rarely finish everything on my to-do list. This may imply that I am busy, hard at work making a difference fighting HIV and poverty, but so far, this is not the case. I spend most of my weekday mornings at my clinic documenting H1N1 vaccinations. It is mindless work, but right now it's what my under-staffed clinic needs, and as I'm not yet ready to fly on my own and create new projects for the clinic, it's fine with me. When I am not at the clinic, I am usually off meeting someone from an organization I feel I could be working with on future projects, at the local schools where I know I'll be doing a lot of work, or at home working on the massive community assessment assignment from Peace Corps that must be completed before In Service Training at the end of August. Running errands is another major consumer of time, made more complicated by limited shopping hours, the need to be home before dark, and the need to rely on public transportation. And due to the lack of structure in my days, I can often be found at home curled up on my couch reading a book at all sorts of unpredictable hours. Before arriving at site, I thought that having to be home before dark and the corresponding inordinate amount of free time meant that I would be a superwoman of sorts in the evenings, capable of cooking gourmet dinners, reading all the classics, studying Setswana, practicing the guitar, and cleaning my house top to bottom. In reality, I am nothing of the sort. I find the darkness oppressive here, and once it falls, I am incapable of completing any major tasks, much less superhuman multi-tasking. I cook easy dinners, grilled cheese or instant soup more often than not, read excessively (I am quickly running out of books), play spider solitaire, and of course, write blog entries. Of course, I do keep a pretty clean house, and I have even started a budget spreadsheet to keep track of my finances, as online banking doesn't seem to be much of an option here at the moment. But in the 3 weeks I've been here, I have yet to cook a full meal or touch my guitar. I bought bananas weeks ago with the intent of making banana bread, but had to throw them out before I got the supplies or the energy to make it. I'm hoping that this lack of energy or purpose in the evenings is a side effect of adjusting to a new lifestyle and ear infections, and that I'll soon be checking everything off of my to-do lists. I'll keep you updated.
My Peace Corps life is starting to taking shape, although ever so slowly. I have a growing list of projects that I think I'll be working on, and finally, this list is based on actual needs and reality. Most of the more concrete projects that are starting to take shape involve the senior secondary school here. I may be a clinic-based volunteer, but I think I'll be working just as closely with the schools. The senior secondary school is the last public school before university here, and many students do not make it that far. Even if they do, drop-outs are a problem, one that I'll be working on, actually. There are many factors that make it difficult for a student to make it through school here. First and foremost is pregnancy. Many of the girls actually do return after giving birth, but when they do, they face more obstacles than ever. The guidance teacher at the school would like to set up a kind of support group for returned mothers, but so far the girls have resisted, fearing the stigma that might come along with membership in such a group. I'm hoping to work with these girls, possibly at the clinic to avoid all the high school drama and stigma. Some of them are clinic patients anyway, so I'll probably get to know them pretty well no matter what.
Poverty makes attending school a struggle, especially when the social work office has difficulty getting food baskets, donated school uniforms, and transport allowance to the students on time. They may need to drop out to get jobs to support their families, or they may have little structure in their homes to reinforce the importance of education. HIV, as usual, complicates matters more. Over ¼ of the students in the school are orphans. They may or may not be HIV positive themselves, but certainly they are affected either way. Most live with extended family with varying levels of care and support, but some live on their own. Many are financially needy, and have trouble finding the means and sometimes the self-discipline to stay in school. The school has organizations run by students to work on these issues, but participation is not impressive. School days are long, and some students have a long commute, and for others, the interest is just not there. There are, of course, dedicated students, but the programs sound like they could use a little life. There are also staff and community-run organizations put together to help support orphans and needy students, but they suffer from a lack of participation as well. This is not necessarily due to lack of interest; rather, it is a lack of time that is the problem. The school day is just as long for teachers as it is for students, and there are faculty meetings to go to, and many have families at home to care for. I'm hoping to work to find solutions to these issues, but I don't know how successful I'll be. I certainly can't add more hours to a day, and that appears to be exactly what's needed.
Other issues are a little more simple. The school library needs books. I'm sure that there must be organizations in place that help with this kind of thing, so I don't think this project should be that complicated. If anyone knows anything about how to go about doing this though, please let me know!
Another issue is pretty familiar to anyone who's ever gone to high school- kids sneaking off to remote corners to smoke and do other dark deeds. Not sure how to handle this one yet, but it's definitely a less formidable issue than others.
I'm glad to finally have a small grasp on what I'll be doing while I'm here, and I'm eager to get started. I really wish I knew what to do around my clinic- most of the time it's so busy that there's barely time to talk, let alone plan new programs, and when it's not busy, everyone spends their time catching up on paperwork and reports. I'd like to spend more time with the community mobilizer, who does a lot of work with home-based care, but we both keep irregular schedules, and once I'm at the clinic, I'm usually put to work anyway. I'm hoping that as I start to feel more comfortable and as my schedule settles into something more predictable, that potential projects will begin to appear. I know the nurses at the clinic regret not having the time to get out into the community to do health presentations and work on prevention, so maybe I'll start from there. I know that I'd also like to focus on regular, everyday health issues in the community, not just HIV. So much attention is heaped on HIV/AIDS here (and rightly so, I suppose), that it is often overlooked that high blood pressure and diabetes are also serious, potentially deadly problems here that many, many people are affected by. Just as in America, people here are often more interested in fixing a problem than preventing it, and that's something I'd like to work on. Interesting- I guess I have a better idea of what I'd like to work on in my clinic than I thought.
With that, it is time for bed. Here's hoping for a good internet connection tomorrow so I can post this!
Happiness is a Hot Shower
written 6/27
I am clean, for the first time in months! My hair is washed and conditioned, I smell like soap, and I have discovered that I am not quite as tan as I thought I was- apparently it was all dirt. I have taken a hot shower (two in fact, in the last 24 hours), and all is again right with the world. This shower comes courtesy of a lovely ear infection that I have been battling for since Thursday. I started antibiotics on Friday, but when I discovered swelling by my jaw on Saturday, the Peace Corps doctor thought it best for me to head down to the Peace Corps office in Gaborone so he could take a look. I didn't argue. One combi, 2 hours on a bus, and an overpriced cab ride later, I made it to Gabs, where the doctor checked me out, declared my ear infection official, gave me some better medications, and sent me off for a free night at a local lodge, since it was too late to head back home to Mahalapye. Before heading to the lodge, I indulged in some American-style fast food at a chain called 'Wimpy's' and grabbed some snacks for the night ahead. The lodge took some finding- I really hate trying to get places in Gaborone. I complain about Mahalapye being big, but Gaborone makes it look absolutely quaint, and after this weekend, I have new appreciation for my home village, despite its lack of hot showers. Anyway, I stayed at Kgale View Lodge, which was tucked away across from the enormous Game City mall. It had very pretty landscaping, outdoor picnic tables, a pool (closed for the 'winter'), and a reception area and dining hall tastefully decorated in a safari theme (of course). My room was small but clean, and the bed was incredibly warm and comfortable, there was a heater I could control, and there was a television with 4 whole channels! I spent the night taking an hour-long hot shower, eating VitaSnack cheddar flavored rice crackers (more addicting than they sound), and watching many episodes of 'Monk' and some South African family drama called 'Wild Hearts' (or something like that).
I woke up in time for the free breakfast, but decided that a second shower was obviously more pressing than mediocre hotel food, and spent the morning getting cleaner than I've been in a long time and watching some police and courtroom dramas. Eventually they kicked me out (really, they came to the room and everything- apparently check-out times are earlier here than they are in the US), so I turned in my key and set up camp in the dining hall to use the wireless internet, where I stressed about the status of my student loans for far too long, while cursing facebook's new photo uploader feature, which decided to take a day off. Finally I realized that I still had to travel at least 3 hours before sunset, and I was on my way. I walked around and around the perimeter of the Game City Mall, reaching dangerous levels of frustration, until finding the corner of the parking lot where all the combis were hiding. I found and hopped on the correct one, and made my way to the bus rank, where I found a bus home pretty quickly. The bus rank in Gaborone is big, and very busy and chaotic, but it's actually pretty easy to navigate once you get the hang of it. The taxis and combis generally stay on one side, and the buses line up in rows on the other side. Each row is marked with a sign that tells which city the buses in the row are headed toward. The buses line up, and passengers are herded onto the first bus in line. When that bus is full, it leaves, and the next bus pulls up to begin boarding. There's no real schedule, buses just leave when they're full. This could be a pain if you're going to some remote place that not many people go to, but my village is directly between the two largest cities in Botswana, so I'll almost never be stuck waiting and waiting for a bus to show up or fill up. The bus was empty when I boarded, but within 10 minutes it was overflowing, and we were on our way. I guess I timed the day perfectly- I made it home about 5 minutes before sunset. Now I am wishing for yet another hot shower, and wondering why no one every told me how loud the wind can be at night here. It's whipping around my house, making it groan and creak with every gust. Not only that, but a dog appeared on my compound a few days ago. This should be a good development, because dogs here usually provide extra security, but this one won't shut up. It barks and barks constantly, with no provocation or reason at all. It may be a long night.
Lesson of the day: If you don't want random heads and appendages to pop in through your window and directly into your face trying to sell you things or ask you for money, be sure to close the window next to your seat tightly any time the bus is parked. I had a floating head try to sell me water today, and when I told it I wasn't thirsty, it insisted that I should give it 5 pula anyway, as a favor. I declined. Rather pushy for a floating head, I thought.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The First
written 6/23/10
Her name is Eva*. She is 43 years old, younger than my parents, and she is the mother of 5 children, although none are at home today. When I first walk into the darkened one room cement house where she is staying on her mother's compound, I see nothing but a pile of blankets spread over a thin foam mat on the floor under a small window. Her mother calls her name, and the pile of blankets shifts slightly, and a gaunt face with large, sunken eyes and high cheekbones appears. She has no hair, and she has difficulty keeping her eyes open for more than a few moments. She responds to her name with a murmur, and closes her eyes, using what little strength she has to bury her face in her pillow. Her mother pulls aside her blankets to show us legs that are no more than skin-covered skeleton. She gently moves her daughter's legs to avoid bedsores, and we see that she is wearing an adult diaper. Her emaciation is breath-taking. She cannot weigh more than 70 pounds, and that is a generous estimate. I have never seen disease and suffering like this in person, and it is difficult not to allow my emotions to take over. My instinct is to sweep her up in my arms and rush to the nearest hospital, demanding immediate attention, IV nutrition, and medication. Fighting this urge, I listen as her mother sits on the floor next to her and calmly tells us that she did in fact spend Monday in the hospital due to severe diarrhea, and was discharged with a diagnosis of wasting syndrome, some medication, and a can of Ensure, on which she has been subsisting exclusively. For several days last week, she refused food altogether, and was unresponsive and not breathing properly. It is difficult to believe that the condition I am seeing her in now is actually an improved condition. According to her mother and her medical chart, she had been on ARV's for some time, but stopped taking them regularly for an unknown amount of time. As is often the case, this break allowed for drug resistance to build, and although she has restarted treatment, it is no longer effective. She has finished rounds of tuberculosis drugs, but her mother still piles startling quantities of daily medications on our laps when we ask what she is taking. There are enough drugs, she says, but she is nearly out of diapers and Ensure and other supplies necessary for her daughter's care. She pauses to turn her daughter's legs once again, and we notice discoloration on her feet that may be the first signs of Kaposi's sarcoma. It is strange to note how calm everyone is, when everything inside me is screaming. Don't they understand how serious this situation is? How can life go on for this family with their loved one suffering on a foam mat?
Of course they understand the gravity of the situation. Of course they are grieving, and of course they care. However, it is a fact of life for them, something they must find a way to deal with every single day, as it is for so many here in Botswana. I am the newcomer here, who, despite my outrage and empathy, will walk away at the end of the visit and go on with my life as usual. Who am I to judge them for going on with their lives? Despite their apparent calm and good cheer, it is obvious the toll it is taking on the family. They greet me with smiles and warmth, but talk seriously about Eva's illness. Her older sister sits next to me outside, and with a wry smile and a shake of her head, she sighs and looks at me intently. “I'm tired,” she says, “so tired.”
Soon it is time to leave, and we advise her mother to put the radio on in her daughter's room so she can have something to occupy her mind, as she is too weak even to read, and we promise to return soon, hopefully with extra supplies. I find it difficult to leave, and I spend much of the walk home memorizing the path so I can find it again, although I have no idea how I could possibly help. As I get farther and farther away, perspective begins to return, and I realize that I cannot single-handedly swoop in and save anyone through sheer determination and will. This is not to say that I won't be back- I have no doubt that I will be, as part of the community outreach of my clinic. But I do have to remember that there are doctors and nurses who are doing the best they can, and allow myself to understand the grave reality of HIV. Until now, HIV has been an abstract idea for me, and many people, I allowed myself to live in the fantasy that ARV's have somehow emasculated HIV and made it more of a nuisance than a serious virus with no cure. Of course, ARV's have made an enormous difference, and every day they allow people to live out healthy lives for years and years longer than they would have without them. But they are not a cure, and people still die from AIDS. I think of all the young people I have seen at the clinic in the last few days, vibrant, healthy, laughing- and then I think of how many of them are HIV positive. And how many of them are mothers. Will they suffer like Eva? The thought is unimaginable, unbearable, but it is more than plausible. Do they know what could possibly be lying ahead for them? And what about those that are negative for now, but engaging in unsafe sex? Do they know what they are really risking? Until today, I didn't really know. Until today, HIV was a virus, clinical and impersonal, and AIDS was something people only died of in movies. Today I saw the face of this disease, and it was real, and the image will stay with me for the rest of my life.
On our way back from Eva's house, we meet another face, a small boy no older than 6 years old and already HIV positive. He is playing in the yard with his brother, and runs over to the fence to greet us, although he turns shy when he sees me. He puts his hands together as if in prayer, and pushes them through the fence toward us, a traditional sign of respect that few children here remember these days. We take his hands briefly, and he retreats back to stand near his giggling older brother, staring back at us with wide, curious eyes. His mother isn't home, so we will return for a visit another time, as he, too, is a patient at our clinic. This small boy, like so many others, will grow up HIV positive through no fault of his own, taking powerful drugs every day for the rest of his life, and may never know why. Certainly he doesn't understand it now. Maybe by the time he is old enough to understand, we will have found a cure, or at least a new line of drugs that will allow him to lead a long, healthy life, and he will never have to know suffering like Eva's.
Maybe.
*Name has been changed to ensure privacy.
Her name is Eva*. She is 43 years old, younger than my parents, and she is the mother of 5 children, although none are at home today. When I first walk into the darkened one room cement house where she is staying on her mother's compound, I see nothing but a pile of blankets spread over a thin foam mat on the floor under a small window. Her mother calls her name, and the pile of blankets shifts slightly, and a gaunt face with large, sunken eyes and high cheekbones appears. She has no hair, and she has difficulty keeping her eyes open for more than a few moments. She responds to her name with a murmur, and closes her eyes, using what little strength she has to bury her face in her pillow. Her mother pulls aside her blankets to show us legs that are no more than skin-covered skeleton. She gently moves her daughter's legs to avoid bedsores, and we see that she is wearing an adult diaper. Her emaciation is breath-taking. She cannot weigh more than 70 pounds, and that is a generous estimate. I have never seen disease and suffering like this in person, and it is difficult not to allow my emotions to take over. My instinct is to sweep her up in my arms and rush to the nearest hospital, demanding immediate attention, IV nutrition, and medication. Fighting this urge, I listen as her mother sits on the floor next to her and calmly tells us that she did in fact spend Monday in the hospital due to severe diarrhea, and was discharged with a diagnosis of wasting syndrome, some medication, and a can of Ensure, on which she has been subsisting exclusively. For several days last week, she refused food altogether, and was unresponsive and not breathing properly. It is difficult to believe that the condition I am seeing her in now is actually an improved condition. According to her mother and her medical chart, she had been on ARV's for some time, but stopped taking them regularly for an unknown amount of time. As is often the case, this break allowed for drug resistance to build, and although she has restarted treatment, it is no longer effective. She has finished rounds of tuberculosis drugs, but her mother still piles startling quantities of daily medications on our laps when we ask what she is taking. There are enough drugs, she says, but she is nearly out of diapers and Ensure and other supplies necessary for her daughter's care. She pauses to turn her daughter's legs once again, and we notice discoloration on her feet that may be the first signs of Kaposi's sarcoma. It is strange to note how calm everyone is, when everything inside me is screaming. Don't they understand how serious this situation is? How can life go on for this family with their loved one suffering on a foam mat?
Of course they understand the gravity of the situation. Of course they are grieving, and of course they care. However, it is a fact of life for them, something they must find a way to deal with every single day, as it is for so many here in Botswana. I am the newcomer here, who, despite my outrage and empathy, will walk away at the end of the visit and go on with my life as usual. Who am I to judge them for going on with their lives? Despite their apparent calm and good cheer, it is obvious the toll it is taking on the family. They greet me with smiles and warmth, but talk seriously about Eva's illness. Her older sister sits next to me outside, and with a wry smile and a shake of her head, she sighs and looks at me intently. “I'm tired,” she says, “so tired.”
Soon it is time to leave, and we advise her mother to put the radio on in her daughter's room so she can have something to occupy her mind, as she is too weak even to read, and we promise to return soon, hopefully with extra supplies. I find it difficult to leave, and I spend much of the walk home memorizing the path so I can find it again, although I have no idea how I could possibly help. As I get farther and farther away, perspective begins to return, and I realize that I cannot single-handedly swoop in and save anyone through sheer determination and will. This is not to say that I won't be back- I have no doubt that I will be, as part of the community outreach of my clinic. But I do have to remember that there are doctors and nurses who are doing the best they can, and allow myself to understand the grave reality of HIV. Until now, HIV has been an abstract idea for me, and many people, I allowed myself to live in the fantasy that ARV's have somehow emasculated HIV and made it more of a nuisance than a serious virus with no cure. Of course, ARV's have made an enormous difference, and every day they allow people to live out healthy lives for years and years longer than they would have without them. But they are not a cure, and people still die from AIDS. I think of all the young people I have seen at the clinic in the last few days, vibrant, healthy, laughing- and then I think of how many of them are HIV positive. And how many of them are mothers. Will they suffer like Eva? The thought is unimaginable, unbearable, but it is more than plausible. Do they know what could possibly be lying ahead for them? And what about those that are negative for now, but engaging in unsafe sex? Do they know what they are really risking? Until today, I didn't really know. Until today, HIV was a virus, clinical and impersonal, and AIDS was something people only died of in movies. Today I saw the face of this disease, and it was real, and the image will stay with me for the rest of my life.
On our way back from Eva's house, we meet another face, a small boy no older than 6 years old and already HIV positive. He is playing in the yard with his brother, and runs over to the fence to greet us, although he turns shy when he sees me. He puts his hands together as if in prayer, and pushes them through the fence toward us, a traditional sign of respect that few children here remember these days. We take his hands briefly, and he retreats back to stand near his giggling older brother, staring back at us with wide, curious eyes. His mother isn't home, so we will return for a visit another time, as he, too, is a patient at our clinic. This small boy, like so many others, will grow up HIV positive through no fault of his own, taking powerful drugs every day for the rest of his life, and may never know why. Certainly he doesn't understand it now. Maybe by the time he is old enough to understand, we will have found a cure, or at least a new line of drugs that will allow him to lead a long, healthy life, and he will never have to know suffering like Eva's.
Maybe.
*Name has been changed to ensure privacy.
Risky Dreaming
written 6/22/10
All my life, I have loved making lists, planning events that I knew would never happen, and coming up with ideas to solve problems that I knew I could never really carry out. Now my job as a Peace Corps volunteer is to do all of those things, and then make them actually happen. I am finally in a situation where all my dreaming and list making and planning and organizing could actually make a difference and lead to real action and change- and it scares the heck out of me. I have been at site for a little over a week, and already I have project ideas whirling around in my head and filling up pages in my notebook- but will I be able to turn them into a reality? Am I really capable of that? What if I fail? Will I be taken seriously? What if no one is interested? What if they are interested, but I can't make it really happen, and I get people's hopes up for nothing? What if all I'm really good at doing is dreaming? It is a little frightening to be given the opportunity to do something you always wanted to do. Dreaming is easier than doing, and it would be easy to turn back and keep my ideas and dreams safely in my notebook where they have no chance to succeed or fail. A life in a notebook, however, is no life at all for a dream, so I will choose to let them out, and no matter how painful, I choose to see if they will take flight. If they don't, then at least I will know that I have tried, that I was brave enough to put myself out there. If they do, though, then I stand a chance of making the difference in the world that I have always hoped to make. It's a risk I'm willing to take.
All my life, I have loved making lists, planning events that I knew would never happen, and coming up with ideas to solve problems that I knew I could never really carry out. Now my job as a Peace Corps volunteer is to do all of those things, and then make them actually happen. I am finally in a situation where all my dreaming and list making and planning and organizing could actually make a difference and lead to real action and change- and it scares the heck out of me. I have been at site for a little over a week, and already I have project ideas whirling around in my head and filling up pages in my notebook- but will I be able to turn them into a reality? Am I really capable of that? What if I fail? Will I be taken seriously? What if no one is interested? What if they are interested, but I can't make it really happen, and I get people's hopes up for nothing? What if all I'm really good at doing is dreaming? It is a little frightening to be given the opportunity to do something you always wanted to do. Dreaming is easier than doing, and it would be easy to turn back and keep my ideas and dreams safely in my notebook where they have no chance to succeed or fail. A life in a notebook, however, is no life at all for a dream, so I will choose to let them out, and no matter how painful, I choose to see if they will take flight. If they don't, then at least I will know that I have tried, that I was brave enough to put myself out there. If they do, though, then I stand a chance of making the difference in the world that I have always hoped to make. It's a risk I'm willing to take.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
News, Notes, and Observations
written 6/22/10
It is currently 8pm on a Tuesday, and for no apparent reason, already I am too exhausted to contemplate staying up even another hour- or to write a real blog entry. Hence this jumble of rambling thoughts, which is about all my mind can keep up with tonight. Have fun!
I started work at the clinic for real yesterday, and have spent most of my time there recording data from the H1N1 vaccine campaign that just started here. Right now we are in phase 1 of the campaign, and only pregnant women and people with chronic illnesses are eligible to receive the vaccine. Basically, the patient comes in, the nurse looks through the chart to determine eligibility and hands me the chart, and I record which category the patient falls under on a data sheet and then place a sticker on their chart with the date. It's not thrilling work, but it's actually a great way to meet the people my clinic serves.
It is surprisingly embarrassing to be introduced in glowing manner and to have all your qualifications and interests listed in front of many people while you are standing right there. I don't know how important people can bear to hear it all the time. Even more embarrassing, however, is having your coworker throw in that you are may be looking for a husband in Botswana (an untrue and unhelpful statement, in case you are wondering).
I hate it when the word processor decides that I want to insert bullets without asking my permission.
I need to get some American candles. I bought one in a supermarket here, and it is burning with a 5 inch flame and emitting black smoke. Interesting to watch, but ultimately probably not the safest way to light a room.
I still don't have lights in my bedroom or the bathroom, but have learned not to care. It'll get done eventually, and in the meantime, I only use my bedroom for sleeping, right?
I am finally sleeping in my bedroom, on an actual bed, with a boxspring, sheets, a comforter, and two pillows. This is an amazing development. I wasn't going to settle for anything less than my vision of comfort, so it took several trips to the china shops before I found the perfect comforter. It is white and fluffy and soft and incredibly warm. It was also not cheap (comparatively- P300), but it is definitely worth it- and it even came with a duster to cover up the boxspring! I set up the bed with all the dressings on Sunday afternoon almost immediately after purchasing them, and spent the rest of the day resisting the urge to climb into bed before sunset. Really, with all it's whiteness and fluffiness and the candlelit atmosphere and fake wood furniture that looks pretty fancy in the dark, I almost felt overly casual and inappropriately dressed in my long sleeve t-shirt and shamrock pj pants. I know I'm writing a lot about the simple topic of a bed, but it's hard to overestimate how important it is to have somewhere to retreat to and feel comfortable in.
Another amazing thing about my bedroom is that it now has curtains. Curtains are of the utmost importance here, for security, privacy, and preventing drafts, so to be without them for even a few days was awful. I eventually got tired of not having them, cut a spare white sheet in two, and used my little sewing kit to turn them into curtains. Perhaps not the most amazing thing to have done, but I was pretty impressed with my handiwork.
I was never a morning person to begin with, but now that it is winter in Africa and I have a warm, comfortable bed, mornings have never been more difficult.
The song 'Sex in the Morning' is blasting outside my window.
The enormous grasshopper-like creature is still sitting on my bathroom door handle. He hasn't moved at all, but he's still very much alive, and very much intent on staying where he is. I've named him Horace, and we are becoming fast friends.
The dry season is definitely here. My contacts get so dry that it's almost impossible to unfold them when I take them out, and my skin is raw and cracked. Thank goodness I brought Burt's Bees lotion!
I am now impressed by small, everyday events. Ice cubes in my drink? Amazing! Water pressure in the kitchen faucet? Fantastic! Running water for more than 24 hours? A miracle!!
I think I get the most homesick when I think about church or youth group events I'm missing, because they're usually a combination of family, friends, faith, and tradition. Last weekend, I missed the retirement celebration of our youth group director, a very special lady who has meant a lot to many of us and who has made a difference in many young people's lives. AYM won't be the same without her and she'll be greatly missed, but I wish her every happiness in retired life, and look forward to visiting when I get back. She won't get rid of us that easily!
Evening is usually my favorite time of day, but it's my least favorite here. During the day, I am charged up and full of ideas for my service, and don't have much time to dwell on things. Weekends are a bit of an exception to that, but even then I can usually keep myself busy working on the house and doing laundry and shopping. Once the sun sets, my period of limbo before bedtime begins. I refuse to answer the door after dark, and every noise startles me. I attempt to read or watch movies, but more often than not, I end up playing spider solitaire or writing a blog entry while listening to music, just to keep my ears, hands, and mind occupied. I'm hoping that this unease will change once I get settled and start bringing home real work to do.
A new strategy for getting through life here and reminding myself that I am getting used to life in Botswana has been to plan packing lists, travel tips, and even itineraries for imaginary visitors. It helps me see what I've learned about living here, and it occupies my time and satisfies my urge to plan and make lists. If any of you do decide to visit me here (and I hope you do!), I'll be well prepared.
It has now been over an hour, and I am ready for sleep in my wonderful, wonderful bed. Good night.
It is currently 8pm on a Tuesday, and for no apparent reason, already I am too exhausted to contemplate staying up even another hour- or to write a real blog entry. Hence this jumble of rambling thoughts, which is about all my mind can keep up with tonight. Have fun!
I started work at the clinic for real yesterday, and have spent most of my time there recording data from the H1N1 vaccine campaign that just started here. Right now we are in phase 1 of the campaign, and only pregnant women and people with chronic illnesses are eligible to receive the vaccine. Basically, the patient comes in, the nurse looks through the chart to determine eligibility and hands me the chart, and I record which category the patient falls under on a data sheet and then place a sticker on their chart with the date. It's not thrilling work, but it's actually a great way to meet the people my clinic serves.
It is surprisingly embarrassing to be introduced in glowing manner and to have all your qualifications and interests listed in front of many people while you are standing right there. I don't know how important people can bear to hear it all the time. Even more embarrassing, however, is having your coworker throw in that you are may be looking for a husband in Botswana (an untrue and unhelpful statement, in case you are wondering).
I hate it when the word processor decides that I want to insert bullets without asking my permission.
I need to get some American candles. I bought one in a supermarket here, and it is burning with a 5 inch flame and emitting black smoke. Interesting to watch, but ultimately probably not the safest way to light a room.
I still don't have lights in my bedroom or the bathroom, but have learned not to care. It'll get done eventually, and in the meantime, I only use my bedroom for sleeping, right?
I am finally sleeping in my bedroom, on an actual bed, with a boxspring, sheets, a comforter, and two pillows. This is an amazing development. I wasn't going to settle for anything less than my vision of comfort, so it took several trips to the china shops before I found the perfect comforter. It is white and fluffy and soft and incredibly warm. It was also not cheap (comparatively- P300), but it is definitely worth it- and it even came with a duster to cover up the boxspring! I set up the bed with all the dressings on Sunday afternoon almost immediately after purchasing them, and spent the rest of the day resisting the urge to climb into bed before sunset. Really, with all it's whiteness and fluffiness and the candlelit atmosphere and fake wood furniture that looks pretty fancy in the dark, I almost felt overly casual and inappropriately dressed in my long sleeve t-shirt and shamrock pj pants. I know I'm writing a lot about the simple topic of a bed, but it's hard to overestimate how important it is to have somewhere to retreat to and feel comfortable in.
Another amazing thing about my bedroom is that it now has curtains. Curtains are of the utmost importance here, for security, privacy, and preventing drafts, so to be without them for even a few days was awful. I eventually got tired of not having them, cut a spare white sheet in two, and used my little sewing kit to turn them into curtains. Perhaps not the most amazing thing to have done, but I was pretty impressed with my handiwork.
I was never a morning person to begin with, but now that it is winter in Africa and I have a warm, comfortable bed, mornings have never been more difficult.
The song 'Sex in the Morning' is blasting outside my window.
The enormous grasshopper-like creature is still sitting on my bathroom door handle. He hasn't moved at all, but he's still very much alive, and very much intent on staying where he is. I've named him Horace, and we are becoming fast friends.
The dry season is definitely here. My contacts get so dry that it's almost impossible to unfold them when I take them out, and my skin is raw and cracked. Thank goodness I brought Burt's Bees lotion!
I am now impressed by small, everyday events. Ice cubes in my drink? Amazing! Water pressure in the kitchen faucet? Fantastic! Running water for more than 24 hours? A miracle!!
I think I get the most homesick when I think about church or youth group events I'm missing, because they're usually a combination of family, friends, faith, and tradition. Last weekend, I missed the retirement celebration of our youth group director, a very special lady who has meant a lot to many of us and who has made a difference in many young people's lives. AYM won't be the same without her and she'll be greatly missed, but I wish her every happiness in retired life, and look forward to visiting when I get back. She won't get rid of us that easily!
Evening is usually my favorite time of day, but it's my least favorite here. During the day, I am charged up and full of ideas for my service, and don't have much time to dwell on things. Weekends are a bit of an exception to that, but even then I can usually keep myself busy working on the house and doing laundry and shopping. Once the sun sets, my period of limbo before bedtime begins. I refuse to answer the door after dark, and every noise startles me. I attempt to read or watch movies, but more often than not, I end up playing spider solitaire or writing a blog entry while listening to music, just to keep my ears, hands, and mind occupied. I'm hoping that this unease will change once I get settled and start bringing home real work to do.
A new strategy for getting through life here and reminding myself that I am getting used to life in Botswana has been to plan packing lists, travel tips, and even itineraries for imaginary visitors. It helps me see what I've learned about living here, and it occupies my time and satisfies my urge to plan and make lists. If any of you do decide to visit me here (and I hope you do!), I'll be well prepared.
It has now been over an hour, and I am ready for sleep in my wonderful, wonderful bed. Good night.
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