Ke Malebogo Mariri...and a tourist.

    My Setswana name is Malebogo (pronounced mal-ay-bo-ho) which means thanks (“ke a leboga” means thank you).  I acquired my surname, Mariri, from my village home stay family.

    My one week in Mochudi left me with a mix of emotions.  It feels as if I spent months there but only hours at the same time.  It was a shaky start with the language barrier and I began feeling my first pangs of home sickness, but I ended the week feeling as if I was leaving a second home.  I think I ate more in that week than I normally do in a month, and now I’m back at the dorms full of pap, fat cakes, Toppers, and man sized Lunch Bars.  

    I also learned more Setswana than I ever could from a class.  I love learning such an interesting language, and I’ve gained so much respect by showing people that I am trying to learn more.  Batswana are patriotic and very appreciative of us embracing their culture.  Everyone I meet says that Botswana “is such a beautiful country” and “it’s nice”; everything is “nice” just like in MN, everything is “interesting.” 

A brief history of Mosanta, which is the area in Mochudi that I stayed in:

            Because of its ridiculous amounts of sand, the locals wanted to call the area “more sand.”  However, their poor English led them to pronounce it as “mo sanda”, hence the name Mosanta.  I was not kidding when I said the place is covered in sand.  If it wasn’t for the equally large amount of broken glass on the ground, I would have walked around barefoot; it was the equivalent of walking on a beach.  My poor moccasins may never recover from the trip.  Aaron, a fellow student, had a much better history however.  When you are saying you are from Botswana, while in Botswana, you say “mo Botswana.”  So, he assumed that the area was named after Santa Claus, who was from the area of course. 

Back to the family home stay:

    The family was very easy to get along with and their personalities were laid back and casual like mine.  The house I stayed in was very small and quaint, with a larger dining/living room, small kitchen, three bedrooms, and a bathroom.  There was running water but no hot water which was a little hard to get used to, especially for taking baths; I can now say I am an efficient bather when given two inches of scolding hot water.  In the absence of a bathroom sink, I had to brush my teeth in the bathtub which I am also quite talented in doing now.  The living room was equipped with a couch and a few chairs and a dining table.  They of course had a TV and stereo for playing their soaps and R&B.  The first day was a bit awkward; I was greeted by chickens, a bathroom with no toilet paper, and a power outage.  I visited the neighbors, who were significantly poorer.  They were still very nice, but spoke very little English.  What I did collect from the conversation between my Mom and the neighbor was that she loved that I spoke Setswana and ordered Janet to always call before I came so she could clean up the yard beforehand.  They had a larger yard full of chickens and sand and a house about the size of my dorm room last year.    

    I shared a bedroom with three girls, Katlego (19 on July 5^th), Naledi (12) and Taboka (7).  It was interesting to see the family dynamics in Africa in general.  Naledi is their cousin, but has been living with them because her mom has cancer and is unable to provide for her.  Taboka is the niece/granddaughter and has been staying there because her mother is working in another village.  The father, Malefo, was normally home after 7pm from farming every day.  Our relationship consisted of maybe 4 minutes worth of conversation about how cold Minnesota is.  He left for their cattle post on Wednesday which is closer to the South African border and will stay there until September.  The mom, Janet Mariri, was a proud and talkative woman whom I will never forget.  She was large, loud, and happy and incredibly proud that I learned to introduce myself as “Malebogo Mariri.”  She took me in as one of her own and made sure I was full and warm every day.  She taught me Setswana, how to cook, slaughter a chicken, and make my tea with a ridiculous amount of sugar and milk. 

    I began my stay by being woken up at 6am on Sunday by blaring Christian music and a freezing room; it never got warmer.  From there, I went to church around 9 and happened to be the only woman not wearing something over her hair; as if I didn’t stand out enough already.  The service lasted until about 1:30 and was surprisingly a very positive experience for me.  The church was divided by age group and sex, with men sitting on the left and women in the center and on the right.  The service was also in Setswana, which made it impossible to follow.  The music, however, was beautiful.  Everyone sang with vigor and harmony; it was truly breathtaking.  The priests would dance, and the followers would break into song about every other minute.  The different age groups walked to the center table to give their donations, each group shimmying up to a different song.  It was so uplifting to even see the eldest women dancing and singing all the way up to the table and back, regardless of how long it took them.  Sitting there made me think about my childhood and spending Sundays with my grandma in church, only hoping for the McDonalds kid’s meal afterwards.  From there, I couldn’t help but thinking about how much I missed all of my grandparents and how much I love them.  My first taste of homesickness.   

    After church we travelled to a neighboring village to pick up Taboka from her aunts.  We ended up visiting what seemed to be their whole extended family.  It was an interesting experience to say the least.  I’ve never felt so out of place, walking down a sandy alley having kids yell “Lekoa” at me.  Lekoa traditionally means foreigner, but has taken on the meaning “white person.”  I was told my first day in the clinics that Lekoa is my tribe.  Hearing tribe instills a sense of pride, but walking and having that word thrown at me even by 4 year olds quickly shifted my pride to shame.  Being in the village was by far the most uncomfortable I have been and I truly felt like a tourist.  I think because I was white and in Africa, people assumed I had money and I was there to give it away.  We visited Naledi’s home where her mother, older and younger sisters, and younger brother were staying.  I was asked for everything I was wearing, my phone, and money; luckily not my hand in marriage however.  I was also offered a child, told to clean the yard, and told to catch a chicken.  I think people were demanding these things partly to see my response in good humor, but also with a sense of expectation, as if I was obliged to serve them.  Yes, in Botswana I am well off considering the exchange rate.  But in America, I am in debt; the money I am spending is not in the least bit my own.  Is it that difficult of a concept to understand?  I found myself incredibly frustrated with these people; not everyone in the US is rich.  I worked for the clothes I was wearing, I’m here to learn, not give away my belongings. 

Trying to ignore my frustration, I spent most of the time playing with two younger boys who I think were initially scared of my white skin.  Towards the end we were all having fun though.  Still, no one spoke English, and I couldn’t help but catching on to their laughs and looks directed my way.  I’m sure they were all asking “why the hell is she here?”  I tried to swallow my pride and learn from my situation, but I don’t think that I went away with any new life lessons.  Instead, I left the village with another sister, a sense of alienation, and too much sand in my shoes. 

    I spent the rest of the week in the clinics, which I will describe in another post, eating at “the restaurant Michelle Obama ate at”, and watching soap operas.  I think no matter where I am, I will always be referred to as a Lekoa by all persons under 10 years.  Whether or not it is truly a derogatory term, I don’t think I’ll ever find out.  At least it is mainly limited to those who don’t understand its impact.  I guess I should expect that people will see me as an outsider, considering I am in every sense of the word.  Hopefully I can adjust to the feeling yet prove people wrong. 

    Still, this has been the most rewarding experience thus far, and I will never forget the amazing people I met nor will I lose touch with them.  I can come home knowing how to properly make fat cakes and pap, which I am sure my family will love.  

My home sickness lingers in the back of my mind, but I think that now is the time I’ll begin learning the most about myself.  

I think this vulnerability and yearning for familiarity will finally allow me to step out of my comfort zone and gain an understanding of what I have to offer this country.