The Speed Queen

Yesterday was a teacher’s day, and thus Abby and I had a free 24 hours on our hands to enjoy as we pleased. After some grocery shopping, we decided to haul our rapidly expanding laundry bags to the fabled laundry room. In the heat of the two o’clock sun (14:00 here,) we wobbled across caked dirt, past valiantly struggling bushes, and towards UB block 475. Along the way, we stopped to ask one of the many resting groundskeepers to point us towards our destination. Kindly, she offered to lead us there, and began an elaborate and elongated process of standing up, dusting off, and inching forwards in a two-step shuffling manner. I mention this small event with its snail pace not because it was unusual, but because it is the norm. “There’s no hurry in Botswana” is not just a lackadaisical catch-phrase, it’s life.

After five minutes of our strange processional (two load-laden women trailing an intently casual Mma,) we arrived at the industrial washing zone. Surrounded by abandoned cars and wire fencing, the laundry area appears a strange place to get clean. We were greeted by a number of stern faced women who informed us that the laundry closed at 4:15 and that we were too late to do our wash. Abby and I checked the clock – it was 2:10.

With some sweet talking and promise of hurry (a suggestion greeted by skeptical eyebrow raises), we entered the building. What I didn’t understand is that my speed is not determined by how much I want to hurry, or try to hurry. Instead, it is the whim of stubborn Time that dictates my pace. Let me illustrate:

As we began to fill the gaping mouths of the metallic washers, we were approached by a large woman, layered in multiple colors of cloth. Introducing herself as “Flora,” she informed us that it was she who must “ready” the coin-fed machines, and that we were not allowed to insert tokens ourselves. This was a laborious process, as she moved like mud and had to test each machine to see if it worked.


Despite the fact that nearly half an hour had already passed, Abby and I settled in to read, assuming that the worst of the delays was behind us. How wrong. The washing machines are all stamped with the ill-deserved appellation of “Speed Queen,” and good lord she should be dethroned. The dryers stopped tumbling three times in a row, and each malfunction required another inspection from the rainbow mountain woman. Although Flora spoke English perfectly well, she did not seem to understand it when it came out of my mouth. I don’t know what train of logic I’m riding, but sometimes it seems like there are no other passengers in the car. For some reason, Flora was convinced that our laundry just wasn’t going to get done (it was still only 3 pm) and she even hip checked me when I approached a machine to fix it [I don’t think I have ever been so physically intimidated in my life.] As 4:15 rolled around, my clothes were only partially dry and I returned to my dorm damp and defeated.

Time, sometimes in the form of a heavy-stepping matron of the suds, just won’t budge. With deep breaths I attempt to adjust.

Of other note, we leave tomorrow morning, bright and early, for our group trip out to the Kalahari. We are just camping out for one night, but we have high hopes of seeing some elusive animals (and also of remaining un-eaten by said creatures.) Since it nears midnight and my cricket of conscience chirps about getting rest, I shall lay aside structural attempts and present instead some random thoughts. Enjoy the Chex Mix.


On Sass: If you give it, you must be able to take it. This is a general rule, but I find it especially handy on the playground. The girls of Kamogelo are particularly adept at directing the nasty eye, and for the past week I have been struggling to find an effective counter-look. My stern face failed (please, just try to imagine,) and my imploring eyes too. My attempts at “bored” and “sad” were also greeted with equal contempt. However, just this morning I was feeling quite sassy myself, so I threw a whopper back at the pink-clad instigator. Lo and behold, it disarmed her completely. She smiled, as if to say “congratulations! you finally figured it out” and flounced away to the nearest swingset.

On Names: Amogelang, Sethunya, Ketshepileone, Garata, Tebogo, Oteng, Gaolefufa, Boemo, Karabo, Arrifa, Kabatshabile, Mogomotsi , and Batsile to name a few. If you think they’re hard to spell, try pronouncing them. One six year old has been trying to help me with the sounds, but she usually ends up rolling in laughter before I get it right. Dear tongue, why so suddenly clumsy?


On Circle Dances: they happen on playgrounds, they happen in clubs. There is no thrill equivalent to entering the circle and having 30 five year olds mimic your shimmy.

On Cockroaches: they are still present.

On Sheep Noises: sometimes, when groups of men want to get Abby and my attention after failed shouts of “pretty baby,” or “hey lady,” they let loose a sound that I can only describe as a “baaa.” It doesn’t work.


On Goats: oft seen crossing the street, eating shrubs, or hobbling up and down dirt mounds, these city residents are hard to miss. Wednesday found one eating the sapling trees at Kamogelo, and Abby and a small boy successfully chased it off the playground. Following the frenzy, the creature promptly joined the rest of its clan to cavort with the free-roaming chickens.

On Missing: No matter my comfort level here, I still miss with a steady ache. I have attempted at times to confine said ache to a pinkie toe, or a shoulder, and to use the rest of my body to play and dance and laugh and enjoy. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t. Tonight, at a restaurant, a table of women randomly began chanting “OBAMA, OBAMA!” and I suddenly felt patriotic and homesick.

On “Here” being “Home”: For some reason I keep trying to assure myself that I’m “adjusted” or “settled,” but I think must linger in the limbo of “transitioning” for a while longer. This is good, not bad. But as you well know, I can be impatient.

On closing blog entries: when hard to do, it is best done abruptly.