ABBA out of time, out of context

Tuesday

The party on Saturday at what might be termed Casa de Spankies turned out, not surprisingly, to be a treat.

Puni took me to her home village, southwest of here, called Moshupa. It's about an hour's drive, which had us meandering past rolling hills that sometimes look like those of the Texas hill country and other times resemble Arizona's rocky mesas. With all of the rain, the shrubs and trees appear lush, the grasses high. And, of course, we had more rain that day, confirming once and for all that I am indeed worthy of my Sechele-given nickname, Mma Pula, Ms. Rain. (If it rains on someone's wedding day, it's a big blessing here. Think what my nickname means and what responsibility I carry. I paid close attention at the Botswana National Museum to the “traditional medicine remedy” for making rain: It involves a hairball from a cow’s stomach. Need I say more?)

The party honored Spankie, Puni’s childhood friend and a 41-year-old woman whose birth name I’ve yet to determine. Spankie is what everyone calls her. Her little sister is Spanklet. The regal matriarch, mother of Spankie, Spanklet and various sons who have no “Spank” in their names, is Mma Spankie.

I can’t begin to describe how honored I felt to be among this family and the people from the village who had gathered to wish Spankie and her daughter well. The two will be traveling on Saturday to Tunisia, where Spankie will be working on a 3-year contract for the African Development Bank as an accountant. This was a going-away party and my turn to witness the kind of event that I so cherished in the U.S. before I left to come to Botswana. It started outside on a porch. The family’s minister gave a talk, which was translated into Setswana by another man. The minister assured Spankie that she would have God’s protection and the love of her family and village to support her. He told her that it would be difficult going into an unknown land, as her “sister from the United States (me)” could well understand. There were Bible verses read and a chorus of teen-aged girls who sang, “Lord, I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.” Spankie made a speech. I even raised my hand and asked to say something. Not in Setswana, I assure you. Not yet anyway.

“May the people of Tunisia show Spankie the kindness and generosity that the people of Botswana have shown me; that is my wish for her,” I said. Everyone smiled and nodded once it was translated.

Spankie and I bonded right off. She liked what I had done, setting off for the unknown with my savings and a simple, overwhelming yearning to be in Botswana. She’d been wanting to travel out of Botswana for 10 years. The job interview and the job offer this time came easy, and consequently she felt she was destined to go to Tunisia. She felt confident, and I encouraged her to maintain that outlook.

After the spiritual portion of the party ended, it was time for lunch. I’m well on my way to becoming an African foodie. Several of you have asked me about the cuisine. This occasion provided another round of distinctly traditional fare. The table was piled high: barbecued goat’s meat, a chicken stew, morogo greens, palichay (sp??), mashed potatoes, butternut squash, tossed salad, beet root salad and a porridge. The men, in charge of the barbecuing, which is called a braai, sat under an awning near the fire. The women elders sat inside. The teen-age girls were the servers and dishwashers. They hung around outside in the back courtyard. Spankie, Puni and I sat with the men. They taught me how to eat dessert: a form of sugar cane. With my feeble attempts at Setswana and my nigh-on dangerous attempts at stripping the outer casing from the sugar cane – “Watch out; you’ll cut yourself!!” I heard that many times – I was as good as the party clown. Not the party mime. The party clown.

The other entertainment? Tunes coming from the opened trunk of a car. First it was something pleasantly funky called “township jazz,” but the group soon tired of that and asked for something different. Comfort, a dentist from Swaziland married to Spanklet, obliged. Next thing I knew, “Mama Mia” was playing. ABBA was singing full blast, and I couldn’t help but think of my Austin friend, Sandy Garcia, who would be jumping up and down and groovin’ if she were at the party. There is no ABBA fan more devoted than she.

Under the blue and white striped awning, stripping sugar cane with my back teeth, sitting among relaxed elderly men and younger ones reading the sports pages, I found myself once again awed by my good fortune to be among people so welcoming and hospitable. A Batswana party, a heartfelt farewell to a fellow adventurer, an Easter gathering in a country village. These are the days to remember.