million miles

[written on the fourth of July]

I woke up this morning with the clouds of a dream world apple pie still in my mouth, and pulled open the curtains to reveal the same old dusty brown I will forever associate with Botswana. I don’t think I expected anything red or blue or white, but it felt strange all the same to go about the day without festivities or bbq’s (not braai’s) or good old patriotic crooning.

We have been invited to attend an Independence Day celebration tomorrow, hosted by the American Embassy for all Americans living in Botswana. While I’m not exactly sure that I want to splash around in the pool of exclusivity that such an event suggests, I am pretty curious to see what sort of projects our compatriots are involved in here.

On another strange note (like the star spangled banner off key) I took off work today to pay a another visit to Immigration. Dr. O drove me to the office, and I was frustrated to learn that we would have to return in yet another two weeks. No explanation was provided, and the woman behind the counter dismissed me with a curt “ehh mma.” Pratik was with us today as well, since he needs to get official approval for his presence here extended by two days, and we subsequently drove with him to another immigration facility near the city center.

Located under a bridge, tagged to the side of a main roadway and one of Gaborone’s bigger office buildings, the barbed wire covered facility had me feeling nervous from first. Surrounding the complex of squat, white-washed buildings, were hundreds of people milling about in oversized jackets and dirty t-shirts. A group of ten or so women were curled up on top of flattened cardboard boxes, and they looked like they’d been living there for days. Dr. O marched us straight past the winding line of applicants, and up to the guard at the main building’s entrance. I was surprised when Pratik was instructed to skip the line and proceed directly to the counters, but my confusion subsided as Dr.O passed the woman P20 for her help. True, I was glad to avoid the insane, day-long wait, but I was also slightly stunned to have witnessed a small bit of bribery. Aside from seeing bouncers at clubs accepts cash for admittance, I can’t recall another time when money has been used to grease the wheels in the motion of my proceedings.

While I was waiting for Pratik to emerge from inside, I chatted a bit with a baton-swinging guard. He told me that up to two thousand people a day wait in line for immigration help, almost all of them from Zimbabwe. I am not sure that I believe his guesstimate (the crowds were dense but not that huge), but I do trust his emphasis. Watching the crisis in Zimbabwe unfold, and the subsequent surge of illegal immigrants into Botswana and South Africa, has made me re-evaluate my thoughts on Immigration in general. I have been thinking a lot more about the desperation and disease that may cross borders, stowed away inside the suitcase of our bodies, and it has made me more wary. If immigrants enter Botswana illegally, how can they be tested for TB? How can they be enrolled in the government assistance programs? How can their criminal records be checked? Granted, the majority of the people I saw today are most likely kind, hardworking men and women who have suffered through the horrors of displacement. Of course they are deserving of sanctuary and help. Perhaps it’s just that in the dusty morning light, amongst this passport clutching jumble, things suddenly began to seem a little less clear.

Unfortunately, even with a bribe, Pratik was unable to get his stay extended. Not for any good reason, of course. Just because he still had 25 days left on his passport and it was thus “too soon” to do anything. Officially, he now must wait until he has almost run out, in order to necessitate assistance.

The day has been otherwise slow – I ran around the stadium track and attended a brief check-in meeting with one of our supervisors. It’s funny that a national holiday would make me feel so patriotic (I’m usually quick to point out the flaws of our fair country), and it irks me slightly that I’ve become so nostalgic for the big twin C’s of capitalism and consumerism. Never would I have believed that I’d be daydreaming about speed and efficiency, interstates and hotels, city subways and overpriced boutiques. The thought of detailed government websites and fine print and regulations has me salivating, because recently nothing has seemed clear or reasonable or explainable here. I miss a certain order and a certain pace and a certain sense of place (or at least space) that I never realized was so defined. It’s not that I can’t live with what’s here, or that I particularly dislike it, it’s just that to know an alternative is frustrating.

Finally, I miss. I miss orchestras and outdoor performances, dappled sunlight through leafy trees and cool grass between my toes, the breeze from the sea, grand structures and gardens, sculptures and ponds. I miss theatre and galleries and downtown and uptown and all around town (whichever town that may be), and I miss the bustle. Most of all I miss a summer night with a porch and a couch or a park and a bench and some music and faces, that laughter that air and that care. I know it’s repetitive, but who can claim that emotions aren’t? Perhaps what we feel comes in varying levels of intensity, and with different situational spices, but really, there’s some consistency in most things internal. “Hello,” I say to my dear friend Sadness, “you’re looking a little less blue today, but purple suits you nicely as well.” And to Curiosity, darling Curiosity, “it is nice to see you darting about again.” Up and down the six way streets of my brain stroll this unusual cast of characters, and the best thing to do is just wave a greeting as they pass.

Perhaps it is only fitting that the first fourth I really celebrate, for reasons other than indulgent, is one that finds me a million miles away.