July 10

NICOLE:I must say, I do agree with Erin. While it does feel nice to sit on a toilet, take a hot shower, and not have to worry about rationing food, I could have stayed in the bush quite a while longer. After all, it could be awhile until the next time I get to ride on a bumpy dirt road on the roof of a Land Rover watching the colors of a sunset such as I will never see in the States, all the while passing hundreds of elephants, zebra, impala, giraffe, warthogs, hippos, and countless other African animals. Ah well. Back to civilization, and with it, very friendly Batswana, begging for contact information or marriage proposals, and a promise to help them come to America.
This morning we all woke up at 7:00 (in Dad’s case, hours before) to go into town with Dad, while he took poor Tau to get looked at. From the fix-it shop, us kids walked the mile or two to the downtown area, which didn’t seem like much, but, according to the parentals, way more built up than it used to be. We were lucky enough to find a large pharmacy where we were able to find what we’ve been looking for for weeks--contact solution, which costs about US $20! After that we spent most of the time walking through the village part of town, where the locals lived, waving to naked kids in the yards and women washing clothes in a tub or walking from town with bags of oranges or wood balanced on their heads. Dad and mom picked us up a few hours later, and after a quick picnic lunch on the banks of the Okavango, we began the search for our old house. It took at least an hour before we came to a part of the village where Mom finally thought she recognized where she was. It took some convincing from Dad to decide that the house we were in front of was indeed the house we used to live in. There were a few houses built around it, and the house was a different color, but the h/f radio pole that Dad had installed was still there. The only part of Maun I remember was being chased by our geese, Harry and Lydia, so I didn’t have much to say. We took a quick tour around our mud and thatched roof house before walking down the street to see if our next door neighbors were still around. There lived a woman named Bessie, who had 9 kids, one of them being a boy Travis’ age named Tayopa. We weren’t expecting to find much, but sure enough, Bessie’s oldest son was still there, and told us his mother was in Mochudi (which is only about 30 kms from Gaberone. Travis, Erin, and I plan on looking her up once we get back there) and Tayopa was still around, only at work downtown at the Ngami Times newspaper office.
So we headed downtown to find Travis’ long lost playmate. After asking for him at the front desk, and he came out, looking confused and a little scared at the sight of 7 white people who somehow knew his name, waiting for him expectantly. (He tells a pretty amusing story about what was going on in his mind at this point). As soon as Dad said “Roger,” his face lit up and he said, “Father of Travis!” Then we all pointed to Travis and he turned around and gave him a big hug, and started getting a little emotional, exclaiming how he can’t believe we remembered him. He remembered Travis very well, even remembering the name him and the other neighbor kids used to “mock” him with, “Xarae” (that “X” is a very special, very specific click of the tongue), which means “San,” which is the name given to the bushmen, who are very light in complexion, thus, just like Travis. In true Motswana fashion, Tayopa got our phone number and called us up a few hours later, inviting himself over for supper. It was quite a treat. He could not get over our supper of baked potatoes we wrapped in tin foil and put into the fire, (“you are burning them! If my father saw me do that he would whip me.”) the fact that we would put cheese on our hamburgers, or the way he had to “drink” his vegetables of broccoli and cauliflower, which he ended up throwing into the fire. (Apparently, he had never had cooked vegetables before). We also learned that he watched the Lion King at least once a week and it is one of his favorite topics of conversation. At the end of the night, when it was time to go, he told us he just didn’t have words to tell us how grateful he was, that we would remember him and come back to Maun to see him. It seems to be the same with every Motswana we go back to visit—they get very emotional and they are just blown away that these rich, white, Americans would some day come back to Botswana to see them again.
It was later than our usual bedtime (which really isn’t saying much) when Tayopa finally pulled himself away from us and we retired once more into the tent, to the sounds of the nightclub across the road and the bleating of the donkeys and goats wandering around our tent.
Nicole