Morning in Botswana

When people talk about Africa, they almost always mention the sunsets.  There’s a reason for that – the sunsets are breathtaking, with colors more vibrant than if it had been painted.  My favorite time of day, however, is the early morning. 

I love that in my time here I have gotten on the earth’s schedule.  When the sun goes down, I get sleepy, and when it rises I am ready to greet the day as well.

I love the breeze that comes in my door as I get ready for work. The heat of Botswana can be stifling, even throughout the night, but when I wake up and open my front door, it’s a breath of fresh air in every sense.

I love that the sounds of morning, which were once so foreign and jarring, are now the backdrop to my life.  Chickens and their babies clucking, chirping, and scratching at the ground for breakfast.  The dogs taking a friendly morning romp on the grass outside my window.  The birds that live in my roof haphazardly flying into my wind-chime.  Katlo, my host cousin, running back and forth across the family compound as he gets ready for school.  And let me not forget the roosters incessantly crowing from all sides.  These sounds have, mercifully, replaced the noise of cars, trucks, and television in my morning routine.

I love the walk to school.  The sun has just come over the top of the acacia trees and it bathes everything in rose and golden hues.  Lizards, ants, and mice scamper in the grasses on either side of the path and the breeze that came through my door now ruffles the tree tops.  As I walk past the primary school the students wave to me and giggle when I respond in kind.

So yes, African sunsets are beautiful and mesmerizing.  But there is nothing like a Botswana morning to clear the mind and prepare for the day ahead.

Meeting the President

Or, My Close-of-Service Conference

Peace Corps service is marked by various trainings and conferences: two months of Pre-Service Training, then two weeks of In-Service Training, then Mid-Service Training halfway through, and finally a Close-of-Service Conference when there are only three months left.

March 12 – 14 was my training group’s Close-of-Service Conference, and I have to say it was my favorite conference by far.

We stayed at Phakalane Golf Resort – a.k.a. the nicest hotel in all of Botswana.  The food was delicious and the rooms were nicely and uniquely decorated.  There was an infinity pool that looked out over a pond and the golf course. 

Most of the sessions in the conference were about the future.  We reviewed the process of ending our service at site, using our Non-Competitive Eligibility for government jobs, and how to share our experiences when we get home (among other things).  For our first night, they arranged a game drive at nearby Mokolodi Game Reserve followed by a braai, or barbecue. 

The next day was a formal luncheon.  All volunteers were allowed to invite two guests from their villages, but there were also many VIPs present – the Minister of Health, representatives from the Ministry of Local Government, as well as officers from the Ministry of Education and others.

I had been chosen as one of four volunteers to give a speech in Setswana at the luncheon, in front of all the honored guests.  This made me very, very nervous.  As if that wasn’t enough, I found out the morning of the luncheon that the Tautona wa pele, Former President Rre Festus G. Mogae was going to be in attendance!  Can you imagine?  That is like, Bill Clinton status! 

Needless to say, my palms were sweaty and I felt a bit nauseous leading up to my speech.  I couldn’t even focus on what other people were saying.  Lucky for me, all those years of acting really pulled through and I spoke better at the luncheon than any time that I had practiced.  (Daniel took a video of my speech.  If the quality is good enough, I’ll post it here in a few weeks.)

This was already an honor.  But then a woman from The Daily News, the government newspaper, came over and asked to take my picture with President Mogae!  She asked me because I was wearing a traditional dress.  Two days later, my picture was in the paper, in color, shaking hands with President Mogae.  I even had my left hand on my right forearm, following proper traditional Setswana culture.

It was one of the most special moments of my time here in Botswana and my life in general.  It might even beat meeting Michelle Obama.  What a way to end my service!

President Mogae and myself

Shaking hands

The following day we took one last group picture and said our goodbyes.  For some reason, it didn’t hit me that this would be the last time I’d see many people – not only the last time in Botswana, but likely for the rest of our lives.  I know that the people who have become my family here will certainly always be in my life, but it’s unrealistic to think I will keep in contact with everyone.  It felt a bit like high school graduation.

So here I am, with 78 days left of a life-changing experience.  While meeting two famous, influential people are some of my favorite memories, they barely scratch the surface of what the past two years have been like.

Daniel and me, of course

Why Former President Rre Festus G. Mogae is special to Peace Corps:

Peace Corps has been in Botswana since the 1960s.  But, as I mentioned before, the country made such amazing progress, Peace Corps pulled out, no longer needed.  Then, when the AIDS epidemic struck, it threatened to undo all of the progress Botswana had made.  President Mogae asked for Peace Corps to return strictly to address this health issue, and thus he is the reason we are here. 

I especially admire President Mogae because he stood up for what was right even when his peers were not.  When the AIDS epidemic struck, the leaders of countries surrounding Botswana (such as South Africa and Zimbabwe) refused to acknowledge HIV.  They would not accept help nor direct social/health initiatives to educate and inform their people.  President Mogae, however, saw HIV for what it was – a fatal disease – and took prompt action to ensure a healthier future for his country.  I can’t imagine the pressure he must have been under, and the strength it took for him to be the lone leader.

Adventures in Corporal Punishment

Note: This post has been a long time in the making.  Peace Corps volunteers are instructed encouraged to only write about positive things, or to write about negative things in a positive way.  However, this is an issue that makes it increasingly harder for me to be engaged and motivated at work.  In fact, it’s an issue that makes me not even want to go to work.  I trust that my readers know all the wonderful things about Botswana and will not let this aspect of the culture taint their opinion of the country and its people.

Today during morning assembly, in a classroom behind us, I heard a repetitive “thwack, thwack, thwack.”  I instinctively knew what it was, but in a rare optimistic moment I chose to believe otherwise.  After five minutes, I couldn’t stand it anymore and peeked around the lockers to find: a teacher beating his students.  Without knowing (or caring) the students’ supposed infractions, I turned to the group of teachers next to me and declared, “I am not going to stand here while he beats students.  It’s disgusting.”

They laughed at me. 

“And you know what?  It’s not funny either.  It’s horrible,” I replied.  Then, in typical Tess fashion, I tossed my hair and stormed off, doing my best haughty runway walk.

I might have been abler to take this episode in stride, had I not experienced something similar yesterday.

Yesterday was one of those sporadic occasions where I was early to work.  Homeroom and attendance starts at 7:30, but this day I walked onto the school compound around 7:10.  Students were dashing toward the front gate, which confused me – school didn’t start for 20 minutes.  One of the HODs (Head Of Department) had students in a line, and he was taking a long, thin stick and beating each one on his back for being “late.”  Yes, you read that right.  Being 20 minutes early for school is a punishable offense.  Not to mention, many of these children are orphans, impoverished, and taking care of multiple younger siblings.  I often wonder if the teachers ever consider how difficult it must be to take care of three young children, then walk a full 45 minutes to school and still be on time.

I covered my ears (the sound of stick against skin makes me sick) and yelled at him, “But it’s only 7:10!” and briskly walked to the staff room.  Want to know how many teachers were at work?  One.  I doubt anyone was beating them for being late.

The fact is that you can’t escape corporal punishment in Botswana.  There is a quote from the Bible that people here use as a defense: Spare the rod and spoil the child.  (Thanks a lot, Jesus.)  It is used at home and at school, and more often than not parents feel that their children probably deserve whatever punishment they are given at school.

The worst case of corporal punishment I’ve experienced happened last year.  A random locker check revealed that some students had alcohol, knives, condoms, and dagga (weed) in their lockers.  Stupid?  Yes.  Illegal?  Yes.  So the school got the Kgosi (the chief) involved in their discipline.  The way these adults decided to handle it was to hold a special assembly for the entire student body.  The Kgosi brought a stick almost the width and length of a cane and beat the students, one by one, until they bled.  He then used that same stick, without cleaning it, on the next student.  Because, obviously, in a country with a 30% HIV rate, it’s really smart to be mixing people’s blood.

I didn’t see the beatings – I learned of them from the other teachers.  As soon as I understood what was going to happen, I tried to talk to the school head, to tell her that this wasn’t the best way to handle the situation, but she blatantly ignored me, and so I left.  I live a fifteen-minute walk away from the school, and I could hear the students yelling and jeering at their unfortunate peers’ all the way up to my front door – like some kind of perverted carnival, or a 16^th-century hanging in the town square.  It made me literally nauseous, and I boycotted work the rest of the week.

But why, if the teachers, parents, and local authorities feel it’s okay, am I so adamantly against corporal punishment?

The students of Motswakhumo do not perform well academically.  Our pass rate for the entire school is around 50%, even though getting a 50% on an exam is considered passing.  Kids don’t want to come to school.  I’m not blaming corporal punishment for the students’ low grades (there are a hundred other factors) but I do think that in order for youth to thrive they need to feel safe in their environment.  It’s hard to feel safe when teachers walk around carrying sticks, and can beat students at their own discretion, whether it’s an incident of bullying or a student being punished because someone stole his notebook (true story).

More relevantly, I find it completely against my moral principles.  There is no scientific proof that corporal punishment works.  It’s just a way for teachers to use students as a sounding-board for their frustration and as a show of power.  It honestly kills me inside to work at a school where teachers demand respect from students that they then refuse to return.

I’ve had some minor successes on the issue.  Some teachers have come up to me and started a discussion on how things are different in America.  (Note: in these discussions, I always start off by saying that in some states, corporal punishment is still legal.)  One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Kgogobi, has stopped using the method, and when I see him with a stick he assures me, “I am only carrying it to scare them – I don’t beat.”  When I see a teacher going to beat a child, I ask him or her if she has filled out all the proper paperwork and submitted it to the head teacher, which usually stops them in their tracks (or if not, at least shows the students that there is protocol that the teachers should be following).  After the horrible incident last year, one of the HODs apologized to me at the staff briefing.  Although it was a fake apology – “we’re sorry that you were offended” – at least I brought some awareness.

Despite these few, small steps, I’m pretty hopeless that there will be true change.  Teachers ask me how I was disciplined as a child, and I explain to them about after-school detention, suspension, and community service.  But teachers won’t agree to supervise detention or community service without extra pay, of which there’s no chance of getting.  And suspension?  Students would only be too happy not to have to go to school – and their families would be relieved to have extra help around the house.

I suppose this gives a bleak outlook on the situation, but I don’t really see a way that I can sugarcoat it.  People beat children because they were beaten as children, and until a whole generation decides to change its ways, the stick will always be the first method of discipline.

What Does Your Name Mean?

There is an adage in Setswana: Leina lebe seromo.  It is the idea that a person's name will mould and shape his or her life.

Due to this cultural belief, parents name their children extremely literally.  There are the nice ones you would expect, like Lesego, Masego (both meaning lucky), Lorato (love), and Neo, Mpho, Dineo, Dimpho ( all meaning gift/gifts).  Another common name is variations of __me: Wame, Bame, Sesame, all basically meaning "mine."  Sesame (pronounced say-SAH-may) literally means "something that is mine."

Here are some other Setswana names and meanings:

Mothusi - helper
Mothati - a strong person
Tebo - vision
Bokamoso - future
Thuto - education
Bontle - beautiful
Dikitso - information
Khumo - riches
Thuso - help

One of my favorite students is named Atlanang, meaning "hugs," which I've always found sweet.

A particularly funny name I heard came from a colleague.  She has a daughter and a baby boy.  Her daughter's name is Ao (pronounced ah-oh, but in one syllable, almost like "ow"), which isn't actually a word but rather a noise made when someone is shocked, surprised, or offended - "Ao! Rra, what kind of girl do you think I am?!" etc.  I can imagine my friend finding out she is pregnant and exclaiming, "Ao!" and then deciding to just name her kid that.  To top it off, her son's name is Bao, as if she was too tired by a second pregnancy to come up with a new name, so she just added a "B."

Names can even be taken to more literal extremes than the Ao/Bao incident.  Many children are named Mosimanegape or Mosetsanagape - long names which mean "boy again" and "girl again" respectively.  I've heard of someone being named Botlhoko (pain) and I assume his mother had a long, arduous birthing process.

My dear friend Lily's middle name is Kebatho, literally meaning "it's a person."  When Lily was born, her father was upset to have a girl instead of a boy.  Lily's mother, however, cherished her, and gave her the middle name Kebatho to remind her father and everyone that women are people, too.

In all my time in Botswana, my favorite name that I've heard is Serati, pronounced "say-RAH-tee."  It means "something that I love," which seems like a very precious and thoughtful meaning, and it is a unique name here in Botswana.  When I first heard it, I thought I had found my future daughter's own name, but I can only imagine how Americans would manage to mispronounce it.

All in all, names are generally given thoughtfully and with love here.  It's a lovely sentiment to name your child after what you hope his or her future will bring.

...Unfortunately, I don't think it would ever work in the States - can you imagine meeting someone named "Education"?!

It Is So Hot

It is so hot in Botswana…

…I walk around under an umbrella.
…the water coming out of my “cold” tap is boiling hot.
…makeup literally melts down my face.
…despite being a self-proclaimed sun worshiper, I haven’t laid out in over a year.
…I cuddle up next to ice packs after work.
…wet clothes on the line take less than an hour to dry.
…my friend and I were commenting one day that it didn’t seem very hot. We then found out the temperature was 98 degrees.
…the only time it’s cool enough to exercise is 4:30am.
…when strangers come onto my family compound, the dogs don't even care enough to move.
…drinking 5 liters of water per day still isn’t enough to keep me hydrated.
…cooking dinner on the stove is enough to make sweat drip down my face.
…I sleep naked!

Chibuku

One of the benefits of living abroad is trying new things.  Botswana happens to have a traditional beer called chibuku. 

I love that it comes in a milk carton.  "Bojalwa jwa rona" means "our beer."

While I don’t know the particulars, it is made from maize and sorghum that has been allowed to ferment.  This results in a uniquely flavored, surprisingly filling alcoholic beverage that I liken to grainy, slightly chunky drinkable yoghurt.

  

See the grainy goodness

I wouldn’t say I’m a huge chibuku fan, but one time Daniel, a fellow volunteer, showed me the ropes of drinking it.  It’s actually quite a process.  The beer’s nickname is “shake shake” because you must shake the box before drinking it.  So, you press your thumb over a valve that is cut into the top of the box (you can see it in the above picture) and press down on the top to prevent leaking, turn the box upside down, and shake for at least 30 seconds.  The box starts to expand as the beer gets nice and foamy.  At this point you turn the box right-side-up and let go of the valve.  You open the box and voila! – chibuku.

Daniel secretly took a video of me while shaking the box (sorry, you have to watch it sideways):

Trying to shake without getting it on my clothes

Post-shaking foam

The first fateful sip

It's chunky!

Daniel is a fan

At 5 Pula a box, many poor people will forgo buying food for themselves and instead fill up by drinking chibuku all day.  Chibuku is sold at family-owned outdoor bars called shebins.  A shebin (she-bean) is typically someone’s house, and people will buy chibuku and then sit on benches in the yard while drinking and socializing.  It’s fair to say that the large majority of patrons at shebins are male.

While chibuku, like other alcoholic drinks around the world, can be a fun aspect to the culture, it also adds to the growing alcoholism problem in the country and, consequently, the HIV epidemic.  On the bright side, shebins offer a perfect place to do outreach.  And who knows, now that I know how to drink it, maybe I will get to know the men at my local shebin and find my future husband.

Pula - Rain!

Last weekend, we had heat lightning, which was beautiful and amazing to watch.  The next morning, there was a ten minute downpour, which was also beautiful and amazing.  Having not seen rain since April, it’s much appreciated.

Wednesday evening there was another thunderstorm.  I told Katlo, the little boy who lives on my family compound, to come dance in the rain.  He laughed at me, as he always does when I have these “crazy” ideas.  I ran out in my gym shorts and a t-shirt anyway, did some cartwheels, and chassé-ed around on the pavement.  My landlord’s maid yelled in Setswana that I was going to “catch flu.”  Ignoring them, I sang whatever song I could think of, conveniently inserting the word “pula” into every line.

That’s when I noticed that there were four workmen fixing something on the roof of my landlord’s house, frantically trying to finish in the downpour, and they absolutely thought I was insane.  Too late to turn back, I just told them I was out of my mind (“Ke a tsenwa!”) and after that they laughed with me and maybe even started to enjoy the rain themselves (if nothing else, I certainly was entertainment to help pass the time as they worked).  Katlo gave in to the urge and joined me in dancing around.  Coconut, Blackie, and Doodle-doo (my landlord’s dogs) came out for the fun as well. 

It poured again last night, and while I didn’t choose to dance outside, I saw Katlo spinning around, embracing the fat raindrops and cool breeze.  I may fail at capacity building with the teachers at my school, but it’s nice to know I may be able to teach about appreciating life’s little pleasures. 

Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.

Phirimo ya Letsatsi

My training group finally set foot onto Botswana soil as we walked from the airport to the bus that was transporting us.  It was April 12, 2010, and we had been through over 24 hours of traveling.  Our ankles were swollen and we were in that groggy daze affectionately called “jetlag” with at least 2 more solid hours of transport and checking into the hotel.  We should have been on the verge of either strangling one another or sliding off the bus seats and laying unconscious in the aisle.

Instead, we smushed into the seats together conscientiously as if we were already old friends.  The excitement was still alive in us because – there it was, right in front of us, right out the window – we were experiencing our first sunset in Botswana.  Phirimo ya letsatsi.  I’ve seen my fair share of beautiful sunsets, but nothing compares to what you see here.  Words fail to give a true depiction – the overwhelmingly wide expanse, the rainbow palette of colors, a golden sun that blazes so brightly you fear it’s imprinted into your eyelids forever.  But, in truth, looking at something that beautiful forever wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Fast forward six months: one day last week I realized I never, ever watch the sun set anymore.  The fact that I am forced to watch the sun wake up as I walk to work at an ungodly hour seems to nix the need to also watch it go to sleep.  When I come home from work, there is too much decompressing that needs to be done, and barely over an hour of sunlight left.  So the beauty of a sky lit on fire has been escaping me.

That is, until yesterday.  Enough is enough, I told my lazy behind.  Your book and comfy chair will be there when you get back, and right now there is gold dripping off every surface in your village.  You need to watch it.  So I made myself a cold drink, invited along my landlord’s granddaughter, and watched the sun descend behind the rocky hills in the distance.

I repeated the experience tonight.  Each evening brings a new set of colors and another chance to appreciate true, unadulterated beauty.  The peacefulness is addictive, and I hope to make watching the sunset a habit. 

Also tonight, I realized that the sun was leaving me in order to bring that same beauty across the ocean to my friends and family, and I fervently sent all my love with it.  So the next time you are driving home from work or making dinner or running errands in the evening, take a minute to appreciate the sunset.  It’s the closest thing to a real hug that I can give you.

Know what you want to do, hold the thought firmly, and do every day what should be done, and every sunset will see you that much nearer the goal.  –Elbert Hubbard

Prizegiving

At the end of each term, every school across Botswana holds a big ceremony called Prizegiving.  Basically, it’s a day-long event at school where the students who have gotten the highest grades for each subject get rewarded (one student per subject per form, meaning that for each subject three students receive a prize).  Parents are invited and encouraged to come, and there are fundraising efforts for many months leading up to the event.

During the week before Prizegiving, excitement permeated around the school but I had no idea what to expect.  When the day rolled around, I made sure to wear a pretty dress and took extra time on my makeup.  I arrived to school to find all the teachers took the opportunity to dress down instead.  Typical. 

As I said, preparations had been going on for months, and yet the ceremony was delayed nearly two hours in starting because the actual prizes for the students had not even arrived at school, let alone been wrapped.  I helped teachers wrap prizes such as big mixing bowls for cooking, electric kettles, and home décor. 

Finally it was time to begin, and I sat on a curb to watch, as the parking lot had been converted into a little stage, with plastic chairs set up under big tents.  There was a DJ playing music as we waited for the guest speaker, a businessman by the name of Ittan, to get situated.

In the U.S., I’m familiar with school awards ceremonies – they always have academic and athletic ones.  Someone at a podium will announce the winners, he or she will walk up to get a certificate, shake hands, smile, take a picture, sit back down.  In Botswana however, the drama club performed a play which was really cute (not that I understood any of it – it was in Setswana), the choir sang a few songs (even one that involved the audience and got all the parents laughing), and a long speech by the guest speaker about the importance of education.

I have to say though; I think my favorite entertainment of the day was from our math teacher/choir instructor.  He’s very passionate about music, and loves to perform.  (Note: this is the same man who texted me two days after we met: “i hav nvr had such strong luv feelings 4 a lady.”)  Well today he was of course performing, but he actually had two BACKUP DANCERS.  I’m thinking of reconsidering my rejection of his courtship.

Then came the actual giving of prizes.  It was really amusing – after being announced the kids would walk up to get their prize either a) completely embarrassed and covering their face with their hands, or b) acting completely nonchalant, hands in their pockets and everything.  The really funny part was that their mother would also come up to get the prize, dancing and celebrating, and giving their embarrassed kid a huge hug.  Even the Head of Department teachers would get up to give students hugs, picking them up off the ground and swinging them around.

One form 3 student I know, Botho, got a few prizes.  The first time she went up, I was worried that a parent hadn’t come for her.  Then – her older brother came walking up and gave her a hug, overwhelmed with pride.  My God, break my homesick heart into a million pieces.    

At the end, I was exhausted.  Sitting in the sun for three hours without any water had just drained me of energy.  I decided to head home without getting a free lunch (which, let’s be honest, is what everyone was looking forward to).  The DJ had turned on music and the kids stormed the parking lot, dancing around and jumping.  Of course I had to dance with them – and found myself getting completely mobbed.  I couldn’t see anything but laughing faces and hands and general jubilation.  It was fun, until I started to get pulled in three different directions and then someone pulled on my dress (which was bad since my dress was strapless).

I spent the rest of the day recuperating on the couch, but it was undoubtedly a nice day to be a part of the Motswakhumo Community Junior Secondary School family.

Predator and Prey

All is quiet as the prey unknowingly slips its shoes off and relaxes into the early morning warmth. The prey becomes engrossed in reading material and ceases to notice its surroundings.


Meanwhile, the predator swiftly and silently approaches. With each inaudible step, it seems to twitch with excitement and anticipation. It is close, so close, and ready to attack when -

"AHHHHHHH!" The prey screams, jumps onto the coffee table and completely freaks out.

No, we're not talking about lions and lechwes in the Okavango Delta. We're talking about me, in my office, nearly being bitten by a cross between a black widow spider and a roach. This is the most innocent of my recent encounters with bugs, but come to find out, this particular bug sprays its attackers with urine, and if it gets in your eyes, well... ke mathata a matona, to say the least.

My bug woes all began about 3 weeks ago, as I was beginning to move out of my house in order for a new roof to be put on. Peace Corps issues all volunteers a huge, thick, fuzzy blanket for the cold winter nights. Well, living up to my nickname "Tess the Mess," I had just thrown it on the floor when the weather got warmer and let it be. As I finally picked it up to put away, I heard a soft "flop" onto my bed. I assumed there had been a book wrapped up in it, or maybe I had unknowingly dropped my cell phone onto the blanket. A closer look at my bed revealed how wrong I was.

It was a tarantula. A huge, hairy, menacing tarantula. This was the first time I had ever seen one in real life, and it's hopefully the last. After I called the gardener to help me, I decided to name him Clarence (...rest in peace).

Fast forward a couple weeks and I'm comfortably staying in my landlord's extra bedroom as my roof gets put on. I'm lounging on my bed, sipping some ice water and reading a book, when I hear a rustle. Assuming it's the gardener outside my window, I don't think much of it. There's another rustle, and again. Geeze, I'm thinking, that sure sounds like it's right inside my bedroom. This thought brings a flashback of when I was at homestay and the family cat would jiggle my windows open in the middle of the night and jump onto my bed, scaring me shitless. My landlord doesn't have a cat though...

It was a cockroach. A huge, germ-ridden, terror-inducing cockroach, and it brought along its brother. I swear, the things had frog legs to propel them across all my belongings (my clothes are on the floor, since I don't have a dresser) and away from my can of Doom bug spray. Needless to say, I didn't sleep in my room that night.

On top of all this, I am in a constant state of having 50+ mosquito bites on my body. I'm considering keeping a count on my blog so at the end of two years I'll know how many bites I've gotten. Thank goodness for my malaria pills, because otherwise I'd probably be hospitalized.

Finally, enough was enough and I decided to "Doom" my room before I went to sleep last night, despite my hatred of pesticides and the like. I thoroughly sprayed my room, closed the door, and let the poison do its magic as I brushed my teeth. When I re-entered my room, there was - could it be? - silence. No buzzing or rustling. I went to climb into my bed and saw something lying there.

It was a dead roach. A small one, but gross, and on its back. Rest in peace, lil guy, but get the heck off my bed.

In my previous life, I wouldn't have considered myself especially scared of bugs. I found it easy to live in peace with the occasional daddy long legs. The reason, I suppose, for my laid-back attitude, was that I had never actually encountered any scary ones before. Let's hope that my "predator and prey" analogy doesn't become true, and I survive the next two years out here!

I Am Very Happy

There is one woman that I often pass as I’m walking from my house to the tarred road.  She’s an elder of the community, wears traditional clothes, and has yet to remove any of her blankets and scarves although the summer heat is settling in.

We always have a short, basic conversation in Setswana.  It’s not because I’m unwilling to try to discuss more, but rather because after I get past the “O tsogile, Mma?” she breaks into laughter.  This is no little chuckle either, it’s a full blown guffaw that is absolutely good-natured and lasts long after I have passed her. 

I couldn’t seem to figure out why exactly she was laughing.  Out of curiosity I asked her one day, “Why are you laughing?”  I couldn’t resist laughing a little myself – it’s completely contagious.

“I am happy,” she replied, “I am very happy,” and then continued on her way (still laughing, of course).

Le nna, Mma, I thought.  Me too.

The human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.  –Mark Twain

A Re Rapeleng

A re rapeleng.  Let us pray.

You hear it all the time in Botswana – at all school assemblies, the start and end of every meeting, any type of get-together.  The idea of separation of church and state not only doesn’t exist here, but the opposite is actively pursued.  In everything the Batswana do, they keep their religion (of which the overwhelming majority is Christian) in mind.  This doesn’t bother me.  Although I am a strong believer in separating church and state, it’s not as if I’m personally offended that they pray before a meeting.

Well, today they asked me to pray.  Let me set the stage: the meeting was scheduled for 3:15, but was only starting at 4:05.  Many people were absent.  The agenda was ridiculously long.  The late afternoon heat was beating down on my back through the large windows in the staff room.  Being a Thursday afternoon, the weekend was on everyone’s minds.  I was struggling to keep from falling asleep out of boredom when I hear the demand, “Tess, pray for us.”

My first thought was, ha ha, making a joke with the lekgowa (white person).  Then I realized from the other attendees’ intent stares that they really expected me to pray.  Flustered, I blurted, “You know, in America, we don’t pray before meetings.  Actually, it’s illegal to force people to pray in public schools.”

Silence.  Stares.  Luckily my good friend Mothusi burst into laughter and broke the tension.  After laughing myself, I said, “Thank you for the day we’ve been given.  May we all do our best to help the students the best we can.  Amen.” 

In my previous life, I considered myself a religious person, so my reaction seems out-of-character.  I guess I just like to be religious on my own time, in my own way, in a venue that seems appropriate to me.  If nothing else, I don’t think they’ll be asking me to pray again anytime soon!  And hey, it’s all about a cultural exchange, right?

I am a deeply religious nonbeliever – this is a somewhat new kind of religion. –Albert Einstein

Don't Trust Monday Mornings

Dogs bark outside my window.  Mama goats knock over trash cans outside my family compound and baby goats cry for them to come home.  Roosters in the surrounding compounds commence a cacophony of crowing.  Firewood crackles and water sloshes as cast iron kettles are placed over the flames throughout my neighborhood.  The ensuing smoke rises into the early morning air silently as the first rays of light tiptoe over the horizon.  A donkey cart creaks, the commuter bus beeps its horn, my alarm rings, and another day in Lentsweletau begins.

I hit the snooze button.  Ten minutes later, I hit snooze again.  I continue to snooze for no less than fifty minutes.  Bathing before work is over-rated anyway.

Monday mornings aren’t fun anywhere.  They’re especially not fun after having a great weekend, and even less fun when you’re exhausted and work starts at the ungodly hour of 6:30 AM.  It’s safe to say that when I walked into school this morning with droopy eyes and uncooperative hair I was leaning toward the “grumpy” side of the scale. 

The senior management team of the school had an extremely long meeting this morning, so I quietly worked at a desk and waited for my counterpart to discuss what the day would hold for us.  The meeting got out and I watched as she rushed – and rushed – and rushed past me a few times, greeting me with a nice “Dumela Mma” but no words beyond that.  Still no problem – obviously she was busy.  Finally she comes to speak with me, and asks me to do what every Life Skills volunteer dreads: to take over a class for her.  I’m not here to teach classes… but I’m also not a broken record.  I decided against reminding her again of my intended role as a volunteer, and just agreed to do the class.

Fast forward to fourth period.  I’m with the Form 2 students, who are somewhere around 14 years old (it varies).  One of the students brings up an issue on tolerance.  Great, I think.  These are the kind of discussions I want to have.  Then I study the other 39 faces in the room.  There are maybe 3 students that look as if they understand what I’m saying, which is precisely why Peace Corps tells volunteers to co-teach rather than teach alone.  The message completely wasn’t getting across.  When they told me, “All Americans are rich,” and “All Zimbabweans steal,” I did my best to refute that in the simplest English possible, but I simply don’t have the Setswana vocabulary to discuss social issues (even though I did score “advanced mid” on my latest language exam).  How can I explain to them, “Yes, I have a laptop, but that’s because I studied hard enough to get a full ride to college,” or “Yes, I have pretty jewelry, but I had to have three part time jobs at once while taking 21 credits”?  Before I knew it, the period was over, and I left the classroom feeling completely discouraged and as if I had created an even larger gap between cultures rather than closing it.  I spoke to one of the teachers that I’m close with, and she voiced exactly what I felt: if someone had been with me who spoke Setswana, they could have helped the students understand.

Call me dramatic, but after that I was thinking, “This is pointless.  No one wants my help, or to help me.  I’m going to just pack up my stuff and call it quits.”  (In reality I used a lot of expletives, but I’ll try to keep it G-rated.)    

Out of the blue, a teacher walks up to me and says, “Tess, I’m trying to infuse the Life Skills curriculum into my social studies class tomorrow.  Think you could help me out?”  That is literally exactly my job here – the integration of Life Skills curriculum.  I could have kissed her I was so relieved.  Someone gets it!  So tomorrow I’ll be helping her out with a double period as she teaches about the different aspects of culture.  We even made up a matching game to play with the kids, and I’m going to cut out pictures from magazines to help explain American culture and its differences (no laptops or jewelry included). 

It was as if a light had turned on.  After planning, I walked to the post office (where I had a package waiting – thanks Mom and Dad!) and had an absolutely lovely conversation with the ladies there (in Setswana, thank you very much).  A man from the Agriculture Office stopped me and gave me a rose that he had cut for me.  Further along the road, some little kids that I’ve walked with before ran to the fence, jumping up and down, taking turns yelling, “Dumela Lorato!”  (I’ve come to terms with my Setswana name.  Sometimes.)  Feeling oddly optimistic, I thought, Screw the stares, I’m going to go for a run.  So I did!  It was the first time I've exercised in public since May (due to the Fishbowl Effect).  At one point, I had 15 little kids running with me, laughing and screaming.  I even got two women to jog along in their dresses as we passed!  I know there are times when running is enjoyable, but when’s the last time you went for a run and actually had fun? 

In a span of three hours I went from near-despair to jubilation.  (Okay, I’m not quite jubilant.  I’m just living up to my dramatic reputation.)  If there’s one lesson I’ve learned today, it’s this: 

Don’t trust Monday mornings.  Stop to smell the roses (or get one given to you) and stop being so hard on everyone, including yourself.

Can you see my village in the background? ....Didn't think so.

Posh Corps

As with any organization, Peace Corps has stereotypes about certain regions and countries.  Botswana is not an exception, and has been dubbed by some as the “Posh Corps.”  I can imagine some of you back home agreeing with this (though you’d never speak it aloud), thinking, well, she does have electricity, not to mention internet.  Also, a large majority of the population speaks English, so she can communicate more easily.  Didn’t one of her entries mention that she can buy western clothes and high heels?  I thought Peace Corps was supposed to put her in a mud hut where she would sit under a mango tree and teach kids English! 

Let’s examine.

Posh adj.

1. Elegant; fashionable.
2. Typical of or intended for the upper classes; highfalutin.

Origin unknown.

First use: 1918.

Elegant

When I think of “elegant,” I think Grace Kelly.  I think little black dresses and pearls.  I think Baryshnikov and the Louvre and Carnegie Hall.  Gatsby, red wine and pasta, cruise liners, Steinway grand pianos. 

I don’t tend to think about bucket bathing.  Or squeezing four people into three seats on the combi.  Or summers without deodorant, squatting to wash dishes in a tub on the floor, or a permanent coating of red dust on my skin.  Also not entering my thoughts: scrubbing my clothes by hand until my knuckles bleed (and subsequently hanging my “personals” on a clothesline for all to see), sitting on the floor to eat dinner since I don’t have a real table, considering hitch-hiking the most reliable method of transportation, or going anywhere from two hours to two weeks at a time without any water available (I’ve since learned to always keep huge containers full of water, just in case).

This isn’t a list of complaints – these are by far the most minor challenges I’ve encountered thus far, and if it’s not an absolute joy to do my laundry, it’s not terrible either.  The actual lifestyle here is very manageable, but it’s certainly not “elegant.”

Fashionable

The situation in Botswana concerning HIV is not what I might call “fashionable.”  Beside the fact that action is being taken to attempt to remedy the epidemic, there’s nothing concerning HIV that any person or country would want to imitate.  Mothers who are fully aware of their HIV positive status continue to have unprotected sex and have further pregnancies, putting their unborn babies at risk.  Teenage girls fall into this category, and they are expelled from school if they become pregnant, even if it is due to rape or incest.  People are not taught how to use condoms, so the widespread condom use is ineffectual and the disease continues to be spread.  Alcoholism and unemployment are running as rampant as HIV itself, compounding upon the problem.  Furthermore, now that the government and other organizations have taken such a public campaign for prevention, Batswana (the younger generation in particular) are completely burnt out on the topic.  I don’t wish to speak poorly of the Batswana, I merely want to give an outline of the challenges they are facing.  Peace Corps volunteers’ overarching goal in Botswana is to find a new way to inspire behavior change.  And if there was a formula for that, well, we’d have world peace.

Upper Class

If we’re going to say that Botswana is Posh Corps, and thus upper class, let’s take a look at the economy.  At first glance, the national average income of 12,860 (Purchasing Power Parity, international dollars) ranks Botswana as a middle-income country.  However, according to a UNDP report, the richest 10% of Botswana owns 57% of the country’s wealth.  Looking closer at Botswana’s main resource, cattle, shows that the wealthiest 2.5% of farmers owns 40% of all cattle (Source).  Thus, it is obvious that there is a disparity between classes.  While this difference may be greater in other nations in the world, the realities in Botswana should not be downplayed.  Being statistically classified as a middle-income country should not lead to assumptions that the wealth is equally distributed.  Social classes must be examined in order to get an accurate depiction of the situation.  And frankly, I can’t imagine anyone coming to Lentsweletau and declaring it “upper class.”

Highfalutin

Neither “pretentious” nor “pompous” (synonyms for “highfalutin”) describe the Batswana.  Now, getting to know and understand Botswana’s social norms is what I have struggled with the most.  This is not an easy culture to understand.  All cultures are like icebergs, but I feel Botswana is even more so than most.  It’s like the iceberg that sunk the Titanic: the tip above water could barely be seen, but underneath lurked an unimaginably large mass.  There is so much that goes unseen and unspoken about here – topics ranging from HIV and sex to mourning and familial relations.  I’ve lived here for four and a half months now, and I’m still discovering nuances and learning new aspects of the culture on a daily basis.  As Americans, we live in a low-context culture, and it’s hard to imagine what it would be like to live in a place where things aren’t so obvious.  It’s impossible to explain; it’s something you just have to experience.  So please take my word for it: the Batswana may be difficult to read at times or may seem unexpressive (to Americans), but they are far from pompous or pretentious.

Alright, yes, I have internet.  I have a cell phone.  The majority of Batswana I see on a daily basis know at least some English.  I have electricity and when I turn on my faucet, water comes out (…usually).  When I needed a sweater, I hopped on a bus to the capital and bought a plain black V-neck.  But in the end, it doesn’t matter which amenities I have.  I’m still completely alone in a foreign country with only a basic understanding of the language and culture.  Some nights I’m so homesick I stare at the ceiling wondering how I’ll make it through the week.  When I feel lost, I don’t even always know how to ask for help, and I certainly don’t have the vocabulary to express how I’m feeling, or what I’m experiencing.

So go ahead, call it Posh Corps.  Call Botswana “the Country Club of Africa.”  But just as calling me Lorato doesn’t change me from actually being Tess, calling Botswana a country club doesn’t change any of the real, pressing issues it faces each day.  Regardless of what others may think, I’m determined to find a way to truly become a part of my community, fully grasp the culture, and maybe even try to make a difference at some point.  And I may hit a few bogeys on the way, but hey, that’s life on the green.

These people are amazing.  It’s so emotional I was thinking about wearing waterproof mascara. –Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham

Montle Means Smart

I would like to set my rose-colored glasses down on the coffee table for a moment, and give an example of the minor obstacles I face on a daily basis. This is an actual, verbatim conversation I had with a Motswana (person from Botswana) on Friday.

Referring to a Peace Corps volunteer we both know.

Woman: He is very good at Setswana!
Me: Ee Mma. O montle. (Yes ma’am. He is smart.)
Woman: Montle? That means beautiful.
Me: Ee Mma, but “montle” means smart as well, right?
Woman: O montle. He is beautiful.
Me: Oh, okay. How do you say “smart”?
Woman: “Montle” means beautiful.
Me: Ee Mma. What is smart? How do you say, “He is smart”?
Woman: He is smart? You say, “O montle.”

A hurdle may only be two feet high, but jump over them from 6:30 am – 5:00 pm, seven days a week, and even LoLo Jones would need a vacation.

Courage doesn't always roar.  Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow."  -Mary Anne Radmacher

Nemo vs. Angelina

No, I’m not referring to a showdown between Pixar’s precious poisson and America’s alluring actress, but rather another aspect of being a foreigner in a homogenous society. Many people in Botswana have never seen a Caucasian person other than on television, which leads to constant surveillance. Even in my village, which has had three previous Peace Corps volunteers, stares follow me around from the moment I leave my family compound. People who see me every day (albeit mostly children and teens) can’t seem to resist the urge. During my Peace Corps interview, my recruiter Maya referred to it as “the fishbowl effect.” Fellow volunteers comment on it as a “celebrity complex.”

The Fishbowl Effect. A volunteer is placed (usually) into a small community, likely to be rural, without many resources or exposure to diversity in any sense. Upon arrival, community members flock to the person out of sheer, uncontrollable curiosity. Maya described moments of her service in Turkmenistan when children would be peeking into her house from every window. Imagine literally being in a fishbowl: diminutive, different, and displayed.

The Celebrity Complex. It derives from the same situation – a completely new type of human being in a non-diverse community. However, from this perspective, people want to know every last detail. What does her hair feel like? Where does she come from? What’s her name? Where does she live? How does she like the village? Does she have a camera? Is she married? Can I be her friend? Can I check* her?

Personally, I have experienced aspects of both “phenomenon,” and before you worry about the state of my mental health, rest assured I am learning each day how to deal with the extra attention. But I wonder – which perception is the more accurate description? Am I a specimen or an idol? Am I scrutinized or admired? Do I live in a clear glass bowl or the lens of the paparazzi? Nemo the clownfish or Angelina Jolie?  And who wants to be a fish or a celebrity, anyway?

There are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl’s complexion. –Audrey Hepburn, “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”

*In Botswana-English (Bonglish?), the verb “to check” means “to visit.”

A Secret Success Story

In the Briefing section of the June 28, 2010 edition of TIME Magazine, there was a short article outlining the “danger” of undeveloped countries discovering abundant natural resources – “Brief History: The Resource Curse” by Alex Perry. Perry asserts that upon such a discovery, governments will mismanage the resource, leading to corruption and violence. The first three examples cited are oil in Nigeria and diamonds in Sierra Leone and Angola. Perry then mentions Norway as a “success story” that managed to use its resources wisely.

A short article – three paragraphs – however, it piqued my interest. Botswana should have been in that last paragraph with Norway. Immediately after declaring independence in 1966, Botswana discovered an enormous supply of diamonds within its borders. Are you wondering why you’ve never heard Botswana mentioned in all the talk surrounding blood diamonds? That’s because the first president, Sir Seretse Khama, managed to introduce Botswana to the diamond industry without breaking human rights law, and even turned the profits directly into social programs for Batswana (the people of Botswana), thus avoiding the slippery slope to corruption and violence. An admirable act, and one that set the stage for Botswana to become the peaceful nation that it remains to be to this day.

In fact, Botswana is a success story in more ways than just management of natural resources. Independence was bloodlessly declared, democratic elections are regularly and justly carried out, the country enjoys an economic status similar to middle-income countries such as Turkey or Mexico, and the newspaper headlines are more likely to be agricultural developments than homicides. In the 1990s, Peace Corps ended the program in Botswana because developmental help was no longer needed. In 2001 the program was reinstated strictly and solely to address HIV and AIDS, as the rampant spread of the disease was threatening the astonishing progress the country had made in other areas over the 40 years of independence.

I wish Perry had used Botswana as the positive example rather than a European nation. Too often the perception of Africa (always “Africa,” never the individual country, as if Africa was some sort of giant nation-state rather than an entire continent) is hunger, disease, poverty, and violence. In reality though, there are stark differences between different African countries, and the diversity only increases as you learn the nuances of each individual culture. It would have been nice for TIME to recognize Botswana’s effective management of its diamonds, thus calling the world’s attention to the little-heard-of nation of Botswana, Africa’s secret success story.

(You can read the TIME article here: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1997460,00.html)

Success is simple. Do what’s right, the right way, at the right time. –Arnold H. Glasow

The Devil Wears... Birkenstocks?

It’s slightly shameful to admit, but one of the most homesick nights I’ve spent is when I borrowed Nicole’s external hard-drive and watched “The Devil Wears Prada.” It was the catalyst to full-on mourning of my past “college girl” life – mix-and-matching outfits (never repeating one, God forbid), living by the laws of “What Not to Wear” with well-made basics and tasteful accessories, and unhurried boredom-browsing through sales racks at Short Hills Mall. It’s not as if I have the money to even look at Prada, and Anne Hathaway’s performance was mediocre at best, but the movie made me realize that the clothes I stuffed into two suitcases in April have to last me for two whole years. Does this make me materialistic? Yes, but that’s one of my personal short-comings I wanted to address via Peace Corps service.

During my application process, I attempted to not have preconceived ideas of what my workplace would be like. However, it didn’t even cross my mind that I would be placed in a country where teachers dress to the nines. Every day, through the red dirty dust and cloudy, chalk-filled classrooms, the teachers of Motswakhumo Community Junior Secondary School look perfectly put-together. Sky-high heels, cute clutches (never a tote-bag, like I carry), and meticulously matched jewelry. Every. Single. Day. They do live on-campus, so they don’t have to make the fifteen-minute trek that I make every morning, but my Birkenstocks do me no justice next to their polished pumps. Especially since I had put off buying them until the day before I left the States, and in my haste I forgot to treat the leather. The water stains really add to my “poor volunteer” look.

The way the teachers dress is far from the norm in rural areas (which is basically everywhere) of Botswana, but it’s surprising how western many of the people here look. The older generation maintains wearing traditional dresses and skirts and using heavy blankets as coats, but even in the most remote areas, younger people can be seen wearing jeans, hoodies, and even velour tracksuits. In bigger villages and cities, you can find familiar brand-names, like Roxy. Fun fact: Jeep actually has a clothing line, and it is extremely popular here in Botswana. I see people all the time wearing shirts with “Jeep” emblazoned across the front.

Another amusing aspect of clothing culture here in Botswana is their winter dress. It is absolutely frigidly cold from roughly 6 pm until 10 am the next morning (it’s winter in the southern hemisphere right now), so everyone layers and wears heavy clothing. People will even walk around wrapping fleece blankets as skirts over their dress-pants. However, in the afternoon it still gets pretty warm (by my standards), but everyone stays completely bundled up, like little children in bulky snowsuits. And no matter how warm the afternoon is, everyone sill comments, “Go tsididi!” (“It’s cold!”) Imagining their reaction if they were to experience an Oswego winter never fails to bring a smile to my face.

A very big difference that is important to note is that people own very few clothes. Having choices of what to wear in the morning is a new idea here, and the majority of the population cannot afford to have the variety that we enjoy back home. Having a large wardrobe is a sign of wealth, even though clothes are relatively cheap in China shops (I’m not trying to be derogatory – that is what the shops are called here) compared to the U.S. Many students continue to wear their uniforms after school is out, despite the sweaters being worn-out or sometimes even having tears, for they do not have many other clothes. I walked around the village today with a student from my school, and she informed me that she could not attend church because she did not have a skirt to wear – only slacks. Even as I’m writing this, I’m feeling embarrassed for being so sad about the clothes I left behind.

So, it’s not the end of the world to forgo Forever 21 for awhile, and the memories of all the cute shoes I left in my closet will fade. Maybe I can get peace of mind knowing that my Mom has integrated my leftover wardrobe into hers. She’ll definitely be the most stylish teacher at Leighton Elementary – maybe even rival the teachers at Motswakhumo.

My First Day at the Clinic

I know this is so silly, but I’ve been feeling very apprehensive to go out into my community, even to do things like buy flour and check my mailbox. I think it’s a fear of awkward situations (there has to be a phobia name for that - Lindsay and Meg Nat, you probably know). But today, I woke up and said, “Tess, you are going to go to the clinic today and introduce yourself.” And I did!


The nurses were so nice and welcoming. I met the head nurse and right after I introduced myself she said with a huge smile, “Yes, we can use help.” Simple as that. I got a tour of the clinic before settling in to observe the ARV and PMTCT* counselors, and it is a beautiful facility for such a small village. It is actually more of a mini-hospital, and it even has a whole maternity wing! (Keep in mind that I speak on a Botswana scale – so by “wing,” I mean there are two rooms in a hallway. But that’s way more than I expected!) What made me even happier is that every room was spotlessly clean and the workers were all efficient and friendly.

Wednesdays are “ARV Day,” meaning that people in the community and surrounding villages come to the clinic to receive their Anti-RetroViral Treatment (hence ARVs). The waiting room was filled with people, and I think it was one of the first times the high prevalence rate of HIV clicked in my mind. These people are my neighbors, my colleagues, and my community. Since I am based in the school, it was saddening to know that students of mine have to come every week to get medication. One of the counselors was telling me that the younger patients often get frustrated and angry at their parents for passing HIV to them, and thus do not take their medication, which ultimately hurts them even more.
At the same time though, I felt proud to be a part of my community today. So many people are taking responsibility for their status, and working to be healthy, contributing members to society despite being HIV positive. The great majority of patients have a viral load of less than 400, and a CD4 count well above 250 (in layman’s terms: they’re very far from being diagnosed with AIDS). Also, due to the strong PMTCT program, only two babies were born positive this year. Yes, it’s tragic that they are HIV positive from birth, but only two babies. That is such an achievement.

Next week I’ll be returning on Wednesday to help with ARV day again, and hopefully as I understand protocol within the clinic, I can take on other jobs. I would love to start a nutrition initiative to ensure that PLWHA* stay healthy and strong.

Oh, and after I left the clinic I went and bought flour, and it wasn’t even scary! With this success under my belt, who knows what tomorrow will bring. ;-)


“Doing little things well is a step toward doing big things better.” - Harry F. Banks



*PMTCT: Pregnant Mother To Child Transmission. A huge issue contributing to the prevalence of HIV was pregnant mothers passing the disease to their children either during childbirth or through breastfeeding. Botswana has created a very strong program throughout the country, and rates of transmission in this way are now very low.

*PLWHA: People Living With HIV/AIDS.

What's In a Name?

Well, William, a rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but I’m not sure the same rule applies for me. Upon being matched with a host family, one of the first family affairs was the selection of a new, Setswana name for me. I was dubbed Lorato (meaning “love”) after my host mother. Overwhelmed by all the excitement that accompanies the commencement of an adventure, I embraced it whole-heartedly and accepted it as part of “the new me” without much thought.
Fast forward five weeks into training, and I was just about fed up with the seeming refusal by Batswana to use my real name. The use of Setswana names rather than given names doesn’t seem to bother any other volunteer, but it became a personal pet peeve of mine. I personally do not think that a person needs to forsake their identity in its entirety in order to assimilate into a culture and integrate into a community. As I struggled with mourning my past life, an intense training schedule, and severe homesickness for my friends and family, not being called by my name became a tragedy. I made it my personal mission to only be called Tess. Let me illustrate.

Conversation With a Motswana Pre-Operation “Tess” (with translation):
Me: Dumela Mma. Hello ma’am.
Woman: Dumela Mma. O tsogile? Hello ma’am. Have you risen?
Me: Ke tsogile, wena? I have risen, yourself?
Woman: Ke tsogile. Leina la gago ke mang? I have risen. What is your name?
Me: Ke bidiwa Tess. Wena? I am called Tess. Yourself?
Woman: Ke bidiwa Neo. Leina la gago ke mang ka Setswana? I am called Neo. What is your name in Setswana?
Me: Ka Setswana, ke bidiwa Lorato. In Setswana I am called Lorato.
Woman: Ah! Lorato! “Love!” Ah! Lorato! “Love!”

Conversation With a Motswana During Operation “Tess”:
Me: Dumela Mma. Hello ma’am.
Woman: Dumela Mma. O tsogile? Hello ma’am. Have you risen?
Me: Ke tsogile, wena? I have risen, yourself?
Woman: Ke tsogile. Leina la gago ke mang? I have risen. What is your name?
Me: Ke bidiwa Tess. Wena? I am called Tess. Yourself?
Woman: Ke bidiwa Neo. Leina la gago ke mang ka Setswana? I am called Neo. What is your name in Setswana?
Me: Ka Setswana, ke santse ke bidiwa Tess. In Setswana I am still called Tess.
Woman: (Look of confusion; walks away.)

As you can tell, insisting upon my given name is somewhat a conversation killer. Perhaps you, my dear readers, side with Juliet and feel that a name is insignificant and superficial. Many volunteers would agree. But, as I questioned why I felt so adamantly against the practice of re-naming, I found myself reflecting upon our own country’s experiences with foreigners and nomenclature. (Note: Let me preface this by saying that these examples are absolutely not comparable to the situation in Botswana. I in no way intend to imply that Batswana are being rude or belittling in giving foreigners a Setswana name. I will explain further later, but please keep that in mind as you read.)

• I began to think of immigration and Ellis Island when I realized that “Tess” is a very odd name here in Botswana. The “eh” vowel sound is unusual to them, as is the double “s.” That is another reason for having a Setswana name – it is easier for them to pronounce and remember. It is a common myth (one that I believed actually until I did some research for this blog post) that officials at Ellis Island changed hard-to-spell names. Rather, Ellis Island upheld strict standards for accurate information. It is the immigrants themselves who changed their names for a variety of reasons: to prevent confusion and/or frustration concerning the pronunciation, to aid in adapting to American culture, and to help assimilation into their workplace and the society, among others. The one I associate with is the frustration over pronunciation – although it truly doesn’t bother me to be called “Tazz” (in fact, that is closer than most Americans’ attempts to pronounce my last name). However, despite the obstacles a foreign-sounding name may pose, I cannot agree with immigrants coming into America and changing their names. It is too much a part of your identity, especially as one has forgone every other aspect of their previous life. [Source: http://blog.lib.umn.edu/ihrc/immigration/2007/02/whats_in_a_name.html]

• The second instance in American history concerning name change hit me as I was glancing through A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn. (Note: I really was simply glancing through. I’m not mature enough yet to think that history books are fun to read.) In the whole chapter on slavery, only two names of slaves were mentioned – Emanuel and John Punch. It struck me that both of those names sound remarkably… English. Slave owners changed their slaves’ names for, it seems, two main reasons: they did not care to learn their given name, and it established the power dynamic. Slave owners would often use shortened versions of common names, such as Jem for James and Beck for Rebecca. Also popular were Biblical names and location-inspired names. There are very few registration records of slaves using their original names. Additionally, slaves were not given surnames, but rather chose them for themselves if they were so inclined, seemingly as an effort to regain some status and integrate more into society. Their owners would refuse to acknowledge those surnames (although in runaway notices, they would include the full name, in case the slave used her/his full name as s/he traveled). [Source: http://www.afrolumens.org/slavery/names.html]

The last thing I want is for you to think I am comparing Batswana to slave owners. Here in Botswana, they give foreigners a Setswana name in order to welcome them and to help them feel at ease. Here, names are given in good spirit, and I realize and recognize that. However there are moments when, after expressing my desire to be called “Tess,” a Motswana will basically say, “Oh, well, I am going to call you Lorato anyway. So get used to it.” It is those moments when the cross-cultural barrier seems impossible to cross.

There is nothing that I can do to change this aspect of service or of the culture, as it is not even an issue of much importance. Luckily, I am placed in a school and if nothing else, I can require the students to call me Tess. Also, my landlord has taken to calling me “Tando,” which is a nickname for “Lorato,” and I actually kind of like it. Anyway, right now at the beginning of my fourth week, the irksomeness of “Lorato” is dimming as I find myself facing more serious issues – the ones I am here to address, such as HIV awareness and prevention. And I suppose that as long as my dear friends from home promise to always call me Tess, I can deal with losing a little bit of myself while I’m here.

What do you think? How important is your name to your identity? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Love-ingly yours,
Tess

"These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson