Excerpt from Twenty Chickens for a Saddle by Robyn Scott, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Phikwe, which lies ten kilometers away, is the real town; home, when we arrived, to around 40,000 people, most who directly or indirectly derived their living from the mine. Among them were Grandpa Terry and Granny Joan, Mum's parents, who like most Phikwe residents visited the old town only in passing, traveling to or from the little bush airport that, together with the nearby mineshaft and Grandpa Ivor's house, comprised the only still used part of Selebi.

The airport had a tall glass control tower, two faded orange windsocks, and a small customs and immigration building. It was here that my brother, sister, and I first set foot in Botswana, unloaded onto the baking tarmac with the eight frozen turkeys that Grandpa Ivor had packed under the seats when he collected us in Johannesburg.

I was nearly seven, Damien was five, and Lulu was three. The air on the runway smacked us like a hot wave.

Snakes, lions, and every other fantasy vanished. Heat overwhelmed me as I stood, stunned, in the fierce, dry, completely still air. It was unfairly, unbelievably hot, heat like nothing I had ever felt before. Normal thought, in this temperature and blinding light, was suddenly impossible. Mesmerized, I watched shimmering waves float above the dark tar. Beyond the runway fence posts, the flat green scrub seemed frozen behind the wobbling veil of heat. The almost white sky was empty; nothing stirred in the bushes; a few black cows stood motionless, sleeping beside the fence.

Heat was the only thing moving.

Mum and Dad seemed unperturbed, smiling and chatting as they hauled bags out the plane. Lulu, Damien, and I stood, bewildered, sheltering in the shadow of the wing, quietly waiting for instructions. Eventually, with all our suitcases retrieved, we left Grandpa Ivor fiddling with the switches in the cockpit, and Mum and Dad herded us toward the small building beside the control tower.

Inside, it was breathlessly stuffy and not much cooler. A small fan whirred ineffectively from a stand on the concrete floor in the corner of the room. After an unexplained wait— there was no one else in the queue— a uniformed customs officer instructed Mum and Dad to open all our suitcases on a scratched wooden desk. With a suspicious scowl, he began slowly rummaging through layer after layer of clothes, books, and toys. He looked disappointed each time he reached the bottom of a bag.

"Why's he taking so long?" I whined. "What's he looking for?"

"Nothing." Mum squeezed my shoulder.

"I'm so hot."

"Shhh, Robbie," hissed Dad.

"Why are you smiling like that?" As soon as the officer had approached us, Mum and Dad's excited- to- be- back smiles had been replaced by fixed, unconvincing grins.

Both ignored me and continued to grin wildly at the slow, grumpy officer.

Then suddenly the officer was grinning too. "Dumela, Mr. Scott," he said, as Grandpa Ivor, carrying a bulging sack, strode toward the desk.

As they exchanged greetings in quick, soft Setswana, a pud- dle spread across the floor beneath the sack of defrosting turkeys. The offi cer didn't seem to notice. Still smiling, he turned to Dad. "Ee! The Madala's son," he said warmly. "Welcome to Botswana."

Ignoring the dripping sack and the unchecked suitcases, he stamped our forms and waved us on. Minutes later, we were outside, uncomfortably installed in the tiny, battered pickup truck that Grandpa called his bakkie. Mum and Lulu sat in the front; Dad, Damien, and I in the back, wedged among the bags and seven turkeys. Grandpa kept the last one out. "Christmas spirit," he said, striding back toward the building, the dripping bird clutched under his arm. He disappeared inside, emerging, empty-handed, almost immediately.

Excerpted from Twenty Chickens for a Saddle (chapter 1, pages 1-14) by Robyn Scott. Reprinted by arrangement with The Penguin Press, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc. Copyright (c) Robyn Scott, 2008.