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   

Luke 6:37

As of last Monday, I had 500 days of service left. It’s odd to think about, I went from saying that I had two years in Botswana, to saying I am going home next year. It’s hard, when you are sitting alone, or writing a blog or doing anything idle (which is more time than you would think for PCVs) to not be in countdown phase, at least it is for me. Major props to those of you out there who have served/are serving/ are going to serve, who didn’t/are not/ will not, have this mental state, but I won’t be ashamed, I’m not going to kick this feeling under a rug like a dust bunny. I love America, and the people I left at home, and the friends and the family and my dog; that is where this feeling comes from, not a lack of love for Africa but an abundance of love for the US.

But that is not the topic of today’s discussion kiddies, so let us move on.

On New Year’s Eve I wrote out a list of resolutions, and one of them was to start putting time aside every Sunday to practice my faith. So, today’s topic is going to be crisis of faith, not in myself but in my church.

hilarious

I love being Catholic, I love the tradition, and the history, and the big stone buildings and the fact that I have been to mass in English and French and Latin and Setswana and that I understand what is going on in any language because we have the missal. But it is more than just the aesthetics of my church, it is the tenants of my faith that I am ardently in love with. The idea that faith must be acted upon, the relationship and reverence of the Virgin Mother, the idea that when I take in communion, I am taking in the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I love the complex and beautiful concept of the Trinity, I love that each saint has a new and creative way to show me how I can love my Savior, I love the people that have chosen to give their lives, and sacrificed SO much, to be a part of the clergy (which is a debate for another time.)

Here is what I can no longer love though; I can no longer love the idea that my church is trying to block a form of prevention through education of the spread of HIV; and that, that message is broadcasting far and wide to the world that we care more about our hierarchy, and our tradition and our dogma than we care about human life. I am all about supporting abstinence, because when push comes to shove, and it is practiced the way it should be, there is NOTHING more effective. If you and your husband/wife have only slept with each other, and neither of you were infected at birth, you aren’t going to get HIV through sexual transmission. PERIOD.

But we cannot make laws and doctrine for a world we wish we lived in; we have to open our eyes to the flaws of our surroundings and attempt to surmount the impossible challenge of making it Christ like. We are not in the Kingdom of Heaven, we are not God, or the Son, or the Holy Ghost; we are man, and we err, and we will continue to err for as long as we are man. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23)

At this point you might say that we do not make this doctrine, we simply lift it from scripture and practice the word of God that has been passed down to us. I understand this, but I also understand that there are a million interpretations of every single passage in every holy book ever written. The Torah, the Bible and the Qur'an have been used for immense good in equal measure to the destruction caused in their name. I can sit here and feed you passages that I believe are tools for my own argument, and someone else could read them as arguments against me. Everyone believes that they are right and so therefore we are stuck in a circle of blind leading the blind, because we cannot see past our own convictions...(reference to Luke 6:39)

I’m not above this; I will never understand those out there who say that we should stop educating about condoms, and birth control and switch to only abstinence and no sex before marriage. I could give you a million and one studies that have been shown that teenage pregnancy, and STIs and death rates go up when this happens. It won’t matter, you won’t listen; just as I won’t listen to you.

So I ask all you out there, both Catholic and not, to bring it down to a simple idea that God (under whatever name you choose to worship with, or not) saw fit enough to give us life, and that when it all boils down at the end of the day we should preserve it to the best of our ability. That the Lord is mysterious, and that we will never be able to fully understand heavenly intention or law; that, that dark shroud is what makes us human and not divine. Take that idea to the conclusion that life is precious and worth saving, and that though our spiritual bodies may be the ultimate prize, there is a reason in having our physical ones as well. Life is the one and only thing that has been handed down from the Almighty Creator directly, and that in the end, the preservation of life will not be a sin in the eyes of a just and merciful God.

I would like to also point to how, in Judaism, there is a law that one must value life, even if it means breaking rules laid out in the Torah. It is called pikuach nefesh, and is based in language from Leviticus, Ezekiel, and the Talmud. The Qur'an states: "...Take not life, which God has made sacred, except by way of justice and law. Thus does He command you, so that you may learn wisdom." (6:151)

If one condom, prevents the death of one person from HIV/AIDS, isn’t worth mentioning? If a person wants to remain abstinent the knowledge of how to use a condom is not going to prevent them from doing so. By withholding information under the assumption that the knowledge itself is dangerous, because the mind of the one you may be giving it to is too weak to handle it, you are playing God. Is that not exactly what happened in Eden? People at risk of contracting HIV through sex are not your personal Adam and Eve, you don’t get to deny them the fruit from the tree of knowledge because YOU determine that it is dangerous for them. We are all human, and to play God is a most mighty sin indeed. We have eaten the forbidden fruit, and that ship has sailed, there is no going back, you cannot reverse it.

The argument I want to try and make clear with this post is that we are not talking about whether or not premarital, extramarital, or any other kind of nonmarital sex is a sin or not; we are talking about the education of our people, and whether or not withholding information that could save a life is against what our church should stand for. At no point in this post will you read "And then I threw condoms at the teenagers and told them to 'go forth and copulate!'"

It is time to grow up, it is time to stop casting a judgmental and uncaring eye to those that choose not to believe how we believe, live how we live, or practice how we practice. A full frontal assault that includes condoms and abstinence, education and faith, and support and understanding is the best way to cover our bases, and tailor programs that can reach as many at risk populations as possible. This is not the destruction of the devotion, but preservation of the devoted.

I love my faith, and I love my God, but I do not believe that God wanted our faith and our practice to be stagnant, I believe that the rules were created to promote life, not destroy it. I will leave you with this as my defense for coming out against a church that I believe to be slowing drifting from the intended beauty of the faith:

“Anyone who speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but anyone who speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven...For by your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned.” (Matthew 12:32&37)

~Claire         

Long One

This is a long one, hold on to your chucks.

For those of you that are not friends and/ or family in reality or facebook; you may have noticed a bit of a lag in the posts that are up on here. There is a pretty simple reason for this: I went home. Do not fear, I am not referencing ETing, I write this while sitting comfortably in my little house, safe and sound back in Rams, I was only state side from the 12^th-28^th. The reason I haven’t written about this before was because NO BODY KNEW! Hehehehe I’m sneaky, and I love it.

Sometime in July my cousin Alex and myself (he is equally, if not more sneaky than I) decided I should come home for Christmas and that we should not tell a soul. When, at any other point in my life, am I going to be able to shock my loved ones more than this? Some might say when I get engaged, but I don’t plan on eloping and so I would hope that the family would see it coming. You could say babies, but again, based solely on the stereotypical western order of domestic operations, people will probably deduce that one, prior to its conception...I’m punny too. So this is it, best chances to make jaws drop.

I could give you all the wonderful, tear jerking details of the surprises, but, and this will come as a blow to those of you who are aware of how much I love to publically release TMI points about my life, I want them to myself. I will contemplate posting my brother’s reaction, mostly because it is hilarious, and I will gladly share with any and all who ask privately, but what words could I actually use to give you a mental image of my parents face’s when their daughter, who has been gone for almost 9 months, is suddenly home and in their arms? You get the idea.

Being home was both everything I thought it would be and a million things I didn’t expect. I want to issue an apology to those I wasn’t able to see, or those I saw, but all too briefly. It was an insane two and a half weeks, filled with family movie nights, and restaurant lunches, and karaoke and good beer. Bon fires, desserts, snow storms and dog walks. My trip home had more meaningful conversations in it, with some of the most meaningful characters of my life, than I think any two week period of my life has had previously. It was wonderful to be home, it was relaxing and comfortable and aside from a few freak outs in large crowds (thank you John for not actually wanting to get any shopping done at the mall, Catherine for being willing to fight off the mosh pit people and Kalindi for being down to sit in quiet pubs) and general perplexity at how many different types of beef jerky there were at the gas station, there wasn’t as much culture shock as I thought there might be.

Leaving home a second time was, frankly, horrible. I don’t know why I thought it would be anything less after having gone through it once, but crying in the kitchen while clutching desperately to my two/too tall younger siblings, smooshing my face against the train window to wave to my Dad, and stoically weeping in the airport with my Mother was no easier this time around (just glad that the metro came early so I didn’t make a scene on the platform with my Aunt Martha.) This will probably be the last time I am in the United States, or North America, for the next year and a half. It was tempting to have some sort of soil collection ceremony, but to be honest, of all the natural elements I will miss the most snow would be it, and I couldn’t very well bring that on the plane.

The next big question that might be in your mind would be how I am doing adjusting back to being in Africa. I could make a long, multi-wrap necklace with the number of beads I sweat about coming back to my second home. In a desperate effort to try and ease myself into it, I spent my New Years with the wonderful Lindsay and Trevor as well as the ever fabulous Daniella. These three magnificent individuals live in Maun which means that a white person walking down the street isn’t quite the freak show that it would be anywhere else. We picnicked and cooked wonderful, delicious food and I met some amazing people. I also may have found a few more projects to stick my fingers in. I’m really happy about it and I would like to publically and very loudly love on Daniella for letting me stay in her apartment, and cooking for me, and bringing me ginger ale when I had a funky tummy. J Love you dahling, you are fabulous and there is no one I would rather watch Newsroom with, while looking up political youtube videos and eating homemade ravioli.

Finally it was time to actually go home; home to Ramokgonami, home to the clinic ladies whom I love, home to the middle of nowhere Africa that may not have a place on google maps, but has a very real place etched in my heart. I was scared, I had just spent a high intensity two and a half weeks in Michigan, I learned to love driving again, and sushi, and speaking in English; how do you go back after all of that? Was it going to be the adjustment period that I had the first time around? Was I going to call my Dad on the first night back, holding onto tears about whether or not this was a good decision?

Nope, not at all.

As coming home has always felt like, it felt like coming home. I fell in love with Ramokgonami all over again as I lugged close to 50lbs of luggage down the one mile stretch of DIRT road that I now call my own. I didn’t even flag down the 2 cars that slowed, because I wanted to take in every inch of the giant blue sky, and wave to the kids that came out of their homes to say hello. I wanted to feel the orange earth beneath my feet and really smell the place. Michigan has many smells: that pre snow smell, that only someone who was born and has lived in snow can understand, the “its-so-hot-wasn’t-it-blizzarding-like-24hrs-ago-?” smell, that indicates that the ice cream truck is only a few short weeks behind, and my favorite; the autumn time smell, that seems like a wonderful mix between bon fires, leaf piles, football and beer.

Rams has a different set of smells. Rams smells like earth; a primal, aged, vintage earth that has to bake under the sun for a few millennia before it smells the way that it does. It smells like wind, and currently (though not all the time) it smells like rain. Rain in the US smells completely different than rain in Africa. Rain in the Midwest smells like a cherry on top of a beautiful, fruitful, tasty sundae; rain in Botswana is the desperately needed sundae when you know that all you might get is vanilla and it tastes just as wonderful, if not more, all because of it. The simplicity of the olfactory sensations that you get from walking down the dirt road of Ramokgonami are matched in beauty only by the complexity of the nose tinglers in Michigan. I love you both, and I am slowly coming to love you equally.

After all of this I find myself sitting in my house, watching West Wing, sipping on a bastardized version of a james and ginger (which would be called a klipdrift and ging beer?) I didn’t feel a sense of dread getting off the kombi, and though I would love to talk with him, I’m not going to call my father sniffling over whether or not I have made a giant booboo, just the opposite is true. I will be staying in Africa for the next year and a half, I will be working as hard as I can, I will be falling short at every corner but I will be learning and growing and influencing more than I ever could at my cold home. This is my hot home now, and It’s worth the price, it’s worth the tears and it’s worth everything I can give it and so I will.

Here’s to my 1/3 service mark, may the next 2/3s not make me want to drink many 1/5ths.

Rata Thata,

Claire/ Tlotlo       

When Naked Isn't Naked Enough

Before we get into what promises to be a wildly entertaining and masterfully written blog post, I would like to say that I am well aware that I could have been posted in a country that has even higher temperatures in the summer...but I tell you what, it certainly doesn’t feel that way right now.

Right now it feels like I am in the butt crack of the earth, if the earth had been sitting on a tour bus of the grand canyon for the past 4 hours...in June...after the air conditioning gave out. Look at my candle:

Wanna know why my candle looks like that? It looks like that because it’s sad that it has to live in Botswana in the summer. But seriously, it was straight when I bought it and looked like that when I got home today which should be some indication of the heat (or possibly the quality of candles in Africa.)

People, I am a northern girl. I was born and raised in Michigan and when normal families went south for the winter, we spent New Years Eve in Canada because Ann Arbor just ain’t cold enough. I see salt and I wonder where the nearest icy driveway is, I see a big hill and I wonder how fast I could sled down it, I don’t have issues driving in anything less than four feet of snow and flip flops are perfectly acceptable in 20 degree weather.

So African summer pretty much makes me want to peel off my skin because naked isn’t naked enough.

Zo: you get to meet this dude when I come home

It’s so hot here that the water coming out of my tap is warm, and stays that way. I seriously considered putting my bucket into the fridge before bathing the other day, or maybe just bathing in the fridge...What kills me is that it never cools down, there is nowhere to hide; my roof is made of tin so that even at night my house still radiates heat. My landlady has taken to sleeping outside which would be great if we didn’t have the Discovery Channel running around everywhere:

Couldn't save this guy from my cat :(

killed this sucker and then trapped him under a yogurt cup for a month

Just chillin in the sink...

Mr Squiggles had babies!

Mr. Squiggles :) My suicidal bathroom lizard

       

There have been so many beetles out lately, that there were beetles eating beetles the other day. If cannibalistic bugs can’t help from eating their own kind, what do you think they will do to me? Not to mention it would seem as if November is donkey mating season and the amorous trysts of the locals have been incredibly loud, and that is with a concrete wall between them and myself.

So what is a girl to do aside sit around and pray for winter? I don't know if this post is going to have some sort of point, so I am just going to leave it at that for now. It is hot, my brain is all melty and whatnot, and for some reason or another I am going north to the Delta for Thanksgiving, which just means I'm going to spend 8hrs on a bus to get closer to the equator...because I'm an idiot. 

Much love, stay cool, 

Claire   

Me looking sad and oh-so-very attractive with my frozen water bottle (this is what I image my candle would look like if it were a person)

Dehydration

There is a lot in my life that I have learned to appreciate due to my time here in Botswana. I have learned to appreciate personal cars by having to ride in over crowded, over heated kombis, or through hitching in the back of trucks with basadi bogolos. I have learned to appreciate different types of foods, and the ease of access that we have to them in the US, by eating some variation of rice/lentils/pasta and beans/carrots/cabbage for weeks on end. I have learned to appreciate different languages and those that are able to speak many of them, by struggling through conversations and meetings in Setswana.

But there is nothing I appreciate more, at this very moment, than the precious gift of water and all that comes with it.

Last Friday, sometime in the afternoon, my water went out. This is not an entirely shocking occurrence in Botswana, and it is not my first time experiencing this in Ramokgonami. In fact, one of the first warnings I ever received from my co-workers is that I should be careful to store up enough water because shortages are a part of life here. This means that on any given day in my house I have my entire filter (about a gallon) full, 5 wine bottles, 3 two liters, 1 five gallon camping drum and at least a bucket full of water. This is rotated occasionally in order to make sure things don't start to get moldy and is used for drinking, doing dishes, washing clothing, or flushing the toilet.

Anyways, I wasn't too alarmed when the water went out, I had plenty stored up and would be just fine...

3 days later

The water is still not back on and I have come to find out that it isn't because there isn't any water in the village, but because there is a burst pipe in our ward and in order to fix it they have had to shut off the system. I have just had five volunteer friends stay the night for a poker weekend (which turned into a cooking, drinking and talking weekend, which happens quite often with Peace Corps events) and even though they brought a few more two liters and a big 2 gallon jug, we still had to make a trip to the community pump on the other side of the village in order to have enough to flush the toilet on the second day. When I say "flush"I don't mean plural, we trekked the village so that we could flush once.

I waved off their offers to help with the dishes, thinking that there was no way that the water wouldn't come back on the next day since the longest I've gone without at this point is about 72 hours. Besides, dirty dish water is supposed to double as a way to fill the toilet tank, and the water I used to boil the potatoes, is ine for then washing the pot they were cooked in. I'm getting a little nervous but am not too freaked, I am a Peace Corps Volunteer after all...

2 days later

The dishes are still in my bath tub, I am on my last pair of clean underwear and I have taken to flipping my socks inside out in order to get double use out of them. The whole "if it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down" rule is now one of the ten commandments since half the water I am lugging back from the clinic goes straight into my toilet tank because I am a total wuss and still have refused to use the pit latrine. I actually took a trip to my shopping village in order to use another volunteer's shower because I haven't washed my hair or my body in nearly a week and I started waking up in the middle of the night thinking I had bugs on me, only to realize it was just my own grime shifting. I can smell myself...I mean really smell myself.

And then, this morning, something magical happens. I walk into the bathroom to find my faucet dripping! No victory dance, in the history of victory dances, has anything on the jubilant celebration I did in my bathroom but a few hours ago. Not only that, but take a look at the water I was celebrating about:

Yeah, that's right, this ain't yo momma's sweet tea, this is the water that is currently coming out of my tap...have you ever seen something more beautiful in your life?

Luckily for me I have my trusty filter to get me through and after refilling every possible basin, bucket and booze bottle I could get my hands on, I am ready to go in case I return from work to find it out again.

So the next time you turn on a tap and crystal clear, wonderous H2O flows forth into your cup/sink/shower/toilet just remember, not everyone has that luxury, and it is not something to be taken for granted.

Rata Thata,

Claire   

Quickie

Hello Interwebs, 

I just wanted to write up a quick post and thank everyone for the overwhelming love that I received on "Chunky Dunkin." It was a piece of writing I was really proud of and the fact that it got such a wonderful reception gives me confidence to keep writing...maybe for the long run? I also wanted to let you know that I am not ignoring you wonderful people, but just that I am writing a novel right now for National Novel Writing Month. I am on page 22 and have 11,735 words down. 

The book is about pirate queens...lesbian pirate queens. 

Take a moment, read it again, laugh hysterically. Since this is my first time around the block I didn't want to take on any of the much deeper topics and plot lines I have stored up in my "Novel Ideas" file on the desktop. I need something I can pound out 50,000 words for in a month, which means no editing, and no going back once a page is written. I picked something that I thought I could have fun with, without over thinking it. Thus, lesbian pirate queens. I have no doubt the movie rights will be snatched up immediately *giggle*

Hugs and smooches, 
Claire

Chunky Dunkin: A Fat Girl’s Guide to the Peace Corps

The credit for the title of this little piece goes to my good friend Jenn who is back state side. Jenn introduced me to the idea that women of our...magnitude, don’t “skinny dip,” we “chunky dunk.” Thanks Jenn! I realize this post may come off as a little self deprecating, but seeing as NaNoWriMo starts today (if you don’t know what this is there is a link at the bottom of the page), which means I might not be posting as much this month, and that this is a topic I have wanted to cover for a while, I thought now or never!

In order to promote complete transparency while simultaneously creating a space of intimacy, I’m going to start off with some personal details. I am a 23 year old, size 16, 230lb, female. WHOA! That was cathartic, now if you think that is unhealthy (which I am sure some of you are) just think about the fact that had I posted this at the beginning of my service the sentence would have been: “I am a 22 year old, size 18, 250lb, female.” I’ve lost about 20lbs since joining Peace Corps and my hope is that I lose another 30lb before this whole jig is up. Weight is something I have struggled with my entire life, and even at my most fit while rowing for Michigan State and working out 10+ hours a week, I was somewhere in the 240 range. Mind you, I could probably leg press the majority of the people reading these posts, and I could certainly kick your butt on the water.

Taking that into account, I never thought my weight would be an issue when it came to joining Peace Corps. Hell, Peace Corps was going to get me outside of the US; and once I figured out I was going to Africa, I figured I was all set! In my head I thought: African women look more like me, African society appreciates a little extra cushion for the pushin, Africa is going to be awesome because I will finally be living in a place that doesn’t worship the kind of woman I will never be; skinny. And then the paperwork arrived...

There are some special hoops a plus sized individual gets to jump through prior to even getting on the plane when it comes to the PC application process. The first is that, since my BMI sent up a red flag, I had to assure Washington that I was fit enough to serve. I believe the questionnaire asked something along the lines of whether or not I could: “carry a bag of groceries up a flight of stairs.” I filled this paper work out after a 5:30am, 2 hour rowing practice and nearly laughed my head off. At that point I was doing cardio workouts 6 days a week, and weight work outs an additional 2 days. Though I did have to bow out of running steps with my teammates due to an ankle injury, that time was replaced with ergging. For those of you that have never erged, go try it out at your local gym and let me know what you think.

Alright, so the paperwork is filled out, I’ve convinced PC I’m fit to serve, and I’m on my way to Africa! Let us take a moment to explore the forethought that needs to go into the packing of overweight luggage (get it? Because I’m overweight...and sometimes people pack too much...get it?) I was leaving for Botswana in April, which means that I was arriving in the beginning of winter for southern Africa. We are talking jeans and long sleeve weather. This period only lasts till around September though, after which is gets incredibly hot and horrible. Repeat after me: chub rub. Chub rub is that horrible chaffing that goes down when you are sweaty and your bits and pieces are rubbin together. This is something the majority of people experience but it is extra pleasant for a plumper person. I throw out jeans, not because there are holes in the knees, but because there are holes in the thighs. I CAN NOT wear skirts without some type of shorts underneath because my legs will stick together and chafe raw.

In addition to this there are what I like to call “hoover undergarments” that must be considered (unless of course you are the woman below.) These are the wonderful items that a lady puts on, in order to suck those rolling hills of fat into curvaceous contoured curves and turn her muffin top into a slim jim. Most women have these, and there are especially needed for professional or formal situations; if you are heafty you just have to bring more of them. My answer to this was actually to bring every pair of spandex shorts I own; they are comfortable, I can fit them under stuff to smooth me out, I can put them under jeans when the thigh holes have rendered them indecent, and I was used to wearing them all the time for rowing.

Lastly, the more weight you are carrying, the more heat you retain due not only to your mass but to the fact that you are physically baring down with extra pounds on your body. This causes sweating as you may or may not know. I have always been a plus pound person of unparalleled perspiration, who is persistently peering at her pits to prevent unpleasant precipitations. I’m in an alliteration kind of mood today, forgive me. This could be due to that fact that I’m plus sized, or it could be because of the sneaking suspicion I have that I’m a victim of hyper-hydrosis. Either way, my answer to this problem was to not bring antiperspirant. I am going to sweat through anything and everything, with or without smearing aluminum on my armpits. That being the case, why not give it up for two years and bank some anti-cancer credit?

Finally I got to Botswana, the land of luscious ladies (okay last one, I swear) and I figure I am in the clear. WRONG. Though I am still of the firm belief that for the most part Botswana is friendlier to a larger person, this concept is slowly leaking out of the culture. My land lady in constantly telling me I need to go “gymming” so that I can be “slim”, one of my co-workers at the clinic, upon hearing that I had lost almost 9kg, said that was good since when I first came I was so big that she thought I was a man in a skirt, and for the first couple weeks people in the village thought I was the last volunteer but that she had just gotten “very fat fat.” The difference between people saying that here and people saying it back home is that people here aren’t trying to be rude or malicious.

I have received each one of the above comments, in some form or another, in the states during my life time. I was chased around a restaurant when I was younger by a friend’s brother’s hockey team being called a “tub of lard.” There was no kindness in their words, no want for me to be healthy, no level of acceptance; all of which I find here. Though “fat” isn’t the compliment it once was in Botswana, it is not a hurling insult either, it’s just a statement of physical fact, like saying someone’s eyes are blue, or that they are wearing a sweater. People call themselves fat, they call strangers fat, and they call loved ones fat; the quicker you pick up that this is a minor cultural difference and that your neighbors love you pound for pound, the happier you will be as a big person in Peace Corps.

As I get older I find that I love myself and my body more and more each year. Though it is still a work in progress, I find that I accept whatever stage of tuning I happen to be in, more so than I did in my teens. Peace Corps is just one step I have taken in the long journey that I walk in my own skin. Your body is your primary mode of transport no matter where you are, and being slimmer would have its own set of issues here as well. Learn to love it, because there are more important challenges to tackle and when push comes to shove the only person you need to square with at the end of the day will be looking at you in the mirror.  

Rata Thata,

Claire

ps: ww.nanowrimo.org, and I will post pictures to this later