What comforting organization the bus rank of Gaborone brings in the early morning hours. Like elsewhere in this country where order and strictness reigns even in illumination of its traditions, passengers and buses form tightly knit unassisted single column lines behind those who arrived before them. Relaxed and respectful; no one cutting or disturbing his or her neighbor. This is the pumping vessel of Gaborone’s livelihood, filling the offices, stores, schools, hospitals and ministries with warm blooded bodies. It is in the vaguest of twilight when that blood begins to form. And on those rousing Friday evenings, that blood boils. To view this crowd from an aerial would be like seeing the livestock of a Botswana cattle-post, though dressed as the richest and most pride filled this well off country has to offer. And from this post leads not to slaughter, but northward in the direction of Zimbabwe, or to the vast wilderness of the touristic north of the country. There are those here who are on their way to the dessert to brand their cows. Others who visit their families in the villages. Some who sell products in Zimbabwe, or Zimbabweans who are bringing money home to their families. Others are planning a hunting trip with their friends. Then there’s us, who have no particular destinations or rationale; only a desire to see another side of Botswana. And, please, once through the Kalahari was plenty thank you!
The roads of Botswana are without fault whatsoever, though one might expect so much from a country with as few roads as it has. Botswana is roughly a series of roads leading from various points of its borders towards a central circle which wraps between the giant dessert, up towards Francistown in the north, over towards the delta to the west, then through bushman-land and back again. The circle has no connections within it, excepting a thin dirt road leading to the sole lodge the Kalahari boasts. And at the moment of writing this, most roads were still warm from the hands of the Chinese workers who laid them all.
We set out north passing the handful of signs with names of villages absent from our map. No one stops for them anyhow. It is a quick ride to our first stop, Mahalapye. Every so often along the road a man would be waiting in the middle of nowhere next to an empty wheelbarrow. These men were waiting for the large beer distribution trucks to stop and sell a handful of cases which the men would then push back to small villages and sell. When arriving we were impressed immediately by the size of Mahalpye Village. It is by all western standards a decent sized town despite its legal delineation, and its center had an almost New England quality to its organization. A flat village with a dry riverbed encircling its center like a crescent moon.
Mahalapye was once a famous Herero settlement following their great exodus from Namibia, and today nearly half the town is of Herero descent. Upon adjusting my eyes to the severe late morning light, the minibus station came into clarity. And just beyond it the small local supermarkets, followed by shops adorned with Chinese names spelled in Roman characters and various smaller KFC rip-offs.
Saturday mornings the shady corners of the thin streets fill in with local vendors selling fruits and vegetables fresh from their gardens. The talk of the town was how the late frost had ruined the flavor the whole seasons clementines. The year has been plentiful for beetroots, cabbage, bitter greens and chard. At the edge of the sellers lay the tables where women knit hats and men repair shoes. Beyond them the now deserted train station which once brought the Eden of Zimbabwe's riches towards the capital. It is now covered in plush vinery scratching its paint to dust upon the red earth. The Batswana, as has become the trend throughout Africa, prefer the rapidity of buses to the sure trajectories of train transport. So too have their needs specialized and narrowed to include nearly only South African goods.
Mahalapye has always been a population of great diversity settled together as a result of histories difficult fates. The Herero came to escape the genocides of the German occupiers at the turn of the twentieth century. The Zimbabweans came to escape the terror of the Zanu PF party in the early part of the twenty –first century. Whereas the Hereros have become a recognized group of Batswana identity over the many years and after gaining independence, the Zimbabweans are being targeted throughout Southern Africa by rising xenophobic tensions and fear that they will drain the region of jobs and social security. Botswana has so far been far more understanding and welcoming to the Zimbabweans, though there has been a definite and recent shift in language regarding the matter, as the mass numbers of refugees and illegal Zimbabweans have left many without work or food. There has been a seeming increase in theft and violence enacted by Zimbabwean communities and the seeds of xenophobia have begun to take root in the shocked and otherwise peaceful society.
In Herero Way, the ladies of the homes have not lost in the least their prideful traditions and styles identifying them at once with the great cultures of northern Namibia. Giant poofed out dresses likened to Victorian ballroom gowns, topped by stiff bicorn hats which give them the silhouetted profile of immense hammerhead sharks walking about the neighborhood. The white Batswana on the other hand stay relatively discreet and rarely interact with the rest of the village. This is not out of disrespect but rather the fear that all white carry following the land reforms in Zimbabwe that the more there presence is talked about, the more to talk about there will be.
All the towns rivers are parched in this the season before the rains have come. Only small pools remain, mostly mud filled, which bare the imprints of hooves and talons where the local wildlife has come to replenish themselves. The flat long tunnels left from banks of years past become super highways for the dozens of donkey carts which carry people and supplies to the various otherwise inaccessible points along the river. Each one banging along over the slippery rocks and young termite mounds along the way, tossing women and basins about like hats at a new years party. The river echoes with the music of shebeens (unofficial bars) where farm workers mingle during their breaks. Passing each door in the early afternoons are the blue and green uniforms of school children brisking hurriedly out from the slumber of their classes, anxious to return home. Mahalapye is not a place of wild interest but of good clean living and honest people.
Francistown is the only other city in Botswana outside its capital, and is connected to the latter via a long straight paved road via Mahalapye. The old road between the two is a thin one lane road which was half paved in places, and dirt for the rest. It runs parallel to the new one and is today reserved for the donkey and horse chariots which make the long distance each day bringing village wood into the city and returning with food, cloth and beer. For some reason Francistown has been given the charming nickname « the ghetto », though it resembles more a pleasant sprawling suburb of California with a handful of giant malls in its center. 
Small parks spread the lawns of administrative buildings teeming with makeshift ponds, benches and wooden risen walkways. Life is congruent with the national workday, filling the center with bodies at seven AM from the residential neighborhoods, swaying calmly but consistently throughout the day, and deserting before five PM every night. When empty, still lingers the vague perfumes of professional women on the small scants of weaving which came undone and lay about the taxi rank still from the exodus. Where they once stood now sits the ladies who sell traditional foods to workers during the day as they prepare their belongings for their taxi rides home.
Spaces in the north of Botswana are viewed as functionally as all else in the country. Each space a meaning, a purpose, a time. You will never for instance see Batswana visit a cemetery unless for the function of a burial. This is a rather particular example seeing as the Batswana are notably conservative on issues of death and spirits, but when viewed through the lens of organization, gives new meaning to other spaces as well. During the day, all the other neighborhoods of Francistown are as abandoned as its cemeteries. They are places you go to when work is done, and no work, no shops or businesses or hair dressers should exist in that neighborhood. Schools are there so that children can play near the home awaiting their parents arrival. Each quarters of the city has its particular function, be it administrative, commercial, industrial, import, entertainment, etc. The only exception to this rule is the taxi rank which has squeezed itself into the space between the train tracks and the commercial center of one of Francistowns largest arcades. But from the time one leaves their office and walks there, they have achieved all that they plan to achieve for the day, as once they arrive home, there is no leaving again.
On our way west from Francistown we had the chance to visit the giant expansions going. Not only is the airport of Francistown now challenging the size of major international airports of Europe, but the same Chinese company which built it also constructed a mega sports arena directly adjacent. But they are the absolute margins of this expansion seeing that just following them is bushland without life or end. More than one vehicle stopped for us along this road. We excitedly rushed to their sides thinking we had found our ride to continue the journey. At the windows each driver warned us “not to walk this far in the bush for lions and Zimbabweans could find us easy prey,” then sped away leaving us settling like their heavy dust upon the bush.
We came upon the fork, the split in the road where the famed salt pans rest. Nata is the village which was settled by bushman at this impasse when they had been brought here to mind others cattle posts fifty years prior. Today Nata is a traditional village which stands apart from the rest of the country for its plush palms and soft sandy streets resembling the north of Mozambique in all but its gentle character and kindly welcome.
Here there are no coconuts falling in bushels from the trees, but rather round softball-sized monkey oranges which the children knock from their high perches with patience and stones. Once they fall, their hard brown shells cracked, it is only then that the children can see whether their nut contained any of its sour flesh. More often than not, the shells will be empty. Walking in the village on Sunday you will likely find various well cared for homesteads with often three or four huts in each surrounding a large tree for shade, and a khosa corner for matters of urgency to be discussed. If you are lucky, one of these homesteads will be that of those youth sporting their Haile Selasie t-shirts, blasting Bob Marley from their cell phones, and blessing the community with the incense of God’s green garden. They aren’t really Rastas, so bring all the beer and meat you please, but they sure are kind to strangers.
Nata has no supermarkets, no arcade, no bus rank. The most modern presence in the village is at the gas station where each tourist bus fills before crossing to Kasane. There are various fast food chains and coffee shops around its parking. Or if you prefer one of the local Khosa (chiefs) runs a traditional restaurant of great renowned. Along the roadside are various pickup trucks parked selling fruits and vegetable from their backs. Other trucks pass the road every hour or so transporting cattle from post to post. Large jeeps carrying tourists to the salt pans where bird lovers drool over the 1800 species of feather backed feeders. Locals visit the pans to drink beer, picnic and camp over holiday weekends. Everything is still on the pans, like a deadened sea covered with flamingos and surrounded by the smoke escaping the salt refineries to the south.
Once leaving Nata to continue in either forked directions all vehicles and pedestrians must stop to wash their feet in small basins of chemicals meant to prevent hoof and mouth diseases from spreading between the wild game and cattle. It is dry this season and the brush fires have leaped from one side of the highway to the other chasing small antelope and wild cats from the safety of the bush. The land becomes burnt black and the air thick with ash. But from the dehydration comes the delta in the distance. This year the floods have covered the region astronomically and the grey yellow of Nata gets soft and green as you approach its smacking lips. The crows and vultures and all things of drab palette migrate from this land of the living, leaving the small bright tropical peepers to flit fearlessly about the sky, welcoming you to the land north of north, beyond the veins eternal : the Okavongo Delta.
La station de bus de Gaborone est très organisée. Ici comme partout ailleurs dans un pays où l’ordre règne, les minibus et les passagers attendent les uns derrière les autres. Calmes et respectueux, personne ne tenterait de passer devant le voisin. Le lieu qui prend vie en fonction des horaires de bureau est particulièrement fréquenté au lever du soleil puis au crépuscule. Il en est de même le vendredi soir, au début du week-end. Le bétail faisant la richesse et la fierté d’une famille botswanaise, tout citadin se doit de passer ses jours de congé autour de la ferme familiale où pâturent les vaches et chèvres, le lieu porte le nom de cattle-post. Ces grands domaines bordent le bitume qui s’avance en direction du nord, vers le Zimbabwe et le Delta de l’Okavango. Les routes du pays ont la particularité d’être irréprochables, tous les axes majeurs sont goudronnés et bien entretenus. Il n’est d’ailleurs pas rare de croiser un signe « travaux de maintenance » sur un tronçon pourtant flambant neuf. Aussi parfait l’ouvrage soit-il, l’axe qui longe le désert du Kalahari est terriblement monotone. Plat, droit et pris en étau entre deux espaces de savane infinie, seul le chauffeur habitué à ces longs trajets ne semble plus lutter contre la fatigue. Au-delà des quelques noms de villages indiqués sur des panneaux de signalisation, il n’y a rien. Les voyageurs postés à des arrêts de bus fantomatiques patientent parfois de longues heures la venue d’un bus. Et puis il y a ceux poussant leurs brouettes rouillées venus attendre le camion de bière de passage pour ravitailler les contrées lointaines.
Selon des critères européens, Mahalapye pourrait être qualifiée de ville. Mais, pour le gouvernement local, cette dernière qui ne répond pas aux critères est un village. La petite localité plate et poussiéreuse située au nord de la capitale est arrosée de soleil. Au-delà de la route nationale qui coupe la ville en deux, les pistes deviennent sable. Le centre abrite une station de minibus, quelques supermarchés et de nombreux China-shop. Les restaurants portent souvent des noms cocasses similaires à celui du fameux poulet frit venus du Kentucky. Le samedi matin les coins d’ombre des ruelles sont occupés par des fermiers venus vendre leurs légumes. Bien que les gelées taridives ait cette année détruite une bonne partie des cultures de clémentines, les bottes de betteraves et de verdure demeurent. La station ferroviaire est déserte. Comme dans de trop nombreux pays africains, une dose d’indifférence ajoutée à une once de manque d’entretien et des trajets interminables ont eu raison des trains. Ces derniers ont cessé de circuler le jour où les routes modernes sont sorties de terre. La population de Mahalapye est variée et les migrants arrivés par vague en fonction des aléas de l’Histoire sont nombreux. Les Hereros, membres d’une tribu namibienne ayant fui les atrocités commises par le gouvernement colonial allemand, sont aujourd'hui parfaitement intégrés. 
Les années ont passé et les traditions demeurent, alors, dans le quartier nommé de Herero way, les femmes portent toujours des robes bouffantes et des couvre-chefs en forme de bicorne qui leur donnent une stature sans égal… ainsi qu’un petit air de requin-marteau. La population blanche sait rester discrète, les quelques familles vivant encore dans les environs ne sortent que rarement des fermes reculées. Comme partout dans le pays les Zimbabwéens sont nombreux, « bien trop nombreux ! » pour certains. Illégaux ou pas, ils sont accusés de tous les maux qui touchent la société botswanaise habituée à une vie sans encombres faite de paix et de respect mutuel. Les différentes rivières des environs sont sèches, seules quelques marres boueuses encerclées de traces de sabots laissent deviner un ancien abreuvoir pour animaux laissés en pâturage libre. Seule la région méridionale du Delta a eu la chance d’être arrosée par les trop-pleins venus de l’Angola voisine, alors ici la saison des pluies se fait attendre. Les charriots tirés par des ânes sont les moyens de locomotion de prédilection, ils s’aventurent, chargés de bois ou de bidons d’eau là où les autres véhicules ne peuvent s’avancer. Aux heures de sortie des écoles, le village sort soudainement de sa torpeur et les rues sont envahies d’enfants en tenues bleues ou vertes. Mahalapye n’a pas grand intérêt, écrasée par le soleil et la chaleur ambiante, la vie suit lentement son cours.
Francistown, la seconde plus grande ville du pays, est aujourd’hui ralliée à Mahalapye par une route bitumée. La piste faite de sable qui liait auparavant les deux localités demeure, toujours aussi cabossée, elle est aujourd’hui réservée aux charriots tirés par des ânes. Francistown porte le sobriquet de « ghetto » mais, elle ne ressemble en rien à un quartier populaire, bien au contraire. 
Moderne et grouillante, cette dernière est avant tout un centre administratif, un concentré de ministères et d’offices. Les habitants vivent au rythme des horaires de bureaux, les travailleurs en costume envahissent les rues tôt le matin pour ressortir en fin d’après midi. Les odeurs de parfum ont alors disparu et les coupes de cheveux sont légèrement défraichies. Les centres commerciaux sont partout. Ces grands buildings aux sols recouverts de jolis carreaux abritant des enseignes élégantes côtoient les galeries marchandes où se concentrent habits et babioles de maigre qualité. Le commerce est une activité vitale pour la ville et les mouvements transfrontaliers sont importants, les marchandises y circulent de manière incessantes. Les quartiers résidentiels s’étendent au-delà du centre et les taxis bondés se faufilent dans les rues encombrées en fin d’après-midi. Le grand cimetière est désert, le lieu parsemé de sépultures abandonnées à elles-mêmes est laissé sans attention. Les passants contournent le lieu, ils ne circulent jamais entre les tombes. Très conservateurs, les Botswanais ne parlent que rarement de mort et les cimetières demeurent des zones laissées au seul contrôle des défunts. Francistown, comme de nombreuses localités du pays est en pleine expansion ; la grande mine d’or située en périphérie est aujourd’hui entourée d’un aéroport et d’un stade tous deux flambants neufs. Et puis le bush reprend le dessus.
La route qui se poursuit vers le Nord bifurque à Nata, une petite ville faisant office de carrefour. Nata est comparable à un village calme de la côte mozambicaine. Les pas s’enfoncent dans les ruelles ensablées et bordées de palmiers. Ici, ce ne sont pas des noix de coco que les gamins tentent de décrocher à grands coups de cailloux mais des oranges recouvertes d’une épaisse peau marronâtre que les dents peinent à transpercer. Le dimanche des jeunes hommes vêtus de tee-shirt à l’effigie d’Hailé Sélassié se retrouvent dans la cour d’une maison entourée de grands arbres parfaitement taillés. Visages rayonnants et transpirant de bonheur, les uns boivent de la bière et les autres fument de l’herbe en répétant les paroles d’une chanson de Bob Marley. Le passant est toujours le bienvenu. Les supermarchés ont disparu, la localité très rurale abrite peu de commerces, une petite épicerie, quelques bars et des vendeurs de légumes installés dans des baraques faites de bric et de broc. Ici les touristes ne font que passer, un grand sanctuaire ornithologique attire quelques curieux venus passer la nuit avant de reprendre la route vers les parcs nationaux. Les locaux sont bien plus nombreux que les visiteurs à venir profiter d’une bière et d’un pique-nique pour le coucher du soleil sur ce lac sans fin où piaillent des flamands roses.
Tout comme l’eau, les animaux ont quitté la région ne laissant ainsi qu’une étendue de néant au-delà de laquelle disparait un soleil rayonnant. La route entre Nata et Maun est bloquée par un épais cordon sanitaire. La peur des épidémies trop souvent transmises par les animaux sauvages a placé cet axe sous haute surveillance. Au-delà de cette frontière virtuelle, les animaux domestiques ont disparu, le territoire des bêtes sauvages a repris le dessus. En cette saison les feux de savanes sont une menace permanente. Quand un brasier caresse la route, les animaux n’ont d’autre choix que celui de traverser le bitume en quête de broussaille fraîche. Mais quand les deux côtés sont en feu, la situation est un peu différente. Alors que les autruches et les antilopes s’éloignent au passage d’un véhicule, les ânes, têtus comme le confirme le dicton, demeurent postés au milieu du tarmac. Un léger choc du pare-choc dans l’arrière-train semble être la seule solution pour éloigner l’animal figé. Ce paysage sec prend fin quelques kilomètres avant Maun, localité prise en étau entre un désert aride et un Delta luxuriant. Les cours d’eau gonflent peu à peu et les bourgeons refont surface sur les branches sèches. Les corbeaux et les vautours ont laissé la place à de petits oiseaux dont les plumages étincelants se mêlent aux couleurs chatoyantes d’une région à présent constamment arrosée par les flots d’une veine éternelle : l’Okavango.
Botswana might have the most diverse ranges of commonly available staple dishes to accompany their “food” in all the countries thus far. Certainly maize porridge and white rice are found at every street vendors table of buffet arranged silver platters. But who in their right mind would order such mundane a starch with so many options on the menu? Why in Botswana, the favorite of most workers is by far the soft violet scoops of stewed samp and sugar beans. This is a particularly nice compliment to the spicy curried cabbage and kidney been salad or gravy rich beef. In homes the preferred variation of porridge is one made of pale sorghum left to sour in water before reheating and slathering with fermented milk, sugar and beetroot coleslaw with a bit of chicken on the side. Or for those of us who’ve forgotten the wild ingenuity of wheat where we’ve come from, the favorite is Botswana’s famous salty steamed dumpling, madombe, which acts as a perfect sponge for any soup. 
