Where are all the elephants?

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27th of March 2005

Nothingness to Nata.

Crack of dawn and thankfully I packed light. Everyone slid their backpacks and duffel bags nicely into the truck lockers. Except the German Hairdresser. He brought a large black wheelie suitcase even though explicit instructions were to bring a backpack. It is entirely possible that he has a portable hair heater in there along with an array of Salon Selective products. He had no choice but to put it in the aisle, in everyone’s way. The beauty of travelling in a small group is having your own window seat. Derick was all professional by describing today’s activities. “We will be driving for 12 hours over into Botswana. At Nata we will camp and have a meal at the buffet restaurant.” That was it, we will be driving all day or more to point Derick will be.

Trucking out of Johannesburg on the motorway past Pretoria and overcrowded combi vans, I watched the scenery change from restored white colonial buildings to endless dried out pastures trimmed with power lines. I loved it. There was just nothing. I felt in the middle of nowhere and with Pete Murray’s Feeler pumping out of my iriver, I was as close to stress free for the first time in a long time.

The ants are huge in Africa. They are fiery red with a bulbous black behind and you knew if you stepped on them they would chew through your cheap rubbery flip flops and sever off your small toe. We stood at the Whimpy stop drinking our soft drinks, fascinated by the monster ants.
‘Where’s Sminth?’ Our group looked at me. ‘What? How should I know?’
‘Well you are her friend.’ I guess that was fair enough. Little did they know my friends back at home had a running tab on which day I would kill her. I am not always patient and for that reason, the prime stake was day four. I didn’t kill her. She strolled up with a lime soft drink, took the cap off and took a swig. ‘Argh! This is horrible. I can’t drink this. It’s fizzy.’ They all pulled the face. Soft drinks usually are Sminth.

Everything began to flatten out and pastures turned into dirt patches. Dirt patches eventually became a horizon of dirt. We crossed the border with minimal hassles and delays. Normally there is a long wait for the vehicle registration but today it was a ghost town at immigration. That meant we were deprived of catching the white van 100m to the chicken shop. ‘Make sure you ask for takeaway even though we are eating in. If you don’t it can take up to 45min to get your food, even if no one else is there.’ We didn’t want to test this theory of African Time, especially since we were ready to gorge on anything and if it came smothered in peri-peri sauce, all the better. Sminth looked at Imy and Jules sculling back their Fantas and chomping of fries. ‘Do you know how much sugar is in Fanta? It’s not good for you; it can give you heart problems and diabetes. Diabetes runs in my family.’ With Fanta bottles frozen to their lips they gave her the look. Killjoy.


It wasn’t long before we were on the road again and passing under the wire signs of Francistown. The seating arrangement had changed with Sminth breaking the language barrier with the German hairdresser. Heads together and the occasional giggles floated from the seats in front of me. The scenery of random huts and Botswanian sauntering down the streets in their colourful clothing made ignoring them easy. All of a sudden the truck moved to the edge and halted. Derick jumped out, putting on his shirt at the same time and running to the back of the truck. We all took a sticky beak out the window wishing we could lip read as he conversed vehemently with a Botswanian police officer. Money exchanged hands and that was the end of that. He claimed we were speeding and had demanded an on the spot fine. The opportunistic officer had glimpsed the South African registration and figured he could make a few Rand on us. He was satisfied with a 20 and back on the road again.

It was nightfall when we reached Nata Lodge and tent pitching was not a problem. The atmosphere at the Lodge Restaurant was relaxing with happy campers clinking their drinks and cutlery. If we weren’t so tired from doing nothing we would be up all night at the bar. Coming down the ladder of the truck we almost trod on Derick who was sleeping on a mat next to front wheels. ‘Is that the smartest place to be?’
‘I have a moz net.’
‘Yes, but we will step on you.’
He picked up his mat and climbed up onto the truck roof. Smart boy.

African weather turns on you like mouldy cheese. Somewhere at 2am in the morning the sky began to spit at us. Instead of putting the rain flap over the top of the tent, I am so bone idle that all I did was shuffle to the side of the tent to get out of the way of the light splatter. The light splatter opened up just enough to be a wee bit uncomfortable.
‘Bek! It’s raining!!’ I rolled over closer to the side. ‘MMhhhhff, I know.’
Sminth sat up, ‘What are we going to do about it? We’re going to get wet!’
‘Just put the rain flap on.’ Sminth dutifully climbed out and began fussing with the tent. Seconds later, she popped her head in, a bit panicky. ‘It’s not there! We’re going to get wet.’
‘Its there Sminth,’ I mumbled in the foetal position trying to keep dry.
‘No its not! It must have blown away.’
‘It couldn’t have,’ I muttered, realising what a lazy crappy person I am.
‘How do you know?!’
‘Because,’ I sighed, kicking out of my sleeping bag. ‘It’s permanently attached to the tent. If it blew off, so would have the sides of the tent.’ The rain flap was where it was supposed to be and I covered the top of our tent. Not before a wet patch had developed right in the middle of the tent. Serves me right for being lazy and then sending Sminth to do something outdoorsy.

28th of March

Where are all the Elephants?

I woke up and went for a jog around the lodge. A little yuppie and mundane but running outside the lodge meant lion fodder. A couple of laps and I ended up sitting by the pool of last night’s restaurant. The maids were sweeping in and out of the wooden furniture. I was fascinated by this rhythmic manual labour, bent at the hips with rounded backs and swishing a handful of dried grass and twigs back and forth. They smiled a matronly smile and continued, step swish, step swish like the trunk of an elephant meandering along. The bartender smiled at me with his whiter than white teeth and continued to clean glasses with a faded brown rag.

Collapsing our tent after a breakfast of cereal and funny looking coffee, we were off on our first safari at Chobe. Chobe is Botswana’s most famous and second largest national park. Chobe is synonymous with Elephants. 120, 000 of them have survived and reproduced like bunnies ever since poaching has been controlled. Our guide is studying large feline predators at college. ‘You mean there are vegetarian felines?’ He looked at me, somewhat amused. ‘Well, you said feline predators, is there another kind?’ I think he thought I was stupid and was asking a genuine question. Instead it's just my usual rhetorical scarcasm. He could have looked all of 16 but turned out to be a couple of years younger than me. Better preserved than me as well.

The three smallest sat in the back uppermost level of the safari vehicle. This also meant that we suffered the bumpiest ride and at one stage I went a little airborne. At least we didn’t get bogged like the land rover in front of us. A couple had packed their silver beast with everything including a television and fold out kitchen bench. So we pulled out a monster jack from our vehicle and helped. By us, I meant the boys. Stuff the suffragette movement, the men can do that and I can take a photo.

The first few hours we saw impalas looking at us fearfully and hippos not caring before breaking for lunch. The German hairdresser hacked into an uncomfortably large log of preserved meat and I decided that tomato and cheese sandwich was the way forward. The insects are much the same as those in Australia, just on steroids. The also come alarmingly close to anything that resembles food. After last nights rain, the air is sticky and humid. Even though it was still drizzling this morning, the elephants should be venturing out to their waterholes by now.

The magical number is 6. That’s how many elephants we saw at the end of the 3hr trip. Out of 120, 000 elephants, we saw 6 Elle arses heading back into the trees. The only 120, 000 of anything we saw of the park were impalas and guinea fowl or Chobe Chicken as I like to call them. Derick didn’t quite believe us when we informed him of our animal total. A picture tells us a thousand words and in this case 6 elephant behinds.

After our pitiful elephant sightings we parked amongst the donkeys to supermarket shop. Can you believe I was carded when buying some Windhoek and Heineken Beer? 'Do you really want me to get my id from the truck?' The cashier smiled (because all Botswanian smile) 'How old are you?'.
'24.' He laughed, 'You are my age-mate.' No way, he looked 14 and barely old enough to serve me. I guess the thing with African Time is, you get trapped in it and don't age. That's the real fountain of youth. Smiles and laughter. Drenched with rain and out of Botswanian Pula we pulled out of the donkey car park and headed towards our next border crossing. Zimbabwe.

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Photos

Impala Stag
'Nothing comes between me and my harem'

Bogged in Chobe
"Stuff the suffragette movement, I'll take a picture"

Giraffes & Impalas
And for something different - a giraffe and Impalas

Elephants
The magnificent elephant bums

Elephants
'A picture tells a thousand words, in this case 6'

Now for something different...
Just to finish off more giraffes and impalas....

More Impalas
'Is it something different?! No, just impalas.'