The morning air is still crisp, that Gaborone winter nip that makes you want to stay under the blanket a little longer. But I'm up and out early, because today is one of those days where the city's cultural calendar just explodes. On the 5th of August, there's the Heavyweights International Comedy Festival at the GICC, and the Old Naledi Fiesta kicking off at the soccer field and the Bus Rank. I'm told the comedy lineup is a big deal, with acts from across the continent, and the Fiesta is this government-sponsored music and arts thing that takes over the streets. It's a lot to choose from, and I'm trying to figure out how to be in two places at once.
I decide to start with the Fiesta, because it's the one that feels more rooted in the everyday life of the city. The Bus Rank is a hub of chaos and energy, combis pulling in and out, vendors hawking everything from phone chargers to roasted mealies. The air smells of dust, diesel, and something good cooking on a braai. I weave through the crowd, past the painted murals on the walls, and find a spot near the Old Naledi Soccer Field where a stage is set up. The music is a mix of local hip-hop, kwaito, and traditional sounds, all blending into a soundtrack that's pure Gaborone.
I grab a plate of seswaa from a stall nearby. It's the national dish, pounded beef with pap, and it costs about seventy pula, which is cheap for a meal that fills you up. I wash it down with a St. Louis lager, the local brew, around thirty pula a bottle. I'm standing there, eating, watching the crowd, and I think about how this is exactly why I wanted to be here for a while. It's not about ticking off the sights; it's about being part of the rhythm of the place. Dumela, the woman next to me says, and we get to talking about the music, about the fiesta, about how the city has changed.
She tells me about the TANA metro consultations, the planned rail and bus network that could reshape how people get around Gaborone. I'd heard about it, but hearing her talk about it makes it feel real. It's a big idea, and for a city that relies on combis and taxis, it could be a game-changer. The government is holding public meetings, and I make a note to try and attend one. For now, I need to move, because the comedy festival is starting over at the GICC, and I don't want to miss the chance to see some of the comedians.
The GICC is a glass-and-concrete monolith in the new CBD, a world away from the dusty energy of Old Naledi. I take a special taxi – about fifty pula for the short trip – and walk into the foyer, which is buzzing with a different kind of crowd. There are suits, there are tourists, there's a general air of polished excitement. I find my seat in the auditorium, and the show kicks off with a local comedian warming up the crowd. The jokes are sharp, often in Setswana with English asides, and I catch enough to laugh along, even if I miss some of the cultural nuances.
The headliner is a big name from South Africa, and the place erupts when they come on stage. For ninety minutes, we're all just laughing, forgetting about the cold outside. It's a reminder that humour is universal, even when it's wrapped in local slang. After the show, I head out into the evening air, the city lights starting to flicker on. I'm tired, but in a good way. I decide to walk part of the way back, past the Three Dikgosi Monument, those huge bronze statues of the chiefs who went to London to protect this land. They stand there, silhouetted against the sky, a reminder of a different kind of negotiation, a different kind of fight.
That night, I'm back at my flat in Extensions, and I'm thinking about the long game. This is day five of seven in Gaborone, and I've done a lot. The bank account is set up, the SIM card works, I've got a feel for the combi routes and the prices. A monthly pass is around P350, which is a fraction of what I'd pay in a place like Cape Town or London. The rent on my modest one-bedroom is about P4,500 a month, which, for a capital city, is a bargain. But all of this is just the groundwork. The real adventure is up north.
The plan has always been to ride the road-and-rail corridor north, then swing west across the Makgadikgadi pans to the Okavango Delta, and then on to the Chobe River. It's the flood season in the Okavango, and I'm told the mokoro rides through the waterways are something else. But I'm not going to rush it. I want to build an audience from the south first, to share the story of this place in a way that respects its rhythm. The cultural festivals here are a window into that, and the Gaborone Book Festival later in August is next on my list. It's back after a three-year hiatus, and apparently it's got an environment-themed programme, which ties in nicely with Botswana's 60th year of independence.
Tonight, though, I'm just glad to be here. The city is quieting down, the last of the combis are heading back to the blocks, and I can hear the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere in Broadhurst. I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot I made this morning – about thirty pula for a decent bag of beans, and that lasts me a week. I sit by the window, looking out over the city, and I think about the weeks ahead. There's a two-year arc to this, a way of seeing Botswana that starts in the capital and spirals outwards.
The next morning, I'm up early again. I have a meeting with a local tour operator about the logistics of the trip north, and I want to make sure I'm asking the right questions. The cost of a safari in the Okavango can be steep, but there are ways to do it on a budget, maybe with a shared mokoro and camping, rather than a luxury lodge. I'll have to save up, but it's the reason I'm here. I stop for a coffee at The Daily Grind Cafe + Kitchen, a place I've passed a few times. It's about thirty pula for a decent cappuccino, and the barista asks me about my plans. When I tell her about the delta, she gets this knowing smile. It's a special place, she says. You'll come back different.
I walk out of the cafe, the sun warming the pavement, and I feel the truth of that. Gaborone has already started to change me. It's not the grand landscapes or the exotic wildlife – it's the conversations, the food, the pace of life. It's the way the city moves from the chaos of the Bus Rank to the calm of the Government Enclave, the way the old and new sit side by side. I've got two years of this, and I can already tell it's not going to be enough. But that's a problem for later. For now, I'm going to focus on the next step: the road north. Pula, Botswana. Pula, to you. This has been Kabelo, day five in Gaborone.
I check the time. My meeting is in twenty minutes, but I'm not in a hurry. I walk down Independence Avenue, past the National Museum, and I think about the stories this city holds. The history is there, in the statues and the buildings, but it's also in the people I talk to, the ones who remember when this was a small town, a village really, before it became a capital. I'm learning to listen, to let the stories come to me. And I know it's going to take a while.
I make it to the tour operator's office, a small place near Main Mall. The walls are covered with maps of the delta, photos of elephants and birds. We sit down, and I start asking about routes, about seasons, about what I can expect in a few weeks when the flood waters are at their peak. The operator, a man named Botshelo, is patient with my questions. He tells me about the mokoro, the traditional dugout canoe, and how they polers navigate the narrow channels. It's a dance, he says, a dance with the water and the reeds. I can hear the enthusiasm in his voice, and it's infectious.
We talk about the cost of a guided trip, and he gives me a range, from about 800 pula a day for a basic camping safari to more than 3,000 for a luxury lodge. It's not cheap, but it's an investment in an experience that's unique on the planet. I thank him for his time, promising to think about it. As I leave, he calls out, 'Don't think too long. The delta doesn't wait.' And he's right. The flood season is short, and if I want to see it, I need to plan.
Back at my flat, I look at my calendar. I have two days left in Gaborone before I head to Francistown, and then the pans. It's going to be a busy time. But I also know I need to build in some buffer, some time to just be. The two-year plan is a framework, not a cage. I'm learning to let it breathe. As the sun sets over the city, I make a note in my journal: the festival was a good start, the comedy a good laugh, and the conversation about the delta a good reminder of what's ahead. Tomorrow, I'll start packing. Tonight, I'm in Gaborone, and for now, that's enough.
I close my notebook and look out over the city. The sky is a deep orange, fading to purple. The streetlights are coming on, and I can hear the distant hum of traffic and the occasional kombi horn. It's a sound that's becoming familiar, a sound that feels like home. It's been a good day. A day of music, laughter, and planning. A day that reminds me why I came here, and why I'm staying. I have a feeling that this journey is going to be full of days like this, each one a little different, each one a little more than I expected.
As I head to bed, I think about the people I've met: the woman at the fiesta, the comedians on stage, the barista at the cafe, Botshelo with his maps. Each one has added something to the picture I'm forming of Botswana. It's a picture that's still incomplete, but it's already richer than I could have imagined. And I'm just getting started. That's the thought I carry with me into sleep, the thought that will carry me through the next few weeks as I head north. Goodnight, Gaborone. See you in the morning.
The last thing I do is turn off the light. The room falls into darkness, but the city outside still glows, a thin strip of orange on the horizon. I listen for a moment – a dog barks somewhere in the distance, a car passes by, and then silence. It's the sound of a city settling down for the night, a sound I'm beginning to love. This is the rhythm of my new life, and I'm ready for it. Tomorrow, I'll start the journey north. But tonight, I'm here, and that's the perfect place to be.