Scott and I love Greek Salad. We have been lucky to find all
the ingredients, even Feta Cheese, at most South African markets such as Pik ‘n
Pay or Spar, and we even found a tub of Danish Feta in a Kruger Park mini mart.
But as we drove out of South Africa and into Botswana, we wondered if there
would be any Feta north of the Limpopo. We
finished our last Greek Salad before crossing the Limpopo River and bid
farewell to Feta Cheese and Calamata olives, and hello to Tris and Scott’s Bush
Taxi Service.
Our first passenger was a woman trying to get to the next
town to visit her sick brother in hospital. After exchanging hellos and names
she sat quietly staring at the road in front of us. After a time she began to
laugh. “Something is funny?” I asked from my spot next to her in the middle
seat straddling the gear stick.
“It is not common for white people to pick up a black person
on the road in Africa!” she said with bemusement.
“Evidentially, it’s not common for white people to pick up
white people either!” I said.
A week later we passed a woman dressed in heels, a straight
skirt, ivory blazer, and matching hat; somewhat like Africa’s version of a Mary
Kay Saleswoman still eager to earn a pink Cadillac. We slowed and reversed to
offer her a ride. She accepted with a radiant smile. In perfect English she
greeted us with dressed-for-success enthusiasm. Joyce was on her way home to
the next town 35 kilometers away. I asked about her family and if she worked.
“Yes! I am self-employed,” she answered. “In fact, I would like you to join my
company.” And she told us about how she sold vitamins for a company called
Golden and that if I started selling vitamins too, rather buying them from her
and re-selling, we could both make money. “Please join my company!” she said
again.
“Uh, unfortunately we are headed to Zimbabwe so,
logistically, I don’t think it would work. But thank you for the offer.” She
accepted that cheerfully and fell silent, staring at the road in front of us.
After ten minutes she said, “You know, I think you will have many blessings.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because,” she said, “it is not common for a black person to
be sitting in a white person’s car getting a lift. If people could see me they
would say ‘Eish! What is that woman doing with those white people?’ So,” she
finished with a confident nod, “because you have stopped for me, I think you
will have many blessings.” When we reached the center of her village (a crossroads)
she climbed out of N’doto and thanked us saying, “Sharp, very sharp!” which is
a Batswana expression meaning ‘very good.’ Then she crossed the road and joined
a group of woman waiting for lifts in the opposite direction. As we drove away
I looked back to see her smiling broadly and telling the story of how she got a
lift from two white people in an old Landy.
My blessings came all too soon. Twenty kilometers down the
road a group of two women, three children, and a man, stood along the road.
There was no village in sight and the area was heavily populated with elephants
and other wild animals. When the man saw that we were foreigners, his arm fell
by his side, as he did not expect us to stop.
“Do you think we have room for all of them?” Scott asked taking
his foot off the gas.
“Sure!” and we stopped and reversed. It turned out that only
one woman and her two children, aged 1 and 3 needed a lift. “Oh, then we can
all sit in front,” I said. “I’ll hold the little girl on my lap.” Again, I
straddled the gear stick. The baby boy was soon sound asleep in his mother’s
arms, a Mona Lisa smile played on his lips and around his eyes while he slept.
What is he dreaming about, I thought. Elephants? Monkeys? Food? As we drove I tried to engage the
little girl on my lap. Her mother told me that her name was Fuchsia. She
smelled sweet, like a flower, so that made sense. “Aren’t you beautiful!” I
said looking down at her little face. Each time I said something she nodded
exactly twice, always looking me directly in the eyes taking my strange words
seriously. But she never made a sound. Ah, what an angel, I thought. After a
while her lids grew heavy and she stopped staring into my eyes and fell fast
asleep. It felt so cozy to cradle a youngster in my arms. Scott looked at me
and smiled knowing that I was happy as a clam. Fuchsia, bundled up in too many
clothes as African children always are no matter how hot the day, was becoming
warm in my arms. Too warm. She was in the deepest sleep I have ever seen. Why
is it that a sleeping body is so much heavier than a waking one? My arm was
going numb. Now she was as heavy as an eight year old. I shifted position and
let her head drop onto Scott’s arm, hoping she would wake up. No luck. It was
as if she was in a coma. I was beginning to sweat. Then, without warning, my
lap became super heated. And damp. Then soaking wet. It was coming from Fuchsia
or more precisely, Fuchsia’s bottom. “Uh oh,” I whispered to Scott. “No Pampers
north of the Limpopo.”
When we reached the town where the woman lived with her
husband and two children, I handed Fuchsia to her mother and indicated that
Fuchsia had had an accident by pointing to my sopping wet jeans. The mother
chuckled, as embarrassed moms whose babies pee on people who give them a lift do
and she let me change into dry clothes in her home.
The good news is, while there might not be Pampers
disposable diapers north of The Limpopo, there is Feta. There’s also a “Wet Wipes” type
product, which I used with vigor on the middle seat of N’doto. But we have become
bad people. Every time there is an off odor in the car we blame it on a little
girl named Fuchsia.
Teresa O'Kane
Kasane, BotswanaWant to know more about our bush taxi experiences over ten months Casablanca to Cape Town?
Safari Jema, A Journey of Love and Adventure from Casablanca to Cape Town
http://tinyurl.com/mxwuwb9
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