Cutting pass the part of my path that the river has now flooded, just as I was about to squat through the second hole in the fence to continue my walk to the office, I was stopped by a security guard. Wearing a dark blue uniform, hands calmly at his side, his eyes locked on me, and I froze.
“Where are you going?” he asked me sternly with an icy gaze.
“uh… well...” I stammered, I was startled. “Ke ya tirong.” I’m just going to work.
“I’m patrolling this area, trying to find the person who’s been cutting holes in the fence.”
“Well, I don’t know who that is. I’m just taking my daily walk to the office. Unless I want to walk through the river, I crawl through the holes in the fence. I’m very sorry, Sir, but I don’t know any other way.” I pleaded, trying to both explain myself and elicit some sympathy.
“Why don’t you use the gate?” he retorted, coldly.
“Because I already walk for an hour to get to the office, and using the gate would add another 15-minutes to my already long walk. I’m truly very sorry, Sir. I’ll start using the gate next time. Can I just crawl through since I’m already here?” Of course I would use the gate if it were convenient. I follow a train of people who take the same route every day. ‘When in Rome,’ right?
“No, you need to use the gate,” again with the ice.
“But I’m already right here.” I hate mornings, officer, I have a long walk to get to the office, and now I’m going to be late. I’ve made assiduous attempts to make this rough commute work out. Don’t penalize me for assimilating with your people.
“You need to use the gate.”
At this point, feeling defeated, I smiled. “Fine, I’ll use the gate, will you walk me there to make sure I use the right one?”
“Sure, no problem,” and we went on our way.
“O bidiwa mang?” asking his name.
“Nna? Me? Kabo.”
“ah-ah! No! My name is Kabo.”
He smiled and laughed. The ice was broken, and we had light, friendly conversation for the rest of our 10-minute walk to the Maun Secondary School gate.
Once we arrived at our destination, I shook his hand with both of mine, thanked him for doing his job, and for taking the time to walk with me. I was genuinely gracious, especially for his eventually polite demeanor. And then I rushed away, grumbling. 45 minutes more to walk…
When I arrived in my village, I was spoiled by my NGO when it came to transport. For the first couple of weeks, Mpho would give me a ride to and from the office. There were two problems with this option. One was that she went in early and left late, so it would take more time out of my day to ride with her than it would if I was walking. Second, even though she lives close to me, I didn’t feel right about her giving me a ride since she’s already horrendously busy at work. I don’t want to add one, more small thing to her over-crowded, metaphorical plate.
At that point, an intern began working with us who lives in my neighborhood. She also has a car and offered to give me a ride. She worked the same hours as I did, so this turned out to be a great option. Two weeks later, she moved to the other side of town.
Since it was the peak of winter, the mornings were nice and cold, and I wanted to do a better job of knowing my way around, I started walking most of the time, and taking taxis on occasion. Phaketse was kind enough to show me all of the short-cuts to get to my house as quickly as possible.
My walk would soon prove to be a daily adventure of meeting new people, encountering wildlife and finding new obstacles to my commute, not to mention what a great workout it is. Every day, I travel with my backpack filled with my laptop, water, and usually some groceries, so that certainly adds some pounds to carry.
From the office, I walk 15 minutes to ‘old mall’ through a small neighborhood, pass a couple of safari shops and construction sites. From there, it’s 10 minutes through town to Choppies, one of the local grocery stores. Then, I cut through another neighborhood for a 20-minute walk to the Old bridge and cross the river. It’s 10 minutes along the river and then 10 minutes through my neighborhood to my house. In total, it’s about a one-hour power walk.
The first few times I did this, I was exhausted by the time I got home and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. The Olympic record holder in the 400m is from my village, and I believe his commute to school may have been similar to mine to work.
Since I like a good workout, I kept with it, and it’s become easier over time. As it gets warmer, however, the heat has been making it more difficult. By the end of August, I felt like I was in that scene from the Chronicles of Riddick where they’re running away from the rising sun, trying to stay in the shade, because the sun is so close to their planet and so hot, they’ll melt when its rays touch them. Since Botswana is a desert, the nights and mornings are cool, at least until October. Over the winter months, I dressed in layers, and stripped them off throughout my one-hour walk as the sun rose.
With the warmer months approaching, one of the most entertaining parts of my walk has emerged: parasols. It’s constantly sunny here. I’ve been in Bots for 6 months, and I’ve only seen rain once. A lot of people start to carry umbrellas to block the sun, men and women alike. These parasols come in all shapes, sizes, and animal formations. Imagine a skinny African man walking to work carrying a pink, frilly parasol that is supposed to resemble a hippopotamus, complete with eyes and ears poking out of the top. No one even bats an eye. It’s normal. My favorites are the ladybug parasols complete with big antennae. There are also rhinos, elephants, cartoon characters and bird parasols complete with beaks. I need to get pictures of this stuff.
On most mornings, I try to hail a cab for part of my journey. Being a foreigner, it’s not easy. A white guy, standing across the street from one of the lodges, carrying a backpack certainly doesn’t look like someone who lives in Botswana. Half the time, they want to charge me 5 times the usual rate, and sometimes they’re not even going in the direction of my office since I live so far out and it’s not the best road to grab a cab. As my Setswana improves, so does my ability to get a taxi that doesn’t want to overcharge me.
On my way home one day as I was approaching this very spot, next to the Maun lodge, I saw a large number of students from Maun Secondary School congregating on the bridge. Once I got to the bridge, I discovered what all the commotion was about. There were two hippos, romping, jumping and playing in the river. It was my first wildlife sighting! And it began the list of reasons I’ve begun to enjoy this commute. The name of my ward is Boseja-kubu, and “kubu” means hippo. A few weeks after this first sighting, as I was walking along the river, this big hippo head popped out of the water only 10 feet away from me. I froze for a moment in fright, but it only paused for a moment, looking right at me, before it went back under the water.
I’ve grown to appreciate my walk especially because it’s been the best way for me to meet many of my neighbors, and it’s led to some great conversations, including the aforementioned ones with Phaketse and Tumelo. In particular, I’ve discovered there are many recent transplants from Zimbabwe living in my ward. Since Botswana and Zimbabwe share a border, and Zimbabwe’s economic and political turmoil has come to a peak recently, some Batswana have bad stereotypes about Zimbabweans, and some even fear them. “They’re lazy… they’re stupid… they’re thieves… they’re stealing all of our jobs…” are some of the things I hear. It sounds exactly like what the racists in Los Angeles say about the Mexicans, not to mention what those in Italy say about Romanians (the gypsies).
Over the first couple months of meeting and interacting with people from Zimbabwe, I discovered I was forming my own stereotypes. They’re some of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, resilient and hard-working. They’re so kind that I’ve become much closer to my Zimbabwean neighbors than the Batswana.
One day, on my usual walk along the river, I met a man named Dube. Less than a minute after I met this man and we walked together, a little boy, maybe 2 years old, way up ahead on the path screamed, “HELLO!” looking right at me. His voice was filled with the type of playful enthusiasm that took me back to youthful days of innocence for a second.
The moment we caught up with him, he grabbed Dube’s hand. I pointed at the child and asked, “This one, is he yours? Is he your son?” The little guy grabbed my pointing finger and then held on to my hand, walking in between Dube and I. He soon realized he could jump and swing, using the two of our arms as a jungle gym.
The three of us walked that way for the next 15 minutes on the way to my house. I discovered they’re from Zim and moved here about a year ago with one of their relatives.
A couple weeks later, I stopped to speak to an older woman who was walking down a sandy path using a thick branch as a walking stick. Fluttering around her like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon was an energetic youngster whose name I would learn was Lesego, which means ‘Lucky’ in Setswana. The older woman, Mma Gonyora, and her whole family moved here almost 10 years ago from Zimbabwe. I’ve stopped by their house several times since we’ve met because I so enjoy their company. Every time I walk by their gate, I hear Lesego screaming “Kabo! Kabo! Uncle Kabo!”
Others from Zim I’ve met, Munya at Love Botswana, Isabelle at Jump Street Lodge and Fatima with Damsel Catering, among many more, have all been equally wonderful. They’re sewn from the type of thread that is vibrantly different from that of the Batswana.
Perhaps it is the great turmoil their country has gone through, Mugabe tearing apart their economy over the decades. I remember reading an article in the Economist a couple years ago about Zim and gasping at the 253% inflation rate. It’s surreal to have been here, right next door, when their inflation rate rose to 9 million % and to read about a can of Coke costing 58 billion Zim dollars.
Part of the problem, in a nutshell, at least the way one of my good friends from Zim, Rra Mahopolo, explains it to me, is the way Mugabe handled the land. Zimbabwe used to be the breadbasket for all of Southern Africa, rich in commercial farms and ranches that were well-managed. Zimbabweans, historically, are extremely hard workers. In order to 1) remove his citizens who didn’t support him and 2) play a hack-job game of Robin Hood, he kicked out all of the successful farmers and ranchers and gave the lands to poor folks who were his supporters. These people had no idea what they were doing with the farms and ranches, so they completely destroyed the industry.
The people in Botswana have never really had to struggle. They’ve always been at peace, a democratic government and no history of war. For the most part, they are laid-back and calm, both good qualities, but it can be a challenge when there is a real conflict or problem to be solved and no one seems to notice or want to do anything. It still boggles my mind that the HIV/AIDS crisis hasn’t really woken them up. It’s partially a result of their dependence of government, not having to struggle in the past and therefore little community initiative to solve it.
The people from Zim never ask me for money, none of them. They ask me for work, and when I tell them no and explain why, they accept it and keep looking. Most of the Batswana who are used to the government providing so much, ask me for money and beg me for work. In other countries where the people might start their own businesses, struggle and find ways to create their own income, many people in Botswana who are poor wait and beg for someone to provide. Why work when the diamond-fed government and economy will give you a food basket if you’re a destitute?
The stereotypes I’ve formed bother me. I’m open to admitting that. However, the longer I work here, and the more Zimbabweans and Batswana I meet, the greater the contrasts become and the stereotypes enforced.
I remember the first moment I met Zimbabweans in my neighborhood. I was hanging my laundry out to dry on the fence when 2 young men came through my gate.
“Dumela,” I greeted them with a smile, eager to meet people.
“Hello, sir. We’re looking for Peace…” they trailed off, speaking slowly and shyly. I didn’t quite understand what they were saying.
“I’m a Peace Corps. Ke bidiwa Kabo. O bidiwa mang?”
They looked at me, a bit confused. “We’re from Zimbabwe. We don’t speak Setswana.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” feeling a bit guilty for assuming, but wait, I’m in Botswana, why wouldn’t I assume?
“They call me Kabo. What are your names?”
“I’m James, and this is Masimba.”
“Masimba! That’s a great name. What does it mean?” I asked with my unabashed enthusiasm.
“It means strength or power,” he replied with a smile, starting to open up from his shell. “We’re looking for piece jobs. We just came here last week from Zim with our brother and sister, and we are looking for work.”
Of course. Everyone’s asking the lekgoa for work. Not a week goes by that some new person doesn’t come to my yard offering to clean my house or wash my clothes. Then they walk away very confused by the white guy doing his own laundry. “I’m sorry. I’m a volunteer. I only get enough money for food, and the organization I work for pays my rent and bills. . .”
“Oh…” James and Masimba respond, looks of disappointment washing over their faces. Their “Oh” was heavy, carrying a burdensome weight. Translated, it meant: rejected... we’re poor... we’ve traveled all this way to find work... this sucks... our country’s a mess... how will we eat...
I proceeded to give them advice on where they might find work. I know some neighbors I’ve met have their own construction businesses and have recently started some projects. I also pointed out where to find some of the wealthier folks living in their non-traditional riparian homes. They seemed somewhat appreciative, but quickly left so they could continue their search.
My heart went out to them. I could have cried in that moment. They were so sweet, earnest and unaggressive. We had a brief conversation, they accepted my answer, and they went on their way. At that point, I had just moved to this place, so I was only beginning to see how bad things were here, but I still wanted to be able to give them something. Little did I know that some new person from Zimbabwe would come to my house asking me for work at least once a week, each time with the same earnest plea, the brief look of disappointment painting their faces with the colors of years of struggle and hardship, and walking away quickly with hopeful optimism that they’ll find something.
A few days later, just as I was about to walk up the long hill of deep sand that ends at my house, I heard someone screaming my name. I turned around to find Masimba running toward me. He was eager to say hello and fervent to talk about God. We had a brief conversation about some crackpot pastor from Indiana who had written some pamphlets on Christianity that he wanted me to read. It was still a lovely conversation, and I accepted the booklets he gave me with a smile. At this point, I had just made plans with Phaketse to go to church together the following day, so I invited Masimba with me. He was thrilled since he hadn’t been to church in Botswana yet.
Masimba was ready to go at 8AM sharp Sunday morning, wearing his best clothes and his black shoes freshly polished. I met him at his home, a tiny trailer held up by cinder blocks, sitting in an abandoned plot of land. I greeted James, met the aforementioned sister, Joyce, and we went on our way. During out walk to church at service and afterwards, we continued to have great conversations, and I was touched by how kind and compassionate this young man was.
Several weeks went by without seeing Masimba, but I would say hello to James and Joyce as I walked by. Strolling along the river, on my way home from work, per usual, I met another new person. I felt his presence close behind me, and I grew a bit wary until he introduced himself. “My name is Teach, I’m Joyce’s husband.” He’s one of the four that moved here with Masimba.
Months later, on the 1st of November, my counterpart and I were picking up some consultants we’re working with at the Jump Street Lodge to take them to the airport to catch their flight back to Gabs. I was surprised to see Teach walk out of the gate carrying their bags. He started working at the Lodge a few weeks back helping them expand the complex, building some new rondavals. I was so happy for him that he found good work. Coincidentally, his wife Joyce found some work earlier that same day, at my house.
The past few weeks have been busy at work, the Trainer of Facilitators for GLOW, visiting the GLOW chapter in Shakawe, the workshop to go over the draft of our Gender-Based Violence manual. I haven’t had a day off in a while since I’ve been so busy. My house is a mess, and my laundry is piling up. I’ve never had a maid in my life, so the idea of hiring someone to wash my clothes and clean my house is a bit uncomfortable to me. It also feels weird since I’m a volunteer, I’m frugal, and I get paid so little: US$250 per month. But I caved. I need the help, and labor here is cheap. Remembering the countless number of people who have come to my house looking for work, I tried to think of someone I could trust. When I thought of the right person, it was someone who had never even asked me for work, Joyce, even though her brothers did.
For 3 hours of labor, cleaning my house and washing my clothes, I paid her P50 (US$7), which in this country is a bit generous. She did a fantastic job. She got stains out of clothes I didn’t know were possible to remove, and my house has never been this clean. Not to mention the incredible speed with which she did a thorough and detailed job. It wasn’t weird to have her here like I thought it would be. What was strange was that I’ve never felt wealthier. What a bizarre contrast. I’m a volunteer surviving on a tiny stipend who came here with only two big suitcases of belongings, yet I’m in a place where I can afford to hire someone to clean my house, someone who has so much less than I do.
On the day I met Teach, Joyce’s husband, I asked how Masimba was doing, and I was told that he had to go back to Zimbabwe.
Knowing how bad things are in Zim, just after the height of the political violence, my heart leapt a bit. They told me he would be back in a month, but to this day, he has not returned, and I wonder how he is, still thinking about him from time to time.
Teach walked me back to their trailer and told me Masimba had left something for me. It was another religious booklet, but this one had a message for me complete with phone numbers and an address:
“I went home, my friend Mr. Kabo. I thank you for all what we have shared together. Going to church together was nice and charming. When you get to your homeland, pliz don’t forget me.”
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Two important discoveries I’ve made on my walks are 1) there is trash collection in my neighborhood, and 2) there is a recycling facility somewhere in Maun that pays 1Pula for glass bottles and 50thebe for cans. Since many of my neighbors still burn all of their trash, and, well, it’s Africa, I was surprised these developments exist. I’ve since begun dividing my trash into 5 segments:
1) biodegradables to throw behind the house
2) bones for the stray dogs
3) paper products for Teach, James and Joyce to use as kindle for the fires that cook their food
4) Cans and bottles for Tiny or Dube to recycle for money
5) All other trash for pick up
Beginning of September, walking by several houses burning piles of trash, during my usual commute, I arrived at the river to discover it had flooded the path. This was the beginning of an entirely new saga in my commute. I know there are many people who take this route to and from work, and since the river probably floods the path annually this time of year, I figure the community probably has a solution to this challenge. If I wanted to, I could walk through the gate before the river, and come out on the other side of Maun Secondary School just north of the Lodge, but that would add 15 minutes to my already excruciatingly long walk. I assume there are others who think similarly.
Stepping stones was the answer. Every day, there was a new array of different types of stepping stones: rocks, bricks, pieces of chairs, a smashed watering can and anything else people could find to throw in this large puddle blocking the path between the river and the barbed wire fence of Maun Sec. This worked for a while, but the river continued to get higher and the stepping stones lost traction in the mud.
At this point, I, along with my fellow community members, would traverse this part of the path over the river by holding onto the fence while lightly stepping on the objects in the river. Packing my water proof hiking boots for my stint in Botswana was a very wise choice, but that didn’t stop my other extremities from occasionally getting cut on the barbed wire.
Like everyone else, I persevered. This was the reality, it was a solution, and it got me to the rest of my path. A week later, someone cut holes in the fence, so for a while, I would crawl through the hole before the large puddle and then crawl through the other side. It wasn’t until the security guard stopped me, and the heat became unbearable, that I was forced to find a completely different direction of travel.
It was time to become familiar with the combi routes; they’ve been my saving grace from an hour and 15 minute walk in temperatures that have reached 112F by the end of October. Summer is only beginning. I hate talking about the weather, and even when making small talk with others, I used to despise discussing something so trivial. These days, sweating 24/7 with no air-con at home or in the office, I am constantly talking about and dreaming of more comfortable climes.
The combis are old, rickety minivans with 3 or 4 rows of seats made for 12 people, but in Botswana, they always find a way to squeeze in 20, plus 2. After the driver is ready and 20 passengers have become quite close to each other, the conductor makes room for himself to stand just inside the sliding door and hover over people as he collects everyone’s fare. Where taxis charge P3.60, the combis charge P3.00. More than any profession in Botswana, I have admiration for the combi workers in Maun. They do their work with such precision, systematically, reliably and they stop wherever you want on the route, whenever you’re ready, since there are no specific stops.
In Maun, there are 10 combi routes. No one in my office takes the combis, so it took me a while to explore and understand all of the routes. I walk for 15 minutes from the office to the combi rank at old mall. From there, I can take route 2 to Kwena road where I walk for 20 minutes to get home. Route 5 takes me within an 8-minute walk of my house. Route 2 runs quite frequently, but route 5 runs about once an hour, so which one I take depends on the day.
On my way to the office, I’ve discovered that hailing a taxi from Kwena road is much easier than the road by the lodge. So, in the morning, my new route is walking for 20 minutes to this main road and getting a cab that takes me directly to the office. At the end of the day, I take a combi since getting a taxi from the office to my house is practically impossible in such a sparsely populated area around the office. Once I settled into this new commute, I was so much happier and relaxed about my daily routine.
Additionally intriguing is that every day, I walk for 2 kilometers, uphill both ways, in the deep sand near my house. I can’t wait for the opportunity to tell this story to my grandchildren. And I sincerely love the combis. The people are always so nice and often entertaining. I don’t mind having to be squished up against everyone in the packed vehicle. Sadly, it’s the most physical affection I get here. (Batswana aren’t huggers).
In the combi, I get this feeling that “we’re together.” That’s the thought that goes through my mind at least, “It’s sweltering hot, none of us make enough money to have a car, we live far away from where we work, but we’re in this together.”
I suppose it’s almost how Teach, James and Joyce feel about the long journey they’ve taken. Far away from home, just to find work, living on so little, but at least they have each other.
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Life is beautiful.
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Monday, November 3, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
That Which Shall Not Be Named (Part 2): Botswana in the Closet
As soon as he approached me, he grabbed my hand, interlocking each of his fingers between each of my own. We walked side by side like this for a few moments as we talked. This wasn’t a date on a Friday night in West Hollywood. This was during my walk home from the office in Maun, Botswana. This man was a complete stranger, someone who was a bit confused to see a white guy walking through his ward. His sole intent was to greet me and welcome me, so he did just that.
Batswana men, completely oblivious to homosexuality amongst their own people, are openly affectionate with each other, signs of brotherly love, free of hesitation or shame. It’s common to see men holding hands or putting their arms around each other, with no sense of personal space. It’s a beautiful part of their culture, so different from America where we disconnect ourselves from one another.
I remember the surprise and comfort I felt when I saw the way the male facilitators at training interacted with each other and with me. After I hugged Tsepo to say hello in the morning, he would keep his arm around my waist holding me next to him casually as he continued the conversation I had briefly interrupted. I just stood there in his embrace for a couple of minutes until his arm loosened naturally, as if he didn’t even realize his arm was still around me.
One day after lunch, Keamogetse and I were talking to each other as we walked to the bus. While we ambled, he clasped my hand in his as if it were a natural instinct. I resisted the slight urge to pull away, felt relaxed and let the Motswana take the lead, as I’ve learned to do most of the time in the process of adapting to this foreign culture.
During my 11-hour bus ride up to Maun from Molepolole, I had a conversation with Chris, a straight guy and fellow PCV, about these signs of affection. We talked about how quickly the culture is changing and the country is developing. Generation after generation, things change and the Batswana are losing parts of their history and traditions. I wondered, with more exposure to and outing of homosexual behavior, would they lose this comfort in male affection? If there were a greater acceptance of the possibility that some of the men might be gay, would they be so openly affectionate with each other? Or would they disconnect themselves out of fear and prejudice, losing another wonderful aspect of their culture?
As you ponder this with me, dear reader, let me be clear that people in Botswana are well aware that there are many gay people in the world and that homosexuality exists. The problem is their denial that it happens within their country’s borders. Allow me to use television as an example.
In Botswana, a country more developed than most of Africa, many people have TVs in their homes. I still laugh every time I see another tiny, one-room, cinderblock house with a satellite dish mounted to the side of it. Back in Moleps with my host family, BTV, the country’s most popular channel, was almost always on. Watching snippets, night after night, it wasn’t uncommon to see gay people on BTV. Gay people were interviewed on talkshows, a gay boy coming out was a major story line in a popular sitcom, and a set of lesbian parents were the main characters in a movie about a custody battle. But all of these people were white, and the scenes were filmed and set far away from Botswana. The evening news had no hesitation to cover the story of and show footage of the recent California Supreme Court ruling legalizing same-sex marriages, and to do so without judgment, but this was pure information and entertainment from the fascinating world outside of Botswana, not a part of their own country.
In this country, it’s illegal to be gay. These types of laws exist in many countries all over the world, and were even on the books in many States in America until as recently as 2004 when the Supreme Court struck them down. Still, it’s an odd and funny concept to me: illegal to be who you are, illegal to exist, illegal to be alive. Punishable by up to 7 years in prison and a part of the constitution, that’s the reality here.
It’s quite a stark contrast to my previous working environment. Not only had I been out since the age of 16, but I had dedicated the following decade to working on gay issues; I fell into politics after college, working against anti-gay ballot initiative campaigns for a national gay organization for 4 years. But I lost motivation for the cause. I didn’t feel the urgency anymore. Fighting for marriage equality was and still is important to me, but it pales in comparison to the plights of the developing world, fighting against AIDS, hunger, poverty and violence. I wanted to do something so different that I didn’t care if I needed to be in the closet for a couple of years. It seemed like such a small sacrifice to follow another passion of mine.
Since I’ve been out for a while, and I’m completely comfortable with who I am, I don’t feel the need for any type of local support system or contact with other gay people to get through the day. If I was in a stage of questioning my sexuality, I think this phase would be much more difficult. I’m also reminded that there’s a lot more to me than being gay, and I get to focus on all of those other things, now that I’m away from gay politics and often restrained from even talking about the issue. I just thank God there’s no gaydar here or that would make things much more complicated.
The stereotypical signs we see in the States that would usually make us wonder if someone were gay don’t apply here. My three brothers in my host family were a great example of this. The eldest is a fashion designer, the middle child is obsessed with Celine Dion, and the youngest wears his favorite sweater adorning Hello Kitty almost every day.
I worried how difficult it would be, not being able to talk about my work experience, possibly having to lie about myself and my relationships. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we all struggle with a lot of things in order to do work here and adjust to the culture. I’ve learned in my short time here that my struggles as a gay person aren’t any more severe than those that straight volunteers face. The most difficult part is being in my dating prime and not being able to search for my husband. I’ve learned from my straight PCV friends that they don’t feel like they have dating options either, so most of them are in the same boat of a 2-year hiatus from romantic life.
The gay issue has come up several times at work in the past couple of months, not very often, but more than I had anticipated. A week after starting my job at WAR (Women and men Against Rape), I was asked to be an adjudicator for the SAR (Students Against Rape) interschool debates, organized by some of my co-workers. Over two days and several rounds, delegates from 8 different schools were to debate a variety of topics including marital rape, the right for HIV+ women to have children, abortion and, much to my surprise, sexual orientation.
I have never witnessed a formal high school debate, so a lot of what I saw was new to me. It was structured quite similarly to the way I think it would be in the States, but I can’t say for sure. Regardless, the most entertaining and inspiring part of the entire spectacle is difficult to describe. Imagine awkward teenagers in Africa debating controversial topics in front of a large audience of their peers and having to do so in English, their second or even third language.
A vivacious 14-year-old woman was one of the gems, an anomaly in the group of mostly shy adolescents. As part of a re-match, she took the floor a second time in round 3:
“Ladies and gentlemen, hello ladies and gentlemen, let me show my respect and thank everyone, again, for being here, ladies and gentlemen, protocol observed, ladies and gentlemen. They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, ladies and gentlemen, but here I am and I’m back with a bang, ladies and gentlemen. And now, to my beautiful work, ladies and gentlemen. The statement reads: Everyone has a right to sexual orientation…”
The debaters repeated similar phrases when they took the stage, and everyone said “ladies and gentlemen” a countless number of times out of nervousness. For this particular topic, the way it was phrased was already a bit confusing.
The arguments given against the issue were a lot of the similar ones I hear anywhere, mostly based in religion, procreation, culture and tradition. The more concerning part for me was to listen to those who supported the motion because many of their arguments were not so great or convincing. They talked about human rights, the right to personal choice and that having more people adopt children instead of procreating could be a good thing. One debater simply said “Elton John is gay,” as if naming a popular musical artist of a particular identity convinces people of the right to be who they are.
It was clear that these students had little access to information about the topic. It was, however, still great to hear the issue being discussed and to hear the words of support from the youth, whether they believe them or not.
After the last round on day 2, one of my colleagues, Phaketse, and I were conversing about the student’s performances. She’s one of the people at WAR who I’m closest to, and I’ve always enjoyed our conversations. She’s smart, with a great sense of humor, so we usually laugh a lot together.
“I used to really like Elton John,” she said to me.
“What happened?” I asked, fully knowing where this was going.
“I just couldn’t listen to him anymore when I found out he was gay.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, “Why is that?”
“I don’t know, I just…. It just made me uncomfortable. I don’t like that he made that choice.”
“Ok…” I was afraid to say anything more about the subject. Not only am I in the closet here, but I’ve been paranoid to even bring up the topic.
Our conversation was cut short when the owner of one of the lodges in town, David Ngami, took the microphone to give an inspirational speech to close the event. Throughout the day, David was sitting at the judges table, so we were getting to know each other between rounds. He’s a very bright man, moved to Botswana from Kenya, started two of his own businesses, involved in a lot of youth programs and loves politics. I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know him in our brief, friendly exchanges.
When David took the stage, the first thing he did was tear down all of the students’ arguments on the issue of sexual orientation. He started spewing hate and myths about gay people and said “We shouldn’t let ourselves go down in immoral peril like those in South Africa who have stepped into darkness.” He then went on with the rest of his speech, which, to his credit, was indeed quite inspirational, and I agreed with a lot of it, minus his intro of course.
During David’s speech, something awoke within me. I had been speaking to this vivacious and sociable man. He wanted me to come to Kenya and work there after my time in Bots. He spoke of great life philosophies, and I connected with him. Then he stood up, and anti-gay rhetoric flooded the hall. It was the first time I ever felt true compassion and kind feelings toward someone who said such things. He’s the one who’s living in the darkness. How can I fault him for where he grew up, his culture, the information he’s been given and lack of exposure to these issues?
My thought process went further. What does it mean to build relationships with these people with good hearts, spirits and who are so giving and thoughtful, yet they happen to live in a place that has instilled these conservative views? Before these moments, if someone was anti-gay in any context, I couldn’t even give them the time of day. But being in a completely different culture has opened my eyes to seeing the other beautiful parts in these people, the parts that lie beyond their ignorance.
Later, in my work for GLOW, I would have to call David asking him for a discount to host one of our events at his lodge. More than any other lodge we asked, he gave us the best deal. I have to admit that the idea, at first, made my stomach turn. I would never want to do business with someone spewing anti-gay ideas in the States. But here, in a different world, it’s just part of my job. If I decided not to work with or talk to anyone here who was ignorant on gay people, I wouldn’t have many people to work with.
Until these debates, the topic hadn’t come up in the first 2 and a half months I was here. Outside of conversations with other Peace Corps Volunteers, all of who are completely supportive, it hasn’t been talked about.
After the debates wrapped up, Phaketse wanted to finish our conversation. She asked me “Do you have a girlfriend?” I laughed, “No.” I thought about saying ‘Yes’ and using this as a cover story, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then she asked “Are you gay or hetero?”
Well, shit, was she really asking me this? I froze. My brain stopped working.
“I can’t answer that question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why does it matter whether I’m gay or straight?” I felt like an idiot. What was I doing? Why couldn’t I stick to my story about Cyndy and having a fiancé? If I had said yes to the former question, that would have saved me a lot of trouble. I hate lying, absolutely despise it. I’ve been out of the closet for almost 10 years, and I spent most of that time working on LGBT causes. I’m not used to having to do this.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I just want to know,” she said, determined to have an answer.
I was still calm at this point, and I laughed, saying “and I just don’t think it matters.”
At that moment, our conversation was again interrupted as her ride arrived and she left. When I got home, for the rest of the evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about this predicament. My mind was in a panic. I rehearsed my story and gave it to her the next day as we walked to work together.
I gave her an elaborate story about Cyndy and I, being engaged, she’s the love of my life, etc. She is one of my best friends, so 90% of the story was true and easy to tell, about the history of our relationship and how it’s grown and changed over time. The 10% lie was the part about her being my fiancé. Phaketse bought the entire story.
I didn’t end it there though. Phaketse opened a door by asking me these questions, and I wasn’t willing to close it. I went on to tell her that I have some gay friends in the States and that “some” of the work I used to do was for gay causes. I made up another story about many of my friends being upset that I was going to work for a homophobic country, and out of respect to them, I don’t like to answer that question, because it really doesn’t matter to me if someone is gay or straight. She bought that too.
Phaketse continued to surprise me when she said, “Well, I hope you know that even if you were gay, I wouldn’t think any differently of you. I admit that I probably am a bit, how do they call it, ho-mo-phobic, but I don’t judge people.” I let the conversation end there. The topic didn’t come up again for another month, but this time, I was the person who raised the issue.
I got an email from one of my close friends in Los Angeles telling me that her and her girlfriend broke up. Heather was staying in the house, and Annie was moving out. Knowing the saga they’ve been through, my heart went out to Heather, and I was thinking about her a lot that day. I decided to bring this up to Phaketse on our walk home to see how she would react. Afterwards, I was glad I did because I got a much more honest opinion than I did in our previous conversation.
“Phaketse, I’m very saddened today by an email I got from one of my friends.”
“Oh, no. Why’s that? What happened?” a look of sudden and genuine concern wiping across her face.
“My friend and her partner just broke up, it’s a mess, and her partner is moving out of the house…”
“Oh, that’s terrible. But she gets to keep the house and he’s moving out?”
“No, she’s moving out.”
“Wait, who’s the man and who’s the woman?”
“Well, they’re lesbians, so they’re both women.”
Her mouth formed the shape of an O in utter shock. “Oh... uh… I see…”
“Yeah, I’m very sad for her. And she says she wants to come visit. I don’t know if it would happen, but I hope that it does.”
“Well, if she comes, I hope she doesn’t bring her with her.”
Chuckling, I responded, “Well, since they broke up, I doubt they would come together.”
“Well, I hope she finds a nice man to make her happy.”
I laughed some more, “No, she’s quite happy with women.”
And the truth came out when she exclaimed, “But that’s demonic! It’s an abomination! Why would she want to do such a thing? She needs to find a man and learn what real love is.”
I could physically feel the rage fomenting in my body, and I did my best to stifle it. “How can you say what she had wasn’t real love? How would you feel if someone told you that the love you felt for someone wasn’t real or good enough? Tell me, have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She was getting upset. “I just know what the Bible says.”
I laughed again and retorted, “The Bible says that you are sinning by wearing those clothes.”
“It does not,” she said, clipped.
“Leviticus, Chapter 19, ‘Do not wear clothing of mixed textiles.’” I’ve had this argument far too many times. “and Corinthians chapter 11 says that you should wear a head scarf in public. If not, you should have your head shaved, so don’t try to tell me you follow the Bible. Jesus said nothing about homosexuality. He preached love. You, on the other hand, have called my friends demonic. How is that love?”
Her expression softened, and she spoke quietly, “Kabo, I can see you’re very upset, and for that I am sorry.”
I could tell she was being sincere. “I appreciate that, Phaketse, but I want you to understand something. We may have a lot of disagreements because of the different environments we lived in and because of things each of us were taught, but no matter what differences we have in culture, I would never say hateful things about your friends.”
“I’m very, very sorry,” almost pouting.
“Did you say you were going to church this evening?” I asked, having heard her talk about it earlier.
“Yes…”
“Well, when you go to church, I want you to pray about this, and I hope that God will open your eyes.”
“Uh… well…” a bit surprised, “I… I hope so too.”
“Are you upset with me?” I asked sincerely, knowing how heated I can get when I argue.
“Not at all. You were honest with me about how you felt. With that honesty, you’ve proven that we are friends.”
The next morning, in the office, Phaketse and I had a meeting about forming some protocols for the GLOW camp. It was work as usual as if nothing happened. She was professional, unreserved, and we continued to laugh together as we always do.
I wonder if her view will ever change, and if there’s anything I can do. However, I have learned that sometimes simply being honest with people I care about can change hearts and minds. Some people take much longer than others. It was some of my high school friends who helped to teach me that.
When I came out in high school, I lost several of my close friends due to conservative religion. Two of them, several years later, tracked me down to apologize as they changed their mind on the issue, and my friendship was more important to them than they realized. Just a few months ago, the dearest friend that I lost found me on Facebook. Her name is Chastity, how religiously appropriate. She was deeply apologetic for what she had done so long ago. It took me a while to respond. I cried because her message was so sincere, heartfelt and nostalgic. After I finally wrote back, this is part of the email she sent:
“... I am so relieved I cried while reading this. I can't believe you're in Botswana. I mean, it's just so exotic compared with our humble Western PA. Reading this little message...hearing your tone of voice come through the words made me realize how much I've missed you. I tend to truly connect with only a very few people and the connection I had with you left a lasting impression; one that's been vacant for a long time.”
Change takes time and patience, but how can we expect change if we don’t talk about things and if we’re not honest? And how much can I expect Phaketse, or any other Motswana for that matter, to be enlightened when they live in such a different world? All due patience aside, reflecting on the conversation with her that evening made me angry, but it was only one factor in a culmination of items that made me angry with concern that day. Earlier, I was reading some recent news and reports about MSM (Men who have Sex with Men) studies in Africa.
HIV/AIDS is known as mostly a gay epidemic in the States. In Africa, it’s spread mostly through heterosexual contact, and the media claims it has been far disconnected from any MSM activity. Just recently though, international organizations are waking up to the idea that MSM may actually be one of the driving forces of HIV in Africa.
Over the past few years, several African nations and other developing countries conducted their first ever research on MSM transmission of HIV. The results were shocking to many.
“Globally, MSM are on average 19 times more likely to contract HIV than the general population. At one end of the spectrum, MSM in Bolivia are 179 times more likely…
The clandestine existence that gay communities are forced to hide away in exposes them not just to the risk of HIV, but the rest of the population too: because they are unable to live openly as gay men, many MSMs also have sexual relations with women, or are even married…
Many MSM told us they were sure that there was no risk of infection with anal penetration”, said Yves Jong, coordinator of Alternatives Cameroun’s sexual health and prevention unit…
In Mali, “the majority of [MSM] – 88 per cent according to a study – are bisexual, which increases the spread of the disease”, said Dabo…”
Botswana is one of the countries that took copious amounts of persuasion and pressure from international health organizations before they would do a similar study. Right now, health workers near the capital are gathering their first statistics on MSM transmission.
Collecting this information can be extremely difficult in countries like Botswana where homosexuality is illegal. Most people don’t want to talk about it for fear of being arrested, and that’s what drives the epidemic. Since it’s not talked about, many African men don’t even know unprotected anal sex can spread HIV. They spread HIV amongst themselves and then go home to have unprotected sex with their wives.
To think, this could possibly be a significant factor spreading HIV in Africa, contributing to the loss of millions of lives, and too few people are willing to accept it.
There are glimmers of hope in these studies and in the leadership and people of Botswana. At the recent International AIDS Conference in Mexico, Festus Mogae, the former president of Botswana, spoke out and said “African leaders must end the discrimination against gay people.”
Last week, the Director at WAR, told me that a couple of the boys in their counseling sessions have disclosed they’re having unprotected anal sex with other boys, and that they didn’t know it could spread HIV. It’s real. It’s right in front of them.
The next day, at our morning meeting, she addressed the staff, “There has been some gay rights stuff in the news lately, and some new studies are coming out. I just want people to know, that no matter what people do or who they are, and no matter what our personal beliefs and judgments are, let’s not let it affect the support we need to give our clients. Now, moving on…”
At the end of the work day, I walked home with Tumelo, Phaketse’s nephew. He’s 21, recently hired, and of course no one talks about the nepotism that’s common in Botswana, yet against WAR policy. When we were only 10 minutes away from his home, walking along the river, he asked me, “How do you feel about gay people?”
Not wanting to influence him, knowing how his Aunt feels, and wanting to hear his unbiased thoughts first, I responded, “Well, how do you feel about gay people?”
“Aish. They should not be discriminated against. I do not like when people judge them. They are people just like anyone else. I think it should be legalized.”
For the next ten minutes, I didn’t talk about myself, but I talked about my gay friends in the states and some of the work I’ve done on gay issues. I told him about marriages in California, about the civil rights battles, about couples with kids, and about several reasons gay people should have equal rights. He was in agreement with me on everything, and he seemed both enlightened and happy to hear about a place that’s much more open-minded than where he lives.
When we got to his place, before I left to continue my journey home, he smiled at me and said “Thank you, Kabo, for the great conversation.”
I was the one who felt grateful to be able to talk about such things so openly to a supportive Motswana. “Thank you, Tumelo. We’ll have many more conversations like this, I’m sure. This is only the beginning.”
Batswana men, completely oblivious to homosexuality amongst their own people, are openly affectionate with each other, signs of brotherly love, free of hesitation or shame. It’s common to see men holding hands or putting their arms around each other, with no sense of personal space. It’s a beautiful part of their culture, so different from America where we disconnect ourselves from one another.
I remember the surprise and comfort I felt when I saw the way the male facilitators at training interacted with each other and with me. After I hugged Tsepo to say hello in the morning, he would keep his arm around my waist holding me next to him casually as he continued the conversation I had briefly interrupted. I just stood there in his embrace for a couple of minutes until his arm loosened naturally, as if he didn’t even realize his arm was still around me.
One day after lunch, Keamogetse and I were talking to each other as we walked to the bus. While we ambled, he clasped my hand in his as if it were a natural instinct. I resisted the slight urge to pull away, felt relaxed and let the Motswana take the lead, as I’ve learned to do most of the time in the process of adapting to this foreign culture.
During my 11-hour bus ride up to Maun from Molepolole, I had a conversation with Chris, a straight guy and fellow PCV, about these signs of affection. We talked about how quickly the culture is changing and the country is developing. Generation after generation, things change and the Batswana are losing parts of their history and traditions. I wondered, with more exposure to and outing of homosexual behavior, would they lose this comfort in male affection? If there were a greater acceptance of the possibility that some of the men might be gay, would they be so openly affectionate with each other? Or would they disconnect themselves out of fear and prejudice, losing another wonderful aspect of their culture?
As you ponder this with me, dear reader, let me be clear that people in Botswana are well aware that there are many gay people in the world and that homosexuality exists. The problem is their denial that it happens within their country’s borders. Allow me to use television as an example.
In Botswana, a country more developed than most of Africa, many people have TVs in their homes. I still laugh every time I see another tiny, one-room, cinderblock house with a satellite dish mounted to the side of it. Back in Moleps with my host family, BTV, the country’s most popular channel, was almost always on. Watching snippets, night after night, it wasn’t uncommon to see gay people on BTV. Gay people were interviewed on talkshows, a gay boy coming out was a major story line in a popular sitcom, and a set of lesbian parents were the main characters in a movie about a custody battle. But all of these people were white, and the scenes were filmed and set far away from Botswana. The evening news had no hesitation to cover the story of and show footage of the recent California Supreme Court ruling legalizing same-sex marriages, and to do so without judgment, but this was pure information and entertainment from the fascinating world outside of Botswana, not a part of their own country.
In this country, it’s illegal to be gay. These types of laws exist in many countries all over the world, and were even on the books in many States in America until as recently as 2004 when the Supreme Court struck them down. Still, it’s an odd and funny concept to me: illegal to be who you are, illegal to exist, illegal to be alive. Punishable by up to 7 years in prison and a part of the constitution, that’s the reality here.
It’s quite a stark contrast to my previous working environment. Not only had I been out since the age of 16, but I had dedicated the following decade to working on gay issues; I fell into politics after college, working against anti-gay ballot initiative campaigns for a national gay organization for 4 years. But I lost motivation for the cause. I didn’t feel the urgency anymore. Fighting for marriage equality was and still is important to me, but it pales in comparison to the plights of the developing world, fighting against AIDS, hunger, poverty and violence. I wanted to do something so different that I didn’t care if I needed to be in the closet for a couple of years. It seemed like such a small sacrifice to follow another passion of mine.
Since I’ve been out for a while, and I’m completely comfortable with who I am, I don’t feel the need for any type of local support system or contact with other gay people to get through the day. If I was in a stage of questioning my sexuality, I think this phase would be much more difficult. I’m also reminded that there’s a lot more to me than being gay, and I get to focus on all of those other things, now that I’m away from gay politics and often restrained from even talking about the issue. I just thank God there’s no gaydar here or that would make things much more complicated.
The stereotypical signs we see in the States that would usually make us wonder if someone were gay don’t apply here. My three brothers in my host family were a great example of this. The eldest is a fashion designer, the middle child is obsessed with Celine Dion, and the youngest wears his favorite sweater adorning Hello Kitty almost every day.
I worried how difficult it would be, not being able to talk about my work experience, possibly having to lie about myself and my relationships. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we all struggle with a lot of things in order to do work here and adjust to the culture. I’ve learned in my short time here that my struggles as a gay person aren’t any more severe than those that straight volunteers face. The most difficult part is being in my dating prime and not being able to search for my husband. I’ve learned from my straight PCV friends that they don’t feel like they have dating options either, so most of them are in the same boat of a 2-year hiatus from romantic life.
The gay issue has come up several times at work in the past couple of months, not very often, but more than I had anticipated. A week after starting my job at WAR (Women and men Against Rape), I was asked to be an adjudicator for the SAR (Students Against Rape) interschool debates, organized by some of my co-workers. Over two days and several rounds, delegates from 8 different schools were to debate a variety of topics including marital rape, the right for HIV+ women to have children, abortion and, much to my surprise, sexual orientation.
I have never witnessed a formal high school debate, so a lot of what I saw was new to me. It was structured quite similarly to the way I think it would be in the States, but I can’t say for sure. Regardless, the most entertaining and inspiring part of the entire spectacle is difficult to describe. Imagine awkward teenagers in Africa debating controversial topics in front of a large audience of their peers and having to do so in English, their second or even third language.
A vivacious 14-year-old woman was one of the gems, an anomaly in the group of mostly shy adolescents. As part of a re-match, she took the floor a second time in round 3:
“Ladies and gentlemen, hello ladies and gentlemen, let me show my respect and thank everyone, again, for being here, ladies and gentlemen, protocol observed, ladies and gentlemen. They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, ladies and gentlemen, but here I am and I’m back with a bang, ladies and gentlemen. And now, to my beautiful work, ladies and gentlemen. The statement reads: Everyone has a right to sexual orientation…”
The debaters repeated similar phrases when they took the stage, and everyone said “ladies and gentlemen” a countless number of times out of nervousness. For this particular topic, the way it was phrased was already a bit confusing.
The arguments given against the issue were a lot of the similar ones I hear anywhere, mostly based in religion, procreation, culture and tradition. The more concerning part for me was to listen to those who supported the motion because many of their arguments were not so great or convincing. They talked about human rights, the right to personal choice and that having more people adopt children instead of procreating could be a good thing. One debater simply said “Elton John is gay,” as if naming a popular musical artist of a particular identity convinces people of the right to be who they are.
It was clear that these students had little access to information about the topic. It was, however, still great to hear the issue being discussed and to hear the words of support from the youth, whether they believe them or not.
After the last round on day 2, one of my colleagues, Phaketse, and I were conversing about the student’s performances. She’s one of the people at WAR who I’m closest to, and I’ve always enjoyed our conversations. She’s smart, with a great sense of humor, so we usually laugh a lot together.
“I used to really like Elton John,” she said to me.
“What happened?” I asked, fully knowing where this was going.
“I just couldn’t listen to him anymore when I found out he was gay.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, “Why is that?”
“I don’t know, I just…. It just made me uncomfortable. I don’t like that he made that choice.”
“Ok…” I was afraid to say anything more about the subject. Not only am I in the closet here, but I’ve been paranoid to even bring up the topic.
Our conversation was cut short when the owner of one of the lodges in town, David Ngami, took the microphone to give an inspirational speech to close the event. Throughout the day, David was sitting at the judges table, so we were getting to know each other between rounds. He’s a very bright man, moved to Botswana from Kenya, started two of his own businesses, involved in a lot of youth programs and loves politics. I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know him in our brief, friendly exchanges.
When David took the stage, the first thing he did was tear down all of the students’ arguments on the issue of sexual orientation. He started spewing hate and myths about gay people and said “We shouldn’t let ourselves go down in immoral peril like those in South Africa who have stepped into darkness.” He then went on with the rest of his speech, which, to his credit, was indeed quite inspirational, and I agreed with a lot of it, minus his intro of course.
During David’s speech, something awoke within me. I had been speaking to this vivacious and sociable man. He wanted me to come to Kenya and work there after my time in Bots. He spoke of great life philosophies, and I connected with him. Then he stood up, and anti-gay rhetoric flooded the hall. It was the first time I ever felt true compassion and kind feelings toward someone who said such things. He’s the one who’s living in the darkness. How can I fault him for where he grew up, his culture, the information he’s been given and lack of exposure to these issues?
My thought process went further. What does it mean to build relationships with these people with good hearts, spirits and who are so giving and thoughtful, yet they happen to live in a place that has instilled these conservative views? Before these moments, if someone was anti-gay in any context, I couldn’t even give them the time of day. But being in a completely different culture has opened my eyes to seeing the other beautiful parts in these people, the parts that lie beyond their ignorance.
Later, in my work for GLOW, I would have to call David asking him for a discount to host one of our events at his lodge. More than any other lodge we asked, he gave us the best deal. I have to admit that the idea, at first, made my stomach turn. I would never want to do business with someone spewing anti-gay ideas in the States. But here, in a different world, it’s just part of my job. If I decided not to work with or talk to anyone here who was ignorant on gay people, I wouldn’t have many people to work with.
Until these debates, the topic hadn’t come up in the first 2 and a half months I was here. Outside of conversations with other Peace Corps Volunteers, all of who are completely supportive, it hasn’t been talked about.
After the debates wrapped up, Phaketse wanted to finish our conversation. She asked me “Do you have a girlfriend?” I laughed, “No.” I thought about saying ‘Yes’ and using this as a cover story, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then she asked “Are you gay or hetero?”
Well, shit, was she really asking me this? I froze. My brain stopped working.
“I can’t answer that question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why does it matter whether I’m gay or straight?” I felt like an idiot. What was I doing? Why couldn’t I stick to my story about Cyndy and having a fiancé? If I had said yes to the former question, that would have saved me a lot of trouble. I hate lying, absolutely despise it. I’ve been out of the closet for almost 10 years, and I spent most of that time working on LGBT causes. I’m not used to having to do this.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I just want to know,” she said, determined to have an answer.
I was still calm at this point, and I laughed, saying “and I just don’t think it matters.”
At that moment, our conversation was again interrupted as her ride arrived and she left. When I got home, for the rest of the evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about this predicament. My mind was in a panic. I rehearsed my story and gave it to her the next day as we walked to work together.
I gave her an elaborate story about Cyndy and I, being engaged, she’s the love of my life, etc. She is one of my best friends, so 90% of the story was true and easy to tell, about the history of our relationship and how it’s grown and changed over time. The 10% lie was the part about her being my fiancé. Phaketse bought the entire story.
I didn’t end it there though. Phaketse opened a door by asking me these questions, and I wasn’t willing to close it. I went on to tell her that I have some gay friends in the States and that “some” of the work I used to do was for gay causes. I made up another story about many of my friends being upset that I was going to work for a homophobic country, and out of respect to them, I don’t like to answer that question, because it really doesn’t matter to me if someone is gay or straight. She bought that too.
Phaketse continued to surprise me when she said, “Well, I hope you know that even if you were gay, I wouldn’t think any differently of you. I admit that I probably am a bit, how do they call it, ho-mo-phobic, but I don’t judge people.” I let the conversation end there. The topic didn’t come up again for another month, but this time, I was the person who raised the issue.
I got an email from one of my close friends in Los Angeles telling me that her and her girlfriend broke up. Heather was staying in the house, and Annie was moving out. Knowing the saga they’ve been through, my heart went out to Heather, and I was thinking about her a lot that day. I decided to bring this up to Phaketse on our walk home to see how she would react. Afterwards, I was glad I did because I got a much more honest opinion than I did in our previous conversation.
“Phaketse, I’m very saddened today by an email I got from one of my friends.”
“Oh, no. Why’s that? What happened?” a look of sudden and genuine concern wiping across her face.
“My friend and her partner just broke up, it’s a mess, and her partner is moving out of the house…”
“Oh, that’s terrible. But she gets to keep the house and he’s moving out?”
“No, she’s moving out.”
“Wait, who’s the man and who’s the woman?”
“Well, they’re lesbians, so they’re both women.”
Her mouth formed the shape of an O in utter shock. “Oh... uh… I see…”
“Yeah, I’m very sad for her. And she says she wants to come visit. I don’t know if it would happen, but I hope that it does.”
“Well, if she comes, I hope she doesn’t bring her with her.”
Chuckling, I responded, “Well, since they broke up, I doubt they would come together.”
“Well, I hope she finds a nice man to make her happy.”
I laughed some more, “No, she’s quite happy with women.”
And the truth came out when she exclaimed, “But that’s demonic! It’s an abomination! Why would she want to do such a thing? She needs to find a man and learn what real love is.”
I could physically feel the rage fomenting in my body, and I did my best to stifle it. “How can you say what she had wasn’t real love? How would you feel if someone told you that the love you felt for someone wasn’t real or good enough? Tell me, have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She was getting upset. “I just know what the Bible says.”
I laughed again and retorted, “The Bible says that you are sinning by wearing those clothes.”
“It does not,” she said, clipped.
“Leviticus, Chapter 19, ‘Do not wear clothing of mixed textiles.’” I’ve had this argument far too many times. “and Corinthians chapter 11 says that you should wear a head scarf in public. If not, you should have your head shaved, so don’t try to tell me you follow the Bible. Jesus said nothing about homosexuality. He preached love. You, on the other hand, have called my friends demonic. How is that love?”
Her expression softened, and she spoke quietly, “Kabo, I can see you’re very upset, and for that I am sorry.”
I could tell she was being sincere. “I appreciate that, Phaketse, but I want you to understand something. We may have a lot of disagreements because of the different environments we lived in and because of things each of us were taught, but no matter what differences we have in culture, I would never say hateful things about your friends.”
“I’m very, very sorry,” almost pouting.
“Did you say you were going to church this evening?” I asked, having heard her talk about it earlier.
“Yes…”
“Well, when you go to church, I want you to pray about this, and I hope that God will open your eyes.”
“Uh… well…” a bit surprised, “I… I hope so too.”
“Are you upset with me?” I asked sincerely, knowing how heated I can get when I argue.
“Not at all. You were honest with me about how you felt. With that honesty, you’ve proven that we are friends.”
The next morning, in the office, Phaketse and I had a meeting about forming some protocols for the GLOW camp. It was work as usual as if nothing happened. She was professional, unreserved, and we continued to laugh together as we always do.
I wonder if her view will ever change, and if there’s anything I can do. However, I have learned that sometimes simply being honest with people I care about can change hearts and minds. Some people take much longer than others. It was some of my high school friends who helped to teach me that.
When I came out in high school, I lost several of my close friends due to conservative religion. Two of them, several years later, tracked me down to apologize as they changed their mind on the issue, and my friendship was more important to them than they realized. Just a few months ago, the dearest friend that I lost found me on Facebook. Her name is Chastity, how religiously appropriate. She was deeply apologetic for what she had done so long ago. It took me a while to respond. I cried because her message was so sincere, heartfelt and nostalgic. After I finally wrote back, this is part of the email she sent:
“... I am so relieved I cried while reading this. I can't believe you're in Botswana. I mean, it's just so exotic compared with our humble Western PA. Reading this little message...hearing your tone of voice come through the words made me realize how much I've missed you. I tend to truly connect with only a very few people and the connection I had with you left a lasting impression; one that's been vacant for a long time.”
Change takes time and patience, but how can we expect change if we don’t talk about things and if we’re not honest? And how much can I expect Phaketse, or any other Motswana for that matter, to be enlightened when they live in such a different world? All due patience aside, reflecting on the conversation with her that evening made me angry, but it was only one factor in a culmination of items that made me angry with concern that day. Earlier, I was reading some recent news and reports about MSM (Men who have Sex with Men) studies in Africa.
HIV/AIDS is known as mostly a gay epidemic in the States. In Africa, it’s spread mostly through heterosexual contact, and the media claims it has been far disconnected from any MSM activity. Just recently though, international organizations are waking up to the idea that MSM may actually be one of the driving forces of HIV in Africa.
Over the past few years, several African nations and other developing countries conducted their first ever research on MSM transmission of HIV. The results were shocking to many.
“Globally, MSM are on average 19 times more likely to contract HIV than the general population. At one end of the spectrum, MSM in Bolivia are 179 times more likely…
The clandestine existence that gay communities are forced to hide away in exposes them not just to the risk of HIV, but the rest of the population too: because they are unable to live openly as gay men, many MSMs also have sexual relations with women, or are even married…
Many MSM told us they were sure that there was no risk of infection with anal penetration”, said Yves Jong, coordinator of Alternatives Cameroun’s sexual health and prevention unit…
In Mali, “the majority of [MSM] – 88 per cent according to a study – are bisexual, which increases the spread of the disease”, said Dabo…”
Botswana is one of the countries that took copious amounts of persuasion and pressure from international health organizations before they would do a similar study. Right now, health workers near the capital are gathering their first statistics on MSM transmission.
Collecting this information can be extremely difficult in countries like Botswana where homosexuality is illegal. Most people don’t want to talk about it for fear of being arrested, and that’s what drives the epidemic. Since it’s not talked about, many African men don’t even know unprotected anal sex can spread HIV. They spread HIV amongst themselves and then go home to have unprotected sex with their wives.
To think, this could possibly be a significant factor spreading HIV in Africa, contributing to the loss of millions of lives, and too few people are willing to accept it.
There are glimmers of hope in these studies and in the leadership and people of Botswana. At the recent International AIDS Conference in Mexico, Festus Mogae, the former president of Botswana, spoke out and said “African leaders must end the discrimination against gay people.”
Last week, the Director at WAR, told me that a couple of the boys in their counseling sessions have disclosed they’re having unprotected anal sex with other boys, and that they didn’t know it could spread HIV. It’s real. It’s right in front of them.
The next day, at our morning meeting, she addressed the staff, “There has been some gay rights stuff in the news lately, and some new studies are coming out. I just want people to know, that no matter what people do or who they are, and no matter what our personal beliefs and judgments are, let’s not let it affect the support we need to give our clients. Now, moving on…”
At the end of the work day, I walked home with Tumelo, Phaketse’s nephew. He’s 21, recently hired, and of course no one talks about the nepotism that’s common in Botswana, yet against WAR policy. When we were only 10 minutes away from his home, walking along the river, he asked me, “How do you feel about gay people?”
Not wanting to influence him, knowing how his Aunt feels, and wanting to hear his unbiased thoughts first, I responded, “Well, how do you feel about gay people?”
“Aish. They should not be discriminated against. I do not like when people judge them. They are people just like anyone else. I think it should be legalized.”
For the next ten minutes, I didn’t talk about myself, but I talked about my gay friends in the states and some of the work I’ve done on gay issues. I told him about marriages in California, about the civil rights battles, about couples with kids, and about several reasons gay people should have equal rights. He was in agreement with me on everything, and he seemed both enlightened and happy to hear about a place that’s much more open-minded than where he lives.
When we got to his place, before I left to continue my journey home, he smiled at me and said “Thank you, Kabo, for the great conversation.”
I was the one who felt grateful to be able to talk about such things so openly to a supportive Motswana. “Thank you, Tumelo. We’ll have many more conversations like this, I’m sure. This is only the beginning.”
Friday, August 1, 2008
Tsholofelo (Hope)
Bontle, 17, is in her last year at a Senior Secondary School in a rural part of Botswana. There was a blood drive happening on her campus one day, so she was happy to donate blood to help her community, even though she’s squeamish about needles. They won’t use your blood if you’re HIV positive, but Bontle knows she’s negative since her boyfriend is faithful to her. Weeks later, after a series of tests were completed on the blood donations from the school, the officials had to dispose of nearly half of the blood. A lot of kids at this school don’t know they have HIV.
Gorata, 21, is livid with anger about what happened to her friend Kiana. Kiana was gang-raped by three men in her neighborhood. It was dark, so she couldn’t see their faces. The police aren’t helping to find the perpetrators, but in these small villages, word gets around fast. Gorata has discovered who the three young men are, and she knows at least one of them is HIV positive which means Kiana is now at risk. Gorata decided to take matters into her own hands. She is set on tracking down these men herself and killing them for what they did to her friend. After finding out where they live, she empties her bank account to buy a shotgun. Knocking on the door of the first young man, shotgun behind her back, she waits for a response. She is surprised when a very old woman opens the door in front of her. When Gorata inquires about the young man she has sought out to murder, she is told that he is the old woman’s grandson, her only living relative, who takes care of her. Sobered, Gorata forgets her plan, goes home and cries herself to sleep.
Taboka, 15, is sleeping with an older man. He’s 32, works in one of the diamond mines, and gives Taboka gifts, food and money in return for their relationship. Taboka learned about HIV and STIs in school, so she knows it’s important to wear a condom if she’s having sex, but she doesn’t. This man tells her he is negative, and she trusts him. Besides, he said he won’t pay her as much if she makes him wear protection. Her parents know about this relationship, and they do nothing to discourage it. Taboka is the breadwinner of the family.
---
GBV (Gender-Based Violence) and gender inequality are two of the main driving forces of HIV in many developing and middle-income countries. In Botswana, AIDS has brought the average life expectancy down to 35. More than 50% of the population is under the age of 18. The youth of Botswana are the only hope for the future. Despite the high infection rates, many of them are HIV negative and plan to stay that way.
HIV/AIDS education in the country gets better every year, though the process of change is slow. Teachers often don’t understand the curriculum themselves and frequently give students information that is incomplete or simply inaccurate. Even when young people have the information, they don’t always use it. Many face situations where they aren’t empowered enough to protect themselves. But not all of them will have the same fate of Bontle, Kiana and Taboka.
However, this is the reality. These are real stories about real people in the communities where I work here in Botswana. These are my neighbors, the people I see at the grocery store, and the people I greet on my way to work. I’m no longer reading about it halfway around the globe, but I’m living in it. It’s a challenge hearing these stories, difficult knowing how few people have the right information on HIV, and painful to listen to the homophobia, sexism and other forms of hate and oppression that drive the epidemic here. But still, I feel motivated, and I’m trying to work as a part of the change. One of the things that keeps me going every day is GLOW.
GLOW (Guys and Girls Leading Our World) is a program that educates and empowers youth leaders to talk to their peers about HIV and GBV. Originally initiated by a Peace Corps Volunteer in Romania in 1995, a Peace Corps Volunteer in Botswana started the program here in 2005. A year later, WAR (Women and men Against Rape) agreed to adopt the program to help make it more sustainable. Several years later, it’s still closely tied to Peace Corps Volunteers, and it’s come a long way.
Every year, aspiring youth leaders from all over the country apply to be a part of the annual Camp GLOW that brings them together with local leaders from their own communities who serve as advisors to form local GLOW chapters. They spend a week together engaging in various camp activities, crafts, sports, etc., but mostly learning and engaging each other issues of HIV, GBV and how to be a leader and role model for their peers on these issues. After the Camp, they go back to their communities to form local GLOW chapters. Many of these chapters are continuing to thrive in different parts of Botswana.
A few weeks ago, we sent letters out to all of the GLOW Chapters and asked folks for to apply to be on an Organizing Committee to plan this year’s Camp. Several of the responses we’ve received so far give me hope for this country. One of the youth applicants writes:
“After the camp, we managed to change the behavior of many students in our school. We were able to talk to them about issues of concern in their lives like rape, pregnancy and HIV related issues. Not only amongst the club members but we had the opportunity of addressing the whole school.”
And another:
“Our goal after Camp GLOW was to empower the girls to be leaders. It was a success because a lot of them were chose as prefects at school and a lot were sometimes chose to represent our school in national events in issues concerning youth because they were informed, had better awareness and well-equipped on life skills.”
I see GLOW as a grassroots movement similar to some of the work I’ve done in the States. In this case, the constituents are youth, not the voters, but it’s much more than someone’s vote we’re trying to confirm or change. We’re trying to change behavior over the long-term. Our hope is that one-on-one conversation with their peers will help them do that. I also want to make the program much more sustainable by the locals here and less dependent on the Peace Corps.
Last week, Daphne and I went to a regional Camp GLOW that was organized by some people who attended last year’s national Camp. Daphne is also new to GLOW. She started volunteering in Youth Programming at WAR over a year ago and was hired as full-time staff a few months ago. She’s the person I work with the most, and one of my biggest goals is to continue developing her into a better leader. She’s already a fantastic person to work with, and we have a lot of fun working together I can tell by her comments after the presentation we did at the workshop that I’m getting somewhere.
“How do you think today went?” I asked her, honestly not sure how she felt about it.
“I was so impressed by you today,” she responded, a big smile wiping across her face. “You’re a genius!”
“Why’s that?” I said, chuckling.
“You had me in the palm of your hand, and I loved it. You’re making me love GLOW.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” knowing if that’s how she felt, I must have been coaching her well, before and during our presentation together.
She went on, “You bring out this potential in me I didn’t even know I had… You’re gonna help me grow a lot.”
To know that I can help develop better leaders to do a better job of training others and fighting the epidemic here, that’s more important to me than anything.
I can vent about the horrendous work ethic that causes people to wander in and out of the office all day, only doing an hour or 2 of work. I can be frustrated by sitting in the 6-hour meetings, held entirely in Setswana, where I can only understand 10% of what’s going on, and therefore start daydreaming, only for someone to ask “are you with us?” It’s never been so difficult to pay attention and focus. And I can get angry. I’m angered by the ignorance and by the types of choices people make driven by the myriad bad situations people live with here.
But we can only do so much, granule by granule, brick by brick, so to know I’m getting somewhere, that’s what keeps me going.
As I write this, sitting in my house, listening to Jason Robert Brown on my iTunes, and chocolate croissants baking in the oven, Mami and Sego are playing on my front porch. When I look at their little three-year-old faces and big brown eyes, I think about Bontle, Gorata and Taboka. I think about them, and I hope these little ones have the opportunity to live their adolescent and adult lives in a Botswana that is different from what it is today.
Life is beautiful.
Gorata, 21, is livid with anger about what happened to her friend Kiana. Kiana was gang-raped by three men in her neighborhood. It was dark, so she couldn’t see their faces. The police aren’t helping to find the perpetrators, but in these small villages, word gets around fast. Gorata has discovered who the three young men are, and she knows at least one of them is HIV positive which means Kiana is now at risk. Gorata decided to take matters into her own hands. She is set on tracking down these men herself and killing them for what they did to her friend. After finding out where they live, she empties her bank account to buy a shotgun. Knocking on the door of the first young man, shotgun behind her back, she waits for a response. She is surprised when a very old woman opens the door in front of her. When Gorata inquires about the young man she has sought out to murder, she is told that he is the old woman’s grandson, her only living relative, who takes care of her. Sobered, Gorata forgets her plan, goes home and cries herself to sleep.
Taboka, 15, is sleeping with an older man. He’s 32, works in one of the diamond mines, and gives Taboka gifts, food and money in return for their relationship. Taboka learned about HIV and STIs in school, so she knows it’s important to wear a condom if she’s having sex, but she doesn’t. This man tells her he is negative, and she trusts him. Besides, he said he won’t pay her as much if she makes him wear protection. Her parents know about this relationship, and they do nothing to discourage it. Taboka is the breadwinner of the family.
---
GBV (Gender-Based Violence) and gender inequality are two of the main driving forces of HIV in many developing and middle-income countries. In Botswana, AIDS has brought the average life expectancy down to 35. More than 50% of the population is under the age of 18. The youth of Botswana are the only hope for the future. Despite the high infection rates, many of them are HIV negative and plan to stay that way.
HIV/AIDS education in the country gets better every year, though the process of change is slow. Teachers often don’t understand the curriculum themselves and frequently give students information that is incomplete or simply inaccurate. Even when young people have the information, they don’t always use it. Many face situations where they aren’t empowered enough to protect themselves. But not all of them will have the same fate of Bontle, Kiana and Taboka.
However, this is the reality. These are real stories about real people in the communities where I work here in Botswana. These are my neighbors, the people I see at the grocery store, and the people I greet on my way to work. I’m no longer reading about it halfway around the globe, but I’m living in it. It’s a challenge hearing these stories, difficult knowing how few people have the right information on HIV, and painful to listen to the homophobia, sexism and other forms of hate and oppression that drive the epidemic here. But still, I feel motivated, and I’m trying to work as a part of the change. One of the things that keeps me going every day is GLOW.
GLOW (Guys and Girls Leading Our World) is a program that educates and empowers youth leaders to talk to their peers about HIV and GBV. Originally initiated by a Peace Corps Volunteer in Romania in 1995, a Peace Corps Volunteer in Botswana started the program here in 2005. A year later, WAR (Women and men Against Rape) agreed to adopt the program to help make it more sustainable. Several years later, it’s still closely tied to Peace Corps Volunteers, and it’s come a long way.
Every year, aspiring youth leaders from all over the country apply to be a part of the annual Camp GLOW that brings them together with local leaders from their own communities who serve as advisors to form local GLOW chapters. They spend a week together engaging in various camp activities, crafts, sports, etc., but mostly learning and engaging each other issues of HIV, GBV and how to be a leader and role model for their peers on these issues. After the Camp, they go back to their communities to form local GLOW chapters. Many of these chapters are continuing to thrive in different parts of Botswana.
A few weeks ago, we sent letters out to all of the GLOW Chapters and asked folks for to apply to be on an Organizing Committee to plan this year’s Camp. Several of the responses we’ve received so far give me hope for this country. One of the youth applicants writes:
“After the camp, we managed to change the behavior of many students in our school. We were able to talk to them about issues of concern in their lives like rape, pregnancy and HIV related issues. Not only amongst the club members but we had the opportunity of addressing the whole school.”
And another:
“Our goal after Camp GLOW was to empower the girls to be leaders. It was a success because a lot of them were chose as prefects at school and a lot were sometimes chose to represent our school in national events in issues concerning youth because they were informed, had better awareness and well-equipped on life skills.”
I see GLOW as a grassroots movement similar to some of the work I’ve done in the States. In this case, the constituents are youth, not the voters, but it’s much more than someone’s vote we’re trying to confirm or change. We’re trying to change behavior over the long-term. Our hope is that one-on-one conversation with their peers will help them do that. I also want to make the program much more sustainable by the locals here and less dependent on the Peace Corps.
Last week, Daphne and I went to a regional Camp GLOW that was organized by some people who attended last year’s national Camp. Daphne is also new to GLOW. She started volunteering in Youth Programming at WAR over a year ago and was hired as full-time staff a few months ago. She’s the person I work with the most, and one of my biggest goals is to continue developing her into a better leader. She’s already a fantastic person to work with, and we have a lot of fun working together I can tell by her comments after the presentation we did at the workshop that I’m getting somewhere.
“How do you think today went?” I asked her, honestly not sure how she felt about it.
“I was so impressed by you today,” she responded, a big smile wiping across her face. “You’re a genius!”
“Why’s that?” I said, chuckling.
“You had me in the palm of your hand, and I loved it. You’re making me love GLOW.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” knowing if that’s how she felt, I must have been coaching her well, before and during our presentation together.
She went on, “You bring out this potential in me I didn’t even know I had… You’re gonna help me grow a lot.”
To know that I can help develop better leaders to do a better job of training others and fighting the epidemic here, that’s more important to me than anything.
I can vent about the horrendous work ethic that causes people to wander in and out of the office all day, only doing an hour or 2 of work. I can be frustrated by sitting in the 6-hour meetings, held entirely in Setswana, where I can only understand 10% of what’s going on, and therefore start daydreaming, only for someone to ask “are you with us?” It’s never been so difficult to pay attention and focus. And I can get angry. I’m angered by the ignorance and by the types of choices people make driven by the myriad bad situations people live with here.
But we can only do so much, granule by granule, brick by brick, so to know I’m getting somewhere, that’s what keeps me going.
As I write this, sitting in my house, listening to Jason Robert Brown on my iTunes, and chocolate croissants baking in the oven, Mami and Sego are playing on my front porch. When I look at their little three-year-old faces and big brown eyes, I think about Bontle, Gorata and Taboka. I think about them, and I hope these little ones have the opportunity to live their adolescent and adult lives in a Botswana that is different from what it is today.
Life is beautiful.
Friday, July 4, 2008
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.
---
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.
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.
---
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.
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