Fibers of the Core

“So much time underground,
I guess my eyes adjusted to the lack of light.
It doesn’t really matter where it all began.
All I know - I got covered in darkness. I was lost.

Turning pages over,
Run away to nowhere,
And it’s hard to take control.
Change will come”

~Darren Hayes

After weeks of sleepless nights, ravaged and exhausted by insomnia, losing ten pounds from not eating and caught in the middle of an hour-long, seemingly inexplicable, crying fit, I decided to call the therapist I haven’t seen in over a year. After talking to her for less than a minute, she said in a stern, unwavering voice that I will never forget, “Jonathan, you’re having a crisis. You need to come in to see the crisis counselor on call, right now.”

It was November 2006, and I was still in denial about being stuck in an abusive relationship that had completely torn me apart without me realizing it. Out of shame, and completely out of character, I hid it from my friends, my co-workers, and my family. I thought I was simply making sacrifices and problem-solving in a relationship that was meant to work. I missed the signs, I fell for the belittling derisions and manipulation that eventually made me feel powerless, and I lost far too much of my Self in the process.

Part of being in the closet in Botswana means I’m not able to talk about this experience, which is unfortunate considering where I’m based. Working at the only rape crisis center in the country, we deal with many different cases of domestic violence and abuse.

Spending time at WAR (WoMen Against Rape) has brought up a lot: all of this rhetoric about not blaming the victim, realizing I’m still irrationally blaming myself for what happened, and learning more about the textbook cycles and maelstroms in which I found myself drowning years ago. Almost three years later, I still find myself re-living situations and imagining me asserting myself when I hadn’t. At least the nightmares about Peter have finally stopped. The last one was this past February, a time when I finally learned how to let go of most of the anger that’s been fulminating since I broke up with him.

We all think, “That would never happen to me.” And we are often confused to hear the stories of abuse survivors, wondering why they stayed in it, never realizing it could happen to any of us. It’s a product of the things we do when the full spectrum of our emotions are pushed to the limit all at the same time.
I know that I am far from alone, and although my situation doesn’t allow me to share my story with others in person, it motivates me in my work here. I cope partially by helping others, and my experience in Botswana has helped and taught me in ways I never expected.

A few months ago I started spending my Tuesdays at the Maun Hospital. It took me about 6 months to get approval from all of the right people to make this happen. This began as part of my own interest in mental health, to learn more about the inner-workings of the hospital and to spend time with the social workers. The opportunity also allows me to serve as a liaison to WAR since many of our referrals come from the hospital and most of the staff are fairly new, knowing little to nothing about all of the different services WAR can offer to those who are survivors of abuse and assault.

The first morning I sat in a waiting room before my initial meeting with the social workers, I felt like a kid in a candy store, in a demented kind of way, I suppose. Throughout the building, there were sick people, patients on surgery tables, clients receiving their HIV test results, people on the brink of death, psychiatric patients and pregnant women ready to pop, so many people in urgent need of care. I reveled in it, and I thought to myself, “This is where I want to be.”

Everyone in the hospital seemed to be busy and in a hurry, doctors, nurses and social workers running around the building, acting with a great sense of urgency. I don’t get to see that type of work ethic very often here, and it’s been incredibly energizing to be in that environment every Tuesday.

I spend most of my time with the social workers, and we learn a lot from each other. It’s a beautiful, reciprocal relationship where they teach me about the social work models they use with clients, and I get to fill in the gaps with the models I learned in psychology. I think I’m learning much more from them than they are from me, but I’m actually consulting for them on several cases, some WAR related and some psych. related. The experience is fascinating in part because I have a passion for psychology, I want to be a Counselor some day, and I could see myself doing social work in a hospital, but in the States having a B.S. in psychology means nothing. Here, it means a lot because it’s one of the fields of study that isn’t offered at the University of Botswana.

I’ve read through most of the intake files, heard stories and got to be with several new clients myself. Providing mental health care through the social work offices at a hospital, everyone comes to you with a psychological problem that is connected to a physical one. Those with hypertension are taught how to cope with stress and anxiety, parasuicide cases are provided ongoing counseling for depression, those with a newly positive HIV test are given counseling on the spot to cope with their results, the child rape/incest survivor and her family are provided counseling and referrals to WAR, and the schizophrenic who hears voices telling her to bury her baby alive is given holistic adherence counseling with her mother to help her stay on her medication.

During my third day at the hospital, the Chief Social Worker came to me with a client. He quickly told me that he was late for a meeting, the other social workers were all out, and this meek woman standing before me spoke English. I looked at him, trying to hide my mild bewilderment, and said, “OK…” In the next moment, he was gone. For a split second, I felt like a stray dog caught in headlights, but I regained my composure and politely told her, “Have a seat while I review your chart.” In other words, sit down, and I’m going to take a moment to think of what I’m supposed to do with you.

After several moments of conversation, I was able to assess that she had frequent headaches, pains in her side and occasional feelings of dizziness with no known physical cause. I told her that I thought she might be suffering from psychosomatic disorder and asked her if she’s been experiencing a lot of stress lately. She nodded her head, so I proceeded to ask her a series of questions about her home life, work life and cognitive behavior.

In summary, she works 7 days a week, her boss is a tyrant who won’t give her any time off and is violating labor laws in myriad ways; she lives with her boyfriend, daughter, and brother, but she is the only one doing all of the household chores, laundry, cooking and cleaning every day. She’s also having trouble sleeping at night.

After explaining how all of this might be causing her physical symptoms, we started to discuss some possible solutions. I inquired how she would feel about asking her brother and boyfriend to help with some of the housework. She looked a bit perplexed and responded, “But it’s our culture. They are men.”

I took a few minutes trying to express how much I understand the culture despite the color of my skin, throwing in some Setswana as often as I could. I suggested she explain to the male members of her household, who seem to care about her very much and have good relationships with her, that her stress is causing her pain and would like some help sharing the workload. She agreed to try.

We also talked through some things she can try with her boss, and I taught her how to meditate as another way to help with her stress and her insomnia. By the end of our session, she felt good about her action plan and thanked me for my help. At this point in time, all of the social workers were still out and about.

2 weeks later, she came back for a followup, and she looked more confident and content than she did when I first saw her. Miraculously, things were already much better. Her pain had subsided, her family has begun to help her with the housework, and she’s taking time off from work. She thanked me, profusely, for how quickly she felt things had improved since our chat. She felt trapped, a feeling I’m quite familiar with, and I was able to help her see all of the options available to her to change the situation. Even when the world seems dark, there’s always a way out. Sometimes, we just don’t have the strength to see it ourselves. Our eyes adjust to a lack of light.

Later that day, I was sitting on one of the couches in the group counseling room when one of the newer social workers, Phefo, approached me with a defeated look on his face. All of the social workers at the hospital are men, and he is assigned to the gynecological ward. After asking him if everything was ok, he told me that one of the doctors he was with this morning had examined a woman who had a twig stuck in her cervix.

Although it was clear to the doctor she was attempting to abort a pregnancy, she denied everything and refused to talk about it. Phefo was at a loss. Since abortion is illegal in Botswana, and only a handful of doctors in the country are trained on abortion procedures, many women resort to doing it on their own when they have no safe options to pursue and are afraid to talk about it. Phefo was asking me for advice.

To his credit, he simply wanted to help this woman. He showed no judgment for what she had done. I told him about BOFWA (Botswana Family Welfare Association, i.e. International Planned Parenthood Federation under a local name) and that they have experience providing counseling to such women and referring women to doctors in South Africa when necessary. He had never heard of them and was happy to have a resource, someone to ask for advice with something he has little experience.

The Social Work ward at the hospital is shared with the IDCC (Infectious Disease Control Center), so I get to work with other staff as well. I’m partnering with some of the nurses and doctors to start a support group for HIV+ adolescents in my village, with one of the staff at a local orphan care center taking the lead. It’s a program called Teen Club that started at the Baylor clinic in the capitol several years ago, and now they’re trying to expand across the country. Once we set everything up and find the teens who are interested, we’ll meet once a month teaching life skills and provide support through participatory exercises and fun activities.

In my village of approximately 35,000 people, there are about 300 teenagers who are on ARVs (Anti-RetroVirals). In other words, they are HIV+ and their immune system has become weak enough that they have been diagnosed with AIDS. Some got it from their HIV-positive mothers, some from each other, and some of the girls got it from being raped by older men. Regardless of how their sero-conversion occurred, they all share the virus and the challenges in life that come with it. Teen Club is a group that will help support them on their journey, and I’m thrilled to be part of it.

It’s true that many of the issues we deal with here as Peace Corps Volunteers are challenging to one’s spirit, and the issues can be intense. I thrive on that intensity. Some people think these issues would make us desensitized and numb. I don’t find that to be the case at all. It’s much more complicated than that. It’s living and working in a place with a lack of resources, creativity and solutions that makes me feel numb, not the issues. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed trying to process everything in my own life here at once that I just turn everything off. Perhaps, that occasionally numb feeling has arisen as a coping mechanism. It’s working here in a culture so exasperatingly different from our own that causes that feeling, not the issues with which we work and the people we serve.

A few weeks ago, I sent a text message to another volunteer who I would soon see at a workshop we were both attending in the capitol. She told me that she was irrationally excited about muffins and good coffee, to which I responded, “I disagree. These are probably the most rational emotions we’ve felt in a while.”

Riverwalk, in the capitol, is like a thin slice of Orange Country, a large strip mall with nice restaurants, shops and a movie theater, in the middle of nothingness. I’ve never yearned for something that resembled the OC until I lived in Botswana for a while. A little piece of capitalism and commercialism never felt so enticing.

Someone from the new batch of volunteers recently said of our group, “You don’t seem miserable, but you don’t seem happy either. You just ARE, until it’s over, I guess. I don’t want to be like that.”

It’s not dealing with these intense situations that wears me out or makes me numb, as many might think. It’s not about being desensitized. These are the type of issues with which I enjoy working. It’s the day to day living here that wears us out.

Living life in a numb, detached way and going through the motions, is often the best way I know how to survive here. It bothers me, and there is no way to describe what it’s like to be completely removed from one’s culture and then forced to live and work in one that can, often times, be incredibly frustrating. You don’t even have a concept of what your culture is, how connected you are to it, how much it defines you, until you are no longer surrounded by it. At times, it’s incredibly difficult to be here. And with so much time to think and process our own lives, a lot of emotions and nostalgia bubble up to the surface.

I was highly struck by the emotions I felt when Jim and Derek, my first visitors from the States, left a few months ago. Jim is a part of a core group of friends who are like family to me, and we’ve been a meaningful part of each other’s lives for over a decade, even though we’ve all lived in different cities for most of that time. In the past, every time I spent significant time with any of them, I would feel slightly uneasy for a few minutes or hours right after we part, like a temporary void had been created. Knowing that and that I haven’t seen anyone who really knows me very well in over 16 months, I wasn’t sure how the end of their visit would feel. After I left Jim and Derek at the airport, I felt nothing in particular. I just went back to work, back home and back to my life. I suppose one could say I felt… numb.

I knew coming here would change me in ways I could never anticipate, and in ways I may not notice for a long time. The absence of any reaction to Jim leaving tells me I may have become much stronger emotionally, I’m just so content being alone, and/or something else I can’t quite define yet. I’m not able to tell, but I do know that feeling, or lack of feeling rather, means something has transformed within me.

I remember calling Jim one evening 3 years ago, during that difficult period in 2006. I was a sobbing mess after talking to Peter. Our relationship was reaching a breaking point; I had reached a breaking point. I remember my emotions feeling so out of control that I couldn’t even decide what to do or where to go next. I felt trapped. I asked Jim to simply tell me what to do, and it was a defining moment when he told me I needed to break up with Peter. How did I get to the point of feeling so powerless? I felt like I had completely lost any control over my life and needed someone else to make a decision for me.

I honestly can’t remember what Peter and I were talking about before I called Jim. I do remember feeling confusion and intense emotional pain. I remember crying, long, wailing sobs. I remember muting the phone off and on so Peter didn’t hear my sobbing outbursts, until he figured out what I was doing and told me he wanted to hear me cry. I let him, not realizing at the time how twisted that was.

I experience a full spectrum of emotions here in Botswana, but they are controlled, compartmentalized and often hidden. It’s those emotions that are part of the reason I stay here, that I feel I am gaining so much from this experience. Despite the robotic fashion in which I’ve grown to interact with many people here, I encounter several individuals and situations that remind me that I still know how to feel. One of the rambunctious children in my neighborhood is a good example.

Pego, a 10-year-old boy with an undefined learning disability, has several friends who come to my house for help with their homework almost every Sunday. Since last summer, it’s become quasi-routine. I sit and help them with a variety of subjects, learn about their lives, and pick up more Setswana along the way.

After not seeing Pego for a while, I learned from his friends that he’s been out of school for several months. I think he might have Attention-Deficit Disorder, but he hasn’t been properly diagnosed. He is filled with energy, has little ability to focus, sometimes speaks complete nonsense, and he’s always smiling. I’ve never seen him look upset or belligerent. After gathering more information from Pego and his friends, I discovered that his teacher kicked him out of school and told him she couldn’t teach him anymore. Pego was also bothered by his classmates who constantly tease him for his erratic behavior. Discouraged by trying to get him to focus, the teacher asked him to leave school and not come back, without any other options for an education.

I decided to take on the situation. I asked Pego’s friends to tell his father that I would come by to see him the next day to find out how I might help Pego get back into school. As I walked down the sandy paths toward the river on my way to Pego’s home, his uncle saw me and stopped me. He was on the verge of tears as he said to me, “Kabo. I come to you with red eyes because I’m upset… I just want him to be in school… that child should be in school… I just want him to be in school, and every time I see you, I think ‘Kabo can help.’ Kabo, please help us.”

When I arrived at the small concrete structure where Pego and his father live, a tiny one-room house about 6 feet long and 6 feet wide surrounded by a burgeoning garden, his father was happy to see me and quickly came out with two plastic chairs so we could sit outside and talk. I learned more about the situation at school, that Pego’s mother died when he was very young, and that their family knew nothing about their options of how to get Pego back into school.

Over the next two weeks, I worked with one of the social workers in the village and one of staff at a local school for Orphans and Vulnerable Children. Almost every day, I teared up just thinking of Pego, trying to get him back into school and worried that he may begin to feel like no one wants him, due to the abandonment issues he’s probably developing. He reminds me that I’m not numb, that I still know how to feel; it washes over me in short bursts and waves.

We were able to get Pego into a special school with compassionate teachers who can work with him and his disabilities. After his first week of classes, I was walking home from the office when one of the neighbor kids stopped me excitedly and said, “Pego is going to school! He no longer cries every day.”

Those kids remind me to stop and appreciate life in a plethora of contexts. During my long walk home, I frequently have moments when I just want to close my eyes and block out all of the challenges of living here, the array of emotions overwhelming. As long as I keep moving, keep walking, I feel ok. If I stop to wait for something, wait for a taxi, wait for a khombi, wait for anything at all, my mind would wallow in the reality of all of the minor challenges of living here. I’d rather push through the discomforts, just keep moving, and try to clear my head.

On my way home just recently, I passed a house with a violent domestic disturbance. This husband and wife were wrapped around each other, screaming, in the yard beside their home. They released each other just as I walking by. I slowed my pace, but pretended not to notice them until the husband went inside and his wife remained outside crying. I discreetly walked back and asked if she was ok. She said she was not and told me to call someone. I called one of the WAR Counselors and she said she would come with a police officer. A minute later, I talked to the woman again, and she told me not to send anyone, but gave me her number, and I told her about WAR’s services.

I felt unsettled and on the brink of tears periodically throughout the evening, wondering if she was ok, and hoping she received my text messages. It, again, reminded me that I am far from numb, and also that I still love this work. It is the intensity I feel anywhere on the full spectrum of emotions that motivates me and keeps me going, from compassion and joy to anger or depression; it’s what makes me feel alive, and I wouldn’t trade that intensity for anything.

Peter used to tell me I was too intense. It was a part of his spate of criticisms that I started to believe and tried to change. I didn’t realize how much that vital intensity made up the core of my being. It is one of the thickest fibers woven through the fabric of my Self, yet I remember trying to sever it.

A few hours later, she texted “Thank 4 ur concern an help.” Shortly thereafter, she called me. “I’m not ok. He’s threatening me.” Then, I heard him yelling and we were disconnected. In 10 minutes, I was at her doorstep with a Counselor from WAR. I was prepared to stay outside while my co-worker did her job, but this woman insisted that I come inside. For the next 2 hours, my colleague and I had a conversation with this volatile couple, calming the situation, learning more about them and offering solutions and services.

This man speaks to his wife the way Peter used to speak to me. I saw so much of myself in her and so much of Peter in him. She wants all of these things that he will never be able to provide, be a friend, a husband, a confidante. She says that she constantly feels on edge, like I did, and said they sleep back to back in their bed, like Peter and I did toward the end of our relationship.

Peter used to bombard me with criticism instead of addressing problems in our relationship, much like this woman’s husband did, berating her right in front of us. She wants something he’ll never be able to provide, nurturing love and support, the same things I was craving and would never receive from Peter. Also similar to how I felt in my moments of feeling trapped, she’s still not sure if she wants out.

For me, it was my friend Heather who gave me the first necessary and blunt reality check about my situation. She’s currently planning and fundraising for her trip to Botswana. She’s going to spend 2 months volunteering and working with me at WAR. Since she’s currently working on her certification in Substance Abuse Counseling, we’re working with her to put together trainings on Alcohol Abuse Counseling for service providers in my District, and incorporating the strong links to both HIV and Domestic Violence.

During that turning point period in my life, Heather and I sat in a café on the corner of Crescent Heights and Sunset Blvd. in West Hollywood catching up on each other’s lives. It had been several weeks since I had seen her. I started talking about some of the problems that Peter and I were having in our relationship and how I was handling them. As I wrapped up my explanation, her face began to contort. I watched the transformation happen in slow motion, like one of those action movies where someone suddenly sees danger and the film switches to slow motion for dramatic effect as the protagonist breaks through a glass window to safety.

At this moment, Heather looked at me as if a giant tree had spontaneously taken root in the middle of my forehead. In the same tone of voice my therapist had used, she said, “Jonathan, I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. You need to get out, and you need to get out now.” I was still oblivious at that point.

Hearing similarities to the women’s stories at WAR reminds me of my own denial I once experienced. Hindsight is truly clearer. Reading articles and reports, interacting with clients, listening to stories, it all brings back those memories. Part of what I’ve learned about myself, being at WAR, is how much I hang on to things. Years later, I still hadn’t truly forgiven Peter for what happened. More importantly, I was still blaming myself.

Given all of the time I have alone to think and process here, I often feel nostalgic. My favorite thing to do in those moments is to read old journal entries. I like to think I have a good memory for events, but rarely do I remember exactly how I felt at any given point in my life. My journal tends to capture that well, a snapshot of emotions during a specific moment of my past.

After my first date with Peter, I wrote: “We've only had one date, so I can't make conclusions. All I have is the initial fantasy of who he is and what a relationship with him could be like. But there's a lot of potential here. So much that I can't stop thinking about him.”

June 18, 2006: “I shouldn't be questioning myself. I don't need to give an explanation or reason beyond the fact that I was made to feel uncomfortable, disrespected and belittled, and in public. I told him No and to stop, and he still didn't. He tells me I needed to have a reason. In the moment, I don't need to have a reason. Telling him to stop was all that mattered.”

October 5, 2006: “In those moments, in my half-asleep stupor, spooning in the middle of the night, I felt that we were one being. It wasn't scary. It was surreal, drifting in and out, mySelf, Us, mySelf...Us... I transcended to a place of euphoric serenity.” On this entry, looking back I realize he was asleep, in his most calm and peaceful state, and I was stuck on thinking of him in that rare condition.

October 23, 2006: “Maybe we're not compatible. Why can't I cope with that thought? Because it felt so good in the past? Because things feel so comfortable? I hate that it feels like it's my fault, something wrong with me, something I did.”

November 27, 2006: “The moment I knew I was blinded was the day after we broke up, and talking to my therapist, the clarity of all of the emotional abuse became quite apparent. It's still difficult for me to understand how I stayed in that situation. I felt vulnerable and weak to acknowledge that I craved a sense of security and a future with someone that badly.”

Looking back, mixed with all of the other external factors of my life at the time, I can understand why and how it all happened. Emotions are powerful, they can make us delusional, and it can happen to any of us. What’s important is that even though he was persuasive during my multiple attempts to break up with him, I got out.

In my last journal entry before I left for Peace Corps, in April 2008, trying to express my emotional state melodramatically in third person, I wrote: “…there's nothing else to rely on. He walked on the road for miles until it came to the cliff. He didn't stop, didn't flinch, or even take a deep breath. He kept walking as if the road never stopped. Like lemmings diving to their death, he fell peacefully and unknowingly, but this man didn't die. He fell into the harbor and swam.”

Since breaking up with Peter, I never wanted to get stuck again. In my internal dialogue, I often tell myself “Keep moving, no matter what,” as one of my core survival instincts. Cliff or not, keep walking. I’d rather fly or fall than feel trapped. I walked away from Peter and just kept walking, in the same way that I keep walking through my neighborhood during my journey home, not wanting to stop.

After I had the strength to walk away, I didn’t want to stop moving. I felt compelled to continue walking, walking into the unknown distance and future, fearing that if I stopped I would find myself stuck again. If I kept moving, I was safe.

Jumping off that metaphorical cliff was quitting my job. For the following ten months, I was freefalling, wallowing in the epitome of liberty, having little idea of when or where I would collide with something solid, completely emancipated from chains, roots, or anything else that would keep me still.

Peace Corps was hitting the water. Sink or swim, but no matter what, just keep moving. At first, I felt lost in this indescribable ocean of my new life here in Botswana, just doing my best to stay afloat. But there are now islands everywhere. It’s ok, to just stop moving and take it all in, feeling on solid ground, a place to sit, simply be. These islands that have emerged from my Self are filled with life, oases replete with sustenance and refuge for my wandering and weary soul.

I realize now that Peter was secretly unhappy with his own life, projecting everything he felt bad about himself onto me, and the way he often spoke to me with ten different versions of “You make me miserable, but don’t leave me.” He was a coward, repeatedly dumping criticisms and running away. He never wanted to face his problems, our problems, and instead took advantage of my vulnerabilities.

I continue to see parallels with the stories of the abuse survivors here. The other day, talking to one of WAR’s clients, and hearing her quintessential story of domestic violence, her experience made me think of another Darren Hayes song:

"And she takes another step
Slowly she opens the door
Check that he is sleeping
Pick up all the broken glass and furniture on the floor
Been up half the night screaming now it's time to get away

Pack up the kids in the car
Another bruise to try and hide
Another alibi to write
But there are groceries to buy
And she knows she'll have to go home

Another ditch in the road
You keep moving
Another stop sign
You keep moving on”

In a country where some men think it’s ok to beat their wives because “they need to be disciplined,” a place where some women think a man doesn’t love her if he doesn’t hit her, and a place where women often have few options, I am surrounded by these stories. This woman struck a chord with me in particular because she said “As long as I was moving, I felt safe.”

Always smiling and upbeat, I never would have thought something like this had happened to her. I wonder what real emotions she’s experiencing underneath her perfunctory smile. Our stories, experiences, cultures and identities are very different, and her situation is far worse than where I was, but the parallels exist, and we’re both glad we got out when we did. We feel empowered in that, even though we still blame ourselves a little. It’s a work in progress.

I may not be able to share my story directly with others in Botswana, but it still helps in this work. We’re not numb, but sometimes we hide our inner feelings to survive and get through the day. Over time, I’ve learned to compartmentalize my emotions in a complex filing system that has turned into a small library. With the intensity of emotions I experience here, mixed with living in a culture very different from my own, it would take far too much energy to express every emotion I feel at any moment of the day to every person I encounter.

I may have become numb in most of the day-to-day living here, but the fibers of my core are alive and thriving in ways that I find to be joyous and fulfilling, simply because they are an integral part of my Self, the being that I have learned to treat with the greatest respect.

The Adventures of Bertha, Queen of the Delta

My first visitors from the States arrived a couple weeks ago, Jim, one of my best friends since high school, and his boyfriend Derek. After a week in Capetown, they came to visit me for six fun-filled days. We took advantage of one of Botswana’s 4-day holiday weekends to go explore the Okavango Delta, a pristine piece of African wilderness just north of my village, a place I have yet to explore. One of my friends from Maun, Dwight, also came with us.

It was adventure that was constantly about the journey itself, and rarely about the destination. To get us through all of the rough roads that took us directly to all of the wildlife Botswana has to offer was Bertha, our fearless guide for the weekend, with Jim as our courageous driver for most of the way. We didn’t know until the second day of our journey that Bertha was a hippo, and discovering this would turn into an adventure in itself.

We began soon-to-be adventure with a guided game drive near the south gate of Moremi and saw more than we expected. We found this lioness and her 3 cubs, and they paraded right behind our car.

We stumbled upon this small herd of elephants crossing the road:

And we found a giraffe in its most vulnerable position. Giraffes rarely drink water because it makes them more susceptible to predators. They drink so little that their urine is gelatinous.

After our game drive, we took Bertha up to Xakanaxa (the “X”s in Setswana are a clicking sound). Xakanaxa is a luxury camp on the northern end of the Moremi game reserve. We saw a lot of wildlife on our way, and just before we got to the Xakanaxa gate, we came to our first big puddle. We would later realize that Bertha is a hippo, but before that important discovery, we were quite apprehensive about driving through this:

We thought about it for a few minutes, noticed all of the tire tracks going in and out, and we all knew we were in for some rough driving, so we went through. Panic struck us as water flowed over the hood of the car, but we made it through with no problem. Bertha is a beast. At this moment, our engine appeared to be smoking as hot steam emanated from the hood. We then saw several other trucks take the same plunge, so we felt confident we were doing the right thing, but still a little unsure of Bertha’s capabilities.

We spent the evening, night and morning at the luxurious Xakanaxa Camp.

Our first day of adventure ended with sunset boat cruise on the Delta where we found pods of hippos, many beautiful birds and colors dancing on the horizon.

The next morning, we departed right after breakfast to begin our ambitious drive through Moremi and Chobe Game Reserves all the way to Kasane, about 150 miles of dirt and deep sand roads in pristine African wilderness. Only a mile out of Xakanxa we came to a series of puddles through which we weren’t sure if we could make it or not, so we made the bad decision of driving around one of them. We got stuck.

After about 30 minutes of digging mud from under the tires and trying wedge sticks under the wheels to gain traction, we gave up. One safari truck drove by and radioed for help, but we wanted to have a back up. Derek and I walked back to the camp, through deep puddles, in lion country, and got help. The folks at Xakanaxa were extremely helpful. Over the next two hours, they would pull our car out of the mud and patch our newly discovered flat tire so we still had a spare. They also gave us the useful advice of always going through the puddles. The soil is compacted, and our 4X4, diesel-running Bertha is a hippo.

Despite our own frustrations of getting stuck and losing 3 hours of our day, we were able to laugh at ourselves, and the people from Xakanaxa were wonderful, big smiles as they waved us on our way.

After seeing more elephants, a hippo standing by the side of the road and a herd of crossing buffalo, we made it to North Gate and exited Moremi. Our day of adventure and unforeseen obstacles had only just begun.

The guard at North Gate gave us directions and pointed to key points on our map to get us to the Mababe gate on the south end of Chobe and how to avoid the flooded roads. After driving for about 30 minutes with no problems we came to flooded depression that we thought we couldn’t possibly drive through due to its length. We tried to drive around it three times with no avail.

Eventually, we ran into a couple of vehicles filled with German tourists. They had a GPS device, so we asked them for advice. After a confusing conversation, they admitted that even with the GPS, they weren’t sure where they were or how we would get to Mababe.

Part of our challenge at this point was the complete lack of any roads or directions, on top of the flooded depressions and confusing river. Moremi and Chobe are well-preserved, so there are only a few driving paths that are very clear from the repeated driving over the same long patches of dirt and sand. Between Moremi and Chobe, where we were at this point, it’s open land and tire marks criss-crossing in an intricate web of inchoate patterns.

Ten minutes later, we found a group of Indian tourists, also with GPS, and with the same confused idea of where we might be. They were, however, at least confident that they could get us around the flood. For the next two hours, we drove around this patch of land trying to get around the flood. At one point, through a tight patch of trees, we busted our sideview mirror ($6) and dented our bumper (a deeper dent beginning from one that was already there) backing into a tree. The truth is that Jim and I don’t think it was a real adventure unless the car comes back muddy and damaged.

We came to another large puddle, but this one, we thought Bertha could drive across because we saw a safari truck driving in the other direction. Finally, we made it around the flood! We stopped the oncoming vehicle to ask how close we were to Mababe gate. He looked at us, befuddled, and said “you’re at North gate.”

When we drove back 1 kilometer and came to the familiar airstrip, we felt deflated. Driving around for 3 hours and we were right back where we started. Thankfully, this safari guide was heading to Mababe, so we were able to follow him. Soon thereafter, a caravan of 6 other lost vehicles were following us. We never would have been able to make it without the guide as we discovered we were to drive through about 15 very large puddles and small ponds. Bertha made us very proud because we had no idea she could do this.

It was also during our drive of confusion and driving through the multiple puddles that we saw the most wildlife. Elephants, giraffes, hippos and Zebras all ventured right next to our car. One truly has to go on the roughest roads to find the most undisturbed pieces of wilderness.

By the time we got to Mababe gate, it was 5PM, 6 hours later than we had hoped. I knew the Wildlife Officers at the gate were not going to let us through, and we would have to stay there the night. Since we were staying in huts the first nights of our journey and planning to stay with PCVs in Kasane, we didn’t pack any camping gear beyond sleeping bags, blankets, and food, no tents.

I walked into the Mababe gate office and met my new friend Bogosi. I gave him our story, and he was very understanding and helpful. He wrote a letter to extend out permit for another day and said we could camp near the gate and leave first thing in the morning. Since we’ve been staying in huts and on our way to stay with friends in Kasane, I told him we didn’t have tents but we had sleeping bags and blankets and didn’t mind sleeping in the car. The last thing I wanted to take care of was contacting our friends in Kasane who were expecting us that night. In the middle of the wild, with no cell network for days, I couldn’t call that easily.

I told Bogosi that I work for the American government and that people in Kasane were waiting for me. If I didn’t call them, they would worry, call the American embassy and send out a search party. At first, he said I couldn’t use their phone because he would be charged for any non-work related calls. I told him I would just pay him 20 Pula to cover the charges, but that made him more apprehensive. “oh, no, we can’t take money from you. We are discouraged from corruption,” he said very sternly. I responded “no, no, I just want to pay you for the call.” Eventually I convinced to let me make a call when I gave him my cell number and told him to call me when he gets the charge and I would mail him the money. As of this post, I still haven’t heard from him.

We also met a couple from Switzerland who was traveling a similar route to us and were in a similar predicament of getting to Chobe too late to drive through. We shared a campfire and some food.

As we collected firewood, we came across an elephant and heard lions in the distance, a reminder of the African wilderness that surrounded us. Just before the sunset, Bogosi came to find me and told me he felt bad that we were going to sleep in the car. His house is just behind the gate, and he offered for us to sleep on his living room floor. It was so sweet of him to offer, and we couldn’t say no. We had a nice roof over our head, hot water and a flush toilet.

At 6AM the next morning, we set out on our drive through Chobe, the elephant capital of the world, and another piece of pristine wilderness filled with wildlife. For Another 100 km, we would drive through deep sandy roads.

An hour into our drive, Dwight saw some “antelope” up ahead, but couldn’t tell what kind they were. When we got closer, we discovered these were no antelope:

Later, we found a small herd of giraffes:

And plenty of elephants. This one walked directly behind our car, so close that I couldn’t zoom out far enough on my camera.

Toward the end of our drive through Chobe, we came to some baby elephants crossing the road. With trees on both sides of us on a narrow sand road with no turnoffs, we were trapped. Just we took out our cameras to take photos, we discovered that we had separated the mother elephant from her babies. I wasn’t aware that elephants could jump until this moment. She was screaming, trunk flailing, ears flapping, and we had nowhere to go until the babies finished crossing the road. Knowing that elephants are quite capable of charging and turning over Bertha, my heart stopped until we were able to move and continue on our journey. The adventure of a lifetime indeed.

Click here for a full map of our travels.

Click below for the full slideshow of pictures from our adventure.

Zanzibar!

There’s an island off the coast of Tanzania that is the closest thing to paradise I have ever experienced. I traveled with Leslie, a volunteer who just finished her Peace Corps service. We bonded during Camp GLOW this past December and she was a great travel buddy, putting up with my goofy sense of humor all week.

After a 10-hour bus to Gabs, a 7 hour bus to Johannesburg and a 3-hour flight to Dar Es Salaam, we continued on to Zanzibar via a 90-minute ferry. From Stonetown, the commercial center of the island, we took a 2-hour dala-dala ride to Jambiani, a small beach town on the Eastern coast. As we waited for the dala-dala to fill up, people watching in the market, we were fascinated by all of the difference East Africa held from its southern counterparts. Stonetown is vibrant, colorful and very much alive.

The dala-dala ride was equally interesting, cruising down the spine of an island in a giant covered pickup truck and through the Jozani rainforest, we watched as palm trees, exotic fruits, women in colorful saris and men on bicycles flew by. When we arrived in Jambiani, the feeling of complete and utter serenity was almost immediate. Never have I seen such crystal blue water and touched sand that felt like baby powder. The shallow water extends out for over a mile before the shelf drops, coral emerges and the waves break.

We spent 3 days in this nook of paradise, relaxing on the beach, eating decadent food on the balcony overlooking the shore, and collecting seashells in the surf. I’m not sure I have ever known such total relaxation and experienced a state of mind so peaceful, so free from any thoughts whatsoever. It was heavenly.

Exploring the village of Jambiani was equally serene. It seems most tourists don’t leave their hotels, but exploring an African village seems second nature anymore. We waved to smiling schoolchildren eager to have their picture taken, bought some art at the Women’s Pottery Collective, and continued walking to find intriguing mystery around every corner.

We spent the rest of the week submerging ourselves in the addictive energy of Stonetown. The markets are so large and containing everything one can imagine that it was overwhelming to walk through the endless maze of spices, foods, fabrics and goods to be shipped, bought or traded.

One of the most striking things about Stonetown, and Zanzibar and Dar Es Salaam for that matter, were the people. Quite often, we were the only white people to be seen, but no one stared at us or laughed when we spoke, and few people asked us for money, which is all quite different from life in Botswana. Most people greeted us with a hearty “Habari. Hujambo? Welcome!” with no strings attached. The hospitality everywhere made the experience truly surreal.

We decided to have a walking dinner every night, just buying random foods in the market. I was hooked on the skewers of beef, chicken and fish everywhere. Each skewer was only 20 cents, and some of the best quality meat I’ve ever tasted. Everywhere we ate, the food was exquisite, always the perfect balance of flavors, juicy citrus and spices on every meat and a plethora of delicious fruits and fresh jams. For lunch, we usually bought a bunch of snacks at the market and sat at a beach bar to eat.

On one evening, we discovered cups of coffee sold on the corner. Every day, right outside our hotel, on a busy street corner, a couple of guys set up a table with a hundred porcelain cups and a few iron kettles of strong coffee heated on burning coals. Each cup of coffee cost a nickel.

Zanzibar is most popular for its spices. They have extensive spice farms on the island, growing everything from nutmeg and cinnamon to vanilla and turmeric. We did a spice tour one of the days and got to see all of the different spices growing in the wild. During our tour, there were several boys who would clamber up the trees to cut down an exotic fruit or spice for us to taste or smell. Throughout the journey, they also made a variety of temporary jewelry and accessories for all of us out of woven grass.

On our last day in paradise, we took a puddle-jumper flight to Dar Es Salaam for one more night in East Africa before we caught our 7AM flight back to Jo-berg. We had no idea where we were going to stay since we discovered the original place we had booked was very far from the airport, so we cancelled it. We just asked a taxi driver to take us to the closest cheap hostel or hotel when we go to Dar. The first two places we stopped at were completely booked up, but we were still so high from our experience in paradise that we honestly didn’t care if we had to sleep at the airport. Zanzibar put both of us on cloud 9. The third place we went to had a bed for us. We didn’t care that there was a small, waist-level water faucet for a shower and a squat toilet. Our taxi driver was so helpful and didn’t even want us to pay him until after he took us to the airport the following morning.

We walked around the village market where we were greeted by more “Welcome!”s and no one harassing us. Zanzibar was truly one of the most exotic, refreshing and serene vacations I’ve ever had the privilege to go on. I’ll let the my slideshow of pictures say the rest.

Mosadi wa se-Afrika (African Woman)

Celine Dion’s voice emanated from the stereo system in the large meeting hall. Again. Phaketse was sitting next to me, so I leaned over to ask her, “Why do Batswana like Celine Dion so much?”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. With a dramatic smile as she flipped both hands over the top knee of her crossed legs, she said “but I just love her voice.”

“I like her voice too, but do they have to keep playing the same song?”

“I saw an interview with Celine once.” Phaketse’s change in poise and facial expression told me she was about to choose her words carefully and try to speak in the clearest English she could muster. “She was raised Catholic. Her mother is Catholic. When she fell pregnant with Celine, it was a surprise pregnancy, and she wanted to have an abortion.”

Great, I thought, where is this going? Why am I a polemic magnet? And why does everyone here say “fall” pregnant? How does someone “fall” pregnant? Did she trip and fall on someone’s hard-on and *poof* conception?

Phaketse continued, “Because of her religious beliefs, she decided not to have an abortion, and Celine was born. That’s why Celine is anti-abortion.”

Without missing a beat, I retorted, “I was conceived because the condom broke. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in safer sex.” Truth be told, my parents ran out of spermicide, but the condom analogy seemed more appropriate.

She got that habitual flustered look of speechlessness on her face, and as good timing would have it, the event we were attending together had just begun, ending our conversation that never continued.

The issue of abortion is seen from a completely different perspective here. It’s not about the right for a woman to choose what to do with her body, but it’s about the right for a woman to have babies. This comes out of the renowned 1995 Beijing Women’s Conference and China’s history with abortion. When the one-child family policy came into effect, many women were forced to have abortions if they “fell” pregnant with another child. From that point of view, it’s easy to see how one can see the issue as the “right to have babies.”

The problem, however, is it paints the picture that women are baby-making machines. Here in Botswana, a country with a population of only 1.7 million, the birthrate has been declining. Instead of seeing the positive side of this news, that perhaps people are sticking to fewer sexual partners and using condoms more frequently, the president spoke about it last year by encouraging women to have more babies, both treating women as objects and encouraging people to have unprotected sex in a country with the highest prevalence of HIV in the world.

During our first Peace Corps training, someone from BOFWA (Botswana Family Welfare Association) came to speak to the NGO volunteers, and the issue of abortion came up. They told us that abortion is not legal in Botswana, but if women come to them requesting abortion services, they provide counseling and refer them to a clinic across the border in South Africa where they can seek abortion services if they choose that route.

(NOTE: BOFWA is funded by the International Planned Parenthood Federation and essentially a Planned Parenthood clinic disguised by a local name. i.e. Brilliant.)

During their presentation, one of our male language trainers spoke up and asked, “But the president tells us that the birth rate in Botswana is declining. We shouldn’t be having abortions.”

Abortion is an ugly process, mostly psychologically. No pregnant woman wakes up on a Saturday morning and thinks, “Hmmm, what am I going to do today? I think I’ll have an abortion! That sounds like fun!” and then marches in a parade down to the clinic. No one in their right mind is “pro-abortion.” It’s not a delightful process to have to consider or go through. Women should simply have a right to choose what to do with their bodies, a right to choose when they can have babies at a time when or if they know they can and want to be mothers, and a right to have services that handle an unpleasant process safely. Whether it’s in China, sub-Saharan Africa, or the West, it’s the basic right every woman should have, the right to choose. It’s not pro-abortion. It’s pro-choice.

I work at a “women’s rights” organization here in Botswana. It’s a far cry from the coalition work I used to do with Planned Parenthood in the States, and my co-workers are nothing like my outspoken feminist friends, but so much of what I was taught in women’s studies classes during college still applies. I’ve learned WAR sees women’s rights with much more tapered and opaque vision. Uneasiness about abortion is only a part of that image. Many places in the country still insist that women shouldn’t be allowed to wear pants, especially at special events or when attending kgotla meetings (customary court with some similarity to the operations of a city hall). Shockingly enough, that debate happens within my office.

For two different events that our staff was to attend, one a kgotla meeting, and the other a celebration of International Women’s Day, it was suggested by a female staff member that all the women should wear skirts. For the latter event, I couldn’t comprehend the irony, and more so that most people didn’t see a problem. Thankfully, each time this happened, one of the other women challenged the suggestion.

“How can we advocate for women and then insist that we can’t wear what we want? That’s absurd. If men can wear pants, so can we.” Sonya piped up.

“That’s the reality,” our Coordinator said. “If we’re going to an official event, we have to wear skirts. It’s just the way it is. How can you expect men to listen to us if we don’t respect the cultural traditions?”

Tradition also says that if a woman’s husband dies she is supposed to marry the brother, that marital rape doesn’t exist because a woman is property that the husband has purchased from her family, and that women are not allowed to make any decisions about sex including whether or not a condom is used. Progress is usually about breaking tradition. Over time, as individuals learn the possibilities of empowerment, freedom and individual choice, things have to change out of respect and compassion for those human beings. That’s what equality is.

The people at WAR fight on behalf of Batswana women in many contexts: fighting the legalities of marital rape, providing counseling services and a safe house for abused women and children, educating adolescents about gender-based violence, and implementing a proper rape protocol at police stations and hospitals. So why is wearing skirts, something so simple, yet so symbolic, an issue? I suppose in the practice of picking and choosing one’s battles, there are too many other urgent issues in women’s lives for which to advocate.

At an economic empowerment workshop that WAR put on for several of its clients, I met Tsholofelo, and learned that choosing between pants and skirts is the least of her worries. Throughout the morning, sitting next to her, I was struck by her big smile and the confidence that radiated from her being. We started chatting over the tea break.

“After the last time my husband raped me, my brothers beat me up. They were in the house next to us, and when they heard my screams for help, they were angry that I woke them in the middle of the night. That’s when I fled. I took my two kids and went to the other side of the country,” she said to me, matter-of-factly, as if she’s told this story a hundred times, and perhaps she was taught how important it was to talk about what happened.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through such a horrible experience, and I’m impressed by the optimism and faith I see in you today,” I was still in partial disbelief that she blurted this story out to the white man sitting next to her right after we met.

She went on, “I lived as a destitute in Kasane for a few weeks and couldn’t find a place to stay. That’s when I came to Maun, and I’ve been here ever since.”

The nature of her story isn’t entirely uncommon, but it still boggles my mind. In a place like Botswana, the anomaly of Africa with no history of war, a peaceful democracy with little conflict, how can there be so much violence in people’s homes? It’s because they bottle up all of their emotions. Batswana can be very agreeable and passive-aggressive. They would rather pretend to agree or suppress their anger than make a fuss. With few hobbies, activities or community happenings, where, when and how do they release all of this repressed emotion?

At home. They hide it in public, which is what makes Botswana such a peaceful place, and many, particularly men who are socialized not to let their emotions show, let it out in their houses. All of this repressed emotion manifests in yelling, beating, rape, verbal assault on their families, the ones with whom they share a home and claim to love.

I understand that my working environment may give me some sort of bias. From my perspective it may seem like everyone’s abused. But these stories are ubiquitous. I don’t just hear them at work. I hear them from other volunteers, from teachers, from neighbors, a wide variety of people. Furthermore, a recent research says that half of the women in my district have been raped, and over 62% are survivors of domestic violence.

For that reason, I don’t think I’m biased, but I certainly have an over-exposure to the stories, and I can’t help but draw parallels to many of my other observations here.

Several months ago, for example, when I got home from 2 weeks of vacation in Mozambique and Swaziland, not only was I welcomed by a tall field of grass that had popped up due to all of the wet season rain, but I was also greeted by 5 abandoned puppies.

I had no clue where they came from, and I wondered, where’s the mother? Maybe she’s out looking for food. Most dogs in Botswana are strays, but do these perhaps belong to someone? Batswana typically don’t like dogs and throw rocks at them to protect their livestock, so perhaps this was the only safe place they could find.

Over the next three days, every morning I would find the puppies pressed up against the wall on my front porch, and every day when I came home, they would be romping in front of my house, pouncing on grasshoppers and each other in my large jungle of a yard. Worried about their health, I started feeding them. There’s a “take-away” place near my office where I usually get lunch, and I was able to get leftovers from them at the end of each day. The pups ate ravenously for the next week, and then the mother finally showed up.

She was completely emaciated, the outline of all of her ribs showing. I watched as the 5 puppies ran to her energetically. Still hungry, out of instinct, each of them tried to grab on to her teats. The mother yelped as each one tried to latch on, and she eventually ran away, all dried up.

I thought, “This dog is trapped with no choices. She was raped by some male dog, got pregnant, had 5 babies, and has now starved herself trying to feed them while the father is probably sitting around somewhere else just getting fat and/or impregnating others. This dog needs to go to WAR for counseling! And to the social worker for a food basket!”

At least Botswana is a place where there are several resources available, and it’s certainly much better off than other countries around the world. In most of the middle east for example, women can’t even leave the house without a man’s permission, can’t press charges for crimes without a male witness who’s willing to testify, and aren’t able to register an NGO to advocate for women’s issues without fear of forced closure or bomb threats. They have a long way to go to reach any sense of women’s empowerment.

In Botswana, women are at least close to full equality under the law. There are female members of parliament, a few female dikgosi (chiefs), and the former chief justice of one of the high courts, recently retired Unity Dow, is a woman, a prolific author and a well-respected human rights advocate. In Botswana, there is hope, there are a growing number of strong role models for women and young girls, and the progress is slow, but visible.

However, it still comes down to choices. In a sparsely populated country with few employment opportunities, a woman in an abusive situation is often forced to choose between two difficult options: 1) Stay in an abusive relationship and suffer through the psychological damage to herself and her children to maintain financial security or 2) Do the hard work to leave everything familiar to start over, which means finding a way to support herself and her kids while going to school or starting her own business to generate some income.

At our most recent economic empowerment workshop, a selection of WAR’s clients wanted some basic information on how to start their own business. Starting a business is more than just a dream; it’s generating income, building self-esteem, accomplishment, independence, empowerment and ultimately, freedom.

The facilitator had the women brainstorm a list of basic needs and then prioritized the top two as shelter and food. In a discussion about wants and needs, he talked about the food one needs to survive vs. the new clothes that would be nice to have. He went on to talk about budgeting and dependents. Several of these women are financially responsible for kids and other extended family members, which add to the financial burden.

It was one of those moments where I was reminded of my privilege. I have no kids, no other dependents, and even though all of my current personal belongings fit inside two large suitcases, I feel like I have too many clothes. Months ago, I started wearing the same five shirts to the office every week since I noticed that’s the norm here, and having more clothes is another sign of wealth.

When you start from scratch, you don’t have many choices beyond doing what you need to do to survive. It takes a lot of courage for many women to leave an abusive relationship to do that.

Tradition tells women to find a man to support them. Customarily, women live with their families until the right man comes along who has saved up enough cattle for dowry. With that expectation and fantasy, women are taught not to think or be independent but to wait for a man to support them, and if or when they find him, commit to him, no matter what.

Another resource WAR provides is a Safe House, a temporary, transitional home for abused women and children who are desperate to get out of an violent situation but don’t know where to start. The Safe House is fairly new, and over the past few months, I’ve been supporting the two women who work there. The facility is well-funded, but I spent most of my time helping them to build basic infrastructure, writing policies, conditions for clients, developing programming, etc.

Working at the Shelter is one of the bigger projects I work on to help WAR better support its clients, but it’s often the day-to-day things, those little ways that I help encourage women in the office that gives me doses of joy. A great example is a stereotypical Peace Corps moment I had with one of our new staff members, Mowetsi.

Mowetsi is rather timid and soft-spoken, as far too many Batswana women are, and she has never touched a keyboard in her life, until she started working at WAR. Quite often, she would come into my office (shared by 2 others and a desktop computer) and ask someone to type a document for her.

The third time she did this, I said “Mowetsi, no one is typing for you today. You’re going to type this one by yourself.”

“But I don’t know how to type,” she said, as if she had no other choice but to depend on others to type for her.

“Mowetsi, you’re smart and you can read, let me help you do this,” I said as I sat her in front of the desktop computer and pulled up a chair next to her.

Using her two pointer fingers to type a short agenda for a meeting, she typed her own document in about an hour. When she was finished, I taught her where and what to click so she could print. At that moment, she created something, something she didn’t know she was even capable of. She watched her own finger hit a button that printed a document that she had typed herself. She was jumping up and down screaming with excitement and hugging me, “Thank you, Kabo! Thank you!”

With loads of patience, I got her through it, and now she types everything on her own. I appreciate those moments. And I have to admit, in the back of my mind sometimes, I think “I left the States so I could teach someone how to type and print?” But it’s so much deeper than that. It’s not about teaching Mowetsi how to use a computer. It’s about teaching a woman that she’s intelligent and capable of doing something on her own without dependence on others.

A few weeks before International Women’s Day, celebrated on March 8th every year, Fortune, from our education department, suggested that we sing a song together as a staff at the commemoration event in Maun. One of our co-workers wrote a song with great lyrics about a strong African woman, and a week before the event, we started rehearsing the song in four part harmonies in the office every day.

At first it was disastrous. The song sounded horrible, no one was taking leadership on it, and no one seemed to care that we were going to perform in front of hundreds of people in just a few days. Every morning, I hear my co-workers sing the most beautiful Setswana songs with intricate harmonies, so part of me wondered why a song was written with which so many seem to be struggling instead of singing something familiar. However, it was one of those situations where I didn’t ask questions or challenge any of the ideas about how this was going to come together. I was impressed by their initiative, commitment and creativity, so I just sat back did everything I was asked to do and let things unfold without my influence.

Eventually, Fortune, who is usually reserved and aloof, stepped up and took charge. Surprisingly, he was able to sing all four parts from soprano to bass, exposed a huge talent, and conducted us as a choir over the next couple of days.

The events for International Women’s Day were held in a part of Maun called Big Tree. It’s been a popular meeting place for decades, and receives it’s moniker from a gargantuan tree with a trunk that is almost as big as my house. In typical Batswana fashion, the event started late, but despite the complaints of a couple of my co-workers who claimed the event was poorly organized, I thought everything was put together extraordinarily well.

There was a large tent well-decorated with large pieces of fabric in the Botswana colors of black, white and blue, and packed with almost 400 people. There were strong speakers from a variety of NGOs that advocate for women’s issues from around the country and dance performances from local theatre groups and primary schools. One of the WAR staff members, Kgotso, was the MC for the day, did a fantastic job and caught up on time to get back on schedule.

We sang after our Coordinator spoke, and I think we gave a nice performance. We received much applause, and we were all happy about how far we came together as a team that week. What I was most struck by, though, were the comments from some of my co-workers afterwards.

“Kabo, I’ve been wanting to tell you, that I’m so impressed by you this week,” Tshepo said to me.

“Why’s that?” I asked, honestly having no clue what she was talking about.

“You’ve had such a positive attitude all week, learning this song, and it’s not even in a language you know very well. It’s so motivating when people like you participate with us,” she said to me with the utmost sincerity.

I think by “people like you,” she meant “the white guy” singing about strong African women. Kgotso came up to me independently the next day and said something similar. I forget how those little things, being a part of the group, joining in, learning the language and just having a positive attitude can have an effect on others. It’s not always about the work and the struggles over political ideology. Sometimes, just pushing aside my skepticism to fully participate is enough. Too often, I get caught up in the big picture and forget how important the little things are.