Day 13

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We leave N'Kwazi at nine again, and pop back to the gas station at Rundu for another hit on the ATM. We then have a choice of doing two hundred kilometres off-road following the line of the river to our next stop or a very straight tarmac road which runs in parallel. We start off on the tarmac, to make up some ground on the others who went off earlier. As we ride along the straight road, my mind wanders back to the previous evening, when we were "treated" to a dancing display by some local people, and pretty dire it was too.

Don't get me wrong, I am a big fan of this kind of stuff generally - we attended a wedding in the Tala Game reserve near Durban SA earlier in the year, and the dancing was spectacular, a fine showcase of tradition and entertaining to boot. Last night's effort, unfortunately, was neither.

To be fair, in Tala they were professionals whereas in N'kwazi they were simply a few ladies from the local bible class making a quick buck from a captured audience. Three likely lads beat hell out of their drums with no discernible rhythm or connection to the dancers, who performed four dances, every one of which consisted of the ladies shuffling around in a circle whilst singing Christian lyrics. John mumbled something about the church ruining everything, possibly with reference to the fact that traditionally the women in these parts mostly went about topless and these "dancers" were not. Still, you can't have everything. After a final rendition of the Namibian national anthem, it was thankfully over. Pam and I contributed two hundred Namibian dollars to the church funds.

After dinner, we hung round the fire pit for a final beer, chatting to Jenna and Craig, before we headed off to our cabin. The cabins were strung out along the river bank, about 15 metres apart - ours was the last one, and all was in darkness. It came as a bit of a shock to find a large figure sat on the edge of our veranda, huddled over with his back to us wearing a hood.

"Hello there? Can I help you?" I demanded imperiously, assuming total control of the situation. No reaction at all. We were poised at the door of our cabin and this guy was seemingly ignoring me. I then saw he was holding a mobile phone and texting somebody. "Hello?" I said again, re-affirming my dominant position in this exchange. He languidly stood up, turned around and nonchalantly brushed past me, ambling towards the clubhouse without a word. I glanced at his back, open the door to the cabin, and scooted inside with Pam.

Peering through the shutters, I could see that the fellow had come to a stop midway between our cabin and the next. He clearly had no grasp of how masterfully I had handled the encounter, as he continued to text away to some unknown co-conspirator. Pam and I were now genuinely concerned, but since there was no way of contacting the lodge (no phone in cabin) and no way to seek assistance (he was between us and the rest of our sleeping comrades), there seemed only one reasonable course of action available to me. I would have to explain to him that I most definitely did not get where I am today by suffering any undesirables loitering with (or without) intent around my quarters after dark, alarming my good lady wife, etc., etc.

I was completing the rehearsal of this pronouncement in my mind as I emerged from the cabin and walked up to his back. It was at this point that I saw the large, gleaming, yet somehow previously unnoticed machete tucked under his arm. How the hell had I seen his rather diminutive cell phone in his hand and missed the enormous weapon of mass destruction? I was already upon him and wishing I wasn't.

"What are you doing here?" was all that came out of my constricted voice-box, British Imperialist rhetoric now dispensed with.

"Sikureete" came the dark reply. I immediately assumed he had said "security" and giggled hysterically, slapped him on the back in a friendly manner and said "Fantastic!", before bolting back to the cabin. Slept like a baby.

We spend a little more time on the road, then nip down towards the river to try the dirt. After thirty kilometres of it we head back to the tarmac, since you can't see the river from the track and spend most of the time concentrating on the gravel surface rather than taking in the sights. The others had come came to the same conclusion. Alongside the dirt roads are communities of charcoal makers, burning off wood from the brush in choked-off barrels. Fire smoke drifts across the roads, dogs chase cars, and we pass a dead cow lying by the side of the road, awaiting collection by the butcher. Some of the places these folks are living in are amongst the most basic we have encountered, bits of wood with black plastic bags for walls and roofs. Others have kraal made of rushes or planks of wood and are significantly more sophisticated, containing several dwellings.

We arrive at our own dwellings in Divundu, the "glamping" lodge on the Okavango river, but not before encountering another short tricky stretch of sand on the drive into the lodge. For the first time, Pam dismounts to let me have a crack at it alone, and is immediately given a lift by the lodge owner. I make a fair fist of it on my own and get to the lodge in couple of minutes. During that time, Pam uses her uncanny abilities to find out the owner's entire life history, including the charming story of his forthcoming marriage to his business partner's widow after he himself was widowed many years earlier.

We have a really great river cruise in the afternoon, seeing hippos galore, African Openbill, Cormorants and Pied Kingfisher. Dinner excellent, as was the wine cellar, but we chose Raka Pinotage yet again as its now a favourite. We hit the sack early and avoid a massive attack on the bar by the others, more of which tomorrow.

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