Highland Fling

I hadn’t planned to go to Maun, but when transport from Gumare back to Seronga went awry when the head nurse informed me that my only ride back to Seronga that day would be in the back of an ambulance with several drums of petrol (likely not completely properly closed and fuming like what) I decided to make a new plan in deference to my remaining brain cells. A few well placed calls informed me that I would have better luck catching a lift from Maun back home with the police from Seronga after the weekend, so Dudu and I made a plan to get to Maun.

As with most ventures through the metropolis that is Maun, it began with me texting the usual suspects about my impending arrival. “Rough” the dashing Scotsman I had met a few months back responded to the social calendar inquiry by asking if I had heard about the Scottish Burns Night. Indeed I hadn’t, although I had to admit the name, along with the brief text he had sent describing a night filled with “wit, poetry and whisky” in and of itself sounded quite promising. When he told me the level of dress was to be “formal” a glimmer of the party-dress girl I used to be danced to the surface of my mind. There are just so few events to which one can attempt to wear make-up and feel pretty in the bush! This was an opportunity, and I’m not one to look a gift donkey in the mouth. When I jokingly inquired about Tuxedos (thinking Bond, James Bond… What with all these gorgeously accented ex pats and pilots running around) and he text back “No…. Kilts.” Yeah. Like I was gonna turn THAT one down. I figured it’s still a cultural exchange, just a Scottish cultural exchange. And it certainly was.

As I was already in Gumare at this point Dudu and I then raided her closet for some suitably appropriate China shop attire. (I hate to say this for the complete political incorrectness of this but when I say “China shop” I’m not speaking about places peddling fancy wares such as china and perhaps flatware and pretty linens. But then perhaps you noted that when I mentioned the state of other marketplaces in the area. “China shop” means junk shops run by Chinese people. No one here seems to think this odd or offensive in the least. Just thought I should clear that up at the start). We made a plan with some dresses we thought would work and I mourned the fact that I couldn’t find a decent pair of heels in the Northwest region of the country. We headed out to the hitching spot in Gumare, thumbed a ride, and were on our way to Maun.

Now this happened to be Friday, and during the rounds of meeting up with the friends and associates I’ve somehow collected in Maun, we managed to get completely sidetracked by my friend “Canada”. He’s nearly Motswana, as his parents are missionaries and have lived in Maun most of his life. He is however, still pretty close to American (which I remind him about how he’s so NEARLY there all the time… Which he loves as much as you can imagine a typical Canadian would.) He ended up inviting us boating the next day, which was the day of the Scottish party, which he had no plans to attend.

The boating adventure ended up being just that, with us stopping to meet up with a friend of a friend of a friend who had all the tame zebras running around their yard that you see in my new photos. (Side Note: There are tons of Zebras in Botswana, and many of them are quite tame as they are not hunted, poached or eaten because they are the totem of the President of Botswana’s tribe. I’ve still never seen them get this close to humans. It was weird. I threatened them-although being in English I wonder if they understood- that they had better not trample me or my mother was going to be PISSED. Perhaps the threatening fist I shook at them made it clear. I’ll let the pictures tell the story…) Long story short (or really, told in parenthesis) after a brief run in with a hippo at close range, by the time we had docked the party had begun about an hour previously.

Now really, things never start on time in Botswana, so when we showed up nearly two and a half hours late, I thought we’d be right on time. It seems I forgot about the Brits and their “timeliness above all” which you’d think I would have really taken in after spending all this time with Simon, for whom half 4 means twenty past. We wandered into the entryway of the assigned seating formal sit down dinner function (mental note: not a good idea to try to sneak in two and a half hours late when you are seated at the host’s table… ooopps.) and I began the smile and feign ignorance apology dance. The whisky began to really flow soon after and all was forgiven.

It seems we were just in time for the actual main course of dinner, which was a lot of stuff that usually goes on my “scary food” list, but as I was trying to play “cultured” I sampled (most of it). The Haggis wasn’t as horrendous as I thought it would be so long as I focused on not thinking about what it was (intestines, nasty ground up bits,-google it). There was also a really amazing thing that was so damn close to a cheese cake that it nearly brought tears. The poetry was surprisingly (to me) pretty good, or if not good, at least sweet, considering the purpose of the night was to immortalize a man whose legend lies heavily in his sexual infidelities. The whole night had the effect of really transporting all present to the experience of a cold winter’s night in a Scottish pub, which is a pretty impressive feat in the heat of Botswana.

In the end, the only thing missing was the bag pipes, which it seemed even Rough couldn’t pull off managing to procure in Africa. The highlight of the evening ended up being the dancing, which the three actual Scots present attempted to teach the rest of us. Scottish dancing is all about being in pairs and constantly switching partners and (in the beginning at least) attempting to focus and count and attempt to go in the right direction. It was hilarious to watch what were undoubtedly a bunch of former prep school boys in their ties twirling around like little leprechauns (I know that’s Irish, but really, it fit) to some dance it appeared they may have mastered at some point in their lives in their Physical Education class and were just remembering in a whisky induced haze now. They were tossing Dudu and I around enough to nearly compensate for the fact that letting a man lead me while dancing is an art form I have not yet mastered.

During the breathless breaks between songs I realized how cool it was just to have a space in which to sit around and speak with people that didn’t carry the “thrill of the hunt” type atmosphere of most of the bars in Bots (or really, the world). Everyone kind of sat around drinking and talking and not necessarily trying to figure out whom was going to try to go home with whom. The dancing had broken the ice amongst people who would have normally spent the night only speaking after they had had their inhibitions worn away by the dulling effects of alcohol. Somewhere between the dancing and the raucous harmonizing of Auld Lange Syne at the bar at the end of the night with lyrics scribbled on a bar napkin and 10 people craning their necks to see and sing, I got a chance to speak with Rough and some of the other Scots and discovered that this is actually is how it is in Scottish pubs. Yeah, there’s crazy drinking (they’re kind of known for it after all) but there’s also this element of widespread socializing amongst the whole room through movement that I would say in American culture we’ve lost (if we ever had?) in the bump and grind of the clubs.

The whole experience made me certain that I need to follow through with the idea I’ve had since London (6 years ago now!!!) that I need to get to Ireland and Scotland for my 30th year of life (also quickly approaching) and with all the friends I’ve met from England, it seems I’ll have to make a few stops there as well. So much for the idea that living in Africa would cure me of my itchy feet…..Here we go again ;-)