Blank Canvas

Strolling along the Thamalakane river, the sunset glows behind the acacia trees and termite mounds. The last red embers fade in the distance and reflect off the lilypads. I hear the loud, vibrant songs of the African bullfrogs, surprisingly mellifluous to my ears. These sounds and sights of postcard Botswana bring the rest of my conscious being to a halt. Inhaling the fresh smell of the water and the crisp, cooling air of the desert, I feel that sense of serenity I so often yearn for.

I turn away from the river, walking east on a maze of white sandy paths, passing the ubiquitous grass huts, concrete houses and wire fences that border homes and compounds. A mere 10 minutes later, I’m opening the gate to my own yard of grayish sand, rocks and straw yellow grass. Walking past my dried laundry that hangs on the fence, I see the same dilapidated house I left this morning, the same cracks and faded yellow, but now reflecting the burnt sienna of dusk.

It took a while to make this place feel like home, and it’s still a work in progress. It’s the 12th time I’ve moved in my life, and I’ve traveled enough in the States to feel that wherever I sleep at night is my home. This house, however, is a lot of work.

I’m grateful that I’ve had to buy very few items for the place. Most everything I need was left behind by a previous Peace Corps volunteer, donated by the woman who owns the house, or given to me by my NGO, who is also paying my rent. When I first walked into the house I was a bit surprised with how much I space I have, and I was equally overwhelmed by the redolence of Blue Death, a local insecticide used to kill ants and termites. Its white powder coated every crevice, the floorboards, tops of doorways and the corners of the rooms. Judging the by splintered quality of my two tables, swollen portions of wood, the wainscots barely attached to the walls, and the brand new ceiling, it’s clear this place was quite infested. The house is also filled with more dust than I have ever seen in one place, which would lead to several days of cleaning, sweeping and mopping.

In addition to the large amount of space for one person, the second bedroom is being used as storage by my landlady, but she says I can use anything in that room as long as I take care of it. I never thought I would get to hang my clothes here, but after digging through thick webs and killing about 20 spiders, I cleaned out a beautiful wardrobe that is now sitting in my bedroom. I had a similar process with the old and wrecked queen size “box spring.” (I use that term loosely.) I dug through the webs and spayed Doom, my new best friend in a can, all over it. It killed most of the spiders, and a few minutes later, a couple of large ones came stumbling out. More arachno -genocide later, I had something to put my twin size foam rubber mattress on. It’s much better than the rusted metal spring frame I was given, which equates to sleeping in a stiff hammock the way it curves when one lays on it. My spine is happy about the change.

As I was hanging a mosquito net to finish my newly created sleeping arrangement, I heard someone yelling “ko ko… ko ko…” outside. This is custom in Botswana, opposed to actually knocking on someone’s door, which makes sense since the doors of most homes are usually in one of two states here: completely open for ventilation, or covered with layers of burglar bars for, well, it’s self-explanatory.

I walked out of my room and found Tiny standing on my front porch. I met this woman, funnily named because she is anything but tiny, when I first came to see my house. Another one of my neighbors informed me that she is the one who cleared some of the grass and weeds out of my yard, though I never asked her to.

I thanked her for the kind gesture, since I was so grateful for the unexpected favor. She proceeded to tell me, “I’ll clear the rest of your yard, do your laundry and clean your house. You pay me P200 at the end of every month.”

I was taken aback by this expectation. Did she really expect this to happen? Did I do something that may have given her the idea of this arrangement? I still have so much to learn about the culture, and I’m only just getting used to everyone thinking I have a lot of money or will hire them simply because I’m a lekgoa. I told her that I’m a volunteer and I don’t have any money. “Ga ke na madi… I only get enough money for food.”

The moment was awkward, but the conversation continued and laughter ensued, so I guess Tiny and I were on good terms, for the moment. She also told me that her doctor is coming by tomorrow and he can show me around the neighborhood if I would like. Why her doctor was coming to her house and why he would show me around, I didn’t understand, but it didn’t happen anyway.

I did start to explore my neighborhood on my own, however. I decided I would take the 1 mile walk to the main road and buy some things at the Cash n’ Carry. I brought my backpack with me so I could stuff it with as much as I could once I got there, and I also brought my notebook so I could write down names of people as I meet them. I remembered how happy the people in Molepolole were when they would hear white people speaking Setswana. Along my route to the training venue, so many were happy to greet me.

I was not greeted with such enthusiasm on my walk up the road. I received only mild tones and quiet hellos as I tried to speak with my new neighbors and the Batswana along my route. Was it because I’m in a bigger village? Is it because there are so many white people here? Is it because Maun is so touristy? Or is just a matter of chance? I have so many questions. Regardless, it didn’t help my mood, added by the long walk I was taking that reminded me of how far I am from everything.

Once I got to the junction, I wasn’t sure how to get to the Cash n’ Carry. There were fences everywhere, so finding the entrance was a puzzle. Along the road were also about 20 shacks of different tiny businesses. I walked up to the “phone shop” and made friends with Curlis, who was much more engaging than anyone else I encountered that morning. He also stood up for me when the man at the booth next to his was screaming at me asking me for money. When I told Curlis where I was trying to go, he offered to walk with me. Once there, I picked up the things I needed, all non-perishables at the Cash n’ Carry, and he picked up a liter of juice. When we got to the cashier, he put down juice in front of my items as if I was going to pay for him. He gestured to the cashier that I was paying for him.

“I’m not paying for you. Do you have 6 Pula?” I told him, unabashedly.

He shyly pulled out some money and paid for his juice. I thanked him for accompanying me, and went on my way, feeling a bit frustrated by people asking me for money, but the warm bond I felt with Curlis remaining.

I met two different women on my way home who were much more willing to chat with me than the ones I had met on my way up the road. In front of each of their houses, we talked and laughed about my Setswana, chatted about my job and talked about their kids. Each of the conversations also ended the same. They each asked if they could work for me, if I could pay them to do housework. When I told them I couldn’t, that I actually have to wash my own clothes, they weren’t upset as much as they were confused.

A few days later, one of my co-workers offered something similar. She said she would help clean my house. Slightly agitated, and reflecting upon the conversations I had with several women in my neighborhood, I gave my habitual “Ga ke na madi” response, in a restrained yet mildly abrasive tone. I would then learn that I don’t know enough about the culture here to understand context.

She laughed. “I don’t want you to pay me.”

“What do you mean? You would just come help me clean my house for nothing?” I was so confused.

“Yes, that’s what we do here. We help each other out. We all pitch in, and sometimes that means helping each other clean.”

“But there are several women in my neighborhood who have offered the same thing, and they want money. I thought it’s because I’m white, so they expect me to have several housekeepers.”

“That’s different. Unemployment is high, so many people are looking for any type of work, and since they don’t know you, and you’re white, of course they expect you to have money. But since you and I work together, you’re like family to me, so we help each other out.”

“So… you just help clean each other’s houses?”

“Yes, all the time.”

I was touched, and it was heartwarming not only to think of the concept, but that she thought of me as family so quickly. I then had to reflect on a similar conversation I had with Thato the other day about culture differences between individualistic Americans and collectivistic Batswana. Thato lives close to me, so she has been giving me rides to work in the morning. I walk up to the junction where she and her 2 and a half year old daughter, Anita, pick me up. We drop off Anita, who is always quite talkative, at pre-school and then we head to the office together. She also gives me a ride home at the end of the day.

“I’m still learning my way around, but I’m going to learn the walking route soon so I can walk to work every day.”

She looked at me like I was crazy. “Why would you want to walk all that way? It’s too far!”

“I like to walk.” It’s true, I do, but mostly I felt guilty about riding with her all the time.

“But it’s too far. It’s no trouble to drive you.”

I tried to explain my learning curve. “I’m still getting used to the way things are here. In America, we’re very independent. We learn how to do everything for ourselves and rarely depend on other people. If we do something for someone, often it means we expect something in return and vice versa. So, part of me feels guilty getting a ride with you every day.”

“No, it’s just the way things are here.” She was smiling, slightly amused by the American concept I had described. “Giving you a ride is no problem. I’m happy to do so. I have a car and you don’t. You live so close, it only makes sense that I would give you a ride.”

When I got home from the Cash n’ Carry, I saw three very young children sitting at my doorstep. I thought, “Great, now the kids are going to ask me for money.” I walked up to them and quickly assessed they spoke very little English, so I switched to Setswana. After learning the names of these two young girls and boy, ages 3, 4 and 9 respectively, followed by some awkward silence, I politely asked them if they wanted something.

“We just wanted to greet you,” they said in Setswana, and looked up at me with their big round eyes.

It was so sweet and it warmed my heart! The boy is also of the Herero tribe and speaks Herero. I’m still amazed that a 9-year-old boy can speak three languages, but that’s the norm in this country of many dialects. This particular boy’s name is Innocent. He said he wants to be my friend, and he wants to show me the river.

“Will you take me there tomorrow?” I asked him, tired from my afternoon trek and morning of dusting and mopping.

He agreed, enthusiastically, a broad smile sweeping across his face. He quickly changed his expression, as if he caught himself expressing uncontrollable emotion too quickly. “Kamoso” he said to me in the most adult-like voice he could muster. He slowly walked out of my yard and through the small gate, hitting the fence with a short twig he found in my yard as he exited.

Later that evening, I was boiling water for my bath when I heard “Kabo… Kabo… I want to talk to you,” from the front of my house. I had no idea who it was. It could be one of 20-some neighbors I’ve met in my first week here. It’s strange that I know the names of so many people already. After 2 and a half years of living in the same apartment in Los Angeles, I only spoke to 6 or 7 of my neighbors, and I knew half of their names.

“I’ll be right there,” as I rushed to find my keys to unlock the door and padlock on my burglar bars.

“Kabo! I want to talk to you.”

It was Tiny on the other side of my door, the full moon reflecting off of the dark splotches and strips of makeup caked on her shiny, mocha skin.

Tiny insists that Mpho told her she would pay her if she cleaned my yard. I think she had been drinking when she was talking to me, because no sober person would repeat herself and grab my arm as frequently as she did when she tried to convince me of the money owed her. I told her that I know nothing about it. “I’ll give you Mpho’s number if you want to call her about it.” Although, I admit, I felt startled by Tiny’s demeanor in this moment, I felt mostly calm and a bit concerned for her.

“no, no,” Her voice wavering, her body swaying, “You tell her… you will go to work tomorrow and tell her…”

I talked to Mpho about it the next day. She rolled her eyes, “That woman is mad. Tell her if she does a perfect job, I will pay her something, but I never said I would pay her anything.”

“Um… do I have to play messenger? Can she call you?”

Tiny is still on my front porch, but she has suddenly forgotten that she has asked me for money for cleaning my yard, her face gone blank. She starts singing “Wakumba is your girlfriend. Wakumba is your girlfriend…“

I wave my hand at her, “what are you talking about? That’s not true,” laughing at the very thought.

“Wakumba is your…” she says poking me in the chest “…girlfriend.”

I see Wakumba the next day just after I had washed my clothes in the tub. She’s the first person I met when I saw my house for the first time. In her early 20s, she lives next door with her uncle, twin sisters Viola and Violet, and little Amanda. We chat as I hang my wet clothes on the fence, and I remember the conversation with Tiny.

“She said what?” Wakumba laughs heartily in disbelief “That woman is crazy. I do not like her.”

Tiny remains on my front porch. She has crossed her arms and leans against the post holding up the corner of my tin roof. “Ke kopa 5 Pula. I want to buy a coke,” Tiny then asked me, with wafts of alcohol and cigarette smoke emanating from her breath.

“Ga ke na madi!” I respond, forcing a chuckle.

At this point, some old woman comes running into my yard, speaking entirely in Setswana, seemingly upset with Tiny. She turns to me, introducing herself, and telling me something about praying when I sleep at night and that Jesus will bring me good fortune. This came true much more quickly than I had imagined as this woman escorted Tiny out of my yard.

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Something I quickly appreciated about my new home is the ability to cook my own food again. I’m already teaching myself new things and expanding my repertoire of dishes and foods. Cooking bread by myself for the first time in my life made me feel like a little kid. I was so fascinated that I could create this delicious, simple piece of food. It has opened up an entirely new art form, and I’m filled with childlike wonder. What’s next? Garlic bread, pizza crust, chocolate croissants? I’ve never been so excited about bread!

I had flashbacks to childhood, baking bread with my grandmother in her kitchen. I was only 8 years old when she and I were rolling croissants on her cutting board. Being in this living situation has brought me back to childhood in general. I live in the woods again, where it’s incredibly quiet and peaceful. Late one evening, as I struck a match to light the oven to bake my bread rolls I thought I heard someone outside, footsteps outside my kitchen window.

I’m still becoming accustomed to the noises, the dogs barking, the wind, neighbors’ doors opening and closing. It’s difficult to decipher the difference between noises made from nature and those of humans. I have deciphered that the clamoring on my metal roof is that of bird. The sound of my gate opening and closing is a distinct squeak, so I know where someone is moving it. Just last night, as I was about to fall asleep a little after 10PM, I heard my gate open. I was immediately wide awake, listening to someone walk around my house. Imagine my relief and confusion when I peeked through my curtains to see a donkey grazing on my dried grass.

I also don’t know where most sounds originate. The faintest of noises always sound like they’re coming from right outside my window, but in truth they are several houses away. I’m paranoid about being robbed or having my house broken into, since I’m the only non-African in my neighborhood filled with people who think I’m wealthy. The way Peace Corps prepares us for such crime and situations, encourages the paranoia, but it fades with time.

I was still convinced someone was tip-toeing around my house that particular evening. I heard nothing but the hissing of my gas oven and footsteps outside. I threw open my curtains thinking I would surprise the culprit, and I saw a large cow, 5 of them actually, just on the other side of the fence that stands directly outside of my back door. I caught my breath, laughed at myself, and swore to myself I would stop being paranoid. Truthfully, I do enjoy the quiet and living alone, but the random faint noises take some getting used to.

After some more mopping that brought a nice lavender scent to my new home, and after hanging new curtains, I tended to my old, dreary, termite infested tables. At the local convenience store, I was able to purchase, by the meter, some covers for the tables. The material resembles that of plastic shower curtains and is comes in many different colors and patterns. . . also similar to plastic shower curtains. Due to the blue seashell pattern that now adorns my once hideously paint-stained wooden table, I cope by thinking a beach theme would be lovely.

I’m planning to paint the interior walls of my house. The inside looks like someone chugged a can of paint, the color of yellowed newspaper, and then vomited all over the walls. I’m pretty low maintenance, but I know painting will improve the mood. Simply covering the tables with splashes of color gave my home an entirely new timbre of mood. As I was adhering the other plastic cover to my kitchen table with electrical tape, the only thing I could find that would do the trick, Innocent came to my door, lightly tapping my burglar bars with his newly found twig.

We walked toward the river and greeted more of my neighbors for the first time. I discovered a different tone from these people than I encountered from those in the other direction from my house. Perhaps people are different closer to the river, maybe I was received differently since I was walking with a Motswana boy, or maybe both. His English isn’t that great, and my Setswana less so, but we were able to communicate, and he taught me several new words during out walk.

When we got to the river, this swampy, low-water piece of marsh seemed majestic. The first time I had seen a body of water since I came to Botswana, I was completely mesmerized. There was also a boat that takes people across the river for P1.50. It was a scene fresh out of a Thai tourist magazine, the little wooden boat, and man in a straw hat pushing the boat along with a large nkakashe pole.

Seeing the water flowing away in the distance gave me enough pause to reflect on the previous week. Days later, after all of the work on my house, even though there’s so much to be done, and I'm still becoming accustomed to my neighbors and the noises, my new home feels almost as serene as the river.