An excerpt from the Tahoe Literary Festival Open Mic. This is a restart of my blog. Here's the link to the video from the open mic I posted on Facebook. 

Open Mic Video

Excerpt from the first chapter of my memoir:

In 2003, Botswana President Festus Mogae declared, “We are threatened with extinction. People are dying in chillingly high numbers. We are losing the best of young people.”

Chapter 1: Festive Season

There are no dams on the Mahalapye River, and it has been dry for over a year. Farm animals graze on scattered bits of grass that push through the sandy riverbed. The morning sun, low on the horizon, peeks through the gaps in the clouds, casting long shadows on the sand. I walk along the river’s edge in search of the crossing where villagers placed wooden planks and logs twenty feet below. On the riverbed, it’s necessary to navigate stagnant watering holes to avoid parasites capable of penetrating human skin, entering the vascular system, and laying eggs that often make their way to the brain. 

Balancing on a plank, I stare down the black bull on my left, thinking, he won’t charge me if I maintain eye contact.

On this particular morning, villagers are heading home to sleep off their overindulgence or just waking up to prepare for mass. It’s four days before the calendar flips to 2015, and Botswana’s biggest festive season party just ended. Homecoming, a twenty-hour rave, started at 10 am on December 26th when DJs from all over the globe descended on the small village of Mahalapye.

Festive season begins the first week of December and continues well into the new year. In my short time living here, I find the Batswana don’t need an excuse to party. This goes against what I learned in Peace Corps cultural training, where we were told they don’t drink and attend church regularly. They are predominantly Christian and described as “a very conservative nation,” so it surprises me that this small, seemingly conservative country hosts all-night raves where people get completely drunk. I’m here volunteering, working with the Peace Corps on issues related to HIV. Joining the Peace Corps is my final act of leaving. Moving halfway around the world and to another hemisphere is one way I try to escape my past, or so I think.

I am part of the 15th HIV/AIDS volunteer group working in Botswana, Bots15, which sounds a bit like we imitate human behavior and perform repetitive tasks on a computer.

At fifty-one, I vacillated between going and not going to Homecoming, thinking that at my age, I might feel a bit out of place. I justify my decision because someone in the government office where I work said it could be dangerous. I assume they meant dangerous for a white female Peace Corps volunteer. Instead, I do a bit of yoga, add an entry to my blog, and regret my decision.

At 9 am, on the morning homecoming ends, I begin my journey to the Cresta Hotel. I plan to have breakfast and use their fairly reliable Internet. One way I’ve found to avoid intoxicated drivers is to cross the dry riverbed and walk along the footpath to Flowertown. Accidents that result in the most fatalities are caused by reckless drivers hitting pedestrians or drunk drivers losing control of their vehicles. Besides AIDS and heart disease, vehicle accidents are a leading cause of death in Botswana, and there aren’t that many vehicles.

I climb the bank on the other side of the river, follow a narrow path over smooth granite, and pass family compounds fenced in with wire. A blanket of gray clouds and drizzle quiet the morning. 

It’s eerily quiet. No children are playing outside. Typically, their voices fill the air, and when they see me, they run in my direction, yelling and waving their arms. As they get too close, stroke my long blonde hair or touch my white skin, I speak in Setswana, even though they understand English: “Nitoglel abuti.” Translating to “carry on” or “leave me alone.”

Leaving the river’s edge, the path parallels a set of railroad tracks. Vacant fields of thorn bushes dotted with acacia trees extend from the uniform blocks of scattered houses. On the abandoned paved road in front of me, two men glance in my direction, then continue down the road, hidden by the brush.

Moments later, their figures reappear on the road. I lock eyes with them, and they turn down the path, walking in my direction. I quickly look away. A brief thought—Take the path leading toward the railroad tracks—passes through my brain.