The sun's up over the Main Mall, and the jacarandas are still bare, but the air already has that warm edge that says winter's grip is loosening. I'm standing near the Pula Arch, coffee in hand from a little place called Ola Tia Coffee and Cream, just watching the city wake up. This is my last full day in Gaborone, at least for a while, and I wanted to start it where I started, kind of, back on day one.
There's a rhythm here that I've finally started to catch. The vendors are setting up their stalls, the banks on Khama Crescent are rolling up their shutters, and the first combis are already honking their way down the road, packed with people heading to work or school. A cappuccino here, by the way, will set you back about thirty pula, a little over two dollars, and it's worth every thebe if you ask me.
I've been thinking about money a lot lately, not in a worried way, but in that practical, what-does-it-cost-to-live-here way. Back at the flat, my rent for this modest one-bedroom place is around four and a half thousand pula a month, which is maybe three hundred and thirty dollars. For a capital city, that feels almost reasonable, especially when a basic lunch, say a plate of seswaa with pap and morogo, runs you maybe eighty to a hundred and fifty pula. You can eat well here without it hurting.
I walked the length of the Main Mall this morning, from the Parliament building down to the Arch, and I noticed the little things I'll miss. The way the light falls on the old Rhodesia Railways carriage outside the National Museum, the sound of a hundred conversations in Setswana and English mixing with the odd bit of traffic. I stopped to watch a street vendor weaving baskets, the kind of craftsmanship that's famous worldwide, and I thought about how this city, for all its modern banks and offices, still holds that village-market mix at its heart.
After a while, I ducked into the Botswana Craft shop near Westgate to pick up a few small gifts. I ended up talking to the woman behind the counter about the Gaborone Book Festival that's coming up later this month. She was excited, said it's been on a three-year hiatus and it's finally coming back, apparently with a children's writing festival and an environment theme, which feels fitting as the country marks sixty years of independence. I'm told it's happening at the end of August, the twentieth to the twenty-second, so I might just have to plan a stop back through town.
That conversation got me thinking about all the cultural threads I've been pulling at. There's the Maitisong Festival, which is condensing into a single weekend later this month, all theatre and music and dance at the Maitisong Theatre. The theme is 'In Concert', ahead of its fortieth anniversary. And there's the comedy festival I caught a few nights back, the Heavyweights, which was a real laugh. August in Gaborone might be winter, but the cultural calendar is anything but cold.
I made my way to the old Bus Rank, not to catch a ride, but just to soak it in one last time. That place is a hive, a chaotic, beautiful hive of honking combis and shouted destinations, and the smell of roasted maize hanging in the air. A single combi ride, by the way, is about nine pula, which is less than a dollar, and it'll get you across town. If you're planning to stay a month, a transit pass is around three hundred and fifty pula, which is still cheaper than a few taxi rides.
I hopped on a combi myself, just to feel it one more time, heading out to the east side, through the leafy Extensions, past the embassies and the quiet, expensive houses. I got off near Extension 15, the Village, and walked up to Thapong Visual Arts Centre. That old magistrate's house from 1902 is such a calm, creative space, and I wanted to see if there was anything new in the gallery. The art here, it's not just for looking at, it's about community, about making sense of this place we're all figuring out.
From there, I walked over to Riverwalk Mall, just to grab a bite at Doppio Zero. I had a simple pasta, and the total came to about two hundred pula, which for a sit-down place is pretty standard. I found a seat outside and watched families and friends gather for lunch, and I thought about how this city, for all its size, still has that small-town feel where everyone seems to know someone who knows someone.
The afternoon was warm, a proper winter's day, so I decided to do something I'd been putting off. I took a taxi, a special, from Riverwalk down to the Gaborone Game Reserve, which is, believe it or not, a working game reserve right inside the city limits. The taxi ride cost about fifty pula, around four dollars, and it was worth it just to see the transition from concrete to acacia scrub in ten minutes. Inside, I saw zebra and wildebeest grazing against the skyline of the CBD, and it struck me how strange and wonderful that is.
There's something about seeing wildlife against a backdrop of office blocks that makes you think about the balance this country is always trying to strike. Development and conservation, tradition and modernity. The reserve is small, maybe six hundred hectares, but it's a reminder that you're never too far from the wild here. And it's cheap, a few pula for entry, I think, though you'd want to check the current rates at the gate.
I walked the reserve's short loop for an hour or so, just enjoying the quiet, the crunch of dry grass under my boots, the flash of a lilac-breasted roller. I saw a kudu disappear into the bush, and a pair of ostriches eyeing me from a distance. It's a good place to come if you don't have time for a full safari but need a dose of that Botswana magic.
Back in town, I stopped at Cafe Dijo for a late afternoon coffee, that same thirty-pula cappuccino, and pulled out my notebook. I've been making lists for the two-year plan, and today I was mapping out the route north. The idea is to head up the road-and-rail corridor, maybe through Mahalapye and Palapye, and then west towards the Makgadikgadi pans. The pans are something I've been dreaming about, that vast, white expanse of salt and emptiness, and then on to the Okavango Delta, the flood season should be in full swing by then.
That's the plan, anyway. But Gaborone has a way of making you slow down. I met a guy at the coffee shop who had just moved here from Maun, and we got to talking about the Delta. He said the mokoro trips were already booking up for September, which is something I need to keep in mind. He also mentioned that the TANA metro rail project, the big integrated transport plan, has been having public consultations, and that could really change how people get around the city in a few years. Worth paying attention to.
As the sun started to dip, painting the sky in those soft winter oranges and pinks, I found myself back at the Three Dikgosi Monument. I sat on a bench and watched the statues of Khama III, Sebele I, and Bathoen I, the chiefs who went to London in 1895 to keep this land out of Cecil Rhodes' hands. It's a powerful story, and it feels especially resonant now, after the 2024 election that ended the BDP's long rule. This country knows how to change, how to hold onto its past while stepping into the future.
For my last dinner in Gaborone, I went to Two Six Seven, a place that's been on my list for a while. I had the steak, because you have to, and a local St. Louis lager, and the whole thing came to about two hundred and fifty pula. It's a bit more than the local joints, but it's a nice spot to mark the end of this first chapter. I sat there, steak juice on my chin, and felt a real fondness for this city that I've been calling home for six days.
Walking back to my flat in the cool evening air, I passed by the Gaborone Dam, the water still and dark under the stars. I thought about Chief Gaborone, whose people are across the river in Tlokweng, and how this entire city is named after a person, a leader. That feels right. Cities should have personalities, and Gaborone's is one that grows on you quietly, like a friend you didn't expect to make.
Tomorrow, I'll pack my bags and head north, but this place, this Main Mall and the Bus Rank and the hill at Kgale, they'll stay with me. I've got my list of what to cover across the seasons, and I'll be back for the Maitisong and the Book Festival, but for now, it's time to follow the road, and maybe a mokoro, towards the Delta. Dumela, Gaborone. Pula for the journey.
Thanks for walking with me through these first days in Botswana. If you're thinking about coming here, or just dreaming about it, I hope this helps you see what's possible. Check the show notes for links to the festivals and practical stuff, and I'll catch you from the road. Go siame, for now.