Here at the centre, we recently finished building a tented camp on the property so that visiting students and researchers have a convenient place to stay. This is a good thing in part because we are far enough from ‘town’ that even local minibuses do not run out this far. Public transport is, well, another post, but suffice to say it’s always a dicey endeavor. To avoid it, I just spent Wednesday riding 600 kilometers in the back of an open Land Rover. At least it with two black women in the cab and me in the back, we drew some pretty hilarious stares. And I did see a nice kudu along the side of the road, but we were going way too fast for me to really appreciate it.
Anyway, I pitched up at work on Thursday morning thoroughly sun-and-windburnt and finally had my first chance to see the permanent tents that have been put up.
I’m in love.
Ten olive green canvas squares on top of gnarled wood platforms curl around the center open area of the camp. Across the open part of this crescent is a kitchen with fridges and lockable cupboards. Behind it, showers with chunky stone floors and sinks for scrubbing laundry. The tents are on wood frames with solid doors and house two twin beds with metal wardrobes and a table. And a fan. Which means there is electricity. In the tents. They are shiny and new, the crisp canvas unsullied by sand or sunbleached creases or monkey shit. Ok, I’m sure they already have monkey shit on them but in my daze I didn’t see any.
I’ve previously mentioned the fact that I’m not exactly enamored of the house I live in right now. Among other things, it’s hot and buggy because there are no screens on the windows – so I can either coat the place with insects or myself with sweat. Given that mosquitoes here carry malaria, sweat wins. Besides, the cat brings mice in rather than keeping them out. She also brought a bird in once that was still alive and wasn’t really interested in killing it (picture me chasing a one-eyed bird around an orange-walled concrete room and you’ll, well, laugh). The house is also far from anything except the bar at the only backpackers’ in Maun, and heaven knows I don’t need that kind of encouragement. Besides, I am not sure how much longer my boss will allow me to freeload, nor what it would do to our so-called working relationship (I haven’t seen him since June) if he did. So I’ve been thinking I ought to move out, but getting my own place feels like a commitment in which I am profoundly disinterested. The house, mind you, is the envy of many people here. It’s quiet, it’s got the river on three sides, the birdwatching is great. I’m just not its biggest fan.
Et voila, a tent. But the tent of all tents, perched in the bush where I can walk to work, with screen windows I can leave open, with a porch I can sit on. There are, I’ve been told by someone who is staying in the camp, a lot of “night sounds” to add to the ambiance. Seeing as she’s from the capital, I bet the kind of night sounds she’s used to are not quite what I’m looking for. But the tents, the tents are the peace for which I have been searching here. Unfortunately I was told recently that no one will be allowed to live in them permanently. Not that I expected to grow old in olive square number eight. But soon, with any luck, I may have a change of residence…
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