There's a particular sound to a winter morning in Gaborone. It's not the birds, though you do hear them – francolins, if you're up early enough, scratching around in the dry grass. It's the low hum of the city waking up. Combi engines turning over, the first bakkies heading out to the Kgale quarries, the distant clatter of a gate being unlocked. I'm on day two in this city, but already I'm learning that Gaborone doesn't announce itself. It just starts.
I woke up in a modest one-bedroom flat in Extension 9, the kind of place you find through word of mouth rather than a listing site. Rent is around P4,500 a month – that's in the range for a decent place near the city centre, but you're looking at anywhere from P3,000 to over P7,000 depending on how close you are to the hum. I'm about fifteen minutes from the main action, which is perfect. I paid a deposit in pula – the exchange rate is about 13.5 to the dollar, so we're talking roughly three hundred and thirty dollars a month. That's cheaper than any city I've lived in.
My first task of the day was simple: get a cup of coffee and find a breakfast spot. I walked down towards the Main Mall, past the sprawling trees that line the streets – the jacarandas aren't flowering yet, that's an October thing, but there's something about the dusty green that feels expectant. I found a place called Cafe Dijo, tucked near the top of the Mall. A cappuccino there set me back about P30, which is around two dollars. The breakfast menu is simple – eggs, toast, sausage, maybe some morogo if you're lucky. I ordered a full breakfast and sat by the window watching the city come to life. It's a Monday in winter, so the streets are quiet, the sun still low, and the light has that sharp, clear quality you only get when the air is dry.
After breakfast, I decided to just walk. That's the best way to get to know a city, I think – not the tourist route, but the one you make by accident. I wandered down to the Bus Rank, the main hub for the white combis that crisscross the city. The noise is immediate: engines revving, conductors shouting routes, doors sliding open and shut. A single trip costs about P9 – that's around seventy cents in US money – and you'd be hard-pressed to find a more efficient way to see the city's fabric. I didn't take one yet, but I stood and watched the flow. There's a rhythm to it, a dance between the drivers and the crowd. It's chaotic, but it works. I made a note to come back without my bag.
Just up from the rank is the Main Mall itself, the pedestrian spine that runs from Parliament down to the Pula Arch. It's a strange mix – glass-fronted banks and government buildings standing next to stalls selling plastic buckets and woven baskets. I stopped to watch a woman threading beads onto wire – she was making a necklace of the national colours. I asked her how business was. She shrugged and said, 'It's winter, dumela. People buy less, but they still buy.' I bought a small beaded bracelet for about P20, just to have something to remember the day by. The Pula Arch itself is modest – a concrete structure with the word 'PULA' in bold letters – but it marks a real transition, from the old colonial path to the new nation. You can't help but feel the weight of that history as you stand under it.
From the Mall, I headed up towards the Government Enclave, the cluster of ministries and the National Assembly along Khama Crescent. There's a statue of Sir Seretse Khama in the gardens, and I spent a few minutes just looking at it. This is where the country's story is written – from the Protectorate to independence in 1966, and then that extraordinary moment in October 2024 when the Botswana Democratic Party's 58-year run ended in a peaceful, democratic transfer of power. You can feel that change in the air, a sense of possibility. It's not just a museum piece; it's a living place, with officials rushing between buildings, and police officers directing traffic.
I had planned to visit the National Museum and Art Gallery, partly for the basketry collection – it's reportedly one of the finest in Africa – but I got sidetracked by a conversation with an elderly man on a bench. He told me his name was Mr. Moyo, and he'd worked in the public works department for thirty years. He asked where I was from, and when I explained I was moving here for two years, he laughed. 'Ah, you will see the seasons, then,' he said. 'The rains are the true boss here. Everything else just waits.' He pointed towards the Kalahari, which starts just a few kilometres outside the city limits. 'Out there, the desert is waiting too. But it's patient.' I left him with a promise to come back and tell him how I was settling in. This is the thing about Gaborone – it's a small city, and people are curious, but they're not pushy. They let you settle in your own time.
By mid-afternoon, the chill had started to creep back into the air. I decided to take a drive down to Mokolodi Nature Reserve, about ten kilometres south of the city. August is the dry season, so the grass is low and the bush is thin, which makes game viewing easier. I paid the entrance fee – I think it was around P150 for the day, but I'd check the current prices online before you go – and took a guided walk with a tracker named Kgosi. We saw giraffe, zebra, and a white rhino cow with her calf, all in the first hour. It's a working reserve, not a zoo, so the animals are wild, but the trackers know their habits. Kgosi pointed out a tree where a leopard had marked its territory – we didn't see it, but he said it was around. The reserve has a restaurant, Mokolodi Restaurant, that overlooks a waterhole, and I stopped there for a cold St. Louis lager and a plate of seswaa – that's the national dish, pounded beef with pap and morogo. It set me back about P150, which is around ten dollars, and it was the most satisfying meal I'd had in days.
As the sun began to set – it got dark around 5:52 today – I drove back towards the city, watching the sky turn from blue to orange to a deep lilac. The smog from the city creates a haze that makes the sun look bigger, softer. I switched on the radio and caught a local news bulletin: they were talking about the upcoming Maitisong Festival, which is apparently returning to the Maitisong Theatre at Maru-a-Pula School for a three-day run at the end of August, under the theme 'In Concert'. It's their 40th anniversary build-up, so it should be special. There's also the Gaborone Book Festival returning after a three-year hiatus, with a children's writing festival and an environment-focused theme – fitting, given it's the year Botswana marks 60 years of independence. I'm also keen to see the Compton Fashion Week, which just wrapped up this weekend at Molapo Crossing Piazza – I missed it by a day, apparently, but I'm told it was a big deal, backed by the country's investment and trade arm. It's good to know that even in a city with a population of just over 200,000, there's a cultural calendar that's anything but quiet.
Back in my flat, I made a decision. The plan for these two years is to follow the dry season spine from the south up to the north. I'll stay here in Gaborone for a few more weeks, learning the rhythms, building relationships, and then I'm going to head up the road-and-rail corridor towards Francistown, and then swing west across the Makgadikgadi pans to the Okavango Delta – the flood season is what I need to time right, and I'm told that around August to October, the waters are at their peak. The mokoro – those traditional dugout canoes – will be my transport there. But that's a future story. For now, I'm here, in this flat, with a cheap kettle and a box of tea, and the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the distance. The city is already starting to quiet down for the night. And I'm starting to feel like this place might just fit.
So that was day two. I didn't do anything spectacular – no paragliding, no heli-hiking. But I think that's the point of these early days. You need the mundane moments – the coffee, the combi rank, the conversation on a park bench – to build a foundation. Tomorrow, I'll open a bank account at Absa Botswana – they've got a branch near the Mall – and I need to sort out my residence permit registration. I'll also try to find a local running group, because the evenings are perfect for it, with the cool, dry air. And if you're planning your own visit, here's the short version of what I've learned so far: bring a warm jacket for the winter evenings, learn a few phrases of Setswana – 'dumela' for hello, 'pula' for both rain and money – and don't be afraid to get lost in the blocks. Gaborone rewards the ones who wander. I'll be back tomorrow, with more stories from this strange, wonderful, dusty little capital.
E re ka nako e ntse e tsamaya, I'll leave you with this: a warning about the BERA fuel situation. I'm told there's an ongoing enforcement drive that's been shutting down filling stations across the city since May, due to safety and regulatory issues. So if you're driving, don't assume your usual petrol station will be open – it might be worth checking a second one. But beyond that, the city is as welcoming as I've found anywhere. The stars are coming out now, and the air smells like dust and woodsmoke. We're in the dry season, and the country is waiting. Dumela, Gaborone. Dumela.
Next time, we'll go even deeper – maybe up the Kgale Hill for the sunset view, or out to the Gaborone Game Reserve, right inside the city limits. I'll also be bringing you interviews with locals about what it's really like to live here. Until then, keep your eyes on the horizon, and your pockets full of pula. These are the simple lessons of day two. I'm Kabelo Molefe, and this is my journey through Botswana. See you soon.