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Heide and Mark Adventuring until the money runs out.... |
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Victor-y -- We Made it to the Delta! A few months ago we mentioned Noel Coward having written that only Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid day sun. In Africa, not even these two notoriously dim creatures would dare to brave the glare. Oh no. Instead it takes a right pair o’ puddin’s who have a mere 504 km to travel and no means, other than Shanks’ Pony, to cover them. Oh come on, what could possibly be easier? We just potter through the knee deep sand for an hour or so until we reach the road, flag down a passing grain truck and before you know it the hostess will be bringing you freshly squeezed, delightfully chilled, fruit juice at a luxurious game lodge in our destination town of Maun. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Reality check time. We potter through knee deep sand for an hour or so until we reach the road, then we sit there for over four hours, without water, let alone freshly squeezed, chilled fruit juice, slapping on the factor 45 as a plethora of Land Rovers, the occupants of which are so effected by the blasting air con they have to don their thermal undies, speed by and wave back at us as we try to thumb a lift. I wouldn’t mind if we were near a bus route but the nearest thing to public transport out here is jumping on the back of a tubby Hippo as he paddles across the river. After much agonizing over how we’d (if we’d) reach our destination and much agony over the intense heat there was only one thing for it. We’d have to set up a roadblock. After a quick rummage around the sides of the road and we’d found dozens of discarded empty beer tins, that had been ejected form the passing Land rovers and were still so icy that we could have imagined we were litter pickers in Norway.
Quickly these cans were formed in to home made wickets and an impromptu game of cricket was begun in the middle of the road. Heide went in to bat and while she had knocked an unbeaten score of 36 (my bowling was wayward as a result of the near fatal dehydration that was messing up my vision, no tea break for us) there came to us a vision of perfection so pure that Bernadette of Lourdes would have sworn it could not be real. It was Victor and his VW.
Never in the field of human thumbing has so much been owed by two to one man and his Jetta. He stopped, looked puzzled, and then, just as I was beginning to fear that he’d call my last delivery a “no ball” he asked: “Where are you going?” What a great man. Miraculously he too was going to Maun. Via a few other places on the way, but who are we to quibble about that? We’ve just scored. BIG! Apparently we were the first hitchers that Victor had ever stopped for, which I suppose, is some kind of all round first as neither Heide nor I had hitched before. I can’t say whether or not we’ll be the last pair of strangers with over sized bags that Victor stops for, but one thing is for sure, for us he made the ride an absolute joy. Not only because the man took us all the way to our camp site (fresh juice, and all that, could be found there!!!) and gave us a great history of Botswana, but because he was such an incredibly friendly bloke, with an infectious laugh and a terrific outlook on life, oh and he refused to take a penny from us for petrol (we absolutely couldn’t take his generosity for granted so insisted that he allow us to buy him dinner) We can’t thank him enough for the marvelous introduction to Botswana and its people, but Victor, wherever you are… Thank you sir! Maun, a dusty sort of place, bills itself as the tourism capital of Botswana. To be honest I’m not sure what ad agency they used to come up with that tag line, perhaps it was B.S.-Ads.com, but it is the point where most trips out to the Okavango Delta originate and as this was our purpose for visiting Botswana it seems like as good a place as any to stop. In all fairness to Maun it had an unexpected charm, in a dusty, outback sort of way, that had us quite content to hang out there for a little longer than anticipated. Though I’ll grant you queuing for an hour to withdraw cash from the ATM while we were there was also a little longer than anticipated. I may as well tell you, for I know you’ll all find it funny, you heartless dogs, that after standing in the line for the aforementioned length of time, the bloody machine could not dispense cash to foreign issued cards. Oh how we laughed! Especially as it appeared, according to our map, to be the only ATM in town and we were completely without Pula, the local currency.
The Okavango River is one of those rivers that isn’t particularly smart. Most people, and rivers for that matter, reckon that it’s best for the flow to head towards the sea. Not the Okavango. It rises in Angola and then heads south. The obvious course for it to follow would be a westward swing to the Atlantic, but oh no, not the easy life for the Okavango. It keeps heading south, through Namibia and into Botswana towards the Kalahari. It doesn’t take a professor of all things river like, or even a smart 7 year old, to work out that this is bad for the general well being of a wet flowing body. When the river finally reaches its dead end and hits the sands of the Kalahari it dies. But, before disappearing completely it forms the Okavango Delta. A remarkable expanse of 15,000 square kilometers of flood plains, islands and lagoons. Which is famed for: prolific bird life, lions, giraffe, hyena, wild dogs, antelope, cheetahs, leopards, hippos, crocs and probably a few thousand other exciting creatures that could gore, tear, maim and otherwise really mess you up.
This being the case it seemed to us like a bloody great idea to jump into a small hollowed out log, called a Mokoro, which is propelled by a fellah standing at the back with a long pole. It’s similar to a gondola in Venice, though with slightly fewer boater hats or ice cream salesmen in evidence. Well, we set off into the searing heat expecting at any moment to be swarmed by salivating 15 foot crocodiles and serenaded by packs of slavering hyenas whilst vultures circled over head waiting for any of the pickings that may be left. Alas we didn’t see any of this. Oh no we saw reeds. Well, ok, that’s not entirely fair; we also saw rushes. And lilies. Not exactly the stuff of Tarzan is it? Still, I’m sure that as we baked in the mid day sun a few of the more worldly vultures were thinking “hmmm, sun dried northern folk, crispy on the outside, juicy on the in!” Actually I’m probably being a bit harsh on our lack of big game spotting success; we did see a few dead fish. And I can assure you that dead fish out here, really, really stink!
All that said I suppose it wasn’t a total failure of a day. Even though we didn’t get the slickly marketed safari experience of a lifetime, we did get to experience, albeit in an almost martial time and distance sort of way, the lifestyle and travel techniques that the local swamp dwelling Batwana have lived for thousands of years. Ooh the gravitas of this cultural odyssey! Next Entry: August 30, 2004 Previous Entry: August 24, 2004
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