To be honest, since my stay here is significantly shorter than my anticipated 26 months in the Peace Corps, since I had a slightly better idea of what to pack, and since the food here actually has nutritional value, there is little that I need for myself.
If you have the inclination to send something, what we could REALLY use is books for the local schools and mobile libraries. Books written in English are very hard come by here in Ethiopia, and are quite costly even when available, yet, as we all know, reading provides so many benefits, in addition to helping facilitate language learning. Because the books are intended to aid in language learning, the sort of books we are looking for are primarily children’s books, with simple words and ideas—think Cat in the Hat—and perhaps some geared at young adults (although when in doubt, it is best to err on the simpler side, as more students will be able to utilize them).
You can also check Link Ethiopia’s website, www.linkethiopia.org, to see if they have any donation requests that you can help out with, or even make a monetary donation through their paypal account (note: Link Ethiopia is a British NGO, and as such, donation amounts are in Pounds or Euros, NOT US dollars, unless otherwise specified. Make sure to check the exchange rates for the currency indicated in the donation field before entering a donation amount, to ensure that you are indeed donating the amount you intend to!)
If you really feel inclined to send things for me, I certainly won’t turn them down. As always, dark chocolate (no milk) is always a priority, and if you have any of the following television shows that you could send on a CD, that would be amazing:
GLEE: Any seasons!
Dexter: Seasons 4 and 5 (well, as far into 5 as you can get :o)
Mad Men: Season 2 and beyond
The Office: Any
30 Rock: Any
Sex and the City: Season 3 and beyond
Any other TV shows/movies/music that you think I might like.
Additionally, if you happen to be sending a package anyway, and felt inclined to throw in a tube of Tom’s of Maine toothpaste (any), deodorant/anti-perspirant, tampons (no applicator—too much unnecessary trash/not always a place to dispose [sorry; probably TMI, but it is what it is]), shampoo (my favorite is Whole Foods generic 365 brand, for normal/oily hair, but any that’s vegan is fine :o), soap, iodine, Gator Aid powder (bottled water is expensive, and I’ve primarily been filtering tap water, and adding a touch of iodine, but I don’t necessarily think it’s the healthiest, so I’ve been adding Gator Aid so hopefully I will retain more and won’t have to drink quite so much). I packed all of this stuff, but not exactly sure if I have enough.
And as always, letters, e-mails, and kind words mean everything to me! Love you all so much—I am very happy for this opportunity, but am also excited for the time to come when I can actually see you all again! THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING!!!
October 26, 2010
September 16, 2010
ET...Phone Home
(Yeah, I'm sure everyone who has ET'ed from the PC and has a sense of humor as awesome as mine has made that reference. But that's just because it's an awesome reference.)
As I read over my many failed attempts to capture my experience of going through the actual process of ET-ing, it is becoming clearer why I am having so much difficulty writing about this ever-so-pivotal moment in my life. Although the whole process took place over a period of about 72 hours, emotions (and travel-related sleep deprivation) have a strange way of distorting time, and it has all blurred together in such a way that reflecting back on it feels more like looking through a prism than wading through a stream of events. My memories don’t feel sequential or logical; it is as though it happened all at once, and each cut of the prism contains a different portion of the experience, each angle entirely unique, casting a different light and a different view, all with equal depth and detail and all of equal importance; jarringly unrelated, yet glommed together. So when I try to write about it—or even think about it—it feels jerky and disjointed, delving into one crystallized moment then flashing over to the next. So here are a few of these moments flickering through my mind, in absolutely no rational order—because that’s how surreal and strange the memory feels to me. And I am aware that bits of it (if not all of it) may sound a bit overdramatic, but it was by far the toughest decision I’ve made, and my personality is such that when I have a rather emotional experience, I like to let myself feel it, so that I can move on. The sooner you fall, the sooner you can get back up.
----
I was so numb, as I sat in the lobby of the Peace Corps office waiting to meet with the doctor (a thorough medical exam is required upon termination of service), that I couldn’t even cry as my eyes fixated on the saddest squares of white paper I had ever seen in my life. I could only focus on how uneven they were—the bottom was cut so sloppily and slanted so far to the right, I almost wanted to ask for a pair of scissors so that I could fix them.
During training, the Peace Corps takes each volunteer’s picture for our photo IDs, residency permits, and official records, but unbeknownst to us, as we stood in line itching for the driver’s-licence-esque photo shoot to be over so that we could go eat, these pictures are also prominently displayed, along with each volunteer’s name and program, in the lobby of the Peace Corps office (perhaps if we had known that, we’d have made the extra effort to wear clean clothes or brush our hair beforehand, instead of just going with our newfound hippie-not-so-sheik look).
But as I stared at them now, the flat, black-and-white images of the people who had added so much depth and color to my experience, all I could see were four white squares of paper. You see, I was not the first volunteer to leave my group. And rather than printing a new line-up, or just leaving the wall of photos for our Peace Corps class as it was, when volunteers left, their faces and names were covered up with a tiny square of paper. Whited-out, as though they were a mistake, a blemish that needed to be concealed. All of the time and energy, tears and sacrifice that had put into their experiences. All hidden by a white piece of paper.
I looked at my own smiling face underneath the waving flag of the Peace Corps logo and thought of the imminence of my own white piece of paper. At that point, all I could do was hope that they would at least take the time to cut a straight edge when they covered me up and erased me from the annals of their history. But it’s Botswana, after all, so I knew I couldn’t really expect too much.
----
I had only really been to downtown Gabs once before, but it was right after my stay in the hospital, so was still a little loopy, and had the luxury of being escorted by a third-year PCV who lived in the area, so I didn’t actually have to pay attention or do any navigational work by myself. None of this was the case the second time around. I needed to get from one side of town to another in order to have a dental exam and cleaning (another end-of-service requirement). Armed with only a blue notecard with the dentist’s name, address, and appointment time (which was quickly approaching), I strutted out of my lodge and proceeded through the pink graffitied alleyway and toward the street.
Now, to be clear, downtown Gabs is a legitimate downtown—I mean, it’s no NY or LA, but it’s not some small village either. Four months ago, even two months ago, had I been faced with such a task—attempting to navigate an almost entirely new city alone, with absolutely no idea where I needed to be, how I needed to get there, how long it would take, how much it would cost, etc.—it would have been the source of immeasurable anxiety: a pit in my stomach, a preemptive sleepless night, attempts to locate a map or figure out how to get there beforehand. But that’s the difference that Peace Corps service makes. I had no plan. No worries. I knew it would be fine. Either I’d make it to the appointment or I wouldn’t. Most likely I would, but even if I didn’t, really, what’s the worst that would happen? Cliché, but anyone who knows me should know just how significant such a genuine lack of worry is for me.
So I walked to the main road, approached the first person I saw, and I asked. In typical Batswana fashion, she took the card from my hand, and walked me to the stop where I was to pick up the combi. So I picked up the combi. And as soon as I was on, I showed my card to a man wearing a bright pink button-up shirt in the seat next to me, and asked when I needed to get off. He told the driver where to stop. Then we talked about the differences between poverty in the US and poverty in Botswana until the driver said it was my stop, and I paid and got off. I had to walk a ways to get from the stop to the dentist office, but I had no idea which direction to go or what to look for. So I asked a group of people, and a woman took me by the hand and walked me down the crowded street to her blue soccer-mom van, and told me she’d drive me. Again, I should note that pretty much every aspect of this story—including getting into a car with a complete stranger—would have absolutely terrified me before Peace Corps service. But not so much as twitch of anxiety passed over me at any point in this experience.
The woman and I chatted as she drove to pick her son up (she said it was on the way to my dentist). It turned out she was a teacher and worked with some other PCV’s. When she learned I had been living in Shakawe, she asked me to send her some fish, and was quite disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to, and suggested that I call a friend to see if someone else could, because she thought that Shakawe has the best fish, but it wasn’t worth the trip. We picked up her son, then proceeded to the area where she thought the dentist’s office was located. However it wasn’t there. She pulled over on the side of the road and flagged another stranger down and showed him the card with the address. He pointed us in the right direction, and I made it to my dentist only slightly late—which is basically on time in Botswana.
On the way back, I decided to be a tourist and indulge myself in the abundance of traditional art lining the streets the Main Mall—one the only spots ion all of Botswana where such items are sold (even though a substantial portion of the art is from neighboring countries, rather than Botswana itself)—which happened to be only a couple of blocks away from my dentist.
I left the market with absolutely no idea where I was heading, balancing my Chico bags full of carefully selected carvings and baskets, my mouth feeling almost uncomfortably sterile and clean especially after four months of feeling dirty all over, and hoping that I had retained enough pula to pay for the ride home. As I walked, I became acutely aware of that oh-so-common aspect of being a white girl in Botswana: it seemed that I was being followed by what appeared to be a suitor. Yet another experience which would have produced chills a matter of months earlier—alone and lost in the “big city” being followed by a strange man…scary, right?! But, once again, no fear, no stress. Instead, without so much as looking back at him, I said “Dumela, rra. O ya kae?” (Hello, sir. Where are you going?) As it turned out, he was not actually following me because he wanted to try to date me (now THAT shocked me), but because he was an artist trying to sell his paintings. I told him that I was out of pula, but he was quite persistent and saw a couple of American dollars. I did like his paintings and had to admire his determination, so I agreed to a price that I knew was on the high side. “BUT,” I told him, “I need to get back to Game City [the part of town I was staying in] and I don’t know how to get there. So if I buy this from you, you need to help me.” And he agreed. As it turns out, he didn’t know about the combi I had taken on the way there, and walked me all the way to the bus rink—quite farther than I had expected, and completely out of his way. Not only that, but he took me all the way to the combi I needed, and told the driver where I was trying to go, to make sure I would arrive without any difficulties.
As I rode the combi back to my lodge, still saddled with all of my purchases, now with the addition of the waxy brightly colored painted fabric, I felt a calm, similar to the calm I felt in the Kgaladi. The ease in this, my final independent jaunt through Botswana, did not feel like an omen that I was finally fitting in, but rather as a farewell sendoff—I did what I needed to do here; I was done.
----
It was a little off-putting, to say the least, to find myself once again experiencing such isolation, fear, and sadness in the very same place that I had nearly fallen apart before. The last time I was in this hotel room—or if not this one specifically, another exactly like it—was when I felt like I had been left for dead, my first night after reporting to the Peace Corps Medical Office with the fever that would land me in the hospital the next day. At that time, I couldn’t move because I was physically crippled—the combination of having sustained a 104 fever for over 24 hours, severe dehydration, and inability to keep food down had rendered me unable to do anything but stare at the brown animal-print curtains, the fortress keeping any sunlight from permeating the room’s round walls. I faded in and out of consciousness as I listened to my phone emitting the final beeps of it’s battery’s slow death, signaling the impending hush of any connection to life outside my room. I really don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone than I did on that night.
And here I was again. Broken again, but not from a physical malady. This time it was my emotional turmoil that had rendered me listless. Despite my inner certainty that I was making the right choice, the sadness of walking away from a lifelong dream, even when the reality was so distorted, is nearly debilitating. I sat, frozen in a hypnotic daze as Oprah talked about a Catholic monastery, and my phone beeped persistently. This time the beeps were not a sign of death, but of life—fellow PCV’s texting as they heard the news that I was leaving. Even though I knew the messages were full of encouraging words, I couldn’t muster any motivation to read them. I felt equally severed from their world and my own back home; suspended in the purgatory that this room had become, once again counting the hours and minutes until I would be released, consumed by uncertainty about what the future would hold.
----
It’s odd how such a pivotal moment in one person’s life is nothing but a mundane detail for someone else. This was made rather poignantly apparent to me, as I was filing out my final admin paperwork. Although the Peace Corps has aims very different than most government agencies, the government is the government, and that means there’s paperwork—even when you just want to go home. From my side of the desk, filling out the paperwork felt like being pricked by a shard of the world that had just shattered around me. But I’d imagine from the other side of the desk, it just felt like paperwork. As I was signing my final termination of service, my throat was swelling up and I struggled to hold back tears. The admin officer sucked on a lollipop. Every time the red candy clicked against her teeth, it echoed in my ears like children giggling during a memorial service. I don’t know why it stung so much—all of the Peace Corps staff was incredibly supportive and kind—but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enjoy a lollipop the same way again.
----
My last few conversations before my ride to the airport arrived were appropriately strange and surreal, consistent with the entire duration of my service. They weren’t at all dramatic or emotional, but entirely matter-of-fact—a conversation with a PCV weighing the pro’s and cons of bed pans versus outhouses; a conversation with another PCV about food in America (that one isn’t especially surprising, as American food is by far the most pined-for aspect of America amongst PCV’s, at least in Botswana); and finally, a conversation with Peggy, our country director, reminding me to bring snacks to the airport, since my layover might be long, and food might not be served immediately on my flight. Although Peggy and I had several substantive discussions about my reasons for leaving, this was by far my most meaningful interaction. It wasn’t the face-value of the advice—obviously I knew to get something to eat before I left. It was the sentiment behind it. It felt like a parent reminding an adult child to wear a jacket—a nurturing instinct, a final attempt to provide some wisdom and protection to a child taking her first step into the big, scary world. As I’ve said time and again, I still really value the Peace Corps, even though my specific assignment was a bad fit for me. The Peace Corps really is a big family, and this was the perfect comforting note to end my service on, before beginning my next journey—what I now feel is my real journey—even though at that time I had no idea what it would entail.
As I read over my many failed attempts to capture my experience of going through the actual process of ET-ing, it is becoming clearer why I am having so much difficulty writing about this ever-so-pivotal moment in my life. Although the whole process took place over a period of about 72 hours, emotions (and travel-related sleep deprivation) have a strange way of distorting time, and it has all blurred together in such a way that reflecting back on it feels more like looking through a prism than wading through a stream of events. My memories don’t feel sequential or logical; it is as though it happened all at once, and each cut of the prism contains a different portion of the experience, each angle entirely unique, casting a different light and a different view, all with equal depth and detail and all of equal importance; jarringly unrelated, yet glommed together. So when I try to write about it—or even think about it—it feels jerky and disjointed, delving into one crystallized moment then flashing over to the next. So here are a few of these moments flickering through my mind, in absolutely no rational order—because that’s how surreal and strange the memory feels to me. And I am aware that bits of it (if not all of it) may sound a bit overdramatic, but it was by far the toughest decision I’ve made, and my personality is such that when I have a rather emotional experience, I like to let myself feel it, so that I can move on. The sooner you fall, the sooner you can get back up.
----
I was so numb, as I sat in the lobby of the Peace Corps office waiting to meet with the doctor (a thorough medical exam is required upon termination of service), that I couldn’t even cry as my eyes fixated on the saddest squares of white paper I had ever seen in my life. I could only focus on how uneven they were—the bottom was cut so sloppily and slanted so far to the right, I almost wanted to ask for a pair of scissors so that I could fix them.
During training, the Peace Corps takes each volunteer’s picture for our photo IDs, residency permits, and official records, but unbeknownst to us, as we stood in line itching for the driver’s-licence-esque photo shoot to be over so that we could go eat, these pictures are also prominently displayed, along with each volunteer’s name and program, in the lobby of the Peace Corps office (perhaps if we had known that, we’d have made the extra effort to wear clean clothes or brush our hair beforehand, instead of just going with our newfound hippie-not-so-sheik look).
But as I stared at them now, the flat, black-and-white images of the people who had added so much depth and color to my experience, all I could see were four white squares of paper. You see, I was not the first volunteer to leave my group. And rather than printing a new line-up, or just leaving the wall of photos for our Peace Corps class as it was, when volunteers left, their faces and names were covered up with a tiny square of paper. Whited-out, as though they were a mistake, a blemish that needed to be concealed. All of the time and energy, tears and sacrifice that had put into their experiences. All hidden by a white piece of paper.
I looked at my own smiling face underneath the waving flag of the Peace Corps logo and thought of the imminence of my own white piece of paper. At that point, all I could do was hope that they would at least take the time to cut a straight edge when they covered me up and erased me from the annals of their history. But it’s Botswana, after all, so I knew I couldn’t really expect too much.
----
I had only really been to downtown Gabs once before, but it was right after my stay in the hospital, so was still a little loopy, and had the luxury of being escorted by a third-year PCV who lived in the area, so I didn’t actually have to pay attention or do any navigational work by myself. None of this was the case the second time around. I needed to get from one side of town to another in order to have a dental exam and cleaning (another end-of-service requirement). Armed with only a blue notecard with the dentist’s name, address, and appointment time (which was quickly approaching), I strutted out of my lodge and proceeded through the pink graffitied alleyway and toward the street.
Now, to be clear, downtown Gabs is a legitimate downtown—I mean, it’s no NY or LA, but it’s not some small village either. Four months ago, even two months ago, had I been faced with such a task—attempting to navigate an almost entirely new city alone, with absolutely no idea where I needed to be, how I needed to get there, how long it would take, how much it would cost, etc.—it would have been the source of immeasurable anxiety: a pit in my stomach, a preemptive sleepless night, attempts to locate a map or figure out how to get there beforehand. But that’s the difference that Peace Corps service makes. I had no plan. No worries. I knew it would be fine. Either I’d make it to the appointment or I wouldn’t. Most likely I would, but even if I didn’t, really, what’s the worst that would happen? Cliché, but anyone who knows me should know just how significant such a genuine lack of worry is for me.
So I walked to the main road, approached the first person I saw, and I asked. In typical Batswana fashion, she took the card from my hand, and walked me to the stop where I was to pick up the combi. So I picked up the combi. And as soon as I was on, I showed my card to a man wearing a bright pink button-up shirt in the seat next to me, and asked when I needed to get off. He told the driver where to stop. Then we talked about the differences between poverty in the US and poverty in Botswana until the driver said it was my stop, and I paid and got off. I had to walk a ways to get from the stop to the dentist office, but I had no idea which direction to go or what to look for. So I asked a group of people, and a woman took me by the hand and walked me down the crowded street to her blue soccer-mom van, and told me she’d drive me. Again, I should note that pretty much every aspect of this story—including getting into a car with a complete stranger—would have absolutely terrified me before Peace Corps service. But not so much as twitch of anxiety passed over me at any point in this experience.
The woman and I chatted as she drove to pick her son up (she said it was on the way to my dentist). It turned out she was a teacher and worked with some other PCV’s. When she learned I had been living in Shakawe, she asked me to send her some fish, and was quite disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to, and suggested that I call a friend to see if someone else could, because she thought that Shakawe has the best fish, but it wasn’t worth the trip. We picked up her son, then proceeded to the area where she thought the dentist’s office was located. However it wasn’t there. She pulled over on the side of the road and flagged another stranger down and showed him the card with the address. He pointed us in the right direction, and I made it to my dentist only slightly late—which is basically on time in Botswana.
On the way back, I decided to be a tourist and indulge myself in the abundance of traditional art lining the streets the Main Mall—one the only spots ion all of Botswana where such items are sold (even though a substantial portion of the art is from neighboring countries, rather than Botswana itself)—which happened to be only a couple of blocks away from my dentist.
I left the market with absolutely no idea where I was heading, balancing my Chico bags full of carefully selected carvings and baskets, my mouth feeling almost uncomfortably sterile and clean especially after four months of feeling dirty all over, and hoping that I had retained enough pula to pay for the ride home. As I walked, I became acutely aware of that oh-so-common aspect of being a white girl in Botswana: it seemed that I was being followed by what appeared to be a suitor. Yet another experience which would have produced chills a matter of months earlier—alone and lost in the “big city” being followed by a strange man…scary, right?! But, once again, no fear, no stress. Instead, without so much as looking back at him, I said “Dumela, rra. O ya kae?” (Hello, sir. Where are you going?) As it turned out, he was not actually following me because he wanted to try to date me (now THAT shocked me), but because he was an artist trying to sell his paintings. I told him that I was out of pula, but he was quite persistent and saw a couple of American dollars. I did like his paintings and had to admire his determination, so I agreed to a price that I knew was on the high side. “BUT,” I told him, “I need to get back to Game City [the part of town I was staying in] and I don’t know how to get there. So if I buy this from you, you need to help me.” And he agreed. As it turns out, he didn’t know about the combi I had taken on the way there, and walked me all the way to the bus rink—quite farther than I had expected, and completely out of his way. Not only that, but he took me all the way to the combi I needed, and told the driver where I was trying to go, to make sure I would arrive without any difficulties.
As I rode the combi back to my lodge, still saddled with all of my purchases, now with the addition of the waxy brightly colored painted fabric, I felt a calm, similar to the calm I felt in the Kgaladi. The ease in this, my final independent jaunt through Botswana, did not feel like an omen that I was finally fitting in, but rather as a farewell sendoff—I did what I needed to do here; I was done.
----
It was a little off-putting, to say the least, to find myself once again experiencing such isolation, fear, and sadness in the very same place that I had nearly fallen apart before. The last time I was in this hotel room—or if not this one specifically, another exactly like it—was when I felt like I had been left for dead, my first night after reporting to the Peace Corps Medical Office with the fever that would land me in the hospital the next day. At that time, I couldn’t move because I was physically crippled—the combination of having sustained a 104 fever for over 24 hours, severe dehydration, and inability to keep food down had rendered me unable to do anything but stare at the brown animal-print curtains, the fortress keeping any sunlight from permeating the room’s round walls. I faded in and out of consciousness as I listened to my phone emitting the final beeps of it’s battery’s slow death, signaling the impending hush of any connection to life outside my room. I really don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone than I did on that night.
And here I was again. Broken again, but not from a physical malady. This time it was my emotional turmoil that had rendered me listless. Despite my inner certainty that I was making the right choice, the sadness of walking away from a lifelong dream, even when the reality was so distorted, is nearly debilitating. I sat, frozen in a hypnotic daze as Oprah talked about a Catholic monastery, and my phone beeped persistently. This time the beeps were not a sign of death, but of life—fellow PCV’s texting as they heard the news that I was leaving. Even though I knew the messages were full of encouraging words, I couldn’t muster any motivation to read them. I felt equally severed from their world and my own back home; suspended in the purgatory that this room had become, once again counting the hours and minutes until I would be released, consumed by uncertainty about what the future would hold.
----
It’s odd how such a pivotal moment in one person’s life is nothing but a mundane detail for someone else. This was made rather poignantly apparent to me, as I was filing out my final admin paperwork. Although the Peace Corps has aims very different than most government agencies, the government is the government, and that means there’s paperwork—even when you just want to go home. From my side of the desk, filling out the paperwork felt like being pricked by a shard of the world that had just shattered around me. But I’d imagine from the other side of the desk, it just felt like paperwork. As I was signing my final termination of service, my throat was swelling up and I struggled to hold back tears. The admin officer sucked on a lollipop. Every time the red candy clicked against her teeth, it echoed in my ears like children giggling during a memorial service. I don’t know why it stung so much—all of the Peace Corps staff was incredibly supportive and kind—but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enjoy a lollipop the same way again.
----
My last few conversations before my ride to the airport arrived were appropriately strange and surreal, consistent with the entire duration of my service. They weren’t at all dramatic or emotional, but entirely matter-of-fact—a conversation with a PCV weighing the pro’s and cons of bed pans versus outhouses; a conversation with another PCV about food in America (that one isn’t especially surprising, as American food is by far the most pined-for aspect of America amongst PCV’s, at least in Botswana); and finally, a conversation with Peggy, our country director, reminding me to bring snacks to the airport, since my layover might be long, and food might not be served immediately on my flight. Although Peggy and I had several substantive discussions about my reasons for leaving, this was by far my most meaningful interaction. It wasn’t the face-value of the advice—obviously I knew to get something to eat before I left. It was the sentiment behind it. It felt like a parent reminding an adult child to wear a jacket—a nurturing instinct, a final attempt to provide some wisdom and protection to a child taking her first step into the big, scary world. As I’ve said time and again, I still really value the Peace Corps, even though my specific assignment was a bad fit for me. The Peace Corps really is a big family, and this was the perfect comforting note to end my service on, before beginning my next journey—what I now feel is my real journey—even though at that time I had no idea what it would entail.
September 8, 2010
On Safari in the Kgalagadi (Kalahari)
So, I suppose I shouldn’t really talk about this, but at this point, my adherence, or rather lack thereof, to Peace Corps policy is kind of moot, considering that the greatest penalty for violating a PC policy (assuming it’s not also illegal) is being sent home…not an especially powerful threat given that I’m sitting at my mom’s house sipping a latte to the grating sound of some absurd reality program in the background. So here goes.
One of the more unfortunate side-effects of being a rule-follower is the startling frequency of missed opportunities for excitement and adventure. Nevertheless, unless I feel a rule is unjustified, I’m pretty much a by-the-books kind of gal (of course it’s entirely possible that this implicit respect for authority arises out of a secret desire to accrue rule-following-Karma, so that when I do decide to break a rule I’ll manage to escape unscathed…not that I’m superstitious or anything…). For the most part, Peace Corps rules were no exception to my dogmatic inclinations. This includes the Peace Corps’ international “lockdown” policy. Because it is the opinion of the Peace Corps (and, frankly, mine as well) that the key to implementing successful sustainable development techniques is for each volunteer to be well-integrated into his/her community, the Peace Corps does not permit volunteers to leave their assigned villages for the first few weeks or months (the required duration varies by country) of service (apart from designated medical, safety, or shopping purposes, of course). For Peace Corps Botswana volunteers, lockdown ends at the conclusion of IST (in-service training), a two-week supplement to PST (pre-service training), held in Gaborone, to give volunteers a chance to reconnect and learn additional language and program skills. And as fate would have it, this was also the event at which I had resolved to file my request to ET (early terminate my service…yeah, you guys thought you were done with acronyms…haha!).
Now, had I intended to ET all along, I must admit, I would have been extremely tempted to abandon any pretense of professionalism and take advantage of the plethora of natural beauty in my midst: Tsodilo Hills (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tsodilo_Hills) was a mere thirty minute drive from my village; Kasane (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kasane) only four hours (when taking the direct route through the Caprivi Strip [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caprivi_strip]); and Victoria Falls (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victoria_Falls --yes, you read correctly; it IS in fact one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World) only another 4 or so away from that. But the thing is, up until the very last moment, I was genuinely trying to make it work, to “stick it out,” and the prospect of getting kicked out for violating lockdown was absolutely not worth the risk—especially considering I figured I had another twenty or so months to venture anywhere I wanted…or not.
Now some of you might be thinking I’m the world’s biggest schmuck for not just going MIA for a few days once I had settled on my decision to ET, so that I could take advantage of my prime location and explore. And of course the thought did cross my mind. But the thing is, I genuinely do respect the Peace Corps and everything it stands for, and I really did not go there to be a tourist, but to work, and I am nothing if not principled—for better or worse. Plus, who wants to jinx themselves and mess up their karma right when they’re in the midst of making a life-altering decision? (See, I told y’all—I’m not superstitious at all!)
Of course, in order for me to ET at IST, I would have to travel to the Peace Corps office in Gaborone—at least a two day trip from Shakawe—there was no way around that. And as it happened, the group of Canadian volunteers that had been volunteering with my NGO were scheduled to take a flight home from Gabs almost the same time I needed to arrive for IST. So, you know, it would have been silly, if not outright rude, for me not to have gone along with them—to ensure their safe travel, and whatnot, of course. And if their trip just happened to include a two day safari in the Kgaladi (Kalahari) Desert…well, who am I to object to a slight scenic detour, even if it meant tweaking the rules a bit over the last few days of lockdown? I may be a schmuck, but I’m not the biggest idiot in the world.
It’s kind of strange to think about it now, because the farther removed I am from the situation, the more inevitable my decision to ET seems. It’s one of those decision that made my life feel like it split in half—like another layer of façade suddenly dropped off and went crashing to the ground, and once the dust settled, revealed more of my core, more clarity and perspective on who I really am and what I really stand for. But at the time, it was one of those decisions that made me feel manic—even though I was ninety percent sure I was going to do it, somehow the decision lurked in the shadowy corners of every thought that churned through my mind; a perpetual scale weighing the pro and cons list, and causing my emotions to jut in one direction then ten seconds later lurch in another. For a week or so my mental landscape was nothing but a mountainous terrain peaks of confidence and valleys of self-doubt. In other words, not an especially fun time.
It’s ironic, but my emotional tumultuousness was so severe that it was actually causing me to dread the safari—a very large part of me wanted to just call the Peace Corps to get it over with, so at least I could begin moving on from my decision. Nonetheless, thanks in great part to the support of the visiting volunteers, I managed to suck it up and make it to the safari.
So. A few quick things about a safari in the Kgaladi:
1. Just because it’s an African safari in a desert does not mean that it is hot. In fact, in the winter, the season during which our trip happened to take place, it is actually quite cold. Quite cold. Frostbite in an open-air-safari-truck cold. Bring a WARM sleeping bag and cocoon yourself in it.
2. Get a good safari guide. Ours was INcredble—I felt like I was living in a National Geographic special.
3. Even though the landscape of the Kgaladi might look a little plain, there is actually an enormous diversity of species—both flora and fauna. It’s just that most of them happen to be the same sort of beigey color, so everything matches. And unlike matching couples or color-coordinated twins, which catch your eye like a cupcake in a salad bar, the Kgaladi matching effect just causes everything to blend together, so you might not notice (see again #2—ours was capable of seeing a ground squirrel 100 yards away whilst driving at 30mph [I’m back in America, screw the metric system {even if it is vastly more logical and easy to use}!]) (And yes, I just pulled off a three-tiered parenthetical phrase.)
4. If you set your camera’s shutter speed to extra slow to try to get pictures of the night sky (which is breathtaking), 1. it won’t work, and 2. do not go to bed without changing the settings because you plan to fix them in the morning. The morning is cold and early and you will not fix them in the morning and you never know what you might see and when. But more on that later.
Now, the thing about game drives in the Kgaladi—or any truly natural reserve—is that you genuinely have no idea what you will or won’t see (well, within the parameters of animals that actually reside in that habitat, anyway…obviously there would be no tigers or platypus); it’s entirely up to chance, and sometimes you see absolutely nothing—that would be extremely unlikely for such a long trip, but we went for several hour stretches without passing so much as an antelope. The Kgaladi is huge, and the animals are genuinely wild, not relying on food posts or treats from safari drivers, so they aren’t waiting around to hear the sound of an engine. Although most of them are fairly used to people and car sounds, it is not like visiting a petting zoo. Moreover, most of the animals—even of different species—tend to stick together, so if they all happen to be far from the roads, or just not near the roads you happen to be driving on, it is genuinely possible to not see anything. So while a good driver does help in spotting animals, s/he can’t actually procure them, so the “success” of a safari really is entirely up to chance.
At this point, I think it’s safe to say you’re probably figuring out that I am a rather spiritual/superstitious/whatever-you-want-to-call-it type of person. And while I’m not about to drag anyone down the road of my crazy belief system/worldviews, suffice it to say that I do feel very strongly that when your life is headed in the “right” direction, things just sort of tend to click—typically in small ways that hold a great deal of personal significance, but seem entirely trivial or go unnoticed by everyone else. And, I’ll just say it: I also believe that you tend to get the greatest reinforcement when you need it the most. (Yes, I am aware that many will say it’s just that we each choose to see what we want; that may well be the case, but this is how I choose to see it, and it’s my story, so I get to tell it the way I want!). And this was one of the points in my life when I needed help, badly. Even though I was pretty settled on my decision, it’s a scary choice to make, and I really wanted some kind of external validation—which, of course, no one can ever actually get, again, unless you believe in the small “signs.” Luckily for me, I do.
So. I have always wanted to see a leopard—a wild leopard, actually in his/her own natural habitat. And as it happens, the Kgaladi fits that bill perfectly. Unfortunately, though, leopards are the rarest of the three big cats (the other two being lions and cheetah) which occupy the desert, so my odds were of seeing one weren’t especially great. But, I sort of made a deal that if I saw a leopard, that was Botswana’s way of telling me “you’ve seen everything you need to see here, done everything you need to do—it’s okay to go home.” Now, of course superstitious as I may be, I’m not a full-blown lunatic, so I had no intention of actually basing my decision on this…but once a thought like this crosses your mind, well, it’s kind of hard to put it to rest. So even though I knew I was going to ET either way, it would really be nice if the Universe would hold up its end of my little “deal” as well.
And so our safari began. To our great surprise, on our very first game drive, we had the good fortune of spotting (among many, many other spectacular creatures) a coalition of four cheetah (yes, “coalition” is the technical term for a group of cheetah; appropriately ominous, no?) on the prowl (wow, it feels kind of strange using that word in its literal context). Not only did we spot them, but they got incredibly close to our vehicle and crossed the dirt road right in front of us. It was such a powerful moment—to see something like that with my very own eyes. (Most of the videos I took bear the background of breathlessly whispered phrases like “this is the coolest thing that has ever happened!”) I was overwhelmed with gratitude for everything in my life—how many people get to experience something like that? But I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t a teeny tiny piece of me that was an itsy bitsy bit disappointed—cheetah were the second-most rare of the big three cats…and obviously I understand that there is no correlation between seeing cheetah and seeing leopards…but, really, what are the odds of seeing both on a two-day safari? Even our game driver didn’t think we’d be that lucky…but again, I’m (reasonably) sane, so as much as I wanted to see a leopard—both because I really, really, wanted to see one, and because of my little bargain—I was obviously overwhelmed with elation over our good fortune with the cheetah.
The cheetah were our big find on Day 1. Day 2 began with a bang as well—we almost immediately happened upon a pair of lions mating, quite close to the road. Now, lions are quite common in the Kgaladi, so none of us were especially surprised to see them, but even given that, their might and magnificence must not be underestimated. Again, we were all overwhelmed by their presence—or rather, our presence in their world, their habitat—so we sat watching in awe for a good while. But because the day was young, our safari guide suggested we go explore a little more, to see what else might be lurking around. We drove and drove, and as the sun slipped farther across the sky, my hopes of seeing a leopard were dwindling. I mean, how could anyone complain after the lions and cheetah—I certainly wasn’t anywhere near feeling a burst of self-pity (on the contrary, my sense of gratitude was only growing). But, again, I would be remiss if I did not say that a piece of me was a tad disappointed that I would, in all probability, not get to see a leopard, and who knows when or if an opportunity like this would arise again. Our safari guide said based on his 20+ years in this profession, it was almost entirely impossible that we would see cheetah, lions, AND a leopard in such a short trip.
So after a few hours of driving with little success, our guide suggested that we return to the spot where we had seen the lions earlier that day. We all agreed and headed back—and again, we had overwhelmingly good luck. Not only were the lions still there, but they had actually moved closer to the road and were sitting, not 100 feet away, facing us. There is an indescribable burst of clarity that comes over you while making eye contact with a lion. Your eyes meet, and all of a sudden it’s like the world goes quiet. It’s this surreal sensation, you feel as though you are a visitor from some strange artificial technological futuristic world, which has just been shattered as it collided with the overwhelming strength and beauty of the natural world. It is not a feeling of freight or being threatened—not at all—it feels more like being overtaken by a quiet wisdom, staring into the eyes of God; I couldn’t tell you whether I sat, eyes locked, for ten seconds or ten minutes, but it was one of those moments where I felt incredibly…centered.
As darkness swept over the grassy desert, I felt an internal stillness—especially welcome after the emotional thrashing that I had been so consumed by for the past week. So what if I didn’t see a leopard—I had the most amazing experience of my life, and I knew in my heart that I was doing the right thing. How could anyone ask any more than that? I finally felt good about my decision—entirely prepared to submit my request to ET with no possibility of regrets.
The next morning, on our way out, we saw a leopard. She walked right past my side of the car—maybe five feet away. She was magnificent. And—silly as I know it will sound to many of you—I knew she was saying goodbye and giving her blessing.
One of the more unfortunate side-effects of being a rule-follower is the startling frequency of missed opportunities for excitement and adventure. Nevertheless, unless I feel a rule is unjustified, I’m pretty much a by-the-books kind of gal (of course it’s entirely possible that this implicit respect for authority arises out of a secret desire to accrue rule-following-Karma, so that when I do decide to break a rule I’ll manage to escape unscathed…not that I’m superstitious or anything…). For the most part, Peace Corps rules were no exception to my dogmatic inclinations. This includes the Peace Corps’ international “lockdown” policy. Because it is the opinion of the Peace Corps (and, frankly, mine as well) that the key to implementing successful sustainable development techniques is for each volunteer to be well-integrated into his/her community, the Peace Corps does not permit volunteers to leave their assigned villages for the first few weeks or months (the required duration varies by country) of service (apart from designated medical, safety, or shopping purposes, of course). For Peace Corps Botswana volunteers, lockdown ends at the conclusion of IST (in-service training), a two-week supplement to PST (pre-service training), held in Gaborone, to give volunteers a chance to reconnect and learn additional language and program skills. And as fate would have it, this was also the event at which I had resolved to file my request to ET (early terminate my service…yeah, you guys thought you were done with acronyms…haha!).
Now, had I intended to ET all along, I must admit, I would have been extremely tempted to abandon any pretense of professionalism and take advantage of the plethora of natural beauty in my midst: Tsodilo Hills (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tsodilo_Hills) was a mere thirty minute drive from my village; Kasane (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kasane) only four hours (when taking the direct route through the Caprivi Strip [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caprivi_strip]); and Victoria Falls (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victoria_Falls --yes, you read correctly; it IS in fact one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World) only another 4 or so away from that. But the thing is, up until the very last moment, I was genuinely trying to make it work, to “stick it out,” and the prospect of getting kicked out for violating lockdown was absolutely not worth the risk—especially considering I figured I had another twenty or so months to venture anywhere I wanted…or not.
Now some of you might be thinking I’m the world’s biggest schmuck for not just going MIA for a few days once I had settled on my decision to ET, so that I could take advantage of my prime location and explore. And of course the thought did cross my mind. But the thing is, I genuinely do respect the Peace Corps and everything it stands for, and I really did not go there to be a tourist, but to work, and I am nothing if not principled—for better or worse. Plus, who wants to jinx themselves and mess up their karma right when they’re in the midst of making a life-altering decision? (See, I told y’all—I’m not superstitious at all!)
Of course, in order for me to ET at IST, I would have to travel to the Peace Corps office in Gaborone—at least a two day trip from Shakawe—there was no way around that. And as it happened, the group of Canadian volunteers that had been volunteering with my NGO were scheduled to take a flight home from Gabs almost the same time I needed to arrive for IST. So, you know, it would have been silly, if not outright rude, for me not to have gone along with them—to ensure their safe travel, and whatnot, of course. And if their trip just happened to include a two day safari in the Kgaladi (Kalahari) Desert…well, who am I to object to a slight scenic detour, even if it meant tweaking the rules a bit over the last few days of lockdown? I may be a schmuck, but I’m not the biggest idiot in the world.
It’s kind of strange to think about it now, because the farther removed I am from the situation, the more inevitable my decision to ET seems. It’s one of those decision that made my life feel like it split in half—like another layer of façade suddenly dropped off and went crashing to the ground, and once the dust settled, revealed more of my core, more clarity and perspective on who I really am and what I really stand for. But at the time, it was one of those decisions that made me feel manic—even though I was ninety percent sure I was going to do it, somehow the decision lurked in the shadowy corners of every thought that churned through my mind; a perpetual scale weighing the pro and cons list, and causing my emotions to jut in one direction then ten seconds later lurch in another. For a week or so my mental landscape was nothing but a mountainous terrain peaks of confidence and valleys of self-doubt. In other words, not an especially fun time.
It’s ironic, but my emotional tumultuousness was so severe that it was actually causing me to dread the safari—a very large part of me wanted to just call the Peace Corps to get it over with, so at least I could begin moving on from my decision. Nonetheless, thanks in great part to the support of the visiting volunteers, I managed to suck it up and make it to the safari.
So. A few quick things about a safari in the Kgaladi:
1. Just because it’s an African safari in a desert does not mean that it is hot. In fact, in the winter, the season during which our trip happened to take place, it is actually quite cold. Quite cold. Frostbite in an open-air-safari-truck cold. Bring a WARM sleeping bag and cocoon yourself in it.
2. Get a good safari guide. Ours was INcredble—I felt like I was living in a National Geographic special.
3. Even though the landscape of the Kgaladi might look a little plain, there is actually an enormous diversity of species—both flora and fauna. It’s just that most of them happen to be the same sort of beigey color, so everything matches. And unlike matching couples or color-coordinated twins, which catch your eye like a cupcake in a salad bar, the Kgaladi matching effect just causes everything to blend together, so you might not notice (see again #2—ours was capable of seeing a ground squirrel 100 yards away whilst driving at 30mph [I’m back in America, screw the metric system {even if it is vastly more logical and easy to use}!]) (And yes, I just pulled off a three-tiered parenthetical phrase.)
4. If you set your camera’s shutter speed to extra slow to try to get pictures of the night sky (which is breathtaking), 1. it won’t work, and 2. do not go to bed without changing the settings because you plan to fix them in the morning. The morning is cold and early and you will not fix them in the morning and you never know what you might see and when. But more on that later.
Now, the thing about game drives in the Kgaladi—or any truly natural reserve—is that you genuinely have no idea what you will or won’t see (well, within the parameters of animals that actually reside in that habitat, anyway…obviously there would be no tigers or platypus); it’s entirely up to chance, and sometimes you see absolutely nothing—that would be extremely unlikely for such a long trip, but we went for several hour stretches without passing so much as an antelope. The Kgaladi is huge, and the animals are genuinely wild, not relying on food posts or treats from safari drivers, so they aren’t waiting around to hear the sound of an engine. Although most of them are fairly used to people and car sounds, it is not like visiting a petting zoo. Moreover, most of the animals—even of different species—tend to stick together, so if they all happen to be far from the roads, or just not near the roads you happen to be driving on, it is genuinely possible to not see anything. So while a good driver does help in spotting animals, s/he can’t actually procure them, so the “success” of a safari really is entirely up to chance.
At this point, I think it’s safe to say you’re probably figuring out that I am a rather spiritual/superstitious/whatever-you-want-to-call-it type of person. And while I’m not about to drag anyone down the road of my crazy belief system/worldviews, suffice it to say that I do feel very strongly that when your life is headed in the “right” direction, things just sort of tend to click—typically in small ways that hold a great deal of personal significance, but seem entirely trivial or go unnoticed by everyone else. And, I’ll just say it: I also believe that you tend to get the greatest reinforcement when you need it the most. (Yes, I am aware that many will say it’s just that we each choose to see what we want; that may well be the case, but this is how I choose to see it, and it’s my story, so I get to tell it the way I want!). And this was one of the points in my life when I needed help, badly. Even though I was pretty settled on my decision, it’s a scary choice to make, and I really wanted some kind of external validation—which, of course, no one can ever actually get, again, unless you believe in the small “signs.” Luckily for me, I do.
So. I have always wanted to see a leopard—a wild leopard, actually in his/her own natural habitat. And as it happens, the Kgaladi fits that bill perfectly. Unfortunately, though, leopards are the rarest of the three big cats (the other two being lions and cheetah) which occupy the desert, so my odds were of seeing one weren’t especially great. But, I sort of made a deal that if I saw a leopard, that was Botswana’s way of telling me “you’ve seen everything you need to see here, done everything you need to do—it’s okay to go home.” Now, of course superstitious as I may be, I’m not a full-blown lunatic, so I had no intention of actually basing my decision on this…but once a thought like this crosses your mind, well, it’s kind of hard to put it to rest. So even though I knew I was going to ET either way, it would really be nice if the Universe would hold up its end of my little “deal” as well.
And so our safari began. To our great surprise, on our very first game drive, we had the good fortune of spotting (among many, many other spectacular creatures) a coalition of four cheetah (yes, “coalition” is the technical term for a group of cheetah; appropriately ominous, no?) on the prowl (wow, it feels kind of strange using that word in its literal context). Not only did we spot them, but they got incredibly close to our vehicle and crossed the dirt road right in front of us. It was such a powerful moment—to see something like that with my very own eyes. (Most of the videos I took bear the background of breathlessly whispered phrases like “this is the coolest thing that has ever happened!”) I was overwhelmed with gratitude for everything in my life—how many people get to experience something like that? But I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t a teeny tiny piece of me that was an itsy bitsy bit disappointed—cheetah were the second-most rare of the big three cats…and obviously I understand that there is no correlation between seeing cheetah and seeing leopards…but, really, what are the odds of seeing both on a two-day safari? Even our game driver didn’t think we’d be that lucky…but again, I’m (reasonably) sane, so as much as I wanted to see a leopard—both because I really, really, wanted to see one, and because of my little bargain—I was obviously overwhelmed with elation over our good fortune with the cheetah.
The cheetah were our big find on Day 1. Day 2 began with a bang as well—we almost immediately happened upon a pair of lions mating, quite close to the road. Now, lions are quite common in the Kgaladi, so none of us were especially surprised to see them, but even given that, their might and magnificence must not be underestimated. Again, we were all overwhelmed by their presence—or rather, our presence in their world, their habitat—so we sat watching in awe for a good while. But because the day was young, our safari guide suggested we go explore a little more, to see what else might be lurking around. We drove and drove, and as the sun slipped farther across the sky, my hopes of seeing a leopard were dwindling. I mean, how could anyone complain after the lions and cheetah—I certainly wasn’t anywhere near feeling a burst of self-pity (on the contrary, my sense of gratitude was only growing). But, again, I would be remiss if I did not say that a piece of me was a tad disappointed that I would, in all probability, not get to see a leopard, and who knows when or if an opportunity like this would arise again. Our safari guide said based on his 20+ years in this profession, it was almost entirely impossible that we would see cheetah, lions, AND a leopard in such a short trip.
So after a few hours of driving with little success, our guide suggested that we return to the spot where we had seen the lions earlier that day. We all agreed and headed back—and again, we had overwhelmingly good luck. Not only were the lions still there, but they had actually moved closer to the road and were sitting, not 100 feet away, facing us. There is an indescribable burst of clarity that comes over you while making eye contact with a lion. Your eyes meet, and all of a sudden it’s like the world goes quiet. It’s this surreal sensation, you feel as though you are a visitor from some strange artificial technological futuristic world, which has just been shattered as it collided with the overwhelming strength and beauty of the natural world. It is not a feeling of freight or being threatened—not at all—it feels more like being overtaken by a quiet wisdom, staring into the eyes of God; I couldn’t tell you whether I sat, eyes locked, for ten seconds or ten minutes, but it was one of those moments where I felt incredibly…centered.
As darkness swept over the grassy desert, I felt an internal stillness—especially welcome after the emotional thrashing that I had been so consumed by for the past week. So what if I didn’t see a leopard—I had the most amazing experience of my life, and I knew in my heart that I was doing the right thing. How could anyone ask any more than that? I finally felt good about my decision—entirely prepared to submit my request to ET with no possibility of regrets.
The next morning, on our way out, we saw a leopard. She walked right past my side of the car—maybe five feet away. She was magnificent. And—silly as I know it will sound to many of you—I knew she was saying goodbye and giving her blessing.
Movin' Out
I must admit to feeling a twinge of “I’ll show them—I’m running away!” teenage-style angst when I first began packing. I hate to say it, but there is definitely something vengefully satisfying about the idea of throwing everything in a suitcase and sneaking away. After all of the work I had done to get there—all of the waiting and training and homesickness—only to be treated the way I was. It was nearly impossible, even being the optimist that I am, not to be overwhelmed by frustration and bitterness that it would all end like this. But after weeks of turning it over in my head, I knew I had no other choice.
I hastily bustled around the room and sifted through my belongings—though I had settled on the decision days before I was set to leave, I knew once my bags were packed, there was no going back, so I put it off until the last possible minute. Despite the emotions firing inside, it was impossible to keep my mind from drifting back to the last time I had packed like this. How odd that I had been so concerned with deadlines and order and structure, and making sure not to forget anything—when at that time I really had absolutely no idea what I even needed. Yet upon leaving Botswana, I was so unconcerned with any of that—if something made it home, it made it home; if it didn’t, it didn’t; things are just things, after all. I thought I knew that going in, but I really knew it coming out. In fact, as sorted through my filthy clothes and sand-infested shoes, determining which to leave and which to attempt to squeeze into the remaining space in my bags, I was struck by just how much I had learned—about myself, about life. About the importance of friends and family. By this point in my journey, the letters of support meant more than anything else. And even they were only physical manifestations of the amazing people that I am so blessed to be surrounded by.
The process of reassembling my things was remarkably cathartic, and by the time I was struggling with the zippers and smirking as I attached my luggage locks (who would really want to steal anything that had been in the Kgaladi for the last 4 months?!), I was entirely overtaken by a confident calmness; no bitterness or ill feelings at all. Really, even though things didn’t work our exactly as I had expected, I had grown more than I ever could have imagined. I was more committed to my ideals and goals than ever before—even if the execution would be a little different than I originally imagined. If it meant pushing myself even further outside of my comfort zone, burning through my savings, and distancing myself farther from most “sane” people, who consider even Peace Corps service to be “out there,” the bottom line was that Botswana was not the right place for me, and if I had any chance of staying true to myself, I had to follow my heart. And it was clearly leading me out of Botswana. And, really, I was grateful that I realized when I did.
I don’t know if my perspective was distorted or if it was genuinely true but my bags felt a lot lighter on the way out than on the way in. And although I accepted offers to help a few times (I’m strong, not stupid!), on the way out, unlike on the way in, I had the strength to carry it all myself.
I hastily bustled around the room and sifted through my belongings—though I had settled on the decision days before I was set to leave, I knew once my bags were packed, there was no going back, so I put it off until the last possible minute. Despite the emotions firing inside, it was impossible to keep my mind from drifting back to the last time I had packed like this. How odd that I had been so concerned with deadlines and order and structure, and making sure not to forget anything—when at that time I really had absolutely no idea what I even needed. Yet upon leaving Botswana, I was so unconcerned with any of that—if something made it home, it made it home; if it didn’t, it didn’t; things are just things, after all. I thought I knew that going in, but I really knew it coming out. In fact, as sorted through my filthy clothes and sand-infested shoes, determining which to leave and which to attempt to squeeze into the remaining space in my bags, I was struck by just how much I had learned—about myself, about life. About the importance of friends and family. By this point in my journey, the letters of support meant more than anything else. And even they were only physical manifestations of the amazing people that I am so blessed to be surrounded by.
The process of reassembling my things was remarkably cathartic, and by the time I was struggling with the zippers and smirking as I attached my luggage locks (who would really want to steal anything that had been in the Kgaladi for the last 4 months?!), I was entirely overtaken by a confident calmness; no bitterness or ill feelings at all. Really, even though things didn’t work our exactly as I had expected, I had grown more than I ever could have imagined. I was more committed to my ideals and goals than ever before—even if the execution would be a little different than I originally imagined. If it meant pushing myself even further outside of my comfort zone, burning through my savings, and distancing myself farther from most “sane” people, who consider even Peace Corps service to be “out there,” the bottom line was that Botswana was not the right place for me, and if I had any chance of staying true to myself, I had to follow my heart. And it was clearly leading me out of Botswana. And, really, I was grateful that I realized when I did.
I don’t know if my perspective was distorted or if it was genuinely true but my bags felt a lot lighter on the way out than on the way in. And although I accepted offers to help a few times (I’m strong, not stupid!), on the way out, unlike on the way in, I had the strength to carry it all myself.
All This, Nothing, and More...
You know, when I came up with the title for this blog (Same Planet, Different Worlds) I will admit, I chose it partly for its sensational flair. It does sound rather melodramatic, does it not? Because, you know, traveling to another continent and living in another culture, may not be quite exciting enough, right? Best to add some pizzaz; spice it up a bit. I also assumed it was broad and vague enough to encapsulate a wide spectrum of potential feelings and observations about my future experiences. But I have to say, I never imagined how precisely fitting and not at all exaggerated the name I selected would actually turn out to be. But when I returned home, stepping off the plane from South Africa honestly felt more like exiting an alien spacecraft and entering an entirely different universe than merely returning from a trip abroad (ok, I haven’t actually traveled to another universe, but one can speculate, no?). The strangest part? It wasn’t so much the world around me that was peculiar—it was me. I was the alien. You see, many of the differences between living here and living on “that side” are tangible. But most have a lot more to do with state of mind.
Out of all the blog entries I have written thus far, this has been the most difficult to assemble—I have so many fragmented drafts that I have started and stopped, so many thoughts, unrelated but somehow woven together because they were born of the same experiences. I hardly know how to make the thoughts and emotions in my head materialize into words on the screen. I think it’s in part because, once again, one of the Peace Corps mantras has held to be true—reverse culture shock is indeed arguably more difficult to grapple with than adjusting to a new country. It’s also partly because the unbelievable web of distractions that I find myself somehow already re-immersed in continually pulls me away from the ever-so-“dull” task of actually processing my own experiences; and finally, because I was hoping that after a few days mulling over everything, a cohesive theme or story would emerge, allowing me to write something a little more engaging or intellectually compelling. While everything makes sense to me—actually, with remarkable clarity—I still can’t seem to make sense of it on paper. But, as I have said before, a partial motive for maintaining this blog is simply for my own recollection of experiences. So, rather than scrap what has been one of the more poignant points of my experience—switching paths—just because I can’t make it “pretty,” I’m just going to put it all out there. So, what follows (in the next several entries, most of which still in the works) is a series of incredibly meaningful moments over the past few weeks, haphazardly strewn together…if anyone actually makes it through these, apologies in advance. I might make you cookies. :o)
Out of all the blog entries I have written thus far, this has been the most difficult to assemble—I have so many fragmented drafts that I have started and stopped, so many thoughts, unrelated but somehow woven together because they were born of the same experiences. I hardly know how to make the thoughts and emotions in my head materialize into words on the screen. I think it’s in part because, once again, one of the Peace Corps mantras has held to be true—reverse culture shock is indeed arguably more difficult to grapple with than adjusting to a new country. It’s also partly because the unbelievable web of distractions that I find myself somehow already re-immersed in continually pulls me away from the ever-so-“dull” task of actually processing my own experiences; and finally, because I was hoping that after a few days mulling over everything, a cohesive theme or story would emerge, allowing me to write something a little more engaging or intellectually compelling. While everything makes sense to me—actually, with remarkable clarity—I still can’t seem to make sense of it on paper. But, as I have said before, a partial motive for maintaining this blog is simply for my own recollection of experiences. So, rather than scrap what has been one of the more poignant points of my experience—switching paths—just because I can’t make it “pretty,” I’m just going to put it all out there. So, what follows (in the next several entries, most of which still in the works) is a series of incredibly meaningful moments over the past few weeks, haphazardly strewn together…if anyone actually makes it through these, apologies in advance. I might make you cookies. :o)
August 22, 2010
It's easy, but somehow letting go's the hardest part
I do believe that one of the most bizarre and unsettling epiphanies one can have is the realization that continuing to serve in the Peace Corps is taking the easy way out (incidentally it is also an unexpectedly unnerving discovery on the plane ride home when you realize that airplane bathrooms are actually quite luxurious, but more on that later).
During staging (the orientation-type event held in the United States, just before each training class departs to their country of service) each trainee is instructed to enumerate his or her reasons for joining the Peace Corps—which, at that point are incredibly obvious, considering that most volunteers have just spent about 18 months of their lives obsessing over the application process. Trainees are then encouraged to keep this list of motivating factors with them, to revisit during the inevitable times when the stress of Peace Corps life creates a blinding haze making it impossible to remember why they are even there in the first place. It is actually a good recommendation, because those instances certainly do exist, and it can be very easy to get lost in the fog of daily life and entirely forget where you came from, where you are going, and just how far you have already traveled. Reflecting on the big picture can cast light on the situation, and make volunteers feel a little less lost.
Of course, this approach hinges on the assumption that a volunteer’s work is actually having some sort of impact, and that the volunteer’s experience is actually at least somewhat in alignment with his or her motives. And I think that both of those contingencies are true in the vast majority of cases. However, Peace Corps service is not quite like other jobs, with cookie-cutter job descriptions, expectations, responsibilities, rules, etc. It genuinely is the case that each and every volunteer’s experience is 100% different. Every counterpart is different, every organization is different, every village is different, every housing situation is different—and these things really do add up. And in my instance, when I referred back to my list of motivating factors (well, the list in my head; I didn’t pull out the actual list…I’m not quite that big of a nerd ;o), instead of feeling like my feet were planted firmly on the ground, it felt as though at that moment, the earth tore open below me, and I was left staring down at a deep abyss.
Now I have to say, I considered enumerating all of the reasons why my placement was not the right fit for me. But frankly I don’t like being negative (I know all of my PCV venting buddies are saying “aa mme!” right now, but I really am generally a positive person when I’m not in the hospital drinking out of a pee cup and stuff [I just realized I never told that story on here, so non-Bots9ers...just pretend you never read that]), and, despite my experience, I do still have a tremendous amount of respect for the Peace Corps and my fellow Botswana volunteers, and do not wish to implicitly disparage their work or image, just so that I can somehow validate a decision that I know in my heart is right. So I will just say that my situation was such that I was not able to actually do work of any substance. Now, this is a feeling that is common amongst PCV’s, because many PCV’s begin service rather starry-eyed, hoping to “change the world,” only to find that the actual impact of their service is much more subtle and intangible than they initially expected. This was not the situation in my case—there were significant, concrete barriers which entirely prevented me from actually accomplishing anything at all, subtle or obvious, small or large, and the longer I stayed, the more apparent it became that the situation would only get worse.
I am a pretty tough person—I think most people who know me will attest that while I have many flaws, just as anyone else, weakness is not among them. I have a very high threshold for difficult situations—I’ve been vegan for over twelve years, I’ve run a marathon, I’ve rescued dangerous animals from crisis situations. And, frankly, because of difficulties with my homestay, my hospitalization, and finally additional issues with my site placement, I endured more than my fair share here in Botswana. And the thing is, I would have been fine with it—I did not join the Peace Corps for a posh house or an easy ride. I joined it because I wanted to work. But that’s just it. Thinking back upon my motivations for service, the one thing I came to do is the one thing that I wasn’t doing. I had become so caught up in the struggles and excitement of Peace Corps life—as is necessary when adapting to a new situation—that I had lost sight of my purpose there.
I don’t know if it is just me, or if this is central to human nature, but the second that I realize that something is off-center in my life, it consumes me until I can figure out how to fix it. One of my favorite quotes is “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony” – Gandhi. And at that moment, I realized my life was out of tune and way off-key. I needed to pick a side, or else I was about to come crashing down. So, I began tirelessly evaluating all of the pros and cons of my service, turning over every possible situation in my head. Ultimately, my reasons for staying boiled down to four things: fear of letting my friends and family down, my fondness for all of the other PCV’s, my resume, and the concern that I would get home and regret it. My reasons for leaving: everything else.
So. The fear of letting people down. That’s pretty scary. I have been so completely inaccessible and unable to reciprocate all of the amazing support that my friends and family have given me—care packages, letters, entirely one-sided phone conversations (when you don’t get to talk with any native English speakers for weeks at a time, and you like to talk as much as I do, you wind up with a LOT to say). How could I not feel like I was letting them down by coming home? And what if they thought less of me for it? But then again, isn’t staying and accepting all of their kindness and gifts, when I’m not doing anything to earn it, actually letting them down more? And I have been blessed with quite possibly the most supportive group of family and friends in the world…ever. People like that don’t stop loving you just because you decide to change paths.
Next: the life of PCV’s. It’s pretty fun hanging out with other PCV’s. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I think most PCV’s are about the kindest, most genuine, motivated, fun, adventurous people I’ve ever known. To leave all of these people and the “second family” feeling they provide, to miss out on all of the upcoming vacations and parties—especially since we didn’t get to do any of that sort of thing during lockdown—well, that sucks. But I didn’t come here for vacations and parties. That’s kind of the opposite of work, no?
And, ah, the resume…well, that’s some scary stuff. Completing Peace Corps service opens more doors than anything else I will probably do; it means a check for over $6,000, and an additional two years of job security and healthcare (*sigh* healthcare *sigh*). And next year is Peace Corps’ 50th anniversary, so you can bet there were probably going to be some kickin’ celebrations in order—maybe even something Presidential (all speculation, of course). But the thing is, the Peace Corps is not like a regular job. It’s not like something that you power through to climb the corporate ladder. To me, Peace Corps service means something, and if you’re just doing it to get through it, you’re demeaning the whole system. It’s scary to throw those perks away, but it also feels unfair to get them without doing anything to earn them—and that’s exactly what was happening in my situation. And, again, that’s not why I came here. I came here to work.
As far as regrets go—which would I regret more, spending the next two years living for the weekend and taking some admittedly amazing vacations with friends, but accomplishing absolutely nothing, and feeling miserable most of the time? Or sucking it up, going home, and starting fresh? Different people have different answers, but for me, it was clear. And honestly, I don’t really believe in regrets—I’m a “win some or learn some” kinda gal. I think if you really want something, you just have to keep working at it, and you CAN make it happen. And during the period when I was unsure about whether I would gain acceptance into the Peace Corps, I did a great deal of research on alternative volunteer opportunities. Granted, none of them offer all that the Peace Corps does (when one is placed in a situation where one actually gets the opportunity to work like a Peace Corps volunteer, that is). But they are out there. And my time in the Peace Corps alleviated most of my fears about going “on my own;” I think I have grown more and learned so much in the last four months of my life, more than even I expected to; maybe that was really the purpose of all of this--to prepare me so that I can regroup, pick my own project, come back to Africa, and hit the ground running.
The more I thought about it, the clearer the answer became. All of my motivations for staying were rooted in fear—fear of losing friends and family, fear of unemployment, fear of making the “wrong” decision. And fear is absolutely always the wrong reason for doing anything (well, unless you’re being chased by a bear or hippo or something, then you should probably go with it). As much as I value Peace Corps service, in my case, it was only a label. And I care more about the work than the label. So I had no choice but to tear it off and take the leap to the other side. And even if I fall, at least I’ll know I was headed in the right direction.
(And, yes, I know the cliff metaphor is tired, but it is tired for a reason—it fits a lot of situations. And I just made a major life decision, so be nice! ;o)
During staging (the orientation-type event held in the United States, just before each training class departs to their country of service) each trainee is instructed to enumerate his or her reasons for joining the Peace Corps—which, at that point are incredibly obvious, considering that most volunteers have just spent about 18 months of their lives obsessing over the application process. Trainees are then encouraged to keep this list of motivating factors with them, to revisit during the inevitable times when the stress of Peace Corps life creates a blinding haze making it impossible to remember why they are even there in the first place. It is actually a good recommendation, because those instances certainly do exist, and it can be very easy to get lost in the fog of daily life and entirely forget where you came from, where you are going, and just how far you have already traveled. Reflecting on the big picture can cast light on the situation, and make volunteers feel a little less lost.
Of course, this approach hinges on the assumption that a volunteer’s work is actually having some sort of impact, and that the volunteer’s experience is actually at least somewhat in alignment with his or her motives. And I think that both of those contingencies are true in the vast majority of cases. However, Peace Corps service is not quite like other jobs, with cookie-cutter job descriptions, expectations, responsibilities, rules, etc. It genuinely is the case that each and every volunteer’s experience is 100% different. Every counterpart is different, every organization is different, every village is different, every housing situation is different—and these things really do add up. And in my instance, when I referred back to my list of motivating factors (well, the list in my head; I didn’t pull out the actual list…I’m not quite that big of a nerd ;o), instead of feeling like my feet were planted firmly on the ground, it felt as though at that moment, the earth tore open below me, and I was left staring down at a deep abyss.
Now I have to say, I considered enumerating all of the reasons why my placement was not the right fit for me. But frankly I don’t like being negative (I know all of my PCV venting buddies are saying “aa mme!” right now, but I really am generally a positive person when I’m not in the hospital drinking out of a pee cup and stuff [I just realized I never told that story on here, so non-Bots9ers...just pretend you never read that]), and, despite my experience, I do still have a tremendous amount of respect for the Peace Corps and my fellow Botswana volunteers, and do not wish to implicitly disparage their work or image, just so that I can somehow validate a decision that I know in my heart is right. So I will just say that my situation was such that I was not able to actually do work of any substance. Now, this is a feeling that is common amongst PCV’s, because many PCV’s begin service rather starry-eyed, hoping to “change the world,” only to find that the actual impact of their service is much more subtle and intangible than they initially expected. This was not the situation in my case—there were significant, concrete barriers which entirely prevented me from actually accomplishing anything at all, subtle or obvious, small or large, and the longer I stayed, the more apparent it became that the situation would only get worse.
I am a pretty tough person—I think most people who know me will attest that while I have many flaws, just as anyone else, weakness is not among them. I have a very high threshold for difficult situations—I’ve been vegan for over twelve years, I’ve run a marathon, I’ve rescued dangerous animals from crisis situations. And, frankly, because of difficulties with my homestay, my hospitalization, and finally additional issues with my site placement, I endured more than my fair share here in Botswana. And the thing is, I would have been fine with it—I did not join the Peace Corps for a posh house or an easy ride. I joined it because I wanted to work. But that’s just it. Thinking back upon my motivations for service, the one thing I came to do is the one thing that I wasn’t doing. I had become so caught up in the struggles and excitement of Peace Corps life—as is necessary when adapting to a new situation—that I had lost sight of my purpose there.
I don’t know if it is just me, or if this is central to human nature, but the second that I realize that something is off-center in my life, it consumes me until I can figure out how to fix it. One of my favorite quotes is “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony” – Gandhi. And at that moment, I realized my life was out of tune and way off-key. I needed to pick a side, or else I was about to come crashing down. So, I began tirelessly evaluating all of the pros and cons of my service, turning over every possible situation in my head. Ultimately, my reasons for staying boiled down to four things: fear of letting my friends and family down, my fondness for all of the other PCV’s, my resume, and the concern that I would get home and regret it. My reasons for leaving: everything else.
So. The fear of letting people down. That’s pretty scary. I have been so completely inaccessible and unable to reciprocate all of the amazing support that my friends and family have given me—care packages, letters, entirely one-sided phone conversations (when you don’t get to talk with any native English speakers for weeks at a time, and you like to talk as much as I do, you wind up with a LOT to say). How could I not feel like I was letting them down by coming home? And what if they thought less of me for it? But then again, isn’t staying and accepting all of their kindness and gifts, when I’m not doing anything to earn it, actually letting them down more? And I have been blessed with quite possibly the most supportive group of family and friends in the world…ever. People like that don’t stop loving you just because you decide to change paths.
Next: the life of PCV’s. It’s pretty fun hanging out with other PCV’s. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I think most PCV’s are about the kindest, most genuine, motivated, fun, adventurous people I’ve ever known. To leave all of these people and the “second family” feeling they provide, to miss out on all of the upcoming vacations and parties—especially since we didn’t get to do any of that sort of thing during lockdown—well, that sucks. But I didn’t come here for vacations and parties. That’s kind of the opposite of work, no?
And, ah, the resume…well, that’s some scary stuff. Completing Peace Corps service opens more doors than anything else I will probably do; it means a check for over $6,000, and an additional two years of job security and healthcare (*sigh* healthcare *sigh*). And next year is Peace Corps’ 50th anniversary, so you can bet there were probably going to be some kickin’ celebrations in order—maybe even something Presidential (all speculation, of course). But the thing is, the Peace Corps is not like a regular job. It’s not like something that you power through to climb the corporate ladder. To me, Peace Corps service means something, and if you’re just doing it to get through it, you’re demeaning the whole system. It’s scary to throw those perks away, but it also feels unfair to get them without doing anything to earn them—and that’s exactly what was happening in my situation. And, again, that’s not why I came here. I came here to work.
As far as regrets go—which would I regret more, spending the next two years living for the weekend and taking some admittedly amazing vacations with friends, but accomplishing absolutely nothing, and feeling miserable most of the time? Or sucking it up, going home, and starting fresh? Different people have different answers, but for me, it was clear. And honestly, I don’t really believe in regrets—I’m a “win some or learn some” kinda gal. I think if you really want something, you just have to keep working at it, and you CAN make it happen. And during the period when I was unsure about whether I would gain acceptance into the Peace Corps, I did a great deal of research on alternative volunteer opportunities. Granted, none of them offer all that the Peace Corps does (when one is placed in a situation where one actually gets the opportunity to work like a Peace Corps volunteer, that is). But they are out there. And my time in the Peace Corps alleviated most of my fears about going “on my own;” I think I have grown more and learned so much in the last four months of my life, more than even I expected to; maybe that was really the purpose of all of this--to prepare me so that I can regroup, pick my own project, come back to Africa, and hit the ground running.
The more I thought about it, the clearer the answer became. All of my motivations for staying were rooted in fear—fear of losing friends and family, fear of unemployment, fear of making the “wrong” decision. And fear is absolutely always the wrong reason for doing anything (well, unless you’re being chased by a bear or hippo or something, then you should probably go with it). As much as I value Peace Corps service, in my case, it was only a label. And I care more about the work than the label. So I had no choice but to tear it off and take the leap to the other side. And even if I fall, at least I’ll know I was headed in the right direction.
(And, yes, I know the cliff metaphor is tired, but it is tired for a reason—it fits a lot of situations. And I just made a major life decision, so be nice! ;o)
August 4, 2010
Drive My Car
n keeping with my recent theme of discussing the little things, the “Few Minor Adjustments,” as one of the Peace Corps training manuals puts it, which Peace Corps Service entails, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention one of those details that has been plaguing me of late: my car. You may have noticed the growing number of affectionate Prius references in recent blogs, evidence of my subconscious longing seeping into my stories. Now, I am well aware that even in America owning a car is a luxury that not everyone has, and that many people actively make the choice not to have a car. But I have to confess: I love mine. I love the ease of being able to go where I want when I want; I love to blare my music and rock out in the confines of its privacy; I love the sound of the windshield wipers swishing around in the rain and the feeling of sticking my hand out the window in the summer wind. (As an aside, I’m all for public transport, and would gladly trade my car for it if I lived in an area where it was widely available and accessible. But that has yet to happen, so my car it is.)
Although there are cars in Botswana—actually, they are more prevalent than I expected, even though I have yet to befriend a Motswana who owns one—as Peace Corps volunteers, one of the cardinal rules is that we may not drive while on duty (which is 24/7, except for reported vacation days), and if we do, we face the penalty of being sent home, so it’s a policy that most volunteers take extremely seriously. This rule exists in part for our safety, and in part so that we will really experience full cultural immersion—life as a Motswana, rather than as an American living in Botswana. And I must say, on the latter count, it is quite effective.
It’s remarkable what a different world this would be if I had access to my very own car. It’s not so much that walking is so bad; indeed, since it is, by far, the most common mode of transport here, the village is designed to be accessible by foot. It’s the premeditation, the extra thought and energy that walking requires which make it a challenge. Before running an errand, I must calculate the most reasonable path, evaluate whether any other stops should be made—since some stores are quite a distance away, it is not worth making more than one trip in a short span of time—determine exactly what I need to buy and whether I will be able to carry it. It’s not like hopping in a car, backtracking a bit if I’ve forgotten something, and buying as much as you I fit in the trunk. And then there’s the weather. Since it is already extremely hot in the afternoons, and there is little shade, it is vastly preferable to make any long-ish trips early in the day or late in the evening, so if there’s something I need, it is prudent for me to plan my day around it—again, something that wouldn’t even cross your mind as you cruise in the comfort of a climate-controlled car.
And (now, I’m sure this is going to sound extraordinarily silly, but, as you can tell from the length of my blogs, I’m all about full-disclosure) walking in sand is hard! Really hard! You know that part of the beach, before you get to the bit where the sand is all smooth and packed down from the surf? That’s what the ground here is like, everywhere. Not only that, but with the exception of when I go running, I wear sandals exclusively—it’s far too hot for “real” footwear—and the sand here is not just plain sand. It’s littered with shards of broken beer bottles everywhere (excessive alcohol consumption is a large issue here), thornbush plants which scrape my legs, and little sticky thorn thingies all over the ground, which constantly manage to find their way into my sandal and me with a stabbing pain when I least expect it. There is also cow, donkey, and goat feces strewn about like land mines which must be avoided at all costs (particularly given my previous statement about my choice footwear).
Not to mention the fact that I’m an American; I like my privacy. Although it is extremely welcoming the way nearly every person that I pass initiates a conversation, and I am appreciative of every opportunity to integrate and show off my smokin’ Setswana skills…well, like I said: I’m an American and I like privacy. There are some days when I just don’t want to talk to anyone, when I just want to get where I’m going and not stress over what to say or how I look or fend off the constant barrage of wanna-be suitors. But without a car, this is not a possibility—if I want or need to go out, it will inevitably lead to a plethora of conversations and interactions. Again, I feel the need to emphasize that this is not a bad thing—it is not intended as a criticism of Setswana culture; on the contrary, I think Americans are the odd ones out for maintaining the isolation that we do. But, again, for better or worse, I am an American, and there are some values that I simply can’t—and don’t especially want to—shed.
Plus, having a car saves so much time. For instance, a bus ride from Shakawe to Maun, the nearest large village, takes six hours. In a private car? Three to four. (The bus must go in and out of each small village along the way to make all designated stops in addition to stopping anywhere someone requests to get off or on.) Walking to the Kgotla or social work office takes twenty minutes. Driving—maybe five.
Not to mention the valuable rocking-out time that is lost. Now, I am not ashamed of my musical stylings. But, again, I like privacy, and I just can’t bust out the same groove in my uninsulated concrete house with my windows open and people all around, as I can when I’m in the beautiful little bubble of acoustic bliss that is my car…and I actually really, really, really miss it.
Anyway, I realize that this is an especially superficial blog (and actually, the last one was as well), but like I said, sometimes it is those little things that wreak the most psychological havoc, and which also lend the most perspective on just how much most Americans have at our disposal. Once again, the temporary stress of living without these amenities for a few odd months pales in comparison to the actual experience of life without them, and, once again, strengthens my overwhelming gratitude for all of the luxuries that my life has afforded me up to this point. And as I approach my four-month mark here in Bots, and find myself already counting the days until my return to family, friends, and the comforts of home, I can’t help but wonder (ok, you got me, I’ve been watching Sex and the City—thanks, Laura!!!) whether in 22 months I’ll be dying to reimmerse myself in the luxuries of home—showers, cars, bathrooms—or ready to renounce them as superfluous and unnecessary. Only time will tell, I suppose, but even I am surprised by how much more I miss them than I expected to—even if they do feel a bit foreign to me at the moment.
Although there are cars in Botswana—actually, they are more prevalent than I expected, even though I have yet to befriend a Motswana who owns one—as Peace Corps volunteers, one of the cardinal rules is that we may not drive while on duty (which is 24/7, except for reported vacation days), and if we do, we face the penalty of being sent home, so it’s a policy that most volunteers take extremely seriously. This rule exists in part for our safety, and in part so that we will really experience full cultural immersion—life as a Motswana, rather than as an American living in Botswana. And I must say, on the latter count, it is quite effective.
It’s remarkable what a different world this would be if I had access to my very own car. It’s not so much that walking is so bad; indeed, since it is, by far, the most common mode of transport here, the village is designed to be accessible by foot. It’s the premeditation, the extra thought and energy that walking requires which make it a challenge. Before running an errand, I must calculate the most reasonable path, evaluate whether any other stops should be made—since some stores are quite a distance away, it is not worth making more than one trip in a short span of time—determine exactly what I need to buy and whether I will be able to carry it. It’s not like hopping in a car, backtracking a bit if I’ve forgotten something, and buying as much as you I fit in the trunk. And then there’s the weather. Since it is already extremely hot in the afternoons, and there is little shade, it is vastly preferable to make any long-ish trips early in the day or late in the evening, so if there’s something I need, it is prudent for me to plan my day around it—again, something that wouldn’t even cross your mind as you cruise in the comfort of a climate-controlled car.
And (now, I’m sure this is going to sound extraordinarily silly, but, as you can tell from the length of my blogs, I’m all about full-disclosure) walking in sand is hard! Really hard! You know that part of the beach, before you get to the bit where the sand is all smooth and packed down from the surf? That’s what the ground here is like, everywhere. Not only that, but with the exception of when I go running, I wear sandals exclusively—it’s far too hot for “real” footwear—and the sand here is not just plain sand. It’s littered with shards of broken beer bottles everywhere (excessive alcohol consumption is a large issue here), thornbush plants which scrape my legs, and little sticky thorn thingies all over the ground, which constantly manage to find their way into my sandal and me with a stabbing pain when I least expect it. There is also cow, donkey, and goat feces strewn about like land mines which must be avoided at all costs (particularly given my previous statement about my choice footwear).
Not to mention the fact that I’m an American; I like my privacy. Although it is extremely welcoming the way nearly every person that I pass initiates a conversation, and I am appreciative of every opportunity to integrate and show off my smokin’ Setswana skills…well, like I said: I’m an American and I like privacy. There are some days when I just don’t want to talk to anyone, when I just want to get where I’m going and not stress over what to say or how I look or fend off the constant barrage of wanna-be suitors. But without a car, this is not a possibility—if I want or need to go out, it will inevitably lead to a plethora of conversations and interactions. Again, I feel the need to emphasize that this is not a bad thing—it is not intended as a criticism of Setswana culture; on the contrary, I think Americans are the odd ones out for maintaining the isolation that we do. But, again, for better or worse, I am an American, and there are some values that I simply can’t—and don’t especially want to—shed.
Plus, having a car saves so much time. For instance, a bus ride from Shakawe to Maun, the nearest large village, takes six hours. In a private car? Three to four. (The bus must go in and out of each small village along the way to make all designated stops in addition to stopping anywhere someone requests to get off or on.) Walking to the Kgotla or social work office takes twenty minutes. Driving—maybe five.
Not to mention the valuable rocking-out time that is lost. Now, I am not ashamed of my musical stylings. But, again, I like privacy, and I just can’t bust out the same groove in my uninsulated concrete house with my windows open and people all around, as I can when I’m in the beautiful little bubble of acoustic bliss that is my car…and I actually really, really, really miss it.
Anyway, I realize that this is an especially superficial blog (and actually, the last one was as well), but like I said, sometimes it is those little things that wreak the most psychological havoc, and which also lend the most perspective on just how much most Americans have at our disposal. Once again, the temporary stress of living without these amenities for a few odd months pales in comparison to the actual experience of life without them, and, once again, strengthens my overwhelming gratitude for all of the luxuries that my life has afforded me up to this point. And as I approach my four-month mark here in Bots, and find myself already counting the days until my return to family, friends, and the comforts of home, I can’t help but wonder (ok, you got me, I’ve been watching Sex and the City—thanks, Laura!!!) whether in 22 months I’ll be dying to reimmerse myself in the luxuries of home—showers, cars, bathrooms—or ready to renounce them as superfluous and unnecessary. Only time will tell, I suppose, but even I am surprised by how much more I miss them than I expected to—even if they do feel a bit foreign to me at the moment.
Rest Stop
So often it is the small, unexpected differences, the things that I took entirely for granted and never expected to miss, which have wound up being the source of the most stress and lamentation. Example #1: Public restrooms.
Ahh, everyone always loves a good bathroom story, right? I’ll indulge you in my favorite one from before I left the States. As most of you know, I have spent a substantial portion of my life on roadtrips on the stretch of I-5 between Seattle and Portland; usually beginning at home in Portland and ending at Mighty-O vegan doughnuts (sigh; I never should’ve told this story, now I want one!!!! Nobel Peace Prize to anyone who can figure out how to ship them to Botswana while they are still fresh. Well, maybe not a real Nobel Peace Prize, but a Chelsea Award for Awesomeness, certainly. Anyway…) or Bamboo Garden vegan Chinese, Araya’s vegan Thai, or Wayside vegan homestyle cookin’ (sigh; see previous parenthetical statement). All of these trips were, fueled by excessive quantities of coffee— gargantuan Gilmore Girl-esque proportions—and, of course, a significant amount of water as well (coffee is a diuretic, after all, and one must stay fully hydrated at all times). Although this does seem to be a recipe for disaster, having made the trip on numerous occasions, I know the road like the back of my hand, including each of the rest stops and choice gas exits (exit #13—especially pretty on a clear night; great view of the stars, but usually passed over in order to hit my favorite gas station in Kalama, exit #30; exit #53—well-placed between major cities, and always, always, always, always has coffee and Oreos, even though lots of other rest stops are only staffed during the cushy peak-travel hours; exit #90—alright, but I prefer the Fred Meyer, Starbucks, or Taco Del Mar at exit #102, or if I’m feeling crazy, holding out for my gas stop on Berkley Street, exit #122, next to the $1 Chinese Food sign; and last but not least, #143 near Sea-Tac, but only going North, as it’s just south of Seattle, which abounds with acceptable restroom opportunities, even at night), so rarely did my trips to and from Seattle pose any problems.
Except on one notable occasion, a fateful day when I was heading to Green Lake and Mighty O. This spot is fairly close off the freeway off exit #169, and I was feeling confident, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and skip rest stop #143, and hold out until I arrived. Although this involved a certain amount of chance, I had made this judgment call on many occasions before without repercussions, so I was confident in my decision. Unfortunately, I had picked the wrong day to toy with fate. Traffic was wretched—even more wretched than usual—and my destination was of particular concern, because there was a Husky football game, which meant my exit, which was shared by the University of Washington, may as well have been a parking lot I (I have always hated sports…). So, by the time I was finally able to get into moving traffic on the street, the situation had grown dire. But no problem—there was a Shell station on the way; the impending crisis would be easily averted. However, upon stopping at the gas station, I was greeted by a lovely “no public restrooms” sign. At that moment, I had to make a critical decision—proceed to Mighty O, which would require me to find street parking and potentially walk a ways before getting to the bathroom, or drive ever so slightly farther to the lake, and use the public parking and public restroom. Because of my disdain for parallel parking, the answer seemed clear, and I proceeded to the lake. So I stopped in the first parking lot. But there wasn’t a public restroom nearby, so after wandering and trying not to look too frantic, I managed to spot another gas station across the street and made it there, where I was immediately shot-down by a cruel “out of order” sign. The attendant offered to let me use the employee-only stall, but it was sufficiently skeevy, and he was sufficiently creepy to prevent me from ending my quest there. Besides, there were several other bathrooms at Greenlake—I’d just dash back to my car and visit one of them.
But alas, that was not what the Universe had in store. The next bathroom was being cleaned, and the one after that landed me in the parking lot, stuck behind some dumb guy who was insistent on sitting with his blinker flashing a painful rhythm like the tick-tock tick-tock of a clock, holding me and several others hostage, while he waited for a family to haphazardly assemble themselves, their toys, and the remains of their picnic into their car, so that he could claim their parking spot, which was, of course, only minimally superior to the several available spots in the row behind us. The situation was growing more dangerous by the second, and I found myself clutching the steering wheel, nearly in tears, and scorning the Universe for not letting me simply have a place to use the restroom—how hard could that be; is it really THAT much to ask?
To my great relief (and that of my Prius and everyone who has traveled in it since), the next bathroom attempt was a success, and to this day I am immensely grateful that the end result of this ordeal is a delightful story (you WERE delighted, darn it!) rather than a tragic end to my beloved car (hehehe, if you’re reading this, Lindorac©—INBB©!!! Sorry everyone else; couldn’t resist—inside Fanson friend joke ;oP).
But, now that I have arrived in Botswana, I see that there is a greater lesson in all of it: the many luxuries that we take for granted, and the impact that being deprived access to such amenities can have on daily life. You’re probably thinking something along the lines of “I hardly ever use public restrooms—how could this possibly have an impact of any real significance?” True, lack of public restrooms seems to be among the more trivial aspects of living in a different culture, but it actually does alter the course of my daily life. You see, I am a full-blooded eco- and health-conscious American (earlier story about greasy doughnuts and Chinese food aside), which means everywhere I go, roadtrip or not, I’ve got my stainless steel Kleen Kanteen water bottle or French-press insulated coffee mug in hand (thanks, Mom! Also, side-note: if anyone is reading this whilst consumed by the flurry that is the Peace Corps application process, I highly, highly, highly recommend purchasing an insulated coffee press travel mug the instant you receive your invitation. If you have even a remote fondness for coffee, you will thank me fort this piece of sage wisdom. And friends and family of volunteers/recent invitees, if you are looking for the perfect gift that will make your special person love you forever, this is it!!! But once again, I digress…). In America, catering to my endless thirst is no problem, because it is extremely safe to assume that anywhere I go, there will be a shiny, reasonably clean bathroom waiting for me—in the office, at friends’ houses, stores, restaurants, coffee shops, gas stations, shopping centers, etc. It never even occurred to me to think out where and when my next bathroom opportunity might be. So if I was thirsty, I drank. If I was craving that wondrous magic energy-generating elixir known as coffee (or, in my case at the moment, “OH MY GOD! COFFEE!!!! REAL COFFEE!!!!!!” synchronized with nearly giddy jumping up and down), I had some. And if I needed to go to the bathroom, I just went.
But here, that is not so. The only public restrooms I have seen have been in large shopping malls in large cities, and one that is on the 10 hour bus ride between Gaborone and Maun. My office does have restrooms, but not all do, and, actually, not all households in the area even have a bathroom or pit latrine of their own. What do people here do, you ask? Just what you’d expect—people just go outside. Now, as most of you know, I’m pretty rugged; I go backpacking, and am perfectly comfortable doing most things the “natural” way. But the problem is, with the exception of when I go running, I’m almost always in areas that are extremely populated—houses and rondevals everywhere, and people walking all around. It is rare for me to walk more than 100 feet without passing at least one other person. Not to mention the fact that the Kgaladi bush doesn’t exactly provide the same concealing buffer as the shade of the dense evergreen forest that I’m used to camping and hiking in—indeed, one can literally see for miles here. So while it is entirely socially acceptable to relieve oneself in the bush, even in the downtown areas in my village, well, it’s just a leap that I can’t quite make. And because I get around by foot, if I find myself on a long trek to the social work office or catch myself waiting upwards of an hour in line at the post office to pick up a care package (YAY CARE PACKAGESS!!!!!!!!!), it’s not like I can just hop in the car to get quickly home. Indeed, my lack of beverage-consumption planning has led to several long, painful walks, cursing every step and the empty water bottle or coffee mug in my hand.
In addition to my impromptu lessons about proper hydration planning, another tricky adaptation has been getting in the habit of always keeping toilet paper on hand. Even should you find yourself in a situation where you are graced with a bathroom—pit latrine, or a glorious flushing toilet—etiquette here dictates that each person is responsible for supplying his or her own TP—even at offices, restaurants, and friends’ houses. The same is true for soap, or hand sanitizer (again, thanks Mom!) where no running water is available. And don’t even think about such foofy things as paper towels or hand dryers (which, admittedly, I rarely used anyway; that’s what pants are for [see, I told you I was rugged!])—ha! I actually haven’t even thought about paper towels since I left Gabs!!
Again, I know that these things are obviously quite trivial in the big scheme of things, but it’s the barrage of little differences like this; the fact that every aspect of life here is different, that so much of what I have always regarded as basic common sense must be discarded and re-learned from scratch, which makes Peace Corps service so psychologically challenging. Those moments where I am already feeling overwhelmed, and then something small, like not having a bathroom when I need it, goes wrong, and I feel like the entire world around me is crumbling and everything I know is wrong. Of course, eventually, gradually, I’m adapting to all of these things and one by one they aren’t getting to me so much. But there are a lot of these little things, and a lot of little adaptations, and the process of changing fundamental assumptions is not without its toll—including the sense of being culture-less, as I realize that I have not (and probably won’t ever) fully acclimated into my new culture, but have still managed to drift away from my own culture (which I’ve already discussed, and will probably continue to discuss, in great detail).
And yes, I am well aware that I could have easily gotten to the cultural-exchange/moral-of-the-story part without making you all trudge through my (surprisingly entertaining) US bathroom story, but it’s called setting the scene, folks!! Plus, I’m perpetually insanely homesick, and sometimes it helps to reminisce about fond stories (of course sometimes it makes it worse…seriously, any mad scientists out there willing to do a thesis project on maintaining organic vegan doughnut freshness in the mail for up to 2 months?!), so I’m sure none of you minded my little self-indulgent jaunt through memory lane, right?! :oP
P.S. I’m not cheating with my song title/song reference trend. Rest Stop is a Matchbox Twenty song. Totally legit, check it out. :oP
Ahh, everyone always loves a good bathroom story, right? I’ll indulge you in my favorite one from before I left the States. As most of you know, I have spent a substantial portion of my life on roadtrips on the stretch of I-5 between Seattle and Portland; usually beginning at home in Portland and ending at Mighty-O vegan doughnuts (sigh; I never should’ve told this story, now I want one!!!! Nobel Peace Prize to anyone who can figure out how to ship them to Botswana while they are still fresh. Well, maybe not a real Nobel Peace Prize, but a Chelsea Award for Awesomeness, certainly. Anyway…) or Bamboo Garden vegan Chinese, Araya’s vegan Thai, or Wayside vegan homestyle cookin’ (sigh; see previous parenthetical statement). All of these trips were, fueled by excessive quantities of coffee— gargantuan Gilmore Girl-esque proportions—and, of course, a significant amount of water as well (coffee is a diuretic, after all, and one must stay fully hydrated at all times). Although this does seem to be a recipe for disaster, having made the trip on numerous occasions, I know the road like the back of my hand, including each of the rest stops and choice gas exits (exit #13—especially pretty on a clear night; great view of the stars, but usually passed over in order to hit my favorite gas station in Kalama, exit #30; exit #53—well-placed between major cities, and always, always, always, always has coffee and Oreos, even though lots of other rest stops are only staffed during the cushy peak-travel hours; exit #90—alright, but I prefer the Fred Meyer, Starbucks, or Taco Del Mar at exit #102, or if I’m feeling crazy, holding out for my gas stop on Berkley Street, exit #122, next to the $1 Chinese Food sign; and last but not least, #143 near Sea-Tac, but only going North, as it’s just south of Seattle, which abounds with acceptable restroom opportunities, even at night), so rarely did my trips to and from Seattle pose any problems.
Except on one notable occasion, a fateful day when I was heading to Green Lake and Mighty O. This spot is fairly close off the freeway off exit #169, and I was feeling confident, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and skip rest stop #143, and hold out until I arrived. Although this involved a certain amount of chance, I had made this judgment call on many occasions before without repercussions, so I was confident in my decision. Unfortunately, I had picked the wrong day to toy with fate. Traffic was wretched—even more wretched than usual—and my destination was of particular concern, because there was a Husky football game, which meant my exit, which was shared by the University of Washington, may as well have been a parking lot I (I have always hated sports…). So, by the time I was finally able to get into moving traffic on the street, the situation had grown dire. But no problem—there was a Shell station on the way; the impending crisis would be easily averted. However, upon stopping at the gas station, I was greeted by a lovely “no public restrooms” sign. At that moment, I had to make a critical decision—proceed to Mighty O, which would require me to find street parking and potentially walk a ways before getting to the bathroom, or drive ever so slightly farther to the lake, and use the public parking and public restroom. Because of my disdain for parallel parking, the answer seemed clear, and I proceeded to the lake. So I stopped in the first parking lot. But there wasn’t a public restroom nearby, so after wandering and trying not to look too frantic, I managed to spot another gas station across the street and made it there, where I was immediately shot-down by a cruel “out of order” sign. The attendant offered to let me use the employee-only stall, but it was sufficiently skeevy, and he was sufficiently creepy to prevent me from ending my quest there. Besides, there were several other bathrooms at Greenlake—I’d just dash back to my car and visit one of them.
But alas, that was not what the Universe had in store. The next bathroom was being cleaned, and the one after that landed me in the parking lot, stuck behind some dumb guy who was insistent on sitting with his blinker flashing a painful rhythm like the tick-tock tick-tock of a clock, holding me and several others hostage, while he waited for a family to haphazardly assemble themselves, their toys, and the remains of their picnic into their car, so that he could claim their parking spot, which was, of course, only minimally superior to the several available spots in the row behind us. The situation was growing more dangerous by the second, and I found myself clutching the steering wheel, nearly in tears, and scorning the Universe for not letting me simply have a place to use the restroom—how hard could that be; is it really THAT much to ask?
To my great relief (and that of my Prius and everyone who has traveled in it since), the next bathroom attempt was a success, and to this day I am immensely grateful that the end result of this ordeal is a delightful story (you WERE delighted, darn it!) rather than a tragic end to my beloved car (hehehe, if you’re reading this, Lindorac©—INBB©!!! Sorry everyone else; couldn’t resist—inside Fanson friend joke ;oP).
But, now that I have arrived in Botswana, I see that there is a greater lesson in all of it: the many luxuries that we take for granted, and the impact that being deprived access to such amenities can have on daily life. You’re probably thinking something along the lines of “I hardly ever use public restrooms—how could this possibly have an impact of any real significance?” True, lack of public restrooms seems to be among the more trivial aspects of living in a different culture, but it actually does alter the course of my daily life. You see, I am a full-blooded eco- and health-conscious American (earlier story about greasy doughnuts and Chinese food aside), which means everywhere I go, roadtrip or not, I’ve got my stainless steel Kleen Kanteen water bottle or French-press insulated coffee mug in hand (thanks, Mom! Also, side-note: if anyone is reading this whilst consumed by the flurry that is the Peace Corps application process, I highly, highly, highly recommend purchasing an insulated coffee press travel mug the instant you receive your invitation. If you have even a remote fondness for coffee, you will thank me fort this piece of sage wisdom. And friends and family of volunteers/recent invitees, if you are looking for the perfect gift that will make your special person love you forever, this is it!!! But once again, I digress…). In America, catering to my endless thirst is no problem, because it is extremely safe to assume that anywhere I go, there will be a shiny, reasonably clean bathroom waiting for me—in the office, at friends’ houses, stores, restaurants, coffee shops, gas stations, shopping centers, etc. It never even occurred to me to think out where and when my next bathroom opportunity might be. So if I was thirsty, I drank. If I was craving that wondrous magic energy-generating elixir known as coffee (or, in my case at the moment, “OH MY GOD! COFFEE!!!! REAL COFFEE!!!!!!” synchronized with nearly giddy jumping up and down), I had some. And if I needed to go to the bathroom, I just went.
But here, that is not so. The only public restrooms I have seen have been in large shopping malls in large cities, and one that is on the 10 hour bus ride between Gaborone and Maun. My office does have restrooms, but not all do, and, actually, not all households in the area even have a bathroom or pit latrine of their own. What do people here do, you ask? Just what you’d expect—people just go outside. Now, as most of you know, I’m pretty rugged; I go backpacking, and am perfectly comfortable doing most things the “natural” way. But the problem is, with the exception of when I go running, I’m almost always in areas that are extremely populated—houses and rondevals everywhere, and people walking all around. It is rare for me to walk more than 100 feet without passing at least one other person. Not to mention the fact that the Kgaladi bush doesn’t exactly provide the same concealing buffer as the shade of the dense evergreen forest that I’m used to camping and hiking in—indeed, one can literally see for miles here. So while it is entirely socially acceptable to relieve oneself in the bush, even in the downtown areas in my village, well, it’s just a leap that I can’t quite make. And because I get around by foot, if I find myself on a long trek to the social work office or catch myself waiting upwards of an hour in line at the post office to pick up a care package (YAY CARE PACKAGESS!!!!!!!!!), it’s not like I can just hop in the car to get quickly home. Indeed, my lack of beverage-consumption planning has led to several long, painful walks, cursing every step and the empty water bottle or coffee mug in my hand.
In addition to my impromptu lessons about proper hydration planning, another tricky adaptation has been getting in the habit of always keeping toilet paper on hand. Even should you find yourself in a situation where you are graced with a bathroom—pit latrine, or a glorious flushing toilet—etiquette here dictates that each person is responsible for supplying his or her own TP—even at offices, restaurants, and friends’ houses. The same is true for soap, or hand sanitizer (again, thanks Mom!) where no running water is available. And don’t even think about such foofy things as paper towels or hand dryers (which, admittedly, I rarely used anyway; that’s what pants are for [see, I told you I was rugged!])—ha! I actually haven’t even thought about paper towels since I left Gabs!!
Again, I know that these things are obviously quite trivial in the big scheme of things, but it’s the barrage of little differences like this; the fact that every aspect of life here is different, that so much of what I have always regarded as basic common sense must be discarded and re-learned from scratch, which makes Peace Corps service so psychologically challenging. Those moments where I am already feeling overwhelmed, and then something small, like not having a bathroom when I need it, goes wrong, and I feel like the entire world around me is crumbling and everything I know is wrong. Of course, eventually, gradually, I’m adapting to all of these things and one by one they aren’t getting to me so much. But there are a lot of these little things, and a lot of little adaptations, and the process of changing fundamental assumptions is not without its toll—including the sense of being culture-less, as I realize that I have not (and probably won’t ever) fully acclimated into my new culture, but have still managed to drift away from my own culture (which I’ve already discussed, and will probably continue to discuss, in great detail).
And yes, I am well aware that I could have easily gotten to the cultural-exchange/moral-of-the-story part without making you all trudge through my (surprisingly entertaining) US bathroom story, but it’s called setting the scene, folks!! Plus, I’m perpetually insanely homesick, and sometimes it helps to reminisce about fond stories (of course sometimes it makes it worse…seriously, any mad scientists out there willing to do a thesis project on maintaining organic vegan doughnut freshness in the mail for up to 2 months?!), so I’m sure none of you minded my little self-indulgent jaunt through memory lane, right?! :oP
P.S. I’m not cheating with my song title/song reference trend. Rest Stop is a Matchbox Twenty song. Totally legit, check it out. :oP
August 1, 2010
Make Me Fall Down, Make Me Get Up
It’s a tad alarming just how similar Peace Corps service is to running a marathon. At times, I am absurdly grateful that long-distance running was a hobby of mine before I left for service here in Botswana, because psychological challenges and strategies for success in both are almost the same.
It begins with a goal. Not just any goal, like managing to complete a grocery shopping trip without forgetting something (which my tomato-less pasta sauce proves I am apparently incapable of), but a major challenge, something that on some level, even you aren’t sure you can do (actually, in that respect, perhaps my grocery-shopping goal isn’t entirely off the mark): I want to run a marathon. I want to join the Peace Corps. Then you research—what marathon do I want to run, when and where, how do I train; what exactly does Peace Corps service entail, how do I apply, all the while feeling sudden pangs of anxiety that you may be in over your head—maybe I’m not the kind of person who can run a marathon or join the Peace Corps…maybe that’s something only special people can do. But, you resist those fears, and begin training and the application process. Slowly pushing yourself, practicing, over-running, under-running, getting training injuries, planning your days and weeks around training time. Filling out papers after papers, interviews after interviews, and trying to live life with a constant feeling of uncertainty. You live in a constant struggle, endlessly evaluating your own strength. Sometimes it feels crazy to put yourself through so much stress for a goal like this—even just getting to the race/getting into the Peace Corps is so painstaking, how could it possibly be worth it? But something in you keeps you going.
Race day/Peace Corps service. Suddenly, you find yourself actually here, actually able to possibly fulfill this goal. Initially, you’re swept away by the adrenaline—all of the runners together, jittery with excitement, itching to get out on the trail. The gun fires off, and the collective energy is so strong, the rhythmic sound of feet hitting the pavement carries you along for the first mile or so, for which you are so well-prepared. Just as PST begins—it’s almost not even really the Peace Corps, because the excitement of it all, and the company of others are what get you through. But then, as that energy dies down, people begin to settle in to their own pace. Some rush ahead, some fall back, but the groups dissipates, and suddenly, you’re all alone. And then it hits you that you’ve got a long, long, long way to go, and even though there may be a few more bursts of adrenaline here and there—some cheerleaders along the way, some breathtaking views—really, from here on out, your own success is entirely up to you. It’s the same sort of feeling as when you suddenly find yourself alone at site, and the significance of your commitment smacks in your face.
So you begin setting small goals for yourself, to distract from the gravity of what lies ahead. “I’ll just keep running until I hit the ten mile marker,” you tell yourself “then, if I’m really feeling bad, I can stop--no guilt; ten miles is a lot, and many people can’t even do that.” Or “I’ll just make it to IST—then, if I still want to leave, I’ll leave. Not many people can last for 6 months away from home—even that is an accomplishment.” Of course, on some level you know you’re only tricking yourself. Once you hit that goal, the first thing that hits you is that getting there wasn’t actually that bad. And, hey, if you’ve made it that far, why not try for a little more—it still doesn’t mean you have to finish, but, you know…if you can get to the half-marathon mark, that would be pretty cool, right? Of course, the euphoria of self-confidence over reaching the first small goal wears off quite quickly, and you realize you’ve just pushed yourself farther in—and that the farther you get, the more you feel you have to finish, so that everything else you did won’t be for naught.
Some parts of the path are harder than others. Sometimes it’s difficult because of what you’re presented with—a large hill, slippery footing; difficulties at work, the challenges of life in a developing country—and sometimes they come from within—pushing through a sore knee and blistered feet; feeling so homesick you can hardly get out of bed. The truth is, a part of you wants to stop every step of the way. Even as someone who loves running, there are times when I feel like the earth has centered its entire gravitational pull below my feet alone, and going on seems impossible. There always seem to be plenty of reasons not to go on—you’re tired, you’re thirsty, it’s hot, you could be sitting at home watching a movie, or doing something, anything else, instead. And the same is true with the Peace Corps. Almost every volunteer I have spoken to said that not a day of their service went by when they did not consider ET-ing (early terminating—aka leaving) at least once; and that has certainly proven true thus far for me.
Of course there are good times, too, moments where the gravity of what you are doing hits you in a good sort of way; moments when you feel overwhelming gratitude to even have the opportunity to face this challenge, after all, there are people who can’t walk, and you’re running a marathon; there are people who are sitting in a tiny cubicle hating their life (no offense/sorry guys!!!), and you’re in Africa watching monkeys play in the trees as the sun sets—how could you possibly even think of complaining? But regardless of whether times seem good or bad, it’s always the same little spark that somehow keeps you going. (I have to quote: Are you ready to quit? Are you ready to learn? Are you ready to find the spark inside and let it burn? - Breaktown, Hanson).
That’s the thing about both marathons and Peace Corps service. Even though both have some benefits that can be put into words (staying healthy, endorphins; saving the world [while maintaining full modesty, of course ;oP], travel, career benefits), the reality is that it’s impossible to explain the real motivation for either. When you tell someone you want to run a marathon or join the Peace Corps, the reactions you get all immediately slide off into two categories: “Wow, I would LOVE to do that someday / I wish I had done something like that when I had the chance / I already did it myself” or “Good for you” with the not-so-hidden subtext “Why on earth would you want to do that?” And honestly, I can’t really answer. But there’s something about those little successes, and that big success, when you’re done that are like nothing else in the world. That feeling when you pass through the finish line—body aching all over, covered in salty sweat, looking like a wreck, and almost ready to fall apart—somehow makes it all worth it. Well, it did when I finished my first marathon, that is…I’m putting all my faith in the possibility that the little voice inside pushing me through my service will hold the same sense of satisfaction and accomplishment when I COS. At times I think it will and at times I think it won’t, but that voice is here, for better or worse, and apparently, so am I.
I’m almost to my second Peace Corps mini-goal—my first was making it through training, and in a couple of weeks I will be at In-Service-Training; where all of the Bots 9 volunteers return to Gaborone for two more weeks of training and instruction on how to proceed with our service here in Botswana. I know I’ll need to set a new goal after that, but for now, I’ve got my eye on that one (and on finishing my Community Assessment; the large assignment that we are required to complete during our first two months of service—eek!!).
Incidentally, I’m also trying to train for a marathon while here…it’s in April…well there are a couple then, depending on where my travel budget is (one’s in Cape Town—how cool would that be?!). The sand is killing my knees and I know the heat will make it pretty tough, so I may decide to settle for the half (but really, that’s cool—running an official Half in Africa is pretty rad). I know it probably sounds selfish to do something like that while I’m here, but I’ve found that running is very frequently literally the only thread keeping my sanity in-tact; it’s just something I need to do. And also, obviously, Peace Corps service is very, very different from a marathon, in that the ultimate goal of PC service is to try to help others, whereas a marathon is just for yourself. But the reality is that they both entail a great, great deal of personal struggles, and it’s ultimately up to you to make it work…well, you and the encouragement of crazyawesome friends and family who make enormous sacrifices to support you…y’all know who you are…I couldn’t do/have done any this without you (and, yes, that includes the marathon; for those of you who don’t know, my incredibly amazing and constantly inspiring friend Katherine coached me through my training, and ran with me at my painfully slow [for her] pace, the whole way…and of course there are too many of you guys supporting me now to begin name-dropping…you are all so, so, so incredible, words can’t begin to thank you).
It begins with a goal. Not just any goal, like managing to complete a grocery shopping trip without forgetting something (which my tomato-less pasta sauce proves I am apparently incapable of), but a major challenge, something that on some level, even you aren’t sure you can do (actually, in that respect, perhaps my grocery-shopping goal isn’t entirely off the mark): I want to run a marathon. I want to join the Peace Corps. Then you research—what marathon do I want to run, when and where, how do I train; what exactly does Peace Corps service entail, how do I apply, all the while feeling sudden pangs of anxiety that you may be in over your head—maybe I’m not the kind of person who can run a marathon or join the Peace Corps…maybe that’s something only special people can do. But, you resist those fears, and begin training and the application process. Slowly pushing yourself, practicing, over-running, under-running, getting training injuries, planning your days and weeks around training time. Filling out papers after papers, interviews after interviews, and trying to live life with a constant feeling of uncertainty. You live in a constant struggle, endlessly evaluating your own strength. Sometimes it feels crazy to put yourself through so much stress for a goal like this—even just getting to the race/getting into the Peace Corps is so painstaking, how could it possibly be worth it? But something in you keeps you going.
Race day/Peace Corps service. Suddenly, you find yourself actually here, actually able to possibly fulfill this goal. Initially, you’re swept away by the adrenaline—all of the runners together, jittery with excitement, itching to get out on the trail. The gun fires off, and the collective energy is so strong, the rhythmic sound of feet hitting the pavement carries you along for the first mile or so, for which you are so well-prepared. Just as PST begins—it’s almost not even really the Peace Corps, because the excitement of it all, and the company of others are what get you through. But then, as that energy dies down, people begin to settle in to their own pace. Some rush ahead, some fall back, but the groups dissipates, and suddenly, you’re all alone. And then it hits you that you’ve got a long, long, long way to go, and even though there may be a few more bursts of adrenaline here and there—some cheerleaders along the way, some breathtaking views—really, from here on out, your own success is entirely up to you. It’s the same sort of feeling as when you suddenly find yourself alone at site, and the significance of your commitment smacks in your face.
So you begin setting small goals for yourself, to distract from the gravity of what lies ahead. “I’ll just keep running until I hit the ten mile marker,” you tell yourself “then, if I’m really feeling bad, I can stop--no guilt; ten miles is a lot, and many people can’t even do that.” Or “I’ll just make it to IST—then, if I still want to leave, I’ll leave. Not many people can last for 6 months away from home—even that is an accomplishment.” Of course, on some level you know you’re only tricking yourself. Once you hit that goal, the first thing that hits you is that getting there wasn’t actually that bad. And, hey, if you’ve made it that far, why not try for a little more—it still doesn’t mean you have to finish, but, you know…if you can get to the half-marathon mark, that would be pretty cool, right? Of course, the euphoria of self-confidence over reaching the first small goal wears off quite quickly, and you realize you’ve just pushed yourself farther in—and that the farther you get, the more you feel you have to finish, so that everything else you did won’t be for naught.
Some parts of the path are harder than others. Sometimes it’s difficult because of what you’re presented with—a large hill, slippery footing; difficulties at work, the challenges of life in a developing country—and sometimes they come from within—pushing through a sore knee and blistered feet; feeling so homesick you can hardly get out of bed. The truth is, a part of you wants to stop every step of the way. Even as someone who loves running, there are times when I feel like the earth has centered its entire gravitational pull below my feet alone, and going on seems impossible. There always seem to be plenty of reasons not to go on—you’re tired, you’re thirsty, it’s hot, you could be sitting at home watching a movie, or doing something, anything else, instead. And the same is true with the Peace Corps. Almost every volunteer I have spoken to said that not a day of their service went by when they did not consider ET-ing (early terminating—aka leaving) at least once; and that has certainly proven true thus far for me.
Of course there are good times, too, moments where the gravity of what you are doing hits you in a good sort of way; moments when you feel overwhelming gratitude to even have the opportunity to face this challenge, after all, there are people who can’t walk, and you’re running a marathon; there are people who are sitting in a tiny cubicle hating their life (no offense/sorry guys!!!), and you’re in Africa watching monkeys play in the trees as the sun sets—how could you possibly even think of complaining? But regardless of whether times seem good or bad, it’s always the same little spark that somehow keeps you going. (I have to quote: Are you ready to quit? Are you ready to learn? Are you ready to find the spark inside and let it burn? - Breaktown, Hanson).
That’s the thing about both marathons and Peace Corps service. Even though both have some benefits that can be put into words (staying healthy, endorphins; saving the world [while maintaining full modesty, of course ;oP], travel, career benefits), the reality is that it’s impossible to explain the real motivation for either. When you tell someone you want to run a marathon or join the Peace Corps, the reactions you get all immediately slide off into two categories: “Wow, I would LOVE to do that someday / I wish I had done something like that when I had the chance / I already did it myself” or “Good for you” with the not-so-hidden subtext “Why on earth would you want to do that?” And honestly, I can’t really answer. But there’s something about those little successes, and that big success, when you’re done that are like nothing else in the world. That feeling when you pass through the finish line—body aching all over, covered in salty sweat, looking like a wreck, and almost ready to fall apart—somehow makes it all worth it. Well, it did when I finished my first marathon, that is…I’m putting all my faith in the possibility that the little voice inside pushing me through my service will hold the same sense of satisfaction and accomplishment when I COS. At times I think it will and at times I think it won’t, but that voice is here, for better or worse, and apparently, so am I.
I’m almost to my second Peace Corps mini-goal—my first was making it through training, and in a couple of weeks I will be at In-Service-Training; where all of the Bots 9 volunteers return to Gaborone for two more weeks of training and instruction on how to proceed with our service here in Botswana. I know I’ll need to set a new goal after that, but for now, I’ve got my eye on that one (and on finishing my Community Assessment; the large assignment that we are required to complete during our first two months of service—eek!!).
Incidentally, I’m also trying to train for a marathon while here…it’s in April…well there are a couple then, depending on where my travel budget is (one’s in Cape Town—how cool would that be?!). The sand is killing my knees and I know the heat will make it pretty tough, so I may decide to settle for the half (but really, that’s cool—running an official Half in Africa is pretty rad). I know it probably sounds selfish to do something like that while I’m here, but I’ve found that running is very frequently literally the only thread keeping my sanity in-tact; it’s just something I need to do. And also, obviously, Peace Corps service is very, very different from a marathon, in that the ultimate goal of PC service is to try to help others, whereas a marathon is just for yourself. But the reality is that they both entail a great, great deal of personal struggles, and it’s ultimately up to you to make it work…well, you and the encouragement of crazyawesome friends and family who make enormous sacrifices to support you…y’all know who you are…I couldn’t do/have done any this without you (and, yes, that includes the marathon; for those of you who don’t know, my incredibly amazing and constantly inspiring friend Katherine coached me through my training, and ran with me at my painfully slow [for her] pace, the whole way…and of course there are too many of you guys supporting me now to begin name-dropping…you are all so, so, so incredible, words can’t begin to thank you).
Dog Blog!!
Ok, I’m taking a momentary break from my commitment to song reference blog titles, but, come on, how many things that I write about rhyme with “blog”? It had to be done, folks. Plus, this is a pretty special blog post because it is about my doggy, Rocky! And he’s the most special doggy in the world (totally unbiased opinion, of course).
So as most of you probably know, I’ve been pretty insistent about not adopting any animals during my Peace Corps service—I will only be here for two years, I absolutely cannot bring any animals back with me, and the notion of "companion animals" is among the greatest cultural differences between Americans and Batswana. The way that American animal-lovers treat animals is very, very, very, very, very, very different from the way animals are treated here, so the odds of finding an animal a home that I feel comfortable with here are extremely low, and I believe that adopting an animal, wherever you are, is making a commitment to ensure that they will be cared for, long-term, not just while it’s convenient for you (and, incidentally, I would be on the first plane home if something happened to my mom and she could not care for my cats any longer).
So…how is it that I have a dog, you ask? Is it because of the hundreds of dogs literally starving to death in the streets—my heart finally broke and I took one? No; carry dog food wherever I go and feed as many as I can afford to, but most of them actually belong to people here; they just don’t take care of them the way most American animal guardians would. Plus, it’s a huge slippery slope—there are hundreds of dogs, everywhere, all suffering so much that even most non-animal-people in America wouldn’t be able to stand it and would take one in, but there are so many, I cannot help them all, and any help I can give one of them would be so short-term, better to put my resources toward trying to help them all here and there. Plus, it is socially acceptable here to beat dogs quite violently and for no apparent reason—I’ve seen men, women, and children, completely unprovoked, walk up and violently kick sleeping dogs in streets or parking lots. So there are few dogs that are not extremely scared of people—to socialize an animal, show him/her love, and then abandon him/her…I won’t do it.
So, really, how did I end up with a dog? Ironically, the reason I have a dog now, is the same reason I wasn’t going to get one in the first place. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, a few weeks ago while on a walk with a friend, an incredibly sweet, already neutered, and reasonably well-cared for dog appeared out of nowhere, immediately bonded with me, and followed me all the way home. After a week of him following me, and me talking to people about his history, I felt confident that they story I kept hearing about his past was true: he was the byproduct of just the sort of thing I was trying to avoid. He belonged to an American volunteer who had him neutered and provided him with a loving home, but then, at the end of his time here, left him behind—some stories said that the volunteer gave him to a Motswana who did not want him, others said the volunteer just left. In the meantime, because the dog was so friendly, and was accustomed to being well-cared-for, the dog had succeeded at getting enough food from the local Pakistani restaurant to keep himself in pretty good shape. Because he so clearly wanted to be my dog (and I had already fallen in love—you all know what a total sucker I am), and because he was already socialized and abandoned by someone else, I decided to keep him, and spend the next two years trying to find him a permanent home with someone who shares my views on the way companion animals should be cared for. So now I have a dog.
So, let me tell you a little bit about him! (Warning: this next paragraph is just going to be me rambling at a proud mother; fast forward to the next if you're just reading for the cultural-how-are-things-different-in-Botswana insights.) He is BIG! Maybe 70 pounds or so? As many of you know, I have done extensive work with cats and farmed animals, but almost none with dogs, so I don’t really know dog breeds, but I think he’s mostly a yellow lab mix. He’s incredibly smart—I can’t believe how quickly he has learned my routine, my places, and all of his street-savviness, as well as his manners (COMPLETELY house-trained, even though I know it’s been a couple of years since he’s been in one). Initially when I adopted him, he had a big biting problem—not aggressive biting, but playful biting, since for the past couple of years his only real companions have been dogs, and they play pretty rough here—but he almost immediately learned to stop, and believe me, I have NO idea how to train a dog, so it certainly wasn’t because of me. He gets along remarkably well with all of the other dogs in town, but he does like to maintain the alpha status, which is kind of cute, albeit worrying at times, and he finally totally trusts me—even though he had been following me, and staying with me, it was almost two weeks before he finally totally showed me his belly. And he’s really silly; he loves to herd all of the animals around here, even though he has nowhere that he’s actually herding them to, and he loves to go running with me (and I go running for 1-2 hours most of the time; he tries his best to keep up the whole way) and letting me get ahead, then waiting and running as fast as he can to catch me. And at night at my house, he loves to sleep by my bed, but if he thinks I’m staying up too late, he goes and hides behind the curtains (so it’s dark), and falls asleep and snores really, really, really loudly. And he loves chasing cars—he’s the ONLY dog here who does that…I hate it, but there’s not much I can do to stop him. Probably all normal dog stuff, but he’s my first dog and I love him, so I think it’s special and exciting and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. :oP Oh, and I named him Rocky, but I don’t really know why…he just seems like a Rocky!
Now, although I have not had a dog in the States, I can still say with confidence that the experience of having a dog here is very, very, very different. First of all, unless you are lucky enough to have a government house, which all have fenced yards, or do not live on a shared living compound like myself and most Shakawe residents, there’s no way to really “keep” a dog. Keeping them inside would be inhumane (not LETTING them inside, that’s always humane, and my Rockydog sleeps with me every night I’m at home; it’s KEEPING them inside that’s not safe). It’s incredibly hot, houses are not insulated; and my house, like many here, is only a tiny 15’x15’ room. The windows are far too high for him to see out of so even if the temperature and space weren’t issues, he would have nothing to do all day. And, again, unless you live on your own property with your own fence, which almost no one here does, you cannot keep them in your yard unless they decide they want to stay there, because people are constantly coming and going, the gate always opening and closing. So that means that most dogs, mine included, either spend the day on their own, exploring, or they follow you and sleep outside wherever you are (or follow you, then decide to go exploring because whatever it is that you’re doing is too boring, and, let’s face it, we’re humans, so it probably is).
For a dog like Rocky, who now has a loving mom who takes case of him, it’s a pretty fun way of life for the most part. No leashes, no rules—even though it is socially acceptable to beat dogs, it’s also socially acceptable for dogs to go anywhere they want (as long as it’s not inside), including other people’s yards, farms, business, etc. It’s even ok for dogs to mark any territory they want. One day when I came out of the grocery store, I was horrified to see Rocky marking someone’s car—I was sure he was about to get beaten, and I was about to get an earful. To my great surprise, the owner of the car stepped out, completely unfazed, and didn’t do a thing—and I’ve seen it happen with my and other dogs ever since then without anyone giving a second thought. It’s also kind of a big party scene for the dogs—although almost all of the dogs are in pretty awful shape, they all seem to know each other, and love to play and go on adventures together. After all, Shakawe is full of chickens, goats, donkeys, and cows to chase, and the river to frolick in (although I really wish I wouldn’t—it’s not even safe for people to go in because of the crocodiles). Of course they also fight, especially at night—I don’t have to worry about keeping Rocky quiet, because all night long the village echoes with the painful sounds of dogfighting. And for most of the dogs, their “adventures,” center around the common goal of finding food. But for Rocky, when he stays with me, he gets to have a belly full of food and a night full of sound sleep after a day full of fun, rather than spending the night struggling for survival after a day of hunger and scavenging.
Although this world creates a lot of entertainment for Rockydog, it is also a big source of stress. Sometimes Rockydog decides to go exploring and then cannot find me—he will go missing for a day or two, and I will later find out he has been to my friends’ houses, my workplace, etc., and waited for me when I wasn’t there. (I’ve asked people to call me if he comes looking for me, but since people don’t care for animals the same way here, I haven’t been able to get anyone to do it.) Worse yet, since he doesn’t feel like he has a “home base,” whenever I have to go somewhere by car, it’s literally heart-breaking—he follows the car as far as he can, and then doesn’t know what to do.
As an entirely neurotic pet-mom, it’s maddening. Sure, he’s a tough dog and has been taking care of himself for a long time…but there are so many cars and drunk drivers, and so many crocodiles in the Delta, and even though he’s stronger than most of the other dogs, if his alpha tendencies land him in a fight, one bite in the wrong spot could mean he’s a goner. Or if a person attacks him, and he bites the person out of self-defense, he’ll have an automatic death sentence. Not to mention the fact that I adore him, miss his company like crazy when he’s not around, and it kills me that he might think I’ve abandoned him and that he’s going to have to be homeless all over again.
Honestly, his running away has been a great source of anxiety for me, but, as with most of my experiences here, it’s forcing me to grow, and to accept that a lot of things are simply out of my control. And his companionship has already helped me through so very much—and given me one more reason not to ET, even on those especially difficult days. And fortunately for me, even though I don’t have a government house with a fenced yard, the other PCV in town does, and she is also a huge animal-lover. Thanks to her kindness, I’ve been trying to make that feel like “home base,” and it seems to be working—he now goes there most of the time if he’s looking for me, and she either lets him stay with her in her yard, or calls me to let me know to come get him (he’s still my dog—he follows me everywhere, when he knows where I am, hehe…). And I am so, so, so grateful, because I have to leave soon for IST (in-service training--y'all know you've missed those Peace Corps acronyms), which means I’ll be away in Gaborone for a couple of weeks. Without the other PCV’s support, I am quite sure that the thought of leaving him for that long would cause me to have a complete emotional meltdown.
Anyway, just another small perspective on life here in Bots; this time through the eyes of a dog. Please send good thoughts/prayers/etc. that I’ll be able to find him a really good home before I leave—I’m already stressing over it!! (Yes, even Botswana Chelsea is still apparently completely Type A and neurotic when it comes to animals. [I'm sure you'll all kindly keep any comments about my neuroticism on non-animal issues to yourselves...haha :oP.])
So as most of you probably know, I’ve been pretty insistent about not adopting any animals during my Peace Corps service—I will only be here for two years, I absolutely cannot bring any animals back with me, and the notion of "companion animals" is among the greatest cultural differences between Americans and Batswana. The way that American animal-lovers treat animals is very, very, very, very, very, very different from the way animals are treated here, so the odds of finding an animal a home that I feel comfortable with here are extremely low, and I believe that adopting an animal, wherever you are, is making a commitment to ensure that they will be cared for, long-term, not just while it’s convenient for you (and, incidentally, I would be on the first plane home if something happened to my mom and she could not care for my cats any longer).
So…how is it that I have a dog, you ask? Is it because of the hundreds of dogs literally starving to death in the streets—my heart finally broke and I took one? No; carry dog food wherever I go and feed as many as I can afford to, but most of them actually belong to people here; they just don’t take care of them the way most American animal guardians would. Plus, it’s a huge slippery slope—there are hundreds of dogs, everywhere, all suffering so much that even most non-animal-people in America wouldn’t be able to stand it and would take one in, but there are so many, I cannot help them all, and any help I can give one of them would be so short-term, better to put my resources toward trying to help them all here and there. Plus, it is socially acceptable here to beat dogs quite violently and for no apparent reason—I’ve seen men, women, and children, completely unprovoked, walk up and violently kick sleeping dogs in streets or parking lots. So there are few dogs that are not extremely scared of people—to socialize an animal, show him/her love, and then abandon him/her…I won’t do it.
So, really, how did I end up with a dog? Ironically, the reason I have a dog now, is the same reason I wasn’t going to get one in the first place. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, a few weeks ago while on a walk with a friend, an incredibly sweet, already neutered, and reasonably well-cared for dog appeared out of nowhere, immediately bonded with me, and followed me all the way home. After a week of him following me, and me talking to people about his history, I felt confident that they story I kept hearing about his past was true: he was the byproduct of just the sort of thing I was trying to avoid. He belonged to an American volunteer who had him neutered and provided him with a loving home, but then, at the end of his time here, left him behind—some stories said that the volunteer gave him to a Motswana who did not want him, others said the volunteer just left. In the meantime, because the dog was so friendly, and was accustomed to being well-cared-for, the dog had succeeded at getting enough food from the local Pakistani restaurant to keep himself in pretty good shape. Because he so clearly wanted to be my dog (and I had already fallen in love—you all know what a total sucker I am), and because he was already socialized and abandoned by someone else, I decided to keep him, and spend the next two years trying to find him a permanent home with someone who shares my views on the way companion animals should be cared for. So now I have a dog.
So, let me tell you a little bit about him! (Warning: this next paragraph is just going to be me rambling at a proud mother; fast forward to the next if you're just reading for the cultural-how-are-things-different-in-Botswana insights.) He is BIG! Maybe 70 pounds or so? As many of you know, I have done extensive work with cats and farmed animals, but almost none with dogs, so I don’t really know dog breeds, but I think he’s mostly a yellow lab mix. He’s incredibly smart—I can’t believe how quickly he has learned my routine, my places, and all of his street-savviness, as well as his manners (COMPLETELY house-trained, even though I know it’s been a couple of years since he’s been in one). Initially when I adopted him, he had a big biting problem—not aggressive biting, but playful biting, since for the past couple of years his only real companions have been dogs, and they play pretty rough here—but he almost immediately learned to stop, and believe me, I have NO idea how to train a dog, so it certainly wasn’t because of me. He gets along remarkably well with all of the other dogs in town, but he does like to maintain the alpha status, which is kind of cute, albeit worrying at times, and he finally totally trusts me—even though he had been following me, and staying with me, it was almost two weeks before he finally totally showed me his belly. And he’s really silly; he loves to herd all of the animals around here, even though he has nowhere that he’s actually herding them to, and he loves to go running with me (and I go running for 1-2 hours most of the time; he tries his best to keep up the whole way) and letting me get ahead, then waiting and running as fast as he can to catch me. And at night at my house, he loves to sleep by my bed, but if he thinks I’m staying up too late, he goes and hides behind the curtains (so it’s dark), and falls asleep and snores really, really, really loudly. And he loves chasing cars—he’s the ONLY dog here who does that…I hate it, but there’s not much I can do to stop him. Probably all normal dog stuff, but he’s my first dog and I love him, so I think it’s special and exciting and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. :oP Oh, and I named him Rocky, but I don’t really know why…he just seems like a Rocky!
Now, although I have not had a dog in the States, I can still say with confidence that the experience of having a dog here is very, very, very different. First of all, unless you are lucky enough to have a government house, which all have fenced yards, or do not live on a shared living compound like myself and most Shakawe residents, there’s no way to really “keep” a dog. Keeping them inside would be inhumane (not LETTING them inside, that’s always humane, and my Rockydog sleeps with me every night I’m at home; it’s KEEPING them inside that’s not safe). It’s incredibly hot, houses are not insulated; and my house, like many here, is only a tiny 15’x15’ room. The windows are far too high for him to see out of so even if the temperature and space weren’t issues, he would have nothing to do all day. And, again, unless you live on your own property with your own fence, which almost no one here does, you cannot keep them in your yard unless they decide they want to stay there, because people are constantly coming and going, the gate always opening and closing. So that means that most dogs, mine included, either spend the day on their own, exploring, or they follow you and sleep outside wherever you are (or follow you, then decide to go exploring because whatever it is that you’re doing is too boring, and, let’s face it, we’re humans, so it probably is).
For a dog like Rocky, who now has a loving mom who takes case of him, it’s a pretty fun way of life for the most part. No leashes, no rules—even though it is socially acceptable to beat dogs, it’s also socially acceptable for dogs to go anywhere they want (as long as it’s not inside), including other people’s yards, farms, business, etc. It’s even ok for dogs to mark any territory they want. One day when I came out of the grocery store, I was horrified to see Rocky marking someone’s car—I was sure he was about to get beaten, and I was about to get an earful. To my great surprise, the owner of the car stepped out, completely unfazed, and didn’t do a thing—and I’ve seen it happen with my and other dogs ever since then without anyone giving a second thought. It’s also kind of a big party scene for the dogs—although almost all of the dogs are in pretty awful shape, they all seem to know each other, and love to play and go on adventures together. After all, Shakawe is full of chickens, goats, donkeys, and cows to chase, and the river to frolick in (although I really wish I wouldn’t—it’s not even safe for people to go in because of the crocodiles). Of course they also fight, especially at night—I don’t have to worry about keeping Rocky quiet, because all night long the village echoes with the painful sounds of dogfighting. And for most of the dogs, their “adventures,” center around the common goal of finding food. But for Rocky, when he stays with me, he gets to have a belly full of food and a night full of sound sleep after a day full of fun, rather than spending the night struggling for survival after a day of hunger and scavenging.
Although this world creates a lot of entertainment for Rockydog, it is also a big source of stress. Sometimes Rockydog decides to go exploring and then cannot find me—he will go missing for a day or two, and I will later find out he has been to my friends’ houses, my workplace, etc., and waited for me when I wasn’t there. (I’ve asked people to call me if he comes looking for me, but since people don’t care for animals the same way here, I haven’t been able to get anyone to do it.) Worse yet, since he doesn’t feel like he has a “home base,” whenever I have to go somewhere by car, it’s literally heart-breaking—he follows the car as far as he can, and then doesn’t know what to do.
As an entirely neurotic pet-mom, it’s maddening. Sure, he’s a tough dog and has been taking care of himself for a long time…but there are so many cars and drunk drivers, and so many crocodiles in the Delta, and even though he’s stronger than most of the other dogs, if his alpha tendencies land him in a fight, one bite in the wrong spot could mean he’s a goner. Or if a person attacks him, and he bites the person out of self-defense, he’ll have an automatic death sentence. Not to mention the fact that I adore him, miss his company like crazy when he’s not around, and it kills me that he might think I’ve abandoned him and that he’s going to have to be homeless all over again.
Honestly, his running away has been a great source of anxiety for me, but, as with most of my experiences here, it’s forcing me to grow, and to accept that a lot of things are simply out of my control. And his companionship has already helped me through so very much—and given me one more reason not to ET, even on those especially difficult days. And fortunately for me, even though I don’t have a government house with a fenced yard, the other PCV in town does, and she is also a huge animal-lover. Thanks to her kindness, I’ve been trying to make that feel like “home base,” and it seems to be working—he now goes there most of the time if he’s looking for me, and she either lets him stay with her in her yard, or calls me to let me know to come get him (he’s still my dog—he follows me everywhere, when he knows where I am, hehe…). And I am so, so, so grateful, because I have to leave soon for IST (in-service training--y'all know you've missed those Peace Corps acronyms), which means I’ll be away in Gaborone for a couple of weeks. Without the other PCV’s support, I am quite sure that the thought of leaving him for that long would cause me to have a complete emotional meltdown.
Anyway, just another small perspective on life here in Bots; this time through the eyes of a dog. Please send good thoughts/prayers/etc. that I’ll be able to find him a really good home before I leave—I’m already stressing over it!! (Yes, even Botswana Chelsea is still apparently completely Type A and neurotic when it comes to animals. [I'm sure you'll all kindly keep any comments about my neuroticism on non-animal issues to yourselves...haha :oP.])
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