Botswana

My first trip abroad besides family trips to New England and a school trip to New York City was to Botswana with the World University Service of Canada’s Summer Development Seminar. It was a 5-week tour with 34 students, three professors, and our faithful guide, David Moore, in which we each did own own “research” projects into different development issues.

(I called my dad to tell him that I had been accepted on the trip. “Botswana!” I said. “Where?” he asked, clearly concerned. Thankfully National Geographic published a story about Botswana the next month, meaning that someone had gone there and presumably had come back with photos. He came round).

As part of the WUSC Development Seminar each student was to delve into a specific research topic. Some participants looked at agriculture issues, others at women’s rights. Not knowing anything about Botswana when I applied, I did a quick search at the McMaster library and decided that I would research the government’s settlement program for the nomadic San or Basarwa people. WUSC was even so kind as to arrange a meeting with a leading anthropologist from the University of Toronto during our pre-departure orientation.

Historically, the San had lived as hunter-gatherers in the Kalahari desserts, he explained, but as the main Batswana groups expanded their cattle ranching, their traditional territories became more sought after, and the government decided to force them to settle in one area and learn trades like shoe making and carpentry. Never mind that there was no place to sell anything that they made. The entire program, as I discovered, was basically a way to make them disappear.

By design, these new settlements were far from other towns, and since I was the only Seminar participant who was researching this topic, the trip leader decided that it would be a good idea for me and two other guys to stay behind in Maun, and charter a plane out to an settlement in Western Botswana, closer to the border with Namibia. He found me a tent, a stove and a big whack of pula, the local currency. At the last minute, the two guys who had been volunteered to go with me backed out. I watched the three combo buses head east towards Francistown and started trudging around town with my pack looking for a flight to that area.

“The runway is terrible there,” the pilot told me. “I won’t risk my landing gear.” I was out of luck. Plan B: find a lift. I spent an entire day trying to hitch a ride South and then West into the middle of the Kalahari desert. No one would pick me up. I went back to the campsite to rethink my plan.

The next morning, I decided to try my luck at the local government filling station where drivers would set off every morning. I got up early enough that I needed a headlamp to flag down a ride into town and then approached the first pick up truck at the petrol pump. As I walked over, I prayed, “God, I will take the first lift wherever it goes. Just get me out of Maun”.

Fortunately, they were not heading south into the Kalahari; they were heading back east to Francistown. That was it. Decision made. I gleefully climbed into the back of the truck and bounced all the way down the dirt road to the main highway. I caught another ride north for a few pula and slept intermittently for four hours until we pulled into Chobe. David was glad to see me. I think that he had realized by then that it had not been much of a plan.

Over all, it was a great five weeks and a great introduction to traveling in remote areas. It was a great group of students from all across Canada. I’m not sure that our “research” was all that consequential; what can you do in such a short time and given the barriers of language and culture? But looking into one topic did get us a bit deeper than just being tourists. I did my best to summarize the experience at our end of tour dinner in a beat poem (as one does in Botswana).

South Africa

In preparing for our trip to Botswana, I took advantage of a special deal from KLM to extend my stopover in Johannesburg to visit South Africa. Now keep I mind that this was 1991 — a year after Nelson Mandela’s release from prison — and the country was still officially under economic sanctions. I called the Global Affairs office to see if this was a bad idea or not. They wouldn't recommend it — too dangerous — but they wouldn’t stop me. I hesitated. Relations about South Africa were about to re-open in recognition of the changes that were already underway. so I wasn’t really breaking sanctions. And besides, when would I ever get to go there again? So, I booked a two week layover and focused on finishing my term.

1991 was just pre-internet and there were no guide books available at the Hamilton Public Library. I had never met anyone from South Africa, so I followed the long-time travel rule of “anybody who is a friend of a friend of a friend of mine is a friend of mine”. As it turned out, my brother had met a South African couple on a Contiki tour of Europe a year before and he still had the man’s business card. I wrote “Terry” to let him know that I was coming and that I’d call him in Johannesburg on the way to Botswana.

Not much of a plan, I’ll admit. No one wrote me back, and so when I called from a phone booth at the old Jan Smuts International Airport, I really wasn’t sure what would happen. The secretary put me through to Terry who was surprised to hear from me. “No, we never did get a letter. But if you’re a brother of Brent, you must stay with us. Just call us when you come back through town.” Click.

Five weeks later, I said goodbye to my fellow Canadians, left the secure area of Jan Smuts, and called the number again. Thankfully, Terry took my call and came to pick me up. I stayed at their house for a few days and saw a bit of Johannesburg. But I was itching to get out of town, so he set me up to take bus to Nelspruit. It was dark by the time we pulled into town and the attendant on the bus asked if I knew where I was going.

“To the camp ground,” I said.

“Right….I’ll see if I can find you a ride,” she offered. Five minutes later she pointed to a young soldier a few rows a head. “His family will give you a lift.”

I got off the bus, shook hands with the soldier and his family, and crammed into their small Vokswagen sedan.

“Camping?” the father asked. “It’s too fucking cold to camp tonight. You’re staying with us.” He then drove up the highway much further than I had planned on and I crashed in one of his kids’ beds. The next morning he took me around on a motorcycle to see the local area before dropping me off on the road to catch a lift north.

My time in South Africa continued like this. My next ride north had a cousin who was heading back to Johannesburg a few days later. “Meet her at the Wimpy restaurant in this town at 7 am”. I dutifully got up early and trekked into town in the expectation that they would be there. Sure enough, she and her friends were waiting for me. They in turn put me in touch with her cousin in Cape Town. “Give them a call if you’re going out there……they’ll be glad to see you.”

On the whole, the white South African’s I met were incredibly hospitable. I think that I was a bit of curiosity to people because they really hadn’t had a lot of tourists, never mind backpackers for years.

“What do you think about South Africa?” they’d ask.

“Aw but you’re country is beautiful……”

“No, what do you think about South Africa?” They wanted to talk about politics. Fair enough. I shared my opinions as respectfully as I could while trying to impress that while there was still racism in Canada, at least we knew enough that it was no longer acceptable to think or talk that way. Not so much there. Two drinks in and people said some really awful things.

It was harder to move outside of white circles. I took a local train from Pretoria back to Johannesburg and sat in second class. I was the only white person and I thought this was an opportunity to get the real scoop. “What do you think about South Africa?” I asked the guy across from me, expecting that he’d realize that I was a sensitive white liberal from Canada who had participated in the struggle — or at least a few anti-apartheid demonstrations at McMaster. No response. I can’t say that I blamed him. He probably thought I was an under cover cop with a fake accent.

Fortunately another Seminar participant, Esther, had better connections with the opposition and we visited with some social activists at WITS university. We even took part in a student protest. A few days later, Esther and I took an overnight bus (serving wine!) to Cape Town to meet the cousin-of-the-friend-of-a-stranger and his family. They dropped everything and took us in and around town, sent us down to Cape Point and even took us to the church. Another really hospitable family, but again, they had seemingly few connections with Black South Africans apart form those who worked for them.

But I suppose for a first trip without a plan, things turned out as best as they could have. And that trip started a life-long fascination with South African politics and social movements. I ended up writing my undergraduate research paper on what a post-apartheid government might do. And i’ve had the pleasure of visiting there three or four times since. Every time that I visit, I’ve seen a lot more integration and some progress. The country remains incredibly unequal and faces a lot of problems, but aw, so beautiful.