A Romantic's Safari - Botswana
Written by Amanda Jones for the Los Angeles Times
It was summer here and the sudden storm had surprised everyone. Although it had stopped, 2 1/2 inches of rain had fallen in two hours. The dirt airstrip shone silver with flood water. Landing was out of the question.
The tiny plane flew on over land mottled with shadows of clouds and carved up by an ancient water system. Below us giraffes scattered in slow motion and elephants flapped their ears. This was the place where the mighty Okavango River flows down from Angola, spreading into the parched and greedy sands of the Kalahari Desert to create the Okavango Delta, one of the largest inland deltas in the world.
Our pilot was a white South African, a lanky fellow, with colonial British blood pumping through a tough, Africa-born heart. "We'll head to Pom Pom runway," he shouted over the noise of the engine. "Might be less water there."
These "runways" were no more than a length of earth beaten out of the bush, with no airport. Not even a hut. Dry, waist-high grass fanned out, flaxen in the falling sunlight. The only sign of life at Pom Pom was a single ostrich, which begrudgingly interrupted its bath to let us land.
Eventually, a Land Rover cut through the grass and drove down the runway. The driver leaped out without bothering to open the door, introducing himself as John Sobey, a manager at the Macateer horse safari camp. A Briton, Sobey was exactly the sort of civilized chap one would expect to find in the uncivilized African bush. Dressed in khaki shorts and a crisp bush shirt, he had blue eyes, impractical pink skin, a close-cropped helmet of hair and perfectly shaven chin. "Wonderful you could come," he said, almost as if we were arriving at a house party in the country. "If we hurry, we'll make it back in time for a G and T before the sun goes completely. Loads of wildebeest, you know."
My husband, Greg, and I had decided to vacation in the Okavango Delta of Botswana for several reasons, the most formative being that I was fixated on finding the brutal, romantic Africa that Hemingway wrote about 60-some years ago. I harbored a deep optimism that it must still exist and had spent three months in late 1996 and early 1997 in various parts of Africa searching for it, only to return home depressed. In Kenya and Tanzania, the accessible wildlife is generally confined to large parks such as the Masai Mara, and I found myself competing with thousands of tourists vying to photograph the same sleeping wart hog or leaping dik-dik. During the peak season, these parks can become little more than drive-by zoos. On one game drive, I had counted 23 vans in a traffic jam around a napping cheetah. When the animal moved off to find a less molested spot, it stared up at us jadedly, with resign, and it broke my heart. What, I thought, would Hemingway have to say about his beloved wilderness now?
Then I read about Botswana, a country that had been very intelligent in its development of tourism. In 1965 it was still a British colony known as Bechuanaland, but by 1966 it had won a peaceful independence. The discovery of diamonds in 1968 permitted the new government to assemble one of Africa's strongest economies and most stable nations. Its need for the tourist dollar is not desperate, which has allowed for the luxury of planning. We selected the American-based Legendary Adventure Co. as our operator. Within an isolated 1,200-square-mile concession of the Okavango, Legendary Adventure runs small, affordable camps for horseback safaris, walking safaris and a more traditional luxury game-drive operation. Safari South, the concessionaire that owns the Legendary Adventure Co., also has a hunting facility on the property. With all four camps combined, there never are more than 32 guests permitted at any one time. That's 37 square miles per guest. Not bad.
We would spend four days on horseback at Macateer camp and then strike out on foot for two days of walking safari, sleeping in elevated camps at night. It sounded authentic. The perceived danger was part of the attraction. We expected to spend about $2,000 for the two of us for six days, with the only additional cost being air fares. This is inexpensive when compared to most east and southern Africa safaris of the same caliber. We saved some money by going in March, which is low season but a time when the weather is cool enough to be enjoyed.
At high speed, John drove us toward the setting sun and our gin and tonic. We were nearing the camp when he suddenly brought the Land Rover to a skidding stop. "Lions!" he hissed. "Where?" I asked, scanning the plain with novice eye. "Right there. What beauties," he whispered, pointing not more than 30 feet from the vehicle. Camouflaged by the tawny grass, the creatures stalked parallel to us with a wariness I had not seen in the cats of East Africa. Two magnificent, fully grown males, a flame of dark mane circling their liquid brown eyes.
Immediately, I felt the difference of Botswana. We had driven for miles and not seen another soul. There were no fences and no roads and we were in an open vehicle. John turned the engine off but kept his hand on the ignition and the vehicle in gear. I noticed he had a .458 rifle between the seats. I had never previously seen a lion from an open Land Rover. In most African game reserves you must be safely stowed in a pop-top van. There was a feeling of vulnerability coupled with an electrifying thrill. I turned away for a second to load the camera as Greg stood up beside me for a better view. There are few sounds in the world that truly make the blood run like ice. A gun fired on a city street, a woman's scream in the dead of night, the screech of tires or the roar of a lion. When a lion bellows, it quakes the very foundation of the human soul.
I heard the guttural roar and a rush of parting grass. The engine fired and the Land Rover shot forward. I turned and saw a mane stop at the edge of the grass, about 15 feet from the car. Greg collapsed onto the seat. "He went for me!"
"Just a warning really." John said. "Standing up made him nervous. They're not used to humans and we're potentially the enemy. Welcome to Botswana!"
We followed the lions at a distance as they walked into a clearing, marking us with suspicious eyes. Both bellies were round, swinging beneath them. They would not hunt tonight.
The sunlight slowly ebbed and a strong fragrance rose off the ground, carried within the waves of escaping heat. The smell of the Okavango was peppery, sweet, moist. It was a healthy and deeply satisfying scent.
We pulled into Macateer camp as the wildebeest young started their twilight dance. The staff lined up to greet us: Sarah Collins, a Briton and an equestrian guide, six smiling local women who were cooks and tent maids, and the illustrious Tigger, the bull-terrier-in-residence (affectionately known as Miss Pig due to her physique).
Moments later, Sarah-Jane Gullick (or SJ, as she prefers), the operator of the horse camp, arrived from the stables. A woman in her mid-30s, she was raised among British society but chose the African wilderness. She strode toward us, slender legs clad in jodhpurs, long brown hair trailing beneath a worn muster hat. A rifle balanced on one shoulder with a thin, tanned wrist slung limply over the barrel. She had high cheekbones and pretty hazel eyes and looked like a character straight from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro."
"Hello there," she said, pouring drinks from a well-stocked bar nailed to a tree.
The camp was built on an island, a mound of sand and vegetation that would remain above the water level during "the wet," usually beginning in late June, when the waters begin to seep into the delta from Angola. There is no rain, only a shallow flooding that lasts until October. The rainy season in Botswana is peak summer, from December until late February. This is a hot, damp time to be there.
A dining table stood under tall trees. Around an open fire was a semicircle of camp chairs looking out to a grassy plain. A large dining tent stood in the background but was never used at this time of year, and the kitchen tents were at the back of the camp. Kerosene lamps hung from branches and on small tables, casting a golden sheen over the scene.
We were led to our bedroom, a huge canvas-and-mesh tent. There were twin beds inside, real ones, made up with cotton sheets and floral bedspreads. Rattan matting covered the floor, a writing desk stood in one corner and lamps, run by a car battery, lighted the interior. Attached in the back was a bathroom with basin stand, mirror and a jug filled with warm water for washing up. To one side was a shower. With no running water in camp it all seemed luxurious and ingenious. The shower was operated on the outside with a bucket-and-pulley system. Morning and night, the maids filled the bucket with warm water, hoisted it high, and inside it flowed with a turn of the tap.
We showered and joined the other guests around the campfire. There was a young Scottish couple and a woman from Canada. The camp had five tents, although the maximum number of guests legally allowed was set at eight. Dinner was served under the stars. The temperature had cooled slightly, and the night air stroked my bare shoulders. Flowers and candles decorated the table as we ate three courses of continental food with excellent South African wine.
The following morning we were awakened at dawn with a tray of hot tea and biscuits. Because of the summer heat, there are two rides a day, a three-to-four-hour one before lunch and a shorter one in late afternoon. Groggily, I pulled on jodhpurs and a wide-brimmed hat and we headed for the stables. You do not have to be an expert rider to go to Macateer. But if you plan on mounting up, it certainly helps if you have a little riding savvy. It would be bad form to canter round a corner, startle a lion, fall off in fright, and be susceptible to disaster. However, warning given, this has never happened, and all rides are accompanied front and back by two guides, one of whom is armed with a rifle powerful enough to fell a charging elephant.
The stable boys had the horses saddled and waiting. I had a pretty palomino Arab called Amarula, named after the fruit that ferments and supposedly gets baboons horribly drunk. Greg, at 6 feet, 4 inches, was given a hulking Hanovarian steed called Ambos.
We rode out into what would become a flooded causeway when the water arrived in June. The grass was tall, green beneath the horses' feet and golden-brown near the edges. Palm trees towered between acacia, figs and baobabs. The ground was hummocked with tufts of grass, sandy in texture. For such poor soil, and for the dry season, I had never seen Africa so lush.
We rode as the sun climbed toward its furious apex. The horses were well-trained, strong-willed but courteous, and my Amarula had a lovely gait. We cantered over plains and through dry washes, loping in and out of the tall grasses, splashing through the odd wet marsh. We stopped to watch vaulting impala, dim-witted buffalo, nervy zebra, lofty giraffe, sloped wildebeest, fleet kudu, homely wart hogs, gnarled crocodile and lithe cranes. The game was plentiful--noble and healthy. I had found Hemingway's Africa.
By 11 a.m., the sun had obliterated all shadow and the land lost its folds and curves, lying seamless under the scorching white light. I rode in a state of bliss, but was beginning to wither with the heat. As if reading my mind, SJ turned and said, "A cold drink anyone?" Oh, Lord, yes please. But what sort of a cruel joke was this, out here, far from anything possessing the power to chill? We followed SJ round a corner and into a thicket of trees. There, in the shade of a benevolent baobab, stood a table set for brunch. The staff, in cheetah-print head wraps, moved through the dappled sunlight, pouring champagne at our approach. Miss Pig waddled out to greet us. We tethered the horses and sat to eat with savage hunger.
Midday was spent back at camp, deep in sleep.
For three more days we rode out morning and evening, galloping with the wildebeest, spying on stalking cheetahs, and staying out of the midday sun. We fell asleep listening to the disembodied sounds of animal Africa. Lions prowled nearby, we could hear them communicating in sonorous grunts, a sound that carried for mile after trembling mile.
On the fifth day, we were driven to Xudum (pronounced KOO-dum) Camp to meet Adrian Dandridge, our walking safari guide. Xudum is an even more luxurious camp than Macateer, with flush toilets and truly posh tents. This camp is for people who want a traditional safari, viewing the wildlife from the back of a vehicle, from elevated platforms in the trees (where bird-watchers are in heaven), or, in the flood season, from makoros, the local version of the dugout canoe.
Adrian is a white Botswanan. His family had lived here for generations and despite his blond, boyish appearance, he knew the Kalahari as well as the River Bushmen he grew up with. We were introduced to White, the Bushman tracker who would accompany us. Our bags were sent ahead to the camp we would occupy that evening, which allowed us to walk at a leisurely, unencumbered pace. Adrian, of course, carried a shotgun on his shoulder.
During the course of the day, we stopped to study animal and insect life; we dug roots, rubbed medicinal plants into our limbs and learned to build a trap for the francolin bird should we one day be at a loss for supper. There were no trails, just a general sense of where we wanted to end up.
At dusk, we reached a "fly camp," with tents erected on stilt platforms to keep us above marauding animals. Made of mesh, they had a removable canvas roof for a view of the night sky. There were beds with cotton sheets and a kerosene lamp on a table. It was exceedingly civilized. We ate traditionally, cooking kudu steaks over the open flame. During dinner, a bold hyena slunk in the shadows of camp. Hunting for gourmet carrion, it wheezed its fetid breath below as we slept.
Another day and our time was up, we had to leave the delta. I spent the flight from Maun to Johannesburg thinking of how I could get back. How I make the African bush a regular part of my life. I loved it. I loved the smells and the sounds, the heat, the dirt and the sudden rains. I loved the rawness of the bush and the simple satisfaction of returning to a cold drink and a simple bed. I loved watching a truly free creature go about its daily struggle, unfettered and unprotected, and I loved seeing it from the back of an animal as keenly aware of the danger as I was. I had grown so fond of the Bushmen, with their quiet culture and knowledge of life, and I envied the white folk who knew how to survive in this wilderness--with a G and T steady in hand.