One of the other volunteers asked me to lead a staff development session at her school today on young learner lesson planning. I taught this session to three groups of volunteers last year so I readily agreed to present to a Batswana class as well.
The thing about taking on tasks in Botswana is that the preparation and stress and detail put into planning can be shockingly successful for one event and infuriatingly futile for the next.
For example, I once was in a state of panic because I desperately needed to return a pair of trousers and had lost the receipt. My fellow volunteer listened to me moan about this for two hours before saying, “Listen, this is either going to be the most difficult process you can image or the easiest thing in the world—it’s a total fluke here how things turn out.”
Indeed.
I walked into the shop and the manager took one look at the trousers and immediately handed me cash (and I had paid with credit!)
Okay, so back to the workshop.
Well, it DID actually turn out to be successful but the details of Getting There were just maddening. And amusing. Well, amusing in retrospect.
Here’s how the day went...
This morning I double checked the transportation log and saw that, yes, I had indeed booked the van two weeks ago for this event and, yes, the driver was aware of the trip. But then at 9:00 Mr. Eltneolep received a fax inviting him to a workshop this same afternoon, at the same time as my workshop.
So, Bontle, we’ll have to find a way for me to get to the workshop.
Well, can you drive your car?
No, it must be the school van.
But I booked the van first.
But I need it too.
But we can’t both have it.
But I need it.
But I booked it first.
But I need it too.
Arg!
I finally manage to get someone from the other school to agree to drive me home at the end of my presentation which will allow Mr. Eltneolep to be transported to his workshop as well.
But when that fire goes out I suddenly realize that the van is gone from the school parking lot. The driver remembers that he has to take me at 1:00, right? I call him. He doesn’t understand my Setswana over the phone. I ask a colleague to call him. He doesn’t answer. I call the person he’s with. She answers and tells me the driver has left her and he’s off getting petrol. She doesn’t know when he’ll be back to pick her up but, yes, she’ll remind him he’s taking me to Thamaga at 1:00.
ARG!
At 12:20 I step into my final class of the day and try to be discrete about peeking out at the school gate to see if the van has returned. At 12:50 the transport has still not arrived and now it’s started to downpour. The bell rings for lunch at 1:00 and the kids are shrieking from the rain and I’m hurdling puddles to make it back to the office to grab my things because the van has FINALLY arrived. I leap over the hallway of children and clear the guidance office queue and make it to the van, sloppy and exhausted by 1:05. Mr. Gnegonom looks back from the driver’s seat, chewing lazily on his plate of paleche.
Mr. Gnegonom we have to go—I’m going to be late and there are 50 teachers waiting for me!
It’s raining.
Yes, I know but I’m late.
But it’s raining.
Yes, I know but…
This continues for a while and eventually I give up. When Gnegonom finishes his lunch we drive around the back of the school to pick up Mr. Eltneoloep who stands laughing in the doorway of the kitchen and refusing to walk the two feet to the van in the rain. I beckon him urgently from the window but he will only consent once I’ve opened the door and cleared a path so he can make a running leap and slide into the vehicle. ARG!!!
Finally we are driving towards the school exit and I am a starting to feel relief when I’m besieged by a floury of Setswana which brings the van to a halt again. This time for 15 minutes. I ask what we’re waiting for and get ambiguous replies and resolve to practice deep breathing in the back seat until the vehicle moves again. Eventually, 5 teachers pile into the van.
Where are you going?
Home.
But why are you coming with us?
Because it’s raining.
But…
Oh.
So it’s this point that I “get it” and I feel so humbled by it. The thing is—my American values have been blinding me all day. My need to be well-planned and detail-orientated and profession and punctual has made me totally self absorbed. I’ve been trying to be responsible and get where I promised to be when I promised to be there but the priorities motivating my Batswana colleagues have been much different. For the Batswana, the important thing today was to help one another and sacrifice for the greater good and put other people’s needs before their own (and definitely before the clock!). If things didn’t work out perfectly it would be okay because at least everyone was helped by the van. A collective, community based culture and ethos.
And so, yeah, I booked the transport first. And it wasn’t “fair” that I was 30 minutes late to a presentation in front of 50 colleagues. And it wasn’t “fair” that I was embarrassed and felt unprofessional. That was annoying.
But, in the mean time, a giant van carried one woman to Gabs and back, two teachers to their workshops and five staff to their homes—all without getting anyone soaked in the rain.
Oh, and we saved petrol.
Two years and still Such An American. But at least the epiphanies come now. Slow and reluctant. But they come.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Things We Love
I live on a family compound in a little pink house next to the landlords’ larger pink house. The landlords have two kids and a dog and a cat and a million chickens. The dog is my favorite. I love to come home after a long day and sit in the sand, rubbing Molly’s belly. She’s started to anticipate it and will chase after me and lie down in front of my feet until I consent. She has giant sad eyes which I find soothing and compassionate in a way I can’t explain.
Molly has had three litters since I arrived. 23 puppies all together. In this last litter the puppies lived for three months and then one by one began dying. Earlier this week the last one died.
Molly died today.
________________
The landlord came over to check on me tonight. I stood in my doorframe (as I always do) and he stood on my stoop facing the horizon (as he always does) and we chit chatted about work and the weather. And I said “What happened to all the dogs?” and he said “Well, we don’t really know.” And I said “But it was so sudden—all at once like that.” And he said, “They may have been poisoned. But did you see the chicks? My God we are so fortunate with all these new chickens!”
My best friend in the village can’t understand Americans and pets. She talks about it all the time—genuinely fascinated by our attachment to animals and confused at how we can build such fondness for dirty cats that exist to catch mice and mangy dogs that exist to protect the house.
Sometimes I theorize that it’s our individualistic culture that tends towards solitude and yet finds that privacy can be enhanced by a connection with a silent, soft and affectionate being. Sometimes I think it’s evolution past the strict hierarchical culture that sees animals as merely functional and disposable. Sometimes I just think it’s excess money and time that has made us develop new interests and hobbies beyond survival tasks. Sometimes I think we’ve got it all wrong and we’d be better off ignoring them like the Batswana.
____________
Molly crawled under the banana tree at the edge of our yard and died there today. The kids told me but I wouldn’t look. She laid there for seven long hours before the landlord finally removed her.
There have been moments here that I’ve wanted desperately to be invisible. There have been days I’ve nearly begged my skin to turn black.
But I’ve never so badly wanted to be Motswana, as I did today.
Molly has had three litters since I arrived. 23 puppies all together. In this last litter the puppies lived for three months and then one by one began dying. Earlier this week the last one died.
Molly died today.
________________
The landlord came over to check on me tonight. I stood in my doorframe (as I always do) and he stood on my stoop facing the horizon (as he always does) and we chit chatted about work and the weather. And I said “What happened to all the dogs?” and he said “Well, we don’t really know.” And I said “But it was so sudden—all at once like that.” And he said, “They may have been poisoned. But did you see the chicks? My God we are so fortunate with all these new chickens!”
My best friend in the village can’t understand Americans and pets. She talks about it all the time—genuinely fascinated by our attachment to animals and confused at how we can build such fondness for dirty cats that exist to catch mice and mangy dogs that exist to protect the house.
Sometimes I theorize that it’s our individualistic culture that tends towards solitude and yet finds that privacy can be enhanced by a connection with a silent, soft and affectionate being. Sometimes I think it’s evolution past the strict hierarchical culture that sees animals as merely functional and disposable. Sometimes I just think it’s excess money and time that has made us develop new interests and hobbies beyond survival tasks. Sometimes I think we’ve got it all wrong and we’d be better off ignoring them like the Batswana.
____________
Molly crawled under the banana tree at the edge of our yard and died there today. The kids told me but I wouldn’t look. She laid there for seven long hours before the landlord finally removed her.
There have been moments here that I’ve wanted desperately to be invisible. There have been days I’ve nearly begged my skin to turn black.
But I’ve never so badly wanted to be Motswana, as I did today.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Protector
Savid and I meet at the village bus stop which may have been a mistake. We are quite visible there and the things he tells me are too painful to hide. I spend a lot of time blinking over and over to keep the water out of my eyes. I concentrate on ignoring the stares of neighbors and from bus windows, patterened with gawking eyes. Savid is oblivious—or perhaps too indignant to care. He has had enough of this country. He is leaving from rage and fear and betrayal.
______________
Ian Khama’s presidential campaign promised social improvements through heightened discipline. He has not failed in administering this discipline. It is impressive and a bit daunting. Many Batswana are not pleased with the 70% tax increase on alcohol or the early closing of public bars. People also complain about the skyrocketing traffic violation fines which, for some offenses, soared from P50 to P1000.
When Khama took office, he meant business. He wanted a sober nation. A safe nation. He also wanted a fair nation. One where only legal Zimbabwean refugees resided. Where citizens could live without the fear of being robbed or assaulted by desperately the poor who had fled their country. And so we began to see more and more deportation vehicles-- stuffed to the brim and heading back to the border. For many Batswana, this was a relief. But for those on the inside, the process seemed haphazard and unjust. One minute they were working, tending the same garden that had employed them for six years, and the next, the police had come and swept them up. Papers and pleas were ignored. Reasons withheld. It was a rapid and merciless process. In the final week of November, Botswana deported 4,000 Zimbabwean refugees. A great cleanse. Though not flawless.
______________
When they came for him there was the natural shock, but Savid had been through this before. He was polite and compliant—calmly unfolding his UN refugee documents and waiting for the expected pardon.
The police glanced at the documents and told Savid to put them away. It was not their job to determine his status, but merely to take him as instructed. Savid protested, insisting that he had a right to know his offense but the officers merely grunted and began attaching handcuffs to his wrists.
“This is unnecessary. I will go with you freely. I merely ask to know my offense.”
“It’s a protocol. I’m sorry—we are required to use these.”
Savid’s hands were fastened behind his back and he was led from the garden to the police vehicle. Friends and coworkers and garden customers stood gaping at this abrupt display. Some called out to ask what had happened. Some ran to the police, demanding an explanation. But Savid couldn’t answer and neither could his escorts. He was Zimbabwean. That’s all the justification they had and needed. He would have to wait for more answers.
__________________
Savid was taken to his home and told to pack a bag. He did this reluctantly, still pleading for reason and urgently displaying his passports and papers. The policemen had waning patience and gruffly zipped his bag and reapplied the cuffs. They then drove him 50 kilometers to Molepolole where Savid found himself penned inside a vast cage. There were over 1,000 of them—men on one side and women and children on the other. All Zimbabwean. There were tents but no roof. Someone took Savid’s bag and he would not see it again for four days.
And then the rains started. Cold, hard rains.
Botswana’s rains tend to come staggered—a few hours of downpour and then blazes of sunshine before the next spell. A cloudy day here and there. A brief quenching followed by thick humidity.
There are 340 days of sunshine and blue skies in Botswana each year.
Savid watched the sky cloud over and the wind rise. He hugged his t-shirt against his skin and found his way into a damp tent. From there he watched the rain fall for three days straight. No one came for him. No one responded to his pleas for clarification or his belongings or even a single warm garment. He and the thousand other refugees huddled in confusion and a mounting rage. Waiting and shivering.
It is hard to deal with such mayhem in these uncomfortable weather conditions. It must have overwhelmed the officers, for no one appeared during those days. Rain does much to impede the work flow here in Botswana.
Savid ate three small meals of undercooked porridge each day. He would not step into the showers and when I asked him why he looked away with such disgust it turned my stomach.
“The prison was a pen for animals and I believed I would die there.” He said to me, shaking his head back and forth. “I thought I was finished.”
“And I was angry.” He has stopped looking at me now. “Not at them but me—to die this way. I could have been home—fighting for a cause! Dying for our freedom. But instead I was dying here—in the arms of my protector. And for what…? For what…?”
And I am blinking water
Locked on his sunken eyes and blinking blinking
________________
On the fourth day the rains finally stopped. By noon prison operations had resumed and Savid spotted the Police Chief walking just beyond the chain link fence. He called to her, begging for a moment. Just a word.
The Chief responded to this emotional plea and told Savid there was a protocol he must follow before speaking with her.
But he had taken these steps many times, he insisted. He had asked for a meeting and been ignored time and time again.
The Chief look sideways at Savid. His wrinkled forehead and hollow cheeks. His refugee documents pressed against the fence. There were mountains of others behind him. A list of pleas that preceded him. A protocol that was meant to be followed.
Maybe the Chief knew there had been a mistake. Maybe she merely liked the shape of Savid’s eyes. We call them miracles because the explanations elude us.
And so they did, when Savid was called to her office that afternoon. And when Savid was discharged.
“Maybe God put you here to meet good people,” said the Chief upon Savid’s release.
Savid stared at this good woman and felt gratitude and vulnerability and danger.
Outside the prison gate things had changed.
Savid’s space and God and “good” had been revised.
The Chief’s theory seemed possible. And unconsoling.
_______________
The sun is in my eyes now and I’m squinting up to see him. To read the lines on his face at the end of this nightmare story.
I will go now.
Where?
Home. To Harare.
Will it be dangerous?
Yes, but perhaps no more dangerous than here.
What has your wife said?
She’s coming for festive season. Her and three of my children. We will plan then.
And what will become of your refugee status?
I will lose it. The UN does not approve of my return. They will make me write a document, saying I voluntarily return to Zimbabwe, fully aware of the risks to my life and safety.
And you are?
I am.
And I am blinking blinking blinking
______________
Ian Khama’s presidential campaign promised social improvements through heightened discipline. He has not failed in administering this discipline. It is impressive and a bit daunting. Many Batswana are not pleased with the 70% tax increase on alcohol or the early closing of public bars. People also complain about the skyrocketing traffic violation fines which, for some offenses, soared from P50 to P1000.
When Khama took office, he meant business. He wanted a sober nation. A safe nation. He also wanted a fair nation. One where only legal Zimbabwean refugees resided. Where citizens could live without the fear of being robbed or assaulted by desperately the poor who had fled their country. And so we began to see more and more deportation vehicles-- stuffed to the brim and heading back to the border. For many Batswana, this was a relief. But for those on the inside, the process seemed haphazard and unjust. One minute they were working, tending the same garden that had employed them for six years, and the next, the police had come and swept them up. Papers and pleas were ignored. Reasons withheld. It was a rapid and merciless process. In the final week of November, Botswana deported 4,000 Zimbabwean refugees. A great cleanse. Though not flawless.
______________
When they came for him there was the natural shock, but Savid had been through this before. He was polite and compliant—calmly unfolding his UN refugee documents and waiting for the expected pardon.
The police glanced at the documents and told Savid to put them away. It was not their job to determine his status, but merely to take him as instructed. Savid protested, insisting that he had a right to know his offense but the officers merely grunted and began attaching handcuffs to his wrists.
“This is unnecessary. I will go with you freely. I merely ask to know my offense.”
“It’s a protocol. I’m sorry—we are required to use these.”
Savid’s hands were fastened behind his back and he was led from the garden to the police vehicle. Friends and coworkers and garden customers stood gaping at this abrupt display. Some called out to ask what had happened. Some ran to the police, demanding an explanation. But Savid couldn’t answer and neither could his escorts. He was Zimbabwean. That’s all the justification they had and needed. He would have to wait for more answers.
__________________
Savid was taken to his home and told to pack a bag. He did this reluctantly, still pleading for reason and urgently displaying his passports and papers. The policemen had waning patience and gruffly zipped his bag and reapplied the cuffs. They then drove him 50 kilometers to Molepolole where Savid found himself penned inside a vast cage. There were over 1,000 of them—men on one side and women and children on the other. All Zimbabwean. There were tents but no roof. Someone took Savid’s bag and he would not see it again for four days.
And then the rains started. Cold, hard rains.
Botswana’s rains tend to come staggered—a few hours of downpour and then blazes of sunshine before the next spell. A cloudy day here and there. A brief quenching followed by thick humidity.
There are 340 days of sunshine and blue skies in Botswana each year.
Savid watched the sky cloud over and the wind rise. He hugged his t-shirt against his skin and found his way into a damp tent. From there he watched the rain fall for three days straight. No one came for him. No one responded to his pleas for clarification or his belongings or even a single warm garment. He and the thousand other refugees huddled in confusion and a mounting rage. Waiting and shivering.
It is hard to deal with such mayhem in these uncomfortable weather conditions. It must have overwhelmed the officers, for no one appeared during those days. Rain does much to impede the work flow here in Botswana.
Savid ate three small meals of undercooked porridge each day. He would not step into the showers and when I asked him why he looked away with such disgust it turned my stomach.
“The prison was a pen for animals and I believed I would die there.” He said to me, shaking his head back and forth. “I thought I was finished.”
“And I was angry.” He has stopped looking at me now. “Not at them but me—to die this way. I could have been home—fighting for a cause! Dying for our freedom. But instead I was dying here—in the arms of my protector. And for what…? For what…?”
And I am blinking water
Locked on his sunken eyes and blinking blinking
________________
On the fourth day the rains finally stopped. By noon prison operations had resumed and Savid spotted the Police Chief walking just beyond the chain link fence. He called to her, begging for a moment. Just a word.
The Chief responded to this emotional plea and told Savid there was a protocol he must follow before speaking with her.
But he had taken these steps many times, he insisted. He had asked for a meeting and been ignored time and time again.
The Chief look sideways at Savid. His wrinkled forehead and hollow cheeks. His refugee documents pressed against the fence. There were mountains of others behind him. A list of pleas that preceded him. A protocol that was meant to be followed.
Maybe the Chief knew there had been a mistake. Maybe she merely liked the shape of Savid’s eyes. We call them miracles because the explanations elude us.
And so they did, when Savid was called to her office that afternoon. And when Savid was discharged.
“Maybe God put you here to meet good people,” said the Chief upon Savid’s release.
Savid stared at this good woman and felt gratitude and vulnerability and danger.
Outside the prison gate things had changed.
Savid’s space and God and “good” had been revised.
The Chief’s theory seemed possible. And unconsoling.
_______________
The sun is in my eyes now and I’m squinting up to see him. To read the lines on his face at the end of this nightmare story.
I will go now.
Where?
Home. To Harare.
Will it be dangerous?
Yes, but perhaps no more dangerous than here.
What has your wife said?
She’s coming for festive season. Her and three of my children. We will plan then.
And what will become of your refugee status?
I will lose it. The UN does not approve of my return. They will make me write a document, saying I voluntarily return to Zimbabwe, fully aware of the risks to my life and safety.
And you are?
I am.
And I am blinking blinking blinking
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Curses and Blessings
When we got to the hill it was already 4:00. Just three hours before dark. They’d told us to park at the base and look for trails but all we could see were thorny cow paths that twisted and vanished through the brush. Mari shrugged and we set out. It was only a hill, after all. If we got too tired we’d just turn back.
An hour and a half later we had scaled the rock face of Otse Hill. We had also learned that the “hill”-designation was a phenomenal understatement. Three thousand vertical feet had brought us to peak after peak. When we were certain we’d conquered our “hill” there was another summit, cresting in the background. We huffed and puffed and pressed on. At some point we agreed to stretch our distance so the rock landslides we unearthed wouldn’t keep tumbling onto the person hiking in the rear. At another point I stopped looking down to keep our steep vertical from giving me vertigo.
At last we peaked. The summit held the pride and exhaustion and splendor that mountaintops are famous for. We turned in slow, panoramic circles-- gasping at the dramatic expanse and absorbing the landscape in silent awe. The pictures muffle its depth and quiet the colors. Still, we remember the majesty of that vibrant green ocean and the way it impressed upon us a sense of being very strong and infinitely small. All at once.
Dappled in that exquisite landscape were Images that have come to mind
now
and
Then
A monkey’s glare. A summit sign reading “wisdom”. Two frightened deer. A crystallized rock. And a very small hut that sat at a peak, adjacent to ours.
Maybe these things have significance. Maybe they are nothing but garnish. But I remember them now. And I remembered them Then. Then. Just two days later. When our world crashed and spun and slammed us harder than we’ve ever known. And when everything stood still. When we were small. Smaller than a breath in all that vast terrain. When we were practically nothing at all. Then.
_________________
Jessica you should have asked someone!
I did—we stopped in the village in Otse and asked for directions.
But what did they say!? They just let you go?
Well, yeah. I mean, they looked at us like we were kind of crazy but I just thought that was because it’s so high. You know—it’s the highest point in Botswana.
They looked at you like that because it’s cursed!
Lesego, I really don’t think—
I’m telling you. You’ve heard the story of those two lovers who went up and never came back.
But Lesego that’s just a story.
No it’s not. It’s cursed and now you are too. That hill is the place where our traditional healers get their power. That’s why. You shouldn’t have gone there. You should have asked first.
Lesego, I think you’re overreacting a bit. It was fine. Really. We are fine.
But you should have asked. Don’t ever do that again.
_____________
At first I can’t stop hyperventilating. I’ve never hyperventilated before and I find myself fascinated and disturbed by the sound. Still, I know I am not hurt and so I watch it play out. Like a spectator. A bystander who clasps her hand against her lips and tries to keep her eyes open.
For all I knew it took an hour. Time crawling like that. At first sadistically. And then, it seemed, to help us.
I remember blackness and scrawls of light. I remember Mari steering frantically. I remember hearing my name called and I can’t answer.
When the car stops I manage to breathe again and Mari says: There is blood in my mouth. And she says it over and over. And I’m scared and there are people everywhere. At all the windows.
______________________
When we get out of the car we hug each other and look at the damage. Our audience confirms that we are not hurt and then shouts at us to collect our things.
They are coming now! They are going to rob you! You must remove all your things from the car! Quickly!
Mari leans against the hood and breathes and asks about the police. A tow truck arrives. I find lip gloss and passports and cell phones and pens. They have stolen our leftovers from the restaurant and a package of gum. I find this sad and confusing.
The other car is also smashed but he’s walking. People tell us to sit down but I can’t help feeling like there’s something I should be doing. A man in the crowd catches my eye and I lock on him. He is soft. He says he will take us to the hospital. After the police come.
____________________
And so the police come. There are blue blinking lights. There are x-rays. There is a mechanic’s shop. There is a car rental company. There is a neck brace.
There is Mari in the gate, looking weak and exhausted. Hugging me goodbye.
There is an airplane.
____________________
Three days later I am feasting with a group of volunteers. Turkeys and pies and cocktails and cigarettes. At the end of the night we lie in the yard and stare at the stars. My neck is throbbing but I am elated.
Someone decides we should honor the holiday by sharing about the things we are grateful for.
The funny kid says turkey. The sentimental says all of you. Someone talks about their family. Someone describes their village. I look at my arms and legs and I breathe in and out. I’m thankful for that. I say this and people nod and sigh and do not understand.
There are bruises all across my pelvis from the seatbelt. I have been on pain medicine for a week for my neck. I have trouble sleeping and exercising because of the ache.
I also walk and cook and laugh and teach and lie on a blanket with my friends feeling enormously grateful.
Were we cursed or blessed?
Maybe neither. Maybe both.
Maybe we were just reminded of our size. Our infinite irrelevance. Our source of respect.
Three thousand feet above sea level.
360 degrees and spinning.
It is good to feel small. It is right.
An hour and a half later we had scaled the rock face of Otse Hill. We had also learned that the “hill”-designation was a phenomenal understatement. Three thousand vertical feet had brought us to peak after peak. When we were certain we’d conquered our “hill” there was another summit, cresting in the background. We huffed and puffed and pressed on. At some point we agreed to stretch our distance so the rock landslides we unearthed wouldn’t keep tumbling onto the person hiking in the rear. At another point I stopped looking down to keep our steep vertical from giving me vertigo.
At last we peaked. The summit held the pride and exhaustion and splendor that mountaintops are famous for. We turned in slow, panoramic circles-- gasping at the dramatic expanse and absorbing the landscape in silent awe. The pictures muffle its depth and quiet the colors. Still, we remember the majesty of that vibrant green ocean and the way it impressed upon us a sense of being very strong and infinitely small. All at once.
Dappled in that exquisite landscape were Images that have come to mind
now
and
Then
A monkey’s glare. A summit sign reading “wisdom”. Two frightened deer. A crystallized rock. And a very small hut that sat at a peak, adjacent to ours.
Maybe these things have significance. Maybe they are nothing but garnish. But I remember them now. And I remembered them Then. Then. Just two days later. When our world crashed and spun and slammed us harder than we’ve ever known. And when everything stood still. When we were small. Smaller than a breath in all that vast terrain. When we were practically nothing at all. Then.
_________________
Jessica you should have asked someone!
I did—we stopped in the village in Otse and asked for directions.
But what did they say!? They just let you go?
Well, yeah. I mean, they looked at us like we were kind of crazy but I just thought that was because it’s so high. You know—it’s the highest point in Botswana.
They looked at you like that because it’s cursed!
Lesego, I really don’t think—
I’m telling you. You’ve heard the story of those two lovers who went up and never came back.
But Lesego that’s just a story.
No it’s not. It’s cursed and now you are too. That hill is the place where our traditional healers get their power. That’s why. You shouldn’t have gone there. You should have asked first.
Lesego, I think you’re overreacting a bit. It was fine. Really. We are fine.
But you should have asked. Don’t ever do that again.
_____________
At first I can’t stop hyperventilating. I’ve never hyperventilated before and I find myself fascinated and disturbed by the sound. Still, I know I am not hurt and so I watch it play out. Like a spectator. A bystander who clasps her hand against her lips and tries to keep her eyes open.
For all I knew it took an hour. Time crawling like that. At first sadistically. And then, it seemed, to help us.
I remember blackness and scrawls of light. I remember Mari steering frantically. I remember hearing my name called and I can’t answer.
When the car stops I manage to breathe again and Mari says: There is blood in my mouth. And she says it over and over. And I’m scared and there are people everywhere. At all the windows.
______________________
When we get out of the car we hug each other and look at the damage. Our audience confirms that we are not hurt and then shouts at us to collect our things.
They are coming now! They are going to rob you! You must remove all your things from the car! Quickly!
Mari leans against the hood and breathes and asks about the police. A tow truck arrives. I find lip gloss and passports and cell phones and pens. They have stolen our leftovers from the restaurant and a package of gum. I find this sad and confusing.
The other car is also smashed but he’s walking. People tell us to sit down but I can’t help feeling like there’s something I should be doing. A man in the crowd catches my eye and I lock on him. He is soft. He says he will take us to the hospital. After the police come.
____________________
And so the police come. There are blue blinking lights. There are x-rays. There is a mechanic’s shop. There is a car rental company. There is a neck brace.
There is Mari in the gate, looking weak and exhausted. Hugging me goodbye.
There is an airplane.
____________________
Three days later I am feasting with a group of volunteers. Turkeys and pies and cocktails and cigarettes. At the end of the night we lie in the yard and stare at the stars. My neck is throbbing but I am elated.
Someone decides we should honor the holiday by sharing about the things we are grateful for.
The funny kid says turkey. The sentimental says all of you. Someone talks about their family. Someone describes their village. I look at my arms and legs and I breathe in and out. I’m thankful for that. I say this and people nod and sigh and do not understand.
There are bruises all across my pelvis from the seatbelt. I have been on pain medicine for a week for my neck. I have trouble sleeping and exercising because of the ache.
I also walk and cook and laugh and teach and lie on a blanket with my friends feeling enormously grateful.
Were we cursed or blessed?
Maybe neither. Maybe both.
Maybe we were just reminded of our size. Our infinite irrelevance. Our source of respect.
Three thousand feet above sea level.
360 degrees and spinning.
It is good to feel small. It is right.
Monday, November 30, 2009
A Farmer’s Paradise
My sister and brother-in-law found the lightening storm particularly fascinating. They watched it arriving for nearly an hour and then stood on my porch snapping photos of spidery bolts, golden clouds and the wind-swept terrain. When the rain became too hard we watched from inside as the sky rolled upon us and the earth seemed to melt in a sigh – or a song.
The farmers and cattle have their own, far more noble, reasons for rain-relief. I, on the other hand, am just thrilled to have hardened sand beneath my morning run.
On Friday morning I left at 5:15, as always, jogging towards the pink sunrise. This has, and is, and will always be one of my Most Serene Spaces: privacy in a giant expanse of twisted trees and drifting cattle
cool morning
soft air
and a horizon freshly painted, just for me, every day.
Today I’m gliding over dirt paths and the storm’s misty residue. It’s been 20 minutes or so when I come upon a giant smoking tree. The sight is so unexpected that I run past and spend the next ten minutes rationalizing it.
It must be a method of clearing the land, I reason. Certainly a farmer is close by, prepared to control the burning and later chop up the tree for firewood. I pace on with uneasy resignation to this explanation.
Or, I tell myself a mile later, or it was some type of traditional worship… some healer is carrying out a ceremony or burning the bush for a medicinal concoction. Maybe the smoke is to dry out herbs or perhaps the ash is used in some type of curative mixture.
I am exactly half way through my run and the reasons seem weaker with each step.
Turn right to finish the loop or turn back to retrace my steps and find the tree.
I check my watch. 5:45. The stillness is profound. Too early for farmers and healers. And too far out.
I turn back.
This time when I approach the tree, its smoke has turned to giant flames. I advance to see that the trunk has been torn in two splintered halves. The gash is nearly vertical—attesting to a tool quite different from an axe or saw. I feel the spongy, wet earth beneath me and remember the storm. There is lightening in this tree. And it is very much alive.
The tree’s torso lies in a long stretch against the earth. I consider the surrounding bush in all its dry growth and thick vegetation. Bush-fire stories feel haunting and real. My house and neighbors feel close.
And so I begin.
Giant fistfuls of wet sand crash into the flames. Over and over I lean to collect the dirt and quench the tree’s blaze. At one point I pick up a fallen branch to chip away the smoldering bark. It falls to the ground in black chunks—sizzling into the piles ash.
I alternate between the sand strategy and branch beating for ten minutes before the flames dissolve and the smoke is controlled. I step away to survey my work and see finite success: the tree sits stifled and grey, yet still pulsing with energy. Small remains of embers and smoke appear to taunt. The potential for another ignition seems more than likely.
I check my watch again: 5:55. I can be back to the village before 6:15. If I sprint 6:10. People will be awake by then. I can tell someone.
I remember that the closest fire station is 40 km away in Gaborone.
I remember that my landlords leave for work at 6:00.
I remember that the neighbors speak only Setswana.
What’s the word for lightening? I know fire. I know tree. But how do I say burning? Should I call the Kumakwane police?
I am calm but anxious. Perhaps I was in the right place at the right time but does Fate stop there? Certainly people have taken wrong measures in those right places. Certainly I’d be held accountable if acres of bush burned down.
But Fate didn’t stop there.
Just five minutes after leaving the tree I come across three men walking towards their cattle post. This was miraculous for the following reasons:
1. I have been running this route for over six months and have Rarely seen another person in the lands before 6:30.
2. Most Kumakwane farmers are older and illiterate – these three men were in their 20s and spoke fluent English.
3. The majority of those who work out in the lands do so alone—herding cattle or repairing fences or collecting firewood. These were three.
4. And they had a shovel.
______________
On Saturday morning I return to the lands with Heather and Tim. They stop to take photos of dawdling cows and enormous centipedes and bright red sand bugs. When we finally come upon the tree we find a farmer busily hacking at the stump. He has even pulled his truck into the bush to collect the massive trunk and branches. I greet him and he looks up with a smile.
A rain storm and a truck-full of firewood all in one week: a farmer’s paradise, I think.
How wonderfully bizarre to have participated.
The farmers and cattle have their own, far more noble, reasons for rain-relief. I, on the other hand, am just thrilled to have hardened sand beneath my morning run.
On Friday morning I left at 5:15, as always, jogging towards the pink sunrise. This has, and is, and will always be one of my Most Serene Spaces: privacy in a giant expanse of twisted trees and drifting cattle
cool morning
soft air
and a horizon freshly painted, just for me, every day.
Today I’m gliding over dirt paths and the storm’s misty residue. It’s been 20 minutes or so when I come upon a giant smoking tree. The sight is so unexpected that I run past and spend the next ten minutes rationalizing it.
It must be a method of clearing the land, I reason. Certainly a farmer is close by, prepared to control the burning and later chop up the tree for firewood. I pace on with uneasy resignation to this explanation.
Or, I tell myself a mile later, or it was some type of traditional worship… some healer is carrying out a ceremony or burning the bush for a medicinal concoction. Maybe the smoke is to dry out herbs or perhaps the ash is used in some type of curative mixture.
I am exactly half way through my run and the reasons seem weaker with each step.
Turn right to finish the loop or turn back to retrace my steps and find the tree.
I check my watch. 5:45. The stillness is profound. Too early for farmers and healers. And too far out.
I turn back.
This time when I approach the tree, its smoke has turned to giant flames. I advance to see that the trunk has been torn in two splintered halves. The gash is nearly vertical—attesting to a tool quite different from an axe or saw. I feel the spongy, wet earth beneath me and remember the storm. There is lightening in this tree. And it is very much alive.
The tree’s torso lies in a long stretch against the earth. I consider the surrounding bush in all its dry growth and thick vegetation. Bush-fire stories feel haunting and real. My house and neighbors feel close.
And so I begin.
Giant fistfuls of wet sand crash into the flames. Over and over I lean to collect the dirt and quench the tree’s blaze. At one point I pick up a fallen branch to chip away the smoldering bark. It falls to the ground in black chunks—sizzling into the piles ash.
I alternate between the sand strategy and branch beating for ten minutes before the flames dissolve and the smoke is controlled. I step away to survey my work and see finite success: the tree sits stifled and grey, yet still pulsing with energy. Small remains of embers and smoke appear to taunt. The potential for another ignition seems more than likely.
I check my watch again: 5:55. I can be back to the village before 6:15. If I sprint 6:10. People will be awake by then. I can tell someone.
I remember that the closest fire station is 40 km away in Gaborone.
I remember that my landlords leave for work at 6:00.
I remember that the neighbors speak only Setswana.
What’s the word for lightening? I know fire. I know tree. But how do I say burning? Should I call the Kumakwane police?
I am calm but anxious. Perhaps I was in the right place at the right time but does Fate stop there? Certainly people have taken wrong measures in those right places. Certainly I’d be held accountable if acres of bush burned down.
But Fate didn’t stop there.
Just five minutes after leaving the tree I come across three men walking towards their cattle post. This was miraculous for the following reasons:
1. I have been running this route for over six months and have Rarely seen another person in the lands before 6:30.
2. Most Kumakwane farmers are older and illiterate – these three men were in their 20s and spoke fluent English.
3. The majority of those who work out in the lands do so alone—herding cattle or repairing fences or collecting firewood. These were three.
4. And they had a shovel.
______________
On Saturday morning I return to the lands with Heather and Tim. They stop to take photos of dawdling cows and enormous centipedes and bright red sand bugs. When we finally come upon the tree we find a farmer busily hacking at the stump. He has even pulled his truck into the bush to collect the massive trunk and branches. I greet him and he looks up with a smile.
A rain storm and a truck-full of firewood all in one week: a farmer’s paradise, I think.
How wonderfully bizarre to have participated.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Stillness
Traveling to a campsite in central Botswana we find ourselves muscling the masses on elections weekend. President Khama has given everyone the day off so they have time to make it to their home villages and wait in the 7 hour lines to cast their votes.
People groan about the travel, but softly. There is An Awareness here. Zimbabwe and South Africa bulging at the seams and straining the borders. Election days go differently there.
On Monday morning the Deputy School Head stands before our student body and nearly shouts the words
“Not one drop of blood was shed!”
I stare at her poised there with pride and passion. I feel the significance. The students are encouraged to be proud of their nation’s stability during these elections. They are also persuaded to work towards lives that sustain and promote Botswana’s unique and profound state of peace.
Several times each month I engage in the Getting-To-Know-You banter with Batswana. Americans have their own set of traditional inquiries on employment, the weather, family, etc. The Batswana nearly always ask me the same string of questions:
Which country do you come from?
How long have you been here?
What are you doing here?
What do you think of our country?
In response to the last I typically comment on Botswana’s natural beauty or the warmth of the people. And they nod and reply:
“Ah, and we are peaceful here. A very peaceful nation.”
Botswana was not a colony of Britain, it was a protectorate. It earned peaceful independence in 1966. It has never had a civil war. Its 8 major tribes reside in harmony and tolerance of one another.
At some point in my service I began to take advantage of these facts. I got bored of people telling me how peaceful Botswana is. I numbed to this predictable praise.
And then Election Day came and went as every other day has in quiet, sunny, serene Botswana. And then I looked at my map again: Zambia pouring frightened refugees. South Africa still on the mend from apartheid. And all the horrors that sit and stir in the wake of Uganda, Sudan, Rwanda, Kenya
and
so
on.
“Can you believe this?” Hael says out of nowhere.
I look up from my book.
She’s bright from the light pouring through the bus window. And from Something else.
“I just can’t believe we’re sitting here, Living in an African country—and with these elections… right now there are elections going on. And nothing, nothing at all. Just another day.”
We sit there like that. Half comprehending the novelty. Attempting to sense the weight of These Things.
The bus window flashes light and dust and green. We watch it. We feel grateful. Or as grateful as we can - two privileged, sheltered, curious American girls, learning perspective. And the importance of an absence. And the value of a Stillness.
People groan about the travel, but softly. There is An Awareness here. Zimbabwe and South Africa bulging at the seams and straining the borders. Election days go differently there.
On Monday morning the Deputy School Head stands before our student body and nearly shouts the words
“Not one drop of blood was shed!”
I stare at her poised there with pride and passion. I feel the significance. The students are encouraged to be proud of their nation’s stability during these elections. They are also persuaded to work towards lives that sustain and promote Botswana’s unique and profound state of peace.
Several times each month I engage in the Getting-To-Know-You banter with Batswana. Americans have their own set of traditional inquiries on employment, the weather, family, etc. The Batswana nearly always ask me the same string of questions:
Which country do you come from?
How long have you been here?
What are you doing here?
What do you think of our country?
In response to the last I typically comment on Botswana’s natural beauty or the warmth of the people. And they nod and reply:
“Ah, and we are peaceful here. A very peaceful nation.”
Botswana was not a colony of Britain, it was a protectorate. It earned peaceful independence in 1966. It has never had a civil war. Its 8 major tribes reside in harmony and tolerance of one another.
At some point in my service I began to take advantage of these facts. I got bored of people telling me how peaceful Botswana is. I numbed to this predictable praise.
And then Election Day came and went as every other day has in quiet, sunny, serene Botswana. And then I looked at my map again: Zambia pouring frightened refugees. South Africa still on the mend from apartheid. And all the horrors that sit and stir in the wake of Uganda, Sudan, Rwanda, Kenya
and
so
on.
“Can you believe this?” Hael says out of nowhere.
I look up from my book.
She’s bright from the light pouring through the bus window. And from Something else.
“I just can’t believe we’re sitting here, Living in an African country—and with these elections… right now there are elections going on. And nothing, nothing at all. Just another day.”
We sit there like that. Half comprehending the novelty. Attempting to sense the weight of These Things.
The bus window flashes light and dust and green. We watch it. We feel grateful. Or as grateful as we can - two privileged, sheltered, curious American girls, learning perspective. And the importance of an absence. And the value of a Stillness.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Periphery Prevention
I lost most of my tan in America which disappointed me but seemed to make quite an impression on my students…
“Mma Charles… you have changed! You look so nice now--- so white!”
Color and shades are significant here. Since everyone has black hair and black eyes, skin tone becomes crucial to identity. In my first months people I met kept referring to others as “that black one” which left me completely baffled as I stared into the sea of black faces surrounding me.
Even more confusing was the opposite. One day I was attempting to check out at grocery store when the manager directed me to “that cashier there… the white lady.” I scanned all 8 tills before turning back to him for help. “Right there baby—the white one… you see her there.” I most certainly did not see any white people anywhere. Eventually, he brought me down to the third register and deposited me in the line where I found a female cashier with light brown skin. This, I learned, was African’s “white”.
Ofet is a “black one”. No mistake about that. He might be the darkest boy at our school and this deep complexion makes his teeth and eyes glimmer in the perpetual smile he’s always donning. Ofet flirts with the girls and makes his classmates laugh. He comes to club meetings and sits in the back row cracking jokes with the other boys. When I glance at him he bites his lip and slaps his neighbors quiet. He is one of the few boys who greets teachers with full formality (hands clasped, small bow, “dummella mma” “dumella rra”).
I don’t know Ofet as well as other students but I like him. His energy and charm are impressive. The sweetness he preserves in popularity is rare.
On my first day back someone handed me a program with Ofet’s image on the front page. The photocopier had been broken and left ashy lines across the white and turned Ofet’s face into a shadow. Though too dark to see his features, the shape of that black silhouette was unmistakable. The program trembled slightly in my hands so I put it down on the desk and waited. The others waited too. Eventually someone took the program away.
_______
On the far stretches of the village, beyond the lands there is a large sand pit. Rumor has it that the man with the permit to this land had been meant to use it for agricultural purposes. People were surprised, therefore, when the man began digging up the sand with giant cranes and trucking it out of the village to be sold. Surprise quickly turned to frustration when the massive trucks began polluting the village with dust storms and noise for long hours each day. Over time this frustration became anger when the trucks gained momentum and went tearing through town leaving pedestrian villagers terrified for their lives.
I don’t know what comes after anger but I’m sure, whatever it is, it sits there now and waits to explode.
________
The week before I returned the rains began. Giant heavy drops in the south and massive balls of hail in the north. In Serowe the village was destroyed by hail storms but in Kumakwane we dealt with the expected: soggy paths and restless cattle and dirty donkey carts and the return of myriad mosquitoes.
On the first day the sand dunes grew damp and hardened. On the second they began to fill. On the third they were deep enough to swim.
And it was the weekend. So the kids went swimming.
____________
In the 18 months since my arrival two of my volunteer colleagues have rescued drowning children from pools.
The vast majority of Batswana children do not know how to swim because a) their country is land locked b) rivers and lakes are thought to be cursed by witchdoctors so no one swims in them and c) the nations pools are usually restricted to expensive hotels and upperclass back yards where Batswana children rarely find themselves.
____________
People don’t talk about the details here. It’s taboo. If I asked they might tell me but I spare them this discomfort. All I know is that Ofet went swimming with a group of children at the sand dunes. When he started drowning no one was a strong enough swimmer to save him. They watched him drown. And on October 6th, they buried him.
____________
Before I left for Peace Corps my advisor asked me if I was ready for all the death I would see in these two years. He was preparing me for this plagued continent. He was referring to HIV and, at the time, it scared me.
HIV doesn’t scare me that way any longer. Now there are bigger ghosts. Negligence. Poverty. Alcoholism. Logistics. Carelessness.
The causes of death here are so casual. So shockingly simple. Sometimes they can be explained and many times they cannot. Accidents without fault. Consequences without cause. People slip away and the grieving comes and goes. Not insincere but also not prolonged. How could they bear to fully mourn them all?
____________
The first time a student told me they’d rather have HIV than TB I looked at her with such horror that I’m sure she was embarrassed. Later she explained to me that tuberculosis kills you quickly and with HIV you can live for years and years.
With the government providing ARV therapy those years have now turned decades. HIV doesn’t look so bad compared with the other options. Most days you can hardly see it at all.
_____________
Sometimes I get frustrated over the lack of urgency I see towards the crisis of HIV. I rue the international donors for inspiring Botswana’s dependence. I question my own presence and how it’s limiting local investment. I teach impassioned classes on HIV prevention where the students stare at me blankly.
But how can I blame them? Their classmates and siblings are dying of drownings and asthma and car accidents and all manner of tragic, startling cause. Meanwhile, their mothers and fathers are going to the clinic every month to pick up free medicine and free foodbaskets and living well into their fifties.
____________
It’s more shocking than depressing. The thought that those who make it past HIV have so many other hurdles to cross. And the thought that so many of these hurdles are easily evaded. Preventable.
I am a Lifeskills Peace Corps volunteer. I teach HIV prevention.
But who teaches the rest? The Life-Stuff: swimming, crossing the road, dealing with an emergency…
Maybe we started in the wrong place.
Maybe we’ve been too narrow.
Seven months left of service. Retrospect enlightens. and humbles.
“Mma Charles… you have changed! You look so nice now--- so white!”
Color and shades are significant here. Since everyone has black hair and black eyes, skin tone becomes crucial to identity. In my first months people I met kept referring to others as “that black one” which left me completely baffled as I stared into the sea of black faces surrounding me.
Even more confusing was the opposite. One day I was attempting to check out at grocery store when the manager directed me to “that cashier there… the white lady.” I scanned all 8 tills before turning back to him for help. “Right there baby—the white one… you see her there.” I most certainly did not see any white people anywhere. Eventually, he brought me down to the third register and deposited me in the line where I found a female cashier with light brown skin. This, I learned, was African’s “white”.
Ofet is a “black one”. No mistake about that. He might be the darkest boy at our school and this deep complexion makes his teeth and eyes glimmer in the perpetual smile he’s always donning. Ofet flirts with the girls and makes his classmates laugh. He comes to club meetings and sits in the back row cracking jokes with the other boys. When I glance at him he bites his lip and slaps his neighbors quiet. He is one of the few boys who greets teachers with full formality (hands clasped, small bow, “dummella mma” “dumella rra”).
I don’t know Ofet as well as other students but I like him. His energy and charm are impressive. The sweetness he preserves in popularity is rare.
On my first day back someone handed me a program with Ofet’s image on the front page. The photocopier had been broken and left ashy lines across the white and turned Ofet’s face into a shadow. Though too dark to see his features, the shape of that black silhouette was unmistakable. The program trembled slightly in my hands so I put it down on the desk and waited. The others waited too. Eventually someone took the program away.
_______
On the far stretches of the village, beyond the lands there is a large sand pit. Rumor has it that the man with the permit to this land had been meant to use it for agricultural purposes. People were surprised, therefore, when the man began digging up the sand with giant cranes and trucking it out of the village to be sold. Surprise quickly turned to frustration when the massive trucks began polluting the village with dust storms and noise for long hours each day. Over time this frustration became anger when the trucks gained momentum and went tearing through town leaving pedestrian villagers terrified for their lives.
I don’t know what comes after anger but I’m sure, whatever it is, it sits there now and waits to explode.
________
The week before I returned the rains began. Giant heavy drops in the south and massive balls of hail in the north. In Serowe the village was destroyed by hail storms but in Kumakwane we dealt with the expected: soggy paths and restless cattle and dirty donkey carts and the return of myriad mosquitoes.
On the first day the sand dunes grew damp and hardened. On the second they began to fill. On the third they were deep enough to swim.
And it was the weekend. So the kids went swimming.
____________
In the 18 months since my arrival two of my volunteer colleagues have rescued drowning children from pools.
The vast majority of Batswana children do not know how to swim because a) their country is land locked b) rivers and lakes are thought to be cursed by witchdoctors so no one swims in them and c) the nations pools are usually restricted to expensive hotels and upperclass back yards where Batswana children rarely find themselves.
____________
People don’t talk about the details here. It’s taboo. If I asked they might tell me but I spare them this discomfort. All I know is that Ofet went swimming with a group of children at the sand dunes. When he started drowning no one was a strong enough swimmer to save him. They watched him drown. And on October 6th, they buried him.
____________
Before I left for Peace Corps my advisor asked me if I was ready for all the death I would see in these two years. He was preparing me for this plagued continent. He was referring to HIV and, at the time, it scared me.
HIV doesn’t scare me that way any longer. Now there are bigger ghosts. Negligence. Poverty. Alcoholism. Logistics. Carelessness.
The causes of death here are so casual. So shockingly simple. Sometimes they can be explained and many times they cannot. Accidents without fault. Consequences without cause. People slip away and the grieving comes and goes. Not insincere but also not prolonged. How could they bear to fully mourn them all?
____________
The first time a student told me they’d rather have HIV than TB I looked at her with such horror that I’m sure she was embarrassed. Later she explained to me that tuberculosis kills you quickly and with HIV you can live for years and years.
With the government providing ARV therapy those years have now turned decades. HIV doesn’t look so bad compared with the other options. Most days you can hardly see it at all.
_____________
Sometimes I get frustrated over the lack of urgency I see towards the crisis of HIV. I rue the international donors for inspiring Botswana’s dependence. I question my own presence and how it’s limiting local investment. I teach impassioned classes on HIV prevention where the students stare at me blankly.
But how can I blame them? Their classmates and siblings are dying of drownings and asthma and car accidents and all manner of tragic, startling cause. Meanwhile, their mothers and fathers are going to the clinic every month to pick up free medicine and free foodbaskets and living well into their fifties.
____________
It’s more shocking than depressing. The thought that those who make it past HIV have so many other hurdles to cross. And the thought that so many of these hurdles are easily evaded. Preventable.
I am a Lifeskills Peace Corps volunteer. I teach HIV prevention.
But who teaches the rest? The Life-Stuff: swimming, crossing the road, dealing with an emergency…
Maybe we started in the wrong place.
Maybe we’ve been too narrow.
Seven months left of service. Retrospect enlightens. and humbles.
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