Final Entry

When I review this blog, I notice my strange style of writing and the changes which occurred in my thinking while I was in Southern Africa. It has been several months since I returned from Botswana. All the reverse culture shock has passed, though it was quite tough when I returned.

I think often of my time in Botswana and have missed it on many occasions. It was a simple life at Mokolodi and there were many good people. Botswana is a peaceful country blessed with diamonds and wildlife. I would like to return, but only to visit.

As so much time has passed (5 months), I have little more to add than that I plan to return to Africa when I have more training in water resources.
Also I look forward to my upcoming trip to South America (davecasson.blogspot.com).
I already speak more Spanish than I ever managed to speak Setswana.

Cindy Who Knows No One

From the impressions made from the fashion show, a friend named Cindy leaves her mark. She has a strong sense of style which was coordinated and erratic. There were Heineken caps sewn unto her denim boots. I saw her hair transformed. For the fashion show it was an unruly mohawk of curls while the side of head was bare.

Gaborone is not a large or eventful city. I have heard it is like a small town. That must be from the paranoid or self-involved. The fashion show did make it into local papers with many pictures. Of my friends who saw these pictures, they all remembered Cindy’s hair.

Cindy is short for Cinderella. Her Setswana last name literally means “I know no one”. She speaks openly about her internal workings, as I too often do.

I am not dating or romantically involved with Cindy. It give these minuet details to portray her better, but they cannot describe her normalcy .She is a true Motswana and enjoys a beer more than I do.

I met her today on my one afternoon off this week. We met for Sunday snack and bemoaned the previous weekend and all that led up to it. After I ate and she had half an orange juice, we were deciding how to spend the afternoon. She lives and is close with her mom. I was happy when she offered a trip to see her house and her mother. We decided to go pay a visit, Cindy would pay for the cab.

Her house is in Block 5, directly beside Block 9 for no logical reason. It is a large arrangement with flats all around the exterior, a park and connected houses in the middle. Cindy’s connected house had two cars and 4 barking dogs, which were not trusted around me.

I greeted Cindy’s Mom with my best Setswana. I completed the whole dialogue and she had a great smile on her face. I accepted one of the father’s beers and we sat in the backyard on camping chairs. Conversation followed easily and was very personal.
Particularly of our aversion to the relationships with large age and financial gaps, commonplace here as I’m sure I’ve written before.

People are not very different the world over, they have only been conditioned differently. In Cindy, there were evident vulnerabilities and worries which I recognize in many mid-20s women wherever they might live.

At one point she asked me if I knew of the problem of HIV. That 1 in 3 people are infected. I could tell she had a real concern that I might not know. I told her I was educated. I wanted very badly to ask Cindy if she was HIV positive. She talks about the future and family with a sliver of pain and longing. When she brought up this issue, it was my chance to ask. But I did not, for no other reason then to avoid be impolite.

I am sitting with my roommate Lincoln, originally from Kenya. I will ask him if it is alright to ask people this question.

His answer is not surprising. It depends on the person and you relationship to them. The best way is to ask if the person has ever considered or ever have been tested. Some will be very forthcoming and some will say why they have never been tested. Funerals are very common here in Botswana, but I have yet to hear of someone dying of AIDS. I have heard a few that have died from sickness or from illness.

At only 5:30 pm, it was time for me to leave block 5 to go home. It would be unsafe to walk the road to Mokolodi, which I often run, in the dark. I chatted and laughed with Cinderella’s mother. She warned me about African people, that they can be rough. I repeatedly responded, “Ee ma”. She offered me a ride home which I declined.

I spent the kombi and subsequent bus ride texting Meg and Jane; then returning home to eat lentils, rice and chicken prepared by Lincoln. He and I agree that half a day off is not enough. I could have done little else with my time.

Gorgeous Green Fashion Show (Part 3)

Arriving late at the show, the mayhem began for the ladies. They had many fittings to do very quickly and needed make-up as well. Two boys and I had much a simpler preparation. Who cares about the boys though?

The girls had dresses, bathing suits, some unique clothing and some made from recycled materials. They had at least 6 changes. The make-up took a very long time to do but was striking on all the models. By 9:30 we all shuffled backstage, which was a sheltered area behind the outdoor venue.

They expected to have 300 people at the show. (At 80 pula per ticket, this would be a very good haul.) I would have estimated 100-150, but I was not focused on the audience.

We were able to watch the runway from a projector screen. The production of it all, it really was well put together. Talking to friends after the show, it seemed very well done and ran smoothly. This is very funny knowing all the set backs and mistakes which occurred.

I walked the first time, maintaining a swagger and a non-smile. I received a great, cheering reaction. I was the first male and the only lekogwa in the show. At the end of the run way, I had two poses. I chose a person in the crowd and looked straight at them for each pose. After remembering how to turn around, I walked off stage. No problem. One small hitch, my fly was open the whole time.

When it came time for the designer to come up. I walked on one side and a girl named Cindy on the other. This designer was very young, sweet and pretty. She tripped on the step up and her hat fell off. Cindy was first to the hat and I only smiled. We all held hands and continued down the runway. I was intending (had been instructed by Cindy) to kiss the designer on the cheek. After the fall, I didn’t want to give her any other surprises.

After many more costume changes (I’m very happy guys did not do swimwear), we came for the finale.
Oh pictures are worth a thousand words. I should have many up soon.

The after party was all the remained. The venue was a club called Fashion Lounge. Over half an hour out of town, it is one of two main clubs in the city. There was a bus arranged to take us all there, but it never showed.

So we all piled into the back of a truck. We were rowdy and very visible. After 20 minutes of driving we pulled into a gas station. The police rolled up and asked the driver for a license which he did not have. After a quick check in the car, nobody had a license. That is, expect for one boy with an Ontario’s drivers license.

Everyone in the car thought it would be a perfect solution for me to drive. I thought it was hilarious. So I explained that there was no way I was driving the truck: packed with people, having had some drinks, on the left side of the road (which I have never driven), with the police on standby

I know most gung-ho young men would have seen it as a great opportunity to drive, they’ve told me. But not me, I still have never driven drunk. The license-lite driver, who was a responsible male model, continued driving after all. We arrived safely and ticket free at the club.

The rest is nightlife. The club in a mall and was almost directly beside the salon we were at earlier. I can reached directly for any further comment.

Gorgeous Green Fashion Show (Part 2)

I won’t recap Friday night model practice. I’ll only take any jokes that come my way.

At the end of the night, these events were envisioned for Saturday. I can’t call it an itinerary, not even a plan. These words are too definite and imply follow through.

8:00 a.m. Meet with designers for fittings
11 a.m. Arrive at salon for hair styling
2:00-5:00 Break and allow people to rest, go home before show.
5:30 Arrive at venue for girls make-up, final fittings
6:30 Dress Rehearsal
8:00 Show starts

Well, after being in Botswana, I understand that things start a little later. I don’t rush, no reason too. I arrive in the morning 8:45 am. This was 2 hours too early for anyone else, even the main organizer.

After even longer, two girls showed up and left. I left, no fittings done and was told to come back at 3:00 to go to the salon.

At while after 3:00 p.m. we were piled into a rental bus and went to pick up other stragglers. I sat beside Lebo, a tall light skinned model who had recently returned from 4 years in Japan. She seemed a queen bee to the other younger and smaller models. Lebo has a commanding presence and seemed to enjoy hoarding me to herself. We easily talked for 2 hours and became friends. She was very open and shared stories I will not repeat here.

This salon was a high point and a low point of this experience. Oh how I wish I had pictures. The girls’ hair followed a general trend:
1) Decent, nice looking hair
2) Once the stylist gets to it, the hair becomes huge. A mass of hair all pointed in one direction, like the women stood deliberately behind a jet engine. Nothing less powerful will ever move the hair again.
Alternatively, the hair disappears. (Wait, none of your hair is real?). Most African women have and use wigs, don’t know if this is common knowledge. Where this ‘real human hair’ comes from I have no idea. It kind of bugs me.
3) Hair must be tamed, beaten in, braided in, sewn in. Sometimes this is repeated. Then sprayed and doused in product.
4) Decent, nice looking hair

I’m joking about the final product, the hair all looked beautiful. The process took a very, very long time. In fact, by the time my hair was cut, it was 7:50 p.m. (see above schedule, that’s right).

My own hair was another story. When we arrived, it was established who could cut the ‘Canadian hair’. My hair hadn’t been cut since it was shaved in Barbados. Despite my Canadian hair and despite the restless women, I got a very good haircut with my first Mohawk. I was deemed Beckham for quite a while after this.

When getting part of my head shaved I took Dad’s advice and was careful. I saw the electric razor disinfected twice before it was used on me. This was cautious. I could and hope to write about the mentality of mitigating exposure to HIV. Life goes on.

We left the salon after 8 p.m. I called my friend who was at the venue. She asked
‘Are you backstage? Coming out soon?’
‘No, we’re leaving the salon. Half an hour away’
‘The salon? Really? Well, good luck!’

While I had been measured, I had yet to try on any clothing. The girls needed to be fitted for all clothes and have their make-up done. We arrived at the venue from a packed bus at 8:30 p.m. (Please refer to schedule once more).

Gorgeous Green Fashion Show (Part 1)

Today (a Tuesday) I have re-organized all the (very incomplete) first aid kits, replanted reeds in the new watering hole and varnished the observation deck. Though I am tired, it gives me energy to start writing about the weekend. It was a whirlwind of energy and unexpected turns, which explains why I’m still tired.

This began last Thursday, when we went to pick up our friend Erin from work. She had been helping to organize a fashion show with Somarelang Tikologo (ST). There were about 12 female and 2 male models practicing runway routines to loud vibrant music. I moved around, talking to people I knew and generally trying to keep my jaw up.

I talked to Mark, a flamboyant friend who was organizing the show. He would break our conversation intermittently to shout motivation to the models. I was a surprise to me when he asked me if I wanted to model in the upcoming show. My first reaction is I didn’t want to throw a kink in the works. The models seemed impressive and well practiced to me. I also thought it would be a riot so I agreed.

Immediately when I joined the fray the two guys grabbed me aside. ‘How do I do it?” they asked, in reference to the 4 white girls I had shown up with. Just think how ridiculous this is. These guys were surrounded by 12 stunning women, and were acting like I was in a position to give tips. Craziness, and I told them as much.

They were very funny guys though. Neither had modeled before, though all the girls clearly had. We started planning our runway attack. We were dedicated, asking for tips and taking criticism. Making different routines was paramount. None of our plans ended up in the final show. Everyone stayed until after dark. The next day, Friday, we went for fittings. This took place at Main mall, a strip mall with many vendors and modern style stores.

Meeting at Main mall the weekend’s first experience with Botswana time. I know that any “Location” or “Association” time allows for an easy joke about delay or lateness. I won’t list events or times to make my point about time here. Adjusting to Botswana time truly requires a change in perception. To be content, you must accept tomorrow will come; whether things are accomplished now or then makes little difference. Combine this adjustment with the patience to wait for 12 women.

There were no clothes for men at any locations we went to. Temu, Frank and I patiently waited and watched as the girls raided stores and did impromptu walks for Mark. The entertainment of this was matched by the general male reaction to our (well, the girls) presence. African men are a little less discreet. It’s a wonder no bystanders were hurt with so many craning necks.

We gave up at about 3 o’clock, it was too hot and we decided to get a beer. So 8 of us piled into a truck and we went to a day time bar. The reaction to me around the bar was lukewarm. A man was rude and called me Lekgowa. The Setswana word is a non-offensive term for a white person (Literally, spit from the sea). I often find men will stand and give me dirty looks. I always greet them in Setswana and they usually reply. Some break into big smiles.

I had a great time at the bar though, good conversation and lots of jokes. Many guys coming over to talk to the girls I was with. I did well as a Motswana (Singular for Botswanan).. It was a combination of basic setswana, food and some cultural cues. It was lucky enough that the bits and pieces I know all came up. Little are you ever told, that off-hand names for drinks and telling people they’re crazy is the real, real life language training.

A Lonely Lady

One woman living outside Mokolodi has a very isolated existence. She had come with her husband from England for a project. They have since split up but they still live together for economic reasons. The former husband I find to be puerile and petty. There are plans that the man’s girlfriend move in, again to save rent. I was invited over several times for dinner by the woman. I did not want to and ducked the invitation. I eventually relented during a week when the house was otherwise empty. We ate rice and a boil-in-bag curry chicken and had a bitter lime-green cooler. For the better part of three hours, the conversation was pleasant on the thin surface. Her living and relationship status were brought up more than once. When I was ready to leave, the women propositioned me very directly. I declined and made up a story to justify my disinterest. This didn’t work immediately and I slowly left while talking. The women insisted we have dinner at a restaurant later on.

She comes by some days to sit and watch me work. She talks mainly about how she is tired and her living situation is bust. I am responding less and less. She talks about how she can’t stand to be at home. One evening she came by my cabin, far away from her own house. I was luckily out and told her clearly that this was not alright.

One worker and friend here is adamant that I ‘hook myself up’. What she means is that I should date one of the ladies in the park who is more established; who has a car and more money. This type of relationship is a cultural norm and the age difference is much less important. I give little reaction to this suggestion. One of the older women she suggests is the one watches me work.

Day-to-Day Life

It’s very easy to fall behind on writing. When I catch up it’s tempting to recall each event and record them one by one. This glazes over the daily events with define most of my time. If I want this blog to describe my life to others and to serve as a record to myself, it needs to describe the everyday realities which are easy to take for granted.

I remember earlier, the most difficult times were when I took a break from reality and then was abruptly forced back in. Particularly in the first week, I would watch a show or read and completely forget my surroundings. Being jolted back could be quite cruel; it made me want to crawl inside a shelter. I find that sensation is gone now. I have adapted to my surroundings and no longer feel the shock. In fact, while watching ‘Blood Diamond’, I stepped outside and felt comforted that I was indeed in Africa.

I spend most days doing manual labor and some time with school groups that come through. For a more thorough description, I’ll take an excerpt from my mid-way report:

In the past 4 weeks at Mokolodi, the following activities have been undertaken:
- Development and implementation of team-building activities for middle school aged children
- Aiding in the day-to-day running of programs for student visitors to the Education Center (EC)
- Traveling to local schools for Outreach about Waste Management
- Examination of grey-water system functioning and possible revitalization.
- Construction of a watering hole to allow for game viewing. This includes digging out, tree and rock removal, addition of sand and complete cementing of the hole
- Sanding and re-finishing of observation deck overlooking the watering hole
- Construction of a concrete ramp to ensure the EC is physically accessible to a greater range of visitors
- Chemical treatment of living quarters to prevent the movement of termites
- Creation of material for the quarterly newsletter, including information about typical grey-water systems and documentation of improvements made to the EC

I travel into the city every weekend to see my friends. This is not a great habit as I think it limits my integration at the park. As one Peace Corps volunteer put it, I am here for a short enough time that it is alright. But over time I would realize you can’t survive weekend to weekend, your life is where you work and the culture of the people around you.

Part of me wishes I hadn’t brought a laptop. I don’t read very much and it is easy to pass the time watching movies. All this description probably makes me seem introverted. I’m very friendly around the park and know many people, I just hide in the evenings.

I had read that people have different reactions to new cultures. People cope with loneliness and isolation in different ways. I had read people consume more alcohol as compensation. I fall victim to this. Almost every night I have 2 drinks. Not a lot but I have them quickly. It is to settle a bit, become complacent with the evening and happier to lie in bed.

I doubt there will be much night life left. This is besides that fact I’d rather travel, paddle or hike. (You can paddle here, have I not written about it yet?). It is that just over a week ago my friend was sexually assaulted at a night club. She has gone home for that and other reasons. I could write at length about what has occurred, but I prefer to respect her privacy.

Soccer in the Village

I started playing organized soccer in the local village about two weeks ago. One Monday, three different staff separately insisted that I come. So what did I do? I blew off work (who needs supervision on a wildlife walk) and went to play.

To get to the village, I waited outside the workshop with a gathering crowd of Mokolodi workers. Soon enough we were all piling on a large, open air bus. I was standing near the front. Between the driver and the passenger seat, there were at least 6 men, some hanging out the side. The packed bus took off into the park along rain washed and nearly destroyed roads. But the bus bumped along without any problem and was filled with noise.

Half an hour later we arrived at the outer gates and everyone jumped off. We all started walking along a road with the sun still beating down on us. As I may have mentioned before, the capital city Gaborone is fairly developed with malls and paved roads. The villages are much more simple and rural. They seem to be quite spread out and are dusty even in the rainy season.

I should mention that while I know many people at the park. I rarely have long conversations with them. The language barrier is the largest, but not only, obstacle. Even with those who do speak English well, I know people prefer Setswana. For the entire evening I went to play soccer, English was only spoken if it was directed at me and that was very little. I am always content to listen to Setswana though. I often find myself listening to conversations and broadcasts even when I can barely decipher a word.

The soccer field was brown and the ground was very hard. As soon as we got there I knew I would have trouble with the heat. After an hour, the other team showed up late and my team started warm-up. We all wear blue shirts and our team name is the ‘White Rhinos’. People from the village started to show up. Men and women sat and talked in separate groups. Many men smoked cigarettes or pot, some of them on my team before the game.

Just before the game began I was told “You’re #10. Go play!”. Whatever soccer knowledge I had immediately failed me. I’m #10? I looked at the back of my blue shirt which I knew had no number. Turns out #10 is right side forward. I ran around randomly until I was pointed there.

I ran my ass off to make up for my lack of ball control. I even had a break away but kicked the ball it bit far ahead and it was picked up by the keeper. After 25 min I was finished, out of the 90 min game. There were only 1 sub besides me the entire game. So I sat and watched and cheered. Sitting by myself or with others I would greet but not really talk to. The kids constantly tried to get my attention, they would generally stare, then laugh or run away when I looked back. They also liked to sit beside me and mirror however I was sitting.

The sunset was beautiful over the mountains and the field. It was a harvest moon. I will take my camera to the next game as I feel a bit more established now. I caught a ride back to the park which was lucky. Others had to walk for over a hour in the dark through the park.

Girls Come and Visit Mokolodi

I was surprised how much enthusiasm for camping there was within my friends. I did no convincing and didn’t have to worry about any of the tents, food or drinks. I just needed to set up the accommodation and book the campsite. After talking to the boss’ boss we were able to camp for free.

In the two weeks before the girls came, it rained everyday. I wasn’t able to do much work which only gave me more time to think about wet firewood and grumpy visitors. To rest my imagination, I switched our booking over to the largest chalet at Mokolodi. Some decisions are easy to make. After some negotiation, we paid 665 pula ($100 CDN) for the entire weekend.

So all was set, I started mentioning the visiting group to some male friends here. Needless to say, the idea that 7 girls were coming to visit was a big hit around here. I was called ‘big boss’ for a few days before and after. This is something I’ve heard before. All rides thereafter were from these friends who really didn’t seem to mind.

There are mountains in Botswana with magic so that if you go up, you’ll never come down. On Saturday, Feb 7th, we hiked up Magic Mountain, the biggest in the park. To get to the base of the mountain, we walked the road which is used for game drives. For some reason, the girls would always want to stop and look at length at insects. (These same girls would later walk within 20 meters of elephants but wouldn’t notice. They were deep in conversation.) There was no path up or down the mountain; we followed the electric boundary fence for most of the hike. The view was beautiful but the highlight came during the descent. We noticed two giraffe far away and hiked until we came close to them. Seeing and following giraffe on foot is a liberating experience. You notice their looming height and the dangerous look of their legs.

The hallmark in my mind was on Saturday was driving to our chalet in the evening. We came across around 15 zebra, the most I’ve seen so far. We stopped and watched them slowly cross the road. They watched us wait. A multicolored, expansive sunset was in the background. All around was the savannah, lush and green from the rain. Even my friend Kenosi, a worker of 8 years at the park, remarked it was beautiful.

Battles with the Natural Elements of Botswana

I just frantically grabbed my laundry off the line. It has been raining inconsistently for 8 days. The clothes have been on the line there for 2; occasionally drying only to be soaked before I can save them. This time I managed to save my sheets, quick dry shorts and socks. The rest will have to withstand another pounding of precipitation.

I ran back into my wooden hut to find a line of dirt leading up to the books behind my bed. The whole pile of books appeared to have a shovel load of dirt tossed on it. Termites! Who could have guessed it? Not me, it never would have entered my mind. I live in a wooden cabin for craps sake and they come and eat the books. Why are they against literature? (ok, Harry Potter and Survivor Man Les Stroud)

Also it doesn’t seem fair in my battle to keep the cabin clean, that termites come and turn my possessions into dirt. I only recently won my war against ants (Strategy #5: Dirty dishes are safe in the fridge). This is too much. As if now I have to worry about anything fibrous now? Are my cotton underwear in danger?

Right now the rain ricocheting off my metal roof lets me know that the fights is not finished.
(In follow-up, it was necessary to treat the entire cabin with a diluted poison for insects. It took the whole morning and was not pleasant work as I felt like I was poisoning my own house…and that it made the termites smarter than me. Hope I win this war.)

Son of the Soil - Cultural Event

This past Saturday we were invited to a cultural event 40 km outside of Gabs by our friend Olefile. In the past, this event was a gathering of friends who felt like they were losing touch with their roots. The event has grown to over 300 people. It includes traditional dancing, locally brewed shake-shake and animal consumption.

I say animal consumption because it was more than cooking and eating. I held down a goat while another man cut its throat. It was not quick, efficient or simple. The goat emptied it’s bowels before it died. I thought it might do this and I was ready, but the image of it has stuck with me. There were several goats killed, eaten and consumed as well as an entire cow. It was laid out on a table before it was cooked. Needless to say, the entire area had a stench. It was indistinct but overpowering.

Before noon I had tried chicken feet and chicken neck. Both are awful and I only mention it because it helps explain what would happen later.

I tried shake-shake which is a local brew. It is made from the same seeds as traditional porridge and it fermented for a few days in the barrel. It tastes bad and is bad for you. I tried to like it, but couldn’t.

At one point, a tray was brought around to the men with half card-deck sized pieces of meat. It appeared to be cooked beef and every man grabbed a piece as it came by. I quickly took a piece with my dirty hands and popped it in my mouth. I came very, very close to vomiting but my politeness kept the meat in my mouth. It was all I could do to wash it down with some shake-shake. I found out later it was liver, probably from a cow due to the size of the servings.

I became sick not long after this (though still before noon) and all the shake-shake and meat came up. I needed to settle my stomach so I drank water, which had been trucked in and ate deep-fried bread. Five minutes later, a women came around with fried worms on a tray. Not to be rude, I popped one in my mouth; my friend shook her head in disbelief.

It should be mentioned the separation between men and women. Men drank shake-shake from hollowed cups and women drank spiced lemonade from plastic cups. Food preparation and baking was separate. If it was not hacking or pounding meat, it was done by women. Women played active games and danced. Men played cards. As a guy who likes active games, I felt restricted and compelled to watch the many women. It was not hard and I enjoyed the good excuse.

I found I later I made it into the national newspaper with a picture. It was of me watching the women play games. I’ll try and get a hold of the photo. I only found out when some people at work mentioned it to me.

We could barely eat the dinner. The traditional food: pounded beef, spinach, maize-meal and others was too much after a day of watching the food get prepared in the sun. We were watched by many people as we ate, I think this was the only time we were rude.

I even tried the shake-shake again that evening. I was very happy when I was able to wash away the taste with a regular beer.

P.S. I hope to update this entry with a great picture, provided to me by someone else

3 Quick Experiences with Racial Diversity

There are daily experiences which bring to light the impressions that black and white people have of each other. Having had three experiences within the past two hours, I am putting off cooking dinner (no small sacrifice) in order to give my impressions of them.

The most recent occurred outside my hut only 3 minutes ago. I approached three men who I speak and have a laugh with daily. One showed me a picture and said ‘Do you know me when you see me?’ It was a picture of his good friend who was standing there with us; he was wearing a great 70s style dress shirt. I recognized quickly who the picture was of and complimented the shirt, which was awesome. The first man quickly re-checked that I knew who the photo is of.

It is a small event but I believe it represents a belief I have read about and experienced that white people have great difficulty and may even be unable to tell black people apart. I am lucky I took the time to look at the face in the photo or I may have fallen prey to this small joke. There was no malice, this man was simply playing out this conception.

2 minutes before that, speaking to another friend. (Notice that I know few names well, they are harder to pronounce and learn. I know many people casually). I told him how I like to compare the Botswana/South Africa dynamic to Canada/US. I think there are many parallels with population, cultural influence, international recognition and the friendly, friendly people. His addition was that Batswana are nicer to white people. It was candid and this sort of dialogue occurs often and is open. I am getting used to it such that I feel little remorse writing openly about it. How this may be received in Canada I am not stopping a good rant to censor.

His point about Botswana/South Africa relates to an experience just 2 hours before.
The conversation was with a white South African who I had a beer with. He spoke of ‘coloured’ people, the laziness of his staff and other troubles with the country. I can’t say he was racist, though his demeanor on some subjects was a bit off putting. I don’t know the dialogue, tone or language South Africans normally use and can’t tell if he was out of the ordinary. It is another perspective in a very different situation than I am use to.

I have very little to conclude, only a great deal to observe and experience. Probably the best way to travel.

Interesting fact: The Botswana flag, blue, black and white. Is meant to represent the sky above, racial harmony in the country and the importance of water below.

First Day Off

I had my first day off after 9 days of tiring work. One day was enough time off only because it was an overload of experience. University students know a similar feeling, sometimes it’s a blessing when the weekend is over.

The difference is my perilous day off didn’t leave me tired due to drinking (well, just a bit). Also my day wasn’t really perilous, it only felt that way.

To get to Gabs from Mokolodi, there were several combi (small vans) and shared taxi trips to take. I had a package on my shoulder and a blind spot the size of a rhino. At 6 pm on a Friday, this meant maneuvering through a sea of African people. The looks I received were confused and entertained by me and my load.

That night we went for dinner and out to a club. It was a very, very intimidating experience in a way I forgot night life could be. We were with three local guys, it was me and 3 Canadian girls. There were many more people drinking and staying in the parking lot then ever went into the packed club. I was surprised by my very low level of comfort. Only more alcohol brought complacency with which to enjoy the night.

The next day Kaleigh (a WUSC volunteer) and I woke up early enough to go to Botswana’s biggest village Macudi. We went on a large bus for a 1 hour trip, costing 8 pula ($1.30 CDN). We visited friends of ours for a small hike, this is where the picture is from. The reaction to us in the village was strong. Many people approached and made us feel noticed from top to bottom. I was offered shake-shake (locally made alcohol) and setswana lessons from different groups of guys. There was a peace corps volunteer, Leslie, who has lived in this village for 18 months. She seemed a bit lonely and burned out as all novelty of being there was gone.

There were two times I felt fear on my day off. The first was at the night club, due purely to the whole experience and not any single event. The second was on the combi driving sporadically back. It is a feeling I now realize I haven’t felt in a while.

My fear was not irrational but my time off wasn’t perilous. All I did was have a night out and use public transport to visit another village.

The Day After Obama

I have come to write this mainly to get out of the sun. I have been digging out space for a stream all day and I am exhausted. It’s 2 o’clock and this really is the worst time to work. I’m not quite dehydrated but I must be low on electrolytes as my shirt and shorts contain a pound of my salt each. In the evenings, besides dinner, I really look forward to sleep. I force myself to stay awake past 8.

Last night, this was accomplished in part by watching the Obama inauguration speech which was on the Gaborone television station at 7. People are extremely positive about him here. I was reminded about the speech when a staff walked into the office with raised hands and remarked ‘Obama tonight!’ to which everyone agreed they were excited. I watched the speech in a common area. One girl, after inquiring at length about the insanity of living in the cold, commented that Obama wasn’t black. Black was her color and the color of the guy beside her. The guy tried to protest and said she was embarrassing him.

The Batswanan responses to the speech have been void of any criticism. He was spectacular, very impressive or a genius. The least enthusiastic response was from a Kenyan who stated simply that he knew Obama was an excellent speaker. I agree with him, and while there was imagery and diction in the speech, it did not feel historic in the way of the election night speech.

I fed cheetahs and hyenas today. They live in enclosures. The experience of entering with dead chickens must be like throwing fish in the water before a shark swim. You’re enough bait by yourself, let’s not aggravate anything.

To Integrate or Stay Solo

I make one main lifestyle choice each day. I live directly beside a building which is “volunteer’s accommodation”. But I am the only volunteer and do not live there. The accommodation is filled, no packed, with Batswanan park workers and Zimbabwean builders. It is noisy and a bit busy all morning and night.

I have my own wooden hut with a metal roof and therefore can control my privacy. The lifestyle choice I make is whether to spend my time off alone in the hut or go to the common room. Most people have been friendly so far, the level of English varies greatly. (My only setswana is greetings).

I only really go to the other building when I need to wash or use the washroom; never to watch the TV or simply hang around. It becomes a matter of comfort; not just of my own as I am entering the area where these people live.

The kitchen is full of dirty dishes, strong smells and flies. For this reason and my own comfort I bought a hot plate, frying pan, pot and some cleaning supplies (~$40 CDN or 300 pula). It leads to further separation but it's a big relief to my everyday life. Money can provide comforts. I can cook simple meals while watching my laptop. I’m spoiled right? It must seem that way.

This is what I have done to settle in. I still have plenty of social interaction in my day however I’m the only one spends his lunch tucked away writing a blog.

P.S. There is a horse at the education center that I can not get rid off. He’s wise to my yelling and clapping and inability to move him. He clearly thinks our communal area is his stable. It probably doesn’t help that when he poops I clean it up.

Long Road to Botswana

It has taken too long to write this second entry. It has not taken too much time; I only left Canada 6 days ago. Too many events, foreign and unexpected, have occurred that I can recount them all. Bits and pieces will have to do.

I got into my first car accident on the way to the aiport. It wasn’t my fault I swear. It was a very Canadian crash. One guys plow slide on snow, 36 apologies were made and it was all smiles and handshakes when we left. With all the travel concerns, the most danger came 30 m from home.

All I’ll say about the travel to Botswana is that is you do talk to many more people when flying solo. Johannesburg sounds scary to live in.

The city of Gaborone is much more developed than I would have thought. Also the average white person is likely a volunteer. Batswanan reaction to us is entertaining. There is consistent staring and sometimes pointing occurring. People are very friendly though. Part of it can be attributed to a token white guy syndrome.

Mokolodi has a beautiful location. It is located in the valley of several mountains (by name) including Magic Mountain, which I will hike soon. As part of the integration, there was a game drive, on which we saw impala, warthog, zebra, giraffe, ostrich and many birds which were surprisingly interesting.

Over preparation / Intercultural effectiveness

With less than 24 hours before departure my packing is done, many goodbyes have already been said and I'm ready to head to Gaborone. The travel will take 40 hours and I'll be in Gaborone for 4 days before arriving at Mokolodi.

Earlier this week, I met Tammy Babcock over a beer. She is making a huge individual effort build a tank for water distribution in Cite Soleil, Haiti. (http://www.helptammyhelphaiti.com). She is driven, persistent and brave. I hope she is safe and productive in her upcoming trips. The best of luck with her adopted daughter and their eventual arrival to Canada.

My plan of hibernating in Canada went out the window when I went lake kite-skiing with Jesse and Don Stinson. You are harnessed in directly to the a huge kite and man does the wind pull. For anyone who has tried the 3m trainer kite, imagine a 12m kite pulling you down a frozen (?) lake. It was great to take in some Canadian nature, remember that winter is more than repressive snowbanks and cold wind.

I completed a course on intercultural effectiveness as part of the Students without Borders program. “An inter-culturally effective person lives contentedly and works successfully in another culture.” Sounds simple enough. No big deal ;)

My packing has been so extensive I feel over-prepared. It can be seen in the bulky, pricey and complete first aid kit packed in my luggage. With $300 worth of gauze and medication and anti-any-organism gels and creams, the first aid kit is suffocating my checked bag. For entertainment, around a dozen books and 150 Gb of shows and movies. Yep, lot of prep time.

Despite all preparation all I know is that life is going to be very different for the next few months. If anyone would like to get a hold of me, comment here or:
davecasson@gmail.com
Skype: dcasson85

Mokolodi Nature Reserve
Private Bag 0457
Gaborone, Botswana