“Koko,” I thought I heard coming from outside. Huh? I looked at the clock. 6:42 am. Seriously?
Everything in the house has been sold, and the small voice outside was coming round to pick the last of it. The concrete walls echoed as I stumbled out of bed – not that I’d been asleep for some time, but lying in bed was an act of optimism seeking a few more minutes of rest.
I folded up my sleeping bag and she collected my bed, extracting it from piles of luggage and a few things yet to be wrapped and shipped. The truck left, and I finished pulling things together. I showered by draining a bottle over my head, as our water was out yet again. Appropriate for my last morning, somehow.
I don’t much care for the house I’ve lived in these past 14 months, but this morning it was hard to leave. I felt pulled back, longing for something that’s already gone. It’s the end of an era, my housemate said a few days ago. I suppose he’s right.
So in a few hours I get on a plane, flying to Zimbabwe for my sister’s wedding. It’s a perfect ending for my time here. But flying straight on to a new life in Boston next Wednesday is still a little daunting.
Finally moving towards the car, I stopped in the dust and called to the remaining cat. Crazy, we call him. Crazy was here before us and will be here for some time after we’re gone. Crazy doesn’t really get along well with other living creatures, but I called out anyway. Lying in the sun, he squinted at me. Meowed. I called again. And he turned his head away.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Friday, August 03, 2007
seronga
The ferry closed at six, we thought. So roaring along the narrow waves of aging asphalt was the logical solution for our already-a-day-behind departure. Unfortunately, a few of Botswana’s finest were also out…on the side of the road…in chairs with clipboards and a radar gun. I suppose I should have just kept driving; after all, a cop flailing his arms to make cars stop seems a bit embarrassing for all of us. But my Midwestern follow-the-rules upbringing reared its reliable head, and I pulled over.
107 in a 60kph zone! Though I honestly can’t recall seeing a sign, and the village in which we were stopped had apparently receded from the road. I was traveling with a colleague, who did his level best to weasel me out of the fine. I’ve never given a bribe in Botswana, he said later, and neither have I. But the process of paying up was painful too; multiple forms attested to my admission of guilt, I signed over THE ACCUSED, had to wait for a receipt. In the meantime, other trucks flashed by at 110, 120k’s. “Ah!” shouted the receipt-writing cop to his younger, grave-faced partner. “You didn’t even tell me that one was coming!” as he missed shooting another one with the radar gun. Nice, I thought. I feel kind of like I’m doing a public service, keeping them occupied while everyone else hurls towards their destinations. Maybe they’ll take up a collection for me in appreciation.
We climbed back up into the Land Rover, my colleague taking the keys away from me as we discussed whether to haul ass or give up on getting to Shakawe before the river crossing was closed for the night. I think we can make it, I said, though of course I had never been up this way and had no idea. Predictably, perhaps, we pulled up at the dock as the ferry slid out onto the river. But the sign – this time, there was one – said closing time was 6:30. So we lucked out, and shortly, watched the sun set over the water, and drove onto gravel on the other side. Now, I’m unwound, I thought, as the first breaths of relaxation swirled from my lungs through my fingers and toes.
We arrived in the village several hours later, driving through thick dark and low hum of the occasional generator. There’s no electricity on this side of the river, and winter evenings set early and cold. Fishtailing through the sand tracks from the heart of the village – anchored by a bar and a bakery – we arrived at the house of the local councilor and his wife.
At this point, it seems wise to say that there is no way I’m going to be able to do justice to this trip here. Between the characters I met, moments that I savored, and things that made me want to scream, there was a lot of, well, drama. And as I sort through everything that has happened this past year while getting ready to leave, I find myself less resilient than usual, much more likely to be happily buzzed or completely dragging with little in between. So Seronga inflamed this tendency, being out in the middle of nowhere, getting to know the local conservationist scene, exploring the landscape, trying to talk with expats, villagers, government officers, missionaries. In the end, there is nothing like walking on so much Kalahari sand to keep you off balance.
107 in a 60kph zone! Though I honestly can’t recall seeing a sign, and the village in which we were stopped had apparently receded from the road. I was traveling with a colleague, who did his level best to weasel me out of the fine. I’ve never given a bribe in Botswana, he said later, and neither have I. But the process of paying up was painful too; multiple forms attested to my admission of guilt, I signed over THE ACCUSED, had to wait for a receipt. In the meantime, other trucks flashed by at 110, 120k’s. “Ah!” shouted the receipt-writing cop to his younger, grave-faced partner. “You didn’t even tell me that one was coming!” as he missed shooting another one with the radar gun. Nice, I thought. I feel kind of like I’m doing a public service, keeping them occupied while everyone else hurls towards their destinations. Maybe they’ll take up a collection for me in appreciation.
We climbed back up into the Land Rover, my colleague taking the keys away from me as we discussed whether to haul ass or give up on getting to Shakawe before the river crossing was closed for the night. I think we can make it, I said, though of course I had never been up this way and had no idea. Predictably, perhaps, we pulled up at the dock as the ferry slid out onto the river. But the sign – this time, there was one – said closing time was 6:30. So we lucked out, and shortly, watched the sun set over the water, and drove onto gravel on the other side. Now, I’m unwound, I thought, as the first breaths of relaxation swirled from my lungs through my fingers and toes.
We arrived in the village several hours later, driving through thick dark and low hum of the occasional generator. There’s no electricity on this side of the river, and winter evenings set early and cold. Fishtailing through the sand tracks from the heart of the village – anchored by a bar and a bakery – we arrived at the house of the local councilor and his wife.
At this point, it seems wise to say that there is no way I’m going to be able to do justice to this trip here. Between the characters I met, moments that I savored, and things that made me want to scream, there was a lot of, well, drama. And as I sort through everything that has happened this past year while getting ready to leave, I find myself less resilient than usual, much more likely to be happily buzzed or completely dragging with little in between. So Seronga inflamed this tendency, being out in the middle of nowhere, getting to know the local conservationist scene, exploring the landscape, trying to talk with expats, villagers, government officers, missionaries. In the end, there is nothing like walking on so much Kalahari sand to keep you off balance.
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