Sebswana

Malawi

2008-12-22T01:07:00.000-08:00

(I compile this entry from Abu Dhabi International Airport where my connection to Delhi has been delayed about seven hours. As I try to pass those stubborn airport hours that always resist all your efforts, I've also realized I've forgotten something. In this entry, I have completely ignored the phenomenal pre-Malawi trip to Chobe National Park in Northern Botswana and Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. I will try and catch up and post later, but for now i need to share the experience I just had for about two weeks in Malawi. So, here goes).

Saturday, 06/12/08

It’s overcast, the grey, looming skies teasing with spots of drizzle here in Johannesburg. This morning, with less than an hour of sleep under my belt, I said “see you later.” The golden-tinged post-dawn made the parting more difficult as I recalled long, winding minutes spent watching the sky expand and own and rule my field of vision and fields of thought. It’s true that people make a place, but a place makes a place too. I’ll miss the way the air feels, the way the ground simultaneously aggravates and caresses – an unexplainable contradiction of sensations that make up that ethereal, transient concept called home.

But it is true, too, that that the people make a place and that may have been the hardest part of that whispered, hidden “see you later.” Everybody, all the crazy, insanely nutty, eccentric and beautiful people who made up my Bots experience – and some individuals in particular – are now memories waiting to be retapped, revamped and reexplored. There’s a lot of unanswered questions as I sit here in the comforting chill of Sleek Backpacker’s Lodge in the company of Daniel, two Malaysians and an (overly) gregarious man from Mozambique, Telise.

Eish… Go siame Bots. I really very much hope to see you soon. And hello Malawi, tomorrow.

Sunday, 07/12/08

First, a quick flashback to the later hours of last night at the hostel in Joburg. Here’s a quick little snapshot: sitting with questionable Chinese food brewing and bubbling in my stomach, listening to PeterPan and Padi (two Indonesian rock bands) with two Malaysian girls while this psychotic Mozambiquan performs wacky dance and tai-chi in the garden. What the hell, I find myself asking again in Africa. These are the experiences that make up a youth and I can only smile, laugh and swallow them bit by bit to regurgitate and sift through at some later date.

We left to the airport in a rickety but fully functional and very able to “move” (our driver insisted) VW at 7:30 AM. The flight to Lilongwe was uneventful besides a few bumps courtesy of cloud cover and a few more courtesy of the brat behind me. Apparently kids are bad at reading even the most piercing of glares. Lilongwe is an unspectacular city but I can tell I’m going to love Malawi. First two things I noticed: 1) An apparent affection for public service billboards with one quarter occupied by the smiling face of the president and 2) GREEN! The landscape is a lush, soaked, vibrant green peppered with the clay and straw huts that speckle the outskirts of the city. The people are incredibly friendly as we discovered as we sat outside the bank talking to two gregarious Rastas, John Banana and Coconut. The hostel we’re staying at, Mabuya Camp, is hopping and I had a great, looping, extended conversation with Johannes, a Norwegian studying for a year at the University of Cape Town. Franka, a German math student who was studying at UB with us for the semester, arrived despite our worries after bussing through Zambia and we went to get some sustenance. Besides a long-winded hiccup when Standard Bank swallowed Franka’s card whole, we had a nice evening at an Indian restaurant. Once again Indians are omnipresent. We spent the remaining time watching the hours trickle away with the rain at the hostel. Tomorrow we take a pretty long bus ride to Nkhata Bay and hopefully catch the ferry to the islands in Lake Malawi. We weren’t willing to drop 7,000 kwacha (about 50 bucks) on a shared minibus with a British lady, Abby, so the bus it is. More – and hopefully with a little more depth and thought – from the islands. Boroko!

Monday, 08/12/08

We woke up early in the morning and made our way to the Shire Bus stop. to my disappointment, we were not escorted to carriages by hobbits scurrying around the hillside. Instead we entered the relaxed frenzy that is the bus rank. Throngs of people seemed to bustle and move while everything also seemed to be moving in a sort of extended slow motion. The line behind the ticket window refused to shrink and packed buses remained idle in their stops. Two hours and a few chunks of break later we were on the bus for Nkhata Bay. Abby, a British woman who works in a textile workshop on Likoma and Lauren, the manager of the hostel at Likoma were on the bus and along with Daniel and Franka we occupied the back row of seats. The seats were stiff and unstable and my bum slowly progressed from dull pain to duller numbness. The bus was densely packed with people standing shoulder on shoulder all along the aisle. Stops were made literally about every 5-10 kms, and when we were driving it was Malawi gone Formula One. The bus rattled and shook as we sped past village after village, blurs of lush tropical green dominating my window screen. At the stops, the same wares were offered through the windows: drinks, bread and maize, maize, maize. After one and a half cobs of corn and five hours I was done with the experience and ready for the islands but alas, there were about four more hours of holding on for dear life as I slid around my stiff throne. Finally, we passed some rubber plantations and we had reached the Bay.

We triumphantly disembarked and in between smiles and greetings made our way to the ferry that would take us to Chizumulu Island in the lake. We had been banking on the fact that ther would be ATMs at Nkhata, but noooooope. So it was time to be frugal. We watched Lauren and Abby purchase their first class tickets and bought our own second class ones not quite knowing what to expect. The second class cabin consisted of a small, four-walled room mainly occupied by bags and with a few benches that were already taken along with the bow of the boat which held most of the cargo. We made our way to the first-class deck, a large empty space with some mattresses and a bar and hung out with Lauren and Abby. A few hours later the ferry hadn’t left, it was now around 9 o clock, and I drifted into slumber. When I was woken up, the ferry was moving and the ticket-collector we had been dreading so much was standing over us, palm outstretched. We played dumb, and after a little “oh this is first class?”, we walked down towards the now completely crowded second-class cabin. Stepping over sleeping bodies, mothers wrapped like blankets over their children and in between raucous pre-adults sipping on ‘Greens’ (i.e. Carlsberg) and greeting with wide smiles and slapping hands. We finally found some empty space on the bow and settled down to sleep the five hours away on top of petrol drums. Yes, our sleeper cabin consisted of trying to make the thick plastic ridges and uneven placement of large barrels of petrol comfortable. It wasn’t. As I drifted towards sleep not from comfort but from necessity I saw a rat the size of a healthy cat climb a railing towards the front of the bow, turned to my side and saw a calloused foot inches away from Daniel’s face and I laughed a little bit. Oh, the experiences that make up a lifetime.

view from our coveted second class seats (i.e. fuel drums).

Tuesday, 09/12/08

The ferry finally pulled into the bay around the island at around 3:30 AM. I woke up from my neck-breaking petrol siesta just in time for the obscenely loud horn that would have propelled me off the drums and into the lake. Small rowboats made their way to the ferry and started bringing loads back to different points on the island. We got on the rocking rowboat and headed to Wakwanda, the only hostel on Chizumulu. On the boat was Nick, the owner, Franka, Daniel, myself and Quim, whose first words to me were “I’m from Cataluna, but I have a Spanish passport.” We got to the hostel and I could already tell, even in the pitch-black early morning, how beautiful it was. The air felt spectacular and we sat around the bar and talked over a couple of Greens. It was 4:30 before we staggered to our dorm, tucked behind a pavilion sitting area right on the beach. I fell asleep confused of dates, time, place, but it was a welcome confusion.

I woke up not quite prepared for what I’d see when I walked out of my dorm. The sun shines through a thin cloud cover, illuminating the azure expanse of water. Waves lap against a sandy, rocky beach and the regular blue/beige dichotomy of a beach is thrown a wild card with deep greens hugging the island. In the distance, what look like columns of black smoke rise from the lake in the horizon. It isn’t smoke, however, but thousands of miniscule lake flies feeding and being fed on. I sat down for coffee with Quim, the world-hopping Catalan and together we sat marveling in unison at the sheer tranquility that seemed to float in the damp air. It was bath time and despite it being a little brisk, I waded into the lake. The temperature was perfect and I could just feel how clean and pure the water was as I dove and propelled myself further off shore. I came out rejuvenated and after a few more hours of ‘relaxing,’ (what has become the key word of the trip, we decided to explore the island and headed off towards Same Beach, the supposed center of activity in the island. The walk consisted of winding, sloping trails through cassava patches and baobab trees, bulging at their bases. A chorus of “Hello!” and “What is my name?” and “Give me picture!” gave us our soundtrack, as children, who seem to make up the largest segment of the population, smiled and chased and laughed. It’s a beautiful island where lush grasslands hug the lakeshore. Eventually we started feeling our energy lagging a bit and asked Boise, a boy in Form 3, where we could get some mangoes. He led us to a towering mango tree, where the fruits hung like thick, juicy reminders of vitality and life. He epertly scale up the tree and a torrential downpour of mangoes ensued. As they hit the ground with resounding thuds, I picked up a ripe-looking one and peeled away the skin to reveal the moist yellow below. When I bit into it the juices filled my mouth and tickled my senses into sweet, gluttonous submission. We left with a backpack full and our sugar levels rejuvenated and made our way to the other side of the island back to the hostel.

the first thing I saw when I woke up on Chizumulu.

three columns of feeding lake flies on the horizon.

The smiling faces of the crowd of children following us down the dirt paths created a stark contrast with some of their bloated, malnourished stomachs. The poverty I’ve seen in Malawi, so far, is far worse than anything I’ve seen in the rest of Africa. That being said, a peaceful sort of self-sufficiency seems to exist on this fishing community. Very little seems to come from the mainland, besides essentials like those fuel drums we were sleeping on. The people seem happy here and much of the day in between catching fish and selling the fish is spent in sitting around – groups of people in staggered circles sharing gossip, or talking about the fishing bounty of the day.

We got back to the hostel and with the mangoes not quite having satisfied our growing appetite sat down for a lunch of Veggie Bean Burgers and planned out the relaxing the rest of our day would consist of. Quim seems to pay close attention to scheduling “doing nothing.” After lunch we borrowed some snorkeling gear and hit the lake The visibility was not as perfect as it would be on a sunny day but it was beautiful and felt great to snorkel again – a good second place to the scuba diving I cant afford because of the ATM incident. The fish were small but of myriad colours, species that only exist in Lake Malawi. More ecstatic doing nothing filled the hours afterwards until our pre-arranged dinner in the small local restaurant next door. When we tried to have lunch there earlier, the old woman was unprepared so we told her we’d be back for dinner at seven. We had a delicious dinner of grilled fish, nsima (mealie meal) and beans costing us about $1.50 each. We’ll be back tomorrow for sure as my thin wallet burns away at my pocket. We spent the rest of the night with good conversation, good beer and a beautiful view of the near-full moon from the beach. A magical force seemed to push the surrounding clouds away from the moon, forming perfect circles of clouds, as if the moon had been dropped into the night sky creating ripples on its surface.

the strange grassy/beachy terrain of Chizumulu.

So this is what peace feels like.

Night Above Chizumulu

A glow creates concentric circles
of ghostly diffused light.
Each shift further away from its source
yields a slightly darker shade.
Like fingers disappearing as they reach
for the most opaque, most mysterious parts of our universe.
Fingers disappearing in the most perfect act of perfection,
a perfect search bringing perfect peace.
Perfect, though, in imperfection.

Raining down thoughts,
like the tenderest mango shaken off the tree.

Inundate me in your waters.
Let me see me in your reflection.

Thursday, 11/12/08

We’re sitting under a tree on Same Beach waiting for the wind that will take us to Likoma Island. We just hiked, with our bags, over the hill across the island. The island barber is convinced the wind is on it’s way so the small sailing boat will be able to leave, but on this still beautiful, sunny day I’m not so sure. Wait! I’ve just been informed it’s ready. And yes there they are putting up the patched up blanket of a sail. Here we go.

I’m finally sitting at the bar of Mango Drift Lodge on Likoma Island under a giant mango tree. The place is stunning and a step up from the last island, so I’m glad we came here second. Sandy beach, a dorm-hut hugging the sand and a bar built around a mango tree with a ladder that is open for picking for all. The two juicy mangoes were exactly what I needed after the physical exertion of the past day. The boat ride was 3 1/2 hours going in windless heat at around 1 km/h. Entertainment was given through the plastered “captain” who was sucking on little packets of gin the majority of the time and reclining in the one spot of shade the rest. Some further entertainment was offered when Quim dropped his sunglasses into the lake and dove in after them. In a few minutes his head was a dot on the horizon and we were turning around amidst drunken curses from the captain. He lost his glasses ultimately but it provided some amazingly awkward silences and even more awkward nervous laughter.

Franka, myself and Daniel before the sun burned our smiles off.

castaway - Quim climbs back aboard

We pulled up to the island and were pointed in the direction of Mango Drift. We had to hike about an hour uphill, downhill and over crumbling stone bridges. Collapse seemed imminent as I felt all my remaining moisture draining out of me but we finally hit the beach. I sank into satisfaction over a few mangoes, four glasses of water and an ice cold beer. Satisfaction is so much sweeter when you work for it. And this place is SWEET!

dusk at Likoma Island

the mango tree-gone-bar at Mango Drift

Friday, 12/12/08

I spent yesterday evening in a state of suspended animation. void of any real awareness of time and place I spent a long time looking at the sky. The near full moon shone with a ferociousness that made the night look like early dusk. The sky morphed and transformed the clouds using the moon as their hub, their canvas to shift and create contradictory and beautiful masterpieces. first the moon was a silver beacon in the middle of an atlas of clouds that were giant shifting frozen continents. Then a cloud would contract and stretch as the dense overcast became a thin veil – a winking hint at the luminous brilliance that floated below. As the waves of Lake Malawi licked at the shores of Likoma Island, an elusive and deceptive sky painted epigraphs of transience and startling reality.

the beach at Mango Drift - paradise

Sunday, 14/12/08

I’m sitting in front of another perfect cove on Lake Malawi at Nkhata Bay. The lingering swell of the waves lapping at the rocky shore brings memories of the storm last night – the one that hit us when we were on the Ilala ferry from Likoma back to the mainland. It was sad to say goodbye to such a paradisaical place – an island where my days consisted of sitting, reading, writing, mango overdosing, underwater adventure and the extent of physical activity being a one hour long hike to town for dinner and back. We were told the ferry had come early (nothing comes on time in Malawi) so scrambled to get ourselves ready and board the motorboat to take us to the Ilala. We made our way around the island, stopping at Kaymara, the $300-a-night older sister of Mango Drift to pick up Lauren and Abby (weird to have had the same travel partners from Lilongwe on). We saw clouds forming and so we decided oil drums might not be as comfortable this time, so joined Quim, Abby and Lauren in first class. The first few hours, up until Chizumulu, were spent lounging by the bar. At Chiz I decided to give sleep a shot and curled up on a bench against the rail of the deck. Just as I felt my thoughts turn into that pre-sleep jello, a wall of cold rain slapped me in the face and people were scrambling to escape the horizontal downpour. As the ferry rocked and swung around it’s anchor and the captain shouted puzzling orders like “I want no injury! Please don’t let me overpanic!” on the loudspeaker – the seven of us, now including Nick, the owner of the hostel at Chizumulu, ran around to find a dry spot. Eventually, soaking wet, we filed into the dining saloon where I found a chair in the periphery of the sea of sleeping bodies on the ground. I fell asleep, head down against the table, like a folded leaf, rocking back and forth through the ride. I woke up to the invasive foghorn of the ferry that meant we had arrived. It was still raining as we disembarked and boarded a bus to Mayoka, a beautiful hostel a few minutes out of the town, nestled against a secluded rocky bay. We were welcomed by Gary, the owner, with tea, coffee and muesli and waited until it was late enough (it was 6 AM when we finally arrived) to wake up the man who was staying in the four-bed dorm Franka, Daniel and I would be staying at. Exhausted and soaked to the bone, I briefly admired the wonderful view from our terrace and collapsed into bed. It’s around 2PM now and I plan to spend the last few days in a similar way as the first – absorbed in a fully-conscious sort of slumber where thoughts, emotions and impressions can boil and simmer as I prepare to leave this wonderful continent.

right below our dorm - Daniel succeeding at doing nothing.

Tuesday, 16/12/08

Things can halt to a stop when underwater. Thoughts, movements can slow to a stasis as gravity becomes unfamiliar and sensations undefined. I went for an extensive swim today, and while I flipped and twirled in the depths, fully submerged, time and place lost all relevance. When I broke the surface I was next to a dugout canoe, with an old man steering from the back and the inside full of freshly picked mangoes. Where am I?

The last few days have been relaxation at it’s finest. Yesterday morning, Daniel took one for the team and bused to Mzuzu, the city nearby where there are ATMs, functional Internet and apparently beautiful tapestries with bananas on them, to stock up on essential and on short supply items – namely money. Franka and I went into “downtown” Nkhata Bay. It was market day and so the town was bustling with life. Makeshift stalls lined the streets selling everything from fresh fish to traditional medicine to soap. One man stood on a stage, sweating, dancing and auctioning t-shirts to a surrounding crowd of out-stretched hands. An entire marketplace was set up for selling clothes that had been donated through NGOs. How they ended up being sold for 100 Kwacha a piece seems a little suspect to me.

the hustle and bustle of Nkhata Bay on monday market day

a fishwife (it's a word, trust me, look it up) on market day.

We went into an old man’s house, whose name I now don’t recall, the father of a family Franka had met the day before. We spent a while with four of the seven sons as they showed us around town but what I enjoyed most was the conversation with the father, an absolutely fascinating man. Among other things, he worked as a police man in Zambia, where he learned Kung-Fu from imported Chinese masters and worked in Mobuto’s Zaire, building the gargantuan dump-trucks used for cobalt mining. Now he lives a quiet retired life of fishing and metal-working on this idyllic bay with his large family and owns some land he hopes to rent out. He had a lot of things to say about themes ranging from Mobuto and Cold War politics in Africa to the art of staying on a dugout canoe without succumbing to the non-existent center of gravity.

Nkhata Bay

After a while we made our way back to the hostel and I spent the rest of the day in superfluous mango-eating and lots of lounging, swimming, reading and writing. After dinner, Daniel and I stuck around the bar and played a creativity (and Carlsberg)-fueled game with two Australian girls, Zsofi and Lucy, and two American girls who have been in the Peace Corps in Lesotho for the past two years. By midnight I was fast asleep. Obviously I need my sleep. Clearly these days have been strenuous.

Saturday, 20/12/08 – Sunday, 21/12/08

We’ve gone full circle as Daniel and I sit in the garden of Sleek Backpackers in Jo’burg, watching our hours in Africa dwindle away. My remaining days in Nkhata Bay were spent in a simultaneous sadness of impending departure and excitement over the lush jungle of new experience that now exists inside of me. These reflections bounced in and around me like light through a maze of mirrors as I watched post-rain sun glisten over the lake or when I was a few feet under water or walking through town having conversations about Rastafarianism in Africa or eating the oft-repeated spread of salted fish, ncima, and some sort of green vegetable.

One of my favorite things about traveling is meeting people. Besides Quim, who was still around until the end, still relaxing, and still a source of non-stop entertainment, we’ve met some other interesting characters. These include some locals of Nkhata like Cheese-On-Toast, Chicken Pizza and simple (I’m not even sure what to say about those names…Cheese’s real name is Marcus Garvey, apparently, but he prefers his pseudonym). After a short improv jam session the night before, I met up with them at Butterfly Lodge next door on Wednesday night. Everybody picked up a drum and it’s fitting that I had my first real drum circle on one of my last nights in Africa. Eight pairs of hands, including mine and Daniel’s, slapped and battered at drumheads as rhythms spilt into each other and a percussive frenzy flew over Lake Malawi. Occasionally, Cheese interjected with Rastafarian dancehall vocal chants or Simple steered the jam session towards a more traditional Malawian approach. Forty-five minutes later the jam died down and D and I went back to Mayoka in time for the delicious fish barbecue.

With full stomachs, the party started after dinner and it was fortunate that everyone seemed in a festive mood on Daniel, Franka, Quim and my last night on Lake Malawi. We were up late into the night as things got progressively more boisterous until a few fights broke out and the owner was on the bar shirtless, and it was clearly time to call it a night.

Our wakenings were staggered the next morning as one by one, zombie-like creatures emerged from the woodwork, stumbling towards the sweet rejuvenation that is a Giant Banana Pancake. We had met Steven, a bear of a man with often crass and sometimes brilliant wit from Newcastle and his London-born friend Ben who may or may not have malaria the day before. They were headed to Lilongwe in a friend’s car and had three more spaces – perfect for Franka, Daniel and I who were going that direction. It was slightly more expensive (fuel is pretty damn pricey in Malawi) but worth the less sore bum than what the bus offered. We said our goodbyes, traded contact information and parted with our week-long travel buddy, Quim, and hit the road.

The drive was beautiful, one I could not fully appreciate through the high foggy windows of the bus. In our pale blue Rav 4, we snaked our way through the vibrant green landscape. Every once in a while we would pass a remote village, small brick and mud huts nestled against cassava plantations. As we neared Lilongwe, we passed through a low-hanging cloud and were enveloped with mist. It was hard to spot pedestrians and potholes and for a while we crawled through the eerie fog in a tense snail-like state. It cleared up and as night fell we reached Lilongwe said our goodbyes to the British Bunch and Franka, D and I settled down where we started our Malawi journey – Mabuya Camp.
It was a quiet night and a fairly early retirement after a brief conversation with two American guys traveling up to Uganda from Cape Town.

In the morning Daniel and I went to a pharmacy to buy pills for bilharzias, a not too rare parasite present in Lake Malawi, just in case. We said our sad farewell to Franka who continues traveling until March and too a taxi to the airport. At the airport we randomly ran into Anique, a student from Georgetown who we met in Cape Town, where she was studying abroad. She was with a friend who was huddled in the corner with malaria. We caught up in between interspersed “are you okay”s to the lump that was Jarvis in the waiting room. After a turbulent flight we landed back in Joburg and we said our goodbyes (they just keep happening). A sixty dollar taxi ride later – Joburg is #$%@ing HUGE and taxi prices reflect that – we had stopped off at Monika’s place to collect our bags and were settled in back at Sleek backpackers, the launching point of our journey.

At the hostel we met Gabriel, the Tanzanian manager and were reunited with the former employee who drove us to the airport, Douglas from Zim. They invited us out and at around 9 we hit the town. We weren’t allowed in to the bar at Rosebank due to our t-shirts and sneakers so we headed to Melville, a hip area I had heard of before. Fifgteen minutes later we were on 7th Street, a Cape Town Long Street-esque row of clubs, bars and restaurants. It was a mixed, shifting crowd as we hopped from bar to bar. Joburg, and SA in general, is such a diverse place and it’s history has left it far too divided. So I was happy to see everyone from the thugs of Soweto the Mini Cooper driving yuppies of the suburbs all having a good time on a single stretch of asphalt. We ended the night at a Boerwurst stand- hot dogs smothered in ketchup, mustard and chili sauce that I’ve noticed are hugely popular all over Southern Africa.

The next day, D and I spent the day recovering in the hostel, only taking a break to walk down the street for some grease-coated grease at a fast food joint called Yanky’s – a strange last meal in Africa for Daniel. At four D left to the airport and we had our dreaded “see you later.” It’s strange to say bye to someone you’ve spent, almost literally, every single day with through a barrage of new experience. But I’ll see him in a few weeks in icy Philadelphia.

I spent the evening in the company of Brian, a permanent resident here at Sleek. Brian is a 50-something, mumbling man from Liverpool with a complexion the colour of a matador’s cape. We drank Black Label beer and watched David Bowie and Billy Connolly DVDs until it was time for me to call it a night. An interesting character, with the lexicon of an especially foul-mouthed sailor, Brian was a great source of entertainment and conversation. A particularly touching moment was when after putting the Bowie DVD in, he went to his room and came back with a gold ring in his weathered (and red) earlobe. His eyes sort of glossed over, maybe from the effects of the beer, but I think it was him traveling through a warp of time and space back to those glory days at Hammersmith Apollo.

Today, I’m rearranging my life, sorting some photos and hugging Africa goodbye. I haven’t left yet or had any time to even thin about the last five months, but I already see someone new when I look in the mirror. I feel different. It’s going to be really tough to leave, but I’m looking forward to India to see family, see old friends and gather my thoughts amidst the (sort of) familiar.

Time? Events.

2008-12-01T11:23:00.000-08:00

In a previous entry, as I tried to piece together the mental contents of an unreported week or two in Gabs, I referred to the state of my mind as 'clutter.' If I were to do a similar thing right now, as I try to sort through the haze of the month that I've been absent on this blog, I'd have to describe it as a maelstrom. Emotions of every shape, color and size have met in the recesses of my skull and fought, embraced, torn each other into pieces and built new towering edifices of chaotic contentment, entropic ecstasy from the wreckage. I'll try my best to make my way through this built up, swirling whirlpool and capture and relate some of these elusive memories. Some will no doubt escape, but I can at least hope some will make it on to this page, with sense and organization as well. It could be an unrealistic hope, but here goes. I'm not even going to try and throw proper chronology into the mix - it would be futile. As a professor here said, "Botswana is not a place of time, it's a place of events."

I Shout From Southern Africa: "Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU America!"

It's great to say that for the first time in my politically conscious life, I am proud to be an American citizen. After eight years of disappointment, disenchantment and political depression the injection of optimism that was this year's election results, feels like a sip of water after weeks stranded in the desert (I imagine). For the people now saying that we've put too many expectations on Obama and he's only going to disappoint, I have two responses for you. One, a little optimism can go a really long way - let's keep the momentum of the campaign going into the "real world" and see where it can take us. "Yes we can," may be overused, may be cliche, but it is not wrong and we, the world, not just the United States, should carry that message forward regardless of politics or allegiances. God knows we need it right now. All I can do for now is be happy with the box I checked on my absentee ballot and hope and work towards repairing the devastation of the last eight years.

Anticipations for the elections were high here, not just among the American exchange students but also the Europeans and Batswana. In the weeks leading up to November 4th, a conversation could be struck up with any passerby with just three vowel-dominated syllables. Obama t-shirts were on sale (we got a glittery WWF-style one of Biden and Obama under the glowing banner of 'CHANGE' for Daniel's birthday) and the buzz for the elections was surely humming zzzz's all over Gaborone. We booked the TV room for Tuesday night, the election results starting to come in at 3 AM Gabs time, and started the night at Khwest. After some poetry, some drinks and a sprinkle of Russian ranting courtesy of Walter we headed back to campus, wound down and wound right back up again around 3. The TV room was packed with the exchange students and some local and international grad students. Cheers rebounded off the walls and drinks were drained as the election veered towards Bams. When the final results were called at around 8 in the morning, a contingent of us, me included, ran through campus cheering and singing, quickly joined by undergraduates from their windows. I kind of wish I was in the States for the elections... But I'm also kind of glad I was in Botswana.

Art, Art, Art:

Art continues to whisper, tickle and tease its wide, sticky web around me and it's beautiful. While I'm not as active musically as I was at the beginning of the semester, somehow in someway I still manage to remain stuck fast to the comforting cob webs of the alive but ethereal air here. An exchange student from Germany, studying in the Netherlands, Sabine, collaborated with a UB drama group, Afro-Western Theatre, by writing and directing a beautiful production for them, "Black and White." She asked me to get on board as a drummer for the singing and dancing involved in the third act, and as I'm used to the low-level commitment levels of university musicals as a drummer, I agreed. It's always six or seven laid-back practices total and you're set. While it was similar here, the frustration level was, well, frustrating. Yes, severe meta-frustration was what the experience amounted to - besides the gratification of the final performance of course. The actors just didn't seem to care about the art they were producing as they would often not show up for rehearsals and demand to end early - eish, can't imagine what poor Sabine was feeling. Every time they got on stage it was magic though. They easily slipped into their roles of slave or slavemaster and with dynamic passion brought a dramatic vision to vivid life. The highlight of the experience, despite the sleep-deprived, hungover state I was in (the day after the elections) was when we took an early morning bus to Lobatse to play at a school for kids. Over some pulled chicken and some Liqua-Fruit juice, I enjoyed the dance troupes of the local middle schoolers - once again I'm utterly stunned by the level of inherent rhythm in the people here, it's as if the lower body can move to one beat while the upper body grooves to some overlapping polyrhythm. The kids' enthusiasm for the play was out of control. They frowned when the slaver abused his slaves and screamed in delight when the slaves succesfully rebelled. The main performance at UB was a great success too and I'm happy for Sabine for the massive amount of work she tirelessly put into it, and proud of the result. I also managed to slip in a shout out for ZimFest at the end of the show. What's ZimFest you ask? Read on.

Afro-Western Theatre at the school in Lobatse

Zim-Fest

So in October, after Elles and Maaike, two other exchange students here, went to Zimbabwe over the short break they decided they needed to do something about the desperate situation they witnessed there. A place where people have to go to the ATMs at around 4 in the morning, because they are out of money by noon and the maximum withdrawal amount is less than a dollar. A place where credit cards cannot be used, because the exchange rate is in constant fluctuation, hovering at an inflation rate of (officially) 231 million percent. A place where friends of mine have traded their shoes, or thermoses, or half smoked cigarettes for arts and crafts in the markets. A place in a political deadlock that seems unresolvable as the poor keep getting poorer and the hungry, hungrier and the sick, sicker. In response Elles and Maaike started an on-campus group ultimately named "Zim I Am!" It was to be a collaborative effort among exchange students as well as local students at UB in conjunction with an NGO (we ultimately chose the World Food Programme) to raise money for the countless people who have been trampled by the hooves of the oppressive, the greedy and the apathetic in Zim. We decided that a good way to raise money would be a fundraiser of some sort and I volunteered, due to my experience in concert organization as well as the great connections I've made in the GC music scene, to organize a concert-festival for charity. It was to be named ZimFest, and while I am so glad I took on the responsibility of organizing the beast, a beast it was - one I had to wrestle and spar with until it finally decided to cooperate.

The Zim-Fest poster. Daniel's design was so good, I caught numerous people peeling the posters off walls to take home and put up on their walls.

I immediately set to work on finding artists who were willing to play at this show for no money at all and a cap of one free drink an hour (which, unsurprisingly, didn't work). I'm so glad I have a friend like Mex, owner of Mexyland Studios, and without him we could not have made the event possible. He supplied an extensive group of artists, including some that I have recorded with like P.O.R.N. but also Fishmaan, DJ Onkz, a couple of other DJs, Dolly, Skibumba and a lot more. I also managed to reel in a few poets, some Zimbabweans who wanted to speak about the situation there and my friends, Berman and KK. There were a few scares along the way, like when Mex came over to UB to tell me half of his sound system had blown up the night before when some obnoxious MCs kept turning themselves up despite Mex's (subdued, I imagine) warnings. We had to rent a studio system, which turned out great because it was a pretty beastly PA. The set list morphed and remorphed a few times in the days leading up to the event and it was a good thing none of the poets that I had scheduled for the first two hours showed up - because neither did a crowd for the first three. The day of the show, I was a mess. Jistock, Monsters of Rock, or any of the other shows I've been part of organizing have NOTHING on ZimFest. With very little sleep under my belt - the elections, again - I walked under the sneering eyes of the merciless African sun, back and forth, up, down, around, in, out for hours without taking even a second to breathe. My lunch was a package of Topper cookies that I acquired in a quick relay-type exchange with the Mma by the North Gate. Mex only arrived with the equipment about thirty minutes before the supposed starting time of 3pm (to go on until midnight) and when I saw the amount of drinks that had been donated to us I freaked out thinking about the wasted time, wasted booze and pissed off artists I'd have to deal with if 1) Mex didn't show up and 2) no one showed up. Luckily, once it started rolling after sunset, things picked up. While the crowd wasn't as big as I would have liked, they spent a lot of money on booze - getting sauced for a good cause - and were a really responsive crowd. The performers were all top-notch, sound quality was great, and I think everyone had a good time. For a Thursday night large-scale event put on in two weeks I was pleased with the way it unraveled. It received decent publicity and while we missed our target, we raised a good deal of money. Starting from bout two hours into the show when I finally started breathing and sat down for a second I really started enjoying it. I hope it made a difference and I really really really hope the world (like South Africa for instance) can take its hands out of its pockets and do something about the heart wrenching state of affairs in Zimbabwe.

jivin with (from left: KK, Rebo, Berman). one of the best jam sessions I've ever been in, I think.

the modest but wild crowd.

Can You Take It To Cape Town?

First say that four times in rhythm...funky?
Now, I give you my answer. Yes. Yes we can take it to Cape Town and yes we did. Smack in the middle of our exams, Anna, Hannah, Brianna, Daniel and I decided we needed to collectively take our minds and lose our minds in Cape Town before using our minds for the finals. I am so glad we did. My finals went smoothly and Cape Town was one of the best weekends to ever end my week. We took an early morning bus down to Joburg, got mildly perturbed at cheeky taxi meters, got onto our plane and by the late afternoon I was looking out the window of the plane, my lower jaw comfortably rested against my belt buckle. Geographically, which is just the beginning, Cape Town is an absolute wonder. Surrounded by vast plateaus and gaping valleys, the city is nestled against the ocean. Skyscrapers are scattered across the city but the majority of the horizon is dominated by a vast amalgamation of sea, land and sky all seemingly blurring into a single explosive, layered wall of color. A crisp, brisk breeze tunnels through the city offering relief from the vengeful sun while teasing you to reach for a sweater as the sun makes it's descent.

Thanks to Anna's sweet hook up, we were staying in a nice house in Mawbray, a subtly vivacious neighborhood a ten minute metro ride from downtown. With a theatre, Indian take away, internet cafe, and a few happening bars on the same street it seemed like an ideal spot. NJ, the permanent resident of the place, works for Anna's study abroad program, Interstudy, in Cape Town and had empty rooms in the house which we graciously filled. He was a hugely generous host and we spent most of the rest of the weekend with him in our presence. A play by play would be overdoing it, but I'll offer some highlights.

The waterfront in Cape Town is something. Full of life, with the ocean air only adding to the vibrant aura of the place, we spent a lot of time peering into the shops, bars, and tour offices of the boardwalk. Unfortunately we were barred from the main tourist attractions of Cape Town - Robben Island because it was fully booked and climbing Table Mountain because of winds. We still managed to get to the foot of the mountain and look over the beautiful city. We also explored a decent chunk of the city by foot. Early afternoon on Saturday we were taken, by another Penn student who was studying in Cape Town, to Old Biscuit Mill, a Saturday morning fresh produce and food market. After Gabs, it was total overstimulation of the sensea. I floated around the warehouse, bloody mary in hand, trying my best to decide between the pesto stand, crepes, burritos, Indian food, pomegranate products in every shape and size you can think of, myriad quiches, three different coffee stands...need I go on? I ended up trying a vast array of condiments, eating three pieces of quiche, a simple and sensible sugar, cinnamon and lemon crepe, something in tsitziki sauce and two cups of REAL coffee - not the instant chickory tainted Ricoffy junk we get "this side." It was probably about an hour before I had gained enough self-control and figured out my bearings enough to start eating, but once I started it took discipline to stop.

Cape Town waterfront

why we couldn't climb table mountain.

clouds sit on the mountain and salivate at the delicious array of treats at the old biscuit mill.

"where am i?"

The night life in Cape Town is pretty out of control and, well, awesome. Kind of like the rest of the city. That's the extent of what I will say about it. Good stuff.

at table mountain

view from the foot of table mountain

I made some (obvious) simultaneously intriguing and disturbing observations as well. While more integrated than pre-1994 Cape Town, racial divisions that don't exist to the same extent in Botswana were clearly present. Besides the bar we went to in Mawbray the first night, all the other nightspots, especially on Long Street were mainly white-dominated as was the Old Biscuit Mill and the waterfront. The city in general seems to be fairly segregated, with most residencies in city center belonging to whites with blacks living in the surrounding townships only going into the city to work. South Africa is such a fast moving country, with political, social and economic maturation all occuring at the same time, all working towards a new South Africa where race is evercloser to irrelevance. Or at least we can hope that's the trend.

But - what a trip! Cape Town, I'm living in you soon. Once again the people are just as important as the place and I would be hard-pressed trying to find better travel companions than Daniel, Hannah, Anna and Brianna. Oh wait. I think I could think of one person that could have pushed things up a 5'1 notch...

Goodbyes, See You Laters, or Just Sighs of "Eiiiiish...."

Eish! Bye... No, see you later. Despite its order in the subtitle, this is the more common progression of thoughts during these fare thee wells. It all started with the abrupt and tragic "see ya later" to Ilana after we came back from Namibia. If you recall, I mentioned Ilana was not feeling well at the end of our return journey from Namibia. Daniel took her straight to the hospital from the bus rank and it turned out her kidneys weren't in the best of moods. I blinked and she was being med-evaced to Johannesburg, I blinked again and she was being brought back to the States. I'm happy to say she's happy and healthily shivering away that dauntingly frigid Philly winter, but damn do I miss her. My attendance rate to my 7 AM class (Ilana was in every one of my classes) dropped a little bit as I had no one to call me multiple times in the morning to make sure I was out of bed, and it sort of felt like an appendage of my Botswana experience had been brutally ripped off. I can't wait to see her back at Penn and relive the countless memories we still have.

The goodbyes picked up again in the last week or so as I prepare myself for the biggest one of all - saying "sala sentle" to Africa. But first, the people. I don't know if it is because there were so few of us exchange students here or if it's just something - here I go again - in the air, but in the past four months I've grown so close to many of the transient residents of Block 417. I've forged some relationships that will never be forgotten and surely will continue to be forged as I couchsurf across the United States, into Europe and back around the world. It would be a drastically different experience without the great company I've had here and it's pretty surreal to be in a group of thirty-odd people all being changed drastically in drastically different ways, whether they like it or not.

Outside of the exchange student group though, I revert to Ilana's timeless quote - "the people you can't imagine." I have met some of the most beautiful, most ugly, most insane, most reasonable, most creative, most boring, most irritating, most positive, most negative, most wonderful people I have ever been acquainted with. In particular I will be forever in debt to Mexyland Studios. If I had to say one thing made my experience here - it was Mex and the crew. As they helped me understand my new home and make it a home, they also helped me understand more about music and me. Which brings me to my next and most devastating "See ya."

Gabs, Bots, Africa... I shouldn't realize it at this point, I think, but the fact that I do shows how significant it is. Being in Botswana for around four months has really changed me as a person. It's taught me about Africa, but more importantly it's taught me a great deal about myself, other people, and what the web of relationships with people and places that I create do, should and should not mean to me. It's taken the open perspectives I've always held, and with outstretched, strained fingers stretched them further and further until there's nothing left but an infinite sky. There were countless frustrations along the way, even times when I considered regretting my choice but as I near the end, all I can think is positive, positive, positive. Even if I could, I wouldn't change a thing. I'd keep every decision, every event exactly the way it was just so this very experience could be perfectly recreated - complete, only with every imperfection. Forget this goodbye nonsense. I'll see Botswana soon.

***

Forgive the melodrama, but its hard - impossible - not to overdo it as I sit here in my sweltering, packed-up, sheetless room counting down the hours I have left in Botswana. Tomorrow morning Daniel and I go for a luxury, Penn-sponsored (gracias) honeymoon up to Chobe National Park and then to hop the border for a day into Zimbabwe to gape at Victoria Falls. We'll be back on Friday, in Botswana for one more night, say our goodbyes to the now comforting aridity and flatness of this land through an Intercape bus window, and then off to Malawi for two weeks. You'll certainly be hearing from me about that trip, probably from India.

Until then, keep being.

Namibia

2008-10-06T12:55:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from a nine day episode in gallivanting around the beautiful country of Namibia. I knew there would be a lot to say so I tried to write every day of the trip. The following is a play by play recount of the trip. I have taken some stuff out, thrown some stuff in, but its all stuff, and certainly not stuffy, I hope. It's a little long, but there's a lot to report, and I've been slacking recently so deal with it.

Friday, 26/09/08

It's hour 11 or so of a bus ride that left at 7, on the dot, this morning from the Gaborone bus rank. Dazed, but rattled with anxiety and anticipation, Rafael, Helge, Daniel, Ilana, and I filed into caps and a quarter of an hour late were sitting in our own little nook at the back of the bus. The bus ride has not been unbearable as I've spent much of it drifting in and out of snoozeland and it's great to see the parched trans-Kalahari countryside. The landscape is dominated by straw colored shrubbbery, peppered with occasional trees - the majority of which are no taller than this bus. It's almost as if my view out the window has consisted of nothing but repeated frames of aridity and deep horizons. As we head into the sunset on this road that refuses to turn, I embrace the curves and undulations of this tingling and electrifying anticipation of the new, independent, and adventurous. Where are we?

one of the several stretch breaks on the way to Windhoek

the Namibian border, about nine hours into the ride

I'm now lying on my comfortable, clean bed at the Chameleon Backpacker's Lodge in Windhoek. The rooms are spacious dorm style accommodations with six bunks, shower, and toilet. It's a beautiful hostel with friendly staf, a bar, pool, a pool, TV room, internet... The whole vibe kind of reminds me of what F-39 in Jakarta would be like if it was a hostel. We put all our rand coins together (the Namibian dollar is pegged to the South African rand, and we are yet to have withdrawn any dollars) and managed to but two Windhoek Lagers and a Savannah Dry. Sip, pass, sip, pass. It makes bonds, you know?

Anyway, rewind - so, we got in at around seven. It was strange driving in to Windhoek. It's a city! Like...a real-life city; wide open boulevards, lit up streets, quaint Germanic parks, but very very few people. Kind of reminds me of what Bogota would look like if it was scorched and then all the people were kicked out. We were standing idly by the bus, getting our bearings and talking to a friendly frequent Gabs-Windhoek traveler, when a thick American accent pierced through the quietude. "Rafael? Rafael?" "Um...no, he's that one." One of Rafa's Rotary Club peeps, Mary-Beth - a lady straddling her bike like a hunter looming over her latest catch, thick bracelets up her forearm and a general persona that seems like it could easily shatter the toughest of stone. Immediately, after a few firm handshakes she started helping Daniel, Anna, Ilana and I look for a cab as even though the hostel was close by, she said walking at night was a "hit-or-miss" and then muttered something about trolls under the bridge. We made our way back to the hostel and settled in to our rooms. It's a pity we couldn't link up with Rafa or Helge for dinner but there will be plenty of time for that. Tomorrow it's car rental, hostel booking and camping, maybe! I'm feeling a strange transcendence of place where the 'where am I's become more potent and its disorienting. I feel like I could be anywhere, but of course I couldn't. I'm in Africa. I'm in Namibia. I'm in Windhoek. Or I'm just floating in surreality and place names just make it easier for my head to organize and file.

Ilana: "This is what I live for. Multiple people in a hostel, writing journals."

Saturday, 27/09/08

I woke from an absolutely comatose sleep under the enveloping warmth of the Chameleon-issued blanket. We took freezing cold showers and had a simple breakfast of bread, tea and cereal and then we got to work. Daniel and Ilana went to go try and rent a car from Budget, for our trip down to the sand dunes at Sossusvlei while Anna and I stayed at the hostel to book hostels in Swakopmund and Windhoek for our return. Half way through the booking process we got a call informing us that Budget does not rent automatic like they had previously said and so we scrambled to rebook as we postponed our trip to the dunes until Wednesday. Instead, we decided to head to Swakopmund, on the coast, and booked three nights at the Villa Weisse. Now we had the obstacle of trying to get to Swakopmund. The Intercape bus, the one we had originally intended on using had already left so with some Internet browsing I found the Econolux, leaving at 1 Pm. We needed to get to the station by 11 to buy tickets. This is where the ridiculous, absurd adventure begins.

We find a taxi, I tell him the address after getting off the phone with the office and we[re on our way. Fifteen minutes later we're in Northern Industrial (bus office is in Southern Industrial) and the driver asks me to call them again. I do, and with a frustrated curse in Afrikaans (or at least I imagine it was), the driver hands me back the phone and we head back into town...to the exact place we started. Now he, I, and everyone else in the cab is utterly confused so I call the office again. I try talking to the lady myself. In a heavy Afrikaner accent she starts getting angry at me: "It's not that hard! Past the Pick 'n' Pay, next to the Lewis!" "Yes! That's exactly what we did!" Finally we give up, pay the cab a portion of the fare (he did use about a tank of gas) and decide we'll try and get another cab who might know where it is. Frustrated and worried as it's now about an hour until the bus office closes we find cab. Before we leave i call the office again and give the phone to the new driver. After about ten minutes of multi-lingual bickering (I feel like there's a huge language *&@#storm here between German, English, Afrikaans, Damara, Xhosa and all the other languages around) I take the phone bask and speak once again to the now absolutely infuriated woman on the other end of the line. "Ok! How do we walk there? We're on Fidel Castro St." "What? WHERE?" "Fidel Castro St. Windhoek Central." "What? Windhoek? This is the Walvis Bay office." ... Ever wonder what would happen if you followed directions to a place in a different city? Well I have and now I have and it sucks. We finally found someone, a Motswana who runs a tour company, who knew where it was and we made it twenty minutes before the office closed. As i walked into the office an old man behind a desk looked up at me, said something in Dutch and then translated it: if it ends up right, it is right." I guess.

About five hours later we were in Swakopmund. As I stepped off the bus I got hit with an oh-so-missed gust of ocean air- the sweet, sweet smell of salt, sand, shells and tickled with the subtle pins and needles of the brisk Atlantic. We walked over to the hostel, a beautiful converted German colonial-era villa, and were just in time for happy hour. We enjoyed a few delicious Windhoek Lagers and the company of some Alabaman film makers - Ben, Adam, and April - and talked about everything from Malawian music to Sarah Palin to Kid Rock. Then we went to dinner at the Napolitana, one of the best meals I've ever had. I had read that unexpectedly Namibia has some of the best cosmopolitan restaurants in the world, and the best in Southern Africa, and I believe it. I devoured a calzone with springbok, green peppers, garlic and a hint of chili. My goodness. Everything just blended into a mouth-watering, tickling fiesta of the savory, the sweet, and the spicy. After recovering from the inevitable food coma, we headed to a pool hall next door to meet Rafa and Helge, who were also in Swakopmund. A few games of pool later, our skills significantly degenerated, we walked home through the brisk oceanic midnight, disoriented, happy, and submerged in the surreal.

Villa Weisse, our hostel in Swakopmund

shooting pool and the breeze in Swakop

Sunday, 28/09/08

I realize I haven't written a word about Swakopmund, besides that it is on the ocean. It's a small town of wide open avenues, old multicolored Germanic cottages, full of both adrenaline-seeking youngsters and tranquliity-searching old folks. The architecture of the place kind of reminds me of some corny (but pretty) Lego set, or if you're familiar with it - the Noddy series by Enid Blyton. Just beyond the clusters of pastel homes, giant shifting sand dunes of the Namib desert stand cut out against the clear, deep blue sky. The desert/ocean creates a strange but awe inspiring juxtaposition of the dry and wet, dead and alive, static and dynamic.

a church in Swakopmund - yes, it's a real building

Woke up at about 9, in time for a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast and booked quadbiking in the sand dunes for tomorrow morning! We began to feel the magnetism getting overpowering so we headed to the beach. I never imagined the liberating, utterly carefree ecstasy that seeing the ocean can bring after two months of landlocked dryness. I guess I've always taken it for granted in the past, but this time I made every grain of sand between my toes, every seagull cry, and every "swish" of a breaking wave count like I never have before. The Antarctic current was, of course, frigid but I managed to get about knee deep. To feel the tide push and pull me, crests lapping against the back of my knees was really incredible only heightened by the people around me - Daniel, Anna, and Ilana skipping and running along the beach, collecting the mussel shells that littered the sand. Daniel also had a lively conversation with Molly, the dead, eyeless, beached seal.

the excitement of an endless body of water after the Dam and my plumbing being the only water seen in months

ditto

the crew (from left): Daniel, Anna, Ilana, and myself

After about half an hour of absorbing and reabsorbing the sights, smells, and sounds we walked up the beach towards the boardwalk. I took a detour on to the rocks, closed my eyes and listend to the peaceful, yet strangely violent, bombardment of breaking waves. My meditations on contradictions were interrupted when a clearly English man in a fluorescent yellow hooded Ocean Pacific shirt, Liverpool FC hat, and slightly tinted, oval rimmed glasses stepped on to my rock and muttered "excuse me, sorry, there are only so many rocks to pass through on..." I let him pass and after a few minutes of staring into the blue on blue horizon we struck up a conversation. Tim is an English real estate selling, child adopting, Marakesh dwelling, Zen philosophizing middle-aged man. After a while, Daniel joined us on our rock and we plunged deeper into conversation as we were occasionally sprinkled with the ocean spray somersaulting against and over the rocks. We talked about materialism, Africa's drinking problem, and our generation's addiction to information - how I feel the need to refresh the NY Times web page a few times a day and how all of us were itching to know what went down at the presidential debate. There was nothing pretentious about him as he acknowledged, "just because I'm twice as old as you, doesn't mean I'm any more enlightened." He was 40-something...but he wasn't. Agent meant nothing as we delved into heavier and heavier subjects always making it clear that he was no more as knowledgable than we are. He was in Swakop visiting a producer friend there filming The Prisoner, a six-part Pleasantville-esque miniseries starring Ian McKellan and that guy who plays Jesus in Passion of the Christ and who apparently subsequently thinks he is Jesus. We walked through the the set (unfortunately no Gandalf sightings) and then had lunch with Tim at a cafe on the beach. Conversation continued to dazzle, confound and stimulate and then we separated ways. It's baffling how people can enter into your life for only a few hours, engage and interact with the depth Tim did with us and then disappear forever. Once again, everything is so transient yet permanent. Predictable, yet always utterly astonishing.

Monday, 29/09/08

We woke up at around 8 to try and get some errands done before our big appointment at 1030. We did some bus inquiries and rental car scrambles and then made our way to the Outback Orange office, for quadbiking in the Namib desert. There was no way I could properly prepare myself for the fun, adrenaline and carefee climbs and swoops of quadbiking...through sand dunes. I was a little nervous at first, although I have quadbiked once before right outside of Jakarta through jungle and rice paddies. As we prepared ourselves to leave the guides talked to us about the "rollercoasters": driving up 45-60 degree dunes, which are 90 degrees on the other side, on a slant and then dropping straight down. My heart rate increased and soared away as we left the parking lot towards the dunes. So. Much. Fun. We drove around and through the dunes for about two and a half hours and as I got more comfortable, the speed and risks (within reason, parents) increased until I was catching air over humps in the desert. At first I was so focused on not killing myself, it was hard noticing the beautiful scenery around me. But as I got more accustomed to the power of the bike and took full advantage of it as I floored, or thumbed rather, the accelerator I was able to notice the otherworldly beauty of the dunes. Huge, pristine, and empty sand sculptures constantly shifting with wind, under a clear blue sky and as we came over one dune, my heart got caught in my throat. Just beyond the dunes was a small, straight road, and across the two lanes, raging, flipping ocean. I realized I was witnessing one of the environmental wonders of our wonderful world and simultaneously having one of the best times of my life. During a juice break I spear-tackled Daniel down a dune and that was good fun too. We got back to Swakopmund unscathed and shaking with excitement and leftover adrenaline (or at least I did).

me and my trusty steed

daring Daniel daily dives down dunes

me, desert, road, ocean, what?

blue, beige, blue

We ended the quadding extravaganza by starting the afternoon in the perfect way - German meatloaf and a communal 3 liter glass vat of boutique beer. Yes, a three liter glass. We then wound up the day, just when we thought it couldn't get any better, with a visit to the beach, frisbee, a photoshoot involving the same dead seal, and a little more floating around in the supernatural and surreal. The night ended with a delicious sea food feast at the Tug, a tugboat converted into the nicest restaurant in Swakop. Oh, critters from the ocean deep, how I missed thee. Tomorrow it's back to Windhoek, city of Windhoekers...

frisbee on the beach

Tuesday, 30/09/08 and Wednesday 01/10/08

After a cramped shuttle ride back to Windhoek, we went to a lunch of toasted sandwiches and real coffee with a little appetizer of biltong, southern African jerky including of the oryx variety. We settled in at the Cardboard Box, the most popular hostel in Windhoek and I wasn't too impressed. We spent the afternoon with some cold beers, a colder pool, and the baking hot sun, watching the day dwindle away as we listened to an assortment of rock n roll classics blaring from the bar. At around seven we went to a "Nice" Restaurant (NICE, being the 'Namibian Institute of Culinary Education - witty, I know). We splurged on some fancy drinks and met up with Helge and Rafa and three of their colleagues at the after school center they are volunteering at at the NICE Sushi restaurant. SUSHI! SUSHI! SU! SHI! I missed sushi so much and while pricey the food was delicious. We hit the sack early but unfortunately I had a lot of trouble falling asleep due to the stuffy heat of the dorm coupled with some unwelcome thoughts.

***

Woke up tired and with stuffed sinuses but excited as Ilana and Daniel went out to pick up the car for our expedition to Sossusvlei. Excited no longer, however, as they came back with the devastating news of the car rental's more than sketchy lack of insurance plan for under 21 drivers. We have our fingers crossed that Helge and Rafa will agree to let us tag along when they go on Friday because apparently Sossusvlei is a must see. So, we called around and found space for us at the Roof of Africa Lodge. Daniel and I had the brilliant idea of walking there, so we all did. 40 minutes, 10 gallons of sweat and 3 blisters later we were lost. Luckily, Tadius, a man with a truck, offered to drive us and so Anna, Il, and D climbed into the back and I got into the co-pilot seat. As we drove, and realized how lost we really were, I talked to Tadius. He talked to me about while it may seem like the world is crashing down around us with Wall St in shambles and the scramble for power in South Africa, in places like Namibia you can feel peace and let your mind be free of all the nonsense. I suppose it's pretty true - I just need to follow it more.

We settled down in our dorm and spent a few hours by the pool, basing, soaking and reading. When we had had our fill, we decided to go back into town - by taxi, although I would have been absolutely okay with another hike across the city: builds character or something. We had lunch, served by a man with an impressive 50 Cent hollogram belt buckle and explored downtown, especially Post Street. Post Street is mainly a pedestrian path that cuts perpendicular to the main drag, Independence Avenue. I think. Look at me, Mr. Used To Get Lost Getting From The Restroom Back To The Table At Restaurants talking about directions. Anyway. The street is lined with stall after stall selling crafts of every shape, size and color. When the heat started becoming a little overwhelming we made our way to the Parliament Building, which is surrounded by a lush garden, reminiscent of the Secret one from that book/movie. We found a shady spot in the grass after examining a few magnificent lizards, and spent the afternoon in contemplation, conversation and cooperative creation (some highly successful rounds of the drawing game). Made our way back to the hostel after a pit stop at Pick and Pay and spent the night with a bottle of wine, picnic food, and a German version of the board game, Taboo. Things have worked out, just as that Dutch man at the bus station said they would, and so Friday we head out to the dunes at Sossusvlei with Helge, Rafa and some of their colleagues. I can't wait to lie in silence under a thick blanket of stars and think about where the hell I've been, what the hell I'm doing here, and where the hell I'm going...

the colors of the Post St marketplace

the Namibian House of Parliament

Friday, 03/10/08

We met up with Rafa and Helge at around 8:30 in the morning at Budget car rental and packed up the two little white VW Citis. It was Daniel, Ilana, Anna, and I in Rafa's car and Mikkel, Matilda, and Josephine (three Scandinavians working at the center Rafa and Helge were volunteering at) in Helge's. After a brief stop at Pick 'n' Pay where we stocked up on food and water and other provisions, we headed for our campsite by the dried up Tsauchab River, 90 kms from the dune haven, Sossusvlei. The car ride was about six hours, the majority of which was spent on empty gravel roads. I have to commend Rafa and Helge for their stamina as we drove for hours and hours through this gravel Rally track. The drive was absolutely beautiful. The Namibian countryside is something wonderful, unexpected, and eclectic. Martian rocky landscapes tower over straw-like plains, with occasional spurts of lush vegetation in and around the dried up river beds we frequently passed through.

most of the time we had the road to ourselves, but occasionally we were graced by some company

picnic stop

With few stops, constantly urged on by Helge's Germanic sense of urgency and time (you can't imagine the entertainment of a road trip with one Mexican and one German driver, it sounds like the beginning of a joke) we arrived at the campsite before sunset. We were all completely psyched when we saw how great the site was - a completely secluded clearing in the middle of the bush, fully furnished with braai stand, fire pit, tents with beds, bathrooms, showers, firewood. We heard about some natural springs nearby and so tried to make it before sunset and unfortunately overestimated the abilities of our VWs. As we tried to make it up the rocky road we were forced to turn around after a few meters as we felt thorn bushes tangling themselves in our gears. We made our decision, after much deliberation, that an intact car with tires was preferable to springs so we cleared a path in the bush, turned around and made our way back to the site. We found a natural balcony across the river bed, and watched the sun set over the mountains in the distance. I stared, overcome by the pure, untouched beauty of the place in silence as the burning ball plummeted towards the horizon. When we got back to camp, we took much needed showers and Anna, Helge, Mikkel and I took upon the role of fire starters. It was my first time really putting together a fire and even without ever being a Boy Scout, I'm proud to say I had a glowing braai pit going in aobut 20 minutes, and later got a bonfire started with the leftover firewood. We barbecued steak and chicken and along with bread buns and carrot salad and a delectable beverage selection of (more) Windhoek Lager and boxed red wine, we enjoyed a complete meal. sitting around the fire after the meal, we talked, laughed and even got a fairly successful jam session going with me on vocal percussion, Daniel on harmonica, and Mikkel and Josephine adding occasional interjections of vocals. Some time and some beers later we made our way back to our tents for a little bit of rest before an early departure to the dunes the next morning.

sunset at Tsauchab River Camp

firestata (like that song from the 90's)

Saturday, 05/10/08

I crawled out of my tent and dragged myself to the cars at 5:30, in the quiet pre-sunrise darkness. We left towards Sossusvlei, and stopped only to marvel at the sunrise on the side of the road. The sun climbed into the sky, and like fingertips spread out the clouds with its expanding glow. The drive to the dunes, after entering the park, brought even more wonder and fascination. One one side of the road - red sand dunes the size of mountains and on the other - rocky mountains that may have been dunes once. On the way we some wildlife - a herd (flock?) of ostriches that looked like they were heading for a Gangs of New York style face off with a smaller group of springbo, some oryx(es? ai?) including one with a unicorn identity crisis.

a staggering Namibian sunrise

the oryx unicorn

After parking in the 2WD lot, we took a 4x4 shuttle to where the big dunes were and proceeded to climb. Climbing a mountain of sand is tough, especially under the African morning sun and with little sleep under your belt. However, once we made our way to the top it was worth the struggle. The view of the vast desert in every direction plus the soft, enveloping feeling of the red sand tickled the senses and while I tried and tried, I found it impossible to really put what I was seeing in words. After about half an hour of sitting in silent contemplation, we decided it was time to get a move on if we wanted to reach Windhoek before dark. We ran down the steep dune - the texture of the sane and something to do with momentum make it possible to spring down the sheer dune faces without tumbling headfirst to a sandy death. At the entrance to the park as we were filling up gas, one of the service men pointed out that our car's rear-right tire was flat. Dr. Samuel, as we called this masterful tiresmith, got to work at it and after some time of hammering, submerging, pulling and pushing the stubborn conglomeration of metal and rubber he pulled out the 5 inch nail that was lodged in it and patched it up. In the meantime, the driver of the other car, Helge was freaking out, having a Kuh (that's cow in German) because he couldn't find his glasses. He has prescription sunglasses so it just meant it would be difficult if we were caught in the dark. We left right away and as we trailed behind Helge, absorbing all the dust his wheels were kicking up I could almost see their car shaking with anxiety. Luckily we got off the gravel and on to the tar road before night fall. With our car taking the lead, Helge had no problems following us to safety.

climbing the dunes

view from the top

Dr. Samuel gets to work while Rafa searches for either Helge's glasses or the treacherous oryx responsible for this tire mishap

We, in Rafa's car, looked ridiculous as we got out in Windhoek. Since we were following Helge the entire way on the dirt-gravel roads, we had absorbed all the dust he was kicking up. We were completely covered, head to foot in dust, my hair managed to transform itself into dreadlocks, and my clothes and skin had taken on a dusty, death-like hue. We had a good laugh watching the expression on people's faces as we cleaned the car and watched Daniel emerging from the gas station looking like something between Big Foot and one of those Japanese soldiers found on Pacific islands 40 years after WWII ended. After returning the car, Daniel, Anna, Ilana and I made our way to the Chameleon lodge, the place where we began our journey, and took much needed showers. We reconvened with Rafa, Helge, and two German girls also working at the center, at Joe's Beer House - a massive, outdoor restaurant, with all kinds of junk hanging off the walls. over some crisp, cold lager (did I mention Namibian beer is great?) and a juicy zebra steak we reminisced on how great the trip was. Exhausted, drained, but content we collapsed into bed and slept for the few hours before our bus was to depart at six in the morning.

Sunday, 05/10/08

Most hellish 12 hours of my life. For some reason our bus back to Gabs was a sort of compressed, cruel version of our one to Windhoek. The combi on steroids was packed like a sardine can with people standing in the aisle for all 12 hours, leaning on those seated (i.e. me). My shoulder became a hip and butt rest for many a sweaty body and while my rear progressed from throbbing pain to total numbness, my knees threatened to burst as they were pressed hard against the seat in front of me and alternatively into my throat. The pleather material served as a great surface for the adhesive of my sweat to plaster my back to the right angle seat. The driver and his sinister co-pilots blared a repetoire of about seven tracks over and over again for the full 12 hours at full blast. Ear-bleeding Botswana gospel alternated with Jerky Boys style comedy prank phone calls in shrill Setswana. Like Anna observed, it was like standing in the middle of an argument you couldn't understand and couldn't leave from...for 12 hours. We also hit a goat on the way and the smell of goat entrails didn't help the nausea and discomfort. I've never been so relieved to be anywhere when we pulled into the Gaborone bus rank. Unfortunately, Ilana was not feeling well and Daniel had to take her straight to the private hospital. She's heading for recovery and I'm sending her all my love and my best wishes through the airwaves. I told her she has to get better soon, so she doesn't really have a choice. Figured that would take care of it.

************************

Overall, the trip was phenomenal. It opened my eyes, heightened my senses, tested my endurance and spirit of adventure, and gave me some memories I will never, ever forget, unless I have an accident while maintaining my new found passion for desert quadbiking.

There's nothing in the world like traveling in the right places, with the right people, at the right time.

Giggin' Gabz

2008-09-14T14:02:00.000-07:00

It's a beautiful day here in Gaborone. The sun floats, proud and unobstructed in a clear blue sky. The winds show mercy, and a light, thin breeze floats through empty sand lots and tickles me through my open window. Music still fills the gaps in my overflowing mind, echoing from my first show in Botswana last night.

The morning started with a phone call from Ntilerang 'NT' Berman (not Bearman as I have erroneously referred to him in past blog entries). I slept through the first two phone calls and was finally woken up to the scratchy recording of Sonic Youth's 'Silver Rocket' that serves as my ringtone, at about 10. It was Berman reminding me we had planned to meet up and jam and that he was 5 minutes away. I downed a bowl of Coco Pops (a newly rediscovered love), jumped in the shower and briskly walked to the gate. From far away I could see his short stature huddled against the security outpost, noodling on his guitar. I was under the impression that we were just meeting up for a quick jam session around UB, as I used to do with Pat, but after we greeted he said: "All right, let's go." I responded with a puzzled expression on my face and a lost "where?" We were going to his house to 'practice,' for what? I had no idea. We jumped onto a combi, managed to squeeze ourselves, a guitar, and my doumbek into the last row and made our way to 'White Village,' his neighborhood. We disembarked, paid our three pula (about 50 cents) fare and walked across the empty sand lot, and through mazes of tuck shops, bottle shops, and run-down, peeling cinder blocks. As we made our way through the sand and broken glass, which seem to be the main components of all the ground in Gabs, Berman explained to me that the significant majority of the residents of the neighborhood are illegal Zimbabwean immigrants who spend every day sitting on street corners waiting for any oddjob they can get their hands on. He said the place used to be so dangerous he wouldn't even leave his place after dark - so many Zimbabweans who jump the border in search of a life where the inflation rate isn't 11 million percent, end up dealing drugs and stealing. In the last three years though, the neighborhood has made a 180 flip as about a third of the Zimbabweans hanging out on street corners now are actually undercover police pretending to be Zimbabweans.

Anyway, after a short walk we entered Berman's place, a tiny one room cinder block in a complex of similar blocks - uncannily similar to a kampung, for my readers who are familiar with Indonesia. Chickens flirted in the sandy yard, and children ran around, playing a game involving hiding and then searching for little cardboard animals that looked like they had been cut out of cereal boxes. I recognized the Corn Flakes rooster as one little girl silently approached me and showed off all the cutouts she had found. Rebo, Berman's trusty sidekick and rhythm guitarist was in the cluttered room using the bed as a drawing board as he cut and knitted, putting shirts together. This was when I found out I would be performing with Berman, Rebo, and two female singers at a show that night. I was as surprised as I was excited, and the anticipation only increased when Berman handed me the outfit he wanted me to wear for the show. It included a Ntilerang Berman t-shirt that had been altered by cutting off the sleeves, separating the remaining tanktop into two sheets and then stringing them together with scrap cloth so that tassels hung all the way down the seams, a black and white beaded headband, and a Botswana flag around my wrist. After showing me one of his music videos, Berman followed me onto the front porch and gave me a lesson in African rhythms. He has studied, quite extensively, the theory behind Southern African traditional music, including percussion, and so he gave me a crash course in polyrhythms and Southern African traditions, like the San which he is most familiar with. Almost immediately, I felt my musical mind expand as I imagined all the possibilities for future percussive riffs and how to incorporate these into every other genre I play - namely get some prog rock going...

The girls arrived, and I am ashamed to say I don't remember their names, although they were very friendly and as I discovered when we started jamming, extremely talented. I'm constantly surprised at the raw creative talent in this country. In a country with just over a million people, it's amazing to me that almost everyone is artistic in one way or another, but perhaps everyone in the world is and its just a matter of tapping into it (more similar musings later). ANYWAY.

Rebo cooked up a mean medley of rice, morogo (extremely salty and delicious spinach), and some minced meat. It could have used some extra-hot peri-peri, but I chose to eat it bland over the ketchup and mayonnaise that was offered to me and that everyone smothered their food in. Finally, after three hours of idle jamming, laid back conversation, and the everpresent "where am I?" question, we got to work. We played through the song a few times and it sounded great; Berman's haunting falsetto matched with the power and drive behind the two women's backing vocals and Berman's Epiphone work cascading through and around Rebo's looping rhythm. It was really liberating for me to play an entirely new style of music, and after a few runs of me stumbling to get used to the patterns, I was grooving hard and it felt great. As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, we finally packed up, I said my "see you laters" and headed to the main road. I hopped into a Pick and Drop taxi heading towards the bus terminal, jumped into a combi and made my way back to campus. It's been a while since I've felt the rush before playing a show - since March, I guess - but I guess the fact that I'm in Botswana gave this rush a little bit of an edge. I couldn't keep still back on campus for the two hours of downtime before meeting at the venue. We were playing for a show that was being put on by Exodus Live Poetry, the same group that organizes the Tuesday Open Mic sessions at Khwest. I arrived at the Maitisong theatre at Maru a Pula school at around seven and was finally joined by the rest of the artists thirty minutes later (momentarily forgot about 'African Time,' a close relative of 'Indian Standard Time,').

After settling in backstage, and a pep talk from the organizers, the show began and I spent the time backstage pacing back and forth between the wings to watch some of the acts and the waiting room where Berman and Rebo danced and danced for the entire time. I guess everyone has their pre-show ritual. Most of the other performers were excellent and included poetry about colonialism, lunacy, love, Africa, time, and more.

Backstage I met Ras David, a middle-aged Zimbabwean Rastafarian percussionist and poet, and we had some enlightening conversations about drums, art, Zimbabwe, and Irish women. "Us artists, we are like peacocks," he told me. "When we are by ourselves, there's no need to flaunt your feathers. But as soon as there are others around, we have to wave the crap out of them. Shove them in everyone's face so that they can see every single piece of our tail." He continued with a very serious expression on his bearded face and his breath smelled of whiskey; "You see, we are all in our own spheres. I like to stay in mine, but so many of us love to just sneak out of theirs to try and find their way into others. That's not what art's about, you see. Art is about filling up your own sphere, not trying to fill up someone else's." I engaged him and the conversation progressed and digressed until it was his turn to go on stage and he stopped half way through the sentence, "It's like Irish women, you see..." and ran towards the stage. I'm not sure if there was anything concrete that I took from the conversation, but it certainly made me think about art, the sharing of art, and how involved the ego is in that sharing. And then it was my turn to share.

After Berman played a solo song he called Rebo, the two singers, and myself onto the stage in Setswana (I heard 'Sebastian' somewhere and knew it was time to come on) and after a short introduction that I continued to not understand we launched into the song. It was a good thing the spotlights were bright enough to drown out the faces of the audience, because I was nervous, but as usual after the first few rolls of my fingers over the doumbek, I entered my own mind, which in turn burrowed its way into my hands and that strange, but ecstatic feeling of disconnect and possession by music didn't fade until the song finished. And started right up again as the girls left the stage and KK came out to jam with us. KK is the sound man of Exodus Live - he's large, in charge, and has a hard drive in his vocal cords that can reproduce every drum crack, synthetic zap, and R&B vocal trick. I've jammed with him at Khwest several times, but it was even better doing in front of an audience and with Berman to back him up. It was tough for anyone on stage to keep a composure as we were just having too much fun. I was still shaking a bit when the set ended and I got off stage. I joined KK and his band at the end of the show to close the set, and the energy level knocking itself around my skeleton was out of control when the curtains finally closed. I'm supposed to be playing another show in the same venue on Friday with Berman and just got a call from KK asking me to play what seems like a pretty tentative and big show tomorrow night.

Its exhilarating to be gigging again, and to be a performing artist in Southern Africa is pretty surreal. Once again I'm utterly astounded at the amount of music I'm getting involved in here. It feels like high school again, except lacking the familiarity of the environment and the routine, and instead dripping, utterly saturated, with the new and exciting. I'm meeting some amazing, creative, like-minded people and its liberating to be floating in such free space. I've never felt so inclined to figure myself out, to think and create, and share. I don't necessarily want to climb out of my sphere and crowd someone else's, as Ras David seems to think artists are wont to do, but it feels good to open a little valve in my sphere and let the air seep out and mingle with everything else and form collective creativity, collective exploration, collective understanding and misunderstanding.

From left: Forgotten Name 1, Rebo, Me, Forgotten Name 2, Berman

That's KK on the left.

Oh! A couple of sidenotes:
1) The orange ribbon that has been around my wrist for the past fourteen months shredded itself and fell off day before yesterday. About time, I guess, but sad nonetheless.
2) I've heard "Hero" by Enrique Iglesias on the radio, mentioned in conversation, and sung by different people approximately twenty times in the past three days. I don't know what this means in the metaphysical sense, but in the literal one - it's driving me crazy.

Loops, Spirals, Ladders

2008-09-07T02:48:00.000-07:00

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

My Friends Are Better Than Your Friends

2008-08-31T03:51:00.000-07:00

The clouds and dust in my mind clear on this windy morning and a smile still dominates my face. My amazing friends threw a surprise birthday party for me last night at the studio, Mexyland. It didn't even occur to me that it was happening even when I was present at a number of different planning stages. Even when I got there and they had set up speakers outside I was completely oblivious. I saw a couple of balloons but guessed that maybe we were having something with the usual crew to celebrate my birthday (Tuesday) and Ngozi's (Thursday). But then people started arriving en masse. All the international students were there as were the usual Mexyland crew and it was the best night I've had in Gabs, and possibly one of the best nights of my life. I wish I had better pictures, but I was too busy being happy to spend time taking them. But I'll leave you with some mental pictures and go play with my new pair of finger skates and marvel at how truly beautiful my friends are.

Think: dance circles in the driveway, streamers, balloons, knock-out cake and cupcakes, impromptu heavy metal jam sessions, and a wonderful night blanketed by stars and kept alive by the subtlest of breezes. Thank you Ilana, Daniel, Anna, Mex, Lebo, Khwezi and everyone else for the party and most of all - thanks Gabs.

Interabang / ?!

2008-08-29T04:06:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me will have expected a political rant at some point, so here it goes. These thoughts have been spurred, in part, by my Politics of South Africa class. The class is an excellent one and the professor's enthusiasm and the class' organization have led me to learn more about southern Africa in the past month than I've known in my entire life. What has got me thinking, asking more questions than answering them, has been an in depth look at the international response to the South African apartheid government that ruled the country through bigotry, racism, and oppression from 1948 until 1994. Yes, 1994. A minority-ruled regime, easily comparable to Nazi Germany, was able to rule a country until fourteen years ago. It's mind-boggling.

As we scanned the never ending proverbial pile of UN resolutions on the Union of South Africa, I was forced to read one spineless, euphemistic slap on the wrist after another and found myself asking a lot of questions. The first, being what the hell is the point of the UN if the most they can do is say that they "urge" the apartheid government to change its policies, after dozens of unarmed men, women, and children are sprayed with bullets at Sharpeville in 1960. The second question, that inevitably follows that first one, is that there probably is a point and would it be better if member states could do something more? All you have to do is look at Bush's Iraq blunder to see how terribly wrong unilateral action can go. It's just so depressing to see that no matter what politicians, pundits, and revolutionaries say, vested interests rule everything and pure altruism is so close to being some ethereal construct that we create to make ourselves feel better. So in the 60's and 70's as the West wagged their collective finger at petty apartheid, and the National Party responded with a larger finger of another variety, it's all too easy to look right through the bullshit and see the United States, the UK, France simultaneously protecting their economic investments in a place as strategically important as South Africa. Likewise, as the Soviet Union and China encouraged the national liberation movement with training camps in Angola and Mozambique, they also just played on the ambiguities in Western policy, and slapped the rump of Cold War politics urging it to speed through the world. So the next obvious question - does it matter what a nation's interests are if the result of it as that they are doing good? Should we care that the Soviet Union was only really trying to create another satellite battleground for the Cold War, if through that they were funding and training the ANC's liberation struggle? Probably not, but it is still discouraging to think about, and devastating when vested interests lead the other direction (Iraq...again).

All you have to do is look around the rest of this continent to see the same playground politics at work. France and its sheltering of Hutu Power psychopaths in Rwanda during the '94 genocide, China pouring money and guns into a genocidal government in the Sudan and the Arab League turning their eyes away from the carnage being perpetrated by their "Arab brothers," the United States installing, funding, and supporting dictator after dictator to protect its political and economic interests (Mobutu, for one), and don't even get me started on the World Bank.

Also, where's the rest of Africa when this is happening? Great leader after leader in the region has preached African unity, the need to rebound from the devastation of colonialism together - Nkrumah, Senghor, Mandela, Kenyatta, Houphouet-Boigny to name a few. But where were they when UN blue helmets hid behind red tape and men, women, and children were macheted on the streets of Rwanda, or as chaos ruled and rules the DRC for the past forty years. It's beautiful and inspiring to see countries like Botswana and Zambia speaking out against Mugabe's insanity-fueled government, even as South Africa tries to mitigate a power-sharing deal: it's convenient for a regional hegemony when its neighbor is in ruins and depends on you for everything. Maybe things are changing, and as the nations of Africa begin to find their footing after hundreds of years of being trampled into the ground a difference can be made.

Is total disenchantment any better? Am I doing anything by whining and complaining about the world order and how backward and self-righteous it is? You don't see me dropping out of college and starting up a Save Darfur Army, and getting on the first flight to Khartoum. I keep myself informed, which usually means more bitching and grieving, but what can really be done? I had an interesting, frustrating, and interestingly frustrating conversation with another exchange student on the program here the other day where he expressed his utter disenchantment with the American political system and said that whether he voted for McCain or Obama it wouldn't make a difference. I tried to convince him otherwise, that Bams really could bring some great changes to the country and the world, but found myself second-guessing myself a couple of times. How entrenched are we in a system where money speaks louder than the heart, where 'hope' is another ghostly euphemism fit for a UN resolution? I don't know, but I hope my idealism can keep afloat for a little while longer, can keep me going long enough to figure out some real answers.

In the meantime, I'll apologize for potentially boring or maybe infuriating my readership and justify this rant as an effort for me to rearrange the gibberish of my mind into something comprehensible. I hope the questions I've asked are ones you maybe think about from time to time. I hope that 'hope' is a word that still holds some weight and that maybe it could be our generation that can flip our world order on its head, turning it into something dynamic, loving, and most importantly - real.

Look Up, Sometimes

2008-08-24T13:12:00.000-07:00

Distance blurring land and sky
Vastness that stifles the softest cry
Until entities blur into abstraction

Running into the horizon means
Stumbling through broken scenes
Twirling flipping disorientation

Memory of memories always ignite
Into firework displays of the corny and trite
Overwhelming heart striations

To think colours like this could glow
Beautifying the starkest crow
Emptiness into surreal satisfaction

Satisfaction in any liberating scream
Stifled by the heaviness of a moonbeam
In pleasing suffocation

Tranquility in a new unchartered home
To tread water and then plunge into the unknown
Deeper and deeper pulling the imagination

Good night, GC.

Give It A Try

2008-08-17T05:19:00.000-07:00

We made our return to the UB campus in the cold, empty and dazzling Gaborone dawn. You could just see the sun beginning to peak over the horizon, as if making a careful check of the landscape before pulling itself into the sky. It was 5:45 and with the help of Will's battered, but functional car, we had just made the rounds around the city dropping people off. Pat, Will and I dragged ourselves over to Pat's room. It had been Pat's last night in Gabs and now was his last morning and throughout the night at the studio it was hard for everyone to keep that fact out of their minds. I went through the horrible ordeal of the goodbye, and made my way upstairs and was asleep in seconds.

I've dealt with my fair share of goodbyes, some harder than others, but in general - they all suck. I've only known Pat for about 3 weeks and in the midst of group hugs, laughter, and what would have become mass tearfall if we had stuck around longer, it was beautiful. Pat's an amazing man, a creative and inspired artist, and I know if he sticks with his music and his ideas when he gets back to Salt Lake City it will really take him places. He just needed an awakening to shake him and tell him that he can do whatever he wants - even something as audacious as songwriting! I think Botswana was that awakening. I plan to keep in close contact with him and maybe get him to hit Penn for Spring Fling and play a few shows with me. His music is Green/Quad material for sure.

Hours at the studio tend to bleed into each other, fuse and blend until suddenly you look at your watch and realize you've been there for about twelve hours. I was boiling some water to cook up some Maggi noodles when I got a call from Pat telling me he was heading to the studio. I poured out the water, made a hasty (but delicious) peanut butter and jelly sandwich and hopped into a cab with Pat. It was about 5 pm, on Saturday. For the first time I brought my own sticks and my brushes. Some of my playing has been a little shaky at times lately, and it scares me so I am blaming it on the sticks Mex has at the studio that I'm not used to. It was much better last night, so maybe there is some merit to my excuse. We drove through the now familiar, and often confusing, sprawl of Gaborone, dust and sun filling the streets, and I munched on my sandwich and enjoyed the dry, cool breeze against my face. We stopped for fat cakes (a round, warm, delicious dougnuty bread without the sugar or the hole) and then walked the rest of the way to studio. On the way I had an interesting conversation with Pat about - surprise! - music. We were discussing his plans for when he returned and talked about how easy it is to do things, especially in the world of music, half-assed these days. It's so easy to record a couple of tracks that you're mildly satisfied with on GarageBand and have them up on your MySpace the next day. Then you record some more a few weeks later and add them up. One day you realize you have eleven decent tracks, burn them onto a blank, sprawl "Pat's Stuff" with permanent marker on the CD and give them (maybe sell them for five bucks) to your friends and family. He talked about how if he wanted to put all his heart into making music, he had to just drive straight ahead and fast, working hard, making sure every little guitar pluck and vocal croon is flawless, and then release it all together with a sexy design and even sexier production. Maybe it's something that applies to a lot of things, not only music. It's definitely one of those patience-testers, to be able to hold back creation, ideas, whatever until you really are ready to share. To be sure of something before you do it. To not just put it out there and then try and convince yourself it was the perfect thing to do. Interpret it any way you want, but I think it's worth thinking about and seeing where the thoughts eventually take you. Logic trains are fun, so hop on.

We reached the studio and after waiting outside for an elusive Mex, the door finally opened and we were greeted by an excited Mex and an even more excited Mexy (Mex's hyper-active mutt). Mex had been listening to his solo-house album that he says is near completion and it was great to see the pride on his face. Of course, to me house music sounds like its made by pistons and programs; I imagine this giant machine, somewhere in Northern Europe, churning out house music all day and all night - uhn tis uhn tis uhn tis uhn tis. But even with my dislike, it was refreshing to see Mex so excited about what he was creating. Khwezi, Shorty, Ngozi, Daniel, Ilana, as well as two fellow exchange students, Brianna and Walter, hadn't arrived yet so Mex decided to focus on the drums, get the right sound and maybe record something with Pat for a future track. While we knew it was Pat's last night and had to live it up, we also knew it was Pat's last night and had to get as much guitar recorded as possible! After some oodling and doodling and the arrival of some more of the crew Pat and I were recording the Intro and Outro to a new song, leaving a blank canvas in the middle for a funk-groove that could turn into more cascading verses and skipping rhymes courtesy of Khwezi and Shorty. Ngozi, accompanied by two other girls - Thato and S___ (names, especially of the Botswana variety, are difficult for me to retain sometimes), recorded some vocals for the Pat-inspired "Love Anthem," which is definitely one of the shining stars of the album. My jaw dropped and hung suspended for the hour of takes as the three girls' voices sent waves through the room that caressed and calmed, wowed and humbled. These people have so much talent and imagination, I am still in a state of stunned shock.

One of the highlights of the night came when Pat and I realized it was our last chance to jam and so we assembled outside, guitar and djembe, played some of the old favorites and launched into some blues accompanied once again by Daniel on the tin sandwich fitting perfectly into the pocket. We played for about thirty minutes, with impromptu backing vocals by Ngozi, Thato and S___. The night reached epic proportions when during a break, I received a text message from Anna who was away for the weekend telling us to look up. Questions of divine intervention inevitably surface when music, friendship, and carefree fun come together with a lunar eclipse! Could Pat have asked for a better last night in GC when to say goodbye, the Moon ducked behind Earth's shadow to really show him how wondrous the Gaborone sky could be. The stars seemed to wink mischievously as the shadow crossed over the moon as if waving. With the usual fine line between work and play, the night passed and people slowly made their way home until it was five in the morning and we realized we were, in fact, exhausted. It was myself, Mex, Lebo, Ngozi, Shorty, Khwezi, Will and Pat left over as morning made its first appearance. Goodbyes and logistics took about 45 minutes of group hugs, and procrastinating conversation. I know Pat had a profound effect on P. O. R. N. (the name of the band), and vice-versa and it's hard to believe in coincidences when witnessing people like this coming together. I know that Pat has had quite the effect on me, and I hope its reciprocated at least a little bit, even if its just him realizing he needs to get a drummer when he gets back to Salt Lake City.

Paradigm-changing events seem to keep leaping out of the shadows and slapping me in the face. I never really thought of music as a means for small-scale positive change, as a route to at least temporary happiness for the listeners. On Friday afternoon, Ilana, Ebony, Pat and I went to the Holy Cross Hospice, where Pat has been doing his social work, for a performance. We walked through the small converted house, and ended up in the back patio where the patients were sitting, waiting for lunch. Pat and I played a few songs accompanied by claps and dance, and then were joined by two of Pat's friends, Bearman and RB. Let me make a brief interruption to clarify that a lot of Batswana use the English translations of their given names - hence the people you meet named Pretty, Justice, Will (his name is actually God's Will), Dog Tail, and of course Bearman. With RB and Bearman's extra guitars, and the bonus of Bearman's harmonica playing and singing, we launched into some music I've never played before. It was hard to get a hold of the syncopated, non-linear, African rhythms, but once I got a hold of it, it was smooth-sailing through Pat's stunning guitar solos and Bearman's haunting call and response vocals. Once again my heart was reduced to wax to see the hospice patients, struggle to stand up and then dance, clap, yell and sing.

playing at Holy Cross Hospice with (from right: RB, Pat, myself, Bearman, spectator)

Music is so closely connected to emotion, to expression, to sharing, that it truly is beautiful when you get to see the effects of that in reality. To witness the emotion of the musician as much as the emotion of the listener and to create these connections that supersede language, culture, race, beliefs. Whoever you are, you can take in music in whatever way you want to, create or destroy any sort of connection you want, all with the tap of a drum, breath of a voice, or pluck of a guitar. It's as mysterious as it is awesome, and I apologize if I write about music too much, but right now the making of it, the sharing of it, the hearing of it, is helping me lift spirits and soar.

I'll make an effort to shift from musical jargon. Classes are going really well. I'm glad I'm taking courses here that I really couldn't take at Penn. It can be frustrating sometimes, to be in a different system where so much depends on note-taking, recitation and copying, and where some classes are far too large to have any sort of interaction with professors. Or at least that's what they told us during orientation. I'm noticing, however, that in many of my classes, Mfecane for instance, or South African Politics, the professors put a lot of stress on interactions. Class presentations play a big role in the class and the professors are constantly asking questions, not afraid to veer off topic to ask the class what they think about Botswana's president, Ian Khama, boycotting the SADC meeting because of Mugabe's presence or asking Ilana and I about the American electoral system. I haven't been this excited to learn for a while, mostly because everything is brand new (I didn't even know how to pronounce 'Mfecane' before taking the class - there's a click in it). So in the spirit of blank slates, dry sponges and no expectations, I'm ready to soak in as much as I can.

Despite being surrounded by beautiful people, and having moved around a lot in my life, always away from someone I care about, I've never really felt distance and the feeling of missing like I do here. Perhaps geographical distance plays a part in it. To think of friends in Philly, Texas, Canada, Indonesia and family in SF, DC, India, and Bali is to think of people really really far away. If I wanted to hop over to one of them, it would take me at least a day and it's both scary and exciting to feel so isolated in this land-locked desert country. Maybe its something beyond geography too, related more to the intangibility of experience. There's no way, no matter what I write or how I write it, that I could properly express what I've been experiencing since arriving here. There are things I don't want to write, there are things I can't write and there are things I wish I could write. The mind and heart, even when in tandem, work in strange ways creating clutter and incomprehensibility, and so to try and spit that out into words seems and is actually impossible. But I just hope I can come close and let my family, friends, and those in between know that I miss them, love them, and am alive as well as living.

***

Reading:
just finished You Shall Know Our Velocity! by Dave Eggers
God's Bits of Wood by Sembene Ousmane

Listening:
Opeth - Watershed
Thievery Corporation - The Richest Man In Babylon
Sonic Youth - A Thousand Leaves
Steve Reich - Six Pianos: Variations for Winds, Strings, and Keyboards

Clutter

2008-08-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

I've never been the organized type. When my parents would storm into my room and yell about clutter, not living properly, and pig sties, I would reassure them that it all makes sense to me. That it worked the same way as my mind. Imagine a giant store-room; austere and plain, four corners, steel walls that create deep echoed acoustics. Now imagine the room filled in every direction with papers of different sizes, pictures, photos, text with different handwriting and typeface - some legible some not - adorning the scattered documents. Sounds, both the mundane and the musical, rebounding from wall to wall filling the room with an indistinguishable din. Sometimes you can hear a rhythm but most of the time it sounds like early-Sonic Youth...with more noise. That's my mind. So in an attempt to update myself and anyone who reads this I will compartmentalize. I will wade through the junk, turn the volume down, and start putting things into boxes. It's only been a few days since I last wrote and the clutter is already getting unmanageable.

Classes:

I'm not only playing music, exploring myself and the place, and self-reflecting here. I am, actually, an enrolled student at the University of Botswana and after a slow first couple of days where I wasn't really a student - officially - and professors preferred sleeping in over going to class things are picking up. The classes I am taking : The African Novel, Critical Issues in Modern African Literature, Politics of South Africa, Mfecane and the Settler Scramble in Southern Africa, and Intro to Setswana. All the classes seem really interesting, and I'm already learning a lot. A workload hasn't really happened yet, but its only been a week and some of the books we need aren't even available in the bookstore yet - so I'm not too worried. It's going to feel great learning things I know close to nothing about. Our first Politics of South Africa class had my knowledge of the country's history and current situation tripled in a matter of two hours. Things are tense in South Africa right now, as they wait for the court's verdict on the Zuma case. I don't know enough about it yet to give my opinion, but hopefully that will come in time. There's some tension in the political situation of Botswana too. The new president has bypassed parliament a couple of times already to introduce new schemes like a 70% tax on alcohol - woe is me. He's also trying to pass a Media Practioners Bill that would place certain restrictions on journalists - mandatory 'courses,' government permission for publication, etc. In a country that has prided itself on being an oasis of democracy in Africa for the past forty years, these measures are causing some raised eyebrows both in the media and in the general population. Anyway, I'm excited about all my classes and hopefully I'll know more about what I'm talking about in a couple of months.

I Like Steak:

Last night I was outside the dorms and ran into Justice, a local celebrity (he was on Big Brother Africa) and UB student, along with a sizable crew of the international students on their way to a 'jazz club' called Red Dot. Of course I was interested. I began following them and then, after realizing I had forgotten someone, went back, retrieved my friend Anna, and we began our catch up walk to the Gaborone Sun Hotel to catch a cab to Red Dot. We were still walking in the campus towards the gate when a familiar car pulled up alongside us and began beeping its horn wildly. The window went down and a smiling Mex and Khwezi (not Kwayze as I had previously spelled his name) greeted us. They were in the neighborhood and decided to stop by to say hi to us and were heading to Red Dot afterwards. After a brief conversation session with Pat, Daniel, and Ilana, Anna and I got back into their car and headed to the 'jazz club.' The ride was long, fun, and filled with blow-your-ears-out hip hop. I had this vision of Red Dot being a smoky jazz club, cool cat in the corner tickling the keys, espresso resting on the piano-top. It was not. Think small bar, giant sandy parking lot, hundreds of people battling for music supremacy with tricked out trunks, and lots and lots of meat. It took us a few minutes to navigate the maze of cars, people, and sand until we found parking. We said hello to the other kids who had come before us and headed for the bar. After peeling our way through the throngs of people we reached the bar and I was too busy soaking in the chaos to catch Mex before he bought us all a round of drinks and, of course, meat. He distractedly handed me the cardboard plate stacked ten inches high with raw beef and followed, beers in hand, outside to the grills. Khwezi took over from there and threw the meat on the grill already crowded with other people's steaks as I watched in amazement. We, in the rest of the world, think its pretty cool when someone moves their finger through a candle. Here, in the crowd of steaks (I don't know how one keeps track of their food), people reached and grabbed, hands in flame a-la-Gaius Mucius Scaevola, flipping and rearranging. Occasionally someone would sacrifice a little bit and pour a splash of beer on their steaks sending the flames leaping high into the sky. Needless to say the steak with the inevitable side order of pap was delicious. As I sipped on my Windhoek and tore the meat apart with my bare hands I was happy. Happiness can be as simple as a steak, a beer, and good company. I apologize to any vegetarians. Veggie burger if you prefer, but I hope the point still stands. Of course it helps that I'm in Botswana and have been fortunate enough to meet people like Mex and Khwezi. Which brings us to the next compartment in the clutter -

Music, Music, Music:

I've played more music here in Botswana over the past two weeks than I have over two years in Philadelphia. There's rhythm and melody in the air. It's so easy, too easy, to just breathe it in and let it flow out. After dinner and drinks at Red Dot, we headed back to the studio again to hear the progress on some of the tracks I recorded earlier. Studio visits are becoming a regular thing and I am loving it. I had been talking about it a lot so some of the other exchange students were interested in joining. Franka (German), Sabina (Dutch) and Rafael a Mexican student from the University of Texas all filed into the mini-back seat of Mex's car and we left for the studio. Rafael had told me he played jazz piano and I knew Mex, sound-engineer and producer-extraordinairre would love it. He did, and within a few minutes Rafael and I were laying down a bossa-nova groove that slowly morphed its way into an intensely subtle hip-hop groove that Khwezi and Shorty decided they were going to rhyme over for one of the CD tracks. I have now recorded on three separate, all drastically different tracks and I'm excited to work with these inspired artists more and see the finished product. Tomorrow we'll be going to Kwest for actual open mic night and hopefully bust out a few tracks and end up at the studio later in the night.

Even when I'm not jamming with Pat and/or People Of Revolutionary Nature (alternatively People of Religious Nature, Peace Out Relax Now, etc - you work out the acronym) music seems to keep tapping me on the shoulder and also saving me. A lot has been on my mind recently, and it's been really difficult dealing with some of the changes that have gone in in the past weeks but music always seems to be there to remind me why I love it so much and how simple peace can be when banging on things. This morning Daniel, Ilana and I ran into an old acquaintance of Ilana's. Ilana had told me about Thabo over an email this summer. He's a Motswana percussionist, tour guide, gumboot dancer, the list goes on, who looks like he wakes up every morning and walks through a rainbow. Colorful bead bracelets blend into silk technicolored tunics and wavy chameleon pants. His dreadlocks stick out of the hat on his head just enough to say hello and tease as to what the sight might be like without said hat. Within minutes we were sitting on the grass, him with his beautiful West African djembe and me on my trusty doumbek improvising and then jamming along to Enigma and the Flaming Lips. We parted with each other's phone numbers and plans for many the jam session including a bonfire and full moon drum circle in a couple of weeks. Music keeps holding out its arms for me and bringing me in for a comforting pat on the back, a reminder that beauty is everywhere. I hope that I've been able to take that message, take that embrace and pass it on even just a little bit through my playing.

Keabetswe:

On Saturday afternoon, Pat, Daniel, Ilana and I got into a cab and left the UB campus for a village about 30 km out of Gabs called Khama Kwane (or something). We had some rough directions, a guitar, a doumbek, a camera, and trusty Maud (Daniel's wonderful, pocket size, multi-direction recording device). We were heading to the home of Keabetswe Sebolao. Keabetswe is probably in his twenties and was born with a spinal cord dysfunction that has left him paralyzed from the neck down and unable to speak. He has spent most, or all, of his life lying on a mat in a small, four-walled clay room, cared for by his mother. Pat, through his social work here, had met him before and was told of his love for music - an antiquated radio in the corner of the room is the only real furnishing besides the mat. Upon that meeting Pat had played a song for Keabetswe and promised he would return. So we were heading to the village to visit him and play a few songs for him. It took about an hour and a half to reach Khama Kwane and another thirty minutes of winding through dusty streets, sparse shrubbery, and cinder block homes interspersed with traditional clay huts, to find the Sebolao house. We finally found someone who hopped into the car and navigated our way there for us. We entered the main courtyard of the house, greeted Keabetswe's mother and entered Keabetswe's room. As soon as he saw us, the familiar face of Pat, and our instruments he began smiling, moving his head just enough to raise it from the mattress and show his appreciation. We launched into a cover of Bright Eyes' "First Day of My Life," and as the songs progressed the village children began filling up the room, first as wallflowers and then as involved, dancers, clappers, singers, and yelpers. Every once in a while I'd catch Keabetswe's eye and his face would turn into a beaming smile.

music for Keabetswe

I had to swallow back tears a couple of times throughout the playing. I couldn't figure out whether they were tears of joy, sadness, compassion - maybe all three. As I reached down to give my thanks and farewell to Keabetswe I hoped that the music had hugged him, had shown him the beauty in life even when it was probably so hard to see. I just hoped that we touched him in some way close to how he touched me.

Botswana continues to seduce, surprise, and share in the best possible way.

The Forensic Ear

2008-08-07T03:57:00.000-07:00

I woke up for my 9 AM class on Wednesday slightly dazed, with a dull headache, and a smile on my face. It felt like I had woken up from a fantastical dream filled with freestyle rhymes, art filling the space in every corner and between every soundwave, headphones, and stimulating, eye-opening conversation. It took a few minutes, and a cup of coffee to realize that I had instead woken up from a night that took place in reality, not the dreamworld, that included all of those things and more.

As I have previously mentioned I have been spending a lot of my time jamming with Pat - an intelligent, creative, laid back, and hilarious middle-aged social worker/musician/full-time hippy. He has been here for the past three months finishing up his practicum for his masters in social work. It is also worth mentioning that the Pat that Ilana, Daniel and I have been enjoying is only a recent manifestation of a Pat who spent years married and designing "bad-ass garbage disposal trucks" in a period he refers to as 'Hell.' In the past few months, starting with a chance conversation on the streets of Gabs, Pat has been writing, jamming, and recording with a group of Batswana artists (in every sense of the word). For the past week or so, since Daniel, Ilana and I have been hanging out with Pat, he's been talking about this group of people incessantly and how bringing us and them together was a dire necessity that would inevitably result in magic. Well Tuesday night it happened and, sure enough, there were sparks, flame, and other incendiary explosions of magic for hours and hours.

Every other Tuesday at a quaint restaurant/bar at the Main Mall called Kwest there is an open mic poetry night. While we weren't sure whether that night was the on-night or the off-night we decided to arrange a visit anyway, with hopes that Pat and I could press out some tunes at the open mic. It turned out to be the off-night for 'Kwest Poetry Night,' but was surely not an off night in the traditional sense of the word. The guys, including the two main MCs of the group, Kwayze (sp?) and Shorty, came to pick us up at the Graduate Village and we made our way in the two cars to the restaurant. Short introductions were given and then everyone launched into a sudden frenzy of art and idea sharing; Daniel showing photos, Ngozi (girl who is part of the band/group/whatever you want to call it) displaying some flawless pencil-work, and some profound discussions on music between Pat, Kwayze and myself. After a couple of drinks and a 'North African Salad' we realized, as we heard the torturous sounds of 70's new-wave synth-pop coming from the inside of the restaurant, that poetry night was not on. That wasn't going to stop us though and Pat and I, with Daniel on his trusty mouth organ, set up in the corner of the balcony and launched into some blues. It was great to have the attention of such a creative, artistic, imaginative crowd and it really shone through in our next song. We played one of Pat's originals, a song that he wrote during his stay here in Botswana called "Give It A Try," with Ngozi supporting him on vocals with some beautiful harmonies. Towards the end of the track there's a slow, hauntingly melancholy riff that Pat plays on repeat ad nauseum. At about the fifth time around the loop one of the guys began to speak in a style somewhere between spoken word poetry and rap. As the words ran into eachother, slipping and sliding between the breaths and spaces, I got that all too unfamiliar feeling of synchronization where something I'm playing just fits like one hand in another. As one voice faded out another came in, as Kwayze stepped in adding his own poetic flair, and then Kago (more on him later) ended things as Pat and I slowly faded into silence, my palms slapping the drumskin slowly becoming fingers barely touching it. And then the bartender interrupted with "can I get anyone else drinks or are you guys good?" Ngozi summed up the feeling pretty well: "Back to reality!"

I would have been happy if the night had ended there and would have gone to sleep a different person than the one I woke up as, but the night was only going to get better. When the bill had been worked out we headed to Mex's studio, the place where the group plus Pat has been recording. The ride was fairly uneventful... No, the ride was highly eventful. You see, I was sitting next to the aforementioned Kago.

I could go into great detail about Kago, his situation, and the effect he and the circumstances had on me, but I will only skim the surface as I don't think I am comfortable with, or qualified to really dive into the depths. Kago is a friend of the musicians and was at the restaurant and so was invited to join them at the studio. I know what its like, and how "the studio" usually is more of a social venue than a musical one. What we found out later in the night was that Kago and his girlfriend, Marsha, had a child about a year ago who passed away three weeks ago. Until the point that I learned of this, Kago just seemed like a beligerent drunk. He talked a lot and a lot of nonsense for the entire car ride to the studio, only interrupted by me nodding my head in mock agreement or Pat letting out an exasperated "Jeeeesus..." At the studio, it continued but when I found out what had happened I was taken aback and understood. Then I saw the way that the other guys and especially Ngozi was treating him and I was utterly touched and even realized some of my own shortcomings. Here was a guy who was being nothing short of obnoxious. Talking loudly and yelling when Mex was trying to record something, asking silly questions, and generally being a nuisance to the entire group. Yet I never saw anyone lose their temper (except maybe Kwayze, but it was done in a quasi-jesting manner). Again and again I'd see Ngozi telling Kago as he self deprecated himself, "you are a beautiful person. We all know you are such a beautiful person and that's why we love you so much." I've never seen such beauty and pure amistad in people. They were entirely selfless as they would delay recording a song to talk to him, reassure him despite his incessant interruptions. I won't elaborate further on what it was like to see all of this or to hear Marsha talking about the death of her baby, as I don't think I am fit to fully portray it.

We arrived at the studio, and walked through an entrance of the house into what used to be a garage but was now a fully (or at least close to fully) equipped studio. A few guitars in the corner, an old but fully functional drumset, the familiar sight of tangled cords and speakers framing the magic box of the computer. It felt amazing to be in a studio again, as it has been over two years since I was in Studio 267 in Jakarta with Mercy Beat. Mex, the producer/sound engineer/guru walked in looking as if he had just woken up scooping strawberry yogurt into his mouth as he booted the computer. First thing we did was listen to some of the stuff the group has been recording with Pat and I was left, to use a word that fascinates me, - flabbergasted. I've never heard stuff like this. Intricate, hard hitting hip hop riffs with rhymes by Kwayze and Shorty flipping and spinning over them, backed with the acoustic guitar riffs and soothing voice of Pat sprinkled into the mix like ginger in squash soup. The material they are creating, the recipes they are concocting, are completely new and immediately I was so grateful to be able to hear it from the artists themselves. And then I became a part of it.

The recording of Pat's song that I already mentioned, "Give It A Try," with Ngozi was the agenda for that night at the studio. After a round-table meeting, sans table, where every member of the group gave their two thebe on how they think the song should sound, I was suddenly in the curtained make-shift sound booth, my ears hugged by headphones rolling away on my doumbek along with Pat - recording. I was recording. On an album. In Botswana. With amazing people. I know I have talked about how I haven't quite come to terms with the fact that I'm really here right now - in Botswana. But at that moment, I wasn't really anywhere. I was ecstatic, completely in my element, feeling the music - not only playing it. I could almost feel the soundwaves entering my blood stream, reverberating through veins and arteries, and as I tried to get my bearings and say to myself - "you are recording in Botswana, right now," I couldn't stop smiling. After the first take, when I peaked around the curtain to see Ilana and Daniel absorbed in their notebooks, I could tell they were having similar feelings by the (here I go again) flabbergasted expression on their faces. It wasn't over. I realized I was sitting on another drum (seating at the studio was scarce), a "homemade djembe" as Mex called it, and minutes later I was recording a second, different drum track over the first. And then a third with another drum. And then the moment I had been waiting for. Three months without a drumset is to a drummer what three months without a drink is to an alcoholic. I was ITCHING to play. So when Mex suggested we could record a subtle drumset track over the other drums, despite me saying it didn't quite fit with the song at first, I immediately jumped onto the djembe and sat behind the kit. It was refreshing working with Mex. The way he approached the recording process was like nothing I've experienced. He really was a producer, not just an unenthusiastic sound engineer being paid by the hour. Every step of the way, as he made no efforts to hide his excitement that he was finally able to record some drums, he was asking me my opinion. "What do you think about the mics here? I'm thinking maybe you should do something like this, but I don't really know, what do you think? Is this okay? Is that okay? What do you think about starting the drums here? Sha'p, sha'p." Once again as I started playing the drums, despite a few takes of working out the rust in my joints, I was transported somewhere else and returned to Earth just in time to realize, again, that I was recording. On an album. In Botswana. With amazing people.

The recording continued, with more breaks than recording sessions as is the usual studio environment, and it wasn't until about 3 in the morning that we realized we really needed to head home if we wanted to make it to class the next morning. I wish I was a better writer, as maybe talent and skill are necessary to portray something like this. I, sure as hell, am not doing it justice. Not only did I get to record music with some inspired and inspiring Batswana artists but I saw what it is like to be part of something totally new. The word 'underground' makes it sound like something stationary and hiding. What these people are part of isn't the underground, it's a movement. They all believe in Art, they all believe in themselves. They believe in good conversation, good friendships, creation and creativity. At one point Kwayze began talking about what he calls "the forensic ear;" the ability to hear something and dismantle it simultaneously. Listen for the parts that blow the mind, and the parts that underwhelm, figure out how to improve it. Dissect and rebuild, shatter and sculpt, simultaneously tear down the art around you while taking the shards and building something new and brilliant. I look forward to the many nights at the studio I hope to spend with Daniel, Ilana, Mex, Kwayze, Shorty, Ngozi and the rest bringing all of our worldviews, experiences, and creativity together to shape and construct the brand new. Pat leaves in a little over ten days and we are going to miss him very very much, but I'm forever indebted to him for introducing me to these young artists who are building a brand new edifice of art, music and ideas that should and will shine over Botswana and the world.

Where Am I?

2008-08-04T03:53:00.000-07:00

A question in my head that seems to be morphing itself into words lately. I asked it at a house party on Saturday night, where a small coupe had pulled up, opened its trunk, and began blasting "Soulja Boy" from speakers the size of my head. I asked it this morning as I entered my first class, Critical Issues in Modern African Literature, and the lecturer wasn't present. I ask it now as I sit in my room looking out onto the bustling University of Botswana campus. No matter how settled I become, no matter how diligently I build my own nest with sticks, memories and open spaces, my mouth will continue to form shapes and release that conundrum of a question: Where. Am. I?

What does it mean to be in a completely new place? I've had a lot of questions from Batswana students about what expectations I had before coming here. They always seem to break into laughter mid-question imagining my presuppositions about Botswana : lions roaming freely down the street, dirt roads, water out of the communal well. The truth is I had no expectations. It's hard to come into a new place with a clean, polished whiteboard of a mind. I feel like I have done so, for better or for worse. How do you create expectations about a place you really know close to nothing about? You can't, and in the tradition of double-edged swords throughout our lives, here we run point-blank into another one. I haven't quite figured out what it means to be here. In fact, as that mind-bombarding question implicates, I haven't quite figured out where the hell I even am? This floating in the dark leaves me a little lost and feeling a little light, but I'm levitating and that's exciting, right?

As I use this post as a way to sort my own mind, burrow through the layers and layers of fresh produce on my mental shelves, I ask you to bear with me and maybe even think a little bit about what it really means to be somewhere. The transience of this journey, the bell that's going to ring in six months and send me spinning back into Philadelphia surely plays a part. To really be somewhere, to really understand that I am in Botswana, does it mean I have to spend every second of every day seeing as much as I can, galavanting around the continent with a camera glued to my face? Or is it just as important to spend a good amount of time doing nothing? Sitting, watching, thinking. Is dynamism, movement, kinetics really superior to statis? Perhaps it's one of those 'balance' things. Of course I want to see as much as I can, I've always been one who runs into the arms of new experience. I'm just afraid it will all go zipping past in front of me too fast for me to reach out and grab hold of, let alone see. I'm perfectly okay with pulling the reigns and ambling through the new. The new is far too precious and delicate to just recklessly sprint through.

Another question relating to that huge, looming, umbrella of a one, is how did I end up here with two people I love immensely and find wonderful, entertaining, and amazing in every single way? How did Ilana, Daniel, and I (three people with completely different lives) end up going to Botswana together? It's totally nuts and impossible to wrap one's head around. The best Ilana and I could do to try and formulate an answer was bring back a hazy memory of a Saturday night at The Body when I slurred to Ilana, "Hey. I'm going to Botswana. Daniel might come too. Wanna come?" "YESSSSSS!" was her, as usual, grinning, smiley response.

About five months later and here we are at the University of Botswana refrectory lining up for pap, salty beef, and bug juice. It's wild, it's ridiculous, it's impossible, it's silly, but most of all, it's absolutely beautiful.

***

So, as I mentioned, I had my first class today. No, let me rephrase that. I was supposed to have my first class. It's been a while since I've had first day jitters, but as I stumbled through the puzzling lay out of UB trying to find Block 232 with an equally-confused Ilana by my side, the Monarch butterflies in my stomach through a rave. That proverbial blank whiteboard that I've entered this new environment with is itching to be covered with ink. Alas, as we were warned the professor did not show up (this is normal for the first week parents, do not fret). So Ilana and I collectively remembered the beautiful, often embarrassing innocence of elementary school for a few minutes and then made our way back to the Graduate Village. Our impressive herd of frustrated and enthusiastic exchange students will be meeting in about an hour with Charity, our communal mother here, and registration should be completed and classes should be sorted out. As I've learned here, however, "should" isn't a word that holds a lot of weight, so I'm not expecting much.

In the meantime, I will just reiterate how new and exciting it all is. It hits me the most when I look up and see the endless Southern African sky, cloudless and blue until the sun sets and everything explodes into hues of purple, red, orange, and yellow. Then the famous Botswana diamonds show their glory, and the black blanket above gets littered with a thousand and one tiny glowing specks, sometimes fusing to form mysterious stretches of milky waves. The wide, open spaces stretching in every direction dwarf me, and there's comfort in that tininess not brought about by the sheer number of people around me at any moment (something I'm far too used to) but rather the sheer amount of nothingness that envelops me. All I can really do is ask myself "where am I?" and start trying to put together an appropriate answer.

***

I'm all about sharing whats making its way through people's eyes and ears so I'll give occasional updates, and please do the same. Especially my music people - I fear I'll be a little behind what's happening upon my return.

Listening:
Colin McPhee - Symphony #2
Stomu Yamash'ta - Music of the Future, Vol. 2
Alkaline Trio - Agony and Irony
Propagandhi - Today's Empires, Tomorrow's Ashes

Reading:
Tintin and the Secret of Literature, Tom McCarthy

Dumela / Intro Credits

2008-08-03T05:07:00.000-07:00

Um.. Hmm... Well...
These are the first words that come to mind as I stare at the sneering, blinking cursor and think about the avalanche of new experience that has buried me in its sandy snow since arriving in Gaborone, Botswana one week ago. It seems disgustingly cliché to start out this blog with an ambiguous, rhetorical "Where do I start?" but I'll do it anyway.

Where Do I Start?

The Journey:
If one were to look at my travel itinerary of the past two months they might think it was a copy of one of Jules Verne's original drafts for Around The World In Eighty Days. It was ridiculous, amazing, and eye-opening even in the places I have already been to / lived in for five years of my life. It looked a little like this : Philadelphia - Chicago - DC - London - Malaga - London - Singapore - Jakarta - Bali - Surabaya - Kuala Lumpur - Doha - Dubai - Addis Ababa - Johannesburg - Gaborone. The homecoming, the vacations, and even the transit stopovers were all fantastic and I appreciate every frequent flyer mile I hoarded (thanks Papa). The most exciting, frustrating, and dazed of those legs was definitely the Dubai - Addis - Joburg one. As Harris dropped me at the airport in Dubai, I didn't exactly have all my wits together due to some extraneous circumstances. I walk through the metal detector as I have done again and again - BEEP BEEP BEEP - "do you have a belt sir?" - fumble, fumble, unbuckle - "thank you. have a good flight." - "thank you. " And I walk away. It is not until 2 hours later as I sit on the plane and observe the frequency that I am pulling up my plants that I realize that some lucky security man now owns the one belt I once owned. (Thank you Ilana for flowering me with flowery belts for the last few days).

My brief stopover in Djibouti and then the more lengthy one in Addis Ababa were fairly uneventful. I wish I had arrived earlier in Addis as I only had time to check into my hotel, enjoy a beer and conversation with an Ethiopian businessman, and wake up in time for a breakfast and a ride back to the airport. The one observation I was able to pick up from my stay in Ethiopia : everybody runs in Addis Ababa. As I sat in the back of the hotel van on my way to the airport in the wee hours of the morning, every where I looked were herds of joggers, sprinters, and even some that seemed to be neither but were still, of course, running. Can anyone say Abebe Bikila?

I arrived in Johannesburg and I thought twice about going out and getting a coffee when I saw the sign hanging over the Arrivals section that read "ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK" with a highlighted picture of a revolver under the letters. And then the sinker occurred. Have you ever been at Baggage Claim and felt that slow sinking of the heart as the interval between suitcases exiting that merciless portal becomes longer and longer until the conveyor belt shrieks to a halt and your flight number disappears from the display screen. No bags. Connection to Gaborone on a different airline in an hour. Bureaucracy. After being sent to three different places I finally got to a stand where the lovely lady behind the counter calmly said "no, I'm afraid we don't know where your bags are, but here's my number - call me from Gabs." Grin. I spent my two hour delay making lists of all the things I would have to buy in Gabs to replace all my possessions. Finally, I boarded the rickety, two-propellor plane and stared out the window at the barren extraterrestrial landscape below for an hour until we bounced, quite literally, our way down the runway of Sir Seretse Khama International Airport, Gaborone. Pick up was easy - because I had no bags. The next day I would learn that my bags had inadvertantly been sent to Lagos, Nigeria, from Addis Ababa and a day after that I would pick them up at the airport completely intact, untouched, and slightly damp from a rainstorm in Lagos. Or Addis. Or Joburg. Who knows. My bags have seen more of Africa than I have. Maybe I'll ask them a thing or two.

The reunion with Daniel and Ilana was as epic as I had imagined it would be and as our days together went on, things only got better and better. As Ilana and I discussed and allegorized while I may have slipped and tripped down the ladder of fortune a few times in a few different ways in the weeks leading up to my arrival, there was now nothing to do but wipe my brow and begin a steady climb back up. And that we did.

Kamogelo:
The morning after I arrived, Daniel and I joined Abby and Ilana on one of their routine combi (small, packed minibuses with nonsense like COMBI4LIFE and SILENTPREDATOR WordArted to their rear windows) out to the day care center that they have been working at for the past two months. My heart remained intact for about the first five minutes until it immediately melted into a more waxy, water-based substance as crowds of smiling kids began to hang off limbs, give thumbs up, and poke my Adam's apple in amazement. Perhaps it was superficial, as their reaction is probably very similar whenever an unfamiliar face enters the schoolyard, but I felt a connection with some of the kids that went beyond just simple fascination. This reached its pinnacle in a percussive frenzy when Daniel with his harmonica and me with my doumbek began to jam. Some observations from this jam session:

1) Batswana kids can really shake it.
2) Music really is a universal language that can bring people of widely different backgrounds, interests, ages, everythings together.
3) Daniel's tin sandwich skills have improved significantly.

It's really amazing how simple happiness can be. As my fingers rolled over the head of the doumbek and Daniel's shallow breaths transformed themselves into melody, and kids hung off my neck and smiled and screamed and shook, I really was perfectly and purely happy. Depending on our class schedules which are still very much in the air, I hope to be able to go to Kamogelo at least once a week during my five month stint here.

Orientation:
In three y-tailed words? Anxiety, Bureaucracy, Frenzy.
Dead ends and detours, registration woes, paralyzing newness, wacky cool and wackily cool new friends from Botswana, and less expectedly Germany, Norway, the Netherlands, Mexico, and the States. All the other international students studying abroad here are all really interesting in their own lovely ways. And the Batswana that I've met only keep reconfirming that they may be the friendliest people in the world.

Orientation has consisted of repetitive but informing lectures, dinner and dancing around a fire at a masterpiece of a house in a small village outside of the city, bus tours of the city, and lots of "what are you studying"s "oh, tell me about your little town in Norway"s and "here, you call me and then I'll have your number"s. I'm used to moving around a lot and as a result I love introducing myself and am not all that opposed to small talk. But something about this time makes it very different. Maybe it's because I'm in Botswana now. Or maybe it's my age. The experience of settling in to a new place is undoubtedly different for a seven year old, a thirteen year old, a seventeen year old, and a nineteen year old. Whatever the reasoning, there's something really exciting about this whole beginning thing.

Music:
After lugging my aluminum doumbek across four continents it has truly proven its worth. On Wednesday night after a Quizzo session at the Bull and Bush, we (Daniel, Ilana, and I) came home to an impromptu German party in Daniel's apartment (did I mention there were a lot of German exchange students?) We mingled, laughed, and then I remembered the existence of one of Daniel's roommates, Pat. Pat is a middle-aged, Texan social worker with long hair, an impressive beard, and a guitar. One thing led to another and Pat and I, with the aid of Daniel and his harmonica "slipping into the pockets" put on an impromptu gig. He is a fantastic songwriter, a great conversationist, and full of ideas and I look forward to exploring the Gaborone music scene with him in the next couple of weeks. It's been a long time since I felt a strong connection, creatively, with another musician (at least since last summer) and it was a very relaxing, almost surreal experience. Every percussion tap, nylon pluck, and exhale of breath just...fit.

The Dam:
We went to the Gaborone Dam on Thursday evening. The bar was closed. But a rock to sit on is all you need when you're looking at this:

I realized the task I had ahead of me, recounting the onslaught of experience when I asked the question, "where do I start?" and now comes the inevitable "where do I end?" There's a lot I haven't elaborated on in sufficient detail and there are things I haven't even mentioned that I have been experiencing a great deal of : the nightlife, for instance, or choosing classes and figuring out what I want from the months ahead But all that will come. There's plenty of time. I've come to realize that so many of the events, influences, and people in our lives are completely transient. Very little, nothing even, is permanent. And as obvious and pessimistic as this may sound, I don't think its either. There is no 'good' or 'bad' in looking at the episodic nature of life. It's important to understand, and I think I am finally understanding it, that no matter how transient, temporary, and slippery the things that enter and leave our lives may be, there is beauty in the permanence of their effect on you. Nothing really lasts. People, places, and things change every day. Whether in slight, unnoticeable ways, or drastic, traumatic, epiphanous ways and every alteration shapes you into one form or another. To me the transiency I see around me isn't a good thing. It isn't a bad thing. It's just a thing.

So as I look ahead of me into the next five months of my life here in Botswana and try to figure out what I'm doing here I take up the permanence of the past and launch into another exercise in beautiful transiency. There's a lot about everything (I'm very good at being vague), that I still need to figure out. But I'm glad this next episode is happening here in this entirely new country of Botswana, in this entirely new region of the world. I was ready for The Entirely New and I'm happy its here.