Moving- Part 3: A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving… In Australia

When you are born and raised in the northern hemisphere, and then move to the southern hemisphere as an adult, it’s hard to grasp the holiday spirit.  Even when I lived in Orlando, and wore shorts on Christmas Day while working at Walt Disney World, it still felt like Christmas.  Then again, it was Disney, so we had fake snow and Christmas carols playing everywhere.

Back May, before making my permanent move out here to Australia, I came out for a one week “get to know you” visit.  It was a good thing that trip went well, seeing as I had already signed a contract and quit my job.  During that trip I went to dinner at my soon-to-be-new boss’s house with his family.  His nine-year-old twins and I got along quite well, comparing recess games, favourite foods, and holiday traditions.  They have never seen snow except for in the movies, so the idea of a white Christmas was a quite appealing to them.

Last night I happened to notice that A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving was scheduled to air on television in the States.  I must confess that this was the first time I actually thought about Thanksgiving, partially because we don’t see Thanksgiving commercials or the corresponding accoutrement in the stores.  But probably also due to the fact that as I sit here writing this blog post at 6am, it is already well above 90 degrees, hence the idea of cooking a turkey and eating pumpkin pie in traditional Thanksgiving (i.e. Church of America) fashion lacks appeal.

But I do have SOME thing- many things, actually- but ONE thing in particular to be thankful for. My Thanksgiving is being celebrated in style, in my new house, surrounded by my belongings…. wait for it…. that arrived… from the States!  That’s right folks, hell hath frozen over and my ship has come in!

Last week around 2pm my apartment looked like this:

By 3pm, my apartment looked like this:

But, here’s the best part of the story.  Back in February when I accepted this job I started watching everything I could on youtube about Australia.  I ran across this television series called Border Security: Australia’s Front Line.  And, let me tell you, the front line takes their jobs seriously.  But in all honesty, I can understand their tenacity.  Australia is very isolated and has an incredibly delicate environment.  By being vigilant about what comes into the country, they have avoided many of the diseases which have proven deleterious in other parts of the world.

For instance, if you typically fly with snacks, make sure you eat your beef jerky before you arrive otherwise it will be confiscated due to fear of foot and mouth disease.  I know, I know, it’s a processed food and can’t possibly spread that disease, but as I said the Australians are cautious, to the point of being almost paranoid.  If you plan to come here for diving, leave your wetsuit at home.  They don’t want to risk you bringing in any parasites that might be harmful to the wildlife here.  When I climbed Kilimanjaro two years ago, my Australian “buddies” gave their hiking boots to our guides and porters because they said they would be confiscated due to the concern there might be a trace of dirt on them once they got home.  They said they might as well give them to someone who could use them rather than having them confiscated and destroyed.

Well, having watched Border Security, read lots and talked to friends about what I could “get away with”, I was worried that my bike, golf clubs and wooden giraffe from Africa might meet their demise in Australian Customs.  But it turns out flattery will get you everywhere.  I wrote the Customs officials little love notes and put them all over my belongings.  And they even wrote me back.  Here is the note I put on my golf clubs.  And as you can see, they responded by welcoming me to Australia:

As I’ve said before, I LOVE coming back into the U.S. after being gone for a long time because the Customs officials always say, “Welcome home!” after stamping my passport.  But, after my recent experience successfully receiving my things, I think the Australian Customs Department may be my new bestie- at least on this side of the (other) pond.

Call Me Maybe, But Probably Not: The Sim Card Blues

A couple years ago my father and I went to see the movie Jack Reacher.  Tom Cruise was in the movie and there were lots of explosions.  But the take-away for me was that Tom Cruise’s character lived “off the grid.”  He didn’t have a phone or a credit card.  And the government agencies weren’t exactly sure who he was because he didn’t have a driver’s license or any legal photo identification to match his name.  Until this week I didn’t believe it was possible to live like Jack Reacher, that is, until I realized I don’t really exist in Australia.

Most people cannot survive a day without their smartphone.  For me, I gave up my iPhone when I went to Africa and haven’t had one since.  When I got to Australia, UQ bought me a new iPhone; however, it’s my responsibility to get a sim card and pay the bill.  The good thing is, phone plans are super cheap here compared to in the U.S. The bad news is that it’s practically impossible to get a phone plan if you aren’t a natural born Australian.  For a week now I’ve been trying to obtain service and am no closer to success.

Several days ago I tried to order a sim card online through one of the major phone companies.  I was having trouble with the ordering itself because I didn’t have a lot of the information, so I used the “chat with customer service” feature.  Talking to a real person? Good.  Getting the real person to understand I’m new to Australia and don’t have basic, everyday things like most others?  Not so easy.  I won’t recount the full hour long (actually, almost 90 minute) conversation, but here are the highlights:

Phone company rep: What’s your address?

Kelly: I don’t have an address yet.  I don’t move into my permanent home for two weeks.

PCR:  Ok, well, what’s your last address?

Kelly: The U.S., so I don’t think that really helps.

PCR: Hmmm… well I need to run a credit check. 

Kelly: I don’t have an Australian credit card. 

PCR:  Ok, well, if you don’t have an address or an Australian credit card, give me your phone number and I can use that to run your credit check.

Kelly: I don’t have a phone number.  That’s why I’m contacting you to get a sim card and phone number.

PCR: Do you have a utility bill that shows your address?

Kelly: No, I don’t.  I don’t have a utility bill yet because I don’t have a house to live in yet.

If this conversation reminds you of another blog post I wrote about African efficiency you are correct!  I'm pretty sure the people I dealt with in Africa when I was trying to get a UB ID card and extend my residence permit may be related to the phone company people here in Australia.

I can’t be sure exactly what happened, but after 90 minutes of back and forth, sending them copies of my permanent residency visa, giving them my employment information, and a whole bunch of other information, I was approved for a phone number and sim card.

Fast forward to today.  Since I don’t have a permanent address where I live yet they couldn’t send the sim card to me directly.  Instead they sent the card to the post office and told me where to pick it up.  I went to the post office and we played the same game:

Post Office Clerk: Ok, I’ll need a passport and two other forms of ID.

Kelly: Here’s my passport, my U.S. license and my permanent residency visa.  Will that work?

POC: No, I’m afraid not.  The passport is good, but the other two aren’t.  Ok, do you have a medicare card yet?

Kelly: No.

POC: Utility bill?

Kelly: No, I haven’t moved into my house yet so I don’t have a utility bill. That’s why I’m picking this up at the post office.

POC:  Ok, what’s your phone number?

Kelly: I don’t have one.  That’s why I’m buying a sim card.

POC:  So, I guess that means you don’t have a copy of a phone bill to give me?

Kelly:  WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

That’s right.  I started to cry!  And the post office clerk began to panic.

I’m typically not much of a crier.  Most of my students reading this are probably laughing because I am normally the person who MAKES OTHER PEOPLE CRY!  It’s not a hobby for me; I don’t go out of my way to make others cry.  But it definitely happens.  And it is normally related to grades.

But as I was saying, I cried because I didn’t have enough identifying information to get my mail, so I could get my sim card, so I could use my phone to talk to friends that I don’t even have!  Ridiculous, I know.  But, sometimes, when you move abroad it’s the little things that make you want to tear your hair out.  You know that song, “Call Me Maybe?”  Well, if I ever get a sim card to put in my fancy new phone, that’s going to be my ringtone.  Or perhaps I will record my own version, “Call Me Maybe, But Probably Not.”

The Terminal 2: Coming Soon

In 2004 Tom Hanks starred in the movie, The Terminal.  Tom Hanks’ character, Viktor Navorski, arrives in New York’s JFK Airport only to be denied admission to the U.S. because during his flight his fictional home country of Krakozhia broke into a civil war, making his passport invalid.  He is not permitted to enter the U.S., but he can’t return home either because he doesn’t have a legal passport which prohibits him from boarding a plane. The movie details Viktor’s nine month stay in the JFK airport.  The movie is loosely based on a similar predicament of Mehran Karimi Nasseri, an Iranian refugee who lived in Paris’ Charles de Gaulle Airport for 17 years.  (Yes, 17 years, that is not a typo).  I mention this because there is a possibility I may become Viktor Navorski very soon.

Back in October I wrote a blog post rejoicing about the fact I had finally obtained my Botswana Residence Permit, thus avoiding deportation for the time being.  Well, deportation is looking more and more likely every day now.

My residence permit expires one week from today, May 31^st.  I am currently out of the country with a plane ticket to reenter Botswana on May 31^st.  Even though I have 30 days left on my tourist visa I am told I cannot reenter Botswana as a tourist because my status has changed to a resident.  (Apparently once you become a resident you can’t become a tourist again.) However, in order to remain a legal resident I must get a permit extension.  I have been working for weeks now to get all the appropriate paperwork for the extension and still don’t have it.  And if you have been following my blog for any amount of time, you are aware that expediency is an unknown concept here, so reiterating the fact that I need something done now now doesn’t really help.  The challenge is that I don’t have the paperwork I need and even once I get the paperwork it still must be taken to the Immigration Office, which will likely take their time processing and approving it.  Queue a miracle here please!

Last night I was explaining my predicament to a friend back in the U.S. and as I was detailing my situation I realized how ridiculous this whole scenario truly is.  I have all my paperwork in order with the exception of a letter from UB stating that they support the extension of my residence permit.  Here’s a very abridged version showcasing the unwillingness of anyone to take responsibility and make a decision:

• Over a month ago I spoke to Person Number 1 at UB and told him I needed a letter. No1 agreed to write the letter. (I should have known immediately that something would go terribly wrong as nothing ever happens here that easily).

• After weeks of contacting No1 asking about the status of my letter I finally get an email from No1 telling me he is on vacation and forgot to write the letter.  No1 tells me to contact No2.

• I email No2 explaining my predicament, tell No2 than No1 agreed to write the letter but forgot, so now No2 is supposed to write the letter.

• After several days of not hearing from No2 I get CC’ed on an email from No2 to No3.

• No3 says he doesn’t know anything and refuses to write the letter.  No3 recommends No2 talks to No4.

• I get CC’ed on an email from No2 to No4.

• No4 emails me asking about the letter.

• I respond to No4 telling her No1 was supposed to write the letter but forgot and now No2 is supposed to write the letter.  I give No4 the information No2 is supposed to put in the letter.

• No4 emails No2 (and CC’s me) to say she (No4) refuses to write the letter because No1 already agreed to do it.

• No2 emails me back to state she (No2) cannot write the letter and I should speak directly to No4 and ask her to write the letter. (Please refer back to the previous point in which No4 emails No2 and refuses to write the letter).

Here’s the part that kills me: UB wants me to stay for an additional year to provide FREE LABOR as a Fulbright Scholar!!!  I can’t stay (for another week, far less a whole extra year) if you won’t give me a letter in order to remain in the country legally!

A month or so back I wrote about the arrogance of UB and how they are their own worst enemy.  I think this little letter fiasco is just another example of how if Africa wants to progress it needs to learn how to be proactive and take some amount of responsibility in formulating its own success.

In the meantime the jury is still out regarding my fate.  My dad is scheduled to arrive in a few weeks.  I know he can enter Botswana as a tourist visa.  Unfortunately he may also be vacationing alone and packing up my house in Gabs if I am living in limbo at the airport customs office like Viktor Navorski.  I’ll keep you posted.

An Ode to the Dictionary

As a child I was very fortunate because my father treated me as his pet project.  To be fair, my mother was very dedicated and loving, and quite frankly the best mom a child could ask for.  But my relationship with my father was different.  Dad approached me the way a coach works with an athlete he intends to transform into a star.

I was never an exceptional athlete and that wasn’t my father’s intention.  He wanted me to be an intelligent human being.  I am not vain enough to say he succeeded, but I do have enough of an ego to admit that he obtained some victories related to that end goal.

Each of the graduate students I have ever worked with have all referred to the “Mighty Red Pen of Phelan” in their dissertation acknowledgements.  I come by that honestly.  Growing up my father would take joy in making my school assignments bleed.  If I asked him to look at a paper he would respond, “Where’s the red pen?”  By the time I reached high school I had become conditioned to hand him my paper and red pen simultaneously.

When I was growing up there was no Internet.  You couldn’t depend on spell check.  And there was no way to Google the meaning of a word.  Instead you had to use a dictionary.  My dad, being a big proponent of the dictionary, would edit my work and circle incorrect words.  It was then my responsibility to open the ever-present red dictionary to find the correct spelling or a replacement word.  This torture allowed me to develop a considerable vocabulary and taught me how to use my words.  This skill has proven invaluable here in Africa.

Last week I went to the mall to purchase new sneakers.  It was quite a chore to find women’s sneakers, but when I finally did, I selected a pair of Nikes and asked for a size 8 ½.

Store Clerk: We don’t sell half sizes.

KVP: It’s an American brand, yes, you do.

Clerk: We have size 7 only.

KVP: Ok, let me see a size 7.

Store clerk brings me a bright orange box which states in large font: size 9 ½.

KVP: See, this is a 9 ½. I need an 8 ½.  Can you find a box that says 8 ½ right here?

Clerk: No, we don’t have half sizes.

KVP:  Ok, can you bring me a size 6?

The clerk returns with a box that says 8 ½.  Here it is:

Can you see the 6?  It took me a good 5 minutes of staring at the box to see in teeny tiny letters UK_6.

This lack of understanding is a constant part of daily life here.  The other day I was having a conversation with someone in which she kept repeating the same question.  I kept answering her, each time using different words and phrases.  She continued using the same exact way of asking the question.  Eventually I had to say to her, “You keep repeating yourself and I keep trying to give you different variations of what I think is the correct answer.  Obviously you aren’t liking anything I’m saying, so we have a failure to communicate.  At this point I need you to please tell me what you want me to say because we aren’t getting anywhere.”  This was one example of my failure in the communication arena, but typically I am much more successful with this type of exchange. Nevertheless, I think my creativity in communicating has definitely been enhanced here.

One By One

Each time I go to the grocery store, I agonize over which queue to join.  Selecting the correct line in which to stand in is a challenge.  Somehow it seems I always stand in the wrong one.

I particularly loathe going to the grocery store here in Botswana.  There are many reasons for this.  First of all, it seems like it is perpetual chaos.  There are people everywhere, moving in every which direction.  Many walk right down the middle of an aisle, but no one walks in a straight line.  It’s as if everyone is drunk because they swerve from side to side.  Thus, walking in the middle of the aisle, while moving inconsistently, makes it nearly impossible for an expedient person (i.e. ME) to move around WWC (walking while confused) patrons.

Unfortunately the off kilter walking is only one part of the problem.  You also have to contend with the fact that apparently, no one intends to do anything aside from shop on this given day.  Most customers walk with no sense of urgency.  This translates into most people walking (on their feet) at the same pace with which I can probably walk on my hands.  I have never walked on my hands before, but if I did I’m sure I would move very slowly, making little if any progress.  There is no such thing as, “I’m just going to run in and buy a gallon of milk.  Wait in the car; I’ll be back in 5 minutes.”  Subjecting someone to “waiting in the car” means they will almost certainly die of heat exhaustion as they will no doubt be waiting all afternoon.

So, let’s say you manage to navigate a path through the drunken, slow walkers.  That’s great.  Except the store doesn’t have what you want.  A fun experiment- if you are feeling particularly patient and willing to accept mediocrity- is to ask a store employee for assistance.  I know I’ve discussed customer service before and the fact it is a foreign concept here.  Then there is the language barrier which is always interesting.  But as a general rule, no one appreciates questions because the customer is bothering them.  This means you will get a convoluted, nonsensical response.  Here’s an example: KVP: “Can you please tell me where I can find the milk?”  Store Clerk: “Blue.”  Exactly, nonsensical.

But truly, the worst part is the line.  Here’s how a line works in Botswana: customer gets to front of line having taken nothing out of his trolley (shopping cart).  One by one he takes an item out of the cart and places it in front of the cashier who scans it.  The customer watches the computer screen which keeps a running total of how much is owed.  When the customer reaches the limit of how much money he has in his pocket he abandons the cart IN ITS PLACE!  He doesn’t move it to the side.  He doesn’t apologize to the person behind him for leaving a half empty cart in his way.  He pays and walks away.

This is the result:

That’s right.  Some poor shop clerk is relegated to rounding up all the half empty carts deserted at check out.  My only issue with this practice is that there is no attention paid to perishable items.  There might be milk or butter or a frozen item sitting in a cart all day before someone from the store gets around to putting it back on a shelf.  I guess I should be happy I haven’t gotten food poisoning yet.  Of course, I am also happy that I don’t have to live so frugally that I can’t afford everything I want to purchase.

The Art of the Queue

Africans have an incredible amount of patience.  I sincerely believe it is a trait which is instilled from birth.  They don’t really tend to complain much and they have an amazing tolerance for inefficiency and lack of performance.  This always stands out to me when I go somewhere and I have to wait in line.  I once walked into the Post Office to buy a stamp.  There were easily 100 people waiting in line.  I took a look around, asked someone towards the front, “Is this really the queue?  All these people are waiting?”  When she replied in the affirmative all I could say was, “You’ve GOT to be bloody kidding me?!?”  And then I turned around and left, sans stamp.

No one thinks twice about waiting in line for hours.  No one questions it or gets irritated at the wait.  It is accepted as a part of life.  It is such a natural state of being that people, and companies, have adapted to this culture of “Don’t hurry, ‘cause you’re gonna wait anyway.”

The reason I say everyone has adapted is because any time you walk into an office lobby it is typically overflowing with chairs- to accommodate the queue.  I remember the first day I arrived I was immediately taken to the Water Company to transfer the bill into my name and pay the deposit.  I went in and stood behind the person at the counter.  Someone came up to me and instructed me that I was jumping the queue.  Apparently the 20 or so people sitting in chairs were all in the queue.  I didn’t exactly understand this concept until I saw the person at the counter complete his transaction and leave.  The person in the chair closest to the counter rose and approached the now available customer service representative.  Then everyone sitting in the chairs got up and shifted one chair to the right.  I was stunned.  I went to the first empty chair on the far left and then as each person ahead of me moved, I moved.

For months I have been sitting in queues wondering why no one institutes a number system, like you have when you go to the deli counter, to avoid the massive queues.  Back in January I went to get my Botswana driver’s license.  The office was scheduled to open at 8am; I arrived at 8:17am.  I was delighted to see they utilized a number system.  I took my number, number 142.  I figured there was no way 141 numbers had been distributed in only 17 minutes.  I figured they were carrying over the numbers from the previous day.  Sadly, that was not the case.  The electronic board announced number 12 was being serviced.  I did a quick calculation and figured 12 people in 17 minutes would mean that I should be helped in about three and a half hours.  I left and returned at 11:45am, just as number 121 was being called.  Fortunately I only waited about another 45 minutes before being helped.  In reality this was a record GOOD time!

I’m pretty sure when Mr. Miyagi said, “Patience young grasshopper” he was not referring to queuing practices in Africa.  Nevertheless, this has become a sort of mantra of mine here.

Here is a photo I took of students waiting in “line” at the beginning of the semester to register for courses.  You may also notice that there are no advisors sitting at the desks with the computers to help them.  The advisors were on their lunch break.  But the students patiently sat there for over an hour until they returned: 

Not Cereal Mom, SERIAL Mom

In the early 1990s the movie Serial Mom was released in theaters.  The movie depicted Kathleen Turner as a suburban housewife and mother who protected her family without fail, going so far as to murder anyone who wronged her children.  I don’t believe my mother has ever broken the law for her kids- though I wouldn’t totally put it past her- but she is about as close to Kathleen Turner’s character as one can get.  Of course, I also think that is an innate maternal trait.

Another thing I find particularly funny about moms is their competitive streak.  And I don’t mean about themselves, I mean that in regard to their kids.  I remember when I told my mom I was moving to Africa.  She was happy about it because I was happy, but in reality her response was kind of a mopey, “I know, I’ll just really miss you.”  My brother and I sort of laughed about it and said, “Are you kidding me? This gives you bragging rights amongst all the other moms for the next year.  When all you moms get together and compare who has the cooler kids you will always win, hands down.  And you know you moms do it, don’t even try and deny it.”

This is how I imagine water cooler talk at my mother’s office:

Mom #1: My daughter just bought her first house, at the age of only 23.
Mom #2: I will see your new home-owning daughter and raise you my son, a Navy Seal who swam across the Mediterranean without equipment and then single-handedly rescued five civilians from almost certain death.
KVP’s Mom: I recommend you all fold now.  My daughter is currently in Africa where she is overseeing the Botswana Defense Force and the police.  On the weekends she is training monkeys how to build power plants in order to supply electricity and water to locals.  In her free time she is either in Zimbabwe teaching President Mugabe how to balance the budget and mint a new stabilized currency or instructing Ethiopian Airlines and South African Airlines how to provide customer service and deliver passengers’ luggage within a reasonable (i.e. less than 24 hour) timeframe. BOOM! That’s right! My* daughter is awesome!

*MY daughter is used to convey pride and claim credit.  This is in juxtaposition with YOUR (i.e. my father’s) daughter when I demonstrate some sort of shortcoming.

Today when I was on the UB campus I realized mothers are the same everywhere.  They may speak different languages, or interact with their children differently, but they protect and promote their kids to the end.  As I entered the corridor where my office is located I saw three female staff members speaking in a very animated manner about their offspring.  By the way, animated is a relative term.  Think of me being animated.  Now imagine me sick, with a couple of broken ribs and strep throat.  THAT is animated in Botswana.  Nevertheless, you could still recognize that there was a distinct sense of pride and one-upsmanship in their conversation.  Made me a little bit homesick for a minute.  All I could think was that my mom would fit right in.  She would also take gold and make sure those other moms KNEW whose kid was #1.

Obtaining a Beef Permit

Remember when I said I finally got a mailing address and could receive mail?  I take it back.  Please do NOT send me mail.  If you decide to risk it and send me anything, I would recommend you send something small, that if I never receive it I won’t be upset, and neither will you.  If you are brave enough to send me something I hope it’s nothing with an expiration date.  My boyfriend sent me a postcard from Namibia, you know, the country right next door?  He sent it on October 23^rd.  I got it today.  Nothing like 50 days to receive a postcard.  If it had been a Christmas card I probably wouldn’t have received it until Easter.

If you really love me (Don’t worry, it will NOT hurt my feelings at all if no one loves me.  In fact if the roles were reversed I wouldn’t love me either.) and decide to send me a box you MUST have it tracked.  The biggest reason for tracking packages is because there is a high likelihood that customs will seize the package.  I’ve had two packages sent to me and customs seized both.  But at least if the package is tracked than the shipping company (normally Fed Ex) will contact me and tell me what hoops I need to jump through in order to get the package.

Recently my amazing graduate students sent me a package.  Once it actually arrived in Botswana it only took 13 days, three trips to two different offices, seven phone calls, and a slight decrease in my sanity to receive it.  When you send packages to Botswana you are required to list the full contents of the box on the customs declaration paperwork.  In my package there were a couple of t-shirts, a mouse pad, a few personal necessities I can’t buy here, and some beef jerky.  In a country where one of our primary exports is beef, customs threw a fit when they saw beef jerky listed.

Since I was “importing beef” I was required to go to the Ministry of Agriculture to obtain permission.  Despite the fact this was for personal consumption with no intent to sell, I still had to get approval.  I showed up to the Ministry to find about a dozen men all dressed in safari khaki waiting to talk to the one office clerk who was processing applications.  Being adorable, and obviously out of place, I took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with one of them.  It turns out they were all cattle ranchers and being that we live in a pretty small country, they all knew one another, which was why they welcomed making a new friend.  Since I had no idea what half the questions on the application meant, one of the ranchers helped me fill it out.  Then I had to go through a line of questioning.  Here was the conversation:

Clerk: We don’t import beef into Botswana.  What is this you want to bring in? What is beef jerky?
Kelly: It is the same as biltong (the name for beef jerky here in Botswana, but here it’s pretty gross).
Clerk: Why don’t you just eat the biltong we have here?
Kelly: Ummm… Here’s the problem, customs has my box and they need approval for the beef jerky, otherwise they won’t give me anything in the box.  Can you please approve the permit?  I’m not going to sell it; I’m only going to eat it myself.
Clerk: Well, how much beef jerky do you want approval for?
Kelly: One kilo.
Clerk: One thousand kilos….
Kelly: No, no, just one kilo. (clerk looks at me quizzically)
Clerk: One kilo? (looks at everyone else in the room and they ALL collectively laugh)
Kelly: Yes, as in, the same amount of food I will probably cook for dinner tonight.
Clerk: Well, this is a lot of work for one kilo of beef jerky. 

When he said that all I could think to myself was, EVERYTHING in Botswana is a LOT OF WORK!!  Need a faculty ID on campus?  That takes two weeks and countless visits to the same office.  Need to have a meeting?  Plan to spend your entire day there because no one will show up on time and then they will break for tea, so they can’t be rushed.  Need your residence permit? You will get it the last possible day you are legally in the country about an hour before they decide to deport you.

Clerk: Ok, I will process the paperwork.  You can come back in the morning to pick it up.

The following morning I excitedly woke up and returned to the Ministry to collect the permit.  Guess what happened when I got there.  That’s right, no permit.  I had to see a second person who questioned me and then informed me they don’t grant permits for fewer than 10 kilos of beef.

Kelly: Ok, then can I please have a beef permit for 10 kilos?
Ministry Director: No.

After another thirty minute inquisition the Ministry Director wrote me a note stating that I had permission to import the beef jerky.

 

I love Africa. There is no such thing as a dull moment here.  And in the end, my beef jerky sure was good.

Here, have a condom

Living in Africa I have learned a lot about sex.  Not necessarily from the act itself, but because it is a constant topic of conversation.  Here people make reference to sex the same way you talk about weather or sports scores back in the U.S.

For one, fidelity is rare.  I know Westerners can’t claim to always be faithful, but the prevalence and acceptance of adultery here is just so customary it is unnerving at times.  If you haven’t read about my education surrounding big and little houses here in Botswana I recommend you start there so you have the vocabulary down.  But men and women talk about little houses openly and as a necessity; men need a little house as a means of escaping the demands of a marriage; women want to be a little house because of the monetary and social benefits it bestows upon them.

Part of the problem with infidelity here is the HIV/AIDs issue.  I had a friend tell me both her parents died from HIV/AIDs.  She said her father contracted it from sleeping around.  Apparently he knew he was sick, but never told her mother.  When her father died her mother was told by the doctor about him having had HIV/AIDs and encouraged her to be tested.  By that point her mom had already contracted it and died about a year later as a result.

The infidelity, coupled with the frequency of HIV/AIDs, has resulted in what I like to call a “Condom Culture.”  I have never seen so many condoms in so many places in my life.  And when in doubt, the answer is always, “here, have a condom.”  I mentioned during a shopping trip a couple months back that I was looking for a sink stopper.  When the store clerk couldn’t figure out what I wanted he gave me a box of condoms.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but that is the answer to everything here.  The other day I was in a store and mistakenly asked for pants instead of trousers.  What did the store manager give me? That’s right, condoms.

And the “here, have a condom” slogan isn’t evident just in my apparent inability to communicate when shopping.  In the women’s restroom in my building on campus there is a box of condoms with a sign, “Help yourself.  Practice Safe Sex.”

When I first arrived in Gaborone I stayed at a hotel for a couple of nights before I was given the keys to my house.  It was a nice hotel; the front desk clerk even took me up to my room to show me the amenities.  I’m not sure whether it was part of her rehearsed script or not, but she opened the drawer to the nightstand, pointed to a handful of condoms and said, “If you need more, don’t be afraid to ask.”

But I think my favorite “Condom Culture” experience was when I drove across the Botswana-Zimbabwe border.  A group of journalist friends and I were on a visit to Chobe National Park.  As we were shuffling through the small border check point on the Botswana side I turned around after getting my entry stamp only to notice a condom dispenser.  I was so shocked I looked at it for a minute.  There was a sign on the dispenser which read, “Have a good time. Be safe.  Help yourself.”

Ke Ja Lebidi Driving School: Poor Skills Taught; 100% Guarantee You WILL be Pulled Over by the Police; Cruising for Dates, Cheating and Stealing are Standard Practice; and as a Bonus, We Will Help RUIN Your Relationship!

Remember about a week ago when I was all excited about driving lessons?  That enthusiasm has now waned as I realize driving lessons may have been one of the worst mistakes I’ve made here.  If I was the marketing manager for the Ke Ja Lebidi Driving School I would post the above blog title on billboards all around Gaborone.  But we can’t have a marketing campaign without customer testimonials to back it up, so here are the details for you discerning patrons out there…

Poor Skills Taught: I realize Duckpound (my instructor) barely speaks English, but he knows the words for clutch, brake, accelerate, 1, 2, 3, 4.  However, he can’t be bothered to give instructions as he spends the entire time on his cell phone and seems to forget I am actually driving the car.  The only instruction I ever heard was, “Slow down! You are turning too fast!”  Apparently no one here takes a curve above 5 miles an hour.  I remind him I know how to drive and thus I know what speed is appropriate to use on a curve.  He doesn’t believe me.

100% Guarantee You WILL be Pulled Over by the Police: Nope, not the student, the instructor.  Speaking of cell phones, on Monday Duckpound picked me up for my lesson and as he was heading to the location so I could drive he texted THE ENTIRE WAY!  I wasn’t particularly comfortable with this, but didn’t actually say anything until I saw two men in bright yellow shirts on bicycles.  “Hey Duckpound, are those bicycle police?” “Yeah.” “Do you think maybe you should stop texting?” “No, they aren’t patrolling for me.” HA!  The cops rode up along both sides of the car and told him to pull over.  After about ten minutes of back and forth they gave him a citation.

Cruising for Dates: When Duckpound isn’t talking on his phone, texting or yelling at me to slow down he is checking out the ladies.  Every time we would drive by a woman walking along the street he would smile, turn around and shout something at her in Setswana.  It is interesting to note, none of these women ever smile when this happens. I know when I was a young, cute thing I always looked forward to the day some driving instructor would lean out the window at me and call me over, kind of like people do with their dogs, “Here girl! Goooooooood girl! Who loves you?”

Cheating: My driving lessons are supposed to be 30 minutes.  However, not one has lasted more than 22.  Yes, I keep track because I want to get my money’s worth.  It is very important I get my full half hour of “Slow down!,” meeting Gaborone’s finest bicycle police, and witnessing how to unsuccessfully pick up a girl that will probably land you in jail. Duckpound, didn’t your mother teach you to stay away from girls wearing school uniforms?  But nevertheless, I want my 30 minutes of driving practice.

Stealing: When I signed up for my driving lessons I asked for a receipt. Duckpound told me his boss had the receipt book and he would have to give it to me another day.  This did not surprise me as this is how things operate in Africa. (Last weekend I went to a Food and Wine Festival and there were no glasses because they were locked up in a storage closet and the person with the key hadn’t arrived to work yet. Did I mention we arrived three hours after the event began?  I’m curious how they served wine during the first half.  “Here, just tilt your head back and open your mouth; I will pour you a taste.”)  Today I finally got to see the owner of the school.  He asked why I hadn’t come by for lessons yet.  I informed him I had been taking lessons for an entire week and I wanted part of my money back.  He found that interesting seeing as that he hadn’t been given my money yet from Duckpound.  The owner and I cornered Duckpound who admitted he had spent the money.  The owner told me to return tomorrow and he would “try” to get me my money back.  I’m not holding my breath.

We Will Help RUIN Your Relationship!: Sadly, this is a true story.  I came home one day from driving lessons and was so incensed by Duckpound’s foolishness that I vented my frustrations to the man I’ve been seeing.  Apparently my communication skills have grossly diminished since I came to Africa because he interpreted my complaints to mean something entirely different.  No matter how many times I said, “I’m upset about my driving lessons; this has nothing to do with you; stop telling me I’m pretending to be angry at my driving instructor to disguise the fact I’m mad at you; that’s not what’s going on here!” the message was not received.

To recap, I have wasted approximately 104 minutes attending poorly instructed driving lessons; I am out 290 pula which Duckpound probably used on an underage date so I have little hope of ever seeing that again, and my "big house" and I broke up as a result of a bizarre miscommunication/argument which reached a point of no return.  This was the BEST INVESTMENT EVER!  Everyone who comes to Botswana should take driving lessons.  I highly recommend the Ke Ja Lebidi Driving School on Jawara Road; they won’t actually teach you how to drive well, but chances are they will make you feel (temporarily at least) as if they are destroying your life.

Nothing Like a Little African Efficiency

This evening I was trying to make a flight reservation. It was the easiest flight route as well: Gaborone to Johannesburg. The flight takes 45 minutes and South African Airlines offers about half a dozen roundtrips on this route daily. I was attempting to make the reservation online through the SAA website which was going well, until I had to enter a phone number. That’s when things started to go south. I tried easily 30 or 40 variations of phone numbers; both U.S. and Botswana numbers and the system simply would NOT process my request. Each time I was given an error message and told I had an invalid phone number.

Tried to look up a Botswana SAA office number… no luck.

Attempted to call the Botswana airport directly in hopes of being transferred to the SSA office.

Four calls to the Botswana airport got me nowhere.

Skyped a friend in the U.S. and asked him to find a phone number. Three phone numbers later and we still hadn’t accomplished anything.

Eventually Brian (in Lubbock, TX) called the SAA office in Plantation, Florida. When he told them he wanted to make a reservation they transferred him to the Reservations Office in…. care to take a guess? Johannesburg, South Africa.

After 23 minutes of me sending messages via Skype to Brian in the U.S. who was on the phone with SAA customer service in Africa I now have a ticket.

Talk about efficiency. There is no other way to explain it: TIA.

“Dr. Kelly, what do you think about Service Quality in Botswana?”

I could see the question coming from a mile away, and despite all efforts was unable to manage an escape prior to it actually being asked.

I sort of co-teach a class with another Lecturer here at UB.  The course is called Tourism in Botswana.  Since I am grossly under qualified to teach a tourism course focused entirely on Botswana, he teaches the class and I supplement the material by providing outside examples and relating it to the worldwide tourism industry.  There is a published course syllabus but that has little to do with what is actually covered in any given class session.  My colleague often shows up and teaches whatever strikes his fancy.  Thus, I often feel unprepared for what to expect and have to be ready to provide input on the fly.

Yesterday’s class focused on Service Quality.  As soon as I saw the topic I wish I had called in sick.  I had little good to say about anything service-related here in Botswana, or Africa for that matter, but knew I would inevitably be asked to provide an outside opinion.  As the instructor was highlighting the importance of various customer service principles I began jotting down notes I could refer to later when it came time for me to speak.  While listening to the lecture and the students’ questions I began thinking about the frustration involved when I attempted to get my university ID.

Then one of my students, Martin, said something very profound.  He said, “I was at dinner with my parents in a restaurant here in Gaborone.  The waiter hadn’t been back to my table since he gave us our food.  I tried to get his attention so I could get more water.  My parents yelled at me and said, ‘You are a child.  You have two legs.  Get up and fetch your own water.’”

This story reminded me of an incident from when I was in Kenya for my conference.  At one of the dinner events my entire table had been seated for easily 20 minutes and no server had ever been around to take drink orders.  Several of us tried to get someone’s attention until I finally got up, went to the bar, took 8 glasses, filled them with water, put them on a tray, and carried them back to my table myself.

Martin’s story was met by a round of commentary from the rest of the class, some taking Martin’s side, and some agreeing with his parents.  Finally a girl said, “You know, most foreigners focus on really minute details, like the water thing.  I just don’t think those kinds of things are important.”  This comment prompted my colleague to ask, “Dr. Kelly, what do you think about service quality in Botswana?”

I answered initially by giving a lot of examples of “foreigners” and service quality elsewhere.  I told them being a server in a café in Paris is considered a respectable job, which is why they take pride in their work and make sure their customers are well cared for.  I told them in China a position in a hotel or restaurant was considered an embarrassment because you are admitting someone else is your superior.

I was beginning to think I was losing them so I decided to boil it down, “Here’s the thing that matters.  Botswana has the highest price point for tourism products in Sub-Saharan Africa.  If I’m spending $1,000 a night in Botswana I expect to get water.  If I’m not going to get water I might as well go to Zim where I only have to spend $100 night to be thirsty.”  Ultimately, I got through to them.  There is one thing the Batswana do NOT want, and that is to be compared to Zimbabwe.