At 3:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday, the Gaborone bus rank is both crowded and lazy. Tables of varying stabilties are covered with single-unit candies, bananas, Simba chips, and cell phone airtime - the usual - and manned by young to middle aged ladies with infrequent customers. The few benches are filled and the rest of the curbs host ladies, men, and some children, standing around waiting for buses. It's hot enough that most people don't move too much, except for the guys selling food on foot, going to the windows or leaping inside buses and crowding the aisles, convinced that although the last ten sellers of who-knows-how-old "Hungry Lion" takeaways (chick-eh-chips! chick-eh-chips!) have been turned away, they will find customers. Luckily for us, the bus to Francistown leaves roughly every half-an-hour, so my aisle-way shoulder only has to be buffeted so many times before the bus pulls out, the guys run to the front, and the guys start pleading with the bus driver to let them out before we get too far away.
The bus to Francistown is 5 or 5-and-a-half hours. We are going to see Chobe National Park, and Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. We are excited. The three of us stay overnight with a friend's family in Francistown, then catch the 6am combi from Francistown. We are packed in like sardines into the back seat (beginners mistake - it means they shove two large men in next to us, in space enough for only 5, so you have to pick which shoulder is more important to have leaning on the seat. You only get one.) The combi ride is ridiculously long, not because it's a far distance but because the semi-trucks, en route to Zambia, have torn the road to shreds, and we have to drive on the shoulder to avoid the potholes. 7 hours of 1.5x1ft of space later, we arrive in Kasane. It's mid-afternoon. The sun is golden, and there are elephants munching by the road outside of town. We get to out lodge and look out the window, across the flooded lawn onto the Chobe River. Beautiful. Huge. You can see where Namibia used to be, before they got all this floodwater from upstream Angola that has doubled the river's usual width.
Next day we're up early and in the van. We hit the Zimbabwe border - we pay them in dollars. We enter, and almost immediately see herds of elephants by the roads. Our route is through a national park. When we get to Victoria Falls town, people are walking in the streets, but all the shops are closed. Infrastructure clearly built for tourists - restaurants, posh art galleries, and the like - all stand neat and new and quietly locked. There are few other tourists.
At Victoria Falls Park they entreat us to rent huge, body-length rain ponchos. I wear my little packable REI raincoat instead, and me quick-dry safari shorts. We head into the park. We start at the sides of the falls, where you can see the immense amounts of water churning into the falls, only feet from you. It's breathtaking. It's like watching the ocean pouring over a small rock - the roar, but mostly, the sense of the rock being almost unnoticable to the water. We walk around to the front, and are quickly enveloped in a hurricane. Mind you, we are not near the waterfall- easily a kilometer or so off - but the spray is so strong in some places that I find I cannot breathe - there's too much water flying in my nose and mouth. We get a few pictures early on, but soon enough we're beyond drenched and flee back to the sunny area behind the rainforest.
The next day, back in Botswana, we're up at 6am for our game drive. The vehicle is open air, and it's merciful we are given blankets because in the dark it's still quite cold. We drive into Chobe and around, seeing buffalos, some antelopes, and the hills. I forget this drink but Madeline describes it as such: "it was 6am and very cold. The buffalo was dirty and had flies on it. And we saw that elephant that was like 'wehhhh!' (*accompanying ear flapping motions and a trunk sniffing motion*) and looked like it was trying to eat a peanut under the car." After a long nap, our boat cruise leaves at 3 in the afternoon. We walk to the edge of the lodge's lawn and jump aboard a medium motorboat with a sun-cover, holding the three of us and three Germans. The sun is beautiful and the temperature perfect; the water stretched out amazingly far, disappearing into marshes that were islands on the Namibian side. We soon start seeing hippoes, herds of elephants bathing and rolling in the mud, antelopes sipping and eyeing us, and a little tribe of monkeys. The boat lets us sit up close to them and listen, taking pictures while we lazily float and enjoy our drinks. It's absolutely heavenly.
The next day, 5:30am, we stand in the dark at the parking lot/combi rank, starting our 14 hour journey home.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
You Can Do Better
Tonight I am sitting on my bed, watching the wall for a while. It’s starting to get late, nearly one, and most of my neighbors are sleeping and silent by this early hour of morning. Across the courtyard I can hear a large group of guys, chattering and intermittently breaking into whooping and chanting. At home, this is the kind of noise that might accompany some frat boy downing an unusually large portion of beer in a single go – tonight though I am nervous, because I am worried that they are beating up a friend of mine, who has misbehaved and earned himself a number of enemies. The enemies said that tonight would be the night. The rest of the exchange students that know him have gone to bed, leaving him to his own devices, but I can’t get the imagined image of him out of my head, walking slowly across the courtyard to see what’s up, tall, chin upheld, his face as always glowing like a little boy surprised by delight.
Shortly after our arrival in this country, we were ushered into the barricaded rooms that are the American Embassy. In an average conference room, with nondescript jokings and many helpful tips, it was mentioned to us that for as long as we remain in this country, we are the faces and breath of America. We are more than ambassadors, dipping our toes in and out of a foreign pool with decorated parties and handshakes – we are America incarnate.
Most of us brushed this off; at any rate it has not guided our behavior. We have pitter-patted about, making our own decisions. After all, we are not America. We are not responsible for the things that presidents do.
This afternoon I was kneeling for several hours on the tile next to the bathtub, my arms propped on the edge, filling and refilling it with water and kneading and grinding the clothes around in the suds. It was thunderstorming outside and the street was a river; the speed bumps were rapids. Each time I rung a shirt I had to stand up slowly, unwinding and smoothing it as I patter-pattered across the empty common room, and arrange it to hang on the thick metal poles that cross the windows. I had calices developing below my fingers and the good, hardworking feeling that pioneer-work in movies always exudes. Sometimes below the water I would find a resistant dirt strain and beat it out. Sometimes I would pause and lean on the tub, watching bubbles popping and listening to people shuffling around the building. That is being in Botswana.
I have a hard time with people who say they hate America, hate being American. I feel towards the US like I do towards some of my friends who, momentarily dingy with the unkind things they’ve said or irresponsible things they’ve done, I nevertheless believe to be of good stock. They go through phases of mal-action, but these are transient.
And what about Botswana? Today, a range of cases – an attentive waiter at dinner, a hostess who wouldn’t help us. A man who loves visiting Portland, a man who never calls back. A helpful waiter at drinks, a jolly taxi driver who tried to beguile and jostle us out of our fair price. Men noisy in the courtyard. Girls peacefully around me sleeping in every room. A friend earlier, stopping by because he was worried about a potential fight, frightened; leaving, defiant, dismissive. Never back down, never surrender. I can agree with the sentiment, but at the same time, I feel we are responsible for not adding more suffering to the world when we can. It’s a mixed bag. I can’t say that Botswana enraptured me automatically; in honesty I probably wouldn’t choose to be friends with it if we didn’t already have mutual companions. With this obligated friendship, then, I feel tender but peeved towards Botswana. Even being slightly incompatible, I want to get along. But it’s a little difficult. Despite being friendly, I've often suspected that she doesn’t ultimately care about me. But give it a little time: she may sometimes be in the wrong, but she's starting to do the small things - saving me a seat, asking after my family.
Shortly after our arrival in this country, we were ushered into the barricaded rooms that are the American Embassy. In an average conference room, with nondescript jokings and many helpful tips, it was mentioned to us that for as long as we remain in this country, we are the faces and breath of America. We are more than ambassadors, dipping our toes in and out of a foreign pool with decorated parties and handshakes – we are America incarnate.
Most of us brushed this off; at any rate it has not guided our behavior. We have pitter-patted about, making our own decisions. After all, we are not America. We are not responsible for the things that presidents do.
This afternoon I was kneeling for several hours on the tile next to the bathtub, my arms propped on the edge, filling and refilling it with water and kneading and grinding the clothes around in the suds. It was thunderstorming outside and the street was a river; the speed bumps were rapids. Each time I rung a shirt I had to stand up slowly, unwinding and smoothing it as I patter-pattered across the empty common room, and arrange it to hang on the thick metal poles that cross the windows. I had calices developing below my fingers and the good, hardworking feeling that pioneer-work in movies always exudes. Sometimes below the water I would find a resistant dirt strain and beat it out. Sometimes I would pause and lean on the tub, watching bubbles popping and listening to people shuffling around the building. That is being in Botswana.
I have a hard time with people who say they hate America, hate being American. I feel towards the US like I do towards some of my friends who, momentarily dingy with the unkind things they’ve said or irresponsible things they’ve done, I nevertheless believe to be of good stock. They go through phases of mal-action, but these are transient.
And what about Botswana? Today, a range of cases – an attentive waiter at dinner, a hostess who wouldn’t help us. A man who loves visiting Portland, a man who never calls back. A helpful waiter at drinks, a jolly taxi driver who tried to beguile and jostle us out of our fair price. Men noisy in the courtyard. Girls peacefully around me sleeping in every room. A friend earlier, stopping by because he was worried about a potential fight, frightened; leaving, defiant, dismissive. Never back down, never surrender. I can agree with the sentiment, but at the same time, I feel we are responsible for not adding more suffering to the world when we can. It’s a mixed bag. I can’t say that Botswana enraptured me automatically; in honesty I probably wouldn’t choose to be friends with it if we didn’t already have mutual companions. With this obligated friendship, then, I feel tender but peeved towards Botswana. Even being slightly incompatible, I want to get along. But it’s a little difficult. Despite being friendly, I've often suspected that she doesn’t ultimately care about me. But give it a little time: she may sometimes be in the wrong, but she's starting to do the small things - saving me a seat, asking after my family.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Pictures of Friends from Emilie's Bday Party
Emilie and Kelly (L to R)
Emilie and Sam aka "Some Cash"
"Scud," Emilie, and Jon
KT, our next door neighbor, and Emilie
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Where is "SA & Safari Photos 1"?
Well I'll tell you where "SA & Safari Photos 1" is: it is at the end. I don't know why it's down there - I did it the right way to be in order, it just ignored me. You should go in numerical order through the photo groups, if you want to follow the chronological trail.
SA & Safari Photos 2
One of the prison guards' bars on Robben's IslandCape Town, South Africa
Nelson Mandela's prison cellRobben's Island, Cape Town, South Africa
View along the waterfrontCape Town, South Africa
View from my playground sun-tanning windbreakCape Town, South Africa
SA & Safari Photos 3
Late afternoon mountains from the bus windowSouth Africa
GrainMalealea, Lesotho
Valley viewMalealea, Lesotho
Jeans dryingMalealea, Lesotho
SA & Safari Photos 4
Someone's little place - Malealea, Lesotho
A boys board game
Malealea, Lesotho
Our guide shows us the rock paintings
Malealea, Lesotho
Rock paintings
Malealea, Lesotho
A boys board gameMalealea, Lesotho
Our guide shows us the rock paintingsMalealea, Lesotho
Rock paintingsMalealea, Lesotho
SA & Safari Photos 5
Butterfly friend during a lunch break - Central Kalahari Game Reserve
, Botswana
The crew with their safari faces on
Central Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
A cheetah at 30 feet
Central Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
Maribu Stork?
Central Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
, Botswana
The crew with their safari faces onCentral Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
A cheetah at 30 feetCentral Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
Maribu Stork?Central Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
SA & Safari Photos 6
Antelopes in Central Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
A turtle!
Central Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
Zebras in a muddy sunset
Nxai Pan, Botswana
A baobab tree
Nxai Pan, Botswana
A turtle!Central Kalahari Game Reserve, Botswana
Zebras in a muddy sunsetNxai Pan, Botswana
A baobab treeNxai Pan, Botswana
SA & Safari Photos 1 - START HERE
Sunset from my dorm room balcony:
Tasting the local brew in Soweto, Johannesburg
Birds flying past Robben Island, Cape Town, SA
View towards Cape Town from Robben Island
Tasting the local brew in Soweto, Johannesburg
Birds flying past Robben Island, Cape Town, SA
View towards Cape Town from Robben Island Monday, March 9, 2009
Safari
After a locally raucous weekend, some discussion about whether our safari hats should be worn on the plane, and one day of malaria pills, we took off in a rattling hired minibus to the airport. This same minibus would have its engine removed and sitting in the footspace of the first passenger row when we returned, only to be quickly dropped back into the floor before it drove us home.
The plane ride was very short, and we arrived in Maun in the evening with the slowly baking desert air to greet us. It felt much like the inner West except without cacti. Our camp housed us in tents, with a permanent bathroom with real hot showers, my first since Lesotho, which were open to the air and visiting birds. At night, these facilities turned quickly into a horror show - we realized that the pitched straw ceiling was completely covered with spiders, that bullfrogs lurked like gangstas in the toilet stalls, leaning over their ominous shadows, that huge hissing unknown creatures the size of birds divebombed your head, and that the trash cans in each toilet stall rattled and rustled mysteriously as you gingerly and jumpily tried to go about your business.
The next day a beast of a Land Rover pulled up to drive us out. We were going to the Central Kalahari Game Reserve, then to Nxai Pan (N-tsk-i), for safari. We loaded in. Five million hours of driving later we stopped for lunch, five further million and we reached the gate of the reserve. Ruster, our guide, had the voice of Louis Armstrong and a huge scar across his face from when a leopard tried to eat him. "From here," he announced, "the roads get really bad." We considered lying prone on the roof. It started thunderstorming. Eventually we reached our camp.
That night, as we sat around the fire waiting for dinner, a lion roared nearby. 3 kilometers, said Ruster. We reapplied mosquito repellent and chilled. Roar. 1 kilometer, Ruster said. They are heading right towards us, the cook said. Probably on the road, Ruster said. They like the road at night because it's easier to walk on. Let's go find them.
We leaped aboard the Land Rover and it roared into action. We drove down the road a bit, around and then - LIONS! Two huge males, young still, one with a stunningly beautiful black mane, like the embodiment of night omnipotent. They weaved a direct line off and on the winding road, then short-cutted through our camp before we could reach it. Off into the dark.
When you wake up to go to the bathroom tonight, Ruster said, shine the flashlight around for eyes. If you see any go back in the tent.
The next few days were game drives, in Central Kalahari and then over to Nxai Pan. We saw a cheetah at thirty feet, unhappy but unfazed, our first morning; loads of antelope, jackals playing amongst the antelope. Giraffes. A puff adder (from the car hallelujah). Meercats which are significantly less cute once you've seen their tv show. Lots of huge storks and prehistoric birds. Some zebra and elephants in Nxai Pan. Then back to Maun.
Trip two was the one that my travelling compatriots have been freaking out about since a few two many runs through Google. Mokoros are low wooden (now plastic) canoes which are powered and maneuvered by pole, like Venicean gondolas. The passenger lies propped up on little cushions, face perhaps a foot above the water, watching reeds go by as the poler navigates down clear channels. The fear, of course, was that hippos can chomp your boat in half with a single bite, and crocs can flip it over with a tail whack. However, we stayed in narrow, shallow channels where neither of these creatures have friends to visit, so we were fine. We camped back from the water and grassy marsh a bit, hiked a little, goofed with the teenage polers, and got drenched entirely by rain. Luckily my safari wear was quickdry (holla, REI). Saw some elephants on the way back to land.
Our transport vehicle back to Maun was an open air safari Jeep, and from the back of it fell my program director's wallet, which he had unfortunately placed in a back pocket. This happened perhaps a minute into the drive but was realized 45 minutes later, requiring a painful backtracking. Nearly at the water's edge we found the wallets protective plastic bag, neatly placed atop a bush, with no wallet. Evidently someone had snatched it. Our drivers recalled polers from their village a minute away, and they were accompanied by every other available man (rra - sir, borra in aggregate), some of the women bringing five-gallon jugs of water back on their heads, and some older children. Borra CSI set in - footprints were analyzed, everyone's treads were compared. Darkness came and we began to get hungry. We snuck back to the cooler looking for Tennis Cookies but only found an empty apple bag listlessly floating - foiled! The tread analysis continued. An elder rra got extremely agitated, rightly fearing the impact this would have on their tourist flow, and lectured the lesser borra. None of their treads matched the supposed culprits. Footprints from no where near the crime scene were added to the mix. Our driver had his "goodness gracious" face on. Finally, we gave up, a bad taste left in our mouth after a pleasant outing.
We spent two more days in Maun, then headed home to Gaborone.
The plane ride was very short, and we arrived in Maun in the evening with the slowly baking desert air to greet us. It felt much like the inner West except without cacti. Our camp housed us in tents, with a permanent bathroom with real hot showers, my first since Lesotho, which were open to the air and visiting birds. At night, these facilities turned quickly into a horror show - we realized that the pitched straw ceiling was completely covered with spiders, that bullfrogs lurked like gangstas in the toilet stalls, leaning over their ominous shadows, that huge hissing unknown creatures the size of birds divebombed your head, and that the trash cans in each toilet stall rattled and rustled mysteriously as you gingerly and jumpily tried to go about your business.
The next day a beast of a Land Rover pulled up to drive us out. We were going to the Central Kalahari Game Reserve, then to Nxai Pan (N-tsk-i), for safari. We loaded in. Five million hours of driving later we stopped for lunch, five further million and we reached the gate of the reserve. Ruster, our guide, had the voice of Louis Armstrong and a huge scar across his face from when a leopard tried to eat him. "From here," he announced, "the roads get really bad." We considered lying prone on the roof. It started thunderstorming. Eventually we reached our camp.
That night, as we sat around the fire waiting for dinner, a lion roared nearby. 3 kilometers, said Ruster. We reapplied mosquito repellent and chilled. Roar. 1 kilometer, Ruster said. They are heading right towards us, the cook said. Probably on the road, Ruster said. They like the road at night because it's easier to walk on. Let's go find them.
We leaped aboard the Land Rover and it roared into action. We drove down the road a bit, around and then - LIONS! Two huge males, young still, one with a stunningly beautiful black mane, like the embodiment of night omnipotent. They weaved a direct line off and on the winding road, then short-cutted through our camp before we could reach it. Off into the dark.
When you wake up to go to the bathroom tonight, Ruster said, shine the flashlight around for eyes. If you see any go back in the tent.
The next few days were game drives, in Central Kalahari and then over to Nxai Pan. We saw a cheetah at thirty feet, unhappy but unfazed, our first morning; loads of antelope, jackals playing amongst the antelope. Giraffes. A puff adder (from the car hallelujah). Meercats which are significantly less cute once you've seen their tv show. Lots of huge storks and prehistoric birds. Some zebra and elephants in Nxai Pan. Then back to Maun.
Trip two was the one that my travelling compatriots have been freaking out about since a few two many runs through Google. Mokoros are low wooden (now plastic) canoes which are powered and maneuvered by pole, like Venicean gondolas. The passenger lies propped up on little cushions, face perhaps a foot above the water, watching reeds go by as the poler navigates down clear channels. The fear, of course, was that hippos can chomp your boat in half with a single bite, and crocs can flip it over with a tail whack. However, we stayed in narrow, shallow channels where neither of these creatures have friends to visit, so we were fine. We camped back from the water and grassy marsh a bit, hiked a little, goofed with the teenage polers, and got drenched entirely by rain. Luckily my safari wear was quickdry (holla, REI). Saw some elephants on the way back to land.
Our transport vehicle back to Maun was an open air safari Jeep, and from the back of it fell my program director's wallet, which he had unfortunately placed in a back pocket. This happened perhaps a minute into the drive but was realized 45 minutes later, requiring a painful backtracking. Nearly at the water's edge we found the wallets protective plastic bag, neatly placed atop a bush, with no wallet. Evidently someone had snatched it. Our drivers recalled polers from their village a minute away, and they were accompanied by every other available man (rra - sir, borra in aggregate), some of the women bringing five-gallon jugs of water back on their heads, and some older children. Borra CSI set in - footprints were analyzed, everyone's treads were compared. Darkness came and we began to get hungry. We snuck back to the cooler looking for Tennis Cookies but only found an empty apple bag listlessly floating - foiled! The tread analysis continued. An elder rra got extremely agitated, rightly fearing the impact this would have on their tourist flow, and lectured the lesser borra. None of their treads matched the supposed culprits. Footprints from no where near the crime scene were added to the mix. Our driver had his "goodness gracious" face on. Finally, we gave up, a bad taste left in our mouth after a pleasant outing.
We spent two more days in Maun, then headed home to Gaborone.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Independent Study Research Proposal
In case anyone is interested, here is an excerpt from my research proposal for my independent study project:
Entrepreneurship is understood to be an important component of economic growth in a global economy. However, many developing countries in sub-Saharan Africa have long been plagued with a perceived lack of “African business,” that is, businesses created and run by Africans. In Botswana, a country with predominately diamond-derived wealth and a strong governmental hand in all economic life, there has been a noted lack of internal enterprise. This has become an issue of increasing concern to Botswana’s government, which views this non-diversification as a threat to future financial security.
Why has Botswana had such difficulty producing entrepreneurs? Although numerous resources are available to prospective entrepreneurs, Botswana has struggled to produce an entrepreneurial culture. This paper aims to discover how institutional incentives, psychological factors, and Botswana’s general atmosphere interact to create this problem.
Research Questions & Hypothesis:
This research project will be based on the central hypothesis that in order for individuals to become entrepreneurs rather than employees, some common psychological needs must be met. With this understanding, a few central questions concerning the “motivation gap” for potential entrepreneurs are:
a) What are the psychological needs involved in personal employment choices?
b) What psychological needs are met by engaging in entrepreneurship, and which needs are not met or are endangered by this activity?
c) What are the factors, including governmental, social, and personal incentives or disincentives, that affect how well psychological needs are met by entrepreneurship?
Drawing on past research by other researchers, this author will develop a summary set of common psychological needs for employment that are believed to be essential to mental health and well-being. These needs will then be evaluated in the context of entrepreneurship in general, and entrepreneurship in Botswana in particular, to see whether they are met or not met by entrepreneurial activity.
Entrepreneurship is understood to be an important component of economic growth in a global economy. However, many developing countries in sub-Saharan Africa have long been plagued with a perceived lack of “African business,” that is, businesses created and run by Africans. In Botswana, a country with predominately diamond-derived wealth and a strong governmental hand in all economic life, there has been a noted lack of internal enterprise. This has become an issue of increasing concern to Botswana’s government, which views this non-diversification as a threat to future financial security.
Why has Botswana had such difficulty producing entrepreneurs? Although numerous resources are available to prospective entrepreneurs, Botswana has struggled to produce an entrepreneurial culture. This paper aims to discover how institutional incentives, psychological factors, and Botswana’s general atmosphere interact to create this problem.
Research Questions & Hypothesis:
This research project will be based on the central hypothesis that in order for individuals to become entrepreneurs rather than employees, some common psychological needs must be met. With this understanding, a few central questions concerning the “motivation gap” for potential entrepreneurs are:
a) What are the psychological needs involved in personal employment choices?
b) What psychological needs are met by engaging in entrepreneurship, and which needs are not met or are endangered by this activity?
c) What are the factors, including governmental, social, and personal incentives or disincentives, that affect how well psychological needs are met by entrepreneurship?
Drawing on past research by other researchers, this author will develop a summary set of common psychological needs for employment that are believed to be essential to mental health and well-being. These needs will then be evaluated in the context of entrepreneurship in general, and entrepreneurship in Botswana in particular, to see whether they are met or not met by entrepreneurial activity.
Lesotho
SA Roadlink buses keep their windows spotlessly clean like miracle sunglasses. This way, for the two hours of sun -light and -set before the long overnight bus saga commences, you can press your nose or lens up against it and watch a million kinds of countryside go by. Farmland broken by lines of big oaky trees. Huge sweeps of sandy grass and huge sweeps of rock. Mountains, half lush and half desert, cutting up to surround you on all sides until they cut off your light. Miles stretching of tiny tin rooms, on little dirt lanes and lots all packed together, thousands upon thousands of little fires but not a single sign of people, or even animals. And finally just Orion the Hunter to the North, hanging upside by his feet in the sky. Rattling along in the bus, I have a dream where all of the stuff is falling out of his pockets – rocks, keys, money, his cell phone – and he keeps having to reach out and root around for them in the mountains below. How frustrating.
The bus gets to Bloemfontein when it’s still dark out, so I sit in the bus station coffee shop surrounded by a million different kinds of dried fruit. At sunlight I make my way to the minibus rank, pay my $7, sit outside against the wall and chew a granola bar hoping that no one of the male persuasion will talk to me. Africa doesn’t teach you much in the way of liking men, regardless of background or ethnicity. There are plenty who are decent and nice people, but most have a creepy malevolence to them of the same spirit as most of the damage they’ve wrought throughout history. I’ve never felt threatened, but the absolute supremacy of their wills over everyone’s suffering steels you in ways.
Minibus leaves at several hours long-last, after we wait for every last seat to fill up. Then I sleep to the border of Lesotho, bashing my head against the window as I go. At the border we get stamped and restamped and I take a supremely deteriorated taxi to the Maseru minibus rank, find the bus to Malealea, wait again. At the minibus rank, the old women and edgy young men sell: bananas, apples, plums, pears, Simba chips, suckers, hair picks, knives, coloured powders in baggies, tiny seeds in baggies, snack bars, rolls, cell phone minutes, earrings, Hannah Montana mirrors, nair clippers, and a lot of other things. Men tend to sell earrings and phone cards and chips, because these things are sold on boards or from boxes. Women sell the rest of the things from head baskets. They come to the windows of each of the minibuses over and over. Lunch was: one banana, two cookies, day-old fries, a granola bar.
The turnoff to Malealea was marked by a shepherd standing in the flow of his sheep, who were gently surging over the top of a hill gnawed open and red by the rain. Now we were on dirt. We ramble-bambled over with our questionable brakes, up and down a big hill in the trickle rain until I was delivered and dumped at the gate. Done. Checked in, into my own little room with my own little bathroom with it’s own magical contraption: if you wanted hot water, it turned itself on in a roar and whoosh-boiled your water right as it fell on you. Infinite hot water, as much as there was rain water and there was lots. In a village with no electricity and likely little running water – imagine that!
Next day we paddled down over the lolling hills past some fields and some sheeps and a cow or so and little huts perched along a trail on their own little hill. Down down until we reached the gorge, then back forth on the rock to see some San paintings. These were fairly well preserved, with their legs and limbs still attached, and some animals wandering around among them including fish, lions, and miscellaneous antelope. Then we went back up. Lunch was a delicious spaghetti bolegaise, and they served dessert. And it rained rained drizzled on the grass and peacock and little huts that were all about.
Next day, back to Bloemfontein, next day to Jo-burg and Gaborone. To school.
The bus gets to Bloemfontein when it’s still dark out, so I sit in the bus station coffee shop surrounded by a million different kinds of dried fruit. At sunlight I make my way to the minibus rank, pay my $7, sit outside against the wall and chew a granola bar hoping that no one of the male persuasion will talk to me. Africa doesn’t teach you much in the way of liking men, regardless of background or ethnicity. There are plenty who are decent and nice people, but most have a creepy malevolence to them of the same spirit as most of the damage they’ve wrought throughout history. I’ve never felt threatened, but the absolute supremacy of their wills over everyone’s suffering steels you in ways.
Minibus leaves at several hours long-last, after we wait for every last seat to fill up. Then I sleep to the border of Lesotho, bashing my head against the window as I go. At the border we get stamped and restamped and I take a supremely deteriorated taxi to the Maseru minibus rank, find the bus to Malealea, wait again. At the minibus rank, the old women and edgy young men sell: bananas, apples, plums, pears, Simba chips, suckers, hair picks, knives, coloured powders in baggies, tiny seeds in baggies, snack bars, rolls, cell phone minutes, earrings, Hannah Montana mirrors, nair clippers, and a lot of other things. Men tend to sell earrings and phone cards and chips, because these things are sold on boards or from boxes. Women sell the rest of the things from head baskets. They come to the windows of each of the minibuses over and over. Lunch was: one banana, two cookies, day-old fries, a granola bar.
The turnoff to Malealea was marked by a shepherd standing in the flow of his sheep, who were gently surging over the top of a hill gnawed open and red by the rain. Now we were on dirt. We ramble-bambled over with our questionable brakes, up and down a big hill in the trickle rain until I was delivered and dumped at the gate. Done. Checked in, into my own little room with my own little bathroom with it’s own magical contraption: if you wanted hot water, it turned itself on in a roar and whoosh-boiled your water right as it fell on you. Infinite hot water, as much as there was rain water and there was lots. In a village with no electricity and likely little running water – imagine that!
Next day we paddled down over the lolling hills past some fields and some sheeps and a cow or so and little huts perched along a trail on their own little hill. Down down until we reached the gorge, then back forth on the rock to see some San paintings. These were fairly well preserved, with their legs and limbs still attached, and some animals wandering around among them including fish, lions, and miscellaneous antelope. Then we went back up. Lunch was a delicious spaghetti bolegaise, and they served dessert. And it rained rained drizzled on the grass and peacock and little huts that were all about.
Next day, back to Bloemfontein, next day to Jo-burg and Gaborone. To school.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Avery Gets a Lift
After a long day of sightseeing, Madeline spotted a coffee shop nestled among some grungy-looking storefronts in central Cape Town. We made a beeline in, or rather, she made a beeline and I got stuck behind some cars and had to wait a little bit. The shop itself was half coffee shop, half antique store, lined with aging household artifacts and so forth (a mouldery baby carriage, miscellaneous glass bottle, and so forth) with a central wooden bar, where Madeline ordered coffee and a muffin to go.
We were trying to get back to our hostel, and after a questionable experience with a taxi "meter" this morning, wanted to opt for cheaper public transport. We asked the barkeep, and he went to consult with two older gentlemen sitting at one of the chairs, who appeared to be permanent residents of some sort. They steered us away from buses (this seems to be a typical White African fear of any local transport), we countered with our concern about the taxis, and then one of the older gentlemen offered to give us a lift. We reluctantly but gratefully accepted, and as he rose to go we were led out into the sunlight by another man to wait for our driver to arrive at his parked car .
About ten minutes later, the old man rounded the block corner. He was heaving himself along on two medical canes, at about the pace one would expect from an unenthusiastic beached fish. But he immediately launched into an explanation about how his mother always taught him that it was a good thing to bring ladies home, and to make sure that they get right into their front doors, so we got into the passenger seats and waited for him to round the hood.
His driving was much swifter than his waddle, and as he drove he told us a little about himself. He's a South African by birth, from Cape Town. His mother was a very nice lady. He doesn't own the little coffee shop, but after the lady who owns it was robbed several times, he decided to sit there as a guard. "I'm not the quickest of defenders," he pointed out, "but my presence as a witness discourages them." He wound us a few times around our destination by our poor directions before arriving at our very door.
This encounter was, in many ways, a perfect demonstration of the flaws in my travelling style. I prefer to be well informed and to have carefully inspected and memorized the map, so that I never have to ask for help, to look confused or lost. In this way I protect myself from harassment and from being embarrassed by any awkward entrapments. This keeps me from most major problems, but at the same time, I freeze out most daily encounters. I would probably never have accepted this ride on my own, for example. It will be a trick for me to figure out how to open up better to encounters like this without feeling nervous about being trapped in a bad situation.
We were trying to get back to our hostel, and after a questionable experience with a taxi "meter" this morning, wanted to opt for cheaper public transport. We asked the barkeep, and he went to consult with two older gentlemen sitting at one of the chairs, who appeared to be permanent residents of some sort. They steered us away from buses (this seems to be a typical White African fear of any local transport), we countered with our concern about the taxis, and then one of the older gentlemen offered to give us a lift. We reluctantly but gratefully accepted, and as he rose to go we were led out into the sunlight by another man to wait for our driver to arrive at his parked car .
About ten minutes later, the old man rounded the block corner. He was heaving himself along on two medical canes, at about the pace one would expect from an unenthusiastic beached fish. But he immediately launched into an explanation about how his mother always taught him that it was a good thing to bring ladies home, and to make sure that they get right into their front doors, so we got into the passenger seats and waited for him to round the hood.
His driving was much swifter than his waddle, and as he drove he told us a little about himself. He's a South African by birth, from Cape Town. His mother was a very nice lady. He doesn't own the little coffee shop, but after the lady who owns it was robbed several times, he decided to sit there as a guard. "I'm not the quickest of defenders," he pointed out, "but my presence as a witness discourages them." He wound us a few times around our destination by our poor directions before arriving at our very door.
This encounter was, in many ways, a perfect demonstration of the flaws in my travelling style. I prefer to be well informed and to have carefully inspected and memorized the map, so that I never have to ask for help, to look confused or lost. In this way I protect myself from harassment and from being embarrassed by any awkward entrapments. This keeps me from most major problems, but at the same time, I freeze out most daily encounters. I would probably never have accepted this ride on my own, for example. It will be a trick for me to figure out how to open up better to encounters like this without feeling nervous about being trapped in a bad situation.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
THE DRAMA
Sorry for the cliffhanger, readers...it was supposed to be a ten minute one but I forgot to finish editing this post. So-
It was misty and mysteriously quiet in the dorms as we arrived in our taxi from the bus station. We didn't really notice. We went about our business, carried up our bags, and began to unpack and relax, when Todd, our program director, called me. "Well, so I have some news...it sounds like the student strike is getting worse, and so, you guys are being evacuated to a lodge somewhere off campus..."
It was misty and mysteriously quiet in the dorms as we arrived in our taxi from the bus station. We didn't really notice. We went about our business, carried up our bags, and began to unpack and relax, when Todd, our program director, called me. "Well, so I have some news...it sounds like the student strike is getting worse, and so, you guys are being evacuated to a lodge somewhere off campus..."
Anyways, we initially wanted to stay in the dorms because as long as you are not on campus, you won't get bothered, but our program director was uncomfortable with this. So we moved to the lodge. It was rainy that day, so the lodge was a sea of water and festering mosquito encampments bridged by concrete walkways. The rooms had mold, questionable smells, and made me sick. Also, it was in the middle of nowhere, requiring an extremely expensive taxi ride each way to get to a mall, where at least we could hang out in comfort. But, this was where UB had arranged for us, so we had no choice.
We stayed there for several days. No one knew what was going on. We got frequent calls from friends on campus who wanted to hang out, not understanding why we were gone (remember, with tens of thousands of students, 100-200 causing trouble can get lost). But the International Office gave us tales of tear gas encounters with the police, broken windows, and so on.
Finally, on Wednesday, the University made the announcement that they were closing. Students had 15 minutes to evacuate campus, enforced by police/soldiers in riot gear. The next day, international students were allowed to return to the dorms, which we did, and they made the big announcement: school is closed for this week! As a result, spring break has been eliminated (we are still going on safari, just missing school) and the semester has been extended by a week. Since protesters have threatened to recommence their efforts next Monday (Feb 16th) when school reopens, we don't really know what the ultimate outcome will be.
On the upset, after the announcement on Thursday, Madeline and I packed our bags and took off. We took a minibus to Jo-burg, stayed overnight, and then a flight to Cape Town on Saturday. We are staying in a beautiful hostel in an old mansion, breezy and calm, and planning to start seeing the sights tomorrow. It's nice to be out and about. We'll be here until Wednesday, when I plan to split off and take a bus to Lesotho, where I'll stay in a lodge and ride around on ponies (hopefully!), returning on Sunday.
Weekend Jaunt: Johannesburg and Soweto
At 6 in the morning on Friday our rattling combi dropped us off a little gas station somewhere in near the Main Mall in Gaborone. This, apparently, was the international bus station. and the bus was pulled in at the side of the lot. We hopped aboard, were reseated 5 minutes later to accomodate the Knoop children (our program director's), and then 30 seconds later when our new seats were mysteriously already claimed. Then we left.
The bus ride was about 6.5 hours. The Bots-SA border was our first stop, 30 minutes in, and featured a total lack of direction, thick glass and low voices, and a long, muddy trek through shrubbery and a thunderstorm from the Bots "signing out" building to the SA "welcome" one, a trek which was unsigned, unexplained, and only successfully completed because we saw our bus driving away and chased it in a panic to the other side.
We arrived in J0-burg around 1pm, to a big bustling bus station which essentially looked like any average train terminal. We were picked up in a combi/van by a guide from our hostel, and taken to see something like the "Museum Africa," a panorama of Jo-burg, and finally the Apartheid Museum. The Apartheid Museum was superb, with a strong focus on architecture (concrete, reflective stone, and water), and an amazing collection of photographs from someone last-named Cole, a black photographer who captured many stellar images of life under apartheid.
After that, we drove to Soweto (the SOuth WEstern TOwnship), which was originally a black, coloured, and Indian community under apartheid. Our hostel was a small, hippie establishment run by a Rastafarian named Lebo and his European girlfriend. We had dinner there.
The next day, we took a four hour bike tour of Soweto. The tour was hilly at parts, but bareable, and quite nice on the downhill. We tasted home brew beer in someone's corrogated hut, were chased by ridiculously excitable children, rode through a variety of housing neighborhoods and levels of poverty, and learned some of the history of the neighborhood. Soweto was absolutely amazing - everyone was warm and genuinely delighted to see us, life was vibrant and happy, and people seemed to enjoy a pleasure of community that you rarely see in the States.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing and visiting with the fleet of young guys who worked at the hostel and were friends with Lebo. Sunday, we walked to an area with a few stalls for souveniring, then took our return bus ride home.
THEN THE DRAMA STARTED!!!
The bus ride was about 6.5 hours. The Bots-SA border was our first stop, 30 minutes in, and featured a total lack of direction, thick glass and low voices, and a long, muddy trek through shrubbery and a thunderstorm from the Bots "signing out" building to the SA "welcome" one, a trek which was unsigned, unexplained, and only successfully completed because we saw our bus driving away and chased it in a panic to the other side.
We arrived in J0-burg around 1pm, to a big bustling bus station which essentially looked like any average train terminal. We were picked up in a combi/van by a guide from our hostel, and taken to see something like the "Museum Africa," a panorama of Jo-burg, and finally the Apartheid Museum. The Apartheid Museum was superb, with a strong focus on architecture (concrete, reflective stone, and water), and an amazing collection of photographs from someone last-named Cole, a black photographer who captured many stellar images of life under apartheid.
After that, we drove to Soweto (the SOuth WEstern TOwnship), which was originally a black, coloured, and Indian community under apartheid. Our hostel was a small, hippie establishment run by a Rastafarian named Lebo and his European girlfriend. We had dinner there.
The next day, we took a four hour bike tour of Soweto. The tour was hilly at parts, but bareable, and quite nice on the downhill. We tasted home brew beer in someone's corrogated hut, were chased by ridiculously excitable children, rode through a variety of housing neighborhoods and levels of poverty, and learned some of the history of the neighborhood. Soweto was absolutely amazing - everyone was warm and genuinely delighted to see us, life was vibrant and happy, and people seemed to enjoy a pleasure of community that you rarely see in the States.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing and visiting with the fleet of young guys who worked at the hostel and were friends with Lebo. Sunday, we walked to an area with a few stalls for souveniring, then took our return bus ride home.
THEN THE DRAMA STARTED!!!
Monday, January 26, 2009
Weekend
I'm sitting crossy-legged on the carpet in the Business Block, in one of the lounge rooms that has been stripped of chairs, trying to plow through a stack of emails while attempting a stealthy pop-and-lean to Common, when I see a pink shirt approaching in my peripheral vision. It is not one of my new Business Block friends, like the girl who, when told what building I'm living in, says "oh, you're those white girls who are always dancing in the window!" or Jeremy of Zim from 20 minutes ago downstairs. I tend to make lots of friends here because my behavior (that is, using the internet on my laptop) is inscrutable and quirky enough to fascinate the Accounting and Finance students. And, of course, I don't blend super well.
"Sorry - do you work for the C -- I -- A?"
"Excuse me?"
"Do you work for intelligence?"
I wiggle my toes and stare at him for a sec. "Um, no."
"Because whenever I see an American, I think they're working for Intelligence."
"Nope, sorry, no intelligence here."
Blank smile.
We had a good but exhausting weekend. Friday we went to dinner and a movie at Riverwalk. Riverwalk is my favorite of the many malls that make up Gabs, partially because they have milkshakes and pasta and delicious Nando's, but mostly because there is a fascinating array of different ethnicities floating through like passing bubbles. The Arab families with several enthusiastic sons bouncing around dad while mom, covered save her eyes, pushes a stroller and holds an ice cream cone I can't envision how she'll consume. Small hoards of (South African? American?) tweens, the boys with their shaggy surfer cuts and girls in denim minis. Nicely dressed mixed couples on dates. The Chinese or Japanese couple with the girl on her cell, tiny stuffed creatures hanging off of it.
Anyways, Friday after the movie we went to the Hiphop Freestyle Show (themed, irrationally, "Barack Obama", apparently because that was the name they shouted when they ran out of things to say). We were, as usually, placed in the very front where the camcorder guy could film us. Most of the rappers are surprisingly good, very fluid in delivery, and extremely enthusiastic. We made more friends. Etc.
Saturday, we were invited to a BBQ at the house of Nick, a British-Zim who has been living in Bots running an IT company for several years. He bought us all of the ingredients we requested, and we made a delicious pasta salad, some regular salad, and an apple and berry crisp, to accompany his chicken and pork rashers. He also invited his little band over, so they jammed in his upstairs loft, outfitted with foam cushioning to improve the sound, while we snoozed on lounge chairs by his pool. Not a badly spent day. That evening, a local student hosted a party at his house for international students, for which he killed and stewed a goat and whipped up various other food. We dropped by. Sunday we relaxed at the coffee shop at Riverwalk, did some grocery shopping, took an evening walk, and had a rousing round of spoons with two omnipresent friends (Danger and Sam).
And that, friends, is a typically spent period of time here.
"Sorry - do you work for the C -- I -- A?"
"Excuse me?"
"Do you work for intelligence?"
I wiggle my toes and stare at him for a sec. "Um, no."
"Because whenever I see an American, I think they're working for Intelligence."
"Nope, sorry, no intelligence here."
Blank smile.
We had a good but exhausting weekend. Friday we went to dinner and a movie at Riverwalk. Riverwalk is my favorite of the many malls that make up Gabs, partially because they have milkshakes and pasta and delicious Nando's, but mostly because there is a fascinating array of different ethnicities floating through like passing bubbles. The Arab families with several enthusiastic sons bouncing around dad while mom, covered save her eyes, pushes a stroller and holds an ice cream cone I can't envision how she'll consume. Small hoards of (South African? American?) tweens, the boys with their shaggy surfer cuts and girls in denim minis. Nicely dressed mixed couples on dates. The Chinese or Japanese couple with the girl on her cell, tiny stuffed creatures hanging off of it.
Anyways, Friday after the movie we went to the Hiphop Freestyle Show (themed, irrationally, "Barack Obama", apparently because that was the name they shouted when they ran out of things to say). We were, as usually, placed in the very front where the camcorder guy could film us. Most of the rappers are surprisingly good, very fluid in delivery, and extremely enthusiastic. We made more friends. Etc.
Saturday, we were invited to a BBQ at the house of Nick, a British-Zim who has been living in Bots running an IT company for several years. He bought us all of the ingredients we requested, and we made a delicious pasta salad, some regular salad, and an apple and berry crisp, to accompany his chicken and pork rashers. He also invited his little band over, so they jammed in his upstairs loft, outfitted with foam cushioning to improve the sound, while we snoozed on lounge chairs by his pool. Not a badly spent day. That evening, a local student hosted a party at his house for international students, for which he killed and stewed a goat and whipped up various other food. We dropped by. Sunday we relaxed at the coffee shop at Riverwalk, did some grocery shopping, took an evening walk, and had a rousing round of spoons with two omnipresent friends (Danger and Sam).
And that, friends, is a typically spent period of time here.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Important Characters
There are three other girls on the ACM program with me: Madeline, Emilie, and Jordan. Madeline is from Macalester, and Emilie and Jordan are from Lake Forest College (near Chicago). Jordan is originally from Utah, the other two are from the vicinity of their colleges. All are Sociology majors, but are doing various double majors (in Anthropology, Economics, and so on). Emilie is an ex-professional ballerina. Jordan is a certified pastry chef. Madeline has a Phillipino boyfriend in Japan and can do some impress body roll moves. They each have many more traits besides these.
There are about 15 international students living in Las Vegas, and about 15 more from the CIEE program living in graduate student housing. That division is fairly distinction, although there has been cross-group mingling and the CIEE kids are nice.
The Las Vegas Internationals:
1 German guy
2 Finnish girls
2 Swedish girls
3 from North Carolina – two guys and a girl
A couple from Wheaton
1 girl from UPenn
1 other girl from the US
Herbert:
Herbert is a Motswana (person from Botswana) that we met in the grocery store. He asked us for ideas for a food that is healthy but disgusting to eat (we suggested oats, he chose dog food) for a health event he was hosting, and we got to talking. He is co-founder of a microfinance organization, but not much older than us. Since our meeting, he took us out to a delicious Indian restaurant, and we also went to his apartment in a swanky part of town for a delicious Nando’s meal. He is quite entertaining to hang out with.
Nick & white guys from the Yacht Club:
The Yacht Club is at the Gaborone Dam, which is a beautiful bar and stony patio overlooking the lake. It is a bit of an ex-pat hang out. There, we met Nick and his friends, who chatted with us extensively. Nick is a British Zimbabwean who was kicked out and is now living here. He has a barge he invited us for a picnic on. I am not sure what a barge means, but we will see how this develops.
Ostrich, Deep, Danger, & the Hiphop Club:Took a shining to Jordan particularly, and have since become pals of ours. Ostrich has sold over 500 CDs and has a t-shirt (a silhouetted ostrich in a circle) which is worn by many members of the Hiphop Club around campus (Ostrich stands for “Obstacles Overcome to become Rich”). I now have my very own (pictures hopefully to come). We were invited and specially seated at their weekly freestyle, and are generally considered legit.
There are about 15 international students living in Las Vegas, and about 15 more from the CIEE program living in graduate student housing. That division is fairly distinction, although there has been cross-group mingling and the CIEE kids are nice.
The Las Vegas Internationals:
1 German guy
2 Finnish girls
2 Swedish girls
3 from North Carolina – two guys and a girl
A couple from Wheaton
1 girl from UPenn
1 other girl from the US
Herbert:
Herbert is a Motswana (person from Botswana) that we met in the grocery store. He asked us for ideas for a food that is healthy but disgusting to eat (we suggested oats, he chose dog food) for a health event he was hosting, and we got to talking. He is co-founder of a microfinance organization, but not much older than us. Since our meeting, he took us out to a delicious Indian restaurant, and we also went to his apartment in a swanky part of town for a delicious Nando’s meal. He is quite entertaining to hang out with.
Nick & white guys from the Yacht Club:
The Yacht Club is at the Gaborone Dam, which is a beautiful bar and stony patio overlooking the lake. It is a bit of an ex-pat hang out. There, we met Nick and his friends, who chatted with us extensively. Nick is a British Zimbabwean who was kicked out and is now living here. He has a barge he invited us for a picnic on. I am not sure what a barge means, but we will see how this develops.
Ostrich, Deep, Danger, & the Hiphop Club:Took a shining to Jordan particularly, and have since become pals of ours. Ostrich has sold over 500 CDs and has a t-shirt (a silhouetted ostrich in a circle) which is worn by many members of the Hiphop Club around campus (Ostrich stands for “Obstacles Overcome to become Rich”). I now have my very own (pictures hopefully to come). We were invited and specially seated at their weekly freestyle, and are generally considered legit.
Food
Botswana is a meat country. Standard fare consists of a choice between chicken and beef, cooked in seasoned meat juice, with rice or pasta. Coleslaw is the most typical vegetable. Sometimes butternut squash is served on the side, or potato salad. This fare is served in its most minimal and barely consumable form at the refectory, where we have been given a meal plan for dinner (the exact same food every day). It is also available from some stalls which are outside of the main entrance every day, and is absolutely delicious there. “Hot dogs” are also available from campus stalls, which are really gigantic sausages with sweet chili pepper sauce, as well as meat pies (essentially hot pockets that taste like chicken pot pie).
Off campus, there is an array of delicious restaurant food. Nando’s, a South African fast-food chain, makes delicious, fresh grilled chicken with a special peri-peri hot sauce. There are various American bar and fast foods, delicious Indian, pizza, Italian, and some Asian places we haven’t tried yet.
“Traditional” food is similar to standard fare, but generally not as good, which may explain why it is not available in the city unless you arrange a special tourist meal. Gritty goat meat or intestines are often involved, as is pap and sorghum, which are grain-based starches pounded into dust and recrafted into mashed-potato like consistencies (expect much lighter). They also eat cooked mopani (sp?) worms. These are crunchy with an interior like shrimp and an extremely salty flavor. They are not revolting but with not be tasted again by this author.
Off campus, there is an array of delicious restaurant food. Nando’s, a South African fast-food chain, makes delicious, fresh grilled chicken with a special peri-peri hot sauce. There are various American bar and fast foods, delicious Indian, pizza, Italian, and some Asian places we haven’t tried yet.
“Traditional” food is similar to standard fare, but generally not as good, which may explain why it is not available in the city unless you arrange a special tourist meal. Gritty goat meat or intestines are often involved, as is pap and sorghum, which are grain-based starches pounded into dust and recrafted into mashed-potato like consistencies (expect much lighter). They also eat cooked mopani (sp?) worms. These are crunchy with an interior like shrimp and an extremely salty flavor. They are not revolting but with not be tasted again by this author.
Wildlife
Lunch yesterday involved a walk through Black Mamba Country. Black Mamba Country (BMC) is a field next to Las Vegas where there are grasses and so probably snakes, we’ve decided. There are probably many snakes in Botswana but the most fearsome is the black mamba. He is highly territorial and, when bothered by you, will chase you forever until you get your brother to shoot him with a rifle (so says a Zimbabwean Brit we met recently). Of course, snakes cannot chase you and bite you at the same time, but the black mamba can probably wear you down and then strike. He is so fearsome that there is a special task force of the Botswana Special Forces which comes to remove him from your property if he is spotted.
Anyways, as I walked through BMC I sensed a rustling under the tree I was passing. There, about five feet away, was a warthog. He was not threatening, and was apparently just chilling under the tree. I watched him sniffing about for a few minutes. That was my first spotting of wildlife on campus except for the cat which darts back and forth between the planters at night.
In other wildlife news: last weekend, on a cultural excursion arranged for the 40-ish international students by University (UB), we visited the Mokolodi Game Reserve, which is about 30 minutes from Gaborone. There we saw a giraffe, three elephants, various kudus and impalas and so forth, and some ostriches.
Anyways, as I walked through BMC I sensed a rustling under the tree I was passing. There, about five feet away, was a warthog. He was not threatening, and was apparently just chilling under the tree. I watched him sniffing about for a few minutes. That was my first spotting of wildlife on campus except for the cat which darts back and forth between the planters at night.
In other wildlife news: last weekend, on a cultural excursion arranged for the 40-ish international students by University (UB), we visited the Mokolodi Game Reserve, which is about 30 minutes from Gaborone. There we saw a giraffe, three elephants, various kudus and impalas and so forth, and some ostriches.
Dorms & Campus
We are in undergraduate housing, the snazzy Block 480, also known (due to its very snazziness) as “Las Vegas”. The building is pretty new, relatively functional, and clean. Six rooms in a unit open into a shared big room, which has a table, a kitchen sink, and a few empty cupboards, one single-person bathroom and one shared bathroom with a few sinks, toilets, a shower. You can’t really put things in the cupboards because anyone could walk through and snag it, as they could the toilet paper, so you keep things in your room and you carry some toilet paper around in your pocket if you are clever. I am generally not.
The rooms themselves are shared. I am sharing with Madeline, another girl on the ACM program, and the other two ACM girls, Emilie and Jordan, are in the room next-door. The shared room is U-shaped with a wall between my side and Madeline’s, which is where we each have a closet. The bottom of the U is where the door into the hall is. We each have a bed, built in desk, chair, two shelves, a bulletin board, and a window. We have furnished things with a fan, some food, books, plates and cups, etc. Not much decoration on my side yet – everyone else brought pictures and art; I brought my still-life from 3-year-old Evie. We tend to have electricity in our plugs and hot water in the shower. Sometimes electricity and hot water wander away, and the Batswana laugh at us when we report it because no one else ever has these problems.
Campus is big. We are in the corner so it takes ten or fifteen minutes to walk to classes, the library, the refectory, and the piles of offices we have to visit every time something goes wrong (holla, admin building!). The library is much nicer than UChicago – big beautiful glass windows and simple, open spaces. It also has wireless internet, but we can’t talk in there, so I’ve been Skyping on the planters right outside (where the bitey ants and the bees live, unfortunately). Classroom buildings are one story with various lecture configurations and sometimes air conditioning. There is also a track, pool, business building (also nice with these cool zigzag ramps that lead you processional style, as if from the sky, straight from the upper floors across everyone’s vision to the doors), snack shop, bookstore, etc.
The rooms themselves are shared. I am sharing with Madeline, another girl on the ACM program, and the other two ACM girls, Emilie and Jordan, are in the room next-door. The shared room is U-shaped with a wall between my side and Madeline’s, which is where we each have a closet. The bottom of the U is where the door into the hall is. We each have a bed, built in desk, chair, two shelves, a bulletin board, and a window. We have furnished things with a fan, some food, books, plates and cups, etc. Not much decoration on my side yet – everyone else brought pictures and art; I brought my still-life from 3-year-old Evie. We tend to have electricity in our plugs and hot water in the shower. Sometimes electricity and hot water wander away, and the Batswana laugh at us when we report it because no one else ever has these problems.
Campus is big. We are in the corner so it takes ten or fifteen minutes to walk to classes, the library, the refectory, and the piles of offices we have to visit every time something goes wrong (holla, admin building!). The library is much nicer than UChicago – big beautiful glass windows and simple, open spaces. It also has wireless internet, but we can’t talk in there, so I’ve been Skyping on the planters right outside (where the bitey ants and the bees live, unfortunately). Classroom buildings are one story with various lecture configurations and sometimes air conditioning. There is also a track, pool, business building (also nice with these cool zigzag ramps that lead you processional style, as if from the sky, straight from the upper floors across everyone’s vision to the doors), snack shop, bookstore, etc.
Weather
On the way back inside from evacuating another bug refugee attempting an illegal immigration through my winter, I saw the sky light up with lightening across the road, in the direction of the Choppies grocery store. This explained the surging bug population in my room – pea-sized black beetles and green leaf bugs and various ambiguous gnatty things tend suddenly appear inside when it gets rainy – as well as the temperature drop. My little alarm clock’s temperature reader (which, it must be said, has never reported a temperature other than 84, 86, and 88) says its now 84 degrees, which means it is probably a bit lower. It is windy and it pours and drizzles. Lots of thunder. Then after an hour or so it passes, leaving enough water around to keep the temperature down for a half day or so. This won’t happen anymore in February, they tell me. It will be really quite hot. Of course, that will not reduce the number of students walking around campus in jeans, in sweaters, in knitted tops, in thermal beanies, and all the like. A high number – probably at least 20,000 of the 50,000 students.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Arrived
I am in Botswana as of a week ago, and let me just say that just now, as my internet sprang to life on my laptop for the very first time, after all the frustrations and teases and false positives and steps here and there and forms to fill out and someone will do this tomorrow and lunch breaks and wrong directions and everything....after this morning when, five or so steps away from internet, we suddenly realized it may not be this week...after all that --- I literally almost cried to see it. What a blessing!
This feeling is amplified by the fact that the other three girls on my program have already been able to chat with their parents on the phone and somewhat relieve the stress of all of the little disappointments and frustrations we've been having. And we have had a FLEET of problems, let me tell you.
1. Graduate student housing? With kitchens? Nope, no kitchens. And no nearby access to food.
2. No internet in the dorms ever.
3. Plugs in our rooms only suddenly blew out.
4. We weren't registered at this University, so we had to do it again and the forms be processed slowlyslowly.
5. We can't eat at the Cafeteria until....not sure what. Sign from the gods.
6. I'll continue this list later.
Anyways, despite this overload of problems I've actually felt quite positive about being here. I love the country already, I feel that happy travel lightness and magic that has been missing for ages. The pace is slow, and that's nice. Every person you talk with, you stop to ask how they are doing, you chat, you don't try to rush anywhere. All very nice. Best of all, I really get along with the three other girls I'm with. Someone is always on the same page, but we are calm and pleasant in general. All working well. Also, our program director Todd and his family (wife Debra, two girls ages 6 and 9).
Time to go - more coherent update to come. Be well!
This feeling is amplified by the fact that the other three girls on my program have already been able to chat with their parents on the phone and somewhat relieve the stress of all of the little disappointments and frustrations we've been having. And we have had a FLEET of problems, let me tell you.
1. Graduate student housing? With kitchens? Nope, no kitchens. And no nearby access to food.
2. No internet in the dorms ever.
3. Plugs in our rooms only suddenly blew out.
4. We weren't registered at this University, so we had to do it again and the forms be processed slowlyslowly.
5. We can't eat at the Cafeteria until....not sure what. Sign from the gods.
6. I'll continue this list later.
Anyways, despite this overload of problems I've actually felt quite positive about being here. I love the country already, I feel that happy travel lightness and magic that has been missing for ages. The pace is slow, and that's nice. Every person you talk with, you stop to ask how they are doing, you chat, you don't try to rush anywhere. All very nice. Best of all, I really get along with the three other girls I'm with. Someone is always on the same page, but we are calm and pleasant in general. All working well. Also, our program director Todd and his family (wife Debra, two girls ages 6 and 9).
Time to go - more coherent update to come. Be well!
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Contact Info & Time Zones
Some basic contact info:
I am at the University of Botswana, in Gaborone. I love mail, and can give my Botswana address on request.
I am on Skype. My Skype name is averybell.
To figure out the time in Botswana:
Add 10 hours to West Coast time.
Add 8 hours to Midwest time.
Add 7 hours to East Coast time.
I am at the University of Botswana, in Gaborone. I love mail, and can give my Botswana address on request.
I am on Skype. My Skype name is averybell.
To figure out the time in Botswana:
Add 10 hours to West Coast time.
Add 8 hours to Midwest time.
Add 7 hours to East Coast time.
Location: Newark Airport
The President’s Lounge at Newark Airport is peppered with a variety of chairs. The space is oblong with full windows facing the vigorously wheeling of service vehicles between gates 120-127 and 102-144 even. On one end is a bar, occupied by the expected barstools; a few of their cousins have set up a satellite community on the opposite side of the space, inexplicably parked in a small, awkward cluster amongst some of the dominant semi-lounge chairs. These are comfortable enough. Shrunken arm chairs, they are not designed for splaying but can be comfortable enough if one manages to finagle the proper neck angle. Some straight backed chairs live over by the phones along the wall, computer wheelies in the computer bays, and legitimate plush lounge chairs in the screening room.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
