She don't know jack

Aug. 4, 2008
Maun, Botswana

I started my day with Jungle Judy, the woman who once single-handedly pulled a python out of a trough. She did it herself after the gung-ho bush guys accompanying her on the mission collapsed into motley uh-oh bush guys and scattered like roaches at the flip of a light switch. When that thick python turned out to be longer than Judy was tall and started wrapping itself around her, only then did the chagrined men come back to pull the snake off and tuck it into a sack, away from the chickens it had been menacing, not to mention Judy.

Yes, Judy Phillips of South Africa and now of Maun, age 30-something, is a pint-sized, ballsy sparkplug, and it is thanks to her serving as my broker and intermediary that I now have wheels. She’s the food and beverage manager for Desert and Delta’s lodges. And she took time out this morning to attend to one final detail of my rented Toyota Surf. She insisted I needed a hydraulic jack, because Kobus Lubbe, the owner of the Surf and one of Judy’s best friends, forgot his in the Central Kalahari.

Judy bought a replacement hydraulic jack this morning, and she made Nick the DDS mechanic check whether it was big enough for the truck. With an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, Nick got down on the sand and began coaching me, cigarette still in mouth, on how I would use the jack if I had a breakdown or a punctured tire, or, as they write in Botswana, tyre. I was standing beside him in my skirt and bending down occasionally to appear interested.

If you saw the monstrous size of “tyre” that I would need to wrestle to succeed in changing a tire, you would agree it is hopeless. I told Judy I would revert to my tried-and-true girlie method that consists of standing on the side of the road and looking tearful; usually men stop in a flash, but I guess this is Botswana where it is always possible that the only life form that might pass a stranded motorist is a plodding donkey or a herd of goats.

“Murphy’s law,” Judy said to me. In other words, if I had a jack I would probably never need it, but without one I was as good as a Maun dirt walker again.

The jack she bought me was too small, so off we motored in her Surf to the Motovac, the auto-parts store, possibly the most impressive of all Maun businesses in size and sleekness. You see everyone you know at the Motovac, which gives me the distinct impression that I might be needing that new jack at some stage of the journey.

Turns out that everyone’s vehicle is always breaking down. But this village is lousy with bush mechanics, so even if the vehicles date back to the Stone Age, the mechanics get them rolling again. And lucky for me I live at a safari headquarters where mechanics arrive every morning promptly at 8 a.m. This I count as yet another blessing.

I was waiting in the Motovac parking area when, to my delight, two tiny folk came running for me. Jabu and Fiki! They were waving and wanting to give me a hug. The two little ones go to Bana Ba Letsatsi, the day center for street kids and at-risk children where I have been volunteering lately. Bana Ba Letsatsi means Sunshine Children, and the faces of Jabu and Fiki tell you what the mission is about. (Their mother was nearby; don’t worry that they were hanging out at the auto-store by their lonesome.)

Bana Ba Letsatsi is the little nonprofit that could. It has 226 children on its register. Nowhere near that many show up every day, but children drop in and out – for a hot breakfast or a hot lunch, showers, a place to wash their clothes and a safe environment to read, play sports, do crafts and, yes, watch cartoon videos. You will see photos with this entry that give a glimpse: Jabo/Fiki; Terence, who has a scholarship to the private school where my landlords’ son Kyeren goes and where I attended the barn dance (Terence won a reading award last week!); and Terence again in the office with Matthew Harris, a volunteer from London; Fiona Miller, a Brit who is the center’s executive coordinator; and Oupha, who serves as receptionist and go-to staff member.

I don’t have photos yet of the Botswana classroom coordinators and counselors who work here or of the kitchen staff that makes sure the children receive big helpings of warm food. But they are on hand to do whatever they can for these needy children, many of whom have been skipping school or were sent out into the streets to beg by their parents or, worse, live in homes where abuse is rampant. As far as I can tell, there’s not much happening throughout society to address the abuse, but Bana Ba Letsatsi does what it can to provide the children with a safe place and a daytime refuge. Matthew picks up some children in a combi (a big minivan) at daylight to make sure they go to school and drops them off back home in the late afternoon. An accomplishment can mean providing a tent for a homeless child or moving children away from the bad influences in town to what amounts to a foster grandmother’s house on the outskirts of Maun.

The center receives donations from the European Union and kind-hearted people around the world, most notably a Brooklyn woman who sits on Bana’s board and sends money from her foundation. Tourists mail checks. Others drop by occasionally and dump contents of their extra suitcases. Last week, books, eyeglasses, clothes, children’s Tylenol, pads of paper, colored pencils, Band-Aids and, oddly, Pine Sol in plastic bags lay in a heap on the floor waiting to be sorted. Someone had stopped in between flights and left a much-appreciated bounty. The center has a 60-year-old Peace Corps volunteer from Alaska attending to finances. Local businesses, a few of them anyway, including Desert and Delta, have lent support, and a big hope at Bana is that more local businesses will embrace the center in the coming years.

I have always loved children, and during this sabbatical year I am meant to be in their company. I’m not out to change the world here. I do simple things, but the interactions with the children go a long way toward feeding a tired soul accustomed to running on newspaper deadlines instead of playgrounds and sitting at computers instead of see-saws. Each one of the little ones deserves my thanks. I push Fiki on the swing. I help Rose practice her reading. I listen to Terence read his books for his homework.
During the school holidays a few weeks ago, I played ball with the children at the sports complex and on another day I went with them on a hike at the nature reserve. Like any good safari-goers, we hoped to see the zebra or giraffe at the reserve (no predators at this park), but, like many good safari-goers, we had to settle for a couple of impala. On another day, my task was to separate all of the medicines in an office cabinet and organize them so that little kids wouldn’t run the risk of being given a dose of over-the-counter drugs meant for teenagers and adults. And on yet another day I helped Fiona write a letter asking for support to make a dream come true: The woman in Brooklyn has invited Bana children to New York in April 2009 to see the educational and cultural sights and to be on hand for a fundraiser for Bana. Fiona hopes that 10 children might be able to go, with 2 staff members accompanying them.

But New York is across the globe; despite free accommodations the expense would be staggering. And yet, even in faraway Maun, dreams for those with tangibly little cause for hope are big and stoked by the smallest of gestures. Just look at the smiles. You’ll see resilience enough to humble any world-weary visitor.

And, as for the bush mechanics: When I mentioned to my landlords last week that Bana’s Land Rover Defender had broken down yet again and Fiona was heartsick and confused about whether to spend 15,000 Pula to have it fixed or whether instead to chuck it, my landlord Stuart said, no way, his mechanics would have a go at fixing it, probably for free or at least for a lot less than a local garage was charging.

Today he had the Defender towed to this property. The Karibu Safari mechanics arriving outside my door at 8 a.m. tomorrow might not know it yet, but they have a noble job waiting for them, one that will help ‘the little center that could’ keep rolling. And that is fine news indeed for Jabu, Fiki and the rest of the Sunshine Children.

P.S. Want to see how high I can swing?

Mission possible

Africa 21
Maun

I’m back from 9 days in the bush, on two-night quick hiatus from my first assignment as a volunteer at Desert & Delta Safaris.

A tough mission, this one. James Bondish. Valerie Plumish. Call me Spook.

Shhhhh. I’m speaking into my wrist now to let you in on how I was asked to go undercover as a “mystery guest,” one Mary Ann Henson, regular tourist from the United States, instructed to get “a bird’s eye view” of how things were going at the camps and whether there was consistency among them. I would fill out questions on a spreadsheet and take notes on my findings and return them to Maun at the appointed time to the head office, where I would engage in a debriefing with the big cheeses.

As I had paid a British company for this 3-month volunteer gig in which I would be placed with a safari company, I detected no ethical violation in following the first orders issued by the company for my volunteer assignment. Yes, indeed, you can send me by bush plane and boats to four camps in Botswana, put me in fine accommodations with elephants and baboons romping outside my doors and feed me all day long such delicacies befitting passengers on the QE2, all expenses paid. No problem. Nadda. Reporting for duty, one Mary Ann Henson….

It was harder than you might think. I had to keep remembering to say my name was Mary Ann. This was new to me to be anything but myself. It helped that two of my very best friends in the world are named Mary Ann, and so I threw myself into the role. Except I didn’t really have to BE someone else – just not be the volunteer Maria Henson whom the camps were expecting to see soon. The tough part was remembering to use the right name and fretting over whether the staff would shun me when I returned for hostess duty on-site. That question will be answered soon enough, when I leave for Savute Camp tomorrow.

I liked so many of the people I met, guests and staff included, that I ran into thorny situations when they insisted on getting my cell phone number or email so they could keep up with my sabbatical year goings-on. Staff wanted to spend the night in my guest room in Maun, except I don’t have a guest room. Some asked if I had a blog, but I managed to avoid giving them the address. One camp manager was on to me when a note arrived addressed to the real me: It was from a 21-year-old female Kiwi pilot wanting to sublet my little cottage. The Desert and Delta Safaris (here on out DDS) executive sent her my way with a first letter correctly addressed, but the pilot sent another one that was wrong and threatened to blow my cover.

Believe me, the camp manager gave me the bad vibe when she was trying to figure out how I could be Maria and Mary Ann at the same time. Turns out it was the paradise on earth camp and perhaps now I won’t be welcome for my hostess duty under that manager’s tutelage, or if I am I bet I will be churning the compost pile….

I also had to keep up a vigorous enthusiasm for spending numerous hours on 4X4s and eating enormous amounts of delicious food. I managed. I did get a bird’s eye view of what it’s going to be like on the inside with flocks of tourists moving through, and it will be a fascinating study.

I met terrific people from all over the world. I met unusual people. I met two former Playboy bunnies from the Bahamas. I met a charming, acclaimed statistician with a new book coming out in May and who once was under fire for three days in Khartoum, an uncanny situation for a math brain. He told me on a game walk, apropos of nothing, that he had had one of those “colonostomy thingies” after which the doctor remarked he had the longest colon he had ever seen. For once I had no rejoinder. And none of us will forget the 62-year-old chiropractor from LA who told us straightaway that she had been the paramour of the missing world adventurer Steve Fossett, the college chum of my Bee colleague Bill Moore. Too many surprises to name here about her, but one I’ll always remember: The guide was getting her a cup of coffee and asked how she would like it.
“Like my men,” she snapped. “Black.”
I almost spit out my coffee and I did actually hoot. But Obie, the black camp manager sitting across from me, kept a solid poker face throughout, including when it took 3 tries and six eggs for the chef to get the yolks soft the way the mistress liked them. The next day, I learned later, she instructed the chef on how to boil her eggs.
I already adore that camp's manager. He is the picture of composure and cool under pressure!

Besides the eccentrics and luminaries, I met my share of dim lights.
"Hey! Psst!" A tourist called for the guide to come back and answer a question on the game walk. "What's that white bird waaaay up there?" The guide gave a wry look and said, "That's a big bird." As if on cue, the big bird flew over, making a roaring noise.
It was a plane.
The dumb tourist was me. I had surmised the nonyane (bird) was an African fish eagle.

My batteries are running low and I have only a few minutes to run my errands and get to the internet café. (A friend of the DDS executive has a fancy lodge outside of town and wants me to spend the night there and investigate as a mystery guest, as I did for DDS. Hmm. Let me think about that. OK.)


I’ll close by including an excerpt from my report to DDS about one of the activities at Camp Okavango. By this time I had been on safari for days and days and so I had had lots of the same experiences over and over. Don’t think I’m complaining. No way. But it’s important to share that my proclivity for stirring wild animals’ curiosity or being at the right place at the wrong time is intact. I’ll write in July. Bye for now.

I’d been on so many activities for so many days that I found myself in the mokoro with guide Robert and a guest, Julian, gliding along, mostly with my mind wandering. We weren’t seeing much wildlife, just the beautiful papyrus and reeds. We’d been going like that for over an hour, and, having already been on several mokoro rides, I immersed myself this time in the study of lilies and lily pads with all of their colors and designs. Gazing at the intricate patterns, I was effectively in a trance.

All of the sudden, there was a crashing sound roughly a small swimming pool’s length from our canoe -- and from me-- since I was in the front. A hippo shot up like a whale, breeching the water!

“For God’s sake! Oh, no. This is dangerous!” Those were my cries, though made as quietly as I could.

Robert plunged the pole into the riverbed to stabilize us. Our mokoro hardly rocked despite our fear. Our boat was as stable as possible under those circumstances, thanks to Robert. Moffat guided the canoe behind us that contained terrified British newlyweds. He, too, apparently braked with skilled care.

Time stopped. What might happen next? I waited for the worst. I knew that the hippos’ blubbery, blockhead look disguises their real reputation as rampaging man-killers if someone gets in their way. I had seen enough hippo pods to assess the situation. Where there was one hippo, there was usually at minimum a couple more. I braced for the inevitable. I wondered whether I would have to swim for shore, whichever way that was and through who knew how many crocodiles. Robert began beating the water with his pole and shouting a weird call, over and over.

We were lucky, oh so lucky. We had frightened a lone hippo that decided to high-tail it away from us instead of attacking. No other hippo popped up.

Always the journalist, I asked Robert if he had ever seen anything like that. “That was close -- VERY, VERY, VERY close!” he said. He said it was a first. Never in all his years had he encountered a hippo on those sleepy channels beside Camp Okavango. He, too, expected other hippos to jump out of the water, mouths opened wide not in a yawn or a smile but a signal of threat.

I learned later that Moffat told the newlyweds he was afraid. He took their boat and went back in the other direction, while we continued onward in ours. I also quizzed Robert later the next day about what could have happened. If the hippo had decided to attack us instead of run away, he would have chopped the boat in half, then torn it bit by bit “until it was finished,” he said. And, yes, we would have had to swim “up to the papyrus.”

I drank a scotch straight-up when I got to shore, at a charming makeshift bar set up in a field from which to view the sunset. Turns out that field was the airstrip. My heart was still about to jump out of my chest.

The British bride ran to me and threw her arms around me in a bear hug. “We’re alive!” she cried.

I felt as though I had been on the “It’s a Small World” ride gone freakishly haywire by a monster visitation worthy of Stephen King. I pounded that drink back and learned two new Setswana words immediately. “Kubu etona”: Big hippo!

I returned to camp announcing, “Ke bona kubu etona!” --I see a big hippo! (I don’t know past tense yet.) I’m not sure anyone really believed how close it was until Robert briefed the staff; then we took our place in the history books.

Okavango Delta whereabouts

I got my assignment for my volunteer gig at Desert and Delta safaris, in case any of you want to book now for your time in the last Eden and wish to have me serve as your hostess. (Check out D&D's Web site to see the scene.) In April I will be in Savute Camp in the Chobe National Park. May, it's Xugana Island Camp. June, it's Camp Okavango and a bit of time at Camp Moremi. The only bad news: I'm expected to teach the staff some French words. Quelle shame. I can't even remember how to spell that! And all of you who gabbed with me on my road trip from California to Austin know that I failed to apply myself to listening to hours of Michel Thomas' French lesson CDs. Good intentions and all that.