First Congregational UCC - Platteville

Even though at times I still wonder why I didn’t request (or why Peace Corps didn’t figure it out for themselves) to be placed in a Spanish-speaking country. But mostly, I am so grateful to have a completely foreign experience. And to be forced to learn (still learning! can’t wait ‘til I say speaking) Setswana. Some of you may be dismayed at the news that, as a result, I have changed from a hippy, liberal Madisonite (bordering on socialist) to a raging capitalist. Maybe not quite raging, but still, I am gaining a new appreciation for the American Way. I’m not sure if I told the story of my friend Monica’s host mother in Moshupa expressing dismay that Oprah wasn’t going to build a school for Botswana, too (“We are suffering!” she said). This attitude, of wanting anyone but “myself” to relieve this so-called “suffering” is rampant. Besides, if by “suffering” you mean lacking cell phone network and living in an area with limited transport, well I seem to be surviving just fine. My colleagues are appalled that I am living without electricity and without a refrigerator (which is supposedly coming next week). I thought I would be forced to live more simply while serving as a PC volunteer. Instead, I find myself having to make the same sort of effort to reduce my consumption as I would in the States. Anyway, about capitalism, the lack of business sense continues to surprise me. The volunteers before us warned us that we would have to beg to spend money. I didn’t quite understand what they meant, until the first time I wanted to buy something that wasn’t readily visible at the store in Moshupa. I asked where to find the pens (in Setswana). The woman who I asked simply said, “I don’t know.” I tried again, “I want to buy pens. Do you have any?” It was like I was bothering her. “Do we have pens?” she asks her co-worker. They think about it for awhile and half-heartedly search in their immediate viscinity (at the cash registers) . . . needless to say, I gave up. “Customer Service” is literally a foreign concept. Interesting. With an astronomical unemployment rate, you would think it would be the ideal environment for entrepreneurs. Not so. At least not for the Batswana. ALL of the business owners are foreigners. In fact, shops are called “China shops” precisely because of this phenomenon. Several Indian and Chinese merchants have figured out that Botswana is an ideal place to have a business . . . there are customers because there is actually money in Botswana and there are no other shops because it hasn’t occurred to a Motswana to open one. Eish! Pick yourselves up by your bootstraps, people! But then, roughly 40% of your working class are infected with HIV. Okay, fine, I will cease begrudging you lack of business sense.

Last Saturday I did indeed cook for the crime prevention (as in prevention of cattle theft) workshop. The older brother to the kgosi gave welcoming remarks. For some reason he felt it necessary to mention his idea for the latest cure for HIV- drinking the sap of a local tree, I’m afraid I don’t remember the name of it. Good think it’s completely useless advice anyway. I am not particularly distressed that this old man is adhering to an old ideas (that sap does have medicinal properties) and refusing to recognize the impact of HIV/AIDS in his village or his country . . . I do wish he would keep his ideas to himself. My friend Thatlego (a teacher) presented an intelligent rebuttal to his remarks.

Susie is leaving tomorrow. It is almost a relief, she was wavering for so long (recently she had changed her mind to stay again and then finally made the final decision to go).

Last weekend, the teachers and women who I was cooking with made me feel particularly welcomed and at home in Kole. I almost shirked my duties as part of the cateringt committee because I woke up with a slight head ache and not really sure what to expect and feeling like I wanted a break. I considered staying home in bed or maybe going to Ncojane to help Susie pack. I managed to at least get out the door and then three of the teachers who were on their way to the workshop insisted I go . . . I’m so glad I did. I heard them say over and over, “Ah, Thapelo is doing well here, she is already adjusting. She is just like one of us.” etc., etc. I honestly don’t know exactly what it is that I am doing to “do well” but I am so grateful for their feedback. It balances out the inevitable moments of frustration. There are so many things I don’t know about how to be a “good African woman.” I am supposed to always leave a light on in my house after dark, for example. Explaining that I don’t want to waste paraffin doesn’t seem to be a very good explanation. At the funeral two weeks ago, while I was helping serve tea on Wednesday evening, my task was to pour cold water into the pots of heating water over the fire. An old man pointed to one of the pots and said something to me in Sekgalagadi. I assmed (never assume!) that he was telling me to pour the water in, which I already knew to do. As I started to pour, he stopped me and berated me (I don’t know what he said, but I felt berated) and everyone laughed and laughed. Someone translated for me so I would know what he said, “he says you don’t listen and you wouldn’t make a good wife.” I refrained from dumping the bucket of water on him but I did set the bucket down and make as graceful an exit as possible, knowing I was creating yet another offense by walking away from my duties. (That is the reason I “needed a break” from the funeral and didn’t go to the service on Thursday evening). This is exactly the sort of thing we were warned about in training when the current volunteers told us, “they will laugh at you, you have to have a sense of humor and be willing to laugh at yourself with them . . .” I thought I was Ms. Sense of Humor, but when little emotions are amplified by the feeling of being a foreigner in a foreign land, it gets harder to laugh.

Last Friday I received a package from the PC office . . . it was forwarded mail from Gaborone. It was so much wonderful support and good wishes from home all at once that it had the unintended effect of making me somewhat miserable . . . I dealt with the homesickness by writing a song. I will share the lyrics with you:

“I wonder why I choose to travel far
crossing oceans where they’ve gone before
doesn’t seem to matter
what I’ve left behind
or how good it is on the other side.

I hope that those who I have left behind
can feel the thoughts and prayers and dreams of mine
I send them often
back overseas, wishing desperately for those close to me.

And yet I’m grateful as I soon recall
that it is they who have sent me far
they form an anchor
in my soul that will keep me here to follow this call.”

So, that is dedicated to all of you.

I will try to briefly tell one more story (I have 7 minutes left of internet time) . . . On Monday I was told that I would have transport to a PMTCT drama competition meeting in Gantsi. I arrived at the clinic at ten minutes to 7am. At 7am, no ride, so I stopped at one of my co-worker’s houses and said, “I’m going to try to hike to the meeting.” After waiting for an hour and a half I got a ride with our own clinic vehicle going to Charles Hill. About 5 km outside of Kole, we got a flat tire. A police vehicle from Ncojane came by. They were going to Gantsi. I went alone (for a very bumpy ride in the back of the truck with no padding – ouch) and got to Gantsi about noon. I arrived a few minutes before the ride that was supposed to pick me up (they forgot me) from Charles Hill because it had made so many stops along the way . . . Monica was fuming but we were soon laughing and shaking our heads together about the ridiculousness of the transport situation.

Okay, that’s it for now. Love and miss you,

Leah