Discovering Gaborone

By Erick Wamanji

Gray and grimy. This is the state of Nairobi’s skyline in the wee hours of Friday morning as I dutifully go through countless metal detectors at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. Travellers appear edgy as they clear the dreary paperwork under the scrutiny of askaris who watch with jaundiced eyes.

Thinking I’m slightly late, I quickly grab my passport, dash past a guard and take the elevator. The rolling caterpillar takes ages to get to the top so I bound up the stairs, hasten past duty-free shops to Gate 3. I am about to depart to Gaborone, Botswana, the bewitching blue-skied city in the south, the world of Walmont, Bontle and St. Louis.

A view of the swimming pool at the hotel. Photos: Erick Wamanji

Kenya Airways is making its maiden flight to Gaborone and I’m lucky to be one of the few journalists and businesspeople selected to take the trip. The smell of coffee is charming and I grab a mug but the dancers doing an ecstatic jig capture my photographic curiosity. I grab my Nikon camera and begin clicking away.

No foreign currency

During the flight, I’m sandwiched between a Zimbabwean businesswoman and her daughter. Both are engrossed in deep thoughts. Somewhere along the way they sleep, leaving me to commune with my other companions — TIME magazine and some soul music, courtesy of the airplane’s earphones.

Four hours later, we descend to Sir Seretse Khama International Airport. The landing was perfect. I learn that Gaborone time is one hour behind Nairobi and I adjust my watch accordingly.

"Dumela? Goroga Gaborone," (How are you? Welcome to Gaborone), an airport attendee offers with a trained smile. I bow in response and smile back. The temperatures here are past 30 degrees and it is very hot. I’m told summer is beckoning.

In the rush to catch the Kenya Airways flight, I forgot to change currency and now, like a novice traveller, I found myself lost in a foreign land loaded with Kenyan money that is of no use here. I didn’t even have dollars to change into Botswana’s pula, the local currency.

Stranded, I stand there, perplexed, but not for long. A Kenyan approaches me and, like a magical mind reader, he announces he’s got some pulas with him. My countrymen surely are enterprising wherever they go.

"We can do business," he quips as he pulls me aside. "Talk nicely."

One pula is equivalent to Sh11. Such is the strength of an economy that is low on corruption and political bickering and high on efficiency and national interests. We quickly transact business and I begin my ride to the Grand Palm Hotel, the city’s finest hotel and our posh accommodation during our stay.

Located 12 kilometres from the airport, the hotel’s driveway is garlanded with palm trees whose fronds sway and rustle all day long, as if saluting the guests of the hotel whose grandeur befits royalties — a mosaic of neatly

manicured verdant lawns, meticulously tended flower gardens and water fountains that overlook Gaborone International Conference Centre. The creamy buildings gleamed in the Gaborone sun like a diamond gloss.

International cuisine

Thirsty, jet lagged and hungry, I headed straight to the Kalahari Cocktail and ordered a cold St Louis. Later on, we enjoyed the international cuisine that included both local and exotic foods.

For me, a meal is not complete without ugali so I looked for its closest cousin and I found it. In Botswana, they call it palache. I accompanied it with pounded meat (seswaa) and greens (morogo). It was delightful.

Gabs, which is colloquial for Gaborone, is a city of 250,000 residents. "It is named after chief Gaborone who led his people (the Batlokwa tribe) to settle here in the 1880s," narrates Angie, our guide on the tour.

As we went round, several ‘discrepancies’ stood out. Mind you, I was looking at this city through the eyes of Nairobi.

There were no beggars or street children on the streets, no mad matatu drivers, and the city is orderly and organised — no insane honks or shouts from impatient drivers, no loud music — just plain heaven.

Oh, and the air is fresh — there are very few pollutants in the atmosphere.

The heat, however, was stifling. Sadly, the swimming pool was not open for use so I escaped to the Mkolowane Bistro where patrons relaxed and enjoyed the breeze while listening to soothing piped jazz.

The evening turned out to be lovely. I sat at the fountain where the air was breezy and watched the sun embrace the west. A diamond sheen reflected against the Walmont walls. The green lawns spread out like a Persian carpet and I felt completely in tune with nature.

As the sun vanished into the night, I wondered what our hosts had in store for the night in terms of entertainment.