The Snowball Effect

Picture: Conducting land transfer focus group (from left to right: Youth, Kazungula Ke Kosi (Cheif), Lyndsay, Myself, VDC member)

You might think it strange that I haven’t written much about day to day life and what I am actually doing work wise here. The reason for this is while work is super interesting and quite the learning experience it is also emotionally draining. I have had the opportunity to sit in on paralegal advice and mediation meetings with our boss and some of the different people passing through the office looking for help. And while these meetings are confidential I can insure you that listening to stories of abuse, emotion, trickery, and drama leave me feeling as if I have just stepped into a novel. As the words pour out of the people mouths, can see them as if written on the pages of the No 1. Ladies Detective Agency.

Lyndsay and my personal project has been to write an action study report on land transfers in the Chobe district. Conducting three separate studies in the communities of Kazungula, Losoma, and Pandamatanga. This has entailed meetings with Land Board, The Ke Kossi (Village Chief), Village Development Council, data collection from the register, running a focus group with key respondents and youth and also conducting interviews throughout the community.

We have first hand experienced what Ntema calls the snowball effect. A compiling of issues ultimately building off of each other. Landlessness further amplifying poverty, leading to alcohol and substance abuse, prostitution, increased HIV/AIDS, OVCs (orphans and venerable children). In alignment with Ditshwanellos mandate the programs goal is poverty eradication rather then poverty elevation. This problem is tackled with a multi dimensional approach of awareness, advice and advocacy. Through informing people of their rights and the value of their land we are able to target the problem of landlessness created by the increased number of land transfers by vulnerable people.

In the interview process we have come across three obstacles so far. First off the always impeding language barrier. Even though English and Setswana are the two national languages in Botswana, many people speak their traditional tribal language still and only have broken Setswana or English. In many cases Susan has had to help translate. We have slowly been picking up bits of Setswana and along with basic introductions have mastered the phrase “No I am not trying to buy your land.” The second thing working against us has been the issue of substance abuse. Finding ourselves limited to the mornings as after lunch an alarming number of people hanging around are drunk and along with extended conversation its just generally more difficult. The most personal and challenging hurdle I have encountered is that often when people hear we are from the human rights office they ask for help and so with no expertise other then an open ear and empathetic nod we listen to their stories…

No papers. Signed papers. Wrong papers. A young girl sick. Growing tumor. Shrinking heath. A toddler going hungry. No uniforms no school. A mother overworked. Searching for work. A dead father. Drunk father. No father.

We are Ghetto Fabulous

Hitchhiking to Francistown .. also known as the ghetto. The sign entering the city reads We Are Ghetto Fabulous

I am constantly a week behind with blog posts.. so much is happening its difficult to soak it all in let alone formulate the words to describe my experiences. The last two weekends have been absolutely epic… or ‘ep’ as Faisal would say, to which we had to convince him that in shortening the word the epicness is lost. I am in the far Northern part of Botswana so to meet the rest of the group need to travel about 600km on a sand road. This has made me a master of the bus system which is quickly becoming the bain of my existence and also has lead to some rather sketch hitch hiking experiences, which now just make for great stories …

The Chobe express only leaves in the morning around 4am as to arrive in Francistown at 12:30pm. This is entirely incompatible with my work schedule and the group travel plans to leave Francistown early in the morning. As a result heading into the long weekend I found myself on the side of the road, hugged by my pack, sleeping bag in hand. Susan was gracious enough to take me to Sha Shake the place where you go to hitch a ride or get a lift as it is referred to here. Also fun fact: standing with your arm outstretched thumbs up is not the universal hitchhiking sign, here you stick out your arm and flap a horizontal hand up and down rapidly. Sha Shake is a roadside stop by the boarder of Botswana/Zambia/Zimbabwe, a cross road where the highway splits heading to Kasane in one direction and Francistown in the other. She stood there waiting with me to get a ride for two hours even though she was feeling sick. I kept on telling her that it is okay for her to go back to which she insisted on staying with me saying she “wanted to see the car that I got into first.” I feel extremely blessed to have such a good friend here. After an hour of only truck drivers stopping and me growing restless Susan reassured me that “these things take time and I must have patients because the car that God planned for me will come.”

And it did. A benz going right to Francistown pulled over. I could not have asked for a better ride. After a lot of worrying I was so thankful. It was a middle-aged couple from Kasane traveling for the long weekend. She was a police officer and he worked in government. When they pulled over by me a swarm of people ran up surrounding the car. After asking them where they were going, he said okay get in pointing to me. Hands grabbing for the door and shoves from all sides, I quickly embraced Susan as she fought off the crowd, pushing me into the back seat. The couple decided to take one more and a young guy from Zimbabwe climbed in next to me.

Sitting in the car with ample legroom, gospel music blaring, the sun settling lower flickering through the passing trees I almost teared up. Susan was right. I need to learn to have more faith. It was the smoothest ride to date (which can be judged by the quality of my printing in my journal as I wrote this). The couple was absolutely hilarious and the most expressional people I have met. In between cds they carried out a lively conversation in Setswana, her doing the shrill Ahhs common among the women and he sounded exactly like jar jar binks from Star Wars. Going 180km/hr down the highway horn blaring for birds and goats to get out of the way… except for one unfortunate bird who bounced off the top of our windshield. Switching from one gospel cd to the next the woman asked me if I was Christian and if so why I was not singing. And so I sang, we sang into the growing darkness until my voice grew horse.

Arriving in Francistown they were staying on the other side of the city and so dropped me off at the rank (where the other guy was going) so that I could catch a cab to Faisal’s house. It was now 11pm and the streets were mostly empty. In the cab I called Faisal who responded with “oh no, you do know that’s supppper sketchy right?…. Okay well you got the licence plate right? ...Okay well someone else is in there with you right?...” I made it safely to his block where he was pacing nervously up and down the block. We hugged then walked back to his house, the nerves relaxing with laughter.

From the Viewpoint of a Giraffe

Photo: Isabelle Jones

*another day. another brush stroke. we can write into life but cannot erase memories. sometimes the paint pours, sometimes it spills. but let us know, in each passing day, ingenuity is poured into life to attain greatness.* ~ bassey ndon (may 3, 2010) --- nigeria.

Hot Hot Chilies

Photo: Thomas Parente

The food one night was on fire. Spice like none other. I took a bite of cabbage and eyes starting to water tried to cool it down with some potato. This only amplified the problem as mixed into the potato was red and green chilies twice as hot as the cabbage.

The juice on the table with dinner, which I never take, is a blend of fruit flavored sucrose syrup with milk and tastes like cough medicine. I am not a picky eater and will eat almost anything but this is something that absolutely makes me gag.

Basically with no drink and everything on our plates close relatives of fire, Lyndsay and I looked at each other. Challenge accepted. Laughing at each other trying techniques to eat as quickly as possible. Tears streaming down our cheeks, lips, mouth and throat burning. It was so hot that not having eaten much that day I could feel it hit my stomach. A churning fire. We retreated back to our room and laid in bed in pain. Waiting for the water purification drops to settle.

I Will Go With My Feet

I Asked Susan if she knew of anyone who I could go running with to which she responded:

“Ah ME, yes! I really like running. There is something, something very spiritual in it. I would like to do that with you definitely. I used to run with my sisters and there was a group of six of us and we would run up there from plateau over. One day we found an elephant and then stopped going. Because they were looking for a reason to stop. But I wanted to find someone to go with. I didn’t have shoes. And even now I don’t have shoes. But I will find some or a place to borrow them from. And we will go. I am so thankful that you asked me to go with you.”

The way in which she said this was so touching and emotional. She doesn’t know that it is me that is so thankful to have her to run with and as a friend. I would be lost here without her. I can’t get the picture of my closet back home out of my head or the sense of guilt. A pile of slightly worn running shoes. The simplicity of the things we take for granite.

After work we meet and run up the steps of plateau and through the residential area where the two of us running next to each other black and white get many questioning stares. On our first run Susan asked me “do I have something funny on me? “ “No, why?” “Because people are staring.” “They are not staring at you, they are looking at me. But it’s okay I am getting used to it.” “Ahie I don’t like it. Why they have to do that. These people.”

We run by her house, meeting her sisters who are preparing dinner on a fire in the yard. And up onto the highway. We run. Breath growing heavy. Racing against the sun. Feet beating the pavement. Gravel crunching. Leaping over piles of glass. The road stretches ahead and we keep our eyes straight searching for elephants in the bush. The day slipping beneath the horizon, glowing brilliant orange lighting up the grass with gold and then exhaling into deep purple. Wild dogs trace our footprints with their barks. I ask if they will hurt us to which she responds, “I will pray that they will not.” Not quite the settling answer I was looking for but faith is something that I am slowing building. Darkness settles and we part ways, heading home. Twice as alert now I jump at every rustle. Passing the bushes and onto the pavement of the rank my defenses change. By the guys in the street. Drained beer and empties. Words chasing me. I run faster.

With the Wisdom of an Elephant

*blessed is the person who sees the need, recognizes the responsibility, and actively becomes the answer.* ~ william ward.

Call Me As You May

My name is really difficult for the people here to pronounce, just as I find most of their names equally challenging. When I introduce myself as Chloe, after the third or fourth time I usually settle for “Claurie”. As a result, for a girl who has grown up with out a nickname I find myself constantly answering to many.

While hanging out Anthony decided to give us Setswana names to which mine is Neo meaning “gift”. Mama Josephine has adapted to introducing me as Neo to her friends, congregation, neighbors and the various number of other people passing through our house (conveniently at dinner time). This is often met with laughter and a nice conversation starter. As Susan informed us unable to keep a straight face, its such a funny thought to have a white person with such a Setswana name. To Mama Josephine I am “my daughter” and to the numerous other family members “my sister”.

At work we filled out some formal forms (which included my full name). Later that day, after not looking up to “Nicole…Nicole…Nicole?” my boss came over being like “yes I am talking to youuu.” Since then I have adapted the name Nicole at work and when introduced at business meetings. And occasionally shortened to Nic during more casual times around the office.

Walking down the street the names are slightly less appealing and defiantly more offending. Including but certainly not limited to Blondie, mmm Candy, Beautiful, look White Person with a Black Booty, Kuyo… the list goes on and on.

I think it fits that with all of these changes and so much new that I also have a new name. It is kind of scary at the same time being so far from what I know. I almost feel like a different person.