Today was three for four in the free ride department. And I could tell by staring at the combi driver’s neck that he totally wanted to give me a ride for free, but it was, just..well, the other 14 people who he didn’t want to give a free ride to who were also staring at that same there neck. Disclaimer: Peace Corps discourages us from hitching except when absolutely necessary and we are trained to look closely at the car, the driver, any empty alcohol containers, etc. and note the license plate or anything suspicious prior to getting in the vehicle. In fact, if we note anything suspicious or see any empty or for that matter full and open alcohol containers, we are told to politely demur. I got no problem with demurrals and take the bus whenever possible.
But the thing I have come to discover is that most of the drivers who pick you up during working hours are not drinking and are also driving reasonably healthy cars. I have also come to discover that when you get a hitch you might get good conversation and get to meet two of the three Peace Corps goals: helping people in other countries learn about Americans (moi) and helping Americans learn more about people from other countries. Sometimes of course this doesn’t work, but then at least I am able to listen to what sounds like a good Setswana conversation and inter-cultural exchange that has its own merit.
And often if you engage the driver in conversation, he or she doesn’t charge afterwards. Or maybe I am just that charming. Nah. I think hitching during the non-commute portion of working hours puts people in a different zone where they may still pick up hitchers even if they don’t really need the money, just to do their civic duty and reduce the number of desperate looking vagrants who stand blocking the bus stops.
And I needed those free rides today, which came quickly with little waiting, also a bonus. See for the last two days I have worn one pair of shoes to work, and carried a second to change into depending on how hot my feet got and whether the shoes were causing blisters. It’s still kinda cool in the morning but much warmer later. Today I confidently and yet so stupidly set out wearing my comfy sandals with no extra pair and whammo blammo blister-o on both little toe-os. And this on my way to work with a whole day of hitching (uh cultural exchange) ahead of me.
My first college roomie Tracy, a howlie from Hawaii, said to me way back then that my feet were as soft as a baby’s butt. Yeah, that kind of comment sticks with you. She had tough surfer, sexy beachcomber feet and I had (uh still have) feet that don’t like being barefoot and thank god a podiatrist finally told me (where was he when I was painfully trying to be barefoot-cool as a kid?) SHOULD not be barefoot.
Today the blisters hurt so much I was actually thinking about taking my shoes off and walking in the dirt and glass and filth. That was a mere nano-second of thought, but it still counts as an entire deranged moment, in my book. But at least walking slowly made it tolerable and also made me not look like the crazed white woman practically racing across town for no discernable reason. My normal appearance.
After my work was done in Tuang, I ended up leaving after 5 p.m., much later than planned, which meant crowded buses were in my future, if any even stopped at all, so my last hitch of the day was thus the sweetest of all, coming at a time when aforesaid vagrants (me included) were desperately eyeing every car that passed and practically mobbing any that looked like it would slow down to pick someone up. A big Mercedes pulled up and an older woman rushed pass me to jump in, but said “Otse” as she did so. Perhaps she was one of my solidarity ladies from the Lobatse debacle a few weeks back. That made us Otse Village Sistas of Solidarity. Sure enough, the Mercedes was going to my village and I had even seen this vehicle there before! Sweet lord, she was even going to turn up the road I needed her to turn up and cut my walking down to just the short hilly bit.
My toes would have kissed their feet, both the driver’s and those of the woman who gave me the tip, if such a thing were appropriate here. Not sure that is appropriate anywhere or even possible, but let’s just say, me and my digits were delighted. I even used a fairly proper sentence to describe where I lived, for the first time not saying, “Lefoko Blake’s house.” Why, I was on a lucky roll so I said, “ke nna mo lentsweng.” Which means I live on the hill, but translates more to ‘I am from the place that is on the rock (hill).” Whatever. A week of language lessons has paid off!
So she takes the turn off the highway and pulls over. Shit. So what just happened, am I getting out after all? NOOO!! But wait, instead of me hoofing it, her teenager daughter hops out of the front seat, having put her ipod-like (oh hell, it was an ipod. Everyone on the planet has one of these now except me) contraption’s ear plugs into the proper orifices, and sets off for a walk home. I gotta tell you, I am so out of practice of seeing people exercise for exercise’s sake that I really had to look at this for a minute before it made any sense to me. You go girl, I am getting a ride to as close to my house as your momma will drop me and I will not feel bad. Not one bit.
Tomorrow requires me to go to Mogobane, so close yet so far due to the erratic behavior of the only combi driver in that area, so I am pretty sure I am in for a long walk in at least one direction. Oh the dilemmas of footware. Something padded I think, like the cell I will need when I am done. But at least I have 3 free hitches worth of pula to put in the medicine container/Mogobane Support Group treasury
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