Water. Lets face it there are places it should be and places it shouldn’t. Places it should include rivers, oceans and, if you are fortunate, your crops. Places it shouldn’t include coming over the bonnet of your significantly raised land cruiser as you slew at ever increasing angles along an underwater track thoughtfully and, unbeknownst to us, rutted by a JCB the day before. I glance across at Douwe -our guide- and surreptitiously move my camera gear to the highest point of the car, as he is suddenly elevated above me due to the cruiser dropping into one of the bigger ruts. I watch the water run alongside the side of my window sill and ponder on the stories I have heard about the Makgadigadi Pans and their ability to entomb vehicles in their muddy middenous bosom. It all seemed like the ramblings of an overzealous mind in the bar last night. Now I am not so sure but thankfully, with the engine screaming and the tires spinning we get through the 150m section of water and plough out onto the muddy track the other side.
One vehicle through, another 14 to go; I clamber out of the car excited at the prospect of getting some photographs of the other vehicles and their aquatic encounters. Exiting the car I notice two things, firstly that this area of the pan is covered by a slick of the greyest, finest silt that immediately clogs everything, secondly that it is also the habitat of the largest cloud of mosquitoes I have ever come across. I have about a nano second to wonder quite what they lived on before I got here and then realise that clearly blood is a rare commodity out here and they are all going to take every opportunity they can to gorge themselves. Feeling like a living pincushion and wondering how much blood I can afford to lose I grab a can of Tabard and spray it liberally all over me, keener to take my chances with cancer than the potential malaria these insects might be carrying. The Tabard works – for a while.
Kubu island campsite is our destination- it lies on the edge of Sowa pan, one of the pans that make up the Makgadigadi pans in the centre of Botswana. The pans are remnants of a prehistoric super lake fed by three huge rivers – the Okavango, the Zambezi and the Kwando. Several million years ago, due to geological upheaval the rivers were diverted and the super lake consigned to dry out in the relentless, tropical sun, leaving a barren plain that would take in excess of 5 days to walk across. It is one of those places that inspire awe simply because of the void it leaves and I stand silently watching mirages shimmering and dancing on the horizon.
Sowa Pan, Makgadigadi Pans, Botswana.
‘Sunset.’ Kubu Island, Botswana
Most choose to sleep at the campsite but for some strange reason I am drawn to the wilderness of the pans and drive off into the vast open space away from the haven of the rocks and trees on the island. I suppose that it is a survival instinct left over from ancestral times that makes primates choose the safety of natural structures over open space and I can’t help but feel nervous as I set out my stretcher under the stars with nothing around me but flat, featureless desert; the pan surface having the same consistency and feel as a perfectly baked thin-crust pizza base. My footsteps crackle on the surface as I make final preparations for the night and my slight unease leads me to sleep close to the vehicle even though there is nothing living for miles around. The stars form a perfect dome above my head and stretch to the horizon on every side like a vast tent that has been pegged down on all sides to protect me. Finally I relax and fall asleep as the whorl of the Milky Way arcs above me.
’Sleeping spot.’ Sowa Pan, Botswanna.
I awake before dawn and watch the darkness recede, my senses expanding in all directions as the sun breaches the horizon bathing my bedroom in a pink, diffuse glow. I break camp, jump back into the vehicle and return to Kubu Island to photograph the sunrise before the heat becomes too intense to bear. Already the white surface at my feet is starting to heat up and the rays reflect viciously upwards causing me to squint as I try to make out the tracks I made the night before. There is a moment of nervousness when I think I have lost the spoor and the oppressive atmosphere of my surrounding presses down on me as I fight a feeling of utter insignificance in this now, hostile environment.
With a sense of relief I see the outline of a baobab in the distance and home in on it and the security it entails. It is an interesting experience as I realise it is neither company nor food that I need to make me feel secure, merely the existence of a water source. Life’s essential bought home to me and how much I take it for granted in the ‘developed’ world I inhabit. I drive back into camp to hear a client complain that there is not enough hot water for their coffee and another asking for ice for their cool drink. Suddenly I yearn to be back out in the middle of the pan again.
‘Baobab Sentinel.’ Kubu Island, Botswana.
We pack up camp and continue our journey skirting the side of Sowa pan and heading towards the town of Maun in the northwestern part of the country. The terrain is crushingly flat, the plains littered with scrub like acacia trees interspersed with the odd 1000 year old Baobab that rises majestically above all other flora with a wizened sense of understanding. The temperature hits the late 30’s and starts to sear the already desiccated grass – the stalks snapping like tinder as we push our way through. Yet even here there are touches of fresh leaf growth on the trees. Iridescent greens daubed like miniscule brushstrokes on a golden savannah canvas that hint of the brief rains that fell not more than a week ago. Whilst we were worrying about getting stuck in the watery ruts it left, the trees were busy making the most of its life-giving presence to ensure their own survival and propagation.
We finally break out of the bush and onto a tar road that leads us swiftly to Maun, a town that exists on the side of the Okavango delta. Rains falling six months ago in the highlands of Angola have made their way here to spread out over the vast area of the delta. I jump in a small plane and take a flight over this unique ecosystem and am forcibly struck by the colour and variety of life within it. Herds of elephant wade across papyrus-lined channels whilst crocodiles slip silently beneath the purple lily-leaved waters in search of a multitude of fish or unsuspecting antelope to stock their underwater larders.
It is the time of the ‘barbel run’ in the Okavango – a natural phenomenon where barbel (catfish) congregate in there millions to feed on the baitfish. This abundance has knock on effects in the food chain; the barbel attract the crocodiles and fish eagles intent on gorging themselves on this natural bounty. Returning from my flight I jump in a ‘makoro’ and am paddled upstream amongst the crocodiles and hippos to witness this event. A makoro is the traditional form of transport among the Okavango waterways – a canoe hollowed out from the trunk of a tree, a single oar propels the craft silently through the water allowing the passengers to observe the behaviour of the aquatic inhabitants with often stomach-churning proximity.
‘Makoro’ Okavango Delta, Botswana.
There is nothing quite like the silent appearance of a crocodile alongside your makoro to make you realise the totally futile presence of a thin piece of wood lying between you and the jaws of one of the most efficient predators of all time. The yellow eye gazed unblinkingly at me in my seat at the bow of the makoro whilst the tip of its tail beyond the stern of the boat propelled it with consummate ease as our guide paddled frantically for the bank. With a languid indifference our pursuer disappeared below the murky waters to reappear a couple of seconds later with a metre long barbel clasped between its jaws. Bad news for the barbel but good news for us – I retain enough composure to reel off a couple of photographs as the hunter thrashes its prey to death in the water beside me.
‘Prehistoric predator.’ Okavango Delta, Botswana.
It seems it is to be a trip of hair-raising encounters. After watching the death throes of the barbel we turn for home and paddle quickly with the current. Rafts of hippos are present everywhere and due to the other boats on the river the males are starting to become tired of the hominid company. Perceiving humans as aliens in their natural habitat they start to resort to aggressive displays to warn off the invaders. Our makoro is no different and suddenly a huge bull bursts from the water beside us like a volcanic eruption. One second there is nothing to indicate its existence, the next a couple of tons of enraged hippo launches from the water in our direction.
‘Territorial victor.’ Okavango delta, Botswana
It has the desired effect and once again our guide paddles desperately with the current to outrun our attacker. Thankfully after a few hundred metres the hippo slows, content just to show its alarming display of teeth as a warning to us. Excess adrenaline is burnt off as hysterical laughter within the makoro and we glide to the bank and straight into the bar to try and gain some sort of perception and understanding of the primal feelings that have been stirred within our psyche.
It is a strange feeling to realise how far removed we are from the natural world. Every animal we meet is, to some extent, terrified of us. We have set ourselves apart from all other creation mainly due to the development of sophisticated weaponry. Leave the rifle at home, enter the natural world and suddenly we are back on equal terms, against animals that have developed areas of their anatomy for one purpose only: protection. Hooves, teeth, horns – things that fascinate us when viewed on television or from the safety of a motor vehicle – suddenly take on a far more significant meaning when we place ourselves back in the environment that we have continually tried to remove ourselves from for so long. It is a foolish notion to think we are apart from it.
And yet so desperate are we to maintain our aloofness that entire aboriginal cultures living in harmony with the biosphere have been denigrated as savages. Actively hunted and exterminated in the colonial days the Bushmen of southern Africa had an understanding and connection to the land that has fascinated me for the majority of my life. Perhaps it is a reawakening of an innate feeling within me, the desire to capture knowledge I once had; I don’t know – an unexplainable connection to life pointing to the interconnectedness of all things – a core belief that the Bushmen held dear.
‘Male hill.’ Tsodillo hills, Botswana
The Tsodillo hills are an area of intense spiritual importance to the Bushmen. It was a meeting place for the differing tribes where dances, chanting and shamanic type trances were undertaken before the asinine nature of western influence in the form of alcohol and land ownership debilitated the indigenous culture. There are in excess of 2,500 paintings adorning the cliff walls and many hold the Eland antelope in reverence. Mainly because it was their main food source and they gave thanks at every turn for the sustenance it provided. To a certain extent it is easy to see why the Tsodillo hills held so much importance. They are the only physical feature for hundreds of miles in the otherwise flat plain of central southern Africa. It would have been easy to identify it as a landmark at which to congregate as opposed to “that baobab tree” amongst the thousands of others that exist in the area. Nevertheless there is no doubt that there is something inexplicable occurring there. Bushmen belief states that it is the resting place of many of the ancestral spirits and previous experiences of fellow travelers seem to hold testament to that fact.
‘Van De Post Wall.’ Tsodillo hills, Botswana
Laurens Van De Post is perhaps most famously known for his research into Bushmen culture. It was his books that inspired my mother to pack our bags and introduce our family to the continent of Africa.
It felt good to finally arrive at this place, my own personal Mecca – the spirits of the Bushmen watching silently over me as I made a pilgrimage over the top of the female hill. In myself I took the essence of my mother and found a place high on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the savannah plains of the African continent. The vista from the outcrop was so flat that it was possible to see the curve of the earth on the plain below and there I laid her down. I hope a part of her spirit will be forever there, amongst the Bushmen in a continent that shaped so much of who she was and consequently so much of who I am.
‘Forever Peace.’ Tsodillo hills, Botswana.
Africa is a continent that teaches. It has the ability to fill you with beauty one second and decimate you the next. Botswana definitely did that. From the love and gratitude for a life passed on to the desolation I felt on the theft of my camera gear and laptop the day after leaving the hills, it is a land of extremes. It is the dark vestige of a life gone by or the candle of a shiny, new one. It is open to analysis and withstands all interpretations.
Yet there is something so affirming about it all. It takes all life and reduces it to its basic constituents. To step back into the natural realm and realise that you are nothing more than an animal with the same needs as every other organism – water, nutrients and space – is a humbling experience and a lesson that I hope I never forget. From landscapes with no water to terrain where water is in abundance, from flora and fauna that inspire awe in their very beauty to the harsh realization that those beings are in direct competition with you for the resources already stated. Heaven forbid we should slip from our pinnacle of power and have to re-adapt ourselves to the natural order. It is a stark reminder of how far we have fallen from grace when you discern that none of our fellow species on this planet actually want us anywhere near them in the small wild-areas where human influence is at its most benign. Perhaps paying homage to these animals that have the wherewithal to annihilate you with the flick of a tusk, the thrust of a horn or stamp of a hoof is the better option. To learn to live in harmony with them rather than trying to triumph over them is really only a reversal in paradigm. We have been there before. The Bushmen were testament to that. Perhaps we should learn to listen.
‘Mock-Charge’ Botswana.