Cancer story (Botswana/South Africa)

This has been some of the most challenging times that I have been through. Some days I wanted to give up and pull the plug, if I was connected to one. However, now that I have been through the operation and am healing I feel that now I can complete the radiation and chemotherapy treatments and hopefully move on to a healthy life and kick this pancreatic cancer.

It was a depressing feeling when I first had a sense from the doctors that it might be a cancerous tumour. This was after a MRI in Gaborone, Botswana, Africa. The medical staff told me the MRI doctor will tell me her findings, but when she said I should make an appointment with my GP doctor to hear the results, I knew that something was up. There was previously some casual talk of a tumour, based on an ultrasound, but the MRI needed to confirm this. I remember sitting outside the MRI office waiting for my taxi that took an extra long to arrive. It was very hot out and sitting in some shade I had a lot of time to think. Perceiving that something was not right and was most likely cancer, I wondered what would happen, what the treatment be and, feeling vulnerable, if it would hurt. I also worried about how it would affect my relationship with my wife, how this would unfold and where the future would lay.

At this time the blockage was causing me considerable pain and heavy lethargy, which at this point had been for the last two months (mid Sept to mid Oct). I was very jaundice and did not have the energy for any simple activity. Due to the blockage neither the bile or digestive enzymes could flow and these were being dangerously absorbed into the bloodstream, which my GP was worried could put me into a coma. After seeing my GP, who confirmed there was a tumour, she referred me to a gastro-ontologist (a stomach specialist), to investigate the type of tumour, which was still not confirmed as cancer. I was hoping that the Specialist could tell me that it was benign, but after seeing the MRI images he suspected it was a cancerous tumour and advised not to waste anymore time and fly to Johannesburg, South Africa immediately in order to have an procedure to put in a stent. The stent was needed to open up the blockage that the tumour was causing at the junction of the bile and pancreatic duct in the digestive system. I remember him telling me as we walked out of his office that he hoped that I would not need a 'Whipples' operation, which would be very hard on my system.

This all started out with sever stomach cramps in late September of 2010. Although I was not vomiting I thought I had a mild case of food poisoning, but my GP suggested that it was salmonella and it would take a week to work its way out of my system. Two weeks later I was still not feeling any better and then Gayle, my wife, noticed that I was yellow, which a colleague commented on too. My urine had also turned very dark so I knew I had to go see the GP again. After seeing her, she adjusted her diagnosis to Hepatitis and had me do some blood work to confirm which hepatitis I had. However, the doctor assured me that with rest and proper eating I would get better in a few weeks.

However, by late November I was feeling much worse and had turned a more vibrant yellow. I was also concerned as the numerous blood work I had done for hepatitis had all came back as negative. It seemed to my doctor that I had a rare form of gastro hepatitis. She recommended an ultrasound and MRI, to see if there were any blockages and then go to the gastro-ontologist. I remember mentioning to her that if this might be caused by cancer. Usually I am not that pessimistic but I had an instinct that it might be so. She discounted this theory based on that the pain came right away and was not a slow build up, usually associated with cancer.

The pain and weakness prevented me from doing my volunteer work since September. I came to Botswana to work with Uniterra/World University Service of Canada to do video production. I was creating supportive video projects for HIV and AIDS organizations that the Canadians are involved in. HIV and AIDS is still a major and devastatingly problem here and 1 in 4 people are infected with the virus. My wife came to Botswana a few months earlier to work for the Southern African Development Community on gender equality and women's empowerment programming. She did not want to take a year contract without me being with her so we agreed to go into this adventure together. I wrapped up my Canadian video projects and was happy to make my way to Africa. This was very fulfilling work. Uniterra in Botswana had never had a video production person in their support team so I had cart-blanch with the video direction. I learned so much about HIV and AIDS issues and was able to create some informative videos. It is ironic that I came to Africa to work on health issues and then I became a major health liability.

After a few months of pain and extreme loss of body weight I was very relieved to go to Johannesburg to get a diagnosis, treatment and have the tumour removed. Still not knowing if it was cancer or not I put my trust in the doctors to deal with me and correctly diagnose the issue. When I arrived at the Donald Gordon Medical Clinic (a private hospital), the recommended physician, Dr. C. Joseph immediately put me at ease with his intelligence and kind demeanour. I felt safe and believed everything would work out fine. I had a very nice room, with some lovely sisters (nurses) providing attentive care.

Dr. Joseph explained that it would be a two part procedure; first, to insert a stent to unblock the growth and secondly, to remove the tumour. After the operation to insert the stent in the blockage, in order to open up the duct, I woke up feeling great relief for the first time in months (albeit with a sore throat since they do the operation via a tube through the mouth). However, the day after I was back to misery. Dr. Joseph was stunned, he said that usually once the stent is inserted I should return to feeling healthy. The stent creates an opening and allows the bile, which was causing high bilirubin levels and extreme jaundice, to drop. Dangerously high levels of bilirubin can work its way to the brain and cause a coma. The normal level is 20 – 30. Throughout my one month stay in the hospital my bilirubin levels were very high, at the highest point it was 500, the highest the doctor has ever seen. Dr. Joesph could not remove the tumour until I was able to gain some weight and have the bilirubin levels at a controllable level.

My weight loss was partly due to not eating. Food in general was causing me great irritation. The mere sight and smell of almost anything edible was very upsetting. The hospital called in dieticians and even the hospital cooking staff to see if there was anything that they could make that I was able to eat. Even with their help and special meals, still not much was going down and I had to rely on nutritional protein drinks for most of my stay in the hospital.

After a few more days there was no improvement with the stent and Dr. Joseph performed another operation to put in a larger stent. Unfortunately, this second stent did not work either. The bilirubin levels were getting even higher and my weight loss continued. I started to feel very itchy and could not help scratching. I was so uncomfortable and sweating profusely. The doctors were worried this might happen. The bilirubin was now working its way into the brain. The itching was a symptom of this. During the worst time of itchiness, which lasted up to almost two weeks, I felt like I just wanted to jump out of a window. It was an uncontrollable itch, it was hard to ignore. It was hard to go sleep. When there was no visual stimulation (TV) to take my mind off of things, the itch would intensify. The only thing that helped was the doctor's explanation that it is purely psychological and that there was nothing on my skin that was causing the itch. I would tell myself that “no matter how much I scratched there would be no relief so don't even start.”

It became a daily routine to have blood work done to see if the bilirubin levels were coming down. I felt like a pin cushion with all the needles, plus anti-coagulation needles directly in the stomach, which felt like bee stings. Sadly, the bilirubin levels were still high. The doctors were dumbfounded. They did another internal scope and saw that the second larger stent had become blocked. They discovered that the tumour was soft and had collapsed around the stent, which created a block. So I needed to have a third operation. They put me under again and added a second stent, one inside the other. This finally seemed to allow the bile to properly flow, but with continued weight loss and the bilirubin levels still too high, they could not yet operate to remove the tumour. It was a waiting game.

During the initial operations Dr. Joseph did some 'scrapings' around the tumour while inserting the stent. The biopsy still could not confirm if the tumour was malignant or not, but it did conclude that I would have to do the 'Whipples' operation. This is a very invasive procedure that lasts seven hours. The 'Whipples' is an old procedure from the 1940's. It is well established, tried and true, but very hard on the body. The surgeon removes part of the stomach and pancreas, completely removes the gallbladder and duodenum, plus any of the lymph nodes in the abdomen area. They tighten up the digestive track, food then 'dumps' directly into the stomach. There is now no controlled release of the digestive enzymes, and all food must be combined with some proteins, even drinks, to aid in food absorption and digestion.

A couple of days after the third operation I started to cough up blood. It lasted for four days and really was an incredibly scary experience. After three weeks in the hospital, three operations (two unsuccessful) and feeling tired, itchy and weak, all I wanted was to feel good and see some improvements. Coughing up blood really took a physical and emotional toll. Plus, the first night of coughing up blood had me transferred to a very uncomfortable night in the 'High Care' unit (half jokingly I renamed it 'Hell Care'), which I felt set me back in recovery. I mentioned this to my doctor and he understood when I said you felt more like a statistic than a patient there but this is what they are good at, monitoring your vital signs and not listening to your moaning and groaning. Coughing also led to more x-rays and tests but no clear explanation. The doctor thought maybe, based on the symptoms, it was tuberculosis, since I was around TB patients doing a video for Uniterra. He said this would explain the continued weight loss, sweating and coughing up blood. He told me that he never wished TB on anyone but was hoping that this could be it, since he could then have a solid diagnosis and start treating it, as TB is curable. If it was not, he was worried that the possible cancer was complicating things. At the time it was actually a disappointment to get back all negative TB test results; we all felt at a loss. However, thankfully the coughing up blood had stopped.

Dr. Joseph wanted to get other professional opinions on my condition so he organized another scope to view the tumour. This was a video scope that could view with great clarity. I was brought down to the theatre and was greeted by five doctors. I did not know at the time that they were all there for me. After the viewing Doctor Joseph said they all agreed that the tumour did look cancerous but was still not hundred percent sure what type or how aggressive it was. At least I knew for sure what I was dreading, this actually brought some relief but now brought other variables to the table.

Another part of this journey was seeing myself in the mirror. With losing almost a third of my body weight I was very skinny and weak. I started to look and feel very old and resemble my parents during their vulnerable period just before they both died. This freighted me a lot. Seeing my Dad in me when he was so fragile brought me back to those sad times as well made me think that maybe I was also close to dying. The skinny arms and legs with loose skin, the sunken cheeks, the frail stature, and even certain body gestures were similar to my Father. I would see his face in my reflection and it was hard to escape these mournful memories. My Mother died of liver cancer just before my Dad died and her symptoms also had similarities to mine. I could not run away from the painful loss of my parents even far away in Africa.

Next, we just had to wait to see if the bilirubin levels would come down. After a third week in the hospital, the levels were starting to slowly fall and this brought great relief. The itching subsided. I was still so yellow, almost a fluorescent yellow, glowing. But with the bilirubin levels slowly dropping there was not much more the hospital could do for me until I gained strength and weight. So I was released, after a month in the ward, so I could go back to Gaborone, Botswana during the Christmas holidays to monitor the bilirubin levels, hope for its continued decrease, and put on some holiday pounds.

The next three weeks out of the hospital, and being back at home, were wonderful times. The hospital did everything to make my stay and healing comfortable and possible, but 'real' improvement I feel takes place outside of those institutions. Food started to agree with me and I turned into an eating machine. I started reading cookbooks like novels, every morning I would wake up and start to look up recipes and plan the meals or just imagine the tastes that those culinary texts would suggest. I was so fixated on eating that I put on quite a few, much needed, pounds. I was able to get some exercise too, doing some gardening in December and January. Christmas was fun too in a hot climate, swimming outside with an inflatable Christmas tree floating in the pool was a surreal and enchanting experience for a Canadian. But I missed my family and friends back in Canada, wishing to receive their comfort. I also started to romanticize the Canadian winters.

We returned to Johannesburg for the Whipples operation on January 17th. Laying down on the hospital bed I looked at my stomach and saw it for the last time not scarred. Gayle and I even took a picture of if pre-operation while waiting for the doctors to come in and administer the first of the drugs to put me under. The doctors came and explained the pros and cons of certain anaesthesiology drugs and procedures. I was a little confused and just did not want to feel pain. They reassured me that I would feel nothing during the procedure but it would not be pleasant afterwards. Being informed that usually in a hospital theatre is one of the safest places in the world, but with this operation it was safer to be in a car, was a little unsettling. It was going to be a long (7 hours of cutting) and very hard on the body. I was in a solemn mood and squeezed Gayle's hand before they wheeled me away from her.

I had to sit up straight to get the epidermal and as they pushed the needle in my back I felt the pain they told me about, sharp pains in my legs and lower back. I sat there unemotional while they readied the room, putting out the tools that were wrapped in green cloth and stainless steel containers. Looking around I could see all the monitoring and life support equipment, knowing that I will be the focus in that room and wondered how did I get to this point, it all seemed so strange but very real.

I felt the coolness of the drug, that knocks you out, go into my left arm's vein. It took only seconds for the effect to work. I consciously studied the time from the first moments of its administration to every second that I was aware of time, then, the next cognisant instant was being in the intensive care unit with the doctors all around me. They told me everything went well and was now the time to rest and recover. I slowly moved my eyes and then my head to look around and saw the business of the ward, the blinking lights, the tubes and wires running from my body to machines, the other beds with patients, and the hovering staff. It was also very noisy, with bells and beeps constantly going off, and even the laughter from the sisters as they provided the care. But I could not ignore the pain in my body. Every movement seemed to pull on a stomach muscle, every moment demanded a lot of strength, which I did not yet have. All I could do was quietly call out for a sip of water to wet my dry mouth.

I had numerous tubes coming out of my body; two from my stomach, two down my nose, one in my arm, one in the neck, one in the back, one in my hand, catheter, oxygen tubes, blood pressure cuffs (that automatically inflates every half hour or so, and felt very irritating) and many wires hooked up to vital statistic monitors. These all controlled my bodily functions and pain management. All I had to do was sit there. No need to eat or visit the washroom. The sisters were there for me, twenty-four hours a day. If I was in pain they would up the dose, if I was tired but could not sleep, they could give me something for that. If I needed ice to help keep the mouth moist, they would bring it. They responded to all inquirers. Sometimes I felt guilty asking them for support but they were always willing to accommodate my needs. They would bath me, which was a very odd feeling since it felt like I was a baby again. It took them at least a half an hour for them to untangle tubes and undo wires and cap off the IV when I needed to sit in a nearby chair. The doctors highly recommend sitting up and not staying lying in bed since this could cause a clasped lung, which leads to pneumonia. But not having the strength and feeling very sore, even with all the pain killers, it was so very hard moving from the bed to the chair. I would with the assistance of the sisters attempt one way to get up and have to give up. I would catch my breath and try another method. Finally, after withstanding the pain, I would be on my feet but would have to plop down on the chair full of pillows. It did feel good to be in another position but after awhile that position was uncomfortable. Then I would ask the sisters to help me move back to the bed, which took another half an hour.

I had daily tasks to help me get stronger. The ICU doctors asked me to blow into a device to help exercise the lungs and prevent them from collapsing. I could not even cough let alone blow. The muscle strength was not there, but I tried. There was also a physiotherapist who came immediately when I was sitting in the chair to move my legs and arms. It was like learning how to do everything again. Mentally and physically it was hard to keep focused and positive. The pain and weakness seemed to take over all my thoughts.

A day after the operation, towards evening, I started to feel unwell. I complained about stomach pains. They increased my morphine which helped but soon the pain was back. I complained again and got another shot. Before long I felt nauseous, they gave me something for that. It subsided then my mouth was salivating profusely again and they gave me more stuff for nausea. The medications did not seem like they were taking affect anymore and the pain was mounting. Again I complained. I asked to see the Head ICU Doctor. It took some time for him to come after doing his rounds. I remember calling out 'help' before he came. It was really agonizing. When he did see me, he read my vital statistics, and saw that something major was going on. My blood pressure was very low, my heart rate was high and I was extremely pale. He said we would have to open me up again and do some emergency surgery. I did not feel any relief from this news. All I could think of was how painful it all was. The doctor said he would call Dr. Joseph to come in and do the operation. I asked how long it would take since I could not take much more pain. He said he should be there within ten minutes. This was around eleven p.m. and when Dr. Joseph arrived he told me that the operating theatre was getting prepped but we would need the Anaesthesiologist and he would take twenty minutes to arrive. I begged him if there was someone else we could use and he assured me there was not. I looked into Dr. Joseph eyes and got him to promise to help me. Every minute the pain was getting stronger. I could not imagine that I could wait another twenty minutes. Tears were in my eyes, I felt like I could pass out from the pain. The sisters were all undoing the wires and tubes preparing me for the theatre. There was lots of attention around my bed but none of it seemed to help the pain.

I was being wheeled into the theatre when Dr. Gordon, the Anaesthesiologist, arrived. He had to tell me what he was going to do but all I could say to him was to put me under as soon as he can. Then the moment came when I woke up in the ICU ward two and half hours later. Dr. Gordon and Dr. Joseph were there telling me that a blood vessel had detached in my stomach area and was bleeding internally. It was hard to comprehend, I was still drowsy and worn out from the evening, but I felt calm now, and just wanted to rest. The sister that was looking after me took over and started to clean me up. There was still blood all over my body. She spent another three hours cleaning me up and then she put fresh linen on the bed. I was a bit nervous of being moved onto my side since it usually caused great pain, but she said not to worry with all the pain medication put in me. When her shift ended another sister took over and noticed that I still had some blood by my eyes, I can not imagine what it was like to operate on a detached blood vessel.

I spent ten days in the ICU ward and got used to sleeping at a forty-five degree angle and with all the noise and bright lights. There were seven beds in the front area, where I was but more rooms in the back. We as patients could not get up and talk to one another since we were tied to all the machines around the beds. I would look at them and wonder what they were in for and how they were doing. Sometimes you would use hand gestures to ask for the time, if someone could see a clock, or ask if they were feeling good that day. Mainly you were counting down the time for visiting hours, which were really limited in the ICU ward; only three one hour slots a day. This was really hard on Gayle. She would be waiting on the other side of the wall for the appointed hour to only get an hour visit, then wait a few more hours for the next visit. When Gayle left I felt really alone. We would try to make the most of the visit but it would go very fast. She would bring in her laptop and read me some well wishes from emails and facebook messages. This really brought solace to me. When Gayle mentioned someone's name I would picture their face and listen to their words. I was transported to a tranquil place during her visits. Sometimes I would negotiate with the sister if Gayle could stay a bit longer. Some would be ok with this, and some were strict with the rules, “You have two minutes left.”

As the days went by in the ICU, I was starting to become more mobile. I would take a slow walk to the washroom just to sit and escape the noise and action. Closing the door gave me great reprieve. I could breath deeply and put a lot of unsettling feelings out of my mind. Then I would feel guilty about hogging the bathroom and would push my portable IV unit back to my bed, nodding to some of the other patients.

The ICU experience was a bit like reality TV. You saw when the other patients were not doing well and would find out about their condition. Although they would usually pull the curtains closed for privacy I knew when things were good or bad. There was a very nice man beside me. I found out he had the same operation as me. His family was allowed to come in for longer periods and they would pray for him. When I first arrived he was there and was able to get around but day after day he became weaker and finally bedridden. Then came the time they removed him and my doctor privately told me, when I asked, that he was not going to make it. Another very nice man across from me was supposed to have the Whipples operation, and sadly, they were not able to do it. They opened him up and saw that the cancer was in an area that could not be removed. The doctors warned me about this happening to me too. They said don't be surprised if you wake up from the operation and find out that they could not do the operation. This was another hazard with the type of cancer I had. After talking with him he said the doctors told him that he could only do chemotherapy and radiation treatments to try and control it but that the results would not be as positive in the long term.

I was transferred to the regular ward and it seemed like heaven. I was so happy to get out of the ICU ward away from the intensity. I had a TV again and two other roommates who turned out to be such interesting and kind individuals. We each consoled each other and had great conversations about many personal subjects. I even learned how the great confusing sports (to us North Americans) of rugby and cricket are played and a bit of their strategy. This helped out a lot since rugby and cricket were always on TV and now I could follow it and even get excited by the play. I still miss my roommate’s company.

Everyday in the ward I would try to get some exercise by walking but I could not go far. I was not able to stand up straight (and still cannot completely, and still very tired). The pain from the wound was continuous but I felt like I was healing and gaining strength. I could even start to eat solid foods again but this was a lengthy process too. I could introduce certain foods bit-by-bit. Things were slowly improving and my wound was healing but the issue was waiting for the pending biopsy report. The wound did get infected from the midnight emergency operation. Dr. Joseph then had to take out some of the staples to release the pressure from the infection, it was not a pretty sight. Once I saw the wound and the staples, which made me look like Frankenstein's brother, I almost vomited. It was such a large cut, going almost across my whole belly. It was red, raw and with the contrast of the metal staples things did not look right. The skin was not even joined evenly, though the doctors said that the skin is elastic and will be fine. They were right and the wound does not scare me like it used to and is healing well.

I was released from the hospital on January 28th and then spent two weeks at a Bed and Breakfast in Johannesburg with Gayle to make sure the recovery was fine before flying back to Gaborone. Midway through this time I had an appointment with Dr. Joseph and he told me the bad news from the biopsy report. The cancer was a much more aggressive pancreatic cancer than first diagnosed. It had spread to a lymph node so as a precautionary measure he said that I would have to do chemotherapy once a week for six months to resolve the issue. When we met up with the Oncologist the following week, to organize the administering of the chemo treatments, he read the reports then stated that the cancer is most likely still in my system. He said that in South Africa that they usually don't recommend radiation treatment as often as in North America but that in my case he strongly recommended radiation. When I heard this news I just wanted to cry. I have so many images in my mind relating to so many stories I heard about radiation. I was confused of where to get the treatment. I did not want the five week radiation (five times a week) with a very uncomfortable regiment in a lonely place such as in Johannesburg. Gayle and I decided that it would be best to be in a comfortable environment with family and friends, so we made arrangements to come back to Canada for a couple of months.

I am a bit scared but ok with things. The Oncologist stated that with this type of cancer and operation only five percent of people do well and survive. He said that I am a part of that percentage so far, and I should feel very lucky. I do feel lucky and with the support of friends and family the luck is getting stronger.

Kenny xoxoxo

Winter Walks

Do you ever wish you could just stay in one place for a very long time without needing anything, just so you could see the world unfold? I feel this way when I walk through Gaborone’s streets. Winter is starting to loosen its grip and now there are so many street scenes that I just want to stop and watch, like the people walking in the dirt field as they emerge from the bright twilight sun and pass you by with more people leaving their footprint’s trace. You know there is a story on every face, you just have to stop, watch and listen, ask them to tell you a story, like how you asked for one as a child. This is what I crave, stories to listen to, stories from another land. I feel lucky to be here and experience a bit of a foreign adventure. When I talk to people from here, I can’t help but ask them about what it was like growing up in Africa. I hear lovely simple stories. Stories about walking 20 kms to school and back and having to bring their own firewood to cook their lunch with. Stories about going to the cattle post to be with their father or brother on the weekends. Stories of growing up in Gaborone when the city was still young, that it was more likely to pass by a donkey or goat than a neighbour. Stories that are stories that pull you away and place a dream in you.

The combination of my experiences and the stories I’ve heard remind me of a descriptive English folk song “Dirty old town”

“I found my love by the gas works croft.
Dreamed a dream by the old canal.
Kissed my girl by the factory wall.
Dirty old town, dirty old town.

I heard a siren from the dock.
Saw a train set the night on fire.
Smell the spring on the sulphured wind.
Dirty old town, dirty old town.”

Though I am still not too sure why this song makes me think of Gaborone. Gaborone is far from the sea, and the only thing that I have seen that is canal like are all the deep ditches that are along the streets to collect the water during rainy season and to keep the streets from flooding. So I guess I too am dreaming by the old canal and smelling spring on the wind.

Night Moves

We went to a braai (BBQ) last Saturday night at a coworker’s of Gayle. We danced for hours to the sound of the car stereo’s system pumping out the liquid beats from the open car doors. This taxed the battery, which died and was revived by idling the engine, and the music kept flowing, not just for us but for the neighborhood too. This is not so uncommon or annoying, it happens all the time here. Music drifting down the street, over the walls and into your yard is almost seen as cultural, announcing the pleasures of life. Actually all Sunday morning next door they have been loudly playing contemporary country music. I sort of feel back home again hearing the very music that I grew up with. However this was not by choice but by association. I was just one of the family members collectively listening to the C&W music that was all around us. This is the first time I have heard country music here in Africa. I know that country music is very popular in Germany too and has made its way around the world, moving away from folk status to pop eminence. But as I sit in our yard reading under a tree, the neighbour’s music reduces the distance to Canada. Yet I am then transported back to Africa by the lovely singing of the Catholic church choir. They are singing acapella in their court yard only a few houses away. The bells rang out, calling the congregation and announcing its presence, then the music and singing started for the regular all day Sunday service. Church is a big part of people’s lives here. Work meetings and gatherings start with a prayer, religious TV stations number in the hundreds (I am not exaggerating), and people generally don’t feel any inhibition to bring up god in normal conversation, not in an evangelical way but more as a statement that ‘this is our life.’


Song and rhythm declare life’s joys, and when your body responds through movement, it becomes a revealing personal story of love and seduction. At least this is how I see it when I observe the African’s dance to contemporary music. The way their hips move are smooth, self-assured and persuasive, which is in stark contrast to my bouncy erratic steps. They always yield new gyrations so the movements during their dancing are never repetitive. Their dance is complex, seeming simple in strategy and show, but when I try the moves myself my hips are not that loose. I don’t want to generalize or stereotype but it seems everyone here can bust a move, men and women alike. I have seen a group of older teenaged boys just casually working on dance moves in the streets, responding to music from a sports event that drifted from a stadium. The same event’s music made this older woman, who was cleaning up some trash on the street, start dancing by herself and making me feel like I was missing out by just walking by. When music is played people just break out and move and they don’t feel confined, a public space is a space for all to show enjoyment. Another lovely thing is how all the people with different body shapes regard themselves with real sensual power. When people dance they work it with what they have and don’t seem to be inhibited by anything that might seem provocative. The more playful the move the more joyful the viewers and dancers become.


I have recently experienced this style of dance not so long ago. Our South American, Mexican and Cuban friends in Guelph all have great, fluid and sexy dance moves. I have tried to keep up with my Salsa steps but as Shakira sings in her song “Hips don't lie” mine give me away. You might even call me a dance charlatan. When I hear Shakira and Wyclef Jean song lyrics they definitely sum up my thoughts about these seductive dancers:

“You know my hips don't lie,
And I'm starting to feel it's right,
All the attraction, the tension
Don't you see baby, this is perfection.”


At the braai with Gayle’s colleagues there were two very young girls around 3 years old. They had some fantastic dance moves. There was no encouragement needed to show us adults how it was done. We all joined in on the dance action beside the car under the cloudless sky, with Liz DJ’ing. As the night wore on, I asked the mother of one of the girls how her little one learned all these great moves, she suggested that her daughter just learned from what she saw around the home. Dancing for them is a family affair.

Gaborone, Botswana: the first impressions

Disclaimer: these are my first impressions of Botswana. They may relate to some truth but really they just illustrate how I see and what I feel. Below is a description of images and thoughts that make me smile or create a moment of pause. These words may give you the notion that life is really different here but I write what interests me, not desiring any division or privilege. The joys are countless and the people are engaging and full of grace. There is a connection between Canadian and Batswana culture and circumstances that are very common to both. I may write about those subjects too, but the following impressions are what keeps this Canadian boy joyful and happy to be here in Botswana.

The book, ‘Welcome to Gaborone, Botswana’ lists an important phone number to call if you have a snake problem. Here is the number if you need it: (267) 72968804.

From the landscape, it does feel like we are living in another land. Our house garden is full of plants, which in Canada would only be indoor or in botanical gardens, like mother tongue, cacti and jade plants. Since Botswana is a dry country, most yards do not have grass, only dirt. The dirt is rust colored and in our yard is swept clean of leaves and twigs every week by our gardener with a traditional grass broom. The neighbors sing with lovely voices in their yard - ‘I hear you but I do not see you’ – we are separated by large brick walls and electric wires. Inside our home are a few ‘African’ motif sculptures that don’t feel out of place here. The yard area has two covered porches, one with a hopscotch game permanently painted but faded and the other porch is ready for a bbq or an escape from the sun and rain. Both look out to our very large yard with big trees that are surrounded with circles of stones. The plants grow everywhere but there is an order to their placement. It seems like an English style garden composed with cacti and large leaf plants, there is even a banana tree (I look forward to its fruit, picked right in our own back yard). We are enveloped in the natural world. An anthill on one side of the wall encrusts a tree and stands over ten feet tall. It might even be too large for the ants since a smaller hill lies around 3 feet tall in its shadows on our side of the walled fence. Gayle says it might be termites. I’ve heard that it is a bad omen to knock over these hills, plus it would most likely bring in termites or ants into the house.

In our backyard stands a very large pepper tree and I do mean tree. It has white pepper seeds with little pink dots. When you crack its seed, the smell surrounds your fingers, it is a potency that is instantly recognizable. At first you do not notice all those little pepper seeds, but there are many little seedpods subtlety hanging out amongst the leaves. Initially, I did not identify it as a pepper tree, not giving credit that exotic plants can grow very well here, albeit surviving the harsh summer sun, but they seem to be well suited here.

I love wandering through this sizeable yard, just gazing at the plants and things gathering around in the yard, feeling like a little boy looking for some hidden adventure or mystery. One sees a lot when one slows down in your own yard. There are a number of birds that are very new to this Canadian. Their shape and sounds continue to be unknown, even when searching for them in guidebooks. Other animal friends appear too, a lizard was sunning him/herself as our roommate Magali was doing the same one Sunday afternoon, grabbing some intense heat in preparation for the cool night. He was around 14 inches in length, and as Magali pointed out, a few tiny lizards were close by on another branch. These little baby lizards were blending into the tree bark except for when they quickly moved to find another spot. Many geckos were also climbing around the barrier walls, boogieing very fast in their 4 to 6 inch long bodies. I am curious what they eat and if their travels are for food or fun since there seems to be real joy in their movement.

We also have some curious salamanders too. I planted a small vegetable garden with some seedlings of beetroot, kale, rape, and tomato plants, as well as some basil, thyme, and spinach from seed, which has already sprouted after a week! The salamanders are also out catching the sun’s heat. They seem to be watching me as I prepare the dry sandy soil, add manure and water to the little plants. It might seem funny, but I think of them as my little outdoor buddies. I always look out for them when working in the garden or when reading a book by their hang out spots. There are three that I keep a look out for, I have no names for them, but can distinguish them by their personalities. The one in the cement rock bed, is the most inquisitive, he does not move away when I approach. He actually comes out when he feels movement in his home area, sort of to say ‘hello’. The most active little guy is by the herb seedlings. He is cautious, but also very curious. He scurries in and out of his entrance from the cracked cement when the coast is clear or when my movement is still. The fat one by the pool moves slowly, following the sun, inch by inch, when shade encroaches.

There is a big, big spider in my closet. I am letting it have the bottom shelf. It has started to feel like it is a friend. Hey! I just saw the big thing cruise around the wall. Not so sure if I can call it a friend at the moment, and besides, it just went beside my pillow and is hanging out casually about a foot and a half from my head. I keep looking at it and it just seems to be waiting for its prey - good. I’ll keep my distance if he keeps his. Remind me to shake out my shoes before I put them on in the morning ok? (Morning update – I survived. I look in the closet and he is back in his little spot, so he has his routines I guess. If he keeps the bug population down, well then he is a welcome friend (back to being a friend this morning). We had to kill a couple cockroaches not too long ago. One was BIGGER than my thumb, and Gayle told me that this one was much smaller than one they just killed before I arrived. Hopefully our spider friend likes the taste of a good crunchy roach.

A big issue here in Gaborone is home security. We have a large and weighty gate that rolls back when we push a button and a lovely brick fence that surrounds the yard with an even lovelier electric wire barrier that should stop all intruders and vine growth (hence a good gardener looks after this – without shocking themselves). I feel a crazy urge to touch the electric wire but of course will not since I value my life. A good friend of ours did touch it by accident and felt disoriented for the rest of the day. We also have locks on all doors, even our bedroom door and the doors between the kitchen and hallways. We lock all exterior and interior doors at night. It feels a little weird to lock your bedroom door but safe is a feeling I like to sleep with. Even the fridge has a lock on it, maybe for midnight snacking but it is for other reasons. Sadly, it is used for keeping the ‘house staff’ out, of course we would never use it. All the window and patio doors have bars and grates that are permanently in place too. When you look outside it is always through bars. There have been recent break-ins with some colleagues so we take precaution.

Our alarm did go off one night around 1 am. The alarm is incredibly loud and scares you awake. We carefully unlocked our bedroom doors and our roommates, Arsalan and Magali, met us just outside of the locked kitchen and living room door. It was a very unsettling feeling when turning the key in the lock to see if anyone was there in the other room. You might be wondering why we even did this and not just wait for the security guys to show up, but when the pounding of the alarm is intense and your adrenaline is running high you don’t make the best decisions. There was no obvious intruder, and when the security guys did do a walk around the yard everything appeared safe.

Our home is lovely though, with large rooms, high ceilings, clean sparse walls, a fireplace (so comforting during this wintertime when the temperature drops in the evening), and white tile floors throughout. It feels ‘grand’ with large closets that have two big doors that open up like revealing a stage. Here in Botswana there is an expectation to have a maid, gardener and in our case a pool guy too. Not just for privilege but also to provide employment. Most of these positions are held by Zimbabweans. Due to the current situation in Zimbabwe with their president Mugabe, Botswana has a large population of Zimbabweans that come for employment and opportunities, many illegally. The Zimbabweans often get a bad rap and I have heard they are blamed for the local crime, but my perception of Zimbabweans is that they are wonderful people and very kind. Our maid, Ellen, comes three times a week. She has a very cute little boy named Pride who is about four months old. Gayle has come home sometimes and seen Pride tucked in the couch with pillows pinning him in place so he does not fall. He loves holding your fingers to try to stand, which brings a very satisfied smile to his face and yours. I always look forward in seeing him when I come home from work and giving him a little squeeze.

I was wondering about garbage day and how it works. Gayle informed me that there is no schedule here. The truck passes along your street and if you hear it then great, you open up your gate and put out the trash before it passes you by. If you are not around during the day or miss the sounds of the truck then you just have to wait until, by chance, for your connection with the garbage man. Someone told me that sometimes it has taken over a month for a truck to come on by in this city. But in other areas of Gaborone they do get regular pick up. The trucks come by and ring your bell. I guess we don’t live in the ‘regular pick up area.’

The other night we heard a noise in our place. Our roommate, Magali, went out to investigate and called out for me to come. She was laughing and pointed to our large patio window that has diamond shaped bars. At first I could not see what she was pointing too and then I looked up at the top of the window and saw an orange kitten (a very dirty one at that) who was trying to get the hell out. I approached it to see if it was stuck, but cautiously since these little wild feral creatures might have some kind of crazy thing going on. I did see if before when one night I heard some cats outside our window by the pool. They like our yard at night since we have a pool that they get water from (it does not have much chlorine) and no dogs in the yard. Most dogs act as security and are not pets. But when I approached the kitten it hissed at me and tried moving along the top area of the bars. It looked so cute all stuck up in there and we laughed some more at it. And as we laughed it sort of fell but more like those Japanese Pachinko games where the ball drops and hits round pegs. He just stayed there at the bottom so we left him there hoping he would exit out our front door, which was open. I figured it had come in that way, but Magali told me that the door was closed before. Then we saw that there was a whole bunch of dirt and wood chips on the floor by the fireplace. I thought that maybe it was trying to go up the chimney, but when I looked at the kitten again I could see that it was all dusty with soot. Then it dawned on us that it must have been on the roof and climbed into the chimney and fell down all the way into our front room. Eventually the kitten found its escape in peace. We named the orange kitten "Santa Claus."

I do love walking to work. I usually go past the old museum, which has period pieces from Africa’s past, organized along its path. I cannot help but always look up at the Rhodesia Railway sign painted on an old passenger rail car, this keeps me grounded in (an intense) history. My trip also takes me past large cacti and trees with vibrant red flowers. Gayle had a jasmine tree outside her first residence here last fall. The WUSC office (World University Services of Canada) where I work has papaya and guava trees in its yard. Across the street stands a fig tree. Mango trees are very plentiful too. A co-worker says that during the fruit season you cannot give the fruit away – everybody has their fill.

I get stared at a lot. I try not to be intrusive and stare back but it seems we both want to check each other out. I have heard that it takes a bit for Botswana people to warm up to you. Saying “Dumela Ma” (to a woman) or “Dumela Ra” (to a man) usually brings a friendly hello back. On my daily walk to work I pass by a lot of little stalls, there is about one every hundred feet or so, usually underneath a tree or by a bus stop or just anywhere that is good place to have a very small table. The vendors (mostly women) usually have individually wrapped candy, airtime (cell phone minutes) and bananas for sale. Some vendors also sell beans, grapes or root vegetables if it is in the market area. One of my favorite tables had only five little baskets of grapes (very specialized and focused selling). It was hard to resist so I bought a basket. I pass one particular table just outside a red dirt soccer field twice a day, going to and from work. I say “Dumela” to the seller. Lots of times she’ll have a friend hang out with her and maybe a little boy will be there too. She now greets me with a nice smile, a very warm ‘good evening’ or a nice wave. There is always laughter and conversation between the sellers. The streets are chalk full of these little stalls and provides a welcome moment of pause and friendship.

One day I bought a bunch of rape leaves from a street vendor for 4 Pula (60 cents CAD). I was walking home with them in a bag with their stocks sticking out. The seller that I pass on the soccer field called out to me. At first I did not think she was talking to me, but just by chance I looked back, and her and her friend were starring at me. They looked at the bag and I said “oh this?” And they asked if I liked eating it. I told them that I was not too sure since it was the first time that I’ll try it, but that I like leafy greens. They smiled. I told them how I was going to cook it but they suggested a different way. So here I was exchanging recipes with these two lovely women in the soccer field. This made my day.

During the morning and early evening walks one sees the comfortable action and normal life of the Botswana people (Motswana is singular and Batswana is plural), from young students brushing off dust from their school uniforms, to them slipping into their street footwear at the end of the school day. People saunter at a very slow pace wrapped up in cell phone conversation or maybe just walking with no immediate destination, just out for a stroll (a Zimbabwean man told me that in his country they are always on the go, no time to wait for others to get ahead of you in line ups or other opportunities). There is a rush in the morning though, people crossing the streets, briefcase or bags in hands and focused. I join them trying not to be late for my work, which starts at 8am.

You can flag down a ride, and often a combi, taxi or a shared taxi will give a short beep on their horn and look at you to see if you need a ride. If you don’t make a gesture for a pick up they will just pass you by. Taxis don’t all have cab signs. It is very common for people to wait at a bus stop for combis, a large 15 person white van. The combis are a private transit system (private in the sense that every driver owns their combi and chooses a route, initially competing for that route). The money they collect goes exclusively to them. Sometimes there will be two or three combis lined up trying to pack in the people for the same route. The more people they pick up, the more money they make. And the faster they do their route, the more people they can drop off and pick up. The faire is inexpensive, just 2.70 pula (40 cents). I’ve only had to ride one once, but Gayle has a few good stories about her combi experiences. But the people waiting at combi stops are not necessarily waiting for a combi. Usually if you have a spot in your car you would pull over and ask if anyone needs a ride to so and so, and people will pour in. The passengers might give you money for a faire but it is very common to give a free ride. This seems to make sense when you think about all the individual people in a car waiting in the congested traffic in Canada. Although, for a population of 300,000 there is still a lot of traffic in Gaborone.

If you need a taxi, you phone your guy. People have a taxi person they normally call. If they can’t pick you up then they usually have someone else they call to pick you up. The odd time you have to find another person. Our cab driver, Victor, gives us a fair price and keeps it consistent, with a bit of an increase in the evenings. The price in the city is around 20 Pula ($3) and at night goes up to 25 Pula (just under $4). Once and awhile you’ll get charged P30 ($4.60) or P20 for each person but only very late at night when you are happy to be getting a ride and not have to walk. The drivers are always really nice and easy to chat with. It is fun to talk about the Canadian winter with them. They get really freaked out by how much snow we get and how cold it gets, since they complain a bit about the winter here. For us the weather is really very nice. Sort of like a hot fall day. The nights get cool but never freezing. You just wear an extra sweater or two. Another interesting thing with the taxis is that you don’t tell them a specific address. You tell them landmarks. It seems no one goes by addresses here, even if you give a local a street name they would not know it. For us we tell a driver that we are by the main mall (downtown), or the big Catholic Church, or even the Museum. They always find our place that way. Our address is a specific plot number, yep plot number, sort of like the cemetery. Every home and business has a plot number.

Traffic is another interesting thing here. They drive on the left side of the road so for a North American this is a bit disorientating, especially when you are in the front passenger’s seat on the left side. At first I was thinking we were constantly driving into oncoming traffic. I am not too used to their light system (they call traffic lights ‘robots’) so I generally don’t feel safe crossing at the corner with streetlights. I usually jaywalk. It is much safer, you can judge the speed better and make your way when it is clear. The other reason I do this is that pedestrians never have the right of way, never ever. The cars will not stop for you. I would not even walk in front of a car stopped at a stop sign, they will not want to wait for you to cross. Even if a car was going slow you would not want to step out in front of them. If they are moving then it is unpredictable. You cross when you know you have a good chance of crossing. Luckily, Batswana drive slower than most. Still you get cars racing through the city at all hours, but usually they are cautious when driving, sometimes to a fault, they want to be doubly sure I guess. One sees mainly newer cars on the road, but sometimes (well a lot more than sometimes) you’ll see thick back smoke pouring out from a car. Not just a simple cloud of black smoke that will disperse in due time but more like a dense toxic blanket that will uncover at least one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. But an important tip is that at night you generally don’t want to stop at stops signs or red lights due to the smash and grab problem here (people who smash the passenger’s side window and grab your wallet/purse). So you try to slow down when you see a red light and hopefully it turns green by the time you reach it, or you just slow down and if no one is coming then just go on through. The police told us this, so they would not pull you over for this infraction.

Well this is the first installment of hopefully many more stories.

Sending you all lots of love from Botswana, Africa.

Kenny xoxo