Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 3
The pilot cut the engine and hopped out, a compact woman in mirrored sunglasses and a navy flight suit. She looked like she could wrestle a crocodile and win.
“You Ben?” she asked, striding over with a confident gait.
“That’s me.”
“Name’s Tanya. Hop in. I’ve got two more stops today, and the air gets bumpier the longer we wait.”
I climbed into the co-pilot’s seat, buckled in, and watched as she ran through her preflight checks with casual efficiency. The cockpit smelled faintly of oil and sun-warmed canvas.
As we lifted off, the camp shrank below us, swallowed by the green sprawl of the Delta.
Tanya glanced sideways. “First time heading south?”
“Yeah. First time flying to teach, too.”
She smirked. “You nervous?”
“A little.”
“Don’t be. People in Gabs love a good story. Just tell yours straight.”
I watched the landscape roll out beneath us, vast and ancient.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I’ll do.”
The plane touched down in Gaborone just before noon. Tanya gave me a casual wave and then disappeared into a hangar with her flight manifest tucked under one arm. I slung my bag over my shoulder, made my way through the tiny terminal, and stepped out into the heat of Botswana’s capital.
I had a few hours to kill before the university orientation, and Bessie’s name surfaced in my mind. I remembered her mentioning that she kept a small office in town. I texted her on the off chance she was in. Her reply came within minutes: Come by! Would love to see you.
I flagged down a taxi outside the airport and gave the driver the address.
As we drove, I watched the city pass by—low buildings punctuated by bursts of color, jacaranda trees blooming lavender-blue against the wide, cloudless sky. Gaborone had a rhythm that was nothing like Francistown or the Delta. There were traffic lights here, shopping malls, people in business suits, teenagers in uniforms walking home from school, vendors hawking papayas and phone cards from curbside stalls. It was orderly in a way that still managed to feel relaxed.
When we reached Bessie’s Gaborone office—a modest two-story building in a quiet commercial block—the driver pulled over, and I paid him in pulas, then made my way inside.
Bessie was waiting near the reception area, beaming.
“Ben!” she said warmly. “Welcome to the big city.”
“Thanks for making time,” I said as we shook hands.
She waved it off and led me into a cozy office filled with framed photos, a scattering of legal texts, and a potted lemon tree in the corner.
“You’ve already made waves,” she said once we sat down. “The university is thrilled. You should’ve seen the head of department’s face when he read your proposal.”
“That was your doing,” I demurred. “You pulled the strings.”
“I just opened the door. You walked through it.”
We talked for a while—about the logistics of the fieldwork initiative, the first batch of students that would visit the Delta, the importance of giving them not just textbook knowledge, but real, muddy-boot experience.
But then the conversation shifted. Bessie asked me how I was settling into life in Botswana, and I found myself opening up more than I expected.
“There’s so much I don’t understand yet,” I admitted. “The social nuances, how to read a situation. I’m always worried I’m going to offend someone.”
“You probably already have,” she said with a light laugh. “But that’s okay. What matters is how you listen afterward.”
It struck me then that Bessie occupied a rare intersection—rooted deeply in this place, but also well-versed in the kind of world I came from. She’d spent time in the States and Australia. This had given her a unique fluency, not just in language, but in perspective.
“You know,” I said, “you might be the best advisor I have right now.”
She smiled. “Well, I’ve been called worse.”
Just then, the door opened and three young women stepped in, laughing and brushing windblown hair from their faces.
“Perfect timing,” Bessie said. “Ben, meet my niece and her friends.” It was apparent that this was nothing more than a social visit. Turning to the three visitors, she continued, “Ben is a new guest instructor at the university. He’ll also be coordinating the new field immersion study up in the Delta.”
The niece stepped forward first. “Hi! I’m Naledi Motsepe,” she said, offering her hand.
The second followed. “Kelebogile Dintwe. But everyone calls me Kele.”
And then the third—taller than the others, with a quietly assertive presence—stepped up. “Bliss Mokgosi,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Ben Carr,” I said, shaking each of their hands.
“They’re all final-year environmental science students,” Bessie said. “They’ll be heading up to your camp next month.”
“That’s great,” I said, doing my best to sound relaxed. “We’ll try not to throw you in the deep end on day one.”
Bliss gave a little smile. “We can swim.”
The girls, obviously looking forward to the camp, threw a few rapid-fire questions at me. I fielded them as best I could, telling myself that this was an excellent warmup for what was to come. I found their sincere earnestness to be reassuring. Finally, the three students sat down in the corner with their drinks and chatter, while Bessie walked me to the door.
“Orientation in an hour, right?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“You’ll do fine. They’re lucky to have you.”
As I stepped out into the sunlight again, I found myself replaying the conversations—both the lengthy one I’d had with Bessie, and the brief one with her niece and friends. I hoped that all of the students would be as enthusiastic as those three young women had appeared to be, at least during our brief interaction.
I wasn’t quite sure where I was going yet. But little by little, I was starting to believe that I might figure it out.
The university campus sprawled across a series of low hills, sun-baked and wide open, with clusters of cream-colored buildings and students moving through shaded courtyards. I arrived at the administration building fifteen minutes early, my nerves bundled tightly under my neat, pressed shirt.
Inside, the coolness of air-conditioning was a relief. A receptionist directed me upstairs to a conference room where a handful of other new hires were gathering. I was the only foreigner among them, though everyone greeted me warmly. There were murmurs of welcome, a few curious glances, and plenty of easy smiles.
At the front of the room, a woman in a crisp navy blazer introduced herself as Dr. Josie Sekgoma, head of the Environmental Sciences Department. She welcomed us, her accented English smooth and rich.
“This orientation is informal,” she said. “We will cover the basics: university policies, expectations, course outlines. Then we will discuss special programs—field initiatives, internships, partnerships.”
I sat through the overview, taking notes, already forming ideas about how I could weave my fieldwork into my lectures. When Dr. Sekgoma mentioned the new partnership with Delta Conservation Projects, she looked straight at me and smiled.
“Mr. Carr here will play a crucial role,” she said. “Field immersion is essential to our curriculum. We are thrilled to have him.”
I nodded politely, feeling the weight of expectation settle on my shoulders.
Later, in smaller breakout sessions, I was paired with a few of the other faculty members. One, a lively botanist named Professor Yared Dube, immediately invited me to visit his research plots sometime.
“You must see how baobab trees regenerate,” he said enthusiastically. “It will change how you think about life cycles.”
I made a mental note to take him up on the offer.
By early afternoon, the formalities wound down. There was a catered lunch under a tent outside, and I wandered through the groups, plate in hand, feeling the cautious excitement that came with being perched on the edge of something new.
As I listened to snippets of conversation in English and Setswana, surrounded by students carrying laptops and textbooks, it struck me how different this world was from the wild open spaces of the Delta—and yet how important the bridge between them would be.
The real work, I realized, wouldn’t just happen in a lecture hall. It would happen in the swampy channels and sun-drenched savannas, where theory would meet practice. Where students would find out if they had what it took.
Perhaps I would find out as well.
The charter flight back to the Delta was a smooth, uneventful ride. Tanya was piloting again, and we exchanged a few friendly words before I loaded my gear and climbed aboard. This time, I sat back and watched the landscape unroll below—the fractured rivers, the deep green floodplains, the glinting threads of water that stitched the wilderness together.
When we touched down at the camp’s airstrip, the heat hit me like a wall. I grabbed my bag, gave Tanya a wave, and made my way toward the main compound.
The camp felt both familiar and strange after just a few days away. There was a hum of activity; guides cleaning vehicles, kitchen staff unloading supplies, researchers prepping for field expeditions. I stopped by Thandiwe’s office to check in.
“Welcome back,” she said, smiling warmly. “I hear you made quite an impression at the university.”
“We’ll see if they still like me once classes start,” I said. I gave her a detailed account of my trip to Gaborone, starting with the visit to Bessie’s office, and proceeded to tell her all about the orientation.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.