Dumela!

My palms were sweaty. I was nervous. We were all nervous. Perhaps we wouldn’t have been if it weren’t such a big display. It was Day 1 of our Batswana life. Once we were paired with our host families, we would begin to immerse ourselves in Batswana culture.

Voices echoed in the hall, folks from Botswana on the right singing their national anthem, followed by the Americans on the left singing ours. Though no one warned us we would be asked to sing, we did pretty well. Over 120 batho, Peace Corps trainees and representatives from our soon-to-be host families filled the room of the secondary school in Molepolele, the town in southern Botswana where we would reside for the next 2 months of training. After listening to speaker after speaker, they began to pair us with our host families.

What do we say? How do we greet them? We’ve only had two days of language and culture training. Would we shake hands in the respectful way? Will they be friendly? Will they like us? Will my home have electricity? Will I have siblings?

The first host family mother stood up after her name was called, and then they called out the Peace Corps trainee’s name. They approached each other in the middle of the room, with big smiles on their faces. He shook her hand, and she immediately gave him a big embrace, hugging him enthusiastically.

Pair after pair were united for the first time, creating our Batswana families. Each time, the armspan of each Motswana seemed to get wider, joyful hug after joyful hug.

I was thrilled to meet my host mother and begin speaking with her over lunch. She speaks a little English, which was certainly helpful with my minimal knowledge of Setswana. We were informed that our host families would give us our Tswana names, but I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. My Mme was almost bubbling over with excitement to tell me my new name.

“Your Setswana name is Kabo.”

“Tahbo?”

“Kabo. K… A… B… O… Kabo.”

“Kabo. What does it mean?” I asked, thrilled to have my name so soon.

“It means gift. You are a gift to our family and to Botswana.”

I could have cried in that moment, but I restrained from even tearing up. It was an unexpected emotional moment. This woman would be my host mom for the next two months, and soon introduce me to the rest of my host family. She said that she has 4 sons, 2 of which live at home with her in Molepolole, and the other 2 who live and work in Gaborone (the capitol).

I used the little Setswana I knew as I conversed with her. She was impressed and telling all of her friends “O itse Setswana.” “He knows Setswana.”

As we were standing in line to get food, she turned to me and asked “Do you drink?”

“Do I drink?” I looked at her, a bit perplexed.

“Yes, alcohol. Do you drink?”

(uh… If I lied and said no, that might disrespect their culture somehow? What if alcohol is a normal part of Batswana life or some daily ritual? If I say yes, does that mean I’m a drunk? No one warned me of this.) “Yes… a little.” I said cautiously

This was the moment she brought up her husband. I think she told me he drinks. Was she trying to tell me he drinks a lot? That he has a drinking problem? I found out later that in Botswana, you either don’t drink at all or you’re a drunkard. Great. Thankfully, this issue hasn’t come up since, and my Mme doesn’t think I’m a drunken fool.

My host father, I soon discovered is a taxi driver, and not a drunk. He picked us up from the school, and we were on our way home. Since he doesn’t speak any English, we didn’t converse much, and I absorbed the somewhat foreign landscape outside my car window, and the hoards of Africans walking everywhere.

On our way home we stopped at the grocery store, Choppies. Surprisingly, no one stared or pointed as I walked around the store with my Mme, no other non-black folks in sight. The store was filled with most anything one would expect in an American supermarket, only fewer options. I would soon become very thankful for the stops we would make to Choppies and Shoprite after training sessions, so I could stalk up on every form of chocolate I could find and hoard it in my room.

Since my Ntate is a taxi driver, we picked up and dropped off 2 people after the grocery store. After paved road, to dirt road to sand-filled driveway and yard, I arrived at my new home. With 3-bedrooms, un-insulated concrete walls and a corrugated tin roof/ceiling, it almost resembles a house one might find in the depths of the poor South of the States. Considering this is Africa, I thought it was fairly nice.

After I dropped off my luggage in my room at the corner of the house, I stepped into the living room to meet two of my host brothers, Tebo and Bami, 20 and 16, respectively. They were watching television. Yes, not only do they have electricity, but they have a TV and a DVD player. After some brief conversation, they asked if I liked pop music, as Tebo held an unidentified DVD in his hand.

It was Celine Dion. They made me watch Celine Dion videos. My first time in an African household, and I’m forced to watch Celine Dion videos. Is this really happening?

I asked one of them “O rata Celine Dion?” You like Celine Dion? Yes, they do, they really like Celine Dion. Over the next hour, I would discover they know a lot more about contemporary American pop stars than I do, not to mention how up to date they are on pro-wrestling.

Tebo lives and works (as a security guard) in Gaborone, and was only visiting in parents over the next few days. I was sad when he went because I spent most of my time in the house with him, learning bits of Setswana, and becoming accustomed to my new day to day life.

Basic activities such as bathing become an entirely new experience where a series of questions needed to be asked to know exactly what to do. There’s no running water in the house. The “toilet” is a pit latrine (outhouse) on the west side of the yard. The first time I was about to walk out to the “bathroom,” Tebo pointed to my naked feet and said “pata-patas.” I understood what he meant, and as I was already planning to do so, I grabbed my flip-flops. I explained to him that they are called flip-flops in America because of the sound they make when you walk. He laughed and informed me they call them pata-patas for the same reason. Every time I walk, I can hear “pa-ta, pa-ta, pa-ta, pa-ta” and it makes a lot more sense than “flip flop.” Pata is also the name for the dirt roads.

There’s a spigot outside next to the house where all of the water for drinking, cooking and bathing is collected by bucket. For my bucket bath, I gather water, pour it into the family’s largest cooking pot, and take about 20-30 minutes to boil it. This will be the hot water for my bath. I then carry a large metal tub to my bedroom, pour in the boiling water, and then gather more (cold) water from the spigot to bring the metsi to its desired temperature.

From bathing to cooking to washing clothes, everything is a process. It’s not the luxury of having a machine or indoor plumbing do most of the work for you. But it’s a simple lack of luxury, really the luxury of time.

As I begin to unpack a bit and get settled in my temporary home, I start to notice the items on the wall. It’s clear my room used to belong to the eldest child, Billy, 24. There are Botswana flag stickers and magazine photos of American musical artists adorning the walls, including Black Eyed Peas. There are also the Zebras, the Botswana football team, random family photos, and most interestingly a piece of notebook paper that reads “The World of Design” next to some sketches of dresses.

Following in the footsteps of his Mom who works as a seamstress and designer in her own textile shop, Billy went to school for Design and wants to make and design clothes. Since he lives in the capitol, I haven’t met him yet, and I’m not sure if I will. The fourth brother, kgosi, is 11. I finally met him a few days after I arrived. He’s adorable, but a bit shy, so he doesn’t talk much.

The brothers who live here have been extraordinarily nice, sweet and kind. They cook all of the meals, boil my water for me and even prepare tea. (Sidenote: As a former British colony, tea time is quite common. We even have tea breaks twice a day during our trainings.)

The second morning I was here, I walked into the house to find Tebo pacing in the kitchen. Apparently he was waiting for me, because as soon as I walked in, he immediately looked up at me and said “I make tea for you.” Being treated with such hospitality as a guest has been nice, but it certainly took some getting used to, and led to some awkward moments.

One morning, I headed to the kitchen, looking forward to making myself some eggs and eating some bread with it. I walked in to find that Bami had made some peanut butter sandwiches with the last of the bread. Dammit! But one of them was for me. Yay! Except, it was a bit early for peanut butter according to my tastebuds. Oh, well. I went with it, made some eggs and had a peanut butter sandwich with it. Then, halfway through my meal, Bami prepared himself a bowl of cornflakes. He pointed at the bowl and said, “This is for you.” Um… “Ke a leboga.” Thank you. Far too much food, but I couldn’t turn down the gift.

As part of the agreement between the Peace Corps and the host families, every week, the families are provided with food baskets to help them to supplement an extra person in the house. The Peace Corps also helps to pay for some of the electricity and gas. Since we’re not expected to pay for any of the food, and the fact that they prepare everything for me, I’ve compromised my tastes for the service. I thought Botswana food was tasty, but after day three it got old. There’s no spice or flavor, everything tastes bland, and since it’s a landlocked country, there’s no ethnic influence of food from other regions of the world. If I wasn’t so exhausted after an hour of walking and a full day of training, and if the family didn’t offer to cook so much, I would probably do my own cooking, but again, it’s a compromise.

One evening, I decided I wanted to make some french fries. I was at a point where anything fried just sounded completely and decadently delicious. It was a bit of a disaster. I put a lot of oil in a pan, but the potatoes just kept sticking. I miss Teflon. I’m a spoiled cook. I salvaged it by adding some onions, turning them into homefries and making some eggs with onion and tomatoes to go with it. This was a night that I opted forego the family meal and make my own food.

Meanwhile, we usually eat around 8PM, pretty late by Botswana standards, but that’s when my Ntate usually gets home. He doesn’t speak any English, so our interactions are quite limited outside of “Dumela, Kabo. O tlhotse jang?” After we ask how each other’s day went, it ends there. However, this evening, he and the rest of the family were so intrigued by my cooking, so they insisted on having a small side of eggs and potatoes with their meals. Halfway through eating his meal, my Ntate, ate all of the food I prepared, started scavenging off of his wife’s plate, and then gave the rest of his Batswana meal to the dogs. It was one of our finest bonding moments. He started acting goofy after that and asking if we could take family photos. Despite the language barrier, we still communicate, he smiles a lot, and we get along. I look forward to the day I can learn more about him by actually speaking more Setswana.

Since my Mme actually speaks a little English, we’re sometimes able to have deeper conversation. One particular conversation, however, was a bit challenging, and then turned awkward. I tried to ask her how she met him, but she didn’t understand. I rephrased the question in several ways, including, “when did you first meet him?” but that still didn’t. I then thought about how important greeting and saying hi to each other is here, so I asked “when did you first greet (Dumela!) him?”, still drawing a blank.

“How did you come to know him?” I asked. She laughed a bit and I thought, “maybe she finally understood what I’ve been trying to ask. Then she said, “During the night.”

Awkward silence.

I think she thought I was asking when they have sex. Moving on, I don’t know how I eventually got her to understand my originally question, but I brought her back. In her limited English, I still didn’t get very much beyond the fact that she used to be very shy, he quasi-stalked her, and suddenly they were engaged. All of that took about 15 minutes, and “during the night,” is not what I was going for.

We did, however, have a substantial and interesting conversation on another evening. She was flipping through a magazine and looking at car advertisements. I asked, jokingly, if she was buying a car. She laughed and said they don’t have the money, then asked if I own a car. I half-lied. I told her I don’t, because I don’t have the money. I truly don’t own a car in the States, but I had money for one. I went on to explain that I worked for a National NGO. I like to do work that I love, but NGOs don’t pay very much, so I walk or take the bus. She told me that most Batswana think all Americans or rich. I’m glad my point of breaking a stereotype got through, however, it’s still true that the poorest of us in the States still have more financially and in terms of options compared to those anywhere in Africa, even in developed Botswana.

The first few nights I was here, I wore my “2004 AIDS Walk” shirt. I wasn’t sure if they knew what type of work I would be doing here, and I didn’t know how to broach the subject in the house. I was hoping one of my host family members would ask me something based on what I was wearing.

She pointed to my shirt on my third night, and asked/stated “They do not have AIDS in America.” I responded “Yes, we do. Very much so.”

“ah, ee? It is not just in Africa?”

“No, it’s worldwide, in every country.

“Many people in the neighborhood have died. I have many friends who have died.”

…

“Have you been tested for HIV?”

“Yes, I get tested… me, my husband, and our eldest son have been tested. All negative."

I didn’t realize the ignorance ran to the level of thinking AIDS was only an Africa problem. She really knew nothing about the AIDS epidemic in the States. The conversation opened her up to bring up HIV at several different times. The most eye-opening, authentic moments were those during our walks to and from church. She would point to house after house after house: “That father died last year… Those parents died a few months ago, so only the kids live there… Their mother died 6 months ago… This man is very sick here… His mother is very ill…”

Here it is. HIV in the heart of Africa. It’s real, and it’s right in front of me.

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In other news, there are livestock everywhere. Chickens, goats and donkeys just roaming around, and my family has 2 dogs. The dogs here are not your usually house pets. They’re all the same breed of wild dogs that are native to Botswana. But they are quite friendly to people, love to be pet and will jump and be affectionate once they get to know you. However, the second night here, I awoke at about 3AM to bloodcurdling sounds. I couldn’t tell what it was. I heard dogs barking violently, then they went silent, and I heard a goat screaming. It’s a horrifying sound. I learned the next day that the dogs attacked one of the goats. Apparently, this is quite common.

The other day, I heard a chicken screaming, and went outside to find our dog with a mouthful of feathers, looking at me innocently as if to say “What?”

We also saw three dogs take down a goat just outside of our training room, like Animal Planet right outside our window, and my Peace Corps neighbor, tells me that her dogs killed a goat the other day. So, her family had a barbeque. Silver lining.

Before coming here, we were disturbed by the fact that people in Botswana seem to dislike dogs so much, and they are prone to throw rocks at them. Now, we know why.

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I’m already filled with more stories that I can find time to write about. Things are certainly different here, and it takes getting used to: having to fetch water, all the trash is burned, handwashing clothes, eating the same bland food every day, learning a new and very foreign language, and waking up freezing. It’s the desert, and surprisingly cold at night. With no indoor heating or insulation, it’s just as cold inside as outside. Winter is approaching. For now, my flannel pants, sweatshirt and 2 wool blankets keep me plenty warm. It’s taking them off and embracing the cold morning that’s hard. I have plenty more layers to add as it gets colder, so it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.

It’s also a bit ironic that I watch more television here than I ever did in the States. It’s what my family does every day before, during and after dinner. We watch the news, local and international, and any other random stuff that comes on BTV: wrestling, a Coldplay concert, Oprah, movies, BBC, soap operas, American sitcoms, etc.

My family truly is wonderful. Everyone in the house, and the countless neighbors I meet on my long walk to training, are very nice and always greet us with big smiles. They're thrilled to hear Americans speaking their native language. My host Mom has already asked me if I can stay for the next two years. She tells me my host father and my host brothers love me, and they’re all going to miss me next week when I go to my site visit .

May 7-11, I’ll be in Charles Hill, a bordertown near Nambia, shadowing another Peace Corps volunteer. I’ll be back in Molepolole for training after that.

Until next time.

Botshelo bo bontle. (Life is beautiful.)