Alone

Friday 18th September

Mokolodi Nature Reserve, Botswana

We're in the middle of nowhere... well, we're all alone, deep in Mokolodi Nature Reserve.

 

A ranger dropped us here around noon with just a backpack, some matches and a can of Jungle Formula and he'll be back tomorrow morning to pick us up.  Apart from that, we're alone, with only a remote control panic button as a means of contacting the outside world.

 

Mokolodi Nature Reserve

We're staying in a small rondavel overlooking a dam which has almost dried out due to the serious drought currently gripping the country.  When we arrived, we were greeted by a rather large ostrich, but it didn't hang about long.  A single eland drank from the waterhole, but after that, all was quiet.  Until, that is, the warthogs came along - one family at a time to roll in the mud next to the water.

 

Soon after, a troop of baboons arrived and were fascinating to watch.  The alpha male sat back, arms folded and in a pose like Buddha, surveying the scene while the rest of the troop, including several infants, drank from the water and foraged in the mud.  Then, after a good half-hour or so, he changed posture and this signalled they should get ready to move.  He led the way and the others soon followed him over the horizon.

 

While the baboons were at the water's edge, a giraffe and a hartebeest arrived, but each held back and formed a queue.  The giraffe got bored od waiting and left for other pastures, but the hartebeest patiently waited until the last baboon had gone then proceeded to the water for a drink.  Clearly the baboons rule the roost around here.

 

Springbok

As the midday sun began to cool, a herd of springbok arrived, but to our surprise did not approach the water.  Instead, they climbed the bank and began to graze around us.  They came to within 3m of us and didn't seem bothered at all by our presence.  Each had three or four birds on its back, presumably they were eating some kind of parasites from the boks.  They stayed beside us, freezing if we moved but not running away, for about fifteen minutes until they were chased away by our next visitors - monkeys.

 

About twenty vervet monkeys surrounded us, their leader with his bright blue balls choosing to sit alongside us.  Unlike the springbok, they never froze or startles at all - quite the opposite.  These monkeys had arrived with the sole intention of terrorising us, or so it seemed.  They prowled around us, refusing to be chased and one proceeded to rip open our bag of charcoal and strew its contents around.  Not frightened of us in the slightest, they were rather intimidating with their group movement and their incessant chatter, which was clearly monkey-Tswana for "Come ahead!"

 

Vervet monkey

Like the springbok, they were only to be chased away by another group of visitors - this time baboons.  They stayed with us until darkness fell, but kept their distance unlike their smaller cousins.

 

After that, a single wildebeest coming down for a drink brought in the sunset.  As darkness fell, the chatter of the baboons ceased, replaced by the barking and howling of wild dogs and the gentle trill of crickets.

 

There's a lot of action around the waterhole at the moment, and something large is splashing about, but it's too dark to tell what it is.

 

Sunset

Our eyes are instead drawn upwards to the most spectacular sky imaginable, with distant galaxies clearly in view.  The scale of it all reminds us of what a tiny part we play in this vast universe, and for such a short time, rather like the fleeting visit of animals to the water.

 

"When I consider the glories of the cosmos, I cannot help but see a divine hand behind it all." - Einstein

Standing out

Thursday 17th September

Mokolodi, Botswana

Today, everything seemed closed.

 

We had heard about a collective of weavers in Oodi, set up in the 1970s by Swedish missionaries as a way of creating employment for local women.  They produce tapestries showing scenes of rural life and enjoy showing off their skills to passers-by.

 

Interested to find out more, we headed off to Oodi, only to find the road there closed and the diversion causing us to once again go off-roading in a VW Polo, this time across the fringes of the Kalahari Desert.

 

When we arrived in Oodi, there were few signs of life.  Approaching the weavers' building and peering through the windows gave a glimpse of their magnificent tapestries, but everything was locked and bolted with not a soul in sight.

 

Mochudi

Oh well, never mind.  We headed instead to Mochudi to visit a museum depicting Tswana life.  We followed the signs to what we thought was the museum, but it turned out to be a community centre where we gate-crashed some kind of adult literacy class.  A street vendor eventually gave us directions up a steep mountain path and after a lot of climbing we arrived at the museum's huge iron gates and pressed the intercom.  No response.  Eventually, after much scouting around, we concluded that this, too, was closed so headed back into Mochudi to visit the market.

 

The village is under tribal authority, and we had been advised that we should first visit the tribal offices and ceremonially ask for permission to enter.  To this moment, we have been unable to locate said office, so proceeded to without the relevant permissions.

 

From nowhere, a woman began shouting to us and instructed us we must enter the property she was pointing to.  Ah! we thought, this must be the Tribal Administration Office.  But not so.  In fact, the woman who lived there just wanted to see the white people, so once she'd had a good look at us, we were on our way.  She even asked if we could give her son a job, and was much dismayed when we told her we were only visiting for the day.

 

This quickly became the story of the day - throughout the village, everyone wanted to look at, to talk to and to touch us.  Stall holders shouted, not to try and sell their wares but just to ask to shake our hands.  Every passing person wanted to stop and talk.  Parents chided their children for staring at us, then continued to do so themselves.  One small girl even came up, stroked our arms, then ran off giggling to her group of friends.

 

To be fair, we did stick out like sore thumbs.  We were clearly the only white people in the village.  We dressed differently - while we were wearing what any Scot would in 35° heat, the locals remained wrapped up in long sleeves.  Supposing we'd worn flashing neon signs, we could not have been more noticeable, and yet the level of attention we got could never have been expected.

 

Even in the car as we left, a bus driver going in the opposite direction yelled for us to stop and wind down the window, only so he could say hello and then drive off.  By the time we left Mochudi, it was all rather tiring and it left me glad never to be destined for celebrity.

Dr Livingstone, I presume?

Wednesday 16th September

Mokolodi, Botswana

You can barely move around here without encountering Scotland - Scottish place names, Scottish churches, the "Scottish Hospital" and even Scottish names: who could have guessed that Botswana would be awash with Agneses and Peggys?  All of this is down to one man - David Livingstone - and today we set off in his tracks.

 

First up was Kolobeng, the site of Livingstone's home of five years, as well as the first church, first school and first health centre in what is now Botswana.

 

Remains of Kolobeng Mission Church

When we first arrived, it seemed closed, but as we were driving off, we were chased and encouraged back by a former policeman who has given up everything in order to dedicate his life to the study of this missionary from Blantyre.  Singlehandedly he has excavated the site of Livingstone's house and clinic, along with the Kolobeng Mission Church (or what remains of it).

 

At length - and I mean length - he showed us around the site, recounting every known detail of the lives of David, Mary and their five children - one of whom (Elisabeth) is buried there.

 

His knowledge was excellent, if a little intense, and his delivery akin to Dot Cotton, filling every comma and breath with a barely relevant quotation from scripture.  He affectionately refers to Livingstone as his father, as he sees his entire faith and love for God owing its roots to him.

 

Several kilometres up the road in Molepolole, we passed the London Mission Church, and the cave responsible for the Batswana's conversion to Christianity.  As the story has it, all who entered this cave were killed by the spirits until Livingstone took the chief there, entered the cave and came out again alive to dispel this superstition.  The chief instantly believed that Livingstone's god must have protected him and ordered that the Batswana should convert to Christianity.

 

Whatever Livingstone did or didn't do, his legacy endures in this overtly Christian society where every phone box, school bus and hair salon is emblazoned by some exclamation of praise.

 

Driving around these places led us through many towns and villages where life in its many forms was talking place - children waving as they cheerfully walked to school, pastoralist farmers leading their herds, women carrying unthinkable loads on their heads... and queues forming outside each of the many KFCs that pop up out of nowhere.

 

There are many differences between here and the other side of the South African border.  Crime is clearly at a much lower level - people openly display valuables in a way that would not happen in South Africa and houses here are not surrounded by walls, gates and security wire.  The approach to money is different too - no one watches your car to receive payment, no one expects a return for offering to help with directions.  People are warm and friendly and genuinely want to help you along - even the usual greeting of 'how are you?' or 'howzit?' is meant, with the asker taking an interest in your response.

 

Driving standards, however, are considerably poorer, and driving the length of a street is rather like playing Asteroids on an Atari.  The city centre of Gaborone, in particular, requires a foot down, eyes closed and hope-for-the-best mentality.

 

All-in-all, though, it has been a fascinating day assimilating to the local way of life and learning of the links between here and the far off land we call home.

 

Even the name of Livingstone's first mission holds a personal connection - 'Kolobeng' means "place of the wild pigs" - almost a Tswana translation of my home town of Bathgate, which means "wild boar wood".

A very African day

Tuesday 15th September

Mokoodi, Botswana

Today summed up Africa in so many ways.

 

To begin with, when we woke up, there was no water.  Lots of juddering pipes, but nothing coming out of them.  The rainy season here has been very dry, and the resulting drought has led to water rationing.

 

Bathing African style

So, instead of a shower, I went back to basics and bathed in the river instead - afterall, we're 12km from the next nearest person.  While the water was rather bracing, it was an incredibly refreshing way to start the day.

 

Leaving the farm, we headed to Botsalanto Nature Reserve, getting hopelessly lost on gravel roads on the way.  We did, however, as part of this detour encounter a huge rock monitor crossing the road infront of us.  South Africa has a terrible habit of signposting you in a general direction but then never filling in the detail when you need it - a trait it shares with Dundee.

 

Eventually we arrives and set off into the reserve... then promptly ran out of road and once again found ourselves off-roading in a Polo.

 

Botsalano is primarily a breeding ground for plains game, and it was present in abundance - impala, nyala, kudu, springbok, blesbok, eland, buffalo, wildebeest and something which looked like a bontebok, though they're not usually native to this area.  There were also several ground squirrels, some guinea fowl and the occasional ostrich.

 

As the day wore on, as our poor we car dragged its underside across the rocks, a rhino came into sight, and then a line of three of them ran alongside us, one of which baring the largest horn I've ever seen.  Even more spectacular was the giant secretary bird which put on a marvellous show, strutting about infront of us.

 

One further rhino crossed our path, but was a little spooked by us and started running in all directions.  Fortunately, we managed to avoid it then by some miracle came across the road again and were soon crossing the border to Botswana.

 

Customs and immigration are rarely a fun experience, though this was the most intimidating border crossing I've ever had, with no-one making any effort to explain what they wanted you to do, but getting incredibly angry when you don't do it correctly.

 

After several stops and a car search by an officer more interested in discussing the Rugby World Cup, we left South Africa and entered Botswana, where matters were even more confusing.

 

Much to-ing and fro-ing later, we had our passports stamped, road tax paid and were on our way.  The Batswana border force even issue you with free condoms on entering the country in a bid to halt the spread of HIV.

 

Barely 200m across the border a police roadblock was set up, so we went through the whole rigmarole again as they checked everything over.

 

At last, though, we were heading up the A1 towards Gaborone and our base for the next few days.  As we arrived, the most spectacular sunset welcomed us in.

 

Bathing in the river, barely passable roads, bizarre border control and breathtaking sunsets - yes, this could only be Africa.

A quiet day

Monday 14th September

Groot Marico

Groot Marico River

We didn't venture off the farm today, just sitting by the river under the warmth of the African sun.

 

Mercifully, this meant not having to traverse the slate cliff road, which yesterday proved every bit as difficult to ascend as to descend.

 

A repeat of that fun is saved for tomorrow when we leave the farm, and indeed South Africa, and head for Botswana for four nights.  We aren't going to any of the usual draws of Botswana such as the Chobe, Kalihari or Okovanga Delta, but are sticking to the small area around Gaborone where the vast majority of Botswana's population lives.

 

But that's for tomorrow.  For now, we've just discovered a mouse running about our kitchen, so that will provide tonight's entertainment.

Male Genital Mutilation

Sunday 13th September

Groot Marico

The nearest shop is some distance away in Zeerust, so we left early to get some supplies.

 

En route, my attention was caught by some giant billboards at the side of the road on which the Department for Health was advertising "free male circumcision" in a bid to discourage unsafe circumcision as part of traditional ulwaluko initiation ceremonies.

 

It is a traditional practice in many cultures for boys to go through a "coming of age" ceremony to become a man.  In Xhosa societies, this involves spending a period of time out in the countryside, painting the body in white ash and having a traditional circumcision performed by an ingcibi - the foreskin is cut with an assegai and the man shouts, "Ndiyindoda!" meaning "I am a man!"  After a further process, the whole thing culminates with the initiates washing in the river and burning their possessions and the hut in which they were staying, all symbols of leaving childhood behind.

There is something to be valued in the treasured rituals that have passed down successive generations, but the roadside sign got me thinking about the whole practice of circumcision.  We rightly condemn female genital mutilation and call it for what it is, yet when male genitals are barbarised, we give it a respectable sounding name and turn a blind eye.

Now, I'm not talking about properly carried out circumcision performed in medical conditions, and I appreciate it is an important custom in many different cultures and for many different reasons, however many men are forced to undergo this mutilation of their body against their will, and often it is done in a highly dangerous manner.

Here in South Africa, over 20 men died last year as a result of botched traditional circumcision - the death toll since 1995 is 853.  Many more have had to have their entire penis removed in order to save their lives.  Only months ago, South Africa saw the first successful penis transplant to give back a fully functioning penis to a man who had his amputated following infection due to a badly carried out coming-of-age circumcision.  Furthermore, non-sterile implements continue the spread of HIV and other infections.

The government here is taking steps to try and prevent such practices and prominent figures such as Desmond Tutu have powerfully advocated for these traditional ceremonies to employ the use of medical practitioners, but many young men are under pressure from traditional leaders and elders to have things done the traditional way.

I do not seek to judge another's culture, but when young men are dying and suffering bodily loss because of a dangerous practice, let's call it for what it is: male genital mutilation.

Off-roading in a VW Polo

Saturday 12th September

Groot Marico

Groot Marico River

I sit watching the sun go down over the hills with the Groot Marico River easy-oasying beneath my feet.  The whole day has not been this serene.

 

Not having far to travel today, we decided it would be worth visiting Kgaswane Mountain Reserve near Rustenburg where it is possible to leave the car behind and go on foot due to the low number of predators.  (There are a few leopards, but they prove very elusive.)

 

Having followed the directions to the letter, we found ourselves driving into what seemed to be an industrial estate so stopped to ask for directions.  As soon as I heard the fateful words, "It's easy - you can't miss it," I knew things would not run smoothly.  The couple then proceeded to argue amongst themselves in Afrikaans about which turning to take before dispatching us on a wild goose chase.

 

After much driving around Rustenburg and its suburbs (not always a pleasant experience) we eventually arrived at Kgaswane, around the time we had planned on leaving there.

 

It seemed as though there was little in the way of wildlife to be seen - a few distant zebra and a family of baboons, but we walked further into the undergrowth nevertheless.

 

Just as we were about to turn back, a rock at the other side of a dried-up stream looked like it moved.  Curious, I clambered down the banks to find that it was, in fact, a giant tortoise and quite a magnificent specimen at that.

 

Giant Tortoise, Kgaswane

Calmly munching away at the tender shoots of grass, it didn't mind as we got up close to examine it.  We spent a good 20 minutes in its company before heading off, already very behind schedule.

 

Running so late, we decided to get to our destination and collect the keys before venturing out to a supermarket.  We are spending the next three nights on a farm by the Groot Marico River, but hadn't realised quite how out of the way it was until the drive here.

 

Leaving Groot Marico, we crossed over 10km of rough dirt track: not unusual for this part of the world.  It was, however, particularly bumpy and took a long time to navigate.  As we turned off for the farm, a worse surface emerged - slate rock cliff.

 

An attempt at a track has been carved in to the sheer face of a slate cliff, with many sudden drops and loose rocks.  This road would present a challenge to any 4x4, yet here we were trying to cross it in a VW Polo.  Crawling along and doing my best to control the car, after 2.5km we arrived, only to be told by the owner that the nearest shop is over 40km away in Zeerust.

 

As we were heading back up that treacherous road in search of sustenance, the farmer took pity on us and offered to give us a lift in their pickup to a local petrol station where we could obtain enough supplies for tonight before tackling the road in the light of the morning to properly stock up.

 

We have food, of a fashion, and will make do until tomorrow, although the climb back up the face of the cliff in our Polo is already a challenge filling us with dread.  For now, though, all is peaceful and well with the world.