Hey everyone!
Sorry for no blogs lately--internet has been hard to come by, and I've had SOOOOOO many MAJOR things happen that I don't want to post anything until I have a chance to actually write something decent (and, of course, for me, that means long! But y'all know that already...). BUT I do have something VERY important! MY ADDRESS HAS CHANGED! I will no longer be able to easily receive mail at the address in Gaborone! Don't worry if you've just sent something--I will still get it, it will just be a few months b/c my new address is 16 hours away! So here's my new address:
Botshelo Trust
Chelsea Chilcoat, Peace Corps Volunteer
P.O. Box 313
Shakawe
BOTSWANA
Words cannot even begin to express how grateful I am to everyone who has sent letters! I have written back to each of you, even though I haven't had a chance to mail all of them yet...I know it's a total pain in the rear to write, but seriously, if you had any idea how happy it makes me, you'd know you've got to be getting an insane amount of karma! Even though training is almost over, I'd still really, really, really love to get mail, so please, if you have the will/ability, keep them coming! Thank you all for your support! Love you SO much! More blogs to come--lots of crazy excitement here to report!!! XOXOXOXOX
June 4, 2010
May 20, 2010
Anticipation…
It has occurred to me that as a result of my incessant whining about the stresses of PST, I have failed to mention that as our time in training is dwindling—assuming all goes to plan, we will be sworn in as official PCV’s on June 10th, and leave for our sites on June 11th—the most significant part of training is coming up this weekend: Site Placement. On Saturday, in what is traditionally an extremely elaborate reality-TV like ceremony, we will be given all of the details about our assignment—where we will be living, who our counterpart organizations are, how close we will be to other volunteers (and who our nearest volunteers will be), whether we will be the first volunteers in our placements, and have to forge entirely new ground, or will be following someone else, and have to begin in their shadow.
Despite the fact that none of us has any idea or control over where we will be placed—the Peace Corps staff uses training to assess our skillsets and placement preferences and match us to the posts that they feel are the best fit—we can hardly talk about anything else. Who will wind up by themselves at Charles Hill in the middle of nowhere in the desert on the border of Namibia, with the closest volunteers 16 hours away? Who will wind up in Moleps, with other volunteers at every turn of the corner?
Housing isn’t much of a concern for most volunteers—Botswana is a unique country within the Peace Corps, in that it is the only country that pays a portion of the program costs. This means that for almost all of the programs, the Botswana government provides PCV’s with the same standard housing that it provides to it’s government employees, including teachers, District Aids Coordinators, and clinic workers. The volunteers in the government housing will all have electricity, indoor plumbing, and fairly modern cement house construction.
However, there is one program which does not qualify for the government housing (and rightly so), the NGO (non-governmental organization) program. As fate would have it, this is the program to which I am assigned. All in all, it is the best match for me, as I have extensive experience with NGO’s, and I feel it has the most flexibility and opportunity for creative problem solving—which is among the perks of Peace Corps service work. However, I’ll admit that the housing situation makes me nervous. Because there is not standard government housing, it is provided by the NGO’s. Anyone who has worked with NGO’s in America knows that if an NGO is in dire need of a free full-time employee (the PCV) they in all probability lack the funding to pay for a posh place. Therefore, the housing among the NGO volunteers varies greatly—some volunteers have housing even nicer than the government housing. Others have no electricity or water on the premises, or just have a room in someone’s house and a hot plate. Although the latter is rather rare, I can’t help but be a bit nervous—while one does not enter the Peace Corps looking for a life of luxury, it is difficult to live in conditions that are vastly inferior to the standard of living in the surrounding community, and as much as I love to cook and bake, the thought of not having access to a real stove (or even being able to cook over a fire), or of sharing my space with roommates not of my choosing, is rather terrifying (most PCV’s do not share housing, so honestly, this possibility had not occurred to me prior to arriving here). It also is not entirely uncommon for an NGO program not to have secured housing by the time the volunteer arrives at site, which can make for a stressful few months, staying with employees or friends of employees.
I’m obviously concerned about the actual work I’ll be doing, but there is such a range of possibilities that between the type of NGO, personalities of co-workers, and the issue of whether I’ll be following another volunteer, and, if so, what his/her reputation (which I would inevitably inherit) is like, I can’t even begin to articulate my hopes and concerns.
As you can see, I am consumed with anticipation and anxiety along with the other volunteers at the moment. Send good thoughts that I won’t be among the people crying this Saturday! All that being said, it is a well-known mantra among PCV’s and staff that your site is what you make of it, so I’m doing my best to keep an open mind, and be ready for whatever I get…but you still can’t stop me from keeping my fingers crossed!
I’ll try my best to have an update on Sunday or Monday with all of the info—no promises, though, between time constraints and difficulty getting to the ‘net… Love and miss you all so much…and thank you again for the letters/post cards! I’ve finally located envelopes and the post office, so yours are on the way! You are AMAZING—I have THE best family and friends in the world!!!
OH! And DON’T send any more things to the address I had posted before! I should have my new site address soon, and once I move, it’ll be tricky to get things sent to the main Peace Corps Office in Gabs. I’ll post my new address ASAP! (But don’t stop writing…just hang on to them for a bit—your letters truly improve my quality of life exponentially!)
Despite the fact that none of us has any idea or control over where we will be placed—the Peace Corps staff uses training to assess our skillsets and placement preferences and match us to the posts that they feel are the best fit—we can hardly talk about anything else. Who will wind up by themselves at Charles Hill in the middle of nowhere in the desert on the border of Namibia, with the closest volunteers 16 hours away? Who will wind up in Moleps, with other volunteers at every turn of the corner?
Housing isn’t much of a concern for most volunteers—Botswana is a unique country within the Peace Corps, in that it is the only country that pays a portion of the program costs. This means that for almost all of the programs, the Botswana government provides PCV’s with the same standard housing that it provides to it’s government employees, including teachers, District Aids Coordinators, and clinic workers. The volunteers in the government housing will all have electricity, indoor plumbing, and fairly modern cement house construction.
However, there is one program which does not qualify for the government housing (and rightly so), the NGO (non-governmental organization) program. As fate would have it, this is the program to which I am assigned. All in all, it is the best match for me, as I have extensive experience with NGO’s, and I feel it has the most flexibility and opportunity for creative problem solving—which is among the perks of Peace Corps service work. However, I’ll admit that the housing situation makes me nervous. Because there is not standard government housing, it is provided by the NGO’s. Anyone who has worked with NGO’s in America knows that if an NGO is in dire need of a free full-time employee (the PCV) they in all probability lack the funding to pay for a posh place. Therefore, the housing among the NGO volunteers varies greatly—some volunteers have housing even nicer than the government housing. Others have no electricity or water on the premises, or just have a room in someone’s house and a hot plate. Although the latter is rather rare, I can’t help but be a bit nervous—while one does not enter the Peace Corps looking for a life of luxury, it is difficult to live in conditions that are vastly inferior to the standard of living in the surrounding community, and as much as I love to cook and bake, the thought of not having access to a real stove (or even being able to cook over a fire), or of sharing my space with roommates not of my choosing, is rather terrifying (most PCV’s do not share housing, so honestly, this possibility had not occurred to me prior to arriving here). It also is not entirely uncommon for an NGO program not to have secured housing by the time the volunteer arrives at site, which can make for a stressful few months, staying with employees or friends of employees.
I’m obviously concerned about the actual work I’ll be doing, but there is such a range of possibilities that between the type of NGO, personalities of co-workers, and the issue of whether I’ll be following another volunteer, and, if so, what his/her reputation (which I would inevitably inherit) is like, I can’t even begin to articulate my hopes and concerns.
As you can see, I am consumed with anticipation and anxiety along with the other volunteers at the moment. Send good thoughts that I won’t be among the people crying this Saturday! All that being said, it is a well-known mantra among PCV’s and staff that your site is what you make of it, so I’m doing my best to keep an open mind, and be ready for whatever I get…but you still can’t stop me from keeping my fingers crossed!
I’ll try my best to have an update on Sunday or Monday with all of the info—no promises, though, between time constraints and difficulty getting to the ‘net… Love and miss you all so much…and thank you again for the letters/post cards! I’ve finally located envelopes and the post office, so yours are on the way! You are AMAZING—I have THE best family and friends in the world!!!
OH! And DON’T send any more things to the address I had posted before! I should have my new site address soon, and once I move, it’ll be tricky to get things sent to the main Peace Corps Office in Gabs. I’ll post my new address ASAP! (But don’t stop writing…just hang on to them for a bit—your letters truly improve my quality of life exponentially!)
May 17, 2010
History and culture at last!
As I have frequently lamented in this blog, PST often causes PCT’s to feel as though we are living inside of a small bubble which consists only of our host family and school, and not yet really IN Botswana. However, every so often, our bubble is burst and expanded, and we are allowed a slightly larger glimpse of the country. First, it was shadowing (though, as my prior blog indicates, my experience wasn’t exactly typical), and then, this weekend, it was our “cultural day.” During PST, PCT’s are taken to nearby areas that showcase a bit of the history and culture of the region. In our case, this meant visiting a rock formation with 2,000 year old paintings, a cultural center, where traditional dances and a traditional marriage ceremony, among other things, were demonstrated for us, and finally a pottery shop where we could purchase handmade pottery. It was an extremely exciting day, but it was also a day in which we all realized just how emotionally and psychologically strained we all are.
After our usual several mile walk through the dusty red dirt roads and paths in our neighborhood, to the tarred road full of cars, malls, street vendors selling candy and fruit, and lots of domesticated animals, and finally to school. But unlike a typical school day, we were all sporting our casual clothes, and feeling slightly more jovial, as we knew we had a fun day ahead of us (and did not face a 6 hour language session). We all piled into the combis, (which ranged from a large and comfy one with reclining seats, seatbelts and cup-holders, to one that needed a push to get started, required all passengers to get “up close and personal,” and which ended up breaking down on our way back. Knowing this, I acted quickly and nabbed a seat in the posh van), and set off.
For the first time as a group, we took a road outside of Moleps that did not lead to the large city of Gaborone—as nice as Gabs is, it was a very welcome diversion. Despite the image I had of Botswana prior to arriving here—a flat, sandy barren desert—this region of Bots is actually quite diverse, both with regard to the vegetation and the geology. As one ventures farther from the village of Molepolole, the thornbushes and trees lining the road became more and more abundant, as do the giant nearly tree-sized termite mounds—red, asymmetrical, and haphazardly shaped, almost reminiscent of modern art. When taking in the view, I would not describe this region as mountainous, hilly, or flat—although there is a great variance in topography, and there appear to be low-lying red hills in the distance, upon closer inspection, the hills look more like giant piles of boulders, precariously stacked together, as though assembled in a moment, and just as easily disassembled (incidentally, this is not actually the case—as the 2,000 year old paintings on the rocks indicate, they are fairly stable, despite their appearance).
As a humongoid history nerd, the trip to see the rock paintings should have been life-changing. We pulled into a small village and up to one of the accumulations of boulders, which happened to be surrounded by a chain-link fence lined with barbed wire, and then parked next to some adjacent rondevals and housing compounds. I don’t know whether 2,000 year-old rock paintings are common in Bots, but it seemed rather surprising how unceremonious the site was. More surprising than that, once inside the fence, our tour guide walked us up to the rocks, and there the paintings were, right there on the side of the rock, out in the open—we easily could have touched them (though I don’t believe anyone did, out of respect), fully exposed to the elements. Despite their accessibility, most of them were fairly easy to see—faint red or yellow marks on the pink rocks, most of which actually resembled the animals that they were intended to depict (see my facebook page in the coming days for photos).
This portion of our field trip was also a nice excursion, as we were allowed to climb around the rocks a bit—much needed exercise, and soothing for the souls of the hikers among us. As we were playing around on the rocks, admiring the wildflowers, and taking in the views of the surrounding village, the level of shock that we were all still in became painfully apparent to me. We were IN Africa, looking at cave paintings that were TWO THOUSAND years old. Now, for many of you, that might not strike a chord, but as an avid reader of National Geographic, history nerd, and someone who has been literally dreaming of this day in and day out for over a year, the fact that this experience felt entirely matter-of-fact, and I was more excited about frolicking around the rocks (yes, I said “frolick”) and our planned post-class R&R at Lemepe Lodge (anyone reading this who is hoping to be in Bots 10, Lemepe is WHERE it’s at. For realz.) than actually appreciating the moment was staggering. I think I literally have still not begun to process all of the events that have transpired in the last 6 weeks—and I don’t think many others have, either, seeing as most of us seemed to be in the same frame of mind. But perhaps that is good—by the time we realize what we have signed up for, maybe we’ll already be settled and comfortable in our sites.
In any event, the next portion of our outing brought us to a cultural center—similar to visiting Colonial Williamsburg—for the most part not representative of modern Setswana culture (though there may be pockets of the country which are more similar to the center than others), but provided an interesting glimpse into the country’s history. We were greeted by several women in modern-traditional dresses (westernized short-sleeved dresses in blue, brown, and sometimes red, with small patterns—obviously not pre-imperial Setswana garb, but these dresses are commonly seen in formal or traditional settings, and are also frequently worn when doing chores around the house), and many children in loincloths and beads, all ululating and dancing. They proceeded to teach us a bit more about the history of the Kgotla and Kgosi—the tribal governmental system which still exists, in conjunction with the more western/modern government—and gave the children the chance to show off their extremely impressive dancing and singing skills. The traditional songs here are typically very upbeat, rhythmic, and repetitive—the sort that even the extremely tone-deaf among us can quickly pick up—but which are incredibly beautiful and hypnotic, and are truly communal—they somehow sound better the more people that join in, even if each individual singer may not quite measure up on his or her own. Based on my (extremely) limited experience, it seems that traditional dancing and singing is rarely done nowadays in most of the country, or at least the bigger cities, outside of schools, at the Kgotla, and special events, however most of the Batswana I have met seem to be well-versed in their tribe’s dances and songs—something I hope continues, as the pina le bina (song and dance) in Botswana is too rich to fade away.
We were then shown a traditional wedding, using two members of our group as the bride and groom, as well as several of the senior citizen Bots 9ers to join the elders. Traditional weddings are still fairly common here, though it seems (again, through my extremely limited experience) that “white”weddings (almost exactly resembling American weddings) are more the norm. One notable contrast between weddings in Botswana—whether traditional or “white”—and weddings in America is that in Botswana, the bride, groom, and immediate family are all expected to act extremely solemn and unaffectionate. This is partly because PDA between romantic partners is not culturally acceptable, but mostly because even though marriages now are voluntary, historically in Botswana, marriages were arranged, and the bride and groom were genuinely petrified throughout the wedding, because they literally had no idea who they were about to marry. I think I’d look quite stern as well.
We did also learn a few less, shall we say…pleasant traditions. Now, let me remind you, this is not, not, not representative of modern culture; each culture has a few less than desirable practices; what I am about to tell you is actually not all that uncommon, and supposedly still done in parts of the world, including India. So with no further ado, we were taught how Batswana historically kept their floors “clean.” Cow dung. Yes, cow dung. A woman got on her hands and knees and poured a large pile of what was described to us as “fresh, warm” dung onto the floor, and used her hands to spread it around. But it goes farther. The warm dung was apparently also used medicinally: when a member of the tribe was sick, the traditional healer would arrive at the ailing Motswana’s house just before dawn, pour a pile of that fresh dung in front of the doorway, wake the sick person up, and make him/her stand barefoot in the dung and watch the sunrise. After the sun was up, the patient was allowed to return to bed, but could not wash his/her feet until s/he was healed, and this treatment regimen would be repeated each morning until the patient had recovered. I must say, I left feeling much, much better about my hospital stay after witnessing this. It probably was an excellent deterrent for children opting to stay at home sick instead of attending initiation school, though.
We were then served a bit of traditional food (because the aforementioned demonstration was so appetizing!) which was similar to what we cooked in training: morojo wa dinawe, boiled leaves of beans, medi, maize, a less-sweet, slightly coarser sort of corn, and diphaphata, bread cooked over the fire, sort of like a cross between regular white bread and thick naan. In traditional fashion, the men were all served before the women were permitted to eat.
Following our visit to the cultural center on our return home, we visited a pottery shop, which was fun, and a nice way to support the local artisian community. Traditional pottery in Botswana is made of read clay without a glaze, but the shop we visited had mostly pottery similar to what is seen in America—apparently it is the only city in the country where this type of pottery is made. I purchased a teacup and saucer, which I then proceeded to lose…did I mention our current stress level?!
All-in-all, it was a pretty excellent day, and felt great to burst through another bubble…even if, admittedly, our down-time and bonding at Lemepe Lodge afterwards was the most needed portion of the day.
After our usual several mile walk through the dusty red dirt roads and paths in our neighborhood, to the tarred road full of cars, malls, street vendors selling candy and fruit, and lots of domesticated animals, and finally to school. But unlike a typical school day, we were all sporting our casual clothes, and feeling slightly more jovial, as we knew we had a fun day ahead of us (and did not face a 6 hour language session). We all piled into the combis, (which ranged from a large and comfy one with reclining seats, seatbelts and cup-holders, to one that needed a push to get started, required all passengers to get “up close and personal,” and which ended up breaking down on our way back. Knowing this, I acted quickly and nabbed a seat in the posh van), and set off.
For the first time as a group, we took a road outside of Moleps that did not lead to the large city of Gaborone—as nice as Gabs is, it was a very welcome diversion. Despite the image I had of Botswana prior to arriving here—a flat, sandy barren desert—this region of Bots is actually quite diverse, both with regard to the vegetation and the geology. As one ventures farther from the village of Molepolole, the thornbushes and trees lining the road became more and more abundant, as do the giant nearly tree-sized termite mounds—red, asymmetrical, and haphazardly shaped, almost reminiscent of modern art. When taking in the view, I would not describe this region as mountainous, hilly, or flat—although there is a great variance in topography, and there appear to be low-lying red hills in the distance, upon closer inspection, the hills look more like giant piles of boulders, precariously stacked together, as though assembled in a moment, and just as easily disassembled (incidentally, this is not actually the case—as the 2,000 year old paintings on the rocks indicate, they are fairly stable, despite their appearance).
As a humongoid history nerd, the trip to see the rock paintings should have been life-changing. We pulled into a small village and up to one of the accumulations of boulders, which happened to be surrounded by a chain-link fence lined with barbed wire, and then parked next to some adjacent rondevals and housing compounds. I don’t know whether 2,000 year-old rock paintings are common in Bots, but it seemed rather surprising how unceremonious the site was. More surprising than that, once inside the fence, our tour guide walked us up to the rocks, and there the paintings were, right there on the side of the rock, out in the open—we easily could have touched them (though I don’t believe anyone did, out of respect), fully exposed to the elements. Despite their accessibility, most of them were fairly easy to see—faint red or yellow marks on the pink rocks, most of which actually resembled the animals that they were intended to depict (see my facebook page in the coming days for photos).
This portion of our field trip was also a nice excursion, as we were allowed to climb around the rocks a bit—much needed exercise, and soothing for the souls of the hikers among us. As we were playing around on the rocks, admiring the wildflowers, and taking in the views of the surrounding village, the level of shock that we were all still in became painfully apparent to me. We were IN Africa, looking at cave paintings that were TWO THOUSAND years old. Now, for many of you, that might not strike a chord, but as an avid reader of National Geographic, history nerd, and someone who has been literally dreaming of this day in and day out for over a year, the fact that this experience felt entirely matter-of-fact, and I was more excited about frolicking around the rocks (yes, I said “frolick”) and our planned post-class R&R at Lemepe Lodge (anyone reading this who is hoping to be in Bots 10, Lemepe is WHERE it’s at. For realz.) than actually appreciating the moment was staggering. I think I literally have still not begun to process all of the events that have transpired in the last 6 weeks—and I don’t think many others have, either, seeing as most of us seemed to be in the same frame of mind. But perhaps that is good—by the time we realize what we have signed up for, maybe we’ll already be settled and comfortable in our sites.
In any event, the next portion of our outing brought us to a cultural center—similar to visiting Colonial Williamsburg—for the most part not representative of modern Setswana culture (though there may be pockets of the country which are more similar to the center than others), but provided an interesting glimpse into the country’s history. We were greeted by several women in modern-traditional dresses (westernized short-sleeved dresses in blue, brown, and sometimes red, with small patterns—obviously not pre-imperial Setswana garb, but these dresses are commonly seen in formal or traditional settings, and are also frequently worn when doing chores around the house), and many children in loincloths and beads, all ululating and dancing. They proceeded to teach us a bit more about the history of the Kgotla and Kgosi—the tribal governmental system which still exists, in conjunction with the more western/modern government—and gave the children the chance to show off their extremely impressive dancing and singing skills. The traditional songs here are typically very upbeat, rhythmic, and repetitive—the sort that even the extremely tone-deaf among us can quickly pick up—but which are incredibly beautiful and hypnotic, and are truly communal—they somehow sound better the more people that join in, even if each individual singer may not quite measure up on his or her own. Based on my (extremely) limited experience, it seems that traditional dancing and singing is rarely done nowadays in most of the country, or at least the bigger cities, outside of schools, at the Kgotla, and special events, however most of the Batswana I have met seem to be well-versed in their tribe’s dances and songs—something I hope continues, as the pina le bina (song and dance) in Botswana is too rich to fade away.
We were then shown a traditional wedding, using two members of our group as the bride and groom, as well as several of the senior citizen Bots 9ers to join the elders. Traditional weddings are still fairly common here, though it seems (again, through my extremely limited experience) that “white”weddings (almost exactly resembling American weddings) are more the norm. One notable contrast between weddings in Botswana—whether traditional or “white”—and weddings in America is that in Botswana, the bride, groom, and immediate family are all expected to act extremely solemn and unaffectionate. This is partly because PDA between romantic partners is not culturally acceptable, but mostly because even though marriages now are voluntary, historically in Botswana, marriages were arranged, and the bride and groom were genuinely petrified throughout the wedding, because they literally had no idea who they were about to marry. I think I’d look quite stern as well.
We did also learn a few less, shall we say…pleasant traditions. Now, let me remind you, this is not, not, not representative of modern culture; each culture has a few less than desirable practices; what I am about to tell you is actually not all that uncommon, and supposedly still done in parts of the world, including India. So with no further ado, we were taught how Batswana historically kept their floors “clean.” Cow dung. Yes, cow dung. A woman got on her hands and knees and poured a large pile of what was described to us as “fresh, warm” dung onto the floor, and used her hands to spread it around. But it goes farther. The warm dung was apparently also used medicinally: when a member of the tribe was sick, the traditional healer would arrive at the ailing Motswana’s house just before dawn, pour a pile of that fresh dung in front of the doorway, wake the sick person up, and make him/her stand barefoot in the dung and watch the sunrise. After the sun was up, the patient was allowed to return to bed, but could not wash his/her feet until s/he was healed, and this treatment regimen would be repeated each morning until the patient had recovered. I must say, I left feeling much, much better about my hospital stay after witnessing this. It probably was an excellent deterrent for children opting to stay at home sick instead of attending initiation school, though.
We were then served a bit of traditional food (because the aforementioned demonstration was so appetizing!) which was similar to what we cooked in training: morojo wa dinawe, boiled leaves of beans, medi, maize, a less-sweet, slightly coarser sort of corn, and diphaphata, bread cooked over the fire, sort of like a cross between regular white bread and thick naan. In traditional fashion, the men were all served before the women were permitted to eat.
Following our visit to the cultural center on our return home, we visited a pottery shop, which was fun, and a nice way to support the local artisian community. Traditional pottery in Botswana is made of read clay without a glaze, but the shop we visited had mostly pottery similar to what is seen in America—apparently it is the only city in the country where this type of pottery is made. I purchased a teacup and saucer, which I then proceeded to lose…did I mention our current stress level?!
All-in-all, it was a pretty excellent day, and felt great to burst through another bubble…even if, admittedly, our down-time and bonding at Lemepe Lodge afterwards was the most needed portion of the day.
May 14, 2010
When You Can’t Get Through It, Listen To It
Ahh, music. The power it has to lift me up, console me, and make me feel like myself. Music is what keeps me whole. To those of you who are not Fansons or music-lovers in general, I don’t think I can even express how profound its effect is—and how deeply wounding the lack of music can be.
Today is my one month anniversary of being in Botswana. One month of learning a new culture, learning a new language, learning new people, and learning a new way of life. One month of daily battles with myself, tremendous highs, tremendous lows, and moments of defeat interspersed with tiny victories (which I believe are, in fact, the most significant kind). One month of different food, different water, and different weather. One month of missing old friends and making new ones.
But what I am celebrating today is bigger than that. Today, I got my music back. And along with it, as it happened, my sense of identity.
I lost my mp3 player at the airport in Jo’burg (there ARE consequences to a 36+ hour journey with little sleep), and although I have had my computer, I had no headphones, and haven’t been able to hear music for weeks. The reason this is especially difficult right now, is because one of the greatest challenges that PCV’s face, particularly during training when we are brand new to the country and also have so little control over our daily lives, is how to retain our own identities, while also reinventing ourselves within a new culture and adapting our own personality, self-expression, hobbies, and interests to the new world in which we are living. In a sense, for the past month, I have felt as though my entire identity went missing. For me, music is like a gateway to my soul, so the lack of music only compounded the feeling that I was slowly sinking in quicksand. (I simply must insert this quote…I know at least the Fansons will appreciate it: I’m looking for a song to sing and I’m looking for a friend to borrow. I’m looking for my radio so I might find a heart to follow. I’ve never been just longing for your loving, I’ve never been just wearing down to nothing, I’ve never been just looking for a reason so that maybe you’ll be thinking of me.)
Since getting out of the hospital and returning to my site, I have been making a concerted effort to rebuild myself, testing small things that I can do to feel like me again, in such a foreign world. Making my own dinner with foods that I am used to and that provide the nutritional content that I need. Making sure to get some form of exercise every day. Working very hard to remember to SMILE and LAUGH, even when I don’t feel like it—because in the States, I do those things all of the time, and they are a good part of what makes me feel whole.
And just as I noted in my previous entry, it is as though as though once I began making the effort to pick myself back up, the universe, or whatever you want to call it, pitched in. All at once, I received a large pile of letters and postcards. Let me say, despite the fact that it has only been one month, and I have enjoyed more access to the internet than I expected, I cannot even begin to express the joy that receiving real letters brings. Something I can touch that came from home, from someone I care about so much, so full of support, encouragement, and love. I have written back to each of you, and I am still in the process of locating the poso (post office), but hope to have them mailed by the end of the week. But reading through these letters makes me think about life back home and how much I love each and every one of you—you are all part of my identity. Each and every word I read feels like a breath of air re-inflating my soul. I can’t thank you enough.
And as though that wasn’t enough, I finally got my music back. During shadowing, the volunteer I was with had a spare pair of headphones, which she kindly gave me. I haven’t had enough of a charge on my computer to listen until today. Taking in each word, each note, of the songs that have already gotten me through so much is almost like a momentary trip home. Music has never sounded so sweet.
So, although the one month mark is hardly even a step in my journey and I have an immeasurable amount of learning, adapting, and growing to do, I feel like I am finally starting to figure out how to maintain my sense of self. I understand now that I am still surrounded by my friends, even though there is a great physical distance between us, and I am finally navigating my way to the comforts, like music, that my soul needs to stay strong. So, my one-month anniversary is on a good note (hehe, “note,” get it?!), thanks in great part, once again to you guys and all of your support…and I guess Hanson, and Howie too…hehe ;o)
(Also, please please please please DON’T tell me about the upcoming Hanson concerts in the PNW…I literally died inside when I saw the dates, and I actually can’t handle it…thinking about it will literally cause me to curl up in a ball and cry, and I *just* got myself past that point, so just don’t go there…thanks…lol)
Today is my one month anniversary of being in Botswana. One month of learning a new culture, learning a new language, learning new people, and learning a new way of life. One month of daily battles with myself, tremendous highs, tremendous lows, and moments of defeat interspersed with tiny victories (which I believe are, in fact, the most significant kind). One month of different food, different water, and different weather. One month of missing old friends and making new ones.
But what I am celebrating today is bigger than that. Today, I got my music back. And along with it, as it happened, my sense of identity.
I lost my mp3 player at the airport in Jo’burg (there ARE consequences to a 36+ hour journey with little sleep), and although I have had my computer, I had no headphones, and haven’t been able to hear music for weeks. The reason this is especially difficult right now, is because one of the greatest challenges that PCV’s face, particularly during training when we are brand new to the country and also have so little control over our daily lives, is how to retain our own identities, while also reinventing ourselves within a new culture and adapting our own personality, self-expression, hobbies, and interests to the new world in which we are living. In a sense, for the past month, I have felt as though my entire identity went missing. For me, music is like a gateway to my soul, so the lack of music only compounded the feeling that I was slowly sinking in quicksand. (I simply must insert this quote…I know at least the Fansons will appreciate it: I’m looking for a song to sing and I’m looking for a friend to borrow. I’m looking for my radio so I might find a heart to follow. I’ve never been just longing for your loving, I’ve never been just wearing down to nothing, I’ve never been just looking for a reason so that maybe you’ll be thinking of me.)
Since getting out of the hospital and returning to my site, I have been making a concerted effort to rebuild myself, testing small things that I can do to feel like me again, in such a foreign world. Making my own dinner with foods that I am used to and that provide the nutritional content that I need. Making sure to get some form of exercise every day. Working very hard to remember to SMILE and LAUGH, even when I don’t feel like it—because in the States, I do those things all of the time, and they are a good part of what makes me feel whole.
And just as I noted in my previous entry, it is as though as though once I began making the effort to pick myself back up, the universe, or whatever you want to call it, pitched in. All at once, I received a large pile of letters and postcards. Let me say, despite the fact that it has only been one month, and I have enjoyed more access to the internet than I expected, I cannot even begin to express the joy that receiving real letters brings. Something I can touch that came from home, from someone I care about so much, so full of support, encouragement, and love. I have written back to each of you, and I am still in the process of locating the poso (post office), but hope to have them mailed by the end of the week. But reading through these letters makes me think about life back home and how much I love each and every one of you—you are all part of my identity. Each and every word I read feels like a breath of air re-inflating my soul. I can’t thank you enough.
And as though that wasn’t enough, I finally got my music back. During shadowing, the volunteer I was with had a spare pair of headphones, which she kindly gave me. I haven’t had enough of a charge on my computer to listen until today. Taking in each word, each note, of the songs that have already gotten me through so much is almost like a momentary trip home. Music has never sounded so sweet.
So, although the one month mark is hardly even a step in my journey and I have an immeasurable amount of learning, adapting, and growing to do, I feel like I am finally starting to figure out how to maintain my sense of self. I understand now that I am still surrounded by my friends, even though there is a great physical distance between us, and I am finally navigating my way to the comforts, like music, that my soul needs to stay strong. So, my one-month anniversary is on a good note (hehe, “note,” get it?!), thanks in great part, once again to you guys and all of your support…and I guess Hanson, and Howie too…hehe ;o)
(Also, please please please please DON’T tell me about the upcoming Hanson concerts in the PNW…I literally died inside when I saw the dates, and I actually can’t handle it…thinking about it will literally cause me to curl up in a ball and cry, and I *just* got myself past that point, so just don’t go there…thanks…lol)
Hospitals, Butterflies, and Chocolate Cake…
I would like to begin with an apology to those of you on Facebook, who read a message that I left; a rather cruel “teaser” indicating that I had been released from the hospital, but without any other details about my condition…I assure you, it was only because of lack of time, not intended to induce any stress! In any event, below is an extremely truncated version of my experience, condensed primarily because a great deal of the story is not suitable for a public blog post. That said, I am more than happy to e-mail or message anyone privately if you’d like the full story…but without further ado, this is a recap of my most recent week as a PCT in Bots…
Friday, April 30th was a pretty delightful day as far as PST goes—we were getting ready for our LPI (language proficiency…something…it’s a test), prepping for shadowing the following week (an integral part of PST—we are placed with volunteers currently serving, and get to see where they live and work, and hang out for a couple of days, so we can see that there IS a light at the end of the tunnel that is PST), AND we had stadium day to boot (every so often, schedule and weather permitting, we are taken to an outdoor stadium with a track, soccer field, and sport courts, where we can run, play sports, and just generally do something other than sitting in class all day; stadium day is welcomed by all, regardless of one’s interest in physical fitness). Better yet, our food basket had arrived the day before, so I had food to eat at home, instead of having to use my own money for it. All in all, it was shaping up to be a good day, and my spirits were quite high.
Because it was stadium day, when I arrived home, I opted to take a bucket bath before making dinner. However, after my bath, I was too exhausted to eat (anyone who knows me can hear the warning bells going off already). I wrote it off as being a side-effect of too much exercise and sun, and decided to head to bed early. Then my muscles began aching, and my face began burning. Once again, I assumed that I had simply overexerted myself earlier. After an hour or so, it occurred to me that I might be sick, so I decided to take my temperature. Lo and behold, it was 104—and my body temperature is typically lower than average. I was also having severe stomach issues (which are especially exciting with a bedpan, particularly when you literally don’t have the strength to walk more than a few steps, let alone dump it out) I was rather frightened, but not thinking especially clearly due to my condition, so I just decided to take Tylenol and drink water, and see if my temperature would go down. It didn’t.
As I said earlier, I can’t really get into the details here, but fast forward to Sunday, and I’m in a hospital in Gaborone on an IV, fever holding steady and stomach issues worsening. I have no toothbrush, deodorant, change of clothes, or cell phone charger; only some blank notecards, an umbrella, and a book (never trust someone with a 104 degree fever to pack her own hospital bag…thank god I happened to grab the book). Again, I can’t really provide many details here, but I will say that while I suspect the hospital in Gabs is among the best in the region, it is definitely very different from the hospitals I am used to in the US—not that I have ever been admitted into a hospital before; I haven’t, but I have still seen my fair share.
Most of my time there was a haze, as a combined result of my extremely high fever, (which did not drop until Tuesday, the 4th) and a great deal of medication. Nonetheless, I will admit, the situation was beginning to take it’s toll. There were at least four distinct moments in which, had there been any charge remaining on my cell phone, I would certainly have requested to be on the next plane home. It is amazing how completely alone I felt in a hospital, 15,000 miles from home, with no visitors, no one else from my culture with whom I could relate or who knew how to comfort me, feeling more ill than I ever have, with no idea why I was sick, when I would get better, what tests and medications I was being given, and no way to contact the outside world. It was honestly the longest and scariest 4 days of my life. (Again, I am more than happy to provide details to anyone in a private message or e-mail if you are interested.)
One of my favorite things about Botswana, which I believe I have neglected to mention up to this point, is the abundance of butterflies—not only the quantity, but the variety as well. There have been a few moments when butterflies seem to be more prolific than mosquitoes, flapping around from flower to flower in the bush, fighting the wind in the streets. Were it not for their beautiful blurs and bursts of color, I would imagine they might be perceived as pests.
On Wednesday morning, I was sitting in my hospital bed, waiting for the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) to pick me up, drowning in feelings of self-pity, completely defeated, demoralized, and ready to give up. I caught a glimpse of two butterflies outside of my window. They were circling each other, in an intricate dance, flying rather haphazardly at times, jutting up suddenly along with a gust of wind, flapping frantically against the breeze. Drawn in by their spectacle, I walked to the window, leaned out, and took a deep breath. Silly though it sounds, as I looked out upon the vast African sky, dotted with puffs of white, and gazed upon the bush, the birds, and those butterflies, it was as though the land was a giant sponge which slowly absorbed all of my stress and worries. As I stared at the butterflies, I became overwhelmed by the fragility of their very existence, and their natural instinct to perservere, despite nearly everything—from natural obstacles like the wind, to development and climate change—working against them. I suddenly felt both selfish and ridiculous for allowing myself to become so overcome by defeat and self-pity after such a small challenge, especially with the abundance of good fortune I have had in my life up to this point.
Now, I won’t lie—I am human, and I can’t deny myself the feelings that correspond with my experiences, and have admittedly had many difficult times since arriving in Bots. But it seems that whenever I hit a low, I am just as profoundly taken aback by something which comes out of nowhere and smacks me with a sense of perspective, a moment of sanity to pull myself together and remember who I am and why I am here.
And the universe has its way of taking care of you, even when the walls seem too hard to climb. (Yes, that was an intentional reference, for those who caught it—as a result of an unfortunate misplacing of my iPod during the layover in Jo’burg, I have been substantially music-less for the majority of my time here in Bots…it is rather soul-crushing, and, honestly, I do credit it for some of my more negative days, as music is such an outlet for stress for me, personally…but that’s neither here nor there…). Because my illness ate up the majority of the week, I was released from the hospital on Wednesday the 5th, the same day I was to begin shadowing. It was too late and not the best idea for me to travel to visit the volunteer with whom I was originally scheduled to stay, so I was given a rather unique opportunity to stay with a volunteer who had extended for a third year and was staying in Gabs. Now, let me say, her experience in no way resembles that of any other PCV’s in Bots, but because she was a third-year, she was allowed some exceptional circumstances: she lives in the city, in a completely western apartment, complete with a shower/sink, washer, oven, stove, microwave, and fridge (all of which actually work and are clean and new), a real, queen-sized bed, several western tv channels, and a pool.
I must say, ordinarily, I might have felt a bit jipped, as I did not really get the chance to experience anything even remotely approximating the life of a PCV in Bots. But, given the circumstances—having just left the hospital, and coming out of one of the lowest points of my service thus far, I couldn’t have been happier. Real food. Real shower. Real bed. Air conditioning. We went to a mall, watched movies, went to the museum, went to watch the Botswana version of American Idol—My Star. But best of all…I got to bake a chocolate cake! As much as I hate to admit it, getting to feel a bit American again made me realize how difficult it really is to feel at home in another culture, and how welcome the comforts of home were, even after only a month in-country.
I would be remiss if I failed to express my gratitude for my fellow PCT’s and PCV’s. It is staggering how genuinely supportive, concerned, and compassionate they are. Seeing as I cannot be surrounded by the friends and family I left behind in the States, I truly could not imagine a better group of people to have as my second-family here in Bots. There aren’t enough positive adjectives in the dictionary to describe my fellow vol’s, and how appreciative I am of them. Thus far, my good fortune to be surrounded by such an incredible group of people has been the best part of my service.
I can’t believe how much I am learning about life and about myself in such a short time. I am still taken aback by the contrast between my time at the hospital, one of the most abysmal points in my life (I have had a very lucky life), to chocolate cake in a posh apartment, all in less than a week’s time. It is such a cliché, but it’s true—just as you are on the brink of giving up, life gives you just what you need to get back up. And apparently for me, that is butterflies and chocolate cake.
Friday, April 30th was a pretty delightful day as far as PST goes—we were getting ready for our LPI (language proficiency…something…it’s a test), prepping for shadowing the following week (an integral part of PST—we are placed with volunteers currently serving, and get to see where they live and work, and hang out for a couple of days, so we can see that there IS a light at the end of the tunnel that is PST), AND we had stadium day to boot (every so often, schedule and weather permitting, we are taken to an outdoor stadium with a track, soccer field, and sport courts, where we can run, play sports, and just generally do something other than sitting in class all day; stadium day is welcomed by all, regardless of one’s interest in physical fitness). Better yet, our food basket had arrived the day before, so I had food to eat at home, instead of having to use my own money for it. All in all, it was shaping up to be a good day, and my spirits were quite high.
Because it was stadium day, when I arrived home, I opted to take a bucket bath before making dinner. However, after my bath, I was too exhausted to eat (anyone who knows me can hear the warning bells going off already). I wrote it off as being a side-effect of too much exercise and sun, and decided to head to bed early. Then my muscles began aching, and my face began burning. Once again, I assumed that I had simply overexerted myself earlier. After an hour or so, it occurred to me that I might be sick, so I decided to take my temperature. Lo and behold, it was 104—and my body temperature is typically lower than average. I was also having severe stomach issues (which are especially exciting with a bedpan, particularly when you literally don’t have the strength to walk more than a few steps, let alone dump it out) I was rather frightened, but not thinking especially clearly due to my condition, so I just decided to take Tylenol and drink water, and see if my temperature would go down. It didn’t.
As I said earlier, I can’t really get into the details here, but fast forward to Sunday, and I’m in a hospital in Gaborone on an IV, fever holding steady and stomach issues worsening. I have no toothbrush, deodorant, change of clothes, or cell phone charger; only some blank notecards, an umbrella, and a book (never trust someone with a 104 degree fever to pack her own hospital bag…thank god I happened to grab the book). Again, I can’t really provide many details here, but I will say that while I suspect the hospital in Gabs is among the best in the region, it is definitely very different from the hospitals I am used to in the US—not that I have ever been admitted into a hospital before; I haven’t, but I have still seen my fair share.
Most of my time there was a haze, as a combined result of my extremely high fever, (which did not drop until Tuesday, the 4th) and a great deal of medication. Nonetheless, I will admit, the situation was beginning to take it’s toll. There were at least four distinct moments in which, had there been any charge remaining on my cell phone, I would certainly have requested to be on the next plane home. It is amazing how completely alone I felt in a hospital, 15,000 miles from home, with no visitors, no one else from my culture with whom I could relate or who knew how to comfort me, feeling more ill than I ever have, with no idea why I was sick, when I would get better, what tests and medications I was being given, and no way to contact the outside world. It was honestly the longest and scariest 4 days of my life. (Again, I am more than happy to provide details to anyone in a private message or e-mail if you are interested.)
One of my favorite things about Botswana, which I believe I have neglected to mention up to this point, is the abundance of butterflies—not only the quantity, but the variety as well. There have been a few moments when butterflies seem to be more prolific than mosquitoes, flapping around from flower to flower in the bush, fighting the wind in the streets. Were it not for their beautiful blurs and bursts of color, I would imagine they might be perceived as pests.
On Wednesday morning, I was sitting in my hospital bed, waiting for the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) to pick me up, drowning in feelings of self-pity, completely defeated, demoralized, and ready to give up. I caught a glimpse of two butterflies outside of my window. They were circling each other, in an intricate dance, flying rather haphazardly at times, jutting up suddenly along with a gust of wind, flapping frantically against the breeze. Drawn in by their spectacle, I walked to the window, leaned out, and took a deep breath. Silly though it sounds, as I looked out upon the vast African sky, dotted with puffs of white, and gazed upon the bush, the birds, and those butterflies, it was as though the land was a giant sponge which slowly absorbed all of my stress and worries. As I stared at the butterflies, I became overwhelmed by the fragility of their very existence, and their natural instinct to perservere, despite nearly everything—from natural obstacles like the wind, to development and climate change—working against them. I suddenly felt both selfish and ridiculous for allowing myself to become so overcome by defeat and self-pity after such a small challenge, especially with the abundance of good fortune I have had in my life up to this point.
Now, I won’t lie—I am human, and I can’t deny myself the feelings that correspond with my experiences, and have admittedly had many difficult times since arriving in Bots. But it seems that whenever I hit a low, I am just as profoundly taken aback by something which comes out of nowhere and smacks me with a sense of perspective, a moment of sanity to pull myself together and remember who I am and why I am here.
And the universe has its way of taking care of you, even when the walls seem too hard to climb. (Yes, that was an intentional reference, for those who caught it—as a result of an unfortunate misplacing of my iPod during the layover in Jo’burg, I have been substantially music-less for the majority of my time here in Bots…it is rather soul-crushing, and, honestly, I do credit it for some of my more negative days, as music is such an outlet for stress for me, personally…but that’s neither here nor there…). Because my illness ate up the majority of the week, I was released from the hospital on Wednesday the 5th, the same day I was to begin shadowing. It was too late and not the best idea for me to travel to visit the volunteer with whom I was originally scheduled to stay, so I was given a rather unique opportunity to stay with a volunteer who had extended for a third year and was staying in Gabs. Now, let me say, her experience in no way resembles that of any other PCV’s in Bots, but because she was a third-year, she was allowed some exceptional circumstances: she lives in the city, in a completely western apartment, complete with a shower/sink, washer, oven, stove, microwave, and fridge (all of which actually work and are clean and new), a real, queen-sized bed, several western tv channels, and a pool.
I must say, ordinarily, I might have felt a bit jipped, as I did not really get the chance to experience anything even remotely approximating the life of a PCV in Bots. But, given the circumstances—having just left the hospital, and coming out of one of the lowest points of my service thus far, I couldn’t have been happier. Real food. Real shower. Real bed. Air conditioning. We went to a mall, watched movies, went to the museum, went to watch the Botswana version of American Idol—My Star. But best of all…I got to bake a chocolate cake! As much as I hate to admit it, getting to feel a bit American again made me realize how difficult it really is to feel at home in another culture, and how welcome the comforts of home were, even after only a month in-country.
I would be remiss if I failed to express my gratitude for my fellow PCT’s and PCV’s. It is staggering how genuinely supportive, concerned, and compassionate they are. Seeing as I cannot be surrounded by the friends and family I left behind in the States, I truly could not imagine a better group of people to have as my second-family here in Bots. There aren’t enough positive adjectives in the dictionary to describe my fellow vol’s, and how appreciative I am of them. Thus far, my good fortune to be surrounded by such an incredible group of people has been the best part of my service.
I can’t believe how much I am learning about life and about myself in such a short time. I am still taken aback by the contrast between my time at the hospital, one of the most abysmal points in my life (I have had a very lucky life), to chocolate cake in a posh apartment, all in less than a week’s time. It is such a cliché, but it’s true—just as you are on the brink of giving up, life gives you just what you need to get back up. And apparently for me, that is butterflies and chocolate cake.
April 27, 2010
Foodtastic!! AKA EAT YOUR VEGGIES!!!!
Holy backwards buttons, Batman—TWO blog entries in ONE week?! Shocking, I know, but today was pretty momentous, if rather uneventful, and therefore warrants a blog entry, even after the previous mini-novel of a blog.
Among the things that PCV’s (that’s Peace Corps Volunteers for those of you who have yet to master the world of Peace Corps acronyms—almost makes me feel like I’m back in law school) find to gripe about (we are all immensely thrilled for the privilege of serving in the PC, and frequently express that sentiment, but we are still human and therefore have no problem finding opportunities to complain) is that during staging/PST (pre-service training), there are very few opportunities to actually get out and see anything, aside from our gracious host families’ homes and our classrooms (class is generally 8am-5pm-ish, 6 days a week, with an hour of walking each way, and we are not allowed to be out after dark for safety reasons, and it is fall here, so it gets dark just as we are arriving home). Consequently, it is easy to feel rather “caged” during this part of service.
In almost every respect, today was no exception. Today we had to process our residency status here in Bots, so we had to get up early to take combis down to the immigration office in Gaborone—about 2 hours each way, with traffic. In typical PST fashion, we were carted directly to and from the office, where we sat for several hours waiting for our applications to be processed (bureaucracy is bureaucracy, wherever you are!), and were not able to venture out at all. Understandable, but still maddening, when we have all been itching to get here and explore for so very long.
So what was so exceptional about today, then? Well...wait for it…it might blow your mind. Actually, it almost certainly won’t blow your mind, but the fact that it generated such a great deal of excitement amongst the entire Bots 9 group will shed a bit of light on the experience of being a PCV in PST. So here it is: on our way home……we got to stop……….for food………..at the mall……..the MALL…….…in GABORONE!!!!...FOR FOOD!!!!!!!!! … !!!!! Yeah, I know—it’s life-changingly awesome right?! Yeah. I pretty much spent my food budget for the week, but whatever…there were so many things to choose from…for the non-vegans/veggies, there was pizza-like bread with cheese, also some bread stuffed with spinach and cheese and garlic (OMG, GARLIC!?!?!!$@$!! SRSLY?!??!! AHHH!)! And for the vegans (and veggie-friendlies), a friend and I hit the jackpot: we found…(seriously, wait for it, it is a-freaking-mazing)…HUMMUS!!!!! AND DOLMADES!!!!!!!!!! AND A SALAD BAR!!!!! I ate BROCCOLI and CAULIFLOUR and GREEN BEANS and PEAS and TOMATOES and LETTUCE (iceburg, but still)!!!!!! And WHOLE GRAIN pitas…ZOMG…there aren’t words… And then, the whole rest of the day, I was feeling SO amazing—energetic, happy, bubbly…the way I *usually* feel…and I kept thinking, why, all of a sudden, am I SO happy? And then I would remember—I ate ACTUAL VEGETABLES today, instead of getting my nutrients from a pill or powder!! Even being the ardent foodie that I am, I can’t believe the difference in the way I feel…
Incidentally, I should point out that this is not intended as a criticism of the local cuisine—as a PCV, my diet differs from many of the locals, as most of my food must be portable (think peanut butter sandwiches, every day…seriously, every day—not at all customary in Botswana, but nearly the only thing that works for most PCV’s to take to school, and in Bots, the main meal is eaten at lunch, so my diet is quite skewed). Additionally, it is more a reaction to the difference in foods—my diet in America is very different—pretty veggie-heavy, and not nearly as starchy as a lot of the more traditional food here—and my body just hasn’t really had a chance to adapt…but all that said, I really do hope I will receive placement where I am able to obtain fresh produce, as it has a remarkably strong impact on my psyche.
So let that be a lesson to you: eat your veggies!!! Seriously. You have access to them—take advantage of that. And brush your teeth, too. That has no relevance in this story, but is just good advice. Oh, and I found out that my cell phone has three video games—also totally irrelevant, but it did add to the overall awesomeness of the day. Well, I’m out, folks. Eat some broccoli for me, kay? Night!
Among the things that PCV’s (that’s Peace Corps Volunteers for those of you who have yet to master the world of Peace Corps acronyms—almost makes me feel like I’m back in law school) find to gripe about (we are all immensely thrilled for the privilege of serving in the PC, and frequently express that sentiment, but we are still human and therefore have no problem finding opportunities to complain) is that during staging/PST (pre-service training), there are very few opportunities to actually get out and see anything, aside from our gracious host families’ homes and our classrooms (class is generally 8am-5pm-ish, 6 days a week, with an hour of walking each way, and we are not allowed to be out after dark for safety reasons, and it is fall here, so it gets dark just as we are arriving home). Consequently, it is easy to feel rather “caged” during this part of service.
In almost every respect, today was no exception. Today we had to process our residency status here in Bots, so we had to get up early to take combis down to the immigration office in Gaborone—about 2 hours each way, with traffic. In typical PST fashion, we were carted directly to and from the office, where we sat for several hours waiting for our applications to be processed (bureaucracy is bureaucracy, wherever you are!), and were not able to venture out at all. Understandable, but still maddening, when we have all been itching to get here and explore for so very long.
So what was so exceptional about today, then? Well...wait for it…it might blow your mind. Actually, it almost certainly won’t blow your mind, but the fact that it generated such a great deal of excitement amongst the entire Bots 9 group will shed a bit of light on the experience of being a PCV in PST. So here it is: on our way home……we got to stop……….for food………..at the mall……..the MALL…….…in GABORONE!!!!...FOR FOOD!!!!!!!!! … !!!!! Yeah, I know—it’s life-changingly awesome right?! Yeah. I pretty much spent my food budget for the week, but whatever…there were so many things to choose from…for the non-vegans/veggies, there was pizza-like bread with cheese, also some bread stuffed with spinach and cheese and garlic (OMG, GARLIC!?!?!!$@$!! SRSLY?!??!! AHHH!)! And for the vegans (and veggie-friendlies), a friend and I hit the jackpot: we found…(seriously, wait for it, it is a-freaking-mazing)…HUMMUS!!!!! AND DOLMADES!!!!!!!!!! AND A SALAD BAR!!!!! I ate BROCCOLI and CAULIFLOUR and GREEN BEANS and PEAS and TOMATOES and LETTUCE (iceburg, but still)!!!!!! And WHOLE GRAIN pitas…ZOMG…there aren’t words… And then, the whole rest of the day, I was feeling SO amazing—energetic, happy, bubbly…the way I *usually* feel…and I kept thinking, why, all of a sudden, am I SO happy? And then I would remember—I ate ACTUAL VEGETABLES today, instead of getting my nutrients from a pill or powder!! Even being the ardent foodie that I am, I can’t believe the difference in the way I feel…
Incidentally, I should point out that this is not intended as a criticism of the local cuisine—as a PCV, my diet differs from many of the locals, as most of my food must be portable (think peanut butter sandwiches, every day…seriously, every day—not at all customary in Botswana, but nearly the only thing that works for most PCV’s to take to school, and in Bots, the main meal is eaten at lunch, so my diet is quite skewed). Additionally, it is more a reaction to the difference in foods—my diet in America is very different—pretty veggie-heavy, and not nearly as starchy as a lot of the more traditional food here—and my body just hasn’t really had a chance to adapt…but all that said, I really do hope I will receive placement where I am able to obtain fresh produce, as it has a remarkably strong impact on my psyche.
So let that be a lesson to you: eat your veggies!!! Seriously. You have access to them—take advantage of that. And brush your teeth, too. That has no relevance in this story, but is just good advice. Oh, and I found out that my cell phone has three video games—also totally irrelevant, but it did add to the overall awesomeness of the day. Well, I’m out, folks. Eat some broccoli for me, kay? Night!
April 25, 2010
PULA! / The longest blog in the world (sorry!!)
In Setswana, many words carry multiple meanings—it seems to be the case even more so than in English. For instance “Dumela” means “hello” and also “believe.” “Pula” means rain and is also the word for the Botswana currency—a rather poignant reminder of the importance of rain in a typically arid desert region. However in spite of the usual scarcity of rain this time of year, Molepole is currently in the midst of what all evidence indicates will be a week-long downpour (thunder and lightening are crashing around me as we speak). As a devout Northwesterner, rain has a very special meaning for me as well—typically, it brings with it a comforting blanket of cloudcover, a warm cup of coffee, cocoa or tea, and sense of calm as the misty drizzle emanates from the sky. But just as the out-of-season rain is off-putting for the Batswana [“Batswana” is the word for the people of Botswana; “Motswana” is the singular of “Batswana”], for me, this heavy, thunderous rain is just another jarring reminder of the differences between here and home.
It has been a while since I have last blogged, and so much has happened, I hardly know where to begin. PST (Pre-Service-Training) is in full swing—it’s 8:00am-5:30-ish Monday-Friday, with classes of varying length on Saturdays. Training consists of 2-6 hours a day of intensive Setswana lessons in small groups of 4-5 PCV’s (Peace Corps Volunteers) each taught by a Motswana teacher, and additional training on HIV/AIDS and health and safety issues. The Setswana lessons are particularly effective, in my opinion—although I am painfully aware of how little I am able to say relative to how much I want to, I also frequently have to remind myself that I have only been in country for a week and know more than I learned from my 10 weeks of intensive Arabic lessons in college. Even the Batswana are impressed with how much most volunteers are able to communicate, given how recently we arrived (we’ll see if this trend continues…).
We have been with our host families for about a week, so unlike in my last post, I am starting to feel like I am in the “real” Africa. I am embarrassed to admit that I am surprised by how much more developed Botswana (or at least Molepolole, the village where we are training) is than I anticipated. Almost all homes have electricity, and most have running water, either from a spigot in the yard (as is the case in my house), or even in the home, like in America (quite a lot of homes have indoor plumbing, actually). Most Batswana have cell phones, and, just as in America, TV seems to be among the favorite pastimes here (Generations and other soaps are very big, along with a Botswana version of American Idol, and other singing/dancing shows). But again, I am given a jarring reminder that I am not in America when I need to use the restroom during the commercial break and have to use the outhouse instead.
In many ways, though, Botswana is consistent with the Africa that I expected—the aforementioned outhouses, bucket bathing, dirt/gravel roads and footpaths without signs or corresponding maps, and donkeys, chickens, and goats roaming freely. The doors are locked with skeleton keys (think the type of key used to lock a toy treasure chest or child’s diary). People wake at dawn and sleep at dusk (no joke—I’ve been exhausted by 8:00pm and fast asleep no later than 9:00 or so every night!). It is remarkably quiet without the noises of traffic and excessive electricity—you can hear church choirs singing and children playing in the distance (and at night, revelers frequenting the bars scattered throughout the neighborhoods). The land seems very vast—even though it is full of vegetation this time of year—and the sky appears huge and spectacularly clear above. Since Molepolole is a very large village, there are stores and an outdoor mall, however they appear to spring up out of nowhere on dirt roads, surrounded by the bush, with street vendors in the parking lots; it is not uncommon for a heard of goats to come running past the KFC in the mall, or to have chickens pecking around the PEP (an Old Navy-style store that is popular here). We were very matter-of-fact-ly warned yesterday that after the rain the snakes come, so we need to be careful not to be attacked while walking to and form school.
The traditional architecture here are round cement buildings with thatch roofs, though most homes seem to be rectangular with tin roofs, and there are more and more westernized houses popping up, especially in the wealthier parts of town. Most of the more traditional houses are fenced in by stone or cement walls and consist of several buildings—typically a main house, kitchen, outhouse, a shed for outdoor tools, and possibly additional buildings with bedrooms/living rooms for extended family.
Another striking contrast between America and Botswana is the acceptance of corporal punishment—both in schools and for citizens, generally. One of the more jarring moments for me was when we were invited to meet with our local Kgosanas (part of a tradirtional system of governance, similar to tribal chiefs). We were greeted very cordially with traditional song and dance, and then entered the Kgotla, where the women were to sit on one side and men on the other. The Kgosana spoke and was very open and honest about our questions about his response to the HIV/AIDS crisis, and our questions about the role of the Kgosana in our ward. During the course of the discussion, there were two moments that removed any doubts that I am, in fact, “not in Kansas anymore:” the Kgosana told us about caning, and although he said it with a smile, he made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that we will be subject to the same punishment if we violate any local laws (which is, in fact, true—as PCV’s we do not have diplomatic immunity). The second moment was when he was asked about homosexuality in Botswana. There was an uncomfortably long pause, and a cautious buzz of whispering among the Batswana attending the meeting, followed by an abrupt response from the Kgosana in which he said something to the effect of “We have heard of that sort of behavior in other countries, but has never happened here, and if it did, we would punish them.” Even though I am obviously aware of the different views about sexuality here, I must admit that such a blanket statement still surprised me.
As I predicted, I am having little difficulty adapting to the big things—dirt roads, walking to school, no indoor plumbing—and more difficulty with the little things—different rain, different food (traditional fare is sorghum or maize cooked in a manner similar to polenta or cream of wheat and covered with meat in an un-seasoned stew/gravy sauce…which translates to either the plain grain, or a PB&J sandwich [typically the latter] for me and the other vegan/veggies in my group. Tea is also very big here, and is served several times a day. Locally grown roobious, imagine that! ;oP).
Admittedly, though, the hardest thing for me is how differently animals, in particular dogs, are treated. The concept of companion animals is not at all a part of the Batswana’s culture, and so only a handful of dogs have lives similar to those in homes in the US. Most that I have seen live outside and have little or no shelter from this intense rain (and the impending cold—it gets into the low 20’s at night here during the winter) and are extremely emaciated, as they are only fed scraps, along with whatever they are able to scavenge from the garbage (which is strewn about; just as in America, there is a surprising amount of litter, although it is arguably more justifiable here, as the infrastructure for garbage collection is very different from that in America). I have made several small strides with the dogs in my life, which I will not elaborate on here, but it is definitely something that is more difficult to cope with than I anticipated.
As upsetting as this is for me, though, it seems easier to understand when faced with the reason for our presence here in Botswana: the HIV/AIDS crisis. Even though I had heard some of the statistics before I came here, when you are actually here, walking amongst the Batswana, exchanging greetings and smiles, it is almost impossible to comprehend that every third person I speak to (at least in my age group; every fifth person overall) is HIV+. I honestly don’t even have words to express how it makes me feel. But I will say that I am very proud of how hard the Batswana and the Peace Corps are working to try to get it under control.
So, here I sit, writing this, listening to the rain pouring down on the tin roof above me, and daydreaming of a latte and some Bamboo Garden (102!!! Sweet and sour chicken!! ZOMG!!!!!!), and slowly coming to the terms with the fact that it is not rain pouring down on me, it is pula, and I will not be drinking a latte, but powdered coffee or roobios tea, and I will not eat Bamboo Garden for dinner, instead ke ja morojo wa dinawa le dipathatha.
And on that note, I say goodnight! I’m sorry this was long and disjointed, and thanks to anyone who managed to make it through! Also feel free to send me dark chocolate. I like chocolate. Hehehe. :oP (Chelsea Chilcoat, Peace Corps Volunteer, US Peace Corps, Private Bag 00243, Gaborone, Botswana ;o) Miss you all SO much. Also, I have a LOT of pictures posted on Facebook--the bandwith here is WAY too slow to post to multiple sites, and I want the pictures to be available to other vol's on FB, so if you want to see them (they are awesome, you should see them), you need to go to: www.facebook.com/chels1440. Yes, Laura, Denny, and Mom, that means you need to get FB accounts. I'm sorry, but I just don't have the resources to post a million photos here. I promise you don't have to use it other than for my pictures, but I want you to see them!!
It has been a while since I have last blogged, and so much has happened, I hardly know where to begin. PST (Pre-Service-Training) is in full swing—it’s 8:00am-5:30-ish Monday-Friday, with classes of varying length on Saturdays. Training consists of 2-6 hours a day of intensive Setswana lessons in small groups of 4-5 PCV’s (Peace Corps Volunteers) each taught by a Motswana teacher, and additional training on HIV/AIDS and health and safety issues. The Setswana lessons are particularly effective, in my opinion—although I am painfully aware of how little I am able to say relative to how much I want to, I also frequently have to remind myself that I have only been in country for a week and know more than I learned from my 10 weeks of intensive Arabic lessons in college. Even the Batswana are impressed with how much most volunteers are able to communicate, given how recently we arrived (we’ll see if this trend continues…).
We have been with our host families for about a week, so unlike in my last post, I am starting to feel like I am in the “real” Africa. I am embarrassed to admit that I am surprised by how much more developed Botswana (or at least Molepolole, the village where we are training) is than I anticipated. Almost all homes have electricity, and most have running water, either from a spigot in the yard (as is the case in my house), or even in the home, like in America (quite a lot of homes have indoor plumbing, actually). Most Batswana have cell phones, and, just as in America, TV seems to be among the favorite pastimes here (Generations and other soaps are very big, along with a Botswana version of American Idol, and other singing/dancing shows). But again, I am given a jarring reminder that I am not in America when I need to use the restroom during the commercial break and have to use the outhouse instead.
In many ways, though, Botswana is consistent with the Africa that I expected—the aforementioned outhouses, bucket bathing, dirt/gravel roads and footpaths without signs or corresponding maps, and donkeys, chickens, and goats roaming freely. The doors are locked with skeleton keys (think the type of key used to lock a toy treasure chest or child’s diary). People wake at dawn and sleep at dusk (no joke—I’ve been exhausted by 8:00pm and fast asleep no later than 9:00 or so every night!). It is remarkably quiet without the noises of traffic and excessive electricity—you can hear church choirs singing and children playing in the distance (and at night, revelers frequenting the bars scattered throughout the neighborhoods). The land seems very vast—even though it is full of vegetation this time of year—and the sky appears huge and spectacularly clear above. Since Molepolole is a very large village, there are stores and an outdoor mall, however they appear to spring up out of nowhere on dirt roads, surrounded by the bush, with street vendors in the parking lots; it is not uncommon for a heard of goats to come running past the KFC in the mall, or to have chickens pecking around the PEP (an Old Navy-style store that is popular here). We were very matter-of-fact-ly warned yesterday that after the rain the snakes come, so we need to be careful not to be attacked while walking to and form school.
The traditional architecture here are round cement buildings with thatch roofs, though most homes seem to be rectangular with tin roofs, and there are more and more westernized houses popping up, especially in the wealthier parts of town. Most of the more traditional houses are fenced in by stone or cement walls and consist of several buildings—typically a main house, kitchen, outhouse, a shed for outdoor tools, and possibly additional buildings with bedrooms/living rooms for extended family.
Another striking contrast between America and Botswana is the acceptance of corporal punishment—both in schools and for citizens, generally. One of the more jarring moments for me was when we were invited to meet with our local Kgosanas (part of a tradirtional system of governance, similar to tribal chiefs). We were greeted very cordially with traditional song and dance, and then entered the Kgotla, where the women were to sit on one side and men on the other. The Kgosana spoke and was very open and honest about our questions about his response to the HIV/AIDS crisis, and our questions about the role of the Kgosana in our ward. During the course of the discussion, there were two moments that removed any doubts that I am, in fact, “not in Kansas anymore:” the Kgosana told us about caning, and although he said it with a smile, he made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that we will be subject to the same punishment if we violate any local laws (which is, in fact, true—as PCV’s we do not have diplomatic immunity). The second moment was when he was asked about homosexuality in Botswana. There was an uncomfortably long pause, and a cautious buzz of whispering among the Batswana attending the meeting, followed by an abrupt response from the Kgosana in which he said something to the effect of “We have heard of that sort of behavior in other countries, but has never happened here, and if it did, we would punish them.” Even though I am obviously aware of the different views about sexuality here, I must admit that such a blanket statement still surprised me.
As I predicted, I am having little difficulty adapting to the big things—dirt roads, walking to school, no indoor plumbing—and more difficulty with the little things—different rain, different food (traditional fare is sorghum or maize cooked in a manner similar to polenta or cream of wheat and covered with meat in an un-seasoned stew/gravy sauce…which translates to either the plain grain, or a PB&J sandwich [typically the latter] for me and the other vegan/veggies in my group. Tea is also very big here, and is served several times a day. Locally grown roobious, imagine that! ;oP).
Admittedly, though, the hardest thing for me is how differently animals, in particular dogs, are treated. The concept of companion animals is not at all a part of the Batswana’s culture, and so only a handful of dogs have lives similar to those in homes in the US. Most that I have seen live outside and have little or no shelter from this intense rain (and the impending cold—it gets into the low 20’s at night here during the winter) and are extremely emaciated, as they are only fed scraps, along with whatever they are able to scavenge from the garbage (which is strewn about; just as in America, there is a surprising amount of litter, although it is arguably more justifiable here, as the infrastructure for garbage collection is very different from that in America). I have made several small strides with the dogs in my life, which I will not elaborate on here, but it is definitely something that is more difficult to cope with than I anticipated.
As upsetting as this is for me, though, it seems easier to understand when faced with the reason for our presence here in Botswana: the HIV/AIDS crisis. Even though I had heard some of the statistics before I came here, when you are actually here, walking amongst the Batswana, exchanging greetings and smiles, it is almost impossible to comprehend that every third person I speak to (at least in my age group; every fifth person overall) is HIV+. I honestly don’t even have words to express how it makes me feel. But I will say that I am very proud of how hard the Batswana and the Peace Corps are working to try to get it under control.
So, here I sit, writing this, listening to the rain pouring down on the tin roof above me, and daydreaming of a latte and some Bamboo Garden (102!!! Sweet and sour chicken!! ZOMG!!!!!!), and slowly coming to the terms with the fact that it is not rain pouring down on me, it is pula, and I will not be drinking a latte, but powdered coffee or roobios tea, and I will not eat Bamboo Garden for dinner, instead ke ja morojo wa dinawa le dipathatha.
And on that note, I say goodnight! I’m sorry this was long and disjointed, and thanks to anyone who managed to make it through! Also feel free to send me dark chocolate. I like chocolate. Hehehe. :oP (Chelsea Chilcoat, Peace Corps Volunteer, US Peace Corps, Private Bag 00243, Gaborone, Botswana ;o) Miss you all SO much. Also, I have a LOT of pictures posted on Facebook--the bandwith here is WAY too slow to post to multiple sites, and I want the pictures to be available to other vol's on FB, so if you want to see them (they are awesome, you should see them), you need to go to: www.facebook.com/chels1440. Yes, Laura, Denny, and Mom, that means you need to get FB accounts. I'm sorry, but I just don't have the resources to post a million photos here. I promise you don't have to use it other than for my pictures, but I want you to see them!!
April 13, 2010
AFRICA!!!
Dumalang borra le bomma! That’s hello ladies and gents, to those of you not yet schooled in Setswana! I cannot believe how much has happened in the last 72-ish hours of my life! As a result, this blog may be a little disjointed! Here’s a rundown of my last couple of days:
April 10/Day 1: Spent the morning driving to Philly from DC with a dear friend.
12:00-7:00pm: Staging—a brief run-down/get-to-know-you session with your Peace Corps Class and some stateside PC staff.
7:00-8:00pm: Waiting to check in for hotel room.
8:15pm: Informed that there was an error and that
I and one fellow volunteer actually don’t have a room. The beginning of my education in one of the big 3 PC values: rid yourself of expectations! Pfft, who needs a bed anyway—I’ve got my sleeping bag and all my gear, right?
8:30-ish: Situation resolved, received cot in the room of a pair of kind volunteers. Decided to forgo dinner; too much stress and…(see next event)
April 11/ Day 2: 1:20am Yes, 1:20 am. Woke up.
1:45am Checked out of hotel.
2:30am(EST)-7:30pm (Botswana)
35-ish hours of transit to Botswana, which included a 3 hour bus ride to JFK from Philly, waiting for 5 hours in JFK for plane to board, 15 hour flight to Jo’berg, an 8 hour layover in Jo’berg, 45 minute flight to Gaborone, and a bus ride to our lodge.
7:30-10pm-ish: Checking in hotel/brief orientation.
Today/rest of week, lots of training, but some downtime in the evening…Friday move in with host family! AHH!
So here are a few quick observations:
Peace Corps Volunteers are pretty much the coolest people ever…LOVE everyone I’ve met, so genuine, caring, great senses of humor and perspective on life…love it!
Language training is awesome so far. I SUCK at learning languages, but I feel like I might actually be able to pick this up—they break us up into small groups of 4-ish and put us with an instructor who is FULL of patience and creative teaching skills…don’t know much so far, but it’s the first time I’ve felt optimistic about my chances of learning! Fingers crossed!
Botswana is SO beautiful. Gabs (short for Gaborone, where we are now) is so much more lush and green than I ever expected, and there are actually…I won’t say “mountains” but definitely some big hills which make the landscape even more beautiful. Arriving in fall is excellent, because the weather is just dreamy, and so far the mosquitoes haven’t been as bas as I’ve feared (although I know it’ll get worse).
The dirt is all red here! Pretty, but I can see how it will get tiring once I have to wash all of my clothes. It also smells really different here, really pretty. I don’t know if it’s the vegetation or something else, but it’s nice…
Although we haven’t had much exposure to the Batswana people, they seem really nice—lots of smiling and laughing; I LOVE that!
I got to go for a run/workout with a few volunteers…it was SO excellent…it’s kind of cool because it’s like…”hey, guess what I’m doing right now. Running. In Africa. Yeah. Africa.” Hehe.
Food hasn’t been an issue yet, but only time will tell on that one. Already missing chocolate a bit. ;o)
We’re definitely still in the cushy easing-us-in stage—nice hotel with running water and internet (expensive) and a TV, so I think it still hasn’t quite hit me. I sort of just have vague feelings of excitement and being totally overwhelmed lurking in the background. I can’t tell whether the whole shock hasn’t set in, or whether it just doesn’t feel as strange as I expected it to. I actually do feel a lot of sadness and homesickness—I really didn’t expect to feel so much so soon…darn you guys for being so awesome and making me miss you!! Anyway, I apologize for the long disjointed mess that this blog has been, but I’m alive and you all love me soooo much that I’m sure you don’t mind, right?! Hehe ;o) I have NO idea how often I’ll have access to the web, or how much I’ll be able to do when I’m online (here you pay based on time, and it’s not cheap; plus our training schedule is INtense), but I’ll do my best to stay in touch!
April 10/Day 1: Spent the morning driving to Philly from DC with a dear friend.
12:00-7:00pm: Staging—a brief run-down/get-to-know-you session with your Peace Corps Class and some stateside PC staff.
7:00-8:00pm: Waiting to check in for hotel room.
8:15pm: Informed that there was an error and that
I and one fellow volunteer actually don’t have a room. The beginning of my education in one of the big 3 PC values: rid yourself of expectations! Pfft, who needs a bed anyway—I’ve got my sleeping bag and all my gear, right?
8:30-ish: Situation resolved, received cot in the room of a pair of kind volunteers. Decided to forgo dinner; too much stress and…(see next event)
April 11/ Day 2: 1:20am Yes, 1:20 am. Woke up.
1:45am Checked out of hotel.
2:30am(EST)-7:30pm (Botswana)
35-ish hours of transit to Botswana, which included a 3 hour bus ride to JFK from Philly, waiting for 5 hours in JFK for plane to board, 15 hour flight to Jo’berg, an 8 hour layover in Jo’berg, 45 minute flight to Gaborone, and a bus ride to our lodge.
7:30-10pm-ish: Checking in hotel/brief orientation.
Today/rest of week, lots of training, but some downtime in the evening…Friday move in with host family! AHH!
So here are a few quick observations:
Peace Corps Volunteers are pretty much the coolest people ever…LOVE everyone I’ve met, so genuine, caring, great senses of humor and perspective on life…love it!
Language training is awesome so far. I SUCK at learning languages, but I feel like I might actually be able to pick this up—they break us up into small groups of 4-ish and put us with an instructor who is FULL of patience and creative teaching skills…don’t know much so far, but it’s the first time I’ve felt optimistic about my chances of learning! Fingers crossed!
Botswana is SO beautiful. Gabs (short for Gaborone, where we are now) is so much more lush and green than I ever expected, and there are actually…I won’t say “mountains” but definitely some big hills which make the landscape even more beautiful. Arriving in fall is excellent, because the weather is just dreamy, and so far the mosquitoes haven’t been as bas as I’ve feared (although I know it’ll get worse).
The dirt is all red here! Pretty, but I can see how it will get tiring once I have to wash all of my clothes. It also smells really different here, really pretty. I don’t know if it’s the vegetation or something else, but it’s nice…
Although we haven’t had much exposure to the Batswana people, they seem really nice—lots of smiling and laughing; I LOVE that!
I got to go for a run/workout with a few volunteers…it was SO excellent…it’s kind of cool because it’s like…”hey, guess what I’m doing right now. Running. In Africa. Yeah. Africa.” Hehe.
Food hasn’t been an issue yet, but only time will tell on that one. Already missing chocolate a bit. ;o)
We’re definitely still in the cushy easing-us-in stage—nice hotel with running water and internet (expensive) and a TV, so I think it still hasn’t quite hit me. I sort of just have vague feelings of excitement and being totally overwhelmed lurking in the background. I can’t tell whether the whole shock hasn’t set in, or whether it just doesn’t feel as strange as I expected it to. I actually do feel a lot of sadness and homesickness—I really didn’t expect to feel so much so soon…darn you guys for being so awesome and making me miss you!! Anyway, I apologize for the long disjointed mess that this blog has been, but I’m alive and you all love me soooo much that I’m sure you don’t mind, right?! Hehe ;o) I have NO idea how often I’ll have access to the web, or how much I’ll be able to do when I’m online (here you pay based on time, and it’s not cheap; plus our training schedule is INtense), but I’ll do my best to stay in touch!
April 8, 2010
A Case of the Three’s
It’s funny how sometimes right before something big happens, everything seems to coalesce rather profoundly around something which would otherwise feel entirely insignificant. This morning, as I stare out the train window, enjoying my first and last (for a while) views of the Eastern Seaboard, gazing upon the early morning sunlight flickering through branches of trees about to burst with new spring life, I find myself fixated on the number three.
Three days until I leave.
Three cities left in America (D.C., Philadelphia, New York), then three cities in Africa (Johanasburg, Gaborone, Molepolole).
Three BIG bags.
Three impending goodbye calls to family.
Three Peace Corps values—patience, flexibility, and never forming expectations—which are prudent to success as a Peace Corps Volunteer.
The three-part Peace Corps Mission which I hope to manifest throughout my service and beyond:
1. To help the people of interested countries in meeting the need for trained men and women.
2. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the people served.
3. To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of all Americans.
And finally, the three simultaneous emotions, each spectacularly intense, which seem to be holding my sanity hostage: excitement, terror, and absolute confidence that whatever the end result, I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.
Three days until I leave.
Three cities left in America (D.C., Philadelphia, New York), then three cities in Africa (Johanasburg, Gaborone, Molepolole).
Three BIG bags.
Three impending goodbye calls to family.
Three Peace Corps values—patience, flexibility, and never forming expectations—which are prudent to success as a Peace Corps Volunteer.
The three-part Peace Corps Mission which I hope to manifest throughout my service and beyond:
1. To help the people of interested countries in meeting the need for trained men and women.
2. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the people served.
3. To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of all Americans.
And finally, the three simultaneous emotions, each spectacularly intense, which seem to be holding my sanity hostage: excitement, terror, and absolute confidence that whatever the end result, I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.
March 20, 2010
Last Lasts
Over the past year, many of you have become painfully aware of the toll that the lengthy Peace Corps application process can have on future/potential volunteers (and our dear friends and family, who bear the brunt of our worrying, whining, and obsessing . . . did I mention how much I love you guys?!). Indeed, a year, give or take a few months can feel like an extraordinary amount of time when you are literally not sure whether you’ll be moving to Seattle or Africa. Even the most seemingly mundane decisions like whether to eat out or stay home and settle for lentils and rice suddenly require an absurd level of scrutiny—do I enjoy the luxuries America has to offer while I can, or should I be responsible and save for the future? While this sort of thinking can drive a person mad, it was also the catalyst for what was almost certainly the best year of my life (up to this point, anyway).
Though I still unabashedly argue in favor of a shorter application process for volunteers, I must say that I can think of few other life circumstances that produce a similar sense of urgency for everyday situations. It is so easy to become complacent in our day-to-day lives that it has become a cliché movie plot or party game scenario to imagine what we would do if we were suddenly told we only had six months to live or won the lottery and had only a limited time to spend it.
The Peace Corps is hardly akin to death or Power Ball (upon which end of that spectrum it falls depends who you talk to, although it goes without saying that I consider acceptance a big victory :o), yet it inspired me to closely examine how I was spending the time before my possible departure and gave me an excuse to take advantage of the opportunities that are easy to pass up under normal circumstances. For the first time in my life, I actually made every decision a conscious decision, and stopped putting things off—I went to the big fireworks display on the Fourth, I ran a marathon, learned to ride a bike, went camping and hiking nearly every weekend over the summer, enjoyed the Farmer’s Markets, volunteered excessively, took roadtrips on a whim, went to concerts, made new friends, and generally didn’t let anything hold me back. Admittedly, this approach has its drawbacks—it can be quite selfish, and didn’t exactly help pad my savings account—but it enabled me to become a stronger, more empowered, and ultimately happier person.
Strangely enough, though, over the past year my preoccupation with last chances and living in the moment evolved away from the notion from which it originated—my impending departure—and morphed into a habitual change in thinking. I have maintained an awareness of what little time I have left with family, friends, and animal companions. I have participated in the ritual frenzy of packing and preparation (see previous entry :o). Yet my acceptance into the Peace Corps still felt like an abstraction.
It was not until I received an e-mail from the Peace Corps Staging Department that the implications and impact of my acceptance truly set in. I am actually going to Africa. Not to some romanticized land in some hypothetical future. I am going to Botswana. On April 11th. I am taking United Airlines Flight #9816 then Air Johanasburg Flight #38 to Gaborone, Botswana. Where I will live and eat and drink and sleep and work and play and get sick and make friends and get lost and learn and cry and experience the world in a whole new way. For 27 months.
These next few weeks will be full of my real lasts before my entire life will be turned upside-down, and the emotions surrounding it all are genuinely beginning to hit me—excitement for the experiences I will gain, sadness for things I will miss, anxiety for the change, and hope that my experience will be a success, whatever that means. I’m down to my last few lasts before I have a whole lot of firsts, and I think it’s finally set in.
Though I still unabashedly argue in favor of a shorter application process for volunteers, I must say that I can think of few other life circumstances that produce a similar sense of urgency for everyday situations. It is so easy to become complacent in our day-to-day lives that it has become a cliché movie plot or party game scenario to imagine what we would do if we were suddenly told we only had six months to live or won the lottery and had only a limited time to spend it.
The Peace Corps is hardly akin to death or Power Ball (upon which end of that spectrum it falls depends who you talk to, although it goes without saying that I consider acceptance a big victory :o), yet it inspired me to closely examine how I was spending the time before my possible departure and gave me an excuse to take advantage of the opportunities that are easy to pass up under normal circumstances. For the first time in my life, I actually made every decision a conscious decision, and stopped putting things off—I went to the big fireworks display on the Fourth, I ran a marathon, learned to ride a bike, went camping and hiking nearly every weekend over the summer, enjoyed the Farmer’s Markets, volunteered excessively, took roadtrips on a whim, went to concerts, made new friends, and generally didn’t let anything hold me back. Admittedly, this approach has its drawbacks—it can be quite selfish, and didn’t exactly help pad my savings account—but it enabled me to become a stronger, more empowered, and ultimately happier person.
Strangely enough, though, over the past year my preoccupation with last chances and living in the moment evolved away from the notion from which it originated—my impending departure—and morphed into a habitual change in thinking. I have maintained an awareness of what little time I have left with family, friends, and animal companions. I have participated in the ritual frenzy of packing and preparation (see previous entry :o). Yet my acceptance into the Peace Corps still felt like an abstraction.
It was not until I received an e-mail from the Peace Corps Staging Department that the implications and impact of my acceptance truly set in. I am actually going to Africa. Not to some romanticized land in some hypothetical future. I am going to Botswana. On April 11th. I am taking United Airlines Flight #9816 then Air Johanasburg Flight #38 to Gaborone, Botswana. Where I will live and eat and drink and sleep and work and play and get sick and make friends and get lost and learn and cry and experience the world in a whole new way. For 27 months.
These next few weeks will be full of my real lasts before my entire life will be turned upside-down, and the emotions surrounding it all are genuinely beginning to hit me—excitement for the experiences I will gain, sadness for things I will miss, anxiety for the change, and hope that my experience will be a success, whatever that means. I’m down to my last few lasts before I have a whole lot of firsts, and I think it’s finally set in.
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