Kili, Here we Come!

Free Wi-fi? 

In my hotel room, no less?  

A Tanzanian dream come true!

Of course, the powers that be couldn't make it easy to get here. Although I confirmed my flight the day before, the Gaborone gate agent tells me that my ticket is cancelled. 

Pardon?

The departure time (7:40 pm) is clearly posted above the counter.  

That is my flight. For which I have already received "final" confirmation.

The mishap is purportedly due to the failure of my Expedia agent to issue my ticket number. 

(Note: Still, I am at a loss as to what, precisely, the issue was.) 

After a tense, 30-minute squabble during which I make a sincere effort to maintain my composure, they allow me on my 7:40 pm flight.

Which is delayed until "further notice".

Luckily, it's only delayed an hour and my connection to Dar es Salaam is rather smooth.

At the visa counter in Tanzania, a shockingly large gentleman says:

"And your return flight?"

Gulp. I don't have one.

"I'm traveling by--"

"SHOW ME your return flight."

"--by car to Kenya; I can show you that return flight if you'd like."

He glares at me for 10 painful seconds. 

"Give me $100."

Whew. No worries, this is the cost of the visa.

"Do you take cred--"

"NO."

Okay then.

A pause for serenity.

This picture does zero justice to what greets me when I awake shortly after take-off en route to Kilimanjaro. Lucky for me, I have the window seat.

It's as if someone has punched gaping holes in the stratocumulus. The yellow reflects so brightly off the water's unperturbed surface, it's like the morning sun emanates from beneath the sea. Albeit squinting mightily to avoid the searing glare, I am glued to the window. As the clouds thin, something tricky happens with my depth perception. We have barely gained altitude, so, sightly out of focus, it appears as though the ocean has acquired a top coat of foam. Except, to my surprise, beneath that layer, the sky is speckled with thick, bundles of cumulus so close to the surface they are surely solid, floating islands. 

Then the Tanzanian coast comes into the frame. Verdant and pristine, totally void of human impact.  

A little later, Kilimanjaro bursts through the sky floor, which has morphed to a carpet of gray stratus.  You can just see it between the propellers. 

I've been lucky to see a good deal of the world's natural beauty but this ranks extremely high on my list of Mother Nature's most captivating concoctions. I picture her in a stunning ballgown, going, 

"Oh this little ole thing?  I just threw it on."

After retrieving my bags at Kilimanjaro National Airport, I find the Climb Kili rep without a problem. Alas, we need to wait for another Climb Kili hiker, "Mary". We wait nearly two hours for Mary during which three or so flights come in and I befriend other trekking company reps. Might as well start learning Swahili, which I'll need for Kenya. 

("Mambo!" is hello. You are to respond with "Poa.")

 We end up leaving for the hotel without Mary, who's flight is still MIA.

Just when it seems like I'm in the clear, we get stopped at a police checkpoint.  The officer makes my driver get out of the car and grumbles about our cracked windshield and some shady stickers. Although they try to make this clandestine, I see my driver pay him off through my side mirror.  

Problem solved.

And now I'm here! 

With Wi-fi!

To my sheer delight, there is an Indian restaurant downstairs.  

I'll be having curry, waiting for Dougie, who (is scheduled) to arrive at 7:45.

Fingers crossed!

Then, the adventure shall begin in earnest.

Love from Kilimanjaro.

Bye-Bye Botswana

Happy memories of my last day in Gaborone, in chronological order:

Enya interrupts my early-morning Yoga for the last time.

I have a final cuddle with Zuzu.

 Nenguba and I take the town by storm one more time...

Which entails: drinks at the Gaborone Sun Hotel...

One last squished but satisfying ride in the Kombi...

A definitive stop at the electronics store. Laptop and flat screen?  Check!

And a requisite conjoined jam session to Call Me Maybe. 

It's been a pleasure, Gaborone, but the count down is up! 

My rejuvenation stop watch flashes 00:00. 

Onward!

Next stop:  Mt. Kilimanjaro.

Love from Gaborone. 

Friends

Today, I conquered Gaborone.

Or, Gaborone adopted me.

Let me explain.

With every city, there is a specific moment where you realize, I know you.  I have walked your paths, I understand your structure.  And at this point, I think the city gives you an embrace and welcomes you to be a part of it.  Then you and the city—you are friends.

With Frankfort, I achieved this one day.  With other cities (New York, for instance! And, if I could venture a guess, Lagos or Dhaka) attaining this relationship status is much more time consuming.

I made it to the museum, which was largely unremarkable.

I was reminded that homo sapiens emerged c. 200,000 years ago, and it is widely believed they originated in Africa before spreading to the other continents.  (Asia c. 53,000 years ago; Europe c. 40,000 years ago.)  Africa and South America are growing apart at approximately 4 cm per year and India is still crashing into Asia, which is why the Himalayas are still being formed!

There was also a great deal of tribal history, some stuffed lions at play and a very menacing Puff Adder, the cause of most snake bite deaths. Puff Adder venom is cytotoxic (cell-destroying) especially with respect to blood.

  I will be on serious lookout for those.  

I had drawn myself a little map, but instead of heading home, I thought I would try to find this delicious coffee shop that Nenguba and I went to the other day (off my map).

I found it!  And was quite proud of myself.  But here’s why I shouldn’t be: when walking alone, as the only white girl in the city, many a harmless, kind gentleman believes he should escort me everywhere.  So, I’ll admit, I had a few pointers.

I also found the UN. 

After I ditched my last escort, I estimated a solitary 2 mile walk home, 100% sure of the direction.  It was then that I had this happy feeling about being friends with Gaborone.  The late afternoon sun splashed my face in columns of yellow light between the trees and I thought this:

When by oneself, there is a marked difference between being lonely (a bitter feeling) and being solitary (a content feeling).

 In this moment, I was the latter.  But I have to admit—the morning after I arrived, after the hubbub in South Africa, alone in my cold room (the heater is broken!) with no one but the animals for company and no internet or TV with which to connect to the outside world, I felt a pang of loneliness.

There was this foreign phenomenon called free time to really miss Doug.

Nenguba quickly fixed this, so loneliness was really merely a half-day event.

But knowing my way along Gaborone’s paved lanes, yummy latte in hand, this was a comfortable, solitary happiness.

A shout: “LEXIIIIIIII!!” stirred me from this deep musing.

Lost in thought, I didn’t even realize Andy and Alice, en route home from work, had pulled over.

“Wanna hop in the back?”  Alice said.

I do!  And, it turns out, my nice, solitary walk home was a free ride with friends.  Go figure. 

But do I ever adore riding in the back of pick-ups.

 Love from Gaborone. 

Life in the Small City

The requests were: white socks, white sneakers, blue track pants and a red jacket.  After a 6 hour tour of Gaborone’s malls, Nenguba (my new BFF!) and I managed to procure all of these items for Ratika. The red jacket wins the prize for the hardest to find. Ratika wears children's clothes--there is a plethora of pink but red is scarce. 

 Gaborone has a shocking number of malls for a city so small.  I bet you could see everything there is to see by car in approximately 5 minutes.  Yet, we visited 5 malls. Fascinating.  

We traveled by foot or by Kombi.  Kombis are taxis—tiny vans that cram no less than 17 people and will not depart until full.

But it’s always a good ride. There’s usually excellent music.

I had just one request—to make a quick stop at a bookstore for Books 2 and 3 of the Hunger Games. (Thanks, Perry!) Oh, young adult fiction. Don’t judge—I’ve also begun Mukiwa, a novel of substance about the Rhodesian civil war. I go through reading quickly here.

In fact, today I finished Book 2 (Hunger Games takes precedence; I am not ashamed). I’m afraid I’ll have to ration Book 3.

After book 2, I wrote my South Africa field research report which I’ve shipped over cyberspace to NYU.

What else do I do, you may ask?

I busy myself with long, scalding showers, which I relish.  They were rare in South Africa and will be nonexistent after I leave Botswana.

I’ve also been doing calisthenics and yoga daily to try and get myself back in shape for Kilimanjaro. (Whatever shape I was in, I lost indulging in South African culinary delights.)

Today, mid-tree pose, Nenguba chirps, “Lexi, let’s go.”

This is the story of my life here. 

I follow Nenguba around like an eager puppy.  

She wants to show one of her coworkers her wig and who am I to protest?  What? Now? Sounds great!  It’s about a two mile walk which should make up for interrupting my exercise. Along the way, she grabs my iPhone:

“Lexi, show me American music.”

 I have exactly one playlist, and we each plug in an ear.  We walk to the beat, tied together like conjoined twins.  She loves Call Me Maybe and Rumor Has It.  Sidewalks are suspicious and Nenguba is fearless, walking on the pavement just inches from oncoming traffic, which makes me nervous, but what can I do? 

We are one.

It’s a unique experience for me to be attached to Nenguba’s hip because she’s a good three inches shorter than I am.  We might be the smallest people in Botswana and Nenguba might be the tiniest, 100% healthy person I’ve ever seen.  At work, they call her a toy.

If so, she is a mighty toy. 

I am under the impression she is queen of Gaborone.  When we’re in the city, we must stop every few minutes to chat with someone she knows.  (Perhaps this is why the Ratika shopping took 6 hours?)

She is also cat-called or literally hollered at, for lack of a better term, by every man in Gaborone.

She says it’s because of her figure.

Here is Nenguba doing a photo shoot while shopping, avec wig:

Isn’t she marvelous?

Although I didn’t see Tshireletso, I also captured Talent and Tigele today!

And, just for good measure—here’s Botswana’s Parliament, which we passed while shopping yesterday.

In my last few days, I have my sights set on the museum.

I would like to give a warm thanks and a shout-out to you for reading!  This may come to an abrupt end because I believe internet in Kenya is largely nonexistent (much like the hot shower). It's possible there might be a day or two of access in Tanzania.

Extra special love to Mom and Dad.

And Dougie, whom I will see in just 3 days!!!

:D

 Love from Gaborone. 

Into the Bush

N.B.:  This is a novel with no pictures. Read at your own risk of boredom!

So, this was the epitome of a rural Botswana village. 

When I walk towards the traditional round homes, clay plastered and thatch roofed, my shoes sink into red sand.  A curl of smoke twists from a small wood cooking fire, cordoned off by a twiggy fence.

We’re here to visit Ratika*, a 17 year-old AIDS orphan,  born HIV-positive.  Her mother died soon thereafter and the father is nowhere to be found.  Andy sees her at the hospital but also makes special visits every once in a while to her village near Molepolole (Moh-lee-poh-lo-lee), an hour and a half from Gaborone. 

Today, I am lucky enough to tag along.

The grandmother who raises Ratika greets me first with a broad, toothless smile that brightens her face, rough and wrinkled like elephant skin. She grabs my hand in the signature Botswana handshake and says, “Dumelo” followed by all kinds of chipper chatter directed to me that I don’t understand.  

I do understand the sharpness in her tone when she yells at the three adorable boys who have popped out of the fire pit and are chasing the chickens.  Except, if you look closely, the one in the pink pants is a girl.  They all have round, naked heads and pants that hover five inches above shoes out of which their big toes pop. The boy with mischief in his eyes begins a game of peek-a-boo with me.  No one is certain who’s kids these are.

Finally, Ratika emerges from her house with a scowl, looking to be about 12. Hers is the only non-traditional house in sight, and when she slides down the cinderblock wall to rest in the sand, I see the scarring and hair loss from a bad fungal infection she contracted as a child. 

Ratika is in and out of school and often sick due to poor adherence to her ARVs, largely because of drinking.  She has failed 1^st and 2^nd line treatment and, in Bostwana, 3^rd line is basically nonexistant.  

It’s clear though, she’s a survivor to have made it this far.  Other than a hangover, she looks well.

Andy has brought her oranges, toilet paper, and Ensure, among other things.  The prize gift is a solar cell phone charger.

He probes her, “How are you feeling?”

Silence.

“Are you hungry?”

A murmur.

“How’s school?”

A dismissive turn of the head.

“Did you get your track suit?”

Another murmur.

Andy says getting her in the morning (it’s about 8:00) can be rough.

In the silence, a dog—a good looking one with a sweet face—comes over, curls up next to her in the sun and closes its eyes.  This loyal move strikes me as supportive in the way that only animals can be sometimes. 

The three kids plop down next to the dog—three ducks in a row—alternately drawing in the sand and playing peek-a-boo with me.  The grandmother settles on the other side of Ratika, tucking one leg beneath her.  As she gives us updates (Nenguba translates—though I feel much is lost in translation), she fills the deep cracks in her hands with Vaseline.  We learn that Ratika wants to go to a neighboring school where her friends are who drink and disobey their parents.

Ratika sits and stares, a frowning granite statue.

The grandmother clucks mightily when Ratika throws the notebook in the sand that Andy has filled with math problems.

After the run-down, we split up.  It’s really chilly so we face the sun. The grandmother has made some tea over the fire, which she pours from a cup onto a little plate and slurps.  We cheerily chat about I don’t know what and Nenguba braids my hair.  In this moment, I close my eyes, and for some reason feel completely content with Nenguba’s hands in my hair, the sun on my face, and the smoke from the small fire in my nostrils. 

When my eyes blink open, Andy and Ratika are laughing by the house.  She’s just completed all his problems correctly and there is a new brightness to her whole demeanor. 

I hear Andy say, “You’re great at math.”

Later, I told Andy he worked some serious magic.  He said, no, the hangover wore off but I know it’s both.

After getting Ratika’s sizes for new clothes and measuring their door frame for new doors (their hinges are broken and the wooden doors are disintegrating) we bid the family farewell.  I get a handshake from Ratika but the grandmother embraces me.

“Goodbye,” she says in English, still holding me.  “Thank you for visiting us.”

This moved something inside me nearly to tears.  I was an outsider.  Stupidly privileged with nothing to add, no medical expertise, no language.  It is I who should be so gracious; my honor to be there.  I hope she understood when I tried to convey this. 

This was my morning.

Back in Andy’s truck, I immediately fall asleep and am stirred by a full stop.  A mile of stopped cars looms ahead, so Nenguba and I jump out and walk ahead through the dust to see what all the fuss is about.  En route, people are cheering, hanging out of car windows and drinking ample beer out of truck beds.  

Then, we reach the culprit: it is Botswana’s annual off-road race!  Vehicles travel 600 miles in two days and, in this very spot, they cross the paved road.

This is clearly something Botswana gets behind.  In a nation of just 2 million, there must be 1,000 cars perched around this crossing and quadruple the attendees.  Police gingerly let traffic pass.  Those perched in trees announce the crossings first with a shout, then police stop traffic and the whole crowd goes wild.  We see a race dune buggy, a jeep, and a truck scream across the pavement in a cloud of red dust before Andy catches up to us and hour later.

Exciting!

In other news, President George W. Bush is visiting Gaborone on July 5^th to promote PEPFAR’s (the Presidents Emergency Plan for Aids Relief) cervical cancer initiative, which has been a migraine for Andy.

Here are some of the details that go into this one-day visit.

President Bush, now a private citizen, charters a 747 from the US and it sits on the pavement while he tours Zambia for a week.  On this plane, he brings with him 60 plus staff, one, whose sole purpose is to run around the day of the 5^th to ensure there is a particular brand of toilet paper and soap in each of the restrooms he might use.

There was a three-week battle between the President’s foundation in Texas, Washington D.C., and the U.S. embassy here regarding taking pictures in the cervical cancer wing of Gaborone’s hospital, the President’s first visit.  Although the Bush team is demanding photographs with patients, the hospital explicitly forbids all photos.  There are reasons.  For instance, the cervical cancer wing serves only HIV-positive women, many of whom, do not disclose their status due to stigma and domestic violence that ensues.

The Bush team communicated that the photographer is in the President’s “bubble” and absolutely cannot leave his side.

The hospital retorted, fine, but the camera must stay in the car.

Now, the Bush team is reconsidering whether the photographer is truly an essential part of the bubble.

On the bright side for President Bush, next, he is visiting a rural clinic that does allow photos if there is written consent.  Thus, a few star patients are being preselected to take pictures with the President.

Following this, President Bush is traveling to a village, just 20 minutes from the city, that has a Peace Corps volunteer.  But, to make this visit ever the more comfortable for the President, they are transporting the 4 Peace Corps volunteers from Texas from the far corners of Bostwana to this site for the day.  Isn’t that splendid?

In the past, President Bush traveled with his bed that needed to be assembled on-site.  Now, he merely travels with his pillow. I can’t make fun of that—I too, have a travel pillow.

But this is just one day.  July 5^th.

Think of the resources that go into this day—the privately chartered 747, the salaries of his 60 plus staff, and the cost of everyone’s time to debate photographs for three weeks.

What goes into July 6^th?

Then, think of Ratika.

*Names have been changed (not President Bush’s).

Nice to meet you, Botswana

So, I’m safe here in Gaborone!

Pronounced: Ha-ba-ro-nee, if you want to pretend you’re local.

Which won’t work. 

I believe I was the only white person on the Intercape and perhaps the only one I’ve seen here, save for Andy. Moreover, as such, most will assume you are from South Africa and can at least give general pleasantries in Setswana.

Not this girl. Dumela (Hello!) is all I know at the moment. 

I’ll learn quickly though!

I find the people here marvelous. They’re all smiles and think it is hysterical that I can’t speak a word of their language.

Andy, Dad’s public health colleague from Maine, is so generously hosting me here for the week. His daughter, Alice (a senior at GW) is also in town for the summer.

At his compound, courtesy of the U.S. government, he has planted 63 fruit trees!  Though most of them look like this, he has harvested a few fruits of which he is quite proud.

There are also chickens. I made myself breakfast from two of their eggs yesterday.  Delish.

Finally on the animal front, there are two dogs, Dips,(the big boy) and Enya,(the Jack Russel) plus a cat (Zuzu) so it feels nearly like home.

Tshireletso, the gardender, Tigele, her baby daughter, and Talent (her baby-daddy?) are also usually around but I have yet to meet them.

Last, but certainly not least, we have Nenguba, Andy’s spirited, diminutive house keeper who I believe runs the show. And marathons.

Nenguba took me around the city yesterday.

For me, we successfully procured internet and a sim card, only after some heated words with Verizon. 

For her, we shopped for a flat screen, a PC, a stereo, and a pretty awesome wig.

But don’t let the mild consumerism fool you.  Nenguba is amazing.  She has intense gumption, works two jobs and does very well for herself.

Bostwana is oft labeled “Africa lite” (largely for its success as a peaceful democracy since its independence in 1966) and/or “the poster child of African development.”

And it’s true—Gaborone, the capital city, is small, sleepy, and secure.  It’s relatively developed and is still growing impressively.

But, outside the city, poverty still reigns.  Most rural villages still have no water, no electricity.

So yes, Botswana is peaceful, but it still has battles to fight.

Today Andy and I went for a 4 mile run with the dogs around the city’s game reserve at sunrise.

 I struggled but the red sun rising over the quiet African bush kept me going.

Love from Gaborone.

Farewell, Cape Town

Adriana left us in the morning and then there were two.

Ashish and I decided to explore Bo-Kaap, a historically Malay district of Cape Town. The houses that line its steep streets are awash with a brilliant rainbow of colors.  Except, for the most part, the colors aren’t primary. They reminded me of the tropical skittles—magenta, cyan, tangerine, lime…it was cheering just to be in the presence of such bold statements! 

When I handed my bus ticked to the attendent some hours later, he gave me an admonishing look regarding my 1.5 hour layover and said:

 “Why the hell did you buy this ticket if you are connecting to Botswana? Something always goes wrong.”

Oh, man.

After 21 hours on the sleepliner, a completely smooth connection in Joburg (I'll have that gentleman know), and seven more hours on the mainliner, they kicked us off the bus to cross the border by foot.

Very exciting!

More stamps for my passport!

Love from the Intercape bus.

Stellenbosch & Table Mountain, Take 2

It’s the general creakiness of the train and the way it violently rattles around turns in the track that make you question its integrity.  The general feeling of uncertainty that permeates the car, the graffiti that plasters its walls, and the hooligans hanging out the car door that they’ve propped open are what make you question your choice to make like a local and take the train in the first place.

Like jazz music, the call and response went something like this:

“Cape Town? Cape Town?”

 “This train!  Straight, straight, straight to Cape Town!”

Right.  We had to switch trains thrice.

Which involves waiting, waiting, waiting.

We followed instructions from locals riding whatever train we happened to be on at the time. 

So, who knows—maybe that first train would’ve gotten us “straight, straight, straight” to Cape Town.

But it was late—a chilly, black night and when we finally glimpsed that Cape Town station sign it elicited a potent mixture of joy and relief.  

This was our ride back from our own, not so carefully orchestrated trip to Stellenbosch. 

Apparently, it’s rather imperative to have a vehicle, hired or not, to get you around since taxis are rare and those that exist cater to the opulent winery hotels.  

Stellenbosch is positively splattered with wineries, but they are not within walking distance. 

To solve this dilemma, we befriended a few kind locals with pickups, which was cheap, effective, and overall, a smashing success.

A note on safety:  Yes, we should have done our research.  

However:  1) research is infinitely harder without internet and 

2) we were sick of being regimented.

Let me clarify, however, that we had the luxury of conducting ourselves in such an impulsive, cavalier manner because of Ashish’s presence.  Were it merely the girls, the unfortunate reality is, we would have planned entirely differently.  

in the pickup

That said, it was an adventure that I wouldn’t have had any other way. 

We visited two wineries—Spiel and Asara.  Both were exquisite.  Since winter has a purging effect on tourists, the resort was also exclusively at our fingertips, making for a bizarrely intimate experience.  It would have been nice to have the entire day at Stellenbosch as, apparently, the town itself is quite charming. 

At 3,500 feet, however, our morning was occupied by something infinitely bigger and better!

At 6:30 am, Ashish and I awoke to climb Table Mountain and caught the city sparkling at sunrise.

At first treading in darkness, we had the pleasure to watch a candy cotton sky turn tangerine as the sun peeked over the ridge and splashed the table’s face with a fiery red glow before daylight drenched  the entire city.

A warm breeze and clear sky awaited us at the summit where Adriana and Ariel joined us via cable car.  Together we spanned across Table Mountain’s broad surface, basking in the panoramas that escaped me on the first go-around.

We went down via cable care this time.

:)

Next we boarded the aforementioned Stellenbosch train, while Ariel boarded a homeward-bound plane.

Then there were three and the rest is history. 

Love from Cape Town.