Reading Around the world: Botswana

Welcome to Botswana!

This week begins a dive into Africa. As someone who occasionally describes myself as an Africanist, I have struggled a lot with combating the hegemonic invisibility of the continent to the western gaze. How can you study the tragedies and problems of a place without reducing it to its darkest moments? How can I bring back knowledge of a complicated and diverse place to my country, which often views 'Africa' as a remnant of a past the rest of the world has mercifully left behind? How to capture the delicate balance of progress and tradition, boundless hope and crushing despair I have encountered in my travels? How to explain the complexity of reality?

Botswana's capitol city: Gaborone 

A Botswanan Landscape 

Botswana, in my brief exploration of it, is a great example of this complexity. It is a country known for two things: disease and diamonds. At one point it held the world's highest rate of diamond production and percentage of the population with HIV – 37.9% of the population. This is almost impossible for me to imagine. What does having almost half the country ill with a potentially deadly disease really mean? It means a life expectancy of 46 years. It means every weekend had a funeral. It means a country of slowly dying orphans. It means death is always close, always waiting. For the healthy it means not just a burden of burying and mourning the dead, but of caring for the ill and the dying. I try to imagine myself in this situation - how would I live my life if I knew it was unlikely I and my friends would make it 40? Would I really devote half my precious years to schooling? Unlikely. Would I be cautious in love and family, or would I throw myself into it and try to live as much as I could before I died? Would I do everything I could to prolong my life, or would on some level I decide to die with those I love?

But in this desperate situation Botswana has managed to transform their natural resources into health for their citizens. Under President Festus Mogae Diamond wealth was transformed to free HIV medication. Botswana spends the most per person on health care of any African country, and pays for 70% of this without outside aid. Mother to infant transmission dropped to 4%. Life expectancy slowly increases. The ill and dying are able to return to their lives. Between their successful fight against aids, and a relatively stable political situation since independence, Botswana is largely considered an African success story. For more on the aids epidemic in Botswana, see this NPR story.

And yet, success is always measured. While Botswana has managed a sustained multiparty democracy since independence with no coups or civil wars, an political opposition leader recently died in a suspicious car crash. Botswana has also come under fire for forcing the last remaining Basarawa Bushmen off their ancestral lands to make way for diamond mining. And the wealth of diamonds, which has staved off death for the majority, has not yet brought them wealth. While Botswana qualifies as an 'upper middle income country' it has one of the highest inequality rates in the world as diamond wealth collects in the urban upper class. Death. Wealth. Prosperity. Tradition. Modernity. Democracy. Corruption. Life. Hope. Is this Africa?

This week I read literature centered around Botswanan woman, and concerns which had little to do with death or diamonds. It was a humanizing reminder that despite these flashy issues, many the daily trouble we face around the world are the same. Unfaithful men. Raising children. How to keep a family together when work forces you apart. I read "The No. One Ladies Detective Agency" - a cute mystery novel, and a beautiful short story called “The Collector of Treasures” by Botswanan author Bessie Head. It is well worth the few minutes it will take to read it. You can read the full story here

I also tried making Botswanan cabbage! (Am I doing a culinary cabbage tour of the world? Maybe.)  You can try the recipe here!

For more on Botswana in general, as always, I recommend the BBC country profile as a good place to start. 

The Many Faces of Sri Lanka

This weekend was a tropical whirlwind – the rushing, calming, exhilarating meander of Sri Lanka. We become caught current with no destination, and around every corner is a surprise. There are so many worlds contained in this small island. It becomes a universe in and of itself.

We went to Matara, a southern beach town, to visit two Fulbrighters teaching at a secondary school there. We become tourists as soon as we step off the bus – sudden marks for touts and tuktuk drivers. Friendly, but with that hint of aggression you always find in a place over-saturated with badly behaved foreigners. We play on the beach, exultant in sun and waves and hidden coves that look almost prehistoric. Perfect, until you get close enough to see the human refuse scattering the shore with plastic bottles and glass. And yet, it is something of a earthly paradise still. I scramble through rocks and tidepools, fascinated by the dance of life among the waves as crabs scuttle and hop between rocks and tiny fish dart. We find a fish who must have come to land millions of years ago and decided it had enough of evolution. It clung to vertical rocks with no visible limbs or appendages and hopped from crevice to crevice by thrashing its tail. It is a place which seems almost resistant to time.

Matara beach 

The strange and mysterious land fish 

One of many wonderful crabs 

We also visit a temple on a tiny island perched at the edge of the shore. The temple climbs the island like a vine, shrines connected by thin curving stairs up and up until you reach the sun-drenched top, echoing in the crash of waves. A kind of sacred silence there, even through the mummer of groups of friends, or couples hold hands and lotus blossoms, or the families holding their babies up to see the Buddha. We sit and listen to the crash of waves and the sound becomes almost sanctified,  a mantra or a prayer.

Colombo, then seems like a different world when we returned yesterday. The creaking rush of streets overfilled, clamor of smells and words and the crackling blast of prayers from many loudspeakers from many faiths, all blended together with the chorus of car horns. I took to Jonathan to Pettah, the city's largest market. A maze of wants an knockoffs – need a fake Gucci man's wallet? There's a whole street line in them. Same for shoes, luggage, sari decals, party tinsel and 50 pound bags of garlic. We found the vegetable market, lush with produce far more beautiful than you could hope to find in one of the upscale grocery stores here and at half the price. We also sought out some clothes for Jonathan, a hilarious exercise in rejection. Most shop keepers gave up at the sight of us and shooed us away with a “not have big enough!”

We wandered until we came to the red mosque, an oasis in the chaos of Pettah. I sat in the courtyard and listened to the sacred quiet, a reflection of the Island Temple of Matara. The splash of men washing before prayer in the fountain. The play of light against the brilliant patterns of red and white. Something eternal in these spaces – a truth my agnostic soul delights in the struggle to reach.

Then in the evening we found yet another world of Sri Lanka. Down three increasingly dark side streets, past two groups of drunkenly helpful tuktuk drivers, up three flights of stairs and past a travel agency and firefighter supply store we stumbled into an electronic music concert. It was a celebration for a new music school, and spanned everything from ambient sounds which left the audience confused for a good ten seconds before they figured out to clap, and jazz so exciting we started dancing in our plastic seats. It was a crucible of local and international talent – an Austrian pianist who played as if every note were a piece of his soul he pulled out of his chest, a Sri Lankan drummer who brought every beat to life. Felt like a moment out of Paris or New York, but this, too is Sri Lanka. The worlds of Sri Lanka collide and I am dizzy with the joy of it.  

A New Year, a New Country, an Old Love

This new years I begin a new chapter of my new life. Jonathan, my partner of three years, and I will be living together for the rest of my time in Sri Lanka! This year begins like a gift. It is surreal, to have a life this luxurious, in a place this beautiful and still be with one of the people I love most. While I teach and work for CEPA Jonathan will have time to pursue his passion – music. Somehow we get to have the work we love the most and each other too. Jonathan will also work on visual coding skills to be able to pursue more specialized jobs in New York City, our probable next home.

Jonathan at our favorite local coffee shop - Hansa coffee! 

Sri Lanka continues to be good to me. We moved out of our Fulbright mansion in the suburbs this week. I found us a beautiful white apartment 15 minute walk from both my jobs in Colombo seven, a neighborhood dotted with embassies and overhung with great trees and lush gardens. We are a lazy walk from anything we could need – from cheep rice and curry to Japanese fusion restaurants to art galleries to gyms and bars. The city grows calmer here, away from the frenetic jungle of vibrant signs and pileup of shops and human life. It is a privileged area – I am grateful to live here and have this quiet haven in a chaotic world.

Our living room 

Jonathan's studio and our guest room (come visit us!)

Our bedroom

Jonathan's arrival has also re-awoken the tourist in me. I have grown complacent in my exploring of Sri Lanka – for the last few weeks more focused on preparing to move and work than exploration. In showing Jonathan our new world I have expanded it myself. I dragged us to many of the places I have meant to go all these weeks, Jonathan bleary with jet lag but stoic and excited in the face of so much new to see. He has also started a blog – for his thoughts on Sri Lanka look here! I delight in having a partner to sift through Sri Lanka with. Every day confronts us with something delightful, something challenging, something we don't understand. We wander. We consider. We get lost. We learn. Some of our adventures in the past few days are picture below - enjoy! 

The National Museum 

Home to dusty ancient treasures houses in a crumbling colonial exterior. This is the oldest Sri Lankan book, a history written on palm fronds over a thousand years ago. 

Beautiful Colonial architecture which contrasts oddly with the massive tropical trees surrounding it. 

Vigra Pilyar Kovil 

This Hindu temple resembles a mountain of deities reaching up to the heavens. A cacauphony of carve gods and flowers, living birds an even tiny trees growing up the nooks in the statues. 

The technicolored inside of the temple, lined with fantastic creatures. 

Kelenya Temple 

This site was consecrated in 500 BCE after the Buddha's arrival to arbitrate a conflict between two Sri Lankan kings. Today the temple is enmeshed in intricate carvings, painted floor to ceiling on the inside with stories of the Buddha's life and his journey here. 

Offerings 

Worshipers line up to offer water to the Bo tree, brought by the Buddha. 

Reaching to touch the daily offering of food for the Buddha 

The stupa outside the temple

Reading Around the World: Bangladesh

Bangldesh sbāgatama!

This week we travel from the least populated country in the world (Mongolia) to the most – Bangladesh is the world's 8^th most populace country and the 92^nd largest. This makes it the most densely populated large country – the capitol city of Dahka alone is home to 15 Million people.

Dahka

I tried making Bangladeshi food this week to some success. I made a delicious and easy fried cabbage dish, which you can try for yourself here! 

Cabbage with Raita and Chipate! A great lunch 

My reading this week explores a principle which may be a reoccurring theme of this blog: white people ruin everything. Bangladesh's short history is a tortured one. The ominous title of the book I read for this week, "The Blood Telegram", foreshadows the deeply tragic story of Bangladesh's fight or independence, and America's nefarious role in this history.

As many tragic histories do, this story begins with the stoke of a colonial administers pen, a stroke which made one country of what is now Pakistan and Bangladesh – East and West Pakistan. This country shared a majority faith (Islam), but was separated by language, culture, and hundreds of miles. Such a flimsy arrangement could hardly last under the best governance, and the West Pakistani government did nothing to stabilize the precarious situation. In 1970, a Tsunami devastated the low-lying country and killed 50,000 people. To this disaster, the central government in West Pakistan responded at a snail's pace. Rotting bodies, human and animal, lingered in the open for weeks. Those who survived were left without homes or food while international agencies came to their aid faster than their own government. The president of Pakistan, Yehya Khan, made one curtailed visit several weeks after the Tsunami struck.

Colonial division of Pakistan  

So it was in a setting of grief and rage that the 1971 election occurred. Not surprisingly, the Bangladeshi nationalist party the Awami League won by a landslide. The Western Pakistani government refused to acknowledge the Bangladesh's push towards independence and arrested the Awami league's leader, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. This broke the precarious balance between the unhappily married two halves of Pakistan. Dahka erupted into protests – until troops arrived. The West Pakistani army did far more than suppress political decent. They set out to suppress the possibility of any future descent in a systematic slaughter of intellectuals, the upper class, and the Hindu minority. American observers witnessed university students gunned down in droves. Again, bodies piled the streets of Dahka, left in the open as a warning to anyone who might resist. They were murdered with American bullets.

In this battle for democratic independence, America took the curious position of opposing election results to prop up a dictator, meanwhile aggressively cutting the democratic India off of aid for supporting the people of Bangladesh. This backward policy was primarily determined by Cold War political maneuvering and Nixon's personal relationship with the president of Pakistan, Yahya Khan, a brutish military general whom he liked for his tough straightforwardness. This fond personal relationship contributed to the death of 3 million Bangladeshis. Pakistan was a poor country, dependent on America for military aid to maintain the slaughter in East Pakistan. This, despite the repeated and desperate pleas of diplomats stationed in East Pakistan, continued throughout the war. When congress at last capitulated to public opinion and attempted to stop the flow of guns, bullets and aircrafts destined for use against civilians, Kissenger and Nixon intentionally and knowingly broke the law to smuggle aircrafts through Jordan to maintain Yahya's doomed attempt to slaughter his way to security. Never once did Nixon use his considerable influence to suggest Yahya should temper his violence. This went beyond the non-intervention that later doomed Rwanda – Nixon actively contributed to the genocide of the Bangladeshi Hindus. As is proved again and again throughout history, American values stretch no further than American interests.

Nixon and Yahya

Even American power could not prevent the course of history from bending towards justice, however. India intervened on the part of the Bangladeshis, partly out of moral duty, and partly out of desperation to hid themselves of the 10 million refugees, mostly children, who crowded the poorest regions of their country. India was too poor to support even its own people, and the refugees were primarily left to die in their own filth in India or return to East Pakistan and its hail of American bullets. Eventually though, despite their better arms, the Pakistani army had to admit defeat. All the blood finally bought Bangladesh freedom.

Recent history fares little better. BBC's short Bangladesh time line is scattered with military coups, corruption, stolen elections and conflict. Today Bangladesh is one of the world's many invisible victims of terrorism – Islamic extremists have begun to pick off secular writers, and foreign visitors. The Fulbright English teachers for Bangladesh were sent to Sri Lanka this year.

It is, however, a dangerous trap to focus too much on the sorrow of history. As I have learned traveling in the wake of genocide, there is always more to a country than pain. For this week I also read Gitanjali, a book of poetry by the great Bangladeshi writer Rabindranath Tagore, the first non white man to win a Nobel prize for literature. His words speak to the hope and beauty of Bangladesh, a universal prayer as relevant today as it was 100 years ago. I will let his wisdom and hope conclude this blog.

“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action –

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.”

Reading around the world: Mongolia

Mongol tavtai morilno uu! Welcome to Mongolia!

Hamid Sadar-Afkhami has incredible photography of Mongolia and its people! All the photos in this blog are by him - please look here for more of his work. 

As this country is a bit more obscure in western knowledge than North Korea, I'll begin with some basic facts:

• Mongolia is the least populated country in the world, with a population density of less than 2 per square kilometer.
• Most people are Buddhist with a small minority practicing shamanism.
• It is a parliamentary democracy with a directly elected president.
• Mining and herding are the major industries, and per capita GPD is $4,353
• 40% of the population remains nomadic, herding livestock through vast territories. This lifestyle is threatened by climate change which has further harshened the Mongolian climate.
• The capitol city, Ulan Bator, is the coldest capitol city in the world. 
• For more facts about Mongolia, check out the BBC country profile

A small nomadic tribe rides raindeer much the way the ancient Mongol armies rode horses.

This week I began to add patches of color to my whitewashed understanding of history. I was homeschooled, so as I child I was surrounded by Egyptian gods and mythology from around the world. But when I got older my education had to conform to national ciriculums, and the world became distinctly white. Roman empire. Europe. America. We learn history as if non-white people didn't exist until the Civil war. When our heritage demands we acknowledge the accomplishments a non-white man, like Jesus, we recreate him in our image. So this week I read about the greatest Emperor the world has ever seen – an Asian man we primarily remember as leader of a 'hoard', not a military and social genius. Genghis Khan.

Genghis Khan's empire, in black, versus Alexander the Great's in red. 

I read "Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World" : which, as the title suggests, argues we owe many thing we consider integral to our modernity to Genghis Khan. While he is primarily remembered as a tyrant, Weatherford writes that Genghis innovated many modern values. His army and court were meritocracies, with leaders of small groups of soldiers elected by their peers. Women held positions of power in his court, and sometimes lead troops. He allowed his empire freedom of religion. He was a brilliant social engineer who brought intellectual talent with him around the world, leading to an exchange of ideas which generated much of the innovation of his time. He even changed fashions: Europeans wore robes until the Mongol empire introduced them to pants. The size and scope of his empire was unparalleled until British colonialism many centuries later.

Perhaps the most incredible of all is Ghengi's personal story; which begins as the abused and ignored son of a kidnapped second wife. He and his family barely survived being cast out of their tribe, normally a death sentence in the nomadic Mongolian culture. They lived mostly by the sheer force of will his mother who hunted small game to keep her family alive. When he was 10 he killed his abusive older step brother to prevent him from marrying his mother, and from that day never stopped fighting. In his late teens his wife Borte – his love from childhood – was kidnapped and he forged an alliance with the most powerful Khan in Mongolia to get her back. That began his steady climb to Khan of Mongolia, and from there, a quarter of the world.

Borte, the woman who caused the creation of an empire. 

Art by my talented friend Wendi, check out more of her work here!

The history of a powerful Asian man is a dangerous one. While writers of his time usually described him with a mix of fear and respect, as the centuries passed Genghis Khan transformed into a savage barbarian in western literature. Under Soviet rule, discussion of Genghis Khan was so suppressed researchers were killed for attempting to learn about him. His burial place was turned into a militarized zone to keep out the curious. Academic historical research on him is just beginning.  I can only hope the research continues and the people of Mongolia are fully able to reclaim their heritage: inheritors of the birthplace of the most powerful man to ever live. 

New Worlds

On the train to Kandy 

Somehow I have been in Sri Lanka a month now. The little breakfast roti seller, who has told me every day which way to look before crossing the street, for the first time let me leave his shop unaided. I have officially passed the infancy stage. I'm just as enchanted with this country as when I arrived. Learning Sri Lanka is hydra-like: every mystery half solved opens up a dozen more questions Every new walk or exploration in the city brings something new and incredible. No longer an infant, I feel like a child just discovering a library for the first time.

New discoveries in Colombo - beautiful mosques and art 

We have become comfortable enough with Colombo to leave it. The past two weeks have contained two adventures – first to Kandy and then to Jaffna. Sri Lanka is small enough that a few hours on a bus or train can take you to a different world. That is what Kandy seems like: a town scooped out of the hills. The houses gather in the center of the valley like water in a bowl, sometimes wash up the sides of dark green hills. It a place for meandering. Families and lovers stroll around the lake – families in white from visiting the temple or lovers shyly holding hands. Time seems to calm like the surface of the lake. There is so much life – monkeys dashing along concrete walls and brilliant birds flash between the trees. Along the shoreline great monitor lizards smile in the sun and geese and herons pick for food in the mud. I feel it would be a haven for artists or writers – anyone for whom the interior of the mind holds more gravity than the exterior.

 The view from the train to Kandy

 Kandy from the hilltops 

By the lake 

There is a reason for Kandy's tranquility. It is a sacred space, one of the holiest in Sri Lanka, home to the temple of the tooth. The tooth itself fell victim to its own power – conquered and reconquered and eventually destroyed multiple times. But the metaphor remains holy – a memory contained in an ornate shrine carved with flowers and mandalas, and punctuated with clambering monkeys and lazy dogs escaping the sun in temple shade. Incense drifts around the temple with the chants of students praying before their exams.

Paintings on the inside of the Temple of the tooth and the outside 

We benefited from the enormity of Sri Lankan hospitality in Kandy as well. The father of a friend of a friend is an elephant veterinarian and took us to see elephant 'orphanages' around Kandy. I cannot recommend it to future visitors to Sri Lanka however, the elephants were mostly chained or caged in spaces far too small, clearly there for the benefit of their visitors not themselves. There was one beautiful moment though: when we got to wash an elephant. She loved it – sprawling in a stream while we scrubbed at her thick hide with coconut husks.

Galle was another world entirely, an old colonial town perched on the edge of of the ocean. A paradise woven in the past. We climbed to the top of the old fort – an imposing place softened by families playing in the grass and couples lounging in the sun. Like a stereotype sprung to life some men sat in the shadows with monkeys and cobras, hoping to tempt coins from tourists. Inside the fort is town of crumbling grandeur. Ornate churches and buildings that would look at home in the old city of Barcelona, the illusion broken only by the ferocity of the sun and the twisting flowery trees. Beautiful, the wide quiet stone streets surrounded by slowly fading plaster. Europe transported. We spent the afternoon sprawled on a beautiful beach enjoying a sunset over cheap juice and drinks. I have just begun to learn this new place –  I have only begun to love it.  

Galle Fort 

Sunset over Unawatuna beach 

Reading around the world: North Korea

In the great amount of spare time Fulbright grants me I've decided to embark on a project I've wanted to do for a long time: reading a book every week about a country I know nothing about. Despite a life and education that could easily be described as 'global' much of the world remains a blank for me. Kazakhstan. Uzbekistan. Mauritania. Uruguay. Gabon. Lithuania. Aside from perhaps vaguely gesturing the right direction on a map, I can tell you nothing about these countries. I don't know what language they speak, what food they eat, what form of government they have, what name they use for God. And yet they have histories and cultures as rich and deep as the places I know about intimately – though once upon a time Rwanda meant as little to me as Suriname. This part of learning – the growth of the rich multiplicity of meanings that Rwanda now holds for me – is my favorite. So in these months I am filling in my map. Shedding a little light on the places in the world yet dark to me. 

I won't just read – I will attempt to engage a little more fully by listening to music, catching up on recent news, and sometimes even cooking food from each country as I go. I will share my armchair journey around the world, as well as my physical one through Sri Lanka, on this blog, for anyone interested. If you know of any good books about obscure countries please tell me!

First Stop: North Korea

Book: Nothing to Envy by Barbara Demick

This country is a little more in the news than I would ordinarily like for this project, but my understanding of it falls so woefully short I thought it would be a good place to start. The need for deeper understanding really hit home as I searched for pictures and videos to include in this blog. Most media available on the internet really focuses on the freak show aspect of North Korea – surreal photos of Kim Jung Un with celebrities or babies, or inanely smiling soldiers in impossibly tight formations. What I loved about 'Nothing to Envy' was Demick's commitment to portraying the agency of the North Korean people. She began her book with a vignette about how young couples take advantage of the lack of electricity to sneak into the night together unseen – how technological deprivation can become a gift. And ultimately that is what the book is about: people who triumph against insurmountable odds, not a country of sheeple obediently starving and working themselves to death.

This aspect of North Korea does still baffle me. I am a scholar of evil. I have lived in the wake of war and genocide in 3 countries now, and I have begun to understand the forces and power that may shape a good human into a murderer – how hatred can be sown and reaped for the gain of the powerful. But the powerful in North Korean do not primarily keep their place through hate – they have built a dictatorship on love. Even after 2 million died of starvation in the 1990s. Even when there was no medicine at the hospitals. Even now, when a zipper seems like a magical object. Even the radicals of their society, the free thinkers who later defected cried themselves sick at the death of Kim Il-Sung. People comfort themselves with the belief that they are better off than any other country while they starve to death. Truly the banality of evil – a mother watching her child fade away and yet unable to question the system that is killing him.

Some North Korean Pop music - yes it does exist. 

I marveled at this, and then I considered my participation in the system that I was born in. I too, am part of a system of death. There is horror that generates my comfort. Child slave labor to keep my clothes and baubles cheep. The end of local industry and dignity in the global south as their livelihoods are taken by multinationals. The endemic rape and murder of the Democratic Republic of the Congo over minerals so that I can have a smartphone. In almost anything I purchase I am a tacit participant in evil. While ours keeps our bellies full, we too, are sacrificing ourselves to ideology. Ours is not the quick death of starvation or illness but an apocalypse of our making. Not just ourselves but our whole world may be sacrificed before our greatest God – consumption. Our greed is heating the planet to inhabitability - but we can't stop. Even after the Paris accords we have no plan to keep our world from heating beyond our capacity to withstand. 

I see the system I am in, and I can name it and critique it unlike so many North Koreans. But this an immense privilege – I see this because not only have I had the chance to go outside the world I was raised in, but I have been taught again and again to be constantly wary of the little acts of careless evil around me. Were I raised by MTV and sustained by flipping burgers I have no illusions that I would be challenging the system that kept me that way. In this light, the few hundred North Koreans that risk everything they have, and everyone they love, to slip across the border each year seem far more incredible than their compatriots, starving for the love of their leader.

For more on North Korea:

BBC North Korea