“This is a mokoro,” our guide announced.
I was in Maun, Botswana, about to embark on a three-day excursion into the Okavango Delta. One of the seven natural wonders of Africa, the delta is created when the Okavango River floods in the flat desert grasslands of northern Botswana. It’s possible to travel by boat over these floodwaters and camp on one of the many remote islands. This was the adventure I was about to embark on.
Our guide was pointing at a very narrow longboat, roughly carved out of wood. This vessel would be responsible for carrying myself, my friend, and all the equipment we needed for two nights in the delta. It reminded me of a punt, but shorter and much skinnier—perhaps more like a kayak. It looked farcically small and unstable.
“How are we going to fit us and all our stuff in there?” my friend and boat-buddy murmured to me.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I assured her. “This is just a really small version of the real thing that they’ve made to display to tourists.”
Yet when we reached the water’s edge, we were presented with a long row of these same narrow boats. My friend and I stopped on the bank and stared, perplexed, at the mokoros. Already a crowd of people surrounded them. Some were passing bags to be loaded; others were standing upright in the boats, using long wooden poles to stabilise themselves on the river bed.
“Dumela mma,” said a voice to my side. “I am Spice; I will be your poler.”
Turning, I saw a small, young man, about my age. I clasped his hand in the traditional greeting of Botswana.
“Spice,” I said, pointing at the nearest mokoro, “how exactly are we going to fit in there?”
“We will fit,” he told me confidently, leading us to the mokoro. “We will fit.”
In terms of the mokoro’s stability, boarding was the most worrying moment. Clutching Spice’s hand, I stepped into the wobbling boat, wishing I had a pole to steady myself with. I clambered right into the pointed bow, desperately trying not to capsize before we’d even set off. Though the mokoro was wedged onto the bank at the stern, where I was sitting at the front continued to wobble. Spice passed me our things one by one and I attempted to wedge them in, leaving room for the three of us.
I couldn’t believe that everything fit: our tent, our sleeping mats and our small rucksacks with everything we needed for 48 hours in the remote delta. Add to that three people and it was hard to align this packed mokoro with the skinny little vessel it had appeared from the bank.
From my position at the front of the boat I had a perfect view ahead. As Spice pushed away from the riverbank, I settled back with my baggage around me and gazed out at the delta.
Prior to this moment, I had only seen glossy photos of the Okavango Delta on Google, or on shows like ‘Planet Earth’. These were almost always a bird’s eye view, portraying meandering blue ribbons amidst a background of green and brown. I hadn’t realised, perhaps naively, that there would be so many reeds! From my vantage point at water level, all I could see was the narrow canal through the reeds ahead. It looked like a lot of long grass as far as I could see, with an occasional faraway clump of trees marking solid land.
A few times we reached large clearings, and I could see other polers above the reeds, only visible because they were standing at the stern of their mokoros. For the most part we stayed amidst the greenery. Not only did this help stabilise the mokoro, but it was also cooler. We were somewhat hidden from the intense sun, and the wet reeds whipping my skin were quite satisfying in the heat.
After an hour or so, we emerged into a clearing with a little delta island ahead. The bow of the mokoro ground into the riverbed at the water’s edge, and I disembarked unsteadily. Looking around, I spotted a giant tree that shaded most of the sparsely vegetated ground. Overheating and exhausted, though I had done zero work, we dragged our tent into its shade. I collapsed on top of it as soon as we were out of the burning sun.
“No!” cried a voice from the water’s edge; it was our guide. “You’re underneath a sausage tree! If the fruit falls on your head it will kill you!”
The irony that the only shade could kill us was not lost on me. Wearily, we pulled our tent back into the sun, and I resigned myself to a hot couple of days.
At this point, despite the wild beauty that surrounded me, I began to question my life choices. What was I doing in such a hot and sunny country? Was I an absolute idiot for choosing Southern Africa to visit, of all places? Could my body even handle this heat or would I just burn up and boil? And why on earth weren’t my avocados ripening?!
Yet as the sun dropped my mood went up, as if they were attached to opposite ends of a seesaw.
As the sun sank in the late afternoon we donned our closed shoes and long sleeves and trousers for a bush walk. It was October; the delta was beginning to return to a desert as the water seeped away into the reeds. Walking inland, the foliage lessened even more, until we were trekking across parched, barren land. The few trees I could see were bare and burnt-looking. This desiccated ground seemed incongruous with the swampy, reedy floodwaters that made up the delta.
Unsurprisingly, we encountered very little wildlife. Spice pointed out termite mounds, informing us that most of the islands within the delta began as termite mounds where a tree took hold. We also watched a distant elephant, partially hidden by tall reeds and apparently alone, try to keep cool by throwing water over its back.
The scene-stealer, however, was the sunset. As the sun dropped, it became a delicious shade of deep orange. Trees were silhouetted starkly against the pink and purple sky, and shadowy rays spread from the white-gold clouds splashed across it.
Lying in our tent that night was the first time since arriving in Africa that I had been completely isolated, with zero amenities. There were no rustling leaves, no animal noises, no lapping water. I fell asleep listening to and appreciating the silence of the delta.
In contrast, we were brutally woken at 5 a.m. the next morning by Spice shouting unceremoniously that it was time for another bush walk.
This time we saw nothing at all. It seemed that, unlike me, the animals of the delta were still asleep. For seven miles we trekked in silence, following Spice in single file across the arid ground. I began appreciating our early wake-up call, as by the time we arrived back at our camp at 9 a.m. the sun was as strong as it had been the day before.
Lying in the sparse shade, I listened to my friends splash around at the water’s edge. I felt lucky that this was a holiday and that, realistically, I wasn’t expected to do anything that involved any energy. How people function on a day-to-day basis in that heat is beyond me. I think it’s ridiculously impressive, and I’m so glad it wasn’t expected of me!
At sunset we boarded our mokoro again for a waterborne “game drive”. Without all our equipment stuffed around us, the little mokoro seemed practically luxurious in size. As Spice steered through the reeds, I sat back in my seat and stretched out my legs, appreciating the coolness and tranquillity of the evening.
We emerged into a large clearing, and Spice pulled to a stop. Ahead of us, less than ten metres away, was a small herd of hippos. They were splashing around in the water, which was stained with orange in the light of the setting sun. It was slightly terrifying, because there were calves, and hippos can move incredibly fast underwater.
However, it was also one of the most transfixing sights I’ve ever seen and my favourite memory from the delta.
The sun was tucking below the horizon when our fleet of mokoros turned back towards the faraway trees that marked our distant island.
Spice began ramping up our speed, poling so fast that we cruised past a line of boats every time the reeds left a wide enough passage. The pace was exhilarating after our serene evening. Suddenly there was a thundering splash and we veered sideways into the reed bed. We were wedged so sturdily in the reeds that I was able to turn right around on my knees, bewildered, to see what had happened. Looking around it transpired that Spice was nowhere to be seen.
The mokoros we’d just overtaken passed us again, polers and passengers alike roaring with laughter as a soaking wet Spice emerged from the reeds a few metres away. Spluttering, he clambered back into his place at the stern.
“My pole got stuck,” he muttered. Admittedly it was hard not to laugh as he shook himself off and attempted to navigate us out of the reeds. Amidst not-so-stifled sniggers from the onlookers, Spice splashed us for laughing at him until we were nearly as damp as he was.
I was sad to leave our little island when we packed up the following day. I had become accustomed, on our sunset trip, to being able to stretch my legs out luxuriously in front of me. As we piled all our equipment into the mokoro, I remembered how small this little vessel really was, and yet how much it could carry.
We proceeded with much more caution today. Due to his mishap the day before, Spice had been demoted to a really short pole. Our progress was thus a lot slower.
The return journey also seemed much shorter, despite our unhurried speed. The sceptical part of me suspected that perhaps we had only been a couple of miles from Maun the whole time. Maybe the lure of the delta had been so great that we hadn’t realised we were actually right next to the mainland. Maybe the combination of reeds and barren land had merely led us to believe we were isolated in the wilderness of the delta.
However, I think it more likely that the time passed swiftly because I was so eager to hold onto our last few moments in the delta. Our moments in the mokoro were my favourite parts of our stay, and I was sad to disembark for the last time from our tiny, sturdy vessel.
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