Fine

So this is it...

Whoa. It feels like I was thrown out of a combi and onto an airplane. Probably because I was.

Me: I can't decide if I have a stomachache or not.
Mom: Maybe it's malaria.

Thanks, Mom.

My thought process: Oooh, look, sushi in the airport. No, it's like 9AM. Besides, I should finish my ostrich biltong first.

Saturday night, Simba held a braai for us. I was, erm, avoiding alcohol, but it was still fun. There was loud music and dancing. Also, watermelons.















The best part of the evening, though, was the combi ride home. We sang Christmas carols as loud as we could. Let me tell you, I can out-carol even Christians.














Simba said good-bye to all of us at the airport and I cried and consoled myself with a fatcake. (For some reason, I may not have mentioned fatcakes yet. They're fried dough balls, a staple in the Setswana diet. My classmates have been known to eat up to 16 of them in a day. The best fatcakes in Bots are sold across from the bus stop in Shorobe for 50t each, or about $0.08.)








In Jo'burg, I noticed the difference immediately. There were so many white people. I didn't stand out. No one stared at me. No one even made eye contact. It is not normal to greet every cashier or staff member with "Hello, sir (or ma'am), how are you?"






When the plane took off, I noticed that we were leaving the most beautiful place on Earth, and I cried again, but was was easily distracted by Megan's Rubik's cube. Oh, the cube.
















Leaving Jo'burg, (with some ginger candy, ostrich biltong, UK Cosmo, Popular Mechanic, and Time) it was as strange to see the little plane icon leaving southern Africa as it was strange to see it approaching Dakar four months ago. Southenr Africa is (was) home. Northern AFrica looked foreign. And the U.S....

The only context I had for experiencing the flight is the memory of the flight 3 1/2 months ago. It's different, though. I'm different. We had TV's on this plane. I got my special lactard veggie meal.

It's a lot of the same, too.

I'm leaving home, a familiar culture. I'm leaving friends who have become family to return to family and friends who I fear won't recognize me. I'm leaving a high context situation and entering a low context one. I'll have to explain what's on my mind.

I'll have to explain why I stare at every white person who passes. I'll have to explain why I address everyone as "sire" or "ma'am" (or "rra" or "mma"). I'll have to explain why farting is funny. I'll have to explain that, no, I don't have chicken pox, I was attacked by mosquitoes this week. No, I didn't go on vacation, I got sunburned from walking the Main Mall in Gabs wihtout a hat. I'll expect to buy groceries at Spar. I'll separate cities into the Ex-pat Side and the Old Mall Side. I'll be amazed by cars and traffic lights and refrigerators and toilet seats and 2-ply toilet paper.

It would be easier to stay with the people who know these things already.

Once in Atlanta, I had to indulge in the culinary delights of the USA: Panda Express and Ben & Jerry's waffle cone (without the ice cream).

My body still thinks it's in Africa. I have to consciously remind myself that the signs read "Miami", not "Maun"; "Durham", not "Durban"; and "O'Hare", not "Harare". (Though I am suddenly amused by the prospect of "O'Harare": the half-Irish Zim.)

My parents met me at the airport with sushi. All is well.




















I'm home.

I've started my new blog. It's called "Guided Meandering" and is located at:
http://robininprovidence.blogspot.com/

I hope you enjoy.

Serious Shits

This will be the penultimate blog entry. (I always wanted to use the word 'penultimate' in a sentence and be completely serious.) I'll do one last one when I get home or soon after. It feels really strange to say that. Seeing it in writing makes it real. I'm crying a little in an internet cafe.

I think I'm going to continue writing, but it won't be Robin in Africa, because I won't be in Africa any longer. I'm going to need a new blog for After Africa. I'm currently thinking of a good title (or waiting for Megan to think of a good title).

Some statistics:
Total days in Bots = 105
Pictures of lions = 77
National Parks Visited = 3
Total pictures = 1523
Species of antelope seen = 9
Length of ISP (pages) = 25
Attempts at playing cricket = 2
Nights at Sedia = 32
Weeks of homestays = 6
Holes Chewed in tent by ants = 6
Baskets = 7
Weeks of hair growth = 11 1/2
Times legs were shaved = 0
Baths taken in bucket = 26
Courses of Cipro = 2
Places Stayed = 12 (Mokolodi, Lolwapa [Gabs], Otse, Gabs, Toro Lodge [Kasane], Sedia [Maun], Shorobe, Sepopa [Okavango], Xakanaxa [Moremi], Kaziikini, Shacks Bungalow [Maun], Planet Baobab)
Places played frisbee = 8
Mountains climbed = 2
Sunsets photographed = 4
Species photographed and identified = 38
Length of ISP presentation (minutes) = 25

"Feel the rhythm,
Feel the rhyme,
Get on up
It's bobsled time."

We watched Cool Runnings last night. I'm so not ready for snow.

ISP presentations are FINISHED. Re feditse. School's over. Winter break.

It's strange to be back in Gabs. There are too many people who are moving too fast ("I've got a singular impression things are moving too fast"). I'm not used to big-city life. There are traffic lights. Oh man, I'm so not ready for New York.

This morning began dis-orientation (re-entry briefing).

I can't wait to see my computer.

I've realized how much of an advantage I have over my classmates because of my blog. I don't have to tell the stories from start to finish to everyone at home. They already know the stories. We can skip right to the "what do you think about that?" I don't fear a failure to convey the same image of Botswana that I saw because I've been doing so for the last 3 1/2 months. I don't have to summarize it in a few minutes.

Mmmmm sushi.

We were told that our family and friends will worry about us coming home with strange diseases, so I'm going to say this now: I will get sick when I get home. It will be cold, I will be tired, and I will get a cold or the flu. I will have a stomachache from the change in food and water. I do not have malaria, or ebola, or anything like that. Leave me alone.

I've got a new self-confidence that I really want to bring home with me. I like being able to say what I feel and acknowledge my thoughts to myself and others.

I think I'm going to have trouble adjusting to the Roslyn pace of life. I like this moving slowly. I like the idea that you should stop and talk to people you see because that is more important at that moment than wherever you are going to be in the near future. I like measuring my day in terms of breakfast, lunch, dinner, class, sleep, etc., as opposed to what it says on my watch (which I don't even wear).

It'll also be strange to feel ordinary. I won't be the only white person around. There will be so many white people. Men will not stop me on the street to propose marriage. People will not stare at me, so I will not be able to stare back. And I can't "dumela" any black people I see. They will get offended.

I will miss my friends within the group. If you are an SITer who is reading this after you've gotten home, give me a call. Send me an email.

Our discussion this morning brought forth tears and laughter. I laughed until I cried. I cried until I laughed. The following comments from my classmates that kind of sum up my thoughts right now:

Something we've all agreed we learned is to appreciate diversity, even within a small context. If we all went to school together, we'd probably never have been friends with each other. It's not about me fitting in with new people, it's about seeking new people and not hiding behind walls because of preconceived notions.

Also, there are some things about me that have changed, but there are some things that won't change, and that's okay.

I fear not living up to other people's expectations of how I've changed or not changed, I fear resenting these expectations, and I fear resenting people for having these expectations.

I fear feeling left out of all the things that continued while I was away.

I have to choose carefully who I share exciting stories with; not everyone will appreciate them.

Migratory Merriment

This is the third of three blog posts today, not second of two like the previous entry says. Scroll down to the first one for a chronological experience.

The migration was pretty awesome. I'll let the pictures tell the story.

The Kalahari...rain forest?














Oregon Trail VI: Safari Edition














Those aren't tire tracks...they're migration tracks














Zebras far across the pan














Lunch Amid a Migration














Zehbra and Bird














Posing Zebras














Migration in Action














Zebras and Blue Wildebeest















The Beautiful Flatness of a Pan














Wildebeest Wildeparty














Pussycat Footprints














Kalahari Surf Club

Two Jews Walked into a Bar Outside of Gweta...

This is the second of two blog posts today. The other one comes first chronologically. This one is the first time in a while that I have exciting events to describe, as opposed to distracting you all with poetry and stuff.

The last week of ISP is typically the most stressful. Not only did we have to finish our paper and prepare an oral presentation, but we had to be done three days early so we could take a mini-excursion to Makgadikgadi Pans National Park and see the seasonal migration across the salt pans. And we had to organize the whole trip ourselves.

The excursion kept us working hard. First, we had to pack our stuff and say good-bye to Al, Bear, and Charlie. Then we took a two-hour bus ride from Maun to Gweta. When we got there, some guy offered to drive us to the campsite, Planet Baobab. Rough, I know.















Planet Baobab was...eccentric. And awesome. The manager of the campsite is a crazy South African who, if you made eye contact with him, would coerce you into joining the next round of Sambuca. We also had to gather our own firewood.

We were forced to pitch our tents underneath the most enormous baobab I've ever seen.














Eccentric would definitely be an appropriate term for the campsite/bar/restaurant.

Beer-bottle chandelier #1:














Baobab branch baseball:















The campsite also goes by the name Kalahari Surf Club, an indication of the flooded nature of the region during this time of year.














(Quick educational public service announcement: Makgadikgadi is flat. Salt pans are created when a really, really flat area has a slight depression, where all the water accumulates. The water then evaporates, leaving a salty layer of sand. As the pans flood, zebras and blue wildebeest migrate from the Okavango Delta region to more eastern locations.)

There was a giant cement aardvark marking the entrance to the campsite.


































Studying for finals:














Fitting Ultimate Frisbee practice into our rigorous schedule:














So stressful...














Is this semester almost over?














That's me, workin' hard:














Study break?














Relentless Frisbee practice:















Then, finally, we were able to take a break from our work and hang out at the bar. At this bar, I met the other Jew in Bots. He's from Detroit, goes to UPenn Med School, has a Masters in anthropology, and his mom works for Hadassah. Hahahahahaha. I wish I were making this up. We spent much of an evening trying uncomfortably to convince the crazy South African (see above paragraph) that Jews are not genetically superior and that we don't want any more Sambuca. (I think we failed on both counts.)

Beer-bottle chandelier #2:














We played Kings.














Asian Invasion














You'd think this place would run out of awesome sunsets, but no...














Then we celebrated Katherine's twenty-first.














The crazy South African also bought us a bottle of champagne.














To twenty-one!














The next morning, we waited by the aardvark for a bus to pick us up. Or a car. Or truck. Really, we'd take anything.














That's us, waiting for the bus. I'm trying not to look too hungover.














There also was a migration.

Pyromania

It is as enjoyable to lie in one's tent listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata over the pattering of the rain as it is unenjoyable to throw everything around one's tent while trying to kill the ants that have invaded by chewing a hole through the bottom of the tent. And by "a hole", I mean "six holes".

Oh well, shits happen.

I've been thoroughly fascinated by the Maun ex-pat community and all its contradictions. In Maun, within the city, is a bubble of white, rich (by virtue of coming from any other continent or SA) ex-pats. They came to Bots to do research or work or otherwise save the world, but they manage to shop in different stores, drink at different bars, and avoid interaction with the locals. Somehow, it's a dichotomy that makes me feel so at home. It's the segregation of my home, of Long Island, but all the way across the world. This is not the real world. I'll never see the real world, I'll only see my nice happy bubble of a world transplanted elsewhere. No matter how hard I try to escape. I should stop worrying about trying to escape and focus on trying to use my magic bubble powers to help those outside of it. The efforts I expend trying to escape from my bubble helps no one, except perhaps to make me feel better about myself.

Still no idea what to do with my life. If I still don't know by the time I graduate, I'll travel. And write. Definitely write. That way I can pay attention to what's going on in my life. And if I need money, I can always play ambulance in New York for a while.

We left Sedia. Gone. Forever. It was sad. There's not a lot of time left here. I have to make sure to remember the following:
It's "hello", not "dumela".
It's "sir" or "ma'am", not "rra" or "mma".
It's not okay to start drinking at 10AM.
Fries, not chips.
Soccer, not football.
All (most) roads are paved near home.
It's not acceptable to stare at people who are different from you.
A taxi ride costs US$8, not P3 (US$0.50).
No combis.
Cold.
Snow.
I can't wear a bathing suit all day.
People expect you to shower at least every other day.
A shower includes soap and shampoo.
Washing machines!
I can plug my iPod charger directly into the outlet, without 3 adapters.
People sleep in beds, not tents.
No tin roofs!
Fewer venomous snakes.

I think I'm gonna stick to metric, though. Not only is it a much more logical system of measurement, but it means you can turn anything into a chemistry problem. (You have 200 ml gin and 800 ml tonic. A single shot is 35 ml. If the tonic is used in 200 ml increments, how strong will the resulting drinks be? Which would be the limiting reagent if each drink contains a single shot? Double? How many of each drink can be made? How long will my Nalgene smell like whiskey?) Yay science.

I'm trying to get back into a home mood. I was looking at pictures (on FB) of me, on several occasions, crammed onto a couch with many lovely people. I'm listening to homestyle music (Assassins, Abbey Road) and thinking about sushi. Mmmm sushi.

The night before leaving Sedia, we had a big breakfast dinner and bonfire.

Dave is funny.



















Will was pretty much responsible for making the fire every night.














Mmmm breakfast foods.















Campfire pancakes.














Just another night at Sedia, though our last.
















Nothing like a romantic, candle-lit campfire.















DEET + fire = fun (+ air pollution)















I can't believe I've never posted a picture of donkeys before. They're everywhere.














"Hey look, it's a penny. It's from the year I was born.
It's a sign!
I don't know how I know
But I'm gonna find my purpose.
I don't know where I'm gonna look
But I'm gonna find my purpose."
-Ave Q

It's like they know me.

So, I've left Sedia. It wasn't home, exactly, but it was familiar. At the end of freshman year at Brown, as my taxi was pulling away from Keeney Quad, I cried. Not an attention-seeking wailing cry, just a choked-up, teary-eyed cry. I don't think it was the leaving, but rather, the acknowledgment of the passage of time. The vague entity known as "college" was an object of my anticipation since about fifth grade. While trudging through high school, I kept imagining the shining city (Harvard then Columbia and finally Brown) where students are grown-up and classroom attendance is optional.

Then I got there. And it exceeded my expectations. But I had never thought as far ahead as the end of freshman year. I never really separated "college" into discrete intervals. Once one of these intervals was completed, I was forced to take one last look at the eternal party that is Keeney Quad, wipe my eyes, and look forward to the rest of my life. Or summer vacation, whichever came first.

(Sidebar: I was on the bus from Maun to Gweta, the site of our brief pre-Gabs excursion, while writing this, and I saw an ostrich running across the road.)

Africa was characterized by the same temporal ambiguity as college for me. It was a magical place where chimpanzees ran free and reaching Africa was the goal. Even as I packed my bags to go to Bots, a real country on the real continent of Africa, I was unable to see beyond December 24. The idea of returning to Gabs for dis-orientation week seemed so far ahead. When I decided in fifth grade that I wanted to go to Africa, I never thought about what I'd do when I got home.

Hey Simba!

This is for Megan. Hi Megan!














That's the first documented sighting of Will being serious. And Megan will never look mean.

I was feeling a bit homesick for the whiteboard culture of King House, so I transposed Guest House into lovely black ball-point pen italics on lined paper ripped from my notebook and duct taped it to my tent.














The eighth night of Hanukkah is always my favorite. So much fire.














If Hanukkah had existed back in the time of Exodus, they would have celebrated by sticking birthday candles in the sand.

The following is a picture of the second-most disastrous popcorn-cooking experience of the semester. Popcorn exploded everywhere. (I'll hope that everyone has forgotten the most disastrous time when I, erm, overcooked the popcorn...a little.)















I think, I think, I think I'm done with ISP! Sweet.

Two weeks from now, Christmas will be over. No more Christmas music for another year. (Or ~10 months)

My friend Katherine put it well: I keep bouncing between wanting to be here and not wanting to be here, wanting to be home and not wanting to be home.

It's too damn hot here, but I am not ready for snow. I love the people here, but I keep seeing faces of people I know and reminding myself nope, he's in Providence; nope, she's in Providence; nope, they're in New York.

And this is for Simba.

Hey Simba: Everyone says hi. All of us in Maun are doing great. Well, except for the bungee-jumping incident...when we chartered a flight...to Zim. The plane crashed, because the pilot was drunk and inexperienced, but most of us managed to escape. We swam the rest of the way to Vic Falls. Only some of us had bungee troubles, but I think a couple of us picked up something nasty from the Zambezi. My fingers and toes have been a bit tingly since then. Those that were left did not want to fly back, obviously, so we rented a car and drove back...except for Megan, who bought a horse from some guy at the souvenir shops at the falls for $1 and rode it back towards Maun, and we haven't heard from her since. Also, we saw a black mamba while climbing trees at Sedia, but Wes managed to catch it before too many people were bitten. Fortunately, we've been able to nurse all our injuries and illnesses with the abundance of illicit drugs around here. And last night, I stepped on a puff adder because I was walking around barefoot in the dark, but it's okay, I always wanted to see a cytotoxin in action. Oh, and I know you said hands off people paid by SIT, but some people really wanted a good grade on ISP...