Today is my birthday and it was not a good day.
My morning started out with a meeting with a lawyer. I was required to attend a hearing at the Labor Department where a dispute between a former employee and myself was supposed to be mediated. I say supposed to be mediated because I believe that a mediator is supposed to be in the middle but this guy definitely had an opinion that he wasn’t afraid to share. He ended the meeting with a five minute lecture on how it is the employer’s responsibility to take care of employees and to think about their psychological well-being and the damage that it can cause an employee to lose their job.
I decided not to offer this employee a contract at the end of the probationary period for various reasons, which are only being reinforced by his current actions. This was entirely in my rights according to the labor law. The employee filed a complaint with the Labor Department claiming unfair labor practices. Today he demanded reinstatement in his position or the amount of full salary and benefits for one year. When my lawyer told him that the law was not on his side, he argued that the law was not meant to be interpreted in black and white and that there is a social justice that is implied by the labor law. He clarified that this is the new labor law that was drafted after 1980 and that allowed for these types of hearings that were never allowed before. (A veiled accusation of racism?) So, we move on to arbitration and I can only hope that the arbitrator is a little less biased. To date, his escapades have cost the project $850 in lawyer’s fees.
To try and turn my day around, at lunchtime I went to see an exhibit of photographs from the National Archives that was in the National Gallery. On Sunday it is the 30th anniversary of Zimbabwean independence. The exhibition was advertised as follows:
“National Archives: 75 @ 30 (Moments of People’s History): On the occasion of the 30th anniversary of Independence and the 75th anniversary of the National Archives of Zimbabwe, the Embassy of Spain, the National Arts Gallery and the National Archives of Zimbabwe present a collection of 75 images showcasing remarkable moments of people’s lives over more than 100 years. Venue: National Gallery of Zimbabwe, Park Lane/Central Avenue.”
The reality was a little different. I paid my dollar and was told the exhibition was upstairs. As I walked up the stairs there was a huge photograph of Mugabe with XXX of China and a banner above the photograph that said, “Celebrating 30 years since the establishment of diplomatic relations between Zimbabwe and China”. I smiled sarcastically to myself but it was only when I got to the top of the steps that I realized that this was the photo exhibition. It was over a hundred photos of Mugabe, his wife or his cronies with various Chinese politicians or businessmen. There were photos of diplomatic meetings, mines, stadiums, planes, and even of Sally Mugabe on a camel. The most interesting photo for me was the one of the Zimbabwe delegation to the Chinese Olympics as they walked into the bird’s nest. More than half of the Zimbabwean athletes were white. An interesting thought in the middle of this strange exhibition. Fortunately I was able to leave on a high note as there was an exhibition in the corridor of Zimbabwean artists under the age of 30, which was a reminder of the amazing artistic talent of Zimbabweans.
But the upswing was not to last. As I drove back to the office I suddenly saw a police officer step out into the road in front of me and indicate that I was to pull over. I did so, and he told me that I had just gone through a red light and right before the President is due to drive by. I swallowed my inclination to tell him that I couldn’t give a stuff about the president. To give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he was color blind because that light was definitely green when I went through – and I am 100 percent positive of that fact. He told me that they would impound my car (a rental) and that I would have to come to the police station to collect it tomorrow. Having seen the inside of the Central Police Station in Harare, I was not interested in seeing it again. So I gave him my license and he asked where I was going and what I did. Once in ascertained that I managed an NGO here in Zimbabwe, he changed his tune and asked if I had money on me to pay the fine. I adamantly assured him that I had no cash on me (as I refuse to pay bribes) and he must have believed me because the next thing I know, I was being allowed to drive away.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Friday, April 09, 2010
Back on the Horse
I just returned back to Zimbabwe after a two-week vacation in South Africa. It was a much needed break from the frustrations of Zimbabwe. It was just nice to know that when you turned on a switch, the power would come on. To be able to access good internet whenever I needed to on my cell phone. Not to have to order pizza every night because there was no power to cook. And mostly just not to have the stress of the project hanging over me.
I’ve been in Zimbabwe for more than five months now and we only just received permission from the government to start our program. We are now in start-up mode, but the timing is not great. About the same time we received our approval, the government announced that they were implementing a policy that all businesses with revenue over $500,000 will be required to have 51% local ownership. The concern of many business owners here is that “local” will soon come to be interpreted as black, and that this is simply the next source of funds to keep Mugabe’s cronies happy now that almost all the commercial farms have been taken over and distributed.
A friend’s sister in law owns a successful bookshop and shortly after the new policy was announced, she started receiving visits at the shop by wealth black couples who looked around the shop as a vulture eyes a carcass. One couple even asked her what her revenue was, who her suppliers were and other intimate details of her business. The experience did not make her feel very secure.
The original strategy of our program was to identify agribusinesses in Zimbabwe that are buying produce from smallholder farmers and work with them to build their supply chains. When we arrived in October, these partners were enthusiastic, but in recent weeks they have pulled back. Who would invest in a business that you are not sure you will be able to keep.
I wish this were not a race issue, but the government here makes it one. That said, even our partners that are black-owned are nervous because mass take-over of businesses would be devastating for the economy that is only just starting to show small signs of recovery.
A new poster has appeared on my drive home from work. It says “Two-term Presidency”. That’s all. It seems like a simple desire, but is that really all it would take to start significant change?
I’ve been in Zimbabwe for more than five months now and we only just received permission from the government to start our program. We are now in start-up mode, but the timing is not great. About the same time we received our approval, the government announced that they were implementing a policy that all businesses with revenue over $500,000 will be required to have 51% local ownership. The concern of many business owners here is that “local” will soon come to be interpreted as black, and that this is simply the next source of funds to keep Mugabe’s cronies happy now that almost all the commercial farms have been taken over and distributed.
A friend’s sister in law owns a successful bookshop and shortly after the new policy was announced, she started receiving visits at the shop by wealth black couples who looked around the shop as a vulture eyes a carcass. One couple even asked her what her revenue was, who her suppliers were and other intimate details of her business. The experience did not make her feel very secure.
The original strategy of our program was to identify agribusinesses in Zimbabwe that are buying produce from smallholder farmers and work with them to build their supply chains. When we arrived in October, these partners were enthusiastic, but in recent weeks they have pulled back. Who would invest in a business that you are not sure you will be able to keep.
I wish this were not a race issue, but the government here makes it one. That said, even our partners that are black-owned are nervous because mass take-over of businesses would be devastating for the economy that is only just starting to show small signs of recovery.
A new poster has appeared on my drive home from work. It says “Two-term Presidency”. That’s all. It seems like a simple desire, but is that really all it would take to start significant change?
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Police Station Visit
For the next step in registering our organization, I, as the national representative, am required to obtain clearance from Interpol just to make sure that I am not an internationally wanted criminal. To do this, I had to have my fingerprints done and the only place to do that is at a police station. I was worried that this would be a time consuming ordeal, my colleague that was helping me called a friend who has a relative who works in the central police station in downtown Harare, and he was told it would be easy and take just five minutes. Instead it was a shocking experience.
We arrived at the sprawling complex and walked through hallways that stank intermittently of urine or antiseptic and eventually found our contact. Fingerprints are usually only taken on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 2-4 pm, so I was lucky to be getting in off-schedule. The first question our contact asked was whether we had fingerprint forms. Of course she didn’t ask my colleague this when the spoke on the phone, but only when we arrived in her office in person. We were not prepared and as it turns out, you have to buy the forms from stationary stores. They are not sold at the police station. So we went back to the car and drove to the largest stationary store in Harare and of course they were out. Someone overheard us asking and as we were getting into the car, a man approached the window and whispering something about fingerprints. Two forms quickly appeared, we paid a dollar and drove back to the police station and wound our way back through the sticking hallways.
We were asked to follow our contact through a semi-basement hallway that was lined with cells with ancient doors and then into another room to do the fingerprinting. We entered the small semi-basement office crowded with furniture and were asked to sit on the only bench. There were other people in the office that kept coming in and out as our contact searched for the fingerprinting equipment. As my eyes adjusted to the dingy surroundings, I suddenly saw the chair behind the desk closest to me move and saw that there were three men sitting on the floor. They were sitting under the desks and appeared to be trying to make themselves as small as possible and it dawned on me that they were in custody. Just then the door opened again and a tall thin man was thrust into the room. His face was soaked in sweat and at first I thought that he had been running because his breath was ragged. Then I saw that he was limping heavily and that he was actually crying, which is not something that a Shona man does. He was being yelled at by one of the guards, none of whom were in uniform. My colleague later told me that the four were accused of breaking into cars and that the officer was yelling “This is what happens when you don’t tell us who you are working with. Tell us how many cars you have broken into”. The injured man lay on the floor sobbing obviously in too much pain to sit on his injured hip and leg. When he complained that he had been beaten, the officer said, “You haven’t been beaten yet. Just wait to see what happens if you don’t tell us the truth”.
This all happened within just a few minutes and as the scene unfolded, my heart sank. Goosebumps appeared on my arms and I lowered my gaze not knowing where to look. I suddenly understood the smells that had accosted me in the hallways. Finally, the officer told our contact to get me out of there because he was trying to work. Still in shock at what I had just seen, I found myself back in the above-ground office where we had first met our contact. She finger-printed me and as she was completing the rest of the forms, I looked around the office and noticed the one thing on the wall and the only decoration in the barren office was a campaign sticker that read “100% Empowerment – Vote Mugabe”. I wandered who was empowered as I looked at the cheap broken shoes our contact was wearing.
As I sat waiting, another drama ensued in front of me. A man was in the office discussing something in Shona with another employee of the police department when we entered. The discussion continued unabated as we sat waiting. As they seemed to come to some conclusion the visitor said “tatenda” (thank-you), reached into his pocket and pulled out a one-dollar bill and laid it on the table. I was shocked but was much more alarmed when I later learned from my colleague the nature of their discussion. The man was telling the employee of the police department that there had been a shoot out and he had discharged his gun and was worried about it being traced back to him. He said he just shot in the air as a warning, but of course he wouldn’t be so worried about it if that were true. The employee told him that he needed to get the casings from the six shots he had fired so they couldn’t be traced back to his gun. The “tip” was then paid. Then the employee asked him who he worked with and the man casually answered, “the CIO”. This is the Central Intelligence Organization and is the most feared organization in Zimbabwe, yet he was openly discussing his situation.
The tip-taker then presented me with some soap so I could wash the ink off my hands. Our contact took me into the barren room next door where she poured water from a plastic bottle over my hands as I held them out the window. They normally wash hands in the semi-basement office I had been in, but they had decided that I shouldn’t be taken back there, as the officers were still busy. As I returned to the office I noticed a blackboard covered in writing with the heading “Crime Smart”. The only other word that jumped off the board at me was “corruption”. I wandered if they were teaching smart strategies for corruption.
We arrived at the sprawling complex and walked through hallways that stank intermittently of urine or antiseptic and eventually found our contact. Fingerprints are usually only taken on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 2-4 pm, so I was lucky to be getting in off-schedule. The first question our contact asked was whether we had fingerprint forms. Of course she didn’t ask my colleague this when the spoke on the phone, but only when we arrived in her office in person. We were not prepared and as it turns out, you have to buy the forms from stationary stores. They are not sold at the police station. So we went back to the car and drove to the largest stationary store in Harare and of course they were out. Someone overheard us asking and as we were getting into the car, a man approached the window and whispering something about fingerprints. Two forms quickly appeared, we paid a dollar and drove back to the police station and wound our way back through the sticking hallways.
We were asked to follow our contact through a semi-basement hallway that was lined with cells with ancient doors and then into another room to do the fingerprinting. We entered the small semi-basement office crowded with furniture and were asked to sit on the only bench. There were other people in the office that kept coming in and out as our contact searched for the fingerprinting equipment. As my eyes adjusted to the dingy surroundings, I suddenly saw the chair behind the desk closest to me move and saw that there were three men sitting on the floor. They were sitting under the desks and appeared to be trying to make themselves as small as possible and it dawned on me that they were in custody. Just then the door opened again and a tall thin man was thrust into the room. His face was soaked in sweat and at first I thought that he had been running because his breath was ragged. Then I saw that he was limping heavily and that he was actually crying, which is not something that a Shona man does. He was being yelled at by one of the guards, none of whom were in uniform. My colleague later told me that the four were accused of breaking into cars and that the officer was yelling “This is what happens when you don’t tell us who you are working with. Tell us how many cars you have broken into”. The injured man lay on the floor sobbing obviously in too much pain to sit on his injured hip and leg. When he complained that he had been beaten, the officer said, “You haven’t been beaten yet. Just wait to see what happens if you don’t tell us the truth”.
This all happened within just a few minutes and as the scene unfolded, my heart sank. Goosebumps appeared on my arms and I lowered my gaze not knowing where to look. I suddenly understood the smells that had accosted me in the hallways. Finally, the officer told our contact to get me out of there because he was trying to work. Still in shock at what I had just seen, I found myself back in the above-ground office where we had first met our contact. She finger-printed me and as she was completing the rest of the forms, I looked around the office and noticed the one thing on the wall and the only decoration in the barren office was a campaign sticker that read “100% Empowerment – Vote Mugabe”. I wandered who was empowered as I looked at the cheap broken shoes our contact was wearing.
As I sat waiting, another drama ensued in front of me. A man was in the office discussing something in Shona with another employee of the police department when we entered. The discussion continued unabated as we sat waiting. As they seemed to come to some conclusion the visitor said “tatenda” (thank-you), reached into his pocket and pulled out a one-dollar bill and laid it on the table. I was shocked but was much more alarmed when I later learned from my colleague the nature of their discussion. The man was telling the employee of the police department that there had been a shoot out and he had discharged his gun and was worried about it being traced back to him. He said he just shot in the air as a warning, but of course he wouldn’t be so worried about it if that were true. The employee told him that he needed to get the casings from the six shots he had fired so they couldn’t be traced back to his gun. The “tip” was then paid. Then the employee asked him who he worked with and the man casually answered, “the CIO”. This is the Central Intelligence Organization and is the most feared organization in Zimbabwe, yet he was openly discussing his situation.
The tip-taker then presented me with some soap so I could wash the ink off my hands. Our contact took me into the barren room next door where she poured water from a plastic bottle over my hands as I held them out the window. They normally wash hands in the semi-basement office I had been in, but they had decided that I shouldn’t be taken back there, as the officers were still busy. As I returned to the office I noticed a blackboard covered in writing with the heading “Crime Smart”. The only other word that jumped off the board at me was “corruption”. I wandered if they were teaching smart strategies for corruption.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Welcome Back
I arrived in Zimbabwe this evening feeling anxious. While I was waiting in line with my completed customs entry form, I realized that my hands were trembling – I was not sure that I would be allowed back in and I was not letting myself think about what would then happen next.
Some of you may be confused as you rightly think that I arrived in Zimbabwe at the end of October to start up and manage a new 18-month development project. I have already been here for a month and the stamp they put in my passport when I arrived was only for thirty days, in spite of the six-month multiple entry visa I had bothered to get from the Zimbabwean embassy in Washington. When I first arrived at the Harare airport, the customs official then told me that I would have to go to the Department of Immigration to get an extension. When I went there on Friday, I was informed that there was no way to extend my visa. I decided that it would do me no good to argue with this bureaucrat who had all the power in the situation and was very likely looking for a bribe he wasn’t going to get. So my only option was to go on a quick trip to South Africa.
Luckily for me, my aunt and uncle allowed me go and stay at their game conservancy north of Pretoria, which is a little piece of heaven. On Saturday they hosted a wine maker from Stellenbosch who flew up specially to give a wine tasting for their lodge guests. I didn’t arrive in time for the official tasting but I did get to drink the wine which was delicious. Sunday I crashed a 40th birthday party of a friend of theirs and met a fascinating woman in her 70’s who discussed with me the work I am doing in Zimbabwe. Her insight astounded me. I rounded out the weekend with short early-morning runs in the bush scaring the giraffe, zebra and wildebeast as I plodded by and getting sunburned reading a good book (The Year of the Flood) on my kindle sitting and soaking up some rays. It wasn’t all fun and games as I did work late both nights I was there to finish up the first draft of our program’s first year work plan, which needed to be sent out for comments by today.
---
I approached the immigration officer’s desk at the airport trying desperately to look nonchalant and not to draw attention to my trembling hands. I smiled widely and said good evening and received a warm smile in return. He flipped through my passport and then paused. “Oh, I was the officer who stamped you last time you arrived”. I was waiting for him to then say that it was clear that I had left Zimbabwe on a trip of convenience to receive another 30 day visa and that was not allowed (and officially, he would not be wrong). Instead I heard the stamp slam twice on the desk and he handed me back my passport and said, “Welcome back”.
Some of you may be confused as you rightly think that I arrived in Zimbabwe at the end of October to start up and manage a new 18-month development project. I have already been here for a month and the stamp they put in my passport when I arrived was only for thirty days, in spite of the six-month multiple entry visa I had bothered to get from the Zimbabwean embassy in Washington. When I first arrived at the Harare airport, the customs official then told me that I would have to go to the Department of Immigration to get an extension. When I went there on Friday, I was informed that there was no way to extend my visa. I decided that it would do me no good to argue with this bureaucrat who had all the power in the situation and was very likely looking for a bribe he wasn’t going to get. So my only option was to go on a quick trip to South Africa.
Luckily for me, my aunt and uncle allowed me go and stay at their game conservancy north of Pretoria, which is a little piece of heaven. On Saturday they hosted a wine maker from Stellenbosch who flew up specially to give a wine tasting for their lodge guests. I didn’t arrive in time for the official tasting but I did get to drink the wine which was delicious. Sunday I crashed a 40th birthday party of a friend of theirs and met a fascinating woman in her 70’s who discussed with me the work I am doing in Zimbabwe. Her insight astounded me. I rounded out the weekend with short early-morning runs in the bush scaring the giraffe, zebra and wildebeast as I plodded by and getting sunburned reading a good book (The Year of the Flood) on my kindle sitting and soaking up some rays. It wasn’t all fun and games as I did work late both nights I was there to finish up the first draft of our program’s first year work plan, which needed to be sent out for comments by today.
---
I approached the immigration officer’s desk at the airport trying desperately to look nonchalant and not to draw attention to my trembling hands. I smiled widely and said good evening and received a warm smile in return. He flipped through my passport and then paused. “Oh, I was the officer who stamped you last time you arrived”. I was waiting for him to then say that it was clear that I had left Zimbabwe on a trip of convenience to receive another 30 day visa and that was not allowed (and officially, he would not be wrong). Instead I heard the stamp slam twice on the desk and he handed me back my passport and said, “Welcome back”.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Retribution
Today was a very slow day in the office, which gave me the chance to get out and do some canvassing. It was great to get out on my own in the neighborhoods and talk to people. It is certainly a very diverse town.
There are many beautiful Victorian houses that look like perfect dollhouses in life-size. I will try and bring my camera around next time because I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many beautiful houses in one place. People of all economic status, race and age told me they are supporting Obama, but I also saw plenty of McCain Signs and even a nOpe sign, with the ‘O’ as the Obama symbol.
At one house I knocked on an open door and heard the woman inside say, “Now what’s that white woman doing here”. Her son came to the door but was reticent to tell me who he was voting for. When he seemed to gain confidence in the fact that I really was there working for Obama, he said he wanted to vote for Obama, but he had heard that if Obama wins that black people will lose there jobs. People are worried about retribution. I told him that his vote was secret and that no one would ever know who he voted for but he didn’t seem so sure. It made me all the more determined to make sure that Obama does get elected.
There are many beautiful Victorian houses that look like perfect dollhouses in life-size. I will try and bring my camera around next time because I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many beautiful houses in one place. People of all economic status, race and age told me they are supporting Obama, but I also saw plenty of McCain Signs and even a nOpe sign, with the ‘O’ as the Obama symbol.
At one house I knocked on an open door and heard the woman inside say, “Now what’s that white woman doing here”. Her son came to the door but was reticent to tell me who he was voting for. When he seemed to gain confidence in the fact that I really was there working for Obama, he said he wanted to vote for Obama, but he had heard that if Obama wins that black people will lose there jobs. People are worried about retribution. I told him that his vote was secret and that no one would ever know who he voted for but he didn’t seem so sure. It made me all the more determined to make sure that Obama does get elected.
11 Hours
I slept for 11 hours last night - with no drugs! I guess I really needed it. That's the good thing about everyone in Franklin being in Church on a Sunday morning. It gives me time to catch up on sleep!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Telemarketing Flashback
I am the manager of the Obama campaign office in Franklin City and Southampton County Virginia. Part of my job is make sure that hundreds of phone calls are made to potential voters every day and I sometimes get to make some of those calls myself. Fortunately my skills honed during my brief by stellar telemarketing career are still there.
Mostly it is just reminding me of the funny things you learn about people when you call them out of the blue. The old folks tell you way too much about themselves and can’t seem to avoid letting you know that they live alone and no one is there right now. The answering machines are the best though. In one day I had to listen to a women ranting a bible quote about Jehovah on her answering machine (and this is not an anti-religion statement, she was just all fire and brimstone) and then a short while later receive multiple options on one answering machine for what had to have been ‘night-time’ entertainment. One of the women said (and imagine this in a Anna Nicole Smith sexy voice), “Hi, you’ve made the right choice in choosing Star but at the wrong time because I’m not here…”. This contradiction I think captures some strange tension in this town. I really could not think of a better place to be campaigning for Obama!
Mostly it is just reminding me of the funny things you learn about people when you call them out of the blue. The old folks tell you way too much about themselves and can’t seem to avoid letting you know that they live alone and no one is there right now. The answering machines are the best though. In one day I had to listen to a women ranting a bible quote about Jehovah on her answering machine (and this is not an anti-religion statement, she was just all fire and brimstone) and then a short while later receive multiple options on one answering machine for what had to have been ‘night-time’ entertainment. One of the women said (and imagine this in a Anna Nicole Smith sexy voice), “Hi, you’ve made the right choice in choosing Star but at the wrong time because I’m not here…”. This contradiction I think captures some strange tension in this town. I really could not think of a better place to be campaigning for Obama!
Church
This evening a volunteer asked if I had been invited to a church tomorrow. The implication was that I would of course be going to church on Sunday, as she assumes I do every Sunday, but that it would be nicer to go with someone. When I hesitated, pretending to be deeply involved in my data entry, she mistook the reason for my hesitation and quickly notified me that her church was integrated. My colleague, who is here volunteering from Maryland didn’t understand her at first and thought she meant that the Catholics and Protestants went to the same Church (clearly she is no more a church goer than myself). The volunteer quickly and clearly explained that no, her church had both black and white members and everyone was welcome.
I almost started laughing and only held myself back because she was deadly serious. My colleague from Maryland is black and was so taken aback that the volunteer had to explain to her that not all churches here are integrated and that it is still quite a recent thing. Fortunately this conversation distracted everyone from the fact that I had not answered the original question so I am off the hook, for this Sunday anyway. Even better – the whole county is in church tomorrow morning so I get to sleep in!
I almost started laughing and only held myself back because she was deadly serious. My colleague from Maryland is black and was so taken aback that the volunteer had to explain to her that not all churches here are integrated and that it is still quite a recent thing. Fortunately this conversation distracted everyone from the fact that I had not answered the original question so I am off the hook, for this Sunday anyway. Even better – the whole county is in church tomorrow morning so I get to sleep in!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Franklin
Franklin is an Independent City of a little over 8,000 souls in the south eastern corner of the state of Virginia close to the North Carolina border. It split from Southampton County and was chartered as an Independent City in 1960 and some say it did so because it somehow allowed them to delay desegregating the schools. (Schools were eventually desegregated for the first time in 1965 – 10 years after Brown vs. the Board of Education.)
Just a few miles from Franklin is the site of the slave Nat Turner’s 1831 uprising in which over 55 slave owners were killed. Virginia considered abolishing slavery after that incident, but instead became more repressive in their treatment of slaves and free blacks. Many say that they are still fighting the civil war down here.
The town is now about evenly divided racially. It’s economy (and the skyline) is dominated by a paper mill that is now owned by International Paper. There was a major flood here in the center of town in 1999, which decimated down town and probably helped the speed collapse of many businesses given that there is a Walmart just two miles away.
People are all very friendly and even McCain supporters tend to polite about their disagreements. If I could have picked where I want to be working on this election, I could not have picked a better place.
Just a few miles from Franklin is the site of the slave Nat Turner’s 1831 uprising in which over 55 slave owners were killed. Virginia considered abolishing slavery after that incident, but instead became more repressive in their treatment of slaves and free blacks. Many say that they are still fighting the civil war down here.
The town is now about evenly divided racially. It’s economy (and the skyline) is dominated by a paper mill that is now owned by International Paper. There was a major flood here in the center of town in 1999, which decimated down town and probably helped the speed collapse of many businesses given that there is a Walmart just two miles away.
People are all very friendly and even McCain supporters tend to polite about their disagreements. If I could have picked where I want to be working on this election, I could not have picked a better place.
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