Extended Stay

The average US passport gains you a free 30 day visa for a stay in Botswana. My 30 days were up on April 2nd. On March 29th I decided it would be a good idea to extend my visa and not risk over-staying my visa, a phrase now part of my parlance thanks to US government attempts to rid the country of Muslims. Another American, one of probably only three I’ve met, said she was able to extend hers at the US Embassy. However, it became clear to me when the Embassy employees were lecturing me about the lack of jurisdiction for an embassy to mingle in the affairs of a host country’s immigration, that she must have had some type of special passport, being an employee of the CDC and here for the diarrhea outbreak.

My fellow Americans at the Embassy were kind enough, however, to direct me to Immigration, who were promptly at lunch from 12:45 to 2:15. But by 2:45 I was through the 2-person-deep queue and speaking with the real authorities, who told me that all visa extensions were being processed at a satellite office on the other side of the city centre (still not far away at least…).

These satellite offices, “on the edge of the Government enclave by the rail-road tracks” (looks like the edge of civilization actually with the dusty fields that stretch into oblivion beyond the tracks), were really more of a triage center populated by temporary trailers and countless Zimbabweans supposedly waiting to extend their stays, more likely just being held in what is basically a pen, awaiting deportation. The atmosphere within the office is just as cruel and impromptu, with no one really being served and a mess of people waiting in a mass of a non-queue to be disciplined by a scowling woman behind a counter. With a fellow PSI employee translating and being brow-beaten, it appeared I needed some type of letter. Now keep in mind, I’m not eager to have to describe that I’ve been interning in Botswana for the month and am hoping to extend my stay because of my duties for PSI– it always means one more queue if your business goes anything beyond the usual tourism or visiting a friend. I fear the worst, assume he has given me up, and think this letter needs to be from PSI. I start arguing with him, he continues arguing with Scowl, and Scowl resorts to a threatening stare.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” my friend says. Not having any desire to repeat the day’s affairs, I refuse and, thankfully, a Tanzanian gentleman tells me that the letter simply has to be from me, detailing my request, because the office has actually run out of forms for extension requests. Scowl supplements this explanation by saying coldly “and we don’t have paper either…”

My new friend from Tanzania, Anthony, and I are kindly directed to leave the grounds, where we can purchase a piece of A4 from one of the many informal tuck-shops that have been constructed in response to the obvious demand. Here, not only can you buy a piece of paper for 1 Pula (outrageous price here; about 20 cents), you can also buy pens, nutritional supplies for the coming wait in the queue, and you can even get a passport picture taken by a gentleman with a Polaroid smiling beside the sheet he has hung on a fence that serves as your photo’s background. Luckily I do have a pen, so, one Pula poorer, we return to the trailer to write our letters. It appears everyone is writing in strict business-letter style with addresses and dates placed appropriately, so I play along. The queue inside now is about 15-deep and all the seats are taken. Anthony and I are having a nice conversation, both equally astonished and pissed-off at the entire circus, when Scowl (who has managed to process exactly zero people while we were gone) asks “why are you standing?”

“Because all the seats are taken,” Anthony answers, a slight quiver in his voice, but at least he was brave enough to speak.

“There are seats outside,” Scowl replies and turns to stare at the queue without emotion.

Turns out there are also another 15 people waiting outside, so Anthony and I sit on a railing and smoke cigarettes and make jokes about Scowl in the blazing sun.

Miraculously, things move pretty quick from here on out and before I know it I’m presenting my letter to, thank Goddess, Not Scowl. In my typical 4th-grade level handwriting, I detail how I am visiting a family friend and utilizing my English skills to help her “organize a meeting.” I figure this is close enough to the truth and I made sure to add plenty of other meaningless and ambiguous details (and plenty of pleasantries) in order to increase the length of my letter and hopefully deter any careful reading. I don’t think I have this wile to thank for it, but there was actually no reading at all and my passport was stamped in seconds.


With this incredible experience behind me, I follow, to the best of my remote abilities, the political battle being waged over imigration in the U.S. It’s not a stretch to say that my experience with immigration beurocracy n Botswana pales in comparison to that of Zimbabweans here or Latinos in the U.S. Imagine what people will go through in the 11-year citizenship or guest-worker processes? The need to humanize this process needs to be addressed and we need to realize that some huge challenges and costs lie ahead.

That said, I think the measure of any democracy should be of how well it can absorb and integrate immigrants while supporting them in their struggle to retain their own heritage within a new nation. Here, as I reveal above, this challenge presents itself in the Zimbabwean escaping a cripled economy, usually starvation, and usually the lack of a home, for the potential prosperity of Botswana – though always with the intent of returning to Zimbabwe.

In Botswana, Zimbabweans are currently the informal sector. The usual thrift and street merchants that populate African cities I have visited are practically (for better or worse) absent in Gaborone, but those that do exist are Zimbabwean and their numbers are growing rapidly. Botswana, like the US, needs to do all it can to provide for these people. The situation here brings to light to a much greater extent than that of the US, the fact that you need to take care of your neighbors because their problems potentially represent your future.

In the face of intense discrimination against Zimbabweans here (in South Africa this was down-right zenophobia) I try to reiterate this ‘neighborly policy’ to any Batswana that will listen – usually Asante – and encourage them to be kind to and to attempt to support Zimbabweans. I have talked to many employers here who prefer Zimbabweans for their work-ethic, and this preference is not lost on Batswana who justifiably see Zimbabweans as a threat and this reaction only intensifies discrimination. This negative manifestation of nationalism brought on by the depression in and exodus from Zimbabwe is a huge regional issue that, within my historical knowledge anyway, represents the first such challenge of the millenia for the young nations in this region (in the statist sense). I’m hoping that Botswana does not go the way of South Africa, where Zimbabweans and Nigerians are viewed as the scourge of the earth and little is being done by the ANC to either reverse that trend or to significantly aid the economic situation in Zimbabwe.

This is of course how the neighborly philosophy can be applied to US – Mexico relations where the real impact on the issue of illigal immigrants can be made in Mexico City, not in Washington. The US Government, working with Mexico, US-based corporations, and international organizations should be active in proping up the economy and wages south of the Rio Grande. I don’t think building a wall or strengthening immigration law will promote anything to that effect.