Friday morning. July 22
My wakeup call is set for 5am. This is an ungodly hour for me. I go to bed late because I have to indulge in some reading. But I am a pathological sleeper. I think I have sleeping sickness because getting me to wake up is a major undertaking. I prefer to sleep until late, do a bit of reading and then confront the new day. I decide 5am is too early and reset the alarm for 5.30am. Talk about scraping the remainders of sleep from the bottom of the barrel.
But by 6.15am, I am ready, and off to the airport. I drive. There I meet up with the rest of the team. It comprises Dumelang Saleshando, Ernest Mpofu (permanent secretary at foreign affairs and international cooperation) Batho Molomo(head of NACA), and Dr. Themba Moeti(deputy permanent secretary at health). Also coming along are Btv news crew comprising a reporter and a cameraperson. There is another duo of a reporter from Radio Botswana and a journalist-cum-cameraman from BOPA. I think to myself, it must be quite a job covering the President.
An hour later, we land at Jo’burg Airport to be greeted by scenes of bedlam and near chaos. The South African Airways unions have called a strike and it is only starting to get into full gear. But already, thousands of passengers due to board domestic and international flights are stranded. One after the other, the airport tannoy system announces the cancelled flights. The newspapers carry sabre-rattling talk from union leaders. They already predict the strike is set to be the most crippling in the airline’s history. Certainly, on the basis of the evidence before me, it does look like the union leadership is right. The bone of contention is a wage increment. The unions are demanding eight percent but management can only offer five percent. The result is a stalemate. The unions argue that the airline has made profits of close to a billion Rand and they want a share of the cake. They cannot understand why they got an increment in the preceding year when the airline declared a loss, and why they cannot get it when the airline is back in the black. But between the airlines, there seems to be simmering anger over what is seen as the extravagant and imperious management style of the general manager. Apparently he hops from meeting to meeting in Jo’burg by helicopter and anyone who complains is given the finger. I remember reading sometime ago that the general manager, who is a fairly old chap, has also acquired a new trophy wife who is a celebrity of sorts. I say to myself, the union leaders are probably jealous and cannot bear the sight of the general manager strolling around with the trophy wife draped around his arm.
Close to mid-morning, we are informed by the strained voice coming over the tannoy that the Sao Paulo flight has also been cancelled. The foreign affairs lady swings into action and starts talking to some officials. She tells us that we must retrieve our luggage and go to the hotel where we will enjoy the hospitality of SAA whilst they sort themselves out. We are ferried to a Holiday Inn close to the airport to relax and await further developments.
The foreign affairs lady shuttles between hotel and airport in search of alternative routes to Brazil via other airlines. We have lunch at the hotel. It is certainly an upmarket place. Besides a few stranded Africans, the only black faces are the hotel staff. The reports from the foreign affairs lady, who is called Sophie, and who has been joined by Keneilwe of Btv in searching for alternative routes, don’t sound promising. We are spending the night. A timely reminder is made that hospitality does not extend to free liquor.
Saturday morning, July 23. Johannesburg
I lie in surfing the television channels. I am not into breakfast. It’s an old habit from university when, because of my sleeping sickness, I bunked all classes that started earlier than 8am. That meant I missed breakfast, which, next to my precious sleep, was no great loss. I did this for all the years I spent at university and still got my degree. University must be the easiest thing in the world!
Of the international news channels, the hotel has only CNN and Sky. There is no 24-hour BBC, and certainly no Btv. The big story is the abortive London bombings coming just a week after the deadly explosions that killed over 50 people. It is reported that the police are hunting for suspects. They have also shot a man who fled from a plainclothes police team that was trailing him from a suspicious address.
I get the papers. The union leaders are crowing to kingdom come. They rate the success of the strike at 95 percent. It is also stated that all SAA flights are cancelled. The situation is getting grimmer and if Sophie and Keneilwe don’t get an alternative route, then we are stuck in Jo’burg. After another lunch at SAA expense, we relax. The giant plasma screen in the hotel bar is showing the buildup to the rugby game between South Africa and Australia. I say to Dumelang, just how do these rugby teams manage to sustain interest in the game? I mean there are about six good rugby-playing nations and they play each other around the clock. With the beautiful game of soccer, there is nothing like that. Some teams may meet just once in 10 years. But there does seem to be interest. Some burly men, presumably Afrikaners, are securing their places at the bar counter for the big kick-off.
The reporters in our entourage have filed stories back home about the delays. But the camera people, both television and BOPA, don’t shoot any pictures. I suspect the cameras stay in their bags until the Big Man goes into action.
At 4pm we all leave for the airport with our luggage to stake out flights. Now it’s complete chaos. Many people are sleeping on the floor. The gift shops and restaurants are making a roaring trade. I browse in the bookshops. I finally emerge with a book by Caitlin Davies titled Village of Reeds. I had read the review some weeks ago. The author is a lady who was married to a colleague who sits right in front of me in Parliament, Ronald Ridge. It is said the book is an account of her life with Ronald, Maun village and Botswana. I wonder if Ronald gave his permission because there are quite a few personal photos of his in the book.
After four hours of standing at the airport, we are about to give up. The ladies then secure a flight to London on British Airways. But it is a near miss. There are no connecting flights to Sao Paulo, and the seasoned international travellers reckon it wouldn’t make sense to take it. Somebody suggests we take the London flight, take connection to Atlanta in the US, and then wing our way down south to Sao Paulo. It looks impractical. It would also mean spending forever in the air. And as somebody else warns, it’s right on the Al Quaeda routes!
But finally we are provisionally booked on two flights to London that depart Sunday night. We will be able to connect to Madrid, and from there onto Sao Paolo. It’s back to the hotel for dinner. I am starting to like the SAA general manager. This free holiday is all courtesy of him and the newly acquired trophy wife.
Moyo’s
Following dinner, Benson, a friend of ours working for BEDIA in Jo’burg, comes around. We have a couple of drinks and then the three of us decide to hit the town. By now we are claustrophobic and just want to get out. Dumelang must get in the front seat. That’s where I prefer but I have to defer to the astonishingly long legs! First stop is a joint called Moyo’s in Sandton. It has a decidedly Zimbabwean feel and character. The majority of the clientele are Zimbos. They are not the kind of Zimbos you get in White City, forever on the run from the police. No, these ones look prosperous and assured. There is a band I have never heard of playing. Two young dreadlocked singers front it. They are too conscious about their images and trying to get the crowd into a sing-along. If I were a talent scout, I wouldn’t sign them for any recording deal. I tell myself that even if they got a recording deal, they would probably end up as one hit wonders and spend the remainder of their dream shattered days moaning about how they were ripped off by the record label. Isn’t that what all talent-less singers and bands say? They never blame themselves. It’s always the recording studio and the producer.
The Divine Lounge
Next stop is a club called the Divine Lounge in Melrose Arch. The deejay is really rockin’, playing golden oldies. We bump into some guys from back home. Everyone seems to be having a helluva good time. The boys from Bots look like they are in familiar surroundings. We also meet Gabriel Malebang, the radio newsreader. He is taking a course at Wits University. The service is also good. But it is standing room. You either stand or you dance. I can’t dance, neither do I think the long legs of Dumelang can dance. But I am a good listener of all kinds of music. Perhaps I should have become a music producer! The place appears hip and multiracial. There are some white faces. They look like normal whites and not what sociologists call Wiggers(young whites who want to appear like Niggers). Hey, there are even two Indian girls dancing and chilling with some black chaps. I am in the midst of privileged members of the rainbow nation at play. I wonder about the Indian girls at home. There is no way they would go to a club, let alone be seen smooching black guys. Quite a number of young chaps are chomping on foul smelling cigars. We are told that the cigar is one of the status symbols of the noveau riche, the Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) beneficiaries. Most of the cigar chompers are younger than me, and have probably spent less time in school. Watching the rich young chaps reminds me that I still remain poor. I feel sorry for myself. One of the chaps from home says that there is no way one can get rich in Botswana, especially when they are young. He sounds wistful and I suspect he wants to relocate.
A lady from back home, who is a BDP supporter, approaches me and wants to talk about the Serowe congress and the factions. I am not in the mood for politics, especially after my defeat at the congress. Slightly inebriated, she accuses me of being one of the people fomenting factionalism, and how being such a brilliant person I should retire from my faction. I am flattered by the praise, but tell her I cannot abandon my faction. She is pissed off and wanders off in a pique with the parting shot that if she had the means she would fire all the factionalists from the party. I almost tell her that it wouldn’t be a bad idea, but the party membership would shrink to be on a par with that of MELS if all the factionalists were expelled. In any case, she is also a factionalist. But I hold my tongue and marvel at the young chaps chomping on cigars in a display of the benefits of liberation.
At 3am we retire to bed.
Sunday morning, July 24
Get up late. Surf the television channels. The main story is about the incredible performance of the Tour de France cyclist Lance Armstrong. He is on course to win his seventh successful tour. It is an unprecedented feat in the history of modern competitive sport. There are complications in London. The police have apparently shot the wrong man. Instead of gunning down a fleeing Al Quaeda operative, they have killed a Brazilian electrician. The victim’s brother is interviewed on one of the channels. He looks shady and I can tell that already he is counting the Pounds in compensation the family is going to demand from the British government. Although I feel sorry for the victim, I also think there are mitigating reasons for the actions of the police. Clearly London is on a state of high alert and now this man decides to run away when stopped by the police. I think he brought it upon himself. The politicians are swinging into action. Already, the Brazilian foreign minister wants an explanation from his British counterpart. That is a bit rich, I think to myself. All this time the Brazilian government didn’t know where the victim was, and probably did not care. And now they are grandstanding on the occasion of his death.
The Sunday papers carry a story on my host, the SAA general manager. With the strike showing no sign of abating, he was seen taking off on a private flight to a luxury lodge in the Kruger National Park. And yes, the newly acquired trophy wife was with him. I think I admire this guy. He is tough and not easily intimidated. But I get the foreboding sense that when the strike is resolved, his head will be rolling on the floor!
After lunch we make repair to the bar to secure the good seats for the football match soon to be shown on television. Today it’s mostly black people at the bar. Yesterday when the Springboks were playing it was white people. The game between Kaizer Chiefs and Orlando Pirates is a pulsating affair. I am a supporter of Chiefs and Dumelang is rooting for Pirates. Pirates look classy and silky! They are the better team. We go down 2-0. It is obvious that we miss Collins Mbesuma because our attack was impotent. We will have to go shopping for a new striker. The game reminds me that back home, I support Nico United and we have managed to avoid the relegation axe. It’s tough supporting a team that never wins any trophies and whose raison de etre is to avoid relegation. It’s going to be a bad football season for me. Nico won’t win anything. Kaizer Chiefs are looking terrible. As for my other team, Arsenal of England, it is back to the drawing boards. Our captain Patrick Vieira has left to join Juventus. I think it is good riddance. Patrick has been behaving like a prima donna for the past three seasons. A few weeks before the start of each season, he starts his stories about whether he is staying or going. Finally, he is gone and we will start afresh. I just hope he doesn’t make it at Juventus and begs to return to Arsenal. We will not allow him!
Sunday evening
We finally get a flight to London. The British Airways jet looks and smells new. In business class, there is ample legroom and the reclining space age seats mean we can sleep. Dumelang remarks that if people sitting in economy class were to peep into business class, they would stage a demonstration at the glaring inequalities in terms of comfort and service. I take Ntoo Chilume’s heavy camera bag with me because there is enough stowage space in our section. I fail to understand this. The man is carrying a camera worth about P150,000 and he has to risk damaging it in the scramble for luggage space in economy class.
Monday, July 25 England!
6.15am and we touch down at Heathrow. This is England. It’s wet and grey, which is my ideal weather. The last time I was here was in 2000 when I arrived for my post-graduate studies. I like England. If there is one place I will choose to go to when I no longer wish to stay in Botswana, that place will be England.
We go to the lounge for the three-hour wait before our connection to Madrid. I devour the newspapers. The big story in the quality papers is the shooting of the Brazilian. The debate is hot. Some question the shoot-to-kill policy adopted by the police. I admire the democracy and strong human rights culture in this place. A foreigner is shot in a time of high tension and one would think it’s a member of the Royal family that has been killed! The police, though apologetic, insist that they will continue with their policy because they may hesitate when they are actually dealing with a suicide bomber. Meanwhile, the police squad involved in the action is suspended from all armed duties. The biggest of the tabloids, The Sun, is leading with an exclusive interview with the wife of the cricketer Shane Warne. In the interview, she tells the whole world why she left “the sex maniac”. It occurs to me that if the tabloids back home started paying people for their exclusive stories, the country would get livelier and their circulations would shoot into the stratosphere. If I ever start a newspaper it will be a tabloid with kiss and tell stories. The Spectator magazine, in an article by Anthony Browne, examines the British predilection for self-loathing. It is titled ‘Why we hate ourselves’. In my mind, I think the article could be relevant to Botswana. The disease of self-loathing is prevalent in my country. The people always find fault with their country and are slow in amplifying the positives. Reading the article, I wonder if it could be that the British colonialists transferred their disease of self-loathing to the colonies.
Madrid
Just after lunch we land in Madrid. It is hot outside and we are hit by the kind of dry hot air we are familiar with back home. There is also something similar to what we find in abundance back home. Pieces of plastic litter are lying and floating around. Some of it is caught on tree branches. We seem to be in good company. There is a problem with transit visas and we have lost sight of our baggage. We cannot go and claim it because, save for Mpofu and Moeti, the rest of us don’t have the visas. I look out for black people. Besides us, there are less than 10 black faces. Since Spain has never been a colonial power in Africa (with the exception of Equatorial Guinea) I wonder where they come from. Could they be illegal immigrants? One young man in rap gear and sporting a New York Yankees cap looks at us suspiciously. He too probably wonders if we are illegal immigrants.
At 4pm we board a flight to Sao Paulo. Everybody sits in economy class. Dumelang has lost his luggage. Should we remain behind and trace it? We resolve to fly out. But what is he going to wear at the official visit to the President of Brazil? He notes that he is as tall as Mpofu and will borrow a suit from him. It is settled. Besides us, there is only one other black person on the plane. The rest are whites and mixed race. Where are the black people? If, as alleged, Brazil has the second largest black population after Nigeria, then surely we must start seeing our counterparts on the plane. This is intriguing. On the flight is a development team from the Brazilian football club, Fluminense. I look at the 14-year-olds and wonder who of the whole lot is going to be the next global superstar. They are a little cocky and probably dream of the millions they are set to make in the next few years. In the plane is a man who bears a striking resemblance to the former Brazilian captain Socrates. But surely it cannot be the great Socrates.
The ten-hour flight is tedious, but informal. At the back, people are standing around chatting and having drinks just like at a bar. We join them. The on flight entertainment is American movies dubbed into Portuguese.
Sao Paulo, where
are all the black people?
Ten hours later, we touch down in Sao Paulo. From the air it does look like it’s a huge city. The airport is busy even at this late hour. The languages spoken are foreign. There is no evidence of the multiracial Brazil of the tourist brochures and the national football team. This place is whiter than London. As we wait to collect our luggage, I count the number of people that have a complexion similar to mine. I see only about four. The fifth is on Visa billboard advertising a place called Salvador. Where are all the black people? It becomes a subject of animated discussion in our group.
We have to spend the night in Sao Paulo in order to catch a flight to Brasilia in the morning where we will hook up with the President for the official visit. The taxi drivers are not black. They are mixed race. The images on the giant billboards are mainly white with a sprinkling of mixed race people. The doorman at the hotel is not black. He is mixed race. The two receptionists are not black. They are white. It would seem the majority of people are white and the rest are mulatto with only a few black faces. But how come there are so many black people in the Brazil football team?
Tuesday morning. July 26
We must be up by 5am for the drive to the airport. Dumelang looks quite resplendent in Mpofu’s suit. It fits him nicely. The only giveaway is the shirt, which is loose at the collar. But all in all he looks presentable. He jokes that when the opposition takes power, Mpofu will be assured of his job. At the airport the racial makeup remains the same. I start feeling self-conscious. The billboards show a booming economy and the range of goods displayed show a thriving consumer society. On the plane, we are the only black faces.
Brasilia. Even the labourers
are white or mixed race.
An hour later we land in Brasilia. From the air it looks much newer and less congested than Sao Paulo. Now there is a black face waiting for us in the arrivals hall. But he is Sekao from our foreign affairs ministry. We drive to the hotel to drop off our luggage and get ready to go to the military airbase to welcome the President. The Hotel Blue Tree is an architectural marvel. I remember reading somewhere that in the fifties when Brasilia was built as the administrative capital, the government was keen on prestigious architectural projects. There is still a lot of construction work ongoing in the city. The workers are mulatto and white. Where are the black people? I am now convinced that the football team conveys an illusory and idyllic picture of a multiracial Brazil. So far the reality is different. Mpofu informs us that the majority of black people live in a province called Salvador/Bahia.
10am
We are lined up at the Brasilia Air Base to welcome the President. OK1, the presidential jet, touches down and coasts to the welcome apron. The President is accompanied by the First Lady, Dr Moffat the medical doctor, Dr Ramsay the spin doctor and the private secretary Nkoloi Nkoloi (a.k.a Sir Nikolai to the President) plus security and the crew. The welcome is low-key and we set off on a large motorcade to the Hotel Blue Tree. At the hotel, most of the delegation join the President in his suite to chew kola nut. He regales us with stories of his time at secondary school and their run-ins with a photographer called Jerry Brown.
Around midday the motorcade sets off for the Presidential Palace. It’s a gigantic building and a ceremony full of pomp and colour gets underway. I think international relations is truly an amazing thing. This elaborate ceremony laid on for the leader of a small country of 1.7 million citizens by the leader of a huge country of 175 million. I feel proud. We really are punching above our weight! President Lula is the same height as President Mogae. The national anthems are played and the honour guard inspected. The number of black soldiers in the honour guard is satisfactory. The two presidents come into the hall to greet the delegations from the two countries. A bunch of kids are waving the flags of the two countries. It reminds me of the days at primary school when the president came to visit and we would line up the roads to cheer and wave. I doubt if nowadays any parent, except, perhaps, in the rural areas, would allow their kids to line up and brandish little paper flags.
Following the private talks between the presidents, we drive across the vast square to the foreign affairs ministry for lunch. But before we leave something bizarre happens. As we are waiting for the presidential talks to finish, an aide comes to serve us refreshments. I am sitting next to Moffat, but the aide instead of serving me first because I am nearer to him, reaches out across to Moffat. I am not sure if he could be deffering to an elder. But I have heard tales of latent racism in Brazil and cannot rule out that the mixed race aide acted according to his instincts. At my lunch table is the minister for social welfare who is one week into his post after a cabinet reshuffle. The minister of communications is also sitting at the same table with his wife. The wife tells me she loves languages. Although not yet fluent in English, she is busy learning French. She proudly tells me that her husband spent 18 years in the Americas and he speaks good English. We are also sitting with the deputy foreign minister and the ambassador of Cameroon. The latter appears multilingual. We chat about Botswana and it is very clear that they don’t have a clue about the country. The communications minister does not belong to the same party as the president. Theirs is a coalition government. I tell them that we don’t have a presidential system. They seem to think it’s a good system because you don’t have a myriad of parties fighting for influence in the coalition. If only they knew that back home, some people wanted to see the introduction of the very system they seemed so unenthusiastic about!
4pm
The motorcade drives back to the Hotel Blue Tree. I surf the television channels of which there are about 30. I come across a black face here and there. But the picture remains consistent. The country is white. The impressions we got when seeing Pele, Jairzinho and now Robinho about Brazil being a black country were way off the mark. Ronaldinho and Kaka represent a more accurate picture of the country. The President has offered Dumelang and I a lift to Rio on OK1. In the late evening, we take off to Rio. I always make it a point to greet the pilots because one of my ambitions after secondary school was to be an air force pilot. I applied about thrice and didn’t make it. So I hold air force pilots in great admiration. I look at them and imagine myself in their position. Dumelang and I get to sit in the presidential compartment with the First Lady and Sir Nikolai. The close to two-hour flight is relaxing and enjoyable. I get to know more about Jerry Brown. The First Lady remarks that Mpofu’s suit looks quite nice on Dumelang.
Rio de Janeiro. Where
are the samba girls?
We arrive at the Galeao airbase. The President has invited us for dinner at some restaurant that specialises in feeding guests as much meat as they can possibly consume.
Our hotel is on Copacabana beach. The famous Copacabana beach. I look for the famous naked samba women of Rio, but all the people are dressed normally.
At around 9pm, we drive off to the infamous restaurant known as Porcaco’s. Every diner is given a little card with green on one side and red on the inverse. Then the marathon begins. The waiters carry huge platters of meat of all types and just pile it on until you show the red side of the card. After a break and if the card is turned green they continue. I tell myself that if any of the fabled meat eaters in Botswana villages were brought here, by the time Porcaco’s is through with them, they would be converted to vegetarianism!
Wednesday morning, July 27
Rio de Janeiro is not in postcard mood. It’s overcast and somewhat chilly. The President and his team left early in the morning. We will fly back to Sao Paulo to catch a connecting flight to Jo’burg. It would seem SAA and the unions have reached an agreement. We take a walk on the beach. Still there is no sign of the samba girls. Apparently, the samba carnival takes place in February. I make a mental note to save up some money to come and see the carnival. The city is vast and up in the hills is what are known as favellas or slums. City of God, movie I saw some months ago portraying the drugs and gang culture, is set in the Rio favellas. Most of the actors were actually favellas dwellers. I wonder where they are. There is huge statue of Jesus with arms outstretched on a mountaintop. It is very spectacular. There seems to be a big story on the television channels. Some important-looking woman is shown crying before a panel of inquisitors that looks like legislators. The same pictures are carried in the newspapers. I ask one of the guys at the hotel who speaks English what the fuss is all about. Apparently, President Lula’s political party has been paying opposition legislators some monthly bribes in return for support to pass some bills in congress. The lady being questioned was one of the kingpins behind the scheme. But apparently President Lula will survive because he didn’t know anything about it. Also, it seems nobody wants to go to elections so soon.
Midday
There is no time to go and see the Maracana stadium. We have to drive to the airport and the journey allows us to get a good look at Rio. Fiat and VW cars dominate the billboards. The cars on the roads are mainly small compacts. I haven’t seen any Fong Kongs yet. Other billboards hawk Brahma, Antarctica and Cinta beer brands. Rio is vast, but not on the same scale as Sao Paulo. I have given up on seeing any great number of black people. There are no black people in Brazil!
Sao Paulo airport, Wealthy Africans.
The flight from Rio to Sao Paulo is just a short hop of 45 minutes. After some time in the lounge we check in. In departures, we start seeing a lot of black people. But they are catching flights. I suspect most of them are from Angola. They look prosperous and their fathers probably own an oil field or a diamond mine! I recall the cigar chompers back at the Devine Lounge in Jo’burg. To be prosperous is to be happy!
9pm, Africa bound.
We finally board South African Airways to Jo’burg. Flying across the Atlantic Ocean we sometimes experience serious turbulence and this is a huge Airbus. I wonder how the President and his party cope on that little jet when it flies across the ocean. I tell Dumelang that I think the presidential jet should only fly inland so as to land in case of emergencies. To fly in that little thing across the ocean for eight hours must be unsettling. Meanwhile, on page 262, Caitlin Davies, now married to Ronald Ridge, discovers she is pregnant.
Refreshingly, SAA gives us the opportunity to read English language newspapers. In Brazil all magazines and newspapers were in Portuguese. All we could do was look at the pictures and do a lot of guesswork.
Thursday, July 28. 8am
Touch down at Jo’burg. I quickly scan the papers. The strike is indeed over and my man is still in his job. The trophy wife must indeed be proud! I get my new watch adjusted at a Swatch store and stroll around waiting for my flight. I am on my own now. Dumelang has taken an earlier flight to continue searching for his lost luggage.
Early evening.
We land at SSKA. I can’t wait to get to Nando’s for my fix of Nando’s Extra Hot. The phone starts ringing incessantly. How do they know I am back?
(Botsalo Ntuane is a Specially Elected MP)
