Nov/20/13

I started packing at about 5:30ish this afternoon. It's 9:27 now. Plans have been made, I'll be boarding a plane Monday. I'll arrive in DC where I'll meet my grandparents and possibly cousins. From there we'll be taking the Amtrak to Michigan.

My new home.

The simple fact of the matter is that I'll never come back home. This is a hard thought to swallow. Yes, I may live with my parents again, but it will never quite be the same.

This is going to be hard. I have already calculated that in 15 days from Nov. 25, I'll break down with my fit of home sickness. You guys keep track, I'll post when it happens. 

I'm already starting to miss them, and I still haven't told them that I'm leaving. But I must be doing well with this because dad said he thought he might throw up at the thought of sending me off. 

This'll be hard.

As with the first part of today, you'll be seeing this a long time after it has happened.

How to stop worrying.

1.) Look at the birds. 

2.) Look at the flowers

3.) Remember that God loves you more than either of them.

You'll be FINE.

Oh, it's because I'm white. isn't it.

I have a hard time remembering (for some reason) that in Botswana, white skin automatically equals loaded with cash. 

And I am by few means wealthy, spiritually being the exception.

I don't understand this prejudice, few if any of my clothes are still yet untorn, and I don't dress up in collared shirts like the Afrikaaners; I hardly ever even wear shoes!— as opposed to the Afrikaaners who almost always wear military-grade boots. They keep their hair short, mine is long. They all speak Afrikaans, I know less than twenty words in Afrikaans!

What more could we have in difference?

Even just today, I went on a walk around the block, which I would have usually done in the evening; people were trying to sell me stuff left and right! Puppies, gym equipment, CHICKENS!!! 

I know that the only reason is that I'm white, and it almost hurts.

Now while it is true that I don't have any black friends (in Africa), the reason is all the same: The only reason that people wanted me to be their "Friend" was for monetary (or sexual) advances. I really did try to overcome that obstacle, but their minds could not be changed by fact: their opinion had been made.

I tried though. Which is more than I can say for my brothers who were always either monetarily taken advantage of, or caught in the middle of brawls.

I don't understand. I really don't understand why people refuse to look beyond the skin, I am just as human as they are; and I'm a little upset that they are behaving this way towards me especially because they would be aghast if one of them had done the same to another motswana. They would be furious, and said persons' relatives would forever shame such a person.

It would be like me walking up to a random woman on the street and saying, "Give me your purse," only the difference is that here, she would be compelled to give it. It's madness! I can't adapt to their cultural norm or else I'd get "give-me-ed" out of house and home. But at the same time, this makes me look, to them like an Afrikaaner; which means I'm rich.

I really am upset about this. I think I'll probably take a while and cool off now. But still; why?

A Totally Unrelated Title.

I began to read The Hunger Games today, and as a writer, I found it to be most intriguing.

I had seen the movie, and was inpressed by the plot, or the bit of it that was portrayed in the film, but my intrigue was not based on my affection for the film. In the first place, the film didn't even have the same introduction as the book.

I thought it was interesting that Mrs. Collins wrote her descriptions of Katniss' actions and observations in the present tense. The only place I've ever heard the present tense in literature is in second person fiction. However it has an interesting sound in the first person limited, and I'll probably be given to dabble with it in the future.

Maybe I'll post the result of my dabblings. Hmmm....

Awarenning.

I don't know if I was just stupid before, or if I was simply unobservant. Although it really doesn't matter which, I suppose. But it is odd when one begins to take note of a thing which may've been always there or may be new and either way whatever it was begins to change your ideas and/or perceptions of just how it is that things work.

Having stated my thesis; I have been on self imposed isolation (which means I grounded myself from Facebook, email, twitter, and whatnot) for about a week and a half now (with a very few exceptions) and as usual; I began to notice things.

The image of our former house in Kang hasn't yet had time to dull, nor have my years yielded knowledge enough to answer all of the riddles in live, but this said; my memories of Kang were recently vivified my memories and caused me to realize two things.

Yesterday, my dad and I went running. The path was fairly straight forward (or as much so as a square can be), and my dad asked if I could make the distance, which was two miles. I thought I could and I told him so and with that, we were off. 

We ran. Passed the bergade, the high school and the several blocks of houses. But I didn't really look around though I was trying to keep up with dad. I went the entire first stretch and felt fine, it wasn't until about half way on the second leg that I began to feel tired. But at that point I was in the middle of nowhere.

I walked along for a while before I really bothered to note anything at all. Then I felt creative and soon had spoofed Jonathan Coultan's "still alive". 

By the time I had finished that, the village has begun to creep up with a similar fashion  to that of the new tendrils on a creeping ivy, but it was not the same kind of village I am used to. The houses weren't much more than four gum posts, dipped in tar, wrapped in shade net on all but one side- which was plywood; all topped with corrugated tin roofing. As for the fences that surrounded them; they weren't much more than thorn bushes strategically placed to keep the cows away. The yards were swept clean and the cook shelters were smoking and the scent of corn mush was on the air. I stopped and observed the family that lived there. The children were shod, poorly so but shod none the less; the clothes they wore were worn, and worn through in some places; the children had dirt in there hair I could not have told when the last time they bathed was, nor when the next would be. And even as I studied the deplorable conditions in which these children lived I was neither moved to pity nor to charity nor yet to indignation. 

They were happy.

The children were happy.

They were running and playing, laughing and smiling while speaking to each other in Naro.

Turning away, I walked a little farther until I saw a more traditional Rondaval. No one was here, the yard was over grown and the stench of death wafted from the premises. 

Turning away a second time, I continued to walk until I saw a brick building, that looked as though it had never even heard of a right angle. The yard was well kept but again there was no one home.

As I got closer to the part of the village that I live in, I saw a block of houses that was a hodgepodge of the three yard types afore mentioned, and I stopped to observe the woman who lived in the rondaval arguing with the man from the stone house in a most heated way. I began to wonder to my self just how trivial what ever they were talking about as I realized that my dad had pulled up beside me in the baakey, I got in and we drove home.

I don't know wether or not it's worth noting that the run physically exhausted me, but just in case it is: the run physically exhausted me. Now, I had gone to close the gate, but I took a step back. 

What I saw disturbed me. I saw a house that was built by the hands of a professional, whose beams were 2x4s instead of tar dipped gum poles, the walls of said house were made neither brick nor yet the earth itself, but of gypsum boards! Honest to Goodness gypsum boards! And even then from  where I stood, I could hear my brothers and littler sister arguing over who was first player on the Wii.

I can find no logic in my observations. Did you realize the same things that I did?

Frip

I've been examining my work on this blog. I haven't really done what I set out to do. I'm not doing well at telling about life here in Botswana, so I thought I should give some explanation.

Basically, nothing happens here and the things that do happen aren't worth writing about. Stuff like, me generating awkward moments, arguments, and of course that stupid dog of mine (wow; this must be my most honest post ever.)!

None the less, I do intend to continue writing, but more theoretical things than auto biographic, because my life is just that dull. I wont deny that I do have adventures, but other than those rare times, I have nothing but my thoughts (and there are many) to write about.

I might write again soon, if I can come up with something to write about.

Serching,

I have decided that I need to be more organized. Yeah right! I don't know how yet, but I'm gonna try to get some stories up for the Rabbit-hole stories. I have some ideas I've been batting around, for instance a tale about a people that time left behind, and a story about an invention of my own the BoKhutswane; their sort of like African Hobbits, only smaller and.... um... different (?) I guess (???).

But tonight the topic is:TOPICS!!!

Yeah, that was anti climactic.

If I am going to rave and rant and spit my opinion onto the internet (which I know a LOT of people wont be happy about), I am going to need a repertoire of topics to talk about. I'd kinda like to bear away from grabbing topics out of a hat, but if that's what it takes than fine.
     I'll probably have to talk with some people about what would make good posting material, especially since I'm fairly new at this whole nonfiction thing. I'd like to share with people, but there comes a point where the stuff someone types gets dull... and no one ever reads it. I believe that I have successfully made it to that point.

That's all I've got for now so, ta!