Working with the Wildlife Department

The Crew:
Back Row: Me and Bitumelo
Front: Jolly and Bitumelo (Billy)

"FEAR THE BEARD"
(Been growing it since my last Giants' game)

My hair, my hair is so disheveled that Einstein himself would be jealous. My arms, my arms have been scorched brown by the ever present sun. My face, my face is burnt tomato red and I don’t dare to take my shirt off for fear of seeing the Neapolitan monster I have become. Put me in a plastic container and people will try and scoop me. And I couldn’t be much happier.

Why, you ask? Well because I just got back from a week of camping in the bush with the Wildlife Department’s Problem Animal Control Division. Every day we would go out on patrol and everyday you could find me standing in the back of the pickup bed. I was standing, for two reasons. First, it feels ridiculously good to have wind whipping in your face (dogs totally got it right). Second, it was out of necessity. If one were to sit down or even attempt to sit down on this real life version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, they would be bounced and tossed around more than the basketball used in a Globetrotter’s game. You see, tarred roads are a luxury here, and if you aren’t headed to one of the few major cities you’re primarily going to be traveling on dirt/sand/gravel/rocky roads. I spend my time alternating between Windward Facing Dog and a new extreme hybrid sport that is a cross between mogul skiing using the roll bar as my poles (and the moguls are pretty much anything Botswana can throw at me from dry river beds to rocks to dead trees to boar holes), and some upper body form of Dance Dance Revolution, ducking and dodging the oncoming bugs, birds and branches (all of the branches are covered not only in rose-like thorns but also toothpick long ones as well, in case the first didn’t get you). The only difference is that in Dance Dance Revolution if you mess up, your score decreases; in this, if you mess up, the amount of blood you have decreases.

Our primary task was responding to claims of leopard attacks (leopards because all of the other predators have been driven out/killed in the district we were covering). Think CSI: Botswana Bush. The Botswana Government reimburses some of the losses when livestock has been killed by native predators (very few other governments participate in this practice). This is a measure taken to help combat the killing of the native predators. It was as much predator conservation work as it was social. To deal with these claims we were going to the ruralist of the rural areas where the cattle posts are located. We write the claims for the ranchers (ie using “I” and “my”) in English because that is the required language for legal matters in Botswana. We were also writing the claims because very few, if any of the ranchers not only didn’t know how to write or read in English, but also Setswana; for some, we had to write their name down so they could copy it for a signature.

When reflecting on this it is hard not to have a voyeuristic perspective. But the more I see of the world, the more I learn about myself and also the more questions I begin to have. It is something that is hard to avoid, but also it is a two-way street. As I see and speak to Batswana (people of Botswana), they also are speaking to an American and we are sharing a cross-cultural experience. And although I am fortunate to be able to see many different aspects of Botswana and its people, many of the people I meet are not as lucky and to them I represent a population that they are extremely alienated from. It makes me feel good that the first person of light skin they see is not riding a UNICEF or Red Cross chariot of aid, but rather coming to them just to speak with them in their language (or at least try) and share maybe a cup of tea and a story or two.