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.