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The Cattle Post

Sooner than I expected, although no longer on modern maps, I came across the old road that travellers would have had to use between Gaberone and Ghanzi, it is of corrugated sand but a lot faster than I had been used too for the last couple of days, that is for a while. It has been cut across, as a drainage ditch or some such which means I have to turn into the bush and make what I can from my satellite

navigation; I know where I am in latitude and longitude but that doesn’t help much with a map without grid lines. It is not a serious problem, I know if I head north and east I will at some time cross, or join the main road but it will soon be dark and one must always pitch camp in a strange place before dark or one might accidentally be in a sensitive area,

It is cattle country now. That is not as in cattle farms but cattle belonging to individual Batwana; which is the name by which Botswana people are known. To Batwana, cattle are a symbol of wealth and most everyone must strive to have them; people on the edges of towns do not have suitable land to keep them so they are kept way out in the bush. They call these places cattle posts. The owner and his family may live at the post or he may employ others from time to time but in any case a cattle post is like an informal small village, fortified with woven sticks and containing two or three huts. The cattle are not kept there, they graze where they will and men take turns to watch them. The post is where they will sleep and the women will prepare food and care for the children; aunts, sisters, mothers and so on, somewhat reminiscent of the elephants in a way, with a matriarch in charge by day, but not nearly so well organised. And so, it is at one of these cattle posts that I find myself, late in the afternoon, like a traveller from outer space it would seem from the commotion caused as the children run screaming and large, fierce looking women appear from behind the stockade, ready to defend their unofficial and unmapped territory.

‘Dumela Mma’ I quickly say to the one that appears in charge. This is about the only Setswana that I know (the language of Batwana) meaning ‘Hello Mrs’, or Madam. ‘How are you?’ Smiling now, she replies ‘Dumela Rra’ (Mister) ‘I am fine, how are you?’ ‘I am very well, thank you Mma, I want to park here’. I have learned that proper greetings are very important with Batwana, before making a point and am pleased with my efforts as all seems well and I may park here under the protection of this family. I must pay fifty Pula. She explains to me that her husband is in town (Kanye) as his brother is sick and will soon be late. His brothers’ wife is already late. I am glad that I already know this idiosyncrasy and late means dead and that I am able to offer my condolences instead of foolishly asking ‘late for what?’

In time, the men folk arrive, at the gallop by donkey. When they dismount the donkeys remain as statues. There are four other such statues already here, hitched to a cart which is the remains of a bakkie. The cart has a flat tyre and as they only have a hand pump which is, of course broken, I am able to be the hero of the day and inflate the tyre with my compressor. The cart must now be used to fetch water in cans, collect firewood and because of the flat tyre the food will be late, not dead of course, I will get to that bit later. Also to go with the donkey cart driver is the eldest son of the post and he is given the fifty pula to buy drink. One might wonder where he would buy drink from, out here in the bush, but there are probably just about as many bars or shabeens out here as people! Well, I knew, if the rest didn’t, that dinner was going to be very late indeed, those two would have got the water as the water point is on the way to the bar; I passed the places on the way here, but I doubt if they would have stopped to gather firewood, and as fifty Pula would buy about half a ton of ‘Shake Shake’ (Local firewater, sold in cartons) I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t see them again until tomorrow.

The women grew impatient. ‘You must give us water, we need water to cook’ and buckets arrive at my caravan tap. I was making tea and one woman saw my milk. ‘My child is sick. He needs milk. You must give me milk’. Very soon, I have no water, and I have no milk. ‘We have no firewood,’ one says. ‘We need to cook, we will have to use your stove’. I am starting to wish I had never come here; about twenty people and they want to cook on my little gas stove! I always seem to be buying firewood at the roadside and then not bothering to light a fire so I have lots of firewood, and its time I lightened my load anyway, and it was good to see their faces as I saved the day, again. As they hurried away with the sacks of wood, I thought I might have seen the end of them for a while and I could boil a mealie and a couple of eggs with the bottled water that I had quickly hidden, but a few minutes later, back they all came, it seemed that I was now an honoured guest; the one at the front carried a chicken, a small child behind her was carrying an axe. The headman, the older woman’s husband, was with his brother who would soon be late. Her son was with the Shake Shake, he would be very late. I was to be headman and start the evening meal; that chicken was definitely not yet late!

No, I couldn’t kill the chicken. It offended them for a moment, but I said I was a vegetarian…..English. I seem to get out of lots of bother with the English excuse; maybe I am giving us a bad name or maybe a good one. The donkeys and the men and the water and most of the shake shake finally did arrive to a barrage of abuse from the women over the cooking problem and from the men left behind, for obvious reasons. The party went on for most of the night and I was thankful that I was in bed and pretending to be asleep so I didn’t have to drink the stuff.

Everyone was up bright and early in the morning though, and kicking their statues into life, the men charged off to God knows where. ‘Did you sleep well Ppa?’ was my greeting this morning as the women walked away in different directions. I’m not sure I liked the new title, it seems I got older all of a sudden.