Traveling the Distance: Getting to Work

Cutting pass the part of my path that the river has now flooded, just as I was about to squat through the second hole in the fence to continue my walk to the office, I was stopped by a security guard. Wearing a dark blue uniform, hands calmly at his side, his eyes locked on me, and I froze.

“Where are you going?” he asked me sternly with an icy gaze.

“uh… well...” I stammered, I was startled. “Ke ya tirong.” I’m just going to work.

“I’m patrolling this area, trying to find the person who’s been cutting holes in the fence.”

“Well, I don’t know who that is. I’m just taking my daily walk to the office. Unless I want to walk through the river, I crawl through the holes in the fence. I’m very sorry, Sir, but I don’t know any other way.” I pleaded, trying to both explain myself and elicit some sympathy.

“Why don’t you use the gate?” he retorted, coldly.

“Because I already walk for an hour to get to the office, and using the gate would add another 15-minutes to my already long walk. I’m truly very sorry, Sir. I’ll start using the gate next time. Can I just crawl through since I’m already here?” Of course I would use the gate if it were convenient. I follow a train of people who take the same route every day. ‘When in Rome,’ right?

“No, you need to use the gate,” again with the ice.

“But I’m already right here.” I hate mornings, officer, I have a long walk to get to the office, and now I’m going to be late. I’ve made assiduous attempts to make this rough commute work out. Don’t penalize me for assimilating with your people.

“You need to use the gate.”

At this point, feeling defeated, I smiled. “Fine, I’ll use the gate, will you walk me there to make sure I use the right one?”

“Sure, no problem,” and we went on our way.

“O bidiwa mang?” asking his name.

“Nna? Me? Kabo.”

“ah-ah! No! My name is Kabo.”

He smiled and laughed. The ice was broken, and we had light, friendly conversation for the rest of our 10-minute walk to the Maun Secondary School gate.

Once we arrived at our destination, I shook his hand with both of mine, thanked him for doing his job, and for taking the time to walk with me. I was genuinely gracious, especially for his eventually polite demeanor. And then I rushed away, grumbling. 45 minutes more to walk…

When I arrived in my village, I was spoiled by my NGO when it came to transport. For the first couple of weeks, Mpho would give me a ride to and from the office. There were two problems with this option. One was that she went in early and left late, so it would take more time out of my day to ride with her than it would if I was walking. Second, even though she lives close to me, I didn’t feel right about her giving me a ride since she’s already horrendously busy at work. I don’t want to add one, more small thing to her over-crowded, metaphorical plate.

At that point, an intern began working with us who lives in my neighborhood. She also has a car and offered to give me a ride. She worked the same hours as I did, so this turned out to be a great option. Two weeks later, she moved to the other side of town.

Since it was the peak of winter, the mornings were nice and cold, and I wanted to do a better job of knowing my way around, I started walking most of the time, and taking taxis on occasion. Phaketse was kind enough to show me all of the short-cuts to get to my house as quickly as possible.

My walk would soon prove to be a daily adventure of meeting new people, encountering wildlife and finding new obstacles to my commute, not to mention what a great workout it is. Every day, I travel with my backpack filled with my laptop, water, and usually some groceries, so that certainly adds some pounds to carry.

From the office, I walk 15 minutes to ‘old mall’ through a small neighborhood, pass a couple of safari shops and construction sites. From there, it’s 10 minutes through town to Choppies, one of the local grocery stores. Then, I cut through another neighborhood for a 20-minute walk to the Old bridge and cross the river. It’s 10 minutes along the river and then 10 minutes through my neighborhood to my house. In total, it’s about a one-hour power walk.

The first few times I did this, I was exhausted by the time I got home and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. The Olympic record holder in the 400m is from my village, and I believe his commute to school may have been similar to mine to work.

Since I like a good workout, I kept with it, and it’s become easier over time. As it gets warmer, however, the heat has been making it more difficult. By the end of August, I felt like I was in that scene from the Chronicles of Riddick where they’re running away from the rising sun, trying to stay in the shade, because the sun is so close to their planet and so hot, they’ll melt when its rays touch them. Since Botswana is a desert, the nights and mornings are cool, at least until October. Over the winter months, I dressed in layers, and stripped them off throughout my one-hour walk as the sun rose.

With the warmer months approaching, one of the most entertaining parts of my walk has emerged: parasols. It’s constantly sunny here. I’ve been in Bots for 6 months, and I’ve only seen rain once. A lot of people start to carry umbrellas to block the sun, men and women alike. These parasols come in all shapes, sizes, and animal formations. Imagine a skinny African man walking to work carrying a pink, frilly parasol that is supposed to resemble a hippopotamus, complete with eyes and ears poking out of the top. No one even bats an eye. It’s normal. My favorites are the ladybug parasols complete with big antennae. There are also rhinos, elephants, cartoon characters and bird parasols complete with beaks. I need to get pictures of this stuff.

On most mornings, I try to hail a cab for part of my journey. Being a foreigner, it’s not easy. A white guy, standing across the street from one of the lodges, carrying a backpack certainly doesn’t look like someone who lives in Botswana. Half the time, they want to charge me 5 times the usual rate, and sometimes they’re not even going in the direction of my office since I live so far out and it’s not the best road to grab a cab. As my Setswana improves, so does my ability to get a taxi that doesn’t want to overcharge me.

On my way home one day as I was approaching this very spot, next to the Maun lodge, I saw a large number of students from Maun Secondary School congregating on the bridge. Once I got to the bridge, I discovered what all the commotion was about. There were two hippos, romping, jumping and playing in the river. It was my first wildlife sighting! And it began the list of reasons I’ve begun to enjoy this commute. The name of my ward is Boseja-kubu, and “kubu” means hippo. A few weeks after this first sighting, as I was walking along the river, this big hippo head popped out of the water only 10 feet away from me. I froze for a moment in fright, but it only paused for a moment, looking right at me, before it went back under the water.

I’ve grown to appreciate my walk especially because it’s been the best way for me to meet many of my neighbors, and it’s led to some great conversations, including the aforementioned ones with Phaketse and Tumelo. In particular, I’ve discovered there are many recent transplants from Zimbabwe living in my ward. Since Botswana and Zimbabwe share a border, and Zimbabwe’s economic and political turmoil has come to a peak recently, some Batswana have bad stereotypes about Zimbabweans, and some even fear them. “They’re lazy… they’re stupid… they’re thieves… they’re stealing all of our jobs…” are some of the things I hear. It sounds exactly like what the racists in Los Angeles say about the Mexicans, not to mention what those in Italy say about Romanians (the gypsies).

Over the first couple months of meeting and interacting with people from Zimbabwe, I discovered I was forming my own stereotypes. They’re some of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, resilient and hard-working. They’re so kind that I’ve become much closer to my Zimbabwean neighbors than the Batswana.

One day, on my usual walk along the river, I met a man named Dube. Less than a minute after I met this man and we walked together, a little boy, maybe 2 years old, way up ahead on the path screamed, “HELLO!” looking right at me. His voice was filled with the type of playful enthusiasm that took me back to youthful days of innocence for a second.

The moment we caught up with him, he grabbed Dube’s hand. I pointed at the child and asked, “This one, is he yours? Is he your son?” The little guy grabbed my pointing finger and then held on to my hand, walking in between Dube and I. He soon realized he could jump and swing, using the two of our arms as a jungle gym.

The three of us walked that way for the next 15 minutes on the way to my house. I discovered they’re from Zim and moved here about a year ago with one of their relatives.

A couple weeks later, I stopped to speak to an older woman who was walking down a sandy path using a thick branch as a walking stick. Fluttering around her like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon was an energetic youngster whose name I would learn was Lesego, which means ‘Lucky’ in Setswana. The older woman, Mma Gonyora, and her whole family moved here almost 10 years ago from Zimbabwe. I’ve stopped by their house several times since we’ve met because I so enjoy their company. Every time I walk by their gate, I hear Lesego screaming “Kabo! Kabo! Uncle Kabo!”

Others from Zim I’ve met, Munya at Love Botswana, Isabelle at Jump Street Lodge and Fatima with Damsel Catering, among many more, have all been equally wonderful. They’re sewn from the type of thread that is vibrantly different from that of the Batswana.

Perhaps it is the great turmoil their country has gone through, Mugabe tearing apart their economy over the decades. I remember reading an article in the Economist a couple years ago about Zim and gasping at the 253% inflation rate. It’s surreal to have been here, right next door, when their inflation rate rose to 9 million % and to read about a can of Coke costing 58 billion Zim dollars.

Part of the problem, in a nutshell, at least the way one of my good friends from Zim, Rra Mahopolo, explains it to me, is the way Mugabe handled the land. Zimbabwe used to be the breadbasket for all of Southern Africa, rich in commercial farms and ranches that were well-managed. Zimbabweans, historically, are extremely hard workers. In order to 1) remove his citizens who didn’t support him and 2) play a hack-job game of Robin Hood, he kicked out all of the successful farmers and ranchers and gave the lands to poor folks who were his supporters. These people had no idea what they were doing with the farms and ranches, so they completely destroyed the industry.

The people in Botswana have never really had to struggle. They’ve always been at peace, a democratic government and no history of war. For the most part, they are laid-back and calm, both good qualities, but it can be a challenge when there is a real conflict or problem to be solved and no one seems to notice or want to do anything. It still boggles my mind that the HIV/AIDS crisis hasn’t really woken them up. It’s partially a result of their dependence of government, not having to struggle in the past and therefore little community initiative to solve it.

The people from Zim never ask me for money, none of them. They ask me for work, and when I tell them no and explain why, they accept it and keep looking. Most of the Batswana who are used to the government providing so much, ask me for money and beg me for work. In other countries where the people might start their own businesses, struggle and find ways to create their own income, many people in Botswana who are poor wait and beg for someone to provide. Why work when the diamond-fed government and economy will give you a food basket if you’re a destitute?

The stereotypes I’ve formed bother me. I’m open to admitting that. However, the longer I work here, and the more Zimbabweans and Batswana I meet, the greater the contrasts become and the stereotypes enforced.

I remember the first moment I met Zimbabweans in my neighborhood. I was hanging my laundry out to dry on the fence when 2 young men came through my gate.

“Dumela,” I greeted them with a smile, eager to meet people.

“Hello, sir. We’re looking for Peace…” they trailed off, speaking slowly and shyly. I didn’t quite understand what they were saying.

“I’m a Peace Corps. Ke bidiwa Kabo. O bidiwa mang?”

They looked at me, a bit confused. “We’re from Zimbabwe. We don’t speak Setswana.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” feeling a bit guilty for assuming, but wait, I’m in Botswana, why wouldn’t I assume?

“They call me Kabo. What are your names?”

“I’m James, and this is Masimba.”

“Masimba! That’s a great name. What does it mean?” I asked with my unabashed enthusiasm.

“It means strength or power,” he replied with a smile, starting to open up from his shell. “We’re looking for piece jobs. We just came here last week from Zim with our brother and sister, and we are looking for work.”

Of course. Everyone’s asking the lekgoa for work. Not a week goes by that some new person doesn’t come to my yard offering to clean my house or wash my clothes. Then they walk away very confused by the white guy doing his own laundry. “I’m sorry. I’m a volunteer. I only get enough money for food, and the organization I work for pays my rent and bills. . .”

“Oh…” James and Masimba respond, looks of disappointment washing over their faces. Their “Oh” was heavy, carrying a burdensome weight. Translated, it meant: rejected... we’re poor... we’ve traveled all this way to find work... this sucks... our country’s a mess... how will we eat...

I proceeded to give them advice on where they might find work. I know some neighbors I’ve met have their own construction businesses and have recently started some projects. I also pointed out where to find some of the wealthier folks living in their non-traditional riparian homes. They seemed somewhat appreciative, but quickly left so they could continue their search.

My heart went out to them. I could have cried in that moment. They were so sweet, earnest and unaggressive. We had a brief conversation, they accepted my answer, and they went on their way. At that point, I had just moved to this place, so I was only beginning to see how bad things were here, but I still wanted to be able to give them something. Little did I know that some new person from Zimbabwe would come to my house asking me for work at least once a week, each time with the same earnest plea, the brief look of disappointment painting their faces with the colors of years of struggle and hardship, and walking away quickly with hopeful optimism that they’ll find something.

A few days later, just as I was about to walk up the long hill of deep sand that ends at my house, I heard someone screaming my name. I turned around to find Masimba running toward me. He was eager to say hello and fervent to talk about God. We had a brief conversation about some crackpot pastor from Indiana who had written some pamphlets on Christianity that he wanted me to read. It was still a lovely conversation, and I accepted the booklets he gave me with a smile. At this point, I had just made plans with Phaketse to go to church together the following day, so I invited Masimba with me. He was thrilled since he hadn’t been to church in Botswana yet.

Masimba was ready to go at 8AM sharp Sunday morning, wearing his best clothes and his black shoes freshly polished. I met him at his home, a tiny trailer held up by cinder blocks, sitting in an abandoned plot of land. I greeted James, met the aforementioned sister, Joyce, and we went on our way. During out walk to church at service and afterwards, we continued to have great conversations, and I was touched by how kind and compassionate this young man was.

Several weeks went by without seeing Masimba, but I would say hello to James and Joyce as I walked by. Strolling along the river, on my way home from work, per usual, I met another new person. I felt his presence close behind me, and I grew a bit wary until he introduced himself. “My name is Teach, I’m Joyce’s husband.” He’s one of the four that moved here with Masimba.

Months later, on the 1st of November, my counterpart and I were picking up some consultants we’re working with at the Jump Street Lodge to take them to the airport to catch their flight back to Gabs. I was surprised to see Teach walk out of the gate carrying their bags. He started working at the Lodge a few weeks back helping them expand the complex, building some new rondavals. I was so happy for him that he found good work. Coincidentally, his wife Joyce found some work earlier that same day, at my house.

The past few weeks have been busy at work, the Trainer of Facilitators for GLOW, visiting the GLOW chapter in Shakawe, the workshop to go over the draft of our Gender-Based Violence manual. I haven’t had a day off in a while since I’ve been so busy. My house is a mess, and my laundry is piling up. I’ve never had a maid in my life, so the idea of hiring someone to wash my clothes and clean my house is a bit uncomfortable to me. It also feels weird since I’m a volunteer, I’m frugal, and I get paid so little: US$250 per month. But I caved. I need the help, and labor here is cheap. Remembering the countless number of people who have come to my house looking for work, I tried to think of someone I could trust. When I thought of the right person, it was someone who had never even asked me for work, Joyce, even though her brothers did.

For 3 hours of labor, cleaning my house and washing my clothes, I paid her P50 (US$7), which in this country is a bit generous. She did a fantastic job. She got stains out of clothes I didn’t know were possible to remove, and my house has never been this clean. Not to mention the incredible speed with which she did a thorough and detailed job. It wasn’t weird to have her here like I thought it would be. What was strange was that I’ve never felt wealthier. What a bizarre contrast. I’m a volunteer surviving on a tiny stipend who came here with only two big suitcases of belongings, yet I’m in a place where I can afford to hire someone to clean my house, someone who has so much less than I do.

On the day I met Teach, Joyce’s husband, I asked how Masimba was doing, and I was told that he had to go back to Zimbabwe.

Knowing how bad things are in Zim, just after the height of the political violence, my heart leapt a bit. They told me he would be back in a month, but to this day, he has not returned, and I wonder how he is, still thinking about him from time to time.

Teach walked me back to their trailer and told me Masimba had left something for me. It was another religious booklet, but this one had a message for me complete with phone numbers and an address:

“I went home, my friend Mr. Kabo. I thank you for all what we have shared together. Going to church together was nice and charming. When you get to your homeland, pliz don’t forget me.”

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Two important discoveries I’ve made on my walks are 1) there is trash collection in my neighborhood, and 2) there is a recycling facility somewhere in Maun that pays 1Pula for glass bottles and 50thebe for cans. Since many of my neighbors still burn all of their trash, and, well, it’s Africa, I was surprised these developments exist. I’ve since begun dividing my trash into 5 segments:

1) biodegradables to throw behind the house
2) bones for the stray dogs
3) paper products for Teach, James and Joyce to use as kindle for the fires that cook their food
4) Cans and bottles for Tiny or Dube to recycle for money
5) All other trash for pick up

Beginning of September, walking by several houses burning piles of trash, during my usual commute, I arrived at the river to discover it had flooded the path. This was the beginning of an entirely new saga in my commute. I know there are many people who take this route to and from work, and since the river probably floods the path annually this time of year, I figure the community probably has a solution to this challenge. If I wanted to, I could walk through the gate before the river, and come out on the other side of Maun Secondary School just north of the Lodge, but that would add 15 minutes to my already excruciatingly long walk. I assume there are others who think similarly.

Stepping stones was the answer. Every day, there was a new array of different types of stepping stones: rocks, bricks, pieces of chairs, a smashed watering can and anything else people could find to throw in this large puddle blocking the path between the river and the barbed wire fence of Maun Sec. This worked for a while, but the river continued to get higher and the stepping stones lost traction in the mud.

At this point, I, along with my fellow community members, would traverse this part of the path over the river by holding onto the fence while lightly stepping on the objects in the river. Packing my water proof hiking boots for my stint in Botswana was a very wise choice, but that didn’t stop my other extremities from occasionally getting cut on the barbed wire.

Like everyone else, I persevered. This was the reality, it was a solution, and it got me to the rest of my path. A week later, someone cut holes in the fence, so for a while, I would crawl through the hole before the large puddle and then crawl through the other side. It wasn’t until the security guard stopped me, and the heat became unbearable, that I was forced to find a completely different direction of travel.

It was time to become familiar with the combi routes; they’ve been my saving grace from an hour and 15 minute walk in temperatures that have reached 112F by the end of October. Summer is only beginning. I hate talking about the weather, and even when making small talk with others, I used to despise discussing something so trivial. These days, sweating 24/7 with no air-con at home or in the office, I am constantly talking about and dreaming of more comfortable climes.

The combis are old, rickety minivans with 3 or 4 rows of seats made for 12 people, but in Botswana, they always find a way to squeeze in 20, plus 2. After the driver is ready and 20 passengers have become quite close to each other, the conductor makes room for himself to stand just inside the sliding door and hover over people as he collects everyone’s fare. Where taxis charge P3.60, the combis charge P3.00. More than any profession in Botswana, I have admiration for the combi workers in Maun. They do their work with such precision, systematically, reliably and they stop wherever you want on the route, whenever you’re ready, since there are no specific stops.

In Maun, there are 10 combi routes. No one in my office takes the combis, so it took me a while to explore and understand all of the routes. I walk for 15 minutes from the office to the combi rank at old mall. From there, I can take route 2 to Kwena road where I walk for 20 minutes to get home. Route 5 takes me within an 8-minute walk of my house. Route 2 runs quite frequently, but route 5 runs about once an hour, so which one I take depends on the day.

On my way to the office, I’ve discovered that hailing a taxi from Kwena road is much easier than the road by the lodge. So, in the morning, my new route is walking for 20 minutes to this main road and getting a cab that takes me directly to the office. At the end of the day, I take a combi since getting a taxi from the office to my house is practically impossible in such a sparsely populated area around the office. Once I settled into this new commute, I was so much happier and relaxed about my daily routine.

Additionally intriguing is that every day, I walk for 2 kilometers, uphill both ways, in the deep sand near my house. I can’t wait for the opportunity to tell this story to my grandchildren. And I sincerely love the combis. The people are always so nice and often entertaining. I don’t mind having to be squished up against everyone in the packed vehicle. Sadly, it’s the most physical affection I get here. (Batswana aren’t huggers).

In the combi, I get this feeling that “we’re together.” That’s the thought that goes through my mind at least, “It’s sweltering hot, none of us make enough money to have a car, we live far away from where we work, but we’re in this together.”

I suppose it’s almost how Teach, James and Joyce feel about the long journey they’ve taken. Far away from home, just to find work, living on so little, but at least they have each other.

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Life is beautiful.