The Old Bridge Backpackers welcomed us to Botswana's Delta city. We paid the 50Pula camping fee and were generously provided with a heavy duty (African monsoon proof) tent and sleeping pads. The establishment featured an outdoor bar with Christmas lights and plenty enough beer drinkers to fill it. An amiable and interesting crowd nonetheless. We ordered hot chocolates and passed a relaxing evening in hammocks overlooking the riverfront. There was fresh news circulating about a tragic accident: A guide and one tourist drowned after a hippo overturned their mokoro (dug-out canoe). A harsh reminder of the inherent dangers of the wilderness. The following morning brought cloudy skies and the long awaited mokoro safari. We met our seasoned guide, the seemingly immortal Kosi. Gear securely wrapped in plastic bags, we pushed away from shore. The reeds parted before the prow of the mokoro and flowers sat like delicate teacups on their lily pad plates. Truly surreal. We pitched our tents on a small island in the shade of a giant fig tree. The evening adventure? Hippopotamus tracking. Too bad it started to rain. We got thoroughly soaked despite the hardy ponchos and didn't find a single hippo. Dinner consisted of canned beans, canned corn, and canned tuna. Enjoyed by flashlight straight out of the tin. It's strange how good food can taste when you're cold, wet, and squashed inside an unventilated tent. That was one very long night. Our guide knocked on the tent flap at five o'clock the next morning. “We go for a walk now, yes?” Well heck, alrighty! We poled by mokoro to a neighbouring island and disembarked. Apparently for a five hour hike through the African bush. Which came as a bit of a surprise, particularly as we hadn't thought to bring anything except a camera. Not my proudest moment. I'll have to claim that something was lost in translation, or that a lack of sleep impaired my judgement. Either way we were all without water under a blazing hot sun. The intrepid Kosi had downed 5 litres (FIVE LITRES!?!) of water that morning and was set for the day. As a result he took countless breaks to go “hide himself,” an expression that I found highly entertaining. The hike itself was exceptional: we crossed several lion tracks, surprised a herd of zebra, battled through marshy grasses, and caught sight of a family of wildebeest. A scorched red face and patched throat were the only downside. A lesson learnt the hard way I suppose. After lunch we set off once again in search of the ever elusive hippo. This time, success. Though only observed from afar, I enjoyed the chorus of grunts, snorts, laughs, and snuffles that issued from the gargantuan logs. An impending storm forced a speedy return to camp and we packed up in record time. With shelter and hot tea as future prospects I was able to enjoy the rainy journey back to Old Bridge. We must have looked quite frightening as we emerged from the boats: angry red faces, wild tangles of hair, and sodden ponchos. The lodge staff were all too quick to help. We enjoyed a phenomenal dinner of warm brownies and sat for hours under a blanket watching burly men play rugby. No finer way to spend an evening. I was quite sad to be packing my bags the next morning. We squashed onto a bus for the twelve hour ride back to Gaborone. Back to routines, school, and obligations. Sigh.
“Snap back to reality, oh there goes gravity...” in the words of Eminem. The only white rapper that locals claim can feel the music like a true African.
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