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.
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April 2021
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