JANUARY 8, 2010: Maybe I am adjusting to the ten hour time difference, or maybe I am just excited to look at my new wedding costume, but at 6:30 AM I am out of the room and downstairs to plead for help with my internet connection. The only fly in the ointment seems to be that I can’t hook up and read my e-mail. I have promised to keep in touch, especially with my brother, who is going to feed my mom with daily excerpts of the trip. Ah, the plans of mice and men, no such luck. I follow the directions and try repeatedly to log on, but NO DICE.
I am really not too unhappy about taking some time off the internet, except that I know my family will wonder what happened to me. My brother will shrug and assume that I’m fine, and my mother will totally panic. I decide early this morning that I will ask a family member to text an e-mail to my brother, to put their minds at rest.
The windows are open when I sit down to describe the first day, and a light rain is falling. The scent of damp grass fills the room as I recall the precursor of this weather filling my nostrils as we rumbled through the bush last evening.

Kenny and Colleen had scheduled a game drive and dinner at Mokolodi, a bush game preserve just outside the city of Gaborone. A mixture of dust and wild animals combined with oncoming showers bombarded my senses as I rode in a large open air vehicle with the rest of the guests, bumping over the rough muddy path. I grabbed a seat in the front row and began to shoot pictures when the first giraffe came into sight. We had a full load of passengers, but many were repeat customers and only along for the ride to welcome us to the festivities. There was the promise of a grand meal at the end of our trek, and a full bar! One thing I learned last summer was that the Botswanan citizens are a hardy and celebratory bunch who love to drink and sing and dance. They are full of life and ready for anything, just bring it on.

A second bus was at the ready for latecomers when we departed, since the guide was anxious to get “the last of the solar energy” which would reveal the occupants of Mokolodi. Soon we were gazing at several mature giraffes, who promptly loped away as we observed them. Our guide was a wise-cracking weathered veteran of the bush, but it was obvious from the start that he loved his job and the wildlife.

He described the antelope and called them “the fast food of the jungle”, carefully navigating potholes the size of Montana. He maneuvered the cumbersome bus with ease while continuing a dialogue about the pecking order of African nature, and stopped often for questions.

He pointed out a zebra who was hanging with several giraffes, and told us it was a safe haven, since giraffes are the watchtowers of the bush. We learned that it was a Tower of giraffes and a Herd of elephants and a Dazzle of Zebras, so please get that straight. His passion for the animals was palpable.

We’ve all seen these creatures at the Zoo, but it’s different when they are ten feet away, feeding on grasses while keeping a watchful eye on the intruders. They are used to being observed, but the rules are strict: stay in the bus and honor their space. We are admonished by tales of past zealous visitors who entered the domain of the preserve and disturbed the animals. Here, we are the guests and they are residents, so kindly mind your manners.

We criss-cross over the sanctuary, finally coming upon a lake with a large house on the other side. This is the home of the former owner of the property, and he still lives there with his family. He donated the land some years ago, to preserve the integrity and space for the wild animals, and remains a strong conservationist. The house is large and beautiful, artfully hidden behind natural shrubs and trees. He can see us before we can see him, most likely.

By the time we make our way back to camp it is getting dark. We follow the second bus over the riverbed and past the fenced area where the cheetahs hide from sight. They have prepared long tables with candles blazing, and a buffet is in the works.

The wilderness closes up around us and we become a cozy party surrounded by trees and bushes topped with that velvet starry sky. We have crossed back over the lake to find that the lone hippo resident may be in evidence down at the shore. A few curious people go down the path to search, and the rest of us belly up the bar. Soon it’s time for dinner.

Given my early warnings about the food, it was a pleasure to find fresh native dishes prepared with vegetables in delicious concoctions. My friend Thabiso is a marketing rep for Botswana, and he scoffs at the idea that we are not safe from food and danger in this location.
It seems that most of Europe has the same idea as the Americans, a blanket denial of the care they have taken in Botswana to protect the visitors and residents from harm. While he will admit that in the wilds of Northern Botswana you must be more careful, Thabiso is proven right by a sumptuous meal that pleases the palate. My fellow semi-vegetarian Richard goes back for seconds of everything, including a lovely fruit pudding with marshmallows!

All three tables are filled with members of the extended family and their friends, and it is a meal of laughter and anecdotes and teasing. Every so often, there are multiple whoops made by the guests, as in “whoop whoop whoop”, which is their customary way to denote a celebration. Local wines are enjoyed along with some of the famous beef that ranks second only to diamonds as an export. My table companions quiz several local men about the business of prime beef, and we discover that one man raises over 200 head of cattle on a family ranch. The picture of how this young country evolved is slowing coming into focus.
As is the custom with the Botswanan marriage traditions, there are many speeches and gifts given before, during and afterwards, and tonight was no exception. However, this time the bride and groom were doing the gifting and they began the proceedings with a gift to the father of the bride, my cousin John. He was presented with a carved walking stick to guide him in wisdom through his old age, and a chair to sit on while doing so. There are stories and customs far too dense to explain here, but the traditional tribal wedding is followed as closely as possible.
The second set of gifts was for Lynn, the mother of the bride and John’s wife. She had been given a traditional costume to wear in Manhattan during the midnight festivities at the Yale Club, and gamely changed from her silk gown into the brown cotton outfit given to her by Kenny’s mother. She was totally surprised by this gift and simply rolled with it.

This time, it was her daughter who handed over a new outfit, handmade in Gaborone and fitted for Lynn to wear to the second wedding. A beautiful plaid shawl was then presented as a matching piece, and one of the woman came forward to show us how to drape it properly over the shoulders. It came with an item that looks like a designer safety pin, which holds the shawl together.

Then Colleen announced that there was one more gift, for her Aunt Judie. I was suddenly in the spotlight, standing under a big tree with the wedding couple, receiving my own traditional costume to wear for the wedding. My outfit has a white tunic-like top with a long skirt that features the blue Botswanan fabric with a white trim. I was very surprised to be included in such a special set of circumstances, and felt overwhelmed by the good wishes from this large family. The last gift was my shawl, in a blue plaid with that same pin. We asked the woman to return and arrange it over my shoulders, and everyone cheered. For once in my life, I was fairly speechless!
I hung the outfit on the big TV in front of the bed, so that I would see it first thing this morning. I tried it on immediately upon returning to the hotel, and was mentally figuring out the accessories.
There was a lot of love in those last moments of the party, when we returned home via the bouncing van, while the Botswanan people sang at the top of their lungs and the animals probably smiled. I know I did.

Go to PART... I, II, III, V, VI, VII, VIII