Ghanzi

Kourtney, Jaclynn, Sarahi and myself, four brave souls off to explore western Botswana...

We weren't the only ones with travel plans for the Easter weekend. The streets of Gaborone were surprisingly busy at 5:00am on Friday morning, and the bus rank was absolutely teeming with people. And ruthless vendors. A last minute, unexplained cancellation meant that only one bus was destined for Ghanzi that day. It was already packed to capacity when we arrived and only aisle space remained. I ended up getting very cosy with someone's arm pitt and almost fell asleep on the lady next to me. Her hair style was decidedly pillow like. By mid afternoon we pulled into Ghanzi. The town was small, quiet, and delightfully suited to a weary traveler. The bus station, ATM , grocery store, craft/souvenir shop, and hotel were all within a stone throw of one another. We pitched our tents on the grassy lawn of the Kalahari Arms Hotel for a very reasonable 35 Pula. The other foreign tourists rolling through the streets in fancy safari vehicles opted for upscale, air conditioned huts. Their loss. After gobbling down waffles and milkshakes we called it a night. Saturday found us climbing into the back of a pick-up truck for a ride out to D'kar, a small cultural village. Definitely small and definitely cultural. We walked down a dirt road and came upon an old church, giant cooking pots, and bushpeople. Not to mention a lovely little one room hostel. With four beds! How convenient. A local soccer match kept us entertained for several hours. Or perhaps it was the horde of children racing around, posing for pictures and pulling off wonderful feet-stomping moves. I swear Africans must learn to dance before they walk. In the afternoon we took a stroll down the main road (and only road). A devoted train of little boys followed and seemed to find us endlessly entertaining. Soft hair! Haha short shorts. Ooh watchy-watch! A CAMERA!! "Photo me" was one of the few English expressions we heard. The bushmen language was enchanting though- plenty of clicks and tongue noises spattered throughout the speech. We returned to the hostel with our devoted followers hanging off arms and legs. I really wanted to take one home in my suitcase. Later, we were drawn to the church by the sound of singing. Much of the village had gathered inside to applaud the performance of various choir groups. We attempted a stealth entrance but had every head turning in a matter of seconds. A heart warming time nonetheless. I stood out under the stars afterwards and marveled at the vast expanse of sky. We revisited the church in the morning for the Easter service. An Afrikaan reverend preached in Setswana and a tribal leader followed in the bushmen tongue. Luckily we had our very own Babelfish in the form of a Dutch couple. They had been living in the village for twenty years working on a project to translate the Bible into the local language. It made me happy to see them conversing naturally with the locals, all cultural barriers seemingly torn down. It was with rueful smiles that we said goodbye to D'kar and climbed into the back of another truck. The Kalahari Arms awaited, wide and welcoming. A dip in the pool, afternoon sunshine, a delightful dinner and our adventures had reached their end. Even though the Easter bunny didn't make it out to Botswana I'd trade Cadbury eggs for this trip any day.

Swaziland

After weeks of planning and failed attempts I found myself on an Intercape travel bus bound for Johannesburg. Fellow explorer Kourtney shared the seat beside me. The drive into Johannesburg took on a very characteristic American feel: paved sidewalks, multi-laned highways, overpasses, sprawling shopping centers, and developed suburbs. I quite missed the dirt roads and huts of Botswana. Downtown Joburg, however, was another matter altogether. Not under any circumstance would I want to find myself stranded in the inner city area after dark. In the handful of minutes it took us to navigate through the bus rank we were bombarded with shouts, pushy and persistent vendors, whistles, and a hip gyrating man. Lovely. Garbage littered the ground and the city smell was overpowering. A stark contrast to the rich, shiny suburbs. I now understand where Johannesburg earns its reputation as one of the most dangerous cities in the world. It was a relief to leave the chaos behind and return to the golden fields and rolling hills of rural South Africa. About an hour outside the Swaziland border we hit a truly unusual landscape. Tree farms. Row upon row of coniferous and deciduous stretching as far as the eye could see along eighty kilometers of road. Mind boggling. On one side of the highway the plateau dropped away into a picturesque valley with smoky blue mountains in the distance. We passed smoothly through the border crossing (apart from a bleeding woman in the line ahead of us) and into Swaziland under cover of darkness. Total trip time from Gaborone to Mbabane: 13 hours and one very sore bottom. We stayed overnight at the Sunset Backpackers. Very friendly staff but grossly overpriced. At first light the following morning we were at the bus rank and managed to squeeze onto a combi headed up the mountain. Our first steps into Malolotja National Park were euphoric. Rolling green hills shouldered into the horizon and a herd of white masked blesbok gamboled through the fields. We sigend in at the lodge (greeted by a very friendly, helpful staff), picked up a map, and set off. The trail cut across windy highveld, down a tree strewn slope, and into a lush rivervalley. At which point things got a bit interesting. The trail petered out, unmaintained, and we found ourselves crashing through dense underbrush and wading through long grass. We were forced to make several river crossings, and just when all seemed lost spotted a faint trail weaving up a neighboring hillside. Only a swamp, thicket, cliff, and belt of trees stood in the way. No match for our determination. We slogged through knee deep mud and nasty brambles, dragged ourselves up a crumbling incline, and literally fought tooth and nail through spiney grass, bamboo, and thorny trees. A jungle machete would have been very useful. Or bulldozer. From the state of our legs it looked as if we'd just fought off a pack of feral cats. With the sun sinking behind the hills we made it to solid ground, trekked up the path and set up camp under a friednly looking tree. Just in the nick of time. The mother of all storms was building in the distance. And our $25 tent was not in the least bit waterproof. We erected a small tarp overhead by securing it to clumps of hardy savannah grass. Barely into our first bites of dinner the storm hit. Raging winds and torrential rain. We had to hold onto the sides of the tent for dear life and squish onto a foam pad as water seeped in. On the upside, we were able to replenish our sad looking water supply by sticking bowls outside. Excellent. When the storm finally quieted we were not to be left in peace, but rather tormented by snuffling animals and a little rodent that seemed determined to make a meal of our tent. A night for the record books. We made it back to the park gates by noon the next day, taking an easy route along the highveld. Wet clothes and sleeping bags joined us on the grass for a lovely nap in the beaming sun. The main campsite was a little paradise with well maintained facilities. Hot showers available. Highly recommended. Thus, it was with great regret that we said goodbye to the friendly Swazis and their beautiful country the following morning. GREAT REGRET. A mere five minutes at the Johannesburg bus rank and I'd already been felt up and groped by a tasteless individual. Not a pleasant experience. The place was absolutely crawling with people. Thankfully we found seats on a late combi out of the city. The seats were so small I was practically sitting on top of Kourtney, but at least we were headed home. Fabulous weekend, fabulous friend, and lasting memories.

“When we reach the mountian summits we leave behind all the things that weigh heavily on our body and our spirit. We leave behind all sense of depression; we feel a new freedom, a great exhilaration of the body no less than the spirit.”    - Jan Christiaan Smuts