Pole, Pole, Pole Our Boat...

After staying in the rather unimpressive capital of Gaborone, Botswana for a couple of days (with a very gracious Peace Corps Volunteer) Heidi and I hopped on a cramped minibus, bags in tow, for the bus terminal. The terminal is a chaotic mix of hawkers, minibuses, full-size buses and travelers where the western tourist can become easily intimidated.

Heidi and I had planned to head for the town of Maun, along the eastern edge of the Okavanga Delta, where we would chill for a few days and take a trip up the river in a traditional boat, known as a mokoro. As our book stated there were no direct buses we planned to travel to Francistown, overnight there, and continue on the next morning to our ultimate destination. Luckily, Heidi spied a full-size bus bound for Maun, so we inquired with the driver: it would arrive around 9pm and he would help prearrange lodging for us, so two clueless honkeys weren't roaming the streets after dark. Good enough. We hopped on and waited for all the seats to fill up, at which point we'd depart.

The ride was about 10 hours and nothing too interesting. Most stops were only long enough for passengers to get off, while others scrambled on to fill the vacant seats...and sometimes stand in the aisle. Additionally, men and women alike would hop on to sell cold drinks, (cold) fried chicken & chips, magazines, belts, and pretty much anything else one might need. We had some fried chicken around lunch time, having missed an opportunity to eat on a previous bus trip. It was greasy and cold, but it was sustenance.

As we arrived on the outskirts of Maun the driver stopped and called a lodge from right outside of its walls, inquiring if rooms were available for us. It was full. We continued on to the BP station in town, where all of the remaining passengers exited the bus and were whisked away by waiting taxis, friends and family. Meanwhile, we stood there...clueless. The driver explained the person he had charged with finding us a room wasn't answering, but he did finally reach him and the young man arrived in a rickety taxi a few minutes later. He drove us to a budget hostel in town. It, too, was full. I asked if we could use his phone and call a place in our book, but his phone's battery was dying and couldn't make calls. So, we hopped back in his car and he drove us to another place. It was also fully booked!

Just down the road was another spot, for around $100/night. It was way out of our budget but it was also late and we didn't have the luxury to be picky. Regardless, they had no rooms for us either. At the next lodge the manager explained they had one vacant room, but it was reserved and if we took it we would be subject to eviction, should the party who held it arrive. No dice! The manager was nice enough to call a place in our guidebook and inquire for us. Rooms were available. Score. He reserved a spot, under our name, and we were good to go...or so I thought.

Turns out that neither the manager or our driver knew of this other place...or how to get there. He asked for directions on the phone, but they both still seemed bewildered. So, we jumped in the car en route to the area where we thought the place was. On the way we came to the lodge I initially wanted to call, and our driver asked if we wanted to check there. Why the hell not. After driving off the highway we drove along a muddy road, surrounded by water on both sides, until finally pulling up to a gate. Our driver yelled for the watchman. Luckily for us there was a room...or rather a tent. It wasn't just any tent, but a nice canvas job on a concrete slab, covered by a corrugated steel roof. Inside were two comfy beds, and a small table with a lamp. Quite a nice little spot. We snapped it up, and thanked the driver for his troubles, both in words and Pula (the currency in Botswana).

Our digs ended up being a fabulous little spot, for a reasonable price. Both the toilets and showers were outside, with no roofs, surrounded by reed and bamboo for privacy. Rather than having doors a simple rope drawn across the entrance indicated whether or not the facilities were occupied. We were right on the river and the bar was also outdoors, complete with a pool table, thatched roof and a great vibe.

The next day we registered, got some groceries in town, and booked a mokoro trip up the Okavanga Delta. A mokoro is a traditional Botswana boat, and is made by carving out a single log. The task is arduous and can take up to three months, completed solely by the individual who will act as the poler, or operator, of said vessel.

After a one hour ride up the Delta in a speedboat we were dropped off on the bank of the river, near the village of Boro. There we met Timon, our poler for the day, and hopped into his boat. Our camp supplied little plastic chairs, for back support, and we were off. Between Heidi, myself and Timon, the boat was absolutely full. While we sat, he stood in the back and pushed us along with a pole, much like an Italian gondola.

The edges of the boat sat just inches above the surface of the crocodile-infested water, and we had a very slow leak too. About once an hour Timon would take a break from poling to sponge out some of the water that had accumulated on the bottom of the boat. "No worries," he assured us as he squeezed the excess back into the river. What we did have to worry about, he observed, was angry hippos or elephants. Although such incidents were rare, they could certainly cause us plenty of problems. He also stated that the crocs were not aggressive and we should remain calm if we saw any, as anxious passengers could cause him to lose his balance, and overturn the mokoro.

As he pushed us through reeds and along water lilies he explained something about the indigenous uses of the mokoro, which ranged from transport, to fishing, to going into the delta to harvest reeds for home building. Beyond that (and the occasional speedboat or tour plane flying overhead) it was absolutely silent and serene.

Timon also explained that he was part of a polers cooperative in Boro. The prices for mokoro rides are fixed and all of the community shares in the profits brought in from the venture. Every morning a number of polers show up in the center of the village and learn whether or not they will have to work that day. He had been working in that capacity for 15 years and said he enjoyed it.

After nearly two hours in the mokoro we pulled up to an island and disembarked for a bush walk. Timon prepared us for disappointment, explaining that, in all likelihood, we would see nothing more than scat and tracks, as most animals were inactive during the heat of the day (and it was HOT). But, as soon as we emerged from some flora there was a lone bull elephant gnawing on some grass. He was a good 200 meters away, but Timon told us to proceed with caution, and we took refuge behind a termite mound. If the beast smelled or saw us there could be trouble. As the pachyderm rumbled closer to our position our guide moved us further into the bush. Then the giant turned and headed the other way, so we continued on our walk, transfixed on the elephant for some time.

Along the way we also saw antelope, a warthog, a water buffalo carcass and myriad species of bird. All in all it was a very nice nature walk, but we were both exhausted by the time we arrived back at the shore for lunch, before heading back to Boro and our awaiting speedboat.