Saturday morning I got up early and walked to the river. I had planned to meet my gardener, Mopipi, and milk his cow. Ever since I was a little girl, it’s been my dream to milk a cow, but today was not my day. I’ve been sick lately and just didn’t have the energy to take milk home, pasteurize it, and then figure out something to do with it like making ricotta cheese or ice cream. Way too much work, and food, for my lackluster body.
I arrived at the river and saw Mopipi and some other men on the other side. I cheekily yelled, “Mokoro,” the ubiquitous call for a ride across the river, and all the men laughed. One came to fetch me in a very old fiberglass boat with a shallow covering of muddy water sloshing around my toes. Once I got to the other side we all started walking the distance to Mopipi’s farm. On this side of the river there are no cars, no roads, no power lines, no water lines, nothing. It is rural farmland with few donkeys, no machines, and few people. We stopped at Abraham’s farm to look at his basil, parsley, spring onions, tomatoes, and rocket. Abraham is a short man with a big belly, always a sign of wealth in Africa. He sells his herbs and lettuces to the local supermarket and safari companies but he has only a small portion of his land plowed and seeded. He has no donkeys or plow or labor to do the rest. He wanted to show me his sweet potatoes but I begged off and said the cows were waiting for us. Abraham is quite the talker.
As we approached Mopipi’s plot I saw a round hut with a straw roof partially covered with a large tarp. He had a tidy metal border outside the hut with a fire and hot water on top. We met one of Mopipi’s sons there and collected some buckets. I saw no cows though. He explained he keeps his cows with his neighbor because sometimes me must go to town to stay with his wife and children. His neighbors then look after his cows. He told me has eight of them but doesn’t count their babies which would make it sixteen cows. A black and yellow dog named Tiger follows Mopipi everywhere and he calls him, “my friend.”
We reached the kraal where the cows where kept. One pen was full of the mamas and another pen with their calves. Mopipi’s son opened the gate separating the two pens and the mama cows slowly meandered in to find their hungry calves. Both Mopipi and his son started milking. They each had a length of rope, a stick, and a bucket. They each chose a cow, tied her hind legs together tightly with the rope then squatted down with a bucket. With the stick they gently, but meaningfully, kept the calf away while they milked. They took only three liters or so from each cow leaving plenty leftover for the calf. The milk was poured into a large bucket from each cow and soon filled up. It was foamy on top, like a latte. Another neighbor, a very old man, came over and told me I was the first white person he had seen this side of the river. I took this to mean I’m the only farm animal obsessed white girl in Maun who has fantasized about being a milkmaid her entire life. In Maun, it seems milking cows is men’s business because there were no other women around.
After all the milk was collected Mopipi turned to me and waved in the direction of the cows and said, “You can see I am suffering.” At the moment, forgive me, but I thought I was suffering. I was tired, my tonsils were infected and painful, my feet were dirty and wet and I probably had cow poo on them as I had, in a weird twist of vanity, not wanted to get any of my shoes dirty so I had worn flip flops. I just wanted to go home and shower and lay on my couch reading for the rest of the day. I said, “I don’t see suffering. You have lots of fresh milk and healthy cows.” Even further the day was lovely. Heavy clouds obscured the sun and it was pleasantly cool. Mopipi’s farm is beautiful and fertile greenery surrounded us. He repeated, “I am suffering.” Suffering is such a relative idea. Of course he is suffering next to me. He is probably HIV positive. He has many children to support on his salary. I truly wouldn’t say he works hard at my house but he does a very good job and has many responsibilities tending to his cows, goats, and family. I have few responsibilities, I don’t work terribly hard, I am young and healthy, I have financial security, etc, etc. But then of course there are many countries around the world that define poverty in the world and Botswana is not one of them. There is no war, famine, or political instability here. Eight cows and a small herd of goats is relative security for many people. Mopipi is clearly a happy man though and “suffering” is something that all Batswana nurse and care for in their hearts.
As we walked back to the river Abaham walked with us. He asked me where I was from. I told him New York. He asked me where were my parents? I said New York, for simplicity’s sake. He asked whom did I live with here? I said I lived alone. This is a very common form of questioning in Botswana and I knew where it was going. Abraham shook his head. “You white people, you are so funny! You go everywhere, and you go alone! We Batswana, we take in everyone. Our houses are full of people. You go to my house now and you’ll see eighteen people. But you live alone.” I just laughed and kept quiet. The Batswana always want to know where my parents are. One Motswana asked me in a hushed tone, “Does your father know that you are here?” as if I had snuck away.
When my brother comes in a few weeks I want to take him to Mopipi’s farm and collect some milk for mozzarella and ice cream. I will not be sick and will wear proper shoes and will try to learn how to milk the cows myself. It will be much fun.
