Botswana

The higher the monkey climbs, the more you can see of his butt.

                                                                     African Saying

Only dead fish swim with the stream.

                                                                     African Saying

 

 We are 5 days out of Francistown, Botswana, bound for Maun in the center of the Kalahari. Two of those days had been spent replacing a leaf spring in the pitch dark as to work in the Kalahari sun is suicide. The rover had snapped the 4 inches of steel plates in the broiling center of a hell on earth called the Makgadikgadi Pan. Across the middle of this 250 kilometers of shadeless, shimmering white, flat desolation the rover had seemed to float on a sea of mirage's, untill the breakdown. Now we sit & bake.

 We are four, my father, brother, myself & a half naked, hard drinking, 20 year old South African guide by the name of Henny. We travel in a salty old Rover pulling a trailer of parts for the beast. Four spare tires, extra leaf springs, in fact an extra part for every part on the vehicle, 20 extra gallons of diesel, 20 gal of water, 15 cases of hot beer. Standard fare for African travel.

  We wear one pair of shorts, day & night, a duffel bag of safari clothing goes un-opened.  Henny's entire wardrobe is a decayed pair of khaki shorts, an elephant hair bracelet, & a can of beer permanently attached to his left hand.

 There is no water to wash, it makes little sense to change cloths.

 The dust & heat threaten to smother, our heads pound from the un-escapable brilliance of the salt flats, & cheap cigars.  Filthy lean & hungry we are out there, not having seen another human in 5 days. We feel excruciatingly alive.

 At night, huddled close around a fire of imported wood, the powerful grunts & roars of hunting lions shatter the darkness. Perhaps their 5 miles away, or perhaps a100 yds, depending on the wind. The hysterical, insane, laughter of a hyena pack send primal shivers down our spines, as the scream of their doomed prey, a terrified zebra, cuts the air. We don't step out of the fire light, as soft movement & the red evil eyes of carnivores lurk on that terrifying edge of darkness.

 We sleep with the tents zipped securely & wake in the darkness to the feted

breath of some beast or another sniffing at the door. As the tent shakes with experimental pawing a certain humility seizes your heart...for here you are nothing more than dinner. There are no egos in the African night.

We will learn the importance of the zipped tent, as a week later we are near witness' to the mauling death of a young German tourist, pulled from her open tent by a prowling lioness & devoured in front of her helpless comrades.

 By day across the shimmering liquid plane move lines of zebra, their stripes fluid in the heat waves. Their legs wading in knee deep mirage.

 An occasional pair of ostriches, she a drab brown, he a striking black & white, lope along the horizon, their long snake-like necks holding heads level

above 15 foot strides.

   We finally arrive in Maun in late afternoon. Ahead the huge volcanic red of the African setting sun bathes the world in a soft warm glow. Alongside our Rover a hundred naked dusty children run, a welcoming chant of "CHE!! CHEEE!! from a hundred young throats rises in the golden dust.

 The simple frontier town of Maun clings to the edge of Eden, the Okavango Swamp. This lush green 1000 square kilometers of oasis is at such a contrast with it's surrounding barren desert that our parched eyes can barely comprehend the cool scene. From gently flowing crystal clear water, reeds & grasses weave gently in the wind. Atop magnificent palms, Fish Eagles screech & dive for dinner as graceful dugout canoes glide along the shore. The Okavango Delta surely offers the greatest dichotomy on earth.

  Clinging to the banks of this inviting scene nestled in a shady palm grove, an open verandah of bamboo hails our approach. A weathered wooden sign beckons to thirsty travelers.

                                     SIR LEONARDS PLACE

                                             Cool Drinks

 Ram Rod straight, with snow-white handle bar mustache, the very British Sir Leonard himself greets us.

 "ELLO CHAPS!! WELL MY, MY, IT LOOKS AS IF YOU LADS COULD USE A GOOD SCREW!!"

 We look at each other, my father brother & I, all dust caked & red of eye...

 "Well....that might be....nice..." we stammer.

 "ROSIE!" Sir Leonard hails the pretty black bartender.." SCREW THE LADS!!"

 Rosie smiles & retrieves a bottle from the top shelf. On the all white label SCREW is written.  We notice the other labels. MUD IN YOUR EYE, ORGASM,

 POISON, etc....

 "MAKE ALL ME OWN GROG HERE MEN!! "YESSIR YOU ARE ON THE EDGE OF CIVILIZATION NOW LADS!!" Leonard raises his glass... "TO AFRICA!!"

 "AFRICA!!" We chorus & toss down the fiery drink.

 "Why I believe that's the best screw I've ever had!" gasps my father.

 "SCREW ME AGAIN!! Scream my revived brother & I.

 Hippos grunt, the tubas of a sunset orchestra, while a million insects hum the melody, an calliope of birds & monkeys chime along. The prehistoric heads of gliding crocodiles cut fine wakes across silky waters as the sun drops quickly into the awaking jungle. Night calls & screeches echo across the swamp to our table.

 Feeling right, in the soft night, we are getting 'Screwed up'.

That's when we hear the drums.

 

 "The natives are restless tonight." said Sir Leonard.

"What natives?" asked my bro.

 "There's a small village of Tswana down the road, love music & dancing these folks, probable passed down from their Bantu ancestors."

 "LET'S JOIN EM!" Shouts my brother & disappears in the night. I stumble after him.

A fat moon has risen when we reach the village, lighting a collection of round mud-walled thatch roofed huts. A herd of horned cattle murmur softly from a coral of thorn bushes. In the center of the village, around a blazing fire, perhaps a hundred glistening Tswana leap in a large circle to the beat of a dozen drums.

 We stumble into the fire light.

Suddenly the drums quit, the dancing stops, as a hundred faces turn on us.

 "Oh Oh." I whisper....you could have heard a bead of sweat hit the sand.

No one moves...no one smiles, a hundred dark faces stare...

"I guess they don't get many visitors."...I was mumbling when suddenly my brother steps on a thorn.

 With a screech he picks up one foot & starts hopping about the sand on one leg. The villagers stare in wonder.

 Then suddenly a villager also screech's, picks up one foot & starts leaping about. Then another follows suit & another. Within seconds the entire village holds one foot & hops about the fire, screeching in glee. The drums start again when my brother loses his balance in the melee & pitches over backward in the sand. Then to my utter amazement the entire village pitches over backward into the sand, where they roll about holding their sides from unbridled laughter.

 And thus we pass that magic moonlit night on the edge of the Okavango Swamp. A beautiful Botswana evening boggieing with the Bantu.

 

 Looking for a vacation? There is simply no place like Africa.