*Edit* AHH! I didn't mean for the last line of this blog to sound like a passive-aggressive complaint that I haven't been getting enough letters! On the contrary, I meant that I hope the letters I sent HOME to YOU start arriving soon! AHH!!! Your letters and support are AMAZING and I would NEVER try to imply that you're not doing enough--you are all blowing me away with everything! *big hugs all around!!*
Before beginning, I feel the need to apologize to anyone who actually reads all of my blogs and is growing weary of my frequent redundancy…I have no idea whether most people persevere through each and every one of my long-winded soul-purges, or just catch a few snippets here and there…actually, I kind of have no idea how many people read any of these at all, save for a few loyal friends (y’all know who you are! Represent!!! XOXO!!!!), but I like to pretend a lot of people read them…because, clearly, I’m not narcissistic enough as it is ;o)…but anyway, I’m trying to make each entry fairly coherent in and of itself, and all of my experiences are kind of intertwined, so the repetition is kind of inevitable. Anyway…
As they say, sometimes you have to turn around to see how far you’ve come. For me, this past week was pretty much a 180 degree shift from my past three months, and even I am shocked at just how far I’ve traveled—both literally and figuratively. And, as is no surprise to those who know me or have been following this blog, this epiphany has once again left me with conflicting emotions—exuberant and unexpectedly confident at just how much I have adapted, but also almost inconsolably homesick, because of just how far removed from of my old comforts I really am.
There were three big events which triggered flashbacks that forced me to reflect back to the beginning of my service and my life in America. First of all, as I mentioned in my earlier blog, because my PCV village-mate’s cat was sick and she had to travel to Gaborone for mid-service training (MST), I spent several nights last week cat and house-sitting for her. And her house is worlds different from mine—nicer than any apartment I’ve had in the States. Indeed when I first stayed there during site visit, there were several occasions when I entirely forgot that I was not back in America, only to be jolted out of my temporary mental retreat by the startling sound of an angry cow mooing or children singing and playing in Setswana. As a result, I fully expected the same experience when I stayed over this time—comfort, security, and that feeling of “home.”
But what caught me entirely off-guard was that I did not feel that way at all. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate all of the amenities, which up until three months ago I took entirely for granted. On the contrary, I think it will take good money to get me to turn down a hot shower ever again (pause to appreciate your access to hot showers…they’re pretty freaking amazing). I relished each and every flush of the toilet, each time I turned the stove on and it actually worked, each evening curled up on the couch with a book or an episode of Gossip Girl (the Official television program of the Northern Delta. Anyone not in Botswana right now is not allowed to judge…being here makes you do crazy, crazy things; bad TV is quite possibly the least concerning). But the whole time I was there, I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling of being entirely out of place. Instead of feeling natural and intuitive, these things made me feel like I was staying in some sort of luxurious resort, not someone’s home. I actually missed my one-room block house and all of my buckets—which is great, considering I’m going to live here for the next two years. But it’s also quite disconcerting to feel so out-of-place in the environment that I have always considered to be my own.
So that was shock number one. The second was a bit more subtle. Although PST provided us with a great foundation to be rather conversational in Setswana, there are a few go-to phrases which come up time and time again and have become staples in my daily interactions. Among those phrases is the following: Ga ke bidiwa lakgoa! Ke bidiwa Gofaone, fela! In other words: I am not called “foreigner!” I am called “Ho-fa-oh-nay” (my Setswana name) only! Although lakgoa is not intended as an insult, seeing as I actually live here in Shakawe, I would prefer to be addressed by my actual name, instead of “out-of-towner.” So, each time I pass someone on the street and they shout “lakgoa,” I bust out my crazyawesome Setswana and offer up this phrase from my playbook. Despite my best efforts, though, I was beginning to give up—apparently lakgoa is just more fun or easier or something, because my name just didn’t seem to stick.
Until I went for my most recent run through town. It was astonishing—nearly every person I passed shouted out Gofaone or Gofa for short; almost no one called me lakgoa. It was as though a group decision was reached; as though the community decided my hazing was over, and I could now me called by my real name. Which is amazing—finally, I am not a foreigner, I’m being accepted as a part of the community. But it’s also kind of upsetting. After all, Gofaone isn’t my real real name. My actual real name is Chelsea. And although I am the one who decided to continue using my Setswana name, to help aid my integration, I miss being called Chelsea. Being accepted as Gofaone is another step closer to integration in my village, but another step away from my real identity at home—both literally and figuratively.
My final shocking moment came from Canada. Yes, Canada. Each year, my NGO partners with an NGO in Canada called Northern Youth Abroad to host a group of 10 or so high-school and college-age kids for a month to volunteer and learn about the local culture and community. Because of the similarity between Canadian and American culture, my NGO typically puts their PCV in charge of the group (my NGO has had several PCV’s before me). I was quite nervous about this, seeing as I have only been in the country for three months, and my village for one month—who am I to try to show them around, when I myself still feel overwhelmed? Except that apparently I don’t feel that overwhelmed anymore. Seeing a group of people suddenly pulled from their own culture and dropped in the middle of Botswana, expressing the same concerns I once expressed, consumed by the same fear and homesickness that I once felt, and bewildered by the same things I was once bewildered by, made me realize just how many challenges I have already overcome, just how much I have already learned. Being able to show them around town, answer many of their questions, and introduce them in Setswana to other members of the community—who already knew me, and carried on conversations with me in Setswana—made me suddenly realize how integrated I have already become here, even if I do still have a long way to go.
But as with my inadvertent acceptance of my current house, and my community’s sudden acceptance of my Setswana identity, this realization also made me feel a greater gap between the “me” that exists here in Shakawe, and the “me” that existed at home—while my integration means that I am transitioning well into my new community, it also means that I have already changed enough that I will have to re-transition back into my old life. I knew that re-integrating into American culture is a part of the Peace Corps experience. After all, if you have to modify your identity in order to acclimate here, obviously it will have to be altered again when you return home. But I guess I just didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.
So I once again find myself perplexed by the special kind of crazy emotional mood swing that only something like Peace Corps service can create—simultaneously lost and found, simultaneously home and worlds away from home. And, as with all other shades of Peace Corps Crazy, all I can do is wait for this uneasiness to pass. Which it will. And probably sooner than I expect it to. But in the mean time, I’ll just keep crossing my fingers that another one of your AMAZING letters comes soon, because hearing from you guys is nearly the only things keeping me from going insane or crying all the time! Love you all and miss you more than you know…and I hope some of my letters start arriving soon—mail takes so long!!!
July 19, 2010
Bigfoot, Bit Steps
This weekend is my three month anniversary of leaving the States, and my one month anniversary as a Peace Corps Volunteer living in Shakawe. In some ways I can’t believe it’s been that long, and in other ways, I can’t believe it hasn’t been longer, but regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, it has been three months and I have twenty-three more to go. I was kind of hoping to have some momentous event, symbolic statement, or deep inner-reflective moment to postulate on as a commemoration of this occasion, but no such luck—this weekend was no different than any other in my service.
But then it occurred to me—this weekend was just like any other day in my service: entirely unpredictable and nothing short of bizarre. It’s just that I’ve gotten so used to it that all of the crazy twists and turns no longer throw me for a loop (haha…twists and turns…loop…ahh, it’s a good thing I’m so easily amused…). So rather than try to make some grandiose statement, I can think of no better way to commemorate this milestone than to provide a glimpse into the strange world that has somehow become a mundane part of my life as a Peace Corps Bots-er. And I think it actually speaks volumes as-is, without trying to superimpose some higher meaning onto it. Because, really, sometimes things just don’t make sense, and coming to terms with that is just a part of Peace Corps life. So here goes….
Saturday morning I went for a three-hour run, nearly to the border of Namibia and back. On my way up, I saw a flock of what I later found out are extremely rare birds—large, black, and with very long, bright red beaks—hanging out in a field with a herd of cows. I was heckled by a group of construction workers (no surprise there) who, on my way back, were extremely concerned that I did not have enough water and insisted that I stop while one of them drove to the Mohembo ferry to buy me some. So I waited and we chatted about my knowledge of Setswana, and they insisted that I should have learned French instead since it is widely spoken throughout Africa and (obviously) also France. (I tried to explain that I wanted to learn about Setswana culture, and also that the Peace Corps requires us to learn Setswana, but I don’t think my point really got across.) Once the person returned with the bottled water, I drank it, and our chat was concluded with their declarations of love, requests for my phone number, and a marriage proposal. (In their defense, that was one of the longest conversations I’ve had since being here before those things came up.) I of course explained that I am not looking for a boyfriend and don’t give my number to strangers and proceeded with my run.
Then, when I was almost home, I ran into some tourists from Europe who were trying to get to Namibia but were lost (well, they were a father and son—men—so of course they weren’t “lost,” just “having difficulty with the map” haha—if you guys happen to be reading that I couldn’t resist adding that, sorry… :o). We chatted for some time and I pointed them in the right direction (there is a strange and wonderful sort of camaraderie amongst all of the travelers and volunteers I met—I quite love it and think I have officially been bitten by the infamous “travel bug”), and then headed home.
Except that instead of going home, I actually went to the house of the other Peace Corps volunteer in Shakawe, because the previous week her cat had had a urinary blockage (thanks to the help of some wonderful expat animal lovers, we were able to save his life), and I needed to cat-sit to make sure that he was recovering properly, because the other volunteer had to go to Gaborone for mid-service training (MST). And because she is not one of the twenty or so NGO volunteers in Bots, she has government housing—which means two bedrooms (each bigger than my entire house), two and a half baths (with running hot and cold water) a real kitchen (with actual counters and cabinets, a large pantry, a sink with hot and cold water, a real full-sized stove/oven and fridge, which are reasonably new and in perfect working order), fully furnished (queen-sized bed, nice headboard, dresser, solid wood dinner table and chairs, coffee table, couch, etc.), and entirely finished interiors (ceiling, rather than exposed tin roof, tiled floors instead of exposed concrete, actual lighting fixtures, and plenty of them, instead of my single dim exposed bulb...you get the picture…). So instead of taking a bucket bath, I got to take a hot shower...sigh…(incidentally, this is NOT to imply that her experience is any easier than mine—each experience is different and poses its own unique challenges, and many volunteers lament having the opportunity to have the “Peace Corps experience” which I am actually extremely grateful to have. I’m quite happy with my housing…but realistically, of course I’ll jump at every opportunity I get to take a hot, clean shower—who wouldn’t?!)
Following my run, I went to meet my best Motswana friend, because one of her friends promised us a boat ride when we ran into him at the beach earlier that week. So, we went to meet with him, and he told us that his other friend (who of course just had to live all the way across town) had the boat, and that if we met up with his other friend, his other friend would give us a boat ride. My friend suspected he was lying (apparently he had tried to get her to give him my phone number because he wanted to date me, and he was upset when she told him I was not looking for a boyfriend), but considering we had no other plans, we decided it was worth a shot.
So we walked several miles across town to her friend’s friend’s house (I don’t mean for this to be as difficult to follow as it is, but without using names it’s tricky!!). I spent a good portion of the walk explaining to strangers why I wore a headband the day before (there was no reason—I just felt like wearing a headband. But around here people talk, and as a white American, I stand out…so when I do something a little different, word gets around…so at least a dozen people said “Ah, I saw you yesterday, you were wearing something in your hair!”), and saw my first Botswana squirrel (pretty much the same as regular squirrels, but exciting nonetheless), and discovered that my friend shares my warped sense of humor (she told me how she likes to fool people from outside of the Delta by making up crazy stories about the plants and animals of the Delta, and I told her about how I thought it would be awesome to be a Park Ranger because you could make up all kinds of crazy stories and everyone would believe you because you’re a Park Ranger…and then I told her about Venus fly traps, and we laughed because she couldn’t tell whether I was serious or messing with her…hahaha). On the way, to her friend’s friend’s house, I ran into one of my other friends who was picking lemons from her yard and insisted that we take a very large bag full of them (again, the collective culture works both ways—awesome!), so we did.
When we arrived at my friend’s friend’s friend’s house (are you up enough on junior high she-said-he-said skills to follow this?!) he was not there, as we initially expected. So, seeing as it was starting to get dark, we began our long trek home. On the way home, I ran into yet another friend. While chatting with him, this amazingly sweet, totally trained and neutered dog appeared out of nowhere. We learned that the dog had belonged to an American who left him behind when he returned home to the States. The dog apparently sensed what a crazy animal person I am and immediately bonded with me. So as the sun set, we walked home on a trail right next to the river (SO beautiful), carrying the world’s biggest bag of lemons, and trailed by who would soon become my dog (well, until I can place him with a permanent resident who shares my opinions on companion animals—I’m working on it as we speak), talking about Sasquatch and Botswana monster legends (since it was getting dark and we were walking through the “forest,” we decided to exchange scary stories) all the way home.
Sunday morning I woke up and walked with my new dog to Choppies so that I could meet some of my friends to go to church at my supervisor’s house. My supervisor is an expat from South Africa and lives in an amazingly gorgeous house right on the Delta—it feels like a little oasis, almost an entirely different world from downtown Shaks. Because most of the congregants of the church are from South Africa, church was held half in Afrikaans and half in English. Following the service, homemade pastries were served and I drank REAL coffee, played with dogs that only knew German (because my supervisor’s son-in-law is German and they are his dogs) and watched the monkeys (vervet monkeys and baboons…!!!) play in the trees and try to eat the paw-paws, while we chatted about potato farming in South Africa. Then I returned home, picked my dog up from Choppies, did chores, worked on my Peace Corps community assessment, watched some Gossip Girl, and wrote this blog.
So there you have it…an average weekend in the life of Peace Corps Bots-er. Three months in Africa (and counting) and somehow my sense of normalcy has been turned entirely on it’s head!
But then it occurred to me—this weekend was just like any other day in my service: entirely unpredictable and nothing short of bizarre. It’s just that I’ve gotten so used to it that all of the crazy twists and turns no longer throw me for a loop (haha…twists and turns…loop…ahh, it’s a good thing I’m so easily amused…). So rather than try to make some grandiose statement, I can think of no better way to commemorate this milestone than to provide a glimpse into the strange world that has somehow become a mundane part of my life as a Peace Corps Bots-er. And I think it actually speaks volumes as-is, without trying to superimpose some higher meaning onto it. Because, really, sometimes things just don’t make sense, and coming to terms with that is just a part of Peace Corps life. So here goes….
Saturday morning I went for a three-hour run, nearly to the border of Namibia and back. On my way up, I saw a flock of what I later found out are extremely rare birds—large, black, and with very long, bright red beaks—hanging out in a field with a herd of cows. I was heckled by a group of construction workers (no surprise there) who, on my way back, were extremely concerned that I did not have enough water and insisted that I stop while one of them drove to the Mohembo ferry to buy me some. So I waited and we chatted about my knowledge of Setswana, and they insisted that I should have learned French instead since it is widely spoken throughout Africa and (obviously) also France. (I tried to explain that I wanted to learn about Setswana culture, and also that the Peace Corps requires us to learn Setswana, but I don’t think my point really got across.) Once the person returned with the bottled water, I drank it, and our chat was concluded with their declarations of love, requests for my phone number, and a marriage proposal. (In their defense, that was one of the longest conversations I’ve had since being here before those things came up.) I of course explained that I am not looking for a boyfriend and don’t give my number to strangers and proceeded with my run.
Then, when I was almost home, I ran into some tourists from Europe who were trying to get to Namibia but were lost (well, they were a father and son—men—so of course they weren’t “lost,” just “having difficulty with the map” haha—if you guys happen to be reading that I couldn’t resist adding that, sorry… :o). We chatted for some time and I pointed them in the right direction (there is a strange and wonderful sort of camaraderie amongst all of the travelers and volunteers I met—I quite love it and think I have officially been bitten by the infamous “travel bug”), and then headed home.
Except that instead of going home, I actually went to the house of the other Peace Corps volunteer in Shakawe, because the previous week her cat had had a urinary blockage (thanks to the help of some wonderful expat animal lovers, we were able to save his life), and I needed to cat-sit to make sure that he was recovering properly, because the other volunteer had to go to Gaborone for mid-service training (MST). And because she is not one of the twenty or so NGO volunteers in Bots, she has government housing—which means two bedrooms (each bigger than my entire house), two and a half baths (with running hot and cold water) a real kitchen (with actual counters and cabinets, a large pantry, a sink with hot and cold water, a real full-sized stove/oven and fridge, which are reasonably new and in perfect working order), fully furnished (queen-sized bed, nice headboard, dresser, solid wood dinner table and chairs, coffee table, couch, etc.), and entirely finished interiors (ceiling, rather than exposed tin roof, tiled floors instead of exposed concrete, actual lighting fixtures, and plenty of them, instead of my single dim exposed bulb...you get the picture…). So instead of taking a bucket bath, I got to take a hot shower...sigh…(incidentally, this is NOT to imply that her experience is any easier than mine—each experience is different and poses its own unique challenges, and many volunteers lament having the opportunity to have the “Peace Corps experience” which I am actually extremely grateful to have. I’m quite happy with my housing…but realistically, of course I’ll jump at every opportunity I get to take a hot, clean shower—who wouldn’t?!)
Following my run, I went to meet my best Motswana friend, because one of her friends promised us a boat ride when we ran into him at the beach earlier that week. So, we went to meet with him, and he told us that his other friend (who of course just had to live all the way across town) had the boat, and that if we met up with his other friend, his other friend would give us a boat ride. My friend suspected he was lying (apparently he had tried to get her to give him my phone number because he wanted to date me, and he was upset when she told him I was not looking for a boyfriend), but considering we had no other plans, we decided it was worth a shot.
So we walked several miles across town to her friend’s friend’s house (I don’t mean for this to be as difficult to follow as it is, but without using names it’s tricky!!). I spent a good portion of the walk explaining to strangers why I wore a headband the day before (there was no reason—I just felt like wearing a headband. But around here people talk, and as a white American, I stand out…so when I do something a little different, word gets around…so at least a dozen people said “Ah, I saw you yesterday, you were wearing something in your hair!”), and saw my first Botswana squirrel (pretty much the same as regular squirrels, but exciting nonetheless), and discovered that my friend shares my warped sense of humor (she told me how she likes to fool people from outside of the Delta by making up crazy stories about the plants and animals of the Delta, and I told her about how I thought it would be awesome to be a Park Ranger because you could make up all kinds of crazy stories and everyone would believe you because you’re a Park Ranger…and then I told her about Venus fly traps, and we laughed because she couldn’t tell whether I was serious or messing with her…hahaha). On the way, to her friend’s friend’s house, I ran into one of my other friends who was picking lemons from her yard and insisted that we take a very large bag full of them (again, the collective culture works both ways—awesome!), so we did.
When we arrived at my friend’s friend’s friend’s house (are you up enough on junior high she-said-he-said skills to follow this?!) he was not there, as we initially expected. So, seeing as it was starting to get dark, we began our long trek home. On the way home, I ran into yet another friend. While chatting with him, this amazingly sweet, totally trained and neutered dog appeared out of nowhere. We learned that the dog had belonged to an American who left him behind when he returned home to the States. The dog apparently sensed what a crazy animal person I am and immediately bonded with me. So as the sun set, we walked home on a trail right next to the river (SO beautiful), carrying the world’s biggest bag of lemons, and trailed by who would soon become my dog (well, until I can place him with a permanent resident who shares my opinions on companion animals—I’m working on it as we speak), talking about Sasquatch and Botswana monster legends (since it was getting dark and we were walking through the “forest,” we decided to exchange scary stories) all the way home.
Sunday morning I woke up and walked with my new dog to Choppies so that I could meet some of my friends to go to church at my supervisor’s house. My supervisor is an expat from South Africa and lives in an amazingly gorgeous house right on the Delta—it feels like a little oasis, almost an entirely different world from downtown Shaks. Because most of the congregants of the church are from South Africa, church was held half in Afrikaans and half in English. Following the service, homemade pastries were served and I drank REAL coffee, played with dogs that only knew German (because my supervisor’s son-in-law is German and they are his dogs) and watched the monkeys (vervet monkeys and baboons…!!!) play in the trees and try to eat the paw-paws, while we chatted about potato farming in South Africa. Then I returned home, picked my dog up from Choppies, did chores, worked on my Peace Corps community assessment, watched some Gossip Girl, and wrote this blog.
So there you have it…an average weekend in the life of Peace Corps Bots-er. Three months in Africa (and counting) and somehow my sense of normalcy has been turned entirely on it’s head!
Proud to Be an American…No, REALLY…
I’m sure you’ve figured this out, but as a result of limited internet access combined with my attempts to make sure each blog is reasonably coherent, there is a bit of a lag time between when the events discussed in each blog have taken place and when the blogs are actully posted…case in point: it’s nearly August and I’m just now posting my July 4th blog…so you’ll just have to take yourselves back a few weeks to relive the magic :o)
Oh holidays…how they always seem to serve as the mile-markers of life. It’s nearly impossible to mark the passing of one holiday without at least vaguely reflecting on your experiences of holidays past. For me, this Fourth of July was no exception. Because I knew there was a possibility that I might not be in the United States this year, last year I was determined to have THE bona-fide American Independence Day experience. So I made my now much-missed commute from Portland to Seattle, my favorite city on the world. I sat amongst my fellow Americans packed onto the grassy hills of Gasworks Park, passing around beach balls and light sticks, watching the plethora of unofficial illegal neighborhood fireworks shows illuminating the horizon, and chiming in on the collective groans about the woes of big crowds, over-priced cotton candy, and the apparent inability for any large event to ever begin on time. But despite my apparent involvement in the event, all the while, I was stuck in my own head, preoccupied with the uncertainty of everything in my life at that point—I literally had no idea whether my next year would be spent here in America, living the same way I always have, or in some foreign place halfway across the world re-learning even the most basic elements of life.
The sky grew dark, a handful of stars emerged, and the display finally began. The bright colors flashed hypnotically overhead then drizzled down over the Seattle skyline, with the full moon on one side, and the Space Needle on the other. I was in my favorite, most familiar place in the world, completely certain of my surroundings, yet I was entirely uncertain about my own life, my own future. The thunderous booms of each explosion drowned out the noises of the crowd and the world around me, and I found myself feeling all alone—a sense which is certainly not uncommon on holidays, but it wasn’t in a bad, lonely way. And it wasn’t really in a good, independent, empowered way either. Knowing that I was at one of the greatest metaphorical forks in my life’s path just made me feel extremely detached and isolated, even though I was embedded in the midst of other people. I couldn’t help but to be consumed by the dichotomy of possibilities that lied in front of me—was I about to spread my wings or plant my roots?
So that was last year. This year could not have been more different. There is one other PCV in my village, from last year’s Peace Corps class (Bots 8). We have been making a point of trying not to spend a great deal of time together during my initial time here in Shakawe, to ensure that I am integrating into the community, rather than just hanging with her. However, because holidays here are prone to extreme homesickness, we decided to spend the afternoon of the 4th together, making American food, watching American television, and embracing American pop-culture (which, ironically, is something I loved to loathe before I left the States). So I spent the week before making cookies and coconut ice cream (which took two days to freeze, seeing as the power did not seem to want to stay on—oh the perils of PC Bots—sometimes the freezer doesn’t work—ha!) and procuring vegan hot dogs, Cokes in glass bottles, and Heinz Ketchup from Choppies. When the Fourth arrived, I got decked out in red, white, and blue, and headed to her house.
We didn’t have fireworks. We didn’t have patriotic music or large crowds and cotton candy. We didn’t even have family or old friends. But we had our Coke floats. We had our episodes of Friends. We had our stories about home, about our traditions and of our 4th of July’s past. We had each other. So for a few hours, we let the world around us fall away and allowed ourselves to relax and enjoy the comfort of each other’s company.
But as it got dark, it was time for our bubble of Americana to burst, and as I stepped outside, I felt it shatter as I found myself involuntarily uttering “Dumela” rather than “Hello” to the first shadowy figure I passed. As I trudged along the dusty road, attempting to make sense of the darkened shapes of my village at night, illuminated only by the stars above, I realized that I was literally in the opposite place—both physically and emotionally—that I was in last year. I was entirely uncertain of the unfamiliar world around me, but had no doubts about what I would be doing for the next two years. I was literally alone, but feeling so much love from family and friends, thousands of miles away, and my new second-family of PCV’s here in Botswana. And unlike the slightly smug attitude I used to have towards American pop culture, which was so easy and convenient to suavely maintain while sipping my fair trade organic soy latte and feeling self-righteous for driving a Prius, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude for all of the opportunity and privilege that America bestows upon its citizens, and so appreciative of the culture and values that I grew up with.
I know that probably sounds entirely cheesy and over-the-top to a lot of you…and of course, America is far from perfect—but what isn’t? And I really do think a lot of us take a lot of stuff for granted—and just the fact that we are able to do that is demonstrative of just how great America is. None of this is intended to be derogatory towards Botswana, of course—but I think it’s important for all of us to embrace where we came from every now and again…and what better time than on our Independence Day? Now someone go get a soy latte and take a spin a hybrid for me…pretty please?!
Oh holidays…how they always seem to serve as the mile-markers of life. It’s nearly impossible to mark the passing of one holiday without at least vaguely reflecting on your experiences of holidays past. For me, this Fourth of July was no exception. Because I knew there was a possibility that I might not be in the United States this year, last year I was determined to have THE bona-fide American Independence Day experience. So I made my now much-missed commute from Portland to Seattle, my favorite city on the world. I sat amongst my fellow Americans packed onto the grassy hills of Gasworks Park, passing around beach balls and light sticks, watching the plethora of unofficial illegal neighborhood fireworks shows illuminating the horizon, and chiming in on the collective groans about the woes of big crowds, over-priced cotton candy, and the apparent inability for any large event to ever begin on time. But despite my apparent involvement in the event, all the while, I was stuck in my own head, preoccupied with the uncertainty of everything in my life at that point—I literally had no idea whether my next year would be spent here in America, living the same way I always have, or in some foreign place halfway across the world re-learning even the most basic elements of life.
The sky grew dark, a handful of stars emerged, and the display finally began. The bright colors flashed hypnotically overhead then drizzled down over the Seattle skyline, with the full moon on one side, and the Space Needle on the other. I was in my favorite, most familiar place in the world, completely certain of my surroundings, yet I was entirely uncertain about my own life, my own future. The thunderous booms of each explosion drowned out the noises of the crowd and the world around me, and I found myself feeling all alone—a sense which is certainly not uncommon on holidays, but it wasn’t in a bad, lonely way. And it wasn’t really in a good, independent, empowered way either. Knowing that I was at one of the greatest metaphorical forks in my life’s path just made me feel extremely detached and isolated, even though I was embedded in the midst of other people. I couldn’t help but to be consumed by the dichotomy of possibilities that lied in front of me—was I about to spread my wings or plant my roots?
So that was last year. This year could not have been more different. There is one other PCV in my village, from last year’s Peace Corps class (Bots 8). We have been making a point of trying not to spend a great deal of time together during my initial time here in Shakawe, to ensure that I am integrating into the community, rather than just hanging with her. However, because holidays here are prone to extreme homesickness, we decided to spend the afternoon of the 4th together, making American food, watching American television, and embracing American pop-culture (which, ironically, is something I loved to loathe before I left the States). So I spent the week before making cookies and coconut ice cream (which took two days to freeze, seeing as the power did not seem to want to stay on—oh the perils of PC Bots—sometimes the freezer doesn’t work—ha!) and procuring vegan hot dogs, Cokes in glass bottles, and Heinz Ketchup from Choppies. When the Fourth arrived, I got decked out in red, white, and blue, and headed to her house.
We didn’t have fireworks. We didn’t have patriotic music or large crowds and cotton candy. We didn’t even have family or old friends. But we had our Coke floats. We had our episodes of Friends. We had our stories about home, about our traditions and of our 4th of July’s past. We had each other. So for a few hours, we let the world around us fall away and allowed ourselves to relax and enjoy the comfort of each other’s company.
But as it got dark, it was time for our bubble of Americana to burst, and as I stepped outside, I felt it shatter as I found myself involuntarily uttering “Dumela” rather than “Hello” to the first shadowy figure I passed. As I trudged along the dusty road, attempting to make sense of the darkened shapes of my village at night, illuminated only by the stars above, I realized that I was literally in the opposite place—both physically and emotionally—that I was in last year. I was entirely uncertain of the unfamiliar world around me, but had no doubts about what I would be doing for the next two years. I was literally alone, but feeling so much love from family and friends, thousands of miles away, and my new second-family of PCV’s here in Botswana. And unlike the slightly smug attitude I used to have towards American pop culture, which was so easy and convenient to suavely maintain while sipping my fair trade organic soy latte and feeling self-righteous for driving a Prius, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude for all of the opportunity and privilege that America bestows upon its citizens, and so appreciative of the culture and values that I grew up with.
I know that probably sounds entirely cheesy and over-the-top to a lot of you…and of course, America is far from perfect—but what isn’t? And I really do think a lot of us take a lot of stuff for granted—and just the fact that we are able to do that is demonstrative of just how great America is. None of this is intended to be derogatory towards Botswana, of course—but I think it’s important for all of us to embrace where we came from every now and again…and what better time than on our Independence Day? Now someone go get a soy latte and take a spin a hybrid for me…pretty please?!
July 11, 2010
T a k i n g I t S l o w . . .
Before beginning, I must say that actually feeling really positive at the moment, despite the way this blog might come off sounding—I mean it to be light-hearted commentary, not a bitter rant, though I suspect it might read either way since you can’t hear my tone of voice…but rest assured, all is well—I love my counterpart (which I am aware that I still need to tell you about) and my village (same as before) and am actually at one of the more peak-like portions of the PCV mood-swings…so please read this accordingly!
Before I left the States, as I researched Peace Corps service, life in developing countries, etc. I was inundated with trite clichés about how life outside of the States “moves a little slower,” as well as romanticized notions about how people don’t really put much emphasis on time, and instead just follow the “rhythm of daily life.” As an American—and, in fact, an especially impatient American (as almost anyone who has ever met me can attest to…am I done writing this blog yet?!)—this change in pace was actually among the adaptations I was most looking forward to…how nice to slow down a bit, relax, and be a little more prepared to roll with the punches, right?
It all sounds so great. But in retrospect, I don’t think I actually delved into what those phrases actually entailed (probably because I was too busy being an industrious American to really give it a second thought). I mean, really, what does “move to the rhythm of life” even MEAN? Don’t we do that in America—if I need to go to the store, I go to the store…if I need to make dinner, I make dinner…if I want to spend an evening relaxing and hanging out with friends, or in my jammies with a cat on my lap and a movie on the TV, I do it…that sounds a lot like “taking life as it comes,” right? Upon thinking about it, it IS a bit ambiguous, is it not?
Since my arrival in Botswana, the idea has become a tad more lucid. Let me illustrate.
My NGO needs to repaint several rooms and the exterior of a building, and I was assigned to obtain an estimate for this task (I will be doing more substantive work after IST [in-service-training] in August, but during our first two months of lockdown, our primary task is getting to know our counterpart organization and our community, so we are doing more menial tasks at work). I was instructed to contact a local handy-man, who I was told would be able to swing by and give us a figure. Simple, right?
Of course, in order for me to do that, I would need to get the handyman’s phone number. But it shouldn’t be hard to get, because my NGO works with him all the time, so someone there has to have his number, right? Except that no one was quite sure who had the number. So I asked my counterpart. She said she didn’t have the number, but referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. The other person was in a meeting, so I waited. I caught her when the meeting was over, and she said she didn’t have the number, but referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. That person was teaching and not available until recess, so I waited. I caught her on her way out of class. She said she didn’t have the number, but referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. I think you see where this is going. So, eventually, after waiting and talking, waiting and talking, to person after person after person, I found out that the person who actually had the phone number was out for the day. So that was Day 1 (the whole process probably took about 6 hours).
Day 2: SUCCESS! I was able to track down the person with the phone number, use the phone, AND when I called the handyman, he actually answered the phone, AND had time to answer my questions! Except that he said that he couldn’t do it, but that if I measured the surface area of the rooms that need to be painted, I could calculate how much paint to buy based on the coverage area indicated on the paint cans. No sweat.
Of course in order for me to do that, I would need measuring tape. So, I asked my counterpart if my NGO had a measuring tape. She said that we had one, but she didn’t know where it was and referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. The other person was on lunch, so I waited for her. She said she didn’t know where it was and referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it…I think you can guess where this is going. So, another 6 or so hours later, I reached the end of the line, the one person that everyone said for certain knew where our measuring tape was. SUCCESS!
Except that he said that we actually don’t have a measuring tape. Awesome. So I asked if he knew where I could get one. He said that a nearby NGO had one. So, I walked to the other NGO, praying that someone would be in the office (just because things are “open” here doesn’t actually mean that anyone is there, or that if there are people there, they are the people you are looking for, or know where the people you are looking for are or when they will be back). Fortunately as I walked in, I saw just the person I was looking for. So I introduced myself and exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes (as is socially required). Then I explained the situation and asked if he had a measuring tape and if we could borrow it. He said that they did! And that we could borrow it! SUCCESS!
Except that the measuring was currently being used on a project in another village, several hours away, and he didn’t think they would have it back for a couple of weeks. Sigh. I was frustrated, but not defeated. So I asked if he knew of any other place where I could obtain a measuring tape. He didn’t. So that was the end of Day 2. Bring on the defeat.
Now by this point you have probably already begun tapping into your crafty American/Western entrepreneurial spirit, devising alternate ways to obtain the surface area—why didn’t I just use a string and then measure that with a ruler, you might be thinking. Because that would entail finding a string and a ruler—kind of like trying to find a measuring tape… Why not just buy a measuring tape? Because things like that are quite expensive here, and we have very limited funds, so to invest our money on something we use so infrequently, and which we may, in fact, already have, is extremely wasteful; plus I would have to track down a store in this area that has one for sale. Why not just “eyeball it”? Because I’d have to guess in square meters, not square feet, and we Americans can’t be bothered by the metric system, so my ability to guestimate a square meter is about as accurate as my ability to approximate a “dollop,” and it’s a number of really large rooms we’re talking about, so a small miscalculation of the size of a meter will be significantly multiplied, and then squared, in order to calculate the surface area, and although the estimate does not have to be perfect, if it is significantly off in either direction, it could spell the end of the project (if the estimate is too low, my NGO would have to provide the additional funds necessary to complete it, and if it’s too high, it could cause our funders to say the project is too costly and back out). Don’t think my mind didn’t filter through all of these ideas, and more, during the hours and days I spent searching. Believe me, it did. But again, being an American, it’s just entirely inconceivable to me that it could be THAT difficult to do something as seemingly simple as obtaining a measuring tape, so with each step of the way, I became more determined that SURELY I could make it happen. Plus, the whole nature of a wild goose chase, is that you are made to believe that each step along the way will be the last…so my quest continued.
Beginning of Day 3. Since the whole obtaining-an-actual-measurement thing seemed to be a dead end, I decided to focus my efforts on getting estimates for how much the paint would cost per square meter (so that I could then multiply that by the number of square meters we needed to paint, assuming that I was ever able to actually figure that out). Another simple task—go to the hardware stores around town and read the paint cans, right? Wrong. First store: out of the kind of paint we needed; store clerk said she did not know anything about paint. Second store: tons of paint, but none of the labels indicated their coverage area; store clerk said he did not know anything about paint. Third (and final) store: a few cans of paint, and two that stated their coverage area. SUCCESS! Except that they were seemingly identical cans of paint—same type, color (paint is priced differently by color), and quality rating—but one supposedly covered twice as much area per liter as the other. So go with whichever was most cost-effective, right? Except that neither had a price. And the clerk didn’t know how much they were. And the paint I had seen at the other stores varied significantly in cost (three-fold, actually), again, without any visible difference in quality. Awesome. But on this one, I was ok with using my American take-charge approach, and just guessed a coverage area halfway between the two I found and used a mid-range price from the other two stores.
So that was half of day 3—maybe about 4 hours, between all the walking, and trying to hunt down the store clerks and ask them my questions (and of course making small-talk, which, as stated before, is socially required). But even with a ballpark cost-per-square meter for the paint, when I returned to work, I was still at a stopping point. Since I had done so much guesswork with the paint, I was really reluctant to guess with the measurements. But since the estimate was for a Western funder, I had an actual deadline to meet (I had foolishly told one of my European supervisors that I would be able to complete the project, which included a three-page proposal in one day—ha! The proposal required only my work, so was done within a couple of hours, but because the estimate required outside help…well, you see how it went. [Incidentally, writing proposals is also not what I will be doing after IST—our job is to capacity-build and create sustainable solutions for our counterparts, like training a local employee of the NGO to write proposals, but before IST, as I said, we are supposed to focus on our own learning about the way our community works…so this is actually a good example of the way my time should be spent.]). Needless to say, I was feeling a bit uneasy.
But then, just in the nick of time—dramatic pause—the person from the other NGO appeared to save the day! He had found the measuring tape and brought it for us to use! SUCCESS!
Of course in order to measure, I would need to find someone willing to take a few minutes to help me by holding the other end…
Ultimately, on Day 4, I was able to complete the project. SUCCESS!
Except that the project not only needed to be completed, but it needed to be e-mailed or faxed to our funders. Our e-mail was down, and our printer decided it didn’t want to print the document (regardless of the format—I even tried to switch to .pdf), which meant there was nothing to fax. Locating e-mail on a computer that would read the flash drive AND had a fast enough internet connection to upload a Word document ate up the rest of Day 4 and part of Day 5…but finally, REAL SUCCESS!!!!! PROPOSAL SUBMITTED!!! And it only took 5 days…
And that, my friends, is what it means to “slow down” and “not be so caught up in the hustle and bustle of American life.” I must admit that I am still clinging to my American ways on this one, and wishing that story were an anomaly. But it’s just the way things work here. I’ve heard similar tales from all of the other volunteers, and experienced similar situations myself. But it’s not inefficiency or laziness; it’s a cultural difference, the actual embodiment of living at a more relaxed pace. And, really, I don’t have the right to be caught too off-guard by it. After all, if I hadn’t been so caught up in my fast-paced ways at home, I probably would’ve taken the time to actually interpret the implications of “taking time to smell the roses.” And it probably is a good lesson to learn, really. But I won’t lie…it’s going to be a tough one.
Before I left the States, as I researched Peace Corps service, life in developing countries, etc. I was inundated with trite clichés about how life outside of the States “moves a little slower,” as well as romanticized notions about how people don’t really put much emphasis on time, and instead just follow the “rhythm of daily life.” As an American—and, in fact, an especially impatient American (as almost anyone who has ever met me can attest to…am I done writing this blog yet?!)—this change in pace was actually among the adaptations I was most looking forward to…how nice to slow down a bit, relax, and be a little more prepared to roll with the punches, right?
It all sounds so great. But in retrospect, I don’t think I actually delved into what those phrases actually entailed (probably because I was too busy being an industrious American to really give it a second thought). I mean, really, what does “move to the rhythm of life” even MEAN? Don’t we do that in America—if I need to go to the store, I go to the store…if I need to make dinner, I make dinner…if I want to spend an evening relaxing and hanging out with friends, or in my jammies with a cat on my lap and a movie on the TV, I do it…that sounds a lot like “taking life as it comes,” right? Upon thinking about it, it IS a bit ambiguous, is it not?
Since my arrival in Botswana, the idea has become a tad more lucid. Let me illustrate.
My NGO needs to repaint several rooms and the exterior of a building, and I was assigned to obtain an estimate for this task (I will be doing more substantive work after IST [in-service-training] in August, but during our first two months of lockdown, our primary task is getting to know our counterpart organization and our community, so we are doing more menial tasks at work). I was instructed to contact a local handy-man, who I was told would be able to swing by and give us a figure. Simple, right?
Of course, in order for me to do that, I would need to get the handyman’s phone number. But it shouldn’t be hard to get, because my NGO works with him all the time, so someone there has to have his number, right? Except that no one was quite sure who had the number. So I asked my counterpart. She said she didn’t have the number, but referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. The other person was in a meeting, so I waited. I caught her when the meeting was over, and she said she didn’t have the number, but referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. That person was teaching and not available until recess, so I waited. I caught her on her way out of class. She said she didn’t have the number, but referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. I think you see where this is going. So, eventually, after waiting and talking, waiting and talking, to person after person after person, I found out that the person who actually had the phone number was out for the day. So that was Day 1 (the whole process probably took about 6 hours).
Day 2: SUCCESS! I was able to track down the person with the phone number, use the phone, AND when I called the handyman, he actually answered the phone, AND had time to answer my questions! Except that he said that he couldn’t do it, but that if I measured the surface area of the rooms that need to be painted, I could calculate how much paint to buy based on the coverage area indicated on the paint cans. No sweat.
Of course in order for me to do that, I would need measuring tape. So, I asked my counterpart if my NGO had a measuring tape. She said that we had one, but she didn’t know where it was and referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it. The other person was on lunch, so I waited for her. She said she didn’t know where it was and referred me to another person, who she was sure would have it…I think you can guess where this is going. So, another 6 or so hours later, I reached the end of the line, the one person that everyone said for certain knew where our measuring tape was. SUCCESS!
Except that he said that we actually don’t have a measuring tape. Awesome. So I asked if he knew where I could get one. He said that a nearby NGO had one. So, I walked to the other NGO, praying that someone would be in the office (just because things are “open” here doesn’t actually mean that anyone is there, or that if there are people there, they are the people you are looking for, or know where the people you are looking for are or when they will be back). Fortunately as I walked in, I saw just the person I was looking for. So I introduced myself and exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes (as is socially required). Then I explained the situation and asked if he had a measuring tape and if we could borrow it. He said that they did! And that we could borrow it! SUCCESS!
Except that the measuring was currently being used on a project in another village, several hours away, and he didn’t think they would have it back for a couple of weeks. Sigh. I was frustrated, but not defeated. So I asked if he knew of any other place where I could obtain a measuring tape. He didn’t. So that was the end of Day 2. Bring on the defeat.
Now by this point you have probably already begun tapping into your crafty American/Western entrepreneurial spirit, devising alternate ways to obtain the surface area—why didn’t I just use a string and then measure that with a ruler, you might be thinking. Because that would entail finding a string and a ruler—kind of like trying to find a measuring tape… Why not just buy a measuring tape? Because things like that are quite expensive here, and we have very limited funds, so to invest our money on something we use so infrequently, and which we may, in fact, already have, is extremely wasteful; plus I would have to track down a store in this area that has one for sale. Why not just “eyeball it”? Because I’d have to guess in square meters, not square feet, and we Americans can’t be bothered by the metric system, so my ability to guestimate a square meter is about as accurate as my ability to approximate a “dollop,” and it’s a number of really large rooms we’re talking about, so a small miscalculation of the size of a meter will be significantly multiplied, and then squared, in order to calculate the surface area, and although the estimate does not have to be perfect, if it is significantly off in either direction, it could spell the end of the project (if the estimate is too low, my NGO would have to provide the additional funds necessary to complete it, and if it’s too high, it could cause our funders to say the project is too costly and back out). Don’t think my mind didn’t filter through all of these ideas, and more, during the hours and days I spent searching. Believe me, it did. But again, being an American, it’s just entirely inconceivable to me that it could be THAT difficult to do something as seemingly simple as obtaining a measuring tape, so with each step of the way, I became more determined that SURELY I could make it happen. Plus, the whole nature of a wild goose chase, is that you are made to believe that each step along the way will be the last…so my quest continued.
Beginning of Day 3. Since the whole obtaining-an-actual-measurement thing seemed to be a dead end, I decided to focus my efforts on getting estimates for how much the paint would cost per square meter (so that I could then multiply that by the number of square meters we needed to paint, assuming that I was ever able to actually figure that out). Another simple task—go to the hardware stores around town and read the paint cans, right? Wrong. First store: out of the kind of paint we needed; store clerk said she did not know anything about paint. Second store: tons of paint, but none of the labels indicated their coverage area; store clerk said he did not know anything about paint. Third (and final) store: a few cans of paint, and two that stated their coverage area. SUCCESS! Except that they were seemingly identical cans of paint—same type, color (paint is priced differently by color), and quality rating—but one supposedly covered twice as much area per liter as the other. So go with whichever was most cost-effective, right? Except that neither had a price. And the clerk didn’t know how much they were. And the paint I had seen at the other stores varied significantly in cost (three-fold, actually), again, without any visible difference in quality. Awesome. But on this one, I was ok with using my American take-charge approach, and just guessed a coverage area halfway between the two I found and used a mid-range price from the other two stores.
So that was half of day 3—maybe about 4 hours, between all the walking, and trying to hunt down the store clerks and ask them my questions (and of course making small-talk, which, as stated before, is socially required). But even with a ballpark cost-per-square meter for the paint, when I returned to work, I was still at a stopping point. Since I had done so much guesswork with the paint, I was really reluctant to guess with the measurements. But since the estimate was for a Western funder, I had an actual deadline to meet (I had foolishly told one of my European supervisors that I would be able to complete the project, which included a three-page proposal in one day—ha! The proposal required only my work, so was done within a couple of hours, but because the estimate required outside help…well, you see how it went. [Incidentally, writing proposals is also not what I will be doing after IST—our job is to capacity-build and create sustainable solutions for our counterparts, like training a local employee of the NGO to write proposals, but before IST, as I said, we are supposed to focus on our own learning about the way our community works…so this is actually a good example of the way my time should be spent.]). Needless to say, I was feeling a bit uneasy.
But then, just in the nick of time—dramatic pause—the person from the other NGO appeared to save the day! He had found the measuring tape and brought it for us to use! SUCCESS!
Of course in order to measure, I would need to find someone willing to take a few minutes to help me by holding the other end…
Ultimately, on Day 4, I was able to complete the project. SUCCESS!
Except that the project not only needed to be completed, but it needed to be e-mailed or faxed to our funders. Our e-mail was down, and our printer decided it didn’t want to print the document (regardless of the format—I even tried to switch to .pdf), which meant there was nothing to fax. Locating e-mail on a computer that would read the flash drive AND had a fast enough internet connection to upload a Word document ate up the rest of Day 4 and part of Day 5…but finally, REAL SUCCESS!!!!! PROPOSAL SUBMITTED!!! And it only took 5 days…
And that, my friends, is what it means to “slow down” and “not be so caught up in the hustle and bustle of American life.” I must admit that I am still clinging to my American ways on this one, and wishing that story were an anomaly. But it’s just the way things work here. I’ve heard similar tales from all of the other volunteers, and experienced similar situations myself. But it’s not inefficiency or laziness; it’s a cultural difference, the actual embodiment of living at a more relaxed pace. And, really, I don’t have the right to be caught too off-guard by it. After all, if I hadn’t been so caught up in my fast-paced ways at home, I probably would’ve taken the time to actually interpret the implications of “taking time to smell the roses.” And it probably is a good lesson to learn, really. But I won’t lie…it’s going to be a tough one.
July 5, 2010
I Still See a Flash
Yup, beginning with another song reference (Madrigals, Howie Day: I still see a flash / From the time I opened my eyes too wide...). Concert withdrawal, worse than PCD!!! (Post Concert Depression—not a Peace Corps acronym, for once!) Anyway…
As you may have noticed, one of the recurring topics of my blogs, and indeed, one of the ongoing struggles for most Peace Corps Volunteers is the absurd emotional roller coaster that exists in day-to-day life. As much as Peace Corps service is about serving your country and your host country community, it also entails a great deal of personal growth, and requires volunteers to really stretch ourselves to the limits; and from what I have heard from other volunteers, this struggle persists throughout the full two years of service—it doesn’t lessen, volunteers just become more accustomed to it. (Indeed, I have heard from several RPCV’s [Returned Peace Corps Volunteers] that one of the challenges of returning to the States is re-learning what life is like WITHOUT daily mood swings, and feeling crazy for maintaining a single emotion for a duration of more than fifteen minutes!) Though a great deal of the tumultuous emotional tremors of PC service are the result of internal battles, external events obviously have an enormous power as well, so even though the shaking is constant, some days are a 3 on the Richter scale, and others are higher.
For me, last week was about a 10. To begin with, my only sister got married last weekend—an event which I was devastated to miss, and was nearly the only thing that gave me any pause over accepting my invitation to serve. Incredible low. Then, Monday, I received my first care package, and managed to have a texting-conversation in real-time with one of my friends in the States (I LOVE YOU EILEEN!!!), while eating the Oreos she sent—incredible high. (Accidentally finishing the box without realizing it—that stupid plastic cover makes it hard to see—so I didn’t even get to properly savor my last cookie, and realizing that it’d be months until I got another chance to eat an Oreo, definitely a low. A parenthesized low because it shouldn’t be as important as my sister’s wedding or a care package/talking to a friend. But I won’t lie. It’s been haunting me for a few days now…) A productive day at work, and calls from both of my parents. Another amazing high. Then, the next day, not one, but TWO letters (THANK YOU LINDSAY AND KATHERINE!!!!!!). AMAZING. (Incidentally, EVERYONE who has sent me something, has something in the mail now…so keep an eye out!) To top it off, I made a real Motswana friend and had a fun night “on the town” (see previous blog).
But just as I was thinking I had gotten over the whole “emotional phase” (this is among the worst things about the beginning of the Peace Corps roller coaster—you are still deluded enough to think the whole thing will pass)—SPLAT. The next day, I had no care packages. No letters. No phone calls. And no chance of either; why would my parents call me a day later, unless something bad had happened, and what are the odds that another care package or letter would arrive in such a short span of time? Because of scheduling conflicts I wouldn’t be able to meet up with my new friend until next week. The confidence I had built up at work was shot down, and I felt the internal sting of a few cultural clashes. So just like that, I was back down. (I realize that these lows may seem trivial compared to the significance of the highs, but, again, the cycle is partially internal and partially external—so a downward fluctuation in both at the same time has an exponential effect).
On Friday, with the permission of the Peace Corps, I made a trip to Maun for banking (money is important—can’t buy a bucket in a China shop with a credit card) and shopping (produce is sparse, if available at all, in Shakawe this time of year, and is somewhat necessary for a vegan). It is not an easy trip to do in a day—6 hours each way on the bus—but as a new volunteer I am still in lockdown, and not permitted to spend the night outside of my village, except in extenuating circumstances, so 12 hours on a bus it is. Fortunately, as most of you know, I have long been a fan of roadtrips, so I was actually looking forward to the commute.
Whenever I travel, wherever I am, I always bring a book, and tell myself I’ll read it or pass the time by chatting with my neighbor. And I usually do those things—in this instance, 12 hours is enough time to allow for completing multiple tasks—but honestly, I always ultimately find my gaze drifting out the window. Hypnotized by the world passing beside me, watching the gradual change in landscape and vegetation, seeing the clouds form and dissolve on the horizon, and meditating on life. For some reason, it is here, engrossed in the world around me, yet not really in it—hovering above it, moving through it, but somehow disentangled from my surroundings—that I usually find peace, resolutions to whatever issues have been troubling me. Roadtrips and running have always been the two things that have given me solace—as though I must physically move forward in order to spiritually or psychologically do the same.
(Ok, just an FYI, it’s about to turn REALLY hippy-dippy, so if that last phrase was a little over-the-top for you, turn back now and wait for the next blog, ‘cause it’s only going to get worse. Much, much worse. Proceed with caution and consider yourself warned.)
So, that evening, as I sat on the bus, and felt the familiar forward motion of the car on my way home, my eyes lingered on each branch of each passing tree, and I patiently waited for the clarity that I knew would come to relieve me of my gloom. But as the bus moved and I examined my surroundings, I only felt worse. Yes there were trees—but they were not my trees. I couldn’t tell you anything about them—would they change when the season changed? If I saw a tree in the States, I could tell you whether it would shed it’s leaves or retain it’s needles. Whether it was young or old. Even whether it had rained recently, or was going through a dry spell. But here, I know none of these things. Yes, there was land, but it was not my brown, clay-covered land—just pale white sand, with no “ordinary” dirt in sight. Yes there were birds, but they were not my birds. If I saw a seagull or duck in the States, I would know it meant water nearby; I know that a crow is a scavenger bird, a woodpecker gets its food from trees, a hawk hunts for prey. But here, these birds, though incredibly beautiful, mean nothing to me. Why were all of their nests only on one side of the trees? Do they migrate, or is Botswana their home? Even the stars—oh, the beautiful stars—are not my own. And that’s not just some poetic metaphor; I’m in the Southern Hemisphere, so the constellations are all different. Although I bought a star chart in the hopes that I will learn more about them, for the time being, even the very sky above me is foreign—no Big Dipper to guide me to the North Star. Instead of finding comfort in the predictability of the world around me, the steady passing of the bus felt like it was taking me farther and farther away from, rather than bringing me home.
So suddenly, I felt so small, so lonely, so isolated; acutely aware that I was sitting on a bus full of people, so different from myself in so many ways, riding in the dark through a world so far away and unlike anything that I am used to—I honestly wanted to cry.
But, as with most of life’s great epiphanies, it was then that it started to make sense. Full of melancholy, I began to zone out, stare blankly, rather than focus on the world. And as I shifted my view, I realized—really, it still kind of looked the same. Yes, the trees are different, and the dirt is different. But they sit atop the same earth. Yes, the birds are different, and the stars are different. But they occupy the same sky. Yes the people are different, but we are still people. It was as though the differences were just an illusion, a different mask decorating the same face.
So I found myself presented with two profoundly different views, in nearly polar opposition, each rendering an entirely different experience of the world around me. And yet it was so easy to shift focus between the two. To a certain extent my view was of my choosing—but not entirely. Try to take in the big picture, until the flash of a bird’s teal wing catches my eye as it swoops past and draws my attention to the immediate view. Scrutinize each thornbush until my eyes lose focus and I find myself observing the scenery as a whole. With the snap of a finger, the world can become an entirely different place.
Although this is clearly some manifestation of an obvious metaphor (“can’t see the forest through the trees”), I don’t think I’d ever felt it so clearly until that night. And it really is the perfect metaphor for the fluctuation of my emotions right now. Just as easily as these views oscillate so rapidly, so does my experience of the world—one minute, immersed in the differences, feeling alienated, alone, and confused; the next minute entranced by the bigger picture, connected to everyone and everything, a part of something greater.
The thing is, upon really thinking about it, the emotional fluctuations aren’t actually that different in the States. One common pitfall that I think many PCV’s have, myself very much included, is the tendency to idealize life in the States—surely EVERYTHING was easier there, right? This is partly because since the struggles we face here are so different from the struggles most of us faced in America, it is easy to forget what the struggles we faced there were. It is also partly because for many of us, the time prior to our departure WAS exceptionally good—we weren’t bogged down by many of the stresses of everyday life because we were about to leave and preoccupied with planning, daydreaming, and saying our bittersweet goodbyes. It is also because over the course of the decades of our lives in the States, we have developed our own coping mechanisms, created our identities, and found our own little niche in the world. In a strange way, joining the Peace Corps is almost like being re-born (not in a religious way, at all)—you begin as a child with what feel like absurd restrictions in PST, living with a host family, going to school, learning how to act and talk. Then you go to site, still with a “curfew” (lockdown), and begin to experiment with making different friends, going different places, figuring out how to spend your time and what role to play in the world. And eventually, (allegedly), you kind of figure it out. (And then go back home and start all over—perhaps the greatest irony of Peace Corps service!). But even as an adult—both in the States, and once you’ve reached metaphorical adulthood in the Peace Corps—there are still emotional hurdles, rational and irrational, triggered and entirely out of the blue. It’s just that in the Peace Corps, these things are happening in an unfamiliar context, and without the comforts we have become accustomed to, so it feels scarier. When my eyes would fixate on the small stuff in Seattle, at least I knew a pine needle was a pine needle and a Starbucks sign means “take this exit” (haha…ok, I wasn’t really a Startbucks fan, but so far I have found exactly five coffee places in all of Botswana, so it’s looing pretty good at the moment…). Here, though, it’s hard not to be perpetually aware of just how far out of my element I am, so when life throws a little bump in the road, it feels a lot bigger.
In any event, I don’t really know how much this revelation will help me, but it was one of those moments where I felt things come together, and begin to make a little more sense, and it felt pretty good.
Or maybe it was just case of the road crazies…
(((((In an unrelated and totally personal note, it also got me thinking about why I in the past I had the natural tendency to connect with animals more quickly than people. I think I tend to automatically focus on the thornbushes and pine needles—the small things. And obviously, in the immediate sense, I’m pretty different from a dog, donkey, chicken, cow, etc. Because those differences are so obvious, my natural assumption is that they will be different from me [obviously a cow goes “moo” and I say “Do you have any soy ice cream?”], so when I spend time with an animal, what sticks out to me is not the differences, but the similarities [we all feel hunger, we all feel pain, we all feel the need to communicate with others, etc.]. With people, on the other hand, in the immediate sense, we’re pretty similar, so my natural assumption is that they will be similar to me, and when I spend time with them, what stands out are their differences, which, as a child, made it feel difficult to relate, since, let’s face it, I am pretty different from a lot of people. But as an adult, I slowly began to shift to the bigger picture view and acquired my love of people [and still of animals, of course], and an appreciation of the differences, because of just how much we do, in fact, share. Unrelated, but one of those little moments where I made a little more sense out of my life, so I felt inclined to document it on the interwebs, and it’s my blog, so I can do whatever I want!!!))))))
**Also also, I feel compelled to quote another Howie song, so, and once again, it’s my blog and I’ll post if I want to!
Is it dark where you are?
Can you count the stars where you are?
Do you feel like you are
A thousand miles from home?
Are you lost where you are?
Can you find your way when you’re so far?
Do you fear where you are?
A thousand nights alone
--------
Can we go too far to find what is waiting here?
A little fall from grace
On the longest night
Did we go too far to find what is waiting here?
We’ll take a little time
To open up again
-Longest Night, Howie Day
I know, totally not actually related to Peace Corps, but it still makes sense in this context, so whatever…Post-Concert Depression, people!!!)))
As you may have noticed, one of the recurring topics of my blogs, and indeed, one of the ongoing struggles for most Peace Corps Volunteers is the absurd emotional roller coaster that exists in day-to-day life. As much as Peace Corps service is about serving your country and your host country community, it also entails a great deal of personal growth, and requires volunteers to really stretch ourselves to the limits; and from what I have heard from other volunteers, this struggle persists throughout the full two years of service—it doesn’t lessen, volunteers just become more accustomed to it. (Indeed, I have heard from several RPCV’s [Returned Peace Corps Volunteers] that one of the challenges of returning to the States is re-learning what life is like WITHOUT daily mood swings, and feeling crazy for maintaining a single emotion for a duration of more than fifteen minutes!) Though a great deal of the tumultuous emotional tremors of PC service are the result of internal battles, external events obviously have an enormous power as well, so even though the shaking is constant, some days are a 3 on the Richter scale, and others are higher.
For me, last week was about a 10. To begin with, my only sister got married last weekend—an event which I was devastated to miss, and was nearly the only thing that gave me any pause over accepting my invitation to serve. Incredible low. Then, Monday, I received my first care package, and managed to have a texting-conversation in real-time with one of my friends in the States (I LOVE YOU EILEEN!!!), while eating the Oreos she sent—incredible high. (Accidentally finishing the box without realizing it—that stupid plastic cover makes it hard to see—so I didn’t even get to properly savor my last cookie, and realizing that it’d be months until I got another chance to eat an Oreo, definitely a low. A parenthesized low because it shouldn’t be as important as my sister’s wedding or a care package/talking to a friend. But I won’t lie. It’s been haunting me for a few days now…) A productive day at work, and calls from both of my parents. Another amazing high. Then, the next day, not one, but TWO letters (THANK YOU LINDSAY AND KATHERINE!!!!!!). AMAZING. (Incidentally, EVERYONE who has sent me something, has something in the mail now…so keep an eye out!) To top it off, I made a real Motswana friend and had a fun night “on the town” (see previous blog).
But just as I was thinking I had gotten over the whole “emotional phase” (this is among the worst things about the beginning of the Peace Corps roller coaster—you are still deluded enough to think the whole thing will pass)—SPLAT. The next day, I had no care packages. No letters. No phone calls. And no chance of either; why would my parents call me a day later, unless something bad had happened, and what are the odds that another care package or letter would arrive in such a short span of time? Because of scheduling conflicts I wouldn’t be able to meet up with my new friend until next week. The confidence I had built up at work was shot down, and I felt the internal sting of a few cultural clashes. So just like that, I was back down. (I realize that these lows may seem trivial compared to the significance of the highs, but, again, the cycle is partially internal and partially external—so a downward fluctuation in both at the same time has an exponential effect).
On Friday, with the permission of the Peace Corps, I made a trip to Maun for banking (money is important—can’t buy a bucket in a China shop with a credit card) and shopping (produce is sparse, if available at all, in Shakawe this time of year, and is somewhat necessary for a vegan). It is not an easy trip to do in a day—6 hours each way on the bus—but as a new volunteer I am still in lockdown, and not permitted to spend the night outside of my village, except in extenuating circumstances, so 12 hours on a bus it is. Fortunately, as most of you know, I have long been a fan of roadtrips, so I was actually looking forward to the commute.
Whenever I travel, wherever I am, I always bring a book, and tell myself I’ll read it or pass the time by chatting with my neighbor. And I usually do those things—in this instance, 12 hours is enough time to allow for completing multiple tasks—but honestly, I always ultimately find my gaze drifting out the window. Hypnotized by the world passing beside me, watching the gradual change in landscape and vegetation, seeing the clouds form and dissolve on the horizon, and meditating on life. For some reason, it is here, engrossed in the world around me, yet not really in it—hovering above it, moving through it, but somehow disentangled from my surroundings—that I usually find peace, resolutions to whatever issues have been troubling me. Roadtrips and running have always been the two things that have given me solace—as though I must physically move forward in order to spiritually or psychologically do the same.
(Ok, just an FYI, it’s about to turn REALLY hippy-dippy, so if that last phrase was a little over-the-top for you, turn back now and wait for the next blog, ‘cause it’s only going to get worse. Much, much worse. Proceed with caution and consider yourself warned.)
So, that evening, as I sat on the bus, and felt the familiar forward motion of the car on my way home, my eyes lingered on each branch of each passing tree, and I patiently waited for the clarity that I knew would come to relieve me of my gloom. But as the bus moved and I examined my surroundings, I only felt worse. Yes there were trees—but they were not my trees. I couldn’t tell you anything about them—would they change when the season changed? If I saw a tree in the States, I could tell you whether it would shed it’s leaves or retain it’s needles. Whether it was young or old. Even whether it had rained recently, or was going through a dry spell. But here, I know none of these things. Yes, there was land, but it was not my brown, clay-covered land—just pale white sand, with no “ordinary” dirt in sight. Yes there were birds, but they were not my birds. If I saw a seagull or duck in the States, I would know it meant water nearby; I know that a crow is a scavenger bird, a woodpecker gets its food from trees, a hawk hunts for prey. But here, these birds, though incredibly beautiful, mean nothing to me. Why were all of their nests only on one side of the trees? Do they migrate, or is Botswana their home? Even the stars—oh, the beautiful stars—are not my own. And that’s not just some poetic metaphor; I’m in the Southern Hemisphere, so the constellations are all different. Although I bought a star chart in the hopes that I will learn more about them, for the time being, even the very sky above me is foreign—no Big Dipper to guide me to the North Star. Instead of finding comfort in the predictability of the world around me, the steady passing of the bus felt like it was taking me farther and farther away from, rather than bringing me home.
So suddenly, I felt so small, so lonely, so isolated; acutely aware that I was sitting on a bus full of people, so different from myself in so many ways, riding in the dark through a world so far away and unlike anything that I am used to—I honestly wanted to cry.
But, as with most of life’s great epiphanies, it was then that it started to make sense. Full of melancholy, I began to zone out, stare blankly, rather than focus on the world. And as I shifted my view, I realized—really, it still kind of looked the same. Yes, the trees are different, and the dirt is different. But they sit atop the same earth. Yes, the birds are different, and the stars are different. But they occupy the same sky. Yes the people are different, but we are still people. It was as though the differences were just an illusion, a different mask decorating the same face.
So I found myself presented with two profoundly different views, in nearly polar opposition, each rendering an entirely different experience of the world around me. And yet it was so easy to shift focus between the two. To a certain extent my view was of my choosing—but not entirely. Try to take in the big picture, until the flash of a bird’s teal wing catches my eye as it swoops past and draws my attention to the immediate view. Scrutinize each thornbush until my eyes lose focus and I find myself observing the scenery as a whole. With the snap of a finger, the world can become an entirely different place.
Although this is clearly some manifestation of an obvious metaphor (“can’t see the forest through the trees”), I don’t think I’d ever felt it so clearly until that night. And it really is the perfect metaphor for the fluctuation of my emotions right now. Just as easily as these views oscillate so rapidly, so does my experience of the world—one minute, immersed in the differences, feeling alienated, alone, and confused; the next minute entranced by the bigger picture, connected to everyone and everything, a part of something greater.
The thing is, upon really thinking about it, the emotional fluctuations aren’t actually that different in the States. One common pitfall that I think many PCV’s have, myself very much included, is the tendency to idealize life in the States—surely EVERYTHING was easier there, right? This is partly because since the struggles we face here are so different from the struggles most of us faced in America, it is easy to forget what the struggles we faced there were. It is also partly because for many of us, the time prior to our departure WAS exceptionally good—we weren’t bogged down by many of the stresses of everyday life because we were about to leave and preoccupied with planning, daydreaming, and saying our bittersweet goodbyes. It is also because over the course of the decades of our lives in the States, we have developed our own coping mechanisms, created our identities, and found our own little niche in the world. In a strange way, joining the Peace Corps is almost like being re-born (not in a religious way, at all)—you begin as a child with what feel like absurd restrictions in PST, living with a host family, going to school, learning how to act and talk. Then you go to site, still with a “curfew” (lockdown), and begin to experiment with making different friends, going different places, figuring out how to spend your time and what role to play in the world. And eventually, (allegedly), you kind of figure it out. (And then go back home and start all over—perhaps the greatest irony of Peace Corps service!). But even as an adult—both in the States, and once you’ve reached metaphorical adulthood in the Peace Corps—there are still emotional hurdles, rational and irrational, triggered and entirely out of the blue. It’s just that in the Peace Corps, these things are happening in an unfamiliar context, and without the comforts we have become accustomed to, so it feels scarier. When my eyes would fixate on the small stuff in Seattle, at least I knew a pine needle was a pine needle and a Starbucks sign means “take this exit” (haha…ok, I wasn’t really a Startbucks fan, but so far I have found exactly five coffee places in all of Botswana, so it’s looing pretty good at the moment…). Here, though, it’s hard not to be perpetually aware of just how far out of my element I am, so when life throws a little bump in the road, it feels a lot bigger.
In any event, I don’t really know how much this revelation will help me, but it was one of those moments where I felt things come together, and begin to make a little more sense, and it felt pretty good.
Or maybe it was just case of the road crazies…
(((((In an unrelated and totally personal note, it also got me thinking about why I in the past I had the natural tendency to connect with animals more quickly than people. I think I tend to automatically focus on the thornbushes and pine needles—the small things. And obviously, in the immediate sense, I’m pretty different from a dog, donkey, chicken, cow, etc. Because those differences are so obvious, my natural assumption is that they will be different from me [obviously a cow goes “moo” and I say “Do you have any soy ice cream?”], so when I spend time with an animal, what sticks out to me is not the differences, but the similarities [we all feel hunger, we all feel pain, we all feel the need to communicate with others, etc.]. With people, on the other hand, in the immediate sense, we’re pretty similar, so my natural assumption is that they will be similar to me, and when I spend time with them, what stands out are their differences, which, as a child, made it feel difficult to relate, since, let’s face it, I am pretty different from a lot of people. But as an adult, I slowly began to shift to the bigger picture view and acquired my love of people [and still of animals, of course], and an appreciation of the differences, because of just how much we do, in fact, share. Unrelated, but one of those little moments where I made a little more sense out of my life, so I felt inclined to document it on the interwebs, and it’s my blog, so I can do whatever I want!!!))))))
**Also also, I feel compelled to quote another Howie song, so, and once again, it’s my blog and I’ll post if I want to!
Is it dark where you are?
Can you count the stars where you are?
Do you feel like you are
A thousand miles from home?
Are you lost where you are?
Can you find your way when you’re so far?
Do you fear where you are?
A thousand nights alone
--------
Can we go too far to find what is waiting here?
A little fall from grace
On the longest night
Did we go too far to find what is waiting here?
We’ll take a little time
To open up again
-Longest Night, Howie Day
I know, totally not actually related to Peace Corps, but it still makes sense in this context, so whatever…Post-Concert Depression, people!!!)))
Show Me How Pretty the World Is
Ok, so apparently I’ve shifted from puns to semi-obscure song references for my blog titles…I guess puns are just no longer what I require; what can I say—it moves me, it soothes me, it fills my heart and soul when I groove to rock and roll. (Awesome Botswana post card for the first person who knows all three of those references. They were pretty easy if you know my musical tastes at all. Yes, I have succumbed to bribery to induce comments. So if you want a post card, the time is now. You’ve gotta, stand up, stand up. Use your voice speak out. Ok, that’s four references. But, seriously, really easy.)
Anyway, I digress. (Wow, junior high writer’s club flashback! Ok, seriously, WILL get on topic now.) Tonight was a rather monumental night in my Peace Corps experience—I made my first Motswana friend. To be clear, I have had the pleasure of meeting many, many Batswana, including my work colleagues, all of whom have been incredibly kind and whom I most certainly do consider friends. But, as I have referenced earlier, the Batswana are a welcoming, inclusive people, so the American role of acquaintance doesn’t really exist here—most people who would fall under that category in America take on the role of friend here.
But last night, for the first time since I have been here, I felt the sort of connection or bond that is more consistent with my American idea of friendship. My new friend and I had been planning on going out for a while, but because of conflicting work schedules, we weren’t able to make it happen. And I’ll admit that last Friday night, she wanted to take me out, and I could have gone, but wussed out. She told me she wanted to take me to the Pontoon, where she and her friends go in the evenings. Because I didn’t know her well (as I have mentioned before, people here meet up after merely exchanging greetings), I asked her what the Pontoon was, and she wasn’t really able to explain, so I got a little nervous. One of the large issues in my community is alcoholism and underage drinking, and because my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer requires me to live by example, I am committed to not visit any of the bars or be seen intoxicated in my community (word travels FAST here, and it is a small town, so everyone knows everyone’s business, especially the white American who sticks out like a sore thumb), so I was concerned that she might be trying to take me somewhere I did not want to go. But she sensed my nervousness, and later sent me a text letting me know that the Pontoon is just a boat that goes across the delta and back—something that is actually right up my alley.
So, last night, we met up, and she took me to the river, we took the pontoon, walked around, and talked. But it wasn’t superficial talk, or talk dominated by cultural exchange—it was legitimate, substantive talk. And GOOD talk. You know when you have a conversation with someone, and you have those moments where you really click—“ohmygosh, you do that too?!!!?!” kind of moments? We had those—a lot of them. First we bonded over customer service woes (she is a cashier at a grocery store, and as most of you know, I cashiered at Whole Foods for a year), then favorite childhood books (Babysitters Club and Gooesbumps, anyone?), then more broadly about life, boys, music, goals, hobbies, clothes... She loves nature, as do I, and the part of town she showed me was so beautiful, right on the water, but slightly elevated, so you can actually see quite far; where the birds swoop down from the palm trees, a quiet spot, where she said she often goes to think or get space (and I think I will now be taking advantage of, too.) She is a bit younger than I, but reminds me a lot of myself a few years ago. Clearly there are cultural barriers, and there is always a certain amount of awkwardness as a result of differences in communication styles. But overall, it was amazing.
And just like that, I have a friend. And suddenly the world feels a lot smaller. And a little prettier, too.
P.S. For those of you who do get the title song reference, I am well aware that the song as a whole has nothing to do with the blog, I just like the phrasing of that line. And that’s just how I roll.
Anyway, I digress. (Wow, junior high writer’s club flashback! Ok, seriously, WILL get on topic now.) Tonight was a rather monumental night in my Peace Corps experience—I made my first Motswana friend. To be clear, I have had the pleasure of meeting many, many Batswana, including my work colleagues, all of whom have been incredibly kind and whom I most certainly do consider friends. But, as I have referenced earlier, the Batswana are a welcoming, inclusive people, so the American role of acquaintance doesn’t really exist here—most people who would fall under that category in America take on the role of friend here.
But last night, for the first time since I have been here, I felt the sort of connection or bond that is more consistent with my American idea of friendship. My new friend and I had been planning on going out for a while, but because of conflicting work schedules, we weren’t able to make it happen. And I’ll admit that last Friday night, she wanted to take me out, and I could have gone, but wussed out. She told me she wanted to take me to the Pontoon, where she and her friends go in the evenings. Because I didn’t know her well (as I have mentioned before, people here meet up after merely exchanging greetings), I asked her what the Pontoon was, and she wasn’t really able to explain, so I got a little nervous. One of the large issues in my community is alcoholism and underage drinking, and because my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer requires me to live by example, I am committed to not visit any of the bars or be seen intoxicated in my community (word travels FAST here, and it is a small town, so everyone knows everyone’s business, especially the white American who sticks out like a sore thumb), so I was concerned that she might be trying to take me somewhere I did not want to go. But she sensed my nervousness, and later sent me a text letting me know that the Pontoon is just a boat that goes across the delta and back—something that is actually right up my alley.
So, last night, we met up, and she took me to the river, we took the pontoon, walked around, and talked. But it wasn’t superficial talk, or talk dominated by cultural exchange—it was legitimate, substantive talk. And GOOD talk. You know when you have a conversation with someone, and you have those moments where you really click—“ohmygosh, you do that too?!!!?!” kind of moments? We had those—a lot of them. First we bonded over customer service woes (she is a cashier at a grocery store, and as most of you know, I cashiered at Whole Foods for a year), then favorite childhood books (Babysitters Club and Gooesbumps, anyone?), then more broadly about life, boys, music, goals, hobbies, clothes... She loves nature, as do I, and the part of town she showed me was so beautiful, right on the water, but slightly elevated, so you can actually see quite far; where the birds swoop down from the palm trees, a quiet spot, where she said she often goes to think or get space (and I think I will now be taking advantage of, too.) She is a bit younger than I, but reminds me a lot of myself a few years ago. Clearly there are cultural barriers, and there is always a certain amount of awkwardness as a result of differences in communication styles. But overall, it was amazing.
And just like that, I have a friend. And suddenly the world feels a lot smaller. And a little prettier, too.
P.S. For those of you who do get the title song reference, I am well aware that the song as a whole has nothing to do with the blog, I just like the phrasing of that line. And that’s just how I roll.
Sand, Sun, Stars, Moon (I really wish “moon” started with an “s” to complete my alliteration)
I’ve mentioned it before, but since moving to my site, I’ve been even further struck by the immense beauty of the sky here in Botswana, so I wanted to devote a blog entry to it.
I don’t know what it is—the lack of air and light pollution, the difference in latitude, the flat, sparsely developed landscape, without skyscrapers, or even two-story buildings obscuring the view, or some combination of these things—but the sky here is simply mesmerizing. It seems as though the sky takes up nearly 90% of the field of vision here, from the bright red sunrises, which cast long shadows in the sand, to the spotless mid-day sky—slightly pale near the earth, then stunningly deep-sea blue overhead—to the pink and orange cloud-spotted sunsets. And the night sky here is like nothing I’ve ever seen. The glistening arm of the Milky Way stretching across the sky, and the large constellations surrounded by thousands of tiny sparkling dots—more stars than I have ever seen. And the full moon…ahh. It is literally light enough to read outside when the moon is full. The ground in Shakawe consists only of pale white sand—it’s just like the beach, minus the ocean—so during the full moon, the moonlight reflects off of the sand, and it is so bright that you literally have to draw your curtains at night because it is too luminous to sleep.
I want to take pictures of the entire sky every second of every day, but even the few pictures I have taken don’t begin to capture it. The feeling I get when I really, really look at the sky—even in America, but especially here—is like nothing else in the world. Centering, calming, humbling and almost terrifying in a strange sort of way, all at once. So I just had to write about it. Also, I was a little concerned that my last blog might tarnish my hippie-cred, so, you know, I needed to post this to step it up a bit. ;oP
And, since I’m being all sappy, I think it’s been a while since I’ve articulated this, because I take it so for granted now, but I miss you all more than you know, and am so grateful for your support…I got my first care package (THANK YOU EILEEN) yesterday, and it was amazing. I never thought Oreos and a coloring book could make me an emotional mess, but what can you do? LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH!!! Oh, and I’m doing my best to get my mail out. It takes a few weeks, and I’ve gotten behind because figuring out the post office has kind of been a logistical nightmare, so I’m sorry to everyone who has written me and not gotten anything back—I have written everyone who has been kind enough to send anything; they’re in my backpack as we speak, and I’m really hoping to make it happen this week!
I don’t know what it is—the lack of air and light pollution, the difference in latitude, the flat, sparsely developed landscape, without skyscrapers, or even two-story buildings obscuring the view, or some combination of these things—but the sky here is simply mesmerizing. It seems as though the sky takes up nearly 90% of the field of vision here, from the bright red sunrises, which cast long shadows in the sand, to the spotless mid-day sky—slightly pale near the earth, then stunningly deep-sea blue overhead—to the pink and orange cloud-spotted sunsets. And the night sky here is like nothing I’ve ever seen. The glistening arm of the Milky Way stretching across the sky, and the large constellations surrounded by thousands of tiny sparkling dots—more stars than I have ever seen. And the full moon…ahh. It is literally light enough to read outside when the moon is full. The ground in Shakawe consists only of pale white sand—it’s just like the beach, minus the ocean—so during the full moon, the moonlight reflects off of the sand, and it is so bright that you literally have to draw your curtains at night because it is too luminous to sleep.
I want to take pictures of the entire sky every second of every day, but even the few pictures I have taken don’t begin to capture it. The feeling I get when I really, really look at the sky—even in America, but especially here—is like nothing else in the world. Centering, calming, humbling and almost terrifying in a strange sort of way, all at once. So I just had to write about it. Also, I was a little concerned that my last blog might tarnish my hippie-cred, so, you know, I needed to post this to step it up a bit. ;oP
And, since I’m being all sappy, I think it’s been a while since I’ve articulated this, because I take it so for granted now, but I miss you all more than you know, and am so grateful for your support…I got my first care package (THANK YOU EILEEN) yesterday, and it was amazing. I never thought Oreos and a coloring book could make me an emotional mess, but what can you do? LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH!!! Oh, and I’m doing my best to get my mail out. It takes a few weeks, and I’ve gotten behind because figuring out the post office has kind of been a logistical nightmare, so I’m sorry to everyone who has written me and not gotten anything back—I have written everyone who has been kind enough to send anything; they’re in my backpack as we speak, and I’m really hoping to make it happen this week!
Power Hungry
So I must admit, as much as I want to write a single blog about my site, it’s becoming increasingly clear that because there is just so much to say, and because my impressions of my site are so intertwined with my day-to-day experiences, it’s impossible to disentangle them, so I suppose I have to succumb to the fact that it’s just going to come out bit by bit. So here is another one of the bits.
Let me begin by describing my house. I’ll admit, when I first saw it, after having been exposed to many of the luxuries of a middle-income country (many portions of Botswana are actually quite developed, including Moleps, where I spent the past two months training, and so Botswana is classified as “middle income” rather than “developing”) I was a bit panicked, particularly because it was still in disrepair when I saw it at site visit. That being said, I genuinely couldn’t be happier with my house, because despite my recently acquired desire for “cushy” house, when I joined Peace Corps, I was hoping for the “Peace Corps experience”—as rugged and modest as possible. While my house is far from being on either extreme end of those two criterion, it is closer to the “rugged” side of the spectrum than the housing that many Bots PCV’s have, and it is extremely consistent with the standard of living in my village, so I feel incredibly lucky.
My building is in a large compound, with ten or so other buildings, including one modern-style house, several rondevals, and some cement block houses. My house is one of the cement block buildings (although I actually wish I was a rondeval—mud huts and thatch roves stay so much cooler, and it gets HOT—up to 120 F in the summer!) and consists of two rooms, not connected by any interior doors. For reasons that I’d rather not disclose on a public forum, I have decided to occupy only one of the rooms, but it is quite large (larger than I realized on my initial visit), maybe 20’x20’ or so. It has two windows, a cement floor, a tin roof with no ceiling, no indoor plumbing (as my earlier blog indicated), one outlet (thank god for extension cords with extra plugs in them!), and one light bulb (although the light switch is in the other room, which, again, has no interior door, so I must go outside and enter the other room, whenever I want to turn my light on or off). I also have my own pit latrine, which also has a locking door, as per Peace Corps requirements.
In terms of furniture, I was given a single bed (mattress and box springs which sit atop four uneven concrete blocks), a mosquito net (yay—also see previous blog :o), a plastic patio-style table, two plastic chairs, a chest of drawers, and an electric stove about the size of a microwave, with two burners and an oven. I purchased a plethora of buckets for various uses (also referenced in an earlier blog :o), as well as a rug to cover about half of my exposed floor (concrete floors=cold and dirty), and a refrigerator (definitely pretty posh for Peace Corps, but again, no indoor pluming, no insulated water pipes, and 120 F degrees in the summer. Chelsea needs a way to make stuff cold.). And that’s it. So I store my dishes on top of my refrigerator and in a bucket on the floor. I use my plastic patio table as a dishwashing stand and cooking area. I use one of my chairs as a nightstand, and the other as a coffee table/computer desk/eating surface. And as odd as it may sound, I actually don’t at all mind having less stuff—or even the rather basic construction. I was feeling pretty proud of myself—so evolved, so wise, so “beyond” material possessions.
But then the power went out. Which meant no lights, no refrigerator, no oven/stove. But no big deal, right—my computer and my phone still had batteries, so I could still text other volunteers (unrelated: I kind of really hate texting, but it’s pretty much the only line of communication with other vol’s and I miss everyone!!), listen to music, and watch TV/movies. And I had my headlamp, so I could still see. Plus, some of my leftovers weren’t so bad cold. So ga gona mathata, no worries—I’d just charge everything back up the next day when the power came back on. And, sure enough, when I woke up, the power was back on; no sweat, right?
But when I got home, the power was out again. And nothing was charged. At all. Clearly it had gone out shortly after it had come back on. So. There I was. No power. No stove or oven. No refrigerator. No light (and it gets dark around 6pm this time of year). No computer—so no movies, tv, music, or even blog-writing (I kind of really hate writing by hand, and will only do it for letters). No cell (it wasn’t entirely dead, but I needed to save it for an emergency). My headlamp batteries were low, so no headlamp. Nothing.
Now, I would LOVE to say that in this instant, I had some great epiphany, some life-changing moment, where I realized that all of those things were trivial, and that it was some beautiful, cleansing experience, freeing me from the clutches of technology, and reconnecting me with my human roots.
But it wasn’t. It sucked. In that moment—that whole night, as a matter of fact—I crumbled. And then I realized something: this was really only the second time since I’d been here that I was entirely stripped of everything familiar to me (the first time was in the hospital) and forced to actually experience what life is like for so many people, including most people in my community. It really is astounding what companionship there is in all of the comforts of technology. Lack of running water, lack of material possessions hardly even phased me, but life without electricity is literally an entirely different experience. I have lost power long enough to use up the batteries on my computer and phone a number of times since (we actually often lose power in the evenings) and still can’t get used to it.
It’s ironic—I think a lot of people would have had the opposite epiphany. I think many people enter the Peace Corps with the assumption that they are very bonded to most American/Western luxuries, and wind up finding that they aren’t as attached as they thought. But I honestly thought I was pretty far out of that circle—and I wasn’t entirely wrong; as I said, I kind of love living without most of it—so I expected to have that expectation validated. But, in fact, what I learned is that I am far from immune to having an absurd fondness for my personal comforts, and that it nearly broke me not to have my computer-even just for a short time. I felt so powerless (ha ha, I know…) not knowing when it would come back, not being able to call the power company and get answers. And it’s something I’m still grappling with within myself—it’s not even like this technology is only rare in some parts of the world; it’s something that hasn’t even been around for a generation. What does it say about me as a human being, living in a world full of human beings who have never seen a computer, and coming after eons of human beings who couldn’t even conceive of something like a computer, that one night without it leaves me feeling so vulnerable?
So, on that note…I’ll leave you. But even now, as I sign off on this blog, I fully intend to keep my computer on—to guiltily enjoy the comforting glow of the screen in my otherwise pitch black room, maybe listen to some music, maybe watch another episode of HIMYM (SO glad that’s on the roaming tera!! <3 that show thata!!). I hope that as my comfort level here grows, my dependence will dwindle. But only time will tell…
Let me begin by describing my house. I’ll admit, when I first saw it, after having been exposed to many of the luxuries of a middle-income country (many portions of Botswana are actually quite developed, including Moleps, where I spent the past two months training, and so Botswana is classified as “middle income” rather than “developing”) I was a bit panicked, particularly because it was still in disrepair when I saw it at site visit. That being said, I genuinely couldn’t be happier with my house, because despite my recently acquired desire for “cushy” house, when I joined Peace Corps, I was hoping for the “Peace Corps experience”—as rugged and modest as possible. While my house is far from being on either extreme end of those two criterion, it is closer to the “rugged” side of the spectrum than the housing that many Bots PCV’s have, and it is extremely consistent with the standard of living in my village, so I feel incredibly lucky.
My building is in a large compound, with ten or so other buildings, including one modern-style house, several rondevals, and some cement block houses. My house is one of the cement block buildings (although I actually wish I was a rondeval—mud huts and thatch roves stay so much cooler, and it gets HOT—up to 120 F in the summer!) and consists of two rooms, not connected by any interior doors. For reasons that I’d rather not disclose on a public forum, I have decided to occupy only one of the rooms, but it is quite large (larger than I realized on my initial visit), maybe 20’x20’ or so. It has two windows, a cement floor, a tin roof with no ceiling, no indoor plumbing (as my earlier blog indicated), one outlet (thank god for extension cords with extra plugs in them!), and one light bulb (although the light switch is in the other room, which, again, has no interior door, so I must go outside and enter the other room, whenever I want to turn my light on or off). I also have my own pit latrine, which also has a locking door, as per Peace Corps requirements.
In terms of furniture, I was given a single bed (mattress and box springs which sit atop four uneven concrete blocks), a mosquito net (yay—also see previous blog :o), a plastic patio-style table, two plastic chairs, a chest of drawers, and an electric stove about the size of a microwave, with two burners and an oven. I purchased a plethora of buckets for various uses (also referenced in an earlier blog :o), as well as a rug to cover about half of my exposed floor (concrete floors=cold and dirty), and a refrigerator (definitely pretty posh for Peace Corps, but again, no indoor pluming, no insulated water pipes, and 120 F degrees in the summer. Chelsea needs a way to make stuff cold.). And that’s it. So I store my dishes on top of my refrigerator and in a bucket on the floor. I use my plastic patio table as a dishwashing stand and cooking area. I use one of my chairs as a nightstand, and the other as a coffee table/computer desk/eating surface. And as odd as it may sound, I actually don’t at all mind having less stuff—or even the rather basic construction. I was feeling pretty proud of myself—so evolved, so wise, so “beyond” material possessions.
But then the power went out. Which meant no lights, no refrigerator, no oven/stove. But no big deal, right—my computer and my phone still had batteries, so I could still text other volunteers (unrelated: I kind of really hate texting, but it’s pretty much the only line of communication with other vol’s and I miss everyone!!), listen to music, and watch TV/movies. And I had my headlamp, so I could still see. Plus, some of my leftovers weren’t so bad cold. So ga gona mathata, no worries—I’d just charge everything back up the next day when the power came back on. And, sure enough, when I woke up, the power was back on; no sweat, right?
But when I got home, the power was out again. And nothing was charged. At all. Clearly it had gone out shortly after it had come back on. So. There I was. No power. No stove or oven. No refrigerator. No light (and it gets dark around 6pm this time of year). No computer—so no movies, tv, music, or even blog-writing (I kind of really hate writing by hand, and will only do it for letters). No cell (it wasn’t entirely dead, but I needed to save it for an emergency). My headlamp batteries were low, so no headlamp. Nothing.
Now, I would LOVE to say that in this instant, I had some great epiphany, some life-changing moment, where I realized that all of those things were trivial, and that it was some beautiful, cleansing experience, freeing me from the clutches of technology, and reconnecting me with my human roots.
But it wasn’t. It sucked. In that moment—that whole night, as a matter of fact—I crumbled. And then I realized something: this was really only the second time since I’d been here that I was entirely stripped of everything familiar to me (the first time was in the hospital) and forced to actually experience what life is like for so many people, including most people in my community. It really is astounding what companionship there is in all of the comforts of technology. Lack of running water, lack of material possessions hardly even phased me, but life without electricity is literally an entirely different experience. I have lost power long enough to use up the batteries on my computer and phone a number of times since (we actually often lose power in the evenings) and still can’t get used to it.
It’s ironic—I think a lot of people would have had the opposite epiphany. I think many people enter the Peace Corps with the assumption that they are very bonded to most American/Western luxuries, and wind up finding that they aren’t as attached as they thought. But I honestly thought I was pretty far out of that circle—and I wasn’t entirely wrong; as I said, I kind of love living without most of it—so I expected to have that expectation validated. But, in fact, what I learned is that I am far from immune to having an absurd fondness for my personal comforts, and that it nearly broke me not to have my computer-even just for a short time. I felt so powerless (ha ha, I know…) not knowing when it would come back, not being able to call the power company and get answers. And it’s something I’m still grappling with within myself—it’s not even like this technology is only rare in some parts of the world; it’s something that hasn’t even been around for a generation. What does it say about me as a human being, living in a world full of human beings who have never seen a computer, and coming after eons of human beings who couldn’t even conceive of something like a computer, that one night without it leaves me feeling so vulnerable?
So, on that note…I’ll leave you. But even now, as I sign off on this blog, I fully intend to keep my computer on—to guiltily enjoy the comforting glow of the screen in my otherwise pitch black room, maybe listen to some music, maybe watch another episode of HIMYM (SO glad that’s on the roaming tera!! <3 that show thata!!). I hope that as my comfort level here grows, my dependence will dwindle. But only time will tell…
June 23, 2010
Going To The Chapel…Or Not
This week marks one of the more difficult times in my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer. No, it is not because of anything that has happened to me, nor does it have to do with my NGO, my house, or anything to do with Botswana. It is because this weekend is the weekend that my little sister is getting married. My real little sister (not a host family member), in the United States. And I am in Botswana. Of course, I knew that this would happen—we both knew it—when I accepted my Peace Corps invitation, we knew her wedding date, which has been set for over a year, was within the three-month “lockdown” period, when volunteers are not permitted to take any leave. But it doesn’t make me want to be there any less, or feel any less terrible that I cannot be. It’s one of those days that makes some people say Peace Corps service is incredibly selfish and others say it is incredibly selfless, but personally, I just think it’s life—my life was calling me to be here, and hers was calling her to take this huge step this weekend, and neither of us could really help it.
That said, if I weren’t the worst sister ever, I would have been her Maid of Honor, and made the big toast at her reception. Admittedly, it’s always nice when you get to avoid making a rather personal statement in front of a fairly large crowd, but this is one of those few times where I actually wish I were able to risk making a fool of myself publicly in order to honor my sister properly. Of course after the beautiful and poetic toast she delivered at my wedding (yes, for those who didn’t know, I have been married and divorced…good times…), nothing I could say would even begin to live up…but remember, she is an English major, and I haven’t been in school in years! Nonetheless, I wanted to post something for the occasion. For the record, I’d probably shorten it and clean it up a bit, were I to actually give it aloud (and I’d also have the opportunity to have others look it over), but it’s the internet, and I’m in Africa, so I can say what I want :o). And for the record, I’d rather post this on the actual wedding day, but internet is not reliable enough here to risk postponing posting this and missing the big day! So, without further ado, here it is, for Laura and Denny:
As sisters, Laura and I have been through many difficult times—Laura chasing me with “dirty” hands (Laura, you know what I am referencing, and yes, I am referencing it at your wedding—could you expect any less?) and me letting Laura have a “dirty” face in front of Hanson (which may or may not have been intentional sabotage). We have also been through too many wonderful times to even begin to reference. As such, as we grow up I can’t help but to be the crazy big sister, plagued with constant nagging sisterly concern because I want so much for you to get everything you deserve out of life, Laura.
So, in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that when you and Denny first exchanged promise rings in high school, I couldn’t help but feel a concern that you had seen a few too many John Hughes movies, which always have glorious climaxes, but precariously cut off right before “real life” sets in. And after all, most high school students could not even manage to commit to a major, let alone to another person, for life.
But this was not just any high school student or just any high school couple. This was Laura and Denny. And as they say, cheesy though it may be, when you know, you know. And regardless of their age, they knew. And (really savor what I am about to say; you know how rarely it happens) they couldn’t have been more right, and my overprotective sisterly instincts couldn’t have been more wrong.
Laura, I could not even dream up anyone better for you (and I have a pretty vivid imagination). Over the years, Denny has demonstrated his love for you time and time again. Not only accepted our crazy family, but jumped right in. He has been to Hanson concerts (and even chatted it up with Zac), persevered through the entire Gilmore Girls series, and undoubtedly given many an opinion on various crochet and cross-stitching projects. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.
Denny, I have considered you family for so many years, that it doesn’t feel right to say “welcome” today—you’ve been like a brother ever since the first time you witnessed one of Laura and my girltalk sessions, and not only suffered through it, but actually participated. So instead of “welcoming” you to the family, I’ll just say it’s official—you’re stuck with us! But I know that the happiness that you and Laura share will make it all worth it.
And so, as you enter the commitment of marriage, of giving and receiving, etc., I wish you nothing but love, laughter, and joy. And I know you will have it. You have shown us all a happier ending, and given us more hope for finding true love than any John Huges movies ever could. So let us all raise our glasses to celebrate the union of Laura and Dennis Pelton.
CONGRATULATIONS, MR. AND MRS. PELTON!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Well, almost, Mr. and Mrs. Pelton, at the date of this posting…but what can you do?!)
P.S. NO stealing my speech, Lindsay! Now it’s all on you! Don’t let the bridesmaid team down!!!
That said, if I weren’t the worst sister ever, I would have been her Maid of Honor, and made the big toast at her reception. Admittedly, it’s always nice when you get to avoid making a rather personal statement in front of a fairly large crowd, but this is one of those few times where I actually wish I were able to risk making a fool of myself publicly in order to honor my sister properly. Of course after the beautiful and poetic toast she delivered at my wedding (yes, for those who didn’t know, I have been married and divorced…good times…), nothing I could say would even begin to live up…but remember, she is an English major, and I haven’t been in school in years! Nonetheless, I wanted to post something for the occasion. For the record, I’d probably shorten it and clean it up a bit, were I to actually give it aloud (and I’d also have the opportunity to have others look it over), but it’s the internet, and I’m in Africa, so I can say what I want :o). And for the record, I’d rather post this on the actual wedding day, but internet is not reliable enough here to risk postponing posting this and missing the big day! So, without further ado, here it is, for Laura and Denny:
As sisters, Laura and I have been through many difficult times—Laura chasing me with “dirty” hands (Laura, you know what I am referencing, and yes, I am referencing it at your wedding—could you expect any less?) and me letting Laura have a “dirty” face in front of Hanson (which may or may not have been intentional sabotage). We have also been through too many wonderful times to even begin to reference. As such, as we grow up I can’t help but to be the crazy big sister, plagued with constant nagging sisterly concern because I want so much for you to get everything you deserve out of life, Laura.
So, in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that when you and Denny first exchanged promise rings in high school, I couldn’t help but feel a concern that you had seen a few too many John Hughes movies, which always have glorious climaxes, but precariously cut off right before “real life” sets in. And after all, most high school students could not even manage to commit to a major, let alone to another person, for life.
But this was not just any high school student or just any high school couple. This was Laura and Denny. And as they say, cheesy though it may be, when you know, you know. And regardless of their age, they knew. And (really savor what I am about to say; you know how rarely it happens) they couldn’t have been more right, and my overprotective sisterly instincts couldn’t have been more wrong.
Laura, I could not even dream up anyone better for you (and I have a pretty vivid imagination). Over the years, Denny has demonstrated his love for you time and time again. Not only accepted our crazy family, but jumped right in. He has been to Hanson concerts (and even chatted it up with Zac), persevered through the entire Gilmore Girls series, and undoubtedly given many an opinion on various crochet and cross-stitching projects. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.
Denny, I have considered you family for so many years, that it doesn’t feel right to say “welcome” today—you’ve been like a brother ever since the first time you witnessed one of Laura and my girltalk sessions, and not only suffered through it, but actually participated. So instead of “welcoming” you to the family, I’ll just say it’s official—you’re stuck with us! But I know that the happiness that you and Laura share will make it all worth it.
And so, as you enter the commitment of marriage, of giving and receiving, etc., I wish you nothing but love, laughter, and joy. And I know you will have it. You have shown us all a happier ending, and given us more hope for finding true love than any John Huges movies ever could. So let us all raise our glasses to celebrate the union of Laura and Dennis Pelton.
CONGRATULATIONS, MR. AND MRS. PELTON!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Well, almost, Mr. and Mrs. Pelton, at the date of this posting…but what can you do?!)
P.S. NO stealing my speech, Lindsay! Now it’s all on you! Don’t let the bridesmaid team down!!!
Nighttime Noises
So I believe I mentioned in an earlier blog that one of the first things that I noticed about Botswana was how quiet it is here. This is very true. BUT it is true in a weird sort of way—it is so quiet that it’s actually incredibly noisy. Kind of in the same way that you only hear a leaky faucet at night. Normally the sounds of everyday life like the TV, radio, vacuum, computer, voices, etc., would drown out something so soft, but at night once those sounds have died down, you suddenly find yourself plagued by the nagging drip…drip…drip…drip. Well, it is rather similar here. You see, there is no traffic sound, few electronic sounds (in fact, on many nights since I’ve arrived in Shakawe the power has been out) and no insulation in the cement block housing to muffle noises. So out of the silence created when one settles in for bed, arises a cacophony of the more subtle sounds, which would go unnoticed in most living situations in the States. Add to this that your sense of hearing seems heightened in the pitch black of night—just as the quiet is very quiet, without street lamps and little VCR lights blinking relentlessly, the dark is very dark—and that there are an array of noises that are not common in most parts of the States, or at least not common all at once, and the end result is that it is actually quite noisy.
So, what are the sounds that make Shakawe feel like a city that never sleeps? Here are a few—which, for the record, are frequently happening simultaneously:
Hippos (I don’t know how to explain this sound, but am quite sure that there must be some sort of audio clip somewhere on youtube, or whatever internet medium that has sprouted up and taken over since the two months that I’ve been away…I suggest checking it out)
Roosters cock-a-doodle-doo-ing (they go all night), and chickens scratching around (yes, you can actually hear when a chicken is walking by your house at night; that’s how quiet it is)
Dogs barking (sometimes terrifyingly aggressive, with growling and howling, other times more recreationally)
Donkeys braying (also happens all night, although less frequently than the roosters)
House music and revelers from parties and bars
Crickets and other harmonious bugs
Mice/rats squeaking and running around
Whatever my nighttime creature is, scuttling around my room (I have decided it is a rare African Nocturnal Lizard. Although I have no evidence to back this up, and in fact much evidence to contradict this fact, it is what I have decided, and have named him Reynold, in order to avoid thinking about the fact that it could in fact be something more precarious. I don’t want to see any replies saying that there is no such thing as an African Nocturnal Lizard. Don’t take this from me.)
And my personal favorite, angry cow moos. They don’t like it when they are awakened. So they wake everyone else up out of spite. People often underestimate how spiteful cows can be.
So, my friends, that is what Botswana (or at least Shakawe) sounds like tonight. For the record, this was written at 2am, and at the moment, I can literally hear each of the sounds listed above (actually, Reynold already paid me a visit tonight and seems to have left, or is taking a nap, which is not especially nocturnal of him). There may be other sounds that I can’t think of at the moment, because I’m so preoccupied with the ones occurring at the moment, but I think you get the drift.
Oh, and for the record, despite the fact that I don’t have a faucet, and won’t be seeing any of my beloved rain for another 9 months or so (sigh), I still have a drip. The large water filter that the Peace Corps gave me when we left for site is quite possibly THE slowest water filter in the world (I believe the package said it filters at the rate of 1 liter per hour—actually), (oh, and incidentally, it also has quite possibly the best [in a so-terrible-it’s-awesome sort of way] slogan ever imprinted on it: it says “drink and thrive”…get it? Yeah, it’s an actual pun which seems to make light of “drink and drive”…wow…great marketing…), so whenever I fill it up, I get a serious case of the drip-drip’s all night long. (Thanks again, SO much, for the nice, FAST, better-tasting water filter, Dad!!!).
Anyway…I’m going to try to get some sleep. Oh, but I must now add a new noise to the list—I think it might be bats? Hmm. Oh well…enjoy your highly insulated and mechanically-produced aural numbness to the world while I try to telepathically explain to the roosters that they’re only supposed to crow in the morning, AFTER the sun is up.
P.S. Umm…if you want to hear something amazing…try to find this song…I don’t know what it’s called, but I think it’s South African, and it’s literally written around the whole falling-from-heaven-must-have-hurt-because-you’re-an-angel pick-up line. There can’t be many songs like it; I’m sure it can’t be that had to find on the interweb. It’s pretty fantastic (again, in a so terrible-it’s-awesome sort of way). Oh, or the “Marry Me, Marry Me” song. I don’t know what either of them are called but they’re slowly seeping into my head and ruining my life! Ok, goodnight for real now!
So, what are the sounds that make Shakawe feel like a city that never sleeps? Here are a few—which, for the record, are frequently happening simultaneously:
Hippos (I don’t know how to explain this sound, but am quite sure that there must be some sort of audio clip somewhere on youtube, or whatever internet medium that has sprouted up and taken over since the two months that I’ve been away…I suggest checking it out)
Roosters cock-a-doodle-doo-ing (they go all night), and chickens scratching around (yes, you can actually hear when a chicken is walking by your house at night; that’s how quiet it is)
Dogs barking (sometimes terrifyingly aggressive, with growling and howling, other times more recreationally)
Donkeys braying (also happens all night, although less frequently than the roosters)
House music and revelers from parties and bars
Crickets and other harmonious bugs
Mice/rats squeaking and running around
Whatever my nighttime creature is, scuttling around my room (I have decided it is a rare African Nocturnal Lizard. Although I have no evidence to back this up, and in fact much evidence to contradict this fact, it is what I have decided, and have named him Reynold, in order to avoid thinking about the fact that it could in fact be something more precarious. I don’t want to see any replies saying that there is no such thing as an African Nocturnal Lizard. Don’t take this from me.)
And my personal favorite, angry cow moos. They don’t like it when they are awakened. So they wake everyone else up out of spite. People often underestimate how spiteful cows can be.
So, my friends, that is what Botswana (or at least Shakawe) sounds like tonight. For the record, this was written at 2am, and at the moment, I can literally hear each of the sounds listed above (actually, Reynold already paid me a visit tonight and seems to have left, or is taking a nap, which is not especially nocturnal of him). There may be other sounds that I can’t think of at the moment, because I’m so preoccupied with the ones occurring at the moment, but I think you get the drift.
Oh, and for the record, despite the fact that I don’t have a faucet, and won’t be seeing any of my beloved rain for another 9 months or so (sigh), I still have a drip. The large water filter that the Peace Corps gave me when we left for site is quite possibly THE slowest water filter in the world (I believe the package said it filters at the rate of 1 liter per hour—actually), (oh, and incidentally, it also has quite possibly the best [in a so-terrible-it’s-awesome sort of way] slogan ever imprinted on it: it says “drink and thrive”…get it? Yeah, it’s an actual pun which seems to make light of “drink and drive”…wow…great marketing…), so whenever I fill it up, I get a serious case of the drip-drip’s all night long. (Thanks again, SO much, for the nice, FAST, better-tasting water filter, Dad!!!).
Anyway…I’m going to try to get some sleep. Oh, but I must now add a new noise to the list—I think it might be bats? Hmm. Oh well…enjoy your highly insulated and mechanically-produced aural numbness to the world while I try to telepathically explain to the roosters that they’re only supposed to crow in the morning, AFTER the sun is up.
P.S. Umm…if you want to hear something amazing…try to find this song…I don’t know what it’s called, but I think it’s South African, and it’s literally written around the whole falling-from-heaven-must-have-hurt-because-you’re-an-angel pick-up line. There can’t be many songs like it; I’m sure it can’t be that had to find on the interweb. It’s pretty fantastic (again, in a so terrible-it’s-awesome sort of way). Oh, or the “Marry Me, Marry Me” song. I don’t know what either of them are called but they’re slowly seeping into my head and ruining my life! Ok, goodnight for real now!
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