It's Not Just College Debt Anymore!

I'm a bit delayed, but please excuse me. I've been busy contemplating what I could do with $700 billion. And I think I could certainly do more than rescue a few companies from their own mistakes - or are they still called mistakes if they were intentional?
On October 3, the House of Representatives passed Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008 ("the bailout" will be used from here on, to avoid euphemisms), which had been passed by the Senate, and was an extended (451 pages) and amended ($150 billion more) form of Paulson's "bailout" plan first submitted as a three-page proposal in late September.
Senator Sherrod Brown (D, Ohio) says that he received over 2,000 emails and telephone calls per day in the week leading to the bailout vote, and that at least 95% of his constituents opposed the bailout. One week before the October 1 Senate vote, Dianne Feinstein (D, Calif.) had a total of 39,180 emails, calls, and letters - with an overwhelming majority against the plan.
Yet, on a map of states for whom the "majority" of senators - which I assume would mean all - voted for the bailout, Ohio and California were both shaded green. If their constituents didn't want the bailout, how did the bill get passed? I thought "democracy" meant that Joe and Sally Schlep could have a say.
It's not just the $2333 that each citizen now owes in order to pay for the bailout - I could buy a plane ticket back to Botswana for that much, and when dependents are factored in, our bill will probably be much more than that anyhow - it's the frustration that although the public was against the bill - or at least everyone who I talked to - the bailout still passed. And the people who voted for it aren't going to be the ones paying for it; no, most of them will retire soon while those of us who are students now - including a majority of people under 18 who couldn't even vote for their senators and representatives - will be footing the bill. (Tavation without representation, anyone?) The "Emergency Rescue Plan" - a bailout intended to deliver some billionaires from "financial ruin". I personally think it would have been money better spent to save our public schools from "finanical ruin" - they need the money a whole lot more.
I know free capitalism doesn't work, and that we need more governmental regulation. But more regulation doesn't have to mean spending more money on companies that were giving out huge bonuses just a few days before they came knocking on the government's door - the same door that public schools have been knocking on for years without a single answer.

"You Choose" 2008

I have begun to feel as though every blogger in the world has posted at least one, if not numerous, posts about the upcoming United States elections. I have begun to feel as if, to qualify as a "legitimate" blogger, I too much join the masses and make my views known. So I submit. However, staying true to its roots as a travel blog, the candidates' positions on traipsing the globe may appear....
"You choose." It sounds like a commercial for American Idol. But alas, it is the name YouTube has give its collection of election videos. True, as citizens of the United States, we do have the right to vote and essentially choose who becomes our president (at least those of you over 18 do). But in no other age have the elections been so based - or biased, depending on your view - on our candidates histories and so ignorant of their political views.
Based on the media's reports on Sarah Palin, I know more about her family and her hunting hobbies than about her specific views on foreign policy, health care, or taxes. Shouldn't these issues matter? My father waved the most recent issue of Newsweek - with a flattering photo of Palin with a gun slung over her shoulder gracing the cover - at me during dinner, declaring that our country needed someone with a small-town background, someone who could really relate to the "average American", someone who was an average American. (Note: I use the term "American" with regrets. This term should technically refer to all people living in North, Central, and South America, but the English language has yet to develop a term to apply specifically to people from the United States. At times like these, I wish I were writing in Spanish.) And in fact, Palin may best represent the average American's travel record; she applied for and received her first passport just last year, and has been to Canada, Alaska's closest neighbor, only once. This is in par with the fact that only about 20% of Americans own passports. But do we really want someone in office who is the "average American" in this respect? After travelling internationally three times, I feel like my views have been influenced greatly by this experience. One thing I have learned is that Americans are viewed as rather ignorant of the rest of the world, with their monolingual tendencies and limited desire to travel to countries other than on gas-guzzling cruise ships. I personally believed that an experienced traveller would be a very qualified president.
Obama has been criticized by many for mentioning in his Democratic convention speech his desire for a more bilingual education. Obama admits that he is monolingual, and says that he is "embarrassed" and wishes he'd learned more than "a little bit" of Indonesian during his years there. I believe that the United States is no longer the world's exclusive major powerhouse. Even if we were, being able to successfully communicate with both our friends and "enemies" is essential. Perhaps a president who is at least semi-fluent in Spanish would be a good start to improving our poor relations with Central and South America; perhaps an Arabic- or Farsi- speaking president could actually gain some insight from trips to the Middle East. (By the way, how many Americans know what language is spoken in Iraq or Afghanistan?) I think more language education (in English and foreign languages) - better education in general - would greatly benefit this country. Obama also voiced his opinion that education should be less test-focused...something I couldn't agree with more!!

Future???

For my loyal readers (hahaha) now disappointed with the lack of blogging, what can I say... the USA is boring.
Okay, not really.
But I've not been up to much worth reporting on. I'm afraid that this blog will be rather devoid of posts until something else exciting happens in my life... India? Canada? England? Botswana again? Only the travel gods know where I shall go next... and we know how they feel about me!

The Travel Gods Speak Again!

I arrived safe at home last night after 36 hours of travel. I want to fly back to Gabs today. My mood is lightened a bit by the fact that I passed my permit test this morning and have driven all over town since, but I'd really like to drive back to Botswana.
I almost didn't get back into the country at the Toronto airport. The US customs official asked me for a notarized letter from my parents, proving that I wasn't a runaway. I didn't have one - I've never needed one in the past. I'm sure the fact that I look nothing like my passport photo didn't help my case, but after a few stressful minutes of him hemming and hawing over my story, he let me through. Luckily my plane was delayed, otherwise I would've missed it.
I'm off to experiment with some Indian recipes for dinner... For some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that it just won't taste the same.

The (Travel) Gods Have Spoken

(written Wednesday, about 6:30 p.m.)

I enjoyed a pleasant flight to Johannesburg from Gaborone – I was pushing the fact that I was leaving far to the back of my mind, and I was preoccupied with engaging in discussion with the person sitting next to me. This man was also from the United States, and had a job which entailed travelling about Africa; he had just been to Botswana for the first time and for a short, three-day stay. He immediately recognized my Deerfield Academy drawstring backpack, and mentioned that he knew someone who went to Deerfield. I was really chuffed, and we talked for the entire flight. I mentioned that I was really sad to leave, and he asked me why I was so smiley, then. I replied that the fact that I was leaving hadn't sunken in yet, and I said that in the middle of my Heathrow layover I'd probably burst into tears and have the whole terminal looking at me funny. We landed, our goodbyes, and descended from the plane, boarding the shuttle which would take us to the airport from South African Airline's hangar. I stood, gazing out the window, repressing depressing thoughts of leaving, and mindlessly feeling in my bag to ensure the presence of my passport…
"MY PASSPORT!!" I thought. I elbowed my way off of the shuttle, as the doors were closing (it was all very dramatic) and dashed to our airplane.
"I think…I left…my passport," I gasped. The airline attendant handed the familiar USA-crested booklet to me. I visually relaxed with relief and, much chagrined, returned to the shuttle, which had waited for me (one of the ups of a small, African airport, is that they wait for you). I walked on, saying out loud by mistake, "That was embarrassing." The man who had sat next to me grinned at me as I waved my passport.
I smiled as I explained, "I guess the travel gods didn't want me to leave, either."

Things Never Last

I have reached the time of "lasts": my last marimba lesson, my last bag of peanuts and raisins, my last trip to the forex - foreign currency exchange. I still have a few more days, but this is my last Friday. Although in the classic Botswana style, my plans didn't work out, so I've wound up here at school.
5 days left here... and I've missed out on so much. Time to repeat my mantra in an attempt to make myself feel better: "No regrets, no regrets, no regrets...."
Time to make some last lasting memories...

The Shower

Or, more aptly, "the Bathhouse" would be a better name for the movie that I saw last night. The Gaborone Film Society partnered with the Chinese embassy to show a foreign film in the AV centre here on campus. A selection of Chinese desserts greeted us movie-goers as we entered the auditorium, along with varied piles of books regarding different "China" topics: food, music, politics, economics... A smörgåsbord of literature and cuisine. The wife of a Chinese embassy official greeted me; we had met at a former foreign film, one without all the bells and whistles of this event. The reason for such an exciting evening? The Chinese ambassador would be coming, and the Beijing Olympics would be the focus of the celebration.
The movie, which started after a brief power-cut ended (and the number of people who carry flashlights, or "torches" in the local lingo, was revealed to be surprisingly high), told the story of an old man, Mr. Liu, who owns a bathhouse in modern Beijing. Essentially a story of tradition versus modernization, one of Liu's sons, Erming, is mentally challenged, and helps his father in the bathhouse. The other son has moved to a big city, to work in a big company, and make "big money". He returns home when his father begins ailing, and must try to explain to Erming that the bathhouse is going to be torn down to build new skyscraper offices. The moving portrayal of the family makes "The Shower" a very touching movie.
In the first few minutes of the movie, someone very important-looking came and sat next to me. I like to think that he was the ambassador... And that leads me to thinking about Botswana. Only in this country would one be able to walk into an event hosted by the Chinese embassy, where the ambassador was going to be, and not have to have your bag checked or pass through security. No gun-toting guard.
And yet, if someone drunk wanders in front of your car at night and you hit them, you shouldn't stop. You must drive to the nearest police station, especially if you are in South Africa. Even if there are people dying on the side of the road, if you are in South Africa, you never stop. Or you will be the next dying person that the next car stops for.
But half an hour away from the border, on this little school campus, I can sit next to practically the entire Chinese embassy and they feel perfectly safe. Which they are.

A Peek of Grahamstown

Above: Muriel, the pianist for the jazz group "Tucan-Tucan", solos on a really cool piano-guitar thing-a-ma-bob. Sweet!
Above: Andrew Verster, artist, hangs some of his works for his exhibit. These mixed-media paintings were created with a layers of tissue paper ironed together with wax.
Above: Another of Verster's works; for inspiration, he visited a tattoo-artist friend.
Above: A still from the play "Jutro", which takes place in World War II era Poland. The man is sheltering the woman, a Jewish performer, in his bomb-shelled bar.
Above: A still from "Spun: The Legend of DJ Tommy Guns". Tommy is holding a DJ-ing record, which also doubled as an alien disguise in his one-man show.
Above: The poster for "Spitfire", the best show I saw at the festival. Grahamstown was covered with posters; no building or fence could escape. This show was incredible, and Ewok certainly has talent and deserves the awards mentioned on the poster!
Above: Another incredible show's poster. "Mouche" moved one of our party to tears, and we were all on the brink. Even the puppet-petrified student with a phobia of masks and dolls ended up enjoying it!
Above: The poster for "Out of Time", another incredible show. This moving monologue portrays a comatose father's last words to his son.

Such Drama, abbreviated

Realizing that many, if not all, of you would not like to read through three pages of a boring account of plays you didn't see and probably never will, here is the abbreviated version of "My Trip to Grahamstown!"
Sun: Left Gaborone with the director of Maitisong (driver), the teacher's aide from the UK, a sixth-form artsy MaP student, and me. Stayed overnight in Bloemfontein, South Africa, at the director's daughter's home.
Mon: Arrived in Grahamstown about 4 o' clock. Saw two plays (one good, one not) and a jazz concert (good). Discovered that our "en suite" room in a high school dormitory was actually an ironing room with two cots (I shared with the sixth-form young woman) and a shared, un-locking bathroom down the hall.
Tues: Art exhibits in the morning (very impressive) and four more shows, as well as an outdoor theatre performance, in the afternoon; all were pretty good.
Wed: The day of wonderful shows and exceptional art, as well as a delicious lunch at a cafe and dinner at the Long Table, a community-run "restaurant", in which the menu is home-cooked meals, warmed in the microwave just for you! Saw MaP's art teachers' exhibit; incredible. And then came the best comedy and the best...I don't really know how to categorize it. "Spun - the Legend of DJ Tommy Guns" was a great comedy about a teenage amateur DJ who finds himself saving the world from aliens in a DJ spin-off. "Spitfire" consisted of a very talented actor using lyrical poetry, words and sentences strung together, to create a powerful comment on society and on Africa. His talent was astonishing.
Thurs: More shows, including the best drama: "Mouche", in which a puppet troupe saves a girl from committing suicide. She joins the troupe and all the puppets fall in love with her - and eventually the bitter, hateful puppeteer as well. Saw some nice jazz in the evening, which was a good way to unwind from all the plays.
Fri: Three good shows, two not-so-good shows, but all-in-all a fine last day. We ended with a comedy, "Butlers and Brandy". Very entertaining!
Sat: We climbed back into the car, loaded our hastily-packed things, and left Grahamstown at 8 o'clock in the morning. After thirteen hours of chocolate covered peanuts, Alvin and the Chipmunk and other music, and a dinner stop at Spurs, we pulled into MaP at about 9 pm. I had to force myself to exit the car; we had all become such good friends, and I truly didn't want to leave the people with whom I had spent my best week so far.

Such Drama!

We were quite a motley crew: the meat-loving director of Maitisong drove; the extremely kind teacher's aide from the UK; a sixth-form artsy MaP student who was allergic to wheat and dairy; and me, the vegetarian from the US. But we put our differences aside and climbed into the large vehicle, loaded up with our luggage. We drove for 6 hours to get to Bloemfontein, South Africa. After staying over at our driver's daugher's house in Bloemfontein, we embarked on another 6-hour stretch to Grahamstown, and pulled in at about 4 o'clock on Monday afternoon. We gazed around the small town plastered with show posters and walking "festinos". We finally found where we were staying; I stayed with the other MaP student at Victoria Girls' High School. We were led up to our "en suite" room, and stood outside a room labelled "Ironing Room" a bit confused. The irons had been replaced with two cot-like beds, and the bathroom was shared, outside of the room, and didn't lock. After registering a complaint, we decided to make the best of our cupboard, seeing as we'd be out most of the day anyhow.
The first show we went to see was called "Best Man's Speech". A very talented actor performed a monologue of a best man ripping apart the groom during a wedding speech, and moving through the stages of drunkenness at the same time - very entertaining. We followed this show with "Madman Standing", which involved two actors portraying homeless philosophizing men. A good idea, but the script seemed to be a rough draft; it was raw ideas, rather than a smooth plot. After this rather un-stimulating show, we went to a very exciting dinner at the Long Table, a "restaurant" of sorts which only opens during the festival. Church-goers of a certain church set up four loooong tables in their church hall, and cook a variety of meals. This night, for example, I ordered a vegetable enchilada (R45). I paid, and then waited for the staff to dish out a huge enchilada onto a plate, microwave it, and add a big helping of salad. I cut a very thick slice of bread off of a loaf set out for that purpose, and searched for a seat among the crowded hall. We finished up with some late-night jazz, a jam session by some incredibly talented young people (although not everyone in our group shared this opinion!)
On Tuesday, we explored a few art exhibits in the morning, and were very impressed. One of the exhibits, artist Andrew Verster, was having a walkabout, in which the artist gave a talking/tour through his work. Learning about the work from the man himself was very enriching. After the walkabout, I saw an outdoor theater show at noon, which was good but aimed at young children. Ariadne's Labyrinth followed a girl on her journey through a challenge-ridden labyrinth in which she learned lessons from the various animals she encountered. We followed this show with "Puck's Story", an adaption of Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream". This show was very well done, and also outside, moving around the extensive lawn/garden of a school. The outdoor shows were nice, because at the middle of the day the temperatures were "sweat-shirt weather", about 65 or 70 degrees F and sunny. The nights however descended into frigid cold; well, not frigid in comparison with Massachusetts' winters, about -1 degree Celcius, which is a lot warmer than -1 F!
After Puck's Story, we went to "My Father's Hat, My Mother's Shoes", a one-man show by the drama teacher from MaP. An entertaining mix of magic tricks and narrative acting, the semi-autobiography was amusing and enjoyable. We went to a coffee shop, Dulce, for dinner. The director of Maitisong became rather obsessed with Dulce, where if you spent 80 rand (7 rand = 1 US dollar), you got a free Dulce beanie. By the end of the trip all four of us had hats!
Our next show was a bit more disturbing. "The Hamlet Machine" involved white-dusted scantily clad people writhing on the floor and falling off tables, with intermittent moments of macabre insight, such as "Long live death!" Although it wasn't up the alleys of my companions, I didn't mind it. I don't think I'd miss another show to see it again, but I am very glad that I got to see it. To pick us up, we went to a comedy afterwards. "Chatter" was a bit of a satire about modern communication, and how Internet and cell phone communication can go terrible wrong. It wasn't brilliant per say, but I found it very entertaining and enjoyed it a lot.
We got back to our room at midnight, since Chatter ended at 11:30. We stayed up for another hour talking before collapsing into sleep. But no rest for the weary; the following morning we got up at 9 to drive to where MaP's two art teachers had an exhibit. Their work blew me away; I was incredibly impressed. We saw another street theater production at noon again, this one called "Impisi". Two actors did astonishing imitations of African animals without any props, and delivered the message (once again aimed at a younger audience) of accepting people, even disabled people, because everyone can do something well. This is delivered by a didactic plot of a maimed lion who overcomes his pride to befriend a hyena, and together they become a great hunting team. After this we watched "Jutro", a comedic drama about a man who is sheltering a Jewish actress in his bomb-buried bar in World War II era Poland. "Between Cup and Lip", a portrayal of the relationship between a white woman and her hired help in South Africa, came next. The message was very nice, even if the acting was a bit off at times. In the end, the maid finally finds her voice as South Africa exits apartheid, and gets her own house.
After dinner came the two best shows of the entire festival that we saw. "Spun - The Legend of DJ Tommy Guns" was an original comedy which followed the story of unsuspecting Tommy Guns and his rise to heroism as he is forced to save the world from attacking aliens in a DJ spin-off. And after this great show, we hurried across town (it only took about 20 minutes to walk from one side to the other of the main festival part) to "Spitfire", an amazing production. One man, Ian "Ewok" Robinson, used rap-like lyrical poetry - essential the stringing together of words and sentences - to convey incredible insights into society. It sounds deep, and it was in a way; our mouths were hanging open the entire time at Ewok's talent. He didn't really act as much as deliver his message, but I never wanted it to end. We followed this great show with dinner at the Long Table - fettuccine with leeks, mushrooms, peppers, and cream for me - and eventual sleep in our ironing closet.
On Thursday morning, we went to see a depressing but wonderful exhibit called "Face it: the Stigma Exhibit". The artist had interviewed many varying people and photographed their daily lives, combining visual and auditory media to deliver their raw stories to us. The subjects ranged from homosexuality to child abuse to HIV/AIDS, an many other victims of societal stigmas. This show was followed by "Mouche", an extremely moving one-man play about a girl saved from suicide by a puppet troupe, who she joins, and how the puppets fall in love with her - or how, in reality, the puppeteer falls in love with her. With an incredible actor who managed to not only juggle the various characters of the puppets but also have an astonishingly real fight with another man (played by himself) about Mouche, the girl who wasn't actually played by anyone in the play, simply talked to. One of our party was moved to tears, and we were all at the brink when, at the end, the puppets almost kill themselves because Mouche was going to leave, until the formerly bitter and hateful puppeteer reveals his love for Mouche. This play joined the top three of the festival, along with "Spun" and "Spitfire".
After some shopping time at the Village Green, a large craft fair, and lunch (a massive bowl of Spicy Butternut soup, R22) at a cute little cafe called Chili's, we saw "Jakob", a didactic play about a young man's hatred of light, and his eventual redemption by his adopted parents who reveal to their town that light equals love. Tucan Tucan, a renowned jazz group, was performing after this, so we went to relax and unwind after a hectic schedule of plays. After the concert, we saw "Out of Time", a touching monologue of a man's last words to his son. Although some of his flashbacks to his own childhood were in Afrikaans, the show was emotional and insightful, and definitely worth the ticket. Tickets averaged about R40 (student price) for good shows; not bad at all when you convert it to dollars, but our regimen of five-or-six-shows per day not only took a toll on our mental functionality but on our wallets as well!
Our last day was a bit of a denouement. "Gumbo", our first show at 12 after some final purchases at the Village Green, was definitely unique, in that about four words were spoken the entire time. Made with the deaf community in mind, "Gumbo" told the story of the deaf owner and kitchen boy of a restaurant and their acquisition of a girl through a misguided game of cards. The girl falls in love with the restaurant owner's son, and eventually they escape the oppressive owner and run away together. After "Gumbo" we went to "Kissing Frogs", which was so bad that it barely warrants mention in this account. We were picked up a little bit by "Electric Juju", an original show about an old man who faces a huge force which wants the giant's heart which the man has acquired, and the little girl who gets inexplicably involved. By this time we were completely exhausted and our heads were about to burst from so much drama, but we trekked to "Halo", which had potential to be great but was muddied with some bizarre singing and movement. The message lost in the wailing/singing/dance, we were, however, extremely amused, and managed to work some misguided lyrics into about every conversation on the way home the next day. Our final show was "Butlers and Brandy", a "who-dun-it" in which the audience periodically got to vote on which character was guilty. Although a bit over-the-top with racial jokes (none really offensive, but the author could have inserted some varying humor), it was a good last shebang.
The ride home in the morning flew by, since we had all become great friends during the trip. We laughed, sang, and ate our way back to Gaborone, distancing ourselves from the drama and comedies of the past week with a thirteen-hour drive. I almost cried as I was dropped back at the dormitory; this week was undoubtedly the best of my trip so far. And as we crossed the border back into Botswana, filling up my passport with even more stamps, I filled out the customs' entry form. Shocked, I had to force myself to sadly write "12 days" under "Length of Intended Stay", for although I do miss my friends and family, I'm also making new ones here. And I only have one more weekend to enjoy with them.

Back at MaP

I have just returned from the South African National Arts Festival in Grahamstown, South Africa. I had a blast, but am exhausted after a thirteen-hour drive...survived with fruit flakes, four packets of chocolate covered peanuts, way too many granola bars, and mixed nuts. And excessive Alvin and the Chipmunk music...
Long story short, I will write more tomorrow!

Author Alexander

"You guys, math class is cancelled." My heart picked up, hoping that we were being excused for what I was hoping we were being excused for: Alexander McCall Smith, author of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency book series, was rumored to be coming to Maru-a-Pula today. I was so excited to hear him speak. And believe it or not, we all shuffled into Maitisong to listen to this wonderful author orate.
He spoke for about ten minutes and then opened the floor to questions. He described his inspiration - the unconcious, he proports, is constantly investigating the world around us, and this is what inspires authors; his writing career, which includes various books and three series; his fears and excitement regarding the No. 1 Ladies' movie debut, filmed in Gaborone to satisfying results; and why he chose Botswana as the setting for his books about Mma Ramotswe, lady detective: "Botswana stands for certain values," he said. "Readers all over can sense a kindness and will to forgive about Mma Ramotswe. And I think one can find that in Botswana as well."
He left the stage to healthy applause.

The Quintessential Ruining of Civilization

Yesterday, with nothing else to do on a Friday afternoon, I decided to brave the public transportation combi (van) system and go to the Botswana National Museum. Luckily, a girl in the boarding house was going somewhere on the same route, so she walked me to the combi stop, which is very close to school, and told me where to get off. Each ride is P3 - about US50 cents. This seems very cheap to me, and is certainly a lot less than cabs - which are about P20. But for a working Motswana who makes about P1000 a month, and may have to take two combis each way to work, that would be P12 each day, times 20 working days or so, and that's almost P250 just in transportation - one fourth of this person's salary. I'm lucky to be from the states.
Admission to the Museum is free, and the exhibits were nice. The permanent exhibit details the social history of Botswana and also has a natural history section, with real stuffed animals and information on the Kalahari and Okavango delta. The lighting could've been improved, but other than the slight darkness, the journey through the winding halls of the museum was educational and enjoyable for a geek like me. In a nutshell, the first known people in Botswana were Bantu-speaking hunter-gatherer nomads. Gradually, other groups, such as the San (also known as Bushmen) and the Khoi (both click-language speakers) came into Botswana as well. The San were also hunter-gatherer nomads. The Khoi also herded animals. The people were arranged in villages, which moved every couple of years, focused around a chief and with separate areas for each family group. Eventually, the Khoi and the San began to encroach onto each others' areas. The Khoi, with more of a sense of ownership of property than the San, used their superior war skills to oppress the San and use them as servants. In some areas, the San and the Khoi cohabited in peace, forming the Khoisan. Around 1800, the Boers, farmers originally from the Netherlands who were the first settlers in South Africa and oppressed by the British, began to push their way into Botswana. Their European weapons pushed back the Khoi. Missionaries also began arriving; more than just spreading God's word, the missionaries also served as intermediaries between traders and the natives, and also helped the Khoi, San, and other aboriginal groups by explaining European customs. As more fertile places around Botswana were claimed by Britain, Germany, and Portugual, Botswana eventually became a British protectorate. By this time, tribal civilization was well-established as well, and one family, the Khamas, were very powerful. However, the British had little regard for this culture, and inter-tribal oppression also played a role in the demise of certain traditions. The San are currently rare and squeezed onto reservations or employed at cattle posts; although their language has persevered, their traditional way of life has gone by the wayside. The same applies to most original Tswana groups. But some traditional morals persist, including the respect for the revered Khama family. When, in 1966, independence finally arrived, it was a man descended from the first Khama to deal with Europeans who was elected as president of Botswana. Sir Seretse Khama, who was exiled to England for a while because of his white wife, was well loved by Batswana, and established a lasting foundation for democracy in this country. His son, Lieutenant General Seretse Khama Ian Khama, is currently the fifth president. President Khama's younger brothers' son is in my physics class - but I didn't even know this until looking at a friend's yearbook. "His last name is Khama...as in president Khama?" I asked incredulously.
Botswana's history is much more complex and intriguing, but perhaps that will whet your appetite.
A special exhibit about Africa's rock art was also on display. The images that I loved the most were those of giraffes. One group in Namibia, I believe, rendered life-size versions of these magnificent creatures. Although the rock art, obviously, could not be brought into the museum, the photographs were astonishing, and I hope that next time I visit Africa I will be able to go see some of this beautiful and ancient artwork in person, perhaps Botswana's own incredible rock art: over 4,500 images can be found at Tsodilo Hills, a UNESCO World Heritage site in northern Botswana.
And yes, there will be a next time!

Moj of the Antarctic

Above: Mojisola Adebayo, writer of the one-woman play "Moj of the Antarctic" on her research trip to Antarctica.

"Could you hold this, please?" said Moj as she handed one end of a piece of fabric to an audience member and turned in circles, tightly binding her chest. While the rest of the audience laughed, the poor viewer smiled awkwardly, sitting down in relief as Moj said "Thank you, that's perfect!" and walked back towards the center of the stage. How one woman could make a story about a slave escaping from the "Deep South" in the United States to Great Britain to an eventual suicide in Antarctica so hilarious speaks to the talent of Mojisola Adebayo, writer and actress in Moj of the Antarctic, a play which was performed at Maitisong last night.
The play, published in "Hidden Gems" by Deirdre Osbourne, was incredible. With a simple set, Moj expertly uses movement, song, poetry, and words - and many different accents - to successfully portray the story of the slave Moj, and not only deliver an incredible narrative but also express dismay at the world pollution which is causing the icecaps to melt, and highlight the undertones of white male supremacy that permeate society. Weaving humor with tragedy, Moj escapes from her "massa" after he murders the woman who taught her to read - who is also the woman she loves. Dressed as a white man, Moj meets a self-righteous abolitionist in Boston, who treats her like a circus animal. Disillusioned, Moj then travels to England, where she meets another black-woman-turned-man who is a sailor, and suggests the life of a whaling ship. Although Moj isn't interested in the same advantages of whaling as this woman (The sailor-woman: "And the perks are incredible!" Moj: "You mean the women?" Sailor: "No, the men!"), she decides to sign onto a ship, as a man, so that she can see the world. But her identity is discovered and rather than be the Christmas entertainment, Moj calmly walks away from the sailors' shack in Antarctica into a frozen world of white - underneath all of which lays beautiful black mountains. "I feel like I'm home!" Moj exclaims before her imminent death.
An incredible play - if I wasn't sleeping over at a friend's house, I would go see it again tonight!

Nothing is Black and White

Yesterday, June 16, was the African Day of the Child - or, as they simply put it in South Africa, Youth Day. The day commemorates the anniversary of the 1976 Soweto uprising. Soweto was a township - a place reserved for blacks only during apartheid. In 1953, a discriminatory law had been passed - the Bantu Education Act. The law stated, "Natives [blacks] must be taught from an early age that equality with Europeans [whites] is not for them." Hence, black children were taught that they were inferior to whites; their classes were over twice as big as those in white schools, and the black schools' budgets were about one tenth those of whites'. In 1975-6, the South African government passed a new law which stipulated that all classes be taught in Afrikaans. Besides the fact that most teachers in black schools hadn't graduated from high school and couldn't speak Afrikaans themselves, students refused to learn in the language of the oppressors. The rage was at a boiling point; students secretly organized a mass protest, starting from various points in Soweto and convening at Orlando West Secondary School. On June 16, between 15,000 and 20,000 students surprised parents, teachers, and police by beginning a protest march through Soweto.
Not surprisingly, the police were not pleased. Police forces formed a line in front of marching students, ordering them to disperse. The students didn't stop. The police fired tear gas and released police dogs into the crowd. At about the same time students responed by throwing stones and bottles, a police officer pulled out his revolver and fired into the crowd. These were not shots attempting to disperse the crowd; no, these bullets were aimed to kill. The vast majority of students later admitted to hospitals had been shot above the waist, clear evidence of the policemen's intents.
As more and more policemen fired into the mass of young people, the students started to set fire to symbols of apartheid: government buildings and municipal beerhalls went up in flames. Government helicopters responded with tear gas. The rioting continued into the night.
In the morning, the violence continued. It also spread across all of South Africa, from Pretoria to Cape Town. Police were unable to quell the rioters; instead, they simply fired into the crowds. In Soweto, the official death toll was 23. But witnesses place the count at 200, or higher. These brave young students fought - and died - for what they believed in.
Meanwhile, across the border in Botswana, a group of people were protesting in their own way. Maru-a-Pula, a school that did not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, or religion, opened in Gaborone, proof that black and white students could study and live in harmony. After the uprising, MaP took on another role. Many students were forced to flee from South Africa after the Soweto riots, and many found safe havens in the homes of MaP teachers. One teacher ran guns from Zimbabwe to the resistance movement in South Africa. Some of South Africa's wanted men and women found refuge at MaP.
Black people were not the only ones to suffer in South Africa. Other non-whites faced extreme discrimination as well. Indians, too, had to live in certain communities; they could not mix with whites or blacks. One Indian woman told me today, "The first time I really questioned what was going on - I'd never questioned the fact that all my neighbors were Indian - was when my family went on holiday to Swaziland. As we were driving, I really had to go to the bathroom. I asked my mother to stop, but she said we couldn't. Yet I could see out the window that we were passing stores with bathrooms. Still my mother said that I couldn't use those bathrooms. The reason: they were for white people only. I then realized that other places - restaurants, stores, not just bathrooms - were segregated. When I moved to Botswana, there was such freedom."
Apartheid wasn't black and white. Nothing ever is.

A Day in Good Hope

It's usually a good thing, being positive. "Keep a positive attitude!" or "Stay positive!" are reassuring, uplifting bits of advice. Books have been published on the wonderful affects of being positive.
But sometimes, being positive is not a good thing.
Just look at the children who go to a child-care type school at the home of Mrs. Leshomo in a small town with a long name near Good Hope, which is near Lobatse, Botswana. They are all HIV positive.
You wouldn't know by looking at them, mostly exuberant with youthfulness and energy. One of the older ones does appear very skinny, one might think, but she can't have HIV - she's smiling. Unfortunately, despite the grins on the children's faces and the eagerness with which they tackle the oranges that we brought from Lobatse, they all have HIV.
Thinking of the brochure saved on my computer, which I'd brought to show the women who comprised part of the board committee of Cynthia's Child Care and Counselling Centre, I snapped dozens of photographs, wishing that the zoom on my camera wasn't broken; getting a close-up of a child's face is difficult when you literally have to stand ten inches away to get it! Luckily, though, the children were not camera-shy, and I was able to capture a few good images for my humble project.
The town is a little more than an hour south of Gaborone. The part of the village in which the centre is located has no electricity. But the family and children were upbeat. The woman leading the activities - lunch, an art project - is getting training as an early childhood educator. She just needs to finish up her preliminary education in Ghanzi, to where she goes during school vacations, and find a sponsor to pay school fees to go to a higher education in South Africa before coming back certified to work with kids.
After meeting the board and spending an hour or so on a driving tour around town with various stops at a new, very nice, public, boarding senior secondary school, we returned to the house for lunch and to take some photographs. The time flew by, and we left around 4:30.
After arriving at school, I rushed to prepare for a birthday party I'd been invited to, at Spurs, a popular restaurant. After a pleasant evening, I arrived back at MaP, exhausted, at 10:15. What a contrast to my Friday night, which I'd spent in bed, reading for five hours!
This morning I am at the library, with the librarian and her non-profit running friend. While the two of them are sorting out a visa for this year's AIDS conference in Mexico City, I have been editing photos and preparing the brochure.
As for how I'm doing, I'm staying positive - in the good kind of way.

Ghanzi Photographs

Finally, I have some good internet and am able to post some photographs from Ghanzi!
Due to recent rain, the pond at the farm was filled with water. This is the pond that the hippos were in, but they were on the other side. The sky was lighter, but I photoshopped it because it looked better as a night photo.Above: Eland, kudu, and wildebeest wander in a small salt pan (a flat, grassy field). Sorry about their reduction to little black dots...some things just look better in real life!
Above: Can you see the hippos?!
Above: GIRAFFE! I ordered the truck to stop when I saw the beatiful reflections of the giraffes in the water.
Below: to give you a bit of an idea of the landscape...gorgeous!

Between a Hippo and Water

"Don't ever get between a hippo and water. When they are upset, they charge towards water – no matter what is in their way."

No, this isn't a voice-over from a Discovery Channel documentary, nor a sentence in an Africa survival guide. This advice was received while gazing at a family of hippopotamuses while the sun set in the background, casting a hazy orange light onto the barely-showing hippo tors. We – my host friend, the teacher's aide, and I - were standing on the bank of a small pond, which would have almost dried up by now except for unexpected rainfall a week or two past. Surrounding us were scrubby plants on red sand and the occasional white limestone outcropping. The kudu on the opposite side of the pond camouflaged perfectly, their disguise aided by a blanket of soft golden rays from the setting sun.

This is Ghanzi – well, technically a farm owned by the same family for over 50 years lying about an hour outside of town. Accessible only by a small dirt road, interrupted rudely by many gates and the occasional cattle, the farm is half-cattle-post (5,000 head) and half-game-reserve. We arrived via a public bus, which cost P93 (about US$15) for the almost-eight hour drive from Gaborone to Ghanzi. We had made about 10 stops in total – some appearing to be in the middle of nowhere – and two "major" stops with toilets and food for sale. Although I'd eaten my fill from the lunch boxes we'd brought, I hadn't drank anything the entire day except a cup of tea in the early morning; I didn't want to find myself in the middle of the Kalahari and in need of a bathroom!

The Ghanzi bus station wasn't much – just a few people standing around speaking the Bushmen language (masarwa), a corrugated-metal restaurant with a woman cooking over a fire out back, and a dirt turnaround. But it sufficed. As we disembarked from the hot and stuffy bus, we were relieved – and excited – to see "grandpa", who has lived in Ghanzi for over fifty years, is 83, flies his own airplane, and loves chocolate (both giving and eating it), and who at this moment was driving into the station with a white pick-up truck with three seats elevated in the back – a true safari vehicle. We'd be riding in this rig to the farm, and then out for a game drive. The wind felt exhilarating and freeing as we drove down the road; since we were so high up, the bumpy ride didn't bother us one bit.

We arrived at the farmhouse, and after depositing our rather small overnight bags in our respective rooms, we once again boarded the game drive truck and embarked on a search-and-find mission unlike any I'd ever been on. I rushed out of the house excitedly, only to be stopped and told to go get my "jersey" (an all-encompassing word for sweatshirt, sweater, and hoodie). "And a jacket!" called my friend's aunt. I stood there, dumbfounded and sweaty. In this heat, I'd need a fleece jacket? I couldn't believe it – and said so. Laughing, I was reminded that we were in the desert. And once the sun went down, the temperature quickly dropped from hot to cold. Grudgingly, I obliged, and retrieved my sweater, fleece, and a pair of socks.

A few minutes after we set out, we reached a salt pan – a flat, scrub-less area – and my friend's uncle pointed out a variety of hoofed-and-otherwise animals: deer-like kudu and wildebeest dominated this verdant field. Ostrich ran gracefully across the grassland, their tail feathers bobbing while the rest of their bodies remained astonishingly still. We slowed down to take some photographs, and I remembered how I'd broken my camera's zoom while in Peru. As a result, most of my photographs turned out like the pages in a child's search-and-find book – but at least I could see in real life, and what we saw!

After this field, some huge, deer-like eland and beautiful gemsbok crossed the road in front of us.

"Are there giraffe here?" I asked, hopeful.

"Yeah, but you hardly ever see them," replied my friend, emphasizing their elusiveness. I silently wished that we'd get to see one or two.

We continued on our journey, accompanied by eagles, more kudu, and vultures. A game veterinarian and family friend visiting the farm told us some amazing facts about vultures, who receive unfairly poor press: they can fly tens of thousands of feet into the air, keeping oxygen in pockets in their bones and breasts, and taking advantage of their hemoglobin, far superior to that of humans; they are immaculately clean, and always bath and drink water after they eat; like humans, they wouldn't eat rotten meat (although how many humans always shower after a meal of meat?); and can fly hundreds of miles without flapping their wings because of their incredible ability to ride air currents.

As we passed a small pond with some marabou stork, an excited call came: "Giraffe!" Six tall, elegant, and astonishingly graceful creatures stood by a distant pond, looking straight at us, we who rudely interrupted their tree-top grazing. We stopped the truck and gazed upon these massive creatures, who stared back at us with lovely faces. As we pulled away, I spied the most lovely photograph opportunity: two giraffe stood on either side of a tree on the edge of the pond, with their reflections clearly visible on the still water beneath them. We stopped again, and took some more photographs, but mostly simply absorbed the beauty of these incredible animals in their natural element. Their orange and brown bodies blended in with the reddish-brown dirt and the russet bushes.

Eventually and reluctantly we drove on. After a while, we grew accustomed to the kudu, and even I became able to spy their heads and horns poking up from the undergrowth. For a moment we glimpsed a herd of zebra; then they ran off. Finally we arrived at the small but plush camp (lodge would be a more fitting word) where the "clients" stayed – mostly Americans who came to the farm to hunt. How anyone could kill the lovely creatures we had been quietly discovering I cannot understand, but the view from their camp was certainly lovely. A family of hippopotamus, almost completely submerged, lounged in the clear pond. An elegant papyrus tree framed the sunset. We soaked up the beauty of a desert sunset, and by the time we walked back to the truck we were eager to don our jerseys and hats for the ride back to the house.

After a nice dinner – including a desert of strawberries and thick cream - and some photographs, we each took baths and climbed into our warm beds, setting our alarms for four o'clock. We had to be at the bus station to catch the ride back to Gaborone at six o'clock sharp, and had to factor in the hour from the farm to the town part of Ghanzi.

My friend tells the story much better than I do, but our morning was…exciting. We left the house at about 4:45 in a four-by-four, and stopped while the vet friend evacuated to open a gate. He came back and knocked on my friend's grandpa's window. In our state of semi-sleep, we heard the news: flat tire. And we'd only gone about 20 meters! Luckily, the family friend was a talented mechanic as well as an animal expert, and quickly changed the tire. Running late, we dashed off – only to slow down because of the threat of kudu or cattle in the road. Crawling along the dirt road, we finally made our way into the bus station at 5:58. We quickly hugged our goodbyes, and rushed onto the not-yet-crowded bus.

We arrived back in Gaborone and went to my friend's house for a late lunch and showers - and to look at photographs. I'm having trouble posting them, but I will soon.

The House of a Friend

My wireless at MaP still isn't working. But tonight I am sleeping over at the house of my student "host", whose house I stayed at a week ago and who I am going to Ghanzi this weekend. Which conviently has wireless.
Tonight I tried a Botswanan meal called "samp". It is made of corn and beans and occasionally vegetables, spices, and meat. Obviously mine had no meat; it wasn't bad, but tasted EXACTLY the same as food that I'd had in Peru when the villagers in front of whose houses we were building a community.
Not much happened today; I had a marimba class during the class day, and marimbas as an SPE. In the SPE, our teacher taught us a song he'd written yesterday - one of two hundred which he has written (including at least four different parts with variations in each part) and memorized. He is truly a genius, with a fair dose of eccentricity which always seems to accompany such musical talent.
Such good tunes...they really stick in your head!

The House of Khan (Tuesday 3 June)

"I'm impulsive. I'm sorry." "It's okay. That's what I love about you."
Bee-bomp.
The sound of happily watching an incredibly lovely movie (despite the seeming mushiness from the lines demonstrated above) being interrupted by my laptop telling me that its charger had been unplugged.
Except…it hadn't.
The electricity went out. Earlier than usual, at about 5:10. Usually it goes out at 6:30 or so – but hey, maybe it will come on again earlier. Either that or there's a serious shortage somewhere.
The Green Cup Challenge would love this.

Luckily I had enough power to finish my movie. It was absolutely brilliant. Title: "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". Watch it if you can find it. The shooting is wonderful, and the plotline is original and incredible. Don't be put off by the actors – it is not Hollywood.

Today I had lunch at my English teacher's house, with her and her two children – three and five years younger than me, although you'd never guess by looking at them! I had a great time, and the food was definitely better than the cafeteria! Some nice rice, a good pasta dish, and roti (Indian bread – kind of like a wheat naan) – and I even got to take some back to the boarding house for dinner tonight…although the return of power so that I can use the microwave might be nice. But everything should be okay at room temp too…Or maybe I'll just go to dinner and have it for breakfast tomorrow.
My teacher's house is incredibly beautiful. A lovely tiled, elegant roof rising above a sophisticated stucco exterior opened into a pristine interior with lovely couches and a beautifully set table.

We had cold weather and rain, so badminton was cancelled. Hence, I watched my movie (borrowed from a kind staff member) instead. And enjoyed it immensely.

Bob the Boss

On Tuesday, a poet from Zimbabwe, Innocent Batsani Ncube, came to speak at our school meeting. He elegantly delivered the following poem on the current political system in Zimbabwe. Although Western press may have lessened their reports on the issue, the election is still causing a lot of strife, and preparations for the 23 June run-off are worrying as they come amidst an air of violence. (You all should know who "Bob the Boss" is in real life...) The deliverance of the poem by Mr. Ncube was incredible.

Bob the Boss

By Innocent Batsani Ncube

B.O.B
I am the ‘bhoza’ of Zimbabwe
I am the bomb
Born of Bona
I am Bob the boss
My people love me
Whether they like it or know it

I am the first and best secretary
Unbeaten in eight major elections
Whether Blair or Brown calls them
Feja feja or feya feya
I am Bob the boss

The commander in chief
The commissar in chief
The secretary in chief
The liberator in chief
The war vet in chief
The intellectual in chief
The warrior in chief
The minister in chief
The governor in chief
The president in chief
Yes, I am Bob
The boss in chief

Triumph after triumph
Since 1980
I came, I saw, I conquered
In Mozambique,
There was Samora Machel
Then came Chissano
Then Guebuza,
I am still Bob the boss!

In Namibia there were the boers
Then came Nujoma
Then came Pohamba
In Zambia, there was Kaunda
Then came Chiluba
Then Mwanawasa
I am still Bob the man!

In South Africa there was Botha
Then came de Klerk
Then Madiba
Then Thabo Mbeki
I am still the boss

In Botswana
There was Khama
Then came Masire
Then Mogae
Now Khama
I am still……

In Malawi there was Banda
Then came Muluzi
Then came
WaMutharika
I am still….

In Tanzania there was Nyerere
Then came Mwinyi
Then came Mukapa
Then came Kikwete
I am still……

The Mois have gone
The Jerry Rawlings have gone
The Abachas,Babangidas
Obasanjos , Eyademas have gone
The Mobutus have died
The Kabilas have gone!
I am still around
As Bob the boss!

Margaret Thatcher came
John Major left
Ronald Reagan was there
George Bush snr left
Bill Clinton left
Dubya found me around
Tony Blair resigned
Gordon Brown has arrived
Who am I ?

I formed SADCC
I was there when we removed the other C
OAU I joined
AU I joined
The Commonwealth I joined, chaired and left
27 UN General Assemblies
I have addressed
Butros Butros Ghali I saw
Kofi Annan I saw
Ban ki-Moon I have seen
I am Bob the boss

My ideology is the ideology
Bobocracy is the name of the game
Bobism the sine qua non

I died for this country
I am Bob the boss
2008 is Bob’s year
One president, one people
One party, one ideology
I am Bob the boss

My people love me
Whether they like it or know it
I am the main man

I am Bob the boss in chief!!!

If You Give a Girl a Shoe...

(Above) Cynthia, of Cynthia's Child Care and Counselling Centre Trust, gives a new pair of shoes to an orphan girl. Both are HIV positive.

I have a project.
The very kind new librarian has introduced me to her friend, who runs Cynthia's Child Care and Counselling Centre Trust, a non-profit in memory of her sister who died of tuberculosis and AIDS. Cynthia was an incredible woman who won "Miss Stigma-Free", a beauty pageant for women living with HIV, and was going to be a keynote speaker at the International AIDS Conference in Toronto a few years ago. Her story is included in Stephanie Nolen's book 28: Stories of AIDS in Africa. Now, the new librarian and I are helping this woman with her non-profit. This is the woman we were going to go to a meeting with last night; however, we got to her house too late and were unable to go to the meeting, since it would have been a long way away and the people coming had walked there and needed to walk home before dark. Hopefully, we will be able to attend the rescheduled meeting in a couple of weeks.
This morning the woman from Alumni/Developement, the librarian, and I went out for brunch at a South African chain restaurant, News Cafe. The food was great, but we were a bit disturbed by the sugar packets; the white sugar had a photograph of a pale, Caucasian woman, and the brown sugar had a photo of a dark-skinned African model.

Lots of Food and Twelve Baboons

Sorry I've been out of touch for a while!
On Thursday, I had hospital visiting at 2:15 and tennis at 4 o'clock. We went to the public hospital in Gaborone, Princess Marina. Health care here at the public hospital is practically free. But the private hospitals are frequented by the better-off sector of the population. I'm not sure if the "better treatment" is real or imagined; the children we visited seemed happy and pretty healthy. Of course we didn't visit any children with infectious diseases, just those with broken bones or burns or something else non-contagious. We colored and did puzzles for about 45 minutes. I had an okay time - kids aren't my cup of tea, but the time went quickly.
Tennis was very fun. I was moved from the beginners' group to advanced, which was exciting. I may drop badminton and go to tennis for two days each week instead.
On Friday after school, the girl at whose house I stayed over last weekend took me to the No. 1 Ladies' Opera House - a bizarre name for a little cafe owned by Alexander McCall Smith (author of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series) and his friend who lives here in Botswana. The service was slow (typical of Batswana restaurants) but the food was wonderful, and a good price: my meal, a creamy spinach crepe, was P25, or about US$4. We also had bush tea - which is marketed in the United States as rooibos tea - and cinnamon sugar crepes with lemon (P10 for both). I returned to the girl's mother the three books I'd borrowed from her, and borrowed two more. My friend's mother also gave me a small gift: a compact book about Batswana culture and a brief history. The chair of the MaP board is the author, and apparently it is very well-written and very true!
On our way home from the No. 1 Ladies' cafe, we decided to drive past the set where the No. 1 Ladies' film was shot. (More info: http://www.bbc.co.uk/drama/no1ladiesdetectiveagency/) On the way to the set at the base of Kgale Hill, we saw a couple dozen baboons, just crossing and eating on the side of the road! Quite a few of the females had babies, which were adorable. We sat - in the car, for an adult baboon can easily kill a human - and watched them for about 10 minutes. I had never seen a baboon in the wild before, maybe only once or twice in a zoo, and was very impressed; however, my company had seen them many times before, as they often descend from Kgale Hill and relax beside the road.
On Friday evening, all of the exchange students, teachers' aides, new teachers, teachers who had helped welcome us, and our student hosts were invited to the headmaster's house (on-campus) for a braai - an Africaans word for a barbecue. I had a good time, and really enjoyed talking with the people who have helped me settle in.
Saturday morning - today - I went to a sponsored walk for a new day care/community center, yet to be built. Many of the people who were at the party last night came as well, so we were able to continue our great conversation. And since the event was run partly by Indians, great vegetarian Indian food awaited us at the end!
As if I hadn't eaten enough samosas at the walk, around mid-morning I went over to a Pakistani friend's house and met four of my Indian friends there. We ate, and ate, and ate. One girl's father owns a pizza shop, so we had great pizza; someone made a cake, and someone else apple crisp; vegetarian tea sandwiches were present; and one girl made these great bruschetta-ish hor de'voures. We spent a few great hours together, and then I came back to campus.
I'm looking forward very much to a few travel opportunities. Next weekend, I'm going to Ghanzi, a town to the northwest of Gaborone, where the girl-who-I-stayed-with's uncle owns a cattle post/game reserve, with giraffes, zebras, hippopotamuses, and a few other animals. I'm very excited. We will leave on Saturday morning at 6 o'clock, take an 8-hour bus ride to get to Ghanzi, and then leave on Sunday morning in order to get back for school on Monday. It will be a quick trip, but I'll bring a few books and sleep on the bus, and I'm sure the farm in Ghanzi will be worth the trip.Also, in a few weeks, I'll be going to Grahamstown, South Africa with the drama program here at school. The Grahamstown Art and Drama festival is the last week of June, and involves hundreds of performances and exhibitions. (More info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Arts_Festival) I am very excited!!
I just got invited to travel to visit the friend of the new librarian in a town 45 minutes outside of Gaborone, so I'll have to cut this short (although it is already very long!).

Economics and SPEs

Each day, I have different SPEs. Very unlike Deerfield, where every day after school you have the same activity. On Mondays, I have Naledi Feeding and yoga. (Classes end at 12:45; the first SPE is at 2 o'clock -ish, and the second is at 4-ish.) On Tuesdays, I have badminton (which is extremely relaxed...just like playing in the backyard) and I want to sign up for BSPCA, which visits an animal shelter. On Wednesdays I have marimbas, and Thursdays include hospital visiting and tennis. On every-other Saturday, I have Camphill.
Today in economics, we learned about GDP per capita, and how it really isn't a very good measure of a country's standard of living. The GDP is all of the money made by people residing in a county. To reach the GDP per capita, the GDP is divided by the population, achieving an average per person income. The problem with this is that, obviously, not everyone earns the same amount. Children and the elderly often do not earn anything; owners of restaurants earn more than waitresses. The wealth in Botswana is indeed very divided. In general in the Batswana culture, to take charge of a project is considered rude. One should let another lead. Because of this, foreigners find starting companies easy, but Batswana often find it difficult. (Batswana refers to citizens of Botswana/something of Botswana; motswana refers to one citizen of Botswana.) Hence, many Indian and white South African immigrants own a disproportionately large amount of businesses. So, while the GDP per capita (per year) of Botswana is about US$8000, a maid (to employ a maid is very common; in fact, not employing one can be interpreted as selfish) usually earns only 600 pula per month, or about US$1200 per year.
P600 (600 pula, US$100) a month does not get one very far. As I discovered on my first shopping trip, one blanket can cost P100. If a woman is supporting a family with three children, money goes down very quickly - especially since the government of Botswana has instituted school fees for the public government schools. Even though the fees seem rather nominal to us - say P15 or 20 per term - when you have three children and only P600, they present a challenge. Food is a little less expensive here than in the States, but not much. US$100 does not buy enough food for a balanced diet for four or five people.
Yes, according to GDP per capita, Botswana is a lot better off than some other countries. But that does not mean that Batswana are a lot better off.

From Extension Nine to Old Naledi (26 May 08)

Wireless troubles again…I'll have to go get my laptop checked out during first break tomorrow.

Written Monday, 26 May:

This afternoon, SPEs (Service, Physicals, and Enrichments) began. My first project, not counting Camphill on Saturday, was Naledi (Nah-lady) Feeding. With a list of sixteen names and corresponding amounts of sorghum, soap, sugar, and tea, we embarked on an hour-long, winding drive through Old Naledi, the poorest section of Gaborone. I flashed back to Chincha, Peru – the classic "third-world", poverty-stricken community. Children ran around half-clothed, and as we turned away from a shiny, silver Toyota dealership onto a dirt road leading into the borough, the contrast was striking and unbelievable. We slowly drove around to different drop-off points, and I wondered why the families we were helping were chosen. Most everyone seemed in need. I told myself not to complain about the cold showers or lack of toilet paper in the boarding house – at least we have a bathroom with running water – but I knew it was an empty promise. However, I am eager to return next week, and to start working on some on-campus projects: fundraising, so that we can deliver heads of cabbage as well, and a letter to the city's private hospital, requesting a wheelchair for one woman to whom we deliver food.

But despite the sad conditions of this area of Gaborone, Botswana is a lot better off than the surrounding countries. "This teacher is like a dictator...She could be Mugabe," students say, subtly commenting on the situation in Zimbabwe. "I cringe at the thought of having to go to South Africa…My friend who lives there says that you have to expect to be held up at a dinner party," Batswana (people who were born in Botswana) say about their southern neighbor, the appalling crime now joined horrifically by the xenophobic attacks. And the pioneering first president of Botswana, Seretse Khama, worked tirelessly for the freedom of neighboring countries and strove to end apartheid.

Botswana's current president also is working for the freedom of the people of other African countries. According to one woman I spoke with, a certain brotherhood exists among the leaders of southern African nations. Now, unity can be a good thing, but, as this lady described, when a leader refuses to condemn tyranny or violence in a country simply because the leader of that country is black, the brotherhood becomes damaging. The current Botswana president, Ian Khama, assumed his position on 1 April 2008. Immediately, he condemned Mugabe in Zimbabwe for the terrible economic situation of the country (the hyperinflation decimating peoples' lives) and for the dire elections. "To have elections and keep the results secret indefinitely is horrible," said one woman. A run-off has currently been scheduled for 27 June. Khama also offered the opposition leader, Mr. Tsvanagarai, sanctuary in Botswana, a haven from the death threats and possible foul play by Mugabe that could occur in Zimbabwe.

Botswana: the epitome of the combination of the good and the bad.

Pula!

Pula:
- dictionary definition: rain, in Tswana.
- cultural definition: monetary unit of Botswana comparable to dollars; a celebratory cry; an exclamation of something good

Pula!

Yesterday morning, I arose at 7 a.m. and, being up so early on a Saturday, was able to take a shower with hot water. Pula!
I reclined in bed afterwards, reading the third No. 1 Ladie's Detective Agency book, which I finished a few minutes before I had to gather myself and go to breakfast. After some bread generously spread with peanut butter, I boarding the minibus that carted about 6 students, 5 adults, and myself off to Camphill, the site I have described as a school and community for mentally and physically disabled people of all ages. I amiably conversed with a retired teacher who had set up the community service trip from MaP to Camphill, and although I wasn't entirely sure of the plan, any worries I had drifted away as I drifted off to sleep.
I woke up to find our van pulling into Camphill. We meandered past quaint buildings, which the retired teacher who had emerged as a leader familiar with the place identified as classrooms and workshops. Finally, we reached the humble houses of the children. As we walked in, the boys, who clearly recognized our leader, ran up to him with open arms, yelling "Maru-a-Pula! Maru-a-Pula!" The boys, ranging in ages, heights, and abilities, swarmed around him and the more out-going ones rushed towards us students, giving hugs and handshakes. We then walked a little further to where the slightly more reserved girls sat. The shy ones hung back while their peers seeked hugs. The students who deftly handled children began to converse with them, and an energetic adult started a miniature game of tag. I stood awkwardly, like a wallflower at a middle school dance. Our leader called us back together, and announced that we would be embarking on a walk into Otse, the small town - a village - that abutted Camphill. We walked out, a couple of the students pushing wheelchairs, and me desperately wishing that I had a wheelchair to push as well so I wouldn't look so conspicuously alone and awkward.
After we sat down to rest while a teacher read a Tswana storybook, we turned back towards Camphill. I soon discovered a friend, a sweet boy with a huge smile. I tried out a bit of my Tswana on him - O bona dikgomo?: See the cows?, and O bona setlhare? - See the tree?. My pronunciation hopeless, he nevertheless continued to smile his huge, beautiful grin.
We pulled away from Camphill, and I felt a great urge to wash my hands. But with a little-bit-over 30 minute drive ahead of us, I instead settled into my seat and dozed off until we reached MaP.
I hadn't been in the boarding house for two minutes when a girl came to my room, announcing that the girl who was hosting me for the night was waiting with her mother outside the dorm. I quickly shoved a 100 pula note, a change of clothes, and my toothbrush into a drawstring backpack, and hurried outside. After friendly greetings and introductions, I climbed into their car and we drove off to their very nice, very posh house.
Their house is located in Extension Nine, a section of Gaborone - "about as posh as you'll find." Originally, the city had been planned to be very integrated. The plots were meant to be large, with the houses small. Plots meant for the affluent and plots for the lower class were built adjacently. But inevitably, certain areas were populated by the rich, and some by the poor.
The house where I was to stay the night was incredibly beautiful. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from a home living magazine, and when I was shown my room - the guest room - I felt like I was in a 5-star hotel. I even had my own bathroom! Pula!!! The walls were decorated with local artwork, created by the mother of a boy in a few of my classes. The architecture reminded me of the southwestern United States. The floors were either fashionably worn wood or stone, and a zebra rug (which I unfortunated discovered was genuine) splayed itself out beside the warm-colored couches. Everything looked clean and sophisticated.
We gathered downstairs for lunch: fresh hummus, olive tapanade, and vegetable sandwiches - a very welcome change from the cafeteria food. Following the meal, we engaged in a long conversation - interrupted only to start preparation for dinner. I admired the massive collection of books lining the wall of the dining area, and borrowed a few. My peer and her mother and I began to chop vegetables for a fresh salad and a couscous dish, and my friend and I then walked to a small grocery store nearby for some urgently needed tomato paste. Dinner was incredible.
I was taught how to play a wonderfully mind-challenging game, and then we turned on the television to poke fun at a music video program. We retired around 10:30, and I read for a while before falling asleep.
I woke up to a foreign sound - rain! Pula! "This never happens!" exclaimed my hosts.
After the sun dispelled the brief shower, we went out for an anticipated wonderful breakfast - only to find that the power was out at the tea garden we were headed to! Disappointed, we went to another place, and tried to make the best of the situation.
But the unfortunate black-out didn't black out the wonderfulness of the day. I returned to school just before lunchtime, happy to have met such a kind, outgoing family, and hoping to spend more time with my newfound friend. After exchanging phone numbers, we parted, and I retired to my room, sprawling on the bed to continue "Botswana Time", one of the books I'd brought home.
I'll have to find out their address to send them a thank-you note...

Birthdays, Yesterdays, and Tomorrows

Happy birthday today to my mother! I love you!
Yesterday, I was not too busy to post anything...in fact, quite the opposite. I felt that nothing had happened all day that I could write about. But yesterday evening, I had quite a good time. My friend in the Alumni/Development office took another exchange student (Aaron) and me out to dinner. We went to an Indian place, and then went to an Italian place next door for dessert.
I checked out Books 3 and 4 of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency books from the school library yesterday. I'm hoping to get them read this weekend. Apparently the author visits MaP each year - hopefully I'll be here to see him!
Tomorrow, I have a service project, visiting Camphill, a residence, school, and community for children and adults with disabilities, at 8 o'clock in the morning. Following that I'll be going to Jessica's house. I'm glad that I'll be getting a change from the cafeteria food!
Yesterday in my homeroom class, I was surprised to read on a poster that Botswana's life expectancy rate was only 33 years. I asked my roommate whether this was true, and she too was incredulous. I checked the CIA World Factbook for verification, and unearthed some interesting figures. According to the CIA World Factbook for Botswana, the life expectany is about 50 years. Higher, but still rather low. Only 3.9% of the population is over 65 years old, compared to 12.7% of the United States. One major reason for Botswana's low life expectancy is a high prevalence of HIV/AIDS. In 2003, 37.3% of the adult population was infected with HIV - 350,000 people. Yet because Botswana's total population is so low, the U.S. with a 0.6% prevalence rate actually has more than twice as many people living with HIV. Yet despite these rather depressing figures, Botswana has a literacy rate of 81.2%, with the literacy rate of females a few tenths of a percent higher than that of males. Their economy is growing - despite an unemployment rate of 24%, some of whom I assume are subsistence farmers.
Off to be lonely some more...oh well. Perhaps I will run into some friends on the way back to the dorm.

The Random Invitation

"I'd like to introduce you to somebody," said the staff member who had picked me up at the airport one week ago. Eager to meet a kind, helpful teacher or mentor, I followed her. But outside, a blonde-haired girl, also in Form 5, stood there.

After telling me her name, the woman said, "She has invited you to her house for the weekend."

My first thought: We haven't even met before!! I have no idea who she is!! Eek!

My second thought: Who coerced her into this? What teenager invites a random girl to their house without some adult involved?

Turns out, this girl's mother is on the PTA, and she was the one who initiated to idea. So now, on Saturday afternoon, I am off to this girl's house for the night. Hopefully things will turn out well…

At first I was afraid…but then, at our brief school meeting this morning, I received some words of encouragement. A drama teacher spoke about the recent xenophobic killings in South Africa. She said that the murderers only found themselves in a position to kill people because they had not addressed their fears – in this case, a fear of outsiders or strangers. She emphasized the point of irrationality that their fear had reached – irrationality, according to her, meaning not thought through, not contemplated. This teacher suggested – pleaded – that we all address our fears, rather than keeping them hidden and bottled up; that we think about and realize what our fears are; and that each day, we try to conquer at least one of our fears.

So today, I will try sitting with different people at dinner; I will try to visit someone in their room, and actually work up the courage to knock on their door; and I will look towards my weekend engagement with hope and excitement, rather than worry and fear.

Photos by a Foreigner

Below: taken at Heathrow airport, while reclining in a curvy red couch during my 9-hr layover.
Above: my first glimpse of Africa! Flying from Heathrow to Johannesburg overnight, morning dawned as we flew over Botswana, where I captured this lovely sunrise.
Below: Welcome to Maru-a-Pula! A mural gracing the first wall you see as you drive in past the gate. This sculpture/mural is only a couple of years old.

Above, the girls' boarding house - GBH. Not too glamorous, but comfortable enough.
Below, the cafeteria. Each day there is a vegetarian option, but, surprisingly to me, considering the growing season in Africa, hardly any fruit. Perhaps a continual water shortage has something to do with the lack of fruit...

Above: The front of Maitisong, the cultural center of Gaborone located at MaP. Unfortunately, the stage decorations from the arangetram are gone. I sat in the "pit".
Below: the upper portion of Maitisong.
Above: Exterior view of the library.
Below: Interior of the library.
Above: The marimba room.
Below: The bass marimba...note the huge gourd resonators!

Above: The lead soprano marimba, which I have been playing most. I had my first lesson with the marimba teacher today, and learned a lot - although whether I will remember it tomorrow is questionable!