Day 4 - The Cahuna.

I’m driving a beat up red truck in 40+ degree midday heat in Botswana, southern Africa. My head bobs up and down with every bump in the road like a dashboard doll. Sweat runs down my back. There’s no aircon and the warm wind has flushed my face, hands slip on the steering wheel.

Here’s to hoping everything goes well when I get to where I’m going. There is protocol to adhere to. Etiquette. I’m fetching my Great Grandmother and her entourage in South Africa where they are waiting for me at their homestead. I will fetch her; someone else will deliver her back home. We will tend to all her needs whilst she stays with us. We will make her feel like a Queen.

I’ve been to her house only once before and I wasn’t the driver. The person in question spent hours getting lost and asking locals who barely spoke English for directions whilst the rest of the people in the car systematically lost their marbles and screamed at one another. It was a nightmare that I don’t want to repeat so I asked my teacher to give me directions. They were vague: turn right at the big tree on the right hand side of the road just after the spaza shop in the third small settlement that you reach after crossing the border. Keep going till you see a church that has a big “no smoking” sign painted above it. There is a small Cell C kiosk not far from there. Drive between the two and keep going on a dirt road till you find some bushes on your left…. I smile and nod even though I have no idea what the man is on about. He draws a picture: there is the school, there is the spaza shop. It’s easy, he says. I can't help but trust him.

The car groans with every gear change and chugs along like a wounded soldier. Progress is slow and deliberate but I don’t mind. I love this landscape. It has the same spirit as the place where I was born in Johannesburg and a part of me will always prefer this to Cape Town. This is real to me: thorn trees, tall dry grass, koppies in the distance, mud huts and small settlements dotted along the road. Woman wander with umbrellas to keep the sun off. Donkeys drag about. Goats follow the white lines in the middle of the tar, hypnotised by its length. Chickens flutter and scream as I swerve and miss potholes. The sun a bonfire asking for drumming. There are no walls here.  Nothing separates me from nature except the grey road I'm on.  I'm connected to this place and it brings a joy into me that I can’t contain. The bush waits for me whilst I speed along to go and fetch my Great Grandmother.

At the border post the guard eyes my beads out suspiciously:
“What is this you’re wearing?” she says with a frown. “Are you a Sangoma?”
“I am,” I say and smile.
“Yoh!” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you koko. Look at your hands.” I pick them up and turn them over.
“What about them?” I ask somewhat perplexed.
“Huh uh, they are too clean. You are not a Sangoma. Sangomas are dirty always!” I laugh as I turn to head back to the car.
“Just wait,” I say, “I will be back later, then you will see.”  She shakes her head and chews on her pen as I head out.

Over the border and I’m back in South Africa. I turn right and follow the curving road. Forty five minutes later I’m there: a tree, a kiosk, the cell c shop. I find the house without much hassle and park at the front gate. Her homestead consists of a couple of buildings: the outhouse, main house, an ndumba (sacred space of the ancestors), a shrine by the gate. She lives with numerous family members who all stick their heads out when the car pulls up and then disappear again like dassies. I dawdle in the car as they register my arrival and hurry off to tell her. It is protocol for my spirit to greet her first as a sign of respect, and so they put down a mat for me at the place where she is seated. One of her daughters wave at me to come in; she is ready. In a second my spirit escapes my body and runs into the house where much loud greeting and acknowledging takes place. It's only when I resurface that I realise that the radio has been on and that I’ve been competing with Mariah Carey’s “Dream Lover” for my Granny’s attention. She smiles and claps her hands when I am done, exchanges words with her daughter.

Now understand: the woman speaks not a word of English. I have been taught an official greeting which I employ and which she responds to, but besides for that my Tswana is limited and her English is non-existent. A series of hand gestures follow. They’re happy to see me and ready to go – their bags are by the door. I load them onto the back of the truck as her daughters pile on as well. Small black faces appear from around the neighbourhood to come and see the white woman who is paying homage to the person at this house. Some reach out to touch me. A couple of the young ones cry because they’re not used to white people yet.

My koko is riding shotgun with me and so when everyone is ready two of her daughters appear at the side of the car ready to help her in. I don’t know how old she is but she's the shortest woman I've ever come across. She literally can't get into the truck and her daughters have to boost her from behind. Each of them grab a foot and finally she clambers onto the seat like a baby onto an enormous bed. I am a giant, she a little girl. This is "Tshwene", I remember, her official title meaning baboon in Sotho.  It's a reference to the spirit that she works with and today I recognise it in her.  My Granny is a cross between Yoda and a tokolosh I think and smile as I pull away and she delves into her snuffbox for a good dosage of nicotine.

We drive. The language barrier makes for silence. Twice she mentions names of people involved in our lodge, enquiring if they will be there when she arrives. No, I say to the first inquiry. Yes to the second. She smiles, looks pleased with herself. Her four daughters are now wrapped in cloths on the back of the truck talking and gesticulating amongst themselves. This heat hurts even the locals.

Back at the border post my previous assailant’s eyes almost pop out:
“You are Mrs Bones!” she shouts arms in the air when we walk through the door and we all laugh. I have to fill out 3 of my travel companions forms because only one of her daughters can write. When I’m done I hand back their pieces of paper so they can sign it. Granny just holds out her thumb which makes no sense to me until the woman behind the counter produces ink and takes their prints. We hurry back to the car. Again the sister’s boost her into her seat. She clambers in and shuffles about to get comfortable. More snuff is taken. We drive through a puddle of yellow butterflies on the dirt road back into Ramotswa. We pass Chankos, a shop we visit frequently to buy tobacco and ingredients for traditional dishes and drinks. We drive past small shops, a petrol station. Traffic increases. We hit a couple of potholes and her daughters heave about on the back of the truck.

When we get back to the lodge all hell breaks loose. Their bags disappear instantly off to their sleeping quarters; chairs are brought and put in the shade. Tea and coffee arrive. Strings of Sangomas and Malombos fall down in small heaps at her feet greeting her profusely. She smiles and laughs uproariously when we present her with gifts. Joy flows out of her.

Over the course of the weekend she does her work with dignity and integrity. She is stern but kind, powerful but small. Everything comes easily to her. From the moment she arrives we become a meaningful community, one with clarity of purpose and a drive to succeed. She unites us by merely being there.

She is Tshwene.  My Great Grandmother.