Botswana and Namibia

 It wasn't quite an epiphany--more like an unexpected revelation--the morning I left Zambia. Had I known it would be my last stroll through a "third-world" market, I might have paused to savor more than just the traditional meal served from fire-burnt pans onto cracked plates, still dripping after being rinsed in a bucket of murky water.  

But I do recall enjoying the sounds of a cheerful conversation spoken in a language whose name I can't pronounce. And I wasn't surprised to see a group young boys laughing as they kicked a ball made of tightly wound rags over the muddy trench of an open sewer. By now I was used to the sight of gossiping young mothers nursing their babies -- breast exposed while they carried on with whatever task, indifferent to their  babies and potential spectators. 

My nose was still easily confused as I tried to enjoy the scent of boiling coffee, but wince at the acrid smell of smoldering plastic and other trash burning in a tidy pile on the ground.  I didn't know it was my last chance to wave the flies off my heaping plate of Zambian "nshima," the stiff corn porridge that I'd finally acquired a taste for, which is the dietary foundation of southern Africa (A.K.A. "ugali" in Tanzania, "wusa" in Mozambique, "nsima" in Malawi, "sadza" in Zimbabwe and "pap" in South Africa). Belly full, I paid the equivalent of a $1.50 and set off to continue my roundabout journey to South Africa.  Because the next bus to Namibia wouldn't leave for three days, I found myself hitch-hiking, again. 

Being Sunday morning, traffic was infrequent. I sat on my bag, reading, peeking up every so often to see the road empty in both directions. For a while the only traffic was three unusually healthy-looking stray dogs moseying towards Livingstone; a mom and two grown pups; reddish-tan, with a dark stripe down their backs.  "Of course!" I thought, "I'm in Rhodesia!" (Actually, it was Northern Rhodesia before gaining independence from Britain in the mid '60s -- Zimbabwe was the "Southern" counterpart.) But that really made my day: to pet a Rhodesian Ridgeback (a mix, presumably) while in Rhodesia (That was the unexpected revelation).  

Twelve hours later -- after cramming into an overcrowded car, exchanging money at a significant loss at the Namibian border and pestering people for a ride at a gas station -- I descended out of the musty cabin of a American-made semi-truck that had been crawling at 80 kilometers-per-hour across what must be the most boring 300 kilometers of highway in Africa -- the Caprivi Strip.  Before midnight I would arrive at Ngepi Camp -- an ecologically-minded travelers' retreat settled along the shores of the Okavango River in Namibia. I'd read about this camp in a travel magazine, famous for it's picturesque setting and creative, open-air ablutions ("loo with a view" one toilet greeted, "5-billion-Star Retreat" read another. Note: "ablution", "loo" are the South African and British words, respectively, for "toilet").  

For a couple chilly nights I slept in a rented tent, pitching it on a raised platform, which was good place to be because each night hippos would crawl out of the river and spend much of the night grunting and munching on the grass under and around the platform. I would wake up to see Water Buffalo grazing on the opposite side of the river, and pass the morning chatting over breakfast with a family of South African Boer's on holiday ("Ya, Bootswana, et is viry goot. Ya, ve saw meeny donkeys thea." "Boers" are people, generally from South Africa, who primarily speak Africaans -- the Dutch-based language dating back at least a hundred years). This would be my only Namibian home because time running out on my trip, I had to choose between Botswana and Namibia.  

I chose Botswana because of "The Delta". Vanessa, my girlfriend (my beautiful, patient, supportive and trusting girlfriend), had described it as a highlight of her own globe-trotting adventure several years prior. Not to be outdone, I had to see it for myself. I was not disappointed.  

Slithering slowly along the arid flatlands of Angola and Namibia into Botswana, the Okavango River fans out into the reverse tributaries of the "delta," a swamp, before it is swallowed up by the insatiable thirst of the Kalahari Desert, never having a chance to reach the ocean. What an awesome thought: a massive river, full of life and potential, disappearing into a sea of sand.  I made my way to the delta's innermost village: Seronga. There, I hired a "mokoro" (traditionally a dugout canoe, now typically made of fiberglass) and a "poler" (a guide, who pushes the mokoro along using a long pole). With some basic food supplies and another rented tent, we set out to camp somewhere deep in the delta.  Having recently read (en-route) a few autobiographies that made similar allusions, I could not help but also imagine myself a creation of the novelist Joseph Conrad -- a Marlow type, navigating the serpentine waters into the unknown, searching for Col. Kurtz (Or, for the visual allusion, Martin Sheen's character looking for Marlon Brando's in Coppolla's "Apocalypse Now").  

But there was no Kurtz, no brutal savagery nor dark soul to expose; just calm in the day and peace at night. And stars! Never did the Southern Cross show the way so clearly. And elephants! Walking along one of the "islands" we came within striking distance of several bulls chewing at tree trunks; catching our scent, they loped away suddenly, and miraculously (because of their size) disappeared.  In the delta, I truly felt far away from everything. No cars, no people, and for the first time while in Africa, my cellphone had no signal (such is the true measure of isolation!). I had finally escaped. I savored the moment and made note of it in my journal. 

But I soon realized I had nothing to escape. I was just passing through. Searching for and escaping nothing in particular, I had no need to push the limits. I was just traveling. Yes, this would be the climax of my story in Africa. It was time to make my way home.  

Having embedded myself deep in the delta, it took some patience and luck getting out, as rides back to the main road were extremely rare. When I did get moving again, I was only entertained by donkey sightings (the Boer family was right! ... "meeny donkeys") and sterilization checkpoints until I arrived in Botswana's tourism hub: Maun. (Botswana is paranoid about foot-and-mouth disease, requiring the undersides of vehicles to be sprayed and shoe soles to be soaked at roadside checkpoints every 100 kilometers)  With strip malls and fast-food chains (the first McDonald's I'd seen in weeks!), I didn't give Maun much more than a passing glance. I continued east to Francistown where I arrived in time to catch the southbound overnight train to Gabs (Gaberone), Botswana's capital and gateway to South Africa.