Tony took another bite and finished the sandwich. He chewed, wiping his hand on a tissue.
“The complex is behind the training centre. The houses are all fenced in. Very monotonous, like a garden colony in the sand,” he said.
“I can help you plant a garden,” I offered spontaneously.
Some green around the house would be nice and comforting like our back garden in Cambridge.
“Mhm,” Tony said.
“These green hedges seem a good idea,” I said, but the conversation was over.
We drove on and eventually, a dusty green road sign with ‘Palapye’ on it pointed right. Tony turned between an ancient-looking petrol station and a curio shop. The fast-sinking afternoon sun lent a golden sheen to the surroundings.
“And this is Palapye,” Tony announced.
This was supposed to be a village? Tony had been right, I didn’t see any houses. Just trees, hedges and dried wood to the left of the black new tar.
“Impressive!” I lied in jest and we both laughed.
There was surely plenty of nothing here. Not at all the vibrant, buzzing African village I had imagined back in England.
My vision was still adjusted to high-rise brick buildings in London, small spaces, the busy roads and traffic lights, billboards, shopping precincts, trains and buses. Lots of people. At home, nature was neatly packaged into manicured parks and fields outside of town.
“Not long now. By the way, that’s the local shopping mall.” Tony pointed to a short row of very dirty single-storey buildings with a broad walkway upfront.
He swerved around a few goats and a cheerful group of boys in ragged shorts. They edged into the road while pushing toy cars with long steering wheels all made of wire, waving at our car. Tony hooted and I waved back at them. They laughed and made faces at us.
Then the Corolla hummed up the long, black tar road to the vocational training centre, leaving the village behind.
I couldn’t help thinking that Claire had never even seen what I was seeing now. It felt odd somehow. I never wanted to live in Africa in the first place!
Soon we drove through the boom in front of the vocational training centre and we still hadn’t spoken a word about Claire.
Chapter 3
What had I gotten myself into? I could tell that Tony was heartbroken and confused and all that. But it was just impossible to speak to him about Claire. The tender moment at the airport had passed. And he didn’t seem in a hurry at all to start with our investigation. Why was it so difficult for him?
Tony had to feel the same urgency to find out more. Why else was he still here? But I couldn’t get him to speak about my sister, never mind making some sort of a plan.
Maybe Tony was under some kind of spell. Don’t fall off the rocker, Bridget, I called myself to order. Things would fall into place. They just had to.
I did my best. Tried to be understanding, give him time. But I didn’t have time. I had come all this way from England for the sole purpose of helping him with the search. Just that he didn’t show any interest in searching. Here I was in a remote African village, virtually without support, ready to get started. And all I got were awkward silences.
I didn’t know Tony very well. Perhaps he’d throw me out, if I argued with him. And I hated confrontations anyway. But no way would I give up. So I had no choice, but to make the best of the situation.
I had to acclimatize. Literally. The dust the heat were getting to me, and now to top it all, the rains had started. The rain cooled the temperatures during the day, but never for long. And my ability to think clearly suffered considerably in this heat.
Mom promptly phoned on Friday and I was so glad to hear her crackly voice. At least she wanted to help me.
“Perhaps Claire has crossed the border into another country.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Mom,” I said cautiously.
“It’s worth following up on, though. The police should check their records.”
“Yes, Mom, I’ll look into it.” How could I explain to my mother how easy it was to cross the green border without leaving a trace?
“Good.” She sounded pleased.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, Mom.” I choked back homesick tears.
“I love you too, Bridget.” I heard my Mom swallow hard.
“Tell Dad I love him. Speak to you soon.”
I pulled myself together. It was awkward to become all emotional in a hotel lobby. People were listening.
“Bye, be safe,” Mom said slowly and waited, as if she didn’t want to let me go.
“Bye, Mom.” I hung up and was alone again amid all those bustling hotel guests.
The Botsalo country hotel boasted a large restaurant, a bar in the lobby and two pool tables. And on the counter resided the priceless telephone. On a Friday night, the Botsalo was the meeting place of the area.
Tony’s teacher friend, Neo Moletsane, came from a nearby town called Serowe. Neo was single and the two of them often spent the evenings at the Botsalo Hotel. The new school term hadn’t started yet and there wasn’t much to do. So I tagged along.
Neo Moletsane was a well-educated young man. He taught the bricklayers at the vocational training centre, while Tony was head of economics. He was a bit on the stocky side and always wore clean cotton shirts, never a t-shirt and never jeans. Tony told me that Neo was trust-worthy and knew why I had come to Botswana. That was a start.
The two of them played pool, had a meal, drank a lot of beer and chatted to the other patrons. I sat and read in one of the comfortable tub chairs in the lobby.
Hotel guests stayed at the rooms that were arranged around the swimming pool at the back and travelling salesmen often had stories to tell from other parts of the country. Nothing of use to me, but I listened politely.
For the sake of keeping up appearances, Tony introduced me generally as his visiting girlfriend from the UK. We had discussed that it would be better not to draw attention to the actual reason of my presence. I wondered how long it would take before the truth came out in this small community.
There were local girls at the hotel, often for two reasons: to meet a boyfriend or to find a boyfriend. Neo had said that with a sad expression. Most were from the village and lived in houses sponsored by their expat boyfriends.
On the main road halfway between Gaborone and Francistown, this was a convenient place for travellers to stop over. It took some getting used to the rough manners of men around here.
Other women were employed by the training centre and felt comfortable enough around the lekgoas. And then there were a few expatriate women like myself. Generally their area of interest revolved around gossip and G&Ts. I stuck with reading my books and the Government Gazette.
We often headed home along sandy back roads in the dark. I understood by now, why driving at night made people so nervous. One day, Tony had to come to a halt in front of two cows, resting in the warm sand.
After much hooting and yelling, the beasts heaved themselves out of their soft bedding and plodded away mooing reproachfully. On another occasion, the car skidded against a mud-covered rock and spun off into the spongy field. It took two wooden planks and a lot of elbow grease to get it back on the dirt road.
“If I hear the question ‘so when