September 30, 2007: Botswana

The main climbing destination in Botswana is a small hill that is about a 10 minute walk from an upscale mall in the capital, Gabarone. We had gotten up at the crack of dawn in order to beat the heat and be at the crag by 5:30 a.m., only to be greeted by a chilly, overcast day. After parking BiRT next to the mall's fake climbing wall (which seemed to be a baboon magnet), we sleepily trooped toward the crag and discovered that there was a partially dirt-covered dump at the base of the hill. Rotting garbage and humidity make for a potent morning wake-up smell. And then there were visually disturbing sights like the bag of cow hooves. But no matter, we were seasoned pros used to seeing dead bodies (ah, good ol' Montagu) and nothing would stop us from climbing.

Or so we thought. After daintily picking our way through broken glass, animal skulls, and things that crunched mysteriously beneath the thin layer of dirt underfoot, we arrived at the first climbing area and couldn't help but notice the epically terrible stench of nine months worth of baboon feces and urine. The rains had yet to come, and the accumulated excrement had been baked into the rock by the sun. When combined with the rotting smells of unknown organic origin from the dump below, the result was enough to induce not-so-dry heaves. Some people immediately returned back to the mall for some nerve-calming coffee, while the rest of us considered the merits of attempting to climb so as not to offend our host (we were staying at his hostel and he had joined us before he had to go to work) versus the risk of contracting any number of exotic African diseases undoubtedly festering all around us. Politeness won out for the majority of us, and I made a mental note to scrub myself in Clorox later that night. I only lasted a couple of hours before I beat a hasty retreat back to the mall and treated myself to the biggest piece of chocolate cake I've ever seen served at a food establishment. And the biggest piece of cheesecake. And the biggest piece of carrot cake (What can I say? I was hungry.). Although the climbing was actually pretty decent, the first impression created by the baboon crap and garbage was a deal breaker for everyone, and we voted to get out of Botswana as soon as possible and spend an extra week in Namibia.

Because we had some extra time, we detoured a bit on our way to Namibia to spend the night at a campground in the Kalahari Desert run by a group of San people, better known as Kalahari Bushmen. We visited the village of D'Kar near our campground and went to a small museum devoted to the San. They have only relatively recently begun to politically organize their many tribes, and one aspect of their culture that they are developing and promoting is their art. Similar in some ways to the paintings of Australian Aborigines, the San tend to depict the animals and plants around them in a modern, yet innocent, way using vibrant colors. I bought a small painting by someone named Dada from the museum gift shop, drawn to the contrast between the artist's use of rich red against the white canvas.

As I was leaving the museum, Emma, our trip leader, said there was an elderly woman who wanted to show us a house or workshop or something. Having no idea where we were going or why we were following the diminutive woman shuffling along in front of us, we nonetheless decided she was harmless and followed her to a squat, stone building. She unlocked the door and we stepped into an amazing artist studio obviously shared by a number of the local artists.

Village children peeking into the studio:

Although she didn't speak any English, she proudly showed us some of her pieces and I realized that she was Dada, the artist that had created the painting I bought earlier in the day.

Dada:

Detail of a Dada painting:

So, groupie that I am, I borrowed a pen and asked her to sign her painting a second time. It was great to actually meet the artist, for once!

Not content with just local art exposure, we arranged for some of the San to perform traditional dances for us at our campsite later that night. After building a raging bonfire that tempted some of the folks from Hot Rock to leapfrog over it (not me, I value my man bits), we settled in and watched the show. The women and girls arranged themselves in a line on one side of the fire and kept time for the dancing men and boys through rhythmic singing and clapping.

Matt R. watching while the San women sing:

The men wore interesting, intricate ceremonial leggings around their ankles and lower legs made from chiseled ostrich egg pieces that sounded similar to marimbas when they moved. All the dances seemed to be named after animals, and, as you can see from the photo, repeatedly circled the fire, creating a dual track.

Feeling way too cultured, we lit out the next morning for Namibia and a climbing area known as Spitzkoppe.