Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
let the beg-a-thon begin
This morning, like so many before it and so many more to come, was supposed to be simple. Gilbert was going to wash the car, then I’d drive it to the hospital and leave it with Grita so she could show it to the people interested in buying it and I’d walk back to the office. No problem. Oh, so little I have learned after all.
The phone rang at 8:30. “Rachel, when are you coming? This guy is here, I thought you should talk to him,” Janet said. Yeah, within an hour, I said, I’m coming. I knew the car wasn’t ready yet and I thought an hour was especially generous.
10:18, the phone rang again, Janet again. Yeah, I’m coming now, I promised. Twenty minutes later, I tried to start the engine. Nothing. Lights on, a little cough, nothing. I had said something to Oliver about the petrol light being on yesterday, but he assured me that he had ‘calculated’ everything and it was fine. In my defense, I did laugh at ‘calculated’ even then. But I’d made it home after dropping him at the bus, and after all, I only needed to get back to the hospital – not more than a mile away. Gilbert and Tonde tried the ‘push-to-start’ technique. Nothing. I suspect we are out of gas, I said.
Now, I’m pissed. I’m late, and my time is being eaten by something that could easily have been prevented. I only have five working days here, I thought, stomping angrily through the dust on my way to the office, and this shit is wasting my time. I couldn’t even find Janet’s phone number to call her to take her up on sending someone to pick me.
I passed Patricia on the way in, her back turned – and I didn’t greet her, committing a sin of sins. Janet saw the dark cloud over me when I walked into her office. “You are not ok!” she said. “Yes, I am, it’s fine, I’m just sorry that I’m so late, it’s rude, and I’m sorry,” I said. She brushed it off. Time is, after all, relative.
I suppose I was irritated already by more than my tardiness. See, I knew who she wanted me to meet, and I knew what it was about, and I knew I wasn’t going to have anything good to say. Some of the residents of one of the conservancy areas where I work have written a proposal to establish the Kingfisher Youth Center. They have identified 200 orphans (in an area with a population of 4100, mind you) and want to find ways to serve them, teach them sports, do HIV-AIDS education, and lots of other good things. So a small group of people got together and found the money for a building, which is nearing completion. I can’t tell you how remarkable this amount of initiative is, given the circumstances. They got land from the chief and have already built a structure.
“Janet, I’m happy to talk to him,” I said, trying not to let my frustration overwhelm my words, “but here’s the thing. He’s going to think I will get money for them. I know he won’t exactly ask, I know I won’t promise, but meeting with me, I’m a white American, and trust me, this is what always happens. He’s going to think that because I say I will try to help, that I will give them money. And I know that people think I must be rich, but I’m not. And then he will be disappointed if I don’t come up with something.”
I could hear the self-absorption seeping through my words, the pettiness, the whining of ‘why me,’ the loaded assumptions. And yet I said them all anyway. I do, and don’t, know better.
Brilliant, the man I was supposed to meet, came quietly down the hall shortly after my childish arrival. He smiled cautiously and held out his hand, extended from a lanky body which he seemed to be trying to make smaller in my presence. I can’t stand that kind of deference. Yesterday a man old enough to be my father asked me for something on his KNEES. First, get up, please, I said, taking his elbow and pulling. Then I gave it to him.
Brilliant was prepared. He gave me a copy of their proposal, an architect’s drawing of the building they are finishing, a list of 200 names (100 girls, 100 boys) of orphans in their area down to date of birth, and a letter asking for any kind of support. I told him I’d already emailed a friend of mine working in sports administration to see if she could help us get some equipment for them. And then I did the ‘lowering expectations’ dance:
“Now, Brilliant, I think what you are doing is wonderful, and very important, and I am going to TRY to help you. I can’t promise anything, but I am trying to find some sports equipment for you. Maybe we can also find a grant for you or something, I will ask around and see, and if you need something to be written I can help with that also. But please, I can’t say for sure, I can’t promise anything, so please know that I am trying but I don’t know if I can help you.”
He was very gracious and nodded, said he understood, and made sure I had his cell number and email address. Talking to Janet would be the same as him, he said, smiling. And then he left.
And frankly, I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed by my attitude, by my approach to the whole situation, by displaying my flaws so openly. All of my egalitarian notions were just tossed onto the scrap heap. He came to me asking for help. And I treated him like someone who was begging, and needed to be reminded of the other’s superiority.
Because of course, I CAN help. I do in fact have the ability to do something. They have built a center out of nothing and are now going round to see if they can make it into something more. And I have the gall to sit here and say, I’m not rich, I can’t do anything. There is some measure of explanation in all my excuses, but in the end, they aren’t enough.
So, I now do something that I hate. I’m going to ask you all for money. If half of you reading this could help me chip in, we could finish the building and get some equipment and food for the kids. Everything will go straight into the project – no irritating overhead or organizational fees. I owe it to these guys. Not because I’m a jerk and need to make myself feel better (which are fair enough), but because being here has changed my view of the world and offered me lessons that may take the rest of my life to really learn properly. And that is something you can’t say every day.
If you can help even a little – send it on to my mom, and she will get it to me:Marcia DeMotts
185 Bear Lake Circle
Divide, CO 80814
Once I’m in Maun, I will have Brilliant’s documents scanned and post them so you can see how far they have already come. Kingfisher needs it more than NPR, I promise you.
The phone rang at 8:30. “Rachel, when are you coming? This guy is here, I thought you should talk to him,” Janet said. Yeah, within an hour, I said, I’m coming. I knew the car wasn’t ready yet and I thought an hour was especially generous.
10:18, the phone rang again, Janet again. Yeah, I’m coming now, I promised. Twenty minutes later, I tried to start the engine. Nothing. Lights on, a little cough, nothing. I had said something to Oliver about the petrol light being on yesterday, but he assured me that he had ‘calculated’ everything and it was fine. In my defense, I did laugh at ‘calculated’ even then. But I’d made it home after dropping him at the bus, and after all, I only needed to get back to the hospital – not more than a mile away. Gilbert and Tonde tried the ‘push-to-start’ technique. Nothing. I suspect we are out of gas, I said.
Now, I’m pissed. I’m late, and my time is being eaten by something that could easily have been prevented. I only have five working days here, I thought, stomping angrily through the dust on my way to the office, and this shit is wasting my time. I couldn’t even find Janet’s phone number to call her to take her up on sending someone to pick me.
I passed Patricia on the way in, her back turned – and I didn’t greet her, committing a sin of sins. Janet saw the dark cloud over me when I walked into her office. “You are not ok!” she said. “Yes, I am, it’s fine, I’m just sorry that I’m so late, it’s rude, and I’m sorry,” I said. She brushed it off. Time is, after all, relative.
I suppose I was irritated already by more than my tardiness. See, I knew who she wanted me to meet, and I knew what it was about, and I knew I wasn’t going to have anything good to say. Some of the residents of one of the conservancy areas where I work have written a proposal to establish the Kingfisher Youth Center. They have identified 200 orphans (in an area with a population of 4100, mind you) and want to find ways to serve them, teach them sports, do HIV-AIDS education, and lots of other good things. So a small group of people got together and found the money for a building, which is nearing completion. I can’t tell you how remarkable this amount of initiative is, given the circumstances. They got land from the chief and have already built a structure.
“Janet, I’m happy to talk to him,” I said, trying not to let my frustration overwhelm my words, “but here’s the thing. He’s going to think I will get money for them. I know he won’t exactly ask, I know I won’t promise, but meeting with me, I’m a white American, and trust me, this is what always happens. He’s going to think that because I say I will try to help, that I will give them money. And I know that people think I must be rich, but I’m not. And then he will be disappointed if I don’t come up with something.”
I could hear the self-absorption seeping through my words, the pettiness, the whining of ‘why me,’ the loaded assumptions. And yet I said them all anyway. I do, and don’t, know better.
Brilliant, the man I was supposed to meet, came quietly down the hall shortly after my childish arrival. He smiled cautiously and held out his hand, extended from a lanky body which he seemed to be trying to make smaller in my presence. I can’t stand that kind of deference. Yesterday a man old enough to be my father asked me for something on his KNEES. First, get up, please, I said, taking his elbow and pulling. Then I gave it to him.
Brilliant was prepared. He gave me a copy of their proposal, an architect’s drawing of the building they are finishing, a list of 200 names (100 girls, 100 boys) of orphans in their area down to date of birth, and a letter asking for any kind of support. I told him I’d already emailed a friend of mine working in sports administration to see if she could help us get some equipment for them. And then I did the ‘lowering expectations’ dance:
“Now, Brilliant, I think what you are doing is wonderful, and very important, and I am going to TRY to help you. I can’t promise anything, but I am trying to find some sports equipment for you. Maybe we can also find a grant for you or something, I will ask around and see, and if you need something to be written I can help with that also. But please, I can’t say for sure, I can’t promise anything, so please know that I am trying but I don’t know if I can help you.”
He was very gracious and nodded, said he understood, and made sure I had his cell number and email address. Talking to Janet would be the same as him, he said, smiling. And then he left.
And frankly, I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed by my attitude, by my approach to the whole situation, by displaying my flaws so openly. All of my egalitarian notions were just tossed onto the scrap heap. He came to me asking for help. And I treated him like someone who was begging, and needed to be reminded of the other’s superiority.
Because of course, I CAN help. I do in fact have the ability to do something. They have built a center out of nothing and are now going round to see if they can make it into something more. And I have the gall to sit here and say, I’m not rich, I can’t do anything. There is some measure of explanation in all my excuses, but in the end, they aren’t enough.
So, I now do something that I hate. I’m going to ask you all for money. If half of you reading this could help me chip in, we could finish the building and get some equipment and food for the kids. Everything will go straight into the project – no irritating overhead or organizational fees. I owe it to these guys. Not because I’m a jerk and need to make myself feel better (which are fair enough), but because being here has changed my view of the world and offered me lessons that may take the rest of my life to really learn properly. And that is something you can’t say every day.
If you can help even a little – send it on to my mom, and she will get it to me:Marcia DeMotts
185 Bear Lake Circle
Divide, CO 80814
Once I’m in Maun, I will have Brilliant’s documents scanned and post them so you can see how far they have already come. Kingfisher needs it more than NPR, I promise you.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
back in the caprivi
I never really know what I’m getting into when I arrive in Katima. Which, I imagine, is one of the things I love about it. My sister is no longer here, so my 18 hour bus ride was full of something less than delicious anticipation. After several hours of delays in Windhoek – begun by a half hour drive that should have taken 5 minutes to get us back to the garage to fix the bus that should have been fully operational BEFORE departure – it was a long slow night on a two lane road frought with donkeys and goats and miscellaneous other creatures that don’t really belong on a tarred highway. But my other sister met me on arrival, and we cruised over to the house – which was of course already occupied by other Zimbabweans. I thought I was heading to some quiet time on my own, but as usual, I was wrong. It still makes me giggle, this constant screwing up of mine. In end, if we all relegated our expectations to the existential scrap heap, I suspect we’d manage to be much happier anyway.
At the house we found my sister’s sister-in-law, who returned from Zimbabwe today on her way back to Rundu (yes, Jen, think of Rundu and laugh…!). With her was a friend who had hitched a ride. So they hung out, ran some errands around town, and came back just as I caved and decided to have a nap. Unfortunately, since the house has been mostly empty for a week, we were a little low on supplies. This meant we were ‘reduced’ to sorghum porridge rather than sadza (corn porridge) for dinner. I’ll skip the culinary lecture for now, but suffice to say, this was not nearly so big a deal to me as to them. As we were preparing dinner, there was a crashing bounce of a noise on the tin roof. I looked up. We went outside. Turns out, having locked the gate, we were somewhat immune to hearing the truck that had pulled up outside with a delivery. So the driver chucked something which remains unidentified at the roof and managed to get our attention.
Now this is where it gets interesting. Two Zimbabwean guys who remain unnamed brought two burgeoning burlap sacks to the doorstep, deposited them, and buggered off. My sister-in-law was quite pleased. I thought perhaps they were mealies (corn). But as she grabbed a knife and sliced thru the twine cords holding the bags shut, I quickly realized my error.
See, Katima is a border town – full of Zambians and Zimbabweans both legal and illegal. This means that, well, there is a lot of legal and illegal more generally going on most of the time, and it is well-camouflaged. The lumpy bags held leather handbags, canvas shoes, safari shirts, khaki pants, tablecloths, pillowcases, and other things made in Zimbabwe to be sold here. But they were far from legal entry. Vehicles coming in from Zimbabwe are subject to exceptional levels of scrutiny to which I can attest, having been a passenger in overburdened cars in both directions more than once. So there is no way that customs in Botswana, and then in Namibia, would have let this much stuff through.
Of course, I couldn’t resist. “Come on, sisi, who am I going to tell?” I pleaded, several times, seeking for an explanation. But she would not tell me how these bags had made it to our doorstep. I don’t blame her. But perhaps the strangest part was, despite the fact that it was already getting late and we’d set out beds for the night – once the goods arrived, they were off. Jamming purses and shirts and shoes into the truck of a rumbly, fringe-dashboarded Toyota, they were off. Promising to text me on past-midnight arrival in Rundu, she backed the car up to the gate, I let her out, and they were gone. I poured another gin and tonic and sat outside with the Southern Cross far above me, listening to the pumping music of Saturday night just up and around the corner.
At the house we found my sister’s sister-in-law, who returned from Zimbabwe today on her way back to Rundu (yes, Jen, think of Rundu and laugh…!). With her was a friend who had hitched a ride. So they hung out, ran some errands around town, and came back just as I caved and decided to have a nap. Unfortunately, since the house has been mostly empty for a week, we were a little low on supplies. This meant we were ‘reduced’ to sorghum porridge rather than sadza (corn porridge) for dinner. I’ll skip the culinary lecture for now, but suffice to say, this was not nearly so big a deal to me as to them. As we were preparing dinner, there was a crashing bounce of a noise on the tin roof. I looked up. We went outside. Turns out, having locked the gate, we were somewhat immune to hearing the truck that had pulled up outside with a delivery. So the driver chucked something which remains unidentified at the roof and managed to get our attention.
Now this is where it gets interesting. Two Zimbabwean guys who remain unnamed brought two burgeoning burlap sacks to the doorstep, deposited them, and buggered off. My sister-in-law was quite pleased. I thought perhaps they were mealies (corn). But as she grabbed a knife and sliced thru the twine cords holding the bags shut, I quickly realized my error.
See, Katima is a border town – full of Zambians and Zimbabweans both legal and illegal. This means that, well, there is a lot of legal and illegal more generally going on most of the time, and it is well-camouflaged. The lumpy bags held leather handbags, canvas shoes, safari shirts, khaki pants, tablecloths, pillowcases, and other things made in Zimbabwe to be sold here. But they were far from legal entry. Vehicles coming in from Zimbabwe are subject to exceptional levels of scrutiny to which I can attest, having been a passenger in overburdened cars in both directions more than once. So there is no way that customs in Botswana, and then in Namibia, would have let this much stuff through.
Of course, I couldn’t resist. “Come on, sisi, who am I going to tell?” I pleaded, several times, seeking for an explanation. But she would not tell me how these bags had made it to our doorstep. I don’t blame her. But perhaps the strangest part was, despite the fact that it was already getting late and we’d set out beds for the night – once the goods arrived, they were off. Jamming purses and shirts and shoes into the truck of a rumbly, fringe-dashboarded Toyota, they were off. Promising to text me on past-midnight arrival in Rundu, she backed the car up to the gate, I let her out, and they were gone. I poured another gin and tonic and sat outside with the Southern Cross far above me, listening to the pumping music of Saturday night just up and around the corner.
eight years and a long walk
The office seemed further from the center of town than I remembered, and I thought, I’ll be late – how very African of me. But I managed to arrive just barely on time. “Fifth,” the security guard replied to my question of which floor would lead me to WWF. I couldn’t remember that either. I rode up, and was buzzed in – from there, it was just the same. I sat for a few minutes while he finished his phone call and then his secretary beckoned, saying, “You can come.” Walking into Chris’ office was like a step back in time. He strode out from behind his desk, smiling, greeting me, “Rachel! How nice it is to see you!” and wrapped his arms around my shoulders in the warmth of familiar. “Come, sit, can we get you some coffee or tea?”
We pulled chairs up at his small round table set for chats just like this one. She brought tea. Rooibos, black, bush tea – just like I’d asked – with a flash of a conspiratorial grin that despite my skin I didn’t want coffee and sugar and milk. The panda on the mug seemed to appreciate me, as did Chris. We talked about things, my life in the US, my mortgage and ‘real job’, the latest transfrontier park here that is stalled, what he’s up to, what I am trying to be up to. We talked about collaborating on a human-wildlife conflict project, which is increasingly a focus for me and it turns out, for him as well. And the crinkling around his eyes radiated appreciation for me, and inside, I thought, this is where I want to be.
See, the thing about Chris is, he’s the one who got me started in this place. Eight years ago, when I first packed a backpack and flew over to Namibia to meander for the summer, he was here – in this same job, in the same office, even wearing a similar sweater. He’d agreed to see me and talk about what WWF was up to in the Caprivi, which was – via online reports – what I thought I was interested in. And it turns out I was right. But in seeing me even then – a budding idiot of a graduate student – so was he. I was worth his time. Two years later, when I was getting serious, he set me up with IRDNC, and I have been working with them ever since. And not only this, but IRDNC has given me my family here. My sister was working for them at the time, but I didn’t know it. Three months of glasses of wine and laughter later, I had a new home. And in many respects, I owe it to Chris.
A knock at his door brought another American, a man working for the Nature Conservancy in Denver who’d been passing through but was on his way back to the US. Chris introduced us, and we all chatted briefly. Making a few ironic comments about working in Namibia, Chris cued me, and I chimed in. “These are the thoughts of an old hand,” he said to Matt, grinning at me, giving me a bit of respect I was never so sure I’d have. “Rachel started coming here way back when, and now, hey, she’s a big fancy professor in Massachusetts, and she’s still coming back.” Time slowed around us, for me, and I realized, he’s proud of me. I get it. I get credit for getting it. And while I know this is problematic, while I know there are things I will never really ‘get’, I allowed myself a moment of pleasure. I have earned a measure of respect. There are places here in which I no longer have to introduce myself. And that means something. What, exactly, I suspect I will always struggle to define. But that is part of the process – and apparently, so am I.
Putting away my notebook and getting ready to leave, we reiterated the possibilities for collaboration in the years ahead. “Because, you know, I don’t just want to drop in and out looking at things I think are interesting,” I told Chris. “I want to be useful, to examine projects and information in ways that will contribute.” He smiled again, nodding. “I know you want to make things better here,” he replied.
Riding down the elevator, I thought, problems and all – maybe there is no higher compliment.
We pulled chairs up at his small round table set for chats just like this one. She brought tea. Rooibos, black, bush tea – just like I’d asked – with a flash of a conspiratorial grin that despite my skin I didn’t want coffee and sugar and milk. The panda on the mug seemed to appreciate me, as did Chris. We talked about things, my life in the US, my mortgage and ‘real job’, the latest transfrontier park here that is stalled, what he’s up to, what I am trying to be up to. We talked about collaborating on a human-wildlife conflict project, which is increasingly a focus for me and it turns out, for him as well. And the crinkling around his eyes radiated appreciation for me, and inside, I thought, this is where I want to be.
See, the thing about Chris is, he’s the one who got me started in this place. Eight years ago, when I first packed a backpack and flew over to Namibia to meander for the summer, he was here – in this same job, in the same office, even wearing a similar sweater. He’d agreed to see me and talk about what WWF was up to in the Caprivi, which was – via online reports – what I thought I was interested in. And it turns out I was right. But in seeing me even then – a budding idiot of a graduate student – so was he. I was worth his time. Two years later, when I was getting serious, he set me up with IRDNC, and I have been working with them ever since. And not only this, but IRDNC has given me my family here. My sister was working for them at the time, but I didn’t know it. Three months of glasses of wine and laughter later, I had a new home. And in many respects, I owe it to Chris.
A knock at his door brought another American, a man working for the Nature Conservancy in Denver who’d been passing through but was on his way back to the US. Chris introduced us, and we all chatted briefly. Making a few ironic comments about working in Namibia, Chris cued me, and I chimed in. “These are the thoughts of an old hand,” he said to Matt, grinning at me, giving me a bit of respect I was never so sure I’d have. “Rachel started coming here way back when, and now, hey, she’s a big fancy professor in Massachusetts, and she’s still coming back.” Time slowed around us, for me, and I realized, he’s proud of me. I get it. I get credit for getting it. And while I know this is problematic, while I know there are things I will never really ‘get’, I allowed myself a moment of pleasure. I have earned a measure of respect. There are places here in which I no longer have to introduce myself. And that means something. What, exactly, I suspect I will always struggle to define. But that is part of the process – and apparently, so am I.
Putting away my notebook and getting ready to leave, we reiterated the possibilities for collaboration in the years ahead. “Because, you know, I don’t just want to drop in and out looking at things I think are interesting,” I told Chris. “I want to be useful, to examine projects and information in ways that will contribute.” He smiled again, nodding. “I know you want to make things better here,” he replied.
Riding down the elevator, I thought, problems and all – maybe there is no higher compliment.
Friday, June 13, 2008
goin' up the country
Until this past week, I had not spent much time in the southern part of Namibia. Let me rephrase. Apart from driving thru it in the middle of the night on an insane non-stop drive from Maun to Cape Town, I have not spent ANY time in southern Namibia. So being on the road during the daytime was refreshing if for no other reason than the fact that I could see more than the tar ahead and the swishing of dry grass to either side.
Mariental and Keetmanshoop both still feel like Afrikaner havens from the rest of the world. Wandering around looking for a place to buy bread, I felt lost in a rural African version of an old Western just before showdown – everyone was clearing off the streets (slowly), or sitting around waiting for something to happen (slowly), or turning their heads to stare when I walked by (slowly). Mariental especially is bleached, pale under even the somewhat gentler winter sun, and dry, dusty-dry like dirt that has never known water. Keetmans features several rock-hewn churches with corrugated tin spires, from either German colonial days or possibly even built stone-by-stone by Afrikaners migrating north from the Cape years before. But both are steeped in a feeling of thick isolation that buffers a sense of slipping through a crack in the face of time.
What was I doing there? This would be the logical question. My sister has started a new job – overseeing a project of the Namibian National Farmers Union to reduce poverty in the south through teaching people how to grow hoodia. Hoodia is a succulent – it looks like a cactified octopus – that when eaten, suppresses the appetite. The Nama, one of the ethnic groups here that historically has lived in the desert – apparently discovered that they could eat some of the plant and go days without feeling hungry. This has recently been turned into a desire to create a market for the next herbal weight loss craze. The project’s ‘beneficiaries’ each receive 15 plants that are already 2-3 years old. They will put them in sand and leave them for about a year before harvesting and drying them.
There are a lot of things about this project, already, that feel like so many others I have seen before. Our interactions with one of the local staff members found him more interested in getting me to go out drinking with him than in seeing the plant nurseries. One of the local governors is trying to hijack the ‘beneficiary selection process’ from the traditional authorities so that he can place the plants with people he wants to benefit. And there is only about a year to find and develop a market so that the growers can continue to plant seedlings after harvest next year and sell their products. We also found out that you can’t even harvest the plant properly without a stainless steel blade that costs a small fortune. This, to me would seem to be a pretty big sticking point – you can plant it, but you can’t take it out of the ground without a special piece of equipment that you will never own? Hmmm…
Anyway, I’m headed out to the bush tonight – up to Katima, where I have been working for the past six years or so now. I’ll be there a week or so before heading back to Botswana…ah, Maun, to days at the research centre and nights at Audi or the Sports Bar…
Mariental and Keetmanshoop both still feel like Afrikaner havens from the rest of the world. Wandering around looking for a place to buy bread, I felt lost in a rural African version of an old Western just before showdown – everyone was clearing off the streets (slowly), or sitting around waiting for something to happen (slowly), or turning their heads to stare when I walked by (slowly). Mariental especially is bleached, pale under even the somewhat gentler winter sun, and dry, dusty-dry like dirt that has never known water. Keetmans features several rock-hewn churches with corrugated tin spires, from either German colonial days or possibly even built stone-by-stone by Afrikaners migrating north from the Cape years before. But both are steeped in a feeling of thick isolation that buffers a sense of slipping through a crack in the face of time.
What was I doing there? This would be the logical question. My sister has started a new job – overseeing a project of the Namibian National Farmers Union to reduce poverty in the south through teaching people how to grow hoodia. Hoodia is a succulent – it looks like a cactified octopus – that when eaten, suppresses the appetite. The Nama, one of the ethnic groups here that historically has lived in the desert – apparently discovered that they could eat some of the plant and go days without feeling hungry. This has recently been turned into a desire to create a market for the next herbal weight loss craze. The project’s ‘beneficiaries’ each receive 15 plants that are already 2-3 years old. They will put them in sand and leave them for about a year before harvesting and drying them.
There are a lot of things about this project, already, that feel like so many others I have seen before. Our interactions with one of the local staff members found him more interested in getting me to go out drinking with him than in seeing the plant nurseries. One of the local governors is trying to hijack the ‘beneficiary selection process’ from the traditional authorities so that he can place the plants with people he wants to benefit. And there is only about a year to find and develop a market so that the growers can continue to plant seedlings after harvest next year and sell their products. We also found out that you can’t even harvest the plant properly without a stainless steel blade that costs a small fortune. This, to me would seem to be a pretty big sticking point – you can plant it, but you can’t take it out of the ground without a special piece of equipment that you will never own? Hmmm…
Anyway, I’m headed out to the bush tonight – up to Katima, where I have been working for the past six years or so now. I’ll be there a week or so before heading back to Botswana…ah, Maun, to days at the research centre and nights at Audi or the Sports Bar…
Monday, June 02, 2008
enough already
all right, i get it, more than a few of you have given me a hard time about not keeping up the blog. i guess it hadn't occurred to me to write from lowell, though what with almost getting fired, having my windows shot at, and getting to know the new neighborhood's resident yay-hoos, i probably could have found enough material. BUT, i am back in afrikaaaa for a few months, so i will do my level best to keep all y'all apprised in this way. i am starting off in windhoek, the capital of namibia, where my zimbabwean sister has just started a new job. we aren't really sure what it's about yet, but it seems exciting. next week we'll be off to visit some farmers around mariental who are part of her project, so let's hope i have a better idea what i'm talking about after that. otherwise, the next three months look to be a whirlwind tour of my old haunts - katima, kasane, maun, joburg, and maputo, presumably with a few good stories along the way.
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