Recently I came across one of those lists of funny facts about what happens to the average person over the course of a lifetime. Included was the statistic that we probably swallow an average of eight spiders per person, per lifetime, while sleeping. Last night when I went to bed I looked at the walls in my bedroom, littered with a growing number of the big flat spiders that my boss refers to as “not-so-bads.” And I practically laughed out loud, thinking, I’m pretty sure I’ve already exceeded the average on this score.
Spiders are a relatively mundane part of life here. And in thinking about them, I thought also about the ways in which I tend to describe living here. It’s not all big mammals and dramatic realizations, though these things of course tend to make for better stories to email home. But perhaps, an average day would also shed light on what it’s like to live here. Let me walk you through one from this past week in Maun.
WEDNESDAY
4-5am: Start waking up. Already, still, hot in the room. Ceiling fan not really helping. Roll over and try to go back to sleep. Wake up, roll over, try to go back to sleep again. Parsley, the cat, stretches out on my back and purrs.
6am: Lose the battle and get up. Feed my boss’ cats, as he’s away in Cape Town or Canada or Delft or I’m-not-sure-where. Open the window so Parsley can get out and I shut off the outside lights, which I leave on all night. In a house that has been broken into twice this year, and which is semi-famous for housing a writer who was raped here and a Member of Parliament who shot a thief here, it seems like a good idea. Shower in cold water, make coffee to bring along to work, put on CNN to kill time. Yes, CNN.
7:45: Call my friend Monica to ask about when she thinks she’s leaving, so I know when she might pick me up. “I’m having my rice cakes and jam and so I’ll be on my way in ten minutes,” she says. I lock up and start walking down the sand track towards the tarred road to minimize how far she has to drive to pick me up. Yesterday we went to the gym in town together early-early and had breakfast at a local place that bakes its own bread and muffins. Lovely.
8:24: Arrive at work. Look for cleaning staff to let me into my boss’ office, which is where I sit though I don’t have keys. This takes anywhere from 5 to 15 minutes.
8:30: Coffee, email (we have a satellite connection)… what do I have to do today?
9:00: Literature search on the environmental legacies of apartheid. Reading articles, making lists of things to get thru interlibrary loan. Wow, this feels like the US.
10:00: Meet with the director of the centre about some projects I’m working on with the University of Florida. Not the first person to do so, he expresses some discontent with the amount of time my boss is away. Makes me feel in an awkward spot, but substantively we have a good chat and he is very supportive of my research agenda.
10:55: Research…reading…sometimes, someone stops by to say hi and I’m reminded that the entire world is not, in fact, electronic.
1:00: Lunch. Otherwise known as, leftovers at my desk.
1:12: Back to research. And email. Having been away for the past three weeks, I owe a lot of email. A LOT of email. Also still looking for articles online. Can’t get that, or that, or that. Order a paper copy of an article to be mailed from the US and hope it will arrive in time to be useful. Hope it will arrive at all.
3:10: Break down and switch on the air conditioning for a little while. Eeesh, it’s hot, and brick buildings were not invented in (or for) southern Africa.
5:28: Work day over. I head home with Monica and we stop at my (boss’) place to pick up the things I need to cook for her and her partner, as promised.
5:55: Start making squash and carrot curry, yellow dal, and rice seasoned with peppercorns, cinnamon, and cloves for Monica, Christiana, and their friend Elena. Try not to get into argument with Elena, a recently returned to Maun American, about the significance of reality TV and the meaning (her definition) of “trash” in culturally specific, judgmental terms. Figure, better to drink my gin and tonic and cook.
6:20: G&T number two. Elena is telling stories about her recent trip to the US and I focus on cooking. Better to not get in trouble, I think.
7:10: Food is pretty much ready, but Monica is on the phone with the friend who looks after their house outside of Harare. He’s been trying to email, but computer viruses, after all, respect no national boundaries.
8:00: We eat outside, enjoying the breeze and the smell of the spices and the wine. We talk about our families, about explaining why and how we live here. Christiana’s mother died earlier this year and she talks about the emotional shifting that comes with losing a parent. Elena’s parents sound sophisticated and artistic, and I feel a little provincial. Which to be honest, I enjoy.
9:05: Strawberries and cream, with a side of dark Swiss chocolate I brought for Monica and Christiana from the duty-free shop in the Johannesburg airport. The air is cool, the company thoughtful and engaging, my head is spinning.
9:40: Monica’s a little looped, so Christiana drives me home. She waits at the gate for me to walk up the drive, until she sees lights inside go on. The house feels empty, cavernous, sweaty. Crazy the cat greets me outside, mewing loudly and insisting on something that only he understands. “I fed you already, little turd,” I remind him, slurring just a tiny bit. Inside, Parsley jumps quietly into bed with me and I sleep.
Thursday, we had an open house of sorts for the local safari company guys. But that’s another story entirely.
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