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?
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