Babies were strapped to their mothers’ backs in bath towels. The women dawdled along the road in the middle of the traffic chaos. Serowe wasn’t the bustling African market place I had imagined, either. What was Bobonong like, I wondered, and the Tuli Block? I shouldn’t get distracted too much from my mission in Botswana.
But I did get distracted.
Tony and I were invited to barbecues, which were called braais around here. Our hosts were mostly South African contractors, who worked at the mine in Selebi Phikwe. An American teacher, who lived in a hippie-style house in the hills, far from the main road was our most unusual host.
Of course, everybody thought that I was Tony’s girlfriend and we were teased mercilessly about not being hitched yet.
Women were either wives or fiancées in this close-knit society. Not twin sisters of missing girlfriends. We kept quiet and smiled.
People in Southern Africa — black or other-skinned — were rather hospitable. They were also rather religious. In a Christian sense.
On weekends, Tswanas could be seen wearing long robes and church ‘uniforms’. They congregated underneath large trees, singing, drumming.
Purple was for Catholics and white and green for apostolic church members. Groups of women in bright red garb would often meet at bus stops, but I never found out to which church they belonged. Some of the white women wore white doilies on their heads on their way to church. Astonishing.
The season was moving into early summer and I soon learned the importance of wearing sun block and a hat during the day. My arms had turned an angry red after hiking to a deserted settlement, once built in the hills west of Palapye for the McAlpine Company. I could feel that my face and neck didn’t look much better and it took a good few days, before my skin started to peel. A painful lesson.
As time dragged on, I wondered, if it was wise to be so secretive about my identity. Perhaps someone had information about Claire’s case and would have told me. But it was too late to change my story now. There had to be another way.
I should be making contact with Gaborone. The central police head quarters and the British High Commission. Just that communication with Gaborone was still difficult.
Mr. Poppelmeyer categorically refused to make the telephone at the training centre available for private calls. I had managed to phone the British High Commission once from the Botsalo Hotel, but had to give up after five minutes of holding to the tune of Greensleeves.
Adding to my woes, I couldn’t discuss salient details at the hotel without risking undue attention. What could I do but wait for Tony to take me to Gaborone.
I didn’t have long to wait.
The following weekend, Tony decided to take a daytrip to Gaborone. At last!
Gabs could have passed for a small country town in Britain. But it had the regal appearance and bearing of a capital. The flow of traffic was unhurried. The roads were dusty but properly tarred. There was the occasional traffic light and even a few roundabouts.
We took a tour around town and I saw spacious houses with lush palm gardens. Bougainvillea bushes in shades of pink, purple and red spilled over walls and climbed into majestic blue-flowering jacaranda trees. I was enthralled by the beauty of Gaborone. Plants I had only ever seen in British indoor flowerpots grew hugely in the open air.
In the centre of town was the shopping mile, also called ingeniously ‘The European Mall’. Not at all like our mall in Palapye. This mall stretched from a monument in the east all the way to the government buildings in the west.
There were banks, a book store and a supermarket, a cinema, a couple of clothing shops, a hardware store and a curio shop. Consulates and offices completed the picture. The British High Commission was just across the road. Although there were other smaller malls in Gaborone, city life happened right here.
Claire has walked here, I thought woefully. She must have bought warm bedding in one of those shops.
In the middle of the mall, the multi-storied President Hotel graciously oversaw the pedestrian precinct. Broad stairs led the way to a popular restaurant on a large, shady terrace. The bustling mall came close to the African market I had imagined.
The book store was well stocked and I cheaply purchased a couple of Jane Austen classics. There was even a copy of Grandpa’s earlier work ‘El Jadida’ in the historical fiction section. I bought the copy.
On the way out, I bumped into a portly gentleman in a light blue safari suit. Although it had been my fault, he apologized to me. How polite. “Ah sorry, no matata,” he said. Roughly translated, it means ‘no problem’. The word sorry was quite useful.
My trolley bumped by mistake into an ample behind inside Corner’s Supermarket and the reply to my stammered apologies was ‘Ah sorry, madam, no matata.’
To greet people in the street was an important part of Tswana etiquette. Even in the capital, nobody could just walk past without being polite.
I respectfully greeted two elderly ladies, who gave me curious looks in the supermarket’s fruit and vegetable section. The signal to greet!
“Dumelang, bo-mma.”
“Dumela, mma.” The matrons nodded smiling approval and walked past.
I would have liked to meet with Claire’s former colleagues or go to the British High Commission. But it was a weekend. Tony’s priority was to shop for necessities. Before we left, we had lunch at the Gaborone Sun Hotel some ways off the mall. Then we had to get back to Palapye.
I couldn’t believe my eyes, when cows were herded through the city streets right in front of traffic. Tony said, they were probably on their way to the big abattoir in Lobatse.
“Where did you and Claire stay here in Gabs?” I asked Tony randomly.” Where about is this company house?”
“Oh somewhere over there —” he waved his hand without looking.
“I would like to see it. Can’t we quickly drive past?”
Perhaps I thought I would pick up Claire’s scent there or that I would have an epiphany.
“Rather not now. Next time maybe,” he mumbled.
I knew that Tony was still avoiding other expatriates. My sister’s disappearance had caused a small scandal in those circles. And anyway, he avoided everything to do with Claire.
“What am I supposed to do?” I wailed as we waited in traffic. “I’m getting absolutely nowhere with my search.”
“Well, you could come to Gabs on your own and stay for a few days with Uli Winckler and his family,” Tony suggested.
We saw the backside of the last cow disappear behind some trees and drove on.
“Uli is a senior guy at the Automotive College and his wife Rita is just terrific. I’m sure they won’t mind if you stay with them. You can catch a lift with one of the mining guys next week, and I’ll fetch you on the weekend. If Poppelmeyer doesn’t need me, that is.”
That sounded almost as if Tony tried to get rid of me.
“What and risk another marriage proposal?”
“Yes —” Tony had to laugh.
“What about you, then, don’t you want to come with me?”
We had to stop a red light.
“I, I can’t…not…not yet,” he suddenly stuttered.
“What if I find out something important about Claire?” I probed. We had to talk about her, so why not now?
“I have to work and just can’t deal with it right now, okay?”
There we go again, I thought and stopped probing. I didn’t want to fight. I couldn’t do anything without Tony’s support.
“We