Trying to reach Kubu Island in a smart car was a really dumb idea.
We made it onto the Magadikgadi pans but destroyed the fan belt and water pump in the process. With no way of fixing it out on the barren pan we towed the smart 250km back to Francistown. Dropping it off at Mercedes Benz, we explained to the workshop manager how we had got into this mess. He was so upset that he scolded us, saying ‘I am calling the police. You have abused this car!” Then, like a protective parent, he single-handedly guided the little car into the workshop.
© Anton Crone
There she stayed while Brett drove all the way to Jo’burg for new parts. I stayed in Francistown to check on the car and find out more about this bustling Botswana town.
Brett returned two days later. He was wired to the hilt after rushing to Joburg, braving the big smoke with its frenetic pace, scrounging for parts and then rushing back.
He found me ensconced in a seedy motel, calm, relaxed, taking photos of the chambermaids. It was clear to him that I had slipped into ‘Africa Time’ where now means sometime, now-now means whenever and just now means never.
It was hard for me to leave Francistown. I find the pace of urban Africa invigorating: one minute it’s frantic, the next it’s as if Telkom has taken over. Francistown was no different.
I spent time with car washers who hosed the dust off cool cars only to watch them canter away in a cloud of – more dust. It’s a guaranteed income in a country where only diamonds rival dirt and looking polished is important.
I shared rides in sedan taxis that didn’t move until all the seats were filled, a brilliant strategy because it’s four times cheaper for passengers, causes less congestion and consumes far less fuel. It makes the taxi system in ‘first world’ countries seem backwards.
A lot of the Francistown taxis dropped passengers off at the boozer not far from my motel. Many of them were pool players who wielded their cues casually to the beat of Lucky Dube, yet took no time in winning their taxi and beer money from me.
Brett managed to coax me into the newly repaired smart with a promise of more seedy bars. As we steered for the interior, gradually the stink of the Big Smoke washed off of him.
Brett’s immersion into Africa Time was aided by the Afro-Funk vibe of Planet Baobab just north of the Makgadikgadi pans. The kind lady who lead us to our hut stopped on the way to watch the sun as it disappeared. Rightfully, she deemed this moment more important than reaching our room so we watched the sun set, then she looked up at the sky and said, in the sweetest, most timeless voice: “Oh look, a new moon,” and we stood gazing at that fingernail of light hanging in the purple haze for another long moment. With that, Brett was placed firmly back on the continent.
From then on the trip to Zambia was a cathartic stream of Mopani, tarmac and bright new moon smiles. Brett shrugged off the three hours it took to negotiate the notorious Kasangulu border crossing into Zambia then we turned off the tarmac to tackle a dirt track to the ‘Islands of Siankaba’ – and we hit a rock with a loud CRUNK.
The smart bled oil leaving a trail in the dust as we coaxed the ailing car to the bank of the Zambezi River. From there, a boat carried us to the islands.
The staff were wonderful, the islands were beautiful, probably the most beautiful place we had ever seen and after alighting upon the shore, beneath sausage trees and cool canvas, I looked at Brett – who had travelled at warp speed from Joburg to Africa Time and still had car oil on his hands – and I tentatively asked, “What are we going to do about the car?” and Brett calmly replied, “We’ll get it sorted out now-now.”
*A special thank you to Passage to Africa that sponsored our Planet Baobab accommodation and to Islands of Siankaba for their sponsorship*