WORDS: In the Heat
Trip Start
Aug 18, 2005
1
8
26
Trip End
Feb 20, 2006
Gaborone,
Botswana
Monday, October 3, 2005
The lucky ones have found shade, perched under canopies meant for parked cars or the single tree with dry and thinning leaves.
Or, like Primrose and her one-year-old son Tebo, they are sitting on hard cement packed up against the dark reflective glass windows of the conspicuously modern building that houses regional offices of Botswana's Labour and Immigration agencies.
The rest of the mostly Zimbabwean crowd are roasting in bright sunshine, sweltering in windless, 30-something degree heat.
Many come day after day to queue in the hope of obtaining an extension to legally remain in Botswana or to be rewarded with a work permit. They have little desire to return to their native country, which these days is stained with political turmoil, violence, and uncertainty under the rule of Robert Mugabe, regarded as one of Africa's black sheep leaders au courant. Botswana, the relatively affluent neighbouring state to the south, has naturally become a destination for refugees and economic migrants.
Suddenly, a small but noticeable group gather around a middle-aged woman in a floral dress. She is holding a white piece of paper that appears a great deal more wrinkled than her weather-beaten face. While there is an air of impatience, the others are still politely lining up to write on the sheet.
When I finally get close enough to talk to her, I see that it's a list.
"These are the people who are waiting to be seen today," she tells me. I sneak a peek.
The last name written is numbered 623.
Waiting for their turn, Primrose and chubby Tebo have been stationed at the glass building-ironically christened "Universal House"-since before the 8 a.m. opening hour.
It will still be a while yet. It's 12:30 p.m., just 15 minutes before the government officials take their hour-plus lunch breaks.
The mother and infant are flanked on both sides by a pair of the same. The three women offer me tired smiles but warm greetings. They try to get nine-month-old Nikita to call me "auntie," but the adorable tyke ignores them. She's too busy trying to finish her bright pink ice cream, which no doubt was purchased from the cooler of one of the enterprising vendors lurking just outside the parking lot gate.
Primrose, a pretty, good-natured woman with bright eyes and kind smile, asks me if I have been waiting all morning.
"No," I reply.
I find that I can't speak. I am suddenly overwhelmed with some indescribable feeling like guilt or shame.
I can't bring myself to tell her that I had arrived here not 20 minutes ago in an air-conditioned car and officials had already processed my documents.
Primrose is probably my age, 27, or just a few years younger. All that separates us is a passport and opportunity.
My stomach is in knots and I feel my already warm face heat up even more.
Primrose's gentle voice breaks the silence, which is now pounding inside my head and going quite unnoticed by all but me.
"It's a nice place, but it's hot," she says of Botswana. She arrived here a little over a year ago and, despite the heat, hopes to stay.
Abruptly, the conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the car that will take me back to my office. Turning to the mothers and children, I say goodbye and wish them good luck.
As the car drives off, I take one last long look around. There is absolutely no chance that these hundreds will be seen today, tomorrow or even this week.
At midday, even as the mercury keeps soaring, the queue is growing.
