burnt by the sun

As my time in Botswana goes by, I feel the place becoming more and more a destination for clueless undergrads to pitch up and 'get some experience' -- otherwise known as make a bloody mess and cause trouble for other people. OK, that's not fair, but nor is it fair to stick a 19-year-old student who doesn't know the first thing about Botswana or its people into one of the ministries and let him walk around with a sense of entitlement and superiority the size of the Grand Canyon.

I am, however, partially and indirectly responsible for that particular kid's internship. My penance for this is to do a guided reading course for him over the next few weeks. We met for a few hours yesterday on the terrace of the President Hotel in Gaborone's Main Mall (where the famous Mma Ramotswe drinks her tea) and talked for a few hours.

I was wearing a knee-length grey skirt, a dark purple blouse and ankle-length boots. (Someone asked me later in the evening if it was my Catholic schoolgirl outfit.) This is important if only because, as we were talking, the zipper on my boot became so hot in the sunlight that it actually burned me sufficiently to blister my skin. It's so cold at night and it was so nice to be in the sun that I guess I got carried away.