Found: 1963

The problem with some people is that when they aren't drunk, they're sober. 

- William Butler Yeats 

Three months later… 

He returned from the bush not slightly battered, not slightly worn and not really as bad as he thought. The pace of the excursion had been like a heavy metal foot petal slamming out something on a drum that could be called a rhythm. Along the way, friends had been made here and there, sprinkled charms on a bracelet. Nothing seemed permanent until it was over. Most of what came to mind immediately were hectic visions of beautiful skies painted with juggled stars, moons, and suns setting and rising, pinned up on some laughing tack board with thirteen broken-down cars, one crippling fever, two dozen fire-side joke sessions and thirty-seven life-sized versions of the Lion King cast. Of the sixteen starting line-up, four remained for over-time, not interested in anything but a tie with the mother continent. As his team-mates had been traded off to their home teams, he smiled. Flying away from beautiful Africa were six young people sad to leave. Twelve fingers that had slowly crossed from thoughts of never being able to return to resolution to return. Six stories of World Trippin’ success. 

So, that’s how it is. I’m back at the beginning, sitting at the Old Bridge Backpacker’s Lodge waiting to get started again. There was far less internet than I had anticipated along the way, so most of the story will have to be told in retrospect. Positive? Hindsight’s twenty-twenty so maybe I’ll catch something I would have missed hurrying to post in real time.
  

The Bridge is a good base camp. If you’re ever in Maun, check it out. It’ll give an indication of why our guide called the city “Miami Beach.” The camping area is cramped and isn’t as cheap as at the Sedia Hotel down the river (50 pula at backpackers vs. 40 at Sedia) but that is more than made up for by the friendliness of the staff and the atmosphere of the tiny lodge when compared with the Sedia. The close quarters are actually a part of the Old Bridge’s charm, attracting a young crowd that abounds with dreadlocks and beliefs that a second Woodstock is just around the corner. Enjoying the colorful night life of the Bridge for a night or two, these youth flood in and out via hitched rides, caravans or old tie dyed Volkswagen mini-buses with hand painted slogans like, "All you need is love, but acid helps."

When I first arrived here, I was more than slightly disgusted by the place. From eight in the morning until the last-call bell rings at nine-forty-five at night, the bar is an ebbing and flowing tide of Maun ex-pats. Two or three usually show up like slightly dodgy clockwork at eight and are not absent from a beer until the last high tide in the night. Maun joke: what’s the difference between a Maun alcoholic and a regular local? Punch line: there is none. It’s dry, true, but when five loaded Brits and one perpetually cross German who look like they’ve had more shit kicked out of them by life than a masochistic South African rugby player are waiting for you to laugh, it’s hilarious. 

This, coupled with the literal metric tonne of smoke being filtered by those old lungs and the seeming impatience of the ex-pats with the Batswana staff, does not make for a good first impression. But then you notice that the ex-pats are making jokes with the staff, laughing at the staff’s insults to them, embracing Batswana locals like war buddies. You notice that more Batswana locals choose to come to Backpackers than any of the other more outwardly friendly establishments in Maun. You notice that in that last high tide, when there is a massive group, nobody is scowling like they are when they’re sitting by themselves. You sit by the river and one of the resident dogs nudges a lemon up to your foot to play fetch; you notice that the dogs are happy, a majorly good indications of positive vibes. And, at some point, you can’t help but notice the massive amounts of Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd…insert any classic rock standard you can think of…that are pumped out on rerun over the bar’s stereo system. You notice all of this and then you notice that you’re remembering something about Peter Pan and his lost boys. 

These are the world’s lost. You could probably find them in many places. I found them here, in Miami Beach, Botswana, trying to escape from whatever happened to them in their home countries when Jimi and Janis were news instead of history. Maybe they aren’t trying to escape from anything but their marooning by a ship wrecked era. It’s a weird little tribe, the Old Bridge regulars. I’m not defending their rudeness, I’ve been on the receiving end of it. Neither am I describing their coarse lifestyles as a matter of judgment, merely remark. As the propensity of Winston Churchill to drink will not stop his being a positive part of history, neither do these people reflect on the whole of a generation. For a kid like me, they qualify it, give it another texture. Think of them how you will, I’m enjoying my people watching at the moment.

Always remember that I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me. 

  -  Winston Churchill