I remember being so excited about my new venture. I had always been interested in learning about and experiencing other cultures, and wanted to work/volunteer in another country once I got my B.A. For financial reasons, I did this part time whilst working. I still remember seeing the poster inviting applications to join CUSO on the Bulletin Board at Wilfrid Laurier University. The time seemed right. I had just finished getting my B.A. (Sociology and Psychology) and also had become qualified to teach Home Economics at the Intermediate Level. Once I found out that I met the approval of CUSO and I would be placed somewhere, I obtained a leave of absence from the Waterloo Region District School Board. It wasn’t long before I got word of the opening at Molefi Secondary School in Mochudi, and I accepted the position.
I arrived in Botswana in October 1974. I recall thoroughly enjoying the different pace of life and learning about the way of life of the Batswana. I did my village live-in and language training a couple months after I arrived, and in spite of being bitten by bedbugs and becoming ill on the fermented sorghum porridge (which I hid from my host family), I enjoyed the time and did learn some Setswana. I walked with the children of the host family to gather firewood and water, which I carried with my hands rather than on my head, and did my best to pound some maize and use the winnowing basket to get rid of the chaff. I have many fond memories of the friendships developed in Mochudi with Peace Corps, MCC, and CUSO volunteers, and other expats. I had three different housemates during my time there, Kathy Cowbrough being one of them. I loved walking through the village, sometimes going to the local store to buy things needed for the Domestic Science Classes, and also down to the net houses to buy some fresh vegetables. I grew up on a farm, so meeting cows and goats along the way didn’t bother me. I also remember dodging hundreds of millipedes in my front yard after each rain so that I could make my way to the school. I remember fondly the many conversations under a shade tree on the property of the school, visiting with others in the evenings, and attending or hosting parties. The Matron at the school taught me how to make curried stew and we made big pots of goat stew over an open fire in the backyard. We served this with rice or stiff maize porridge. Everyone brought their own plates and eating utensils and we enjoyed the food and music. Another memory I have, and Kathy Cowbrough will also remember this, is a trip to the Maun area with several others during one of the school holidays. We roasted fresh Bream fish over an open fire, and rented a Land Rover to see all the animals in the wild. One night it was so beautiful we decided to not sleep in our tents and just crawled into our sleeping bags by the campfire to view the beautiful skies. We awoke to the sounds of roaring lions, and we all barely made it to the Land Rover in time before a lion passed through the campsite.
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Early on, Elvira and I decided that one way to get to meet people in town would be to attend church services at the various denominations – Catholic, Anglican, etc. One Sunday we met a young American couple who had the same idea. We decided to attend a service together at the Baptist Church which was located in the Location (i.e. the African part of town).
Anyone traveling through Francistown would have been hard pressed not to have noticed the Baptist Church. Presumably the Baptists had decided that the best way to minister to “the people” was to live and work right where the people lived and worked. However, while the church itself was fairly nondescript, the adjacent house which was provided for its minister and his family stood out like a sore thumb. There in the middle of a sprawling community, made up of mud huts with thatched roofs, no vegetation whatsoever but for the occasional thorn bush, dusty roads and a series of shared community water stand pipes, stood this California-styled bungalow, complete with a white picket fence and one of the greenest lawns I had ever seen. Given a chronic shortage of water in Francistown, green lawns were an oddity in town generally, let alone in the Location. Upon entering the house one was confronted with a baby grand piano on which was a signed photograph of John Glenn in his space suit wishing the Minister and his family all the best with their missionary work in Botswana. Incidentally, the Minister was the only dentist in town – and a very good one at that. His practice on Sundays was to greet all of his parishioners at the door as they entered the church. That particular Sunday when the four of us arrived, to his obvious surprise and delight, he was effusive in his welcoming. We took up seats towards the back of the worship space trying to be as inconspicuous as possible; even though, other than the Minister and his family, we obviously were the only white folks in attendance. While I don’t recall what the sermon itself was about, I’ll never forget how the Minister decided to end it. Friends, today is a very special day for us as we contemplate how much our faith truly means to us personally. Today is the day when I shall ask each and every one of you to look within yourselves and decide where you stand. For starters, I ask that each of you who believe in the Lord Jesus Christ to stand up right now. Everyone in the church stood up at this point. The Minister, clearly quite pleased with the response so far, then said: Now I ask each and every one of you who believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and that he died for our sins to move toward the right side of the church. Everyone in attendance, including the four of us, shuffled to the right side of the church. The Minister’s smile broadened as he presumably received the reaction that he had hoped for. Finally, my friends, I ask that each and every one of you look within yourselves. Those of you who believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, believe that he died for our sins, and would be willing to do anything that we ask of you to help our mission better serve the people of this community, please move toward the left side of the church. Everyone, EXCEPT the four of us, dutifully moved to the left side of the church. Each of us had made our decisions on our own, independently, as we had no time to consult with each other about what to do. There we found ourselves, the only ones still standing on the right side of the church. Talk about being conspicuous! The Minister’s smile immediately turned to a frown, as for some reason he appeared surprised by our reaction. The service thus ended at this very awkward moment. The Minister then positioned himself at the doorway where he shook hands with everyone and thanked them for attending. He avoided eye contact on our exit, and we never did return. Note: The above story is an excerpt from my memoir with a working title: Botswana: Full Circle From Winnipeg’s Inner City to the African Veldt Adventures of a CUSO Volunteer I hope to have it published before the end of this calendar year. Language Learning
I remain indebted to Batswana friends and colleagues in Tlokweng who helped me build on the foundation of the fantastic Botswana Orientation Centre programmes. At the sorghum mill we charged a small amount for grinding the sorghum grain that people brought along. I will never forget the day shortly after I arrived when one man brought his sorghum. After weighing the amount, we gave him the invoice. Ow, oskawampolaya…… I had no idea what he had said as everyone roared with laughter. With wonderful patience, the man gave me a lesson in Setswana grammar as he broke down the phrase. I then recognized o seka wa (don’t) and I learned about the placement of objects and the changing of ‘mb’ to ‘mp’. So then I understood: o seka wa mpoloya …. Ow, don’t kill me (with those prices). I joined the roaring laughter – and it is a phrase that I continue to use to this day. I also learned of the risk of assuming that Setswana and Sesotho (my husband’s family language) were that similar, despite so many saying it was mainly a matter of exchanging ‘g’ for ‘h’. I was expecting our first daughter shortly after I met my in-laws. When they asked how I was, I responded ke tsogile, mme ke lapile….. More roars of laughter as I learned that while lapile in Setswana means tired, it means hungry in Sesotho! A great way to meet the in-laws! But as ever, we all laughed uproariously and I learned a valuable lesson. The Power of Music Gaborone in the early 1980s was a dynamic and thriving cultural centre. MEDU brought together Batswana and South African visual, musical and writing artists. The 1982 Culture and Resistance symposium brought legends to the city to consider the role of culture in ending apartheid. Venues such as the Woodpecker Club on the banks of the Limpopo and the Oasis Hotel in Tlokweng hosted the greats such as Hugh Masekela and Jonas Gwangwa, who made their home in the city. Saturday book tables in the mall blasted out Masekela’s Bring him (Nelson Mandela) back home. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NG3oKb2JQow Then the devastating bombs and the SA Defence Force raid of 1985 that took so many friends and dispersed a community (see Memory Wall). The lashing out of a regime as it entered its last frenzied years ... And the power of music carried on. I was very fortunate to participate in South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission cleansing ceremony in Gaborone in 2003 to commemorate those who lost their lives in Botswana. It was a weekend of great emotion as people met each other, many for the first time since 1985. There were tears, there was laughter, there was a renewed bond that crossed borders and friendships. And there was music. That final night at the University, Jonas Gwanga led everyone singing and dancing around the hall as we reclaimed the part of our soul that had been ripped out. Kgomo – the wedding song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKiuQGTmh_4 Egner's Advice "Fake it till you make it!" It was raining when I arrived in Botswana in September 1974. In many places this would have been a bad omen, but not in Botswana. Everyone told me that it was in fact a sign that my time in the country would be “blessed.” My first meeting, the next day, with Brian Egner, gave me pause to wonder. He was at the time (I believe) an Assistant Permanent Secretary in the MLGL. In all professional issues he was to be my 'ultimate' boss. He had himself been a District Officer in the Protectorate days, and had done extensive work in the North East District. As such he had a direct interest in my own work, and had specific designs on my priorities. I did not know this at the time. I entered his office and was surprised to see a cigar-chain-smoking bulky man sitting in a wheel chair. He greeted me in a very penetrative gruffy voice. “So you're Mr Tim Greenhow” studying me with a mixture of doubt and suspicion. “Yes, sir,” I answered as evenly as I could manage. “I suppose I should welcome you to Botswana, but you see I reviewed your CV and application for the job.” His voice began to rise several decibels, and he leaned back in his wheel chair. “And I must be frank with you.” … a little louder, and with additional emphasis...”You don't know anything!” He apparently wasn't one for social preliminaries. A pause for effect – I certainly had nothing to say. “You don't know anything, and I know you don't know anything.” “And now you know that I know that you don't know anything!” It had that very “So there!” tone about it. Everyone in the six floor building and half the people in the Mall heard it. Feeling very soundly put in my place, with nowhere else to go, and nothing particularly occurring to my numbed brain, I sat still, and confirmed his opinion by looking stupidly straight at him. But then he leaned forward, as conspirators do, as if to whisper a deep secret to me. He held his smoking cigar in his left hand and made repetitive gestures towards the north, and said quietly, “but THEY don't know! And you better not tell them!” The meaning was very clear, and he continued, “You go off to Bokalaka, do your work, and within six months, we in this office will see you as THE expert on all things in that part of Central District.” And he sat back in his chair, hiding behind a cloud of Cuban smoke. I don't remember what else, if anything, we talked about. I think I was still in a bit of a daze after his disclosures and remained so for some time. But true to his word, he did call me three months later for advice on a looming drought emergency in the Bokalaka area. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Have you even heard a caterpillar, let alone a worm, bite? Alone on a trip to Bobonong in eastern Central District, my government vehicle broke down in the middle of nowhere, and I had to spend the night sleeping in it. As I settled in for the night, I became aware of an incessant “tck, tck, tck” sound. In fact, zillions of “tck, tck, tck” sounds, none of them loud in themselves, but constant and ubiquitous. If I didn't find out what it was I'd go crazy before I fell asleep. I had a flashlight so I left the truck in search of the sound. Where to start – it was coming from all sides? OK, take the first tree. The flashlight was dim, and had a restricted coverage, but at last I located the source of the “tcking” – it was “mopane worms,” and there were actually two different clicks: one was the sound of this caterpillar biting off a small mouthful of Colophospermum mopane leaf – its sole source of food; the other was the sound of 'pane worm shit hitting leaves on its way to the ground. The sounds were almost indistinguishable. For every bite, it seemed, the “worm” had to make digestive space by shitting out an equivalent bit of waste. My mind now at ease, I slept peacefully to that endless “tck, tck, tck,” knowing that the year's harvest of 'pane worms would probably be more bountiful than ever, and that I need not worry about getting my share. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Don't you love Savingrams!?! The Savingram was the principal medium of communication between all public sector entities in Botswana. Which ever officer drafted them, they were always sent “over the signature” of the head of office, for example the District Commissioners (DC) and District Council Secretaries (DS) who had to have close communication with each other. This necessity was sometimes disturbed by mutual personal dislikes or occasional disagreements. In some periods the sensitivities between the North East DC and DS were particularly strained – bordering on a power struggle. In one matter, the DC wished to have some answers from the CS on a particularly touchy matter, and instructed me to write the letter, which he then signed. Off went the letter, but no reply came in the expected time. A reminder was written, signed and sent. Again no response. A second reminder still produced no answer. Solution? Write a third reminder, take it by hand to the Council insisting that I hand it directly to the CS. Not being party to the particular source of irritation between the DC and DS, I was apparently a neutral figure. “I really don't know how to answer this,” he tells me, “perhaps you can help me draft a response to the DC, in a way that would meet the DC's requirements, but not be too embarrassing for the Council.” A few drafts done, torn up and thrown out, until we get one that he's happy with. Off it goes to the typing pool, and I return to the DC's office and tell the DC it will only be a couple of days before he gets his response. Win-win solution all round! Later, as the Senior Planner (North) I had responsibilities that extended to urban (!) planning of Kasane (pop. 1800), and made periodic working trips there. Kasane had no Town Clerk – whose functions such as they were(n't) were covered by the DC. At the time there was no DO, DOD or DO/L stationed there so the DC's workload was considerable. The current DC had been a District Officer in Francistown, when I was working out of that office as a DO/L so we knew each other reasonably well. On this particular occasion, there was a matter that DTRP needed input from the DC's office in Kasane. I wrote and signed (as Senior Officer) and sent off the necessary request. No response. No big deal, I had a trip planned to Chobe District a couple of weeks later. On arrival in Kasane, I asked the DC if he had ever got the letter. “Oh yes, I did,” he replied, “but I have neither the time nor the competence to answer it. I am so glad you're here, because I'm thinking you'd be the best person to write the reply. Do that, and I'll sign the Savingram right away! That would be so helpful!” Another win-win situation. Fortunately, these official letters were always typed, not hand-written. The only tricky part was to use a different style of writing to disguise the fact that request and response were written by the same person. The Origins of Thamaga Pottery
In the early 1970s, Fr. Julian Black, the residing priest in Thamaga, came down with hepatitis. During his recovery in South Africa, he attended a pottery class and learned to make some pots. Upon returning to Thamaga, he wanted to set up a pottery in order to create employment in the village, but realized that he didn't know enough to do it, particularly when it came to building a kiln. That's when he reached out to CUSO, looking for a volunteer who could carry out his idea. The plan was to employ 10 people. As it turned out, no traditional potters were interested in participating and we had to beg 10 people to come and get trained. Once the “potters” were turning out sale-able pots and earning some money, they all wanted a new bicycle and saved up for it. Fr. Julian and I drove to Zeerust and bought 10 shiny new blue bikes. Suddenly, there was a regular lineup of people wanting to work at the pottery. The pottery was originally set up as a cooperative. However, after the roof over the original wood fired kiln caught fire during a night firing, and no one thought to do anything about it, nor even alert me of it, I got pretty upset when I went to check on the firing progress and saw the glowing timbers on the roof. I realized that no one had anything invested in the pottery, had nothing to lose and thus felt no responsibility. During this time, heavy rains destroyed the original Botswelelo Centre (walls caved in and the roof collapsed), in which the pottery was housed. I had also come to the conclusion that, while I could teach the potters to make pots, I would never be able to teach them the sophistication to market their wares past the limited market to tourists who came through Thamaga or visited Botswanacraft. To keep 10 people employed on a long term basis required the sale of a whole lot of pots. It was a pretty depressing time all around. So what to do? I had studied the market in southern Africa and came to the conclusion that: 1) if you want to sell a lot of pots, you need to sell more than one to each person who came to buy and the answer to that was dinnerware; and 2) there was lots of European style dinnerware on the market but none with an African flavour. So off I went to Kolonyama Pottery in Lesotho, where I came up with the designs (and prototypes) that turned out to be a great success and are still being made to this day. All that was now required was to build a new pottery, a new kiln that fired with oil (wood being just too scarce and needed by the villagers for home use), buy potters' wheels to make dinnerware and funding for the whole lot. I no longer wanted the set-up to be a cooperative but wanted a Board of Directors who were made up of prominent members in the village to run it. I didn't want to have donated money for the construction, but an interest free loan that had to be paid back (so that a sense of responsibility was built in to the new enterprise). This latter part was the most difficult to accomplish as in those days interest payments were over 20% and no one was interested in making an interest free loan. After a lot of haggling, Barclay Bank finally did. So began the whole set-up of the pottery all over again. I extended my contract by a few months in order to finish the kiln and get things started but was pretty burnt out by then. Bodil Pearson took over from me and was followed by Saskia and Sietze Praamsma, all CUSO volunteers. The pottery continues to this day, now run by Batswana. And all this thanks to someone in Gaborone thinking they were sterilizing needles by holding them under running tap water, thus infecting Fr. Julian with hepatitis when he went to get his immunization shots. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Cookie When I first arrived in Botswana, it was felt that I needed intensive training in Setswana since I'd be working with people directly, none of whom spoke much English. I was sent to live full time with a Motswana family in Manyana for a month, where I got daily lessons. CUSO had trained Kesaleboga from Thamaga to teach me. I still smile when I think of Kesa telling me that she thought that the whole world would be speaking Setswana at some point. When asking her how this was to come about, her answer was that she was teaching me, I would teach the people I knew and they, in turn, would teach those they knew and so on. When you think about it, there's some logic there but unfortunately her whole scenario fell apart with me. There are three things that spring to memory from that month in Manyana: The first is that many of the people I met in the village called me Cookie. This made no sense to me – until I met the real Cookie. The home I was living in belonged to Mma Kruger, a Motswana woman who had married a Boer (long since dead). Their oldest child, Cookie, was quite fair skinned and I had an uncanny resemblance to her. Go figure. The second is the food. From my Canadian diet I was suddenly thrown into eating sour porridge in the mornings (which came close to making me gag) and meat covered in flies that I'd seen hanging from the roof above my cot in the hut I was sleeping in in the evenings. I tried eating it all, day after day, but I just plain lost my appetite. Needless to say, I grew pretty thin. The third memory is that of drinking tea without milk or sugar. I'd always drunk tea that way and had been forewarned that I would change my ways in Botswana as they had learned to drink tea the English way and it absolutely had to be with milk, even if one foolishly left out the sugar. I knew I could never do that – perhaps a bit of sugar but definitely no milk. When it came to having a cup of tea, I made it clear, really clear, that I wanted to have it black. From the looks I got, I might as well have said that I was from another planet or that my parents were plants. It became a ritual that people would come just to watch me drink my tea black, muttering to each other in amazement the whole time. I think that by the time my month in Manyana was up, pretty near everyone in the village had come by to watch me drink tea. I still drink my tea black, though no one seems to care. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Speaking Setswana An intensive month of Setswana language training and the continuous need to use the language with the potters-in-training, left me with the ability to communicate quite well on a basic level. However, I found that when I wandered around the village and encountered other people, they were much the same as I find people are everywhere: they love to do the talking and that talk is mostly about themselves. Conversations (after the preliminary “Dumelas” and “O tsogiles”) would lead to the person I met to yak away without end, while I interspersed the talk with a slow and deliberate “eh, heh?” or “eh, mm' ” or “eh, rr' ”, with a nodding of the head for emphasis. When, after one of these “conversations”, we finally reached the point of parting company, I would inevitably be told that I spoke Setswana very well. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Stairs After the disaster of having the original Botswelelo building collapse due to heavy rains washing down from the hillside, Fr. Julian and I decided that it would be better to build the new pottery on the raised incline beside the spot where the old building had stood. There was a path that led up to the top and, rather than meander up there between rocks, we chose to build concrete steps up the rise. As we were building the steps, making forms out of wood and filling the insides with concrete, we aroused an incredible amount of interest in the villagers. They all turned up to scratch their heads as to what we were doing. We realized that most of them had not seen stairs before. The whole village was on flat land and all the huts and homes were built on level ground, with no need for flights of stairs. When we were done, they came to walk endlessly up and down the stairs, shaking their heads and clucking “tjo, tjo, tjo” the whole time. The construction of the stairs led to a marriage proposal. An old man in battered clothing and with missing teeth offered to marry me. Obviously I'd be an asset from the way he'd seen me work. It was only natural that I should jump at the chance to have a man around. Seeing how skinny I was, who else could possibly want me? Tempting as the offer was, I graciously declined. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Entrepreneur We had a small gift shop as part of the Botswelelo Centre. As a result, people often came by to sell us things, mostly old wooden mortar and pestles and carved spoons. One day, a young boy of about 12 or 14 years of age, came by my home to sell me oranges. He had the whole bag with him (which contained about 20 oranges) that he had bought from one of the village shops. He wanted 10 cents for an orange. I knew a bag of oranges cost around two Rand. Hmmm. I sat him down and went through the process with him, all in the form of asking him questions:
For as long as I live, I will not forget the light that went on in his eyes. The proverbial penny had dropped. The next time I saw him some time later, he had a polaroid camera and was charging people to take photos of them. The summer of 1969 I met a delicious Portuguese professor on a Spanish beach. He worked in Lourenço Marques. In December 1969 when the British Volunteer Programme offered me a teaching position in Botswana, after a quick check of the map to locate Botswana (near enough to Lourenço Marques), I packed my bags.
I missed the flight from London to Johannesburg. The flight to Francistown was re-scheduled and on the final leg, in a 4-seater borrowed from the President, I sat exhausted and retching, in front of a handsome, bearded Motswana who inquired softly where I was going. This was the Honourable Lemme Makhekgenene, Tonota MP and bottle-store owner. No-one met me. The airstrip staff packed up, switched off the lights and drove away leaving me parked on a bench, wondering what to do. Then, along the perimeter I watched a cloud of dust behind a rattling Land Rover. I knew this was it, driven by the inimitable Charles Gott. His passenger was Georgina Murray. Friends for life. As we drove to Tonota from Francistown, rattling and shuddering along the corrugations, through the sand and thorn scrub, past droopy thatch-peaked rondavels, I knew I had found a piece of heaven. It was January 24th,1970, my 23rd birthday. Dazed by the journey from England and the gut-churning flight from Johannesburg, the heat, the time zone, and the assault on my senses, that night is the more remarkable for two riveting events. First there was John Nixon delicately manoeuvring and out-staring a spitting cobra — the only snake I ever saw up close in Botswana — and the sound of Alison Lawrence’s piercing screams on her first encounter with a monster-size praying mantis. The next morning, still edgy, I met more formally with Robert Oakeshott, the Principal. He was brief and welcoming and seemed relieved to have another English teacher, grace of the British Volunteer Programme. 40 years later I learned the truth. He doubted a one-handed woman could do voluntary work – wash river stones, mix concrete, paint rondavel walls. I never wondered for an instant and knew nothing of his anxiety. Apparently he considered sending me back, rejecting the free offering. He didn’t, and I don’t know why, except perhaps for gift-horses and mouths. So I stayed – mixed concrete, washed stones, laid bricks, painted walls - inexpertly. But I also taught English and spent three of the most wonderful and important years of my life at Shashe. Memories abound:
Returning in 2009, I found Tonota village disorienting. The school had a smart dining-room with coloured windows – a far cry from beans and samp at the old outdoor kitchen. But the main entrance to Shashe School was via a new road that turned geography on its head. We found the old entrance and wandered through the village looking for remaining landmarks. Pillar‘s General Store was still there - and amazingly, the rondavel Janis and I had shared. To welcome the new age there was a ‘phone shop,’ but we never found the bottle-store.’ CUSO Orientation, August 1978 This ditty was authored by several participants in the July/August Orientation Class, 1978 at Carleton University in Ottawa about our instructors. I suspect alcohol was involved when it was written. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ An Introduction to Africa It was August, 1978. We had completed our orientation at Carleton in Ottawa. There were 20 plus new CUSO’s going to different parts of the world but only 5 of us were headed to Botswana: myself, Chris Brown, Ann Colley, Deborah Bonser and Liliane Labossiere. This would be my first time flying across the Atlantic. My previous “overseas” experience was flying from Stephenville, N.L. to Toronto! (My parents relocated to Corner Brook, N.L. from Ontario during my middle and high school years). I was a total flying-overseas (Atlantic) neophyte. We departed from Montreal. Our first stop was Rome. Somehow the travel agent wrangled us into first class! We were very comfortable on our overseas flight. We had a 3 day layover. After recovering from jet-lag and cruising around Rome, we boarded an Alitalia flight to our final destination, Gaborone…this time in economy! We dropped down in Luanda, Angola, for a fuel stop. This would be my first glance of Africa. Angola was just coming out of a civil war. The airport was still heavily guarded. Coming in for a landing all I could see out the window on either side of the black tarmac was dry brown-red/tan earth, fringed by low, green bushes. Peaking out of the bushes were heavy artillery in the form of tanks and mounted machine guns. Since this was a fuel stop, all passengers were required to disembark and go into the terminal. We were escorted, at gunpoint (or maybe, just guarded by military personnel carrying machine guns!) into the terminal. The doors were locked behind us. The terminal was in bad shape. A layer of brown desert dust covered everything. The vinyl on the waiting room seats was slashed and the toilets were not functioning but that did not stop people from using them. The smell was overpowering. After about 30–40 minutes, the doors were unlocked and we were escorted back onto the plane. You could have heard a pin drop in the cabin as we took off. Our next stop was Lusaka, Zambia. All passengers disembarked and we were required to go though customs. Chris, Ann, Deborah and Liliane passed through customs and into a waiting area to re-board the plane. A customs officer looked at my passport and my health card. He said, “You do not have the proper vaccination to enter Zambia.” Apparently, my doctor did not have an official (enough) stamp for one of my vaccinations. “I am not entering Zambia” I said, “I am going on to Botswana.” “We must send you back to Canada to have your health card validated!” He continued like this for, what seemed to me, at the time, 20 minutes, saying that I would be put on the next plane back to Canada. In retrospect, it was probably only about 5–10 minutes. The plane was starting to re-board. I remember Deborah saying that if they would not let me back on the plane to go to the Canadian High Commission Office. I continued the conversation with the Border Guard: “I am in transit! I am not staying in Zambia! …Then give me another shot and sign my health card!” Finally, when the gate was about to close and Guard realized/decided that I was not staying in Zambia; he said “So, you are in transit; you are not staying in Zambia.” “Yes,” I said. And he let me back onto the plane. As previously mentioned, I was a total neophyte when it came to overseas, (especially) third-world, travel…. Finally, we arrived in Gaborone. I passed through Botswana customs without incident and breathed a sigh of relief. I was never so happy to meet Ken and Carol (Shipley). Welcome to Africa. Welcome to Botswana and to new adventures. The rest, as they say, is history. The Wedding Gift
Adapted from my book The Africa Diaries: A Love Affair (published February 2019, under the pseudonym James G. Duncan, available on Amazon) A central problem remained and that was this: after the better part of a half hour of hard slogging in the “curio” (gift) shops of Victoria Falls, I still had no gift for my sister Margie’s upcoming wedding in Canada. With more deep breathing in the pure air, and with typical determination, I formulated a bold plan. First, of all the 30 women’s elegant homespun creations – 15 to a side in a long, narrow building – one item in particular had impressed me most, a striking, circular white tablecloth I’d noticed halfway down the left hand side of the corridor, er, gauntlet. Second, it had come to me that this was exactly what I wanted to do: purchase a fine present for my sister while directly benefiting African women. Thoughts of the more traditional “curio” shops vanished. I was bravely resolved. In the cool shade of the edifice, I meditated again to calm the nerves, and mulled over the bald facts of the situation I’d gotten myself into. To avoid further misery, I decided to put an end to the trial, before abandoning it altogether, and scurried furtively to the end of the building where the ordeal had first begun. Throwing caution to the wind with my last reserves of energy, I stepped smartly up the stairs, and with as much decorum as I could muster, made a mad, single-minded gallop down the hall to buy that damned tablecloth. I proffered the cash – about P20 I think – the vendor handed it to me, and with a swift “thank you,” sprinted with cheetah-like speed (the cheetah can accelerate to 75 km/hr in just 2 seconds) directly to the far door with the present clutched under my arm. I fairly catapulted out the exit after what can be described as a close brush with reality. It was over. I’d bought the present. Catching my breath, kneeling and crossing myself, I fixed closed eyes on azure skies, giving thanks to the Almighty for my salvation. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Broken Down Excerpt from my book The Africa Diaries: A Love Affair (published February 2019, under the pseudonym James G. Duncan, available on Amazon) I took stock and concluded I had three options. Suicide was not one of them. I could wait until my pursuers or others found me. I could die of thirst once my water ran out. Or I could walk north to the Ngoma road, taking the water I had left, including from the windshield washer reservoir, along with my Swiss Army knife and the tire iron to make a go of it should I run into hungry predators. I chose the latter course, and with a brave heart walked off up the road with the sparse jungle, the azure sky, and the already blazing sun keeping me company. The thin veneer of optimism that carried me along for 2 or 3 kilometres was rewarded. As I reached the crest of a slight rise in the roadway, I saw a vehicle stopped not fifty metres ahead. People in the truck noticed me at almost the same time, for it suddenly lurched ahead, coming to a halt within 3 metres of me. It was a game-viewing lorry, with a canvas top and openings at the sides, driven by a guide with 7 or 8 tourists in tow. I must have been a sorry sight, disheveled and dirty, with unkempt hair and blue ink stains on my hands and clothing. The guide was ill prepared for a rescue mission on what was supposed to be a pleasant morning of game viewing, but he was also in no position to leave a bedraggled man all alone in the wilds of Chobe District. “On the other side of the truck,” he observed tersely, “a pride of lions is feeding on the carcass of an elephant. You’re lucky we happened to come along when we did.” Likely saved from a gruesome death in the jaws of the lions, brave heart, stoicism, knife, and tire iron notwithstanding, I would not have been able to defend myself against one lion, much less a pride. My life had been saved by the miraculous appearance of the tourist vehicle. Surely, my Higher Power had once again intervened to save me from harm. Though I was far from sure these strangers could be trusted, I now had a complete absence of options. At the driver’s invitation, I stepped aboard. The tourists, mostly men, sat in seats with openings in the canvas top. There were no empty seats so I took a space in the middle of the floor. All eyed me with curiosity – warily too – and I felt I had to explain: “I’m a District Officer here in Chobe. My truck broke down a few kilometres back.” My wild swings of mood alarmed the occupants. One moment I cried at the release of pent-up emotion. I had just been saved from danger and probably even death. The next moment, I added to the guide’s commentary on Chobe and its wild animals. The driver/tour guide attempted to impress the tourists with an observation about the fierceness of Chobe’s lions, saying, “Only they could have taken down an elephant.” I interjected, “It was likely old and weakened by a lack of water in this dry season.” We passed by groups of animals patiently waiting their turns at a tiny water hole. A lone oryx with magnificent scimitar horns stood by. We spotted the lions heading toward cover in the growing heat, satisfied after they had fed and watered. The guide drew my attention to the big, black-maned male, pointedly saying, “That lion would have taken you out.” I had no doubt he was right on that score. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Mogobane Adapted from my book The Africa Diaries: A Love Affair (published February 2019, under the pseudonym James G. Duncan, available on Amazon) As part of our orientation, we were sent to Mogobane, a village south of Gaborone. I was taken in by the tangible charms of this small community – the scent of flowers from the Earth’s light breathing, the muffled sounds of villagers, the orange-red sunrises/sunsets, the crescent moons, Southern Cross stars making their appearance, and the Milky Way far overhead. Overwhelmed by the beauty of the land and its people, soft tears came to me as I lay awake that night, unable to sleep and thinking about solutions for development. Just a few droplets of rain, like my tears, had sprinkled upon the dry sand overnight. By morning, the air smelled so, so earthy, with tiny soil particles tossed up into the air. The fragrance was carried on a gentle wind, making memorable my first Botswana pula, rain. So precious is rain in the arid nation that pula is also the Setswana word for its currency. That Mary Coyle. She knows a thing or two.
We were in an Ottawa hotel with a blizzard rattling the windows when the conversation landed on the subject of religion. I was raised in a Christian home, but I was not myself devout. Having attended bible classes since old enough to read, I had what I thought of as informed opinions on religion. Being a twenty-something male and having been drinking a wee bit (along with everybody else, except possibly Mary Coyle who was there as a returned CUSO co-operant able to offer some wisdom to we newbies), I lacked the wit to keep my opinions to myself. At one point, Mary cocked an eye-brow and said, “You’re going to have an interesting time in Botswana.” Two days later we boarded a flight in Montreal. After stops in Zurich and Harare, we cleared passport control in Francistown then continued to Selebi-Phikwe. We blew the nose wheel tires on landing there and after a bracing slalom run down the runway we headed off to a hotel to eat and drink for a few hours on Air Botswana’s tab. Which is how I met Hugh Masekela. But I digress. Eventually we got to Gaborone and eventually I got oriented, loaded up a yellow Toyota Hilux and hit the road for Chobe to take up my post with the Yambezi Multi-purpose Co-operative in Satau. A few days later I was under Satau’s kgotla tree meeting my new community. Introductions were led by Gerry Cooney, the Rural Industrial Officer and a CUSO co-operant, and Henry Lingela, Chair of the Co-operative. Gerry’s remarks were to the point. Henry’s speech began with some history and a bit about expectations and wound up with the words, “The baby Jesus gave the white people knowledge. Now the baby Jesus has sent this white man to our village to give us knowledge.” At least, that’s how it was translated. I stood there, my mouth opening and closing without making a sound. In the silence I was no longer looking at the crowd. All I could see was a vision of Mary Coyle and her eyebrow. Eventually I stopped gaping and started speaking. I was just getting my wind back when the crowd erupted in laughter. I hadn’t said anything funny. I looked at the translator who looked back at me expectantly. I finished my schpiel and later found out that my knowledge of fish farming had been translated as experience ploughing fish. Eventually I confirmed that Henry didn’t think I was sent by God but was speaking in a manner common to folks of his generation, for whom religious allusions were comfortable. Eventually at least a few of the community members figured out that I wasn’t a complete idiot. I think. I fell in love with Satau. My time there changed my life. I’ve been back twice, including with my mother and my brothers. I hope to get back at least once more before shuffling off this mortal coil. Arriving in Kanye
I arrived in Kanye, Botswana, in August 1971. I should say I first set foot in Kanye in August 1971, because it took a while longer to really arrive, to begin to get a sense of the place CUSO had sent me. My ears had to get used to a symphony of new sounds: the rumble of men speaking Setswana, the shrill of women ululating, the rhythmic thunk-thunk of girls pounding grain, the drumming and singing of a prayer meeting in a nearby kgotla, roosters crowing, donkeys braying like rusty winches. There were new smells, too: wood smoke and dung. My eyes needed time to adjust. At first, everything seemed covered in a monochromatic film. The earth, the houses were a dusty reddish-brown. The thorn trees and other sparse vegetation were a dull greyish-green. But over time, colours began to emerge. A miracle of tiny flowers burst out of the dirt after the first rain. Glorious Kalahari sunsets painted the western sky. I began to learn the respectful ways of the Batswana, the greetings, the handshakes, the gestures. To allow an hour for a 20-minute walk to the village store, so I could stop and talk with people I met along the way (not a difficult adjustment for a chatty Maritimer such as myself). By the time I was able to cook on a wood stove, make my own yogurt, trim the wick on a kerosene lamp, and sew on a hand-operated Singer, I felt I had pretty much arrived. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Dikgafela in Kanye, 1972 From my house on the school compound, I heard voices singing and ululating. Ever curious, I ran out and saw a procession of women wearing blanket shawls and carrying clay pots on their heads, making their way along the road. As I followed them through the village and up the hill, they sang a catchy refrain over and over, and soon I began singing along, creating my own version of the words. I was pretty sure I got the metsi a pula (rainwater) part right, but more or less invented the rest. By the time we reached the open area in front of the Chief’s kgotla, where other villagers were gathering, the tune had become an earworm that remains with me until today. It turned out that the clay pots contained bojalwa, a sorghum beer the women had brewed as their part in dikgafela. In this traditional harvest festival, the Bangwaketse give thanks for a good harvest, store a communal supply of sorghum against famine, and “call” rains for the new agricultural season. The singing of rain songs continued, both men and women were drinking beer, and then there would be dancing. I moved around in the crowd observing everything, but my stay at the celebration was cut short. People (mostly men, if I recall correctly) came up to me and hit me on the thighs and buttocks with switches, while exclaiming Pula! . Ouch! That hurt. How was I supposed to react? I could accept that the swatting was a local custom, but that didn’t mean I wanted to stand around and take it. I wondered if dikgafela was one of those times when the tables could be turned (like Carnival in Cologne, Germany), when people that you'd normally give respect to can be playfully brought down a peg. I made a rather hurried exit. Much later, I learned that the switches were branches of the sacred Moologa tree, used to appeal to the heavens for rain. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Test I met this great guy at a village dance – a Motswana who had studied in Canada. The fact that he’d experienced life in my country created a cultural bridge between us. He seemed very modern in his outlook. Detribalized was the word he used. Sometimes he’d drop by my house on his way home from work, to drink tea and chat, or to play chess with one of the students who lived with me. One evening I asked him to stay for supper. I can’t remember what I’d cooked on the wood-burning stove, which I’d pretty much mastered by then. But I set out the food, called people to the table, and invited everyone to dig in. A few bites into my meal I looked to my left and noticed that he hadn’t started eating yet. – “Can I pass you anything?” I asked. – “Please pass me the beets.” – “Here you go,” I said and resumed eating. But still he didn’t tuck in. – “Is something the matter?” I (innocently) inquired. – “The beets aren’t peeled.” – “Oh,” says I (totally clueless), “that’s why I put the knife in the bowl. The beets took longer to cook than I planned and I didn’t want everything else to get cold.” Still he didn’t move. – “Peeling beets is women’s work,” stated the modern man. (Do you think I twigged even then?) – “It’s not that hard,” I encouraged. “Give it a try.” And so he picked up the paring knife and had a go at the beets. Did I mention he’d just come from the office? Wearing his clean white long-sleeved shirt? He peeled those beets to within an inch of their lives, splattering reddish-purple stains up and down the sleeves of his white shirt. A white shirt, I might add, that he didn’t have to launder himself. “The girl” did that. I finally started to get it. The beets had been a test. And I had failed it, failed it before I even realized I was being tested. Sadly, there were no more after-work visits. I don't think we had been in Kanye more than a couple of days. Talk about being naive about everything! We were bravely walking up from the school compound to the closest "shop" to buy something to eat – or whatever. Outside the shop were these ladies making and selling fat cakes. I bought a bag of however many. In terms of price (my Setswana being nil) I thought the seller said "five cents."
(Well, pick a number, but I thought it meant five cents per, so I gave her five cents times however many cakes I bought.) We were walking back to our house and the same lady came running up behind us shouting, "Mma! Mma!" Guess what. It was five cents per bag, not five cents per fat cake – and she wanted to return the extra money I had paid her. Seriously? That was my introduction to the residents of Kanye. And, as you can imagine, the honesty of what she did blew me away (given that the annual income was like, what, a hundred rand?) and I insisted she keep what I had paid her. I am sure she had good laughs with her friends about that... Warning, the following may trigger memories!
OYEZ! OYEZ! GOSSIP FROM 1977! An excerpt from the CUSOBOT Monday Morning Comings and Goings column of August–September 1977––Editor: SHARON SCHMIDT. (Re-typed and submitted by Ozzie Schmidt.) We are happy to report that the HELLARDS and AGNES LAU did arrive on schedule (despite the Air Traffic Controllers’ strike in Canada) in mid-August. All three, joined by ANNETTE MULLEY and BIBIANA SEABORN have just spent two weeks in the village of Kopong, achieving untold mastery of the Setswana language……AGNES, after a couple of tentative (Maun and Francistown) postings has been confirmed in Serowe and will be working closely with our veteran of one year BEA DAY…….the COX family slipped away quietly on the Saturday of the Country Meeting, July 30th…..STERLING has a teaching post in London. Ontario……ALLAN CULHAM, accompanied by at least three lovely ladies, left Gaborone airport on September 8th (but not on time)…..the personable, suave bachelor plans to recuperate in Canada until January, perhaps keeping his hand in by helping with the Canada-based November 2-9 orientation, and returns to Kanye Brigades Development Trust as co-ordinator in early 1978……author of several denunciations of CUSO’s policies, the affable CULHAM may have been heard to say: “I like working with people, and after examining other volunteer agencies, I have decided that CUSO………… ……”. Allan remains a CUSO volunteer for the next two years!!..........the FENTON family left Botswana in late July……NORM has decided to pursue a speciality, and will likely be working and learning in Kingston, Ontario……….We regret that for personal reasons RAY GIRVEN has returned to Canada…..we wish Ray every success in the future….until a replacement is found, the versatile DON ABBOTT has agreed to return to KRDA’s central office to pinch-hit for Ray……through a series of uncontrollable events Don was recently able to present CUSO policy to a group of volunteer agency co-ordinators at the Mafenyatlala Hotel……TIM GREENHOW has opted for a fresh two-year involvement in Botswana….he leaves in October, to return in January, to work in the Department of Town and Regional Planning……JIM HOUSTON will also temporarily leave Botswana, to return in January……forsaking Tsabong, JIM hopes to work with the nascent MATSHA COMMUNITY COLLEGE in KANG…….CUSO wags (give you one good guess who!) have, it is rumoured, dubbed him ‘KING KANG’……GROAN!.......DI and LOUEY LONG have taken a quick trip to visit family in Alberta, leaving RICK to indulge in marathon bridge-games and pork-chop fry-ups….the LONGS expect to leave CUSO and Botswana in December and make their way back to Canada slowly………NANCY EISENER and CHUCK MacFARLANE, after attending the Regional Meeting in Dar es Salaam, will visit several East and West African countries to spread the news of their Pitsane sorghum milling process, returning to Botswana at the end of October…..NANCY was heard to mutter….’when we finally moved to GOOD HOPE, KEN TRAYNOR was transferred the week before to Francistown and if that wasn’t bad enough, we’ve had more visitors in the last three weeks than in the last six months’…..but they’ve gone to RAMATLABAMA (60 km away!)….so, good people, remember the address for CHUCK and NANCY is now in GOOD HOPE….. DOUG RAMSAY left for Canada in late August, stopping on the beaches of Greece to complete his recovery from the ravages of hepatitis….it is rumoured that Doug is contemplating a return to school…..best of luck !.....We also say farewell to DON WILLIAMS who expects to rejoin his family in mid-to-late September……….the Regional Meeting delegation consisting of KEN TRAYNOR, DAVID TSIANE, NANCY and CHUCK and “THIS” and “THAT” FSO leave for Dar es Salaam on September 10th…..DOROTHY SEKGWA or “MMA VOLUNTEER” will maintain the office, better than ever, between the 10th and the 24th……..the DRAFT COUNTRY PLAN is completed, and the office will be pleased to share copies upon request…….BRIAN WILSON, the “tiny intimidator” and ex CUSOMAL will be visiting Botswana between October 13th and 27th. Brian is a member of the “Aggie” team in CUSO Ottawa, and plans to help us strengthen our aggie programming…the next CUSOBOT group should arrive in mid-November, comprising ERIC YAXLEY (DO(L)); PHIL SAUNDERS (DO(D)); PHYLLIS and WAYNE DIGBY and their two children (Wayne will work in Agricultural Information); LUC BOUTIN (adult educator) and MARIE DUPUIS (teacher); and Ms. LE YUEN HUANG (Brigade Business Advisor for Palapye)……in January, we expect Regional Medical Officer DAVID SHIH and Nursing Instructor LINDIE COPELAND; DO(L)) MATTHEW LAI, a replacement for a withdrawn DO(D)) candidate; and an adult educator couple……….RICH CAROTHERS is away at the Appropriate Technology Conference in Tanzania, and it is hoped that he will be featured at the RM as a special interest person…..FERN CATT coped with a cancelled trip to NXAI PAN by burrowing into books at Kgale…….IRA GREENBLATT took a nosedive into the Durban sands in his first surfing attempt…..TIM GREENHOW’s motorcycle crapped out on him at the border on his way back from a holiday….PANSY FLEMMING is a sketch in perpetual motion and ERNIE and PEARL MORRIS have just moved into their new house at KDB, and have been busy applying liberal quantities of Polystrippa to their floors, bathtub and sinks to remove excess paint left behind by enthusiastic brigade painters…….BOB KUPFERSCHMID sends greetings from “paradise” and recommends Mauritius as the ideal way to rehydrate after two years in Botswana……………VICKI and RICHARD CORSINO, CUSOBOTs from ’74-’76, have just left Canada for PNG and another stint with CUSO….perhaps we will be able to twist their collective arm and receive a PNG appreciation from them…… DENNIS LEWYCKY headed north in mid-August leaving an impressive-looking document behind [Tapestry—Report from Oodi Weavers] …he will travel back to Canada via West Africa and Italy ....…..BODIL PEARSON writes that she managed to get to Malawi DESPITE TRAVEL INTERNATIONAL.........BODIL is pausing at Malindi to give some help and advice to an embryonic pottery group.....ANDY LEGUN will be staying on at Kgari Sechele until Christmas...his lyrical skills have not been lost by MM yet....... SHIRLEY and NEIL DUNFORD are busy packing up their household in anticipatiion of an end-of-September departure.....LES FUNK WHERE ARE YOU????........ JEAN GOODCHILD whirled in and out of Gaborone briefly and has left an excellent sheet of sketches and recipes with “your editor” for use with a “three -legged pot”......the “grand old man of the mountain” KREMPIEN was alive and well and still terrorizing southern Saskatchewan when viewed in the west during July.....PAT, JERRY and BRIAN BRIX seem to have survived the trauma of the move from Botswana to Edmonton and then Calgary with little visible ill-effects....JERRY, now that BRIAN is fully mobile, can traverse a room in two bounding leaps [the leg substantially healed after falling over a waterfall in Swaziland] to save the intrepid toddler from imminent self-destruction.........KEN TRAYNOR seems to be settling nicely into Francistown and is taking over the NOTORIOUS NUN OF THE NORTH’s place as an expert hitchhiker...KEN managed to hitch an airlift to Gaborone to join the RM delegation and to forego the train trip down......SCOTT PAYMENT WHERE ARE YOU?????.............EMELDA REMY has been busy during MOFFAT SIBANDA’s absence from KDB, acting as construction foreman, quality control advisor, and public relations officer...except she was misquoted in the Daily News........ Tsamayang sentle. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Sorghum Milling in Botswana That Botswana Guardian article of 8 November 2017 by Moreri Gabakgori about the evolution of sorghum milling in Botswana shook some memory fragments loose in my brain. Then I found an ICRISAT publication, “Commercialization of Sorghum Milling in Botswana” (2000). The upshot was this 25-year “time line” charting the evolution of sorghum processing in Botswana, as an intervention for employment creation, enterprise promotion, and food security. And CUSO co-operants played important roles in this evolution. In 1974–75 Andy Hamilton, an agricultural economist, took a six-month leave of absence from his CUSO job (Agricultural Recruiter), in order to conduct a rural needs survey in Botswana. The survey was aimed at rural households, their food preferences, and their perceived bottlenecks in attaining household food security. The survey results were published by IDRC in a report. The survey’s most important findings were:
The key question: was there in existence a mechanical technology that could, at affordable cost, substitute for the women’s labour? Yes and no. The hammermill did exist: it pulverized the dehulled grain into flour. But, there was no technology to help in the more arduous first stage of pounding, the one to dehull the grain. The Plant Biotechnology Institute in Saskatoon (part of NRC) experimented with modifying an existing mechanical barley pearler to dehull sorghum. Next, the International Development Research Centre (IDRC) in Ottawa supported an applied research project in Maiduguri, in the arid north of Nigeria (Sahel), as a first field-test of the modified barley pearler. Then in 1976–78, IDRC supported the Botswana Agricultural Marketing Board in a project to test the viability of commercially dehulling and grinding sorghum in a pilot mill in Pitsane. The technical staff for the mill were two CUSO co-operants, Nancy Eisener and Chuck MacFarlane. The output from the plant was filled into paper bags, and the product was soon selling successfully in grocery stores. Buyers were prepared to pay a little more for the sorghum meal than they would pay for the equivalent weight of maize meal, continuing evidence that sorghum was the preferred staple grain. IDRC then supported a follow-up applied research project, this time at the Rural Industries Innovation Centre (RIIC) in Kanye, with the objective of scaling down the dehuller so that it could perform small-batch size service milling. The experimental service mill was situated inside RIIC’s front gates. Families brought their home-grown sorghum in batches of, say, 10–20 kg, paid for the service, and took away the edible sorghum flour, as well as the bran (quite suitable for feeding the backyard chickens). The scaled-down dehuller was a technical and a business success. It appeared to be a viable village-level enterprise. Small enterprise development could now begin. RIIC developed a “dehulling and milling” business training and information manual. New small enterprises were established: 20 in 1980–84; 1985–89 (another 13); 1990–94 (41 more); 1995–99 (89). So, over a 20-year span, a total of 163 dehuller-hammermill combos were manufactured and set up, distributed among 145 enterprises, dotted all over the country. In 1984 or so, the Botswana Mill Owners’ Association was formed. CUSO provided the Association’s first co-ordinator, Diana Gibbs. The domestic production of sorghum did not increase substantially after 1991–94 (the land and rainfall likely imposed that limit), but the consumption of sorghum did increase. Botswana imported edible sorghum from South Africa to cover the shortfall in local production. Also a demographic shift occurred in Botswana over the span 1991–99. The rural population decreased; urban population increased. Thanks to the discovery of diamond deposits, the government was able to re-invest diamond dividends into the building of improved infrastructure. Botswana as a country, a society, was morphing into something new. Increasingly, the enterprises once specifically geared to service-milling adapted to the new reality and increased their volume of commercial milling as the demand for service-milling waned. The grocery shelves were filled with multiple packages of sorghum meal, each carrying the ‘brand name’ of different, competing milling enterprises, each using the same ’new’ technology. The 1999 survey (by ICRISAT’s agricultural economists, based in Bulawayo) of a selected sub-set of 24 mills showed that sorghum remained the preferred staple country-wide, but that in urban grocery stores, sorghum meal and maize meal were close substitutes for each other. Such was the situation 20 years after the scaled-down dehuller was finalized. Wouldn’t it be informative to know the state of Botwana’s sorghum milling industry in 2019, now that a further 20 years have elapsed since the ICRISAT survey of 1999? What could well-meaning and thoughtful aid agencies, NGOs, etc., learn from examining a 45-year documented history of a technological intervention in an indigenous food system? “Snakes Like Stars Amaze Me"© is a work of fiction. Below is a short excerpt from the full story which was first published in the Queen's Quarterly 103/1 (Spring 1996), and later included in my collection "Off Centre" (Oberon Press 2004). In the Africa that I love, the night air carries the smell of wood fires, and dry thatch, and dung, and the salty odours of our dust-covered bodies as we walk through the village. Whenever I run my tongue over my lips, I taste the earth, the desert earth whipped up by dust devils, wheels, feet, brooms.
Sometimes, when lain is away on one of his trips for the school, I lie awake long after midnight. Often, I give up trying to sleep at all and instead I go outside into the small courtyard around our rondavel. I don't even notice how long I stand there. I hear dogs barking at the moon, see stars like foaming white rivers across the sky. Here is something I would touch, if I could. It is only the night time cold on my bare feet that turns me back to my empty bed. You're closer to heaven here, I try to say to Bakile one night as we are walking home from the training centre. I can almost see my words hanging in the air, illumined somehow in this unfamiliar glow, I see their flattery, their confusion. Ee, mma ... her flashing smile, eyes averted. Already she is used to the things I say. Words, I learn quickly, do not always make the connection. Words can steal away the power of the sky. I am watching how easily Bakile walks in the night. How she never seems to look down, as I do, to search out the open stretch of tarred road, to scrutinize the tall dry grass along the footpath leading into the village. She does not seem to be wondering where the snakes may be lying in wait. Why do I not tell her of my fear, instead of floating out those words about stars, and heaven? I could tell her about other snakes I have met, those little garters that scurried from my child's footsteps on the flat rocks along the Winnipeg River. I could say to her that it's the venom that terrifies me. The hissing. The thought of poison-laden fangs sinking into flesh. But this is not what I will say. We are sitting outside on the floor of Bakile's courtyard. Coals from the evening fire radiate warmth to our feet, children and old women sleep behind us, in the round houses. We drink the tepid beer that always makes me gag, and once again I fail to disguise the resistant sound in my throat as I take the first sip. Bakile's brother is grinning at me as I drink, and since he is my boss at the training centre, I grin back. He does not need to know how tired I am of laughing about my difficulty with their beer. After a while I ask them, sounding somehow like one of those earnest researchers we all make fun of, why it is that they have no fear of snakes. But truly, mma, you do not know what we think about snakes, Tebogo says in his carefully crafted American English. What do you know of our fear? A bite from the mamba kills Batswana, kills Makgoa, the same. But it is true we know the snake in many ways. It is not only a matter of fear. Some time I will take you to an elder, a doctor, one who throws the bones, maybe he will tell you about his medicines from the snake, how he is famous among our people for remedy of black mamba. Or you ask the old grandmother, Mma Tladi, she is the one who can tell stories from the old days when the snakes and other animals still spoke with our people. Tebogo's half-closed eyes are on Bakile as he raises the jar of cloudy brew to his lips. I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows, the powerful muscles of his jaw, his dark skin that is touched by the glow of the fire, and the glow of the sky. It is said, he goes on, that a snake once came into our village carrying a lost boy in its belly, and the snake spoke to the mother of this mosimane, and asked what she would pay for returning the boy, but ... Nyaa, Tebogo, Bakile interrupts him, and I think she is teasing as she shifts her gaze to me, but I am not sure. No, she repeats, we are not telling these stories. We have learned long ago from the mission schools that they come from a time before we were civilized. But we are no longer so ignorant. Now we are educated. Aren't we, Tebogo? I feel myself on the outside of the smile that passes between them, but I try to join them, shaking my head with just enough vigour, I hope, to unhook myself from this infamous legacy. Well, they should make up their minds, Tebogo says. In America they came to me at the university, and they told me how I must save my culture, and they put our stories in a book of African tales. Now Bakile is clearly enjoying herself. Well, she says, it is better that we also know the truly civilized Makgoa stories, like the story about that snake, the one in the garden who speaks in English, and tells the happy naked girl to eat a fruit from the tree. And everything is ruined with one bite. Soon we will do a book, Tebogo adds. Ee, Bakile concludes, a book of Makgoa tales. For a moment, my mind must work the connection, winding backward to its first source, the gravelly voice of a father on a winter night, the lean earth-stained forefinger travelling slowly down the columns of the Book of Genesis. When I look up, Tebogo and Bakile are both staring at me, holding back. Their smiles widen when I begin to laugh, when I spill bojalwa in my lap, and wipe it off with my shirt sleeve, when I hold out my jar for a refill. A few weeks later, I hear about snakes from the old Boer trader who often comes through the village with his supplies of glass beads and plastic buckets, tobacco, and candy. lain and I take a lift to town with him to buy a paraffin stove for our rondavel. On the way back, he tells lain, pretending I'm not there in the back seat, that the tarred stretches of road hold the heat from the day's sun, and in the cold night, the snakes come out to lie on the warm surface. Once, he says, giving me a quick knowing glance in the rear view mirror, he drove right over a twenty-foot python. Thump, thump, he says, banging the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. And, he goes on, taking a swig from the bottle of Johnnie Walker he keeps under his seat, a python can unlock its jaws wide enough to swallow an antelope whole, a man even, if his shoulders are small, sure it will, he says, anticipating our disbelief, and you can watch the great lump moving along, bony limbs poking this way and that from inside, stretching out skin, then it's gone, crushed to nothing. Takes a month to digest. The whisky dribbles through the stubble on his chin, the stained khaki sleeve sweeps across the slurping mouth. I notice the man's small shoulders, I see lain grinning out the window. Trunk Storage
CUSO allowed us to ship one moderate-sized trunk by air freight from Saskatoon to Gaborone in preparation for our two-years-plus in Botswana. The household and personal belongings of six Shipleys easily filled a trunk. It was supposed to arrive in Botswana about three weeks after our arrival. Three weeks went by, then four weeks, then five. My phone calls to Air Botswana got no results. They had no record of it. Finally, at the six-week point, Office Administrator Dorothy Sekgwa (who saved our bacon time and time again) suggested I try the train station. Sure enough, it was there. In fact, it had been there for three weeks and there was storage owing. Neither Air Botswana nor South African Railways had called us; yet we owed three weeks of storage. The reason it hadn’t come by air as planned was that the trunk wouldn’t fit through the baggage door of the smaller Air Botswana planes. So off I went first thing on a rainy morning in the Peugeot pickup truck to the train station to collect our much-needed trunk. I went—along a slippery, muddy road—to the South African Railways freight office. There I was told the trunk could not be released without Customs form T32 from Botswana Customs. So back I went—along the slippery, muddy road—to the Customs Office to get Customs form T32. There I was told that they could not give me Customs form T32 without the bill of lading from the railway. So back I went to the railway freight office—along the slippery, muddy road—where I reported to the clerk that, according to Customs, I could not get form T32 until I presented them with the bill of lading. The railway freight office clerk said he could not release the bill of lading until I gave him Customs form T32. So, back I went—along the slippery, muddy road—etc., etc. After two hours of this, I was beginning to detect a pattern: I was caught between two minor bureaucrats having a power struggle. One of them was wrong, but I couldn’t tell which. What to do? I had been the very soul of patience to that point, and I suspected that I had to continue with the soul-of-patience approach (as opposed to blowing my stack or playing the heavy) or my investment of two hours could stretch into days or weeks. I decided to try to develop a relationship with one or both of them—either that, or have one or both of them begin to feel sorry for me or have one or both of them get thoroughly sick of the sight of me. I tried to strike up a conversation with one or both of them. The Customs woman remained aloof—no hope there. But the railway man became quite friendly. After about three more trips (I had by then lost count), I said to the railway man, “I’m sure you are right that the Customs people are supposed to give me Form T32 before you release the bill of lading, but I’m not getting anywhere with them. It seems to be hopeless. I wonder if you could just give me a copy of the bill of lading, so I can get T32 from Customs. I promise to come right back with both forms. I know you’re not supposed to do this, but the Customs people are very rigid.” It worked. My new friend agreed that the Customs people were hopeless, and that nothing would happen unless he bent the rules. He gave me the precious bill of lading, and back I went to Customs (by this time nearly three hours had gone by and, due to the hot sun, the road was bumpy and dusty, not slippery) and handed it to the Customs woman. Digression: the Customs office had a counter where clients (victims) lined up to suffer various indignities. Behind the counter were nine desks in the middle of the room with filing cabinets along one wall. Every horizontal surface was piled high with files—in piles that looked as if they hadn’t been disturbed since prehistoric times. None of the desks had anybody sitting at them. There were six fans moving the hot air around. Then things got difficult. I am not making this up (I haven’t made up any of the other stuff either): the Customs woman walked over to the middle of the office, did something with her back turned toward me that I couldn’t see, then immediately returned to the counter and said, “Where is it?” I said, “Where is what?” She said, “The bill of lading from the railway.” I said, “I gave it to you.” She said, “No you didn’t. Where is it?” With great effort, I maintained my civil approach (although I believe my smile faded a little at that point) and said, “No, really, I gave it to you here at this counter just a minute ago.” She looked at me very suspiciously and—very reluctantly—went back to the middle of the office and looked around. Behind a desk on the floor, she found my bill of lading. It had been blown onto the floor by one of the fans. There was no more fuss (although she remained as frosty as ever): she completed and gave me form T32. I returned to my great friend the railway clerk and triumphantly gave him both his bill of lading and form T32. I paid the storage bill and got my trunk. We both agreed how sorry we were that our morning of visiting was over, and promised to have our two families spend Christmas and other civic holidays together from then on (I am finally making something up). ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ A Crate Experience It was quite simple getting our little trunk shipped to Botswana; it wasn’t simple getting access to it. We had almost as much fun getting our stuff shipped back to Canada. We didn’t use air freight for the return shipment because a) we were paying for it ourselves, and b) it was heavy, featuring a number of pottery items and other stuff like three-legged cast-iron African cooking pots (in case we would be wanting to boil any missionaries back in Canada). In view of the weight, we decided on sea freight, in which the charges are based on volume rather than weight (we had a lot of weight, but not much volume). A local shipping company did an excellent job of building a strong, heavy wooden crate to hold everything, and off it went to Cape Town to be loaded on a ship for its four-month voyage back to Canada. As we were packing, I compiled a complete inventory of the items and their estimated value and mailed the list to myself in Canada in preparation for the customs declaration when the crate eventually got there. This was the procedure I was advised to follow. I was the first member of the family to return to Canada and, after clearing immigration, I presented myself at Customs. The Customs lady seemed slightly incredulous when I said I had nothing to declare. She said, “You’ve been living abroad for two years and have nothing to declare?!” I said, “Well there’s a crate of stuff coming by sea freight which I will declare when it arrives.” “No”, she said, “you have to declare it now.” I said, “That’s not what I was told when I arranged for the shipping and I would have thought it would make sense to make my declaration when the customs people have the crate right in front of them to open and inspect the contents if they wish to.” She said, “No you have to declare it all now.” I said, “Well, I don’t have the list with me (given the aforementioned procedure I’d been advised to follow), but I would be pleased to try to recall from memory the approximately 200 items with their estimated values. It will take me about two hours. Could you give me some paper so I can get going on it?” I was planning to stand right there at her kiosk and slowly and deliberately write down each item, then stare at the ceiling while I tried to recall its value. I think she realized what she was in for if she insisted, so she thought better of it, stamped my form, and waved me through. When the crate finally arrived and we went to Montreal from Ottawa to pick it up, the customs people had already stamped it CLEARED and didn’t even want to see my precious list. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Dombrowski of the Tax Office Part way through our two-years-plus stint in Botswana, a letter arrived from what was then called Revenue Canada saying that I was considered a non-resident for tax purposes and that my salary would henceforth be subject to a 40% withholding tax. This would have made things difficult of us because Carol and I were already sharing one modest salary, so having 40% withheld off the top of my share would have left us short of money. In addition, who knew how long it would take the bureaucracy to eventually return the withheld money. Furthermore, I had already established at the Saskatoon tax office that I would be considered a resident for tax purposes. There was no mention of a withholding tax for Carol and she did not receive a similar letter. I replied by letter, pointing out that, although I was posted overseas, I was employed by CUSO in Canada, my salary was being paid by CUSO and was being deposited directly into my Canadian bank account. I further pointed out that, before departing for Botswana, I had visited their Saskatoon office where I consulted with their Mr. Dombrowski, who had assured me that I would be considered a Canadian resident for tax purposes. I should mention that, although I had indeed called in at the Saskatoon office of Revenue Canada, I had no idea of the name of the person I had talked to. However, I thought that I should give the person a good Polish name to add credibility to my reply. I thought that, if there wasn’t a Dombrowski in their Saskatoon office, there should be. I heard nothing further from Revenue Canada on the matter and can only assume that they are still searching their personnel files for the elusive Mr. Dombrowski. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Bloody Serowe Elaine is our youngest daughter whose background is Cree from northern Saskatchewan. She was our only kid who attended a regular school in Botswana—Northside School—where the Head Mistress, Mrs. Dixon-Warren, and several teachers, were from the U.K. One morning at breakfast Ken announced to the kids that we would be going to Serowe on the weekend. It was an historic occasion: Ian Khama, son of President and Lady Ruth, was being installed as Kgosi (Chief) of the Bamangwato Tribe. Elaine quickly let her feelings about this proposal be known: In a plummy British accent, she said, “I daown’t wont to gaow to Seraowe. It’s blooddy boring theyah.” Five mouths fell open. Here was our Cree girl in the middle of southern Africa speaking in a plummy British accent! ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ What A Party! Jill’s 16th birthday was coming up in October of 1979. As coincidence would have it, the month of October was the 16th birthday of two of her best friends in Gaborone: David “Coxy” Mayson, son of South African anti-apartheid activist, Cedric Mayson, and Julie Schindeler whose dad was with the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA) in Botswana. It was a perfect night for a party: black sky filled with stars; warm, gentle air. Teens of Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, American, Canadian, Zimbabwean, Batswana, Zambian, British origins swarmed the gates of 2463 Tshekedi Road to enjoy Gumba Gumba music, food, drinks, laughter, conversation, and dancing. Ken and I retreated to our bedroom, checking in on the action from time to time. On one of my forays into the fray, dance music filled the air but no teens were in sight. Then I spotted them, lying on their backs outside in the courtyard—waving, wiggling and kicking to Gumba Gumba. What a memorable party! Years later, I was reminiscing about the party with Julie Schindeler and I remarked, "I don't suppose Ken and I were aware of everything that went on that night." Julie's reply was emphatic, "I hope not!" ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Dave and the Cats Dave, who may be the only energy engineer who’s read Proust, estimates that over the 2 years we were in Botswana, he read 500 books from the CUSO library at 14 Embassy Chambers: books about international development, novels by esteemed African writers, great works of literature, and a lot of trashy novels. When the Zollinger family left Botswana to return to Canada, we adopted their black Labrador dog and two cats. The kids named the cats Ditlhako (shoes) and Tsala (friend). They were similar to wild cats in colouring and we could not touch, pet, or pick them up without getting scratched or bitten. Wearing a pair of Ken’s leather mitts, Dave set out to tame the cats. He patted them first on their heads, then moved to their shoulders and on down their backs until they tolerated the touching. Next he tried picking them up. After six months or so, the cats were our pets. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Kevin Gives Birth to Kittens Before we could take Ditlhako to the vet to be spayed, it was obvious she was about to have a litter of kittens. A few weeks later I heard some strange noises coming from the boys’ room in the middle of the night. I got up, switched on the light to see what was going on. Kevin was lying on his back in bed, covers over him. And Ditlhako was busily giving birth to kittens on his stomach. Three kittens were born, and more on the way. Kev looked up at me and sighed, “This is a bit much!” Kev had one university semester of engineering courses under his belt before we left Saskatoon for Botswana. He decided to take a few non-engineering-type courses that intrigued him during the two years he was in Africa—courses such as Astronomy from Berkeley and English Literature from Athabaska. If anything else came his way, he’d give it a try. Bibiana Seaborn set about to write a series of books to help ex-pats learn Setswana. Kevin typed these books. We still have them. International Voluntary Service (IVS), the British equivalent of CUSO, organized a youth work camp in Lesotho. It was an erosion project. He was away about three weeks. Kev loved being the only white person amongst the African youth. When he returned, there was something different about him. The teenage boy had become a young adult. “I’ve turned a corner,” I remember him saying. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Send-Off After two-plus amazing years, we were heading home from Gaborone by train to Francistown and on by air to Victoria Falls, Lusaka, Dar es Salaam, Zanzibar and then in a more-or-less straight line up the east coast of Africa into Europe. There was a classic send-off at the Gaborone train station. Friends were hugging and sobbing in each other’s arms promising to write, they’d see each other again, etc. etc. Then the unexpected: Tony Khama, one of the twin sons of President Seretse and Lady Ruth Khama, zoomed up on his motorcycle to bid farewell to Elaine. Tony and Elaine wept, hugged, and promised to write. This relationship was news to Ken and me. Not only that, but we soon realized that Elaine was the only member of the family who’d visited State House. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Birthday Party My time as Field Staff Officer in Botswana was but two short years, but a few years later, I was given the opportunity to evaluate CUSO’s work with women in Botswana. It was an amazing learning experience for me and like so much of what we did in Africa, there was less certainty about how much value it was to those with whom I was engaging. John van Mossel, resident FSO, arranged for me to drive the CUSO Hilux while I was in the country. My 49th birthday was coming up and, of course, no one in Botswana knew that. Recalling the custom I’d started in the CUSO office for all the staff when I was FSO, I decided to throw myself a surprise birthday party; that is, a surprise to those I invited. That would be all the women in the office: Dorothy, Lillian and Rebecca, their children, families of Field Staff, and cooperants who lived and worked nearby. Instead of trying to bake a cake as I’d done in the past, I found a bakery in the African Mall, ordered two cakes with “Happy 49th Birthday Carol” written on them and bought some wine and non-alcoholic drinks. It was a great party! Ever so slightly pleased with myself, I headed out to the parking lot behind Embassy Chambers, got in the Hilux and drove to the road. Looking left instead of right for oncoming vehicles, I pulled out into the road and WHAM! hit the passenger side of a truck travelling in the near lane of the road. Three young Batswana guys jumped out of their truck, looked at the damage I’d caused and started yelling. It wasn’t their truck. The boss would be very angry. How could I do this? I meekly apologized over and over. It was totally my fault. I’m so sorry etc. etc. They kept yelling. Then I heard a quiet female voice behind me. “Dumelang, bo rra, what seems to be the trouble?” It was Dorothy Sekgwa. She spoke to the men calmly in Setswana. Like magic, they cooled down. I offered to go with them to speak to their boss and explain that the accident was my fault. The staff in the CUSO office took about a year to sort out the insurance coverage for the damage to the truck. Not my finest hour, but the party was worth it.
February 12. Any of our lingering impressions that Botswana is a dry country were wiped out on the way home from the Kanye Jargon-Swapping Convention... February 18. When the trunk arrived yesterday Dad got out his (in?) famous cookbook and planned the attack for this morning. “Corn pone for breakfast!” was the war cry that interrupted my peaceful morning repose. I’m getting my spear sharpened for a roving Big Mac hunt in the Kgalagadi. February 26. Our second Committee Meeting was three times less intelligible than the first because every word echoed off the ceiling of the Thamaga community centre and struck us three times... February 28. Dad is considering buying 50 litres of molasses at P5.90 to add to his next batch of corn pone... March 7. It appears that Elaine is allergic to school—she’s been having difficulties breathing in class. April 17. Half the world’s population of algae died when we finished draining the pool today. April 20. The pattering of little feet can now be heard in the Shipley household (Zollinger’s 2 cats join the household.) Jill soon discovered that they are very well-clawed little feet... April 23. We went to Molepolole to drop off a fridge and its Wendy... May 7. I woke up this morning and discovered that I had given birth to kittens during the night... May 15. Sand, plains and cattle May 16. Sand, plains and cattle May 17. Sand, plains and cattle May 18. Sand, plains and cattle May 19. Sand, plains and cattle May 20. Sand, plains and cattle May 21. Sand, plains and cattle May 22. Sand, plains and cattle May 31. Steve left for Canada today. His travel clothes and briefcase almost made him look like an executive. Basically, though, he’s just a ruffian in a pickup truck. July 9. We went back to Moshupa and proved our lack of progress in Setswana. July 15. The committee members are progressing quickly through the agenda. They are BOTH quite unsatisfied with the turnout, though. Jean has been spicing up the kitchen by spraying salad dressing all over the floor. July 22. So far the most productive part of this Country Meeting has been Luc’s square dancing lessons. August 12. Disaster day today: the washing machine broke down; David went jogging without his shoes and came home with copious blisters; Mom lost a fight with her bike and is sporting a colorful hip; Elaine knifed her knuckle during a fit of uncontrollable passion. September 17. This thing called the Regional Meeting is the biggest and best acronyminal blab-fest I’ve heard so far. October 4. Jill discussed facial creams with a warthog. October 30. Dad suddenly realized that he was going to miss the North American Hallowe’en, so with the irrational hope that he could make it in time, he grabbed the 14:50 plane for Canada. November 15. An English type with skinny legs obligingly sprayed for cockroaches... December 25. Deck the thatch with thorny branches Pula la la la la la la la “Tis the season for relaxin’ Pula la la la la la la la Turn me on my air condish’ner Pula la la la la la While we send our Xmas wish to yer Pula la la la la la la la. December 31. Only one more year with the pickup truck ruffians. How depressing. * of the diary ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Day I Met the President It was August 20, 1987. I was an enthusiastic 27-year-old civil engineer working for the Botswana Ministry of Agriculture’s Small Dams Unit. I had just learned that my colleague Roach Mmutle and I were to go the following Wednesday to meet the President of Botswana, Dr. Quett Masire. Along with our boss, Richard Gulubane, Roach and I were to take the President on a tour of a proposed dam site near the village of Tobane, not far from Selebi Pikwe. I was based in the Palapye office of the Small Dams Unit, and my colleagues there immediately began offering me wardrobe advice. “You must buy a suit jacket!” Leano said. “If you are going to meet the President you must dress nicely!” Throughout my two years in Botswana I was often chided by my colleagues for dressing too casually. One time in a Small Dams Unit meeting Isaac Phometsi looked at me very disapprovingly across the table and said, “Mr. Shipley! Your shirt looks like it has been chewed by an animal!” I did not own an iron so my shirts were typically quite wrinkly. I was the note taker for that meeting and decided that Isaac’s remark was worthy of being included in the minutes: “Mr. Phometsi commented that Mr. Shipley’s shirt looked like it had been chewed by an animal.” Later, when Leano saw the minutes, she was angry: “Kevin! You are not supposed to put jokes in the minutes!” Leano was always telling me off.
I never got around to buying the suit jacket. It’s a field trip to a dam site, I reasoned. Why should I wear a suit jacket? The day came for the meeting with the President. Roach and I traveled to Tobane and met Richard Gulubane there. We sat through a long ceremony celebrating the Presidential visit, involving numerous speeches, dances and prayers. When it was finally over a large convoy of about 15 vehicles carrying the President’s entourage and Small Dams Unit personnel drove out to the dam site. Upon arrival at the site, the President began to examine the engineering design drawings we had brought along, and Roach and Richard were explaining our plans for constructing the dam. A group of about 25 people were clustered around the President, and several sets of hands were holding the drawings open for viewing. Suddenly, the President looked up from the drawings and saw me. “Dumela mma!” he said. The President had mistaken me for a woman. In the deepest voice I could muster I replied, “Dumela rra!” There was a moment of awkward silence. Then the President burst out laughing, and everyone else took his cue and began laughing too. The President looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s the price you pay for being handsome!” he exclaimed. I guess I should have bought that suit jacket after all. |
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