My book of choice for yesterday was a wonderful biography called Twenty Chickens for a Saddle. Robyn Scott shares her memories of growing up in Botswana. If you love Southern Africa, this book will make you smile.
My favorite part is below:
“Smell that, chaps,” said Dad, scuffing his veldskoen against the sandy track. “Nothing in the world like the smell of a dirt road in Africa.”
The cloud of dust, deep red in the rich light, hung still above the sand, glowing. Dad’s face glowed too: with the sun, and with pleasure as he inhaled loudly and gazed toward the light.
Once, on an evening walk, frustrated that I didn’t smell it too, I’d crouched down and stuck my nose right inside the dust cloud. “Just smells like dust,” I’d coughed, sneezing out a thousand tiny particles.
“When you leave Africa, Robbie—then you’ll understand about the dust.”
“There’s dust everywhere else.”
“Not like this.”
“Anyway, I’ll never leave.”
Even if I couldn’t smell the difference in the dust, as I watched the spectacular changing light—the polite thanks to the continent for tolerating the heat, sweat, and discomfort of the day—I was certain there wasn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.
“I’m sure you’ll leave,” Dad said. “But you’ll keep coming back. Can’t shake it off,” he sighing with contentment.
(Scott, Robyn (2008-03-27). Twenty Chickens for a Saddle: The Story of an African Childhood (p. 181). Penguin Group. Kindle Edition.)
I read this excerpt to an African friend the other day, and he smiled, knowing exactly what Robyn's dad meant.
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