Just Another Day in Africa (Part 1)

This is the story one typically atypical day in my life in the desert. After 6 months here there are some things that have familiar to me in their unusualness that i scarcely take note of them. When i stop to reflect on the day’s events, however, i realize just how unusual it might seem to the average developed western worlder, from beginning to end.

It all starts at 7am, when i march out of the house in my sun hat and shades, armed with a black duffle bag stuffed with canvas totes, an insulated cooling bag, and innumerable cans and plastic bottles. I am headed for the taxi stand (a "taxi stand", by the way, that consists of a tree with two logs on either side for benches at the intersection of the two gravel roads.) It’s warm and bright with a southerly breeze at the moment, but by midday it would be upwards of 95 degrees. There’s only one taxi out of town each day, and one back in the afternoon. Should one be so unfortunate as to miss this taxi one's only remaining option would be to hitch hike to the next town over and catch a taxi from there. This would invariably mean standing for an indefinite number of hours in the ever intensifying sun and hoping someone with a truck (what they call bakkies) comes by. Should you be so lucky, you will have to sit on the back of the truck and drive for 25km along the gravel road, likely with a crowd of other hitchhikers (
usually including very creepy old men who feel no shame in staring), in a land where suspension is apparently not seen as a priority in car manufacturing. On this day, however, my fortunes are slightly better. I’m sure by now you are wondering what kind of quest would require such extreme methods of travel and such unusual provisions. The answer is frighteningly simple: grocery shopping. It general requires a two hour ride to the nearest large town. The bottles and cans i take with in hopes of doing my part to save the earth by disposing of them properly. In rural areas proper waste disposal is not really thought of and normal very questionable means would be used. But i, in an attempt to be the good citizen carry them to town. (You may now congratulate me on being conscientious.)

When i arrive at the taxi stop the usual crowd is there waiting for the taxis: 4 or 5 old "well rounded" ladies. A few young men and several mothers with children. I greet them and take my place under the tree to wait. Being that my Setswana hasn’t yet reached a functional level yet not must conversation ensues. Right on time (half an hour late) the taxi (which is actually a 14 seater mini bus) arrives and pulls to a stop in front of us. It’s obviously already full beyond its capacity with 20 of us waiting to board. At this point the average American would probably give up on getting anywhere that day, but no...not here, every stands around looking very unconcerned. In typical fashion the driver opens the door and umps out. He is already on the phone with another driver. He stands their talking animatedly on his phone while his taxi full of passengers continues rolling down the street for several meters before coming to a stop. The crowd watches them roll past, again quite unconcerned. As I’m standing there watching and feeling quite nervous (i after all am still an American with American sensibilities) i feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around to see the smiling face of Lorraine, our local Sangoma...or traditional healer (or witch doctor some would say) She is bright eyed, witty, often culturally in appropriate and absolutely delightful. She looks every bit the part: long thick dreadlocks pouring down from beneath her cap, pale-ish skin (being mixed race) and slightly crooked teeth. In many ways she reminds me of Tia Dalma from the Pirates of the Caribbean...minus the macabre aura. She speaks impeccable English and greets me excitedly. After several lonely post vacation days of adjustment to village life she is a welcome sight. As we begin to chat another overloaded van arrives, followed by two more. I use the term "van" loosely as 2 of the 3 vehicles are VW and Isuzu models clearly from the 70's with plastic bags for windows and bumpers scarcely being held on with duct tape. The third is equally as old (though at least its windows are intact) but the door is loose, rattles awfully while driving, and has been known to come off entirely on occasion. Once again the crowd waiting at the taxi stand seems utterly unconcerned about the taxis are full...they just wait. And then, something magical happens. All of the drivers step out of their vehicles and start asking people where they are headed. A massive reshuffling of passengers happens between the 4 vehicles. I and Lorraine get shoved into one taxi (our usual one to Vryburg which the door likes to fall off of.) Somehow when the dust clears everyone is in a taxi headed where they need to go. Every one is about busting at the seams. In our row behind the driver 5 people are seated on designed for 3: an old lady with hips twice as wide as mine (who desperately tries to "small herself up" as might be said in Jamaica by crossing her legs) me, Lorraine, another lady or substantial proportions and her daughter who is basically pressed up against the glass on the other side. I’m barely perched on the bench with one butt cheek... but no cause for alarm. Experience dictates that if you can hang on or hold your breath all the way the next town over some people are bound to get out. And yes...after about 5 minute you will regain sensation in your legs.

The uncomfortable proximity on the taxi ride doesn’t seem to faze anyone. Even i talk and laugh with my friend the Sangoma on the bumpy ride to the next town...all the while ignoring the numbness creeping into my right foot. I’m relieved when a few people get out though and savor being able to breathe the rest of the way to town.