In case anyone is interested, here is an excerpt from my research proposal for my independent study project:
Entrepreneurship is understood to be an important component of economic growth in a global economy. However, many developing countries in sub-Saharan Africa have long been plagued with a perceived lack of “African business,” that is, businesses created and run by Africans. In Botswana, a country with predominately diamond-derived wealth and a strong governmental hand in all economic life, there has been a noted lack of internal enterprise. This has become an issue of increasing concern to Botswana’s government, which views this non-diversification as a threat to future financial security.
Why has Botswana had such difficulty producing entrepreneurs? Although numerous resources are available to prospective entrepreneurs, Botswana has struggled to produce an entrepreneurial culture. This paper aims to discover how institutional incentives, psychological factors, and Botswana’s general atmosphere interact to create this problem.
Research Questions & Hypothesis:
This research project will be based on the central hypothesis that in order for individuals to become entrepreneurs rather than employees, some common psychological needs must be met. With this understanding, a few central questions concerning the “motivation gap” for potential entrepreneurs are:
a) What are the psychological needs involved in personal employment choices?
b) What psychological needs are met by engaging in entrepreneurship, and which needs are not met or are endangered by this activity?
c) What are the factors, including governmental, social, and personal incentives or disincentives, that affect how well psychological needs are met by entrepreneurship?
Drawing on past research by other researchers, this author will develop a summary set of common psychological needs for employment that are believed to be essential to mental health and well-being. These needs will then be evaluated in the context of entrepreneurship in general, and entrepreneurship in Botswana in particular, to see whether they are met or not met by entrepreneurial activity.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Lesotho
SA Roadlink buses keep their windows spotlessly clean like miracle sunglasses. This way, for the two hours of sun -light and -set before the long overnight bus saga commences, you can press your nose or lens up against it and watch a million kinds of countryside go by. Farmland broken by lines of big oaky trees. Huge sweeps of sandy grass and huge sweeps of rock. Mountains, half lush and half desert, cutting up to surround you on all sides until they cut off your light. Miles stretching of tiny tin rooms, on little dirt lanes and lots all packed together, thousands upon thousands of little fires but not a single sign of people, or even animals. And finally just Orion the Hunter to the North, hanging upside by his feet in the sky. Rattling along in the bus, I have a dream where all of the stuff is falling out of his pockets – rocks, keys, money, his cell phone – and he keeps having to reach out and root around for them in the mountains below. How frustrating.
The bus gets to Bloemfontein when it’s still dark out, so I sit in the bus station coffee shop surrounded by a million different kinds of dried fruit. At sunlight I make my way to the minibus rank, pay my $7, sit outside against the wall and chew a granola bar hoping that no one of the male persuasion will talk to me. Africa doesn’t teach you much in the way of liking men, regardless of background or ethnicity. There are plenty who are decent and nice people, but most have a creepy malevolence to them of the same spirit as most of the damage they’ve wrought throughout history. I’ve never felt threatened, but the absolute supremacy of their wills over everyone’s suffering steels you in ways.
Minibus leaves at several hours long-last, after we wait for every last seat to fill up. Then I sleep to the border of Lesotho, bashing my head against the window as I go. At the border we get stamped and restamped and I take a supremely deteriorated taxi to the Maseru minibus rank, find the bus to Malealea, wait again. At the minibus rank, the old women and edgy young men sell: bananas, apples, plums, pears, Simba chips, suckers, hair picks, knives, coloured powders in baggies, tiny seeds in baggies, snack bars, rolls, cell phone minutes, earrings, Hannah Montana mirrors, nair clippers, and a lot of other things. Men tend to sell earrings and phone cards and chips, because these things are sold on boards or from boxes. Women sell the rest of the things from head baskets. They come to the windows of each of the minibuses over and over. Lunch was: one banana, two cookies, day-old fries, a granola bar.
The turnoff to Malealea was marked by a shepherd standing in the flow of his sheep, who were gently surging over the top of a hill gnawed open and red by the rain. Now we were on dirt. We ramble-bambled over with our questionable brakes, up and down a big hill in the trickle rain until I was delivered and dumped at the gate. Done. Checked in, into my own little room with my own little bathroom with it’s own magical contraption: if you wanted hot water, it turned itself on in a roar and whoosh-boiled your water right as it fell on you. Infinite hot water, as much as there was rain water and there was lots. In a village with no electricity and likely little running water – imagine that!
Next day we paddled down over the lolling hills past some fields and some sheeps and a cow or so and little huts perched along a trail on their own little hill. Down down until we reached the gorge, then back forth on the rock to see some San paintings. These were fairly well preserved, with their legs and limbs still attached, and some animals wandering around among them including fish, lions, and miscellaneous antelope. Then we went back up. Lunch was a delicious spaghetti bolegaise, and they served dessert. And it rained rained drizzled on the grass and peacock and little huts that were all about.
Next day, back to Bloemfontein, next day to Jo-burg and Gaborone. To school.
The bus gets to Bloemfontein when it’s still dark out, so I sit in the bus station coffee shop surrounded by a million different kinds of dried fruit. At sunlight I make my way to the minibus rank, pay my $7, sit outside against the wall and chew a granola bar hoping that no one of the male persuasion will talk to me. Africa doesn’t teach you much in the way of liking men, regardless of background or ethnicity. There are plenty who are decent and nice people, but most have a creepy malevolence to them of the same spirit as most of the damage they’ve wrought throughout history. I’ve never felt threatened, but the absolute supremacy of their wills over everyone’s suffering steels you in ways.
Minibus leaves at several hours long-last, after we wait for every last seat to fill up. Then I sleep to the border of Lesotho, bashing my head against the window as I go. At the border we get stamped and restamped and I take a supremely deteriorated taxi to the Maseru minibus rank, find the bus to Malealea, wait again. At the minibus rank, the old women and edgy young men sell: bananas, apples, plums, pears, Simba chips, suckers, hair picks, knives, coloured powders in baggies, tiny seeds in baggies, snack bars, rolls, cell phone minutes, earrings, Hannah Montana mirrors, nair clippers, and a lot of other things. Men tend to sell earrings and phone cards and chips, because these things are sold on boards or from boxes. Women sell the rest of the things from head baskets. They come to the windows of each of the minibuses over and over. Lunch was: one banana, two cookies, day-old fries, a granola bar.
The turnoff to Malealea was marked by a shepherd standing in the flow of his sheep, who were gently surging over the top of a hill gnawed open and red by the rain. Now we were on dirt. We ramble-bambled over with our questionable brakes, up and down a big hill in the trickle rain until I was delivered and dumped at the gate. Done. Checked in, into my own little room with my own little bathroom with it’s own magical contraption: if you wanted hot water, it turned itself on in a roar and whoosh-boiled your water right as it fell on you. Infinite hot water, as much as there was rain water and there was lots. In a village with no electricity and likely little running water – imagine that!
Next day we paddled down over the lolling hills past some fields and some sheeps and a cow or so and little huts perched along a trail on their own little hill. Down down until we reached the gorge, then back forth on the rock to see some San paintings. These were fairly well preserved, with their legs and limbs still attached, and some animals wandering around among them including fish, lions, and miscellaneous antelope. Then we went back up. Lunch was a delicious spaghetti bolegaise, and they served dessert. And it rained rained drizzled on the grass and peacock and little huts that were all about.
Next day, back to Bloemfontein, next day to Jo-burg and Gaborone. To school.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Avery Gets a Lift
After a long day of sightseeing, Madeline spotted a coffee shop nestled among some grungy-looking storefronts in central Cape Town. We made a beeline in, or rather, she made a beeline and I got stuck behind some cars and had to wait a little bit. The shop itself was half coffee shop, half antique store, lined with aging household artifacts and so forth (a mouldery baby carriage, miscellaneous glass bottle, and so forth) with a central wooden bar, where Madeline ordered coffee and a muffin to go.
We were trying to get back to our hostel, and after a questionable experience with a taxi "meter" this morning, wanted to opt for cheaper public transport. We asked the barkeep, and he went to consult with two older gentlemen sitting at one of the chairs, who appeared to be permanent residents of some sort. They steered us away from buses (this seems to be a typical White African fear of any local transport), we countered with our concern about the taxis, and then one of the older gentlemen offered to give us a lift. We reluctantly but gratefully accepted, and as he rose to go we were led out into the sunlight by another man to wait for our driver to arrive at his parked car .
About ten minutes later, the old man rounded the block corner. He was heaving himself along on two medical canes, at about the pace one would expect from an unenthusiastic beached fish. But he immediately launched into an explanation about how his mother always taught him that it was a good thing to bring ladies home, and to make sure that they get right into their front doors, so we got into the passenger seats and waited for him to round the hood.
His driving was much swifter than his waddle, and as he drove he told us a little about himself. He's a South African by birth, from Cape Town. His mother was a very nice lady. He doesn't own the little coffee shop, but after the lady who owns it was robbed several times, he decided to sit there as a guard. "I'm not the quickest of defenders," he pointed out, "but my presence as a witness discourages them." He wound us a few times around our destination by our poor directions before arriving at our very door.
This encounter was, in many ways, a perfect demonstration of the flaws in my travelling style. I prefer to be well informed and to have carefully inspected and memorized the map, so that I never have to ask for help, to look confused or lost. In this way I protect myself from harassment and from being embarrassed by any awkward entrapments. This keeps me from most major problems, but at the same time, I freeze out most daily encounters. I would probably never have accepted this ride on my own, for example. It will be a trick for me to figure out how to open up better to encounters like this without feeling nervous about being trapped in a bad situation.
We were trying to get back to our hostel, and after a questionable experience with a taxi "meter" this morning, wanted to opt for cheaper public transport. We asked the barkeep, and he went to consult with two older gentlemen sitting at one of the chairs, who appeared to be permanent residents of some sort. They steered us away from buses (this seems to be a typical White African fear of any local transport), we countered with our concern about the taxis, and then one of the older gentlemen offered to give us a lift. We reluctantly but gratefully accepted, and as he rose to go we were led out into the sunlight by another man to wait for our driver to arrive at his parked car .
About ten minutes later, the old man rounded the block corner. He was heaving himself along on two medical canes, at about the pace one would expect from an unenthusiastic beached fish. But he immediately launched into an explanation about how his mother always taught him that it was a good thing to bring ladies home, and to make sure that they get right into their front doors, so we got into the passenger seats and waited for him to round the hood.
His driving was much swifter than his waddle, and as he drove he told us a little about himself. He's a South African by birth, from Cape Town. His mother was a very nice lady. He doesn't own the little coffee shop, but after the lady who owns it was robbed several times, he decided to sit there as a guard. "I'm not the quickest of defenders," he pointed out, "but my presence as a witness discourages them." He wound us a few times around our destination by our poor directions before arriving at our very door.
This encounter was, in many ways, a perfect demonstration of the flaws in my travelling style. I prefer to be well informed and to have carefully inspected and memorized the map, so that I never have to ask for help, to look confused or lost. In this way I protect myself from harassment and from being embarrassed by any awkward entrapments. This keeps me from most major problems, but at the same time, I freeze out most daily encounters. I would probably never have accepted this ride on my own, for example. It will be a trick for me to figure out how to open up better to encounters like this without feeling nervous about being trapped in a bad situation.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
THE DRAMA
Sorry for the cliffhanger, readers...it was supposed to be a ten minute one but I forgot to finish editing this post. So-
It was misty and mysteriously quiet in the dorms as we arrived in our taxi from the bus station. We didn't really notice. We went about our business, carried up our bags, and began to unpack and relax, when Todd, our program director, called me. "Well, so I have some news...it sounds like the student strike is getting worse, and so, you guys are being evacuated to a lodge somewhere off campus..."
It was misty and mysteriously quiet in the dorms as we arrived in our taxi from the bus station. We didn't really notice. We went about our business, carried up our bags, and began to unpack and relax, when Todd, our program director, called me. "Well, so I have some news...it sounds like the student strike is getting worse, and so, you guys are being evacuated to a lodge somewhere off campus..."
Anyways, we initially wanted to stay in the dorms because as long as you are not on campus, you won't get bothered, but our program director was uncomfortable with this. So we moved to the lodge. It was rainy that day, so the lodge was a sea of water and festering mosquito encampments bridged by concrete walkways. The rooms had mold, questionable smells, and made me sick. Also, it was in the middle of nowhere, requiring an extremely expensive taxi ride each way to get to a mall, where at least we could hang out in comfort. But, this was where UB had arranged for us, so we had no choice.
We stayed there for several days. No one knew what was going on. We got frequent calls from friends on campus who wanted to hang out, not understanding why we were gone (remember, with tens of thousands of students, 100-200 causing trouble can get lost). But the International Office gave us tales of tear gas encounters with the police, broken windows, and so on.
Finally, on Wednesday, the University made the announcement that they were closing. Students had 15 minutes to evacuate campus, enforced by police/soldiers in riot gear. The next day, international students were allowed to return to the dorms, which we did, and they made the big announcement: school is closed for this week! As a result, spring break has been eliminated (we are still going on safari, just missing school) and the semester has been extended by a week. Since protesters have threatened to recommence their efforts next Monday (Feb 16th) when school reopens, we don't really know what the ultimate outcome will be.
On the upset, after the announcement on Thursday, Madeline and I packed our bags and took off. We took a minibus to Jo-burg, stayed overnight, and then a flight to Cape Town on Saturday. We are staying in a beautiful hostel in an old mansion, breezy and calm, and planning to start seeing the sights tomorrow. It's nice to be out and about. We'll be here until Wednesday, when I plan to split off and take a bus to Lesotho, where I'll stay in a lodge and ride around on ponies (hopefully!), returning on Sunday.
Weekend Jaunt: Johannesburg and Soweto
At 6 in the morning on Friday our rattling combi dropped us off a little gas station somewhere in near the Main Mall in Gaborone. This, apparently, was the international bus station. and the bus was pulled in at the side of the lot. We hopped aboard, were reseated 5 minutes later to accomodate the Knoop children (our program director's), and then 30 seconds later when our new seats were mysteriously already claimed. Then we left.
The bus ride was about 6.5 hours. The Bots-SA border was our first stop, 30 minutes in, and featured a total lack of direction, thick glass and low voices, and a long, muddy trek through shrubbery and a thunderstorm from the Bots "signing out" building to the SA "welcome" one, a trek which was unsigned, unexplained, and only successfully completed because we saw our bus driving away and chased it in a panic to the other side.
We arrived in J0-burg around 1pm, to a big bustling bus station which essentially looked like any average train terminal. We were picked up in a combi/van by a guide from our hostel, and taken to see something like the "Museum Africa," a panorama of Jo-burg, and finally the Apartheid Museum. The Apartheid Museum was superb, with a strong focus on architecture (concrete, reflective stone, and water), and an amazing collection of photographs from someone last-named Cole, a black photographer who captured many stellar images of life under apartheid.
After that, we drove to Soweto (the SOuth WEstern TOwnship), which was originally a black, coloured, and Indian community under apartheid. Our hostel was a small, hippie establishment run by a Rastafarian named Lebo and his European girlfriend. We had dinner there.
The next day, we took a four hour bike tour of Soweto. The tour was hilly at parts, but bareable, and quite nice on the downhill. We tasted home brew beer in someone's corrogated hut, were chased by ridiculously excitable children, rode through a variety of housing neighborhoods and levels of poverty, and learned some of the history of the neighborhood. Soweto was absolutely amazing - everyone was warm and genuinely delighted to see us, life was vibrant and happy, and people seemed to enjoy a pleasure of community that you rarely see in the States.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing and visiting with the fleet of young guys who worked at the hostel and were friends with Lebo. Sunday, we walked to an area with a few stalls for souveniring, then took our return bus ride home.
THEN THE DRAMA STARTED!!!
The bus ride was about 6.5 hours. The Bots-SA border was our first stop, 30 minutes in, and featured a total lack of direction, thick glass and low voices, and a long, muddy trek through shrubbery and a thunderstorm from the Bots "signing out" building to the SA "welcome" one, a trek which was unsigned, unexplained, and only successfully completed because we saw our bus driving away and chased it in a panic to the other side.
We arrived in J0-burg around 1pm, to a big bustling bus station which essentially looked like any average train terminal. We were picked up in a combi/van by a guide from our hostel, and taken to see something like the "Museum Africa," a panorama of Jo-burg, and finally the Apartheid Museum. The Apartheid Museum was superb, with a strong focus on architecture (concrete, reflective stone, and water), and an amazing collection of photographs from someone last-named Cole, a black photographer who captured many stellar images of life under apartheid.
After that, we drove to Soweto (the SOuth WEstern TOwnship), which was originally a black, coloured, and Indian community under apartheid. Our hostel was a small, hippie establishment run by a Rastafarian named Lebo and his European girlfriend. We had dinner there.
The next day, we took a four hour bike tour of Soweto. The tour was hilly at parts, but bareable, and quite nice on the downhill. We tasted home brew beer in someone's corrogated hut, were chased by ridiculously excitable children, rode through a variety of housing neighborhoods and levels of poverty, and learned some of the history of the neighborhood. Soweto was absolutely amazing - everyone was warm and genuinely delighted to see us, life was vibrant and happy, and people seemed to enjoy a pleasure of community that you rarely see in the States.
The rest of the day was spent relaxing and visiting with the fleet of young guys who worked at the hostel and were friends with Lebo. Sunday, we walked to an area with a few stalls for souveniring, then took our return bus ride home.
THEN THE DRAMA STARTED!!!
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