Loops, Spirals, Ladders

Dumelang! It's been an eventful week, to say the least. A week filled to the brim with every possible emotion- the good, the bad, those in between - creating an intoxicating cocktail that has left me spinning. But maybe sometimes it's okay to just keep spinning. Maybe I'll let the momentum work its magic and just keep spinning and spinning and spinning until I actually have a reason to stop. I haven't been faced with a good enough one yet, so I'll let this whirlwind just take its course while I gasp for whatever air I can.

The Gates Of Hell: It's pretty amazing how in a matter of minutes emotions can do a total 180 and a night can go from phenomenal to abominable. Last Friday started off superbly as we sipped Windhoek Lager and watched the dusk sun put on its usual show in color invention - splattering never before seen reds, oranges, purples into the sky - in what is starting to become a routine Friday evening visit to the Dam. The Penn nursing students who were here for about a month were heading back to Philly so after Khwezi, Ngozi, and Mex came and met up with us at the Dam we made the usual squeeze into the Mexmobile (we have once fit 12 people in his 5-seater coupe) and headed to Riverwalk for a farewell dinner. Dinner was a little overwhelming as any dinner with about twenty people and multiple bottles of wine is bound to be, but eventually the bill was paid and we made the [terrible] decision to go to Lizard Lounge. Lizard Lounge probably isn't generally a bad place. It's a decent club with a sizable dance floor, a balcony sitting area, and a smoking room that through glass looks at the calves of dancers, in what I deemed 'the Danciquarium.' It was about 1130 by the time Mex, Khwezi, Ngozi, Lebo, Daniel, Ilana, Anna, Brianna and I walked into the club. It was not packed, nor was it empty and while the DJ sucked we managed to find our circle on the dance floor and moved to the grooves of industrial house. Sounded something like this - CHAKACHAKACHAKACHAKACHAKACHAKA.

One of Mex's artists, DJ ONKZ was going to be on later and this was part of the reason we were there as Daniel has been designing cover art and promotional stuff for him. So as the night progressed there were few incidents, besides some over-ambitious men making moves on the girls who were with us. I am now simultaneously married to Ilana, Anna, and Brianna. Seems to do the trick most of the time. I usually point to one of my bracelets and say "in my country we don't use rings - we use cheap Balinese coconut beads." As usual Daniel made his rounds, camera in hand, taking advantage of the sleazy lighting and mirrors on the walls. It was about three in the morning when I felt a tap on my shoulder, saw Khwezi's deadpan expression and heard him say "Daniel's camera is gone." Shit. For those of you who know Daniel, you know how big of a deal this is. Daniel losing his camera is like me losing my hands. Photos are just what he does. Speaking of which, check out his blog, reportswana.blogspot.com for some audiovisual wonders and his website, www.seedanielschwartz.com, for his work - he's pretty talented, I guess... Anyway, upon hearing the news my heart stopped and I immediately began to scan the crowd but everyone and nobody looked suspicious. We mobilized quickly and in a matter of minutes Daniel had spoken to the club owner and had bouncers searching everyone who came out. It was tense in the tiny entrance foyer as people impatiently shuffled towards the door and I was overcome by a vast variety of feelings. I was nervous, angry, sad, self-conscious, angry, angry, angry. As Mex, Brianna, Lebo, and I combed the bush, with the aid of a handphone-flashlight, I couldn't help but feel really really mad. Of course, I've had things stolen from me before, and it's weird to have anger so seamlessly blended with other emotions like understanding. Maybe he was going to use the money from pawning off the camera to feed his family comfortably for months. Maybe he is HIV positive and was finally going to be able to afford ARVs. But, probably not. It's far more likely its some thug with no conscience who does this every weekend and spends the money to further fuel his thuggery. Jackass. After about thirty minutes of kicking thorn bushes, and sifting through foliage in an attempt to maybe recover the camera that could have been dropped in the bush to be picked up by an accomplice later, we headed back into the club. By this point is was around 430 and we thought it best to give up. Especially as tensions began to rise in the club, and people who were refusing to be searched were being pummeled by bouncers and locked in closets. As I stood at these Gates of Hell in the dim red lighting and listened to the steady rhythm of beer bottles being thrown against walls all I could think of was that damn camera. When we finally left that infernal place it was nearly five in the morning and despite my emotional and physical exhaustion it took me a while to fall asleep. I was a little shaken up from the roller coaster night and as I finally fell asleep I could only think one thing - never, ever, EVER will I return to Lizard Lounge. Never.

(For another perspective and some gorgeous prose please check out Daniel's blog, listed above, and Ilana's - ilanainbotswana.blogspot.com). Sometimes I can't really capture what I need to, but with their help, maybe together we can paint a coherent picture.

Bday Bash At Mexyland: In the spirit of climbs, slips, and roller coasters, last Saturday was a big boost, at least for me, after the previous night's incident in Hell. I already briefly mentioned the party that my friends threw for me. It was a total surprise and what I thought was a routine studio session actually became a full-blown party, filled with great people, baked goods, grab bags, and laughter-laughter-laughter. Besides Daniel and Ilana, I've only known all of these people for about a month and it's really amazing how when the people are right, connections can be latched into place in no time at all, links forged on fast-forward speeding through the days until suddenly you look around you and realize how lucky you are. I know how lucky I am to have met Khwezi, Ngozi, Shorty, Mex, Lebo, Anna, Brianna, Rafa (the list could go on...), and Saturday night was a celebration of that.

Kamogelo Rhythms: On Wednesday after our 'Critical Issues in Modern African Literature' class, Ilana and I made a return to Kamogelo Day Care Center, the center where Ilana was teaching all summer and I made a visit to in my first days here. It was really great to go back. I wasn't in the best of spirits when I got up that morning, or on the stuffy combi ride out to Mogoditshane, but as soon as I saw the radiant smiles of the kids the clouds cleared. As usual they were hugging, dancing and hanging, and it was great to see that even some of the five year olds remembered me. Again, they stared, completely fascinated, by my pronounced Adam's apple. Again, I pretended to swallow one of my bracelets and watched the perplexed looks on the kids' faces as they poked my Adam's apple thinking it was the piece of jewelry lodged in my throat. By the end of the afternoon I had convinced a few that it was, and convinced a few others that it was, in fact, an apple. Unfortunately, I didn't have the musical accompaniment of my doumbek and Daniel's harmonica, but an old rusty trash-can served as a worthy replacement as me and a boy with a gap between his teeth banged out some jams. These kids have some serious rhythm! Which reminds me, I'm also helping Thabo teach hand-drumming to a bunch of the CIEE Study Abroad students here. They, too, were pretty impressive on the first class last Tuesday, and I'm looking forward to this Tuesday where Thabo's bringing in materials to build some drums.

Spring: It's opening its eyes and stretching wide here in the southern hemisphere. The streets smell more like flowers, the sun is fierce, and the budding trees are swarmed with bird nests of every variety.

Bakery: Ilana and Anna seem to be running one, right here in the Graduate Village, much to my delight.

Poetry: It mingles with music and rhythm as the three essential elements of the air here and it's so easy to just inhale it all and see what comes out when you exhale. I've written poetry for years and years, but never have I felt such an urge to create and perform. In the past I rarely have read my poetry, besides in classroom settings, as I never really saw it as something to share. I guess I just thought no one would care. But here, open mics are as common as goat herds that lawfully follow traffic codes (apparently common) and I'm excited to create and share. Anna, Ilana, Arnheld and I went to a UB Writers Workshop on Wednesday night and it was packed with people who just wanted to share their work. I hope to make that a regular thing and with that along with Khwest poetry nights, my outlets for expression are quite sufficient.

Michael Dinake: On Wednesday my 'South African Politics' professor, which is probably the best professor and class I have here, brought in someone to come talk to us. Michael Dinake is originally from Botswana but in the 60's was active in South Africa and the region in the African National Congress (ANC). On a mission to Lusaka, Zambia he was stopped my apartheid regime secret agents and arrested, illegally as it was out of their jurisdiction, and sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment in Robben Island - where ANC big shots like Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu were being held. His story is an incredible one and he told us details about prison life at Robben Island. About torture, discrimination, and the time towards the end where they were allowed to get an education while in prison, so Dinake ended up with three degrees and only recently retired from a long service in the Botswana parliament. As he was talking I kept thinking about self-satisfaction and achievement. How this man dedicated his life to a cause, one of liberty and justice, and suffered and suffered for it only to be victorious at the end. How does it feel when you win a revolution? How does it feel when you are part of liberating an entire people from tyranny and bigotry? 'Respect' doesn't quite cut it when describing the sentiment I felt for him as he spoke to us. Not to mention we were, as Ilana's note reminded me in the middle of class, "one degree of separation from Nelson Mandela."

This Weekend: is a little hazy, even as I try and reflect on it as it comes to a close. Last night was a lot of fun. Anna, Walter and I met up with Khwezi, Mex, Lebo, and Ngozi at Red Dot at around nine. I've described Red Dot before - it's the giant sandy parking lot where people grill meat with their bare hands, drink, and be merry. It was Saturday night so the place was completely packed. The usual dented, rusty cars, neglected in the face of tricked out stereo systems lined the perimeter and clusters of people dancing and talking became less and less sparse as we approached the bar. DJ Onkz was there shooting a music video and so Mex immediately asked us to be in it. It was a little unsettling to be there dancing in the corner with a giant spot light on us and a man with a camcorder in my face. Although it is pretty cool to now not only be a recorded musician in Botswana but a documented back up dancer... Sort of.

After Red Dot we headed to a party out in the Beverly Hills-esque suburb of Gaborone being hosted by the biggest record label owner in Botswana. On the drive over, Mex kept turning around and telling me "all the music celebrities will be here, all the celebrities" and it was interesting to be in that kind of environment; around a house with a swimming pool, and green, green grass (a rare commodity around these parts and a luxury I sorely miss). On one of the trips back to the Mexmobile to grab a beer out of the trunk the pumping hip hop suddenly ceased. Then I saw an olive green military jeep parked at the entrance. Naturally, this was a little worrying to me but it didn't even seem to phase any of the residents.

Khwezi: What the hell you waiting for? Let's go.
Me: Um, but what about...that?
Khwezi: What?
Me: Police?
Khwezi: Who?
Me: The freakin' army truck at the entrance.
Khwezi: Yeah, who cares? It's fine. We're not doing anything wrong.
Me: Uh...okay. [follows meekly]

Ahh, yes, to think that two years in the United States has made me terrified of drinking laws even after growing up in places without one. Frat parties have turned me into a wuss.

The police eventually left and the music resumed. After some shuffling from foot to foot and talking to Lebo about Mex's big dreams to be a producer like this guy, we got invited inside by Khwezi into the producer's studio. It was a small studio, with high quality sound proofing providing perfect cushioning to lean against, and some high end synthesizer equipment. Blinged out and in matching leprechaun green hat, jersey, and converse, the producer - his name escapes me now - was working behind the boards barking orders at Khwezi and Buckshot as they rhymed. I felt like I was in some movie about the music industry and selling out as I watched Mex watch his every move, with unblinking attention. If all else fails, I think I'll just move out here and get involved in the Botswana music industry - it's got such an interesting dynamic. We got back to UB at around 3, indulged in some 'Planet Earth,' (the BBC TV series not the Prince album although it's pretty quality too), and went to sleep.

***

I can still smell the chlorine on my skin from our afternoon visit to the Gaborone Sun pool as I sit here in the still quietude of the Gaborone night trying to reflect on the last week and the last month. Once again, I find it difficult to put into words - because of both my unwillingness to reveal some things and my inability to reveal others. I've been so absorbed in where I am and my own situation, my own transitions, my own well being that I think I've been a little selfish and it's left me feeling a little detached from reality. No matter how hard I try, I can't really imagine what my friends are doing in Philly right now, what my parents are doing in India, what my friends are doing around the world. No matter what I do, returning to Philly is going to be a totally weird experience and one that I'm not sure I'm going to be ready for in a few months. I'm used to changes. Drastic ones. But change usually happens to me when I'm fully in control of what's being changed, when I have the awareness to understand the streaks and blurs of the world as it passes before my eyes. This detachment from reality that I've been feeling here is as scary as it is exciting. It's exciting because there's a little bit of liberation in feeling this way, in knowing you understand the world in a way that only you understand it. But it's scary, because in doing so it pushes you back a little bit to get a good look, and before you know it you're floating in space. Both the future and the past seem a little ethereal to me, like the last feint plumes of smoke of a burning piece of parchment. It's only the present; the sandy, glassy African soil under my feet that makes any sense at all right now. It's the only thing that seems real. But that's okay. Keep the present coming.

***

Some notable quotes from the last five weeks here in Gaborone:

"You're from Colombia and India? So you can talk to me about drugs and finance?" - Tsotsi (UB student I met at the laundry room)

"I won't name names because I don't have a chicken to pay with." - Charity Nkala (the International student coordinator)

"Suppose you have a visitor and he/she dies in the night. Where will you dispose of the body?" - Ma Khudu talking to us during orientation about not having visitors spend the night in our rooms.

"It's okay. Right now you're experiencing this cultural...thing."

"There will always be those who are tomatoes among apples. Don't trust people right away. If you want to get to know someone, 'Google' them first." - UB student talking to us during orientation about meeting people. 'Google' is apparently established slang for asking your friends about someone.

"I was there when Sun Tzu realized he had something to fight for." -poet at Khwest Open Mic night

"Intimate partner homicide." - written on the board of our Setswana class.

"With every untaken step, the soul sighs in relief." - Dave Eggers, You Shall Know Our Velocity!

"For Cliche is but pauperized Ecstacy," - Chinua Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah, p. 11