The A1 north out of Gaborone is a ribbon of dust and diesel, and I'm watching the city shrink in the rearview mirror. It's just past eight in the morning, the sun already warm through the windscreen, and I've got a kombi-load of luggage and a head full of plans. Today I'm leaving the capital behind, at least for a while, and pointing the bonnet towards Mochudi, a village that's been on my list since I started planning this whole journey. The drive is barely forty kilometres, about forty minutes if the traffic plays nice, and the road is smooth, a proper highway that cuts through the dry, flat landscape. I pass the turn-off at Pilane, a name that's about to become familiar, and then the low hills of the village appear ahead, a cluster of buildings and trees that feels a world away from the glass and concrete of Gaborone.
Pulling into Mochudi is like stepping into a different rhythm. The main road is lined with acacia trees and low buildings, and there's a sense of order, of a place that's been here for a long time. I'm staying in a modest two-bedroom house, the kind of place you can rent for around three and a half thousand pula a month, which is about two hundred and sixty dollars. It's got a tin roof, a small garden with a few struggling aloe plants, and a view of the hill that dominates the village. I dump my bags, kick off my shoes, and stand on the veranda for a moment, listening. There's the distant clatter of a combi, the low murmur of goats, and somewhere, a rooster that seems to have missed the memo about it being mid-morning. It's a good feeling, being somewhere new, somewhere with a story to tell.
My first stop is the Phuthadikobo Museum, which sits on the hill above the old village. You can see it from almost anywhere in Mochudi, a low, colonial-era building that was once the Mochudi National School, built back in the early nineteen twenties. I walk up the dusty path, past the Dutch Reformed Church, which dates to 1904, and the Deborah Retief Memorial Hospital, both part of the mission-era footprint that shaped this place. The museum itself is a community affair, founded in 1975, and it's a treasure trove of Bakgatla history. There are photographs from the early nineteen hundreds, black-and-white images of chiefs and cattle and the first cars to make it this far. I learn about the Bakgatla ba Kgafela, how they migrated from South Africa in 1871, under pressure from the Boers, and settled at the foot of this very hill, beside the Notwane River. They had to fight for the land, defeating the Kwena in battle in 1875, and that history is written into the very stones of the village.
But the museum is more than just a collection of old things. There's a working silkscreen workshop here, and you can watch artisans printing designs onto t-shirts and bags and wall hangings. I pick up a small tote bag, a deep blue with a geometric pattern, and it sets me back about sixty pula, which feels like a steal for something made by hand, right here, with a story attached. The woman at the counter, who's been at the museum for over a decade, tells me that the workshop has been running since the seventies, giving local artists a way to earn a living while keeping the traditions alive. I ask her about the Matsieng footprints, which I know are out there somewhere, and she points me towards a path that winds down the hill.
The Matsieng footprints are one of those places that feels almost impossible until you see them. They're set in a flat rock outcrop, a jumble of enormous prints, some of them animal, some of them human, but all of them far too big to be real. The legend goes that a giant ancestor of the Tswana people, a man named Matsieng, came out of the earth here, leading his people and their livestock up into the light. The leader of the animals was a lion with long, sharp nails, and you can see those marks in the rock too. Standing there, with the sun beating down and the village spread out below, you can almost hear the herds bellowing and the people shouting as they emerged from the darkness. It's a humbling thought, that this place has been sacred for longer than anyone can remember. Beside the footprints, there's the rusting hulk of a tractor, said to be the first one owned by a Motswana, a more recent but no less striking monument to progress. I sit on a rock for a while, just taking it in, the weight of the place settling on me.
From the rock, I walk back up towards the old kgotla, the traditional meeting place and tribal court. It's a circular enclosure, shaded by a great acacia tree, and it's still in use, not just a relic for tourists. There's a newer building next to it, but the old tree is where the real business happens, or so I'm told. The kgotla is where the village gathers to discuss matters of importance, where disputes are settled, and where the chief speaks. It's the beating heart of the community, and there's a quiet dignity to it. I sit on one of the wooden benches, listening to the wind in the leaves, and I think about how this system has persisted for so long, a parallel structure to the formal courts and parliament in Gaborone. It's a reminder that Botswana is not just a country of cities and malls, but of villages and traditions that still matter, deeply.
Walking back down into the commercial heart of Mochudi, I stop at the market. It's a lively place, even on a Saturday, with stalls selling fresh vegetables, dried fish, and mounds of magwinya, those deep-fried dough balls that are the street food of choice. I pick up two for five pula, almost nothing, and they're still warm, a little greasy, and absolutely perfect. I wash them down with a sweet, milky tea from a stall, and I watch the world go by. There's a group of women in bright dresses, gossiping and laughing, a couple of men in overalls arguing about something football-related, and kids running between the stalls, chasing each other. This is the real Mochudi, the everyday hustle and flow that doesn't make it into the guidebooks, and I feel a small thrill at being part of it, even for an afternoon. I wander into Honchos, a local spot that does grilled meats and cold drinks, and I grab a plate of seswaa, the traditional pounded beef, with pap. It's rich and savoury, the beef slow-cooked until it's falling apart, and it costs me around seventy-five pula. Worth every thebe.
The afternoon is slipping away, and I want to catch the light on the painted houses that Mochudi is known for. These aren't the brightly coloured facades you see in some tourist towns; they're more subtle, traditional designs painted in ochre and white and black. I find a cluster of them in the old village, near the hill, and they're beautiful in a way that's hard to describe. The patterns are geometric, some of them clearly inspired by baskets, others by animals or plants. I'm told some of the designs have specific meanings, linked to the family that lives there or the clan they belong to. It's a living art form, not something preserved in a museum, and that makes it feel all the more precious. I pause in front of one particularly intricate design, and an old man comes out to greet me. He tells me, in English that's a little rough but full of warmth, that his father painted this house twenty years ago, and he's been keeping it up ever since. I ask if I can take a picture, and he nods, but he also makes me promise to come back and see it again next time I'm in Mochudi. I shake his hand, a firm grip, and I feel like I've been given a gift.
As the sun starts to sink towards the horizon, I find myself at Jazzbrew Cafe, which is a bit of a surprise to find in a small village like this. It's a cosy place, all exposed brick and mismatched furniture, and they do a decent cappuccino. I order one, and it's about thirty-five pula, and I sit by the window, watching the street outside. There's a kombi pulling in, letting off a stream of people who've come back from Gaborone for the weekend, and I overhear a conversation about the Centre Chiefs, the local football team that apparently won some tournament last weekend. The whole village seems to be buzzing about it, and I make a note to find out more. It strikes me that Mochudi has its own energy, its own pride, and it's not just a dormitory town for the capital. I crack open my notebook and start jotting down thoughts, impressions, the shape of future episodes.
I'm also thinking about the practicalities, because I know that's what some of you are here for. Mochudi is a place where your money goes further. I paid about seventy-five pula for a full plate of seswaa and pap, which is maybe five or six dollars. A night in a guesthouse here, like Glorious Home or Ko93, would run you around four to six hundred pula, which is roughly forty dollars. The rent on my little house, if I were to stay long-term, is about three and a half thousand pula a month. Getting here from Gaborone is easy: combis and buses run along the A1 constantly, and the fare is just a few pula. And if you're coming from overseas, remember that most visitors get ninety days visa-free, but you do need to sort out a residence permit if you're planning to stay longer. The internet is decent, but you'll want a local SIM from Mascom or beMobile, which you can get at any shop with your passport. It's all straightforward, but it's good to know before you arrive.
The evening closes in, and the temperature drops with it. Botswana winters are like that, warm days and crisp, cold nights. I walk back to my house, the stars coming out overhead, a canopy of light that I never got to see in Gaborone. I'm looking forward to the journey north, to the Makgadikgadi pans and eventually the Okavango, but for tonight, Mochudi is enough. There's a stillness here, a sense of being grounded in something old. I make a cup of tea in my little kitchen, the kettle whistling, and I sit on the veranda, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the night sounds. A dog barks somewhere, a car engine fades into the distance. This is just the beginning of my time here, and I can already feel it getting under my skin.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to the Phuthadikobo Museum and see the silkscreen workshop in action. I'll walk the paths of the old village and maybe find more painted houses. And I'll start planning the next leg of the journey, the dusty track that leads to the pans and the delta beyond. But tonight, I'm content. Dumela, Mochudi. I think we're going to get along just fine.
That's it for this episode. I'm Kabelo Molefe, and this is a journey through Botswana, one village at a time. If you're planning a trip, or just dreaming of one, I hope this helps you see the real Botswana, the one beyond the safari brochures. Until next time, tsamaya sentle, and keep exploring.