Marriage Equality

Because love has no gender

~Claire 

A Letter to Men

I have been thinking about writing a post along these lines for a while, and an incident a few days ago that I have since thought on has finally inspired me to do it! This is also me trying to keep to my commitment to post more. The two people I am "writing" to were in two different incidents that stand out in my mind but the content of the letter itself is to a much broader audience. This started off as a vent about the "Dude in the bar" but i have altered it to include "Bus Guy" too. Here is goes.

This post contains explicit language, and is rated PG-13

Dear Guy on the bus/ Dude in the bar,

GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME. 

You see, some of you seem to think that you have a free pass to my shoulders, or my ass, or my breasts, or my arms. You seem to think that these are some sort of public park area that you can frolic through freely or grab or touch at will. I hate to break this to you but not one damn inch of my entire fucking body is a public zone to you. You are not welcome here and I have no idea what made you think otherwise.   

Dude in the bar, I don’t know what gave you the impression that attempting to pull me out to your car by the arm was a come on. Let me assure you that had you gotten me anywhere near the door before I wrenched myself free of your drunken grasp that, that hand would’ve been making contact with your face, simultaneously with my knee making contact with your crotch. Though it would be easy for me to write this off as an “African thing” we all know that this could have been any bar, in any country, in all the world. And when I say “we”, I mean your sisters and mothers, and aunts and grandmas, and even your daughters, because every single one of us is privy to the knowledge that there will always be men like you.

Guy on the bus, what part of me telling you I wasn't interested did you not understand? I even made up some crap about how I never wanted to get married or have kids (both falsehoods) to get you to go away and you continued to prod me about how you wanted to create African American children with me in order to "spread your genes." When I said I was going to go sit somewhere else if you kept not listening the the words coming out of my mouth, you laughed and didn't take me seriously. When I pretended to fall asleep you called up your friends and told them in Setswana that you had a white woman now, and when you tried to tell the conductor the same thing, I called your bullshit, and you were surprised since you didn't think I understood what you were saying. I am not "your woman" you are a disgusting pig who doesn't know the first thing about class, respect, or chivalry. I don't want to have anything to do with you as a human being, none the less as a romantic partner.

You see what angers me more than anything is that I know there are good men out there whom you are shaming. I was raised by a good man, and my brother is a good man and he is only 17. I have good men for cousins and uncles and grandfathers and teachers and preachers and bosses. I have good men as friends and I have had good men as lovers. I have met good Motswana men who treat me with respect and I’m serving with good men as fellow volunteers. These men wouldn’t have touched me the way you did, or greeted me in the way to indicate to those around us that I was your property (yeah, I knew what you were saying.) I would’ve loved to just beat the shit out of you; my walk home/ the rest of the bus ride was filled with mental images of your limp form on the ground as I screamed in your face and crushed your balls under my converse in front of all the bystanders who watched your advances silently.

When I went to the bar to buy a beer so I could bring it back to my house and watch a movie, it wasn’t an indication that I wanted sex, or that I was looking for someone to take me home. Likewise, when I sat down on the bus and put my backpack on the seat next to me, it wasn't a call for an asshole like you to move it in order to sit down. You made a point in telling me that no one would sit down next to me because I was white. You sat next to me for that same reason, and so how does that make you any better?

Bar guy, I’m not a delicate flower so while you were just thinking about getting me outside, I was making note of each exit, the swiss army knife in my pocket, the metal chair I was standing next to and the beer bottle on the counter that could quickly become a weapon if I had needed it. I have to think like this, not because I am in a war zone, but because I am a woman and because men like you have forced me to.

It kills me that I live in a world where I have to wonder if all the good men in my life are actually members of a global minority. That I live in a world where 1 in 3 women will be sexually assaulted by the time they hit 25. It’s hard not to start thinking that after all the domestic abuse cases I have heard about lately through the clinic that involve bricks and fists and knifes. I got into Peace Corps in part because of my work at the MSU Sexual Assault Center, where I got to see what men like you do to women like me, first hand. I know this letter is violent, I know this letter is angry, and I know that this letter is more a venting mechanism of mine than anything else, but it is time that you heard it. I don’t think I could list the name of a single woman who doesn’t either know someone who has been raped or assaulted or has not been raped or assaulted herself. 

That’s really screwed up.

To end on a positive I want to thank the men that I listed above, who show the world that there is a standard that must be met and that it is high. I want to thank each and every one of you who’ve treated a woman with respect, especially if we didn’t return the favor. I thank each one of you who have stopped when they heard the word “no” in any given number of situations to a stranger, or a girlfriend, or a wife. I want to thank Adam, Alex, Nathan and Joel for giving me hope in our own generation and immense pride in the young men of our family. Lastly I want to thank Michael for being my longest running example of what a man, father and husband should be, and how they should act. Daddy, you give me hope and I love you.

There are no public places on a person’s body, and if you trespass on my property again there will be consequences.

Rata Thata,

Claire 

Email

I have been getting pretty positive feedback on an email I sent out to the list of family and friends I sed updates to, so even though most of you who actually come here have already received this in your inboxes, I figured I would put it out there for the lowly, cyber traveler who might stumble on this blog. This will not be replacing the awesome 1 year post I am planning to put up next month!

Hello Everyone,

I know it has been incredibly long since I have sent one of these out, but considering the amount of writing I have been doing lately I hope you will all forgive me. This particular update is going to be more into what is going on in my head and less about my actual life adventures at this point in time. If you are interested in some crazy stories, feel free to check out my blog, though it is certainly not for the weak of heart (just a heads up.)

I’m closing in on the 1 year in country mark, and shortly after that point I will be in the 1 year left in country mark. It seems like only yesterday that I was making tearful goodbyes in our kitchen to many of you, and when I think back on the stress, anticipation and general feeling that I had no idea what I was doing, it pretty much gives me something short of a heart attack. But I have made it here, and largely in part to the love and support coming from home. Your letters, care packages, and words of encouragement get me through the rough days and make the good days that much brighter. I have learned an insane amount about myself this past year, and I have the feeling I am in store for more of the same with the year coming up. That being said I wanted to share with you a few reflections.

The plan when I left for Peace Corps was to do my two years, come back, go to graduate school for a Masters in International Relations or Public Health or something in development, get a job, work abroad for a few years and then settle down in the domestic offices of some sort of international organization. That was 11.5 months ago though. J At this point I am thinking about possibly doing a third year in Peace Corps assuming I can get a position in one of the two organizations I am interested in working with. Now, I don’t want to freak any of you out, in all likelihood that isn’t going to happen, and I’m not at the point where I am a volunteer who will stay an extra year for any and all work positions, but it is something that is on my radar at this point and I will keep you all informed.

When I do get back state side my thoughts are to try and take a year to make a living as a writer. With my blog, letters home, email updates, journaling, novel writing month, and other blog, I have realized that I actually very much enjoy putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and writing things down. I want to try this out. I think, in part, my want to get a Masters was from the idea that I needed to get one, that it was the next logical step. I have found that logical people don’t really join Peace Corps though, so why stick to something that is no longer applicable? At this point a few of you may be reminiscing about my musical theater dream and asking yourself if I have some sort of masochistic want to be a starving artist. My answer to you is: ...yeah, probably. This may involve being a professional waitress for a year, but I would rather give it a go and see if I can be happy with the lifestyle than look back, thousands of dollars more in debt, with a graduate degree I may or may not be using, and wonder “what if?”

Part of this revelation has come from the realization that I really don’t want to work in development. The mental taxation that comes along with making a career in ANYTHING that involves trying to get people to change their behavior is immense. This goes for jobs from weight loss experts, to social workers, to psychologists, and I take my tukwi (head covering) off for those of you reading this who know what I am talking about. I’m happy to be having this experience, and it has taught me a ton about the human condition, but trying to get someone to use a condom, or get tested for HIV, or use an new form of education in order to save their own life and the lives of others, and then more often than not watching them fail, is heartbreaking. I have conversations with the other volunteers my age about how we are going to relate to most of our peers stateside when all of this is said and done. It usually goes something like this:

“Can you imagine what the first power outage back home is going to be like?”

“Yeah, everyone is going to be freaking out that the toilet won’t fill and the air conditioning doesn’t work and I’m going to be squatting naked in the corner of the backyard wondering why people are lookin at me funny.”

“Or when we have to actually work a 9-5 in an office again?”

“You mean we can’t be professional goat watchers anymore?”

“No... probably not.”

“Or when we have access to hot water, a dish washer, a laundry machine, and personal cars again?”

*group sigh* “laundry machines”

That of course is not to say that the job I have in mind is an easy one. If I had my druthers, and the ability to write my own career plan (which at this point in my life, I do), I think I would probably be a human rights foreign correspondent. It’s a copout, I know; and if you disagree, here is why. Worrying about getting people information is about a bajillion times easier than worrying about getting people to use that information. I still want to be a part of the process of global education, I just don’t want to be an enforcer any more. I am lucky enough to be serving in a country that has a relatively good human rights record; the same cannot be said for countries that are neighboring this one. This especially goes for LGBT populations in Africa, which is what I want to focus on.

No matter what you may think about gay marriage or adoption rights, I would hope that the majority of people reading this email don’t believe that someone should be beaten, hung, shot or raped for their sexual orientation. This is happening on this continent, and it is going largely unnoticed. Having made friends with some of the activists in the capital here has been eye opening. Though Botswana doesn’t really have a record of violence towards lesbians, gays, bisexuals or transgendered individuals, it has none the less has outlawed it in its penal code. Though I know that there are gross violations of human rights every day and countries that experience genocide and mass murder and ethnic cleansing, I’m interested in this portion of the field because it asks many cultural and religious questions, and is met by incredibly sane and educated people with an incredible amount of indifference. I also believe that it is fast becoming the most “every day” form of human rights violation.

But we can chat more on that later.

When it all comes down to it though I think the biggest lesson I have learned on an individual human level is that I have the ability to be an incredibly flexible person, and that after this there are going to be few places in the world that I wouldn’t be able to hunker down and make a life in. Doesn’t mean I will want to, but the possibilities have become much broader. This sorta came to me in a flash of inspiration while with my “jalking” club (we do joggy kinda walks) and thinking back onto how far I have come with my community integration from when I moved here. I live in Africa, I have conversations in Setswana...sometimes, I can face down a cow, and I no longer blink at the terrain I am living in, or the nature of my work. People, I made my first batch of apple wine, and if you are integrated enough in a place to start making your own back room booze, you are pretty darn integrated!

It has been a crazy year, but I am satisfied where I am at, and I’m excited for what is to come.

Hugs and smooches,

Claire 

Poem

I don't normally share poetry type stuff that I write with the rest of the world but I wanted to put this one out there for your consumption. This is something that I wrote while in a writer's workshop that one of the other volunteers put on. The prompt was to write using the phrase "I Am From" and we had about 5minutes to do it. This is what I came up with, it comes from a very near, dear and nostalgic part of me. 

I Am From

I am from a frantically packed car that never seemed to hit the road on time. From the last piece of luggage in the trunk, to Mom’s final holler to all family members to go to the bathroom and grab a snack. The one hour drive to the boarder while listening to tunes on the radio and watching the grimy streets of Detroit pass by the window. I am from siblings fighting over who gets to scratch the bridge ticket this time around, and feeling extra special when the discount was anything more than 50 cents off a gallon of gas. I am from the fields of tomatoes, corn, wheat, tobacco that waved in the wind past Windsor. I am from the turn off of the highway, and the long stretch of farm country that separated us from liberation. The anticipation of arrival, and the smell of clean air blowing in from windows rolled down and music turned up. I am from the satisfying crunch of the gravel driveway as it takes the weight of our loaded family minivan. I’m from the first hello to the lake and dipping our toes in to see if it was too cold or not to jump in right then and there. I’m from that musty cottage smell that seems to inhabit all places like this, and the smell that can only be replicated here. I am from a screened in porch, and springy grass, and the hammock. I’m from drippy, drippy, ice cream cones. I’m from the old stone wall and the sand dune, and the rocking chairs and the sunfish sailboat. I’m from sea glass and long contemplative walks on the beach. I’m from lake storms, and bon fires, and my first drink. I’m from my cousins who might as well have been siblings, and aunts and uncles who were really more like mentors, and grandparents who would never pass up the chance to tell us a story about the time and places that they have come from. I’m from loud, disruptive, chaotic family meals where everyone talks over one another and yet everyone is heard. From “pass the salt” and “I’d like one more please” and “grab me some cake...but not too big!” I’m from coffee on the musty old couch, with candles all around, as the breeze drifts through the screens and carries with it the symphony of crickets and waves and wind and the neighbors barbequing next door. I’m from late night euchre games with Canadian rules and steal the deal and dick the dealer. I’m from the bunky, the safe space for the chilluns, and the hum of mosquitoes and the final whispered secrets of the night before drifting off to sleep.

So there is your post for the day. This is me attempting to get better about posting. Still no word on the photos for the last one but I will get them up as soon as I can. 

Hugs and smooches, 

Claire 

Bush Baby

I have been a horrible blogger as of late, and so this one if going to be super long and a big ole catch up. Fingers crossed I will also try and post some pictures along with these stories since there are of the immensely epic variety. Let us start out with a little trip out to Gobojango to visit my bestest of friends, Janina.

This trip started out with one of the coolest hitches I have ever experienced. It was Friday and since there wasn’t anything going on in the afternoon at the library, I tried to catch a hitch out early. My friend Lebo was driving out to the junction to sell inche (sugar cane) and megapu (watermelon) so I caught I ride in her truck figuring if I could make it to the junction on the main highway, that it would be easier to then snag a lift into Palapye. I’m waiting at the hitch post for about 15minutes before a giant big rig truck pulls over and offers me a lift into town. Now, I’m not going to lie, I have been privy to enough American cinema, camp fire fables, and general down home edumacation to believe that taking a ride in a big truck means a slow and painful death, or that I’m going to be solicited for sex. Luckily I am curious enough, and also doing my darndest to understand that I’m not in Kansas anymore, to ignore these stereotypes and catch a ride anyways.

So I amble on up into the cab, and find that the driver has actually already picked up another hitch, which makes me feel a lot more comfortable right off the bat. I sit in between the two dudes and we get to talking. I find out the trucker is actually from South Africa and that the passenger is Motswana. We are chatting for a little bit and the question that invariably seems to present itself in every conversation I have with men of a certain age here, presents itself, do I have a boyfriend? Let me preface this by saying that after almost a year here, I made the choice to start telling strangers that I have a boyfriend back home. Not only does it give me a good reason to shut them down quickly but it also lays down an opportunity to talk to people about fighting against MCP (multiple concurrent partners.)

The conversation at this point takes a unusual turn, normally in these types of interactions the guy, dude, man child, or what have you, tells me that even though I have a boyfriend in America that I need to have one in Botswana, and then, in an oh-so-chivalrous manner, offers up himself as an available option. This is not what happened this time around; this time around the conversation geared toward how I take care of my own needs...*ah hem* intimately. I have been through this variation of the standard conversation more times than you would think and now that it is pretty much old hat, I really don’t have an issue talking about it with strangers. I view it as an impromptu opportunity to do some sex education! At this point in the post I would like to invite my grandparents, parents, priests, and any other member of my family to skip down a few paragraphs, this might get awkward for you.

---- Stop Reading Here ----

I chatted about masturbation, birth control, sex toys, abstinence, and climaxing with this trucker and the random Motswana guy for about a half an hour. I told them about my habits, I answered questions about whether or not jerking off would cause a woman not to want to sleep with a man any more (which I connected to the idea that, that would never happen for them as males, so why would it be for females?) I dispelled rumors that going without sex makes you an angrier person, or less likely to be able to control your emotions, and we chatted about how this gentleman, as a married truck driver, was a part of an especially vulnerable population since he was away from his wife so often, and since the routes through Botswana are plastered with young girls who sell sex for money, cell phones, or clothing. We talked about using a condom, and remaining faithful, and getting tested for HIV and a plethora of other sexually transmitted diseases. At one point in the conversation, and there is no way I could make this up, both men acted out an orgasm for me...

This is my life, and I love it. It’s grassroots sex education at its finest and its conversations like that, that make me feel like I am making a personal impact. Maybe that trucker won’t sleep with someone outside his marriage, or maybe he will but will use a condom because he knows that he is not only protecting himself, but the girl he is sleeping with, and his wife back home. Maybe the Motswana passenger will use his hand instead of having sex outside of his next relationship. Or maybe, the next time these guys are talking with their buddies at the local bar, they will tell the story about the crazy American chick who was telling them about sex and toys and condoms, and someone will take note. We can call it the sexy butterfly effect.

I don’t put this on my blog to horrify you, or to be shocking, I put it out there because I think we have to stop being afraid or ashamed to have these types of conversations with people. It wouldn’t be fair of me to ask the elders of my village to start talking to the youth about sex and their bodies, if I myself am not willing to do it as well.

---- Okay, You Can Start Reading Again ----

After being dropped at the bus rank I boarded the bus to Bobonong and then caught a combi to Gobojango. The weekend was full of wonderful company (my friend Daniella came down from Maun for the occasion), insightful conversation, and earth shattering food; which in my book makes life about perfect. We went for a picnic out at the Thuni Dam, with homemade bread, cheese, and pudding. We saw an elephant that was hiding in the bush and munching on a tree salad, and the weather was cool enough that none of us wanted to peel our own skin off. It even rained, which is a big deal in Rams but is even larger a deal in Gobojango, which is one of the driest villages in Botswana. It was rejuvenating and a great way to head into a week that involved a trip to the capital and some medical business.

Before we get to that though, there is one more epic adventure that must be recorded. Nina and I made a trip out to the Lepokole Cave Paintings! These paintings are some of the oldest in the world, and were done by the Basarwa people when they were being forced out of their land. It involved a trip on an incredibly bumpy road out to the village of Lepokole, there you have to ask permission of the kgosi to visit the site and pick up a local guide because it would be impossible to figure out where they were otherwise. You then continue on the incredibly bumpy road, through bush, and over dried river beds and you probably get stuck once or twice (luckily the locals are very much aware of how to navigate this type of terrain, so we weren’t worried.) At some point you will hit a riverbed that very clearly would suck in even the most intense of safari trucks, and so you park and start hiking along the over grown road.

We are following our guide, and Lorato (a woman who both Janina and I call family at this point) is eating berries and showing us what is edible and teaching us the tswana names of things, and everyone is grinning from ear to ear when the guide, quite abruptly, turns into the bush. There was no sign, no big tree, no anything other than pokey thorns, and little pricker dudedads that stick to your socks and shoes, and he just turned right into it. We walk, with no path, for about 20minutes when we come across a big orange sign outside a bunch of rock escarpments. I swear the people that put that sign out there were the last trace of civilization that this site has seen, since there is really hint of people anywhere. We hike over the rocks, and through more bush, and I still have no idea in the faintest how our guide knows where he is going. At some point (we have been hiking for over an hour) he tells us to quiet down and wait a moment. He turns to Lorato and Charity (Lorato’s daughter) and speaks in rapid Setswana. Lorato translates that he is going ahead to ask permission from the spirits for us to enter and that from this point on we must be silent and respectful. He comes back and we duck under some tress and around some bushes and bam, we are in a giant cave that I hadn’t even looked up to notice before.

On the wall, painted on pieces of rock that have been bleached by mineral deposits, are beautiful pictures of impala, waterbuck, cows and people. They are in deep red ochre colors, and faded whites different sizes and shapes, and the sense of primal sacredness echoes off the walls along with our voices. Botswana is not the most desired of African destinations, I’m guessing most of you reading this imagined going to Cape Town or Cario, before you ever thought of Maun or the Delta (if you thought of them at all, which I am guessing you didn’t.) Because of this there are no ropes, plaques, no signs and nothing that would prevent you from climbing up to the paintings and adding some of your own if you wanted and were so inclined. Though we did take the opportunity to climb up, we were careful not to touch anything in order to make sure that the grease on our hands didn’t strip the pigment from the eyes of future generations. It was breathtaking, it was beautiful, and a peaceful sense of universal connectedness seemed to wrap itself around the place like a warm blanket on a cold day. After about 20minutes of just looking and appreciating it was time to hike back to the car, and drive back to Gobojango but it was an experience I will never forget, and I’m hoping I can get back there before I close out my service.

Amazing way to end an already amazing weekend, so with this I set out for Gaborone, to get some business done! In an effort to give you the best picture I can of the full Peace Corps experience, I’m going to disclose some medical information which I am not at all worried about. The first of the appointments was for a dermatologist to see about a funky little bump on my hand (it ended up being a foreign body which he removed with a razor blade...different story for a different day.) The second appointment, and I think this is the more important one to be open about since not enough people are in my opinion, was to see a counselor for a follow up visit.

We aren’t going to spend a lot of time on this, but a few weeks ago I was having some issues dealing with anxiety, and had a few panic attacks. I don’t have a history of either of these, and though I (like most other human beings my age) have experienced stress/ anxiety, I could usually pinpoint the source of that within my life and then deal accordingly.I like thinking I am the type of person who can work through my own problems, but I am also the type of person who knows when to ask for help, and this was one of those cases.

It boiled down to some issues I left at home, paired with dealing with what it is to be here. As my wonderful counselor lady put it, part of being a volunteer is giving up what she termed as some of my “Americaness.” I am not the same person who boarded the plane almost one year ago, and I am never going to be that exact person again. How I interact with people from home, how I view myself and how I see the world is changing every day, dealing with these changes in a setting that, for the most part, is almost completely solitary, is overwhelming.  I asked for help, and I would encourage anyone who is feeling similarly to do the same.

Gabs was fun, and I took advantage of my time there to do some work, meet up with some volunteers, eat lunch in fancy restaurants, and go see a movie in a theater (Django: Unchained I am a Tarintino fan.) 

Though I love Gabs for all its fanciness, I’m not a huge fan of the city itself, and so when I leave there is both a sense of “man I am going to miss going to the mall” but more so a sense of “holy hell there are way too many people and cars here, and I’m so happy I don’t have to check someone in the face to get into a combi any more.” So I’m thinking that I might be heading back to Ramokgonami when a most interesting opportunity presents itself. Two volunteer friends of mine, Leia and Hollis, have for the past few weeks been putting together a week long retreat/ workshop with an organization called Legodimo Wilderness Center. This is what I was expecting: 6 days in the bush, sitting in some sort of classroom learning about how to save planet earth. It would be educational, but ultimately I was going out there because I thought it would be fun to hang with some other awesome PCVS.

What is actually was: MIND BLOWING. Legodimo is in deep bush, I mean we are talking getting onto a safari truck and drive for an hour on something that vaguely looks like a road, but not quite, kinda bush. The camp itself is a gorgeous plot of land on the Limpopo river; you could throw a rock into South Africa. The buildings and garden area are decorated with skulls and bones of animals, and beautiful mosaics that Mika, half of the married dynamo that runs the place, has created on the walls. There is a tree house, and a swimming pool that doubles as a watering hole, and a wonderfully large outdoor kitchen, and the lecture area is open air and there is a fire platform. Not a single bush or tree was cleared that wasn’t absolutely necessary so right outside the inhabited area is just beautiful forest. We split up into the dorms and then the really amazing stuff began, and didn’t end until we left the camp.

We learned about erosion and then went out and moved rocks to prevent it, we learned about invasive plant species and then went out and removed them, we learned about snakes and lizards, and a million other animals and then went out and saw them. Three times during the course of the week I was within 20yards of elephants. I saw hippo, and zebra, and impala, and springbok, and porcupine; I learned the difference between a feline track and a canine one, and the big five and small five, and the six pack challenge and the politics of conservation, and astronomy, and baobabs, and scorpions. I woke up every day before 6am just to hear the birds sing, and perchance caught glimpses of giraffes across the river, a heard of impala that had camped out next to the dorms, and curious monkeys and baboons that stared at me with the same curiosity I has staring at them. We hiked, and worked, and hiked some more, and saw more cave paintings, and came across animals, and were knocked out of our minds by the beauty of our surroundings. I climbed trees and rocks, and felt like a 6 year old again.

I spat poop...it’s a South African thing. Ask me if you want to know, this is how I can tell if you are paying attention. J

We cooked over a fire under the stars, and played African drums, and listened to the amazing stories of the three people that keep the place running: Mika, Gerrit, and Rene. Their passion, and experience and drive were inspiring, and even though conservation may never be my main life goal, it is more on my radar than it ever was before, and if I can have half the motivation that they do, for whatever passion I make the end all be all, I will change the world. I could’ve moved out there, I think I would have had they offered. Never in my time here have I had more appreciation for the land and the flora and fauna that call it home. I climbed to the top of one of the 20 oldest trees in the world (a 4,000 year old baobab) and felt like I was in the presence of God.

Volunteers here describe times that we refer to as “Africa Moments”; it’s when we realize where we are, and what we are doing, and the dream we are living. These moments happen less and less throughout service because Africa becomes our daily, and the things that used to amaze us, become our regular routine. This was my “Africa week” and I’m so happy to have found myself in a state of amazement all over again with this beautiful country.

I don’t like the idea of plugging certain organizations on this blog unless I am really committed to what they do and how they go about doing it. This is one of those times. Legodimo also runs a month to two month volunteer conservation camp. You can pay to go out there and live and work in the bush. It’s for all ages, and I promise it will change your life. You will also be giving business to a group that is trying to save whole species of animals, and are going about it in a way that only yield positive dividends for mother earth. If it sounds like you would have the funds to do this, check it out:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Legodimo-Wilderness/276830055674062?fref=ts
or
http://legodimo.com/

Unfortunately all good things must come to an end, and so to with this, we had to head home at the end of the week. Mieke and G gave us a ride back on their bomb diggity truck, and from there I was actually able to catch a hitch that took me straight to Palapye. Turns out my normal combi hit a donkey or a cow or something so I ended up taking another bus to my village junction and then hitching from that point on. I came back to find my house as I left it...a little bit of a mess, but myself, a thoroughly changed individual, ready to tackle challenges in my service anew. 

I hope at least a few of you made it to the end of this post, I am going to try and start posting more regularly again, and there will certainly be something up when I hit my one year mark a little less than a month from now. As a fun little inside, I also wanted you guys to know I’m working on a book of short stories about my experiences here. Maybe someday I will actually let some of you read it. ;)

Hugs and smooches,

Claire/ Tlotlo