We were marooned in Xnongwa. I was travelling with Botswanacraft buyers Rick Davis and Gaylord Mahobani. We’d stayed the previous night with Ed Williamson, a Bushman anthropologist living in XnaiXnai, 26 miles away near the border with Southwest Africa. As usual our Toyota Landcruiser wouldn’t start. Twenty Bushmen, Gaylord and I had tried to push the vehicle, but nothing happened. Earlier in the morning, I had watched a very drunk, grizzled, older Bushman riding his small horse in circles around the village khotla. Fed up, the horse kept bucking him off. Each time the crowd murmured “Whid-de-nee-na !” as he went flying into the deep sand.
At times no vehicles would come to Xnongwa for a month, which seemed a long time to be stuck there. I suggested that I ride a horse to Ed Williamson’s, since he had a 4X4 and could give us a push. Rick and Gaylord negotiated with Xnongwa’s Herero’s and thirty minutes later two enormous horses were brought to us as well as a ragged twelve-year-old-boy. I assumed that he would be my guide. He spoke no English and my Setswana was very rudimentary. Ms. CUSO of course was provisioned with canned juices and crackers, but the boy had been given absolutely nothing. Mounting our horses with help, we set off. An hour later the boy fell off his horse. I rode after it, grabbed its reins and rode back to him. Bending very low to help him mount the horse, I did not dare get off mine, fearing I might never get on him again – he was so high. I shared my rations with my young companion and we rode another couple of hours, mostly along a dried river bed. Every so often the track would branch into three to five forks. I’d ask the boy which fork to take and he’d just shrug. I then realized he had probably never left Xnongwa in his entire life. Dusk fell and I was concerned whether we were on the right track. In the distance, I heard something behind us. Ten minutes later the grizzled Bushman showed up on his little grey horse. He rapidly clicked away to me in Bushman. I responded “XnaiXnai, Ed Williamson.” He repeated this and then said the equivalent of “suivez-moi” in Bushman, taking the lead at a gallop. We rode like this for almost two hours, my head and arms around my horse’s neck like a jockey, praying my long curly hair would not get caught in the thorn trees like Absolom. Eventually we reached a group of rondavels surrounded by giant stakes in the ground. Hearing distant voices, I shouted “Ed, Ed, it’s Susan” – but no one came. Once again, I didn’t dare get off my horse. Fifteen minutes later, Ed walked over with Liz Wiley, Botswana’s Bushman anthropologist. They’d been trying to decipher what “Ed, Ed, it’s Susan” meant in Bushman, never dreaming that I’d come there on horseback.
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April 2021
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