After touching down in Johannesburg, the Virgin Atlantic people looked at us as if to say "Are you still here?" while we waited for someone to help Naomi off the plane. The guy at the ticket counter for Air Botswana seemed nearly as clueless when confronted with a wheelchair, but throughout the trip the people sent to actually do things are quite good at them. We've been zipping right through customs and straight from one gate to the next. The flight from Johannesburg to Gaborone was almost a standard puddle-jumper, except that the chatter from the cockpit was mostly in Setswana.
If England looks like Boston, southern Africa looks like Texas: large, flat areas, dry with scrubby semi-arid vegetation, and an active cattle industry. There are even sections of DFW that look like the Johannesburg airport. It was very warm and very dry in Gaborone when we touched down, and I was surprised to see Ken walk out to the plane to greet us. Apparently, he does this kind of thing all the time when people come in to the embassy. Despite being the airport of a nation's capital, the airport in Gaborone is probably smaller than any other airport I've ever been to. Helen was also able to meet us there, although she had to go back to work almost immediately.
Goldie and Boots, two temporarily African carnivores
Driving to the house, Africa started to look a lot more African. Antone and I quickly spotted termite mounds and women carrying enormous baskets on their heads. The Warren house, which architecturally would be quite at home in the States (say, an unremarkable low six figures in Santa Clara) is furnished with a weird mix of standard middle-American furniture and African curios. Make no mistake; the curios are impressive. I immediately began to covet the hand-carved coffee table and a low two-piece chair that looks to be made of mahogany or some similarly dark wood. Also remarkable are some hand-made wooden chests, ranging in size from cigar box to steamer trunk, which were bought for a song and look to be sturdy enough to last for several generations. However, the most African moment came when I stepped outside for a moment shortly before dinner. While searching for the Southern Cross, I realized that I was looking at the Milky Way, like a trail of crushed diamond across the night sky. Definitely not in Kansas any more, and I'm pretty happy about that to say the least.
The Warrens are, of course, marvelous hosts. After a round of naps (even I fell asleep, which is saying something), there was a very good fried chicken dinner and drinks on the front porch until an early bedtime. Inshallah, we'll adapt to the new time zone fairly well.