“Who says things like that?” Grandpa looked up in surprise.
“Some businessman I met at the Institute of Tropical Diseases. We sat next to each other in the waiting room. He said they only have witchdoctors there, but he couldn’t tell me what exactly witchdoctors are.”
“People should mind their own damn business,” Grandpa growled. “Of course they do have hospitals and proper doctors. Don’t be silly. He’s probably never been anywhere near Botswana.”
“No, I guess not. He said he always flies to South America.”
“To many Europeans, Africa is nothing more than one big blob of jungle. A single country and not a continent with many different cultures. ‘African’ covers just about everything: appearance, food, clothes... But Africa is as diverse as Europe. Kenya is completely different from Togo or Sudan or Botswana. Even Zimbabwe and Namibia are different, although they are right next door to Botswana.”
Guilty as charged! I was one of those ignorant Europeans, but I was too ashamed to admit it. So, Zimbabwe and Namibia were next-door neighbours to Botswana? Maybe I should pay the library a visit tomorrow. Watching episodes of ‘Shaka Zulu’ was obviously not enough preparation for my trip.
On the weekend, my parents arrived in London in a last-ditch attempt to persuade me not leave for Africa.
“Love, what if you need help and have nobody to turn to?” Dad argued. We were standing at Victoria Station, waiting for the bus to Cambridge.
“Or you could get sick.”
“I’ve had all the injections a human being can endure. Germs that know what’s good for them won’t come anywhere near me!”
“Oh Bridget, you have changed so much,” Mom lamented.
“Of course I’ve changed. Claire is out there all by herself. How can I not change? I have to find her.”
“Well, you can still change your mind…”
“No Mom, there is no way I’ll change my mind. This is something I really, really have to do and I won’t be on another planet, you can get hold me there, you know. Tony says one can pre-book phone calls at the Botsalo Hotel in Palapye. You can also leave messages. I’ve written the number underneath the postal address. He’s already booked for Friday evening at 8 o’clock. That’s 6 o’clock here in England. Wait, I’ll write it down for you.”
I took the piece of paper with all the addresses and phone numbers I had, including the ones of the British High Commission in Gaborone. I scribbled down ‘BOTSALO Hotel in Palapye phone 6:00 Friday night’.
“Sorry we can’t see you off at the airport on Tuesday, Bridget. You know, Mom is teaching again…”
“I know.”
“Phone us the minute you land, so we don’t have to worry. Oh dear, Botswana is so far away! You do know what happened with that airplane last week.”
I knew. Reports of the crash had been splashed all over the media. 169 lives lost. I could hardly have missed it.
“Thanks Dad, very encouraging. Don’t worry; I’ll do my best to make sure I arrive safely in Gaborone.”
“Oh Bridget…” Mom clutched me and cried a little more.
I felt like crying just watching her. My heart ached seeing my parents like this. When would I see them again? I couldn’t allow myself to think that way. I pulled myself together and hugged my parents goodbye and they boarded the Cambridge bus.
Two days later, I also said goodbye to Grandpa.
“Take care of yourself, love.” He looked sad. “We’ll see you soon.”
“Not to worry, Grandpa. I’m sure I’ll be back with Claire in tow,” I promised without knowing if I could keep my promise. He waved to me until I had disappeared behind the luggage check.
We landed in Gaborone’s small airport on 15 September. I stepped down from the 30-seater plane with wobbly knees after nearly 14 hours, a stop-over in Kinshasa and a bumpy transfer from Johannesburg’s Jan Smuts Airport to Gaborone.
On that day, I became one of the lekgoas; expatriates, who stay only a while before moving on. A few years are in the blink of an eye for the mighty Kalahari. I had much to learn.
That the passage of time is slower here; that the Tswanas take everything in their stride, sometimes maddeningly slow. That they commune with their ancestors and find it strange that we don’t; that not all witchdoctors mean well.
Perhaps things would have been easier, if my own ancestors had become involved somehow. Perhaps. But perhaps everything had to happen just the way it did…
The shrilling of the phone made me jump. I didn’t answer. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts — my life in Botswana. Working was no longer an option. When the ringing stopped, I made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen, put the receiver next to the phone and settled into the comfy armchair by the window.
Chapter 2
Tony had agreed to meet me at the airport. He could hardly refuse to help me, but it was also awkward. We didn’t know each other well and Claire was our only link. Would we understand each other? These things went around in my mind when we took off from Jan Smuts Airport.
The small passenger plane had hit a few turbulences while negotiating the space over a vast expanse of bush land. All that to the soundtrack of Simon and Garfunkel playing on my walkman.
The constant ups and downs left my stomach hanging a few inches above my head every time we hit turbulence.
Lucky for us, the stewardess had only served a snack of dried biltong meat, a Bushman specialty we were told, and salted peanuts. Nevertheless, I eyed the paper bag neatly tucked into the net in front of me. Would I have to use it? But my stomach behaved.
When the plane landed safely in what seemed to be the middle of the savannah, everybody clapped with relief. The smell of wilderness and a wave of hot air hit me as I walked the short distance across the tarmac to the quaint airport building. There was so much blue sky, so much savannah. The air glimmered above the landing strip, drenched in harsh sunlight. For a second I had to squeeze my eyes closed.
This was it.
This was Africa! The place that Claire had longed for.
How different everything felt. I had left behind England, dressed in the rainy colours of early autumn, and stepped into an African spring day: bright, hot and dirty green. September was early spring in Botswana! I had nearly forgotten that the seasons were reversed in the southern hemisphere. I slowly took in the earthy smell.
Picking up my luggage and having my passport checked didn’t take very long. Just long enough for me to admire the modern interior of the airport building. Was it my imagination or did the airport personnel look happier than their London counterparts? Their movements seemed less hurried and I didn’t remember seeing anyone smiling at Heathrow.
The queue moved past one of the cleaning ladies taking a rest, leaning against a stone container with some tropical plant. She greeted me with a broad, happy smile and so did the next one, who mopped the floor around our short queue.
When it was my turn at the passport check, the uniformed African official said, “Welcome to Botswana, Miss Reinhold. Enjoy your stay...” as he handed back my travel document.
This was so not like the oily-grinning officials in the movies, wearing ill-fitting uniforms, with the power to throw an innocent traveller into jail just for looking at them the wrong way.
“Thank you.” I smiled back and walked on.
There was a line of trolleys waiting for us. I heaved my bags on a trolley and marched toward the exit, a number of well-dressed businessmen right in front of me. I saw a double-chinned Indian lady in a bright-green sari