arto's web site should be working now

So I was able to donate just now on the web page. Please give it a try. $100 is about 825 Rand and we need 12,000 Rand so thats what, 15 people giving $100 or something? Or 30 giving $50?  I gave $100, and I don't even have a real job. lol. Say that to my face and I will laugh hysterically.  www.myggsa.co.za/connect/rojects/1483.  Mom, tell Rudy NOT to try to send money out of my account, but to watch to see that the charge comes through! lol  Heading to my Rotary meeting, left work early to get here to use the hotel internet since ours at work seems to have taken a serious turn for the worse....someone will look at it in a few days....eh!???

Arto updated

Hang in there, I am working with the web site for donations for Arto to figure out what the glitch is.  Will keep you posted.

Garbage Daze

I should be paid to do a testimonial or commercial or something for baggillini. If you don’t know what this is, well, I will tell you.  It is the name of a company that makes all kinds of overpriced handbags, travel bags and what not.  I bought a purple (duh) one on a trip I took to Colorado to go to a Best Friends™ training. I had forgotten to bring a gym bag to carry my swim and gym stuff to the resort’s spa/gym/pool areas, so bit the bullet and bought one at the hotel’s gift shop, if that gives you an idea of how much I had to pay for this thing.

Ironically enough, it was in that very hotel room that I for whatever reason began my application to the Peace Corps. And now that very bag is my Favorite Thing. I’m no Oprah, but this bag is fantastic. It is made of indestructible (so far, and god help me if it isn’t true!) nylon material, about 20” by 12” by 6”, with two shoulder straps. It fits nicely into its own little bag (baggillinini?) when not being used.  I use it when I go shopping and amaze the grocery store employees at what I can fit into it along with my day backpack. I use it when I schlep my sheets and blankets to either the washing machine at work or at my friend Tom’s in a nearby village. My 13 year old Batswana niece thinks I am crazy to carry my laundry somewhere to wash it, but then, she never has to wash the blankets at her house by herself.

I use it to carry t-shirts and supplies for tea break to the various support groups, also by bus and by foot.  And lastly, and most importantly, though maybe not something the baggillini company would want to share with the world, I use it to clandestinely carry my garbage to the bus stop when I am not busy using it to carry something else. 

There is a garbage pick up here in my village that I could sign up for, but like many things, it is very complicated and they don’t take baby diapers so a friend of mine wasn’t sure they would take my cats’ litter. People also litter (and not the cat kind) here a lot, so in theory I could just chuck a garbage bag somewhere and not worry about it. But I refuse to litter. I already hate that I can’t recycle, and while it seems silly to take such proper care of my refuge, that’s just how I am. Plus, I need to stay in training for when I actually do have to carry my groceries and laundry (not to mention the unblemished cat litter that I have to bring home in order to be able to cart it off again). 

When I first got here, I just put the cat litter in neat bags in my garbage can, burned all the paper in my fireplace, and carried the remaining small bag of garbage to dump at work.  I took extra care NOT to take alcohol containers to work, since the trainees live on site and I didn’t want them to see me do that or them to be blamed for it.  I figured, eh, I will deal with garbage pick up at some point.  Well, weeks turned in to months and I realized I wasn’t going to make it for 2 years like this.

I thought of digging holes in the garden and hiding the litter and cat droppings, but when I tried to move leaves to one side of the yard one day the neighbor next door was right on my case because he didn’t want them next to his fence (snake haven). He certainly would get cranky with a cat poop dump his side of my yard. The other side is too hard to dig and the other two sides border paths, so people would see me digging. Crap. Literally. So now, the cat litter bags are tightly sealed with duct tape, thrown into second bags, sealed again, and put in my ever trusty Baggillini.

Bus stops have large garbage receptacles. Why I don’t know, since there are very few anywhere else. They are usually empty, surely because they are regularly emptied by a civil servant paid to do so and not because people just don’t use them. Maybe we are supposed to cart our garbage there and the government is just waiting for everyone to catch on.

Sometimes I brazenly throw my litter bags in while I wait for the bus, so that people see me do it and wonder what the heck is wrong with me. Other times I take them on the bus and empty them at the Mogobane bus stop, since no one is ever standing there once the bus I arrive on has come and gone.  That is my favorite place.

As I write this, I realize that I have been watching way too much Dexter. I am pretty sure the baggillini people won’t be interested in my obsession with taking out the trash. Forget I said anything. But it is a great bag.

I need to get better at killing spiders

I need to get better at killing spiders. My ambivalence about it is freaking out my cats. So far I have only had the flat wall spiders, which I pretty much leave alone unless they decide to hang out on the ceiling right above my bed. That freaks me out. Especially since this particular one didn’t look all that flat to me and I know spiders don’t accidentally fall, but I wasn’t keen on him purposely jumping either.

So he had to go. My ceilings are pretty high, so even standing on my bed I would have to reach and maybe jump. This would be tricky.  And this is where my ambivalence really messes me up. See I want to kill it, but I don’t want to kill it. Spiders are good things that eat other bugs, right?  At home I would trap all but the grossest, hairiest spiders in a glass and throw them back outside.  Well, these flat suckers are untrappable. They move so quick and unpredictably that I would need a very big glass and a very long arm and a way to keep myself from shrieking.

So standing on my bed, holding a shoe with minimal tread, I am slightly freaked out because 1) its big and hairy 2) its gonna move fast 3) its gonna move fast and land on my head 4) I am going to kill another living thing for no other reason than it is in the wrong place (see, even here its “location, location, location” ). I give it my best shot.

Okay, so this is that ambivalence part. I really should just slam it straight into the ceiling with the shoe, right? But what if it falls on me?! Better to hit it in a kind of swinging motion so it flies away from me, right? Just in case I only maim it and so it can’t jump on me. And what did it ever do to me?

Okay, going for the “hit-it-hard-but-in-a-swing-it-away-from-me-fashion” method.  Apparently this requires me to shriek really loudly and mutter to myself, also loudly.  Every time I decide to kill a spider, once the battle is over, I look up to see Sisi sitting with wide eyes staring me down.  I hear a cat like “tsk,tsk.”

I know I should leave it to the experts, but even Pudi, who has a vertical jump that most basketball players would envy, proportionally speaking, can’t get spiders that are on the ceiling.  The spiders are figuring out that they need to stay high to stay alive.

So while the cats do what they can, sometimes I have to shriek and mutter. The shoeprint on my ceiling, right above my bed, is a regular reminder to me that we sometimes let the small things in life control us the most, when we probably shouldn’t. Then again, this small thing didn’t look like a harmless flat wall spider to me.

I am typing this in the dark, with only the light of my computer screen and two candles.  Power is out. Apparently there is a spider that IS harmful, that is half spider have scorpion looking and moves even more erratically than the flat guys. It is attracted to light and “chews”. I am using the candles as decoys, but I probably don’t want to be sitting here writing about spiders anymore.

 Another volunteer further north named such a spider Pete. That sounds pretty substantial. I haven’t seen them around here and I am hoping my cats will earn their keep. Especially with all the food and litter schlepping I have to do. Really though, I better go.

Arto is a "GO" with your help!

Please go to www.myggsa.co.za/connect/projects/1483/ if you would like to help this young child in my village be able to run like any normal child.  we need to raise  around 2000 USD quickly so treatment can start as soon as posible. h is already a bit older than most who begin this treatment.  I plan to go with him and his mother to get them settled so if you want to help me personally with my travel costs, let me know.

Arto

My Gang and Gas, but not in That Order

A candle lit dinner tonight. This hasn’t happened if quite some time. At least I have gas. Well, to clarify, I have a gas tank to replace the one I have when the one I have runs out.  But I dread that moment because the one they delivered is about 4 ½ feet tall and weighs a ton.  The delivery guys wouldn’t put it outside next to my smaller, almost empty one, nor would they take the almost empty one because that would require unhooking it and, I guess, result in having gas fly around in the air.  What do I know about these things? Anyway, so they put it in my kitchen, because they said it would get stolen outside if not hooked up.  I take them at their word on that one.  I heard on the radio that gas is in short supply here and a real problem because 70% of people cook with gas. Great, now I will really worry once it is outside.

Meanwhile when I do have to move this one outside I have no idea who will do this task or how much I will have to pay them.  I can ask my neighbor, and the bee whisperer cousin of my landlord, and my landlord’s son. But gathering them all together at the same time, and within a reasonable time of when I am out of gas, will take some doing.  So I guess I will stock up on non-cook food and hope for good timing.  Oh, the lights are back. Nice.

Today I figured out why I haven’t had packs of kids follow me around town.  Isn’t that what we all imagine, volunteer surrounded by cute local kids?  Well, the thing is, in the morning I walk in the opposite direction of all the kids going to school. (Lights off again.) They don’t have time to swarm me because they are in their school uniforms and there must be some code.  Then, by the time I head home at 5:30 or so, they are all long since home and disbursed so can’t really rally a pack or gang to shake me down. Sure, a few here and there, but never a whole gang.  Until tonight. 

I saw the first few on the train tracks as I walked. I was marveling at the fact they can walk everywhere barefoot and that this must explain why as adults, at least the girls/women are capable of walking long distances in incredibly stylish but god-awful uncomfortable looking shoes.  These shoes, compared to being barefoot are a cake walk, walk in the park, whatever.  (Sorry, sometimes puns come just too easily.)

We crossed the tracks together as the older one (maybe 10 or 11) was yelling to a cluster of kids a few hundred yards ahead of us. When our paths met, I suddenly had 12 kids, age 7 or so to 11, asking me all kinds of questions, mostly in English.  I told them my name “Katlego” and asked all their names.  Sorry, wish I could recite them here, but alas. One was Mpho (means “gift” and is as common as John or Jane is at home, because it’s a non-gender specific name). One of the younger kids called me “lekgoa” and I explained to them all that I don’t say, “hi black child” so they shouldn’t say “white person” as a greeting to me.  The ringleader agreed that saying lekgoa didn’t show respect and was wrong for them to say. The young ones immediately got the message and politely asked me my name again.

They wondered where I was from and about whether I wanted to give them money, which was the mellowest request that ever has come my way. But even if I wanted to give someone a Pula, I didn’t want to give out 12 Pula  so I said, in Setswana, “ga ke na madi a mantsi” which means “I don’t have enough money” rather than lying and saying I didn’t have any money. Then they asked, how much is enough. It wasn’t an existential question, but more wanting to figure out how to angle in somehow.  I told them I needed what I had for the bus tomorrow and that seemed to satisfy them.  I asked what they would spend money on if I had any to give them and it was, of course, candy.

I said I was trying to learn Setswana so they began to give me a few quick lessons.  They asked me where I lived and I could answer that too, but had to tell them, as I do everyone, that I don’t live in the ridiculously huge house on the hill that is owned by the dutch cheese maker (who I finally caught a glimpse of earlier this week).  They ask if I lived alone. This is something done by few people but the very unlucky, very wealthy or people without any family left.  People here don’t choose to live alone and they don’t understand why someone would.  Frankly, PCVs don’t “choose” to live alone, we are expected to by PC and ultimately it makes life much simpler for us to do so, it not sometimes lonely. Though I think it also makes people think we are weirder than we actually are, because the concept really is foreign, if not downright alien.

I started to worry they would be walking me all the way home, which  would mean they’d have to walk all the way back too, and by then in the dark. And then it became clear why I was seeing them, in a pack, at this moment. They were all on the way to the store to buy candy, or beg money in front of the shop so they could buy candy. I had to admit that I like sweets too, so I had them tell me about their favorite.  A sucker with chewing gum in the inside, of course. I preferred tootsie pops in my day, but that may be because the suckers with chewing gum inside hadn’t been invented yet.

All too soon, we came to the grocer and they peeled off from me, like a swarm of bees on their way to the hive.  I looked at an older woman walking nearby with three teenagers and said to them, “that is my gang” And they laughed. 

As I continued up the hill, I thought I heard them again, swarming ever closer behind me, but it was another bunch of kids somewhere.  My gang was probably contently eating their candy and walking back home.  I will be seeing them regularly for they pointed out that they see me every morning on their way to school. They will be teaching me bits and pieces each time, I know now, and perhaps try to finagle a Pula or two.  My head will be full, but well entertained, by the time I get to work. This is a good thing.  Now I really need to find my candles.

Arto

Today was the day I was to take Catherine and her son with club feet, Arto to see the Camphill school principal, who is also a nurse, and the staff physiotherapist to talk about what we should do for him.  I told Catherine I would be at her house at 10:30 to pick them up and walk together to Camphill.

When I arrived, she was not to be seen, but was in her one room house. I knocked, she said I could enter. There in all her Motswana ampleness was Catherine in a large metal basin bathing herself and her son to be clean for the meeting.  She was quite pleased to see me and I told her I would be happy to wait outside, which I did. So “I will pick you up at 10:30” translates to “go ahead and finish your bath around 10:45 and we will just head out once everyone has clothes on.”

Arto is starting to warm up to me. The first time he saw me, like some young kids who haven’t seen such pale skin, he kind of freaked. But no real child his age can ever hold out for long to a nice game of peek-a-boo followed by silly noises and faces.  We even got to play a protracted game of give and take where he would hand me the Vaseline container and say “tsa” and I would receive it in my two open hands, as is the custom, hold it for awhile until he started to look worried I wouldn’t give it back, and then tell him to take it from me.  This is what children do when adults around them are speaking in adult talk that we can’t understand (his case) or just in a language we can’t understand (my case.)

It was decided that it wouldn’t hurt for her to go back to her doctor in Gaborone one last time and let him know we hope to have her go to Johannesburg to have her son treated. This requires her to travel to Gabs, sit for a few hours while the staff at the hospital give her file to the doctor who sets an appointment for some time in the future and hands the file back. Then she goes back at that time in the future for the appointment. I will go with her to that appointment.  She has no money, but the school principal basically said, “Look, you have been seeing this doctor and going to these appointments, you need to just scrape the money together and go.”  Silly me, I was almost tempted to pay for it, but I could tell by Catherine’s sheepish response to the principal that she knew I shouldn’t be paying for it, especially since I intend to try to find money to help with all the other costs associated with getting her and Arto to South Africa. She can pay her bus fare, they all felt. I guess bus fare is the health insurance co-pay in Botswana.

Meanwhile there is possibly another doctor at the private hospital who is supposedly knowledgeable about clubfoot treatment, though my sources in South Africa claim no one does the method which is deemed the most appropriate and least invasive.  So I emailed the SA group to update them and find out what is next.

I will be getting to know both Arto and Catherine more on this journey, to be sure.  She told me on our walk to the school that the father of Arto and his older brother Kagiso (Peace) is not around and provides no support to her in raising the kids.  The older daughter  Mpho (Gift ) has a different father who isn’t in the picture either. Catherine lives in a room in a building on her mom’s property. They cook outside, have an outdoor latrine, and bathe and do their laundry in the same large metal basins, though not at the same time. She is taking the father to court sometime this month to try to get support, though I am not sure how they enforce this if he doesn’t work.

She said the day she approached me she had been thinking about her son a lot and what was going to happen to him because he can’t walk. She had been seeing me pass by every day and finally just said to herself, “I have to do something, maybe this woman is god’s way.”  I gotta tell you, that is way too much pressure, yet also kind of funny because god and I formally don’t really hang out, although I certainly appreciate anything good he/she manages to do for people.

I am a bit uncomfortable with her thinking of me as a godsend, but however she believes and whatever she believes that gets her moving forward I guess is okay by me.  When the going gets tough on this one, I can encourage her to remember the strength she has and the strength it took to approach a total stranger and ask for help for her son.  And that I know that she, as a mother, will do what it takes to help him. If her strength and perseverance is god’s work, then god is working hard.

Rotary musings

So at my last Rotary Club meeting, one of the members wants to pay 100 Pula towards his annual dues of 600. He turns to the treasurer with a 200 Pula note. Treasurer can’t change it so the member goes to the restaurant staff to try to change it. Time goes by and I am not thinking about this, as the treasurer and I each had eaten dinner so were working on paying our bills. But I guess it was hard to change this 200 pula, because much later in the lobby the staff person walks up and hands the member a 100 Pula note.  Presumably she had already given him the first 100 Pula.  He takes it from her, turns to the treasurer and hands it to him, to pay his dues. The treasurer takes the 100 Pula and turns and hands it back to the restaurant employee, because by that time he has to pay his restaurant bill and he has a 200 Pula note of his own. Since he doesn’t want to stand around as long as it took the first one to be changed, he temporarily dipped into our coffers to expedite life.  I just thought the whole interchange was amusing. The treasurer said I could share it as long as I made clear that he wasn’t actually using Rotary money to pay his bill and he would square it up later.

Ours is a small club and we are in a poor place, so trying to get ourselves out in the community and raising money to help people is challenging. We are working on collecting used clothing to give to people who need it and are distributing English books for kids to local medical offices, clinics and programs serving orphans and vulnerable children.  But there are just a few of us who are really doing anything, and bringing new members in is challenging. Even though 600 Pula is less than $100, it is a lot of money for many and the concept of joining a service club is still foreign in Botswana. We need something that puts us out in front of the community so they say, “wow, those people are cool and I so want to be one of them…”  In South Africa, there are a lot of clubs, some of them very wealthy, but ours is not that.

I am hoping to travel to Johannesburg with some other members in October to attend a Rotary function, and I want to plan some traveling next year to visit Rotary clubs in South Africa who are doing some good HIV/AIDs related work.  I am probably going to make my way to visit the other Botswana based Rotary clubs in November.  I am also contemplating going to Bangkok for the International meeting in May. I feel like I am half way there anyway, but I better look at a map and my bank account.

Rotary International has an Action Group working on AIDS and they finally have a contact name for someone in Botswana, so I am hoping to connect with him and see what they are working on.  I like my fellow Lobatse Rotarians and hopefully we will be able to bring in more members.  I realize now I made it way too easy for my Arcata Club to recruit me. Then again, I haven’t given you any dues yet now, have I? Thanks for letting me be an honorary Arcata member until  I return. Too bad 600 Pula won’t get me very far in Arcata.

Today was a tough day

Today was a tough day, and I am trying to figure out what brought it on. Was it standing in one place for an hour waiting for the stupid Mogobane combi that never came?  I had an umbrella and was with one of the women from the support group so it was companionable enough.  Was it sitting in their meeting and watching the money collection at the end to bring their medicine container/treasury up to about 150 pula (which is less than $40)?  Was it their discussion about one of their members who was supposed to make homemade traditional beer for the group to sell, and no one has seen her or the beer since (or the 250 pula they put up to buy the sorghum to make it)?  Was it hearing the frustration the members felt and indignation that she would not be responsible, along with the realization that for all the labor and effort, making and selling homemade traditional beer isn’t a great money maker anyway?

Was it the sense of overwhelming need here, and my feeling that I can’t do anything, and certainly nothing fast enough, to help improve the lives of these people?  Was it the conversation I had last night with my friend IT, a Motswana, and his wife Louise from Scotland, and their experiences seeing friends die of HIV/AIDs years back, and worrying that people are becoming too complacent because the government provides free ARVS? That people are not really taking the risk of infection seriously enough to change their behaviors and younger people will continue to become infected partially because there is a cultural desire and expectation for women to have children? Or that few young people feel marriage is the way for them because they have seen how their parents interact and as young women, they would rather be the mistress than treated like their mothers were by their fathers.  So young women look for an older man who can provide for them – giving them money and other gifts – but who they don’t necessarily have to put up with when he gets drunk or annoying? That is the wife’s job.

Is it the ability of some people to turn a blind eye to suffering and people less fortunate and be willing to commit acts of corruption and theft of money that is meant to help everyone and not just a few?  Are we all just swimming upstream in a dry river?

None of these thoughts and questions are new to anyone here or anywhere else in the Peace Corps world.   But still, on this particular day, September 8, 2011, these thoughts were troubling to me.  I started asking the question many have asked, and I have often asked myself, “why am I doing this?”  Others may have asked me because they couldn’t figure out why I would leave a perfectly good job and life to go off and be a stranger somewhere, away from all I know and love.  I am asking the question more as, “what difference will I make by doing this?” Do people really care if I am here trying to help or not? Do people here believe they can make a difference in their own lives enough that I can join with them and find something I can contribute to their efforts?

With all these thoughts and some grief mixed in about my Dad, I finally made it home from Mogobane in time to grab a bit to eat, rest and try to get rid of a headache before going to a 2 p.m. meeting.  This meant I took a 30 minute nap and struggled to convince myself that I should get up and go to the meeting. It wasn’t like they expected me, or would miss me if I didn’t show.  They continue to forget to tell me about these meetings – the Village Multi-Sectorial AIDS Committee – so maybe I should just sleep. After all I deserve to rest.  But I walked down to the meeting, sat with 7 other people for about 30 minutes until they decided to cancel the meeting because the chair didn’t come.  I find this annoying. What was wrong with the 7 of us having a meeting? Had I known, I could have gone to Ramotswa and listened to Tshepo, one of the disabled employees of Camphill, give an inspirational speech to my friend Tom’s Lifeline group (a group of teenagers and out of school youth who meet weekly and undertake activities that help them build skills and friendships). So after our defunct meeting, I grabbed a ride with one of Tom’s co-workers who had come to our meeting and was heading back to Ramotswa. Things were starting to look up. 

I got to the meeting and Tshepo was eloquently talking to a room of 16 attentive teenagers about his life, his work, and the work of the disability support groups.  I understood maybe 25% of what he was saying only because I knew him and had read the report he was talking about, but there were things he said that I could tell where simply marvelous and really connected with the group, even though I was clueless what the actual words were.  I looked at these kids and wanted to just cry.  It was so nice to be in a room full of kids who have energy, ideas, and positive outlooks. Who haven’t been completely beaten down, who still have dreams, hopes and aspirations for their lives.  As Tshepo and I were leaving to catch our ride back to Otse, Omphile, one of the kids, wanted to tell everyone about how he and I had met and how it had brought him to this group. He said how happy he was to see me today and that he missed not seeing me more often, but would forever be grateful to me for helping him find his way here. It was all because of a chance meeting on a combi, and his friendliness towards me and openness about his life and interests (he is interested in theater and communications).  I simply listened and then hooked him up with Tom and this group.

So maybe my wandering around on and off buses and combis, getting blisters, waiting for combis that never come and wondering if I am doing anything useful or productive comes down to those chance moments and meetings and personal connections, not the number of organized meetings a person attends or doesn’t attend, or the reports written (although that SO matters to everyone because we have to justify our existence to funders, including the US taxpayers.) 

So, here as at home, it continues to be mostly about just showing up. The tricky part is I don’t always know exactly where I am supposed to show up, or who I might be showing up for when I do. Today, I think I had to show up mostly for myself, but it was nice to show up for Omphile as well.

This evening, I decided to enjoy a bit of the evening air so I swept my patio and walkway. There are two trees that constantly drop leaves and big seed-like pods onto the bricks. I have started sweeping because someone made me think that piles of leaves near my house are good places for snakes to hide.  So I sweep and collect the leaves and throw them on the other side of the property where I guess snakes are allowed to hide. As I did this relatively mindless activity (watching out of the corner of my mind for snakes, of course), I thought about how much gardening I used to do at home and how relaxing it was at times, even though raking leaves, like pulling weeds, was less enjoyable because leaves, like weeds, always came back. When you decide to garden, you have to make a long term commitment to go out and do something, even if just a little, every day because if you let things go it’s that much worse to deal with.  If I hadn’t been sweeping up these leaves the piles would be huge by now, my walkways and patio totally covered with leaves and dirt and my life full of snakes (well - maybe).

Hmmm.  Not at all unlike my life here and lives the world over.  Every day we have to do something to keep the worst of it at bay.  That’s how you don’t let life overwhelm you – you realize that this IS what life is about – getting up, doing what you need to do, and being kind to others who are out doing the same thing, as best as we all can.  Some days it is just about keeping the pathway clear and ready for the next time you use it.

Sure, we can argue that cutting the trees down would eliminate having to sweep the leaves constantly. But birds and bugs depend on these trees, and they provide humans and others with much needed shade and clean the air.  There are a lot of things in life that can be both annoying, seemingly useless, yet also functional, even beautiful.   So why am I here?  Maybe it’s to remember to be like the trees and appreciate the positives with the negatives, in all things? Maybe it’s about learning that this is good enough. For today, it is and I feel better.

Three for Four and “O” (NO) for Two

Today was three for four in the free ride department. And I could tell by staring at the combi driver’s neck that he totally wanted to give me a ride for free, but it was, just..well, the other 14 people who he didn’t want to give a free ride to who were also staring at that same there neck.  Disclaimer: Peace Corps discourages us from hitching except when absolutely necessary and we are trained to look closely at the car, the driver, any empty alcohol containers, etc. and note the license plate or anything suspicious prior to getting in the vehicle. In fact, if we note anything suspicious or see any empty or for that matter full and open alcohol containers, we are told to politely demur. I got no problem with demurrals and take the bus whenever possible.

But the thing I have come to discover is that most of the drivers who pick you up during working hours are not drinking and are also driving reasonably healthy cars.  I have also come to discover that when you get a hitch you might get good conversation and get to meet two of the three Peace Corps goals: helping people in other countries learn about Americans (moi) and helping Americans learn more about people from other countries. Sometimes of course this doesn’t work, but then at least I am able to listen to what sounds like a good Setswana conversation and inter-cultural exchange that has its own merit.

And often if you engage the driver in conversation, he or she doesn’t charge afterwards. Or maybe I am just that charming. Nah.  I think hitching during the non-commute portion of working hours puts people in a different zone where they may still pick up hitchers even if they don’t really need the money, just to do their civic duty and reduce the number of desperate looking vagrants who stand blocking the bus stops.

And I needed those free rides today, which came quickly with little waiting, also a bonus.  See for the last two days I have worn one pair of shoes to work, and carried a second to change into depending on how hot my feet got and whether the shoes were causing blisters. It’s still kinda cool in the morning but much warmer later. Today I confidently and yet so stupidly set out wearing my comfy sandals with no extra pair and whammo blammo blister-o on both little toe-os. And this on my way to work with a whole day of hitching (uh cultural exchange) ahead of me.

My first college roomie Tracy, a howlie from Hawaii, said to me way back then that my feet were as soft as a baby’s butt.  Yeah, that kind of comment sticks with you. She had tough surfer, sexy beachcomber feet and I had (uh still have) feet that don’t like being barefoot and thank god a podiatrist finally told me (where was he when I was painfully trying to be barefoot-cool as a kid?) SHOULD not be barefoot.

Today the blisters hurt so much I was actually thinking about taking my shoes off and walking in the dirt and glass and filth. That was a mere nano-second of thought, but it still counts as an entire deranged moment, in my book.  But at least walking slowly made it tolerable and also made me not look like the crazed white woman practically racing across town for no discernable reason. My normal appearance.

After my work was done in Tuang, I ended up leaving after 5 p.m., much later than planned, which meant crowded buses were in my future, if any even stopped at all, so my last hitch of the day was thus the sweetest of all, coming at a time when aforesaid vagrants (me included) were desperately eyeing every car that passed and practically mobbing any that looked like it would slow down to pick someone up. A big Mercedes pulled up and an older woman rushed pass me to jump in, but said “Otse” as she did so.  Perhaps she was one of my solidarity ladies from the Lobatse debacle a few weeks back. That made us Otse Village Sistas of Solidarity. Sure enough, the Mercedes was going to my village and I had even seen this vehicle there before!  Sweet lord, she was even going to turn up the road I needed her to turn up and cut my walking down to just the short hilly bit. 

My toes would have kissed their feet, both the driver’s and those of the woman who gave me the tip, if such a thing were appropriate here. Not sure that is appropriate anywhere or even possible, but let’s just say, me and my digits were delighted. I even used a fairly proper sentence to describe where I lived, for the first time not saying, “Lefoko Blake’s house.”  Why, I was on a lucky roll so I said, “ke nna mo lentsweng.” Which means I live on the hill, but translates more to ‘I am from the place that is on the rock (hill).” Whatever. A week of language lessons has paid off!

So she takes the turn off the highway and pulls over. Shit. So what just happened, am I getting out after all? NOOO!!  But wait, instead of me hoofing it, her teenager daughter hops out of the front seat, having put her ipod-like (oh hell, it was an ipod. Everyone on the planet has one of these now except me) contraption’s ear plugs into the proper orifices, and sets off for a walk home.  I gotta tell you, I am so out of practice of seeing people exercise for exercise’s sake that I really had to look at this for a minute before it made any sense to me.  You go girl, I am getting a ride to as close to my house as your momma will drop me and I will not feel bad. Not one bit.

Tomorrow requires me to go to Mogobane, so close yet so far due to the erratic behavior of the only combi driver in that area, so I am pretty sure I am in for a long walk in at least one direction.  Oh the dilemmas of footware. Something padded I think, like the cell I will need when I am done. But at least I have 3 free hitches worth of pula to put in the medicine container/Mogobane Support Group treasury

I just wore myself out doing a puzzle

I just wore myself out doing a puzzle. But that is a major improvement over yesterday, when I couldn’t figure out how to fit a single solitary piece in a 15 minute period.  That was embarrassing, but luckily no one knows. So my admission to this now can only be attributed to the depravity of my illness. This cold is totally unparalleled in my recent memory of colds. Coughing is so exhausting.  Now the upside.

1.       I managed a short trip to the post office to claim what must have been the lost box that my coworker’s sent me at some point. It was full of Kleenex, travel tp packlets, and medications and yummy treats. It was sent I think after I talked about my first African cold, which was pretty tame in comparison to this here monster.

2.       Ever the multi-tasker, I had already scheduled to have language week at my house during this (unbeknownst to me) sick week, so I managed to hopefully only miss one week of work. Although I am typing this on Saturday and Monday still looks iffy for work at this rate of recovery. (Downside of course is for Tom, who came to language week, and Tonic, our language teacher, who actually lived in my house for the week. Hopefully they aren’t right now coughing up their own lungs.)

3.       Those pesky few pounds I managed to pick up on my recent trip home are probably gone baby gone.

Sorry, that’s really all I got. Otherwise I have no energy to do much of my job work projects or Peace Corps work that is due Tuesday. I am cancelling my surprise trip to Kanye to visit my Motswana niece who turns 13 this week because the thought of two bus rides and exposing my family there to this crud leaves me, sadly not “cold” but hot and sweaty at the thought. Even the peanut M&Ms hold no appeal right now. Too much chewing involved. Laundry is piling up and I don’t care.

Being ill afforded me the opportunity to peruse the nifty manual “Where There is No Doctor” with all kinds of health information to use out in the sticks in villages where there are no doctors. I know more about all kinds of icky things that make you sick, but at least I also know (well, I am pretty sure anyways) that I don’t have anything more serious than a cold.

I suppose I could have pneumonia, so if I am really not better by the time I go to post this Monday (well, if I am not then this won’t be posted Monday), I need to talk to our doctor. He will want me to go to the office to see him.  See, now here is the thing.  If I feel that sick, and am that sick, I won’t be able to get on a bus and go see him. Getting on a bus and going to see him would only prove I wasn’t that sick, which would be worth doing if it proved I wasn’t sick because then I would obviously start to feel much better, but then it would be a waste of time, because I won’t be sick. Right?

Plus in addition to the medical care, I would receive what must be a regular part of the Peace Corps medical care mantra (a good plan for people away from home for the first time and in their mid to late 20s, I suppose), which includes looking at any psychosocial aspects of a particular illness. Good advice if I am there for alcoholism, or an STD, or because I wantonly chose to go outside without sunscreen or an umbrella (clearly suicidal, if you ask me). I am almost 50 and I get the psychosocial aspects of disease. I have been round that block so many times that I have a slight lean in the same direction when I walk (yeah, left.) I have even been able to make myself sick or allow others to make me sick (so to speak) more times than I care to mention.  And even if this cold isn’t strictly caused by traveling for a zillion hours over 9 time zones twice in 10 days in a metal can with questionable ventilation, full of hundreds of people, but in fact also brought on by the emotional stress of my father’s death, my mother’s move, and a visit to IKEA, I am still physically sick and thus potentially in need of TLC.

I think my cats are showing me the way. Eat, drink, rest (A LOT), and play or swat something when you have the energy.  They are also providing the TLC.  Yes, I promise, I WILL go to the doctor on Tuesday if I am not feeling better, or cough up the second lung. Uhh…come to think of it, I was in the PC office 3 days before this cold started…..now I am conflicted again….better nap on it….

What a difference a day makes. This morning I wore myself out doing my laundry, which is much closer to normal. Once I can convince the cats to stop their WWF match on my lap, I may be headed for another nap.

Your Average Saturday

I had a busy weekend week before last. Went to Ramotswa to visit Tom and wash my blankets in preparation for the arrival of guests for a week long language course here at my house.  Peace Corps encourages us to make learning the local language an ongoing process during our two years and they will even provide a language instructor for week long training sessions if we provide the teacher with housing. Well, my house rocks, so that was no problem.  Tom, Susan, Charlie and I were going to have a great session, but Susan and Charlie had to back out at the last minute. I was worried PC would cancel it, because they like a minimum of 3 students, but it was Friday afternoon and everything was in place so Tom and I scored one of the best teachers, Tonic, for 5 days of Setswana!!! Okay. Maybe I will be asking someone to shoot me by Wednesday, but with the no pressure, relaxed, wine for dinner and coffee from home atmosphere in my park like setting, I think we will be okay.

Tom and I are both trying to put in the way back of our minds the piles of work we have at our jobs, and the other pile of work PC has asked us to do in the next couple of weeks. Too bad the back of my mind is already full with so many other things I am supposed to remember not to think about.

So anyhow, I caught a nice hitch Saturday a.m. to Ramotswa, carrying my backpack with clothing, and two additional “carry-ons” with a blanket in each. A family with a three-ish year old girl sitting on the lap of a man in the back seat.  She had a pencil in her hand. But nothing to write on. Heh, I am a Peace Corps volunteer, so I handed her my little notebook so she could work unimpeded by lack of paper.  She didn’t draw big pictures. She wrote much like she was actually writing, except it was all squiggles and lines and obviously deep, deep thoughts in some language only three year olds can possible understand.  The things she was writing were so important that each thought needed its own page, so she continued through the notebook writing quite a bit, or at least a little on quite a few of the pages.  Her mom looked back at one point and asked her what she was doing. “Ke kwala.”  “I am writing.” This she said quite matter-of-factly and rather seriously for such a wee one.

My god, I thought, I am in the presence of a future Motswana author and it is all because I built her capacity by giving her some paper. I might be getting the hang of this whole PC thing.  I borrowed the paper back to ask her mom to write the child’s name on one of the pages and I wrote my Setswana name under hers.  I told her that was her name, and this here was mine.  She went back to her kwalaing, clearly unimpressed, so I left her alone.  When my stop came, I borrowed the paper back one last time and ripped out any pages I needed and gave her back her manuscript.  She at this point began to realize that she wasn’t just borrowing the paper anymore, but that it was hers. Finally, I got a smile out of the serious author. My work thus done, I hopped out with my laundry and headed on my way. To be in the presence of such youthful genius and energy.  I can’t wait to see what happens when she actually starts to use words the rest of us can understand.

After doing the laundry and having lunch, Tom and I set off by foot in the 2 pm sun to the Kgotla for the cultural event going on that fine day.  It was so darned hot that, even with my feet in sandals, they were on fire. I was carrying an umbrella, which helped except when the wind tried to take it out of my hands and poke Tom’s eyes out.  We watched some of the dance competitions – various towns and villages had traveled there with their dance teams wearing their traditional garb.  We noticed there were some displays of culturally relevant baskets, old tools, a display on foot and mouth disease, things made out of leather, etc. but no food or water for sale anywhere. Jeez, we though, that was an opportunity untapped.  We looked at the shoes and I was reminded that even though people here do speak English, they don’t always understand it when they hear an Americanized version.  I was looking at the sandals, which I liked, but there was a pair that had the toe thong thingies, which I hate because I hate having anything rub against my toe like that. So I told Tom this, but the only word the fellow sitting behind the table heard was “hate” which I admit is a very strong word to use to express dislike of toe thonged shoes, no matter what.

Tom and I started to move along, when the fellow stood up and said, “why do you hate these shoes so much?”  He wasn’t angry or rude, but genuinely curious, because, well, there was nothing to hate about shoes in general and those specifically were really quite nice.  Ach, I said to him, “I apologize, the shoes are beautiful, but my toes don’t like to have things touching them while they are walking about.”  This seemed to appease him, and I was reminded about the use of language in everyday life.

From there I took my hot and now somewhat embarrassed feet to sit in the shade where chairs had been set up and mostly older folk were sitting. We weren’t there for more than 5 minutes when a woman came over and told us to go with her. Where, we wondered? Are we not supposed to be in these seats? No, she was taking us over to eat lunch. Hmm. Why us, with the hundreds of people sitting around us not being taken to eat lunch? Turns out the chiefs and their families from all the villages participating in the cultural event had already gone over to eat the traditional meal in a nice shady tent, and we had been invited over as dignitaries. Eish. If white sweaty people are dignified, then I guess we qualified, but it was obvious that the assumption was made that white skinned people should be honored in this manner.  My radical feminist of my youth would have refused (which would have insulted someone, to be sure, even more than my shoe hating toes ever could), but my middle-aged, overheated and hungry feminist who respects cultural norms self went for it.

We sat with the Kgosi and his daughters from a town called Manayana, which isn’t too far from Ramotswa and boasts rock drawings, the Livingstone tree, a river that never dries up, the greenest grass in Botswana, and a newly discovered gorge (I didn’t quite get how a gorge could be newly discovered. Did someone just for the first time walk off a cliff that no one knew was there until he did so?) I explained to the daughter of the Kgosi, who was telling me how great this village was, that back home we have things called Chambers of Commerce to welcome people to the community and give them lots of brochures about fun things to do and ways to spend money while in town.  I told her she was a great Chamber of Commerce all on her own and made me want to visit. I told her she did a great job of selling her village. Her sister sitting next to her said, “don’t sell it all, we need some for ourselves.” Then the two of them went back and forth, “I am not selling it, I am telling her about it.” “I know, that was a joke.”  And a pretty clever one, I thought.  I put the village on my list of must sees.  The chief had 9 children, 7 girls and 2 boys. The oldest is a boy and now actually the acting chief. I am sure he is happy to see his sisters’ wit and give and take on a regular basis.

The Kgosi from Ramotswa came over to glad-hand and we paid our respects. She is one, if not the only, female Kgosi in the country, so I like saying hi to her.  Tom was wishing he had worn a suit and tie like all the other men surrounding us, but who knew we would be dragged back to hobnob and Tom in a dark suit would have guaranteed a trip for sunstroke to the nearest hospital.  We left the area and returned to the masses. The male elders of all the towns were now being called back to the food tent to eat.  Then, they started feeding the masses. Everyone there – hundreds of people – were being fed, for free, as part of the event.  Surely many (especially the male youth) had come primarily for that meal and to watch the dancing girls. The lack of food and drink vendors was perhaps partly poor entrepreneurship, but the bigger part was that this was a community event and the community was eating – uh, communally.  Sure there was a pecking order – kgosis and families and other VIPs first, village elders second and then everyone else. Best of all, the older or disabled didn’t have to fight their way to the food. It was brought to them – they were served first before the young. It indeed looked like the intention was to serve everyone there, but we didn’t wait to see because it was time for us to hit the market then get ready for another event.

Tom had tickets to a dinner dance sponsored by his catholic church. Yippee. I get to dress up, put on heals and wear one of my new dresses bought at Nordstrom Rack on my recent trip home.  We arrived a little after 7 p.m. and walked into a well decorated hall that was almost totally devoid of people. The folks getting the food ready were there, as was the DJ and his crew, which was unfortunate, because they tested the sound system at the highest possible volume for the next 30 minutes as the hall began to fill.

One of the church elders and a friend of Tom’s came and sat with us and we chatted. Two other church elders joined us. Then a nice woman came over and told us we had to move to the front of the room – unfortunately right under the speakers.  Wha?  Okay, off we went. Eventually the official program began and the beautiful MC, dressed to the nines, began saying what she needed to say, also at very high volume with us seemingly just inches away from the speakers.  I plugged my right ear because the left one was already shot.  During a break in her comments, she comes and asks for our names and writes them down.  Jees. Turns out the elders we are sitting with are important people in the church and apparently we are also important enough to be introduced to the masses as part of the protocol of the evening. Twice in one day we are being treated beyond our pay class.  Although at least at the church they know Tom; he is friends with the elder woman and she chose to sit with us so maybe she singled us out.

Tom turns to me and says, “stick with me, I know people.” The best part is our table got to be at the head of the buffet line and we left way before the drinking and dancing got into full swing. On our way out, the mc, in her tight black dress and high heels actually ran across the parking lot to catch us.  She had wanted to talk because she is a singer and sings with a national trio called Women of Jazz. They do fundraisers and since we were volunteers she hoped to connect to see what we were doing and how maybe they could help us in the future or work on a project together. Blow me over. I had just spent an hour on Thursday on the internet trying to find this group for the very same reason! We exchanged emails and numbers and will be in touch to be sure.

That Sunday evening over a spaghetti dinner (with parmesan cheese – thanks Mom!) Tom and I were telling Tonic, our language instructor, about our weekend in Ramtoswa. Tonic is also catholic and used to sing in that church’s choir and knew Nnunu, the woman I spoke with.  Botswana really is a small town. I have to ask her how to say that in Setswana.