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Department of Labour inside

Don’t be fooled by the few people in line. It will still take two hours to process this many customers.

I decided not to squander the time completely. While making tiny, inching progress behind a tall woman carrying a shiny black “JMARY CHOO” purse over her shoulder (knock-offs are more convincing when they’re spelled right, my friend), I grilled Bridget on where to buy fruits and vegetables, pastured eggs, the freshest beef and chicken. I found out the best salon for pedicures and massages and what they should cost, where her village was, how many children she has and what she suspects the nanny does with them when she’s away (gives them gum, feeds them candy, lets them “learn” how to get down from the bed by repeatedly falling off it).

I discovered from Bridget that beef here is cheap and all of it is grass-fed, and that if I want free-range eggs I just need to ask for “marathon chickens,” so named because they run around the roads all day. I learned the top five crops planted by most Batswana in their private four-hectare farms outside of town (maize, millet, sorghum, peanuts, beetroot), and how to locate the food trucks on the side of the road selling local carrots, cabbage, and watermelons.

After all that, our time at the actual counter, even with fingerprinting, took less than five minutes. The morning made my back spasm, my feet chafe, and my head grow dizzy from plummeting blood sugar, but it was a useful indoctrination into Botswana life and that’s worth something anyway.


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