I never expected I would be sitting in a courtroom on a Friday morning. I arrived with Mpho, my new counterpart and supervisor at WAR (Women Against Rape). We accompanied one of their clients to the magistrate. This client has been the plaintiff in this case against her husband for over a year and a half now. I sat in court, watching as this case that seems so simple to me was extended and delayed yet again. Her battle began started two years ago.
Her husband is the manager of a bank, and he had been beating her at home for several months. One day, they got into an argument at his place of work, and he attacked her in front of everyone, hands around her throat, choking her. There were several witnesses, including the security guards that pulled him off of her. Since the guards are friends of his, and his employees are afraid of him, they all gave false statements when she pressed charges. It was her word against 6 others who wouldn’t stand up for her or stand up against him.
Weeks later, at home, he strangled her until she lost consciousness. The case was re-opened, but due to a corrupt system, she’s still fighting a year and a half later.
We talked to her after the session adjourned.
“I feel at peace and optimistic,” she told us,” I’m not letting him get away with this. Mpho, I know that I survived this for a reason. There are too many women who are going through this with their husbands or boyfriends, but they don’t have the strength to speak out. Please use me in any way that you can. I want to speak to people.”
WAR has been with her every step of the way, and has helped her remain strong throughout the process. She is so grateful, and I’m inspired by her optimism. I was also inspired by her friend who came with her. Also a domestic violence survivor, Alice almost died in the trauma unit of Maun hospital after her husband beat her up. Today, she’s supporting others going through what she did.
Later that same day, I would encounter someone who wasn’t quite as strong, by struggling to get out of her situation.
As I sat in the WAR office, early in the afternoon, I heard voices shouting over the police radio in the office.
“… emergency call… *static*… attempted rape… *static*… victim in site… *staic*… We got a call about a disturbance by the Old Maun bridge, a rape in progress, we’re pursuing them now… the perpetrator is wearing red pants…”
Was this really happening? It’s the middle of the day. Is this a drill? I was in partial disbelief. Mpho quickly walked out of her office, grabbed the walkie-talkie, locked her door and told me to come with her. Is this part of the job? I couldn’t believe I was actually going to the scene with her. “You have to see all aspects of our work. Let’s go.”
“…*static*… by the bridge… *static*… we have the victim and perpetrator in custody…”
“Women Against Rape is on the way.”
“Danki, Mma.”
We arrived at the police post in the neighborhood where the incident occurred. I was confused by the snippets of the story vocalized from the room beside me. A police officer telling her she shouldn’t be playing games, and two witnesses saying she better not ask for help next time. “He couldn’t have been throwing it at her playfully. Look at her shorts.”
What’s going on? Why’s the door open? Should I be privy to this information? What happened?
This 20-year-old woman and her boyfriend, also the father of her child, were walking along the river near the old bridge. She received a text message that upset him. After asking questions about it, and not happy with the answers, he pushed her to the ground, tugging at her shorts and hitting her. The evidence of the situation is clear with cow dung and mud all over the back of her clothes and handprints on his shoulders as she tried to push him off. He continued hitting her and screamed for help. Three witnesses both heard her and saw what was going on. They called the police.
Once it custody, she didn’t want to make a case of it. She claimed they were just playing a game. Even after some nudging and probing from Mpho and the police, she stuck to her story, despite the witnesses, the screams and clear evidence. The cops, Mpho and the witnesses were not too happy that they were all trying to help her and now she didn’t want it, claiming they were just playing. They were both charged a fine of P50 for causing a disturbance.
She’s unemployed, they’re a couple, and he’s the father of her child. Who knows what the situation is. She could be afraid to lose her child, to lose her boyfriend’s financial support for the child, afraid of a court case, weary of the public attention. For perhaps the first time in her situation, she screamed for help, but she didn’t feel empowered enough to follow through.
Mpho encouraged both of them to come to counseling. She said she would come by on Monday, but her boyfriend claimed to be too busy. He also seemed drunk or perhaps high as he waltzed out of the place, pulling her by the wrist as she smiled complacently.
Her struggle has only begun, and if she comes on Monday, perhaps WAR can help her.
---
When we got back to the office, there were two young men waiting to meet with Mpho. After they met, the two of them waited outside for a ride as I was loading up some things in the truck. “Ke bidiwa Kabo,” I said, introducing myself to one of them.
He looked at me with a face full of both surprise and delight, not only because I was speaking to him in Setswana, but also because I claimed to have a Setswana name. I told them where I was from, why I’m here, etc., and I learned a little about them. The boy I was first talking to just took his high school exams and failed, so he’s taking some extra classes to make up for that. I commended him on sticking with it and working hard, instead of giving up like many students do. The other has just started school at Maun tech. He’s studying secretarial work, but when I asked him to tell me his dreams, he told me he wants to run his own business someday.
Gofhaone spelled his name in the sand for me. Gothusang’s name was easier for me to understand since it means, “to help.” After a bit more small conversation, Gofhaone said, “I want to talk to you about Jesus.” He probably didn’t realize he was talking to a closet Jesus freak, and that he would be surprised with what I’m about to say.
“Jesus ke tsala yame,” I told him. “Jesus is my friend.”
“Jesus is your friend?” he inquired, in his thick Setswana accent.
“Yes. Let’s talk about tsala yame, Jesus. Jesus nna mo pelo yame.”
“Jesus lives in your heart?” he asked me, translating what I had just told him, again both surprised and delighted. “Do you teach others about God? Do you talk about God every day?”
“I do the work of God by working with WAR.”
“I don’t understand. That’s not the same.”
I tried to explain my perspective, as I thought about my morning in court, and my afternoon rushing to the police post. I told him that God created each of us in God’s image, and God has a unique plan for each person. More than anything, I believe God wants us to be ourselves through every trait the Spirit manifests in us, to live as whole human beings like God created us to be and to live to our full potential as people.
Women and children who have been raped, beaten or abused are broken by those who perpetuate violence. They have been robbed of the strength and dignity that would allow them to live to their full potential. The God in them has been suffocated by their perpetrators. WAR empowers these people to live fully and helps them to regain the power that was taken from them.
“WAR empowers people, and that’s the work of God” I told this young man outside of the office. He replied with “I never thought of it that way. Thanks for the new perspective.”
So I finally asked Gofhaose and Gothusang, “if you don’t mind me asking, what brings you here?”
They looked at each other, a bit sheepish, then said to me “A friend of ours was raped… we wanted to know how we could best support her.”
I was so moved that these boys cared enough to seek out WAR. It was also one of many signs of the breadth of their outreach in the community and their presence in the school systems.
We took the boys home, had heartwarming conversations with both of them on the way, and then went to the Shelter where I’ve been staying these past few days during my Site visit. A temporary home for abused women and children, the facility just opened a few months ago. Currently, there are only three people living there, Baboletse, the social worker, and two teenage girls, Koketso and Kedibonye.
Cousins, daughters of single mothers, both of their parents died. In custody with their Uncle, he became abusive, so they ended up at the Shelter. My first day there, they were quite reticent and didn’t speak to me very much. The next day, I thought of trying to break the wall down with music. I opened my laptop, and put on my iTunes as they slowly gathered next to me. I asked them about musicians they like and which American artists they know. They say they like hip hop and R&B, so they started to open up as we listened to Missy Elliot and Lauryn Hill.
We chatted for a bit about school, and they started teaching me some Setswana. Later, we cooked dinner together, continuing the conversation, and I taught them how to make mashed potatoes from scratch, as they listened intently and followed step by step, laughing and smiling throughout the process.
Kedibonye disappeared the next day, ran away. They’ve only been living there for a few weeks, and apparently she’s been a bit of a problem. Last weekend, for example, she lied about having an activity at school, when she was really going to her boyfriend’s place. On the day she disappeared, Mpho and I took her to school for some exams and asked the teacher to call Mpho when they were done. The teacher never called, and by the time we went back to the school, no one was there. A couple days later, no one knows where she is.
---
I’m thrilled to be a part of the wide variety of work that WAR does. They provide referrals and financial assistance when a client needs to hire a lawyer, have developed great relationships the police officers and other leaders in the community, are developing systems for their new Shelter, have youth empowerment clubs for HIV and Gender-Based Violence Education all over the country, created Students Against Rape chapters throughout WAR and spreading through Botswana, have great counseling resources and are launching program to better education men in the community on how they can help stop violence against women and children.
My main project is running GLOW (Girls and Guys Leading Our World), the youth empowerment clubs and the annual GLOW camp in December. Beyond that, I have several months to figure out exactly what my numerous projects will be. Mpho seems like a great manager, and has already encouraged me to dig in to any project I would like and find ways to support all of the different programs I can. The rest of the staff are a kind, intelligent, good-hearted and passionate group of people, who I am looking forward to working with.
I cried at the end of the day Friday as I started to write some of these stories. I took in a lot in my few days of a visit to Maun, meeting the staff, hearing countless stories, and experiencing parts of the work. It is, however, this type of emotionally intense work that I’ve been looking for. Yet again, I got exactly what I asked for. I get to work with this incredible organization for the next 2 years.
Life is beautiful.
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Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Glimpses
Since my internet time is limited, I can't upload as many pictures as I would like, but here are a few:
The boy who lives next to our training site:
Some dancers from a performance we went to:
My home:
Ke ya lapeng.
“I want to go see Amerika.”
“You should come visit.”
“Is it true, if I go to Amerika, they will think I am a baboon or call me a chimpanzee?”
I’m still surprised by the things that come out of my Mme’s mouth on a daily basis. She’s an endless source of entertainment. She also tells me quite often how smart she thinks I am, and that she wants me to stay here for the next 2 years. She says she will cry when I leave.
Mme was supposed to volunteer at the church one Saturday morning. When I still saw her around at 8:15AM, I asked her if she was still going. I was touched when she said that she would rather stay at home with me. Later, during breakfast, someone called. I asked if it was the church, and it was. She told them that she is too tired and it’s too far.
Botswana television is continuing to be more fascinating. They have a version of American Idol called Botswana Pop Star that looks like it’s filmed in a high school auditorium, and there’s a Botswana version of American Bandstand that’s not half bad. On the other side of the spectrum, it’s still surreal to walk into the house and see Oprah’s on or the latest news about the American presidential race.
Honestly, although I appreciate the opportunity to watch the news in Setswana and hope I may absorb some language skills via osmosis, the TV issue is starting to bother me a bit. For starters, it’s always on. The family congregates around it, and they barely talk when it’s on. It’s like being a random American household. At first, I was in “assimilation” mode and thought I’d just continue doing whatever the family is doing, but now I’ve started initiating conversations to get the attention away from the television, and encourage more of my Setswana practice. Besides, isn’t the crazy white guy with silly broken Setswana much more interesting than the latest news on cattle herding or the diamond mines?
The other piece that irks me is I was looking forward to getting away from television for a while. I am in Africa, after all. I’ve been reminded over and over again, how completely difficult it is to escape American culture anywhere in the world. Mariah Carey and Black Eyed Peas spill from the speakers in the grocery store and the latest techno dance hits often blare from taxis. Then, there are the china shops. I still don’t understand why there is a significant Chinese population in the middle of southern Africa. Regardless, they sell DVDs for only P10 that have about 20 American films on each disc. One example is the “Matt Damon vs. Leonardo DiCaprio” DVD, which contains movies like The Departed, Titanic, the Bourne series, and Catch Me if You Can. Sure, they’re dubbed and the quality isn’t always great, but still, 20 blockbuster movies for only $2 is a good deal. I haven’t purchased any DVDs myself yet, but I have to admit, every time I’m invited to another PCVs house to watch a movie, it’s so easy to forego my homework or Setswana studying.
Some of my favorite times are when the power goes out. We light some paraffin lamps, and then I really get to have conversations with my family. Then there are the times when I simply plug in my laptop to charge and it overloads the circuit in our house. It’s just embarrassing.
The food situation isn’t getting any better, but I’m finding better ways to cope. I have a wide array of snack food that I eat throughout the day, instead of relying as much on my family meals. Every day is the same assortment of oranges, apples, peanut butter, cookies, chocolate bars, cheese and multi-grain crackers, which are the only “multi-grain” anything to be found. I also have an occasional mango, but winter is approaching, so delicious fruits, including oranges, are slowly disappearing. Soon, the produce sections will be filled with nothing but apples, of which I already eat 2 daily. It’s also a bad sign when foods in the States that I would normally think of as disgusting suddenly seem so appealing here. I almost can’t believe I actually bought that box of bacon-flavored crackers.
The first night we had pasta, I was thrilled, but then just disappointed. I felt like they were playing with my emotions. When I had spaghetti on my plate, and my family saw me eating it plain, I was told there was tomato sauce. I was filled with delight, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I was relieved that my Mme couldn’t find it either, so I felt less incompetent. Then she exclaimed when she saw it in the refrigerator door. It was ketchup, with a label that says “Tomato – Sous.” I explained to them that in America tomato sauce is different, with onions, garlic, herbs, and tomatoes. This is too sweet. Botshe thata!
Everyday continues to be a surprise of bland food, the worst cuts of beef one can possibly imagine. There was even a day when all we had was bread. Just bread. No butter. No peanut butter. No jam. Just… bread. It was odd and saddening. I’d also be happy if I never saw beetroot, bean leaves or phaleche again. I really do love my family, but I can’t wait to have my own place with my own meal choices and food options.
I talk a lot about the food, but it’s not all bad. There’s a spicy sausage, boroso, that is delicious, and my taste bud come to life every time we have it for dinner, which is at least once every week. The first time they asked me to cook with it, I got a bit creative, mostly because I was doing a horrible job cutting it. The meat was falling out of the skin of the sausage, and it looks just like ground beef when it’s raw. I decided to make meatballs. I mixed the spicy meat mixture with a pinch of salt and sugar an egg, and a large handful of crumbled cornflakes. I made a little sauce from onions, tomatoes and green peppers to go with it.
They were delicious. “Dijo di monate,” Mme said, impressed and fascinated by my invention. As soon as she was finished eating, and pushing her side dish aside to save it for tomorrow, she got a small notebook and insisted on getting the recipe for these meatballs. She very carefully wrote down how to make them step by step. This led to a small recipe exchange between the two of us. She asked for the recipe for the home fries I made the week prior, and I got the recipes for her biscuits and her samp and bean mixture. It was another one of many heartwarming moments with my host mom.
Another evening, as soon as I sat across from her in the living room, she randomly asked me, “How many goats do you and your family own in Amerika?”
“Most people in America do not own goats,” I tried to explain.
“How many cows?”
“Most people in America don’t own goats or cows.”
“Ehee…”
“In America, only famers own goats and cows. They have many of them, and it is their entire job…”
In Botswana, the number of goats and cows your family owns is a sign of wealth and how much money you have. Most families own some form of livestock here, but they spend most of their time in some unbeknownst field grazing, or at the cattle post. It’s also common for the scrawniest or worst fed livestock to be slaughtered because the bigger animals are a sign of greater wealth, and therefore, families don’t want to get rid of them. If one of your goats or cows die, or worse, are killed, it’s a big deal. I learned firsthand just how angry some family members can get when this happens to them.
On one Tuesday morning, after I got dressed, I heard a dog barking violently. As my brain awoke, I noticed the barking was very near to my room. I opened my curtains to see a disturbing sight right outside my window. In partial disbelief, I saw my two youngest host brothers, smiling and laughing as they held long metal rods aggressively beating a dog. One of the neighbor kids walking by decided to help in the cruel process by throwing rocks at it. I heard stories about things like this happening, but it was quite different to see it 10 feet away from me.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I restrained my temptation to run out and start yelling at them and insisting they stop their irrational act. It’s part of the culture, I suppose, but my God, what cruelty occurring right before my eyes!
I calmly walked out of my room and saw Tebo, the elder brother, standing on the porch, smiling, enjoying in the fresh air of the morning, as if nothing unusual was happening on the other side of the house. I asked if he knew they were beating a dog and whose it was.
“Yes.” And continued smiling, staring into the distance… enjoying the fresh air of the morning…
“Why are they beating it?” I asked
“A dog killed our goat,” he said blankly
Ok… “A dog” killed their goat, not this dog, but “A dog?” I tried to understand by asking questions.
“Whose dog is it they’re beating?”
“We don’t know.”
“If it’s not even the dog that killed your goat, what is this solving?
“eeh?”
“How is beating the dog helping?”
“eeh?”
“Why are they beating the dog?”
“A dog killed our goat.”
I wasn’t getting anywhere. At this point, the dog ran across the front of the yard and the two younger brothers chased it. It then ran to the porch where Tebo and I were standing. It sat in the corner, all legs intact, not limping at all, but a deformed body of broken ribs, and trembling in both pain and fear.
I asked Tebo very slowly, “Ok, what are we trying to accomplish here?” waving my hands dramatically.
“We want the dog to leave our yard.” I turned my head to see the open gate. “Oh! Ok, let’s try to make this happen.” Tebo grabbed the dog by the collar, but it was terrified and just dug its paws into the grounded. In about 5 minutes, it left the yard with no more beatings. I have no idea if it survived the countless internal injuries it probably withstood.
I still almost couldn’t believe this happened right in front of me. Rather than be seen as the crazy white person who likes dogs, I opted to calmly figure out how to solve the problem. I suppose if I were in my village, I would have done the same thing. I’ll already stand out in a number of ways, I don’t want another one. If this were the States, and any other injustice, big or small, were happening in front of my eyes, I would have reacted differently. I don’t know if I did the right thing by letting the beating go on for a few more minutes, but I do think I did the right thing about inquiring for reasons before violently berating a seemingly common occurrence in their culture.
I’ll never forget that image of them smiling and laughing as they committed this horrendous act. I certainly learned how important goats are and uncared for dogs are. They’re meant to protect your property and herd your livestock, but if they kill one, something went wrong.
Despite the dog incident, Batswana are a kind, gentle and soft-spoken people. I’m reminded of this when I’m talking to people in town, interacting with our trainers and greeting people during my 30 minute walk to our training space every day. I even got lost in my neighborhood after dark once. I left another PCTs house a bit late and the sun was setting. Most people don’t go out after dark, and there are barely any lights anywhere. And there certainly are very few roads, and no street signs anywhere. Everything is a maze of yards, fences, compounds and sandy pathways.
I made a wrong turn on my way home that night, and the moment I turned around to retrace my steps was the moment the sky seemed to have suddenly turned pitch black. I could barely see anything. I started to call someone, but then discovered I was out of airtime and could make any calls. Then it occurred to me, even if I did get a hold of someone. What would I tell them? In English or Setswana, I couldn’t tell someone where I was or where I live. House after hut after yard after herd of goats and flock of chickens all looks the same. There are no streets or addresses, just the maze.
I eventually gathered my bearings and just kept walking in the same direction until I got to one of the main roads. From there, I knew which direction to walk, so I just continued walking until I saw a familiar shape of a house. 30 minutes later, I was home.
It was a frightening experience at the moment, but I was reminded at the time of what a safe place I’m currently living in. I saw several people on my wandering journey in the dark. There wasn’t a single moment that I gave anyone the impression that I was lost. Again, what would I say? I don’t know where I am or where I live. I could have told someone Ratlalape, and perhaps someone would have recognized my family’s surname. At any rate, everyone I talked to were very friendly per usual. Dumela after Dumela my nerves were settled and calm as I was reminded of how kind and gentle the people are. This is all the more reason why incidents such as that morning with the dog are so confusing and surprising to me. I truly love the people here, and my neighbors are some of the main reasons I like my village so much. However, there are a number of situations such as the dog incident that still boggle my mind.
---
I had my interview for Site Placement last week. It was simple and non-eventful. In the grand scheme of the process, my preferences are quite simple. They asked me to list my 5 preferences in priority order, and I only have 2. I’m open to the rest. I made the un-stereotypical Peace Corps request that my housing have electricity and/or gas because I realized how important cooking food is to my well-being. For the NGO, the only preference I made is that I want to be placed with an NGO with a Counseling program. Years later, I still crave to do Counseling work as a profession. Working as an Organizer with an NGO that has a Counseling program seems like the perfect cross-over between my previous career and where I still long to go in my career.
On Saturday, I’ll find out where I’ll spend the next 2 years of my life, and with what organization.
“You should come visit.”
“Is it true, if I go to Amerika, they will think I am a baboon or call me a chimpanzee?”
I’m still surprised by the things that come out of my Mme’s mouth on a daily basis. She’s an endless source of entertainment. She also tells me quite often how smart she thinks I am, and that she wants me to stay here for the next 2 years. She says she will cry when I leave.
Mme was supposed to volunteer at the church one Saturday morning. When I still saw her around at 8:15AM, I asked her if she was still going. I was touched when she said that she would rather stay at home with me. Later, during breakfast, someone called. I asked if it was the church, and it was. She told them that she is too tired and it’s too far.
Botswana television is continuing to be more fascinating. They have a version of American Idol called Botswana Pop Star that looks like it’s filmed in a high school auditorium, and there’s a Botswana version of American Bandstand that’s not half bad. On the other side of the spectrum, it’s still surreal to walk into the house and see Oprah’s on or the latest news about the American presidential race.
Honestly, although I appreciate the opportunity to watch the news in Setswana and hope I may absorb some language skills via osmosis, the TV issue is starting to bother me a bit. For starters, it’s always on. The family congregates around it, and they barely talk when it’s on. It’s like being a random American household. At first, I was in “assimilation” mode and thought I’d just continue doing whatever the family is doing, but now I’ve started initiating conversations to get the attention away from the television, and encourage more of my Setswana practice. Besides, isn’t the crazy white guy with silly broken Setswana much more interesting than the latest news on cattle herding or the diamond mines?
The other piece that irks me is I was looking forward to getting away from television for a while. I am in Africa, after all. I’ve been reminded over and over again, how completely difficult it is to escape American culture anywhere in the world. Mariah Carey and Black Eyed Peas spill from the speakers in the grocery store and the latest techno dance hits often blare from taxis. Then, there are the china shops. I still don’t understand why there is a significant Chinese population in the middle of southern Africa. Regardless, they sell DVDs for only P10 that have about 20 American films on each disc. One example is the “Matt Damon vs. Leonardo DiCaprio” DVD, which contains movies like The Departed, Titanic, the Bourne series, and Catch Me if You Can. Sure, they’re dubbed and the quality isn’t always great, but still, 20 blockbuster movies for only $2 is a good deal. I haven’t purchased any DVDs myself yet, but I have to admit, every time I’m invited to another PCVs house to watch a movie, it’s so easy to forego my homework or Setswana studying.
Some of my favorite times are when the power goes out. We light some paraffin lamps, and then I really get to have conversations with my family. Then there are the times when I simply plug in my laptop to charge and it overloads the circuit in our house. It’s just embarrassing.
The food situation isn’t getting any better, but I’m finding better ways to cope. I have a wide array of snack food that I eat throughout the day, instead of relying as much on my family meals. Every day is the same assortment of oranges, apples, peanut butter, cookies, chocolate bars, cheese and multi-grain crackers, which are the only “multi-grain” anything to be found. I also have an occasional mango, but winter is approaching, so delicious fruits, including oranges, are slowly disappearing. Soon, the produce sections will be filled with nothing but apples, of which I already eat 2 daily. It’s also a bad sign when foods in the States that I would normally think of as disgusting suddenly seem so appealing here. I almost can’t believe I actually bought that box of bacon-flavored crackers.
The first night we had pasta, I was thrilled, but then just disappointed. I felt like they were playing with my emotions. When I had spaghetti on my plate, and my family saw me eating it plain, I was told there was tomato sauce. I was filled with delight, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I was relieved that my Mme couldn’t find it either, so I felt less incompetent. Then she exclaimed when she saw it in the refrigerator door. It was ketchup, with a label that says “Tomato – Sous.” I explained to them that in America tomato sauce is different, with onions, garlic, herbs, and tomatoes. This is too sweet. Botshe thata!
Everyday continues to be a surprise of bland food, the worst cuts of beef one can possibly imagine. There was even a day when all we had was bread. Just bread. No butter. No peanut butter. No jam. Just… bread. It was odd and saddening. I’d also be happy if I never saw beetroot, bean leaves or phaleche again. I really do love my family, but I can’t wait to have my own place with my own meal choices and food options.
I talk a lot about the food, but it’s not all bad. There’s a spicy sausage, boroso, that is delicious, and my taste bud come to life every time we have it for dinner, which is at least once every week. The first time they asked me to cook with it, I got a bit creative, mostly because I was doing a horrible job cutting it. The meat was falling out of the skin of the sausage, and it looks just like ground beef when it’s raw. I decided to make meatballs. I mixed the spicy meat mixture with a pinch of salt and sugar an egg, and a large handful of crumbled cornflakes. I made a little sauce from onions, tomatoes and green peppers to go with it.
They were delicious. “Dijo di monate,” Mme said, impressed and fascinated by my invention. As soon as she was finished eating, and pushing her side dish aside to save it for tomorrow, she got a small notebook and insisted on getting the recipe for these meatballs. She very carefully wrote down how to make them step by step. This led to a small recipe exchange between the two of us. She asked for the recipe for the home fries I made the week prior, and I got the recipes for her biscuits and her samp and bean mixture. It was another one of many heartwarming moments with my host mom.
Another evening, as soon as I sat across from her in the living room, she randomly asked me, “How many goats do you and your family own in Amerika?”
“Most people in America do not own goats,” I tried to explain.
“How many cows?”
“Most people in America don’t own goats or cows.”
“Ehee…”
“In America, only famers own goats and cows. They have many of them, and it is their entire job…”
In Botswana, the number of goats and cows your family owns is a sign of wealth and how much money you have. Most families own some form of livestock here, but they spend most of their time in some unbeknownst field grazing, or at the cattle post. It’s also common for the scrawniest or worst fed livestock to be slaughtered because the bigger animals are a sign of greater wealth, and therefore, families don’t want to get rid of them. If one of your goats or cows die, or worse, are killed, it’s a big deal. I learned firsthand just how angry some family members can get when this happens to them.
On one Tuesday morning, after I got dressed, I heard a dog barking violently. As my brain awoke, I noticed the barking was very near to my room. I opened my curtains to see a disturbing sight right outside my window. In partial disbelief, I saw my two youngest host brothers, smiling and laughing as they held long metal rods aggressively beating a dog. One of the neighbor kids walking by decided to help in the cruel process by throwing rocks at it. I heard stories about things like this happening, but it was quite different to see it 10 feet away from me.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I restrained my temptation to run out and start yelling at them and insisting they stop their irrational act. It’s part of the culture, I suppose, but my God, what cruelty occurring right before my eyes!
I calmly walked out of my room and saw Tebo, the elder brother, standing on the porch, smiling, enjoying in the fresh air of the morning, as if nothing unusual was happening on the other side of the house. I asked if he knew they were beating a dog and whose it was.
“Yes.” And continued smiling, staring into the distance… enjoying the fresh air of the morning…
“Why are they beating it?” I asked
“A dog killed our goat,” he said blankly
Ok… “A dog” killed their goat, not this dog, but “A dog?” I tried to understand by asking questions.
“Whose dog is it they’re beating?”
“We don’t know.”
“If it’s not even the dog that killed your goat, what is this solving?
“eeh?”
“How is beating the dog helping?”
“eeh?”
“Why are they beating the dog?”
“A dog killed our goat.”
I wasn’t getting anywhere. At this point, the dog ran across the front of the yard and the two younger brothers chased it. It then ran to the porch where Tebo and I were standing. It sat in the corner, all legs intact, not limping at all, but a deformed body of broken ribs, and trembling in both pain and fear.
I asked Tebo very slowly, “Ok, what are we trying to accomplish here?” waving my hands dramatically.
“We want the dog to leave our yard.” I turned my head to see the open gate. “Oh! Ok, let’s try to make this happen.” Tebo grabbed the dog by the collar, but it was terrified and just dug its paws into the grounded. In about 5 minutes, it left the yard with no more beatings. I have no idea if it survived the countless internal injuries it probably withstood.
I still almost couldn’t believe this happened right in front of me. Rather than be seen as the crazy white person who likes dogs, I opted to calmly figure out how to solve the problem. I suppose if I were in my village, I would have done the same thing. I’ll already stand out in a number of ways, I don’t want another one. If this were the States, and any other injustice, big or small, were happening in front of my eyes, I would have reacted differently. I don’t know if I did the right thing by letting the beating go on for a few more minutes, but I do think I did the right thing about inquiring for reasons before violently berating a seemingly common occurrence in their culture.
I’ll never forget that image of them smiling and laughing as they committed this horrendous act. I certainly learned how important goats are and uncared for dogs are. They’re meant to protect your property and herd your livestock, but if they kill one, something went wrong.
Despite the dog incident, Batswana are a kind, gentle and soft-spoken people. I’m reminded of this when I’m talking to people in town, interacting with our trainers and greeting people during my 30 minute walk to our training space every day. I even got lost in my neighborhood after dark once. I left another PCTs house a bit late and the sun was setting. Most people don’t go out after dark, and there are barely any lights anywhere. And there certainly are very few roads, and no street signs anywhere. Everything is a maze of yards, fences, compounds and sandy pathways.
I made a wrong turn on my way home that night, and the moment I turned around to retrace my steps was the moment the sky seemed to have suddenly turned pitch black. I could barely see anything. I started to call someone, but then discovered I was out of airtime and could make any calls. Then it occurred to me, even if I did get a hold of someone. What would I tell them? In English or Setswana, I couldn’t tell someone where I was or where I live. House after hut after yard after herd of goats and flock of chickens all looks the same. There are no streets or addresses, just the maze.
I eventually gathered my bearings and just kept walking in the same direction until I got to one of the main roads. From there, I knew which direction to walk, so I just continued walking until I saw a familiar shape of a house. 30 minutes later, I was home.
It was a frightening experience at the moment, but I was reminded at the time of what a safe place I’m currently living in. I saw several people on my wandering journey in the dark. There wasn’t a single moment that I gave anyone the impression that I was lost. Again, what would I say? I don’t know where I am or where I live. I could have told someone Ratlalape, and perhaps someone would have recognized my family’s surname. At any rate, everyone I talked to were very friendly per usual. Dumela after Dumela my nerves were settled and calm as I was reminded of how kind and gentle the people are. This is all the more reason why incidents such as that morning with the dog are so confusing and surprising to me. I truly love the people here, and my neighbors are some of the main reasons I like my village so much. However, there are a number of situations such as the dog incident that still boggle my mind.
---
I had my interview for Site Placement last week. It was simple and non-eventful. In the grand scheme of the process, my preferences are quite simple. They asked me to list my 5 preferences in priority order, and I only have 2. I’m open to the rest. I made the un-stereotypical Peace Corps request that my housing have electricity and/or gas because I realized how important cooking food is to my well-being. For the NGO, the only preference I made is that I want to be placed with an NGO with a Counseling program. Years later, I still crave to do Counseling work as a profession. Working as an Organizer with an NGO that has a Counseling program seems like the perfect cross-over between my previous career and where I still long to go in my career.
On Saturday, I’ll find out where I’ll spend the next 2 years of my life, and with what organization.
Emelela ko Charleshill
Embracing the bitter cold at 3:16AM, I begrudgingly got out of a bed. Speaking to my host family the night before, they knew I would be gone for the next five days and that I had to be up very early the next day. Per usual, they made me a lunch. I also hard-boiled some eggs, and packed some other snack food for the long bus ride.
As I was gathering my things makuku thata that day, I discovered the doors to the house were locked. Since my bedroom is in a separate corner, I couldn’t get in. I tried to think of creative ways to break into the house, but I couldn’t find any. Every window is covered with burglar bars and the doors have strong deadbolts. This certainly made me feel even safer in my housing situation, but it wasn’t helpful for the matter at hand. I walked around the house and noticed that Bami’s light was still on, even though his loud snores told me he was asleep. I opted to wake him up.
“Bami…”
“…Bami…” I whispered
After waiting for a response, I then yelled, “BAMI!” after which I heard some rustling and some incomprehensible noises of post-slumber pains.
“It’s Kabo. Dijo tsame in the kitsi.”
He let me in the kitchen so I could get my food. Promptly after that, the khombi arrived to pick me up, and one by one, we collected 8 other PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) with the early crowd.
After we gathered everyone, it took about an hour to get to Gaborone, just in time to wait for the 6AM bus to Ghanzi. Getting on the bus wasn’t as much of a battle as we anticipated. We were prepared to push people out of the way as the concept of a “queue” in Botswana doesn’t exist in most contexts.
Getting on was no problem. I was actually surprised and impressed by the minor luxuries that occurred over the next several hours. It was a coach bus that was nicer than any Greyhound I’ve ever been on. There were also venders walking up and down the aisles selling stuff: sweets, newspapers, milk and even cell phone minutes.
(Sidenote: in Botswana, one doesn’t pay per month of cell phone usage. You pay for exactly what you use. Therefore, people buy “cards” with a certain amount of money on them: airtime. The cards come with a code that is typed into the phone for use. Also, you pay for every call you make, but it costs nothing to receive calls. Hence, it’s common for people to always answer their phones, even when in meetings or speaking to a group of people. It hasn’t been too annoying… yet.)
Once we got moving, in our dreary states of being, we began to see a different landscape of desert, bushes, sand and succulents. This would get old after 30 minutes though, as the scene repeated for 10 hours. This also isn’t a route where one sees much wildlife. So we weren’t seeing the giraffes, lions and zebras of quintessential Africa. They’re mostly in the Kalahari Desert and Okavango Delta, north of us. Nonetheless, it was nice to see a different part of Botswana.
Since the bus was crowded, all seats filled, and many folks standing in the aisles, the main discomfort were the number of people squeezing through, up and down the aisle. Unlike most American forms of transport, where one pays before you board, we paid our bus fare en route to our destination. A bus attendant went seat by seat collecting our fares, and also keeping track of those standing in the aisles since the bus was packed full. It cost P77 each way, approximately $16. We also had a few stops along the way. On our first stop, there were several women selling fried chicken, fries, water, and other unhealthy nourishments. It still wasn’t the type of convenience I was expecting, and they certainly weren’t hassling us either.
Windows are apparently a big issue to battle over on the bus. Batswana thinks they’ll get the flu from the wind coming in the window, so it was frequent that someone else would ask us to shut our windows, even when it was hot. There are a series of irrational thoughts like this that lead me to believe they’re severely lacking some basic biology and chemistry education.
1) There is little understanding of how any illness is spread.
2) There are misconceptions on how HIV is transmitted even after they’re taught.
3) Soap is rarely used when washing their hands.
On our last stop, I was waiting in line for the pit latrine when I heard Pedro calling for me from inside the stall. “The door won’t open. I’m stuck in here.” I noticed that there were no handles or doorknobs on this old piece of orange-painted wood. It wouldn’t unlatch, and we were trying to figure out how to get him out. I then saw the large rock on the ground which is probably used to keep the door closed without fully closing and latching it. There was a hole where a handle would be, and we tried everything from knives, pens and keys to try to turn it and unlatch it but nothing would work. In the end, I hoisted myself up on the wall behind me and kicked the door down as Pedro guarded himself on the back wall.
After 10 hours on the bus, we reached Ghanzi in the western part of the country a little after 2PM. We met up with three PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteer) and split up into 3 groups to continue the next leg of our journeys. Antonia, Kate and I met up with Monica, the person I would shadow for the next few days. Monica was able to get one of the ambulance drivers from her clinic to drive her up to Ghanzi and take us to our sites. Otherwise, she would have had to hitchhike, and we would have had to do the same. There’s no other option for public transport. You either ride with someone you know or hope someone driving in your direction will give you a lift.
Monica lives in the town of Charleshill, which is 2 hours west of Ghanzi, a major village. Since she doesn’t have a grocery store where she lives, and it’s rare for her to have reliable transport, we went to Spar and stocked up on a lot of food. Monica once ran her own catering business, so I was already looking forward to all of the great food we would cook in her home.
As we left the grocery store, we saw several children begging for money. They would hold up one finger, rub their bellies and ask for money, one pula. The strategy was consistent, and I remembered all of the children we saw when we got off the bus. “Ga ke na madi” we would tell them. If we even gave them just a few Thebe children would swarm us asking for more money. It would also serve as an incentive for those who are school-age not to go to school. The other ridiculous and sickening part is the Botswana government provides a large number of welfare and socialist programs: food baskets and financial assistance for poor families, universal health care, and an extensive infrastructure of orphan programs. Botswana is one of the countries that doesn’t deal with issue of malnutrition, because, for the most part, its people are well-fed. Parts of the problem are that many people don’t know the programs exist or how to access them. In the saddening rationalizations of picking and choosing your battles, these weren’t kids that we could help.
We met up with another PCV, Leah, and the 5 of us went back to the khombi. Since the ambulance driver was taking us, and it’s a government vehicle, we had to go to the government office to wait for a paper to be signed, approving the use of the vehicle. We waited for well over an hour, chatting in the parking lot, until someone was able to sign our form so we could go on our way. This was only the beginning of formulating my understanding of how difficult transportation can be and how flexible one has to be in order for it to work out. By this time, it was 5:30PM, we had been up for 14 hours, the sun was starting to set, and we had a few more hours to go.
We drove an hour and half west to Karakudis to drop off Antionia with Natalie. From there, we went on for another hour to Charleshill. Outside the windows of the khombi, the same repetitive landscape whizzed by, but clouds were starting to form. Suddenly, an illustrious thunderstorm was lighting up the sky in the distance, probably one of the last rains before the dry season. Kate and Leah stayed with us for the night, and then went on to their final destination of Kule in the morning.
Charleshill is a small town with a population of about 1500 people. Despite its size, it’s the hub of the southern sub-district, consisting of 10 villages, and part of the greater district of Ghanzi. It’s only 8km from the Namibian border, and it’s the only official border crossing between the two countries. There are three non-Batswana tribes who live in the area, and many of them don’t speak the national language of Setswana. Although Setswana is still useful, and most folks speak it, there are also the dialects of Sasarwa, Saherero and Sakgalagadi.
Monica is part of the CCB (Community Capacity Building) program, one of four Peace Corps programs here, the others being Life Skills, DAC (District AIDS Coordinator), and my program: NGO (Non-Governmental Organization) Development. All four programs focus on HIV/AIDS in some way. Most folks in CCB are partnered with a clinic and work with the PMTCT (Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission) Program.
All people in Botswana who are diagnosed with AIDS, HIV+ pregnant mothers, children and many other categories of HIV+ people receive free ARV (Anti-RetroVirals) medication through the government. It’s revolutionary in the since countries such as the U.S. don’t even provide such a program, leaving folks in the U.S. who are HIV+ with huge medical bills.
In addition to the ARV program, PMTCT provides education and other resources to help mothers who are positive not transfer the virus to their child. The highest rate of transmission is during childbirth. After that, there is a 5%-10% chance that a child can get the virus through breast-feeding. PMTCT offers positive mothers free formula as an alternative to breastfeeding. However, there is a 5%-10% chance of infant mortality through this method since some mothers do not prepare the formula properly, do not have access to enough formula, etc, and many children pass from diarrhea or other form of malnourishment. With the infant mortality rate equal to the HIV transmission rate, one can easily see where controversy arises.
One challenge of the program in this area is the non-Batswana tribes such as the Baherero who don’t believe in western medicine. It’s just one of several reasons that people don’t take advantage of this or other HIV programs.
I spent the next few days getting to see some of Monica’s work, but mostly, I had a lot of time to finally relax a bit. Morning staff meeting at the clinic consisted of a short song, a brief prayer, and a 1-minute information-less exchange. I was lucky, apparently, since the morning meetings are usually very long, tedious, and entirely in Setswana.
I got to see Monica teach two different classes, one sex education class at a primary school and a computer class at the middle school. Trying to solidify the school schedule and find out when the computer class was proved to be a bit of a challenge. Monica teaches on Day 2. The Botswana school system operates on a 6-day schedule that sometimes include Saturdays, sometimes not, does not include Sundays and skips on holidays. Mondays, for example, could be any of these days, depending on the week. This was the third day in a row that she thought it was Day 2. The students who were outside showed us their schedules to affirm for us that today was indeed Day 2. We were quite confused, however, when we walked into the computer room and there was a teachers meeting taking place.
After we left and talked to one of her teacher friends, we confirmed that it was Day 2, they know there is a computer class, but there’s also a meeting. One would think that a meeting can happen anywhere, but a computer class has to happen in a room full of computers, but they wouldn’t move the meeting. Instead we taught off of broken typewriters and pictures of keyboards. Flexibility and patience continue to be important virtues in Botswana.
With both classes, I was impressed with how smart the kids were, how friendly they are, and how attentive they seemed to learning. I was also touched that a couple of kids in the computer class, asked me to come over and help them several times. It was heartwarming.
The most important part of my journey, sincerely, was food. We baked up a storm, cooking pita bread from scratch, making pastas, veggie curries, baking chicken and blending random yogurt, fruit and oat concoctions for breakfast. I was dying for delicious food. I also didn’t realize just how much the food situation was affecting my mood until I had so many options in Monica’s kitchen, and time/space to cook. It was more than just my mood, but my ability to think clearly, process and brainstorm ideas. It was a genuine moment of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs playing out in my life.
The journey back to Molepolole was uneventful. I was sad to leave Charleshill, but not as sad as I was to have to return back to training.
Prior to my journey to Charleshill, witnessing a sample of life as an actual PCV, I was having the ubiquitous doubts of the decision I made for my life. Why am I here? Why am I in Peace Corps? Why am I in Botswana? Why didn’t I take one of my job offers in the States? Did I make the right choice? Am I going to make the most of the next 2 years? Are the next two years going to help me personally and/or professionally? What in the world am I doing in Africa?
Having time away from my host family and training gave me the time and space to reflect that I’ve been needing. I felt more confident in my decision to be here, remind of the multiple directions I could see my life taking in the future and how my time here furthers all of my options. I know I’ve wanted to do this for years. This is exactly what I asked for, and it hasn’t even started yet.
Overall, it was helpful to see that there is life after training and living with a host family. They both come with a huge number of positives, but they also come with a bit of restraint on personal freedoms. I’m so eager to get to Site, find out where I’ll be working, what I’ll be doing, and officially begin this working experience.
As I was gathering my things makuku thata that day, I discovered the doors to the house were locked. Since my bedroom is in a separate corner, I couldn’t get in. I tried to think of creative ways to break into the house, but I couldn’t find any. Every window is covered with burglar bars and the doors have strong deadbolts. This certainly made me feel even safer in my housing situation, but it wasn’t helpful for the matter at hand. I walked around the house and noticed that Bami’s light was still on, even though his loud snores told me he was asleep. I opted to wake him up.
“Bami…”
“…Bami…” I whispered
After waiting for a response, I then yelled, “BAMI!” after which I heard some rustling and some incomprehensible noises of post-slumber pains.
“It’s Kabo. Dijo tsame in the kitsi.”
He let me in the kitchen so I could get my food. Promptly after that, the khombi arrived to pick me up, and one by one, we collected 8 other PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) with the early crowd.
After we gathered everyone, it took about an hour to get to Gaborone, just in time to wait for the 6AM bus to Ghanzi. Getting on the bus wasn’t as much of a battle as we anticipated. We were prepared to push people out of the way as the concept of a “queue” in Botswana doesn’t exist in most contexts.
Getting on was no problem. I was actually surprised and impressed by the minor luxuries that occurred over the next several hours. It was a coach bus that was nicer than any Greyhound I’ve ever been on. There were also venders walking up and down the aisles selling stuff: sweets, newspapers, milk and even cell phone minutes.
(Sidenote: in Botswana, one doesn’t pay per month of cell phone usage. You pay for exactly what you use. Therefore, people buy “cards” with a certain amount of money on them: airtime. The cards come with a code that is typed into the phone for use. Also, you pay for every call you make, but it costs nothing to receive calls. Hence, it’s common for people to always answer their phones, even when in meetings or speaking to a group of people. It hasn’t been too annoying… yet.)
Once we got moving, in our dreary states of being, we began to see a different landscape of desert, bushes, sand and succulents. This would get old after 30 minutes though, as the scene repeated for 10 hours. This also isn’t a route where one sees much wildlife. So we weren’t seeing the giraffes, lions and zebras of quintessential Africa. They’re mostly in the Kalahari Desert and Okavango Delta, north of us. Nonetheless, it was nice to see a different part of Botswana.
Since the bus was crowded, all seats filled, and many folks standing in the aisles, the main discomfort were the number of people squeezing through, up and down the aisle. Unlike most American forms of transport, where one pays before you board, we paid our bus fare en route to our destination. A bus attendant went seat by seat collecting our fares, and also keeping track of those standing in the aisles since the bus was packed full. It cost P77 each way, approximately $16. We also had a few stops along the way. On our first stop, there were several women selling fried chicken, fries, water, and other unhealthy nourishments. It still wasn’t the type of convenience I was expecting, and they certainly weren’t hassling us either.
Windows are apparently a big issue to battle over on the bus. Batswana thinks they’ll get the flu from the wind coming in the window, so it was frequent that someone else would ask us to shut our windows, even when it was hot. There are a series of irrational thoughts like this that lead me to believe they’re severely lacking some basic biology and chemistry education.
1) There is little understanding of how any illness is spread.
2) There are misconceptions on how HIV is transmitted even after they’re taught.
3) Soap is rarely used when washing their hands.
On our last stop, I was waiting in line for the pit latrine when I heard Pedro calling for me from inside the stall. “The door won’t open. I’m stuck in here.” I noticed that there were no handles or doorknobs on this old piece of orange-painted wood. It wouldn’t unlatch, and we were trying to figure out how to get him out. I then saw the large rock on the ground which is probably used to keep the door closed without fully closing and latching it. There was a hole where a handle would be, and we tried everything from knives, pens and keys to try to turn it and unlatch it but nothing would work. In the end, I hoisted myself up on the wall behind me and kicked the door down as Pedro guarded himself on the back wall.
After 10 hours on the bus, we reached Ghanzi in the western part of the country a little after 2PM. We met up with three PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteer) and split up into 3 groups to continue the next leg of our journeys. Antonia, Kate and I met up with Monica, the person I would shadow for the next few days. Monica was able to get one of the ambulance drivers from her clinic to drive her up to Ghanzi and take us to our sites. Otherwise, she would have had to hitchhike, and we would have had to do the same. There’s no other option for public transport. You either ride with someone you know or hope someone driving in your direction will give you a lift.
Monica lives in the town of Charleshill, which is 2 hours west of Ghanzi, a major village. Since she doesn’t have a grocery store where she lives, and it’s rare for her to have reliable transport, we went to Spar and stocked up on a lot of food. Monica once ran her own catering business, so I was already looking forward to all of the great food we would cook in her home.
As we left the grocery store, we saw several children begging for money. They would hold up one finger, rub their bellies and ask for money, one pula. The strategy was consistent, and I remembered all of the children we saw when we got off the bus. “Ga ke na madi” we would tell them. If we even gave them just a few Thebe children would swarm us asking for more money. It would also serve as an incentive for those who are school-age not to go to school. The other ridiculous and sickening part is the Botswana government provides a large number of welfare and socialist programs: food baskets and financial assistance for poor families, universal health care, and an extensive infrastructure of orphan programs. Botswana is one of the countries that doesn’t deal with issue of malnutrition, because, for the most part, its people are well-fed. Parts of the problem are that many people don’t know the programs exist or how to access them. In the saddening rationalizations of picking and choosing your battles, these weren’t kids that we could help.
We met up with another PCV, Leah, and the 5 of us went back to the khombi. Since the ambulance driver was taking us, and it’s a government vehicle, we had to go to the government office to wait for a paper to be signed, approving the use of the vehicle. We waited for well over an hour, chatting in the parking lot, until someone was able to sign our form so we could go on our way. This was only the beginning of formulating my understanding of how difficult transportation can be and how flexible one has to be in order for it to work out. By this time, it was 5:30PM, we had been up for 14 hours, the sun was starting to set, and we had a few more hours to go.
We drove an hour and half west to Karakudis to drop off Antionia with Natalie. From there, we went on for another hour to Charleshill. Outside the windows of the khombi, the same repetitive landscape whizzed by, but clouds were starting to form. Suddenly, an illustrious thunderstorm was lighting up the sky in the distance, probably one of the last rains before the dry season. Kate and Leah stayed with us for the night, and then went on to their final destination of Kule in the morning.
Charleshill is a small town with a population of about 1500 people. Despite its size, it’s the hub of the southern sub-district, consisting of 10 villages, and part of the greater district of Ghanzi. It’s only 8km from the Namibian border, and it’s the only official border crossing between the two countries. There are three non-Batswana tribes who live in the area, and many of them don’t speak the national language of Setswana. Although Setswana is still useful, and most folks speak it, there are also the dialects of Sasarwa, Saherero and Sakgalagadi.
Monica is part of the CCB (Community Capacity Building) program, one of four Peace Corps programs here, the others being Life Skills, DAC (District AIDS Coordinator), and my program: NGO (Non-Governmental Organization) Development. All four programs focus on HIV/AIDS in some way. Most folks in CCB are partnered with a clinic and work with the PMTCT (Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission) Program.
All people in Botswana who are diagnosed with AIDS, HIV+ pregnant mothers, children and many other categories of HIV+ people receive free ARV (Anti-RetroVirals) medication through the government. It’s revolutionary in the since countries such as the U.S. don’t even provide such a program, leaving folks in the U.S. who are HIV+ with huge medical bills.
In addition to the ARV program, PMTCT provides education and other resources to help mothers who are positive not transfer the virus to their child. The highest rate of transmission is during childbirth. After that, there is a 5%-10% chance that a child can get the virus through breast-feeding. PMTCT offers positive mothers free formula as an alternative to breastfeeding. However, there is a 5%-10% chance of infant mortality through this method since some mothers do not prepare the formula properly, do not have access to enough formula, etc, and many children pass from diarrhea or other form of malnourishment. With the infant mortality rate equal to the HIV transmission rate, one can easily see where controversy arises.
One challenge of the program in this area is the non-Batswana tribes such as the Baherero who don’t believe in western medicine. It’s just one of several reasons that people don’t take advantage of this or other HIV programs.
I spent the next few days getting to see some of Monica’s work, but mostly, I had a lot of time to finally relax a bit. Morning staff meeting at the clinic consisted of a short song, a brief prayer, and a 1-minute information-less exchange. I was lucky, apparently, since the morning meetings are usually very long, tedious, and entirely in Setswana.
I got to see Monica teach two different classes, one sex education class at a primary school and a computer class at the middle school. Trying to solidify the school schedule and find out when the computer class was proved to be a bit of a challenge. Monica teaches on Day 2. The Botswana school system operates on a 6-day schedule that sometimes include Saturdays, sometimes not, does not include Sundays and skips on holidays. Mondays, for example, could be any of these days, depending on the week. This was the third day in a row that she thought it was Day 2. The students who were outside showed us their schedules to affirm for us that today was indeed Day 2. We were quite confused, however, when we walked into the computer room and there was a teachers meeting taking place.
After we left and talked to one of her teacher friends, we confirmed that it was Day 2, they know there is a computer class, but there’s also a meeting. One would think that a meeting can happen anywhere, but a computer class has to happen in a room full of computers, but they wouldn’t move the meeting. Instead we taught off of broken typewriters and pictures of keyboards. Flexibility and patience continue to be important virtues in Botswana.
With both classes, I was impressed with how smart the kids were, how friendly they are, and how attentive they seemed to learning. I was also touched that a couple of kids in the computer class, asked me to come over and help them several times. It was heartwarming.
The most important part of my journey, sincerely, was food. We baked up a storm, cooking pita bread from scratch, making pastas, veggie curries, baking chicken and blending random yogurt, fruit and oat concoctions for breakfast. I was dying for delicious food. I also didn’t realize just how much the food situation was affecting my mood until I had so many options in Monica’s kitchen, and time/space to cook. It was more than just my mood, but my ability to think clearly, process and brainstorm ideas. It was a genuine moment of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs playing out in my life.
The journey back to Molepolole was uneventful. I was sad to leave Charleshill, but not as sad as I was to have to return back to training.
Prior to my journey to Charleshill, witnessing a sample of life as an actual PCV, I was having the ubiquitous doubts of the decision I made for my life. Why am I here? Why am I in Peace Corps? Why am I in Botswana? Why didn’t I take one of my job offers in the States? Did I make the right choice? Am I going to make the most of the next 2 years? Are the next two years going to help me personally and/or professionally? What in the world am I doing in Africa?
Having time away from my host family and training gave me the time and space to reflect that I’ve been needing. I felt more confident in my decision to be here, remind of the multiple directions I could see my life taking in the future and how my time here furthers all of my options. I know I’ve wanted to do this for years. This is exactly what I asked for, and it hasn’t even started yet.
Overall, it was helpful to see that there is life after training and living with a host family. They both come with a huge number of positives, but they also come with a bit of restraint on personal freedoms. I’m so eager to get to Site, find out where I’ll be working, what I’ll be doing, and officially begin this working experience.
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