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).