He offered the water bottle. Tess drank from it, but Nan said no. She explained to Tess, “In truth, I am parched, but I don’t want to make Gareth pull up for my comfort more than I have to — especially near Pala. There we must have momentum.” Tess set the bottle on the seat next to her.
“Just look at this country,” Nan said. “Red rock wilderness. It makes one sad, really.”
Tess made a sympathetic face.
They began tacking. Here the road was braided around dry sinks and sharp rock outcrops. The women looked commiseration at one another. The vehicle ran close to the bank on some curves. Brush scraped the windows.
The driving eased, finally. The men were murmuring about the road mess in Botswana. They were cynical. Nan sat forward, straining to hear. Contractors were using shoddy materials. Service trenches were subsiding through lack of proper compaction. Heavy equipment was being dragged across fresh tarmac without rollers. There were too few bell-mouths.
Nan interrupted. “Do I understand you to be saying that all the trouble with the new roads is not just the Botswana government people but, aha! bad workmanship by outsiders — whites, isn’t it? — from South Africa and from Europe?”
“Well, to an extent, yes,” Gareth said.
“Well, if you know about this, why don’t you inform government? I’m sure they’d be grateful.”
“They don’t want to hear it.”
“Oh, do they not? How do you know? Have you tried?”
“One can’t just go and point a finger. They don’t want to hear this. We are not road engineers, are we now?”
“No, but you are engineers. Mine engineers, but you know something about materials, and you seem to know quite a lot about roads, too, as it seems. So why not tell government?”
Tom said, “Waste of breath. You may believe that. You listen to your husband.”
“They don’t want to hear it,” Gareth said again, more firmly.
“But then a letter. Anonymous. Or write the Daily News. They print letters.”
Both men laughed, then said, “Not likely,” in unison, which made them laugh again.
Nan raised her voice. “Why don’t you go to, oh, anyone, then? Go to the High Commission instead of just sitting there laughing at the sheer folly of ever, ever, ever trying seriously to help these poor wretches get something they pay for! You won’t even try! Because even if there are pirates you won’t do it. Tess, this is what I am ill with. Just this.”
Gareth spoke in an even, ominous tone. “You are exciting yourself. We’ll not have it. There is nasty driving coming and you are doing this. Tess, can you assist? We are not alone in this vehicle, Nan.”
“Oh, you don’t like what I say — what a surprise! You don’t care for the people here, and there is an end of it. The smallest thing I propose is always senseless, madness — I must put it from me. Like the tins the workmen boil up their mealie pap in for breakfast and tea, No. 10 size. They are just boiling the lead from the seams straight into their food. Now, it cannot be sound. I spoke to the sisters, and they said, ‘Good heavens, are they?’ Tess, not even will he get a proper three-leg pot or two for his own men. That would interfere.”
“You are making a row!” Gareth shouted.
Nan said, still loud, “Yes. Talking of rows, Tess, listen. Last week, blazing rage. For what? First, you know all the beef this country sends abroad. All right, they don’t eat much beef. Certainly the poor hardly see it unless the chief has something to celebrate. No, the beef is kept to multiply, and then, when they need cash, it goes straight to the abattoir and then straightaway into tins and to Europe — England. Because grass-fed beef makes up perfectly into baby food, Tess. Now, what drove him to rage was this mad idea of mine: Why can’t government just save aside some portion of the tinned baby food and provide it to mothers free through clinics — why not?”
Gareth broke in. “I’ll tell you why, because the mothers would eat it, wouldn’t they?”
“Oh, Gareth! You shame me! Yes, all right. Some would. But a lot would get to the babies. The mothers are hungry, too. And the babies go straight from the breast to mealie pap, starch. And it kills a lot of them — indirectly — Tess.”
“Mealie has protein,” Gareth said.
“Ah, but so little! And one can just look at the size of the people. The men are small. Answer me why the meat must go only to the fair babies of Europe.”
“You know my answer.”
“Well, state it for Tess and Tom, or just for Tess, then — by now they are fascinated.”
“It is not our part! That would be the dole, and the government are dead set they will not have that, and quite right. Now enough!”
“And that’s all you truly see?”
“All there is, isn’t it? Ah.” They had reached the last high point before the Pala stretch. The men were relieved.
“The Trench!” Tom said. “There it is.”
Tess said softly to Nan, “We must be still.”
Very softly, Nan said, “You know I don’t hate him, Tess, do you?”
Tess patted Nan’s shoulder.
The last of the sun was in their eyes as they descended. Gareth came down into the deep sand with good speed. The long ascent began well. The trick was to stay precisely in the spoors cut by the last vehicle preceding. There were hazards to avoid, the worst being the loose meshes of brush, like nests, which had earlier been packed into soft places in the track by drivers who had gotten stuck. Gareth scanned the road far ahead. There was right-of-way for only one vehicle. If two vehicles met, one would have to climb up into the side drifts or reverse to the last spot wide enough to permit clearance. Gareth was taut.
The road was below the level of the land. The banks at this point ran even with their shoulders. Nan looked to the rear. The dust plume they were churning up extended as far back as she could see — solid, like a wall. For some time, no one spoke.
They saw something in the middle distance ahead — a figure, and then figures, on the right bank, motioning. Grim, Gareth said, “Na lifti.”
Nan said, “Nobody is saying give lifts, Gareth. We are quite presentably full up. No fear.”
The figures grew closer.
“It’s bushies!” Tom said.
“No, it’s too far south — can’t be,” Gareth said.
“No, it is, it is — it’s bushies,” Tom said. “They must be clear over from the pan. It must be the drought. I hear the pan is dried up. God, that is a distance to come. Dear God above. It is. There’s a string of them. Want us to stop.”
“Well, good luck,” Gareth said.
“Bushmen — Basarwa,” Nan said. “But only women.”
“Hard to tell,” Tom said, trying to be light.
Tess said, “Oh, pity — they must want to trade ostrich shells or that beadwork. They want tobacco or salt or anything. Sugar. Too bad. They just give it away if you have what they want. Oh, too bad. I have some lovely things. Oh, pity we can’t stop and see. Well, that is life.”
The banks were lower here. They drew even with the Basarwa — two young girls and an older woman with an infant caught against her front in a leather sling, all gesturing urgently.
Tess said, “They look so Chinese — they are all cheekbones; look at it.”
The women were close to the road. Two of them were holding out pots or cans. The girls were waving the vessels up and down, stiffly, frantically. The mother dropped into an odd posture, like kneeling prayer, but clapping her hands under her chin. They made a tableau. The Rover approached. The women were dressed in skins and rags. They were thin. Nan stared. Arms and legs were like sticks. Their hair seemed to grow in dots on their skulls. One girl appeared to be wearing a kind of cap, but it was a huge scab, Nan saw. All were smiling unnaturally at the vehicle as it passed slowly. They were calling out. Nan opened her window. It was impossible to understand anything.