Day 4: “Sure we like gays.”

I awakened early and hit the dust again. I stopped and saw the dawn eating an apple and some nuts that Lynn had provided and journeyed on. This was the day I had been looking to as it took me way out into the Kalahari. The Kalahari doesn’t’ stop at some arbitrary boundary. It covers the entire country except the delta and the ancient hills in the NE section. The vistas were stunning.

I rode across hard “pans”, dried shallow round lakes that are white after they dry. In the moon light one can read from the reflected light. Looking over each of the larger pans was a settlement; each village as unique as the next, each as quiet as the next; kids everywhere, playing football with whatever, squealing toddlers on the backs of mothers, incessant talking and conversation. At last I was truly in the land of the San and Batswana.

I have always felt that Gabs, and Bots in general, was “Africa light”. Now I was out in villages that at some level were still innocent and naïve, needing preservation not intrusion. I drove quietly, didn’t get out of the rig for fear of “contaminating” the village, and drove on. The 240km to Charles Hill was the most rutted I had seen. And when it wasn’t rutted it was “wash boarded”. Not sure which is worse, the side aches from being tossed around in the ruts or the headache from the wash board. On occasion the wash board was smoothed over with rock and sand. Interestingly the sand was akin to powered cement; limestone and chalk. Once wetted it was rock hard and unforgiving; talk about your headache.

I ultimately entered Ncojane, pronounced with a click, the kind where you use your tongue in the front of your mouth to make that “tisk-tisk” sound. I picked up three people and started to head for Charles Hill. Two of them quickly announced they were gay and was “that OK?” but with a bit of a confrontational tone. No problems here say I, and then encountered some of their friends before we got underway. These guys were true flamers, multiply pierced, in skin tight pants with a sway at the hips that belied the stereotype. I wondered aloud how this went down in a small village in Botswana. “No problem”, they said. I wish we so enlightened, PFLAG member that I have been.

We made it to Charles Hill on fumes and were chagrined to find out that there wasn’t any fuel in town. We asked around and were told to head to the border with Namibia where there was gas just on the other side of the border. Only trouble was that I didn’t have a passport. No worries the passengers said we’ll get an immigration person to do it. We went there and the guys negotiated with the passport clerks to have one of them take the rig over the border and have it filled with gas. I gave the keys to him, as if I had a choice, and some pula. 20min later he returned with the car and a full tank. Wow and whew.

We rolled into Ghanzi, 250km of paved road later, shook hands and parted. I got a room at a hotel I had used in the past and had a beer. Best beer I have had in country so far.