First Congregational UCC - Platteville

Hello! The following is a combination of two emails, so it’s rather huge. Hope you enjoy . . .

June 11th
Dumelang, Bagaetsho,

Kippie isn’t staying. She was going to be the volunteer in Ncojane, but due to outside factors (wanting to start medical school, a boyfriend at home) and, in her words, the “bleakness of Ncojane”, she is now back in the States. I am glad she was in touch with her lack of commitment rather than staying for a year and waffling about it which is what Susie did. It’s amazing the impact that a volunteer has on a village. Especially since, as a volunteer, it is sometimes easy to feel invisible, unnoticed, and, most frustratingly, ineffective. But once someone leaves, the village collectively frowns, eyebrows furrowing, perplexed, “Why wasn’t she happy? What did we do wrong? Why didn’t she talk to us about it?” I still get those questions regarding Susie. She was Ncojane’s first volunteer. Along with feeling guilty that she left, people are also quite willing to sing Susie’s praises now that she’s gone. “She was my friend. She was really helping. She was such a nice person.” Unfortunately she didn’t hear those things from them first hand, as I seldom do from villagers in Kole. Although, one of the silver linings to Kippie going is to hear from people that they are grateful I have stayed and will stay. “Didn’t she get some confidence from you, Thapelo? She could see you are happy in Kole, with no electricity, no transport, no cell phone, no what, what . . .” (That was Mma Maoto, one of the Family Welfare Educators at the Health Post). And Pearl, never one to mince her words, “I love you, Thapelo, I want you to finish your contract nicely. Don’t let her make you think you need to start school now, now, too.” They speculated about how Kippie was using Peace Corps for a free trip to Africa (which is sort of true) and maybe that she was too weak because she was so small (she was only slightly shorter than me and not particularly pettite, so at this point, they were grasping at straws). That conjecture was not true. Kippie is a tough cookie, toughened by a tough life and she wasn’t willing to put up with people making her feel so uncomfortable all the time.

She had nice, wise words for me when she left, telling me to be safe and not get too comfortable with things. “Just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean it’s safe,” (that was in reference to the transport situation). It was nice to have her company for a few days. I stayed with her in Ncojane. I really had planned on staying with her frequently when she first arrived, if she needed/wanted that, and to help advocate for her house to get electricity and the appropriate furniture (the usual battles in the offices). So, when I realized she wasn’t coming back, I felt at a loss for what to do with myself until I went home for the wedding.

The day I got back after seeing her off on the bus in Ghanzi, I stayed in my house for an entire day, feeling sort of mopey, sleeping in, foregoing my daily jog, reading an entire book and cleaning an already clean house. Things feel cyclical. That was exactly the sort of day I would have had a year ago. And then, visitors started to come. People realized I was around and started “checking me” (stopping by to say hi). They brought small projects with them. An application for a women’s football kit (uniforms) from the Culture and Youth office. The girls need my help with the language on the form and also typing CV’s (resumes) for them. Then the Guidance and Counseling committee asked me to lead a team building workshop for the staff at school (apparently the petty gossip and undermining of fellow teachers has been particularly bad this year). I found out there was a kgotla meeting, the local politicians were there to hear complaints from the villagers. I have been to the kgotla offices often since I came, but never to a real kgotla meeting. There was an Independence celebration there, but it wasn’t a meeting. So, this very traditional thing was happening, but, still in a funk, I was undecided about going. For one thing, it is freezing again. Ridiculously cold. My poor tomato plants froze the other night. So, wearing a skirt, walking through the dusty cold and sitting on the cold sand, listening to Sekgalagadi which I still don’t completely understand didn’t sound like fun. I went over to Mma Pula’s tuck shop across the road from my place. I was borrowing a hammer. She chatted, as only Mma Pula can (extensively) and mentioned the meeting. I probed her for more details. What was the meeting about, would the councillors really act on the the complaints, and (lastly) should I go?

“Yes, you are staying in the village. You should go hear what they say, two minutes, five minutes.”

Well, I knew I wouldn’t get away with five minutes, but that was enough motivation for me. Mma Pula definitely knows best. I put on leggings under a skirt and covered my head with a scarf. I was greeted by several ladies when I walked into the kgotla and to the women’s side. One of them shared her blanket. I had prepared for the cold, but I hadn’t thought of the sun, which is still fierce even in the chilly air. I shaded my face and concentrated on the speaker, one of the politicians. He had given me a ride to Charleshill a few days before. We drove off the road to a cattle post where he greeted a group of people seated around a fire briefly. When he got back in the truck he turned around to tell me that it was almost election time for the councillors. “You have to greet when it’s almost election time. And give people rides, too, if it’s not election time I say I don’t have petrol.” So, politics are the same everywhere. I told him he was a sleazy politician and that now I knew his secret so he had to give me rides even if it wasn’t election time. He laughed.

Where was I? At the kgotla. So, Councillor Mokonyane is speaking, but it’s windy and Sekgalagadi sounds like Setswana with a mouthful of food to me, which is beyond my comprehension level. I was busy taking in the villagers, though, happy sitting there amongst familiar faces. I got little waves and nods and smiles. Then, a truck pulled up and a familiar figure, Fritz, who works with Cassie in Ghanzi, got out of the passenger side. He was not so discreetly scanning the crowd at the meeting. I can’t quite explain this, but I know I am integrated because I have magicly become part of the telepathic communication that happens between everyone. I somehow knew he was looking for me even though there was no good explanation for that. I had never seen him in Kole before and had no idea what he was doing there. So, knowing he wanted me, naturally, I sat quietly and did nothing, watching him look for me and making no effort to let him know I was there. That is also a very Motswana thing to do which used to infuriate me. It’s less infuriating if you do it yourself, too. He saw me and raised his eyebrows. I pretended not to see. He came to the entrance of the kgotla and gestured. It wasn’t until others pointed out that he wanted me that I grudgingly got up and went out to ask him what he wanted. Lunch. Which is precisely why I was playing hard to get. This is normal, though, outside government workers passing by someone they know in a village to get food. When a government officer goes on a “trip” to the farms or settlement villages, they are given stipend money. This is a silly thing to do because there are no shops where the officer might use the stipend to buy food. Besides that the money isn’t given in advance, but put on the pay check at the end of the pay period. So, it’s more like an incentive to make officers grumble less about going out to the boondox and sleeping in a tent and bathing in the cold, especially during winter. In my humble opinion, those of us who stay in the settlement villages should be given a stipend to feed all the officers who stop by asking for lunch. Fritz made off with some delicious rice and vegetable curry.

When Kippie and I were in Ncojane, we were staying at the head nurse’s house. Kippie’s house was not available (there were people staying there while they built a new clinic, although they promised they would be out by the time Kippie came). The head nurse was not around and generously offered her house. We arrived on Wednesday. On Thursday, I went to the clinic and was informed that “Mokgosi (the nurse) has a visitor, he wants you to make him lunch.” “What?!” I was particularly frustrated by this after having stepped out of my Motswana-mode with Kippie for the past 24 hours. Kgakololo knows me. She knew it would take some serious convincing to make me cook for a strange man. “Thapelo, he’s Mokgosi’s visitor.”

“Well, she’s not here.” I was not going to be swayed by her sweet reasoning.

She shook her head. “Thapelo.”

“He can make his own lunch.” I stomped out of the clinic, explaining to Kippie what she had said.

Sure enough, he showed up shortly before noon.

He sat down heavily on a couch and put his hands behind his head. “Kgakololo told you, didn’t she?”

“What?”

“I am asking for lunch.”

“Good for you.” (That is the translation of a statement of indifference that makes more sense in Setswana).

“Hey, Thapelo, are you refusing?”

“Refusing what?”

“To cook.”

“I cooked yesterday. I have left overs for my friend and me for lunch.” (I was feeling generous) . . . “You are welcome to those, but there’s no meat.”

“No meat?”

“She’s a vegetarian (referring to Kippie).”

“I want meat.”

I pursed my lips and looked away, ignoring him.

He laughed. “Come on, Thapelo.”

I looked at him sharply. Clearly, this man was dense. “You’re welcome to make whatever you find in the fridge.”

“I can’t cook.”

“You’re a baby?” (Children in Botswana are taught at a very young age how to cook).

“I have always been staying with a woman.”

I believe at this point you could see if not hear the steam coming out of my ears.
“It is not my responsibility to cook for you! If you want to eat, you’d better figure out how to cook or go ask for food somewhere else.”

I went off to check on Kippie who was in the bedroom, writing in her journal. She told me I had been infinitely patient and was handling him much better than she was. I didn’t know how to reply since I was more rude and short tempered and dismissive of him than I think I have ever been of anyone so far.

I heard him go into the other bedroom to lay down. Kgakololo came in shortly after. I went out to meet her.

“Don’t.” I told her firmly before she said anything.

“You haven’t cooked?”

“No, and you shouldn’t either, don’t cook for him, Kgakololo.”

She softened me with her laugh and smile and started taking chicken out of the freezer. We had a lengthy, serious conversation about men’s expectations of women in Botswana. She is getting married next month to a man I know from Ghanzi. I grilled her about who did what in the house when he was around (they have two children together). She assured me their relationship was “balanced,” as she put it.

“I can sit while he changes the baby, or while he cooks, it just depends on our schedule, who has worked or if one of us isn’t feeling well. It’s just like that.” I nodded, satisfied, but still kept my arms crossed, feeling guilty for not helping her and berating her for giving in to any man.

“Why can’t he cook himself?” I demanded.

“Ah, Thapelo,” she soothed. “He’s always had a mother or sister and now he’s married.”

Sleazeball, as I will refer to him henceforth, woke from his beauty sleep to eat the pasta, chicken, and veggie stew she made. He started the conversation that usually leads to proposal (How often are you in Charleshill? …) and laughed at my scathing looks and biting responses about how I am not interested in babies who wear wedding rings.

I don’t think that particular incident determined Kippie’s decision but it may have helped put things in perspective for her. She was so unwilling to do what I did, be a hostess, if grudgingly. And, although I felt strongly about the issue of a man demanding food from someone just because she is a woman who is staying at the house of another woman he knows, I wasn’t actually stressed by it. I almost felt as if I were playing the part of the angry lekgoa. I might have cooked for him on a different day, without Kippie to be in solidarity with.

I’ve been ending a lot of sentences with prepositions. Sorry, Mom. My language skills become less in English even as other languages expand.

The team building workshop at school was supposed to happen today but we were missing a key player (namely, the teacher with whom most people have an issue with at the moment). So, it’s postponed, which is good, I want to get some materials from Sarah, the volunteer with True Love Waits in Ghanzi, and her counterpart, the Dutch minister, Jan Wessels who is the closest thing to a saint I may have ever met. They have done some great team building with the youth who work for True Love Waits, an abstinence education NGO. On Saturday, I went to a premiere of a movie that Sarah wrote the script for (there I go again! How should I write that? Anyway …) It’s called, “Worth the Wait.” Very real issues, very true to Botswana, were displayed in a dramatic, but not over the top way. It was brilliant. The actors were members of Seetebosigo (meaning don’t visit at night, also the word for the month of June). Four actors from the group ran mine and Monica’s drama workshop. They became a professional group after proving they were reliable and talented and organized for several years in Ghanzi. Finally, they are getting funding from the government (surprised? If anyone needs funding for anything, ask the Botswana government. They love giving money). The group in Kole is aspiring to this, as well. I know there are a few that are capable and dedicated right now. The others need some convincing. That’s another side project at the moment, trying to get them registered as a group so they can start to advertise themselves and be eligible for funding.

Anyway, this movie. It’s about 45 minutes long and the ending is open, so there’s potential for a sequel (written by yours truly and other Ghanzi district volunteers, is the idea).

June 16th is the Day of the African Child, commemorating those children who died during apartheid in South Africa (I think). The committee has put together a few events as fundraisers for the Kgotla celebration that will happen next Monday. One of the fundraisers was a dance event at the Community Hall. It was awesome. I got roped into taking money at the door, but I still got to see all the acts. My GLOW girls can bust a move! I was so proud. And there were three boys who were doing traditional dance, which is very repetitive and seemingly unskilled unless you are a dancer yourself in which case you never get tired of watching, wide eyed and open mouthed at the poise and precision which it requires.

One of the boys who danced is the one who came to me about his girlfriend. Have I told you this? Probably not because it’s controversial. He is 21. His girlfriend is 17. Illegal, to start with. She isn’t really his girlfriend, just someone he slept with. Okay, so what’s the problem? That was, depressingly, my initial response, because that story was in no way out of the ordinary. She was pregnant. Oh, my. I felt so many things at once as he was talking, the hot sun on my cheeks under my sunglasses as I squinted at him, concentrating on his broken English/Setswana accented with Sesarwa (he’s a small Mosarwa boy). Frustration. Cultural judgement. Confusion. Detachment, it isn’t my problem. Then I pulled it together. “Okay, what do you need?”

“I need advice, man, I didn’t want this in my life right now!”

“Don’t you use condoms?” I couldn’t help sidetracking and lecturing a little.

“I’m a Mosarwa. I’m addicted to sex without condoms.”

“Whatever.” I didn’t know where to start so I just sighed and shook my head.

“I didn’t expect her to get pregnant.”

I laughed, as did his friend who was standing with us. “You’ve made a discovery. That’s how people get pregnant, sex without condoms. Honestly, E________.”

He smiled and shifted nervously.

I tried not to be mean. “What does she want?” I asked quietly.

“She doesn’t want it either.”

“Has she mentioned abortion?” I didn’t want to put the idea in his head.

“It’s illegal.”

“I know, is that what she wants?”

“She doesn’t want to go through with the pregnancy.” He was being awfully politically correct.

“Tell her to come talk to me.” I told him. “I will make some calls and find out what her options are. Give me two days.”

He squeezed my hand, hard. “Two days. She is supposed to go back to school next week.”

“Fine. Two days.”

Two days later, I had the name of a doctor in Gabs and he had arranged bus money for them both. I haven’t seen her, but according to him and his huge smile, things are, “Grand,” and she’s doing fine.

It was a powerful lesson in service. Peace Corps service. Doing what they want even if it doesn’t line up with what you or someone else might want for that person.

But I draw the line at cooking lunch for strange men. Sometimes. J

June 26th Dear friends and family,

My head is filled with things to tell you. I have a hard time making sense of the soup of cultural observations and idiosyncrancies which I have noted lately.

Speaking of soup, I have a new recommendation for butternut squash soup (you may remember that it is winter here and that one of the limited winter vegetables is butternut squash which is available in 20 pound sacks or individually). I love it! The last time I made the soup, I put a chai tea bag in while it was boiling (thank you, Beth). Delicious.

I guess the most striking observations really have to do with how I have changed or how my perspective has changed since coming here. For example, a year ago, it might have been disconcerting or annoying or at least surprising when a truck full of five people stopped at my gate at 10 am on a Wednesday morning and said, “Hello, Thab-za! We are asking for accomodation.” (Re kopa boroko). I’m sure I would have stuttered and clarified what they were asking a few times and checked out the details of the situation: Do you have your own food, where are you bathing, do you require mattresses and blankets or do you have your own? Etc, etc. I would have wracked my brain for the training session that addressed that particular situation and I would have been wary of being taken advantage of. (Just because I’m a lekgoa they assume I can give them all boroko might have been my paranoid conclusion). My reaction, as of yesterday, was to be totally non-plussed.

“Of course,” I didn’t hesitate or bother to start organizing logistics in my head. It turns out they were quite self sufficient, cooked for themselves, arranged their own blankets and mats on the floor and organized bathing times so that I was in no way impeded in my nightly and morning routine. They were lovely.

Frank was the leader of the group. He used to be a PMTCT lay counselor (like Pearl, my counterpart) in a nearby village, a Basarwa settlement called New Xanagas. The X is a click, but it is mispelled because the Basarwa languages are so misunderstood and not taken seriously by the Botswana in general, unfortunately. There are seven main clicks in the most commonly spoken Sesarwa language in Ghanzi District, Naro. There is X, Q, Cl, Gl, . . . and I forget the rest, but anyway, New Xanagas should actually be New Qanagas. Forgive the tangent, I was saying, about Frank, that he used to be a lay counselor at their clinic and was recently hired as a program director at True Love Waits, the NGO in Ghanzi. Another tangent: If you would have asked me before coming to Botswana, “What do you think of an abstinence-only education program that will not, out of principle, teach young people how to use condoms or distribute them,” I would have scoffed. Terrible idea, unrealistic, morally uppity and perhaps making the situation worse by denying young people the right to know about and use condoms. So besides disliking social programming and being a raging capitalist, I am apparently now conservative. True Love Waits is doing perhaps the most effective AIDS work in the whole country. It’s mostly because their management of funds is actually effective, the team has an amazing, uncharacteristic work ethic, and the founders are (this doesn’t explain it entirely, but you will just have to trust that I’m not being bigoted when I say this) white. But it’s also because their message is so greatly needed: Kids, wait. Please wait. To have sex, to have kids, to drink yourselves senseless like your parents . . . at least finish school first.

So, Frank and four other True Love Waits members slept at my house last night. A two-bedroom house that does not feel too big for my cat and me was not at all too crowded with six of us. I enjoyed them very much and was glad I didn’t have to stay in an empty house after they were gone. I went on the road with them to Charleshill today. I will go to Ghanzi tomorrow (there’s a cattle show that is apparently not to be missed) and then Gabs on Sunday. I have my yearly dental and medical check ups and then I fly home on Tuesday. I am sort of stressed about that, weirdly. Already letting the U.S. tendency to tense up and hurry affect me . . . eish.

The TLW people were in Kole to show the movie, the premiere of which I attended in Ghanzi a couple of weekends ago. Apparently I was in the news at that event. As soon as I had network after it was shown, a bunch of people called me – “I saw you on the news!” It was fun. J I’m famous. Anyway, they showed the movie at the community hall in Kole. It was packed, despite the cold and the uncomfortable venue. No chairs, tile floor, if you forgot your fuzzy warm blanket to sit on, you were stuck standing or sitting on the cold floor. I love watching the kids at this kind of thing. They pile on top of each other like puppies. There are different social rules. There is an obviously mentally slow (I forget all politically correct phrasing, you’ll have to forgive me) girl in standard 2. She sat down in between two Standard 5 boys. That was not the appropriate place but no one made her feel unwanted. They simply pointed out where she should go (with the other girls her age) and told the other kids to make a path for her, “O kopa tsela.” She dutifully stood up and walked to the indicated spot and sat practically on top of two other girls who did not react in a negative way at all. One did gently remove her dress from under her, but it was not an expression of annoyance, simply of necessity. “Hey. I’m taking my dress from under you. Okay, there.” All with a slight smile of welcome and general acceptance.

I am full of tangents. Tangent soup. The movie was well-received. There is the slightly disturbing fact that people at every showing (I’ve been at three now) laugh in the scene where a main character finds out he is HIV +. I guess it comes from inability to accept the idea, or lack of appropriate responses. It can’t actually be funny. The TLW’s members are as baffled by it as I am and I was relieved by their news today that the junior secondary school kids who saw the movie cried instead of laughing. Maybe this nation as a whole will learn to deal with HIV afterall.

After the movie, there was a brief discussion when community members gave feedback about what they would like to see in the upcoming part 2 of the film. Things like, wanting Johnson to deal with his status positively and be open about it (that was from one of the ladie’s soccer coaches). And Katlego wanted them to talk about education. The “good girl” in the film goes off to University at the end. Katlego wants to see what happens to the characters who rely on their parents’ cattle for their source of income and the way to achieve all their little hearts desire. That is a well-used and frustrating phrase that teachers “this side” (in the West, where cattle farming is still by far the most common occupation) hear all too often from their students. “What do I need an education for, my father has cattle!”

I have also changed my attitude about “work.” I have fewer things to report for PEPFAR and Peace Corps this quarter. After the football tournament in May, I did very little “events” or “workshops” or other typical “mobilizing activities” as the Botswana government AIDS response plan likes to call the things they fund. And yet I am more fulfilled than ever, feeling more blessed than ever, writing songs more freely than ever, cleaning a little less obsessively, and being less afraid to make mistakes with my Setswana. I’m not sure why that is, I am just more relaxed, I guess, less self-concious and less likely to assume every comment that makes me uncomfortable was stated with that intention. Also, I continue to feel loved and accepted. Peal and I are getting along very well. She called my chai butternut squash soup, “Delicious,” when she came over to check the True Love Waits people yesterday. I play Uno with Katlego’s kids at least once weekly and in between games we have discovered the joy of airplane rides on Thapelo’s legs and also the “flipping thing” which I’m pretty sure is what I called it when I was young and would climb up Dad’s front and do a back flip while he held onto my hands. They can be awfully naughty, but never enough to keep me away. Montate, the youngest, just turned four. He chews on the Uno cards in between playing, barely able to keep his attention on the game for a full round, and it helps occupy him. Still, I would rather the cards last for the next year so they don’t beg and beg for me to get new ones once they are all chewed beyond recognition. So, I attempt to explain that he can’t play if he chews on the cards. He becomes suddenly deaf during this explanation. I try discipline and even grab cards out of his hands which he is chewing, convinced he’s doing it on purpose now, just to make me mad. Then I come across a yellow 5 that has a chunk out of the bottom. “See!” (Bona) I thrust it at him. “What is this?” (Ke eng?) “Yellow!” He shouts joyfully. It is just impossible to stay mad. J And he is definitely learning those four colors nicely.

For those of you who will be at the wedding, you can try to make sense of the rest of the soup kgantele janoong (later on). Otherwise, be well, I love and miss you.

Leah/ Thapelo