First Congregational UCC - Platteville

(How is it going at Kole) . . .

Dear friends and family,

I don’t know where to begin. Ga ke itse gore ke simolola kae. I will have to be categorical again, in order to organize the growing number of experiences that I am failing to tell you regularly enough.

Run for Life:

We have an additional team member. His name is Rider Pelo. He is the cousin of the Standard 5 teacher, Rra Pelo. Pelo means heart. So, we share a last name, sort of. Anyway, Rider is 24 yrs, involved with the drama group, and was running regularly before Run for Life started in Kole. He is in excellent shape, completely capable of running 21 km. His English is quite good because he is from Kanye or somewhere nearer to Gaborone. Since he has joined, the team communication has gotten better, as in, we understand each other about practice times and training schedules (I’m afraid those things are not in my Setswana vocabulary).

Mokwaledi continues to be the star of the team. He is only 19. I believe he has amazing potential as an athlete . . . perhaps to be an olympic runner. How can I help him with that? Hopefully Run for Life is a start. And doing things like feeding him dinner after we ran too late and his family went to bed after dinner without saving him food. That happened a couple of weeks ago. I was bathing and he knocked on the door. I finished quickly and went out expecting to find my neighbor who had invited me over for dinner (which is record book worthy in Botswana. Dinner invitations do not happen, you are just supposed to show up). Anyway, it wasn’t my neighbor, it was Mokwaledi who asked me in his broken English if I could prepare food for him. I was overwhelmed, grateful that he would ask me, and guilty that I was responsible for him being hungry at that moment. Mostly, though, I was beside myself because I couldn’t feed him. I didn’t have any gas to cook with and very little food because I hadn’t been to Ghanzi recently. I was grateful that my neighbor had offered to feed me. So, I took him next door and said, “Will you feed him instead?” Shadrack fed us both. That man in saintly. Earlier in the evening he had driven me down the road, stopping every kilometer so I could get out and spray paint a rock or tree with the number of kilometers we had gone from Kole towards Ncojane so the team could keep track of how far they were running. Mokwaledi and I were searching for the elusive 2 km mark and ended up getting to 3km before turning around, so that’s why he was late for dinner.

Keolebogile is the daughter of our local crazy person. I just found that out last week when she accompanied her mother to the hospital in Ghanzi on the ambulance. I was surprised. Her mother couldn’t have raised her. Sometimes the communal society that creates dependence and discourages taking responsibility for one’s actions is a wonderful thing. The extended family raised Keolebogile well. Anyway, she is the one who ran in pink plastic flip flops. She is 22 yrs old, tall and skinny. I could blow her 21 km. But she is prone to ankle injuries and last week she stopped after a kilometer and informed me that her heart wasn’t working well (Pelo yame ga e bereke sentle). Oh, dear. What have I done by taking responsibility for these kids being “healthy.” No wonder the villagers are skeptical of me and my work.

A side note about her mother. My fellow staff members at Mendota and I used to commiserate about having signs on our backs or foreheads or somewhere that said, “If you’re crazy, talk to me.” Even away from work, we found ourselves listening to people whose reality is slightly different from our own. On the bus, at the Memorial Union, walking down State St. I assume it comes from lacking the usual fear or standoffishness that people can’t help having towards someone who is actively crazy. Well, the sign followed me to Botswana. This woman is the daughter of a sweet old man who is also crazy but less active and therefore less noticeable. Bati on the other hand is quite mobile and with the change of season, her illness, whatever it is, is aggravated. During our morning prayer meeting at the health post, she comes in loudly greeting everyone (especially me). A quirk of hers is to collect various litter and items from the ground and keep them in various pockets in her numerous articles of clothing. While we were praying, she came up to me and started emptying the contents of her pockets into my hands, refusing my suggestion she should sit down by me and pray. She needed to unload first. I received a strange variety of things, including a condom wrapper, much to the amusement of my neighboring prayer-goers. I finally asked where she lived so I could take her home, but she had no interest in staying there once we arrived. The next morning, she was back at the health post and the FWE’s shared a tender moment with her, helping to rearrange her three skirts and pants in a more manageable fashion (as in, around her waist as opposed to around her ankles). She danced when they were done and went out smiling.

Segofatsang is related to Keolebogile somehow. But physical they are dissimilar. Segofatsang is shorter and very solid. She is 22 and has a beautiful laugh. She talks and laughs constantly while she runs which impresses me. She is very fast. She beats the boys sprinting, even Mokwaledi. I love it.

Thomas is our most sporadic runner. He is the health auxiliary at the health post. He is a blessing and a challenge for me. He speaks English perfectly and is also an outsider in the village. So, we vent to each other and I can ask him sensitive questions about how to follow village protocol. (It was he who was denied the use of the community hall for a karate/exercise group and for whom I wrote a letter to the VDC “clarifying the use of the community hall.”) He feels ostracized by Kole villagers, especially by the village leaders. He says, “They say I’m a drunk.” Well, you kind of are, Thomas. A couple weeks in a row, he was drunk on a Tuesday along with the health post driver. I know because I sat in-between them on the way to Ncojane in the ambulance, transporting patients to see the nurse there when ours was not around. They were passing a bottle of brandy. They thought my purse-lipped refusal of the bottle and reprimanding was cute, part of why I am so wonderful and attractive as their alcohol loosened tongues were repeating along with increased frequency of marriage proposals. So, I can’t rely on him completely, but he is such a valuable resource. He is smart, funny, and “born to teach”, as he says. He could do so much HIV/AIDS work with me and it would be helpful for him as well if I were including him in my work (entertaining him with something other than alcohol). As far as Run for Life, he is the oldest (25 yrs) and the other team members look to him as a leader. He is also very athletic, small and quick but his stamina isn’t good because he doesn’t hold himself back in the beginning.

I got disappointing news this weekend. I found out that the GLOW commitment I have on the same weekend is being held in Maun instead of Gaborone, so I can’t do both things after all. So, two other PCV’s who are taking teams to the race are going to have to take care of my kids, too. I am disappointed and feeling frazzled.

GLOW (Girls and Guys Leading Our World)

I have eluded to the history of it before, but I happen to have the specific information in my head at the moment, so I will tell you. It was started by PCV’s in 1995 in Romania. I don’t know what the specific situation was in Romania that inspired the volunteers to address gender-based issues, but I imagine it was similar to the plight of women in the rest of world: poverty, lack of autonomy, dependence (and therefore vulnerable to exploitation) on men. It is so wonderful to write those lines and know that all (I hope) of the readers will understand what I mean and not be offended. Explaining what GLOW is to the villagers has taken some tiptoeing around, trying not to criticize a culture that has hierarchical, deeply defined gender roles that put men above women in every sense. (Hence the dikgosi’s reaction to the question, “it is okay to hit your wife or girlfriend” . . . Absolutely). I had a disheartening conversation with Thomas last Thursday. “What about BLOW?” He asked, concerned that the boy-child was being left out of the gender empowerment equation. I said, the G stands for both guys and girls and I explained that this year there would be GLOW camp for both genders specifically because the gender empowerment is not supposed to focus on women. Men also suffer from gender roles that encourage them to have many sexual conquests in order to prove their manliness. He said, “Women can’t try to be men, they don’t know how to lead the world. They are going to get themselves in that position and then they will see how hard it is to be a man.” I was so upset it was hard to be coherent and articulate in my response. He is the new generation, the modernized Motswana man who dreams of having a wife someday (not the mother of his two children, but someone who he is really in love with, he says).

Our delegation got picked to go to the GLOW camp in December!!! I am delighted. We are going to hold our first GLOW club meeting next Wednesday. I have no idea what I will do for it . . . discussing the qualities of a leader and maybe an introduction to talking about gender roles and their implications for being able to accomplish our life goals.

There is a training of trainers meeting for all the PCV’s and local leaders (for me, it’s Katlego) on Oct. 27th and 28th in Maun. We will discuss all the activities for the camp and finalize a schedule and who will be leading each session. I will be teaching salsa classes at some point, using the metaphor of a partner dance to encourage gender equality, a partnership involving communication, respect, and fun.

Maun

I spent this past weekend in Maun with Monica and Cassie. Monica and I went to the National PMTCT Drama Competition, the culmination of all the other drama events with which I had been involved. I will not bother to pull you into the frustration that was trying to find out how to go, who to take, what transport to use, etc. The Ghanzi District and Charleshill Sub-District are fighting so the Charleshill Sub-District wasn’t considered “officially invited” (even though there was a project that got first place at Regionals and was going to Nationals from the Sub-District). So, no government transport could be provided for drama group representatives who we were hoping to take, to make a long story short. Monica and I got to go because we applied for imprest, money from the Dept of Health to reimburse us for lodging, food, and transport. I’ve never had a job where I could do that. It feels cushy, and yet another sign that this country is fine with or without us. I am so glad they let us stay.

Maun is the gateway to the Delta from the West. We got in around 12:30pm on Friday and the smell of rain was overwhelming. There were puddles. I think I was actually bouncing and clapping my hands in delight. Water! And green! There were palm trees, flowers, tall, tall trees . . . so much green. The backpackers hostel where we stayed was right on the river. There were outdoor, HOT showers and tents with mattresses on the ground which were quite comfortable sleeping quarters.

On Saturday when we got back from the competition, the owner of the hostel was on his way out to pick up some tourists who had gone on a dugout canoe trip down the Okavango River. He told us to come along and we jumped at the opportunity. I was in heaven, on the water, wind-whipped hair, sun setting, and birds everywhere. We got out to swim at a point that he assured us was safe from crocodiles and hippos. That was also heavenly. The most interesting site was a pair of Ground Hornbills. Hornbills are a common family (the bird in Lion King is a hornbill). But Ground Hornbills are endangered. They are huge, they look like small people hunched over in black cloaks with red around their thick beak and throat. The tourists who we were picking up were from Spain. They were on a bird-watching trip through Botswana. The next morning, drinking coffee at the open bar/restaurant, I had a lovely conversation with them. I surprised them with my Spanish and the older man was delighted to be able to speak to someone besides his traveling partner. He doesn’t know English. He said, “Diga a tu madre que te ha ensenado muy bien.” (Tell your mother she has taught you well). There you go, Mom. Be proud. J I was struggling to speak naturally because Setswana kept sneaking into my mental formation of sentences. “Hablas Espanol?” “Yes, ke hablo espanol . . . I mean, Eish!”

On Sunday, we went to the bus rank. There was the bus, rickety looking as it was on the trip to Maun. It was sitting in the gas station parking lot across from the bus rank and we went to talk to the driver about when it was going to leave. He said, “Can you fix this engine?” That is yet another assumption Batswana have about someone with white skin —- you are a handy person. My friend Hunter was put in charge of fixing two staplers at his clinic. I have been asked to repair an ancient sewing machine at the school. I wouldn’t know how to use the thing even if I could repair it. It’s from the 1930’s. Anyway, we regretfully informed the bus driver that we didn’t know how to fix the bus, so he said, “Then the next bus will leave tomorrow at 8:30am.” Oh. Okay, we will just go back to our Little Piece of Paradise. I was happy to stay an extra night, although it made Monday an exhausting day of travel. I got back to Kole at 10:30pm. My poor cat had ripped into the dry cat food bag because I hadn’t left enough days worth of food and couldn’t get ahold of Twenty (who has my key) to tell her to feed him. I’m glad he is resourceful. The gas cylinder for my refrigerator ran out while I was gone. So, my late night project was to cook something quickly that I could eat the next day, then switch the gas cylinder over from the stove to the refrigerator so I could keep the produce that I had brought from Ghanzi and also salvage a few things that hadn’t quite gone bad yet, some onions and a box of unopened grape juice. The rest, butternut squash, milk, some green pepper and cucumber, were stinky and had to be disposed of.

Scorpions

Monica told me her dog had found a scorpion in her yard the day before we left for Maun. Her dog tried to bark it to death, she said. I saw my first scorpion last night, scurrying around my yard when I went out to empty Lefifi’s litter box. It was rather alarming. I’m glad I had to use my flashlight. It was pitch black because it was cloudy. It looked like there might be rain and there was lightning. Still no rain for us, though.

Games and Puzzles

Denise sent me a wonderful package that included candles that make my house smell strongly of vanilla and lemon and other delicious things. She also sent a puzzle. It has been the perfect activity for the four or five Standard 5 boys that visit me on the weekends. They have been playing Uno and trying out the guitar. The puzzle is foreign to them, though, so they tired after an hour and one of them asked me, “Can we ask you about HIV?” My jaw dropped. I almost cried I was so happy. I got out my flip chart paper and bostick and markers (you can’t learn anything in Botswana without those three things) and we went through the 20 question HIV/AIDS knowledge quiz I got during training. I have a copy in Setswana. I think we had an hour long lesson. I’m a little worried that the parents of those boys will hear that I’m talking about sex when they come to my house. One of their mothers asked, “What do those children do at your house?” I said, “They play games,” keeping it brief partly to feel out why she was asking and partly because I only know how to say so much in Setswana and she is one who is barely impressed with my Setswana, wanting me to learn Sekgalagadi. She said, “Tell them to go home and work.” It started an interesting conversation about how children in the U.S. don’t work, but they take responsibility for their own lives for the most part when they move out and they do move out, physically away from their parents (which is strange to them). The biggest implication of this difference is that young parents in the U.S. take care of their children, of course with help from Mom and Dad. But here, it is very rare for a young mother to take care of her child. I had a baby, Mom, here you go. The men, at the mean time, are at the cattle post.

This is far too long. For those of you who don’t like to skim through these, I have taken up too much of your day. ;)

I love and miss you all dearly.

Love, Leah