i've left, i've left, i've left my dusty love
Jo'burg airport. I'm typing at the counter at the Vodacom store, trying to organize phone numbers, SIM cards, credit cards, flights, all the while praying that my extravagantly overweight baggage doesn't cause me to go completely bankrupt.
I've left Botswana.
I left D'Kar yesterday, amidst tears and last-minute farewells, and the usual disastrous detritus of my procrastination - loose ends, half-empty cartons of milk, dirty floors, nails and paper and clothespins lingering in the corners of my house. L is going to take care of it for me - thank god for my friends, I would never manage to stagger through life without them.
Bus to Maun. The river is still flooded - we took the detour around Toteng, the make-shift bridge looking just as sketchy as always, water being sucked under in disturbingly powerful whirlpools, lackadaisical water unit workers lounging around in their neon orange jumpsuits. Four tall, beautiful Herero ladies were on the bus, and they strode gravely across the bridge, their enormous petticoats swinging with each step, their bizarre cross-beam hats identifying them immediately. A drunk woman in a dusty red dress was shouting on the other side of the bridge, tottering to and fro, as her husband tried to call her back to the village.
Maun. Warmer than Ghanzi, the familiar smell filling the faded streets - what is it? Where does that so-particular Maun smell come from? There are any number of candidates - the proximity of the river, the humidity, the soil which is grey instead of Ghanzi's red... the mophane trees, the goats and donkeys, the trailing bougainvillea and occasional stands of eucalyptus. The exhaust from a thousand intrepid, broken-down taxis. I don't know. But I love the smell of Maun. It's a warm smell, with just an edge of something sharp, sour, dry. The smell of donkey dung or scorched dust, spilled beer outside of a roadside bar or a labourer's sweat. Exhaust from Land Rovers, the small splattered refuse of jicanas or sandpipers flying low over the river.
I've left Botswana.
I don't want to cry, but I don't know when I'll be back.
I've left Botswana.
I left D'Kar yesterday, amidst tears and last-minute farewells, and the usual disastrous detritus of my procrastination - loose ends, half-empty cartons of milk, dirty floors, nails and paper and clothespins lingering in the corners of my house. L is going to take care of it for me - thank god for my friends, I would never manage to stagger through life without them.
Bus to Maun. The river is still flooded - we took the detour around Toteng, the make-shift bridge looking just as sketchy as always, water being sucked under in disturbingly powerful whirlpools, lackadaisical water unit workers lounging around in their neon orange jumpsuits. Four tall, beautiful Herero ladies were on the bus, and they strode gravely across the bridge, their enormous petticoats swinging with each step, their bizarre cross-beam hats identifying them immediately. A drunk woman in a dusty red dress was shouting on the other side of the bridge, tottering to and fro, as her husband tried to call her back to the village.
Maun. Warmer than Ghanzi, the familiar smell filling the faded streets - what is it? Where does that so-particular Maun smell come from? There are any number of candidates - the proximity of the river, the humidity, the soil which is grey instead of Ghanzi's red... the mophane trees, the goats and donkeys, the trailing bougainvillea and occasional stands of eucalyptus. The exhaust from a thousand intrepid, broken-down taxis. I don't know. But I love the smell of Maun. It's a warm smell, with just an edge of something sharp, sour, dry. The smell of donkey dung or scorched dust, spilled beer outside of a roadside bar or a labourer's sweat. Exhaust from Land Rovers, the small splattered refuse of jicanas or sandpipers flying low over the river.
I've left Botswana.
I don't want to cry, but I don't know when I'll be back.
posted by Jenn at
1:43 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home