The US of A. Post Africa.

The last I wrote or posted was mid November, which means I stayed in Africa for another five weeks sans update and returned to the US without any final thoughts. Whoopsies.

In complete sincerity, part of me felt connected to the anonymity of travel and adventure – understanding that rarely are there ever really neat endings. I felt a wee wary of trying to 'conclude' anything. The other part of me realized that all my writings (all my thoughts really) were too muddled to aptly convey anything, in an indistinguishable instant I wasn't writing about a trip but myself, in my life and that felt strange.

Also I was going mostly crazy all over Southern Africa.

I lived constantly hot, dirty, bug addled, sans water and very well.  

I am certain I have more scars from my last three weeks in Africa than the previous 22 years of life prior, but I wasn't going to not climb that rad tree or not try to catch that genet (look it up-it's rad) or not break into the swimming pool.

A brief aside with the swimming pool. The Swedes, Rachel and I attempted to break into the the University of Botswana swimming pool circa 12 am one night. Mind you this is the swimming pool you must wear a cap in, you must show photo i.d. to enter, it is the largest most prized swimming pool in the whole nation, it is surrounded in barbed wire and high walls- still we opt to go for it. As expected, with Rachel ducking under wire, straddling the barricade-esque wall, me standing on a chair we brought from my dorm room hoisting her over, security intervenes. Rachel says she lost her shoe and we are trying to get it. Not only did the security guards accept this, they encourage us to get back to our efforts and retrieve the shoe. Outrageous.

On the whole my final adventures were as bright and audacious as ever and per usual brought me to better understand my mortality more often than was probably necessary. 

Pursuing a lonely and fleeing hippopotamus through a delta in a small motor boat among them.

Saying good-bye was the most notable.

First to the Linga-Longa staff. 

Then Millie. She wrote me a poem complete with Winnie the Pooh-sparkly-glow-in-the-dark-stickers, she also asked to borrow my lighters so she could burn the edges of the notebook paper to give it that worldly feel.(1)  

Rachel, Adam, Axel and I spent our farewell evening in Johannesburg in a hostel drinking black label and playing pool. Most appropriately ended with a final sunrise and questionable cab ride.

Our airport departure from one another was chaotic and kind and perfectly right.

I sat alone on my suitcase incapable of moving for a while, 5 hours to spare until boarding.

Eventually I felt snackie(4) and went to the food court, ordered a schwarma and fries then was grief stricken again as I understood it would be my last endeavor with the strange African ketchup. I sat crying alone at a table in the Otambo International Airport until a large group of South African Missionaries headed to Malawi insisted that I join their table and tell them about America. They liked my accent a lot so that was a plus.

8:25 pm Boarding the plane, was my final farewell to the continent.

It is very curious to say good bye to things not knowing when or how you'll find them again, like when someone gives you a nice hug but it somehow makes you more sad- sort of lonely I think.

Home felt great in every way. My welcome was an indescribable kind of thing.

Unpacking, I came across a note reading "I won't tell you if they're clean or dirty, you'll have to find out- Kram(1) Axel" wrapped around a pair of long coveted stripey boxer shorts! Long distance communication has proven second rate, but adequate.

I threw away most of my clothes that were stained and ruined and thorn-torn, but the things I kept are still the same red as Botswana. The earth doesn't(?) can't(?) won't(?) wash out. 

I think leaving Africa you're absolutely convinced you've made contact with something significant, but can't be totally sure what that something is/was. It was especially difficult to sort my self out in the unabashed cold of Seattle. Mostly I found comfort in the rain but it was really dark too. Going from summer in the Sub-Sahara to winter in the Pacific Northwest was brutal to say the least.

Being social was great and also odd. Surely, it is the most trite statement but it is nutz to return to the same things that are very different after your absent.

Things that I feel warrant stress have felt different to me, I was scared me feeling calm/mellow was too oft mistaken for being apathetic.

I couldn't find any books that suited my mood and I couldn't be outside.

I lived a slightly nomadically for a while. Which made me feel a little bonkers.

My first week back I was bit by a brown recluse in the bed of a beloved friend and former roommate. Though frustratingly ironic I like that I have in my life only been attacked by a poisonous creature in my old apartment. Not the jungle. Though my feet look weird still.
 
I felt a dissonance between myself in Seattle and myself in Botswana and it caused some grief and anxiety that I didn't really get a handle on at first. The two things that have shaped you most don't ever meet- it is weird. (5)

 I had some sadness and confusion sort of lingering behind me. It felt like when you go swimming and your hair trails behind you in the water, kind of mermaid-like, it is definitely your hair and still attached, but as long as you are moving it might as well be gone because it won't touch you. And you're having fun so you don't want to stop, but it's when you do stop swimming, pop out of the water and take a breath that it globs on to your neck and face- making it hard to breathe.

In Africa I constantly found the small interstices of everyday life, cul-de-sacs of reality, synchronicitious moments, its affirming and magical and perfect. It was suggested to me that this meant I was in tune. It took a long time to re-find that at home.

It has taken even more time to sort through those thoughts and things that needed/need sorting. Surely there are many many tremendously more thoughts and things to come.

I liked always thinking of myself, the tiny dot on this huge map, so far from seattle, in this great continent and really felt at the edge of the world, and I feel glad to be at home but "still, [I understand] you have to go there- to the edge of the world again and again. There's something you can't do unless you get there. [I also sense/feel/realize], there are things you can only do alone, and things you can only do with somebody else. And it's important to combine the two in just the right amount." (6) I'm ready for some pals to adventure with, to have all the most significant parts of my life meet.

Both my families of origin and choice mended me much, along with lots of dancing (soul and otherwise), movie watching, macaron eating, beach visiting, and a special christmas goose.

It turns out that the pals and I are a bit grown up now and I continually struggle with that fact that the world recognizes us as adults, that I am working a 9 to 5 to "pay the bills" (as they say) and that we're allowed to do most anything. Possibility is overwhelming; so is paying for toilet paper. This is seemingly the most up and coming adventure (not the t.p. but the impoverished crazed post college shenanigans.) -- Just generally, stateside and abroad, toilet paper has been a hot commodity. (3)

I still struggle with time, the weird stately urgency of things here stands out severely against the African pace and I find myself floundering between the two realities. And I miss phaleche and heat and elephants crossing the street but (for maybe the first time) I feel in tune here.

Home is great.

Over drinks last week, I caught myself explaining about something in Africa and when I plan to return , then proceeding to say "I have to know when I am going back." I feel good and comfortable saying that, it feels a necessary part of my reality now.

This is racked with cliches, so apologies up front, but honestly most important things are cliche- so I feel minimal guilt. Sorry, again, for the long delay.

Maybe more slices of humble pie to come- we'll see. 

love love love


Jackie


(1) I still read it when I have a bad Seattle day.
(2) Swedish for hugs = to xoxo
(3) Never did I imagine that in America in a home I have spent countless hours would I be crumpling notebook paper to soften it as an alternative to toilet paper.
(4) First reference to snackie in all of snackiestravels.
(5) seeing Nick Whipple in Washington state was most excellent though. Albeit brief.
(6) Murakami- I found some books.

Gaborone fourteen. Christmas in Bots.

Many things seem the same in that they are (sort of) typically African (in the best and worst ways) but still always surprising (1). Though I am learning in my travels through the rest of Southern Africa, that Botswana is very much a nation in it’s own as far as taking first prize in being most able to provide moments of absurdity. 

It is becoming harder and more muddled to write aptly about time here.

Africa. Time in Botswana

I saw a billboard yesterday that had a giant photo of an abacus sitting on top of a desk with many official looking documents strewn about that read:  “ “African Time” is great most the time, except during TAX TIME. Please turn your federal taxes in ON TIME.” It is delightful that these realities of time and pace of life are so blatantly acknowledged. 

Perhaps it is also problematic that they are doing their federal taxes with an abacus.

I returned from Zambia to find the greatest surprise I could have possibly expected. Snowflakes, tinsel, blinking multi-colored lights and big decorated pine trees everywhere. It is Christmas in Botswana.

After seeing all of the festivities I promptly asked, “Millie, does Santa come to Botswana?”

“Santa!? As in Santa Claus? Nooo, No....Wait. Is Santa Claus real?” 

“Uh....”

I am very much treasuring the little cultural absurdities that Millie and I encounter as roommates daily. I have been very pleased to find out that all of her friends ask her intimate questions about the habits of a lekgowa and she explains to them that ‘her lekgowa is a good one.’

I think I am a ‘good one’ because I attempt to speak Setswana and eat African Bologna (as questionable as it may be) sandwiches when offered.

Wednesday, the standard gaggle of travel mates and I headed as a posse of six up to Livingstone. The thirteen hour overnight express bus was the most surreal thing. Being half awake, sort of dreaming and very much sweating through your clothes, sitting next to an Axel Sonden in a bus that clearly had one too many chairs in every row was hilarious. Plus no one lets you roll down the window for fear of ruining their hair-do’s. It was well worth it though as soon as I could smell the river at the border and was near water again.

 Zambia is incredible. Livingstone has been further established/confirmed as my favorite place.  Things there are just beautiful and festive and messy and feel right.

 This was trip two to Zam (as mentioned) and I had made some friends with these ridiculous/great/over the top river guides before. It did not take long, this time around to feel relatively on the ‘in’ with the whole of Livingstone. (Basically just a few hours, as Tim (American guide friend) showed up at Jolly Boys (the greatest little hostel) to hang out the morning I got there, river guide crew in tow.)

Night one was spent booze cruising down the Zambezi. It was excellent. All the guides came making it rowdier than ever. Perhaps a different booze cruise experience than with Kev. : ) Hippopotamuses galore.

Friday was Devil’s Pool day. Perhaps the single most outrageous thing of my life. 

After a boat ride to Livingstone island (a little tropical island in the middle of the river), you are instructed to hike to the edge of the falls, there you stand on the rocks and some park guides explain  how to swim across the river in a manner that will ensure you do not die.  Basically swim as hard as you can against the current to one very specific spot (but not that spot to the left!) and then let the current push you into a big rock. Said rock should hold you from going into the waterfall. Once your stopped at the big rock, climb it, then jump into the pool on the other side, down towards the falls.

There is a naturally formed wall of stone that holds you in as all the water streams around you. Whoa!

I literally hung my body over the edge of the falls,  looking straight down them into misty rainbows.

You end your pool adventure with eggs benedict in a tent on the island! How great is that? 

This day was overly outrageous as the night ended, with me bribing our way (with American currency) into Zimbabwe to have a midnight paddle down the river and bbq, in the gorge to celebrate the full moon. It was a little nutty. A note: we did not end up paddling, realizing that we would likely not return.

Saturday, Tim took us rafting which was probably more scary than before as I had to maintain some semblance of cool (with the posse) even though I was terrified and a little queazy (9).

I even forced myself off of a 10 meter cliff dive despite the crocodiles below.

One very extreme rapid resulted in Adam being thrown from the boat. It seemed like a loooong time until we found him. (I think it was maybe 8 seconds) Post semi-panic we laughed a lot (but secretly were all glad Adam was alive.) Mostly, I just felt guilty that this quiet polish man who was the only person not from our immediate friend group in the raft also got sucked into the rapid and no one noticed. Whoops.

Alright, true confessions of Jacquiline Blanco*: Sunday came and quite literally minutes before we left (3) the river boys proposed it could be fun to skip our flight.

Done and Done.

Rachel and I dodged out on our flight, got our partial refund and booked an additional night at Jolly Boys.

It was irrefutably the correct choice.

Time was spent puttering around Livingstone, going to the markets, cooking food and doing as many extreme things as we could charm our way into. The whole time accompanied by super interesting people telling these absurd-wonderful stories. For instance, Tony, who is the very hospitable Canadian partner of the owner of Jolly Boys, essentially got asked to come film a kayak competition on the Zambezi, he was told had four days to get to Victoria falls and then would have a job for a year, this was 15 years ago. This is everyone you meet. 

Monday I went and sat at sunset at the top of the Batoka gorge enjoyed some local brew and then on the way home a heat lightening storm came which is really really magical to begin with, when all of the sudden Tony slams on the breaks (jarring from the back of the truck) and a huge elephant is just standing in the road. (!)

It is that sort of happening that I think provoked a mini-crisis in Zambia, a what-am-I-doing-with- myself, when I realized that everyone I was meeting, these people, they have all made the leap, that leap we joke about when we say (more or less) ‘ ‘let’s run away and open a pie-shop/micro brewery/disco in Mexico city and be river guides’.

They have done that. It is insane and fantastic. 

The extra night became another day, and another trip down the river and then two days (7) and the two became three.

I got in a bit of a space, where for a time (albeit very brief) I thought I might not leave.

Wednesday we managed to pull ourselves out of this most captivating situation and frantically hitch hike back 14 hours through all of southern Zambia and Botswana to Gabs to make it back for a term paper due.

Rachel and I eating Chick’n’ Lick’n after more than half a day sitting under African sun and rain in a truck bed was pretty glorious. All of it was glorious though.

I think I find myself now in this place where I can absolutely not imagine leaving Africa and I can absolutely 100 percent not imagine NOT being back in Seattle (6) and it feels a little nutz.

It should be known we returned happy, healthy and in time for term papers and Halloween**.

Despite a lack of national regard for Halloween, the internationals made it happen. (Actually I should not apply the term internationals too liberally, as many of our European and South American friends declined our invitation to participate in such an obviously American event.) We themed the night ‘Parade of Nations’ so your costume needed to represent, however you thought best, your nation of Birth.

I went as Sookie Stackhouse, the heroine of TrueBlood. Sookie is the typical American waitress, in deep South Bon Temps Lousiana who is a telepath and now in a steamy romance with a Vampire. I felt like all my halloween and patriotic bases were covered and I think for an impromtu costume not too shabby.

The Parade of Nations went nicely with the Beer Olympic motif for festivities. Ultimate Americana.

Prior to Hallows Eve, I was talking with Batsi’s son and daughter about if they want to come to the states to which they replied with a very definite “Yes. In October.” (!)

Before I could realize the significance of an autumn visit, Batsi’s daughter exclaimed .”FOR HALLOWEEN...we want to trick or treat.” It was not until this conversation that I really thought about how trick or treating would seem to someone from Southern Africa. You get to dress up, be silly and people give you candy when you knock at their door. Halloween must be the least culturally African thing I can think of.

Halloween, interestingly, has made me more nostalgic for home than I have been in a while.

It was very nice to have such a celebratory weekend, though after the general post-adventure let down of returning to school after being away.

Any let down not cured by Halloween extravaganza was mended by a most exciting visit to a Traditional African Healer. I admittedly, was pleased that this visit took place on Halloween so was sort of “spooky.” The healer was named Dr. Moses, he can cure anything from ringworm to a sad heart.

He can also charm a black mamba, then kill it for medicinal purposes. Rad. 

For 30 pula you can have a consultation, he channels the ancestors and they tell him everything about you and where you have any spiritual blockages.

Dr. Moses said he could even tell me my birthday with out me saying one word!

Naturally, I have scheduled an appointment.

School this past week has been hectic.

“Eish too too hectic” is EXACTLY how every Batswana will describe pre exam time at school; thus I am saying it all the time too now.

If group projects are difficult in America add the language barrier, bureaucracy and lack of internet then imagine my 3,000 word final paper on the economic implications of the diamond boom in Botswana to be written in a group of five. (Thumbs down)

Friday, the fifth of November was Guy Fawkes day.

It was supposed to be maybe THE party night of the year.  Fawkes attempted to blow up parliament in protest to the British Government, so “...Remember, Remember the 5th of November...” you have bon fires and fireworks to celebrate general mayhem and destruction of colonialism. I was expecting the whole of the nation to be dressed up as V (V is for Vendetta in the film V is dressed as a characterized Guy Fawkes), but evidently the big party and fireworks take place at the Gaborone Yacht Club and is attended to almost exclusively by the white and wealthy of Botswana. (WHAT?)

Rachel felt a little under the weather and I was more than fine with bowing out for a mellow time.

We made up for it at our friend Jan’s pool party extravaganza on Saturday night. His house is complete with a tiki hut wet bar. It was lovely. Pools are my favorite luxury here as well as my method of bathing. 

Yesterday I had the best, leisurely, Sunday in Gabane (HA bawn EH).

20 minutes from Las Vegas in a small village there is a very quaint, brightly painted, inviting and cheap bar at the bottom of a little mountain. There are lots of places to lounge under trees. You can play pool or watch soccer in the bar. Outside they have four giant grills, you pay 20 pula and they hand you a cardboard box FULL (really an obscene amount) of marinated steak that you can go grill yourself. I have been attempting to avoid beef (especially post cow heart) (5) but this was dish d-lish! YUM.

After you grill there is a very very elderly woman at a huge cauldron and she gives you a heaping portion of phaleche (staple carb) and you just go to town, gnawing at your steak and eating your papa (4) out of your box. 

They played jazz all afternoon and in the course of our time in Gabane there we observed lightening, hail and thunderstorm as well as scorching heat.

Also I am still full.

Best decision of the this week has been the 80 dollar splurge on an electric fan.

40 degrees is hot. Yikes.

I am in underwear always. (8)



Love love love
I MISS YOU

Jackie




1. Actually Botswana’s official website for tourism greets you with a message stating, “Welcome to the very best part of Africa. Botswana, a country better known for peace and tranquility, diamonds and beef, holds a lot of surprises for you,” HOWEVER the website (this is the website set to link the uninformed world to Botswana) has spelled ‘surprises’ incorrectly.
2. I guess by some miracle of globalization and television snowflakes got into the Christmas mix, even though December 25th marks one of the hottest days annually and fireworks/bbq’s are the norm.
3. The cab was even ready for everyone and I had already alerted Mother for a whopping 12,000 Kwacha a minute that I was alive and headed home. (My phone managed to find its way into the pool in Livingstone-but its well recovered now). 
4. short name for phaleche.
5. And because I seem to always always choke on it. Which is a bit embarrassing/confusing.
6. From an email to a lovely Gloria Mayne. Thank you for AFRIIIIIIKAAA BAMBATAAA. And reading my blog.
7. After all we couldn’t miss Taco Tuesday.
8. There was an article in this weeks UB Horizon (University of Botswana’s Student Newspaper) entitled “Underwear is NOT Outerwear.”
9. We had managed to get invited to a birthday party at a bar that has a pool and a climbing wall. A climbing wall (no ropes unmonitored) in a bar is so silly. Everything in Livingstone is silly though so it fit well.

P.s. Clearly I should have been using numbered footnotes from the get go.

* For those (primarily the immediate family) who were unaware.
** EVEN THE BEST HALLOWEEN PACKAGE FROM THE BEST GRANDPARENTS EVER.
        (Adam and Axel teased me that my Halloween cookies were the most American thing they had ever seen.)

Gabs week 11...12 (?) PULA.

As it turns out mining for diamonds is very much not what I anticipated. The week post break seemed less than adventurous, bogged down with school work, I was very much looking forward to a Friday trip to Jwaneng diamond mine.

Through some miscommunication or another (or perhaps because not only did Debswana (Botswana Diamond Company) make me read and sign a huge affidavit but also requested my legal name/any aliases, passport number and  SHOE SIZE) I was expecting something a bit more extreme than what I found(1). Rather than spelunking deep into the Botswana earth and picking away at glistening stones, I ended up hiking down to the bottom of a huge hole (or quarry as it is more aptly called) and watching huge quantities of explosives pumped underground, ignited, then the rubble was carried out to be sorted into ‘waste’ (rocks) and diamonds.

Jwaneng (JuWAH nang) is the richest diamond mine in the world and last year they produced 9.04 million carats. Though it was not a cavernous endeavor or to the likes of the workplace of our seven cheery dwarf friends, the 300 meter deep, 1.6 kilometer across canyon was really impressive. (So were the GIANT trucks used to move the ore- see photo)

I will admit, there was a lot of added excitement knowing that if we found a diamond, we would get 3,000 dollars or 50 percent of it’s value. If you find one you are warned not to touch it but just call for help.

I asked what would happen if I were to touch a diamond. Officially, I would be arrested and kept in jail until questioning proved I was not involved with black market gem trading, then as the international that I am, I would be deported. Unofficially, they cut off my hands.

The process of eliminating conflict free diamonds was really fascinating. In a very simplified explanation, the diamonds are mined in Jwaneng, sent to England to be cleaned and certified, then returned to Botswana for cutting and polishing, then back into the diamond market. Blood diamonds are smuggled into the process so they appear like they came from a legitimate operation. SO to stop this, everything from the moment the rubble is pulled out of the explosion is weighed, the weight has to stay the same for the whole time. Mass is neither created nor destroyed! Pretty cool I thought.

I passed the exit search. No diamonds but all limbs in tact.

Saturday some friends Rodney and Jan, who grew up here and are guides could take us camping.

It may have been the single least describable happening thus far. Maybe a bit too sacred to relay.   

I managed to write a single special letter when I got back: (2)

“...from camping in Limpopo (the river that separates Botswana and South Africa) and maybe the most beautiful night I have experienced.  On the way there we were driving into perhaps the blackest clouds I have ever seen but behind us [the sky] was perfectly clear and the sun was setting so everything was this crazy red-orange against the dark dark storm. We drove like this for probably an hour, so we were deep in the bush and then the rain and a flood came. To be with Batswana people, who haven't seen rain in 7 months for the first real rain of the year sort of blew my mind. Sheer joy, everyone just stood in the mud/flood laughing close to tears. It was the first time I have got to drive here. I thought I was going to explode when all this was happening as a Dire Straits album played.”   

I saw the best rainbow.

The journey was not even tainted by the contaminated water we all drank. oops. The seven of us all texting from our respective bathroom locations was (mostly) just silly and bonding.

Bathrooms in Vegas, however, have taken a turn for the worse that I don’t think I was prepared for.

This is what I am told: UB has opted to build a medical school so there is a very large scale construction project right by our housing, the University wanted to negotiate a cheaper bid for the operation, so they said they had an abundance of water that could be used from UB rather than bringing water in, this was a lie. So now all of our water is being used for the construction.

38 degree weather and no running water is not so nice (perhaps you should be reminded that toilets require running water to flush).(3)

I bathe at the pool. My hair is nutz.

I feel a little silly swimming and sunbathing all the time as it is not the cultural norm and a group of Makgowa lounging at the pool always creates quite the ruckus.

Also most of my local friends don’t know how to swim.

I think if anything has made me a bit down trodden of late it is that more and more I am finding that my friends here (non-international friends) can not really do the same activities I do.

When people realize (which doesn’t take long) that I am from the US of A most the time they say something to the likes of “Me! I have never ever crossed a border!”

I think I have invited the whole of Botswana to come to Seattle. Though my invitation is sincere, me and the Batswana both laugh (sort of sadly) about the likelihood of a Washington visit. 

Even though the entirety of a night out (I mean dinner, drinks, cover charge, cab end up on MTv South Africa type craziness)(5) runs me about 80 pula (mmm 11 dollars) it is not really a possible expense for the Batswana I spend my time with.

Most of the places they tell me to visit, they have not experienced.

My relationship to poverty feels complicated.

I still find myself in constant debate over whether poverty here can be linked to cultural explanations or is it more the aftermath of colonialism and sustained oppression and isolation. Rachel sent me a New York Times article on this because we are ALWAYS trying to understand the insanity we find here, again and again absolutely beautiful and vile all in one, bedazzled denim, text message craze and a lot a lot of dirt. The article asserted that often cultural explanations of poverty are essentially treated like Lord Voldemort: That Which Must Not Be Named.

And I think that is true, coming from a institution to the likes of Seattle University implying that “culture”  is perpetuating poverty,and the idea that attitudes and behavior patterns kept people poor is shunned, or at least very critically examined. But fear of sounding politically incorrect aside, I am finding there is huge value in understanding that to at least some extent “culture and persistent poverty are enmeshed.” What to do with the reality is my next thought experiment.

I should also say we are finding our niches. I have been on a lot more curry pot (cafeteria) dinner outings and hanging out in Vegas or in my room on my cot with Millie and co.

Last night I went out to meet some friends, and when I got to where they said they would be I found them throwing rocks at a sign. I would say our nightly life consists of much more typically Gaborone activities.

That said I am busing off to Zambia tomorrow for an extended pre-finals weekend in Livingstone.

Time is going fast (I think...most the time). I received in the mail a horoscope from Seattle CityWeekly(4):

“Soon it will probably be time for you to wrap up the Season of Exploration. You’ve surveyed the outlands and fringe areas enough for now, right? I’m guessing that you’ve reconnoitered the forbidden zones so thoroughly that you may not need to do any more probing. Or am I wrong about this? Maybe your brushes with exotic creatures and tempting adventures have whetted your appetite for even more escapades. I’ll tell you what, Capricorn; I’m going to trust your intuition on this one.”

Africa has most definitely required more of me trusting my intuition. I take comfort in thinking that however I relate to this craziness, will allow me to be more ready to relate to whatever happens next.

Today I met with Dumelang Saleshando leader of the Botswana Congress Party (BCP). BCP is affiliated with the New Democratic Front and the Social Democratic Party. BCP is Botswana’s moderate party. If this party wins the 2015 elections, Member of Parliment Saleshando will be the Head of State. POTENTIALLY, I met the future president!

The lightening storms are my favorite new thing.
And because of the rain I get to live in my mosquito net!

sorry for such delay, promise to get better.

miss you like whoa.
love love love

Jackie


(1) probably the most scary thing was the rash I got on my foot from the steel-toe boots.
(2) email.Rainbows and Mark Knopfler
(3) I have erYUCK.
(4) Thank you Mr. Andrew Fontana.
(5)I was officially spotted by Monica’s Roommate dancing on MTvZa (MTv South Africa) dancing at a concert I went to at Bull and Bush last friday! Video Vixen indeed.

Spring Break Africa. A Land Before Time.

Waiting for Kevin to maybe or maybe not arrive in Sir Seretse Khama International, the Gaborone airport, knowing he had a very very brief layover, with no means to communicate a missed flight served as one of my more anxious twenty minutes in Bots.

The strike put me (and really the general UB campus) in sort of a funky mood. The too quick devolution of adventure filled bliss to three unexpected mid-term exam days resulted in feeling a little frantic and a little more needy for home. (1) I was a bit of a rain cloud.

But all aligned and thanks to a South African airline employee named Daphne, Kevin and I were  eating a Debonairs Mexican Pizza in Las Vegas with Axel, Monica, Nick and Rachel by half past eight. Before the troops departed for Mozambique we felt it very necessary for Kev to experience a most authentic Vegas evening. Complete with a couple six racks of Black Label.
   
Kevin, like a nobel Santa Claus arrived in my humble dormitory with gifts, good tidings and snacks from beautiful beautiful America. Letters, dinosaurs, treats galore even Hostess cupcakes.

( I have alotted 1 per week for the remainder of my time.)

Because of our extended Vegas endeavor we arrived at the hotel, Lolwapa Lodge, which I had carefully hand selected, very affordable, near campus “clean,” etc around 11:30 to find that the inn had no beds for weary travelers (despite my handwritten confirmation sitting on the counter.)

Admittedly I was very pleased that Kev got this rather authentic Botswana experience right off the bat.  Though it was resolved quite quicker than usual.

Time in Gabs was slow and as it should be. We walked to River Walk, ate at Primi with Millie, saw parliament, climbed Kgale hill, rode in Combis, breakfast and jams at Linga Longa. Kevin got to see all parts of my normal life as it stands currently and experience the phenomenon of time. That was wonderful.

I was very happy to have an acknowledgement of craziness I cherish daily.

Standing in a long queue at the Post Office I was so pleased that Kevin too noticed the motivational poster on the wall behind the counter that reads “Fake it till you make it.”
WHAT!? It was the first time I did not have to laugh alone at the absurdity.

I was even more happy to show Kevin, my home in Mochudi and to take him to a traditional wedding as an “established” member of the community. He got to meet Granny too.

On Sunday vacay began! A flight from Gaborone to the north to make it to Livingstone for adventures in Victoria Falls.

Africa. Time in Botswana

Flying was a lovely mode of transport.

The border was insanity. People everywhere looking to help you cross the river any way imaginable and for any and all prices. Anything from 30 USD to a pair of flip flops. Unfortunately we had neither.

We were a tad under-prepared, with not the right amounts or types of any currency really. Quite possibly this was our only slightly tension filled moment.

As a side note, the Zambian currency is the Kwacha (like gotcha with a Q sound.) The Kwacha is nuts because it is 4,000 Kwacha to the dollar. (Or if you are coming from Botswana roughly 640 Kwacha to the Pula (!)) A beer is 8,000 Kwacha, it felt sweet to buy a round and hand over the 40,000 K.

Livingstone, Zamia is a town filled with art and life and so many beautiful things. A lovely and confusing blend of bright African murals and sculpture around large colonial structures. I felt a much less sleepy pace than Gabs.

For evening one in Zambia we elected a sunset float down the river.

Late afternoon we were retrieved from our hostel and driven to The Waterfront, which is a lodge/gathering point on the edge of the river. There are wooden walkways built into the steep bank that are surrounded by giant leaves and palms and ‘vines strangling their kin.’ At night it is lit but oil lanterns.(4)

Above the falls the Zambezi is huge, flat and calm. (Maybe maybe comparable to the Mississippi (?) The river is quite literally the center of the land. Elephants, hippopotamus, crocodiles and lots of birds all coming to escape the dry. We (us and the creatures) watched one another while passing slowly, eating delicious snacks, barbecue and enjoying the open bar (us and not the creatures.) 

By sundown the boat made it to the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe, then turned around, floating along as the stars came out. Of African sunsets I have gotten to see. This was perhaps the most impressive; a perfect round orange, you can stare directly at and never worry about everyone who said you would go blind from doing so.

Father-daughter booze cruise was a success.

The next morning an early wake-up and hike into the Batoka Gorge at the bottom of Victoria falls for white rafting extraordinaire.

We were served a delicious breakers at The Waterfront while we had our training for the day. This was equally terrifying and informative.

Rafting on the Zambezi River below the Victoria Falls is classified as category 5 raft trip meaning it has ‘extremely difficult, long and violent rapids, steep gradients, big drops and pressure areas.’ The number is also based on the ‘severity of consequences of mistake.’ Whoa.

HOWEVER, it was made clear to me that it is possible to go on this 27km trip as an amatuer for two reasons: firstly, it is crazy deep so there are not really rocks to hit or get stuck between, second, Africa has minimal safety standards.

Mostly, training just consisted of learning terminology like downtime: amount of time the water keeps you under IMPORTANT: if you hang on to the boat, you might not be able to get air, but you won’t get stuck in a long downtime. Another fun term is to call-a-get-down: your guide yells “get down” to which you stop what you were doing and hunker into the bottom and cling to your paddle.

After our instructions we formed a rag-tag but good looking little crew. David and Kim from Cananda, out doorsy fairly fresh out of college investment strategists, Johnny an absolute nut carpenter from England and Kev and I. With a very fetching American guide named Tim.

The falls form a boiling pot where the river turns down the Batoka Gorge, the immense power of the Zambezi falls through a two kilometer wide abyss then is forced into a “tiny” gorge (that is how the rapids are made-by squeezing the river.) Hiking down I felt I had discovered the Great(5) Valley in a Land Before Time. It was the most green I had seen in weeks, a huge vine ridden jungle canopy. (I was only missing Littlefoot and co.)

The gorge was so so beautifully quiet. The pace of the day was to be in absolute calm, under a very hot sun and even very hot breeze. Then come to a rapid (hearing before seeing) and have Tim explain what the rapid would be like an our general plan of attack. I.e. Forward hard, Right side forward, Left side back, then (often) call a “get down.”

Team Tim were sort of the All Stars until fateful rapid number 8. 

Rapid 8 or Midnight diner, aptly named as it had “two options on the menu.” One side, a relatively gentle category 3 (2)  and the other, the most challenging and most extensive category 5 of the day. Tim explained that we had a “50-50-errr-70-30” chance of flipping but we would be fine on either side. In Africa we do hard things, so category 5 it was.

Paddling as hard as my arms could move I heard the get down called with just enough time to look up and see, Kevin, Johnny and Kim directly above me. Determined to avoid any and all down time, I clung with all my might (and left arm) (3), relinquishing my paddle to the Zambezi, to the tow rope on the boat so as to not be lost in the under current.

As cool or prepared as you think you might be, everyone coming out of the water looks absolutely horrified, gasping for air, entirely disoriented. Laughing (sort of) but trying not to choke more than you already are.

By no means am I claiming that I am especially athletic, but I got some props (mostly from Kev) for my latching to the boat and quick recovery.

All ‘props’ aside I stood shakily by myself trying to enjoy my egg-salad sandwich after the trauma. I made the horrible faux paux of asking Tim if he had seen any really horrible injuries to which he said, rather severely, “that’s kind of uncool to ask when we still have 17 km to go.” Whoops.

I put every shred of physical and emotional energy into making up for my kharmatic error the rest of the day.

We saw two 5 meter crocodiles (15 FEET) hop right into the river too. When Tim shoved me into Rapid 24, for a “fun swim” I thought solely of how to escape the imminent croc attack.

They day ended in many (more than anticipated) high fives and many many (again more than anticipated) local brews. Tim and friends joined for festivities at our very delightful Jolly Boy’s Hostel. These very charming river guides will be hosting myself and the usual suspects in the upcoming weeks for Livingstone adventure round two.

I feel every component of Zambezi raft day was analogous to living life in Botswana.

Any and all speculation about how I might or might not survive a crocodile attack was clarified immediately upon beginning our camping adventure in the Chobe National Park of Botswana. This is the plan: crocodiles bury the meat they hunt so that it becomes softer, essentially they let it ferment.  When the crocodile attacks you, pretend you are dead. Go limp. Then he will bury you alive. And then you escape!

Excellent.

Just the drive to Chobe was magical. The nearest town to the entrance of the park is Kasane; similar to Mochudi, except green and rather than being thrilled to be surrounded by goats in the Pick n Pay parking lot, we were surrounded by warthogs. Our guide “Mike” thought our excitement over warthogs was silly.

Seconds after seeing the warthog, an elephant and her baby crossed the freeway!

Chobe is huge (11,700 square kilometers) and consists of glorious grassy flood plains, red desert, dense woodland and the Savuti Marsh area, (a large inland lake (!)) Moving through desert, to forest, to beach to swamp and river, following a jelly (herd) of Giraffes. It feels pretend.

The Park is best known for hosting the greatest concentration of elephants in the world (some 60 000 individuals). Birding is also excellent (I missed Axel but our guide Mike was quite the enthusiast as well)

The carmine bee eater is my new fav bird.

We ate tasty tasty campfire meals at sunrise, then attended morning drives in hopes (?) of seeing a kill. Back for lunch, siesta, then sunset drives when everything returns to the river, and hopefully, again something kills something.

Nights were quiet and reflective.

When we successfully tracked our first lions, we sat about 20 feet away, so I hung my body out of the car to be nearer. In all honesty, they appear like they could very much befriend you. Mike said “Be careful not to fall out.” I did not feel too worried.

Later when I asked all my extreme bush hypotheticalz, Mike explained if I fell out I would have been eaten. Very quickly. 

Our first night I woke up to what I was certain was a clever, hungry and lightening speed lion. The sound was vaguely familiar but not enough to register.

ELEPHANTS.

A heard of elephants was meandering through camp.!?. 

There was also an odd sort grunt and giggle sound.

Apparently the funnier of the sounds was the call of the Honey Badger. Supposedly, the honey badger -of which I have not heard until this trip, is a very fierce carnivorous and honey hoarding skunk. Evidently its coloration makes it particularly conspicuous in daylight.

I am still not convinced that the Honey Badger is not the equivalent of an African Snipe.

Because a fire has to be blazing strong all night to prevent trampling, the stars seemed a bit drowned out. Until you walked a bit out of camp (which was not advisable unless you were just in the latrine tent) I opted to sit on the little port-a-potty (7) in the open air tent watching falling stars.

I am most glad Kevin got to camp in Africa.

A final lion tracking in Chobe then off to our final destination of Umdloti, (Umd SH LOW tee) a beach 30 kilometers north of Durban for recuperation and bed/breakfasting.

The Fairlight bed and breakfast located on Margaret Bacon Avenue was a quaint colonial house, all white walls and linens with dark African furnishings. It was certainly the best I have ever seen a beach theme pulled off in home decor. Most exciting was a fresh litter of kittens available to fulfill my unmet desire to ‘catch’ something live.

To our delight and surprise our room, was named “Kevin” suite! (see photo) Africa is the land of synchronicity in the most extreme.

Most of our time was reserved for sunning by the Indian Ocean and eating as much calamari as possible. It was perfect.

Durban is dirty and beautiful.  The biggest buildings and most people I have seen in months.

Apartheid is gone, but also not.

You don’t miss your water till youre well are un’ dried. (6)

I learned I am certainly a dried well in the Gaborone desert and felt more certain of my place in Seattle, at home, after making our way to the ocean.

I returned alone to 37 degree weather at 7 pm! AH! (conversion 98.6) Despite my full-fledged belief that the use of a cotton sheet allows me to be impervious to any assault - most specifically of werewolves - I had to sacrifice my protective layer for bodily comfort. I spent the first night of my life sleeping with no cover.

Heat and all, Gabs has become home. I was so happy to embrace the Vegas posse and Millie after time away.

Everything I find here makes me feel like I am riding a train while sitting backwards. I have no idea where I will find myself but how I arrived where I am is (mostly) clear- ‘synchronicitious’. My spiritual and physical well-being is the solely the result of trying to be brave enough to be fully awake and alive. There is no room to close your eyes or shut your ears and that is both exhausting and great. Kevin (I think) got to feel that.

Kevin and I got to sit in a boat at Africa's “Four Corners” where Botswana, Namibia, Zambia and Zimbabwe all meet on the river, drinking Castle Draught and watching a sun only found in Africa, next to elephants bathing. It is always very surreal when two parts of your world so readily collide.

I think perhaps Kevin made my existence here real.


Love Love love
I hope you missed me as much as I miss you

Jackie




(1)This was just maybe because general procrastination tactics like very extended time on facebook etc, offered too frequent reminders of being so far. SEAC events are making me more nostalgic than anticipated.
(2) This Category 3 rapid was named The Muncher- which I seemed to think was significantly more hilarious than anyone else, but in retrospect I think the half of our boat that had already fallen out was relatively traumatized (again, in the best sort of way) at this point, and in a less silly mood.
(3) If I bend my arm in this very specific way it still hurts.
(4) It was actually quite reminiscent of waiting in line for the disneyland jungle adventure cruise
(5) Not to be confused with Hidden Valley.
(6) Thank you Otis.
(7)I never once thought of Port A Potty as three separate words til this very moment.

Gabs week eight. Strike fun.

After much anticipation the teachers strike at the University of Botswana began on Tuesday September 14th, 2010 at 9 am. It felt pretty surreal to have it finally come to fruition after weeks of speculation. It has been like waiting for snow days, every morning waking up, desperately searching for any and all information telling me I don’t have to attend class. 

The government of Botswana gave the university 30 million pula to distribute amongst faculty and staff. Essentially it was just a much needed pay increase for everyone at UB. By some happenstance or another 28 million was distributed amongst the highest level 15 administrators and the remaining 2 was divided amongst 780 university faculty and lower level staff. Somehow it was thought that all would go unnoticed. (whoops.)

It is the first legal strike in the history of the nation, meaning the unions utilized all necessary channels before formally striking. We were advised to stay near “just incase” it was resolved within 48 hours- which was the designated minimum strike time. A two day resolution of the first legitimate strike Botswana has experienced seemed unlikely (mostly because it takes me 3 hours to wash a load of laundry); but as a collective we opted to stay around Gabs for the first few days and finish our work before any shenanigans were to take place.

Africa. Time in Botswana

Missing class is proving equally thrilling abroad. I think this has confirmed that I will forever love skipping school and luring others to join.

Mornings were spent diligently working over breakfast, afternoon time = pool time. When it cooled down, nights have been spent playing soccer and watching True Blood on Adam’s computer, I have also become the resident barber in Las Vegas (quite successfully I will add.) It was a good amount of just being goofy and mellow. But come Wednesday I was ready for more extended excitement- or at least leisure in a new location.

Though we were all readily whisked away in thoughts of shark diving--wine tasting-road trip filled adventures in South Africa, a regard for budget travel, impending school work and just the general practicalities of trying to do anything super quickly here prevented us from being too crazy during strike week, but we were venturesome none the less. 

After some frantic planning/packing, 4 a.m. wake up call for the usual suspects(4) and a sweltering 8 hour bus ride, we arrived in Ghanzi (HAN zee) to be picked up by the owner of Thakadu Farm, Chris.

Thakadu farm is a 10,000 hecacre oasis in the midst of the Khalahari desert, they have gardens, livestock and a lot of game (interesting animals i.e. not cows). This is where we arranged to stay.


Chris and his wife started the camp as a side project from the farm. They use all the food and game from the land to run a little restaurant and bar called the Rampant Aardvark. I ate warthog curry with rice. YUM. Our camp set up was very much like camping in the great U.S. of A. only next to my tent an ostrich would be sleeping or a herd of giant Eland would start drinking out of the little swimming pool.

Also there were some insane bugs(5).

It was a pretty kooky place. A little off the beaten path. The bar had many silly signs like “If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving isn’t for you...” You know,kooky things.  It was bizarre in a charming way and seemed to suit all of us very well.

Friday morning, we woke up at sunrise to go on a walk, with some of the San (Botswana’s bushmen(3)) who agreed to teach us survival skills for the African desert. They are tiny people. (I placed my foot next to one of their foot prints- no exaggeration-barely more than half the size of my foot.)

Ghanzi is in northwestern Botswana in the middle of the desert just near the edge of the Central Khalahari Reserve and as it turns out is one of the few places where the San have been relocated. The San originally lived in the game reserve but in order to ensure the park's integrity as a nature reserve, the government relocated them to various villages and developed programs to assimilate them into the country's social and economic life.

It was odd going on the walk with them. We learned a lot of neat things, like how to find water in this potato like thing, how to track Kudu, what plants do what (everything, from a plant to use as deodorant, make you infertile, or ward off bad spirits) and how to build a fire with basically nothing (super rad). It felt very ‘African.’ But it was strange to be a group of white youth snapping photos at these indigenous people.

The intention of the government relocation was to “bring their standard of living.” Sadly though, they face a lot of racial discrimination and as a result high levels of alcoholism, poverty and are being depleted by HIV/AIDS (something that didn’t affect them in the bush). I hitch hiked back from town with provisions for our Friday night feast and we picked up one of the women who took us on the walk. She was wearing modern clothes and carrying her baby and six cartons of shake shake. Everyday I am astounded with how to think. It is a very humbling experience.

Afternoon time (well really all day time) was once again designated pool time.

We tried to catch an Eland.

Many instances consisted of testing how close we could get to various wildlife. I have not successfully caught anything yet. Fingers crossed.

Saturday morning, Chris said we could take the horses riding, but only if we had some “significant experience under our belts” because the horses were not really trained and it could be dangerous if they were startled by a snake or heina or something of the sorts.

I may or may not have exaggerated my equestrian abilities.(2)

My horse was named Lum. He looked more like a donkey and was very nice.

There was only one moment when some wildebeest ran across our path where I had to momentarily seriously consider what my plan of action would be if Lum got too frightened. I was glad Lum was so well behaved, especially upon return when we were told that sometimes the horses like to chase the wildebeest.

But all is well that ends well. Rachel, Monica and I, lived and got to spend a few hours horseback riding in the African bush, trotting along in the red red desert sand, it was very quiet and beautiful. Through all of the craziness here, moments of tranquility have been really important. They have enabled me to be and to really just relax in the groundlessness of this place.

It was a blast cooking on the fire. Adam and Axel always tease us (The Americans) for talking about food all the time. So 50 points to USA for surprising the Swedes with how delicious a s’more is.

S’mores, truth or dare (vetoed quickly), just spending hours around a campfire in the middle of a crazy desert, drinking African beer and listening to one another, provided the sort of moment that overcomes you to a point when you have to shout  “we are in Africa! how nutz is this?” The type of moment that that you feel equally silly, awesome and grateful to acknowledge.

Conversing so extensively as a group made me realize how interesting and embarrassing it is to be faced with a profusion of your own words and thoughts as you try to explain yourself to new friends. It is also so great to see the bits of everyone from home who comes out when being amongst a new circle. Who's philosophies have impacted you in a way that they now become how you show who you are.

Politically, emotionally, spiritually everything; I have been equally challenged by time with my fellow internationals and am very grateful for these friendships.

The desert was full of these strange trees that seem to make everything a bit more thoughtful and lovely.

Falling asleep at night you hear so many sounds (SO MANY), which is alarming/fun. Heinas, jackals, galloping antelope, barking ghekos, hundreds of birds- our resident ornithologist Axel continually corrected us that “NO that isn’t an owl, [clearly] it is a Night Jar.”

We were very enthused when Chris invited us (for a small fee) to take a night drive to see all of the nocturnal animals. (Everything we had been hearing but not seeing.)  As it turns out, it is hard to find the animals in the dark. Aside from it being exciting to just drive around the bush for a couple of hours in the intense darkness, the drive was fairly uneventful until a ominous smell and sputter.

Not shocked by the usual status of things, we all just continued to sit giggling in the truck. Laughing at the absurdity. Until Chris said, “I think we are leaking petrol! Get out and push!”
( a little severely I might add.) It took us a moment to understand what was happening. I think we were confused that we were being asked to push, but there was a general “Oh..ok...Yeah...let’s push.”
We all get out and start pushing the safari truck, in probably 4 inches of loose sand, thorns a plenty, nocturnal creatures scurrying around; after about 30 seconds Chris shouts, “Guys! This isn’t working you are going to have to push faster.”  Ha! What!?

I think we could have managed it faster if we weren't all laughing so hard at his demand to move more quickly.

I returned to Vegas torn up from navigating through the bush, literally everything has thorns on it, (6) and absolutely filthy. The eight hour ride home was relatively pleasant. I laid sprawled across three seats, all the windows open, listening to the now familiar and comfortable Botswana hits.

 “Reaching our limits [here] is like finding a doorway to sanity.”(7)Africa wakes you up in every way. It was so good to have a weekend of calm to be able to really think about this.

All of the snacking, reading, being silly was much needed too.

I have not had class for 11 days.(1) And the strike still goes on. 

But I have learned from Botswana (and the Buddha) that ‘chaos should be regarded as extremely good news.’

Miss you with everything.

Love love love

Jackie





P.S. Sorry for a lackluster blog entry. It is difficult to write about so much leisure.
P.P.S. Kevin comes on Thursday for Spring Break Africa! \



(1) This counts a Friday where there was no class already, and two weekends, but still, crazy right?
(2) At one point Monica turned around and said “I tried to post! But this saddle!”  (I had no idea how to respond or what posting is!?) - I am excited for Monica to read this now.
(3)Perhaps this seems like a politically incorrect term, but that is what is used, evidently the real name is a click-based sound we can’t make.
(4) Nick was very missed.
(5)Our tent didn’t zip.
(6)Collecting firewood was a hoot and a half to say the least. Especially after a few Black Label (local brew.)
(7) Pema Chodron/Buddha

Gabs seven. Life as Masego.

It only took about 36 hours for me to be completely able to respond to Masego, Mas (MahSS), or Mase (Mah SSay)** and about 48 to be okay with the idea that my Granny would be sleeping on the floor for the duration of my village stay (11 days!). Since it was her house, Granny insisted “There is no other way(!)” she must be on the floor and I will take her bed. I cringed in fear every time I hopped over her sleeping body. One morning, she grabbed my ankle -scaring me pretty seriously -and in a whisper-yell exclaimed, “Masego! Good morning!”

Africa. Time in Botswana

My first test as new family member was helping organize and throw a baby shower. The party organizers cook all day then make a luxurious little nest for the mother to be, Kagiso (Ka HEE so) in the yard, then while she rests bring her all the food, drinks and gifts. Everyone is expected to offer some sort of advice or blessing (dependent if your a mother or not). Evidently, if you give really good advice (or if they can’t hear you (?)) you have to dance. Some how I ended up dancing for everyone.*

I was pleased when I got asked to sit with Kagiso, next to her ‘nest’ and be in charge of organizing the gifts she received and folding any diapers (nappies) she was given. I didn’t understand that this was a rather arduous task because all of the gifts are packaged in cloth diapers that had been safety pinned in a million places to make ‘wrapping paper,’ so I had to frantically unpin them, save the pins, fold them, then display them in an aesthetically pleasing manner (that last step seemed irrelevant till someone told me to make them “look nicer” and a rather surly older woman emphatically asked if I “even knew how to fold.”)

During the gift mayhem, a snake slithered up to the patio where the baby shower was taking place, everyone screamed and a woman violently and repeatedly hit the snake with what seemed to be a wheel from a wagon (as in a radio flyer type wagon) till it died. All this happened before I could respond or even set down some the nappies I was covered in. 

I learned after the fact that this woman was so insistent on guaranteeing the decapitation because most of the snakes in Mochudi are indeed black mambas. “Apart from being considered one of the world's deadliest snakes, the black mamba is also one of the most feared snakes in Africa due to its potent venom, large size, and the ferocity of its attack” (thanks wikipedia).  This also made my bathroom-snake run in significantly more frightening.

Geoff reminded me nightly to not leave the windows open because the snakes would come in.

The baby shower ended in too much red wine and fanta for both Tshepo and I.

Early Sunday morning, I woke up to the standard blaring top 40 hits (city and village a like). My “uncle” Buju had the same ring tone on his phone as Millie- so I didn’t even have to miss my daily dose of Jason DeRulo.

After our 5 hour church service all in Setswana (Whoa.) I explored Mochudi which consists of many tiny shops, two grocery stores, informal vendors, a million hair salons (none of which were willing to give me sweet corn-rows******)  and the world’s quaintest library.

At night Geoff and I made his favorite dinner (Bologna Sandwiches and Hot Chocolate) and watched High School Musical 3; Senior Year while Peter watched the news.  I was surprised when this all happened simultaneously in the same room. At the same time. 6 feet apart.

There are two televisions in the same room; logically this is because only one of them plays DVDs and one does not. The craziness of the developing nation never fails me.  “Isn’t television beautiful?”***** (quote Geoff.) 

The news and our movie watching did not curb Uncle Buju’s  (Boo joo) blaring hip-hop jams either.

I should explain also, every room in the house has walls that are maybe 12 feet high and vaulted ceilings, but the walls don’t go to the ceiling. If this doesn’t make sense, just imagine, if you could climb up the twelve feet, you could climb over the wall and into the next room. Everything, everything is audible always. ( I actually would be jarred awake all week when the electricity would cut because the silence became so deafening.)

Generations, the Botswana soap and by some outrageous miracle (happenstance might be more appropriate) The OC season 4 (!) was being featured on SABC TV and became our family’s nightly selection. We ate dinner in front of the television every night, including the night that I cooked American cusine.

As a thank you for so generously and warmly hosting me, I wanted to cook one meal, they expressed interest in Italian-American food. So I settled on Fettuccine Alfredo, Caprese Salad and garlic bread. I went to the market, bought all the yummiest freshest things. I worked so long and I even only had one mishap in the kitchen (when I went to bake the garlic bread, I preheated the oven; not realizing until a horrific smell that it was used for storage. Baking is not such a common thing. Whoops.)

Geoff came in first to try the sauce (made from scratch- and it [I promise] was so good). One lick of the spoon, “OH yuck, this is not nice to me.” Evidently Geoff does not like Cheese- he got a bologna sandwhich. The rest of the family had similar (but far less extreme reactions). Granny just mixed in beet root and a bunch of Chakalaka (Choc Oh LAW ka - my favorite spicy salad.) Tshepo said, “mmm Hmmm it’s fine- I know this food because I made a lot of blue box**** in the U.K.” Seeing my face she added, “No no it is nice, it is just not what we eat- you don’t like our food either.” Fair enough.

After my comfort meal I slept the best I have in weeks.

Mid week I (alas!) found a really big bucket (REALLY Large) so I was able to bathe with my whole body in the bucket sitting down-much like a bath tub, rather than the stand and scoop method (which is proving to be both time/labor intensive and ridiculously messy- I have been getting water everywhere and frantically using anything available to clean it up before my family finds my puddles). Early in the week, circa 4:30 am, I was stewing in my tub when the electricity went out. This has been my single most flustered moment. Naked in the pitch black, need I remind you about le snakes?

Peter is a lecturer at Botswana Business College meaning I had the privilege of getting a ride into Gabs every morning at 5:30 commuting by car rather than spending the two hours it takes on public transport. Our morning rides became one of the highlights of my village stay. I have been advised to ‘live the questions now and perhaps [I] will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” I have accepted this but felt a lot of pain with the patience it requires to just let answers find you- patience is everything, everything here.

I think as a fellow foreigner, being from Kenya (or maybe because of the two years he and Tshepo spent in the UK) Peter was able to very objectively view the Setswana culture and offer a great amount of honest insight, and finally I lived my way into (at least a few) answers.

Friday morning I was woken a bit earlier than normal (i.e. before 4 am) to what sounded like rocks on our tin roof. (No one else woke up (!)) Outside I was greeted by insane thunder and lightening. Then the wet.

It was the first rain.

After I felt it on me, I sat on the porch of my village home watching, next to a fire, waiting for the water to boil, in the middle of the desert.

I listened to my ipod too. It was a good moment. So stay, don't go, 'cause I'm fading away. 

The first rain in seven months.

I didn’t have class this particular Friday so Tshepo and Peter took me to the plot where they are building their house to do some work. When I inquired as to what sort of work we would be doing, Peter replied, “Ah Masego! The physical kind.” I had anticipated a fair amount of manual labor, but the addition of the African heat, made wheelbarrowing up hill nutz. (Mochudi is very hilly, especially when compared to Gabs.) My reward for being a good African worker was Chibuku, also known as shake shake. This is the native drink of choice, it is made of maize meal, water, sugar and yeast. Basically it is as if you started making break and then decided to put the dough in the bottom of a milk carton and fill it with water. Then let it sit till it becomes 4.0 % alc by vol. Mmmm. You have to shake it to mix the chunks up. I texted my friend Tino (who is from Zimbabwe) to tell him I was indeed drinking Chibuka and he replied “Ah yes drink and meal in one.” This is a true statement.

The weekend came a wedding and a funeral.

Friday night were preparations for the wedding. Tshepo told me to not work too hard because these were the “bad cousins;” evidently they have bad manners (I gathered this means they don’t follow the proper customs). Also, evidently not working to hard was very relative. I was invited to ‘help’ slaughter the cow, an invitation not afforded to any women, so defs not the thing to turn down. I am not sure if it was my inclination towards vegetarianism or the half liter of Shake Shake I had consumed but it was a rough time for my tummy during the ceremonial killing. All tears were held back, and like a champ (I think self congratulations are fairly warranted) I gracefully (sort of) ate part of the heart.

I feel newly kindred to the tshwana (Twan Ah = cow).

As the Mariri family continued to deconstruct the cow (yuck), Tshepo and I had to prepare Loputsi (Low   poot SEE) which is a butternut squash salad- it tastes almost exactly like sweet potato pie (minus (unfortunately) the marshmallow.) The starch from the squash starts to make your hands burn and eventually crack (this is especially true when you are making enough for a 200 person wedding), so you have to keep dipping your hands in vegetable oil, a fine solution- except peeling a squash with a dull steak knife when your covered in oil is an exciting endeavour.  My hands were bloodied and on fire within 20 minutes. But as stated, these were the bad cousins so it was only an hour and a half peeling session.

Women must wrap their heads and cover their shoulders for the funeral. My family was proud I looked so African. (So was I.)

The funeral started before sunrise at the house of Nthutsi’s mother, Mpho (Mm Po). It is similar in that there is a service, with various people speaking,   Nthutsi is Mpho’s seventh child to bury, he was 25. She has two son’s still alive.  When called to speak she said “I have nothing to say, we are burying every year- sometimes twice.”

An elderly Motswana woman was helping explain everything, kindly answering all of my questions. Finally I worked up the courage and asked how Nthutsi died and she said that she didn’t know, “maybe he was sick.” This was the same exact thing Tshepo had said to me earlier. It means he died from AIDs.

She proceeded to add that it’s good I ask so many questions, but to remember “some men don’t like that.”

They lowered the coffin while everyone sang traditional songs, men on one side, women on the other and the sun rose. By some miraculous happenstance, everyone can sing in these ultra complicated wonderful harmonies with no coordination. It was a very cloudy day (my third in 7 weeks.) Peter told me if it rains when you are buried it means you were a good person.

No one cried. It seems Africa is out of tears. Here they say Saturdays are for funerals. Saturdays are all the same.

When they began to fill the grave I couldn’t help but look to Mpho, no tears just silence.

At one point I noticed, the youngest brother wiping his face in his jacket collar. Afterwards he asked if I saw him wiping his eyes; he wanted to let me know that it was just the dust. I told him it was just the dust in my eyes too.

After what felt like an ordeal, I was emotionally and physically spent. Being greeted in the middle of a dirt road by our Africa adventure team, my soul was soothed. It feels quite nice to have that sort of camaraderie and to have, really a little family amongst African craziness. It was assumed that Rachel and Monica would be attending the wedding since they were now part of families that have close ties to my family (The host family) and we had arranged, much to the delight of Tshepo and Granny, to bring Adam, Axel and Nick.

As Masego Mariri, it was expected (since after all I share a surname with the Bride) that I would serve food, as well my female friends. It was pretty delightful and silly resulting in many minor miscommunications on appropriate portion size and only a slight incident of me dripping scalding beef on Rachel’s new dress.

There was a lot of eating, a lot of dancing and even more drinking of home made Chibuku. Adam and Axel participated the gift giving dance, where you dance in a line with your gift and make a big pile in front of where the bride will come out. Batsi had told us to get a knife, or a potato peeler (?) (we got the latter) as a present, which felt sort of...minimal... but it turned out to be the perfect gift. The Swedes proudly danced our present to the pile. I don’t think we understood how much we stand out until time in the village, it was all quite the spectacle at the wedding.

Our farwell night was concluded with Tshepo and Peter taking us Mokgowa out to the local hot spot Bee6.

Tshepo and Peter have already invited us back for fun in Mochudi.

I think we have discovered here that “...the only courage that is demanded of us: [is] to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter.”******I am irrefutably experiencing the most strange, singular and most inexplicable moments and with each one am attempting to be my most brave.  

I tried to explain on a very welcomed and appreciated phone call back to the states that sometimes I get this mental image of a little me walking around on a globe (or map) through a little Botswana.  That is when I realize how far away I am. This visual was solidified when I watched the Botswana weather report on the news- which is exactly the same as at home, with the green screen and the little temperatures and tiny rain clouds, only rather than Washington state it is (yes, obviously) southern Africa.

10,064.9 miles away. I notice each one of them.

The village was amazing but viva las vegas. I am glad to be back.

Miss miss miss you.
Love


Jackie/Masego


I am pretty sure that they just wanted to see the Lekgowa dance (but Geoff said I looked like Shakira- perhaps because they were surprised I can hold my own when dancing or perhaps because I was dancing to the Waka Waka Africa song- either way I am satisfied)
* I am very curious to know if they will remember, or really know that my name is Jackie.
*** Blue box as in Kraft Mac n’ Cheese.
**** It is crazy that he asked this, because there is an extended portion on the romanticizing of the television in one of the novels I just completed for my African Lit class and a little girl from Ghana in 1965 claims television is the most beautiful thing in the world.
***** Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke. Thank you Bone, I have been thoroughly moved.
****** Perhaps for the best.

Gabs week six. Freshers Ball and the birth of Krishna.

I have officially recovered and as promised my victory over African bacteria was celebrated in fine form with my Choc-o-Holic** Spinner and a viewing of Top Gun.

It seems I healed at the right time because the heat has arrived in full force and I think that would have been an especially unpleasant addition to my bathroom time.

It is 33 degrees Celsius at this exact moment, (convert that)!*

The heat has also brought the bugs and the bugs have brought the bats. SO many bats. Playing soccer at night, you literally have to dodge bats every where. Some people think it is gross, I think it feels cool. exotic. 

The teachers have not gone on strike yet but our fingers are crossed, skipping school feels equally good abroad.  Otherwise academics have been relatively run of the mill, minus a build up of work prior to mid semester break (Spring Break). (Spring break culture is the same Tofo, Mozambique = Cancun.) I'll be in Zambia then South Africa! 

In addition to UB classes, our program requires a series of lectures and seminars as part of our cultural immersion, this week we had a lecture on the Evolution of Setswana culture, really we just got to ask questions and talk about the culture we have observed for a couple hours with Dr. Pearl Seloma. Dr. Seloma is a population studies specialist with an emphasis in the impacts of folklore on society. Super interesting. She lived in Los Angeles for 12 years while she got her Ph.D. at UCLA.

I liked that she defined culture shock as "realizing you are different from other people, not that they are different from you." It seems very true to me. 

Dr. Seloma formally confirmed that time in Botswana is utilitarian and not based on our very abstract concept of time. Centered on completion of tasks,  it is odd when you think about how seriously we regard time that is just a number on a clock in a day; after all time is nothing.  It was really nice to have this openly explained and I am not only appreciating but embracing the difference now.

What was less nice was our discussion on gender roles.

I, as well as my fellow international student female friends (and I am fairly sure most women in Botswana [but who am I to say that]), am pretty wiped out from being verbally harassed when ever I am outside of my room. Today a car kept honking at Monica and I; we were trying to ignore it, but I could hear it pulling up, I got really tense and was ready to send whoever on their way- then I realized it was Batsi (!) he just wanted to give us a ride. :/  It really wears on you, especially when the expectation here is that you do not say anything back. You smile and stay silent.

I (probably too flippantly) asked about the gender dynamic and feminism in Botswana.

Dr. Seloma responded, “I do not call myself a feminist, it is a very unattractive word.” (Yikes.) 

I read in a delightful blog (Pura Vida, by a delightful Annelie Day) that an instructor in Costa Rica was expressing the dangers of city, and the importance of not walking alone, saying “Ladies, now is not the time to exert your feminism...” Dr. Seloma used more or less the same phrasing to say this is not the country to be in if you would like to exert your feminism. Don’t live here if you have a problem with patriarchy. I am trying to navigate this in a culturally suitable way, in the confines of a developing nation but I know that it will be the greatest challenge.

Despite not holding feminism in very high light and mentioning something along the lines of men should have equal rights too (basically that feminism in oppressive), Dr. Seloma somehow concluded her presentation by saying she, personally, wished she had not gotten married because she “could have gone much farther in life.”    

This reality here has made me more than a bit grumpy this past week.

My mind has felt like a scramble of trying to understand what is happening here, why and what “should” be happening (but then I feel like reprimanding myself for even the slightest imposition of my “should be happening’s” for the nation.)

Clearly, there are and will continue to be huge conflicts over the most appropriate way to develop, but there are such extremes here. It feels like this large majority of society is making every effort to project idea’s of the “American dream”. They actually even link it to Obama being Kenyan, “A Kenyan is now President of America-that has taught us we can do anything.”  Lots of people want to suggest you have complete agency, there is always a way, it is all how hard you work and failure is your fault; any errors in development are because people are not trying. 

But progress is struggling, so am I suppose to think people here don’t try?

After six weeks of a course in Economic Development and one in Sustainable Development, a professor on Thursday for the first time acknowledged that this view and the adoption of modern/western values may be the wrong choice for Botswana, or at least may need to be approached differently.

I have the sense there is a lot of systemic oppression that is working against Botswana, but it has been hard to find and I don’t know if that idea is present.

 The Open Society and its Enemies by Karl Popper (which we discussed in my mad-rad African philosophy course) theorized (?) suggested (?) implied (?) that African’s have no vision of alternative.  Historically, the African world  depends not on natural law but on human whim (there is no objectivity.)  I guess here, there is a lot of causality in explaining what is happening in the world -like Kharma (i.e. it won’t rain because the youth of today are immoral.) This dependence on magical belief as the way of explaining reality makes Africa a ‘closed society’ resistant to change (no alternatives).  Popper asserts that countries in the west embrace a fluidity of ideas so are ‘open societies.’ This theory was used to delegitimize Africans as competent people.

I entirely disagree with Popper but this idea is the best way I can encapsulate how development is being handled currently. The nation is divided and no one can embrace the other’s alternative. When I ask people why this is happening  they say, “what do you expect?...T.I.A.” ***

I think now, it is just trying to understanding why because it is a very sad mentality, My professor said, “Botswana must stop focusing on the tree and start looking at the forest,” I like this idea but like I said, my minds a bit scrambled after the week.

All grumpiness was cured by the discovery of Linga Longa Breakfast. They have a glorious outside patio and its full of relatively high speed wireless internet, breakfast all day, a very yummy (especially by African standards) eggs benedict, their own bathroom and bottomless coffee (!) (That’s the real shocker- things like ‘free refills’ are not present in Bots- I made my self sick off the coffee I was so elated.) Our waitress is even named Perfect. How great is that!?*****

There is a huge population of both Indian and Chinese people. They are taking advantage of (maybe even exploiting) "economic opportunities". It is a big problem for the Batswana, but it is also something I haven’t quite wrapped my mind around yet. Needless to say we have made some Indian friends here.  They are all Hare Krishna-a type of Hindu and they have some really neat philosophy, ideas like each one of us is not our physical body but an eternal spirit soul, part of God -Krishna- so we are all interrelated. They are also know for lots of delicious food. 

Rachel and I got invited by a new friend Aki (Aw Kee) to a party at the temple last Thursday. Though Aki seemed a but awkward :) initially and we were avoiding giving him our numbers (I actually did avoid it) he turned out to be great! Picked us up at 8:30 and took us to the temple. The temple is super grandiose; all white carved marble with tiny detailing, it looks like a baby Taj Mahal (or something that you would imagine as very typically Indian) but in the middle of Gaborone. It was crazy to see.

There were three hours of dancing and some dramas performed to celebrate. It was put on by the temple youth group and similar to say, an American school play -very charming and a bit silly.

At midnight Krishna is born,  (surprisingly in essentially the exact same scenario as Jesus- they actually refer to Janmashtami as Indian Christmas.) They remove the curtain from the alter in the temple, to show the shrine which is this amazing ornate statue covered in fruit and flowers and peacocks (not sure about the peacock but it looked sweet). 

There were 413 (according to Aki) dishes, the idea is this; on your birthday you should eat your favorite foods, but Krishna is a fickle god so they just make everything.  There are huge buckets of naan, rice, dahl and paneer then literally hundreds of bowls of food and you take a little of what ever you like. All vegetarian. mmmm Yumsters. (I think it has been my greatest meal in 7 weeks.) Weirdly they also had the best birthday cake I have had in a long time (I just didn’t really think of Indian celebrations incorporating cake-but no expectations right?!)

The weekend stayed cheerful since Friday night was Freshers Ball, it is an all night concert from 6pm to 6am, it is a university sponsored concert and party (To SUers this is African Quadstock.) It was really(really really) nuts, LOTs of drinking, dancing and hot dogs. The music was so fun, traditional beats meet hip-hop explosion. Monica and I also learned how the dangers of our campus, i.e. holes, water canals and thorns should be very carefully minded post an evening that was as...festive...as freshers ball. The early morning wake up to move to the village, however, could have gone better.

I am spending the next ten days living in Mochudi, a village about 45 minutes north east of Gabs. 2 hours by public transport.

My family is so great and greeted me with boxed red wine mixed with grape fanta. (another Yikes).

I have a mother named Tshepo (Say Po- though you need to make a little tst sound at the begining), a father from Kenya named Peter, a little brother named Geoff- he is 8 and super excited and a Grandma Mariri (Ma reeree).

They named me Masego (Ma Say HO), it means the lucky one.

It is a rural homestay and they take me in as their daughter for the week. I do all the things a 20 something daughter would do. Cleaning, serving tea, wearing village appropriate clothes i.e. ankle length skirts, really just nothing to scandalous. I cooked dinner last night. I asked Tshepo what to do, as she handed me, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, chilli peppers and about ten pounds of beef.  She said “Just do what you think you should do.” Everyone liked it and congratulated me.  I didn’t properly de-vein the chillis so it was super (super super) hot, Peter and Tshepo thought that was funny but I had to make Geoff a bologna sandwich. 

I woke up at 4:30 am this morning, to take my first bucket bath, cook breakfast, and commute into Gabs for school. I am excited to see my status at the end of the week.

Found a snake in the bathroom. Both scary and cool.****


Miss miss miss you
love from far away

Jackie




* if you feel annoyed converting that it is 92 degrees Fahrenheit (and this is Spring. whoa)
** I cringe every time I have to say that when I order, and if you try to call it the # 10 (which it is) they insist you clarify, SO you must say “I’d like the Choc-o-Holic Spinner.”
*** This is Africa, in case you forgot.
****More scary.
*****Also they have played Sweet Caress by Breathe every time I am here, I am both very curious as to who is making the Linga Longa playlist as well as why I have not listened to this song more in my life before time here.