Saturday morning. A time to kick back and relax. Well not today. I'm awoken by a large pounding on my window. I groan. My watch says 8:05. Ugh. I realize I'm 5 minutes late to class, which is to take place just outside the dorms in the courtyard pavilion. I get up to wave off whoever is at my window, turned out to be Jun. I toss on some shorts, run my hand through my hair and proceed outside where class has started. It was freezing outside. Probably like 45-ish degrees Fahrenheit. The sky was a blanket of clouds. Grey and very unwelcoming; the opposite of its past five past brothers' morning skies. You could occasionally see your breath if you looked and exhaled hard enough. Very chilly. After an hour of class, we prepped for the the day's activities. I quickly tossed on some jeans, a v-neck pullover and my jacket. I made sure I had everything packed, then I set out to buses. We killed time waiting for the buses kicking the soccer ball around. Once they had arrived, we piled in and then I passed out for the entire ride.
When I awoke, we had arrived at our next stop, some village called Thamaga. I hop out and proceed to this little shop along with the rest of the group. It turned out to be the retail shop for hand made pottery, I'm sure made to cater to tourists. The craftsmanship of the pottery was well received by most people I'm sure. I was upset, I had only 30 odd Pula in my pocket; most everyone was running low on currency since we had not been to the student center in quite some time. I ended up getting two really nice pieces of pottery. I wish we could go back and grab more, but I'm afraid I'll run out of room in my carry on; wouldn't want clay pottery to get beaten and tossed around in checked luggage even if it was packed properly. I exit the building as one of the last shoppers and find that the sun has come out and is just bathing us in sunlight. The clouds that we overhead as I went into the store had completely vanished by the time I exited some 30 to 45 minutes later. African runners must take after their weather, blazing quick when passing.
Our next destination lies in one of the adjacent villages, a 15 minute or so drive away. The countryside is really breathtaking, equip with cattle, goats and donkeys without a care in the world, not even a care for the road, as we had to drive into the other lane to get around them without waiting too long for them to cross. We arrive in Manyana and proceed to the rock wall paintings. They weren't too massive, most I'd've looked completely past had our guide not point them out to us. Most were faded away, time taking dues owed to it by the organic and mineral mixture used to paint the gemboks, giraffes and people. We climbed around the rocks, which had an ample amount of goat feces scattered amongst them. Had to watched where you put your hand to climb. It was another splendid view.
From there, we went to the Bahurutshe Cultural Lodge. A tiny little homestead, the red dirt of the basin as vivid as the now high beating sun. We get out of the vans and are greeted by half a dozen women, all above the age of forty and dressed in traditional clothing. After a few quick words of welcome, an incredible sound erupted from one of the women and took us all aback. It was a high pitched shout that fluctuated as she undulated her protruding tongue back and force across her mouth. They said it was a way of greeting. It was incredible. A couple more words of welcome were said but the presumptive lead women and the one who commanded English the best. We proceeded to where there was a fire ring and we sat in black plastic chairs, warmed by the afternoon sun. The half dozen women sang us a beautiful song and danced with fervor. The chief was also introduced to us, the fur of some beast fashioned into a hat atop his scalp. He had a left hand man as well. Don't know why he wasn't a right hand man, perhaps the left in more significant. After the song and dance were over, we went to dine on more traditional Bostwana foods. I had rice, beef, maize, bread and beans. It was very good, definitely better versions of what was served at the dining hall. I imagine they cater to the tourists better. Another thing of cultural note, we, the men were served first, after one of the women came over and poured warm water over ours hand so that we may dine clean. Guess chivalry wasn't too influential. While we had canned juice and soft drinks, we discovered that there was this traditional "beer" that was prepared several days before hand and was available for us should we pleased to be adventurous. It didn't contain alcohol, so I wondered why the term "beer" had been granted to it. Perhaps the preparation was similar to Western beers. Aaron Lin got up and decided he was brave enough to try it. He filled up a rather large gourd up halfway with the substance and drank probably a mouthful. His reaction was not one for an affinity of the drink. He urged each on of us around our end of the table to try it. The gourd came to me after Toby and Steven had some and I raised it to my face. The stench of the drink was so sour, I doubt it ten oranges being peeled could have overwhelmed the traditional beverage. I sipped the tiniest of sips and it was enough for me. The opinions of those who went before me were well justified. It tasted very sour, had a strong taste of nuts and wasn't an entirely liquid fluid: it had some small soft solids in it, like a poorly blended shake. I quickly handed the cup away and was so astonished when DJ Lacks poured himself a healthy glass of the juice. I later asked him his opinion and he told me that it wasn't that bad at all. Truly an acquired taste.
After we finished a group from I believe U. Penn dined after us. We got up just as they were being served and went back into the main area of the cultural lodge, which really consisted of three of four traditional huts and two large thatched roofs on stilts. Separated by gender, I proceeded to the end of the compound where the chief and number two were at. We were told that the girls would do chores and the boys would play a game. I like this. The two elder men finished drawing a design into the dirt and went off looking for something. We gathered around the dirt, the design, drew by a stick, consisted of three squares, one in another. Then straight lines were drawn to connect the midpoints of each side and the corners to each of the nesting squares. It had the effect of a spider web. The chief came back with his weathered wooden chair, handed me pebbles and charcoal stained black by fire, handed Toby the corresponding white pieces and sat down by the game board. Next thing I know the Chief and his Hand are telling us in intermittent English and Setswana to start putting stones down, in turn, at intersections of the lines. I picked up that the goal of the game was to try to get three in row and to block your opponent from getting three in a row as well. I tried my best, but the Hand was basically playing the game for me as I struggled to keep up with what was going on because as soon as I ran out of pieces the game like switched to checkers mode, where we would move our pieces along the lines of the board. Same goal, form three, stop the opponent, make three and remove one of your opponents pieces from the board. The Hand would shout out exclamations in Setswana, startled me who was standing next to them. A few minutes later, after I had lost to Toby, more boards were drawn and strategies started to develop. But this wasn't the best part.
Once we had done playing our share, the girls came out to demonstrate a betrothal/wedding dance for us. Our eligible girls followed suite behind the elderly women, with grass skirts to wear over their pants to make it as accurate as possible. They were suppose to stomp-walk their way up to our lane, then turn so that their backs faced us, then make a gripping movement and grab their buttocks. Hilarity ensued. Pictures were taken. Once they girls completed their courtship dance, it was our turn. Every male lined up, including Kevin, Mosaic, and DJ Lacks himself. The chief was in the center of our line, and he stepped forward with this skipping-2-step sort of thing, all the while blowing his whistle, and waving his symbols of office in tandem: a short animal hair duster and a larger walking staff. I did my best to mimic him. Indeed, I do love dancing so much. The chief saw my enthusiasm and motioned me to his side, where he gave me his hair ended stick, which I waved it in his fashion. The crowd reveled in our dance, the women chanting in our bachelor prowess. Guess its true in all cultures, a man that can dance is one with the confidence to woo women. My smile could not be wiped from my face after it was all done, after all the women and girls in the camp had joined us. In the aftermath, I sought out the chief and took a picture with him, his toothless smile was filled with revelry, I don't think he had expected me to be so exuberant.
Once we had all settled, the lead women had us all sit down and we all had this sort of open forum where we could ask about the culture. After a few questions, the woman took over and began speaking more of the state of the culture and people of Botswana. She commented that here at this lodge, only the "grannies" were left; all their children and grandchildren had gone off to live the cities and urban areas. She would describe to olden days, before the AIDS epidemic, she would almost preach to the young Batswana people in our group: Kevin, Mosaic, the driver.
The young think that the old ways are not needed she said, that they think that they must be more like the West. She would point out that the promiscuity that has resulted from modernization has increased the spread of HIV, and that in the days she was growing up, the good old fashioned values were adhered too, and there were no whispers of bastard children and no shadows of AIDS. She did have faith in education and believed it to be a guiding light for the future of Botswana. All of it, including your first degree was free. She even reveal a deeply personal story to all of us, which for that, she has my respect. A daughter of hers, adopted maybe, I wasn't quite sure, and the granddaughter were buried last week, their cause of death: murder. She girl was with child and did not finish secondary school. She gave birth and had been raising the child along with the grandmother, when the grandmother urged her to go back and get a diploma. I lazy father/boyfriend of the daughter did not see the benefit of education, he did not want to work, and cared little for the son he has fathered. Since, the daughter did not abide by the boyfriend's demands, he killed her and her one and half year old son. Her eyes welled with tears as she told us this story, it pained her greatly. She blames the state of the country and attitudes of the younger generation for the contributing factors that led to her daughter's death. She did not say what was happening to the boyfriend. It was a sobering tale indeed. She bid us farewell and blessed us on our travels and with that, we loaded our vans and headed for Gaborone.
It was a beautiful moment. One that I will not forget for my lifetime. Dancing in the African sun with people so rich in culture, all framed by a sun that has not yet set on them.
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