Dumela friends, family and strangers! I realize that I have left you all hanging as to what happened to me once I moved to site. Let me take these next few moments of your lives to debrief you.
I'll start with my village: Hatsalatladi (pronounced Hatsa-la-tla-dee) is a small, rural village teeming with donkeys, goats, chickens and a few people. As far as I can gather, the population of Hatsalatladi is anywhere from 600 to 2000 people. Personally, I think it is around 1,011. Hatslatladi is little more than a series of scattered housing compounds, arranged nicely around a communal borehole. It is in the southern region of Botswana, adjacent to a major roadway that runs north-south between the villages of Molepolole (pronounced Mo-lay-po-lo-lay) and Mahalapye (pronounced Mah-ha-lah-pay). Hatsalatladi proudly sports a newly paved road, which runs east-west from the kgotla to the main roadway. The village is not wired for electricity, although there are two solar-powered cell service towers within its perimeter. There are also two tuck shops, which sell items such as lollipops, airtime and soda, as well as one (very overpriced) general store. There is a bar and several shebeens (pronounced sheh-beans, small huts that serve home-brewed beer) to fuel the local dependence on alcohol. Public buildings include the kgotla, a primary school, a health post, an agriculture office, a community hall and a local library. As far as rural villages go, Hatsalatladi actually has a lot going on.
The villagers all live on family compounds, or small plots of land that host several houses. Some houses look as though they have been transplanted from our modern suburbs into the African desert, while others are mud huts with thatched roofs (called "roundevals.") The levels of poverty vary, with some families staying 11 to a roundeval and other families living comfortably in a large house. (As a note, "small house" is a euphemism in Botswana for "mistress." It comes from the days of polygamy, when a man's first wife would live with him in a main house while his other wives would live in smaller houses on the compound.) Few people are employed, and those that are are usually government workers who have been stationed in the village.
One of Hatsalatladi's defining features is its proximity to Molepolole, a village of 80,000 people. Moleps has a strip mall (yes), replete with clothing stores, a grocery store, ATMs and an internet cafe, as well as a series of shopping complexes that include more grocery stores, convenience stores, general stores and hardware stores. There is a post office, several NGO offices, a bus rink and so much more. The contrast between Hatsalatladi and Moleps is extreme; despite a negligible distance of 30km (~19mi), it as though development completely skipped Hatsalatladi. Understandably, most people in my village rely on Molepolole for groceries and general amenities, and so a combi (small van) drives back and forth between the two villages every day.
Now, on to me.
I was picked up from Kanye on Nov. 10 by Mma Kooagile, the head of the primary school. She is my supervisor. Her sister accompanied us, and I spent the trip wedged between them in the front seat of their pick-up truck. As I straddled the gear shift, I stared out at the landscape of my new country and marveled at how weird it all seemed. The desert was entirely flat, with small gnarled trees (acacia, I believe) growing in patches as far as the eye could see. Although green, the trees were stunted and, instead of flowers, their branches grew inch long white needles that grabbed and snagged at passerby. A few hills, covered in acacia as well, abruptly rose up from the ground as if someone had reached down from the sky and placed them on top of the land. I wonder when this will become normal, I thought. I wonder how weird America will seem when I go back.
I nervously chatted with Mma Kooagile the entire trip, learning more about Hatsalatladi and her experiences there. I was the first Peace Corps volunteer to ever be stationed in Hatsalatladi, and everyone was very excited to meet me. Mma Kooagile had been appointed as school head in August, and was new to the community as well. In her former village, Maboane, she had worked with two Peace Corps Volunteers. She had already planned my first two days at site, and I was so grateful. I had been plagued for days by a fear of being dumped at my doorstep (perhaps even without a key) and left to fend for myself upon arriving.
I received a warm reception from the school staff, and then was taken to my house. It was a small two bedroom building immediately adjacent to the primary school, painted beige with green trim and a green door. To be blunt, it is rather worse for wear. There are cracks in the walls, the ceiling is peeling, the floor is permanently stained, and there is bat urine all over the walls. The good news is that there is plumbing, and it works about 5 days a week. Despite the damages, I was elated that I had a home all to myself.
Over the next two weeks, I attended school, arranged my house and met people in the community. Many volunteers spend a lot of time alone or doing nothing for their first few months at site, but somehow not I. Actually, "somehow" misrepresents the situation. I have a compulsive need to be doing something, anything, and a burning desire to not only meet the expectations of others but excel in everything I do. Couple these traits with the high hopes of an under-developed community and several very welcoming offices, and you get a very busy Becky doing a whole lot of nothing. I gathered data, proctored exams, handed out baby food and organized books. I felt incredibly overwhelmed, to say the least, by my new home, new culture and new life. Those first two weeks felt like a month.
Some challenges arose immediately: most Batswana understand that I am here to help them with their jobs, but many often interpret this as I am here to do their work for them. I have already been made uncomfortable several times over by Batswana who have asked me to help them and then sat and watched while I did their work. I have also made many Batswana uncomfortable by showing displeasure -- Botswana is a very non-confrontational culture.
My first (and so far only) friend in my community is a young woman named Bonolo who is a teacher at the primary school. She has helped me so much -- she took me to Moleps my first weekend at site, lent me items I forgot to buy and let me charge my electronics at her house. She speaks English fluently, and is so nice. She has really helped me feel like I belong here.
As for my previous fears? Living without electricity is not so terrible, mostly because (1) everyone else is doing it and (2) those that aren't are my friends and they let me charge my electronics at their houses. The Ministry of Education insisted that I receive a gas-powered fridge but then failed to deliver it, so I have been experimenting in the kitchen with perishable foods. I have gotten addicted to powdered milk, beets (long shelf life), and maebele, a soft porridge made from soy powder that is a local staple. So far I have run low on food only once, but a trip to Moleps is an easy fix. I struggle with the actual act of cooking more than anything else, making huge messes in the kitchen as I wildly slice and manically boil vegetables. I have sliced my thumb on more than one occasion, burned myself with boiling water, over-salted pasta to an extreme, exploded an egg I was trying to hard boil (twice, actually), and severely undercooked several beets (which, luckily, can be eaten raw). Thank goodness I have my amazing mother, who made a cookbook and mailed it to me, and my great friend Supriya, who responds to all of my frantic cooking text messages in a timely manner.
So yes, I am alive and thriving. Thank you for all of your support, love and friendship in the form of comments, Skype dates, emails, Facebook messages and packages. I am so grateful that I have so many good friends back in America. And yes, I do have an address:
Masego Mmolotsi
(Rebecca Chanis)
P/Bag 15
Molepolole, Botswana
I'll start with my village: Hatsalatladi (pronounced Hatsa-la-tla-dee) is a small, rural village teeming with donkeys, goats, chickens and a few people. As far as I can gather, the population of Hatsalatladi is anywhere from 600 to 2000 people. Personally, I think it is around 1,011. Hatslatladi is little more than a series of scattered housing compounds, arranged nicely around a communal borehole. It is in the southern region of Botswana, adjacent to a major roadway that runs north-south between the villages of Molepolole (pronounced Mo-lay-po-lo-lay) and Mahalapye (pronounced Mah-ha-lah-pay). Hatsalatladi proudly sports a newly paved road, which runs east-west from the kgotla to the main roadway. The village is not wired for electricity, although there are two solar-powered cell service towers within its perimeter. There are also two tuck shops, which sell items such as lollipops, airtime and soda, as well as one (very overpriced) general store. There is a bar and several shebeens (pronounced sheh-beans, small huts that serve home-brewed beer) to fuel the local dependence on alcohol. Public buildings include the kgotla, a primary school, a health post, an agriculture office, a community hall and a local library. As far as rural villages go, Hatsalatladi actually has a lot going on.
The villagers all live on family compounds, or small plots of land that host several houses. Some houses look as though they have been transplanted from our modern suburbs into the African desert, while others are mud huts with thatched roofs (called "roundevals.") The levels of poverty vary, with some families staying 11 to a roundeval and other families living comfortably in a large house. (As a note, "small house" is a euphemism in Botswana for "mistress." It comes from the days of polygamy, when a man's first wife would live with him in a main house while his other wives would live in smaller houses on the compound.) Few people are employed, and those that are are usually government workers who have been stationed in the village.
One of Hatsalatladi's defining features is its proximity to Molepolole, a village of 80,000 people. Moleps has a strip mall (yes), replete with clothing stores, a grocery store, ATMs and an internet cafe, as well as a series of shopping complexes that include more grocery stores, convenience stores, general stores and hardware stores. There is a post office, several NGO offices, a bus rink and so much more. The contrast between Hatsalatladi and Moleps is extreme; despite a negligible distance of 30km (~19mi), it as though development completely skipped Hatsalatladi. Understandably, most people in my village rely on Molepolole for groceries and general amenities, and so a combi (small van) drives back and forth between the two villages every day.
Now, on to me.
I was picked up from Kanye on Nov. 10 by Mma Kooagile, the head of the primary school. She is my supervisor. Her sister accompanied us, and I spent the trip wedged between them in the front seat of their pick-up truck. As I straddled the gear shift, I stared out at the landscape of my new country and marveled at how weird it all seemed. The desert was entirely flat, with small gnarled trees (acacia, I believe) growing in patches as far as the eye could see. Although green, the trees were stunted and, instead of flowers, their branches grew inch long white needles that grabbed and snagged at passerby. A few hills, covered in acacia as well, abruptly rose up from the ground as if someone had reached down from the sky and placed them on top of the land. I wonder when this will become normal, I thought. I wonder how weird America will seem when I go back.
I nervously chatted with Mma Kooagile the entire trip, learning more about Hatsalatladi and her experiences there. I was the first Peace Corps volunteer to ever be stationed in Hatsalatladi, and everyone was very excited to meet me. Mma Kooagile had been appointed as school head in August, and was new to the community as well. In her former village, Maboane, she had worked with two Peace Corps Volunteers. She had already planned my first two days at site, and I was so grateful. I had been plagued for days by a fear of being dumped at my doorstep (perhaps even without a key) and left to fend for myself upon arriving.
I received a warm reception from the school staff, and then was taken to my house. It was a small two bedroom building immediately adjacent to the primary school, painted beige with green trim and a green door. To be blunt, it is rather worse for wear. There are cracks in the walls, the ceiling is peeling, the floor is permanently stained, and there is bat urine all over the walls. The good news is that there is plumbing, and it works about 5 days a week. Despite the damages, I was elated that I had a home all to myself.
Over the next two weeks, I attended school, arranged my house and met people in the community. Many volunteers spend a lot of time alone or doing nothing for their first few months at site, but somehow not I. Actually, "somehow" misrepresents the situation. I have a compulsive need to be doing something, anything, and a burning desire to not only meet the expectations of others but excel in everything I do. Couple these traits with the high hopes of an under-developed community and several very welcoming offices, and you get a very busy Becky doing a whole lot of nothing. I gathered data, proctored exams, handed out baby food and organized books. I felt incredibly overwhelmed, to say the least, by my new home, new culture and new life. Those first two weeks felt like a month.
Some challenges arose immediately: most Batswana understand that I am here to help them with their jobs, but many often interpret this as I am here to do their work for them. I have already been made uncomfortable several times over by Batswana who have asked me to help them and then sat and watched while I did their work. I have also made many Batswana uncomfortable by showing displeasure -- Botswana is a very non-confrontational culture.
My first (and so far only) friend in my community is a young woman named Bonolo who is a teacher at the primary school. She has helped me so much -- she took me to Moleps my first weekend at site, lent me items I forgot to buy and let me charge my electronics at her house. She speaks English fluently, and is so nice. She has really helped me feel like I belong here.
As for my previous fears? Living without electricity is not so terrible, mostly because (1) everyone else is doing it and (2) those that aren't are my friends and they let me charge my electronics at their houses. The Ministry of Education insisted that I receive a gas-powered fridge but then failed to deliver it, so I have been experimenting in the kitchen with perishable foods. I have gotten addicted to powdered milk, beets (long shelf life), and maebele, a soft porridge made from soy powder that is a local staple. So far I have run low on food only once, but a trip to Moleps is an easy fix. I struggle with the actual act of cooking more than anything else, making huge messes in the kitchen as I wildly slice and manically boil vegetables. I have sliced my thumb on more than one occasion, burned myself with boiling water, over-salted pasta to an extreme, exploded an egg I was trying to hard boil (twice, actually), and severely undercooked several beets (which, luckily, can be eaten raw). Thank goodness I have my amazing mother, who made a cookbook and mailed it to me, and my great friend Supriya, who responds to all of my frantic cooking text messages in a timely manner.
So yes, I am alive and thriving. Thank you for all of your support, love and friendship in the form of comments, Skype dates, emails, Facebook messages and packages. I am so grateful that I have so many good friends back in America. And yes, I do have an address:
Masego Mmolotsi
(Rebecca Chanis)
P/Bag 15
Molepolole, Botswana
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