September 11, 2014

I thought cramming 14 people into a combie on the way to Molapowabojang was too many. On the combie ride back to Lobatse I was sardine packed into the back row of a combie with three other people, 17 people total in the car. I could barley move and I was thankful this would be the shortest leg of the trip back to Serowe. 

The bus from Lobatse to Gaborone was fairly painless, but the ride from Gaborone to Serowe was an entirely different story. The bus was barley bigger than a combie, but was just as full and crammed. I weighed my options and decided on an isle seat. I would have liked control of the window, but every window seat had a raised floor and I would have had to sit with my knees nearly up to my chest. While we were waiting for the bus to fill up, endless vendors walked on and off the bus attempting to sell us any and everything they could think of. A man approached me trying to sell me a magazine. I said I had a book, but the man was relentless. He began asking my name and then for my number which I refused to provide. He was persistent saying he was single which I quickly responded with “I’m not,” pointing to my ring. He wait this was ok and that cheating was fine. “Not where I come from, it’s not.” Again, my response was not in his favor. He insisted I need a black man in my life. “No thank you,” was all I managed to muster up. I’m not sure if he ever got the message, but he finally left.

Everyone that sat next to me on the bus was fairly understanding that it was hot and opened teh window, except for the last hour of our drive. At the last formal stop, and older man crowded into the seat next to me and immediately closed the window. Within minutes he was nodding off, leaning heavily against my arm as I was turning into a ball of sweat. To my left I was being pushed off my seat by the older man and to my right was a young girl, sitting on her mother’s lap, kicking my thigh. My shirt was drenched in sweat and my world was slowly shrinking. I couldn’t wait to escape the bus.

Instead of heading straight home, I stopped by the library to use the internet and let everyone in the States know I safely arrived back in Serowe. As I was sitting on the library steps, children started looking over my shoulder at my technology and what I was doing. One girl finally got up the courage to touch my hair and before I realized what was happening, ten little hans were on my head, grabbing and petting whatever they could get ahold of. “It’s so soft” the girls kept repeating as I tried to protect my head from the invasion of personal space. I have a new understanding of how black people in the United States feel when white people constantly want to touch their hair.