The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to Botswana

I hitch-hike frequently in Botswana. Usually I am going from D'Kar to Maun, which is a distance of 270km; sometimes I go from D'Kar to Ghanzi, which is 35km. I have hitched rides in the open backs of pick-up trucks, with the wind and sun (and occasionally rain) beating down on me. I have hitched a ride in a government truck carrying nothing but thousands of brooms, with a cab so high it practically needed a ladder. I have hitched rides in a beat-up black sports car, a tiny white import, a bush-outfitted 4x4, a refrigerator truck for a catering company. I have happily squeezed in the back of a truck next to three giant filing cabinets, as the driver expressed his amazement that a lekgoa (white person) would deign to sit in the back. I have fallen asleep in the front seat with my head leaning on the shoulder of the massive Herero lady sitting next to me, my book abandoned in my lap. I have accepted dozens of rides, and in turn picked up dozens of hitch-hikers, when I've had a car at my disposal.

In North America I would never do any of this.

In North America, I only bring up hitch-hiking in one of two contexts: (1) Kerouac-style hipster fantasies about an era that no longer exists; (2) gruesome urban legends about axe-wielding psychopaths. I have never picked up a hitch hiker in North America – indeed, they always seem bearded and desperate and poorly-placed for drivers to slow down and pick them up. Their battered cardboard signs are illegible, particularly as you speed past them at 100km/hr. I can count on one hand the number of people I know personally that have hitch-hiked in North America; in fact, I know more people who have jumped rides, hobo-style, on freight trains. (That number can also be counted on one hand.) I have never tried to hitch-hike myself.

The very concept of hitch-hiking being “normal” seemed strange. When I was in grade 11, in preparation for a band trip to Cuba, I read a book entitled “Mi Moto Fidel,” about a man who travelled the island on his motorcycle. Although he obviously wasn't hitch-hiking himself, he described a culture of hitch-hiking that seemed absolutely bizarre to me – anyone, everyone, single women, schoolchildren, old people – at any point on the road – just stepping out of their house, or their village, and expecting a ride. Usually they'd get one within the hour. It was considered a reasonable way to get from one place to another, even for something as simple as getting from your house to the beach, or from town to a neighbouring village where your cousin stayed. It was something you could rely on as a form of transport.

It's the same in Botswana; hitch-hiking is a normal, reliable, and necessary means of getting from one place to another. As an example, consider the Peace Corps policy in Botswana. If you are a Peace Corps Volunteer in this country, you are restricted by a mind-boggling variety of rules; two of the most pernicious are Thou Shalt Not Drive, and Thou Shalt Not Hitch-Hike. The driving rule is enforced with draconian strictness and Big-Brother-esque spying; when Peace Corps supervisors visit, they ask volunteers if they've spotted any of their fellow volunteers behind the wheel of a car. If so, the unlucky rule-breaker is shipped straight back to America without a second thought, much less a second chance. The hitch-hiking rule, however, they turn a completely blind eye to. This is because you literally cannot make your way around the country without hitch-hiking, particularly in some of the remote settlements in which Peace Corps are placed; to enforce the no-hitching rule would empty the country of Peace Corps within a month.

It is a necessity.

In a country where the population is under 2 million, and the distances are vast, there is no frequent and reliable bus service. Perhaps a third of the population, located in rural settlements or farms, has no bus service whatsoever. There is a Ghanzi-Maun bus which passes by D'Kar twice a day, but it is generally crowded, hot, slow, inconveniently timed, and unreliable. Usually hitch-hiking is faster; the bus might go 90km/hr and stop every half hour to let off passengers, on top of which you have the tedious wait at the foot-and-mouth checkpoint, where every passenger must get off, have their bag searched, dip their shoes in disinfectant, and then re-board the bus. If you manage to hitch a good ride, the car might go 140km/hr, and not stop at all. At the foot-and-mouth checkpoint, the guards might just wave you through, and even if you do get out, there are only a few people to have their bags searched and shoes dipped. The difference between a slow bus ride and a fast hitched ride, on the ride from D'kar to Maun, can be two hours.

Getting picked up is straightforward, though not always pleasant. Every settlement in Botswana has a “hitch stop” where hitchers sit waiting for a ride, sometimes for hours. The waiting involves baking in the hot sun, and taking what shelter you can in the scanty shade of rusted rubbish bins, wilting trees, or your own tented clothing. Usually the wait doesn't take so long. I have always been picked up within an hour. Passing vehicles, be they livestock trucks, beat-up pickups, tiny Nissan 4-doors, or bush-ready 4x4s (though these ones rarely stop), pull in and the driver rolls down the window – the hitchers crowd around gabbling their destinations, and the lucky ones hop in. I've seen an empty bakkie pull up, then drive away with twelve passengers crammed into the back.

Of course, being such a regular means of transportation, drivers charge their passengers. The usual rate is a little less than the bus would cost, or about P15 ($2.40) per 100km. A pick-up truck with a single driver is like a renegade mini-bus, dropping off and picking up passengers at every major hitch spot. Farm workers will try to flag down a ride at any point along the road, emerging from rutted farm roads or just indistinguishable spots in the bush to trudge up to the paved road and stick out their hand. Nobody uses their thumb. To indicate you want a ride (as opposed to just casually wandering along the roadside), you put out your arm, palm down, and flop your hand up and down from the wrist as though patting something in the air.

If you really want a ride, you flop your hand very enthusiastically, step out into the road, and maybe jump up and down in the air a little. I am not above doing this, particularly as I've almost driven past hitch-hikers and then resigned myself to stopping at the last minute, simply because they looked so desperate. I also tend to put myself out in front of all the other hitch-hikers, for two reasons: (1) There is no hierarchy of “who got here first” - if a car pulls up, the ride goes to whoever pushes themselves in front of the driver first. So being first off the mark means you'll get a ride instead of being forced to wait for the next car. (2) I am white, and there are some cars that are far more likely to stop for a white person.

That is the less PC aspect to my hitch-hiking adventures... There are definitely occasions when cars have stopped only because I was there, sometimes going so far as to give only me a ride, and ignoring the other hitchers. These cars have been driven by both black and white people. It's a prejudice based partially on race, and partially on class. Possible driver profiles:

1. It is a white driver, and they hate black people and/or bushmen. This driver is usually a farmer. Tourists don't usually pick up hitch-hikers. This driver would never stop, except for a white person, and they would pick up ONLY the white person and nobody else. They don't feel any sort of unusual emotion towards me; they just don't really see black people at all.

2. It is a white driver, and they are generally indifferent to hitch-hikers, but feel horrified that a young, single white woman is faced with the hardship of waiting at a hitch stop all by herself. This driver, once they'd stopped for me, might pick up others as well; but ordinarily they would not stop. They feel sorry for me, and probably think that volunteers are crazy.

3. It is a black driver, and they hate all bushmen (and I am at a hitch stop with only bushmen). This driver would pick up other black people, or white people, but NO bushmen.

4. It is a black OR white driver, and they like the idea of picking up a cute girl. (Note: in all this time, I have never been picked up by a female driver, probably because female drivers make up about 1% of all drivers in Botswana. I'd like to think that a female driver would pick me up out of feminine solidarity, if they ever passed by.) This driver exists in both benevolently flirtatious and Evil Rapist form... I've never encountered the Evil Rapist variety (Mom, please don't have nightmares over this, but I'm sure they at least EXIST) and hopefully my instincts will continue to steer me right. I do exert SOME judgement when deciding to get into a car or not.

5. It is a wealthy black OR white driver, and they don't like the idea of picking up lower-class people, but they figure that a white person would be interesting/upper class company. This driver would not usually make me pay for the ride, and probably doesn't pick up many hitch-hikers, but they would also stop for a black person in a suit with a briefcase, or other external indicators of wealth/status.

6. It is an impatient and/or greedy black OR white driver, and they wouldn't ordinarily stop for a big crowd of people who might swarm the vehicle and/or not have any payment, but they don't mind picking up a single person who is definitely able to pay. This driver would make me pay for the ride, and would pick up hitch-hikers of any race as long as there weren't too many of them; they're not interested in giving free rides.

7. It is a helpful black OR white driver, and they suspect that I am in some kind of trouble, because it is rare to see a white person hitch-hiking. This driver, once they'd stopped for me, might pick up others as well; ordinarily they would not stop; but they would stop for a person of any race who seemed like they were in trouble.

So there you have it, a brief introduction to hitch-hiking in Botswana.

As a final note:

DON'T PANIC, and always bring the following: at least P15 for every 100km you plan to travel, your cell phone, a snack and a drink, aaaaand.... a towel. (Sorry I couldn't make this whole post one giant reference, but I'm just not that funny and/or clever.)

Holiday Photos

The wild west coast. I spent a few days in Tofino with my family at the Pacific Sands Resort, hiking along the coast and watching the waves. It is almost always cloudy and rainy on the west coast of Vancouver Island, the temperamental wind and fog creating a permanently untamed, surreal atmosphere. The wind off the sea bends the trees into yearning, twisted shapes, and the waves continuously crash onto the shore, pushing raw-looking driftwood up and down the sand.

Trees and mist. There were a lot of surfers on the beach - clad in head-to-toe wetsuits, bravely splashing out into the waves.

Every photograph presents a choice: beautiful faces or FEARSOME FACES?

Mussels and barnacles, clinging to the rocks. Delicious! Have you ever watched a barnacle in a tide pool? As the tide washes past them, they open at the top and a little fronded feeler, like a tiny feathery hand, strains against the water to capture plankton or other tiny food. When the water recedes they close again.

The drenched and restless expanse of beach. There's a part of me that will always prefer this sort of beach to white sand and palm trees. (Though both have their charms, of course.)

Patterns in the sand.

More patterns in the sand.

The Tsawassen ferry terminal in Vancouver. There's a beauty in industrial constructions as well as in nature.

View of San Francisco, from the airplane.

Heathrow Airport, in the snow. I like this picture because I think it shows the mysterious impersonality of airports - all of those buildings, blockades, fences, vehicles, paths traced on endless fields of tarmac that only the flight-control computer really understands. There may be people flowing through the interior all day long, but out on the runway it's all machines, computers directing the feeble movements of baggage loaders or flare-bearing signallers. The machines and the weather. Nothing to do with man at all. Most modern airports seem that way - each of them equally artificial and perfectly managed, the interior temperature the same exact 20 degrees celsius whether you're in Dubai or London or Tokyo. The same expensive brand-name shops, the same duty-free items, the same characters: tired-looking business-class travellers with their briefcases, college students, out-of-place families in traditional dress with patched luggage and overwhelmed eyes.

Too many flights, too many time zones! All of this, to reach one tiny, extraordinarily specific point on the globe: the village of D'Kar.

water or paper?

I often wonder: how much would the world environment benefit if everyone used water to clean themselves after urinating/defecating, rather than toilet paper?

I have wondered this ever since moving to India in 2007, which was my first exposure to the wet and wild world of water-wiping. (Sorry, couldn't help myself.) Perhaps some of you have never even heard of this - you may have been completely unaware that for countless millions of people, toilet paper plays no role in their life whatsoever. I myself was barely aware of this when I went to India, and my first bathroom experience was a true eye-opener: bleary and jet-lagged in the Chennai airport, I nervously abandoned my suitcase and nipped into the public toilet. After locking myself in the stall, I looked around: a ceramic rectangle inlaid in the linoleum floor, with ridged treads for my feet, and a long oval hole in the middle. A small tap, about a foot off the floor, and a small plastic bucket sitting next to it. What was this strange apparatus, and why did it bear so little resemblance to what I would've called a toilet at home? I squatted, managed to dip the end of my scarf in the toilet (ugh), and completely ignored the tap and bucket, having no idea what to do with them.

Soon enough I learned - through some matter-of-fact tips from my new Indian acquaintances, and a bit of trial and error - how to use water rather than paper, and at long last I came to prefer it (at least in hot climates). How does one accomplish this "alternative" toilet exercise? Simply fill the bucket (or other receptacle provided) with water, and using your right hand to hold the bucket, splash water on your bits and pieces. Use your left hand to do a bit of extra cleaning, if it seems necessary. This is why - in India - it is considered insult of the highest order to shake hands, eat, present money, etc., with your left hand. Of course you wash your hands afterward, but it is strictly left hand toilet, right hand food.

After mastering this ritual, I found it a fresher, cleaner, and certainly less wasteful alternative to toilet paper. I make my disclaimer about hot climates because in a cold climate, that extra water can be a bit chilly, or take longer to evaporate - and nobody wants to walk around with a wet crotch, regardless of how fresh it may feel. (Perhaps those with more skill and accuracy in the splashing department will argue with me here.)

But back to my question. What if we all switched to water? How much waste would be prevented? Consider the stages of production in toilet paper: the materials used in the creation of the paper itself; the chemical- and energy-consumptive process of making paper; the plastic packaging for the paper; the dyes and perfumes used to make more luxurious toilet papers; the costs of transporting all of these products; the marketing and publicity and advertising that goes into convincing a consumer that Charmin is superior to all other toilet papers... And then post-flush, what happens? The toilet paper is washed out to sea in a hideous mass of sewage. While t.p. is probably one of the more biodegradable items we dump into the ocean, it's certainly making more of an impact than a few cups of fresh water.

I'm not going to advocate that everyone to switch to water; I realize that water is not for everyone. I still use a blend, myself, and have a roll of toilet paper as well as my trusty 700mL blue plastic water pitcher sitting next to my toilet, but I knew Westerners who had lived in India for years and still carried emergency toilet paper with them in their pocket at all times. It's hard to relinquish the feathery caress of triple-ply, printed with fluffy pink bunnies and subtly perfumed. I understand. But what about Botswana?

Here in the village, I think people tend to use an assortment of newspaper, toilet paper (but it's pricey!) and leaves; there's a particularly soft and friendly bush known as bluboos* (blue bush) in Afrikaans, which is more colloquially known as "Bushman toilet paper." I've sampled its superior t.p. qualities, and it richly deserves its title; as an experienced and experimental bush-defecator, I can easily rank bluboos in my top three bush t.p.'s. It is certainly a revelation in the Kalahari, which tends to be full of vicious thorns rather than soft, tender leaves. Yet when living in the village, there can't be enough bluboos to go around, and I imagine the leaves don't keep well - if gathered in advance, they must quickly dry and become brittle and useless.

So perhaps the revolution is waiting to arrive - perhaps the people of D'Kar are ready for the Good News of water. Could this be my calling as a volunteer? Improved hygiene and comfort for all, including the over-taxed environment... or horrid backfiring and a fearsome cholera outbreak? I wonder if it's possible to apply for a grant to spread the word, perhaps from the WHO. Water must be superior to old newspapers...

Just kidding (I mean, water IS superior to old newspapers, but my mission in life is probably not revolutionizing the world's toilet rituals)...


* I find it very funny that the Afrikaans word "rooiboos" has attained such a dreamy, beautiful, neo-hippie aura in North America; it's AFRICAN tea, it's so cool, what a cool name! But it's really just "red bush" in Afrikaans, which is possibly the least dreamy and romantic language in the world. (Sorry, Afrikaans.)

here and there

Maun, Botswana

Tofino, Canada

rainy season

It has been a typical rainy-season day in Ghanzi. The dawn broke slowly into an overcast sky, still troubled from the showers of the previous night. By 8:00 a.m., the sun had burned off all of the clouds and the heat began, rising through the morning and into the afternoon. During lunch at the Kalahari Arms, I languished under an umbrella on the patio, crushed beneath the heavy blanket of midday heat. There was no wind. The heat descended through the weak canvas of the umbrella, falling in waves onto my head and shoulders, making a mockery of the supposed shade. “It's hot,” I commented to my companion. “Yes,” she replied. “It is hot.” On such days, there's really nothing else to say.

Around 6:00 p.m., the clouds started to move in again, creeping across the sky in counterpoint to the setting sun. The wind began to rise. That particular deep, saturated blue-grey that means rain flooded across the horizon. And at 7:00, the first rain began to fall.

When the rain falls in the Kalahari, the heat breaks so quickly that it's like turning on the air conditioner full blast in a very small car. It is no caressing, bathwater rain. It bears no similarity to the muggy, sauna-like monsoons of India. The rain falls, and the world is cool. Immediately a new, cool wind streams through my house, gusting in the front door and windows and blustering back out the kitchen windows with the curtains fluttering behind. The rain falls, hammering on the roof as the gutters spout water frantically, as fast as they can.

I am back in Botswana.