Happy Turkey Day!

On this fine Thanksgiving Day, I find myself evaluating notions of home and what constitutes a space as such. Is it merely a physical entity with style and decor that represents you and your aesthetic? Is it an emotional respite; a place of unconditional love and support? Is it just a space of shelter, to store your things?

This is the second Thanksgiving in my life I have spent apart from the family that taught me how to celebrate this very occasion. The first time, I was in Madrid, Spain. I had one really close American friend and she recognized the importance of the holiday. We decided to have a relatively formalized dinner with our European friends and tried not to make it just one more American cultural imposition, but rather a simple opportunity to sit down and enjoy each other's company. Jasmine and I made each of our friends say what they were thankful for all the while sitting in this crappy restaurant in the middle of Madrid. That very space felt like a home: a place to recognize a comfortable social bond and take the time to verbalize some gratitude for a mutual contribution to that impromptu "home".

This Thanksgiving 2011 was no different in feel, sharing a space with friends and taking a moment to appreciate the present. It wasn't like the celebration was less validated by the absence of cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, but rather more exciting to share with new faces and experiment with new dishes, namely vegan schnitzel and ranch made with yogurt, pasta with soup packets for flavor...and the concoctions go on and on...it was excessive in the quantity of food consumed. That was probably the most American part of it all. Despite the distance from my original home, I have found another space to share with another family on this beautiful summer Thanksgiving Day. It's just nice to know that you can find a home anywhere you go when you take the time to make a family of friends. It's even better when you have a minute to appreciate it all.
That's not to say I don't miss my family back in the US of A. I look forward to a more routine and traditional Thanksgiving in a couple of years inclusive of homemade dressing, sweet tea, pecan pie, all enjoyed around a dinner table. Oh and the post lunch nap on the fluffy couch! For now, pasta and soy will suffice and sitting in front of a fan to cool off!

So, my friends, I leave you with a little piece done by beauchamping that was recently posted on my current internet obsession (miss moss blog).

Oh, I so do not miss Black Friday. I am thankful for the opportunity to miss that horrid day in America. For those of you enduring the chaos, know that I am thinking of you!

what is art?? ha, i'm kidding...i wouldn't dare tackle that one.

there's a dead scorpion on my kitchen floor that I must have unknowingly killed or Zeus just earned his keep...I keep it there for bragging rights. Some hang deer antlers, others keep scorpions. hello, summer!

There’s no rain in sight and it’s so unbelievably hot.

On my way to the office on Friday I had someone stop me and ask for directions. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?! That MUST mean that it looks like I either live here or just know where I am going. Maybe I just exude a kind of competency as I roam the village.

My view at the dam along my way home most days. Another one of my favorite spots in Moshupa.

I’ve wanted to mention something about how this whole Peace Corps experience relates to me in a more personal sense relative to some big picture in my life. In terms of my interests or future plans, it helps to know that I studied Art History in college. I still have hopes of pursuing something along those lines post Peace Corps, but have yet to decide what exactly that will be. Being that I am a proponent for the role of art in everyday life, particularly useful as a social catalyst for awareness/change/what have you…I am trying to find a way to make this HIV/AIDS assignment develop and reinforce those very notions.

In designing the calendar for the World AIDS Day event, I quickly resorted to adding Keith Haring pieces for graphic detail on the calendar only to talk myself out of it as a kind of displaced and somewhat irreverent act that would in some ways belittle the significance of his work or entirely change its implications. I doubt that Haring would have been so particular about his work, but even still it comes from a particular time and place that really isn’t applicable to the HIV/AIDS situation here in Botswana. In some ways Keith Haring’s work documented the arrival of HIV in the States, specifically associated with the homosexual population. Maybe not the arrival, but his work helped to recognize HIV as an issue and promote conversations and awareness on a social level around the 1980s. While there’s plenty more information to elaborate on that meager statement, I will leave it at that for the sake of this post.

I’m not so sure that we have discovered a Keith Haring of Botswana or recognized the potential for a figure and a medium as such. I’m also not sure that the proverbial art of Botswana is at a place to serve the people on a social level in the way that Diego Rivera took part in and documented a revolution in Mexico or how Shepard Fairey challenges our notions and criteria for art in the white cube. Yes, these are two very different campaigns, but both acknowledge the instigating power of a little visual stimulation. (Then again, who foresaw what would come from Rivera and Fairey’s work…and I’m sure I am making someone rollover in their grave to even compare the two). I would just love to see a kid painting a bus stop with some witty phrasing about wearing a condom or some cartoon personifying sperm. That at least recognizes that medium as a viable social mechanism for communication. It may very well just be that I’m not literate in Botswana’s art. Or perhaps this conversation is just me trying to fit Botswana’s art into a mold formed in a different time and place. Whatever be the case, I am glad to have this kind of uncomfortable and uncertain take on the role of art in this country and culture. I’m not presented with the supplementary text and the establishments that really cater to the people and beg us to understand and appreciate art as a viable form of communication. There’s really no established forum for that kind of conversation and exploration. So I’m on a hunt for those tangible things that document a mindset, a commentary, an event, a future history; for those things that curators are be able to recognize and acknowledge as worth noting with the ability to explain why. I’m training my eye and learning to read in a totally new way. I’m not sure that I have much to reinforce whatever discoveries I make, but it’s a damn good way to occupy my mind.

On another note, I have found a lot of craft. From what I’ve seen, there’s realism in the 2D and then there’s craft in the 3D. I don’t want to suggest that realism and craft are primitive and less developed forms of art. I just want people here to see the possibilities of art mediums beyond the skill of recreating things on paper as they are seen with the eye. Realism’s been done, right? Sure, spruce it up, add your twist. Does this mean that most art, no matter the place, moves along a pretty established continuum? If that be the case, when and what will be Botswana’s Abstract Expressionism or Impressionism? Or if Abstract Expressionsim is to America as Impressionism is to France. Then what is to Botswana or even Southern Africa in total? And how did Botswana skip all of those other intermediary phases and jump to some variation of pop art. Oh yeah- advertising and commercialism. So for now, it seems the museums of Botswana are filled with the cultural artifacts with heavy histories. It could be that I miss the whole gallery culture in the states. I see abandoned butcheries and want nothing more than to hold an impromptu art opening by day to transition the space into a dance hall as the sun falls.

In another light, I have a revived appreciation for trade labor and I’m enjoying evaluating where to draw the line for trade and craft. I am fascinated by the welder that builds tables and chairs or the tanner that treats the leather. These skills are very much labor intensive and skill based but also still serve such a functional purpose in the products they create and the manner in which these products are distributed. I’m not sure if that nullifies its potential as art, but it doesn’t have the same kind of frivolity and recreational flare that one (the non-committal “one”) may think of when you (the very directive and assailing “you”) consider the stereotypical “artist” that uses metals or leather as a medium. Why do we call them artists, and why don’t we call them welders or tanners? Where do we distinguish those titles?
I just find it interesting that when its business and you’re asked to weld burglar bars to your client’s windows, that’s trade. But what is it when you stylize those burglar bars? It’s one thing to serve the function, but to accentuate and decorate within those minimal parameters of mere function, that’s what I’m interested in. Maybe that’s just good business. And maybe art is good business.

In other evaluations of aesthetics and the like: the Batswana are not afraid of color. Thank goodness! I’ve seen deep-eggplant-purple houses, hot pink bars, florescent salmon (if you can imagine) colored buildings, black trousers with brown socks, & boys with pink backpacks…I’ve seen it all! Colors are neither gendered nor seasonal. I like it here. Color equality at its finest.

On a less exciting note, I’m looking into a Thanksgiving dinner for one. Forgive me for my solemn tone but with the preparations for this World AIDS Day event in my office, I find myself resigned to finalizing budgets and plans for the big day. I am happy to carry some of the weight of the event and feel some kind of responsibility towards it all, but the timing seems to be a bit unfortunate. I had originally been approved to attend a language week in North Botswana with a few other volunteers, spending some time studying Setswana in a setting comparable to the one we had during pre-service training and also helping out with a community project to build a school. Both of which are things I was so excited about, conveniently happening the week of Thanksgiving. I have since been asked to remain in Moshupa to help with the workload that remains before the event. I am not so much disappointed by having to work, because the change of pace and a new sense of responsibility is a nice change of activity from my typical office experience. It’s just the whole idea of missing Thanksgiving in its entirety. Sure, the counterargument goes something like “you know when you signed up for Peace Corps you were asked to consider how you felt about missing the holidays with family and friends.” I had already relinquished those notions of my traditional Thanksgiving celebration with my family and had figured a way to celebrate with my new family of friends here in Botswana. To feel those plans evaporate leaves me feeling a bit sad. Thanksgiving 2011 will probably not be anything particularly special, but that’s not the worst-case scenario. Perhaps I’ll manage to cook a tasty dinner and treat myself to some chocolate and hell, maybe even some ice cream!

More on that when the time comes.

Until next time- I've been checking into some blogs I've neglected for far too long. Well, I've really just recently had a decent connect enough to view these, but check this out: http://katebingamanburt.com/blog I'm really digging all the goodies posted on here.

we don't fall back or spring forward

Here in Botswana we don’t observe daylight savings time. Now I’m one more hour ahead of America. I have asked a few people here if they know about it, but it’s not something that they have ever observed. I tried to explain that it had something to do with keeping in sync with the hours of daylight, but it didn’t resonate. I am enjoying that the run rises earlier in the day. While it’s already a sauna at 7 a.m., I do get to enjoy my walks to the office in broad daylight these days. Those winter time treks to the office were ok and watching the sunrise was a bit of a novelty, but that soon wore off and I didn’t want to be walking in the dark of morning, particularly in the bitter cold. I will say that it’s still strange for me to acknowledge that I am experiencing a blistering heat in November when I used to cozying up by a fireplace and enjoying a hot cup of coffee. Another thing that takes some getting used to is the fact that there is little to no commercial holiday feel in Moshupa. I’m no longer inundated with advertisements reminding from every TV show, radio station, store front window or roadside billboard that Fall has arrived and we should begin preparing for and celebrating Christmas. There’s also no Thanksgiving here to serve as the preamble to Christmas. Maybe it’s just that the season hasn’t started yet. I haven’t decided if I like the change in the visual landscape of my seasons both in the natural and commercial world, but Christmas in July carries a whole new meaning. Here in Africa, it’s much more likely to be realized being as though I will be in a swimsuit on the beach of the Indian Ocean come Christmas time.

I have received a few care packages in the last few months and most of them have been the most pleasant surprises from friends at home. The post office is a bit of a hassle, but the anticipation of seeing what package awaits me behind the teller is enough for me to tolerate that whole scene. At the beginning or end of every month there is a line of elderly folks just sitting outside on benches, along the fence, on the ground, and across the street waiting for their pension money. Being that the older women are most regularly dressed in traditional attire, the crowd is typically this array of mosadi mogolos in Dutch print fabrics (they only come in red, blue, and brown) with their scarfs tied up about their heads, too old to bother with the latest hair piece constructions. The men all wear dress pants with the conventional button down and typically accompanied with a sweater vest of sorts. Many of these men have a walking cane in their gnarled and weathered hands and have a bucket hat on their heads or hanging down they back. The women tend to be heavy set, full figured women and the men manage to be these shrunken, skinny figures and a certain kind of bagginess to their clothes in they way the shirt drapes the shoulders and the pant legs are suspended from the cinched waist of their trousers. Occasionally you see an old man with a bit of a belly, but the button down and sweater combo remain, just with a different kind of response to the body. Most often I enjoy seeing the old men bicycling down the road with a bag of rice strapped to the fender plank. I see women approaching the road from the neighboring bush with random cargo stashed atop their heads. I’m not sure what exactly constitutes old age here, but I know that at a certain age you are not allowed to work any longer. When I mention my parents’ ages and that they are both still working I get such a flabbergasted response. Then I show them a picture and they think I am lying about their age (I’ve got some good genes). Here once you “retire” it’s not cruises and weekend getaways or trading the SUV for a sports car, but it’s going back to tending to the land, looking after your grandchildren and waiting for your pension check. I think my retirement will be some combination of the two. I think I need to get a career first.

In the same way the old move about as though their age has had little effect on their ability to get around, the young too move about as though they developed their motor skills at a much faster pace than most. Also, the children here are the most resilient I’ve ever seen. Nerf and Fisher Price would serve no purpose here being that there is no need to over sensitize the children to the possibility of injury. Instead, they run barefoot on the tarred road where broken glass abounds. Whereas in the States we would have carpools arranged or a bus to safely transport school aged kids to and from school, here they walk without escort or the convenience of a vehicle. Some of the children from able families have a taxi driver arranged to drive the children, but most just walk. No one ever seems to be lost here. To know the ropes of your home village, it means that you began learning the roads and paths since you could walk. It means you knew the shortcuts by age 5 and you could get home in the night without streetlights at age 10. It really is a beautiful thing to see how these children take the entirety of the village and roam it freely as though it’s their very own backyard.

And this concludes my mini sociology segment of my blog, expanding on mental notes I’ve made in the past few weeks as I moved about Moshupa.
Things are close to chaos here with the fast approaching World AIDS Day celebration on December 1. I’m not really sure where I factor into the whole planning equation. I try to offer my services and help where needed, but keep a distance so as not to hover and get in the way.
Outside of the office I’m still trying to coordinate my group of teenagers for a peer support group. It seems each week there is either a stipulation with my schedule or the school’s when it comes time to meet.

I’ll share more when there’s more to tell. For now things are pretty routine in a good way. Some days I find solace in the familiarity of this place and then other days I’m living just to see the weekend and the chance to get away for a little while. I guess that’s probably the case anywhere you go though, right?

Well, hello November. When did you get here?

Some talk about the sacrifice that people make in joining the Peace Corps in terms of leaving friends and family, abandoning the comfortable amenities of home and making only a meager living stipend to cover your essentials. While I think Peace Corps is a beautiful experience for both the young and the old (this is also part of what is so appealing to me), I would obviously advocate that it is a great opportunity to people just out of college. I was working random part time jobs in addition to babysitting, trying to postpone my commitment to the real world and riding out the lingering remains of social liberties from my college lifestyle. So for me Peace Corps has been a pay raise and a steady income that I’ve never known. Granted I’m not making bank and saving any money, but even breaking even and covering all monthly expenses feels so good with a little wiggle room to treat myself to some cheese or chocolate every now and again. I’m only accountable for myself in terms of food, cell phone, household items, and transport and no one is dependent on my besides my dog, so it may not seem like such a large feat. It’s just nice to not feel any financial dependency and that looming urgency to bring in enough money to do the things I want to do. It may have something to do with the fact that my “recreational” expenses are typically allotted to edibles being that there isn’t much else to indulge in, well occasional travel. What I’m saying is that the financial side of Peace Corps is not something that I feel like is such a large sacrifice on my end (please remember I speak only for myself. I’m sure some would disagree). There are those that transitioned from six figure salaries to the Peace Corps and I think that is commendable in many ways. While I imagine that would be difficult to adjust to, I’d like to think it wouldn’t deter me from serving in the Peace Corps either. Also bear in mind that the standard of living is also very different. To just say that one has a lesser income doesn’t mean that you can’t provide for yourself in the way you used to. It’s just a matter of being more mindful of costs and where you allocate your monies.

There is also a component that I didn’t anticipate before coming here and that is a new kind of financial self-consciousness in a public regard. It is not totally applicable to everyone, but being in a village setting away from the city, people take note of you on any and every occasion. In addition to trying to combat the assumption that I have endless amounts of money flowing from every orifice of my body, I try to minimize that image or façade of having money with the way I dress in both style and variety and the material possessions I am seen with like groceries or my phone, etc. Even when I go to the grocery store I find myself conscious of how often I’ve been there in a week and try to limit myself to once a week, even if I have forgotten something. Being that there is only one grocery store in Moshupa, most all of the employees recognize me and I generally have the same cashiers when I go. They always evaluate and comment on what I’m buying, how much I’m buying (asking if I am cooking only for myself) or ask me how I plan to cook with a particular item. Even when I splurge on something like soda or buy thinks like cereal in bulk it doesn’t go unnoticed. I just enjoy living within my means and getting by on what I need, and discovering what exactly I NEED to get by. I’ve found it to be a bit more of a conscious effort than I anticipated balancing my habits in the States with a hyper self-awareness here…if that makes any sense. In any case, it’s been a good exploration and discovery of what it means to provide for myself in the given circumstances.

So in addition to evaluating my life in terms of America to Bostwana, I am also still assessing the transition from college to all that is post-college (be it “the real world” or what have you. While I never got a taste of this in the States, I have my initial exposure to the standardized work hours here in Botswana (half seven to half four). What I don’t so much willingly endorse is this whole 8-5 deal. I understand that operating on a standardized schedule is important for communication and accountability purposes. However, the notion of being present from 8-5 merely for the sake of fulfilling a most minimal level of responsibility is not my cup of tea, particularly when you have little to show for it. I am finding more and more things to occupy my time productively, but sometimes I find myself in the office asking to help do anything when there is simply nothing to do. I don’t know if that happens at home. I imagine so, but here we don’t have the Internet in the office to fill that void. I also don’t know if this is something you transition to or just a dynamic that you resign yourself to until you become accustomed to the routine.
I try to balance my week with a few days that are filled with miscellaneous activities and projects that I’m working on like going to the primary school to help organize the library and then going to the secondary school for a peer support group discussing issues like teenage pregnancies and such. I love that my week changes day to day and I only have about 2 days where I had a “desk job.” On these days, various tasks keep my butt glued to a seat and my day is broken up by teatime and lunch break. Speaking of tea, tea breaks are how I survive those days that drone on and seem to alter the passing of time in a most inactive but exhausting manner. The other days I operate generally on the same hours, but I’m constantly moving around. Being that it takes me about an hour to get anywhere on foot, much of my time is accounted for in the commutes between places.

Ha, it’s when I think about and elaborate on these aspects of my service, I’m reminded that I’m only 23 with not too much “life” under my belt. On any other occasion I would feel weird discussing my financial status on a blog, I figure some might be interested to know how that goes here in my Peace Corps service. How exciting it is to say that I’m learning a lot about myself in terms of financial responsibility and the like on a completely different continent. I wonder how that will translate to life back in the States.

Other things I wanted to comment on…clearly in no orderly manner:
One thing some might be surprised to find is that there is essentially no homeless population here. Even in reading a government publication, they were discussing a new plot of government housing that was recently completed with various large name contributors. The relevant authorities mentioned that the premise of the project was to preserve an individual’s pride and decency as a member of society by providing adequate shelter for them and their families. I think it’s a beautiful idea and I try to explain to people here that we do in fact have a homeless population in America. Oftentimes I only address the subject when people go on and on about how wealthy Americans are and how everyone has nice things i.e. clothes and cars, etc. I’m not sure they fully consider what it means to be literally without a home and to evaluate the kind of lifestyle and dangers that may entail. Granted, some in marginal regions live in temporary, shack-like structures that many Americans would qualify as homelessness. However, here the people are innovative when provided with little and you’d be surprised at the spirit of a home that exists within even a most unsightly house.



I have been away from home for almost a week. I met with a few volunteers at the Rhino Sanctuary near Serowe, Botswana. We went on a 6 a.m. game drive and saw white rhinos, giraffes, wildebeests, warthogs, and ostriches. A few others went on a later game drive and got to see ZEBRAS! Being that this was my first game drive, I found myself squealing at the thrill of chancing upon animals, at which time I was shushed by Tija haha and all the more conscious of my giddy excitement. This element of surprise was probably what makes game drives better than anything a zoo could ever be.
What was particularly interesting about this sanctuary was that it started in 1992 when the white rhino population was extremely low in Botswana. South Africa donated something like 200 rhinos to repopulate and this became a community-based project. It is still operating as a self-sustaining organization and hasn’t been absorbed by the government- a point worth noting.
A few of us were camping and stayed next to the few who rented out a chalet. We had a bird that we just named Zazu (from the Lion King) staying around our campsite and he ate from our hands. One of the nights we opted to have a campfire and a candlelight dinner outdoors. Sometimes I just love having vegetables cooked on an open fire with no butter or salt or anything. It just completes the camp feel. The weather was so cool in the morning and warm in the afternoon with perfectly mild evenings. The long awaited rains finally decided to present themselves on a night that I am in a tent. My tent didn’t have a rain fly so that made for an interesting night of trickling drops on my face and soaking my feet. The sound of rainfall was more than welcome though and we woke to the strangest sounds of birds. We even asked each other if someone had a weird alarm tone only to discover that they were in fact natural noises.

Immediately after the Rhino Sanctuary I returned to the South to meet with my co-workers. I attended my first Evidence Based Planning retreat to the bush with no network coverage for three solid days of deliberating on and “strategizing” plans for the upcoming year. I found it to be an exhausting process that really highlighted so many of things that really frustrate me with the general processes of doing things. There was some good that came from the meeting but I’m still struggling to find that balance of participating in the discussions and capitalizing on those opportunities for suggesting improvements. I am hesitant to voice an alternative opinion in fear of sounding so high and mighty or totally irreverent for their customs and practices.

On another note,
I’m going to try to make my own yogurt in the next few weeks. Apparently you only need one small yogurt to create your own and then you don’t have to buy any more b/c you keep the cultures alive with each batch.

With the weather warming up I’m missing having my car more and more, being able to get places in a timely manner and control things like the A/C and radio. Riding a bus here… wheewweee Batswana do not like open windows and free flowing air for fear of “catching flu” (not to be confused with influenza). My counter argument always pertains to the increased likelihood of catching TB, but the joking nature of the suggestion doesn’t ever translate very well. There is an incessant battle that goes on between me opening the window and being asked to close it. Either we take turns suffering in our respective windstorms or festering sauna of stale, musty heat or we reach a happy medium where the window is open with a 2 cm gap. Some days I’m more tolerant and accommodating than others. I believe 104 degrees is a nonnegotiable need to open the windows.