Crossing The Boarder

By about 3pm Jack, Rufus and I reached Gaberone, a major African metropolis (and home of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency), positioned on the border of Botswana and South Africa. We were pretty pleased with the time we had made since getting back on rout, and figured that we could still go another 200k into Botswana, find lodging and be positioned on a picturesque terrace, whisky in hand, in plenty of time for sundowners. Slight miscalculation. Or perhaps it was the first signs of the over-optimism, a kind of brain fever, which afflicted us throughout our journey.

In Mafkeng, the last major town before Gaberone we had gotten a bit turned around, no thanks to Rufus, but eventually found our way out. While driving in circles we passed the colossal multimillion Rand stadium that was built for the World Cup and never used. The world soccer event hosted by South Africa in June lined the pockets of many powerful people, and although we are just a few months on, the press and others have begun to ask how, if at all, it benefited the man in the street? Even at the height of the euphoric bedlam of World Cup mania, workers at a stadium in Durban went on strike, interrupting matches because they had not been paid in months. Corruption, or “mismanagement of funds” if one cares to euphemize, is a brain fever that affects the whole of the African continent.

As we slowly approached the boarder crossing an official looking woman standing in front of a row of tin shanties we later learned were actually little dirt floored offices, waved to me and indicated that I should roll down the window.

She scanned our little overloaded bakkie smilingly and asked, “Mma, do you have something to declare?”

“No Mma, we are just driving through to Namibia.”

“Okay then.” She said as she waved us through.

“Ke a le boga!” I called to her, as we started moving.

“Eh Mma, your welcome!” she laughed.

Jack and I looked at each other in bewildered amusement, “Well that was not so bad,” he said.

Moments later we joined a queue of cars headed toward a uniformed man standing in front of a booth checking peoples papers. He looked grumpy. We turned off Rufus lest he say something rude and get us into trouble.

“Hello” chirped Jack form beneath his straw cowboy hat in his friendliest and most accommodating of voices. The boarder guard just stared at him.

Before leaving Kimberley we joked about how strange our cargo must seem when taken out of context; 10 plus bags of Plaster of Paris, several boxes of bandages, medical scissors, wooden spoons, sleeping bags, propane cooking stove, bubble wrap… we looked like two dodgy characters from a Coen Brothers’ film.

What exactly does one say when asked about our purpose and destination? “Well, we are driving 3,000k through southern Africa to take body casts of some Bushmen for this play called Son of the Wind. They are going to be a kind of living historical reference – well not living exactly, because we’re just bringing back the casts not the people. We do use San actors though. Why? Why what? Oh, well it’s complicated. Art, you know ha ha! Ummm… The whole thing really is quite fascinating its– look, just see the show.”

Jack handed the border guard some papers proving his ownership of the car, and his license. Well not his license actually, because that, he had just explained to me was expired. The paper he handed the man now was a kind of recipt stating that he had paid for the new license but it hadn’t arrived yet. Jack looked sheepishly over at me, “Hope this letter is sufficient.”

“Yea, me too.” I said.

The border guard just glanced at the documents, not waiting for an explanation, handed them back to Jack and moved his face closer. “You have something to declare?”

“No.“ I said, and nudged Jack who was supposed to say “No” too but all that came out was “Ummmm…” The border guard held up his hand and moved toward the back of the bakkie to press his face against the glass of the camper shell.

The man rapped his knuckles against the glass and called to Jack who stuck his head out the window, “What is this?”

“I’m a sculptor, an artist,” Jack replied jauntily, “its material.” The man did not look impressed. Jack repeated himself, “It’s material – for my work.”

The border guard furrowed his brows and stalked toward Jack who pulled his head back in the window. “You will be selling these things in Botswana?” he demanded.

“No, no, it’s material. I will use it for my work. We’re going to Namibia and -“

“Namibia?”

“Yes, you see, I’m a sculptor and she’s a writer and we’re going to the Caprivi Strip near Angola to do some body…”

“Angola? You said Namibia.” Now our not so friendly border guard was looking very cross.

“Yes, yes, Namibia – not Angola. Forget Angola. We are just going near Angola. As I was saying, we have a very important project and..”

I just stared out the window and wished I had done the talking, though honestly, I would probably not have fared much better. From the corner of my eye I saw the border guard raise his hand to silence Jack. “You have something to declare?” he asked again very slowly.

“Uh..,” Jack and I looked at one another quickly, and replied in unison, “Yes we do.”

“Yes, you do. Pull forward.” He said gruffly, and pointed at a grey parking lot a few hundred meters away.

Jack put the car in gear and started to obey orders when another man popped out from the darkness at the back of booth. “Do you know the procedures?” He asked, smiling form ear to ear. Jack and I just shook our heads. “Don’t worry,” he said, “My friend will help you sort everything all out. Park there. I can bring him to you now now.”

When the friendly woman form earlier saw us parking and the man form the booth go running past her she just shook her head and sighed, “Sorry Mma.”

Moments later a guy called Richard lead us to one of the silver shanty offices, all of which seemed to have been constructed at the bottom of a ditch. The incline on the approach to the door was so steep that the downhill velocity basically shoved you right into the office; that is, if you were lucky enough to miss the light pole. A big woman whose enormous derrière hung over the edges of her lawn chair giggled as we made our way down the gangplank and scolded Richard in Tswana. I didn’t understand her completely but I know she said something about bareki - customers.

Richard’s English was considerably more advanced than the border guard’s, but he was still utterly baffled by us, our “material”, and our mission. Jack produced an invoice from an art supplier and the man regarded the curious list with suspicion. “Why do you need so many bandages? Are you a doctor?”

“No.” Jack was getting really frustrated by this point and I kept looking around and thinking that we were standing in the crappiest excuse for an office I had ever seen. I knew it was going to cost us a bit of cash to get out of there, and so did Jack, but by then were stuck. “I’m an artist and we have a project in Namibia, that’s where we’re going, we’re not even staying in Botswana, and I need these things for my work.”

Richard’s head was down scanning the invoice, “You’re not doctors? Sure?”

“Yes! No, we are not doctors.”

“But this Plaster of Paris, you can put it on a broken arm nay?”

“Yes, yes, you can but I’m using it for body casting. You see..” Jack extended his arm and tried to explain but Richard interrupted him. “Okay, okay,” he said still examining the papers, “Wait here. I’m coming back.”

“Why doesn’t anybody listen around here!”

“Nobody cares Jack.”

“I know, I know, but it pisses me off. We are getting screwed here; you know that right?”

“Yea, but at least he seems decent about it. He’s alright.”

“Bullshit.”

Richard came back and by an hour later we had all stopped explaining and had just shut up. Jack and I shuffled our feet and watched the sun sinking while Richard silently filled in a long tedious form that required about 20 stamps and signatures. In the end he charged us 400 Rand for bringing the sculpture material into the country, and it did actually seem like he had tried to help us out. Luckily I had the cash and as he handed me a receipt, Richard’s mood seemed to brighten considerably. I took advantage of the situation and showed him the map. Richard shook his head, “Shame,” he said, “You should have entered Botswana from Mafikeng, now you have to go all the way up this side (about 400k), before you can cross over. Or you can go back to Makikeng, but then you go through customs again.” he grinned. Jack groaned.

“Can’t we just cut up the middle here?” I asked.

“No, you Yankee,” Jack laughed, “that, my dear, is one mother of a game reserve. No roads.”

“Shit.”

When we finally pulled out of the boarder crossing is was completely dark, we had spent about 600 Rand of fees of various sorts, we were starving, and we had absolutely no idea where we were going to stay. All in all, day one was a smashing success.

The Journey Begins

For our trip to Namibia, Marius, hence forth know as Jack, borrowed an annoying and often times confused GPS from a friend in Bloemfontein. This pompous navigator we christened Rufus and I became Jane.

In addition to the GPS, his essentials and about 30kilos of body casting material, Jack also brought a pile of camping equipment and a huge roll of bubble wrap. Jack travels light. I brought a map, some clothes, a video camera and a thermos for coffee, which I still haven’t returned to its owner. The debate over which navigational tool actually proved to be most useful is still hotly contested; but the bubble wrap is not. The bubble wrap was damn handy – but that bit of the story comes later.

We headed out of town at about 4am and had made our first of many wrong turns by 5:30am. We were so caught up in conversation and enthusiasm by the adventure awaiting us, and the prospect of meeting the San soldiers still living at Omega that I didn’t even open the map and Jack forgot to turn of Rufus. We just drove.

We finally had the sense to stop at a petrol station outside of Christiana and Jack punched in our destination. As soon as Rufus register our location he proclaimed, with the disdain of a persnickety Headmaster scolding his feeble-minded students, “Off rout.”

Jack immediately took umbrage, “ We know that! That’s why we turned this bloody thing on.” I just shrugged, “Sorry man, it’s early.”

By the time we backtracked 40kilometers, stopped for cigarettes and chewing gum, and got back on rout, the sun was up and shining brightly. We found ourselves on a picturesque tree lined road that ran through farming country: bucolic Africa at its best. Out trip was made at the end of June so it was still winter then, but the fields to either side of us were already touched with the sweet, gentle green of Lucerne just come of age. We turned up my friend Dené Theron’s CD, 1,000 Cups of Tea, rolled the windows down, and sat back to enjoy the excited yet contented feeling of finally being on our way. Then a cranky voice bleated out at us from Rufus’ side of the dashboard, “You are over the speed limit. You are Over the speed limit.”

“What?” Jack looked shocked, “But there’s no one on the road but us!”

“Come on Rufus…” I chimed in. But Rufus wasn’t budging, “You are over the speed limit. You are over –“

“I know, damn it,” Jack interrupted. “I’m slowing down now.”

“You are over the speed limit.” Rufus was on a roll now and I swear his tone got nastier with each condemnation. “You are-“

“Oh shut up Rufus!” I nearly shouted. “Jack, can’t you turn him off?”

“I would but I don’t know this road, I’m afraid we’ll get lost again,” he said sheepishly.

“Ah hell, well then lets turn the music up.”

“Yea, let’s do that,” Jack grinned, and gave Rufus the finger.