I never really know what I’m getting into when I arrive in Katima. Which, I imagine, is one of the things I love about it. My sister is no longer here, so my 18 hour bus ride was full of something less than delicious anticipation. After several hours of delays in Windhoek – begun by a half hour drive that should have taken 5 minutes to get us back to the garage to fix the bus that should have been fully operational BEFORE departure – it was a long slow night on a two lane road frought with donkeys and goats and miscellaneous other creatures that don’t really belong on a tarred highway. But my other sister met me on arrival, and we cruised over to the house – which was of course already occupied by other Zimbabweans. I thought I was heading to some quiet time on my own, but as usual, I was wrong. It still makes me giggle, this constant screwing up of mine. In end, if we all relegated our expectations to the existential scrap heap, I suspect we’d manage to be much happier anyway.
At the house we found my sister’s sister-in-law, who returned from Zimbabwe today on her way back to Rundu (yes, Jen, think of Rundu and laugh…!). With her was a friend who had hitched a ride. So they hung out, ran some errands around town, and came back just as I caved and decided to have a nap. Unfortunately, since the house has been mostly empty for a week, we were a little low on supplies. This meant we were ‘reduced’ to sorghum porridge rather than sadza (corn porridge) for dinner. I’ll skip the culinary lecture for now, but suffice to say, this was not nearly so big a deal to me as to them. As we were preparing dinner, there was a crashing bounce of a noise on the tin roof. I looked up. We went outside. Turns out, having locked the gate, we were somewhat immune to hearing the truck that had pulled up outside with a delivery. So the driver chucked something which remains unidentified at the roof and managed to get our attention.
Now this is where it gets interesting. Two Zimbabwean guys who remain unnamed brought two burgeoning burlap sacks to the doorstep, deposited them, and buggered off. My sister-in-law was quite pleased. I thought perhaps they were mealies (corn). But as she grabbed a knife and sliced thru the twine cords holding the bags shut, I quickly realized my error.
See, Katima is a border town – full of Zambians and Zimbabweans both legal and illegal. This means that, well, there is a lot of legal and illegal more generally going on most of the time, and it is well-camouflaged. The lumpy bags held leather handbags, canvas shoes, safari shirts, khaki pants, tablecloths, pillowcases, and other things made in Zimbabwe to be sold here. But they were far from legal entry. Vehicles coming in from Zimbabwe are subject to exceptional levels of scrutiny to which I can attest, having been a passenger in overburdened cars in both directions more than once. So there is no way that customs in Botswana, and then in Namibia, would have let this much stuff through.
Of course, I couldn’t resist. “Come on, sisi, who am I going to tell?” I pleaded, several times, seeking for an explanation. But she would not tell me how these bags had made it to our doorstep. I don’t blame her. But perhaps the strangest part was, despite the fact that it was already getting late and we’d set out beds for the night – once the goods arrived, they were off. Jamming purses and shirts and shoes into the truck of a rumbly, fringe-dashboarded Toyota, they were off. Promising to text me on past-midnight arrival in Rundu, she backed the car up to the gate, I let her out, and they were gone. I poured another gin and tonic and sat outside with the Southern Cross far above me, listening to the pumping music of Saturday night just up and around the corner.
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