From a teacher to a fisherman, he says

Yesterday was Saturday and I went out with Sega’s husband Sinvula, a teacher at the secondary school, to see their fields. We drove in their little loaded-up van towards Parakarangu (the village where Sinvula is from and where is family is) through an expansive landscape, dotted with palm tree, acacias and the occasional cow munching grass here and there. As we passed a few beautiful water birds along the way, Sinvula would murmer the Sesubiya name for them, and his son Tsiamo would repeat it ‘till he got it right. English is the “official” language of Botswana (in which government affairs are conducted), Setswana is the “national” language, and the other tribal tongues like Sesubiya get spoken at home. Tsiamo is seven and pretty much fluent in all three.
At Parakarangu, we greeted Sinvula’s various relatives, including a toothless old great aunt who was lying on a mat outside her dusty hut, apparently asking Sinvula (in Sesubiya) if he had now taken a white lady as a wife and if she (i.e. me) could buy her a chicken because she hadn’t had anything but porridge in days. Sinvula gave her a small tin of paraffin and I remained quiet, never knowing what to say or even think in such situations. I think if you found an old lady on a dirty mat who hadn’t had a proper meal in days in the U.S. you would call social services or something, and I’m constantly trying to change my frame of reference here, to see things differently, to find some sort of balance between cultural relativism and recognition of the glaring inequalities between here and home.
After visiting the relatives, we drove out to the Chobe River, a part of it I had never seen before, and Sinvula pushed off in a mokoro to catch some fish while whilst I remained on the banks with the family’s Zimbabwean herdboy Thaba, who would be dropped off afterwards to round up the cattle. Sinvula made his way through the reeds, watching for crocodiles and hippos, until he was out of sight and Thaba and I sat in the shade of the car idly chatting. He was here because there were no jobs in Zimbabwe and despite having finished Form 4 of school, herding cattle in Botswana was currently his best option for earning some money. He asked me a lot of questions about how much things cost in the U.S., how far it is, how many countries are in North America, and if it’s hard to get permits to get there. I am constantly being asked if it’s hard to get permits to go to the U.S., and I wonder what the chances are of a Zimbabwean herdboy in Botswana ever getting there. After 9/11, slim to none?
Sinvula comes back, they tie up the fish (tilapia and bubble fish, or “dituni”) and we drive back to the village. Sinvula’s mother, a striking lady in a faded madras sundress, has prepared a snack for us—cooked lerotse (watermelon basically) mashed with a porridge made from sorghum (“bogobe”). It’s actually pretty tasty, sort of like flavored oatmeal, though I’m not a fan of pouring in the sour milk that SInvula is liberally mixing into his bowl. I think back to teaching Matheba last week to make oatmeal and her hesitation and unease at both the taste and texture of what to me is the most obviously common and yummy breakfast food. It’s funny how taste buds are so habituated.
The sun is beginning to sink and the three of us (Sinvula, Tshiamo and I) hop back in the bakkie, making a quick stop at their vegetable fields before starting the trip home. Sinvula is filling the water tank and I take some pictures of Bobo (Tshiamo’s nickname) running barefoot through the fields, singing and snapping off sugar cane, cracking the bark with his teeth and devouring the sweet insides. He is clearly enjoying himself thoroughly and I have this sudden feeling of nostalgia but I’m not sure for what. For childhood and the fun of running around in the backyard, or for generations of grown-ups in urban places who grew up somewhere rural, with barnyard animals and seasons bringing new harvests, and now lament that their kids think milk comes from Safeway? I can’t quite put my finger on it. But after reading volumes and volumes of literature on agriculture in Botswana, and the same line over and over again about how farming here is “a cultural way of life, despite it being economically unviable, lacking markets,” etc., I can see why. Sinvula picks some bunches of greens (“merego”) and I think about my farm box back home—isn’t this what all of us in Berkeley and beyond are striving for, this direct line from an afternoon on the farm to the dinner plate? Why are we (Western conservationists, development technocrats) trying to convince these people they should instead clean toilets in lodges? Because for the most part that is what “getting involved with tourism” here entails. I know farming is hard work and not all running around in spinach fields, but it is clearly a part of Sinvula’s life of which he is proud and content.
The sun is now gone and the winter chill has set in. We roll up the windows, and drive home. The dust is settling around the trees, the palms in distance are looking hazy and pink is lingering around them. After a few days of sitting in the village wondering exactly why I am here, or what it is I’m doing, or trying to do, I feel like I have had a good day. I’ve learned a lot, and I have had that sort of out-of-body feeling of some kind of amazement or incredulity that I am really here, really sitting in this extraordinarily beautiful place, talking to people who’s lives are so extraordinarily different from mine and ours at home and getting to think and write about it.