A Mother’s Promise

by Lee Barnett

  I became close to a Motswana man named Lesang Magang who was the son of the founder of Pakalane Estates, our subdivision. Their golf and housing estate was developed on their family farm. Lesang had been educated in London, and it was wonderful to talk about world affairs with him. After our daily bush runs we would end up at my house drinking our tea and watching CNN, BBC and Fox News. Before long, we had become part of the expat community of Gaborone and began to feel at home very quickly. Many weekends were spent at the house of our good friend the deputy High Commissioner, playing games like charades, thirty seconds and gin rummy while the children swam, played table tennis and ran about in the vast garden of the official residence.

  The other mothers, like myself, were not allowed to work given that their husbands were on contract jobs, so most afternoons we would congregate with the children at our house to lounge by the pool while we sipped gin and tonics. Sundays were often spent at our local game park called Mokolodi, where we would meet by the hippo pond and braai (barbecue) a late lunch while the children climbed trees or played hide-and-seek while giraffes ambled past. We would always stay until sunset to toast the beautiful African sky. Weekends consisted of caravanning out to a new spot in the bush with our quad bikes, and camping; the adults would cook over open fires and drink liberal quantities of wine, while the kids roared through the bush.

  I knew it was a wonderful time and looking back it certainly seems still to be more than magical. But it wasn’t just the beauty and the chance to take things slower that made it so marvellous. For the first time in such a very long time, I didn’t stress about money or the lack of it because our basic needs of shelter and schooling were being met. The school had a great swim team and during swim meets all the parents would go and cheer on our children. Samantha loved swimming and excelled in the competitions, not bad for a child who had never had a lesson except what I had taught her and Reece. And Reece was also a good little swimmer, but his love of sport had also expanded to include a deep interest in cricket.

  So life was good and we embraced it all. Once we travelled with our friends the Hays to their brothers’ hunting camp outside of the hunting season. After hours negotiating the African bush and a broken down car or two, we arrived at the camp, which comprised three large tents connected by a raised wooden walkway. Each tent had its own en suite bathroom. The major attraction, however, was the huge watering hole next to our tents. Close to that was a large thatched building where we had our meals. The camp mascot or ‘pet’ was an adult Cape buffalo named Schnitzel, rescued after her mother had been killed. Schnitzel roamed free around the camp during the day and at night was put in a large wooden crate to keep her safe from lions. Schnitzel was terribly protective of the kids and when she wanted to she could move really fast. Once she rammed my legs while I sat between Samantha and her on the wooden deck. I had seen it coming but had no time to move. This animal, known in Africa as ‘Black Death’ could easily have snapped my legs in two if she had wanted to. And yet it was like being hit by a punching bag – the padding between her horns protected me and although my legs flew up in the air it didn’t hurt at all. She had simply given me a warning.

  Our evenings there were especially memorable, with the stars so vivid you felt you could touch them. We made bonfires, roasted mopane worms (caterpillars) to eat like popcorn, drank wonderful South African wines and watched elephants, antelopes and wildebeest frolic in the watering hole while the lions bellowed late into the night. It was paradise!

  No matter what country we lived in, Juan and I had made it a practice to find one or two special people we knew we could trust to share the history of Samantha and me, just in case something happened to us. We kept the all-important documents locked away in our gun safe and gave a spare set of keys to those entrusted with this secret. But Botswana was different. Juan’s contract was only for two years and, despite our socialising, we hadn’t had the time to build the all-important very special rapport with the expats there. Also, South Africa was so close that we knew our trusted friends would be on call for Samantha and Reece if something did happen. That said, we became very close to a few expat families. One of those families were the Schofields. Stephen and Shelley and their three children were South Africans who had already lived in Botswana for a few years by the time we arrived. Stephen was a chubby, jolly guy who was one of the funniest people I have ever met. He was like a big kid, and compared to Juan and I, both Stephen and Shelley were much younger. Their eldest was a year older than Samantha and in Samantha’s class; their son was a little older than Reece; and their youngest daughter a couple of years younger than Reece. They lived close by and we saw each other often. Stephen’s wheeling and dealing nature made him the local bullshit artist, however, he usually came through with his promises. Shelley, on the other hand, was a different person altogether. She was attractive and reserved, but also seemed quite mercurial. No one wanted to get on her bad side, everyone was afraid of her moods and I suspect many tolerated her only because of Stephen’s rakish charm. There were an odd couple of opposites, and yet they rarely left each other’s side. I knew that Shelley came from a wealthy family while Stephen’s was more modest, and I wondered whether Shelley had something over Stephen. Indeed, that was often a topic of conversation among the expats when Stephen and Shelley weren’t around. It continued to remain a mystery to me until years later when I better understood the condition I had been accused of having: bipolar affective disorder. Both Juan and I were in firm agreement that the Schofields would never be trusted with our past, but you already know how that turned out.

  As the end of 2002 drew closer, Juan received the news that his contract would not be renewed. We asked the company if he could stay on for a few more months after his contract expired so that the children could finish their school year in December. It agreed. Juan immediately started looking for work back in South Africa, but there were no takers. A recent spike in crime in Botswana, primarly brought on by neighbouring Zimbabwe struggling with its own political nightmares, and the prospect of no job back in South Africa made me suggest that we consider leaving the continent altogether. Personally, the thought of returning to South Africa – job or no job – was impossible, as information on what was happening to African babies started to become publicly known. Doctors from South African hospitals were at last speaking out about the actions of HIV-positive men who had followed their sangoma’s (witch doctor’s) instructions to rid themselves of the disease. These afflicted men had been told that their only cure was to rape infant children. It completely beggared belief! Nelson Mandela spoke out about it to try to stop the barbaric practice, but his words had largely fallen on deaf ears. It was an atrocity pure and simple. And it was made all the worse when eight-year-old Sammy came home one day and asked, ‘Mommy, what’s baby rape?’

  I persuaded Juan to come with me to a few seminars that featured immigration recruitment companies for people who wanted to immigrate. We attended one for Australia but because Juan was over forty-seven we discovered we were ineligible. Next was a New Zealand information evening, where we learned we’d pass all the criteria. It was much easier to persuade Juan to immigrate to New Zealand than I had thought it would be, but we were both well aware that our options were limited. As we carefully combed through the forms and ID needed, there were instant red flags. The first was that I was required to go to South Africa for an official English exam to immigrate to New Zealand. I was mortified by this, especially since my South African husband didn’t need one. For some strange reason it seemed that New Zealand thought people who held US passports were unable to speak English. I asked our dear friend the deputy High Commissioner to write a letter saying he had known me for two years and that my English was very good. He laughingly told me later that it was the hardest letter he had ever written! The second flag was that I needed an FBI clearance from my home country. And that was an obstacle that required a little more thought.

  An FBI clearance included fingerprints, which w
as going to be difficult to say the least. Under normal circumstances it meant going to the local police station in Gaborone to have prints inked on a fingerprint card, which was then posted off to the relevant law enforcement agencies. I went with Juan when he got his fingerprints taken for his South African police clearance. The policeman then completed the card and handed it back to us to send on. At one stage the policeman left the room for a moment and I whispered to Juan, ‘Look at that pile of blank cards on the desk, there for anyone to take.’ He nodded at me and I grabbed a few and put them in my purse. We thanked the nice policeman and left the station with Juan’s printed card for South Africa and my blank ones for the FBI. On the way home we stopped for office supplies where I purchased a black inkpad and the same type of pen I saw the police officer use.

  Still, I procrastinated for a few days, wondering whether to use Sammy’s fingerprints instead of mine, before realising that a child’s prints would more than likely not work. I had known for years that my fingerprints would become a problem and I had tried all kinds of tricks to disguise them, including sanding down the tiny ridges with an emery board or using super glue, but that proved far too conspicuous to be effective. At one point I asked my friend Christine if she would be willing to give me her fingerprints, explaining that in the past ‘I had to change my name because I didn’t want a bad person to find me’. She agreed, which was very decent of her, but then I got cold feet. Finally, I asked one of the maids who had snuck across the Zimbabwe border for work, who willingly agreed. Once I had the prints, I added the other information on the form and addressed a letter to the FBI asking for clearance for Alexandria Maria Geldenhuys, formerly known as Alexandria Maria Canton, and if possible to send it as soon as possible. I wiped the paper carefully to remove any of my own prints, asked Juan to lick the stamps and envelope and then I posted it. The wait was incredibly nerve-wracking given that if the FBI had discovered my alias, I had just supplied them with my home address! Agonising as it was, within a few weeks we had the official FBI clearance stating there was no criminal record in the US for Alexandria Maria Geldenhuys!

  This was brilliant news, but Juan and I didn’t celebrate just in case we jinxed our luck. Looking back now I wonder if this might have been one of the tipping points when it came to the end of our marriage. It was just another instance of us never being able to fully relax and be happy.

  Everything else seemed to be perfectly in order, and the immigration specialist assured us we would be ready to leave by Christmas 2002.

  Now that our departure seemed imminent, we decided on one last African adventure, to Chobe National Park. This was the Africa that I would miss so much. We headed north on the A1, though ‘highways’ in Botswana back then meant two lanes with little traffic. The most dangerous part of the journey was avoiding the donkeys: every year many people were killed either by hitting sleeping donkeys on the roads or donkeys standing in the middle of the road. We kept a sharp eye out for them as the children played then slept in the cab of the truck, known as a bakkie. Instead of donkeys, we were lucky enough to come upon a herd of elephants crossing the road in front of us. We stopped and woke the children and watched fifteen to twenty elephants cross the road just metres from us. When the final large female, which must have been the matriarch of the herd, had crossed, she turned to us and threw her ears forward as if challenging us to follow. Within a few seconds she had caught up with her wandering herd, though she looked back a few more times just to make sure we didn’t follow them.

  We finally arrived at the campground next to the Chobe River. We asked the gatekeeper how close we could get to the water to make sure we got the best view of the wildlife and he said there were plenty of spots by the water and to help ourselves. We set up our six-man tent with the flaps facing the river, then headed off for some refreshments. I told the waiter in passing how beautiful it was by the water and he looked at me like I was completely crazy. He asked us if we’d been listening to the radio – we had lost reception – and I asked why. Then he motioned for us to follow him to the other side of the open wooden building. ‘See down there?’ He pointed to a camping spot almost identical to ours on the other side of the building. ‘Two nights ago a crocodile crawled up the bank and, through the tent, grabbed a woman by the head and pulled her, and her tent, down into the water. We were all here in the bar when it happened and we heard the screams. We raced down and started beating the croc with these metal chairs,’ he said, indicating them. ‘He finally let go, and they air-lifted the woman to hospital where she’s still in critical condition.’

  Unsurprisingly, we wasted no time relocating our tent to a safer place.

  The next morning we set out for a game drive across the savannas with the children tightly wrapped in Reece’s duvet of cartoon African animals that he thought the wild animals would love. We sat mesmerised on the roof of the bakkie for hours. We were completely spellbound by a herd of elephants that worked together to get one of their young unstuck from the muddy banks of the Chobe River. Finally they part-dragged, part-rolled the little fellow up the bank and onto dry land. Several elephants then encircled his prone body and nudged him gently with their trunks to stand. The entire herd remained close by at all times. After a few minutes of rest he slowly got to his feet, with a little more help, and then while tottering he trumpeted a gleeful squeal of thanks at being freed at last.

  When it was time to turn back to camp, Juan decided it was also the right time to teach our nine-year-old how to drive – and to drive a manual double-cab bakkie! Reece and I were still up on the roof. As we moseyed along, the two of us regularly ducked to avoid being swiped by the branches, while Samantha had to negotiate the terrain and avoid trees, including giant baobabs. It was incredibly joyful for all of us, and Juan was simply over the moon at how well his daughter had managed the challenge.

  After several days of game driving and swimming in the local pool, we were relaxing by our tent. ‘How’s it going?’ we heard.

  We looked up to find Stephen, Shelley and their three kids standing there. It took Reece and Samantha less than a minute to whisk the children off and show them all the cool spots they had discovered. The Schofields were heading to Victoria Falls and the casino for a few days and were just stopping at Chobe overnight. Then Stephen asked us to join them. I looked at Juan as he shrugged, knowing we didn’t have the kind of money Stephen and Shelley did to stay at a five-star hotel at the base of Victoria Falls. ‘Nah, we’re okay,’ I said as I offered each of them a beer.

  ‘Oh come on, you have your passports with you, right?’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ I answered, because we had always planned on a short trip across into Zimbabwe to the Falls after Chobe.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said the ever-persuasive Stephen. ‘We have two rooms already paid for, the kids can have one and we’ll take the other.’

  And so we thought, why not?

  At the tiny Zimbabwe border crossing shack I watched the Schofields hand their South African passports to the immigration officer. He checked them and after a couple of minutes thumped their passports with the official stamp. Our turn next, and Juan handed them over. The officer slowly flipped through the pages, sighting the kids’ first, then Juan’s. He quickly stamped their South African passports and handed them back. He opened my US passport, looked at me then back at the passport. Damn, I wish I had worn my glasses! I remember thinking. And then I simply felt ill as he waved his superior over to take a look.

  I stepped back as Stephen stepped forward. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

  ‘We think she needs a visa to enter Zimbabwe,’ replied the officer as he stared at me. To avoid his eyes I looked about the hut and on the wall saw as many as one hundred overlapping photos of missing and wanted people.

  ‘Juan,’ I said, ‘I’m going get some water from the truck.’

  Juan said Stephen and he would look after things. I went back out and waited next to the bakkie in the burning sun while the poor children did their best
not to complain. At last they emerged but Juan was physically shaking.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said as calmly as I could.

  Stephen in his normal jolly tone said he thought the officer was after some money.

  Juan shook his head. I saw then that he was really angry and not scared. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I just think he’s being an asshole!’

  I suggested we have some lunch and that if they didn’t let us in within the next hour we would just go back to Chobe, no big deal. Meanwhile, I was imagining which law enforcement agencies they were calling to come and get me and, if by some miracle they weren’t, how in the hell was I going to get my passport back?

  After lunch Juan went back inside and returned smiling a few minutes later, the passport open to the stamped page.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but let’s get the hell out of here.’

  The Schofields liked gambling and often stayed at the Casino Hotel, but it was all new to us.

  The children played past midnight in the extravagant theme-park pools while we kept Stephen and Shelley company in the casino until it was time to put the children to bed. I was so relieved to leave that depressing place full of sad and unhappy faces siting in the dark seedy gambling area. This was an addiction I would never understand.

  The next morning we drove to Victoria Falls, a place I’d always wanted to visit. At first we parked in the more touristy area to get the full impact, and watched in awe at the explosion of water, feeling the light spray hit our faces. That vantage point was incredible, but we wanted to view the true African landscape and decided to hike around the falls. We left the fenced area of Victoria Falls National Park and ventured onto one of the most beautiful walks I’ve ever taken. We passed Devil’s Cataract and saw even more clearly how powerful the falls were, and how the tame Zambezi River fell like an infinity pool into the roaring water. But as we walked through the rainforest, I soon realised how dangerous this rarely travelled path was. There were no fences separating us from the 100-metre drop into the churning waters, yet even more dangerous was the wildlife obscured in the African jungle. I needed to reel the kids in. For a few minutes I had lost them as they were scattered throughout the jungle. Then suddenly I heard a loud cracking noise from the undergrowth. I turned and squeezed Juan’s hand as a warning, because just to the left of us was an enormous bull elephant pulling down a branch from the tree canopy. ‘Sammy!’ I hissed in a loud whisper. ‘Sammy come here now and bring the kids!’ And there was a huge squeal of laughter. I turned to the elephant which was, thankfully, munching peacefully. When the kids emerged I put a finger to my lips, indicating the bull and we quietly continued. What an incredible hidden gem this path was, as we also came across baboons, hippos and warthogs. When we reached the end, which was probably only a little over a kilometre, we turned back and saw a herd of elephants crossing the river from Zambia to Zimbabwe. Such an unforgettable experience for all our family.