Ashes, ahes...

The water in Pitsane is treated and I suppose I could drink it straight from the tap although it’s cloudy at first. If I chose to drink straight from the tap, I’d wait for the calcium to settle and form a murky sediment at the bottom of the glass. I’m still grateful for the option though. Tatum is all about choices but Pitsane is the true meaning of hard water. My skin has white fissures running across it like cracked and barren dessert soil. These ash lines form perfect little borders making diamonds of shiny tight skin, like the back of a snake. My skin is like a Louis Vuilliton bag. Its rather disgusting, but I find it fascinating. For skin, Batswana are fond of camphor cream and pure glycerin. I now see why. I feel the insatiable need to wade in a pool of Vaseline. Of late, I’ve started slathering hair grease on my legs instead of lotion. My skin needs hair grease like people in hell want ice water and the sta-sof-fro has been doing the trick. It penetrates the skin like lotion but it leaves a much needed greasy film that will hold me over for the rest of the day. The problem is, grease and Africa mix a little too well—opposites attract. When the wind blows Botswana is a dust bowl. As stated before, Batswana dig up all the grass, exposing none other than dirt. When the westerly wind blows, every morsel of dirt, sand and dust stick to me like flypaper. It’s a vicious cycle. I slather hair grease over my hide and dirt sticks. My hands feel like sandpaper and look as if I’ve been kneading flour. My hygienic tendency to wash my hands at any given chance (with soap), during winter doesn’t help the ashiness.