I had arranged to get a ride from Maun back up to a place near Seronga in my usual way, which was to see someone I knew randomly driving past Bon Arrive, running out and flagging them down, and entering myself into the logistics of their trip. As usual for my travel experiences in Botswana, it quickly became an adventure.
I had gotten from Gabs to Maun in the mindbendingly cushiony comfort of a plane (thanks again RC!) and was now about to set out for home. From Maun to Seronga is the more logistically difficult leg of the journey, as when there’s not a direct flight to hitch on, it’s a long overland (and really overseas) journey, through a land of dirt roads and pothole filled asphalt, animals sauntering across the road blocking any path for vehicles (generally not intelligent enough to move out of the way, even with the prompting of the horn- but hey I suppose they are stubborn as mules- literally) and timing for mechanically challenged ferry with a last crossing of half 6PM.
When I last left Seronga there had been rumors about and sightings of buses and combis (largish vans) running public transport on my side of the delta. My incredulity at their reliability was confirmed as I saw both a bus and a combi paused in the famous “broken down” posture far from any areas that looked like “official” (ie a tire with a sign declaring “Paradise Bus Stop”) stops.
So I was left with my other option, which is to beg, barter or stow away on some form of transport going my side of the delta. I could technically get a bus to Shakawe, but my faith in the public transport on that particular route to have my bags arrive at their destination is not very strong. I avoid it at all costs. And then I would still have to make my way the ten k’s to the ferry, as well as a lift across all the way to Seronga. In this case Steve goes within 55 k’s of Seronga, a distance with much hitching potential with people going back and forth between their cattle posts. He was the best option I’d found so I jumped at the chance. He said he had several trucks going in the morning. I met him and the entirety of the Bana Ba Metse school the next morning at 9, and the adventure back to Seronga truly began.
I rode in the front of the cab of a large truck with Steve for the first leg of the journey, from Maun to Gumare, a journey fraught with radiator problems and stops to regulate on the boys in the back. I ate my complimentary peanuts and raisons from the plane ride and read my book. We got to Gumare and the two British guys I had been speaking with back in Maun were switching around their driving/sitting arrangements as Nick was tired of being squashed in the back with the boys. He and Drew are on their gap year and are volunteering as teachers with Bana Ba Metsi. They were just arriving back for their first day on the job after a 6 week holiday traveling around southern Africa. There is no easing back into work for he and Drew, as the first day is the day they transport all the boys from Maun to Bana Ba Metsi, English translation of which is loosely “children of the water”. It’s a school for at risk boys started and run by Steve, a former Peace Corps from the neighbor to my home state, Wisconsin. It’s located about 55 k’s from Seronga and I’ve found they often have fresh eggs and chicken for sale.
So we’re at the petrol station in Gumare and I was searching the freezer for one of the elusive unmelted ice cream bars (I figured I better get this last treat before I return to the bush- I failed this mission. The thing was nearly soup straight out of the freezer). I realized I was back in completely back up in the northwestern district of Botswana when without even the politeness of a greeting a well dressed woman at the petrol station demanded that I buy her one of the two packets of fries that were on the counter in front of her. I politely declined, suggesting that perhaps she should be buying me the chips as I was a guest in her country. She said no and informed me that I was beautiful and wanted to be my best friend. I grabbed poor Nick’s arm and replied that I already had a best friend in the whole world thank you very much.
We were still laughing about it when we got out to the trucks and the guys continued their negotiations for who was going to sit where. Drew jokingly suggested it was my leg of the trip to sit with the boys and I surprised him by taking him up on it. I think his subtle British teasing was caught off guard by my blatant American stubbornness and I scrambled over to the truck, ice cream steaming down my arm in delicate green trails (hey, it was mint).
I hoisted myself over the closed tailgate of the partially covered flatbed truck that stands higher than my head at the cab. 50 heads turned in curiosity to briefly acknowledge my arrival. Then they swiveled back to shouting in various tribal languages in support of the fight that had broken out.
I lunged into the middle of it, grabbing the two limbs nearest me (and hoping they belonged to the two boys participating in the fight) and squeezed, shouting in intelligible Setswinglish. I found the back of two necks and placed a hand on each of them and in a half calming, half threatening gesture I spoke more softly and sharply-not that my initial exclamation had quieted the shouts of the masses that had been encouraging the fight.
I had now shocked the travelers in this truck thoroughly. Not only was I white, and a woman, but I now I was telling them, a bunch of men (albeit exceptionally young men in this case) what to do. I could tell they didn’t completely know which of their cultural rules to follow, the ones about respecting and not questioning their elders or the ones about men being in charge of women. The look on my face encouraged them go with the first. The fighters disengaged.
“Are you sure you want to ride back there?” Drew called from down below on the ground. “I was just kidding when I said you should ride there.”
“Course,” I muttered back, continuing to wrench the fighters apart and directing them to sit away from each other. Drew is going to have 24/7 contact with these boys starting now now and I figured it might be nice to give him a few more hours of teenage boy free time before that. My memories and skills gleaned from my time as a “youth specialist” at my job with delinquent girls after college came flooding back to me as I settled into a half squatting position amongst an absolute tangle of limbs and heads, each of us casually crushing into the next in a manner so natural and common in Africa.
I briefly had a laugh to myself at the safety measures that are taken with transporting this many children this far of a distance and think back again to my days in the states. Back home anyone would shit a brick if a child was taken in a car without a seat belt. This truck didn’t even have seats, or really, closed off walls. The wind blew directly at us, half the children were draped on top of each other like puppies trying to both sleep and avoid the direct sun that was pouring in. The luckier ones were perched on the edge of a fuel drum or the spare tires. Some kind of sketchy foamy mats and cushions have been thrown into the back for the comfort of the travelers. There are nearly fifty people crammed in what couldn’t have been much more than maybe 10 by 15 feet of flatbed.
There have been many instances of travel in Africa wherein I find myself in those situations you see in movies wherein there are 15 people hanging off the back of a pickup truck somewhere (although in the movies they generally have big semi automatic machine guns, and here they usually just have a baby strapped to their back, another child holding their hand, a chart from the clinic in their arm, perhaps a bag in their other arm and a 5 kg sack of maze balanced on their heads). This particular episode I was experiencing would have fallen into the “refugees leaving a horribly war torn country” category. And these kids were just on their way to school. I will never have the patience to listen to someone complain about paying bus fees to transport their children three miles to school again.
I watched the sky appear to chase the truck for a while as the landscape rushed by over the tailgate. Drew texts to ask if I am ok back there and I text back “of course.” I looked over at the fighters, the larger of which is clearly pouting for my benefit, and decided that this probably isn’t his first school year at Bana Ba. It was the first day of a new school year and so this one is trying to jockey for position, and establish the power structure that will likely carry them through to the next year. The smaller boy appears to be Humbugushku, an ethnic minority in the area, and based on the nervous tension cascading through his tough demeanor, appeared to be new to the whole arrangement. All this is confirmed when I interrogate the older boy in between the fighters, and whom I immediately blamed for the fight that had nothing to do with him.
“Why are you allowing these boys to fight like children when they are at school to learn to act like men? You are clearly older and should be setting a better example!” I berated him in half Setswana, half English, with my favorite statement, “O A Ultwa?” (Do you understand?) peppered emphatically throughout. He looks surprised and slinks off to the back of the truck where he is out of my line of vision. Responsibility for oneself, much less another person can be a fuzzy concept here I’ve found. He clearly had nothing to do with the fight other than cheering for it, but I’ve found discipline is often an easier thing to enforce when you put it back on those you are trying to control. This group is ripe for positive peer culture.
Another boy had brought with him from home a small toy keyboard (with batteries! Very unusual around these parts!) and was playing it for no better purpose than to annoy those around him. As I was one of those people around him, I decided that this would not do. I informed him that I would be happy to listen to him play for the next five minutes, but then did not want to hear it again until Shakawe (where I would be ending my tour of duty in the back of the truck with the kids.) He looked confused and played on as I kept track on my watch. When I held out my hand after five minutes he placed it there without hesitation. When I think of how many hours I’ve spent trying to coax girls to give me tacks, staples, needles, pen parts or other sharp objects they were holding in their mouths in a threat to shallow them I am gobsmacked at how easy this is. It seems even naughty Batswana children are more well behaved than American ones!
At this point the bigger boy from the fight decides to start talking smack to me. He gave me a long convoluted story about how the smaller boy had been trying to eat out his brains, accusations which the younger boy was observing with a scowl on his face but not attempting to refute. The bigger boy asked if I was the smaller boy’s lawyer, and tells me he will be calling his own attorney to come and hear the case of what had just happened, and this bigger boy was certain he would be vindicated.
I listened to him for a few minutes, and having become the main attraction of the small space at this point, many of the rest of the fifty boys on the truck are waiting to hear how I will reply to this damning argument after I had come onto their bus and broken up a fight. (They couldn’t really avoid overhearing as this was a damn small space within which to fit this many people, and there were no other worthwhile distractions as they were already bored of each other, after having already been in the car together for the better part of a day.) I leaned in close to the bully, looked him straight in the eye, and slowly and carefully told him what I hope will be a life lesson that is permanently impressed upon his young mind.
“When you are speaking to a female (O a ultwa?) if you want her to listen to what you are saying (O a ultwa?) you must look in her eyes, not at her chest.”
The crowd of boys went wild, (although I’m still wondering how many actually understood what I was saying in English, and how many were just laughing that I’d told their big man off) and I added, “and good luck getting your attorney to come that side.”
He scowled and went back to pouting, with no further problems for the rest of the ride.
(which was, in fact, free). I hopped in the Seronga police vehicle at the ferry at Mohembo and was home sweet home soon enough… 9 hours later.
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