Monday, 2 June 1986: North to Botswana’s Capital

June 3, 2:00 PM, Gaborone Hotel, Gaborone, Botswana 

At 1:45PM yesterday, I collected my checked luggage at the Mafikeng Station and boarded what I thought was the last car of the 16-car Zimbabwe Railways train.  I like the last car because it provides an opportunity for views out the back of the train.  After the diesel-electric engine and crew car backed into my car, I realized it was, in fact, the first passenger car behind the engine.  I stayed put rather than drag all my stuff to another car further down the track.  Besides, I rather like listening to the roar of diesel engines (probably something sexual about those big pistons moving up and down within the cylinders).  And, I had the entire 2^nd class car to myself.  The next two cars were empty as well. 

A half hour after pulling out, we crept to a stop at the Ramatlabama border post.  Everyone had to get off the train to exit through South African/Bophuthatswanan customs and immigration.  I saw that a German guy with a bicycle and I were the only whites out of the roughly 70 passengers on the train.  After getting my departure stamp, I stood around in a fenced-in area waiting for the South African border guys to finish screwing around and holding up the train departure.  A black guy from Zimbabwe showed me his passport and wondered why they had put a departure stamp over the stamp authorizing him to return to South Africa to work in September.  Were they now saying he couldn’t come back?  I tried to explain that I had received the same stamp, but he seemed convinced that the South African government didn’t want Zimbabweans in the country anymore. 

After about 45 minutes of bureaucratic nonsense, we got back on the train – and waited.  Soon, a Botswana border official came by with an innocuous form and put an immigration arrival stamp in my passport.  After 1 hour and 45 minutes, our locomotive engine was restarted, and our train headed north through flat, dry savannah country.  Some 40kms up the line, the topography became more rugged with stark low mountains looming on either side.

The first major Botswana town we reached was Lobatse where I watched hordes of Africans get into the fourth class cars a couple hundred yards down the tracks.  Lobatse is a sprawling town set among rounded, scrub-covered mountains.  The sun was setting and the clouds to the east had touches of deep pink.  Two well-dressed black boys were playing kick ball on a paved street 100 feet away.  Brightly-dressed ladies chattering in Setswana (I suppose) walked by with suitcases balanced on their heads. 

     View southeast of Lobatse, Botswana.  I took this photo nearly a year later on 25 May 1987.

A black boy of about 10 was hanging around outside my compartment window.  He said, “Hello, Sir” and I returned the greeting but sort of ignored him assuming he was going to beg for money or try to sell me the trinkets he was carrying in his hand.  I have grown disgusted with patronizing, submissive black kids in South Africa who stick out their hands begging, “Please, Master.”  Surprisingly, this kid only seemed to want to talk.  He asked if I was an American – How did he figure that out?  They must have American TV shows here.  Later, he told me there are American teachers at his school (probably Peace Corps volunteers).  Another smiling little boy came by pushing a tire with two sticks.  I was struck with the friendliness of these two boys toward me, a “honky” stranger.  In South Africa, blacks young and old mostly ignore me unless they are begging.  The first boy told me his name is David.  His English was quite good, but he didn’t understand some of my questions, and I had difficulty figuring out some of what he was saying to me.  He asked if I am a soldier.  No, no.  I’m a writer.  I showed him my little typewriter, and he seemed impressed that I was just as interested in the people of Botswana as the animals.  David said something about needing a pen.  I remembered having an extra Bic in my briefcase – oh, why not?  He appreciated my little gift, and showed it to one of his other little friends who walked by.  What impressed me was David’s friendliness without being patronizing, his dignity without being haughty.  Maybe it was all a ploy to con an American out of a 69¢ ballpoint pen, but I felt it was the first genuine interaction I’d had with a black person since arriving in Africa.  David seemed like a real person.  Here was a black boy who hasn’t grown up with racism.  Botswana, a former British protectorate, has been independent for twenty years.  I suppose that the only whites here treat blacks with respect or they wouldn’t be welcome.  

The train was at the Lobatse station for close to a half an hour.  Before it pulled out, David bid me goodbye saying he would see me when I came back from America.  I felt emotionally touched by the incident.  In South Africa, I had come to ignore black Africans because they ignore me.  In David, I could see something of their humanity.

As darkness fell, the train hummed north toward Gaborone.  When we stopped in the village of Oste, I suddenly realized, “Hey, no lights.”  There were no street lights and the only light coming from the windows of the little houses and rondovals were from candlelight. 

The train arrived in Gaborone, the capital and largest city of Botswana, about a half an hour late.  There was one small problem – it was 8:30 at night and I had no place to stay.  The local Rotarians had told me that none of the members would be able to accommodate me.  I had decided against playing it safe by booking a room at the local Holiday Inn in advance.  One of my guidebooks mentioned relatively cheap accommodations at the Gaborone Hotel next to the train station.  I made my way through hordes of Africans on the platform carrying my backpack, duffle bag, and briefcase.  Fortunately, the hotel was close and even more fortunately, they had a room.  The only one left had a private bath (which I didn’t need) and cost 35 pula (US$18) including breakfast – a bit pricy but I was very tired and in no mood to worry about my budget. 

The hotel restaurant was about to close, so I ordered several times only to have the waiter come back to say they were out of each thing I ordered.  Finally, he admitted that they only had omelets and steak left.  I’d had an omelet for breakfast and the steak didn’t appeal, so I did a dumb thing.  I thanked him and walked out.  I figured I could just walk down the street and find something else.  No such luck – there were no restaurants near the station.  I got really pissed off at myself.  This is a developing country, you ass!  You should eat whatever you can find and not get picky about the menu.  So, you don’t get any dinner tonight.  That’ll teach you!  As I walked dejectedly back to the hotel, I remembered having done something smart a few days earlier which would counter my stupidity.  I had two freeze-dried meals plus my cooking gear in the backpack.  The Swedish-made chicken with vegetables tasted like stale cardboard, but I hit the hay on a full stomach.