Setswana is the Opposite of a Thesaurus

Today for my English club I decided to make a version of the Memory game using pairs of words translated from English to Setswana.  So, the students would put all the cards face down and take turns turning over pairs, trying to make a match of an English word and its Setswana counterpart.

To prepare, I made a list of English words and my fellow YES Club teacher, Charity, translated them into Setswana.  I tried to fill the list with somewhat challenging, but still relatively common words.  Examples: bored, love, to explain, to believe, to laugh, important, possible, dangerous.

Charity brought the list back to me and we started to write words on the cards.  She stopped me, rhetorically asking, “How do you say I’m sad?  Hmm.  You just have to say that you are not happy.”  Rolling my eyes at a language that doesn’t have a word for “sad,” I continued to work.

She stopped me again.  “Sad and depressed, are they the same thing?”  I saw that in her translation she had written down the same Setswana word for both.

Two minutes later: “Focused and determined, they are the same.”

Two minutes later: “Annoyed and embarrassed and upset, are they all the same?”

My answer every time: “In English they aren’t.”  Her response every time: “Ah, but in Setswana…”

Examples of other words that are exactly the same:

• To like and to love
• To stand and to wait
• To stay and to sit
• To demonstrate and to point
• To rescue and to help
• Work and responsibility
• To remember and memory
• Custom and culture
• To like, to want, to prefer, and to need

Lesson learned?  The Setswana language is exactly the opposite of a thesaurus.

One Year

A deliriously blue Botswana sky through the limbs of a baobab tree

Today marks my first year of living in Botswana.  It’s hard to believe how much has changed since my first jet-lagged steps at Gaborone Airport.  I’ve learned a new culture, a new language, a new way of life, and most importantly, a whole new side of myself.

I’ve learned how much I have to be thankful for.  I’ve learned that there is more than one way to give thanks, to love, and to mourn.  I’ve learned that happiness can be found in a compliment, a golden sunset, or the laugh of a child.  I’ve learned I can survive more homesick nights than I could have ever imagined.  I’ve learned that eating nothing but grapes for dinner is not only totally acceptable but also delicious.  I’ve learned that spending time alone, rather than bringing loneliness, brings peace within and clarifies my thoughts.  I’ve learned that it is possible to eat for three days off of one cabbage and two onions.  I’ve relearned that reading is my favorite pastime.  I’ve learned that for all my complaints about globalization, the internet is really f-ing awesome.  I’ve learned that without my parents being a phone call away to consult, I can still handle problems in my life with (relative) grace and tact. 

I’ve learned what it feels like to be an outsider – but I have also learned what it feels like to be welcomed wholeheartedly into a family that is not your own.

Today at work, the vice-principal asked how long I would be with them.  I replied, “Until June of next year.  You are stuck with me until then!”

He thoughtfully answered, “If you say you are ‘stuck’ that means you are not happy.  That is not true.  We always like when you are around.  When you are not here, we do not feel good.”

An hour later, walking home with the cleaning lady Tswelelo, she gave me two ears of corn, or midi.  I protested that I didn’t want to take her food, but she insisted, saying, “Take.  I want you to know traditional foods.”

I’ve learned that nothing brings me greater pleasure than when someone from my village calls me tsala ya me, my friend.

Happy one year to all my fellow volunteers.

I realize more each day how lucky I am to be an American, and to have grown up so comfortable, surrounded by family and friends who love and care about me.

I miss that life that I loved.


[Thank you to Rusty, Sarah, and the Dristles for the recent care packages.  Each one brightened my day, and your generosity is more appreciated than I could ever say in words.]

The Fear of Missing Big

Summer when I was a little kid meant a few things: trips to the beach, lemonade stands, my Barbie bike, picnics and flying kites, yard work with intermittent ice cream breaks, camping, play dates, and more ice cream.

But mostly what I remember is baseball: being out with the whole family on our side lawn or at the local fields, a cap on my head, feeling the weight and shape of my plastic yellow bat in my hands as I stepped up to the plate; the satisfying thwack of whiffle ball against bat; and when I was in the outfield, there was no distance too far to throw that ball in to home base. 

All that changed when I graduated from whiffle ball to Little League and joined the boys’ team.  As the sole female on the roster I was the obvious target for popcorn throwing contests, which I used to lament, but now realize how much stronger it made me to grow up defined as a person, rather than by my gender.

More pressing than gender roles, however, was the game itself.  No longer was this a harmless scrimmage among friends – this was the big time.  There were innings and outs and no “do-overs.”  A turn at the bat also meant a turn in front of hundreds of peering, judgmental eyes, waiting for me to make one wrong move.  A row of popcorn-monsters sat in the dugout, betting on if “the girl” would strike out or hit a foul ball and then strike out.

And so I unfailingly let the ball machine whiz one-two-three times past me, most times unable to even take a swing.  However, days later on the weekends, my dad would pitch to me in the side yard and bam-bam-bam I’d hit them hard with reckless abandon.

Finally, after another no-hitter, my dad asked me, “Why don’t you ever swing when it’s your turn to bat at the games?”

“Because Daddy,” I replied.  “I don’t want to miss big.”

The fear of missing big has plagued me throughout my life.  It’s why I’ve never been good at sports, auditions, or contests.  My brain sends “mayday” signals, my muscles seize up, and I walk away or give only a half-assed effort.  If I am not at least 95% positive that I’ll succeed at something, I would rather not try it at all. 

Except that I’m finding Peace Corps to be one long series of opportunities to miss big.  I may live alone, but there are still hundreds of beady eyes watching my every move – from my village, to the Peace Corps staff, to friends and family back home.

I find myself in many positions of leadership daily, but two are on the forefront of my mind: the work I am doing to get funding for Pula Matlho HIV Support Group and my role as a representative on the Peace Corps Volunteer Advisory Council.  Both of them have plenty of potential, both could result in great achievements, both have people relying on me to make their wishes a reality, and both could result in disaster, in failure.

With both of them, I could really miss big.

And so the time has come for me to face my fear.  The thing with fear is that it convinces you that it’s protecting you from making a mistake, but in reality, fear is the one thing guaranteed to trip you up.

With that, I’m taking a deep breath and diving wholeheartedly into these projects.  Maybe I’ll stick my neck out and no one will be there behind me – or maybe I’ll finally find the support I’ve been searching for the past year.

Only one to find out, really.  I’ve gotta pick up that bat, keep my eye on the ball, and swing…


*Dedicated to my dad.  Happy birthday!

Masimo

Every family in Botswana owns land out in the bush where they plant their crops.  This land is called masimo. I recently went on a quick trip with my landlord to her lands, as she had hired some community members to help hoe and was giving them a ride to masimo, 11km away.

My landlord's lands.

My landlord is an extremely generous woman (imagine if someone in the states who made a million dollars a year decided not to take their $100,000 tax break but instead gave that money to people in need... that would be my landlord) and lets people plant their crops on any land that she is not using.

The daughters of people who are borrowing my landlord's lands for their crops.

The government actually gives away plots of land for free, but the application process is fairly long and drawn-out.  

Trying to avoid the blazing heat of the sun.

People go out to their lands (which are sans running water and electricity, by the way) and plan to stay for days or weeks at a time, in order to get everything done.  Keep in mind that this is no backyard garden - these are large-scale plots of lands that need to be hoed, weeded, and watered.  Luckily, my landlord can afford to hire people to do the work for her.  This saves her effort (she is getting on in years) and provides income for a needy family.

We didn't have time to walk through the fields, but are planning a return trip soon to do so.  It's beautiful and peaceful at masimo, and I can't wait to take more pictures.

My landlord is the woman in the red dress, third from the left. 

In addition to masimo, all families also have cattleposts where they keep their cattle (duh) and other animals.  My landlord's cattlepost is about 2 hours away near a village called Mahalapye, but we are also planning a trip there soon.

I don't think it comes as a surprise to anyone that in the past months I've been struggling a little bit with integration and harassment in my village.  It was such a pleasure to go out with my landlord and learn about the culture as part of a family rather than as an outsider.

Sadly This is True Everywhere

"Listen,

It does not matter what you say. As a woman, as a woman of color, as a woman of size, as a woman with large breasts or no breasts and a lifetime of experience with bucket loads of passion. It does not fucking matter.*

Because unless there is a white guy backing you up, you are an angry bitch. Uppity, spirited, “that girl”, the femanazi, the super-libber, the PC chick, the conspiracy theorist…"

Read the post here.

The Biggest Bags of Cheetos EVER.

Basically, I was in heaven.