The Sound of Silence

Sometimes I think I should title this blog “the sundial blog” in that I only record the ‘sunny times’ here. When a number of weeks pass without a blog it’s usually because things are not so ‘sunny.’ I have been silent on this blog for the past month for a number of reasons. A week or so with no water, intermittent internet connection, rolling power outrages (usually at dinner time) are really not so hard to take anymore—most of the world lives without the steady stream of amenities that we are so accustomed to in the United States and I have learned to live without them too, thankfully for short periods of time.

            Friends who know me well know that I have an innate sense of direction—put me anywhere and I can usually tell North, South, East or West, take me somewhere once and I can find my way back. That is not true here in Botswana. My first week at site I became totally lost and had to call my landlady for help. I described where I was and she said “Just walk South.” The sun was setting and so I knew where West was, but when I looked in the direction that should have been South I was stymied. It just didn’t feel right. I know I am on the other side of the earth from where I grew up. I understand that although the calendar says May, I cannot expect to see Lilies of the Valley or peonies, I cannot even expect to see anything green… still, I didn’t expect to be so upside down…

            Eight months have passed since I stepped onto the red soil of Africa. We were told over and over that our first year would be difficult, a ‘rollercoaster’, that we would struggle to get things going at our site, to make connections and to integrate into the community. Then, somewhere around the one-year mark things will change, and everything will move along. What we were not told is that although we are volunteers, our workplace may think of us as their employees. This is truly upside-down, and something many volunteers have been struggling with.

            I have followed the advice of previous volunteers and found projects that I love, such as producing the volunteer newsletter and running writing workshops for both volunteers and students in my school. A number of my projects have not gotten off the ground, some have gotten off the ground and crashed back to earth, and some are stuck in some bureaucratic office somewhere. All of that is part of the landscape and can usually be attributed to cultural differences, but sometimes that landscape becomes insurmountable and one has to ask ‘did I leave my home and family to spend two years pushing a rock up a hill?”  This is when the Serenity Prayer should be put on the loudspeakers that roll through the village with announcements (African version of a town crier). Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. It’s a great prayer, and the one I always say when I am asked (as is Botswana custom) to give the prayer before a meeting or after a class.

            What is missing from that prayer is what do to when you know you cannot accept the things you cannot change, and even if you have the courage, you cannot change them. What then? For some it means moving on, accepting the fact that the rock isn’t going to stay at the top of the hill and there are probably better ways to use your time and experience. Unfortunately for those of us who arrived in Botswana eight months ago, two of our group have had to make that difficult decision to move on. It is a great loss to us, and a personal loss to me. It feels upside down and inside out, and I will probably be silent for a while longer.

            view from my door May 19, 2012

The Ambassador Comes to Town

Although it is only 5 miles (as the crow flies) from the airport and only 20 km from the capital of Botswana, my village is [literally] not on the map. So it was a grand event yesterday when Michelle Gavin, the American Ambassador, came to Kopong. 

Ambassador Gavin made the trek out to our village because the embassy was donating health books to all the libraries in Botswana that were built by Robert and Susan Rothschild, a couple from New Hampshire who I met last October at the celebration party for the 50th anniversary of Peace Corps. When I arrived in Kopong last November I made a bee-line for the library and offered my services. I have spent my life in libraries, they are my second home and I have always considered my library card the most valuable card in my wallet. The ambassador seems to feel the same way. She brought her three-year-old daughter and her husband with her, and in her talk she said coming to the library felt like 'coming home'. When she spoke to me at the end of her visit she laughed, saying what a pleasure it was to spend time reading to children rather than sitting in a board room.

People were truly 'honored' that the American Ambassador came to Kopong. We may not have an ATM, or a grocery store or reliable transportation, but we do have a library worth visiting.

My friend Thabo with my her son Bradley and Susan Rothschild. Thabo is wearing her nurses' uniform and Susan is wearing a traditional Botswana skirt, made by a resident of Kopong.

chess players in the library

Capacity building with labyrinth

The most important part of Peace Corps work is 'capacity building.' We are here to teach people how to do certain tasks, not to do the work for them. It's not as easy as it sounds. When someone who can't type asks you to type up the minutes to a meeting, it's much easier to just do so than to procure a typing program for the computer (which is often stored in a closet 'on that side'...) and try to teach them to type...

Last week I spent Easter weekend with a fellow volunteer in Kalamare, a remote village 2 hours north of the capital Gaborone. We went for a hike along the dried out river and on the way back to the village we sat under a tree watching the children run relay races. I have often thought that the red dust of Africa is the perfect place for the labyrinths that my Boston friend Mary McCusker creates. She built one in my backyard at home, and as I watched the children, I tried to remember Mary's basic design. I kept working at in the red dirt, not realizing that a crowd of children had gathered.

Susan, the Peace Corps volunteer in Kalamare, gave me a piece of paper and I drew the basic design. One of the children reached out for it, and when I looked up, they were working on recreating it in the red dust.

We stood back and watched as they worked...then stepped in to show them how to use it...

Thank you Mary--many more labyrinths to come...

The Lion Sleeps Tonight...

Last week I headed north with a few friends to visit Moremi, one of Botswana's game reserves. We stood in the rain at 5:30 am to get an early bus for the 10-hour trip to Maun. Every bus has a sign saying the number of seated passengers it will hold and the number of standing (zero) passengers allowed. Needless to say, there were no seats for the first couple of hours of the trip, and the aisles were packed with people standing. It is amazing to me how the conductor is able to squeeze through the standing people to collect the fares, but somehow the bodies part for a moment or two and money is collected. When we arrived at the Old Bridge Backpackers hostel at the end of the day, the sight of water, greenery and space had us celebrating:

Mia, Me and Dominique

The view from our tent

The next morning we were up at 5:30 again to begin the journey into the game reserve. We bumped along in an open truck for an hour before we reached the border of the park, which is 3 separate fences. This is the boundary between domestic animals and wild animals, and Botswana is very strict about maintaining its integrity.

Although we still had to drive another 45 minutes to the main park entrance, our first 'wild' animal appeared less than 10 minutes from the boundary--giraffes having breakfast:

The giraffes were elegant and curious, eyeing us as much as we eyed them...

We consider ourselves blessed because Dominique, who is now known as Hawkeye, was able to sight a leopard, a true rarity. We met people who have been on 25 safaris and have never seen one. The cats--leopard, cheeta, lion--are nocturnal and very 'shy.'

During the rest of the day we saw elephants, impalas, hippos, impalas, a water monitor, impalas, many 'random birds' of extraordinary color, impalas, red bucks, impalas...

As we were leaving the park 12 hours later, Ice heard from another guide that lions had been spotted close by the night before. Since we had such luck seeing a Cheeta and a leopard, Ice decided to go 'off road' into the bush to see if we could track the herd. The other guide stayed on the road with his group of Belgians and said "ladies first" as we crashed through branches and drove through the brush. No more than a few meters in we saw the remains of the lion's meal--the carcass of a water buffalo. Sorry, no photos available as we were all holding our breath in hopes of spying the king of the jungle. Ice spotted the lion tracks but it was getting late and going deeper into the bush did not seem wise, so we returned to the road where the Belgians were waiting to hear the outcome of our exploration. We made the water buffalo carcass sound like more than it was...

The next day we took a sunset boat ride from Old Bridge Backpackers up into the Okavanga Delta where we were able to see zebras in the distance and enjoyed more bird sightings. On the return, as we approached the bridge next to our campsite, people on the bridge motioned to us: a hippo was in the water, blocking our way under the bridge. Again, sorry, no photos. We sat immobile, me with my heart in my mouth, as the hippo eyed us and slowly, much too slowly, moved away. Hippos are responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other animals. Before I left the states a friend who had lived in Africa for 10 years told me 'the only thing you have to fear is mosquitoes and hippos.' We managed to slip under the bridge and have a strong drink at the lodge before going to bed to the sound of buzzing mosquitoes...another night in Africa.

ATale of Two Schools

My Peace Corps Work plan now includes time at the Baobab School in Gaborone, a private school in the capital city. I will be working with two other volunteers, helping create a community service project for the 5th graders there. When I walk to Kopong JSS I go down red dirt paths, cross the only tar road in the village and wind my way through another series of red dirt paths, walking alongside donkeys, goats, and chickens. When I go to Baobab I take the bus to the main bus rank, cross a highway and pass a Hindu temple.

In Kopong we must go to the supplies officer and request paper, pencil, etc. At Baobab we were shown the supply room and told to help ourselves. In Kopong water is sometimes in short supply. At Baobab there is a sink in every classroom and a swimming pool in the center of the campus.

In Kopong, as in every public school I've been in, students are expected to remain quiet and orderly in the classroom, even if the teacher does not show up for class, and to work in a rote manner. In Baobab students are polite and responsive, but much more given to working in the 'controlled chaos' environment I knew when teaching in America. In Kopong I hope to institute an "English only" day in which both teachers and students speak English (English is the official language of Botswana and students are tested in English whether or not they have been taught in English). In Baobab English is the language of instruction for all classes. These schools are only 20 km apart, but they are emblematic of what is happening in a country that has grown and is growing as fast as Botswana. The students at Baobab are being prepared for positions of leadership and responsibility. Although many students at Kopong have high ambitions, the mode of instruction is preparing them to be obedient above all else.

In Kopong, my landlady's dog accompanies me to school each day and often into the classroom. At Baobab I did not see any animals on the street or in the campus.

The students in Kopong were excited to talk with me about America. "Is Barack Obama a good president?" they asked, all 45 of them gathering around me in rapt attention as I answered. When I asked if I could take their photo for my friends at home they ran around tucking in their shirts and patting down their hair. YES they said, take our photo. I did not think to ask the Baobab students, as indoctrinated as I am by American rules and regs about privacy, etc.

For the record: I told the students Obama is a good president because he thinks of other countries not just the United States and because he listens to people and does not make decisions alone. The Baobab students have teachers from many different countries. They did not have any questions for someone from America.

Traveling and Training

When I got off the plane from home a month ago I had one full day to recover from jetlag, wash my winter clothes, and pack up some summer clothes before I had to head off to a regional meeting in Kanye. From there the life skills people in our Peace Corps group headed to Molepolole for a two-week training with the Botswana Ministry of Education. When we finished with that I had two days to wash my dirty clothes and pack for a trip up to Kalamare to do a training I had missed while back in America. As a friend said "we may end up being the most-trained, least-working peace corps volunteers.." I am happy to report that trainings appear to be over for the time being and I have actually been in school this past week. Students are once again doing exams, which means that I have basically missed a whole term at Kopong Junior Senior Secondary school.

The least said about the government training, the better. Take the word 'government' add 6 hours a day of power point presentations and 35 tired-of-trainings volunteers and you can imagine the state of affairs. When I got back to my village the local tuck shop girls told me I was fat (Botswana have no problem looking you up and down and commenting on what they see). After two weeks of sitting, I was glad the next training took place at a volunteer's home and included a bit of hiking after hours.

Here are some photos from the places I've been and the trainings I've done.

This is Geri, our trainer, after a hard day of work.

Trained and ready to go

cocktails (wine in a peanut butter jar) on the rocks

Birth, Death/America, Botswana

My fourth granddaughter came into this world on January 3. My 92-year-old father left this world on January 27. Birth is an almost universal celebration—every culture responds to the birth of a child with joy and hope. My Botswana friends were thrilled to hear of the birth of a granddaughter. Death is another story.

Every culture, every family, every person, has their own way of dealing with it. My father had lived as long as he wanted to, and had plenty of time to make preparations. He donated his body for study at Boston University Medical School. He chose the minister he wanted to lead his memorial service. He wrote an outline of what he wanted in the service. Then he waited for death. It took longer than he expected. Years longer. The minister moved to Florida. The grandchildren who were to play the piano and guitar no longer did so. My father was a stubborn man. He discussed end of life plans with his doctor, saying he was going blind. The doctor pointed out that going blind does not mean the end of life. “You can adapt to this,” the doctor said. “You have probably already adapted, haven’t you?” Well, my father admitted, he did give up his weekly dart games…

Although it was a long time coming, my father’s death came faster than we expected. Our family held a memorial in ‘celebration’ of his life. The minister came from Florida, the grandchildren spoke, someone else played the piano and a friend of the family sang. We will miss him deeply, but we know he had a good life, he was ready to leave, and his final wishes were respected.

The people I have met in Botswana do not talk about death, much less celebrate the end of someone’s life. This is a country where death stalked the young, the innocent, those in the prime of their lives, where death is never mentioned in the age-old hope that not speaking of it will keep it at bay. When I told one of my colleagues that I expected to be going home because my father was at the ‘end of his life’ he was shocked. When I returned to my village this week after my father’s death, people were welcoming and comforting and willing to talk. “Ninety-two years” they were astonished. “He lived longer than he needed,” they said without irony as they hugged me and offered me their condolences.

The first time I saw a Botswana graveyard I thought it was a community garden. I saw a field of rectangular plots with green sunshades over them. When my father’s ashes are returned to us, they will be interred in a drawer in a garden area of the cemetery. No need for sunshades, but still a rectangular place of rest within the beauty of the earth.