“A Police Officer is a Statue Standing by the Side of the Road”

Last week when my friends Amanda and Ashleigh came to visit we spent a lot of time in the car driving across Botswana.  The fun part is that we got to see lots of interesting places and saw animals all over.  The not so fun part of the trip was my constant interaction with Botswana’s finest.  That’s right, the police.

On the first day of our trip I was pulled over for speeding.  Here in Botswana the speed limit drops quickly within a short distance. Many times you have to practically slam on the brakes in order to slow down in time.  The speed will often go from 120 to 80 to 40 within 50-100 feet.  I knew I had not dropped my speed quickly enough, but most of the other people on the road hadn’t either.  However, I was the person who got caught.  I tried to sweet talk my way out of it and it almost worked.  My officer was very nice.  But his partner (who was writing the ticket) definitely got up on the wrong side of the bed.  There was no way I was getting out of that ticket.  So I accepted the ticket and off I went.  Oh, hey! Silver lining!  If I get deported I CAN’T pay my ticket! Ha!  Who’s the winner now?  (Not really.)

Day 2: We wake up and depart Elephant Sands, excited for a short three hour trip to Chobe.  About twenty miles from Elephant Sands there is a check point.  There is a police officer standing at the checkpoint looking at me.  I look at him.  (Side note: there are check points ALL OVER Africa.  You ALWAYS get stopped at checkpoints in Zimbabwe and Sierra Leone.  I have NEVER been stopped at a check point in Botswana.  They see me coming and just waive me right through.) I slow down, but expect to get the waive through, so I didn’t prepare to stop until the last minute when I see him indicate I must stop.  (Additional important information: there was a stop sign next to where the policeman was standing, but there was also an earlier stop sign about 10 feet in front of where he was standing.)  The officer asks for my license and then quizzes me about why I didn’t stop at the first stop sign.  I told him I was looking at him and expecting him to waive me through because that’s what always happens at Botswana checkpoints, “That’s why I LOVE living in Botswana and am SO THANKFUL I don’t live somewhere like Zim.”  This did not win him over.  “Don’t look at me! A police officer is a statue standing on the side of the road!  Ignoring a stop sign is a 1,000 Pula fine!”  It took every ounce of strength I had not to say, “That’s funny, because your statue friend yesterday had a very different opinion of the role of police officers.”  The officer made fun of me for a few minutes and said I looked like I was about to cry and then told me not to run a stop sign again.  Verdict: No ticket.

The remainder of our trip was very slow and stop-and-go, but we made it through without another police incident, sort of.  As we were driving back from Khama Rhino a speeding bus nearly ran us off the road while he was trying to overtake.  The almost-running off the road situation occurred because he tried to pass while another bus was approaching in the opposing lane.  Apparently there was a police officer right behind him and he came speeding up and pulled him over.  But he didn’t pull me over!

And then I kind of offered to pull myself over as we were driving to Johannesburg.  I must have a guilty conscience or something. That was actually pretty comical.  An officer came running out into the street and pointed one hand towards me and another towards the side of the road, indicating to pull over.  But the officer didn’t appear to be looking at me.  It looked like he was looking past me.  But I wasn’t sure.  So I slowed down, even though I knew I wasn’t speeding, stared at him intently, pointed at myself and kept shouting (inside the car, with the windows rolled up no less), “Me? Is it me? Am I in trouble?”  At that point Amanda reminded me, “He can’t hear you.”  Thankfully he wasn’t pointing to me, but to the vehicle behind me.

Overall it was a fun road trip.  I now feel as if I have met ALL the police officers across the country in one capacity or another.  And aside from my $60 ticket, which I probably won’t pay anyway since I’m about to get deported, it was uneventful.  Here’s my souvenir:

Categorical Dating

I have never been one to have a “type” in friendships or romantic relationships.  But I definitely have some friends who actively pursue significant others who fit into distinct categories.  I can think of a few girlfriends of mine who like to date men with foreign accents because they are “sexy and exotic.”  I don’t really comprehend this because I’ve seen a few cases of, “I know you think he has a ‘sexy and exotic accent’ but he doesn’t bathe, he can’t eat without spitting all over himself and everyone around him and the reason his accent is sexy is because he doesn’t speak any English at all, so you have no idea what he is saying!”

Or there are the women who like men in uniform.  Similar to the confusion I have over the accent, more than once I have said, “I don’t think the UPS delivery guy counts as a man in uniform.”  Unfortunately, and embarrassingly, I have become part of this categorical dating phenomenon.

On Monday I was invigilating a final exam.  The Math professor who was giving his exam in the same room kept approaching me and being unnecessarily friendly.  I knew where this attention was going which was disheartening as judging from the ring on his finger I was pretty sure he was married.  About 90 minutes into the exam I left to get some water.  As I re-entered the room Professor Math met me at the door and asked if I would be interested in “kicking it” sometime or perhaps even becoming his “little house.”  If you aren’t familiar with kicking it please read this blog post.  I quickly dismissed him with a stern, “No.”

At the end of the exam as we were completing paperwork a Math student approached me and asked me if I would go out with him.  Professor Math got offended, scolded the student, told him I had already been spoken for, and then looked at me as if I was to blame.  To make matters worse, the other Tourism professor with whom I was invigilating the exam came over and asked if I was ready to go home, having no clue as to the awkward conversation he was interrupting.  (To clarify, the exam ended at 9pm and it was dark out.  It isn’t safe to walk home at night, so I had already asked the Tourism professor if he could give me a ride.)  Professor Math and Student Math looked at each other as if I was cheating on both of them with Professor Tourism.

Long story short, I don’t like getting this kind of attention.  I get propositioned every day because every guy in Africa wants to be able to brag to his friends that he has been with a white girl.  Thank goodness I’m not pretty or smart or have a good personality.  In that case I don’t know how I would even be able to walk down the street without stopping traffic!  Actually, sometimes I do stop traffic.  And we all know how that turned out.  But I am definitely looking forward to not being in a preferred mate category when I do eventually return to the U.S.  Men in uniform with sexy foreign accents- I now understand the burden you must bear.

Grand Opening!

As reported in the Thursday, March 20^th edition of the Mmegi Newspaper:

“President Khama will be present this morning during the grand opening celebration for the Phelan Building in Downtown Gaborone.  The new Phelan Building is located adjacent to Barney’s and Macy’s, and within walking distance of Louis Vuitton.  Remarks are expected from the guest of honor, Dr. Phelan herself, along with other prominent members of the community including the Botswana Defense Force, her esteemed driving instructor, and the stranger who once gave her a ride home from her Setswana lessons.  Speeches are scheduled to last approximately 10 minutes, thus in reality they will last a minimum of an hour- if we’re lucky!”

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.

The Best Things I Learned Living in Africa

This afternoon I was speaking to a woman who was a new arrival to Africa.  She asked me what kind of advice I had as she began her new life here.  I took the opportunity to reflect on what I’ve learned over the past few months.  After giving it some thought, I can say with some amount of certainty that I have learned quite a few things.  Here is a list of my top epiphanies (so far) about Africa:

1. If there is hot water and water pressure take a shower and wash your hair regardless of whether you are dirty.  There is no guarantee you will have water pressure, hot water, or any water at all come tomorrow, so you need to take advantage of every bathing opportunity you can get.  The same premise goes for doing your laundry. 
2. If you act like a tourist, people will treat you like one.  For anyone who’s been following my blog for a while you have heard a lot of funny accounts of bizarre things which have happened to me.  If nothing else, the police seem drawn to me, whether my driving instructor is being pulled over for texting or whether I am causing accidents due to my crazy desire to walk to the store.  But I often have people ask why I don’t take pictures of some of these unusual instances.  For one, I don’t like to draw any extra attention to myself, such as when I was standing in court arguing my way out of a “walking with intent to cause a car accident” fine. In other cases I don’t take pictures because I don’t want to be perceived as a tourist.  I’ve watched this happen to other people: A foreigner and a local “become friends.”  The foreigner reverts back to his role as a tourist by asking to take a picture of the local.  The local responds by saying, “Sure, give me five dollars.” I don’t want those kinds of memories. 
3. It’s perfectly acceptable to play the “adorable white girl card.”  Speaking of being a foreigner, sometimes this helps.  The great thing about being a redheaded white girl is that I’m the only one.  I don’t blend in very well.  I try to, but thus far have been horribly unsuccessful.  But in some cases the inability to be mistaken for a local works to my benefit.  Every once in a while when I am desperate for help, such as when I need to get a beef permit so I can receive my package from home, being a “helpless, confused and scared white girl in need of rescue” can work to my advantage.  Somehow, that formula is irresistible to African men. 
4. On the flip side, if you are confident enough in your abilities to convince people you are a local who does belong then you earn yourself bragging rights and respect.  I particularly enjoy demanding an African rate.  Most African countries operate on a three tier pricing system: citizens, African residents and foreigners.  In Botswana, and when I travel to other African countries, I love saying things like, “This price isn’t fair.  Who do you think I am?  One of those rich muzungus (white people)?  No! I am an African! You give me an African rate!”  I certainly don’t get the absolute lowest price that the locals enjoy, but I don’t pay anything near what the foreigners do, plus, I end up making friends. 
5. If you are going to play a game of chicken, or start a fight, you had BETTER win; otherwise you may be taking your life in your hands.  Case in point: my recent visit to the Johannesburg airport.

In all reality I can think of at least another 10 best things to know about living in Africa, but I didn’t want to overwhelm the rookie.  She seemed a little deer in the headlights anyway, so I thought I would just let her ease into it for the time being.

Police Report: White Woman Causes Accident on Shashe Rd

It’s really hard to be popular.  I’ve mentioned before my attempts to blend in here in Botswana have been ill received.  White people in Africa are sort of like unicorns.  You hear about them, but you can go your entire life without actually seeing one in real life.  So when you do see one you have to seize the opportunity. For Rra Mmanokowa, he finally saw his unicorn/lekogwa/white person last week.

I do not own a car, so I typically walk everywhere, take a combi, or occasionally use a taxi if I’m travelling a long distance.  Many people here walk, so this is not uncommon.  Last week I was walking to the store to purchase my groceries.  As I was walking along I saw a man driving by, practically turned all the way around in his seat to look at me.  Again, this is not uncommon.  I’ve asked other lekogwa about this, but few seem to report this phenomenon.  Apparently I am special.

However, this time I was a little bit too special.  As the driver was looking at me, he swerved into oncoming traffic and hit a car coming in the opposite direction.  You know how you are supposed to check to make sure everyone in an accident is ok?  That is the moral thing to do, right?  In Africa that is generally a bad idea.  No one here drives particularly fast, so both drivers were fine.  But as I was getting ready to continue on to the store the police arrived and insisted on taking statements from all of us.  That’s when the trouble started.

The police wrote up the traffic report stating that “a white woman walking along Shashe Road caused a traffic accident.”  Excuse me?  I most certainly did not.  How is it my fault?  Mr. Mmanokowa claimed I distracted him.  I didn’t yell anything obscene, run across the street right in front of his car or take my shirt off.  But that was how the traffic report was written.

After the accident I was required to go to court to determine whether or not I was guilty and if I should pay a fine.  Are you kidding me?!?!?!  I do have to say that court was quite an education.  After a lot of back and forth the judge finally decided I was innocent and let me go.  I’m not sure who in the end was found guilty or what kind of fine he had to pay, but I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible before they changed their minds.

I should mention however, that as I was sitting in court waiting for my trial a man was being tried for murder.  He was found guilty and made to pay a 400 Pula fine.  That is equivalent to about $50.  Nope, I did not misinterpret the sentencing or the penalty.  Though I certainly didn’t understand how murder would only cost you $50.

I started asking around about murder and the “low cost” penalty.  Apparently this is the standard practice.  Someone told me that in South Africa you have to pay about 250 Rand a month for a television license.  Inspectors randomly show up at people’s houses and if they find you have an illegal television you have to pay a 1,250 Rand fine.  However, the penalty for murder if you are found guilty is only 500 Rand.  In other words, don’t bother getting a television license and don’t worry about getting caught and having to pay the fine.  If the Inspector turns up, just kill him and pay the equivalent of two months of television licensing for the murder charge.  Yet again, TIA!

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.