Chow Time

It's not often I have the opportunity to dine on something before I've even heard of it. Okay, maybe quinoa, but that's a plant that tastes like sand, so I'm not going to count it. Not so the mysterious kudu which, when served on a bun with lettuce and tomato, tastes like a slightly overcooked turkey burger, with a little spicy kick. So I figured the kudu was something rather turkey-shaped, with wings and a beak and perhaps some festive plumage. Imagine my surprise when this majestic guy emerged from the brush, all twisty-horned and grandiose, and our guide said, "look....a Kudu."

Tonight I'm having the salad.

All the Single Ladies

The kids here are really shy....for about a minute. All it takes to coax them out of their paper-thin shells is a digital camera or a wobbly-sung tune. They know all of them. There's not a TV or computer or copy of US magazine for miles, but start humming Beyonce, and you immediately have a chorus of schoolkids chime in with "if you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it..." complete with dance moves.

It's spooky.

Workers, Playtime

Two Tracys and a Handful of Matts

In a group of twenty people, you're bound to get some repeat business in the name department. Distinguishing characteristics help keep them straight.

Ohio Matt works in organ and tissue transplant, and his shop talk is a laugh-riot at dinnertime. New York Matt has what has been described as "orgasmic" hair, along with the fitting last name of Amore. And Texas Matt is from Texas.

But how does one differentiate between two East-Coast Tracys, both bestowed with the gift of gab and a tendency to sunburn?

Well, Tracy Harding is 5-feet-4, and I teeter in at about 5'10," so we were immediately dubbed Little Tracy and Big Tracy.

Big Tracy had a problem with this.

Then, on day 2, Harding picked up a hammer in her skinny little fist and proceeded to bury a 4-inch nail in three strokes (that's about twenty strokes fewer than Amore, fyi). Thus, Hammer-Time Harding was born.

And I can go back to being Tracy.

Souvenirs

Botswana is known for basket weaving. And really, the baskets are gorgeous. Who doesn't love a nice basket? Not you, who are getting one for your birthday...and most likely Christmas.

I opted not to get one for myself. In fact, I decided before arriving here that I wouldn't get anything for myself. (If you've been to my apartment, you'll agree this is a wise decision. And a pathologically difficult one for me to make.)

But then I passed the haircut dudes.

On the main road of Molepolole, there is shack-after-shack of entrepeneurs offering their haircut services. Who knew one small town could need so much grooming? And every establishment is advertised with a sign that's usually painted by the proprietor, whose training has been focused on hair, not art. I love art that's made by non-artists. (The collectors call it Outsider Art, I just call it awesome.)

I fell in love with this man's sign on our drive into town, and have eyeballed it every day on our way to and from the work sight. I asked our host, Phatsimo (pat-SEE-mo), if she thought the barber would sell it to me. She looked at me like I was insane. And yes, it's a look I've grown accustomed to.

Our van driver, Tebi, was up for the challenge - that's him in his best negotiating white sweater vest. Tebi brokered a killer deal that was still deemed fair by the shop owner. (Or so says the owner's brother, who...erm....may have sold it without asking.) The other barbers on the strip began offering me their signs, but none came close to the coveted Potato Cut in design and execution, so I politely declined.

It's no basket, but I think it's the best work of art Botswana had to offer.

Let's Learn Setswana!

Because you never know when you might be exchanging pleasantries with a Botswanan over a nice serving of Kudu.

Of course, the first thing we wanted to learn were the curse words, but guess what? People here do not swear. Ever. "But what if you hit your thumb with a hammer?" "we say Eesh!" "What if somebody almost runs over you with his car?" "Eesh." "And your wife is in the passenger seat?" "Eeesh."

Damn.

Even their slang term for us, makgoa, is lovely. It's from the days when white people came by ship, and looked like the color had been washed from them. "Those that have been spit out by the sea." In Cantonese we're gweilo, which means "western white devil." And while I more resemble the latter, I prefer the former.

So here are the words they're allowed to share with the makgoa.

Dumela rra ... Hello sir! (Dumeleng borra ... Hello sirs!)
Dumela ma ... Hello ma'am! (Dumeleng bomma ... Hello ladies!)
O tsogile jang? ... How are you? (formal)
Ke tsogile sentle. ... I am fine. (formal)
O kae? ... How are you? (informal)
K teng. ... I'm around/ I'm ok.

O mang? ... What is your name?
Leina lame ke ___ ... My name is ____
Ke itumetse ... thank you
Anka ... please
intshwarele ... I'm sorry

bokae? ... how much?
eng? ... what?
ka go reng? ... why?

metsi ... water
dijo ... food
ntlo ... house
ntsa ... dog
koko ... chicken
podi ... goat

Now get chatting!

Barrel Roll

Inya's yard has a passel of adorable children (she, her eldest daughter and the neighbors all look out for each-others' kids. I keep losing track of whose is whose.) Inya's also got the cutest tick-riddled puppy, and the occasional herd of just-passing-through goats.

And she's got a barrel.

When we're waiting for our next assignment from MT and his stone-faced assistant, Thebeyame, we turn over the barrel and hop on. Sam, our youngest team member, spent a summer at clown camp, and can walk on the barrel backwards while juggling. Showoff. The little kids took to it really quickly, too. Showoffs.

My sisters and I used to barrel-walk at our grandparents' house in Tupelo. In fact, we would barrel-race. That was in the 70s. But unlike riding a bike, barrel-walking does not come right back to you.

Which explains most of the bruises.