by Jane Shemilt
Inside the glass-fronted building, white pipes stretched upwards, birdsong and fluttering wings came from near the roof. I had imagined a low-ceilinged building humming with noise, not this cool cathedral. The woman who stamped my passport smiled and welcomed us to Botswana. The brilliant blue of an old woman’s headcloth sang out in the crowds; red flowers in pots tumbled to the pale marble floor. It seemed we had arrived in an ordered, colourful world.
I bent to Alice. ‘Does it feel good to be on the ground again, sweetheart? We’re going to have fun here.’
She nodded and relief washed through me. I lifted her hand to my lips for a quick kiss.
Once we had collected our luggage, we stood together in the arrivals hall, the girls staring at a Christmas tree that listed unevenly to one side. It was Christmas in two days but my sense of the season had been dislocated. It felt as if we were starting our summer holiday. Those who had been on our flight were dispersing into the airport, swallowed into the sea of people. After a while there was a thinning out, a sense of quiet. Sam began to grizzle. Had we got the arrangements wrong? I wasn’t even sure what they were. Adam was scrutinizing the crowd and began to wave energetically. Following his gaze I saw a large African man who stood shoulders above the throng; he was holding a placard with our name written unevenly across it in thick blue letters: ‘FAMILY JORDAN.’ A moment later he caught sight of Adam waving and hurried towards us. ‘Welcome.’ His voice was deep and seemed to echo in his mouth. He wore a crumpled white suit and half-moon glasses, which slipped down his nose as he bowed low to our little group. ‘I’m Kabo.’
Adam had mentioned Kabo, his research assistant, but I’d forgotten about him. Even before Sam had been born, details like this had got lost, drowned in background clamour. Perhaps it would be easier to hold onto things here. Kabo enveloped my hand in both of his and smiled widely.
‘Thanks so much for coming to meet us.’ Adam clapped him on the shoulder, then Kabo gravely shook the girls’ hands in turn. He touched Sam’s foot gently. There was no rapidly disguised pity or distaste in his smile, and some of the tension from the long night began to dissolve.
He had already found a couple of trolleys for our luggage and we walked past the pots of flowers into the blinding brightness of the car park, where long rows of cars glittered in the hot sun.
‘Would it be a good idea for us to hire a car here?’ Adam asked, pointing to a queue by a car-rental office.
‘No need. I’m taking you to Kubung – I live not far from your house,’ Kabo told him. ‘And your cars are there already: a jeep for supplies and a four-wheel drive. You’ll need them when it rains. Just don’t forget to check them over – oil, water and so on. There’s no AA here.’ And he laughed, a deep chuckle that seemed to make the differences between our countries into a joke we could share. He gestured to dry beds of shrivelled flowers that ran alongside the road. ‘The rains are overdue. They should have started in September. There is bad drought everywhere.’
I remembered that the yellow of the desert had seemed to cover most of Botswana in Alice’s school atlas, the only break a tiny patch of green in the north-west by the delta.
Our luggage was loaded into Kabo’s roomy car and then he helped strap Sam into the baby seat that miraculously appeared. The girls clambered in on either side of their brother and I sat with them, relieved to escape the heat. Adam took the front passenger seat. Kabo carefully manoeuvred round islands of straggling palm trees and desiccated hedges as we headed to the road.
‘I hadn’t realized it would be so hot,’ Adam said, rolling up his sleeves. ‘It hits you like a sledgehammer.’ He gazed eagerly out of the window. I could tell the heat excited him.
‘We pass a hotel with a pool on our way out of town,’ Kabo said. ‘We can drop by, if you like, no problem.’
‘Great idea.’ Adam looked back at me. ‘What do you think, Em?’
‘Not sure.’ The prospect of cool water was tempting but I wanted to reach the end of the journey, settle Sam and sleep.
‘We pass it anyway,’ Kabo said. ‘You can decide when you see it.’
The car gathered speed along a wide dual carriageway; Alice stared out of the window; Zoë’s eyes were closing, despite the voices around her. Sam was drowsy, though he’d need feeding soon. Adam and Kabo leant towards each other, talking. I caught the words ‘lymphoma’ and ‘AIDS’; already they seemed like a team. Outside, high-rise buildings flashed by, their blue-tinted windows gleaming. Kabo called out the names as we drove past: Diamond Terminal, Department of Health, Trade Centre. The roofs of smaller buildings were tucked among green trees; stalls stood here and there along the verge but we passed so quickly it was impossible to see what was being sold. A few people strolled along the edge of the road. This wasn’t the Africa I’d been expecting: I’d imagined more poverty, milling crowds. Gaborone looked like any cosmopolitan city. It was hotter, different, of course, but the buildings, the people and the roads were reassuring. The children would be safe; I would be able to do my research. Things would work out.
After a couple of miles, Kabo slowed and pointed to a sprawling brick building ahead on the left. There were palm trees in the courtyard and an impression of green space behind; tall trees were visible over the roof. ‘This is the hotel I told you about. Do you want to stop?’ He turned to smile at the girls, as the car slowed. ‘There are usually monkeys in the garden.’
‘Monkeys!’ Zoë echoed rapturously. She had woken and her head was already tilting so she could scan the trees.
Adam turned to me, eyebrow raised.
I removed Zoë’s hand from the door handle. ‘I suppose a quick dip won’t hurt,’ I replied.
Kabo drove into the forecourt, parking alongside a coach and a yellow minibus, which was covered with painted lions. As we watched, a stream of children descended from the coach and formed a straggling crocodile shepherded by two women in red blazers, clipboards in hand. A few seconds later they had disappeared into the hotel. Then the doors of the minibus opened, and ten much younger children clambered out, followed by an overweight white woman with piled blonde hair. They moved, an untidy little group, into the hotel. A tall African man in opaque sunglasses and a broad-brimmed cowboy hat brought up the rear.
‘School outing?’ asked Adam, as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
Kabo turned to look at him. ‘Orphans,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘AIDS has removed a whole generation. These kids and thousands like them are brought up in orphanages.’ He gestured towards the last child, who had run back for his dropped towel. ‘They get taken for treats like this every so often. Hotels let them in for free when it’s quiet – good for their image.’
I slid awkwardly out of the car with Sam, the girls scrambling after us. Adam put an arm round each of them; they leant against him, asking questions, their voices high with excitement. It was easy to forget how lucky we were. How would an occasional outing change anything very much in those orphans’ broken lives?
We were greeted with warm flannels and glasses of juice; it was cool inside, and the cottony balls of a large bunch of mimosa on the front desk filled the lobby with almond scent. The damp cloth was soothing on my sweaty face. Kabo signed us in as visitors while Zoë twirled round and round on the shiny wooden floor in front of a Christmas tree, holding out the edges of her shorts. Alice was by the window at the back, studying the garden.
‘They’ve got rooms available, Em,’ Adam said. ‘How about staying here overnight to break the journey? Kabo says it’s at least two more hours to Kubung.’
Sam began to struggle and whine. The thought of stretching out in a bed after the night on the plane with Sam on my lap was compelling.
‘Okay,’ I said.
Zoe clapped her hands and the girl behind the desk smiled.
We found a table in the shade by the pool. Sam drank from his bottle as I sat with Kabo, a jug of fresh orange juice between us. The girls flung themselves into the water as Adam waited to catch them, Zoë shriekin
g with joy. The orphaned children stood together in silence in the shallow end, one or two jumping up and down cautiously.
‘They seem so subdued,’ I remarked to Kabo, ‘not like kids in a pool should be.’
‘They have no idea how to play,’ he replied. ‘Some of them have been in charge of families themselves or were found sleeping rough.’ He shook his head. ‘Orphanages aren’t ideal, but the alternatives are far worse.’
The younger children from the minibus filed past us. No one was talking. As she walked by, the blonde woman glanced down at Sam, and her sunburnt face creased into a friendly smile. ‘Beautiful,’ she said.
Perhaps the birthmark was less visible to someone dealing with tragedy every day, but as her gaze lingered on his face I felt for the first time that a stranger was truly acknowledging him. The girls, as pretty babies, had garnered praise everywhere, but I’d been too busy to take Sam out, too tired to invite anyone in, too ashamed.
‘That mark will vanish within a year, and then he really will be beautiful.’ I could hear the eagerness in my voice. It could take nearer four years but it was hard to admit that even to myself.
‘Welcome to Botswana. My name’s Claire. Claire Stukker. Here on holiday?’ She gestured to the hotel. Her South African accent gave her voice a hopeful, friendly edge.
I shook my head. ‘Just overnight.’ As Sam began to splutter, I stood up to wind him.
Kabo took over. ‘We’re setting up a joint research project to look at the risk of cancers in AIDS patients.’ He nodded towards Adam and the girls in the pool. ‘Dr Jordan’s just arrived with the family from the UK.’
‘Anything that could make a difference would be good.’ She turned to me. ‘These kids have lost everything.’
‘Looking after them must be hard.’ I watched as she glanced towards a couple of her charges tussling near the pool’s edge. She seemed calm but vigilant, as she would need to be.
‘We do what we can,’ she replied, ‘but it’s not nearly enough. I have help, of course. My partner Daniel and a small team of girls. I couldn’t manage without them.’ She looked down at Sam again, and touched him lightly under the chin. ‘You’ll find people here want to help. I’d accept when you can. They love children and they need the money.’ With a nod at both of us, she turned to go.
‘Any more advice for us newcomers?’ I didn’t want her to leave.
‘Depends where you’re headed.’ She looked back at me. ‘Town or country?’
‘Right out in the bush, I’m afraid,’ Kabo told her, glancing anxiously at me. ‘A few kilometres from Kubung on the Thamaga road.’
‘In that case, snakes.’ She started to walk away, calling over her shoulder, ‘They hide in the long grass. Tell the children to wear shoes.’
Was that all? I’d hoped for something more. She’d reached the boys, who were now throwing punches, and was holding them firmly apart. I sat down again; I hadn’t realized we would be so isolated.
Kabo smiled. ‘Adam told me you were going to be working too. Tell me about your research.’
As we talked, I watched Adam in the pool with Zoë on his shoulders and Alice swimming beside them. The sun was still high; the air smelt of pine and herbs. If it hadn’t been for the flock of children who stood waist deep, silently watching, we could have been back in Provence.
After a while everyone got out and the pool was empty. I gave Sam to Adam, then changed and slipped into the water. I floated on my back for a while, resisting the temptation to start lapping – Kabo would think I’d gone mad. The blonde woman had stopped to talk to Adam as she waited for the children to change. Her hand was spread over Sam’s head, her fingers absently fondling his ears. I wanted to get out, pull him away. I’d experienced the same unease when strangers had handled the girls as babies, but this was the first time I’d felt it with Sam. Obscurely heartened, I turned a somersault at the deep end and pushed myself into the depths of the pool. When I surfaced, the woman had vanished. Soon after that, I got out, and heard the buses noisily starting up in the hotel car park.
‘Leaving already? Those poor children hardly had a moment to relax,’ I said to Kabo, as I dried my hair with a towel. Zoë was squatting by my feet to inspect a small lizard that was basking on a flagstone.
‘They’re headed for a football match, packing a lot into the day. You have to admire the energy.’ He smiled. ‘She left her number and an address for you.’
Kabo handed me a scrap of paper. Inside she had written an address in Gaborone and a mobile number. ‘Keep in touch’ was scrawled in looping letters underneath. I’d forgotten how kind people could be to travellers. I tapped the contact into my phone.
Later, I showed Adam the note.
‘A friend already.’ He put his arm round me. ‘Might be helpful.’
He was right. She’d been new to this country once; she looked after children; there could be hundreds of things to ask her.
Kabo was spending the night with his parents, who lived nearby, and he left, promising to pick us up at sunrise the next day. We walked around the garden. Banana and lemon trees were surrounded by velvety lawns. Tall gum trees stood in little groups. The spray from hidden hosepipes went backwards and forwards, darkening the papery trunks and releasing the warm scent of eucalyptus. Monkeys clambered through the branches and sprang onto the hotel roof, their young slung beneath them, clinging on with tiny fingers. Alice held Sam up, showing him the scampering animals. He seemed absorbed, reaching his hands towards them as if trying to touch them.
The next morning everyone slept on. The water smoked in the clear air and swallows dived low over the pool as I swam up and down. The scent of pine was already strong. After breakfast, Kabo came to collect us; once we were all settled in the car, he started the engine and the hotel receded quickly behind us. The swim had been restorative; it might be a while before we had another.
‘Will there be a pool where we’re going, Kabo?’
He peered at me in the mirror. ‘Kubung is a poor district,’ he said carefully, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Very dry. Water is precious. I don’t think there is much to spare for swimming pools.’
I felt ashamed of my question but Kabo was continuing: ‘The owner mentioned water behind the house. It could be a dam, I suppose.’
A dam would be perfect, better than a swimming pool. I remembered the images Adam had emailed. There might be shade, and grass round the edge for picnics. We could swim every day. As we picked up speed, I turned to tell Alice but she had already gone to sleep. I peeled off her cardigan and she hardly stirred. Zoë was staring out of the window, sucking her thumb, her eyelids were drooping. ‘Sleep, baby girl.’ I stroked her chubby arm and her eyes closed. I smiled, and glanced at Sam. His head was turned sideways in the padded seat. The naevus was uppermost: in the sun it seemed larger and shinier than ever. The sunscreen was in my bag. As I smoothed it on, his mouth opened and he seemed to nuzzle the padding on the chair. I leant back; my last conscious thought was that I hoped it was clean.
A complex fragment of a frightening dream slid away before I could grasp more than shadows. We had stopped, and the car was quiet. The window was filled with white sky, brown earth and green leaves. The girls were sprawled on the back seat, their eyes shut, breathing deeply, as if drugged. Sam’s arms were flung wide – he seemed happy even in sleep. I slid past Alice and eased the door open. Ahead of us, on a rise in the ground, was a long, low, thatched building. Adam was under a tree, talking to Kabo.
The heat was ferocious; the skin on my face and arms stung. It was far hotter than it had been in Gaborone. Stumbling on tree roots in hard, reddish soil, I walked quickly to Adam. He broke off his conversation with Kabo and turned to me. ‘We’ve arrived! You slept nearly all the way.’ Then, turning, he indicated a young girl I hadn’t noticed, half hidden by Kabo.
She stepped forward, and glanced down at her feet. They were bare and covered in red dust; her hair was tightly plaited; her face was smoothly composed. She se
emed very young.
‘This is Teko,’ Kabo said. ‘She’s been waiting here for us. She heard about your arrival. She’s come to look after the children.’
‘Look after the children?’ This child? Megan must have gone ahead with her idea, after all, but I felt irritation rather than gratitude. We didn’t need a nanny – I thought we’d discussed that. I’d planned to spend more time with the children, working and playing together. I’d looked forward to bush walks collecting insects and plants, outings to wildlife parks, lying in the grass under the trees with our books. Bedtime stories. Adam’s eyebrows were raised expectantly. I smiled and shook Teko’s hand. It was rough-skinned. A working hand. Her face was pretty but tense; her eyes were older than her body looked. Although she wore no shoes, she was neatly dressed in a black skirt and crisp white shirt; there was a lovely necklace of blue stones round her slender neck.
‘Our friend lived near here when she was a child. She said she’d find us help through a contact who runs an orphanage,’ I told Kabo. ‘I hadn’t realized she’d gone ahead.’
Kabo turned to Teko and questioned her in rapid Setswana; she glanced at me as she nodded and replied briefly. ‘She’s come straight from the orphanage; her boss told her about your arrival.’ He shrugged. ‘This is normal for us. People can turn up for jobs, even without this kind of introduction.’ Then he smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Teko was in charge of the babies and some older children. She’s got a note.’ He passed it to me. I read the few typewritten sentences about her responsibilities with the younger orphans. Her honesty was recommended. I handed it to Adam, who scanned it briefly and gave it back to her.