tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78323303343356005882024-03-13T12:10:36.323-07:00Mike in BotswanaMike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-47183879277343193372011-05-06T12:39:00.000-07:002011-05-06T12:39:50.243-07:00charity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyBLShTvwAnDZBppqLU6HVL5Y1sIJ65PfWjVnM4fxAVddFV1CHQ_dPCSnEkc7IY4cbtW5vaL6J98HiqvhVvDqpTDI3DUQoP0ZZZsEn9rsHUAW7lP8rbKc_x28P2a9FjIkoDUd1zZijRgC/s1600/team1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyBLShTvwAnDZBppqLU6HVL5Y1sIJ65PfWjVnM4fxAVddFV1CHQ_dPCSnEkc7IY4cbtW5vaL6J98HiqvhVvDqpTDI3DUQoP0ZZZsEn9rsHUAW7lP8rbKc_x28P2a9FjIkoDUd1zZijRgC/s320/team1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Hey, so there is a new post below that you should check out, but I wanted to quickly mention that we have a bunch of extra t-shirts from the tournament and we are selling them and giving the proceeds to Stepping Stones (an NGO described in previous posts). If you would like a shirt, I could just buy one for you and then give it to you whenever I see you or send it to you once I'm home (depending on where you are). The shirts are only $5 USD. I need to know if you want one by Tuesday, because that's when I'm leaving Gabs. If you want one, leave a comment on this post with the size you want (sorry, only M or L). Or email me at msnavely@macalester.edu. Thank you! Here are some handsome models wearing the shirts and a more detailed view of the logo:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWa1w3p5b6VietAgg6eTIiqouUbsia3x2BITmX0WQsjf316b1sGC9d2nragF3L_Ae9YJ0QWhtFPvQPqj9PnBr2rC0NFm3jMjouCF_3dIMkjJJxmichivv8YKkpStH40eK-EYHQw1G6E7HO/s1600/Logo_FRONT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWa1w3p5b6VietAgg6eTIiqouUbsia3x2BITmX0WQsjf316b1sGC9d2nragF3L_Ae9YJ0QWhtFPvQPqj9PnBr2rC0NFm3jMjouCF_3dIMkjJJxmichivv8YKkpStH40eK-EYHQw1G6E7HO/s320/Logo_FRONT.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMhbMnMkHWdCYCZZ_1oDPQASTt6z9t8WPWsacjYL-a9ahk_oEQeqve7p9_V-tmcciAbhkdDgNNs4y7AfTc1AbJlQl3UJfKzse19Dz73KCdBU4KbktbvtY1pNVhw_zrOo3hhgXQ6Lh26A_8/s1600/crewJuergFantan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMhbMnMkHWdCYCZZ_1oDPQASTt6z9t8WPWsacjYL-a9ahk_oEQeqve7p9_V-tmcciAbhkdDgNNs4y7AfTc1AbJlQl3UJfKzse19Dz73KCdBU4KbktbvtY1pNVhw_zrOo3hhgXQ6Lh26A_8/s320/crewJuergFantan.jpg" width="320" /></a>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-68446589869089289612011-05-06T12:21:00.000-07:002011-05-06T12:21:58.463-07:00lesotho, part 1In between the end of classes and the beginning of finals we had a nice big window with no commitments, so a group of five of us decided to go on an excursion down to South Africa and Lesotho and then up to Victoria Falls. The story really can't be told without the pictures from the trip, but while I'm waiting on the photos, I thought I'd throw my journal entries from the trip up on here as a teaser. enjoy<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">After a marathon drive yesterday during which our friend Bryce was an extremely impressive driver and leader (a theme that continued for the next 11 days) we got into Sani Lodge Backpackers in the Drakensburg Mountain National Park of South Africa, just southeast of Lesotho. We arrived at 8:50 pm, leaving us just enough time to check-in before reception closed at 9:00 pm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We set up our tent in the dark, which was quite the feat, and loaded it up with blankets and sheets. We moved to the kitchen/common room and heated and stirred together our preemptively cooked pasta. We sat around a table in the common room with a fire glowing and fellow backpackers resting and relaxing. It was Good Friday and as such, a group was reading bible verses out loud to one another. We stayed up telling stories and playing cards. Bryce fell asleep on the couch and eventually the rest of us started to fade and so the boys and I retired to the tent and the girls headed for the car.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The night air certainly had a bite to it – we could see our breath and my three layers of clothes still left me shivering.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next night Derek, Audrey, Katie and I started a game of Spaids that, little did we know, would last for the entire 11 day trip. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fried bratwurst and beetroot and macaroni for dinner…</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-7600070139970830652011-04-17T09:37:00.000-07:002011-04-17T09:43:24.668-07:00exposure<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpp1RyEZdaVwD4SzILd4KBB_41irBEuAc6cs0dmRVPSW3INL6Mo0iqdcEBt2XU1ZkDepMKItsMxPJIW-2vzk8QTc-ZSvfNTvOZIgT4w6upaWDJxXO0c8sWFdvBhZuLrIt1SpDEPwkKDeiL/s1600/Picture+13.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpp1RyEZdaVwD4SzILd4KBB_41irBEuAc6cs0dmRVPSW3INL6Mo0iqdcEBt2XU1ZkDepMKItsMxPJIW-2vzk8QTc-ZSvfNTvOZIgT4w6upaWDJxXO0c8sWFdvBhZuLrIt1SpDEPwkKDeiL/s1600/Picture+13.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The national paper here in Botswana ran an article about our tournament today. If you shoot me an email<br />
I can send you a scanned image of the article, but it should also end up online, and I'll try to post the link<br />
when it does.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-3193191927259629742011-04-07T13:38:00.000-07:002011-04-13T07:33:50.025-07:00Lose the Shoes, reprise<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd7Exp6J0ANWTY2B9PlMCNrrZhqg7i6N6-2i3hcrkXm0UIf9g_q3XSB2eXK8lwclstSWp80Ze3Y6vWboZhKdDteIWc6xrBdH_Q3JZmtfTSHnZ6GPXncu_HJIo33A_pazoy8J1B2WGaMcv/s1600/GroupPhoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd7Exp6J0ANWTY2B9PlMCNrrZhqg7i6N6-2i3hcrkXm0UIf9g_q3XSB2eXK8lwclstSWp80Ze3Y6vWboZhKdDteIWc6xrBdH_Q3JZmtfTSHnZ6GPXncu_HJIo33A_pazoy8J1B2WGaMcv/s320/GroupPhoto.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Group shot with the top four teams. A couple kids<br />
from Stepping Stones woven in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">n a word, it was amazing. In true Botswana style, many things happened at the very last minute, and I was very nervous that everything was going to fall apart but somehow it worked out. The morning of, when we first got to field at 7 in the morning the gate was already open (which hadn't been a guarantee) and a crew from Standard Chartered was already setting up gazebos and flags and banners and tables and chairs. So it was off to a good start.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1bYf9trKcyiPehUHgKywFO1K2czk5eUhVCk5DxgAOfMJr2-_Wedt-rqpNKA9971SWDxHVfkQeCKVoygKPjs9_GOTCDWgQwdB9hKVUymDnog523arxu7LkwZVhaieVBLecHgAzJeGsh61/s1600/banner1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1bYf9trKcyiPehUHgKywFO1K2czk5eUhVCk5DxgAOfMJr2-_Wedt-rqpNKA9971SWDxHVfkQeCKVoygKPjs9_GOTCDWgQwdB9hKVUymDnog523arxu7LkwZVhaieVBLecHgAzJeGsh61/s320/banner1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Advertising banner on campus</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I ended up having to run around with one of our directors all morning buying meat for the braai, buns for the meat, ice for the coolers, charcoal for the braai and water for the players. The cool thing was that we got the meat and the water at half price thanks to the generous support of the The Butcher Shop (subsidized sausages) in G-West Industrial and Moghul Catering (subsidized water), which is the company that runs one of the refectories on campus.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I got back just in time for the games to start. The other student volunteers were doing a great job registering teams and distributing t-shirts and fresh watermelon that fellow exchange students had selflessly sliced and pack for us the night before. We had 17 total teams register! Although we were ready to handle 32, 17 was more than we could have hoped for, after we only had 7 or 8 that had pre-registered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMI0QbfugszGfj3VkY6YOEn7fjAp_IsmlPtYrkmUui2rS62OpZZohXrO-6Or6Q1cGLJ6u8sMJwujVFv6v67nxQAcqHNDUXBE0iecq4PLKBNie9-FqftfwlfzO-qLQtK-o2J2xqT-BDDCWD/s1600/crewJuergFantan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMI0QbfugszGfj3VkY6YOEn7fjAp_IsmlPtYrkmUui2rS62OpZZohXrO-6Or6Q1cGLJ6u8sMJwujVFv6v67nxQAcqHNDUXBE0iecq4PLKBNie9-FqftfwlfzO-qLQtK-o2J2xqT-BDDCWD/s320/crewJuergFantan.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Organizing committee joined by a German</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">participant (in white) and a rep from Standard</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Chartered (in the glasses)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A student DJ was playing the whole time and he had two cordless mics that were incredibly handy. Kids from Stepping Stones (the NGO receiving the proceeds) were there and we introduced them to everyone. Once the players realized who the kids were they started mingling and kicking balls around in the free space. We had raffle drawings in between every round of games and we let the kids pick out the winning names. We took a break halfway through the day and six of the kids got to play a 3-a-side game on the main field while all of the players and volunteers cheered them on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQOo89e_c6IgTwGU61zLEEsoSs_uFv_xh1w2CZWKlPyEk4HSzHTYkYOdVwzv_ds-fdelBUqYJdOvM8T25A8WGrdSNstMJXyxo-_wePtOftTDx3ih7ni0hP6g4YQKDVPr_p5sYUHs1uEMCV/s1600/Champions2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQOo89e_c6IgTwGU61zLEEsoSs_uFv_xh1w2CZWKlPyEk4HSzHTYkYOdVwzv_ds-fdelBUqYJdOvM8T25A8WGrdSNstMJXyxo-_wePtOftTDx3ih7ni0hP6g4YQKDVPr_p5sYUHs1uEMCV/s320/Champions2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The champions! The blue shirts are the prizes they won</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The sun started to come out part way through the day, which brought on the sweat, but also the smiles from the players. Everyone kept saying they were having such a good time and everyone was obsessed with the raffles - Standard Chartered Bank supplied nice Liverpool polo shirts and t-shirts and mini soccer balls and caps. It was really cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We sold sausages at P7 (to undercut the vendors’ price of P10 at the North Gate) and they were a hit. We sold over 100 of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually we got down the championship game and it was pretty exciting. The eventual runner-up scored first, but the other team came back with 3 unanswered goals. They were great sports throughout.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We publicly thanked Standard Chartered for making it all possible and one of their representatives got to award the winning team their UB soccer jerseys (retail value of P200) which were donated free of charge from the UB souvenir shop.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Overall it was a real success and not a day soon to be forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">More pictures to come! And let me know if you have any questions about the tournament - I'm sure there's things I forgot and I would love to talk more about it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Don't even remember what I had for dinner - I couldn't stop thinking about how much fun the day had been...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-43139401098051606882011-04-03T11:34:00.000-07:002011-04-03T11:34:21.941-07:00extracurric's<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWa1w3p5b6VietAgg6eTIiqouUbsia3x2BITmX0WQsjf316b1sGC9d2nragF3L_Ae9YJ0QWhtFPvQPqj9PnBr2rC0NFm3jMjouCF_3dIMkjJJxmichivv8YKkpStH40eK-EYHQw1G6E7HO/s1600/Logo_FRONT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWa1w3p5b6VietAgg6eTIiqouUbsia3x2BITmX0WQsjf316b1sGC9d2nragF3L_Ae9YJ0QWhtFPvQPqj9PnBr2rC0NFm3jMjouCF_3dIMkjJJxmichivv8YKkpStH40eK-EYHQw1G6E7HO/s320/Logo_FRONT.jpg" width="280" /></a>So far I’ve focused all of my posts on trips that I’ve taken and other things that I thought would be the best reads, but perhaps its time that I talk a little bit about what I do while I’m at school.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m taking four courses this semester – two of them are courses at the University of Botswana (UB), and two are run by our study abroad program director, Phoebe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the courses that I’m taking at UB is the local language, Setswana, which I’ve mentioned before (and there isn’t much to update). The other is a course in human physiology, which I’m taking with my good friend Derek, who also goes to Macalester. The physiology course has been a growing experience not so much in the curriculum we cover but in learning to cope with a fundamental difference in grading rubrics and student-teacher dynamics between UB and Macalester.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I perhaps take it for granted that at Macalester professors are always willing to talk and answer questions and develop relationships with students. Moving to UB where there are 15,000 students (compared to Macalester’s 2,000) and being in a class of 150, the professors (one lecturer and multiple lab instructors) are swamped and on multiple occasions when Derek and I have tracked them down outside of class they have explicitly said, “don’t talk to me right now; maybe come back tomorrow.” That was a new one for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So as Derek and I try to adjust to a new system, the lack of communication with the professors has made it especially difficult. But we saw it as a challenge and continued to do our best work and attempt to connect with the professors. And we’ve had some success; at least one of the professors knows our names (doesn’t hurt that we’re the only two white kids in the class) and our grades have vastly improved as we have been molded into the UB grading system. We now know to never indent the beginning of paragraphs (“no scientists in Botswana indent their paragraphs”) and that if a question is worth 10 marks then the answer is expected to contain 10 separate statements of fact.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The two classes independent of UB are: The Biology and Public Health (BPH) of Tuberculosis (TB), Malaria, and HIV and the other is a guided Independent Research Project (ISP). Both are taught by Phoebe and have proven to be major highlights of the semester.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The BPH course is refreshingly rigorous. We get healthy loads of reading to prepare us for a three-hour class every Friday morning where we get into deep, scholarly discussions about pressing public health issues. Phoebe is a microbiologist by training, so often there are technical biology lectures and as a Bio major, I revel in them. A friend of mine put it well, when Phoebe gets into the Bio and starts talking really fast and covering a ton of interesting material, it makes you feel at home. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The course is broken down into three parts: for the first month or so we covered just about every possible aspect of malaria, then moved onto TB, and we are currently in the final unit on HIV/AIDS. The HIV unit has been made especially riveting, as there are a handful of local people in the class that have indispensable firsthand knowledge about behavior and trends in Botswana. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The course was brought to another level last Friday, as we had a guest speaker who was HIV+ and spoke openly about her status and how it has affected her life. She was inspirational, to say the least. She has taken an alternative approach to dealing with HIV, as she doesn’t take ARVs, but chooses to eat healthy and employ positive thinking to deal with the infection. She wryly said that HIV is the best thing that ever happened to her, and went on to explain that it has made her step back and think about what life is really all about. She volunteers with home-based HIV care services and spreads her message of positive thinking and healthy eating to all she meets. We all appreciated her talk, and I’m sure everyone learned a thing or two from her passionate words.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ISP course has also been a facet of the program that I have been happy to pour energy into, as it one of the few avenues where I feel I can be really productive, and it’s one of the main things I’ll have to show for all of my time spent here. My research question is whether or not urbanization correlates with increased risk in sexual behavior among students at UB. I’m interested in this question because Botswana has an anomalously high HIV prevalence rate (it has the strongest economy and the broadest intervention programs in the region, yet has the second highest prevalence rate). So I want to see if a unique aspect of Botswana, its high level of urbanization, has helped create the anomaly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My research is quantitative in nature and is based on a survey. So far 375 students have responded to the survey, out of a goal of 373, so I’m feeling pretty good about it. The next step is analyzing the data; I’ll let you know what I find. (There is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a lot</i> more about the study that I’d love to talk about – if you’re interested you should leave a comment or email me)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Saving the best (but most stressful) for last, I’d also like to give an update on the soccer tournament that Derek and I have been planning. After two frustrating months of trying to secure of venue and being maddeningly rejected and redirected by various places on and off-campus, we got the Botswana Football Association to let us use their national training field (which is right across the street) free of charge! I guess hard work really does pay off.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We also got the t-shirt completed last week, and will be filled in time for the tournament. The souvenir shop on campus has given us discounted soccer jerseys to serve as prizes for the winning team, and we’re hoping that the catering service that runs the cafeteria will donate refreshments.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The tournament is on Saturday, April 9<sup>th</sup> and is called “Lose the Shoes”, as the kids will play barefoot. It’s a 3-on-3 format and is a fundraiser for a local NGO called Stepping Stones International, that works to empower orphaned and otherwise at-risk youth. Kids from Stepping Stones are going to come to the event to help out and get to play exhibition matches with some of the UB students, as to create a tangible connection between the participants and the kids they are supporting. We’ve booked a student DJ and HIV counseling and testing services are going to be provided. As one of our committee members said last week, “I think it’s going to be a day to remember.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I should have a bunch of pictures and news on the tournament by next weekend.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A side note: My flatmate taught me how to make phaletshe (pah-LAY-chay), which is a traditional food made of maize meal. It’s a bit of an acquired taste, but I’ve had it a bunch now and I’m hooked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Chili beef and vegetable stew with phaletshe for dinner…</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-36196513870784741372011-03-26T14:43:00.001-07:002011-03-26T15:15:35.953-07:00spring break, part 2<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9C0Ow5fsd9mcM7dFK-m-Qck-YO_1monkJJYNI3EKR4DgBLaMD5PEAPrx9lPQdwC6IRhwu3Z9y88r9gZKgfYtL0hzvFXClgOOBr9hW7bFSkYbEsjZNt2Uw3sjRx2Fo4OOP7EvCY0eakKJq/s1600/bushwalkPose.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9C0Ow5fsd9mcM7dFK-m-Qck-YO_1monkJJYNI3EKR4DgBLaMD5PEAPrx9lPQdwC6IRhwu3Z9y88r9gZKgfYtL0hzvFXClgOOBr9hW7bFSkYbEsjZNt2Uw3sjRx2Fo4OOP7EvCY0eakKJq/s320/bushwalkPose.JPG" width="212" /></a>The next morning we loaded up the trucks for our excursion into the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. We kept asking the drivers how long the drive would be, and we couldn’t get a straight answer. Our driver said nine hours but then all the other guides laughed, and then another said two hours and there was more laughter. So we decided it best to just sit back and enjoy the ride.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With a stop for lunch, the trek ended up taking about seven hours. Geographically it might not have been that far, but half of the trip was over dirt roads pocked with unexpected ruts and bumps, keeping our speed in check.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHnk42rMPUmM2ReDjChvhlU6SDMCGwQrNFRR7d35H9bFCD99AgX6tn-gKg-Yk50mODr4lazTyNYyjgVAt9KKvq-DaXlPh3iIHcu1p27WS8AprbyqnwwALWtvoXKqpQ8O_o5iocSJQKkMfQ/s1600/gameDriveMe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHnk42rMPUmM2ReDjChvhlU6SDMCGwQrNFRR7d35H9bFCD99AgX6tn-gKg-Yk50mODr4lazTyNYyjgVAt9KKvq-DaXlPh3iIHcu1p27WS8AprbyqnwwALWtvoXKqpQ8O_o5iocSJQKkMfQ/s320/gameDriveMe.JPG" width="320" /></a>We finally arrived at our “campsite” – there are no designated camping areas; our guides just picked a spot with some open space and decent tree cover. We set up camp while the guides rustled up another too-good-to-be-camping type of meal over an open fire.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNbaGOYAhxGLvxM_8EC4Zo8WgYqR7M0uKxmty_8VyaMZzHWs0GlR6lWebh7MmOYqhaOz0OQiDahyU0_RHBDnwCUuLl1VWvkQpgYw8A2DECQo6bAKVyimIYG4KRLiafZrOzUp8sEZnPXVsE/s1600/gemsbokplain.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNbaGOYAhxGLvxM_8EC4Zo8WgYqR7M0uKxmty_8VyaMZzHWs0GlR6lWebh7MmOYqhaOz0OQiDahyU0_RHBDnwCUuLl1VWvkQpgYw8A2DECQo6bAKVyimIYG4KRLiafZrOzUp8sEZnPXVsE/s320/gemsbokplain.JPG" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gemsbok</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
That night we got a briefing on a few safety things: wear long pants and closed-toed shoes on account of the scorpions and snakes, don’t make the walk to the pit-latrine at night, and so on. Little did we know just how pressing those words would become.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next morning we went on a game drive at the crack of dawn. Just as in the Okavango Delta, the experience in the Kalahari was completely different from other game drives on which we had been. The reserve is hundreds of kilometers across, and so it was basically open wilderness. We saw herd after herd of springbok and gemsbok, as well as wildebeest and suricats.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That afternoon we heard lions roaring in the distance, and so on our evening game drive that night, our guides went in search of the pride. And we had success. Just as the sun was beginning to set we came upon one male, two females and two lion cubs. They were relaxing in the shade before their nighttime activity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXC2xDPrBKW11wkazUeJfp5ySbLbyD-9JOOxM9-o8adLq2oqbNZVa_8dDr9iVJUv0b5gdiTD6Al-d850Wy8aNFPtkj_dhyphenhyphenTy75reSGNZvS-a0yT5kTrIiycT2esQKkucoBvRAOA9lWOnZ/s1600/suricatFam.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXC2xDPrBKW11wkazUeJfp5ySbLbyD-9JOOxM9-o8adLq2oqbNZVa_8dDr9iVJUv0b5gdiTD6Al-d850Wy8aNFPtkj_dhyphenhyphenTy75reSGNZvS-a0yT5kTrIiycT2esQKkucoBvRAOA9lWOnZ/s320/suricatFam.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suricat family</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We headed back to camp before the sun was down and apparently the lions followed us back. That night the pride of lions came into our campsite! One of the cubs dragged away one of our tarps as a new toy, and a student stepped out of her tent to use the bathroom, scanned the bushes with her flashlight, and saw the reflection of two lion eyes not twenty feet away. We could hear their calls, too. One would call from one side of the camp, and then one would respond from the other so we knew we were encircled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was nerve-racking, but our guides handled it like veterans. They never showed a hint of fear, and reassured us that the lions weren’t interested in hurting us. We were told to remain in our tents for the rest of the night, though, which was advice obligingly followed. In the morning the guides used the trucks to subtly usher the lions away from camp.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next day on the evening game drive we tracked down the lions once more, and got an even closer view of the pride. The cubs were adorable – pawing at each other and rolling around as the mom watched their antics from beneath a tree. The father stayed covertly behind some bushes, but every once in a while would raise his head to yawn or survey his surroundings, and he was majestic, indeed. With a full mane and a filled-out, muscular frame, he was a dominating presence. We heard the lions again that night, but they weren’t inside of our camp, so everyone slept a bit easier. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuBKGgT9jEaf9PRlTxtI5jyYCypSujqmSOxYIdAo8gNp0QzC2atOkiZBsB8syD7qgvxM4dnWBN41jisJXjM4rnskppqBtOrslh-ryFSUmwJCbb4a-_JMvQARp44iQivbwf4ZtJS5Piq2d/s1600/meHappyLion.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuBKGgT9jEaf9PRlTxtI5jyYCypSujqmSOxYIdAo8gNp0QzC2atOkiZBsB8syD7qgvxM4dnWBN41jisJXjM4rnskppqBtOrslh-ryFSUmwJCbb4a-_JMvQARp44iQivbwf4ZtJS5Piq2d/s320/meHappyLion.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and the lion</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The trip was very relaxing. Everyday consisted of a morning game drive, followed by a schmorgasboard of delicious lunch options, then a four hour break to socialize, read, nap, play cards and just beat the heat in general. Then came a shorter evening game drive where we tried to work up our appetites for the dinners of consistently delectable and monstrous helpings of food.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNcKKQa6WPz-hrKSVVmrpGPd0ddA135grPEnxqmk_gWzEc1KYFtbCPrxm5fsTu9ANkO0TS3ajdY4IE_p19NJUsGeNu_viPaO-BW1HTl_SbWlltXynyKLKTM9oOZAc46CZ-f4sgZhdEace_/s1600/liontwilight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNcKKQa6WPz-hrKSVVmrpGPd0ddA135grPEnxqmk_gWzEc1KYFtbCPrxm5fsTu9ANkO0TS3ajdY4IE_p19NJUsGeNu_viPaO-BW1HTl_SbWlltXynyKLKTM9oOZAc46CZ-f4sgZhdEace_/s320/liontwilight.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lion cub</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After four days of that, I was accustomed to the laidback lifestyle, and definitely wasn’t ready to get back to the grind of school and everything that came with it, but we had to go back eventually. The drive back to Audi Camp was much quicker on the way back (or maybe it was all in my head) and one thing I didn’t mind about getting back was taking a proper shower.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We spent one last night at Audi Camp and headed back to Gabz in the morning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYeprWKC9pJey9bxmELFCZKb3E8zfnZJoCwMUTw6oILGdBscoNj56zKmZ1KuP15LsssCF2GB0MjPRU4CdPn9_pErAznRxpdXAPFu1dH04_mhBDNdg-MAac8R8qmURg2EdY3NMPZFGuQ3P/s1600/otherSafGrp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYeprWKC9pJey9bxmELFCZKb3E8zfnZJoCwMUTw6oILGdBscoNj56zKmZ1KuP15LsssCF2GB0MjPRU4CdPn9_pErAznRxpdXAPFu1dH04_mhBDNdg-MAac8R8qmURg2EdY3NMPZFGuQ3P/s320/otherSafGrp.JPG" width="320" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
One more three-course meal at Audi Camp for dinner…Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-90146494213128254792011-03-06T11:41:00.000-08:002011-03-26T15:10:44.558-07:00spring break, part 1It’s 5:00 on a Saturday morning. The sun has yet to peek its head above the horizon. The streets are still teeming with exuberant kids whose celebrations from the night before have yet to cease. You pile into a minibus heading for the airport with friends whose eyelids are still heavy from an abbreviated slumber. It’s the beginning of a weeklong adventure into the wild.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is the story of my mid-semester break trip to northern Botswana.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjufiM5xPaOBJwLM4nZv1K7AVS0RKt_go4y_dvJSBrSnioqHRjieiH_o9_1p7wSjoYdzFTh2XDrrD7SUxFAIuKXJWEnnQxUpsOF3TCcFHF_iqIPG9XIizGvJtli-5zT_iDYzi7qna39L9O/s1600/meBryceBushwalk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjufiM5xPaOBJwLM4nZv1K7AVS0RKt_go4y_dvJSBrSnioqHRjieiH_o9_1p7wSjoYdzFTh2XDrrD7SUxFAIuKXJWEnnQxUpsOF3TCcFHF_iqIPG9XIizGvJtli-5zT_iDYzi7qna39L9O/s320/meBryceBushwalk.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise painting the grassland gold as we search<br />
for elephants and giraffes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The flight went quickly and we landed in gorgeous Maun, Botswana, with a view of the famous Okavango Delta off in the distance as we walked across the tarmac. The airport was tiny, as expected, and so I was taken aback when the sign read Maun International Airport, because I was used to only major cities having international service. But when your nearest neighbor is only a one or two or flight away, I suppose being dubbed ‘international’ is no big deal.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcclmoeVQwVMRaTu-7Cj8pAOC0P-IW1mPpBZg8uF37rYlpMokyAalm30J8BhBKYGSIf9reYxelkayZ1A63rNJ3_zLZDRLIaRZ5zedmqkDAi2kapH5fpRKzvQWRas-k7yhYBrI5npJJ9EQ/s1600/meChocMousse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcclmoeVQwVMRaTu-7Cj8pAOC0P-IW1mPpBZg8uF37rYlpMokyAalm30J8BhBKYGSIf9reYxelkayZ1A63rNJ3_zLZDRLIaRZ5zedmqkDAi2kapH5fpRKzvQWRas-k7yhYBrI5npJJ9EQ/s320/meChocMousse.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating like a king at Audi Camp. Gourmet pasta and<br />
chocolate mousse. I never could keep my eyes open<br />
for pictures...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">When we walked into the airport a man was standing with a sign with our program’s name on it. I’ve always wanted to have a guy waiting for me like that. We loaded into two big trucks and headed to Audi Camp, which was a fancy campground where we spent the night. They served us a fabulous three course meal that night (see picture of chocolate mouse).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the morning we headed out for our Mokoro trip, which was a trip into the bush that was to culminate in a ride through the delta in small dugout boats to an island where we would camp.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truck drive through the bush that morning was an adventure in itself. We drove across a river where water started coming into the back where we were sitting, which was at least six or seven feet above the ground, and I was momentarily concerned that we would float away (for the Oregon Trail fans out there, there were plenty of jokes about whether we should have forded the river or caulked the wagon and floated across).</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2l85tHOO7T1Mn8Iyjna-uJRQHqbX7k4EbXI0vDdhn2GiNiwJ2PD4QIoiM7ix4ND0PokE1s_UrmAMxWX-6FiSnPzJNu3yWw0nCrnB4afop7YG9OKG78xPAWoCUxwvFA-0QYcSbg2eOpdP/s1600/mokoroHarbor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2l85tHOO7T1Mn8Iyjna-uJRQHqbX7k4EbXI0vDdhn2GiNiwJ2PD4QIoiM7ix4ND0PokE1s_UrmAMxWX-6FiSnPzJNu3yWw0nCrnB4afop7YG9OKG78xPAWoCUxwvFA-0QYcSbg2eOpdP/s320/mokoroHarbor.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mokoro "harbor"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Also, the sides were open in the back of the truck and so huge tree branches that would get initially snagged on the front of the truck would sling-shot into the back and so there was a constant scramble to predict which side the biggest branch was coming from and try to avoid it. One boy took one in the face and I was unfortunately sitting on the outside and was left with an arm full of cuts and scratches.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The guides took a few wrong turns as well, and so the drive ended up taking three or four hours. Some of the kids sang to pass the time. I channeled my eighth grade choir and chimed in on a few Grease numbers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We finally got to the Mokoro launch site (see picture of the “harbor”) and I did not realize how small the boats would be. But there wasn’t anything to do about it at that point, so I sunscreened up and helped load supplies into the tiny boats.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The polers were excited to see us and explained some guidelines while we climbed into the boats. There were thickets of grass in the bottom to give cushion and help with water that got in, and the guides folded bed mats into chairs for each of us, and so the boats were actually outrageously comfortable. And the poler took care of the transport, so there was no paddling! (I wish canoeing was like that back home) I leaned back into my mat and enjoyed a soothing glide across the Okavango Delta.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9f3g7PU7aDNVig-ll8PYFqvzYEizoYu4ALrbkJEB9mPpej9HeSXxiv1SNbmH_mfdGuQOA6uK3gJ7wpfu8Xdpj4JB0RShxBCTWD5J6b68AsFBCfylX-2OnJ2e4duiQ6K90p6aIYpLf2ql_/s1600/meDerekMokoro.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9f3g7PU7aDNVig-ll8PYFqvzYEizoYu4ALrbkJEB9mPpej9HeSXxiv1SNbmH_mfdGuQOA6uK3gJ7wpfu8Xdpj4JB0RShxBCTWD5J6b68AsFBCfylX-2OnJ2e4duiQ6K90p6aIYpLf2ql_/s320/meDerekMokoro.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Derek and I in our Mokoro</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">As we wove our way through the reeds and crisp water I dozed in and out. One of the girls made an astute observation: it was like an all-natural spa treatment. Lying on comfortable mats with the sound of water passing by and birds chirping, while basking under the African sun without a care in the world. I could take that trip everyday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Near the end of the ride we saw two hippos playing in the water, not 50 feet from our Mokoros. My first in person hippo experience!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We got to the island campsite and lunch was whipped up in no time. Again, we ate extremely well, even while in the middle of nowhere. I had a ham and cheese sandie with onions, tomatoes, peppers and chili sauce. Then on top of that I had fried chicken, salad, coleslaw, hard-boiled eggs and fruit juice. Talk about fit for a king.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We got a little naptime before an evening bush walks with the guides. We split up into groups of six or so and headed out into the wild. That first night we saw a herd of water buffalo, antelope, termite hills and a humungous spider with a colorful pattern on its back. At one point I was able to take a step back to soak everything in; before me was an endless green-amber savanna, with antelope gaily grazing in the neighboring field, and I was surrounded by good friends as we all silently enjoyed the heavenly sunset, not wanting to spoil the moment with inadequate words. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjdfiS-DlQrxiEdrmcKb-V_Gaj03BduQeCA9kmlGztP3g0C7iuf2lsCKRG4_J4xltq7pkvapUZcaQ3agNyGYQljIgLNMFe6K-v9PBdZr4BexfNRTrrKE0NxiVmny1-PrtgaNDBwz1qwlW/s1600/meAudreySageBushwalk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjdfiS-DlQrxiEdrmcKb-V_Gaj03BduQeCA9kmlGztP3g0C7iuf2lsCKRG4_J4xltq7pkvapUZcaQ3agNyGYQljIgLNMFe6K-v9PBdZr4BexfNRTrrKE0NxiVmny1-PrtgaNDBwz1qwlW/s320/meAudreySageBushwalk.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early morning bushwalk with the lovely<br />
Audrey hiding sheepishly behind a sprig<br />
of sage, with Lurch in the background</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">When we returned we had another huge meal, and then everyone sat around the campfire as we shared stories, told riddles, and mingled with our local guides.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next morning we had a bush walk at the break of dawn. It was hands-down the highlight of my semester thus far. We took a different path from the night before, and soon we could hear the calls of a group of baboons. The guide couldn’t believe that we hadn’t seen baboons before, so he tracked them for us (with some combination of their droppings, footprints and calls – I wasn’t really sure how he did it) and soon we were amongst a whole family. They were running from tree to tree and some had spotted us and had stopped to stare in return.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We made our way through some trees and came upon a lake. At the edge of the lake there were puddles, and I was about to walk through one thinking it was nothing out of the ordinary, but my guide stopped me and stuck his walking stick into the puddle. It was as deep as his entire stick! I would have been up to my chest in mud. Apparently elephants make theses holes as they pick up mud to cover themselves with. Good thing I didn’t have to learn it the hard way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaC5ozxJiWKetDH1gEJ1kGGLFLG4AQNpGKG2ORAFTZ7PSgEiKhDg6iPIOW7MrnSp3xtmgJAPt43HR_pokdQ6e1PTILLyRNY5vLt7fmIyXP7kKYa76V10Ffz_7oi7B9Tx2b-rr-unGm3Se/s1600/elephant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaC5ozxJiWKetDH1gEJ1kGGLFLG4AQNpGKG2ORAFTZ7PSgEiKhDg6iPIOW7MrnSp3xtmgJAPt43HR_pokdQ6e1PTILLyRNY5vLt7fmIyXP7kKYa76V10Ffz_7oi7B9Tx2b-rr-unGm3Se/s320/elephant.JPG" width="212" /></a>Then, as we circled the water, our guide pointed out a pair of eyes floating in the water. A crocodile! It was cruising unassumingly in the morning sun, probably keeping an eye on the silly group of humans wandering his shore.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then on the next lake over there was a huge pod of hippos. We counted at least seventeen and they were frolicking and swimming and spewing water everywhere as they enjoyed the relief from the heat that water brought. They became curious about us as we approached, and some of the hippos slowly started making their way towards us. We enjoyed each other’s company for a few minutes, and as we left one of the hippos opened his mouth as wide as he could and let out a moan, and we yelled goodbye right back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t believe all of the experiences I was having, but the surprise waiting around the next corner is what made the entire trip. We rounded a bend and the path opened up to a clearing, and standing in the middle of the clearing were four of the most majestic, impressive elephants you could imagine. I was speechless. Here, in the middle of the wild – not a game reserve, no fences involved – were four real-life elephants, grazing to their hearts content and I was sharing the same field, walking along as though a brother in their kingdom.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoVy1SGsxaOajzPfMonCWmL3xzv4Dqm7Ip8f6EaQAW_loNn91PE5zUaocVXXCBX-zqgQktbw7tHZFalOTzPl9niwkoW8ZhfV-yUOVNv42gSvereWDL59oGGM1QHPr8krWyJEqBCG4ZMfA/s1600/elephantsMe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoVy1SGsxaOajzPfMonCWmL3xzv4Dqm7Ip8f6EaQAW_loNn91PE5zUaocVXXCBX-zqgQktbw7tHZFalOTzPl9niwkoW8ZhfV-yUOVNv42gSvereWDL59oGGM1QHPr8krWyJEqBCG4ZMfA/s320/elephantsMe.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elephants in the background...look closely</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our guide explained that as long as we stayed downwind, we could approach them, and we did. We got so close that we had to whisper, as not to disturb them. Plenty of pictures were taken, and everyone reveled in the moment.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We headed back and after a quick, but hearty brunch we loaded the Mokoros for the return trip. It was as serene and relaxing as the first, and I was sad to be ending this once in a lifetime experience.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That night, back at Audi Camp: first course: butternut squash soup; entrée: pan seared fish with a roasted vegetable medley and a garden salad; dessert: ice cream! (I had 4 helpings) for dinner…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SERENITY NOW!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0SEmmsYua-twG07c44E5SQ5gDcFcaKqLiGw-mJLcOdac0FzTfO40w1VMVhxP6HvpSCZWHDLdDrbbhoRt3Wxh81QoPSqKmiIFReTa0VwnCg5LmgjP176gs9SaJxXmShDuIc-xNTvLCrpR/s1600/MokoroFeet3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0SEmmsYua-twG07c44E5SQ5gDcFcaKqLiGw-mJLcOdac0FzTfO40w1VMVhxP6HvpSCZWHDLdDrbbhoRt3Wxh81QoPSqKmiIFReTa0VwnCg5LmgjP176gs9SaJxXmShDuIc-xNTvLCrpR/s320/MokoroFeet3.JPG" width="212" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKx8sN6b5OaeKa_gQ2Af-Ie-6zOBuTB3QFK2_BPPX9rG_uzslGszxrxmeZP27iv-Xu_nKdHnCnmQ0uq16FcyeVxjzFnBquldmKNgU9sMi7viuo0mDoX1i721ByTkfYV-MoSVbPO2aqtPc/s1600/DSC_0453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKx8sN6b5OaeKa_gQ2Af-Ie-6zOBuTB3QFK2_BPPX9rG_uzslGszxrxmeZP27iv-Xu_nKdHnCnmQ0uq16FcyeVxjzFnBquldmKNgU9sMi7viuo0mDoX1i721ByTkfYV-MoSVbPO2aqtPc/s320/DSC_0453.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhKkshxckuCkVhnS72p2lYbAlAsywjuw8kJVyEOhghhiqfxpHjNHc7SgzcB1epGTycsWTTfgsw-a6zt8CTjljxVfD1wwx-sMQgSx3zqg53v6AyYa2zMIbRx-0aYkyuFvKd2rPU4tMc18_/s1600/lionCubClose.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhKkshxckuCkVhnS72p2lYbAlAsywjuw8kJVyEOhghhiqfxpHjNHc7SgzcB1epGTycsWTTfgsw-a6zt8CTjljxVfD1wwx-sMQgSx3zqg53v6AyYa2zMIbRx-0aYkyuFvKd2rPU4tMc18_/s320/lionCubClose.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A female lion curious about these weird tourists<br />
in her territory</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bushwalk</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5-kA1fszO-u1NPfT13hEUisAde-3_NJw7Syq0whxmXT3LHKXyQHAP-6Ke8igHfI5s6SCZ9sL4_ZKNVtf0G9cfgn86RIWbro8mIMoGFyPyxUOtzV6tArY8B54dwhuUeqMlsD0dYWdL6d1/s1600/mokoro%2526Sky.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5-kA1fszO-u1NPfT13hEUisAde-3_NJw7Syq0whxmXT3LHKXyQHAP-6Ke8igHfI5s6SCZ9sL4_ZKNVtf0G9cfgn86RIWbro8mIMoGFyPyxUOtzV6tArY8B54dwhuUeqMlsD0dYWdL6d1/s320/mokoro%2526Sky.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mokoro trip</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-69096158276973950522011-03-05T12:42:00.000-08:002011-03-10T07:36:33.351-08:00Serowe, part 2<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFg5KGM1kg_oKk6TQHvPKtdeo-V-m8GFWAk406kSWTqwxWAgxBDPJszLcPYBft_gVyZ1VOhdNKuphLVJjLjKO-nRGKIzDUoUaG7x6LaXrUEhM73SQ8LRgUIssxcwu9M0_HYUDpmoeKVLoE/s1600/wedding.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFg5KGM1kg_oKk6TQHvPKtdeo-V-m8GFWAk406kSWTqwxWAgxBDPJszLcPYBft_gVyZ1VOhdNKuphLVJjLjKO-nRGKIzDUoUaG7x6LaXrUEhM73SQ8LRgUIssxcwu9M0_HYUDpmoeKVLoE/s320/wedding.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our gang at the wedding</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The two couples then mentioned that they had been invited to a local wedding happening later that day and wondered if we would like to come along. On the inside we were bursting with excitement because none of us had attended a wedding in Botswana and we had heard such great things, but on the outside we exercised our Midwest politeness and said “oh no, we’re not dressed for it, we wouldn’t want to intrude, etc.” But they insisted; there was no dress code and no invitations were required.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So the eight of us packed into their two cars and headed for the wedding. It was around sundown when we arrived and apparently the wedding had been going on since 7:00 that morning (taking “fashionable late” to another level). As we sat down the best man appeared to be giving a toast (I couldn’t decipher the Setswana) and so we sat politely and looked around at the huge number of people in the crowd. After that we were all served dessert and non-alcoholic sparkling wine as the bride personally made her way around handing out thank-you gifts and posing for pictures. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3dRPuC_47dkJHYy8b7t-F9H2TtGny5u2m71rOioLNvzqHZS5bzPqh47qbR1x88ml8PHhGV1JbrgA8ttU-oRJjjLcfOLjIIc5gW1I2gXbyVZxzAA7gimAoYuefSJ5b2B1q9PsKRvMDE3e/s1600/2brides.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3dRPuC_47dkJHYy8b7t-F9H2TtGny5u2m71rOioLNvzqHZS5bzPqh47qbR1x88ml8PHhGV1JbrgA8ttU-oRJjjLcfOLjIIc5gW1I2gXbyVZxzAA7gimAoYuefSJ5b2B1q9PsKRvMDE3e/s320/2brides.JPG" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ashley (bride to be) with Botswana bride</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Things wound down after that. Our local friends speculated that there was an after-party for the wedding somewhere, but we decided to go our own way. We stopped by a bar/restaurant and sat at outdoor picnic tables, enjoying the lovely night air. We saw Derek’s flatmate there (a huge coincidence since we were in a town three hours from UB and sitting at a random roadside restaurant) and talked with him for a while. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually we all agreed we were hungry, and I admitted to the group my careless misplacement of our dinner meat, and so our local friends invited us back to their campsite for a braai. They read our minds.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We got back and got the fire going (with, needless to say, music blaring from the car) and we supplied the al-foil meals while our local friends supplied the steaks. We had quite the time, as it was pitch black and Derek was trying to slice potatoes with a broken knife and the guy in charge of the steaks disappeared into their cabin and the local ladies spent the whole time dancing. Somehow it all came out, though, and it was actually a hearty, somewhat balanced meal.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXfXqXgX39qSasoDYTPx8FHcCxLTVfzJYtGjSFXj3PyLGWeZjcY2GDvJtnqKWvzKDJ2PDq5ZWSO4KGiHHvBJ7Nfl8uzj9gt0j2SRBa9Uem09RhfRKowIaHgIGHBCF1v3K-bbreyCSZqCZ/s1600/braai.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXfXqXgX39qSasoDYTPx8FHcCxLTVfzJYtGjSFXj3PyLGWeZjcY2GDvJtnqKWvzKDJ2PDq5ZWSO4KGiHHvBJ7Nfl8uzj9gt0j2SRBa9Uem09RhfRKowIaHgIGHBCF1v3K-bbreyCSZqCZ/s320/braai.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The midnight braai</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">We had to retire after that because it was around midnight and we had a game drive scheduled for six in the morning. So we stumbled back to our own campsite and somehow managed to squeeze into our clown car tent. Sleeping proved to be a challenge, as there wasn’t enough floor space for everyone to lay flat on his or her back, but you could only lay on your side for so long before your hip went numb from resting on the ground. So it was a night full of adjusting and bumping and a questionable amount of sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcs41WlCw1i4cERhL5arqLEgUrjabzWEgEkRuL9zWBBEImmor97XwK92R65k2Yu-65K8uqSqDQbOjqZXNfxPpzQ73HEAOf6_1ebUB8paRHNL-AfetryvSjjbiq16T-84PNjA5kXPyNDJP/s1600/giraffe3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcs41WlCw1i4cERhL5arqLEgUrjabzWEgEkRuL9zWBBEImmor97XwK92R65k2Yu-65K8uqSqDQbOjqZXNfxPpzQ73HEAOf6_1ebUB8paRHNL-AfetryvSjjbiq16T-84PNjA5kXPyNDJP/s320/giraffe3.JPG" width="320" /></a>But as the next morning came around we soon forgot our troubles. Our driver picked us up at six and we had the whole nine-person truck to ourselves. We headed toward the “pan” (the open grassland area where the animals roamed) and just as we turned the corner from the camping area to the pan, we came upon a majestic, golden brown male giraffe who was indulging in a morning graze among the tops of acacia trees. I had never seen a giraffe in person before; they’re such unique creatures and they’re taller than I realized. They walk very methodically – shifting their weight in a calculated manner with each step – and our guide said they are sometimes called the beauty queens of the jungle because their smooth gait is reminiscent of an eveningwear round of a beauty pageant. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8BN0NTMGOj1rMJANIPtRFtimgkLzHFyBsWptinG7Vutvgyt401m2HQGp1e0AAPFNAnn7a79UG-G3sdyCLyM_UtDVk-WV41x1lpDj_Qoa6MbhDX8HnxpQPBsBqdoJx6_lpC2ygd3McP8A/s1600/giraffeStar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8BN0NTMGOj1rMJANIPtRFtimgkLzHFyBsWptinG7Vutvgyt401m2HQGp1e0AAPFNAnn7a79UG-G3sdyCLyM_UtDVk-WV41x1lpDj_Qoa6MbhDX8HnxpQPBsBqdoJx6_lpC2ygd3McP8A/s320/giraffeStar.JPG" width="320" /></a>From there we moved to the heart of the pan and I experienced another ‘first.’ Two white rhinos appeared to the left and started ambling towards our truck. I had never seen a rhino before, either. It was quite the scene. It appeared to be a mother rhino with her child and they walked right in front of our truck! They joined a group of zebras and springbok that were grazing together to our left, and all three types of animals peacefully grazed and played rather harmoniously beneath the morning sun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We drove around more and saw even more rhinos and giraffes, as well as wildebeests and ostriches and warthogs. It was an amazingly successful game drive and I’m glad my partners captured some of the best moments on camera.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">An apple covered in peanut butter with some Salticrax (the Botswana version of Ritz crackers) for breakfast…</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHd34napwY8LoKL4jVXjTI2xwS2BAcN5GH-LTJmxGaRt8ztCGmfA81B0ZdC1aLRlzvgRm4GCL7QY4tOGg5KU42nohovnCjhXvCg3n9ITtWze6HJrWd-LMx9YNpCtZsk8TEYdK3aA7P24H/s1600/giraffe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHd34napwY8LoKL4jVXjTI2xwS2BAcN5GH-LTJmxGaRt8ztCGmfA81B0ZdC1aLRlzvgRm4GCL7QY4tOGg5KU42nohovnCjhXvCg3n9ITtWze6HJrWd-LMx9YNpCtZsk8TEYdK3aA7P24H/s320/giraffe.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK5HRF4issokd22r3-XFEwF7PlHAzKq2oXgOXvV6oc7ataxCEl8AtO6-Nh-jDz8viFmgNhUYAUf3wc7DRs88MRe_8zxMYChXx2oFg3HjsNECev9Uo-d6-fYUKTRipcn7x7ASPRXVokvn8g/s1600/rhinoMomKid.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK5HRF4issokd22r3-XFEwF7PlHAzKq2oXgOXvV6oc7ataxCEl8AtO6-Nh-jDz8viFmgNhUYAUf3wc7DRs88MRe_8zxMYChXx2oFg3HjsNECev9Uo-d6-fYUKTRipcn7x7ASPRXVokvn8g/s320/rhinoMomKid.JPG" width="320" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"> </span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YanMIT_QKbqgyaeibV4R5O9Mr0gk9bY1GhLrMh5hW7h_Q8MFqfSVyhyphenhyphen3dC5A5UFUZKR7xWdGdD7IAq1Q19Edq_PW8sQr7GdZCjyb1vFuKssrKj1s7c-Uyc2rBwmkxtbwVDHNLgD9fLcY/s1600/rhinoStar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YanMIT_QKbqgyaeibV4R5O9Mr0gk9bY1GhLrMh5hW7h_Q8MFqfSVyhyphenhyphen3dC5A5UFUZKR7xWdGdD7IAq1Q19Edq_PW8sQr7GdZCjyb1vFuKssrKj1s7c-Uyc2rBwmkxtbwVDHNLgD9fLcY/s320/rhinoStar.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQKaI8KNiHO0m7QW2vOXiTVMUYijyUOTuWxgxgqFkHdPMsn50RWFELTFpe8XO_XVGfHL-3LFn0E6BAFa8YJKNFKwd0GEsxftd4N1cGWIRmLML0dD9xM3nFn903kvp3pPfXdt_uELsiGCq/s1600/OstrichAction.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQKaI8KNiHO0m7QW2vOXiTVMUYijyUOTuWxgxgqFkHdPMsn50RWFELTFpe8XO_XVGfHL-3LFn0E6BAFa8YJKNFKwd0GEsxftd4N1cGWIRmLML0dD9xM3nFn903kvp3pPfXdt_uELsiGCq/s320/OstrichAction.JPG" width="282" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJf6eSjaLBYt4bkLzW1_4y8rJV5u8RLmTBMI9rHWZceXE0UkvQeC7ub_ZFVdSE0lK2um9cMS-THi75Cd0sEJyhNvHWezaZoNXbNiT02hw3KX9fU3pZj7t6XSBjH_pU4v-I_0j-Z8YSBHne/s1600/zebraStare.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJf6eSjaLBYt4bkLzW1_4y8rJV5u8RLmTBMI9rHWZceXE0UkvQeC7ub_ZFVdSE0lK2um9cMS-THi75Cd0sEJyhNvHWezaZoNXbNiT02hw3KX9fU3pZj7t6XSBjH_pU4v-I_0j-Z8YSBHne/s320/zebraStare.JPG" width="273" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNfnY-tWBlNHjBV7lPKsNMEFjQS1vlGoxU4I7hSmaLWBljdMMF-UJ7F8hcGeQynjp25t9nyhLlz_NHwAT5OSf9il5fWNuggOQd5GOfms2qvWXQ3RtTi9cPWsPsKf-vhf2UOTsrU0hBhGu/s1600/grazing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNfnY-tWBlNHjBV7lPKsNMEFjQS1vlGoxU4I7hSmaLWBljdMMF-UJ7F8hcGeQynjp25t9nyhLlz_NHwAT5OSf9il5fWNuggOQd5GOfms2qvWXQ3RtTi9cPWsPsKf-vhf2UOTsrU0hBhGu/s320/grazing.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ol6I5WkNA27AJvXeqiRjZ5rIf41nrWUZMvx2vEp-xdiIEKWydWEds5u5MWlxvR7qktFGZbbtr8HYDIXTfTvEoeLnEf8BdegsFXPJxtMWbkU3DFaNw5VcH0eV5mvmd1SyIDGrcNCMWUcg/s1600/eland.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ol6I5WkNA27AJvXeqiRjZ5rIf41nrWUZMvx2vEp-xdiIEKWydWEds5u5MWlxvR7qktFGZbbtr8HYDIXTfTvEoeLnEf8BdegsFXPJxtMWbkU3DFaNw5VcH0eV5mvmd1SyIDGrcNCMWUcg/s320/eland.JPG" width="290" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuO4a3mGaPIiGt9tortib2VK1MWE7ZH68vfBVI5cei5d58Ya2C-QyJxKAvwqZIIjR0vvOznVuis0VJ3XICq52On9kTryhATrO-UxjFeSVA2Onqd3ZLe5PokKtNV5lc9n5nRRDv0ivfKFp/s1600/springbokFight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuO4a3mGaPIiGt9tortib2VK1MWE7ZH68vfBVI5cei5d58Ya2C-QyJxKAvwqZIIjR0vvOznVuis0VJ3XICq52On9kTryhATrO-UxjFeSVA2Onqd3ZLe5PokKtNV5lc9n5nRRDv0ivfKFp/s320/springbokFight.JPG" width="320" /></a>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-5165778939455067222011-02-25T15:55:00.000-08:002011-02-25T16:22:08.588-08:00Serowe, part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MRfzWtF-gnpbS3FIqI-mpKzKLieByyzLQ2VW2XZqQt8mpyyqSuuX1gMSZ5VZ_rAZOEcqrvIntOA9q1z8vfSPI3j2MEnfrepKlgfmqVxfSF4fbaJgIFuTSfJYLdW9uZz8DQckgFVK0NJu/s1600/theGroup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MRfzWtF-gnpbS3FIqI-mpKzKLieByyzLQ2VW2XZqQt8mpyyqSuuX1gMSZ5VZ_rAZOEcqrvIntOA9q1z8vfSPI3j2MEnfrepKlgfmqVxfSF4fbaJgIFuTSfJYLdW9uZz8DQckgFVK0NJu/s320/theGroup.JPG" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to right: Ashley, Scott, Derek and myself</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Last weekend, Ashley, Scott, Derek and myself took a trip to the town of Serowe (say-ROH-way) to spend a night at the Khama Rhino Sanctuary. We had heard rave reviews from a group who had went the week before and all of us were itching to get off campus, so we made last minute plans and hit the road.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We got up bright and early and took a combi to the bus station in time to catch the 8am bus for Serowe. As the buses are waiting to depart, vendors are free to come on board and push various foodstuffs or fake designer items towards you, and I had skipped breakfast so I bought a chicken pie. I love the smell of spicy chicken in the morning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ride took about three and a half hours, but it went by in flash thanks to my penchant for sleeping in moving vehicles. As we rattled into the sleepy bus station in Serowe, the change of pace from the bustling capitol was refreshing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We had heard about a museum in Serowe dedicated to the presidents of Botswana (all four of them are from this village) and we decided to track it down. After asking for directions a couple of times, a young girl selflessly offered to show us the way – and it wasn’t that short of a walk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, after we had trekked all the way there it was closed. We found a boy banging away on the drums to a Shakira song out back and another boy said the managers of the museum were gone until Monday. So we headed back to the station.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were planning on cooking dinner at the campsite, so we bought groceries to make al-foil meals (potatoes, onions, and carrots wrapped in tin foil and thrown in a fire) and bratwurst. Then we stopped by a small kiosk by the bus rank and grabbed lunch before we took the bus that would bring us out to the Rhino Sanctuary.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I fell asleep on this bus, too, and this time it proved to be costly. As the bus made its stop Scott poked me awake and I was able to come to my senses with just enough time to throw my book in my backpack and head out. However, as the bus pulled out of sight I realized I had left my half of the groceries in the overhead compartment. I couldn’t believe it. My one group responsibility and I dropped the ball. We were able to get on the phone with the bus company, but they said no buses ran until the morning, by which time our sausages would be rotted or already eaten by a lucky traveler. So we would make due with half-supplies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFcGw6ikHPeAlSQJgZuWKLf3gQVzbcQlyOxyq5YDkOfc9zF8VGOPprx-T1QKDkeeBvEnEMAujZ2OB4HLnQuJbC4T42hLROxZJmTi630ZIBKvg5kBCXYPfF1FgAFxdWPn7yffTUQJMddCV/s1600/campsite.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFcGw6ikHPeAlSQJgZuWKLf3gQVzbcQlyOxyq5YDkOfc9zF8VGOPprx-T1QKDkeeBvEnEMAujZ2OB4HLnQuJbC4T42hLROxZJmTi630ZIBKvg5kBCXYPfF1FgAFxdWPn7yffTUQJMddCV/s320/campsite.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny tent beneath the Mokongwa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>From there we moved to our campsite. Each campsite at the sanctuary is centered around a large, stately Mokongwa tree and has plenty of space to set up camp, though our extra-cozy four person tent didn’t need much space at all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we set up the tent and explored the area, we heard music coming from a neighboring campsite and so we went to investigate. As we approached we saw a group of four locals dancing to the music and we figured we wouldn’t bother them, but they caught sight of us and invited us over. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKuvHS1y7OqzXpkCHjYpnLAvkYhCr7s6eFZD1iB1JP6ZfYk5uS5jaxS_JRL3BjqetW8xlhGJodlMNk7qW_GihO7ZLY7W9HXCVxfr5wKL1UOu3sZwHggcWCbVtxiYg19gjTfQLpXQolYtG/s1600/hornbill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKuvHS1y7OqzXpkCHjYpnLAvkYhCr7s6eFZD1iB1JP6ZfYk5uS5jaxS_JRL3BjqetW8xlhGJodlMNk7qW_GihO7ZLY7W9HXCVxfr5wKL1UOu3sZwHggcWCbVtxiYg19gjTfQLpXQolYtG/s320/hornbill.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hornbill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>They were incredibly friendly and we talked for a while. There were two guys and two girls. One of the guys was a banker, the other a teacher. They knew a lot about the birds that inhabited the sanctuary and told us the story of the mating habits of hornbills. Apparently once a female hornbill is pregnant, she sheds all her feathers into a knot in a tree to make a nest, and then the male seals her into the knot by filling the hole with cow dung. He leaves just a small hole so that he can bring her food while she minds the eggs. The male does this faithfully until the eggs have hatched, at which point the female’s feathers have grown back. Talk about commitment!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7AUMFUx3YFRN1lDHanmD4Tvt9IWeDuDNQCqTYkbKJRnxFhQbZ-EwRenJ9enfIlqb-tslp3rHxirP2gw0zR_tsIRclWhKpHVU-Ien0JjROV6TluaOSWlNKHYyGDsMYsdrayJ2ifIVOVwy/s1600/localLadies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7AUMFUx3YFRN1lDHanmD4Tvt9IWeDuDNQCqTYkbKJRnxFhQbZ-EwRenJ9enfIlqb-tslp3rHxirP2gw0zR_tsIRclWhKpHVU-Ien0JjROV6TluaOSWlNKHYyGDsMYsdrayJ2ifIVOVwy/s320/localLadies.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Us and the local ladies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Then they showed us how to eat sweet reed, which is a smaller, softer relative of sugar cane. You have to peel back the outer layer with your teeth and then the middle is like a natural lollipop.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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To be continued…</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-81863431655411550212011-02-23T15:56:00.001-08:002011-02-23T15:56:20.587-08:00Stepping Stones<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">As the semester has worn on and I have continued to experience a variety of opportunities that immerse me not only in Botswana health care but also in the social impacts of HIV/AIDS, I have begun to see that although there is a long list of beneficial national policies and noble NGOs, Botswana has a long way to go before it can relinquish the hold HIV has on the country.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some campaigns have called for an “AIDS Free Generation” across Africa by 2015, which is a tall order, but Botswana, at least, may be well on its way. Precedents have been set for controlling and treating HIV, prevention programs are in place and global funds are surging into the area. Now, there just needs to be work done on the ground to implement this change and begin shifting the culture and behavior surrounding HIV.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last week I had the good fortune of visiting an organization that is doing just this type of implementation through grassroots work that empowers kids and gives them a place to belong. The organization is called Stepping Stones International, and it is an NGO located in the town of Mochudi that works with orphaned children and children from destitute homes who have been made vulnerable because of how HIV hit their families, and now are at-risk to contract the disease themselves.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here is the story of my trip to Mochudi…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I heard about Stepping Stones through a colleague at the Center for the Study of HIV/AIDS on campus, who put me in contact with Lila Pavey, one of the directors at Stepping Stones. Within a week of contacting her she asked me to come out and visit, and I couldn’t have been more excited to go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To get to Mochudi I took a combi (a minibus that is a facet of public transport) to the main bus station, and then asked for the bus to Mochudi. The bus was only P9 ($1.50) and took about an hour to get to the town. As the bus approached Mochudi, some people were already getting off of the bus, and Lila had told me to get off at the Shell station, so when the bus passed a Shell station I hopped off. It turns out I got off one Shell station to early, however.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I needed to call Lila but my phone had conveniently run out of battery, so I went to the Shell station and asked how to get to Stepping Stones. After a short lesson in Setswana, one of the attendants pointed me to a combi that would go in the right direction. I used the combi driver’s phone to call Lila and tell her I would be late.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The driver said he knew the stop for Stepping Stones but when he left me off at a dirt road with no clear buildings in sight, I was skeptical. I followed the road anyway, and soon I ran into a group of young kids.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They were so excited to me (because of the welcoming air I give off or because I’m white is up for speculation) and we played catch with a homemade tape-ball and I taught them how to high-five. They all went crazy for high-fives after that and competed for space to slap my hand and one boy kept slapping harder and harder until I feigned an injury, which sent them into more of a frenzy. I said hello in Setswana and they answered, but then I said, “my name is Mike” in Setswana, and they echoed, “my name is Mike” in unison back to me, so I figured asking the way to Stepping Stones wouldn’t get me very far.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Luckily a woman walked by who pointed me in the right direction, and I strolled into Stepping Stones fashionably late (ironic not only because that rule doesn’t apply to meeting with the director of an NGO, but also because at that point my business casual attire was dusty and sweaty and far from fashionable). The place was bustling when I arrived because kids had just arrived from school. Lila was busy meeting with a new hire, and so she had one of the students take me on a tour.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His name was Thero (pronounced TAY-roh) and he was a fantastic tour guide. He was super enthusiastic and refreshingly straightforward and thoughtful with his words and actions. To be honest, he reminded me a lot of my cousin Marcus, from whom I’ve always felt I have a lot to learn because of his genuine warmth and kindness. Thero was off to a great start at drawing me towards Stepping Stones and its kids. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I learned that the kids are split up into groups and each group is assigned different chores each week. Thero was on dishes this week. There was also an inter-team competition and when teams did something well they got rocks placed in their corresponding buckets (a “ten points for Gryffindor” kind of thing). Thero’s team was winning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I learned a little bit about a profit generation program they have in place for the kids. I only got the basics, but it sounds like they have some kids who make musical beats, and then some kids who promote them and some that work on the finances. Thero is currently a finance manager for the project, and I promised to buy a copy of the CD as soon as it dropped.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point I should explain further my interest in Stepping Stones. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The potential that I mentioned earlier for Botswana to turn the tables on its HIV epidemic had ignited in me the desire to contribute to its progress and give back to the community of which I had become a part. My schedule during the semester wasn’t very flexible, so I started thinking, only wishfully at first, about staying here for the winter (American summer) to volunteer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A friend of mine who grew up in a developing country once warned me about my aspirations to one day work in a poor part of the world because of the sentiment in these countries that they don’t need Americans to come and save them. So I was wary of any plans to stay and volunteer in Botswana. But as I have continued to contemplate the idea, I feel like I’m not someone coming to save anybody, but rather just a person drawn to a cause who happens to be in a place where a lot of good is being done, and I feel like good could always use an extra hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I was visiting Stepping Stones to inquire about a volunteer position for the few months I would have off between semesters.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When my tour with Thero was complete, I sat down with Lila to talk more about the details of the program, as well as what they were looking for in a volunteer. The conversation went well from my point of view, and although Lila couldn’t make the decision on her own, she gave the impression that Stepping Stones would have a spot for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After we talked, I got to sit in on one of the group lessons. Students were acting out role-playing activities relating to prevention of risky social and sexual behavior. In the role-playing, one person was an “instigator” who was trying to bring the other person home with them and the kids had to practice saying “no” to these kinds of people in an interactive setting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The kids really liked it and were great actors and loved being dramatic and performing in front of their peers. In one of the role-plays, a guy and a girl rounded up some old pop cans and chip bags and the boy pretended to buy the girl lunch and they flirted and then he tried to get her to come home but she said no, very emphatically. It was so cute, yet striking, because the boy looked like he was 10 and was probably only 12 or 13 and was talking about sex and bringing girls home and had such a flare for the dramatic.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next morning the kids were going to play soccer and then a talent promoter was coming to watch the kids dance and select some for a performance or music video. The more I heard about the healthy experiences Stepping Stones created for the kids, the more impressed I became.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end of the day Lila gave me a ride back to UB, so I avoided any more bus mishaps. She had amazing stories from her days in public health. She told of sexual abuse, of girls sleeping out for nights at a time who were much too young to do so, and other situations that Stepping Stones was working hard to avoid for its kids.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I got home I realized I was completely hooked on Stepping Stones. I wanted to hang out with Thero again; I wanted to participate in role-playing activities (even if I couldn’t keep up with the Setswana); I wanted to help launch the new education center that was under construction. So I started looking into what I needed to do to extend my stay. As of yet I haven’t made a decision, and some things still need to fall into place, but I might be staying in Botswana for a little bit longer than expected.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I stepped out of Lila’s car, I had just enough money for a bratwurst from one of the roadside stands, and it put a cap on a fantastic day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Foot long bratwurst with onions, tomatoes and chili sauce for dinner…</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-35292495920601654922011-02-15T13:00:00.000-08:002011-02-15T13:00:36.480-08:00Princess Marina<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Still in search of an extracurricular activities that are a good fit, last week Derek and I got connected with a shadowing opportunity at Princess Marina Hospital (PMH). The process was refreshingly efficient. We met with an administrator in the Medical Education department on campus, she made one call to PMH and had a meeting arranged for us later that day. At the meeting, the coordinator of clinical exposure for the hospital asked what our interests were and outlined a shadowing program that would fulfill our needs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That same day we met with a specialist in the medical ward and she gave us a brief tour and introduction to the work she does. She told us to come back at 7:30 the next morning for the daily meeting and after that we could join teams for rounds. We obliged.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite the early morning wake-up, the meeting was fascinating. It opened with nurses reporting admittances and mortalities from the night before and we got to hear all of the different cases the hospital faces. The words I heard over and over were anemia, meningitis, pneumonia, TB, and the most common, unfortunately, was HIV.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">More than half of all patients admitted to PMH are HIV+. Botswana is at the point in the epidemic, however, where patients are no longer coming in because they have HIV (they have already been diagnosed and are receiving treatment) but rather because of a secondary or concurrent condition caused by HIV.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Meningitis incidence is fairly low around the world, but due to its co-infectious nature with HIV, it is the number one diagnosis made upon admission at PMH. The same is true for pneumonia and TB, cases of which seemed to be everywhere I turned as I moved through the hospital.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even if a person avoids co-infection, the antiretroviral (ARV) drugs that patients take have serious side-effects. One patient we saw had Stephen-Johnson syndrome, which is a disease of the epidermis that can be life-threatening. Rashes and painful lesions appear near mucus membranes all over the body, most notably in the mouth and eyes. Official websites list the syndrome as extremely rare, but the dermatologist at PMH said she sees it all the time here because it is a common repercussion of ARVs. Of course, the immunodepressant aspect of HIV makes the side-effects from drugs that much more serious. Also, Steven-Johnson syndrome is easily treatable by taking the patient off of the drugs that cause it, but with HIV, stopping a drug course risks the development of drug-resistant strains of the virus. It's like being stuck between a rock and a hard place and another rock.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After admittances, the nurses reported mortalities and the response from the room was not what I expected. When the first name was read, the doctor who had been responsible for that patient said, “I never saw it coming” and the whole room laughed. Apparently that’s what they say every time one of their patients die, and it's become an inside joke. Another name was read off and another joke was cracked. I was sitting there becoming quieter and more introspective, but I suppose I should have been developing my own coping mechanism; you certainly couldn’t sit through those lists day after day if you lamented the injustice of every passing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next, one of the doctors made a presentation about an interesting case he had the week before. It was an interactive talk, as the doctor would discuss the symptoms and ask the room what they would have done. It was such a good mechanism for professional development and keeping people on their toes. If I had understood more of the medicine I would have learned a ton.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The meeting broke after the presentation, and Derek and I were assigned to two different teams who were going on rounds for the morning. The first case my team saw was an elderly man who was recovering from a second round of TB. We looked at his chest X-ray and the doctors explained how his right lung was decreased and pointed out signs of chronic lung disease on the left side. I got to listen to his breathing through a stethoscope and experience what the breathing of a two-time TB sufferer with lung disease patient sounded like. Raspy, to say the least.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We moved on and tended to patients throughout the ward. Some were anemic, others just had dizziness. One patient had such bad fluid build-up around her brain that she was delirious. She needed daily lumbar punctures to relieve the pressure and relieve her neighbors of her nonsensical screams.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One man, who was a 62-year-old named Rocket, had originally been admitted with a mysterious illness that left him bed ridden and speechless. Over the past week, however, he had made a recovery and was walking around, talking to whomever he could. My first encounter with him occurred as he was trying to fill up his water glass. He went to sink and turned the faucet on full blast. He stared, fascinated, at the stream of water. Once in a while he stuck his cup under the water and it was running so hard that it splashed everywhere. He would pull his arm back, but eventually test it again, like a curious child. The nurses courteously shut the water off as the basin began to overflow and I asked the doctor what the fascination was all about. She responded that Rocket perhaps had never seen running water before being admitted to hospital. It reminded me of the inequalities that are prevalent in Botswana – not only between rich and poor but between urban and rural as well.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In talking to Derek afterwards, he had been in the surgical ward for part of the day, and while his team was tending to a patient, the neighboring patient started to crash. The head doctor tried defibrillation, but it didn’t work, and none of the local staff could find a ventilator, and the patient died. It highlights the lack of resources the hospital has. Some of the doctors on my team were from America, and they were constantly saying things like “well in America we would do this, but Botswana doesn’t have the supplies, so we do this instead.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One American doctor said the supplies aren’t even the real issue. She thinks the hospital desperately needs a workplace engineer to come and solve the issue of miscommunication between nurses and doctors and between various departments. It certainly reinforces my drive to go into public health and do what I can for places like these, where they run out of tape to keep IVs in place and have nurses lose track of patients' files. The list of things we take for granted in the states was building by the minute.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hospital was enlightening in many ways. Going on rounds is not something I could do everyday in the states, and I tried to make the most of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If anyone has spare medical ventilators, maybe donate them to Bots…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Chicken quesadillas (Derek’s idea) with homemade guacamole for dinner… </div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-70922132847146363422011-02-12T11:20:00.000-08:002011-02-12T13:23:41.817-08:00Miss UB"Has he let the suspense build for long enough?" you might ask. Yes, he has. Here's the much overdo story of the 11-hour beauty pageant...<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Last weekend was the Mr. & Miss UB (University of Botswana) pageant. My friend Robin was a contestant, and so a group of us went to support her. The tickets were on the expensive side, but we were told they included dinner and performances from local artists during breaks in the pageant.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86OzEHeYavgWbknODh1gDKg9h8Y1RQjvoGA5g_ttcMXWhhZDd0j4rzKFUS4gHKyzhXqngz-mmKew0cumrW5wlhX3JKfWn9fdSfK9sJGznRq9PcBICNZimRseo33DHuEoQAICSRM8kYJDb/s1600/RobinsFans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86OzEHeYavgWbknODh1gDKg9h8Y1RQjvoGA5g_ttcMXWhhZDd0j4rzKFUS4gHKyzhXqngz-mmKew0cumrW5wlhX3JKfWn9fdSfK9sJGznRq9PcBICNZimRseo33DHuEoQAICSRM8kYJDb/s320/RobinsFans.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The tickets said the show started at 7pm, so we showed up at 730, thinking we would be fashionably late. They were still setting up the stage and lighting at that point though, and we were told that the show in fact did not include dinner so I swung back to the room to make some food. I hustled back at 8:30 hoping I hadn’t missed anything, but my fears were premature. Not only had the show not started when I got back, but it didn’t end up starting for another three hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcgw84Y1p2AkrqNmXxKvV4V0LIfV05EwDvutuniBGOiD_KVm42ZpiEItMC4gQg6iG7iQu5cDRlHzIUUBKs6C69Jgh_s2qrDG_aXvMouUKcUw2hbNX46tMciwSAtTPIdUzPQo_qFUi5QcO/s1600/Robin%2526partnet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcgw84Y1p2AkrqNmXxKvV4V0LIfV05EwDvutuniBGOiD_KVm42ZpiEItMC4gQg6iG7iQu5cDRlHzIUUBKs6C69Jgh_s2qrDG_aXvMouUKcUw2hbNX46tMciwSAtTPIdUzPQo_qFUi5QcO/s320/Robin%2526partnet.jpg" width="320" /></a>Despite the delay, we were excited to see Robin, who had attended daily practices for the two weeks leading up the event and was always bubbling with stories of the people she met and all the work she was doing to prepare. The show opened with pairs of guys and girls coming out together in casual wear. Robin did great, and she was paired up with the most popular boy, which didn’t hurt.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: right;"></div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgawHW-RwM5gMxJWwighHFnXcT0bwRtZjyjW9u5vev1h8IPH0NAKrtEsd-IZn-L2m_ypH4Xv5ndw02apU_W4GT0MRsFz8RKZAUvSQXSTv1KEwhE81rofYaov6srQ5LXK3sn1IDgNKWhcyDZ/s1600/Swimsuit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgawHW-RwM5gMxJWwighHFnXcT0bwRtZjyjW9u5vev1h8IPH0NAKrtEsd-IZn-L2m_ypH4Xv5ndw02apU_W4GT0MRsFz8RKZAUvSQXSTv1KEwhE81rofYaov6srQ5LXK3sn1IDgNKWhcyDZ/s320/Swimsuit.jpg" width="320" /></a>Then there was an hour break while a local rap duo performed. Next, the contestants came out as a group for a few minutes, and then there was another break while another performance was set up. We had been at the pageant for five hours at that point and a friend of mine and I were sick of the breaks and were getting hungry, so we went back to the dorms for a bit. We came back and caught the swimsuit competition. Robin was full of confidence, despite having to walk in heels while wearing a bikini with bright lights on her from every angle. With the first two rounds complete, she seemed to be a contender for the top five, which is what she needed to move on.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: right;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzY_sloPhVeUWQp6FJOJ_dloXFnylLUmk9qsgf8EdOCf8Rx8aVTRKwukPR-3s99jwy9ljDFUwjrVfNY-lAD9nCOwZGg9i1S61R5xPoXrQ6sb9z1_bFiYKlRK4oTGpqHI5waUGGxL2j4c0m/s1600/GroupDance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzY_sloPhVeUWQp6FJOJ_dloXFnylLUmk9qsgf8EdOCf8Rx8aVTRKwukPR-3s99jwy9ljDFUwjrVfNY-lAD9nCOwZGg9i1S61R5xPoXrQ6sb9z1_bFiYKlRK4oTGpqHI5waUGGxL2j4c0m/s320/GroupDance.jpg" width="320" /></a>Next there was a group dance. This was an area was a strength for Robin, but she ended up in the back of the formation, where her potential to outshine the other girls was limited.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div style="text-align: right;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnpk8FgNyBHFZdPafOFJll-jUNhzPPKmchJlIaUFcV4t_9fCprKXz_pHom4Fi0v0fgyz_QtCo-uzG2LqfwMTixwSNkKFbR1BF8mFhJiIvr68Rx4UgqKGBqLtjXhbaL6-VqZWWHRBtrGZF/s1600/Formal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnpk8FgNyBHFZdPafOFJll-jUNhzPPKmchJlIaUFcV4t_9fCprKXz_pHom4Fi0v0fgyz_QtCo-uzG2LqfwMTixwSNkKFbR1BF8mFhJiIvr68Rx4UgqKGBqLtjXhbaL6-VqZWWHRBtrGZF/s320/Formal.jpg" width="240" /></a>The final round was formal eveningwear. All of the guys’ suits were too big for them, which was amusing. It was as if they all borrowed them from their dads, or maybe the school supplied them without getting measurements. The girls looked fantastic, though. Robin had on a gorgeous yellow dress that she showed-off very gracefully. We were all screaming as loud as we could whenever Robin came out, hoping the judges would be influenced by audience approval.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">At this point it was around 4:30 in the morning, and they were setting up another performance while the judges deliberated. We couldn’t handle sitting around anymore and went back to hang out in the dorms for a while. Around 5:30 we figured the pageant was over but that we might as well catch the sunrise since we had made it all the way through the night. But when we went outside we could still here music coming from the auditorium. We swung by and, sure enough, the pageant was still going. They had selected the top five (Robin didn’t make it, which was a fluke) and now the judges were deliberating again after a round of interviews. We went and caught the sunrise while the judges deliberated, and we came back to hear the final results come in at 6:45 in the morning.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">So that’s the story of the 11-hour beauty pageant. It was a blast, though the end is somewhat of a blur. Robin said she had a great time, though her legs felt like rubber after spending the whole night in heels. A lot of the people that had originally come for Robin had bailed by two or three in the morning, so we were able to say that we had stuck it out for her. I finally got into bed around 7:30 and I won’t say how late into the day I slept.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A rushed bowl of macaroni with fried green peppers, onions, carrots and tomatoes for dinner…</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-87456930623358981962011-01-31T13:11:00.001-08:002011-02-01T10:27:58.500-08:00Jo-burg part 2The next morning we got a tour of the Apartheid Museum. We had heard rave reviews and they were justified. From the opening gate where we entered through separate doors according to race (each person’s “race” was randomly assigned and printed on the tickets), to the room where actual nooses hung from the ceiling, the museum gave a moving and detailed account of the apartheid era in South Africa.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They had a temporary special exhibit on Nelson Mandela, and it was riveting. I spent an hour in the room reading, listening, and watching everything I could about the man and I didn’t even get to everything. I won’t go into a history lesson, but there was everything from interviews with him from when he was a young leader of the ANC, to pictures from his trial, and video of his release. There was a lot I didn’t know about Mandela, and I was glad to soak in as much knowledge as I could.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If there was one problem with the museum, it was that it had too much information, which is a good problem for a museum to have. Throughout the tour, we were hit with multimedia recounts from every angle of the events and history of apartheid. From movies and news clips to propaganda artwork and an entire armored truck, the information came in many shapes. Perhaps the deluge was intentional and the barrage of harrowing images and videos are meant to impart on the patrons a sense of the suffering black people endured during the time of oppression and segregation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the museum we set a course for Gaborone, and it was a bittersweet goodbye to Johannesburg. The consensus among the group was that Joburg was a great time and the energy and history of the South African metropolis complimented our time spent in Gaborone well. I slept almost the entire way home and the five hours went by in a flash.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We got back at 8pm and hadn’t stopped for dinner, so Derek, Robin and I grabbed a dinner from the caf (misleadingly named the Curry Pot). It was a nice way to wrap up the weekend, as we recounted our favorite parts of the trip and began to think about the week ahead.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Meat balls with macaroni and beef broth with a side of cabbage, washed down with cranberry juice for dinner…</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-65759864594985093402011-01-30T14:35:00.000-08:002011-01-31T11:56:34.850-08:00Jo-burg part 1<div class="MsoNormal">Cultural Lesson #4:</div><div class="MsoNormal">People from Botswana are called Batswana. Here they pronounce Botswana more like Boh-TSWA-nah and Batswana more like we pronounce Botswana (Bah-TSWA-nah). I still slip up once in a while and refer to them as Botswanans, but, like my other American habits, that is slowly fading. The language and culture are referred to as Setswana (or just Tswana for short), as in ‘Setswana culture is prevalent among the Batswana.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMvzuILCcXA9SIPsiO5SheU_Wb4cQxfNHG55F7uDyHZV6C1pLcAPIse9OvQhdbasCTK1dUzkBOJ5jjU8DrpTdOXG7Zd2aVRvmiZwntRrgsWY6cAe4AYJol3rVhUf0yLubujQe-wTEk9VK/s1600/27personbs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMvzuILCcXA9SIPsiO5SheU_Wb4cQxfNHG55F7uDyHZV6C1pLcAPIse9OvQhdbasCTK1dUzkBOJ5jjU8DrpTdOXG7Zd2aVRvmiZwntRrgsWY6cAe4AYJol3rVhUf0yLubujQe-wTEk9VK/s320/27personbs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">27-person bus</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I just got back in town from a weekend trip to Johannesburg (Jo-burg), which was a blast. We headed out right after class on Friday and piled 26 people into a 27-person bus, which in the states would have been for 20 people, maximum. The seats were wide enough for about three-quarters of a person, and the back row of five people had to alternate people leaning forward and back, because five pairs of shoulders literally wouldn’t fit in the width of the bus.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl9xRksii6EMmauSWXAWUIV1XYkpO-4hSKrW2089Cj_nRbd7pgMqpEVcardwECwNszwUB-Qt2s1RDYv0iVS6n-k9rPknCaTZyZOUOkQPw2bxmzdm7Hy0Aea3mOPCW6dI1C0rtRqoxwwIH/s1600/1bussleep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl9xRksii6EMmauSWXAWUIV1XYkpO-4hSKrW2089Cj_nRbd7pgMqpEVcardwECwNszwUB-Qt2s1RDYv0iVS6n-k9rPknCaTZyZOUOkQPw2bxmzdm7Hy0Aea3mOPCW6dI1C0rtRqoxwwIH/s320/1bussleep.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bus put everyone to sleep</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When we crossed the border, it was clear that immigration wasn’t a priority for Botswana or South Africa. I got my passport stamped, but it was more or less for sentimental value, because as I walked across the actual border, none of the three or four guards asked to see any paperwork. I could have been a walking case of yellow fever with an expired visa and no one would have known.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ride was a little bit longer than expected, and we missed our tour of the Origins Museum in Jo-burg, but I don’t think it was too sorely missed because everyone was hungry and looking to relax after the five-hour ride. We stayed at a backpackers in Soweto, which is a township of Jo-burg (but still has its own population of 4.5 million!). The backpackers turned out to be a fantastic find. All of the staff members were eager to help and make you feel at home and the place had a great atmosphere. In the back they had set up a tropical oasis with palm trees, hammocks, bamboo huts and lofts, a sand floor, reggae music and even a Rainbow Lorikeet (a small, rainbow-colored parrot). They served a hearty dinner and we got to enjoy the tropical setting all night. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVdaVozhfHYKO8-4Vwm9Y01OmM045fxE4FMo2ghE-aXBycbtDFm3fOi7vJ4FirD1K7k2qzN1OjKxyigmyJqLZVzJB3sxqiqnO-qGMB8Fyi6mhdLljZ8FjZcWjgsqZdcXVxA-Ad7F-x3IfS/s1600/1oasis4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVdaVozhfHYKO8-4Vwm9Y01OmM045fxE4FMo2ghE-aXBycbtDFm3fOi7vJ4FirD1K7k2qzN1OjKxyigmyJqLZVzJB3sxqiqnO-qGMB8Fyi6mhdLljZ8FjZcWjgsqZdcXVxA-Ad7F-x3IfS/s200/1oasis4.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backpackers oasis</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvnFw1TX9H4UPe7AsE0LzG6fo6YgAbKg3zXnDj_-IYOJaDttbMswpnSL5Rieq15_j9FIApXIpQ6OfL9kxuAjGtxRG9wPFJ-CQQF8tzQJRXWz97_sG7XCMwm6TvgVi5vgAhdYEVl0DZ7m1/s1600/1lorikeet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvnFw1TX9H4UPe7AsE0LzG6fo6YgAbKg3zXnDj_-IYOJaDttbMswpnSL5Rieq15_j9FIApXIpQ6OfL9kxuAjGtxRG9wPFJ-CQQF8tzQJRXWz97_sG7XCMwm6TvgVi5vgAhdYEVl0DZ7m1/s200/1lorikeet.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainbow Lorikeet</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They had darts, pool, foosball and a fire pit. One of the local guys and I played darts for most of the night, and all around kids were laughing and smiling as we enjoyed a beautiful night in Jo-burg.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKXvR4wHaPlDKYBphNPfPx1Wq3r_Hz5TdeSkJ0ajCy4jtgV_B5CL6n95shGufaiOc2XjzLfUaiEf_FAH1on2x61ngWfGzHrghV669gl5A23rzifZN7pxnXW9KARrlgs-3C0tOuHrxB-Kt/s1600/1oasis3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKXvR4wHaPlDKYBphNPfPx1Wq3r_Hz5TdeSkJ0ajCy4jtgV_B5CL6n95shGufaiOc2XjzLfUaiEf_FAH1on2x61ngWfGzHrghV669gl5A23rzifZN7pxnXW9KARrlgs-3C0tOuHrxB-Kt/s200/1oasis3.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ambience of backpackers</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTewUzv3p3bBb6yT980bQPQU_G8mSqL8SzLyOvLEx0h7N-EcXSieXzwWmfX9U77dUuaN40pwi4ZsZR6Zz66Bxjz5Jq2PhYMenC93keNwZEzg1FtanDxZ2COsyRkS4zXfHMClbRW9CBkf5/s1600/1oasis2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTewUzv3p3bBb6yT980bQPQU_G8mSqL8SzLyOvLEx0h7N-EcXSieXzwWmfX9U77dUuaN40pwi4ZsZR6Zz66Bxjz5Jq2PhYMenC93keNwZEzg1FtanDxZ2COsyRkS4zXfHMClbRW9CBkf5/s200/1oasis2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foosball, darts, bamboo hut</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXSCUmGEvcjIad_mTjG4EKTtVWL-TSJ002uhC_eoFTuH5mHOaz8zoeYl54fIq-AOX16zTUkOytEPIvA0jDgGRQztF3r_fTqVPZS38ugqD6TjVFhOZSOMvHN8YSjFT7LwDw_oMBqTcqyON/s1600/1sourmilk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXSCUmGEvcjIad_mTjG4EKTtVWL-TSJ002uhC_eoFTuH5mHOaz8zoeYl54fIq-AOX16zTUkOytEPIvA0jDgGRQztF3r_fTqVPZS38ugqD6TjVFhOZSOMvHN8YSjFT7LwDw_oMBqTcqyON/s320/1sourmilk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tour guide introducing the sour milk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The next morning we took a bicycle tour of Soweto. We went all around the city and the guide gave historical and cultural lessons along the way. Our first stop was a hostel where black men used to stay during apartheid. There we got to try more of the traditional sorghum beer that we had on the cultural excursion, and they passed around a carton of sour milk, as well. Sour milk is a traditional drink common in southern Africa, and it tastes more or less like it sounds, though they usually mix it with some kind of meat, which apparently makes it go down more smoothly.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjihLJcgyQ5u0F7eq_42H0-SBsrnflL5EbzRUtkkfMmY5THoL4TJ20jcO6tYOozP2wmkzd5baQOnScsNmxQV2wFPRLcNH8PqhvaAjNNINQRQ7dCWmIWwe80MH7S564LSt4SXe9G4VfbaH/s1600/1dereksorghum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjihLJcgyQ5u0F7eq_42H0-SBsrnflL5EbzRUtkkfMmY5THoL4TJ20jcO6tYOozP2wmkzd5baQOnScsNmxQV2wFPRLcNH8PqhvaAjNNINQRQ7dCWmIWwe80MH7S564LSt4SXe9G4VfbaH/s320/1dereksorghum.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Derek trying the traditional sorghum beer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELmELGO0fAZX9hQQzClAXrDTUFBvTrGTUIBx_XiUaE-j-nl6IidMqdd0lPJ2yHnjOzrP0JwecpyblO5eqFVqDEnTob88e4ZQvi7-kKXDbgSN15RtuBP2RoKaKIBGb6TWYJNxlyN1QuehO/s1600/1robderI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELmELGO0fAZX9hQQzClAXrDTUFBvTrGTUIBx_XiUaE-j-nl6IidMqdd0lPJ2yHnjOzrP0JwecpyblO5eqFVqDEnTob88e4ZQvi7-kKXDbgSN15RtuBP2RoKaKIBGb6TWYJNxlyN1QuehO/s320/1robderI.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robin, Derek and I with the half-finished housing<br />
complex in the background</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We passed through a slum-type village on the way to our next stop. As we biked along, everyone came out of their houses (especially young kids) and greeted us, looking for high fives. The next stop was a local butcher who specialized in cow heads, and so we each got a bite of meat from the face of a cow with, of course, nothing to wash it down. As we ate, the guide pointed out a housing complex that was being built and explained that the construction had started during the campaign of the current president as part of his promise to provide suitable housing across the country. As soon as he won the election, however, the construction stopped and the local people, realizing the emptiness of the promise, became frustrated and would throw rocks and such at the half-completed structures.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv3otc06UrGwD8pkAPJLD8_odYB6nHtzTwRiKEmefSd0BQxUMtyGAVLPf1cD-mIG__cscpzsPd9RdUpufYSeWez4wXvbzo8TOzf1VFVTmIVMYZYDFGhP6ANjiVP0XSDjDiKmrC2kPgqe9t/s1600/1hector.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv3otc06UrGwD8pkAPJLD8_odYB6nHtzTwRiKEmefSd0BQxUMtyGAVLPf1cD-mIG__cscpzsPd9RdUpufYSeWez4wXvbzo8TOzf1VFVTmIVMYZYDFGhP6ANjiVP0XSDjDiKmrC2kPgqe9t/s320/1hector.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the tour guides explaining the history of the student<br />
revolt in 1976. Behind him is the iconic photo of<br />
Hector Peterson being carried after he was shot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our next stop was the sight of the student uprising against the apartheid regime in 1976. The government instituted a curriculum in black schools that was designed to keep blacks behind whites in their education, and students rebelled against it and against apartheid in general in Soweto. One boy named Hector Peterson, who wasn’t even actively protesting, was shot and there is an iconic photo of the uprising where a boy is carrying Hector with Hector’s sister running hysterically along side. Hector was pronounced dead at the medical clinic, and his sacrifice has become the lasting symbol of that fateful day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6VV9-G2saVZrYyVF9gXiOnHP1Bsxh_BrILuAJenLHLNuDRyRlQ2msHUbWMpT7XAhpRIMtMo6WrFGkdErR01ibQyN0BmQ3QzmcOzgWcdXMqcR62h6SaqG2bgYICyqT5qVo3RReFtNCu9S/s1600/1observers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6VV9-G2saVZrYyVF9gXiOnHP1Bsxh_BrILuAJenLHLNuDRyRlQ2msHUbWMpT7XAhpRIMtMo6WrFGkdErR01ibQyN0BmQ3QzmcOzgWcdXMqcR62h6SaqG2bgYICyqT5qVo3RReFtNCu9S/s320/1observers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giving our full attention. From left to right, Senani, Molly,<br />
myself and Derek</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5wkOquoCz3vqn6IVuuK9JEOt6V-lKc2kjQJWcLT5QL-ZobG9YGr6Q3iwpIr852I9L1SucnK2FlAheqhMA5LByWBF1dMDXUr0yvXJrTuUIajKdkcaJe2oMJOJ0lY5AA76Mv4bgO9nhBJj/s1600/1bunnychow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5wkOquoCz3vqn6IVuuK9JEOt6V-lKc2kjQJWcLT5QL-ZobG9YGr6Q3iwpIr852I9L1SucnK2FlAheqhMA5LByWBF1dMDXUr0yvXJrTuUIajKdkcaJe2oMJOJ0lY5AA76Mv4bgO9nhBJj/s320/1bunnychow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Bunny chow"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We then went for lunch across the street and everyone had the “bunny chow.” It was an open-faced sandwich consisting of a bed of French fries topped with a fried egg, summer sausage and cheese. There was some curry powder mixed in somewhere as well, and I thought it was delicious. I helped finish my neighbor’s and washed it down with Fanta (have I talked about how perfect Fanta is when you’re abroad? In places where you can’t drink the tap water you have to order a drink and Fanta outside the U.S. is made with cane sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup and every country I’ve been too always has Fanta. It’s ideal).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLMQuJDn2N0D5cdw5jl22F_wDAttgELJcfKjG9hHhPOIQeAuMwaoBDzqX1xRaBb0kk134eAH5k9SLKMmhg4QaVV3TFfOrxhdaCvJ17DQGzXcOst7pMJvbqSxjUysFCysrB_lhUN_vYVAG/s1600/1mandelasign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLMQuJDn2N0D5cdw5jl22F_wDAttgELJcfKjG9hHhPOIQeAuMwaoBDzqX1xRaBb0kk134eAH5k9SLKMmhg4QaVV3TFfOrxhdaCvJ17DQGzXcOst7pMJvbqSxjUysFCysrB_lhUN_vYVAG/s320/1mandelasign.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tour stop at one of Mandela's houses. Who's that<br />
stud in the #4 jersey?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We finished the tour with a stop at one of Nelson Mandela’s houses. It is a museum now, so he no longer spends any time there, but it’s where he stayed with his second wife when he was released from prison in 1990.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We got back to the backpackers shortly after and the sun and the biking had taken its toll. It was four in the afternoon and the place was a ghost town because everyone had fallen asleep. I was on the couches with a group of people and we had sat down to watch a soccer match, but two minutes into it we were all dead asleep. Derek was curled up next to the bus driver, Robin was curled up next to one of the local students, and another boy and I had tipped straight back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As people peeled themselves from beds and hammocks and couches, dinner was ready and we spent another night with good food in the pseudo-tropical jungle. A group of us stayed up late playing cards (a couple of people had heard of 500 but we stuck to simpler games) and telling stories around the fire. I could get used to these kinds of weekends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Steak and corn-on-the-cob on the grill with pop (a white, sticky maize meal) and a pepper-bean salad all lathered with hot sauce and washed down with peach juice for dinner…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">p.s. On the way down to Jo-burg I asked if anyone had heard the song “Johannesburg” by Gil Scott-Heron. People looked at me like I was crazy, so I thought I’d share the song with you below. Gil Scott-Heron is a singer and spoken word artist from the 70’s and 80’s whose songs and poems were laced with political and social commentary. He is considered one of, if not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i>, father of modern hop-hop and he’s one of my heroes because my all-time favorite artists (like Talib Kweli, Common, Kanye) all cite him as a major influence and sample his tracks all throughout their work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Johannesburg" refers to the struggle of the black people in South Africa during apartheid. If you listen close to the lyrics, Scott-Heron touches on a lot of the key social aspects of apartheid. The chorus ("Have you heard from Johannesburg?") highlights the tight hold the South African apartheid government had on the media and the small amounts of news that actually reached the U.S. regarding the oppression of blacks.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://1.gvt0.com/vi/zRPRwG1_ayk/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zRPRwG1_ayk&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zRPRwG1_ayk&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-53242672710717925682011-01-25T16:00:00.000-08:002011-01-25T16:02:19.264-08:00Matt's Bar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Yesterday morning Derek and I went back to the clinic to meet Dr. Steve and Bob (pseudonyms, to be sure), the physiotherapist. After not getting used well the week before, we thought that we might explore other options if Monday didn’t go well. But it did. It was almost like the previous week was a test of commitment, or maybe over the weekend the doctors ruminated on how to get the most out of our services.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Anyway, they split us up so that we each got one-on-one attention. I stayed with Dr. Steve, while Derek shadowed Bob. Dr. Steve actually had the flow of patients come through me, where I took blood pressures, pulses, temperatures and so on. This streamlining was much needed because the waiting room at the clinic is standing room only all day long, and a single doctor can only see patients so quickly. There are no appointments being made, and so patients show up and just wait, sometimes for hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">There was kind of a cool scene on Monday, as well. A man came in with his pant leg torn and full of blood and a huge gash in his knee. The doctor labeled it an emergency, and brought the man back in front of all the waiting patients. I got to assist while the doctor cleaned and stitched the wound. I handed to doctor the local anesthetic, poured out more antiseptic scrub, gave the man pain pills and so on. It turns out the man is a professor at UB and he was actually running in the rain to get to class that morning (a rare breed in Botswana – I haven’t had a professor come on time yet) when he fell and cut his leg. He didn’t give up on his class, either. He went and gave the hour-long lecture, saving the trip to the doctor until after he enlightened the students.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">After the clinic, Derek and I grabbed lunch at the ‘African Mall’ (Interesting name – but I suppose we have a mall called ‘Mall of America’…) I picked up groceries for my turn at family dinner. I teamed up with Jürgen again, and the Minnesotans in the house will be honored with the dish we selected. I brought this dish up to Jürgen (the culinary school graduate from Germany) last week and told him it was my hometown’s culinary gift to the world. Others laughed, but Jürgen said, “we must make this and share it with everyone.” Anyone guessed it yet? We made Jucy Lucy’s.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I was just planning on putting cheddar and onions in them to keep them simple like the Matt’s Bar original. But of course the chef couldn’t help himself. The filling ended up consisting of cheddar and feta cheeses, with onions, garlic, olives and a dash of chili powder. We added egg, onion and seasoning to the ground beef as well. They came out as true masterpieces. Some busted open from too much filling, but it was a good problem to have. They were as Jucy as a Lucy could be and the combo of cheeses and spices had the whole crowd raving.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Jürgen had people over to his room afterwards, and we relaxed to some German hip-hop and YouTube videos of lions and crocodiles and African wildlife. Here’s one of the favorites: (I also recommend a YouTube search of “Battle at Kruger”)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://3.gvt0.com/vi/fUpo_mA5RP8/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fUpo_mA5RP8&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fUpo_mA5RP8&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Jucy Lucy’s with ketchup, lettuce and more cheese on top, served with German-style ‘oven potatoes’ and a fresh garden salad for dinner…</div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-32466098397705211742011-01-22T15:21:00.001-08:002011-01-22T15:21:57.517-08:00out of my shell<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Last night I got invited to another braai. It was for the birthday of the cousin of a friend of my friend, which may seem obscure but I’ve found those kinds of connections to be common here. And as I said before, when people throw feasts here more or less everyone is invited. The house was on the outskirts of town and so the girls were free to play music and do everything as loud as they wanted. I helped the guys grill up the meat while the girls danced in the front yard, the birthday girl the center of attention.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I went to the braai with Hanna and Robin (pictured a couple posts back) and Derek came later. It was my first time going out without a huge group of international students and it was refreshing. It is so much easier to mingle with local kids when you’re not just a face in a sea of white people. I ended up talking with the birthday girl for a while and she couldn’t have been nicer. She invited a couple other international students and I to her home village and we started planning a trip to a water park just outside of Gabs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the braai, Hanna and I went with some local students to another house party and that was a blast as well. It was the nicest house I had seen in Bots so far. There was a pool out back, a patio with picnic tables and an even an area with outdoor couches and coffee tables. There was a DJ in the middle of it all and the place was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with people. I learned once again that people here really know how to celebrate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I met a guy who had studied in New York and we talked about basketball for a while. He was a Heat fan, and I told him it was only because of Lebron, but he claimed he had family from Miami. I met another guy who was an American football fan and we had a lighthearted debate about our Super Bowl picks (Jets are taking it home, by the way). Who knew my American sports fanaticism would get me in with locals in Botswana.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I met more local people at that party than I had throughout my entire trip. I’m finally putting into action the advice from orientation of getting outside the international student shell, and it’s paid off. I met people who study in Jo-burg, and our program is taking a trip there next weekend, so they said they’d take me out. I met a guy who studied in Malaysia and now works in graphic design in Gabs. Another guy heard I play American football and wants me to come out for his club rugby team. Two ladies helped me practice my Setswana, but judging by their giggles I have a long way to go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the night went on it hit me that even though I was half a world from home and had been warned at length about culture shock, when you get down to it, people are the same everywhere. I had been at least somewhat guilty of thinking that since I was in such a new place, that people’s personalities and interests would be different, but I’m meeting people and finding things in common with people just as I would back home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some of the guys I met called me up to hang out again today and so I must have made a half-decent first impression. My dependence on the American crowd is dwindling and it feels good. Now I need to make that kind of progress on my homework for the weekend…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Grilled beef, chicken and sausage with salad and a spicy bean-pepper dish, washed down with a coke at the braai…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">p.s. If anyone wants to start a save-the-Wrangler fund, it would be appreciated because a friend of mine borrowed my car back home and apparently she wasn’t quite ready to handle the mighty Jeep.</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-50007415599405392702011-01-19T13:12:00.001-08:002011-01-19T13:48:28.219-08:00pulaCultural Lesson #3:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">In Setswana, the word ‘pula’ means rain and rain is a symbol of health and happiness for the country, as life here is traditionally dependent on receiving adequate rainfall. Fittingly, the currency in Botswana is the ‘pula’. Also, when a people visit Botswana, locals will ask them to ‘bring us the rain’, which figuratively means ‘bring us good tidings’. As chance would have it, it was raining on the day we arrived in Botswana, and that physical manifestation of such an important symbol made our arrival that much more poignant.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So throughout this trip my ceiling has had a small leak. I had a bucket underneath it and it didn’t seem to be a problem. On Monday night, however, there were torrential rains here in Gaborone (Gabs, for short) and the leak grew exponentially and instead of harmlessly falling in the bucket it was now hitting my bed and most of the floor. In retrospect I should have considered myself fortunate because I was getting ‘pula’ brought right to my room, but at the time all I could think about was finding a place to sleep. Luckily there was an empty room in my flat so I brought my pillow over there and slept for the night. I went back in the morning and my room was flooded. The bucket I had put down was filled to the brim (which meant that about 12” of rain had hit it) and anything I had left on the ground was soaked (luckily nothing valuable).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I explained the situation to my resident assistant and she helped me do the paperwork to permanently switch to the new room. It appears to be a minor problem but it really highlights some of the bureaucratic shortcomings at the University. My flatmate is a student representative for the Office of Student Welfare and he says that he has known about the leaks for sometime and the person who had my flat before me had moved out because of them. He says that the problem should have been fixed long ago, but the Student Welfare Office doesn’t consult its student representatives. He lamented the lack of communication and I felt his pain because the international students have dealt with multiple setbacks already on account of dismal interdepartmental communication.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The day got much better from there, however. Derek and I had made contact with a local medical center and they asked us back this morning to begin volunteering. The clinic is a small private practice with one general practitioner and one physical therapist. They don’t have any nurses and so Derek and I will be helping to streamline the flow of patients by taking vital signs and patient histories. We spent most of the time today practicing taking each other’s blood pressure and meeting the secretaries. It was more or less the ideal volunteer setting Derek and I had pictured. We will get to interact with local patients and learn about the intricacies of medicine in Botswana and how it may differ from the U.S., while getting hands-on experience. The two doctors said they could use us as much as possible, but that our hours don’t need to be set in stone, which made the position that much more attractive.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the clinic Derek and I went to our Human Physiology course, which yet again lacked any actual course material as the professor had to spend half of the hour reading off our ID numbers so that we could yell out which lab section we were in. You would think it would have been easy for the registrar office to provide that list and prevent the wasting of a class period, but then again the bureaucracy here is truly mysterious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After our Setswana course, it was Robin’s and my turn to cook for the gang again. Robin came up with the great idea of doing breakfast food for dinner, because American style breakfasts are nowhere to be found on campus. I was on the eggs and Robin was on the potatoes as we fried up some country-style goodness.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cheesy eggs mixed with onions, green peppers and smoked ham, served with fried breakfast potatoes and bread (we don’t have a toaster) for dinner…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">p.s. I wanted to acknowledge Emily Prazak who was one of the girls I lived with last summer. She introduced me to peanut butter on apples and it has been a mainstay of my diet here in Bots.</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-85137406171044564732011-01-19T12:22:00.000-08:002011-01-22T03:04:49.913-08:00pictures from cultural excursion<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPAi8HnFbAf0O6YTykQYFBk1OwnJc-yYHAZkc7be_QXudRx0lfNt9DHmyHMzUzd39Kf-VC7KuZ3S1HX46__AFTqvdhBwm3kPcQcmzr3jDm4zFEkKsSrhR66xQE_-XMpifIeuljG2BE2B0Q/s1600/DSCN0617.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPAi8HnFbAf0O6YTykQYFBk1OwnJc-yYHAZkc7be_QXudRx0lfNt9DHmyHMzUzd39Kf-VC7KuZ3S1HX46__AFTqvdhBwm3kPcQcmzr3jDm4zFEkKsSrhR66xQE_-XMpifIeuljG2BE2B0Q/s320/DSCN0617.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The traditional hut where the mock wedding and<br />
trials took place</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-2naY3tdT44ZTitKeQYYbN_wC-EWcYpOatdivuqSgqyYZyJAxJYgpXvzElqMCcoY-t4uNbUJkaugmX7y73G5HSMoH0BvPrAQJqp7dlgiwV83DatxdLSXHUmONMEBd-QC6VcLY7a2JuUJ/s1600/DSCN0608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-2naY3tdT44ZTitKeQYYbN_wC-EWcYpOatdivuqSgqyYZyJAxJYgpXvzElqMCcoY-t4uNbUJkaugmX7y73G5HSMoH0BvPrAQJqp7dlgiwV83DatxdLSXHUmONMEBd-QC6VcLY7a2JuUJ/s320/DSCN0608.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jürgen, the German exchange student<br />
who helped us with dinner the first night</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRHUlQ_FOLCVP2vYTdhjSysW0hRYEJu47ARXET2F57MWynd2WrZuQcJsmsBaPWBe3gj5yuev-d-J8SydsnLy0AQ3eeR5E1VC8apeBdPJy-6c2TJbG5kd9AIFgwaeR3L5l1roIEyELihFP/s1600/DSCN0623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRHUlQ_FOLCVP2vYTdhjSysW0hRYEJu47ARXET2F57MWynd2WrZuQcJsmsBaPWBe3gj5yuev-d-J8SydsnLy0AQ3eeR5E1VC8apeBdPJy-6c2TJbG5kd9AIFgwaeR3L5l1roIEyELihFP/s320/DSCN0623.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The deputy chief of the village who gave Derek the role<br />
of wife beater</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyyfT-pDtb9-49U6_13uXHUZqqPuSgBx2fU0452K8I9LQdqjISck5n_yZ2oNEgrgPH0v7aodkwDQNygsI-nAypKk7io6IwGx6ZI6PKA2U2tGeHnzkUfNVWNmrng3DH6YVB2_FofRkQJYH/s1600/DSCN0636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyyfT-pDtb9-49U6_13uXHUZqqPuSgBx2fU0452K8I9LQdqjISck5n_yZ2oNEgrgPH0v7aodkwDQNygsI-nAypKk7io6IwGx6ZI6PKA2U2tGeHnzkUfNVWNmrng3DH6YVB2_FofRkQJYH/s320/DSCN0636.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rocks that contained the rock paintings</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARXuZS-M-npWREdU3Y2CRBkYrPDhj2fp8QCvLJvoIHuIfMWlVbpshU0fYml3GXPQnBhyphenhyphen4BqKrAygEu5g7f7v5vMlFWBNcdCvoeWmCtyIwq74CwxSpeaY3Aa-99-WHXjHpmk4YQCtJvlbm/s1600/DSCN0640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARXuZS-M-npWREdU3Y2CRBkYrPDhj2fp8QCvLJvoIHuIfMWlVbpshU0fYml3GXPQnBhyphenhyphen4BqKrAygEu5g7f7v5vMlFWBNcdCvoeWmCtyIwq74CwxSpeaY3Aa-99-WHXjHpmk4YQCtJvlbm/s320/DSCN0640.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local boys playing soccer</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-2Yv4cbEEEq-4PUYevb_qi0zD3xZLdkmB1HhJcLzAnF832XLTs9ZS4y2ul19g2tC6xRy7lyUSzaPryHTAEKN29tn8cESazLKNxLiZbzDwPa3BK2GUPDodg-5MpEnpnH29kljlRu3hagX/s1600/DSCN0652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-2Yv4cbEEEq-4PUYevb_qi0zD3xZLdkmB1HhJcLzAnF832XLTs9ZS4y2ul19g2tC6xRy7lyUSzaPryHTAEKN29tn8cESazLKNxLiZbzDwPa3BK2GUPDodg-5MpEnpnH29kljlRu3hagX/s320/DSCN0652.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfMHz8jcqpZ8c_FGeQsyVl9kG_BRexN4u6w5HE4QUWS3znA-Vq7ruoml4F_E3kexgejuLmuSs2SbTisyjCCLKm9UjnPYI_XOCH_48pf3HNi_pLuYYSCON3TtuE8ij6Ti-ZD96ZwzBXHbh/s1600/DSCN0655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfMHz8jcqpZ8c_FGeQsyVl9kG_BRexN4u6w5HE4QUWS3znA-Vq7ruoml4F_E3kexgejuLmuSs2SbTisyjCCLKm9UjnPYI_XOCH_48pf3HNi_pLuYYSCON3TtuE8ij6Ti-ZD96ZwzBXHbh/s320/DSCN0655.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanna (who gave me all of these pictures)<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">is on the left and Robin is on the right</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcIsv0RALNdMDJGuRaaq408xppbpsp8YleENxBZvPvYaPb6MkIIo6GgTcX459lfCbVVxwLeaHKcEz3edRGWDbiW5-q3cxTN2W-l9GalRnJQGSyJA4-EWxMui-_xmu14_Grb8S9Kxz7smf/s1600/DSCN0676-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcIsv0RALNdMDJGuRaaq408xppbpsp8YleENxBZvPvYaPb6MkIIo6GgTcX459lfCbVVxwLeaHKcEz3edRGWDbiW5-q3cxTN2W-l9GalRnJQGSyJA4-EWxMui-_xmu14_Grb8S9Kxz7smf/s320/DSCN0676-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mimosas before the game reserve drive</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQBA_k4P8JS3LH7vGbBz_DBAYQa72DQAA8xC3e1ManxYTBCtWUKnN1zIxYSECxY-ZRGovERtkfqCY3eVJ80XUUf_P7jBX83drxPeJX6PEAm5eVLQrexltIq-xyNdrRogDk0apKk5UGugD/s1600/DSCN0744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQBA_k4P8JS3LH7vGbBz_DBAYQa72DQAA8xC3e1ManxYTBCtWUKnN1zIxYSECxY-ZRGovERtkfqCY3eVJ80XUUf_P7jBX83drxPeJX6PEAm5eVLQrexltIq-xyNdrRogDk0apKk5UGugD/s320/DSCN0744.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the open-air game reserve trucks. Our local helper<br />
from the University, Beitumelo, is in the front right</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrXvq7dK5ylUEYRfmKo5KyIVm2Kcq8kiHAU4TcbDDZxFGQQHShUVoMdkU2ZlF5V8GszHNXyNscb1cZKOJCLbzHCFYUY4kDbrZKXdRuwznzXpvvINYdggGVWbUQdzpejFRwKMbtqRMWBgb/s1600/DSCN0756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrXvq7dK5ylUEYRfmKo5KyIVm2Kcq8kiHAU4TcbDDZxFGQQHShUVoMdkU2ZlF5V8GszHNXyNscb1cZKOJCLbzHCFYUY4kDbrZKXdRuwznzXpvvINYdggGVWbUQdzpejFRwKMbtqRMWBgb/s320/DSCN0756.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-57011978346152199172011-01-18T15:51:00.001-08:002011-01-18T16:01:34.576-08:00cultural excursion, part 2<div class="MsoNormal">After lunch we got to go to a rock-painting monument where the best-preserved rock paintings in all of Botswana are found. Our guide was very enthusiastic about paintings that to me weren’t that impressive. However, when you picture that 2000 years ago someone painted that rock with a mixture of colored dirt and animal urine and now you’re standing in front of the same rock, looking at that painting, it gives you some pause.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From there we went to the cultural village where we were going to spend the night. As soon as we were off of the bus a group of women greeted us with songs and warm welcomes. After being led to our accommodations, our entire group gathered around the fire as the villagers explained various details about their culture. They lamented the fact that the young generation has left the village to live in the city, but they were happy for the advent of education and health care.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The chief of the village and his sister demonstrated a traditional dance that the village performs to welcome newcomers. When they were finished, the chief had all of the guys from our group stand up and do the dance with him. We struggled to say the least and one of the local women quickly shooed us out of the circle so that the girls could have a chance. Though we didn’t become masters of their traditional dance steps, it was a great way to get us in the mind set of traditional living and to break the ice with the villagers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the dancing the chief performed the all-important rite of throwing bones. Their beliefs say that the villagers’ ancestors must give their blessing in order for newcomers to be welcomed to the village and the will of the ancestors is reflected in the pattern of bones as they are thrown from a bag. Our group got lucky that the bones fell in a fortunate pattern. Not that they would have kicked us out (since we had paid to stay there), but traditionally if the bones were misaligned then the chief would tell the visitors that they were not welcome and that they should try the next village over.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We then were treated to a traditional meal, which wasn’t as exotic as I had expected. There were the usual starches of maize meal (called pop) and white rice. There was chicken stew and pounded beef, which resembled pulled pork. I washed it down with a Fanta, of course, and took advantage of the bottomless basket of bread. After a second helping, all of the boys were served the traditional beer of the village, which is made with sorghum and water. It was sweeter than other beers I’ve had (I would have put it in the wine family) and there were grains and chunks in it that didn’t add to the appeal. It reminded me of a rice-based wine that I tried in Costa Rica called chicha (I think) that the boys would drink it vast amounts. I’m sure these things are just acquired tastes and I would love them over time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That night there was a big bonfire and everyone had a great time telling ghost stories and relaxing under the stars. Derek and I stayed up late around the fire with the security guard who was posted at our campsite. He spoke zero English and so we tried our best to communicate with hand signals, but were probably just making fools of ourselves as the guard kept giggling but not responding.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the morning, the weekend of great food continued as we had all-you-can-eat scrambled eggs with spicy ground beef (almost like Chorizo). There was a porridge that went great with brown sugar and a type of fry bread (might be called fat cake?) that I poured a bunch of sugar on as well.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From there we went to a game reserve where they greeted us in the ‘Education Center’ with mimosas (or just straight sparkling wine upon request). The game reserve ride itself was more or less a repeat of the previous one we experienced, though this time our seats were open-air. We saw all the same animals but none as close as that zebra from before. I’m starting to realize that that might have been a rare photo-op.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We ate lunch in the middle of the game reserve, which was pretty cool. We kept our streak of delicious meals alive as they served several kinds of salad, rice, pop, chicken, beef stew and bratwurst with onion bread. I had a second helping again and then enjoyed a dessert of strawberry yoghurt with a crumb crust. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This excursion was the best I had eaten over a two-day stretch in a long time (maybe since Europe?). The food itself made the trip worthwhile and everything else on top made it unforgettable.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From lunch we headed home and I let myself unwind in my room as I started thinking about the week ahead. It’s only been twelve days or so, but it feels like so much longer; I’m having a blast.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Homemade pasta with tomatoes, green peppers and onion for dinner…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
p.s. So Tristan Joseph Loiselle came in with the correct answer of Alicia Keys and so here is the special mention, as promised. Tristan, or T. Joe, is about 5'9" with blonde hair and an athletic build. He enjoys working out and his guilty pleasure is romantic comedies. In a girl he's looking for someone who just wants to have fun, and she CAN'T be taller than him. He's from Wisconsin, so he made need a little refining, but I'd call him a catch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-11107338141619608562011-01-16T14:39:00.000-08:002011-01-16T14:39:31.745-08:00cultural excursion, part 1<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">This weekend the international office took us on a “cultural excursion” to introduce us to some tradition beliefs, rituals and, most importantly, food.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We left on Saturday morning and went to a local village where we met the chief and some of his councilmen. They were so excited to teach us about their culture and to truly immerse us they held a mock wedding and a mock trial in the traditional style. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They needed volunteers for the mock wedding and so I offered. I was assigned the role of the bride’s uncle, which in real life would have meant negotiating the bride price and organizing the feast, but in the mock-up it just meant standing in the back with the rest of the “family”. The couple stood facing the chief and he asked the groom questions such as “how did you meet this woman?” and “what did you say to make her like you?” It was great to hear how the “groom” answered these questions on the spot.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You could tell the deputy chief wanted to spice things up and so next came a mock trial where my fellow Macalester student, Derek, played a townsman who was accused of beating his wife because she refused him sex. The chief, trying to get Derek to explicitly say that he had beat his wife for sex kept asking very leading questions but Derek, very diplomatically, kept saying things like “it was uncharacteristic of me”, “I was drunk”, “it won’t happen again” and he managed to avoid a direct answer. Though he didn’t avoid teases from the students for the rest of weekend about being a wife beater. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Throughout all of this I couldn’t help but notice the contrast that was present between the modern and the traditional. As we sat through an enthusiastic rendition of a very traditional ceremony under a traditional thatched-roof hut, councilmen were almost continuously stepping out to answer their cell phones. I wonder what the elders of generations passed would have had to say about that. Also, although we were in a hut with hand carved chairs and a fire pit in the center, there were fluorescent bulbs lining the ceiling and a telephone jack on one of the posts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I suppose this contrast may reflect some of the overriding forces that have shaped Botswana’s history. While Botswana (then called Bechuanaland) was a British protectorate, the British took little interest in the area as no natural resources had been discovered and the land was not near the ocean or even a river running to the ocean. Due to the lack of settlement, Bechuanaland was made up of isolated villages and there was no main town, let alone capital, well into the 20<sup>th</sup> century. However, as Botswana gained independence in 1966 and then discovered a rich source of diamonds the following year, the country was rushed into modernity. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The government that was established was blessed with seeming unlimited riches from the diamond mines and the capital city began growing quickly. Traditional villages would have seen rapid changes as the young generations went into town to study and people would have supplemented traditional healers with hospitals and pharmaceuticals. The villages would have had no choice but to adopt modern innovations and the changes would have happened so fast that the contrasts that now exist would have been hard to avoid.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our next stop was the local dam. In my studies, it has seemed that whenever I have read about a dam in a developing country it has been in a negative sense. Whether it is displacing homes, removing farmland, or negative ecological impacts, dams usually show up in the column of what went wrong. But the people of this village are proud of their dam, even show respect for it as no one swims in the water due to a mythical snake that inhabits the deepest part of lake.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lake created by the dam was, unfortunately, rimmed with broken beer bottles and litter floated in the shallows. The scene created another contrast (unfortunately a theme in Botswana) between the expansive, tranquil lake set among foothills lined with the greenest trees and the thoughtless, distracting trash along the shore. I tried to think of how the problem could be solved, but the real issue is the mentality of the people, and short of changing that I don’t know if there is much to do (maybe put out more trash bins?).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It looks like the weekend excursion will be split over a few posts, as I’ve only made it up to lunchtime of the first day. Look for more soon.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Rice with chicken, beef stew, carrots and hot sauce, washed down with a Fanta, followed by a scoop of ice cream for lunch…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">p.s. The title of the last post is a lyric from a song called “Lesson Learned” by one of my favorite artists. Can you name the artist? First person to leave a comment or an email with the write answer gets special mention in the next post. (No Googling or you-tubing it; though guesses are welcome)</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-38600986289504272492011-01-16T12:43:00.001-08:002011-01-16T12:43:35.633-08:00i call it a lesson learned<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">So I wasn’t sure how to talk about this in my blog, or if I was even going to talk about it at all, but some time has passed now and I thought it may be constructive to reflect on it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last weekend a group of international students went over to our professor’s place for a housewarming party and afterwards some of went to a nightclub that was down the road. As we left the club, the girls filled up all the cabs and so a friend of mine and I started walking home. As we approached a gate on the edge of campus we were mugged by four local men, who stole a digital camera, cell phone and cash from each of us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They had used violence to subdue us, and as we stood up after they let us go, I noticed that my friend was bleeding from the neck. He wasn’t sure if he had seen a knife, but they had certainly used some sort of weapon to keep his resistance to a minimum. The cut was small, and the bleeding had stopped, so when we got back to campus we parted ways.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Upon inspection, I had avoided any noticeable injury, so I went to bed. I was awakened the next morning by administrators from the international office and they took me to file a police report. I learned that my friend had been taken to the hospital the night before to receive HIV prophylaxis. When the skin is broken in such an attack in a place where the HIV rate is high, it is standard to give drugs to prevent the contraction of the disease.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had never been mugged previously, and I spent the following few days ruminating on the experience. My gut instinct was wishing I could have fought back more. Even the police officer who toke my report asked me why I didn’t just beat them up because he thought I looked fit. They had attacked me from behind, however, and I never got a chance to do more than struggle from the ground. Now I realize, though, that it was wise not to fight back because they had weapons they were willing to use and I could have lost more than just my camera and phone had a weapon been drawn.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I found myself stressed about losing the camera and phone, a wise person provided comfort and counsel: “I hope what they took from you makes their lives better and I’m grateful they didn’t hurt you.” It was the frame of mind I had needed all along. If you really think about it, those material things don’t matter so much. In the long run, what does a cell phone or some cash really contribute to life? Certainly their worth is temporary, even superficial. That which truly adds meaning to life comes from much deeper sources, and this experience has renewed my appreciation for this other kind of richness.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The boy I was with that night is still on an antiretroviral regimen, and the side effects have rendered him sick and tired. I ask that your thoughts be with him as he recovers and I will provide an update on his status when I can.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can only hope that this account can prompt safety and awareness in others if they find themselves in a similar situation, and if someone is or becomes a victim of such an attack, may my reflections lend an ounce of comfort as he or she recovers.</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-27279957271478663642011-01-13T13:42:00.001-08:002011-01-13T13:42:22.554-08:00keep your shoes on<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Things started gaining some traction at he University. I was able to get my student ID today which I had started to give up hope on and although my physiology class was cancelled, a man came in and dropped off the syllabus for the class, which was a step in the right direction. Then I had my first official class at the University of Botswana. It was my Setswana course and we covered some basic vocab and phrases. In addition to ‘hello’, I can now say ‘how are you’ and ‘my name is Mike’ and ‘I like to eat meat’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ and I’ve actually had a conversation or two now where I only spoke is Setswana.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After class the other Macalester student, Derek, and I went to the Center for the Study of HIV/AIDS (CSHA) to inquire about possible volunteer positions or at least to make a connection for our research projects. We ended up doing both and then some. We got to meet with the director of the CSHA, Billy, and we sat and talked for almost an hour. He outlined some sweet activities the CSHA had planned for the semester and told us that we were more than welcome to help our or even come up with projects of our own.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As Derek and I brainstormed on the way home, he came up with the idea of holding a soccer tournament for students that could act as a fundraiser as well as raise awareness for HIV/AIDS prevention. There’s a similar event in place at Macalester where teams of four or five pay a small entry fee to compete in the tournament and get free t-shirts, paid for by sponsors. The event at Macalester is called Lose the Shoes, as the games are played barefoot, but all the fields we’ve seen here are dirt and gravel, so maybe we’ll switch it to “Keep Your Shoes On”. The major obstacles for implementing such a thing in Bots would be obtaining local sponsorship and spreading the word to students, but we’re going back to see Billy again tomorrow and so maybe he’ll have suggestions.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On a different note, the family style dinner that the gang tried the other night has really caught on. We have a nightly showing of about 12 kids and apparently kids from outside the graduate housing are getting jealous and trying to work their way in. Each night two of us are responsible for dinner and we rotate around to a different common room every time. My pair cooked the first night (when we recruited the German chef) and we’ve had three delicious dinners since. It’s been great to not only have set dinner plans, but to bond with the gang (plus some) and have a little taste of home here and there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Played pickup soccer again today. Steak fajitas with the gang for dinner…</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-69954512428493878352011-01-12T13:57:00.000-08:002011-01-12T13:57:36.733-08:00mythical first day of class<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Last week we were having a group discussion among all the international students about culture shock, such as the symptoms that may occur and how best to deal with them. As part of the discussion, our professor brought up an interesting point about the U-shaped curve of emotions in a foreign country. There is an initial high as you first arrive and are enamored with the new, fresh place, but then the curve dips down, as you get homesick or frustrated or have a bad experience. Finally, though, you realize what a wonderful place it truly is and, usually right before you leave, the curve comes back up and you find it hard to pull yourself away. The curve may stretch out over the whole semester, or you may go through the whole cycle in a day or two.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Right now I am definitely at a maximum on that curve. As I was walking across campus today, eating a chicken pie and taking in the sunshine, I couldn’t have been happier. The people are friendly, I have a ton of new friends, the weather is too good to be true and the overall attitude is laid back. I could definitely see it being hard to leave. I suppose you should take this praise with a grain of salt, though, because I’m sure one day I’ll bottom out on that curve and my reviews may not be as glowing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Classes were supposed to start yesterday, but the rumors about professors not showing up for the first week held true. I’m registered for two biology classes and a course in Setswana, so hopefully soon I’ll know how to say more than just ‘hello’.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As part of our study abroad program, we also are conducting independent research projects for credit. We had our first meeting for that tonight, and it was nice to get a little structure back in our lives, as everyone had been more or less adrift for the past week or so. After taking care of some housekeeping, our professor, Phoebe, talked for a bit about the ins and outs of doing research. We can obtain a permit from the University to do research on campus, but the permit for conducting research in the greater metropolitan area is such a lengthy process that it wouldn’t be worth our wait.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We also got the tip that journal keeping can be valuable while doing research, because you can go back and analyze the observations that you made. It was suggested that these journals be electronic, and so a couple blogs may end up sounding overly academic and in depth, but I’ll keep most of them saved offline.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am interested in issues surrounding HIV/AIDS (like a majority of the international students here, I suppose) and I have a general idea for my research topic, but I’ll wait to explain it to you once I narrow it down. One valuable resource for narrowing down our topics will be volunteer experiences in the city. Phoebe has made it an official assignment for us to find service work and so by next week I should be placed in a clinic or organization dealing with HIV prevention or treatment.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">These ramblings about schoolwork are putting me to sleep and are probably doing the same to you, so I’ll try to conclude with something a little more upbeat. On our way home from class tonight we passed the student bar and it was an absolute zoo. Not only was the bar packed, but the parking lot was also at capacity with cars full of kids blaring music and sidewalks were lined with students as well. It seemed out of place for a Wednesday night, but the students received their allowances yesterday (about 250 USD) and after buying some notebooks and toilet paper, they are free to spend the rest at the bar. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we passed by across the street we ran into some local students who we eager to make international friends. We introduced ourselves – when I said I was from Minnesota a local girl asked if I was from Minneapolis, which was pretty cool because most people here have just given a blank stare when I mention Minnesota. The group of us ended up talking for a while, as we discussed student life and the like. The more we talked, the more I realized how big of an influence the West and the U.S. in particular have on the rest of world. The local students here know more about U.S. popular culture than I do and they’re flattered when we just know a handful of facts about Botswana, which I suppose highlights the double standard of Americans in many places of the world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyways, we got their numbers and promised to call if we ever needed anything. One of the local students told me where to show up on Monday if I wanted to try out for the basketball team and then we said our goodbyes. More friends by the day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">pb and j’s for dinner…</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-60807386975878861812011-01-10T13:49:00.001-08:002011-01-25T12:35:11.131-08:00Feels like vacationCultural Lesson #2<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">The braai last night reminded me of a story about celebrations in Botswana. The subject of weddings came up during orientation and one of our leaders explained that when word of a wedding spreads, it spreads far and all are welcome to come, invitation or not. Literally thousands of people show up and a massive celebration ensues and is accompanied, of course, by a massive feast. Our leader told us that when a wedding is announced, “all the chickens in Botswana fear for their lives” because so much food is to be made.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking of feasts, today the gang decided we would take advantage of the kitchens in our dorms, and so we picked up some groceries from the local mall. We also recruited one of the German students, Jürgen, who had attended culinary school, to lend some guidance in the kitchen. Things couldn’t have gone smoother and we had one of (hopefully) many family style dinners together.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We played some pickup soccer again tonight. There are no fields with lights on, so we play on an asphalt court, which works just fine, and tonight we had actual goals to shoot on, which was an upgrade. It really is a good time, too. Everyone gets opportunities to touch the ball, yet there is a decent pace for the more competitive players.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Pan fried chicken with a whiskey-based demi-glaze on a bed of medium grain rice and a side of seasonal, steamed vegetables all paired nicely with a bottle of tap water for dinner…</div>Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832330334335600588.post-69756938157847929212011-01-09T12:13:00.001-08:002011-01-09T12:13:17.464-08:00Braai<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Cultural Lesson #1:</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Dumela” is the word for ‘hello’ in Setswana, which is the unofficial language of Botswana. In America we joke about ‘please’ being the magic word, but in Botswana ‘dumela’ actually works magic. When you meet someone, or need to ask a question, if you don’t greet him or her with ‘dumela’ you likely won’t get a friendly response. Being an international student, there is always a little bit of awkwardness when first meeting local people, but with a simple ‘dumela’ you see their faces light up and the ice is mostly broken.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today was our first day free of obligations, and the gang and I used the opportunity to relax. We met at 11 (which means 11:30, if you haven’t caught onto Botswana time yet) to head to lunch. We went to the cafeteria and we all tried the chicken pie. The Aussies in the audience know them well, but for others a chicken pie is like a potpie that you can hold in your hand. There is a flaky, pastry-like outer layer and inside is the chicken and creamy filling. The Botswana version is a bit spicier, as they like to incorporate chili powder whenever possible. They were a hit with the gang and we washed them down with a soda that was all-too reminiscent of cough syrup.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After an afternoon siesta (I don’t know the Setswana term for it yet) we got ready for a big barbecue hosted by one of the international students who has been here since last semester. The Setswana word for a barbecue or cookout is ‘braai’ (pronounced brye) and they get quite the turnout. There were two huge grills with crowds around them, one group of students playing soccer, another playing Frisbee, while the majority mingled in the middle. Some of the local students added to the atmosphere by playing music out of their cars and a group of boys were dancing along. As the sun set on the braai, it was hard not to appreciate the beauty of people, local and international, coming together over food in a celebration that would have required a much bigger occasion to have been pulled off back home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In true Botswana style there was heaps and heaps of beef, but in a refreshing twist some of the international students made pasta salads and I got some of my first vegetables on the trip. I don’t know if it was the cooking or simply the atmosphere of the place, but everything was delicious and everyone went back for seconds and thirds. People slowly started making their way back home as the food ran low, and the braai came to a close, but it was a night that won’t be soon forgotten.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Beef, pasta, vegetables, but most importantly good company for dinner…</div><!--EndFragment-->Mike Snavelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00899698502170006378noreply@blogger.com1