Bessie

If any of you had been following my family’s blog while we were traveling here in Africa, you may remember Tayopa, the boy my age that I used to play with when we lived in Maun many years ago. Well his mother, Bessie, lives in a village called Mochudi about 30 minutes from Gaborone. While we were visiting Tayopa in Maun, we had called Bessie and I had promised that I would visit her after I moved back to Gaborone. So on Saturday morning, I did just that. When I got to the post office (where we’d said that we’d meet), I gave her a call and she informed me that I should just wait for 30 minutes until she could get there. So I walked around for a little while, feeling much more out of place than I do in Gaborone and being very aware that there were no other white people around at all and also no other vehicles nearly as nice as mine. When Bessie finally arrived, she greeted me enthusiastically, shaking my hand repeatedly, hugging me, and kissing me on the lips several times (I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that, but she didn’t seem to notice my awkwardness at all). She exclaimed over and over again how much I had grown and how good it was to see me, laughing joyously and grabbing my hand to shake it anew every 10 seconds or so, and sometimes hanging onto my hand for quite a long time. Finally, we headed for the Land Rover (which I was pretty embarrassed about) and climbed in to drive to her house. I soon discovered why it had taken her 30 minutes to get to the post office – it’s quite a long walk from the post office to her house. Her plot consists of two tiny rectangular mud brick buildings, a few trees and a garden encircled by a wire fence. Two of the cutest little girls peeked shyly at me from behind the reed wall around their cooking fire, and slowly came out to greet me and shake my hand. Bessie set three small, dilapidated chairs (probably all of the furniture she has) in the shade of a tree and we sat down and chatted for a little while. It soon became clear that Bessie had hoped that I would pick her family up and take them back to my house and show them where I was living, which I had not expected at all. I tried to tactfully let her know that I couldn’t do that because I had other plans for the afternoon, and I think she was pretty disappointed. Eventually, she brought me a bowl of sour bogobe, a bitter-tasting porridge that is ubiquitious here, and I did my best to swallow a few bites without grimacing too badly. Before I left, I asked if I could take some pictures of them, and they were more than happy to oblige, but they decided that they had to get all dolled up in their church clothes first. Somewhere in there, a random neighbor who I was never properly introduced to showed up with her chubby toddler strung around her back in a cloth, and she of course wanted to be in the pictures too. So we took some pictures (which was quite an operation), and then I bid them goodbye and promised that I would get the pictures to them sometime. It was difficult to be around these people who have so little, especially with my big Land Rover and nice camera. Bessie kept telling me how hard life is for her now (neither her nor her husband – who is her second husband and not Tayopa’s father – have steady jobs), and she asked me several times if I need a maid. She would point to the bricks that are stacked neatly in her plot and tell me how she wanted to build a better house, but that it was hard. Not enough money. It was very uncomfortable for me to be in that situation, as a guest and as a sort of long-lost friend, and to be asked so explicitly for help. Before I left, Bessie apologized for not having enough food to spare me any for lunch, and then I headed back to Gaborone for a gourmet lunch of Mexican casserole put on by Flying Mission. I don’t know if I have ever felt as uncomfortable with my wealth as I did that morning.