During the rainy summer months of January and February, the rivers of Angola’s Cuando Cubango Mountains converge and flow into northern Botswana, emptying their contents into the Okavango Delta. Although the water travels a considerable distance at a very swift pace, it does not arrive all at once. A tiny trickle in a dry riverbed heralds the beginning of the seasonal floods, and when the first sighting of the water is made, revelers descend into the riverbed to celebrate its arrival and follow its progression. Ironically, in Botswana, the floodwaters peak during the otherwise arid winter months of June, July and August. While I was there in June, they were still steadily rising – spilling over onto roads, submerging bridges, and filling river beds that had been empty for years.
The Okavango Delta is exceedingly flat, with only slight variations in height that produce temporary islands during the winter months, which are essentially sections of desert that have not yet become fully submerged beneath the rising water. The rest of the landscape is transformed into a pristine wetland; swamps, lakes, rivers and waterways lush with vegetation and teeming with wildlife.
My first five nights in Botswana were spent at two tented safari camps in the Delta: Gunn’s and Pom Pom. As the lion travels (the African equivalent of “as the crow flies”) the two camps are approximately twenty miles apart. The various lodges within the Delta apply to the federal government for fifteen year concessions that enable them to build semi-permanent camps for accommodating tourists. If their concession isn’t renewed at the end of the fifteen year period, they must dismantle the camp entirely, removing every trace of their inhabitation. In spite of the impermanent nature of this arrangement, the two camps were quite lovely, with comfortable rooms made of canvas and spacious porches overlooking the stunning landscape.
As the Delta is only accessible by way of plane or boat during the seasonal floods, I travelled first to Gunn’s by way of a six-seater plane from Maun, which actually touched down at a nearby camp called Eagle Island because the airstrip at Gunn’s was flooded. From there, we took a short stroll away from the airstrip and climbed into a medium sized motor boat that had been pulled haphazardly to shore.
The driver of the motor boat set off at a startling speed. Although I had seen elephants from the small plane I flew in on, my first close-up glimpse of a large land animal, a male giraffe, was a blur as we zoomed past. For about twenty minutes, we sped through the intricate maze of waterways, which seemed indistinguishable from one another. The edges of the channels were thickly lined with papyrus and reeds, and white and pink lilies floated in clusters on the surface of the water, their long, spindly roots buried deep within the sand below.
When we arrived at camp, I was introduced to a fellow, O.B., who would be my guide for the duration of my stay. There was only one other guest at camp, who was also under O.B.’s care, although she preferred boating to walking so we were split up according to our interests. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I was told that my first experience in Botswana would be a private bush walk after lunch with not one, but two guides.
For generations, the inhabitants of the Delta have traversed the flooded terrain by way of a dug-out boat called a mokoro. Traditionally, mekoro (the plural of “mokoro”) were carved from locally harvested wood, and while that continues to be the case within traditional villages, mekoro built for commercial use are fashioned out of fiberglass. The mokoro is shaped like a canoe, although they are narrower, have lower sides, and sit lower down in the water. Boys who are raised in the bush learn to maneuver a mokoro in the traditional manner, which involves standing at the stern and gently propelling the boat forward by way of a long pole. Interestingly, the “poler” doesn’t alternate from one side to the other as one would when paddling a canoe, but rather, “poles” on one side. If he’s carrying a passenger, that person sits right in the center of the boat on the deck.
Naturally, polers develop exquisite balance, and their elegant posture against the backdrop of the gorgeous setting is quite breathtaking. In general, one travels by mokoro at a contemplative pace. However, the polers maneuver the boats surprisingly deftly when necessary, altering their course quite suddenly, for example, in order to avoid an unwelcome encounter with a crocodile or hippopotamus, and managing to do so without themselves or their passenger falling in.
In this manner, we departed from camp and gently glided to a nearby island, O.B. and I in one mokoro and the other guide poling alongside us. His passenger was a large light blue cooler filled with drink boxes and snacks. Although there had been a great deal of lighthearted chatter on the dock as we were preparing to leave, O.B. and I quickly settled into a comfortable silence, surrounded by the sounds of insects and birds.
Traveling by mokoro in the Okavango Delta
Shortly after we had set off, O.B. silently guided the boat in a different direction than what had seemed to be our general trajectory. He drew the mokoro to a full stop, gestured for me to look to my left, and I beheld my first painted reed frog. It was half the size of my thumb, and he had spotted it from at least five yards away.
O.B. reverentially explained that the pattern on the reed frog’s body is determined by the relationship between its body temperature and the outside temperature. Its color and pattern will change according to whether it needs to warm up or cool down, almost as though it’s adding or removing layers of clothing. At the moment, this particular painted reed frog was covered with an intricate symmetrical pattern made of tiny black dots, which reminded me of traditional Australian Aboriginal art. Although I knew it was a little rude, I couldn’t resist laying my fingertip against its tiny, cool back while it rested vertically upon a swaying reed. O.B. looked on with quiet amusement, clearly enjoying my delight at his discovery, yet turning away shyly when I exclaimed, “Well spotted!”
Shortly thereafter, we disembarked on an island, pulled the mekoro to shore, and huddled on the sand. While sipping his cold fruit juice, O.B. delivered a well-rehearsed speech pertaining to safety, which can be distilled to, “Do everything I say. Period. ” When we had finished our drinks, I obligingly fell in step behind him and the second guide followed me, illuminating the need for a second guide during bush walks: there is always a guide at the front and rear of the guests, who are sandwiched in between them for safety.
That afternoon, as well as during the following morning when we undertook our second bush walk together with a larger gaggle of guides and guests, I was introduced to the art and science of tracking.
(To continued…)
