As much as I adore my cats, there are many instances in which being accustomed to feline friends has gotten me into trouble—exuding poufs of cat fur everywhere I went, regardless of how much I tried to de-fur my clothes, when I was living in the States for instance.
Even now, though I am incredibly far from my furbabies at the moment, my familiarity with kitty companions is getting me into trouble. You see, when you are used to sharing your living space with cats, you take it for granted that they make noise—you don’t even think twice when you hear the sound of something walking around or knocking things over while you are sleeping. It seems only natural, right?
Funny thing about that time when you are almost asleep, or have briefly awakened in the middle of the night: you sometimes forget where you are. For instance, if you spent your first 26 years in America, in houses and apartments with cats, and suddenly find yourself in the middle of Africa, in a cement room with holes in the wall. (I trust that at this point you can see where this story is going, but humor me.)
Last night was my first night in my site, in the house where I will be spending the net two years. I awoke several times to the sound of something scuttling around. Thinking it was my cat, I was actually slightly comforted (I miss my kitties :o), and simply fell back asleep. It was not until the next morning that it occurred to me that seeing as I have no pets here in Botswana, it was, clearly, not my cat. Now, I have no idea what was scurrying about in my room last night, but, I will not mince words: it was either large or noisy enough to give a well-seasoned cat person the impression that it was a cat. Incidentally, I’m writing this in the dark, and just heard the noise again. I could turn on my headlamp to try to see if I could identify the source of this noise, but, you know, I think I’m going to stick to ignorance on this one. Unless I hear a slithering-sort of sound…then I just might emit a shriek loud enough for even y’all in the states to hear… Ga ke rata dinoga!!
In a related note, I have a new favorite thing: my mosquito net. It protects me from the army of mosquitoes (and apparently other creatures) that invade my room through the holes in my cement walls every night. It is covered in some kind of crazy insecticide that creates a toxic shield of doom outside, and a sanctuary of safety and itch-free territory within. I can’t help but feel a pang of irony when I douse the area immediately surrounding the organic bedsheets (which I painstakingly carted here from the States) with bug spray, and admittedly, it is a bit of a pain to have to keep each and every inch of my mosquito net’s perimeter tucked between my mattress and box spring and slide in and out of my bed through a small opening which much be immediately sealed. But words cannot express the joy that lies within my slightly toxic, yet totally bug-free enclave. Plus, the one downside to being in the Delta is that malaria is fairly prevalent here, and even though the Peace Corps requires us to take malaria prophalaxys, the medication does not prevent malaria; it only minimize the symptoms. And I’ve been in the hospital once already. I have no intention of returning. Or of being eaten by bugs or a mysterious creature. So, toxic mosquito net, welcome to my life…I think we will be very happy together.
June 14, 2010
Shops in Bots
Yeah, that’s right, “Shops in Bots.” I stand by that title. As you’ve probably guessed, you’re just going to have to get used to punny, cheesy, pseudo-rhyming blog titles if you’re going to keep reading my blog…which you are, because you love me, and if you don’t, I’ll be sad…or vengeful. Hehe. At least you don’t have to wear a spelunking light if you have to pee after 6pm, so don’t gripe too much. :oP
Anyway, I still really want to write about my village, my house, and my NGO, but there is just so, so much that I want to say, I’m trying to collect my thoughts. But for the purposes of a status update, just FYI, I am now an OFFICIAL Peace Corps Volunteer (I’ll write about swearing in/the conclusion of PST later—same as thoughts about my village—too much to describe at the moment!), moved to my site on Friday/Saturday (it’s a two-day trip from Moleps and Gabs), and will start work tomorrow (it’s Sunday the 13th as I’m writing this).
In the meantime, I’ve been trying to make mental notes of all of the things that struck me when I first arrived but were too numerous to process, let alone write about at the time, so that I can write about them now, while I’m still somewhat “fresh” in Bots. It’s really amazing how quickly you become accustomed to all of the subtle and not-so-subtle differences (although it does not FEEL as though it is happening quickly—again with the PC timewarp!), and there’s still so much that I want to make note of! So, today’s topic is shopping! (Because I just LOVE shopping SO much—haha!)
Prior to arriving in Botswana, I imagined the primary food sources would be open-air markets with locally-grown produce and freshly-made food; I envisioned other locally-made goods sold in small craft and shop booths or shanty stores. Why I imagined this would be the case, I don’t know—perhaps one too many National Geographic’s—but I could not have been more off-target if I tried.
Now, I cannot speak to the situation in extremely small villages, as I have only spent time in or passed through large or mid-sized villages (my site, Shakawe, is small-to-mid-sized, with a population of about 5,000, but it is on a main road, so it has more amenities than some other villages of its size). However, I have seen a great portion of the country while traveling to and from my site, so I feel reasonably confident that my reflections are fairly representative.
The primary sources for food in each of the villages that I have visited or passed though are not farmers markets or locally-owned stores, but large chain stores—Choppies, (Super) Spar, Shoprite, and SupaSave, to name a few. They stand out amongst the local architecture about as much as I stand out among a crowd of Batswana—they look just like grocery stores in the states, except that they suddenly emerge out of mazes of dirt roads, or a single tarred road, surrounded by rondevals and cement houses; their parking lots are dominated by goats, donkeys, chickens, and packs of stray dogs (there are plenty of cars too, of course, but the animals, dipologolo, seem to have the upper hand…here in Botswana, all the good parking spots are either taken, or occupied by a donkey). These stores are almost exactly like American grocery stores on the inside as well—full of brand-name packaged and processed products—including food, toiletries, basic household needs, etc.—mostly from South Africa or the United States; all of the labels and pricing information is even written in English. The biggest differences that I have noticed between grocery stores in America and Botswana is a slightly different product selection and different produce protocol—you must have your produce weighed and a barcode printed while still in the produce section, rather than at the cash register. Other than that, trips inside the grocery store are somewhat like little mini-mind-cations to the States.
Non-food or household items—clothes, furniture, etc.—are also sold in large chain stores, like PEP, Game, or Mr. Price, FurnMart. The experience of shopping in these stores is really no difference than shopping at an Old Navy, Bed, Bath, and Beyond, or Target in the states; just slightly different merchandise, catered to local needs.
As surprising as all of that was for me, the real shocker, based on my expectations and knowledge prior to arriving in Bots, has been the China shops (as an American, I cringe every time I refer to them this way, and it feels even more uncomfortable typing it; but this is what they are called here, and the individuals who own the shops are actually Chinese, not just Asian…still feels uncomfortable, though…). Even more common than the large Target-like stores are shops owned by Chinese immigrants (who stick out as much as I do; Batswana are almost exclusively of African descent), which sell everything from buckets, to stereos and TV’s, to clothes, shoes, and tea kettles—literally just about anything you can think of other than food—at extremely low prices. They are typically in brick or cement buildings, but do not have any frills or decorations inside like a PEP or grocery store. They’re almost like a Ross or TJ Maxx—you never quite know what you might find, and you sort of feel like you’re on a treasure-hunt when you’re there. They are everywhere, and there seem to be about 3-5 China shops for every PEP-like store, and they seem to do quite well.
I have yet to encounter any large locally-owned and operated non-chain stores. Most non-chain, non-China shops are restaurants, butcheries, salons, tailors, car repair shops, and bars. These are typically in concrete or brick buildings with minimal extra furnishings, scattered throughout neighborhoods, or next to the chain stores and China shops, in strip-mall fashion.
There are also an overwhelming number of individual street vendors everywhere—including in front of China shops and chain stores. However, the street vendors do not typically sell their own crafts or food. They are almost exclusively women, sitting behind fold-up card tables, wearing bright aprons advertising various cell phone networks, and they primarily sell pieces of individually-wrapped candy (which they purchased in bulk inside the large chain stores; frequently the same stores that they are stationed in front of), and cell phone airtime (cell phones here are pay-as-you go, and in order to recharge your phone, you must purchase a card with a scratch-off code, sort of like a lottery ticket, and enter that number into your phone; the street vendors sell the cards). Occasionally, they will have some produce, like oranges (in an unrelated note, good lord, the citrus fruit here is amazing!!!) or homemade fat cakes, but they almost exclusively sell candy and airtime.
In addition to the street vendors, there are occasional hairdressers who have set up shop in impromptu tent-like structures, or people selling home-made metal buckets and tubs on the roadside. There are places where one can go to purchase locally-made art or other items—co-ops or the Main Mall in Gaborone, for instance—but these seem to be fairly hard to come by, and shopping is done almost exclusively at chain stores and China shops.
The shopping situation here is so far from anything I anticipated, and it was quite disconcerting when I first arrived, but even after only two months, it seems almost natural. I once again find myself feeling rather limited in my ability to express an opinion in such a public forum, but I hope I at least painted a word-picture for you…amazing how simultaneously different and similar Botswana and America are…
Anyway, I still really want to write about my village, my house, and my NGO, but there is just so, so much that I want to say, I’m trying to collect my thoughts. But for the purposes of a status update, just FYI, I am now an OFFICIAL Peace Corps Volunteer (I’ll write about swearing in/the conclusion of PST later—same as thoughts about my village—too much to describe at the moment!), moved to my site on Friday/Saturday (it’s a two-day trip from Moleps and Gabs), and will start work tomorrow (it’s Sunday the 13th as I’m writing this).
In the meantime, I’ve been trying to make mental notes of all of the things that struck me when I first arrived but were too numerous to process, let alone write about at the time, so that I can write about them now, while I’m still somewhat “fresh” in Bots. It’s really amazing how quickly you become accustomed to all of the subtle and not-so-subtle differences (although it does not FEEL as though it is happening quickly—again with the PC timewarp!), and there’s still so much that I want to make note of! So, today’s topic is shopping! (Because I just LOVE shopping SO much—haha!)
Prior to arriving in Botswana, I imagined the primary food sources would be open-air markets with locally-grown produce and freshly-made food; I envisioned other locally-made goods sold in small craft and shop booths or shanty stores. Why I imagined this would be the case, I don’t know—perhaps one too many National Geographic’s—but I could not have been more off-target if I tried.
Now, I cannot speak to the situation in extremely small villages, as I have only spent time in or passed through large or mid-sized villages (my site, Shakawe, is small-to-mid-sized, with a population of about 5,000, but it is on a main road, so it has more amenities than some other villages of its size). However, I have seen a great portion of the country while traveling to and from my site, so I feel reasonably confident that my reflections are fairly representative.
The primary sources for food in each of the villages that I have visited or passed though are not farmers markets or locally-owned stores, but large chain stores—Choppies, (Super) Spar, Shoprite, and SupaSave, to name a few. They stand out amongst the local architecture about as much as I stand out among a crowd of Batswana—they look just like grocery stores in the states, except that they suddenly emerge out of mazes of dirt roads, or a single tarred road, surrounded by rondevals and cement houses; their parking lots are dominated by goats, donkeys, chickens, and packs of stray dogs (there are plenty of cars too, of course, but the animals, dipologolo, seem to have the upper hand…here in Botswana, all the good parking spots are either taken, or occupied by a donkey). These stores are almost exactly like American grocery stores on the inside as well—full of brand-name packaged and processed products—including food, toiletries, basic household needs, etc.—mostly from South Africa or the United States; all of the labels and pricing information is even written in English. The biggest differences that I have noticed between grocery stores in America and Botswana is a slightly different product selection and different produce protocol—you must have your produce weighed and a barcode printed while still in the produce section, rather than at the cash register. Other than that, trips inside the grocery store are somewhat like little mini-mind-cations to the States.
Non-food or household items—clothes, furniture, etc.—are also sold in large chain stores, like PEP, Game, or Mr. Price, FurnMart. The experience of shopping in these stores is really no difference than shopping at an Old Navy, Bed, Bath, and Beyond, or Target in the states; just slightly different merchandise, catered to local needs.
As surprising as all of that was for me, the real shocker, based on my expectations and knowledge prior to arriving in Bots, has been the China shops (as an American, I cringe every time I refer to them this way, and it feels even more uncomfortable typing it; but this is what they are called here, and the individuals who own the shops are actually Chinese, not just Asian…still feels uncomfortable, though…). Even more common than the large Target-like stores are shops owned by Chinese immigrants (who stick out as much as I do; Batswana are almost exclusively of African descent), which sell everything from buckets, to stereos and TV’s, to clothes, shoes, and tea kettles—literally just about anything you can think of other than food—at extremely low prices. They are typically in brick or cement buildings, but do not have any frills or decorations inside like a PEP or grocery store. They’re almost like a Ross or TJ Maxx—you never quite know what you might find, and you sort of feel like you’re on a treasure-hunt when you’re there. They are everywhere, and there seem to be about 3-5 China shops for every PEP-like store, and they seem to do quite well.
I have yet to encounter any large locally-owned and operated non-chain stores. Most non-chain, non-China shops are restaurants, butcheries, salons, tailors, car repair shops, and bars. These are typically in concrete or brick buildings with minimal extra furnishings, scattered throughout neighborhoods, or next to the chain stores and China shops, in strip-mall fashion.
There are also an overwhelming number of individual street vendors everywhere—including in front of China shops and chain stores. However, the street vendors do not typically sell their own crafts or food. They are almost exclusively women, sitting behind fold-up card tables, wearing bright aprons advertising various cell phone networks, and they primarily sell pieces of individually-wrapped candy (which they purchased in bulk inside the large chain stores; frequently the same stores that they are stationed in front of), and cell phone airtime (cell phones here are pay-as-you go, and in order to recharge your phone, you must purchase a card with a scratch-off code, sort of like a lottery ticket, and enter that number into your phone; the street vendors sell the cards). Occasionally, they will have some produce, like oranges (in an unrelated note, good lord, the citrus fruit here is amazing!!!) or homemade fat cakes, but they almost exclusively sell candy and airtime.
In addition to the street vendors, there are occasional hairdressers who have set up shop in impromptu tent-like structures, or people selling home-made metal buckets and tubs on the roadside. There are places where one can go to purchase locally-made art or other items—co-ops or the Main Mall in Gaborone, for instance—but these seem to be fairly hard to come by, and shopping is done almost exclusively at chain stores and China shops.
The shopping situation here is so far from anything I anticipated, and it was quite disconcerting when I first arrived, but even after only two months, it seems almost natural. I once again find myself feeling rather limited in my ability to express an opinion in such a public forum, but I hope I at least painted a word-picture for you…amazing how simultaneously different and similar Botswana and America are…
June 8, 2010
Setswanglish
As I have frequently mentioned, one of the perplexing aspects of Peace Corps service is the way it plays with your sense of time and progress. I think that for me, at least, this is in part because in order to reach a level of comfort that will allow me to function properly and be effective as a volunteer, I have had to shed many aspects of my America life and identity (not my love of friends and family—you are everything to me!), and reinvent myself here. So in a strange way, it feels as though I’ve always been here, or at least have been here for a very, very long time, because it is easy (and necessary) to forget what life is like at home. Yet at the same time it seems as though the time has passed very quickly, and is easy to forget just how far I’ve come—since my baseline for comparison is so skewed. Because of that, most PCV’s (or PCT’s, in my case; until Thursday, at least [AHH!!!]) occasionally experience rather jarring moments in which we are suddenly reminded of the progress we’ve made relative to things like cultural acclimation, community integration, work progress, or as with my most recent “Wow, I really AM in Peace Corps Botswana…” moment, language skills.
Botswana is unique (or at least I think it’s unique—I obviously have yet to do a great deal of travel outside of the United States) in that the official language here is English, the national language is Setswana, and there are many other tribal languages spoken throughout the country. I read this before coming, but couldn’t exactly make sense of it, so let me break it down for you: what this means is that all Batswana are raised speaking their tribal language (which in many cases is Setswana, but especially in the more rural areas, it is often something else—including click languages, for those of you who are curious), then taught in Setswana in early education, with English taught as a second language. By about the 4th grade, however, students are expected to be fluent enough in English that all classes are taught entirely in English, and Setswana is offered only as a second language, all the way up to and including at University. (Off topic, but I can’t help myself, as it's hard to mention this without pointing out the difficulties that this poses for many students, particularly those in more rural areas, where Setswana is their second language—imagine speaking English almost exclusively, then being taught in Spanish until 4th grade, using that Spanish to learn Russian, then being taught solely in Russian from 4th grade on…as you can imagine, this creates some very large hurdles for many students…I have a hunch I’ll be talking about this a lot more in the future, and it’s not relevant here, but it’s difficult to even discuss the topic of language without at least touching on it). All government workers are to communicate in English, and most signs, advertisements, and food labels/brand names are in English. Television is primarily in Setswana, except for television shows from the United States, or from South Africa, which are often in Afrikaans.
The result of this, from the perspective of an English-speaking American, is that it is fairly easy to get around using primarily English (though it is always the policy of Peace Corps to communicate as much as possible in the local language, in order to demonstrate respect for the local culture, as well as to facilitate integration into the community, and I would love to become fluent in Setswana while serving). However, as with each English-speaking country in the world, there is a very different way of speaking English in Botswana, which includes an extremely different accent, very different phrasing and expressions, and is peppered with bits of Setswana.
Setswana is a very beautiful language, which sounds sort of like an extremely deep, throaty version of Italian ( for istance, o robala jang? [sounds like: oh ro-ball-uh jahng, with a rolled “r”]). It is spoken very melodically, and native speakers rely heavily on expressive sounds and tones to convey emotions: eish! to express frustration or disapproval; a high-pitched, breathy a-a! (ah-ah!), to express surprise or disbelief; even “yes” aa (a long, drawn-out “ay”—think Fonze from Happy Days—it sounds just like that) or aa-he (a quick “ay-hey,” sort of like “uh-huh,” a casual or enthusiastic “yes”) and “no” nnyaa (n-yah) sound more like expressive tones than structured words when spoken.
Setswana is also almost entirely a spoken language—it has only been transcribed since the European missionaries have been here. As such, although there are many grammatical rules, they are often quite difficult to explain to non-native speakers, and also possibly for the same reason, there are a strikingly large number of words have multiple meanings. Initially, I postulated that words which had more than one meaning primarily because of some similarity between the words’ meaning, or some shared history of their use, but now, after having had two months of intensive lessons and seeing just how many of the words we have already learned have two or more entirely unrelated meanings, I’m beginning to think that it has more to do with pragmatism or something along those lines, than deep symbolism.
There are some other aspects of Setswana that are hard to grasp for many American-English speakers: for instance there are almost no words for color in Setswana. There are words for black, white, yellow, green/blue, and red. That’s it. No purple, orange, pink, brown, tan…now, obviously in English we may be a little heavy on our color-words (how many colors are in the biggest Crayola box again?), but it is really interesting to think that a culture has gotten around with words for only the primary colors and black and white for thousands of years. There are also surprisingly few words to express emotion—there is no distinction between like and love, sad and depressed, excited and happy. Again, as Americans, we are rather touchy-feely, so we may be on the high end of emo-words, but there are hardly any in Setswana.
Which brings me back to my original point. These sorts of differences, which do wind up translating into different usage of English, and the very strong difference in accents, even learning to understand and communicate fluently in English with a Motswana is surprisingly challenging. Re-learning words like “sharp sharp” (pronounced like “shop shop” with a British accent, and used as an alternative for “yes,” or “ok,” or to indicate that something was understood), and using “very nice” or “just ok” to describe everything, “bath” instead of “bathe,” trying to structure sentences as they would be structured in Setswana, all the while trying to speak with a Setswana accent, and mixing in as many Setswana words and expressive sounds possible, is a struggle in and of itself. I’m sure it sounds silly, but when I first arrived, I felt I couldn’t even really communicate in English—the prospect of ever achieving successful communication was among the many things that, in all honesty, terrified me to my core.
However, when at site, for the first time surrounded almost exclusively by Batswana, and after having had 8 weeks of Setswana, I found myself nearly fluent in Setswanglish. After returning to Moleps, the trainees were joking amongst ourselves that this Setswanglish has become so second-nature to us, that we even catch ourselves speaking it with each other; and joke that we will have to re-learn American English when we return home. I don’t know when or how this shift happened—I have been making considerable efforts to learn Setswana, but didn’t even realize I was modifying my own English. But somehow, all of a sudden, I find myself more integrated, that much farther, that much more acclimated than I realized, even after only two months. And it feels good.
I am writing this on Sunday night. Tuesday is our final PST LPI (language test), Wednesday we go to Gabs to buy supplies for our houses, Thursday we are sworn as official Peace Corps Volunteers, and Friday morning we say goodbye to training (and to each other…for a while, anyway…) and go with our counterparts to our sites, where we will begin our real service as PCV’s. Needless to say this is among the most exciting, terrifying, sad, thrilling, and overwhelming (I have plenty of descriptive emo-words to choose from; I clearly haven’t lost all of my American English speaking ways) weeks of my life…but ga ke na mathata—no worries; it will be fine... (Yes, Disney people, people here say ga ke na mathata - pronnounced ha kay na ma-ta-ta. And you're welcome for getting Lion King stuck in your heads...). As always, I am so, so, so appreciative of all of your support, and for always listening to me and helping me through the good and the bad times. Missing you all so much! Wish me luck!
Oh, and I WILL write something about Shakawa ASAP—I just have so very much I want to say about it, I am still collecting my thoughts!
Botswana is unique (or at least I think it’s unique—I obviously have yet to do a great deal of travel outside of the United States) in that the official language here is English, the national language is Setswana, and there are many other tribal languages spoken throughout the country. I read this before coming, but couldn’t exactly make sense of it, so let me break it down for you: what this means is that all Batswana are raised speaking their tribal language (which in many cases is Setswana, but especially in the more rural areas, it is often something else—including click languages, for those of you who are curious), then taught in Setswana in early education, with English taught as a second language. By about the 4th grade, however, students are expected to be fluent enough in English that all classes are taught entirely in English, and Setswana is offered only as a second language, all the way up to and including at University. (Off topic, but I can’t help myself, as it's hard to mention this without pointing out the difficulties that this poses for many students, particularly those in more rural areas, where Setswana is their second language—imagine speaking English almost exclusively, then being taught in Spanish until 4th grade, using that Spanish to learn Russian, then being taught solely in Russian from 4th grade on…as you can imagine, this creates some very large hurdles for many students…I have a hunch I’ll be talking about this a lot more in the future, and it’s not relevant here, but it’s difficult to even discuss the topic of language without at least touching on it). All government workers are to communicate in English, and most signs, advertisements, and food labels/brand names are in English. Television is primarily in Setswana, except for television shows from the United States, or from South Africa, which are often in Afrikaans.
The result of this, from the perspective of an English-speaking American, is that it is fairly easy to get around using primarily English (though it is always the policy of Peace Corps to communicate as much as possible in the local language, in order to demonstrate respect for the local culture, as well as to facilitate integration into the community, and I would love to become fluent in Setswana while serving). However, as with each English-speaking country in the world, there is a very different way of speaking English in Botswana, which includes an extremely different accent, very different phrasing and expressions, and is peppered with bits of Setswana.
Setswana is a very beautiful language, which sounds sort of like an extremely deep, throaty version of Italian ( for istance, o robala jang? [sounds like: oh ro-ball-uh jahng, with a rolled “r”]). It is spoken very melodically, and native speakers rely heavily on expressive sounds and tones to convey emotions: eish! to express frustration or disapproval; a high-pitched, breathy a-a! (ah-ah!), to express surprise or disbelief; even “yes” aa (a long, drawn-out “ay”—think Fonze from Happy Days—it sounds just like that) or aa-he (a quick “ay-hey,” sort of like “uh-huh,” a casual or enthusiastic “yes”) and “no” nnyaa (n-yah) sound more like expressive tones than structured words when spoken.
Setswana is also almost entirely a spoken language—it has only been transcribed since the European missionaries have been here. As such, although there are many grammatical rules, they are often quite difficult to explain to non-native speakers, and also possibly for the same reason, there are a strikingly large number of words have multiple meanings. Initially, I postulated that words which had more than one meaning primarily because of some similarity between the words’ meaning, or some shared history of their use, but now, after having had two months of intensive lessons and seeing just how many of the words we have already learned have two or more entirely unrelated meanings, I’m beginning to think that it has more to do with pragmatism or something along those lines, than deep symbolism.
There are some other aspects of Setswana that are hard to grasp for many American-English speakers: for instance there are almost no words for color in Setswana. There are words for black, white, yellow, green/blue, and red. That’s it. No purple, orange, pink, brown, tan…now, obviously in English we may be a little heavy on our color-words (how many colors are in the biggest Crayola box again?), but it is really interesting to think that a culture has gotten around with words for only the primary colors and black and white for thousands of years. There are also surprisingly few words to express emotion—there is no distinction between like and love, sad and depressed, excited and happy. Again, as Americans, we are rather touchy-feely, so we may be on the high end of emo-words, but there are hardly any in Setswana.
Which brings me back to my original point. These sorts of differences, which do wind up translating into different usage of English, and the very strong difference in accents, even learning to understand and communicate fluently in English with a Motswana is surprisingly challenging. Re-learning words like “sharp sharp” (pronounced like “shop shop” with a British accent, and used as an alternative for “yes,” or “ok,” or to indicate that something was understood), and using “very nice” or “just ok” to describe everything, “bath” instead of “bathe,” trying to structure sentences as they would be structured in Setswana, all the while trying to speak with a Setswana accent, and mixing in as many Setswana words and expressive sounds possible, is a struggle in and of itself. I’m sure it sounds silly, but when I first arrived, I felt I couldn’t even really communicate in English—the prospect of ever achieving successful communication was among the many things that, in all honesty, terrified me to my core.
However, when at site, for the first time surrounded almost exclusively by Batswana, and after having had 8 weeks of Setswana, I found myself nearly fluent in Setswanglish. After returning to Moleps, the trainees were joking amongst ourselves that this Setswanglish has become so second-nature to us, that we even catch ourselves speaking it with each other; and joke that we will have to re-learn American English when we return home. I don’t know when or how this shift happened—I have been making considerable efforts to learn Setswana, but didn’t even realize I was modifying my own English. But somehow, all of a sudden, I find myself more integrated, that much farther, that much more acclimated than I realized, even after only two months. And it feels good.
I am writing this on Sunday night. Tuesday is our final PST LPI (language test), Wednesday we go to Gabs to buy supplies for our houses, Thursday we are sworn as official Peace Corps Volunteers, and Friday morning we say goodbye to training (and to each other…for a while, anyway…) and go with our counterparts to our sites, where we will begin our real service as PCV’s. Needless to say this is among the most exciting, terrifying, sad, thrilling, and overwhelming (I have plenty of descriptive emo-words to choose from; I clearly haven’t lost all of my American English speaking ways) weeks of my life…but ga ke na mathata—no worries; it will be fine... (Yes, Disney people, people here say ga ke na mathata - pronnounced ha kay na ma-ta-ta. And you're welcome for getting Lion King stuck in your heads...). As always, I am so, so, so appreciative of all of your support, and for always listening to me and helping me through the good and the bad times. Missing you all so much! Wish me luck!
Oh, and I WILL write something about Shakawa ASAP—I just have so very much I want to say about it, I am still collecting my thoughts!
June 6, 2010
The Journey…
I know you are all probably itching to know more details about my site (ok, I’d like to pretend that you’re all itching to know more details about my site, and I’m in Africa, far, far away and missing you all, so just indulge me on this one :o), however my two day journey to Shakawe (“Shaks” for short, for future reference), which involved spending a night in Maun and 16 hours on busses, each way, proved interesting enough (to my extremely un-traveled American sensibilities) to warrant its own entry.
I should begin by pointing out that the transportation system in Botswana is far superior to that in many countries, in that it is actually fairly reliable, most major roads are tarred (paved), busses generally keep to their schedules, and public transport is actually quite easy to navigate (as it should be, considering the sparse population is—about 2 million living in a country the size of Texas)—so my observations are just observations, not complaints about Bots or its infrastructure. Having said that, here are a few things I learned:
16 hours on a crowded buses in 90+ degree weather with no air conditioner or open windows (Batswana do not like windows open on the bus, and in the event that you are fortunate enough to have access to one to open it, it will almost immediately be shut by a nearby Motswana), while sitting amongst a group of people who have scarce access to deodorant is a very, very long time.
Cattle, goats, and donkeys are EVERYWHERE in Botswana (there are more donkeys than there are people in this country—actually). Drivers do not slow down for animals. Animals do not respond to honking. By the end of an 11 hour trip, one is certain to develop an alarmingly high tolerance for near-death-experiences.
The busses in Botswana vary dramatically. One of the busses I rode had plush reclining seats, overhead storage, and a few TV screens (still old and in rather dubious working condition—broke down twice—but overall, much nicer than I’d have expected before arriving in Bots). Another was a slightly glorified combi, almost entirely rusted out (there were actually small holes under my feet where I could see through to the ground), with the doors barely hinged on, and kept closed with the same sort of lock used in a bathroom stall, the windshield full of cracks, and no casing over the steering wheel or dashboard (both of which frequently began smoking…which was still not enough to convince my fellow travelers to open a window). When a Motswana tells you not to take the 10:30 bus, it means you should NOT take the 10:30 bus.
There are almost a half-dozen check-points on the road between Gaborone and Shakawe. Checkpoints for what, I’m not sure—there is no border crossing and (as mentioned before) an extremely low population. However nearly 6 times all of the passengers were required to disembark, carry our large bags outside, and wait in line as a police officer shuffled through our luggage and checked our IDs. The truly bizarre thing about the whole process was that passengers were only required to have their large luggage sorted through—purses, shopping bags, etc., were not even required to be presented at the check point. It is at this point that I will remind you that as a PCV I am prevented from making any sort of political or controversial comments. I can’t, however, prevent those of you who know me to make inferences about my opinions…
As an American, I am still astonished by the level of trust that exists in Setswana culture. There are several instances when the bus makes some small loops in order to stop in villages slightly off the main road. If a passenger has to go to the bathroom, s/he gets off at a stop before the loop, and the bus will pick the passenger back up—you get off the bus, leave all of your belongings, and just assume that the driver will come back for you, and even wait for you…and they do, and when you get back on, they don’t even check your ticket. Moreover, if you don’t have exact change for your ticket, change is given at the end of the ride—you just remind the conductor that you are owed change, tell them how much change you are owed, and they give it to you, without any sort of documentation…and we’re talking LONG bus rides—11 hours with people getting on and off all along the way. It would be incredibly easy to manipulate the system and ask for change when you weren’t owed any, or ask for more than what you were due…but this culture relies very heavily on trust and community, so it does not seem that this system is manipulated frequently.
Kgalagadi Batswana know their stuff. Though Botswana is a beautiful country, and a portion of the ride was through the Delta region, the majority of the views on the trip are just bush—and to me, at least, 16 hours of bush, well, it pretty much looks the same. However, to my great astonishment, there were several occasions in which elderly Batswana men signaled to the driver that they wanted to get off in what appeared to be literally the middle of nowhere—no paths, no sneakily-placed landmark like a stick in the road or flag, no houses or rondevals anywhere near. But the men were all well-dressed, and seemed to know where they were going when they got off (and, indeed, there were men waiting in similar spots to be picked up throughout the trip as well), so I am quite confident that they did, in fact, know where they were going. But it is truly astounding—on an hour or so trip, I can imagine how one might be able to recognize a certain bush or a certain tree, but we are talking about hours and hours at a time, hundreds of miles, with no clear landmarks. It is truly evidence of how well some Batswana really know their country…or maybe how little we Americans really know ours…
Flirting. Ahh, this could (and might well soon) have an entry all its own. But suffice to say that gender roles in Botswana are very different from those in modern-day America. Very different. Being a white person (lakgoa), and particularly a white girl, and particular a white girl all alone, means not only that I stick out like a sore thumb in every possible context, but also that literally at least every other man that I encounter—and I use “encounter” in the loosest possible manner, meaning pass on a street, see in a grocery store, walk near, etc—will immediately propose, tell me he loves me, ask me to have his American baby, ask me to take him to America, demand that I give him my phone number, etc. Not only are these the chosen opening lines, but of the men that decide to approach me with this tactic, only about half stop when I decline their requests. The other half will pursue me, try to grab my arm to kiss it, etc. This is absolutely not an exaggeration—it is a cultural difference that is extremely exhausting for me, and, frankly, there are days when it takes every fiber of my being to hold my tongue even just on a walk to the store. It even happened when I was in the hospital—I was barely conscious, and a nurse told me that he needed my phone number in case of an emergency (which, of course, does not make sense, but when you’re barely conscious and in a hospital in another country, 15,000 miles away from home, you aren’t exactly thinking clearly), so I gave it to him, and he proceeded to call about every hour for two days after I left the hospital—the normal tactic when a man here gets your number. So, you can imagine how much fun it is to sit alone on a bus full of men for 18 hours/2 days each way.
I’m not sure exactly how useful this collection of observations is, but I’ve feel compelled to document them while they still seem unusual—it is hard to believe how quickly I’m finding myself adapting; the first month or so was nearly unbearable, but now it seems as though many of the obstacles that I thought I would not ever be able to overcome are things that don’t even cross my mind any more. I have several other posts in the works, to be posted as soon as they are finished…but, honestly, I want all of this here for me as much as for you all…so it’s just coming out a bit at a time! Love you all, miss you all, and please keep the letters coming!!!! Seriously, they are my favorite things in the world!
I should begin by pointing out that the transportation system in Botswana is far superior to that in many countries, in that it is actually fairly reliable, most major roads are tarred (paved), busses generally keep to their schedules, and public transport is actually quite easy to navigate (as it should be, considering the sparse population is—about 2 million living in a country the size of Texas)—so my observations are just observations, not complaints about Bots or its infrastructure. Having said that, here are a few things I learned:
16 hours on a crowded buses in 90+ degree weather with no air conditioner or open windows (Batswana do not like windows open on the bus, and in the event that you are fortunate enough to have access to one to open it, it will almost immediately be shut by a nearby Motswana), while sitting amongst a group of people who have scarce access to deodorant is a very, very long time.
Cattle, goats, and donkeys are EVERYWHERE in Botswana (there are more donkeys than there are people in this country—actually). Drivers do not slow down for animals. Animals do not respond to honking. By the end of an 11 hour trip, one is certain to develop an alarmingly high tolerance for near-death-experiences.
The busses in Botswana vary dramatically. One of the busses I rode had plush reclining seats, overhead storage, and a few TV screens (still old and in rather dubious working condition—broke down twice—but overall, much nicer than I’d have expected before arriving in Bots). Another was a slightly glorified combi, almost entirely rusted out (there were actually small holes under my feet where I could see through to the ground), with the doors barely hinged on, and kept closed with the same sort of lock used in a bathroom stall, the windshield full of cracks, and no casing over the steering wheel or dashboard (both of which frequently began smoking…which was still not enough to convince my fellow travelers to open a window). When a Motswana tells you not to take the 10:30 bus, it means you should NOT take the 10:30 bus.
There are almost a half-dozen check-points on the road between Gaborone and Shakawe. Checkpoints for what, I’m not sure—there is no border crossing and (as mentioned before) an extremely low population. However nearly 6 times all of the passengers were required to disembark, carry our large bags outside, and wait in line as a police officer shuffled through our luggage and checked our IDs. The truly bizarre thing about the whole process was that passengers were only required to have their large luggage sorted through—purses, shopping bags, etc., were not even required to be presented at the check point. It is at this point that I will remind you that as a PCV I am prevented from making any sort of political or controversial comments. I can’t, however, prevent those of you who know me to make inferences about my opinions…
As an American, I am still astonished by the level of trust that exists in Setswana culture. There are several instances when the bus makes some small loops in order to stop in villages slightly off the main road. If a passenger has to go to the bathroom, s/he gets off at a stop before the loop, and the bus will pick the passenger back up—you get off the bus, leave all of your belongings, and just assume that the driver will come back for you, and even wait for you…and they do, and when you get back on, they don’t even check your ticket. Moreover, if you don’t have exact change for your ticket, change is given at the end of the ride—you just remind the conductor that you are owed change, tell them how much change you are owed, and they give it to you, without any sort of documentation…and we’re talking LONG bus rides—11 hours with people getting on and off all along the way. It would be incredibly easy to manipulate the system and ask for change when you weren’t owed any, or ask for more than what you were due…but this culture relies very heavily on trust and community, so it does not seem that this system is manipulated frequently.
Kgalagadi Batswana know their stuff. Though Botswana is a beautiful country, and a portion of the ride was through the Delta region, the majority of the views on the trip are just bush—and to me, at least, 16 hours of bush, well, it pretty much looks the same. However, to my great astonishment, there were several occasions in which elderly Batswana men signaled to the driver that they wanted to get off in what appeared to be literally the middle of nowhere—no paths, no sneakily-placed landmark like a stick in the road or flag, no houses or rondevals anywhere near. But the men were all well-dressed, and seemed to know where they were going when they got off (and, indeed, there were men waiting in similar spots to be picked up throughout the trip as well), so I am quite confident that they did, in fact, know where they were going. But it is truly astounding—on an hour or so trip, I can imagine how one might be able to recognize a certain bush or a certain tree, but we are talking about hours and hours at a time, hundreds of miles, with no clear landmarks. It is truly evidence of how well some Batswana really know their country…or maybe how little we Americans really know ours…
Flirting. Ahh, this could (and might well soon) have an entry all its own. But suffice to say that gender roles in Botswana are very different from those in modern-day America. Very different. Being a white person (lakgoa), and particularly a white girl, and particular a white girl all alone, means not only that I stick out like a sore thumb in every possible context, but also that literally at least every other man that I encounter—and I use “encounter” in the loosest possible manner, meaning pass on a street, see in a grocery store, walk near, etc—will immediately propose, tell me he loves me, ask me to have his American baby, ask me to take him to America, demand that I give him my phone number, etc. Not only are these the chosen opening lines, but of the men that decide to approach me with this tactic, only about half stop when I decline their requests. The other half will pursue me, try to grab my arm to kiss it, etc. This is absolutely not an exaggeration—it is a cultural difference that is extremely exhausting for me, and, frankly, there are days when it takes every fiber of my being to hold my tongue even just on a walk to the store. It even happened when I was in the hospital—I was barely conscious, and a nurse told me that he needed my phone number in case of an emergency (which, of course, does not make sense, but when you’re barely conscious and in a hospital in another country, 15,000 miles away from home, you aren’t exactly thinking clearly), so I gave it to him, and he proceeded to call about every hour for two days after I left the hospital—the normal tactic when a man here gets your number. So, you can imagine how much fun it is to sit alone on a bus full of men for 18 hours/2 days each way.
I’m not sure exactly how useful this collection of observations is, but I’ve feel compelled to document them while they still seem unusual—it is hard to believe how quickly I’m finding myself adapting; the first month or so was nearly unbearable, but now it seems as though many of the obstacles that I thought I would not ever be able to overcome are things that don’t even cross my mind any more. I have several other posts in the works, to be posted as soon as they are finished…but, honestly, I want all of this here for me as much as for you all…so it’s just coming out a bit at a time! Love you all, miss you all, and please keep the letters coming!!!! Seriously, they are my favorite things in the world!
Outta Site!
The Peace Corps is an institution notorious for seemingly trite clichés—“your service is what you make of it,” time moves incredibly fast and incredibly slow all at once, etc.—(all of which, as much as I hate to admit it, seem to hold true) and wrought with tradition. As is the case with most traditions, those in the Peace Corps always appear to be rather frivolous and are prone to causing a great deal of griping among participants, yet they also succeed in creating a sense of unity, and prove a source of comfort—even if only from the shared act of griping about them. Among the more notorious of the Peace Corps traditions, is Site Announcement, the ceremony in which PCT’s are formally given our assignment for the next two years. Though each country does it differently, and there are always small variances to “keep things fresh,” tradition dictates that the Site Announcement must be painstakingly long, drawn-out, and elaborate. Frustrating though it may be in the moment, this pomp and circumstance is not (entirely) without reason. remember reading a blog about site placement before arriving in Bots and thinking “What’s the big deal? You go where they send you…finding out takes one day…” But let me say, it IS a big deal—up until now we have been powering through training based only on some abstract idea of what our service would be like, clinging to the still slightly romanticized ideals associated with Peace Corps service. Site announcement is the defining moment for PCT’s, when that ideal suddenly drops out from underneath us, and we are smacked with the reality of what our actual service, our actual next two years will be like. We are no longer just volunteering somewhere in Botswana for something having to do with HIV. We have real sites, with real jobs and real counterparts. Though I have not yet sworn in, I actually have something tangible to identify what I’ll be doing for the next two years of my life. Site announcements are a sea change day—the difference between 8am and 10am that day is immeasurable. So despite our collective excitement and anxiety, it is somewhat nice that the Peace Corps has a slightly cooler head, and forces us to savor the moment, rather than simply posting a list.
On the morning of Site Announcement, we were presented with a large map of Bots with dots for each site, with a different color of dot for each program (NGO, DAC, CCB, and Life Skills). As we filed into the room, we all closely examined the map to evaluate the sites, and try to deduce who would wind up in which spot. Because the program I am in—NGO Development—is unusually small (only 10 out of the 56 Bots 9-ers), and 6 of the 10 people in our program are married (meaning their dots would be right next to another dot for their spouses—the rest of us are placed in each village by ourselves, so have only one dot), I was in the unusual position of being able to narrow my prospective sites down to only five possibilities. One was in Francistown, a large city in the northeast, highly desirable for its amenities, and it’s proximity to other volunteers (it’s one of the PCV “hubs” in Bots) but a bit “posh” for somone looking for the “Peace Corps” experience. Another site was southeast of Francistown, which had the perk of being close enough to the city and to other volunteers, but also without being too “big-city.” Finally, there were two spots in the Okavanga Delta region, in the Northwest—the hub of Botswana’s tourism district because of the region’s beauty, remoteness, and amazing flora and fauna. One of the sites was slightly outside of the actual delta, but very close to Maun—one of the biggest tourist destinations, which has a great deal of amenities, access to game reserves, etc. The other was among the farthest sites from other vol’s, right on the northern border, directly adjacent to the river that feeds the delta.
Now, I must say, this list alone was comforting—frankly, ALL of the possible sites were quite desirable and had perks of their own. That said, I am human, so of course, as soon as I saw that there was a possibility of being in the Delta—something so amazing, I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider it prior to that point (think, like…living in a National Park)—I immediately became preoccupied with the possibility, and became THAT much more wrought with anxiety and excitement.
After a few moments to examine the map, we were instructed to take our seats and look under them for a number which would determine the order in which we would be invited to the front of the room, individually, to receive our site information. Once our numbers were called, we were to locate an envelope with our name on it, open it and read a quote contained inside, then pull out another number which corresponded to a number on the map, thereby revealing our sites…did I mention that site announcements are elaborate?
I reached under my chair. My number was 10. How awesome is that, right?! Out of 56, I would be the 10th to find out! Or not. In keeping with the “surprises” they decided to give site information in reverse-order. Reverse order out of 56, and I was 10. To make matters worse, of the three other people vying for my potential sites (the other single NGO vol’s), one of them was number 11, and the other was number 6. Meaning that even using the process of elimination, I would be the 10th to last person to know my site. Now, bear in mind that as a result of the lengthy process through which our sites were identified, the entire ceremony takes nearly 2 hours. If you have ever spent more than 5 minutes in a room with me, then you know that I am quite possibly THE least patient person that has ever set foot on this earth—literally. So you can imagine how the next two hours went.
So. Sitting in my chair, fidgeting relentlessly with my pink notecard labeled “10” and watching others’ emotional reactions, unable to control my own impatience, I received another hint. Daniel, the 4th single NGO received his site placement first: Francistown. So it was down to the two spots in the Delta, and the one southeast of Francistown. It was an eternity before number 11 came up. Kelly, the 3rd single NGO was elated to find out that she received the site in the Delta just southwest of Maun…and I was elated for her…but my turn was next and it was down to the site south of Francistown or the site way up north in the Delta. Again, I can’t emphasize enough that each site has perks and disadvantages…but I really, really, really, really wanted to be in the Delta. A lot.
I opened my letter, and I don’t even remember what my quote pertained to, let alone the quote itself. I hurried through it and pulled out my site number: 17. I didn’t even look at the site in the Delta, because I couldn’t bear the possibility that I would look at it and see that it didn’t match…so I looked at the dot near Francistown…and the number didn’t match! Which means…I AM GOING TO SPEND THE NEXT TWO YEARS IN THE OKAVANGA DELTA!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
On the morning of Site Announcement, we were presented with a large map of Bots with dots for each site, with a different color of dot for each program (NGO, DAC, CCB, and Life Skills). As we filed into the room, we all closely examined the map to evaluate the sites, and try to deduce who would wind up in which spot. Because the program I am in—NGO Development—is unusually small (only 10 out of the 56 Bots 9-ers), and 6 of the 10 people in our program are married (meaning their dots would be right next to another dot for their spouses—the rest of us are placed in each village by ourselves, so have only one dot), I was in the unusual position of being able to narrow my prospective sites down to only five possibilities. One was in Francistown, a large city in the northeast, highly desirable for its amenities, and it’s proximity to other volunteers (it’s one of the PCV “hubs” in Bots) but a bit “posh” for somone looking for the “Peace Corps” experience. Another site was southeast of Francistown, which had the perk of being close enough to the city and to other volunteers, but also without being too “big-city.” Finally, there were two spots in the Okavanga Delta region, in the Northwest—the hub of Botswana’s tourism district because of the region’s beauty, remoteness, and amazing flora and fauna. One of the sites was slightly outside of the actual delta, but very close to Maun—one of the biggest tourist destinations, which has a great deal of amenities, access to game reserves, etc. The other was among the farthest sites from other vol’s, right on the northern border, directly adjacent to the river that feeds the delta.
Now, I must say, this list alone was comforting—frankly, ALL of the possible sites were quite desirable and had perks of their own. That said, I am human, so of course, as soon as I saw that there was a possibility of being in the Delta—something so amazing, I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider it prior to that point (think, like…living in a National Park)—I immediately became preoccupied with the possibility, and became THAT much more wrought with anxiety and excitement.
After a few moments to examine the map, we were instructed to take our seats and look under them for a number which would determine the order in which we would be invited to the front of the room, individually, to receive our site information. Once our numbers were called, we were to locate an envelope with our name on it, open it and read a quote contained inside, then pull out another number which corresponded to a number on the map, thereby revealing our sites…did I mention that site announcements are elaborate?
I reached under my chair. My number was 10. How awesome is that, right?! Out of 56, I would be the 10th to find out! Or not. In keeping with the “surprises” they decided to give site information in reverse-order. Reverse order out of 56, and I was 10. To make matters worse, of the three other people vying for my potential sites (the other single NGO vol’s), one of them was number 11, and the other was number 6. Meaning that even using the process of elimination, I would be the 10th to last person to know my site. Now, bear in mind that as a result of the lengthy process through which our sites were identified, the entire ceremony takes nearly 2 hours. If you have ever spent more than 5 minutes in a room with me, then you know that I am quite possibly THE least patient person that has ever set foot on this earth—literally. So you can imagine how the next two hours went.
So. Sitting in my chair, fidgeting relentlessly with my pink notecard labeled “10” and watching others’ emotional reactions, unable to control my own impatience, I received another hint. Daniel, the 4th single NGO received his site placement first: Francistown. So it was down to the two spots in the Delta, and the one southeast of Francistown. It was an eternity before number 11 came up. Kelly, the 3rd single NGO was elated to find out that she received the site in the Delta just southwest of Maun…and I was elated for her…but my turn was next and it was down to the site south of Francistown or the site way up north in the Delta. Again, I can’t emphasize enough that each site has perks and disadvantages…but I really, really, really, really wanted to be in the Delta. A lot.
I opened my letter, and I don’t even remember what my quote pertained to, let alone the quote itself. I hurried through it and pulled out my site number: 17. I didn’t even look at the site in the Delta, because I couldn’t bear the possibility that I would look at it and see that it didn’t match…so I looked at the dot near Francistown…and the number didn’t match! Which means…I AM GOING TO SPEND THE NEXT TWO YEARS IN THE OKAVANGA DELTA!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
June 4, 2010
New Address - More Blogs to Come Soon
Hey everyone!
Sorry for no blogs lately--internet has been hard to come by, and I've had SOOOOOO many MAJOR things happen that I don't want to post anything until I have a chance to actually write something decent (and, of course, for me, that means long! But y'all know that already...). BUT I do have something VERY important! MY ADDRESS HAS CHANGED! I will no longer be able to easily receive mail at the address in Gaborone! Don't worry if you've just sent something--I will still get it, it will just be a few months b/c my new address is 16 hours away! So here's my new address:
Botshelo Trust
Chelsea Chilcoat, Peace Corps Volunteer
P.O. Box 313
Shakawe
BOTSWANA
Words cannot even begin to express how grateful I am to everyone who has sent letters! I have written back to each of you, even though I haven't had a chance to mail all of them yet...I know it's a total pain in the rear to write, but seriously, if you had any idea how happy it makes me, you'd know you've got to be getting an insane amount of karma! Even though training is almost over, I'd still really, really, really love to get mail, so please, if you have the will/ability, keep them coming! Thank you all for your support! Love you SO much! More blogs to come--lots of crazy excitement here to report!!! XOXOXOXOX
Sorry for no blogs lately--internet has been hard to come by, and I've had SOOOOOO many MAJOR things happen that I don't want to post anything until I have a chance to actually write something decent (and, of course, for me, that means long! But y'all know that already...). BUT I do have something VERY important! MY ADDRESS HAS CHANGED! I will no longer be able to easily receive mail at the address in Gaborone! Don't worry if you've just sent something--I will still get it, it will just be a few months b/c my new address is 16 hours away! So here's my new address:
Botshelo Trust
Chelsea Chilcoat, Peace Corps Volunteer
P.O. Box 313
Shakawe
BOTSWANA
Words cannot even begin to express how grateful I am to everyone who has sent letters! I have written back to each of you, even though I haven't had a chance to mail all of them yet...I know it's a total pain in the rear to write, but seriously, if you had any idea how happy it makes me, you'd know you've got to be getting an insane amount of karma! Even though training is almost over, I'd still really, really, really love to get mail, so please, if you have the will/ability, keep them coming! Thank you all for your support! Love you SO much! More blogs to come--lots of crazy excitement here to report!!! XOXOXOXOX
May 20, 2010
Anticipation…
It has occurred to me that as a result of my incessant whining about the stresses of PST, I have failed to mention that as our time in training is dwindling—assuming all goes to plan, we will be sworn in as official PCV’s on June 10th, and leave for our sites on June 11th—the most significant part of training is coming up this weekend: Site Placement. On Saturday, in what is traditionally an extremely elaborate reality-TV like ceremony, we will be given all of the details about our assignment—where we will be living, who our counterpart organizations are, how close we will be to other volunteers (and who our nearest volunteers will be), whether we will be the first volunteers in our placements, and have to forge entirely new ground, or will be following someone else, and have to begin in their shadow.
Despite the fact that none of us has any idea or control over where we will be placed—the Peace Corps staff uses training to assess our skillsets and placement preferences and match us to the posts that they feel are the best fit—we can hardly talk about anything else. Who will wind up by themselves at Charles Hill in the middle of nowhere in the desert on the border of Namibia, with the closest volunteers 16 hours away? Who will wind up in Moleps, with other volunteers at every turn of the corner?
Housing isn’t much of a concern for most volunteers—Botswana is a unique country within the Peace Corps, in that it is the only country that pays a portion of the program costs. This means that for almost all of the programs, the Botswana government provides PCV’s with the same standard housing that it provides to it’s government employees, including teachers, District Aids Coordinators, and clinic workers. The volunteers in the government housing will all have electricity, indoor plumbing, and fairly modern cement house construction.
However, there is one program which does not qualify for the government housing (and rightly so), the NGO (non-governmental organization) program. As fate would have it, this is the program to which I am assigned. All in all, it is the best match for me, as I have extensive experience with NGO’s, and I feel it has the most flexibility and opportunity for creative problem solving—which is among the perks of Peace Corps service work. However, I’ll admit that the housing situation makes me nervous. Because there is not standard government housing, it is provided by the NGO’s. Anyone who has worked with NGO’s in America knows that if an NGO is in dire need of a free full-time employee (the PCV) they in all probability lack the funding to pay for a posh place. Therefore, the housing among the NGO volunteers varies greatly—some volunteers have housing even nicer than the government housing. Others have no electricity or water on the premises, or just have a room in someone’s house and a hot plate. Although the latter is rather rare, I can’t help but be a bit nervous—while one does not enter the Peace Corps looking for a life of luxury, it is difficult to live in conditions that are vastly inferior to the standard of living in the surrounding community, and as much as I love to cook and bake, the thought of not having access to a real stove (or even being able to cook over a fire), or of sharing my space with roommates not of my choosing, is rather terrifying (most PCV’s do not share housing, so honestly, this possibility had not occurred to me prior to arriving here). It also is not entirely uncommon for an NGO program not to have secured housing by the time the volunteer arrives at site, which can make for a stressful few months, staying with employees or friends of employees.
I’m obviously concerned about the actual work I’ll be doing, but there is such a range of possibilities that between the type of NGO, personalities of co-workers, and the issue of whether I’ll be following another volunteer, and, if so, what his/her reputation (which I would inevitably inherit) is like, I can’t even begin to articulate my hopes and concerns.
As you can see, I am consumed with anticipation and anxiety along with the other volunteers at the moment. Send good thoughts that I won’t be among the people crying this Saturday! All that being said, it is a well-known mantra among PCV’s and staff that your site is what you make of it, so I’m doing my best to keep an open mind, and be ready for whatever I get…but you still can’t stop me from keeping my fingers crossed!
I’ll try my best to have an update on Sunday or Monday with all of the info—no promises, though, between time constraints and difficulty getting to the ‘net… Love and miss you all so much…and thank you again for the letters/post cards! I’ve finally located envelopes and the post office, so yours are on the way! You are AMAZING—I have THE best family and friends in the world!!!
OH! And DON’T send any more things to the address I had posted before! I should have my new site address soon, and once I move, it’ll be tricky to get things sent to the main Peace Corps Office in Gabs. I’ll post my new address ASAP! (But don’t stop writing…just hang on to them for a bit—your letters truly improve my quality of life exponentially!)
Despite the fact that none of us has any idea or control over where we will be placed—the Peace Corps staff uses training to assess our skillsets and placement preferences and match us to the posts that they feel are the best fit—we can hardly talk about anything else. Who will wind up by themselves at Charles Hill in the middle of nowhere in the desert on the border of Namibia, with the closest volunteers 16 hours away? Who will wind up in Moleps, with other volunteers at every turn of the corner?
Housing isn’t much of a concern for most volunteers—Botswana is a unique country within the Peace Corps, in that it is the only country that pays a portion of the program costs. This means that for almost all of the programs, the Botswana government provides PCV’s with the same standard housing that it provides to it’s government employees, including teachers, District Aids Coordinators, and clinic workers. The volunteers in the government housing will all have electricity, indoor plumbing, and fairly modern cement house construction.
However, there is one program which does not qualify for the government housing (and rightly so), the NGO (non-governmental organization) program. As fate would have it, this is the program to which I am assigned. All in all, it is the best match for me, as I have extensive experience with NGO’s, and I feel it has the most flexibility and opportunity for creative problem solving—which is among the perks of Peace Corps service work. However, I’ll admit that the housing situation makes me nervous. Because there is not standard government housing, it is provided by the NGO’s. Anyone who has worked with NGO’s in America knows that if an NGO is in dire need of a free full-time employee (the PCV) they in all probability lack the funding to pay for a posh place. Therefore, the housing among the NGO volunteers varies greatly—some volunteers have housing even nicer than the government housing. Others have no electricity or water on the premises, or just have a room in someone’s house and a hot plate. Although the latter is rather rare, I can’t help but be a bit nervous—while one does not enter the Peace Corps looking for a life of luxury, it is difficult to live in conditions that are vastly inferior to the standard of living in the surrounding community, and as much as I love to cook and bake, the thought of not having access to a real stove (or even being able to cook over a fire), or of sharing my space with roommates not of my choosing, is rather terrifying (most PCV’s do not share housing, so honestly, this possibility had not occurred to me prior to arriving here). It also is not entirely uncommon for an NGO program not to have secured housing by the time the volunteer arrives at site, which can make for a stressful few months, staying with employees or friends of employees.
I’m obviously concerned about the actual work I’ll be doing, but there is such a range of possibilities that between the type of NGO, personalities of co-workers, and the issue of whether I’ll be following another volunteer, and, if so, what his/her reputation (which I would inevitably inherit) is like, I can’t even begin to articulate my hopes and concerns.
As you can see, I am consumed with anticipation and anxiety along with the other volunteers at the moment. Send good thoughts that I won’t be among the people crying this Saturday! All that being said, it is a well-known mantra among PCV’s and staff that your site is what you make of it, so I’m doing my best to keep an open mind, and be ready for whatever I get…but you still can’t stop me from keeping my fingers crossed!
I’ll try my best to have an update on Sunday or Monday with all of the info—no promises, though, between time constraints and difficulty getting to the ‘net… Love and miss you all so much…and thank you again for the letters/post cards! I’ve finally located envelopes and the post office, so yours are on the way! You are AMAZING—I have THE best family and friends in the world!!!
OH! And DON’T send any more things to the address I had posted before! I should have my new site address soon, and once I move, it’ll be tricky to get things sent to the main Peace Corps Office in Gabs. I’ll post my new address ASAP! (But don’t stop writing…just hang on to them for a bit—your letters truly improve my quality of life exponentially!)
May 17, 2010
History and culture at last!
As I have frequently lamented in this blog, PST often causes PCT’s to feel as though we are living inside of a small bubble which consists only of our host family and school, and not yet really IN Botswana. However, every so often, our bubble is burst and expanded, and we are allowed a slightly larger glimpse of the country. First, it was shadowing (though, as my prior blog indicates, my experience wasn’t exactly typical), and then, this weekend, it was our “cultural day.” During PST, PCT’s are taken to nearby areas that showcase a bit of the history and culture of the region. In our case, this meant visiting a rock formation with 2,000 year old paintings, a cultural center, where traditional dances and a traditional marriage ceremony, among other things, were demonstrated for us, and finally a pottery shop where we could purchase handmade pottery. It was an extremely exciting day, but it was also a day in which we all realized just how emotionally and psychologically strained we all are.
After our usual several mile walk through the dusty red dirt roads and paths in our neighborhood, to the tarred road full of cars, malls, street vendors selling candy and fruit, and lots of domesticated animals, and finally to school. But unlike a typical school day, we were all sporting our casual clothes, and feeling slightly more jovial, as we knew we had a fun day ahead of us (and did not face a 6 hour language session). We all piled into the combis, (which ranged from a large and comfy one with reclining seats, seatbelts and cup-holders, to one that needed a push to get started, required all passengers to get “up close and personal,” and which ended up breaking down on our way back. Knowing this, I acted quickly and nabbed a seat in the posh van), and set off.
For the first time as a group, we took a road outside of Moleps that did not lead to the large city of Gaborone—as nice as Gabs is, it was a very welcome diversion. Despite the image I had of Botswana prior to arriving here—a flat, sandy barren desert—this region of Bots is actually quite diverse, both with regard to the vegetation and the geology. As one ventures farther from the village of Molepolole, the thornbushes and trees lining the road became more and more abundant, as do the giant nearly tree-sized termite mounds—red, asymmetrical, and haphazardly shaped, almost reminiscent of modern art. When taking in the view, I would not describe this region as mountainous, hilly, or flat—although there is a great variance in topography, and there appear to be low-lying red hills in the distance, upon closer inspection, the hills look more like giant piles of boulders, precariously stacked together, as though assembled in a moment, and just as easily disassembled (incidentally, this is not actually the case—as the 2,000 year old paintings on the rocks indicate, they are fairly stable, despite their appearance).
As a humongoid history nerd, the trip to see the rock paintings should have been life-changing. We pulled into a small village and up to one of the accumulations of boulders, which happened to be surrounded by a chain-link fence lined with barbed wire, and then parked next to some adjacent rondevals and housing compounds. I don’t know whether 2,000 year-old rock paintings are common in Bots, but it seemed rather surprising how unceremonious the site was. More surprising than that, once inside the fence, our tour guide walked us up to the rocks, and there the paintings were, right there on the side of the rock, out in the open—we easily could have touched them (though I don’t believe anyone did, out of respect), fully exposed to the elements. Despite their accessibility, most of them were fairly easy to see—faint red or yellow marks on the pink rocks, most of which actually resembled the animals that they were intended to depict (see my facebook page in the coming days for photos).
This portion of our field trip was also a nice excursion, as we were allowed to climb around the rocks a bit—much needed exercise, and soothing for the souls of the hikers among us. As we were playing around on the rocks, admiring the wildflowers, and taking in the views of the surrounding village, the level of shock that we were all still in became painfully apparent to me. We were IN Africa, looking at cave paintings that were TWO THOUSAND years old. Now, for many of you, that might not strike a chord, but as an avid reader of National Geographic, history nerd, and someone who has been literally dreaming of this day in and day out for over a year, the fact that this experience felt entirely matter-of-fact, and I was more excited about frolicking around the rocks (yes, I said “frolick”) and our planned post-class R&R at Lemepe Lodge (anyone reading this who is hoping to be in Bots 10, Lemepe is WHERE it’s at. For realz.) than actually appreciating the moment was staggering. I think I literally have still not begun to process all of the events that have transpired in the last 6 weeks—and I don’t think many others have, either, seeing as most of us seemed to be in the same frame of mind. But perhaps that is good—by the time we realize what we have signed up for, maybe we’ll already be settled and comfortable in our sites.
In any event, the next portion of our outing brought us to a cultural center—similar to visiting Colonial Williamsburg—for the most part not representative of modern Setswana culture (though there may be pockets of the country which are more similar to the center than others), but provided an interesting glimpse into the country’s history. We were greeted by several women in modern-traditional dresses (westernized short-sleeved dresses in blue, brown, and sometimes red, with small patterns—obviously not pre-imperial Setswana garb, but these dresses are commonly seen in formal or traditional settings, and are also frequently worn when doing chores around the house), and many children in loincloths and beads, all ululating and dancing. They proceeded to teach us a bit more about the history of the Kgotla and Kgosi—the tribal governmental system which still exists, in conjunction with the more western/modern government—and gave the children the chance to show off their extremely impressive dancing and singing skills. The traditional songs here are typically very upbeat, rhythmic, and repetitive—the sort that even the extremely tone-deaf among us can quickly pick up—but which are incredibly beautiful and hypnotic, and are truly communal—they somehow sound better the more people that join in, even if each individual singer may not quite measure up on his or her own. Based on my (extremely) limited experience, it seems that traditional dancing and singing is rarely done nowadays in most of the country, or at least the bigger cities, outside of schools, at the Kgotla, and special events, however most of the Batswana I have met seem to be well-versed in their tribe’s dances and songs—something I hope continues, as the pina le bina (song and dance) in Botswana is too rich to fade away.
We were then shown a traditional wedding, using two members of our group as the bride and groom, as well as several of the senior citizen Bots 9ers to join the elders. Traditional weddings are still fairly common here, though it seems (again, through my extremely limited experience) that “white”weddings (almost exactly resembling American weddings) are more the norm. One notable contrast between weddings in Botswana—whether traditional or “white”—and weddings in America is that in Botswana, the bride, groom, and immediate family are all expected to act extremely solemn and unaffectionate. This is partly because PDA between romantic partners is not culturally acceptable, but mostly because even though marriages now are voluntary, historically in Botswana, marriages were arranged, and the bride and groom were genuinely petrified throughout the wedding, because they literally had no idea who they were about to marry. I think I’d look quite stern as well.
We did also learn a few less, shall we say…pleasant traditions. Now, let me remind you, this is not, not, not representative of modern culture; each culture has a few less than desirable practices; what I am about to tell you is actually not all that uncommon, and supposedly still done in parts of the world, including India. So with no further ado, we were taught how Batswana historically kept their floors “clean.” Cow dung. Yes, cow dung. A woman got on her hands and knees and poured a large pile of what was described to us as “fresh, warm” dung onto the floor, and used her hands to spread it around. But it goes farther. The warm dung was apparently also used medicinally: when a member of the tribe was sick, the traditional healer would arrive at the ailing Motswana’s house just before dawn, pour a pile of that fresh dung in front of the doorway, wake the sick person up, and make him/her stand barefoot in the dung and watch the sunrise. After the sun was up, the patient was allowed to return to bed, but could not wash his/her feet until s/he was healed, and this treatment regimen would be repeated each morning until the patient had recovered. I must say, I left feeling much, much better about my hospital stay after witnessing this. It probably was an excellent deterrent for children opting to stay at home sick instead of attending initiation school, though.
We were then served a bit of traditional food (because the aforementioned demonstration was so appetizing!) which was similar to what we cooked in training: morojo wa dinawe, boiled leaves of beans, medi, maize, a less-sweet, slightly coarser sort of corn, and diphaphata, bread cooked over the fire, sort of like a cross between regular white bread and thick naan. In traditional fashion, the men were all served before the women were permitted to eat.
Following our visit to the cultural center on our return home, we visited a pottery shop, which was fun, and a nice way to support the local artisian community. Traditional pottery in Botswana is made of read clay without a glaze, but the shop we visited had mostly pottery similar to what is seen in America—apparently it is the only city in the country where this type of pottery is made. I purchased a teacup and saucer, which I then proceeded to lose…did I mention our current stress level?!
All-in-all, it was a pretty excellent day, and felt great to burst through another bubble…even if, admittedly, our down-time and bonding at Lemepe Lodge afterwards was the most needed portion of the day.
After our usual several mile walk through the dusty red dirt roads and paths in our neighborhood, to the tarred road full of cars, malls, street vendors selling candy and fruit, and lots of domesticated animals, and finally to school. But unlike a typical school day, we were all sporting our casual clothes, and feeling slightly more jovial, as we knew we had a fun day ahead of us (and did not face a 6 hour language session). We all piled into the combis, (which ranged from a large and comfy one with reclining seats, seatbelts and cup-holders, to one that needed a push to get started, required all passengers to get “up close and personal,” and which ended up breaking down on our way back. Knowing this, I acted quickly and nabbed a seat in the posh van), and set off.
For the first time as a group, we took a road outside of Moleps that did not lead to the large city of Gaborone—as nice as Gabs is, it was a very welcome diversion. Despite the image I had of Botswana prior to arriving here—a flat, sandy barren desert—this region of Bots is actually quite diverse, both with regard to the vegetation and the geology. As one ventures farther from the village of Molepolole, the thornbushes and trees lining the road became more and more abundant, as do the giant nearly tree-sized termite mounds—red, asymmetrical, and haphazardly shaped, almost reminiscent of modern art. When taking in the view, I would not describe this region as mountainous, hilly, or flat—although there is a great variance in topography, and there appear to be low-lying red hills in the distance, upon closer inspection, the hills look more like giant piles of boulders, precariously stacked together, as though assembled in a moment, and just as easily disassembled (incidentally, this is not actually the case—as the 2,000 year old paintings on the rocks indicate, they are fairly stable, despite their appearance).
As a humongoid history nerd, the trip to see the rock paintings should have been life-changing. We pulled into a small village and up to one of the accumulations of boulders, which happened to be surrounded by a chain-link fence lined with barbed wire, and then parked next to some adjacent rondevals and housing compounds. I don’t know whether 2,000 year-old rock paintings are common in Bots, but it seemed rather surprising how unceremonious the site was. More surprising than that, once inside the fence, our tour guide walked us up to the rocks, and there the paintings were, right there on the side of the rock, out in the open—we easily could have touched them (though I don’t believe anyone did, out of respect), fully exposed to the elements. Despite their accessibility, most of them were fairly easy to see—faint red or yellow marks on the pink rocks, most of which actually resembled the animals that they were intended to depict (see my facebook page in the coming days for photos).
This portion of our field trip was also a nice excursion, as we were allowed to climb around the rocks a bit—much needed exercise, and soothing for the souls of the hikers among us. As we were playing around on the rocks, admiring the wildflowers, and taking in the views of the surrounding village, the level of shock that we were all still in became painfully apparent to me. We were IN Africa, looking at cave paintings that were TWO THOUSAND years old. Now, for many of you, that might not strike a chord, but as an avid reader of National Geographic, history nerd, and someone who has been literally dreaming of this day in and day out for over a year, the fact that this experience felt entirely matter-of-fact, and I was more excited about frolicking around the rocks (yes, I said “frolick”) and our planned post-class R&R at Lemepe Lodge (anyone reading this who is hoping to be in Bots 10, Lemepe is WHERE it’s at. For realz.) than actually appreciating the moment was staggering. I think I literally have still not begun to process all of the events that have transpired in the last 6 weeks—and I don’t think many others have, either, seeing as most of us seemed to be in the same frame of mind. But perhaps that is good—by the time we realize what we have signed up for, maybe we’ll already be settled and comfortable in our sites.
In any event, the next portion of our outing brought us to a cultural center—similar to visiting Colonial Williamsburg—for the most part not representative of modern Setswana culture (though there may be pockets of the country which are more similar to the center than others), but provided an interesting glimpse into the country’s history. We were greeted by several women in modern-traditional dresses (westernized short-sleeved dresses in blue, brown, and sometimes red, with small patterns—obviously not pre-imperial Setswana garb, but these dresses are commonly seen in formal or traditional settings, and are also frequently worn when doing chores around the house), and many children in loincloths and beads, all ululating and dancing. They proceeded to teach us a bit more about the history of the Kgotla and Kgosi—the tribal governmental system which still exists, in conjunction with the more western/modern government—and gave the children the chance to show off their extremely impressive dancing and singing skills. The traditional songs here are typically very upbeat, rhythmic, and repetitive—the sort that even the extremely tone-deaf among us can quickly pick up—but which are incredibly beautiful and hypnotic, and are truly communal—they somehow sound better the more people that join in, even if each individual singer may not quite measure up on his or her own. Based on my (extremely) limited experience, it seems that traditional dancing and singing is rarely done nowadays in most of the country, or at least the bigger cities, outside of schools, at the Kgotla, and special events, however most of the Batswana I have met seem to be well-versed in their tribe’s dances and songs—something I hope continues, as the pina le bina (song and dance) in Botswana is too rich to fade away.
We were then shown a traditional wedding, using two members of our group as the bride and groom, as well as several of the senior citizen Bots 9ers to join the elders. Traditional weddings are still fairly common here, though it seems (again, through my extremely limited experience) that “white”weddings (almost exactly resembling American weddings) are more the norm. One notable contrast between weddings in Botswana—whether traditional or “white”—and weddings in America is that in Botswana, the bride, groom, and immediate family are all expected to act extremely solemn and unaffectionate. This is partly because PDA between romantic partners is not culturally acceptable, but mostly because even though marriages now are voluntary, historically in Botswana, marriages were arranged, and the bride and groom were genuinely petrified throughout the wedding, because they literally had no idea who they were about to marry. I think I’d look quite stern as well.
We did also learn a few less, shall we say…pleasant traditions. Now, let me remind you, this is not, not, not representative of modern culture; each culture has a few less than desirable practices; what I am about to tell you is actually not all that uncommon, and supposedly still done in parts of the world, including India. So with no further ado, we were taught how Batswana historically kept their floors “clean.” Cow dung. Yes, cow dung. A woman got on her hands and knees and poured a large pile of what was described to us as “fresh, warm” dung onto the floor, and used her hands to spread it around. But it goes farther. The warm dung was apparently also used medicinally: when a member of the tribe was sick, the traditional healer would arrive at the ailing Motswana’s house just before dawn, pour a pile of that fresh dung in front of the doorway, wake the sick person up, and make him/her stand barefoot in the dung and watch the sunrise. After the sun was up, the patient was allowed to return to bed, but could not wash his/her feet until s/he was healed, and this treatment regimen would be repeated each morning until the patient had recovered. I must say, I left feeling much, much better about my hospital stay after witnessing this. It probably was an excellent deterrent for children opting to stay at home sick instead of attending initiation school, though.
We were then served a bit of traditional food (because the aforementioned demonstration was so appetizing!) which was similar to what we cooked in training: morojo wa dinawe, boiled leaves of beans, medi, maize, a less-sweet, slightly coarser sort of corn, and diphaphata, bread cooked over the fire, sort of like a cross between regular white bread and thick naan. In traditional fashion, the men were all served before the women were permitted to eat.
Following our visit to the cultural center on our return home, we visited a pottery shop, which was fun, and a nice way to support the local artisian community. Traditional pottery in Botswana is made of read clay without a glaze, but the shop we visited had mostly pottery similar to what is seen in America—apparently it is the only city in the country where this type of pottery is made. I purchased a teacup and saucer, which I then proceeded to lose…did I mention our current stress level?!
All-in-all, it was a pretty excellent day, and felt great to burst through another bubble…even if, admittedly, our down-time and bonding at Lemepe Lodge afterwards was the most needed portion of the day.
May 14, 2010
When You Can’t Get Through It, Listen To It
Ahh, music. The power it has to lift me up, console me, and make me feel like myself. Music is what keeps me whole. To those of you who are not Fansons or music-lovers in general, I don’t think I can even express how profound its effect is—and how deeply wounding the lack of music can be.
Today is my one month anniversary of being in Botswana. One month of learning a new culture, learning a new language, learning new people, and learning a new way of life. One month of daily battles with myself, tremendous highs, tremendous lows, and moments of defeat interspersed with tiny victories (which I believe are, in fact, the most significant kind). One month of different food, different water, and different weather. One month of missing old friends and making new ones.
But what I am celebrating today is bigger than that. Today, I got my music back. And along with it, as it happened, my sense of identity.
I lost my mp3 player at the airport in Jo’burg (there ARE consequences to a 36+ hour journey with little sleep), and although I have had my computer, I had no headphones, and haven’t been able to hear music for weeks. The reason this is especially difficult right now, is because one of the greatest challenges that PCV’s face, particularly during training when we are brand new to the country and also have so little control over our daily lives, is how to retain our own identities, while also reinventing ourselves within a new culture and adapting our own personality, self-expression, hobbies, and interests to the new world in which we are living. In a sense, for the past month, I have felt as though my entire identity went missing. For me, music is like a gateway to my soul, so the lack of music only compounded the feeling that I was slowly sinking in quicksand. (I simply must insert this quote…I know at least the Fansons will appreciate it: I’m looking for a song to sing and I’m looking for a friend to borrow. I’m looking for my radio so I might find a heart to follow. I’ve never been just longing for your loving, I’ve never been just wearing down to nothing, I’ve never been just looking for a reason so that maybe you’ll be thinking of me.)
Since getting out of the hospital and returning to my site, I have been making a concerted effort to rebuild myself, testing small things that I can do to feel like me again, in such a foreign world. Making my own dinner with foods that I am used to and that provide the nutritional content that I need. Making sure to get some form of exercise every day. Working very hard to remember to SMILE and LAUGH, even when I don’t feel like it—because in the States, I do those things all of the time, and they are a good part of what makes me feel whole.
And just as I noted in my previous entry, it is as though as though once I began making the effort to pick myself back up, the universe, or whatever you want to call it, pitched in. All at once, I received a large pile of letters and postcards. Let me say, despite the fact that it has only been one month, and I have enjoyed more access to the internet than I expected, I cannot even begin to express the joy that receiving real letters brings. Something I can touch that came from home, from someone I care about so much, so full of support, encouragement, and love. I have written back to each of you, and I am still in the process of locating the poso (post office), but hope to have them mailed by the end of the week. But reading through these letters makes me think about life back home and how much I love each and every one of you—you are all part of my identity. Each and every word I read feels like a breath of air re-inflating my soul. I can’t thank you enough.
And as though that wasn’t enough, I finally got my music back. During shadowing, the volunteer I was with had a spare pair of headphones, which she kindly gave me. I haven’t had enough of a charge on my computer to listen until today. Taking in each word, each note, of the songs that have already gotten me through so much is almost like a momentary trip home. Music has never sounded so sweet.
So, although the one month mark is hardly even a step in my journey and I have an immeasurable amount of learning, adapting, and growing to do, I feel like I am finally starting to figure out how to maintain my sense of self. I understand now that I am still surrounded by my friends, even though there is a great physical distance between us, and I am finally navigating my way to the comforts, like music, that my soul needs to stay strong. So, my one-month anniversary is on a good note (hehe, “note,” get it?!), thanks in great part, once again to you guys and all of your support…and I guess Hanson, and Howie too…hehe ;o)
(Also, please please please please DON’T tell me about the upcoming Hanson concerts in the PNW…I literally died inside when I saw the dates, and I actually can’t handle it…thinking about it will literally cause me to curl up in a ball and cry, and I *just* got myself past that point, so just don’t go there…thanks…lol)
Today is my one month anniversary of being in Botswana. One month of learning a new culture, learning a new language, learning new people, and learning a new way of life. One month of daily battles with myself, tremendous highs, tremendous lows, and moments of defeat interspersed with tiny victories (which I believe are, in fact, the most significant kind). One month of different food, different water, and different weather. One month of missing old friends and making new ones.
But what I am celebrating today is bigger than that. Today, I got my music back. And along with it, as it happened, my sense of identity.
I lost my mp3 player at the airport in Jo’burg (there ARE consequences to a 36+ hour journey with little sleep), and although I have had my computer, I had no headphones, and haven’t been able to hear music for weeks. The reason this is especially difficult right now, is because one of the greatest challenges that PCV’s face, particularly during training when we are brand new to the country and also have so little control over our daily lives, is how to retain our own identities, while also reinventing ourselves within a new culture and adapting our own personality, self-expression, hobbies, and interests to the new world in which we are living. In a sense, for the past month, I have felt as though my entire identity went missing. For me, music is like a gateway to my soul, so the lack of music only compounded the feeling that I was slowly sinking in quicksand. (I simply must insert this quote…I know at least the Fansons will appreciate it: I’m looking for a song to sing and I’m looking for a friend to borrow. I’m looking for my radio so I might find a heart to follow. I’ve never been just longing for your loving, I’ve never been just wearing down to nothing, I’ve never been just looking for a reason so that maybe you’ll be thinking of me.)
Since getting out of the hospital and returning to my site, I have been making a concerted effort to rebuild myself, testing small things that I can do to feel like me again, in such a foreign world. Making my own dinner with foods that I am used to and that provide the nutritional content that I need. Making sure to get some form of exercise every day. Working very hard to remember to SMILE and LAUGH, even when I don’t feel like it—because in the States, I do those things all of the time, and they are a good part of what makes me feel whole.
And just as I noted in my previous entry, it is as though as though once I began making the effort to pick myself back up, the universe, or whatever you want to call it, pitched in. All at once, I received a large pile of letters and postcards. Let me say, despite the fact that it has only been one month, and I have enjoyed more access to the internet than I expected, I cannot even begin to express the joy that receiving real letters brings. Something I can touch that came from home, from someone I care about so much, so full of support, encouragement, and love. I have written back to each of you, and I am still in the process of locating the poso (post office), but hope to have them mailed by the end of the week. But reading through these letters makes me think about life back home and how much I love each and every one of you—you are all part of my identity. Each and every word I read feels like a breath of air re-inflating my soul. I can’t thank you enough.
And as though that wasn’t enough, I finally got my music back. During shadowing, the volunteer I was with had a spare pair of headphones, which she kindly gave me. I haven’t had enough of a charge on my computer to listen until today. Taking in each word, each note, of the songs that have already gotten me through so much is almost like a momentary trip home. Music has never sounded so sweet.
So, although the one month mark is hardly even a step in my journey and I have an immeasurable amount of learning, adapting, and growing to do, I feel like I am finally starting to figure out how to maintain my sense of self. I understand now that I am still surrounded by my friends, even though there is a great physical distance between us, and I am finally navigating my way to the comforts, like music, that my soul needs to stay strong. So, my one-month anniversary is on a good note (hehe, “note,” get it?!), thanks in great part, once again to you guys and all of your support…and I guess Hanson, and Howie too…hehe ;o)
(Also, please please please please DON’T tell me about the upcoming Hanson concerts in the PNW…I literally died inside when I saw the dates, and I actually can’t handle it…thinking about it will literally cause me to curl up in a ball and cry, and I *just* got myself past that point, so just don’t go there…thanks…lol)
Hospitals, Butterflies, and Chocolate Cake…
I would like to begin with an apology to those of you on Facebook, who read a message that I left; a rather cruel “teaser” indicating that I had been released from the hospital, but without any other details about my condition…I assure you, it was only because of lack of time, not intended to induce any stress! In any event, below is an extremely truncated version of my experience, condensed primarily because a great deal of the story is not suitable for a public blog post. That said, I am more than happy to e-mail or message anyone privately if you’d like the full story…but without further ado, this is a recap of my most recent week as a PCT in Bots…
Friday, April 30th was a pretty delightful day as far as PST goes—we were getting ready for our LPI (language proficiency…something…it’s a test), prepping for shadowing the following week (an integral part of PST—we are placed with volunteers currently serving, and get to see where they live and work, and hang out for a couple of days, so we can see that there IS a light at the end of the tunnel that is PST), AND we had stadium day to boot (every so often, schedule and weather permitting, we are taken to an outdoor stadium with a track, soccer field, and sport courts, where we can run, play sports, and just generally do something other than sitting in class all day; stadium day is welcomed by all, regardless of one’s interest in physical fitness). Better yet, our food basket had arrived the day before, so I had food to eat at home, instead of having to use my own money for it. All in all, it was shaping up to be a good day, and my spirits were quite high.
Because it was stadium day, when I arrived home, I opted to take a bucket bath before making dinner. However, after my bath, I was too exhausted to eat (anyone who knows me can hear the warning bells going off already). I wrote it off as being a side-effect of too much exercise and sun, and decided to head to bed early. Then my muscles began aching, and my face began burning. Once again, I assumed that I had simply overexerted myself earlier. After an hour or so, it occurred to me that I might be sick, so I decided to take my temperature. Lo and behold, it was 104—and my body temperature is typically lower than average. I was also having severe stomach issues (which are especially exciting with a bedpan, particularly when you literally don’t have the strength to walk more than a few steps, let alone dump it out) I was rather frightened, but not thinking especially clearly due to my condition, so I just decided to take Tylenol and drink water, and see if my temperature would go down. It didn’t.
As I said earlier, I can’t really get into the details here, but fast forward to Sunday, and I’m in a hospital in Gaborone on an IV, fever holding steady and stomach issues worsening. I have no toothbrush, deodorant, change of clothes, or cell phone charger; only some blank notecards, an umbrella, and a book (never trust someone with a 104 degree fever to pack her own hospital bag…thank god I happened to grab the book). Again, I can’t really provide many details here, but I will say that while I suspect the hospital in Gabs is among the best in the region, it is definitely very different from the hospitals I am used to in the US—not that I have ever been admitted into a hospital before; I haven’t, but I have still seen my fair share.
Most of my time there was a haze, as a combined result of my extremely high fever, (which did not drop until Tuesday, the 4th) and a great deal of medication. Nonetheless, I will admit, the situation was beginning to take it’s toll. There were at least four distinct moments in which, had there been any charge remaining on my cell phone, I would certainly have requested to be on the next plane home. It is amazing how completely alone I felt in a hospital, 15,000 miles from home, with no visitors, no one else from my culture with whom I could relate or who knew how to comfort me, feeling more ill than I ever have, with no idea why I was sick, when I would get better, what tests and medications I was being given, and no way to contact the outside world. It was honestly the longest and scariest 4 days of my life. (Again, I am more than happy to provide details to anyone in a private message or e-mail if you are interested.)
One of my favorite things about Botswana, which I believe I have neglected to mention up to this point, is the abundance of butterflies—not only the quantity, but the variety as well. There have been a few moments when butterflies seem to be more prolific than mosquitoes, flapping around from flower to flower in the bush, fighting the wind in the streets. Were it not for their beautiful blurs and bursts of color, I would imagine they might be perceived as pests.
On Wednesday morning, I was sitting in my hospital bed, waiting for the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) to pick me up, drowning in feelings of self-pity, completely defeated, demoralized, and ready to give up. I caught a glimpse of two butterflies outside of my window. They were circling each other, in an intricate dance, flying rather haphazardly at times, jutting up suddenly along with a gust of wind, flapping frantically against the breeze. Drawn in by their spectacle, I walked to the window, leaned out, and took a deep breath. Silly though it sounds, as I looked out upon the vast African sky, dotted with puffs of white, and gazed upon the bush, the birds, and those butterflies, it was as though the land was a giant sponge which slowly absorbed all of my stress and worries. As I stared at the butterflies, I became overwhelmed by the fragility of their very existence, and their natural instinct to perservere, despite nearly everything—from natural obstacles like the wind, to development and climate change—working against them. I suddenly felt both selfish and ridiculous for allowing myself to become so overcome by defeat and self-pity after such a small challenge, especially with the abundance of good fortune I have had in my life up to this point.
Now, I won’t lie—I am human, and I can’t deny myself the feelings that correspond with my experiences, and have admittedly had many difficult times since arriving in Bots. But it seems that whenever I hit a low, I am just as profoundly taken aback by something which comes out of nowhere and smacks me with a sense of perspective, a moment of sanity to pull myself together and remember who I am and why I am here.
And the universe has its way of taking care of you, even when the walls seem too hard to climb. (Yes, that was an intentional reference, for those who caught it—as a result of an unfortunate misplacing of my iPod during the layover in Jo’burg, I have been substantially music-less for the majority of my time here in Bots…it is rather soul-crushing, and, honestly, I do credit it for some of my more negative days, as music is such an outlet for stress for me, personally…but that’s neither here nor there…). Because my illness ate up the majority of the week, I was released from the hospital on Wednesday the 5th, the same day I was to begin shadowing. It was too late and not the best idea for me to travel to visit the volunteer with whom I was originally scheduled to stay, so I was given a rather unique opportunity to stay with a volunteer who had extended for a third year and was staying in Gabs. Now, let me say, her experience in no way resembles that of any other PCV’s in Bots, but because she was a third-year, she was allowed some exceptional circumstances: she lives in the city, in a completely western apartment, complete with a shower/sink, washer, oven, stove, microwave, and fridge (all of which actually work and are clean and new), a real, queen-sized bed, several western tv channels, and a pool.
I must say, ordinarily, I might have felt a bit jipped, as I did not really get the chance to experience anything even remotely approximating the life of a PCV in Bots. But, given the circumstances—having just left the hospital, and coming out of one of the lowest points of my service thus far, I couldn’t have been happier. Real food. Real shower. Real bed. Air conditioning. We went to a mall, watched movies, went to the museum, went to watch the Botswana version of American Idol—My Star. But best of all…I got to bake a chocolate cake! As much as I hate to admit it, getting to feel a bit American again made me realize how difficult it really is to feel at home in another culture, and how welcome the comforts of home were, even after only a month in-country.
I would be remiss if I failed to express my gratitude for my fellow PCT’s and PCV’s. It is staggering how genuinely supportive, concerned, and compassionate they are. Seeing as I cannot be surrounded by the friends and family I left behind in the States, I truly could not imagine a better group of people to have as my second-family here in Bots. There aren’t enough positive adjectives in the dictionary to describe my fellow vol’s, and how appreciative I am of them. Thus far, my good fortune to be surrounded by such an incredible group of people has been the best part of my service.
I can’t believe how much I am learning about life and about myself in such a short time. I am still taken aback by the contrast between my time at the hospital, one of the most abysmal points in my life (I have had a very lucky life), to chocolate cake in a posh apartment, all in less than a week’s time. It is such a cliché, but it’s true—just as you are on the brink of giving up, life gives you just what you need to get back up. And apparently for me, that is butterflies and chocolate cake.
Friday, April 30th was a pretty delightful day as far as PST goes—we were getting ready for our LPI (language proficiency…something…it’s a test), prepping for shadowing the following week (an integral part of PST—we are placed with volunteers currently serving, and get to see where they live and work, and hang out for a couple of days, so we can see that there IS a light at the end of the tunnel that is PST), AND we had stadium day to boot (every so often, schedule and weather permitting, we are taken to an outdoor stadium with a track, soccer field, and sport courts, where we can run, play sports, and just generally do something other than sitting in class all day; stadium day is welcomed by all, regardless of one’s interest in physical fitness). Better yet, our food basket had arrived the day before, so I had food to eat at home, instead of having to use my own money for it. All in all, it was shaping up to be a good day, and my spirits were quite high.
Because it was stadium day, when I arrived home, I opted to take a bucket bath before making dinner. However, after my bath, I was too exhausted to eat (anyone who knows me can hear the warning bells going off already). I wrote it off as being a side-effect of too much exercise and sun, and decided to head to bed early. Then my muscles began aching, and my face began burning. Once again, I assumed that I had simply overexerted myself earlier. After an hour or so, it occurred to me that I might be sick, so I decided to take my temperature. Lo and behold, it was 104—and my body temperature is typically lower than average. I was also having severe stomach issues (which are especially exciting with a bedpan, particularly when you literally don’t have the strength to walk more than a few steps, let alone dump it out) I was rather frightened, but not thinking especially clearly due to my condition, so I just decided to take Tylenol and drink water, and see if my temperature would go down. It didn’t.
As I said earlier, I can’t really get into the details here, but fast forward to Sunday, and I’m in a hospital in Gaborone on an IV, fever holding steady and stomach issues worsening. I have no toothbrush, deodorant, change of clothes, or cell phone charger; only some blank notecards, an umbrella, and a book (never trust someone with a 104 degree fever to pack her own hospital bag…thank god I happened to grab the book). Again, I can’t really provide many details here, but I will say that while I suspect the hospital in Gabs is among the best in the region, it is definitely very different from the hospitals I am used to in the US—not that I have ever been admitted into a hospital before; I haven’t, but I have still seen my fair share.
Most of my time there was a haze, as a combined result of my extremely high fever, (which did not drop until Tuesday, the 4th) and a great deal of medication. Nonetheless, I will admit, the situation was beginning to take it’s toll. There were at least four distinct moments in which, had there been any charge remaining on my cell phone, I would certainly have requested to be on the next plane home. It is amazing how completely alone I felt in a hospital, 15,000 miles from home, with no visitors, no one else from my culture with whom I could relate or who knew how to comfort me, feeling more ill than I ever have, with no idea why I was sick, when I would get better, what tests and medications I was being given, and no way to contact the outside world. It was honestly the longest and scariest 4 days of my life. (Again, I am more than happy to provide details to anyone in a private message or e-mail if you are interested.)
One of my favorite things about Botswana, which I believe I have neglected to mention up to this point, is the abundance of butterflies—not only the quantity, but the variety as well. There have been a few moments when butterflies seem to be more prolific than mosquitoes, flapping around from flower to flower in the bush, fighting the wind in the streets. Were it not for their beautiful blurs and bursts of color, I would imagine they might be perceived as pests.
On Wednesday morning, I was sitting in my hospital bed, waiting for the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) to pick me up, drowning in feelings of self-pity, completely defeated, demoralized, and ready to give up. I caught a glimpse of two butterflies outside of my window. They were circling each other, in an intricate dance, flying rather haphazardly at times, jutting up suddenly along with a gust of wind, flapping frantically against the breeze. Drawn in by their spectacle, I walked to the window, leaned out, and took a deep breath. Silly though it sounds, as I looked out upon the vast African sky, dotted with puffs of white, and gazed upon the bush, the birds, and those butterflies, it was as though the land was a giant sponge which slowly absorbed all of my stress and worries. As I stared at the butterflies, I became overwhelmed by the fragility of their very existence, and their natural instinct to perservere, despite nearly everything—from natural obstacles like the wind, to development and climate change—working against them. I suddenly felt both selfish and ridiculous for allowing myself to become so overcome by defeat and self-pity after such a small challenge, especially with the abundance of good fortune I have had in my life up to this point.
Now, I won’t lie—I am human, and I can’t deny myself the feelings that correspond with my experiences, and have admittedly had many difficult times since arriving in Bots. But it seems that whenever I hit a low, I am just as profoundly taken aback by something which comes out of nowhere and smacks me with a sense of perspective, a moment of sanity to pull myself together and remember who I am and why I am here.
And the universe has its way of taking care of you, even when the walls seem too hard to climb. (Yes, that was an intentional reference, for those who caught it—as a result of an unfortunate misplacing of my iPod during the layover in Jo’burg, I have been substantially music-less for the majority of my time here in Bots…it is rather soul-crushing, and, honestly, I do credit it for some of my more negative days, as music is such an outlet for stress for me, personally…but that’s neither here nor there…). Because my illness ate up the majority of the week, I was released from the hospital on Wednesday the 5th, the same day I was to begin shadowing. It was too late and not the best idea for me to travel to visit the volunteer with whom I was originally scheduled to stay, so I was given a rather unique opportunity to stay with a volunteer who had extended for a third year and was staying in Gabs. Now, let me say, her experience in no way resembles that of any other PCV’s in Bots, but because she was a third-year, she was allowed some exceptional circumstances: she lives in the city, in a completely western apartment, complete with a shower/sink, washer, oven, stove, microwave, and fridge (all of which actually work and are clean and new), a real, queen-sized bed, several western tv channels, and a pool.
I must say, ordinarily, I might have felt a bit jipped, as I did not really get the chance to experience anything even remotely approximating the life of a PCV in Bots. But, given the circumstances—having just left the hospital, and coming out of one of the lowest points of my service thus far, I couldn’t have been happier. Real food. Real shower. Real bed. Air conditioning. We went to a mall, watched movies, went to the museum, went to watch the Botswana version of American Idol—My Star. But best of all…I got to bake a chocolate cake! As much as I hate to admit it, getting to feel a bit American again made me realize how difficult it really is to feel at home in another culture, and how welcome the comforts of home were, even after only a month in-country.
I would be remiss if I failed to express my gratitude for my fellow PCT’s and PCV’s. It is staggering how genuinely supportive, concerned, and compassionate they are. Seeing as I cannot be surrounded by the friends and family I left behind in the States, I truly could not imagine a better group of people to have as my second-family here in Bots. There aren’t enough positive adjectives in the dictionary to describe my fellow vol’s, and how appreciative I am of them. Thus far, my good fortune to be surrounded by such an incredible group of people has been the best part of my service.
I can’t believe how much I am learning about life and about myself in such a short time. I am still taken aback by the contrast between my time at the hospital, one of the most abysmal points in my life (I have had a very lucky life), to chocolate cake in a posh apartment, all in less than a week’s time. It is such a cliché, but it’s true—just as you are on the brink of giving up, life gives you just what you need to get back up. And apparently for me, that is butterflies and chocolate cake.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
