Greetings from Gabs.

Yesterday a pile of postcards arrived in the mail, bearing pictures of baby elephants, giraffe, hippos and baboons. "Greetings from Gabs", my brother wrote in salutation, my evening frenzy-time at home with the little girls suddenly dissipating in the energy of humor, affection and sibling connection spilling off the colorful cards. My adored younger brother is in Gaberone, Botswana.

Botswana.
One of my most favorite places on earth. My dream life. Africa at her best, rawest, most ravishing, dramatic, unpredictable, harsh, and surprisingly forgiving.

My first night in Gaborone was many years ago. It was a dusty, bedraggled oasis in a vast African Savannah landscape. I flew in on a tiny commercial airplane on a business trip and ended up at the only large hotel in the city in those days, a Southern Sun tourist special. These hotels were Las Vegas Wannabees in the early nineties, with thick carpets, staff in Star Trek-like uniforms, and the round-the-clock ring, tring, tring of small scale casino games and gambling.

I arrived at sunset, and was quietly and efficiently escorted to my plush room.

I immediately dragged the heavy curtains open, resolving to order a drink to celebrate the sunset, and a burger to sidestep the jazzy restaurant downstairs.
My drink arrived quickly clinking in hotel-grade crystal, and I breathed in the utter peacefulness of complete harmony as an astonishing orchestra of life made ready for bed. The modern hotel soared above the low buildings of the ramshackle city.
It was built on the outskirts of Gaborone, wrapped in rolling banks of lush, irrigated lawns, bright green and garnished with colorful puffs of bright bougainvillea bushes. The cooling air was thick with the sound of fat insects burrowing in the lushness.
Beyond the ornate borders of the grounds, Africa reared her battered, noble head. Dusty scrubs of brush and the garbage scraps of poverty stretched out toward the quietly buzzing city. The acacia trees, twiggy thorn trees and hardy Kalahari Savannah rolling out over the horizon, awash in the forgiving orange light of fading sunset. The harsher sounds of wild animals, calling bush birds and the scrabblings of survival in a dry parched earth cascaded over the clearer, nearer preparations for night.

Dusk. Time for a bath and some unhurried planning for the following day. I waft indoors from the tiny balcony and come face to face with the biggest spider I have ever seen in my entire life. I tend to exaggerate when it comes to insects, but I swear this was a whopper. As shrieking will not help me, I angle to the bed and gingerly pick up the phone for help. The politely bored attendant promises to send someone up to remove it. I stare at it, my heart racing, and consider my limited options of escape. I do not know what I will do if it jumps up at me. Will it jump? Can it jump?

There is a discreet knock at the door. I hold my breath and creep over to the door, convinced the spider is going to leap onto my face like they do in those horrible movies we watched as thrill deprived teenage girls.
I carefully open the door and there is a rotund lady, probably from housekeeping, holding the smallest plastic dustpan and little brush. Honestly, the profound absurdity of this tool of capture made me giggle with anxiety. She brushed past my obviously useless expression and looked around for the offending creature. They saw each other, she charged out the room with an African squeal and curse, and in all the commotion the spider scooted out the door. As soon as I saw the hairy legs move onto the plush hall carpeting I slammed the door shut.

I wasn't brave enough to open the door or follow up with housekeeping to see what had happened to the spider. I just hoped that by the next morning the coast was clear, the muzak soothing me to the elevator as I swished off to greet the African dawn and her people.
And then the real adventure began.