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.