Ke ya lapeng.

“I want to go see Amerika.”

“You should come visit.”

“Is it true, if I go to Amerika, they will think I am a baboon or call me a chimpanzee?”

I’m still surprised by the things that come out of my Mme’s mouth on a daily basis. She’s an endless source of entertainment. She also tells me quite often how smart she thinks I am, and that she wants me to stay here for the next 2 years. She says she will cry when I leave.

Mme was supposed to volunteer at the church one Saturday morning. When I still saw her around at 8:15AM, I asked her if she was still going. I was touched when she said that she would rather stay at home with me. Later, during breakfast, someone called. I asked if it was the church, and it was. She told them that she is too tired and it’s too far.

Botswana television is continuing to be more fascinating. They have a version of American Idol called Botswana Pop Star that looks like it’s filmed in a high school auditorium, and there’s a Botswana version of American Bandstand that’s not half bad. On the other side of the spectrum, it’s still surreal to walk into the house and see Oprah’s on or the latest news about the American presidential race.

Honestly, although I appreciate the opportunity to watch the news in Setswana and hope I may absorb some language skills via osmosis, the TV issue is starting to bother me a bit. For starters, it’s always on. The family congregates around it, and they barely talk when it’s on. It’s like being a random American household. At first, I was in “assimilation” mode and thought I’d just continue doing whatever the family is doing, but now I’ve started initiating conversations to get the attention away from the television, and encourage more of my Setswana practice. Besides, isn’t the crazy white guy with silly broken Setswana much more interesting than the latest news on cattle herding or the diamond mines?

The other piece that irks me is I was looking forward to getting away from television for a while. I am in Africa, after all. I’ve been reminded over and over again, how completely difficult it is to escape American culture anywhere in the world. Mariah Carey and Black Eyed Peas spill from the speakers in the grocery store and the latest techno dance hits often blare from taxis. Then, there are the china shops. I still don’t understand why there is a significant Chinese population in the middle of southern Africa. Regardless, they sell DVDs for only P10 that have about 20 American films on each disc. One example is the “Matt Damon vs. Leonardo DiCaprio” DVD, which contains movies like The Departed, Titanic, the Bourne series, and Catch Me if You Can. Sure, they’re dubbed and the quality isn’t always great, but still, 20 blockbuster movies for only $2 is a good deal. I haven’t purchased any DVDs myself yet, but I have to admit, every time I’m invited to another PCVs house to watch a movie, it’s so easy to forego my homework or Setswana studying.

Some of my favorite times are when the power goes out. We light some paraffin lamps, and then I really get to have conversations with my family. Then there are the times when I simply plug in my laptop to charge and it overloads the circuit in our house. It’s just embarrassing.

The food situation isn’t getting any better, but I’m finding better ways to cope. I have a wide array of snack food that I eat throughout the day, instead of relying as much on my family meals. Every day is the same assortment of oranges, apples, peanut butter, cookies, chocolate bars, cheese and multi-grain crackers, which are the only “multi-grain” anything to be found. I also have an occasional mango, but winter is approaching, so delicious fruits, including oranges, are slowly disappearing. Soon, the produce sections will be filled with nothing but apples, of which I already eat 2 daily. It’s also a bad sign when foods in the States that I would normally think of as disgusting suddenly seem so appealing here. I almost can’t believe I actually bought that box of bacon-flavored crackers.

The first night we had pasta, I was thrilled, but then just disappointed. I felt like they were playing with my emotions. When I had spaghetti on my plate, and my family saw me eating it plain, I was told there was tomato sauce. I was filled with delight, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I was relieved that my Mme couldn’t find it either, so I felt less incompetent. Then she exclaimed when she saw it in the refrigerator door. It was ketchup, with a label that says “Tomato – Sous.” I explained to them that in America tomato sauce is different, with onions, garlic, herbs, and tomatoes. This is too sweet. Botshe thata!

Everyday continues to be a surprise of bland food, the worst cuts of beef one can possibly imagine. There was even a day when all we had was bread. Just bread. No butter. No peanut butter. No jam. Just… bread. It was odd and saddening. I’d also be happy if I never saw beetroot, bean leaves or phaleche again. I really do love my family, but I can’t wait to have my own place with my own meal choices and food options.

I talk a lot about the food, but it’s not all bad. There’s a spicy sausage, boroso, that is delicious, and my taste bud come to life every time we have it for dinner, which is at least once every week. The first time they asked me to cook with it, I got a bit creative, mostly because I was doing a horrible job cutting it. The meat was falling out of the skin of the sausage, and it looks just like ground beef when it’s raw. I decided to make meatballs. I mixed the spicy meat mixture with a pinch of salt and sugar an egg, and a large handful of crumbled cornflakes. I made a little sauce from onions, tomatoes and green peppers to go with it.

They were delicious. “Dijo di monate,” Mme said, impressed and fascinated by my invention. As soon as she was finished eating, and pushing her side dish aside to save it for tomorrow, she got a small notebook and insisted on getting the recipe for these meatballs. She very carefully wrote down how to make them step by step. This led to a small recipe exchange between the two of us. She asked for the recipe for the home fries I made the week prior, and I got the recipes for her biscuits and her samp and bean mixture. It was another one of many heartwarming moments with my host mom.

Another evening, as soon as I sat across from her in the living room, she randomly asked me, “How many goats do you and your family own in Amerika?”

“Most people in America do not own goats,” I tried to explain.

“How many cows?”

“Most people in America don’t own goats or cows.”

“Ehee…”

“In America, only famers own goats and cows. They have many of them, and it is their entire job…”

In Botswana, the number of goats and cows your family owns is a sign of wealth and how much money you have. Most families own some form of livestock here, but they spend most of their time in some unbeknownst field grazing, or at the cattle post. It’s also common for the scrawniest or worst fed livestock to be slaughtered because the bigger animals are a sign of greater wealth, and therefore, families don’t want to get rid of them. If one of your goats or cows die, or worse, are killed, it’s a big deal. I learned firsthand just how angry some family members can get when this happens to them.

On one Tuesday morning, after I got dressed, I heard a dog barking violently. As my brain awoke, I noticed the barking was very near to my room. I opened my curtains to see a disturbing sight right outside my window. In partial disbelief, I saw my two youngest host brothers, smiling and laughing as they held long metal rods aggressively beating a dog. One of the neighbor kids walking by decided to help in the cruel process by throwing rocks at it. I heard stories about things like this happening, but it was quite different to see it 10 feet away from me.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I restrained my temptation to run out and start yelling at them and insisting they stop their irrational act. It’s part of the culture, I suppose, but my God, what cruelty occurring right before my eyes!

I calmly walked out of my room and saw Tebo, the elder brother, standing on the porch, smiling, enjoying in the fresh air of the morning, as if nothing unusual was happening on the other side of the house. I asked if he knew they were beating a dog and whose it was.

“Yes.” And continued smiling, staring into the distance… enjoying the fresh air of the morning…

“Why are they beating it?” I asked

“A dog killed our goat,” he said blankly

Ok… “A dog” killed their goat, not this dog, but “A dog?” I tried to understand by asking questions.

“Whose dog is it they’re beating?”

“We don’t know.”

“If it’s not even the dog that killed your goat, what is this solving?

“eeh?”

“How is beating the dog helping?”
“eeh?”

“Why are they beating the dog?”

“A dog killed our goat.”

I wasn’t getting anywhere. At this point, the dog ran across the front of the yard and the two younger brothers chased it. It then ran to the porch where Tebo and I were standing. It sat in the corner, all legs intact, not limping at all, but a deformed body of broken ribs, and trembling in both pain and fear.

I asked Tebo very slowly, “Ok, what are we trying to accomplish here?” waving my hands dramatically.

“We want the dog to leave our yard.” I turned my head to see the open gate. “Oh! Ok, let’s try to make this happen.” Tebo grabbed the dog by the collar, but it was terrified and just dug its paws into the grounded. In about 5 minutes, it left the yard with no more beatings. I have no idea if it survived the countless internal injuries it probably withstood.

I still almost couldn’t believe this happened right in front of me. Rather than be seen as the crazy white person who likes dogs, I opted to calmly figure out how to solve the problem. I suppose if I were in my village, I would have done the same thing. I’ll already stand out in a number of ways, I don’t want another one. If this were the States, and any other injustice, big or small, were happening in front of my eyes, I would have reacted differently. I don’t know if I did the right thing by letting the beating go on for a few more minutes, but I do think I did the right thing about inquiring for reasons before violently berating a seemingly common occurrence in their culture.

I’ll never forget that image of them smiling and laughing as they committed this horrendous act. I certainly learned how important goats are and uncared for dogs are. They’re meant to protect your property and herd your livestock, but if they kill one, something went wrong.

Despite the dog incident, Batswana are a kind, gentle and soft-spoken people. I’m reminded of this when I’m talking to people in town, interacting with our trainers and greeting people during my 30 minute walk to our training space every day. I even got lost in my neighborhood after dark once. I left another PCTs house a bit late and the sun was setting. Most people don’t go out after dark, and there are barely any lights anywhere. And there certainly are very few roads, and no street signs anywhere. Everything is a maze of yards, fences, compounds and sandy pathways.

I made a wrong turn on my way home that night, and the moment I turned around to retrace my steps was the moment the sky seemed to have suddenly turned pitch black. I could barely see anything. I started to call someone, but then discovered I was out of airtime and could make any calls. Then it occurred to me, even if I did get a hold of someone. What would I tell them? In English or Setswana, I couldn’t tell someone where I was or where I live. House after hut after yard after herd of goats and flock of chickens all looks the same. There are no streets or addresses, just the maze.

I eventually gathered my bearings and just kept walking in the same direction until I got to one of the main roads. From there, I knew which direction to walk, so I just continued walking until I saw a familiar shape of a house. 30 minutes later, I was home.

It was a frightening experience at the moment, but I was reminded at the time of what a safe place I’m currently living in. I saw several people on my wandering journey in the dark. There wasn’t a single moment that I gave anyone the impression that I was lost. Again, what would I say? I don’t know where I am or where I live. I could have told someone Ratlalape, and perhaps someone would have recognized my family’s surname. At any rate, everyone I talked to were very friendly per usual. Dumela after Dumela my nerves were settled and calm as I was reminded of how kind and gentle the people are. This is all the more reason why incidents such as that morning with the dog are so confusing and surprising to me. I truly love the people here, and my neighbors are some of the main reasons I like my village so much. However, there are a number of situations such as the dog incident that still boggle my mind.

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I had my interview for Site Placement last week. It was simple and non-eventful. In the grand scheme of the process, my preferences are quite simple. They asked me to list my 5 preferences in priority order, and I only have 2. I’m open to the rest. I made the un-stereotypical Peace Corps request that my housing have electricity and/or gas because I realized how important cooking food is to my well-being. For the NGO, the only preference I made is that I want to be placed with an NGO with a Counseling program. Years later, I still crave to do Counseling work as a profession. Working as an Organizer with an NGO that has a Counseling program seems like the perfect cross-over between my previous career and where I still long to go in my career.

On Saturday, I’ll find out where I’ll spend the next 2 years of my life, and with what organization.