We are staying here in Gaborone over the weekend at the home of our good friends, Mike and Lynne Pendleton. Mike is an exchange family practice physician with the University of Pennsylvania-Botswana Medical Program. While they are away in the States, we have been able to stay at their condo. Since we taught last Friday at the Medical School and are scheduled again for classes this Monday, staying here makes it so much more convenient than commuting from Ramotswa.
I came up to the city two days early in order to attend the National HIV/AIDS Research Conference which is held every 5 years. We had hoped that our District research project on the “Age of Consent for HIV Testing” would have been ready to present. Since the study involved school students however, we were stymied by the recent month long break between terms from doing data collection—maybe next time.
The Pendleton’s have a home alarm system similar to ours in Denver. I arrived Wednesday evening with the instructions and door key in hand, entered the house and diligently punched in the code. Within a few seconds, it became obvious that this was not the correct code and the sirens started to blare. Thinking perhaps I had pushed the wrong numbers, I frantically began re-entering the code, but to no avail. By this time I had attracted the attention of the security guard from the apartment complex who was trying to assess who I was and what was happening. I tried to explain that I didn’t live here, but indeed was authorized by the owners. The guard looked suspiciously at me saying the alarm company employees were on their way (I didn’t know if this was a good or a bad thing). I really hoped to convince people that I wasn’t a criminal before the police were called. Usually in Botswana, if you produce 5 forms of ID and sign away your first born off-spring, people will accept that you are who you say you are. As the sirens continued to wail, the security staff appeared to believe me, and my daughter is still a free woman.
Then I suggested that they call the central office and have the alarm stopped. After all, that is a common procedure in America. But Nooooooooo, this is BW and the alarm company has absolutely no way to turn off the siren. The only way to shut off the blasted blaring was to enter the correct code—which I obviously didn’t have. They suggested that perhaps the alarm wires could be disconnected from the wall. After a thorough search of the house, no one could find any connection box. We were just about to give up that idea when one of the security people found an apparatus high on a wall, only to realize that the wires were buried into the masonry—presumably to keep people from doing exactly what we were trying to do.
The only possibility now was to call Lynne or Mike in the States and try to get the code. I didn’t have the number, but Maureen did. She called the States, only to get Lynne’s voice mail--- Ugh! The alarm men then called central office who then called the Kestlers, other friends of ours and the only other name listed on the alarm account. They told her that “Mr. Christopher” was trying to get into the house. Knowing me as “Kip” they hemmed and hawed for awhile, but finally guessed who I was, and vouched for me. She gave them another cell phone number in America to call. When the central office finally got a hold of the Pendleton’s, they didn’t want to give the code to anyone but me, so they said they would call me directly.
The sirens were now beginning to give me a headache, when to my surprise, the alarm employees said they were going to leave the premises and leave me in my misery. They didn’t do so before one guy asked if I could give him dinner because he was hungry, and the other asked if I owned a company which could give him a job. When it became clear that I didn’t have anything further to offer and there was nothing to do about shutting off the alarm, they left (quite possibly to get away from the noise) which was driving everyone crazy.
Within 10-15 minutes Lynne called with the code and I was mercifully able to shut the darn thing off, some 1 and ½ hours after the whole episode started. The only cure for my mental state by that time was a hot bath and a slug of Mike’s bourbon.
Only in Botswana.
Don’t Jump the Gun Kopo
Maureen was attending an impromptu school Guidance Department meeting earlier this week that went on…..and on…..and on. After about four hours, it appeared that things were winding up. With muttering words of ……..gratitude…. for being able to attend this marathon mostly in Setswana, she began banging her forehead against the table to show her relief that it was over. Unfortunately for Kopo, the meeting was just pausing. It continued for another 20 minutes while Kopo had to sit there, trying to explain that she really didn’t have a headache but was showing her “thanks” for such a great meeting.
This scenario reminds me of one of the Southwest Airlines advertisements that show various embarrassing moments with the tagline “Want to get away?”
I would have loved to have had a video camera for this one.
English ain’t so eezy.
Brent Keener, PCV BOTS 7 volunteer is getting ready to leave Botswana, having served his two year stint. He reports on his Face Book page this text message he recently received from one of his Motswana villagers---
“I am full of sadness to know that you are living”
—a classic typo.
Kalahari Khronicle Volume 1 Final Edition
Having just passed the official half way mark of our 27 month service, this will be the final installment of the Khronicle’s first Volume. Never fear though, Volume 2 will begin shortly as soon as we can repair the cord to the printing press which appears to have been eaten as a snack by one of the local goats.
Brown coffee
The New York Times reports from the Phillipines on Goad Sibayan who has been prospecting the remote Philippine highlands know as the Cordillera. After driving 12 hours from Manila, hiking a very tortuous route up a hillside and down into a remote valley, he found what he was looking for—civet droppings. The civet, a nocturnal, furry, catlike animal treasures eating the juiciest, ripest coffee fruits. After allowing such fruits to ferment in its stomach acids and enzymes, it excretes the hard coffee bean innards on the ground inside…….well…….civet crap.
Sibayan knows his coffee and these beans make a brew that is “smooth, chocolaty and without any bitter aftertaste.” He also describes how someone recently tried to snooker him by gluing inferior beans to …….ahem……..
non-civet crap. Sibayan could tell immediately that these were not the real McCoy, because washing the beans couldn’t dislodge the lesser quality beans from the lesser quality crap.
The civets are quite discriminating and will only eat top quality beans, leaving the rest which will be chewed on and spat out by bats. Sibayan can distinguish the premium beans that have gone through the civet GI rollercoaster from the bat fodder by licking the beans.
Some industrious Phillipino farmers have tried to catch and cage the civets, so as to make it easy to find and collect the civet guano. Apparently real “connoisseurs” rejected the coffee from the caged civets which they claim does not taste the same as that from wild civets. Apparently, “the stress” experienced by the captured civets causes changes in their stomach juices.
There “coffee connoisseurs” in the US that will pay exorbitant prices for the wild civet beans—up to $150 dollars a pound.
The Pat-ogs, the Phillipino farmers interviewed for this Times article about the prices that foreigners would pay said “We are a bit surprised and perplexed” With a big grin they also added “We are ignorant.“
Kgosi’s Komments:
1 Kgosi can understand that this brew may be “chocolaty” but who is kidding whom about it being “smooth without any bitter aftertaste.”
2 Sibayan has recently been hospitalized for over two months in Manila with chronic diarrhea.
3 Therfore Kgosi wants to know if this job is the best that Sabayan can get. By coming to BW, the Khronicle can offer a higher paying position right here in Ramotswa licking the printing press clean of old ink, and extra money can be made by moonlighting after hours cleaning up the goat crap—no licking involved.
4Kgosi cannot spell “connoisseur” without a dictionary
5 Any bozo who is willing to pay $150 a pound for morning java made from civet guano beans deserves every smooth chocolaty mouthful.
5Nonetheless, with advice from his broker at Goldman Sachs on how to beat the usual stock market investments, Kgosi has invested a significant portion of his pension plan in civet coffee futures.
6Not wanting to put all his financial eggs in one basket and perhaps miss out on a possible new financial gold mine, Kgosi is also diversifying his investments by trying to feed coffee beans to various African animals and collecting the guano in hopes that the beans will have their own unique flavor.
7So far, the most promising coffee possibilities are:
--Wildebeest Wake Up Call
--Elephant Espresso with extra Chocolate
--Rip Roaring Rhino and
--Heavenly Hyena, which is decaf
Kgosi was using the previous “printing press licker” to taste test the brews, but unfortunately that guy is no longer with us (see above vacancy).
8Kgosi himself is switching to tea.
Marital Bliss
The Associated Press cites an Olympia Washington woman Carolyn Paulsen-Riat who was booked for third degree assault and domestic violence after her husband tried to use his table saw.
Switching the “on” button produced a severe electric jolt that knocked him to the floor. Apparently angry that her husband was leaving her, Carolyn had a reversed the wires on all his power tools.
The AP also reports on the Salt Lake City Utah woman, Amy Teresa Ricks who received 30 days in jail for assault.
The 37 year old blindfolded her husband and promised him
“a surprise.”—after which she hit him in the head with a hammer.
Kgosi’s Komment:
To be on the safe side, Kgosi now insists that power tools will only be turned on while Kopo is holding his hand and standing in a pool of water.
He has now also told her that he categorically refuses to further participate in our regular Sunday game of Blind Man’s Bluff without a helmet.
Kgosi
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