This was the first mobile Safari adventure that I would experience in the Okavango Delta. Everything started well. The clients were my favourite NZers and they were repeat customers and therefore up for less typical travelling. Captain B. and I had just refuelled in Maun after a few very interesting few days in the Makgadigadi Pans.
We were headed to somewhere in the Khwai River Concession, the details of which strip etc are a bit blurry. A lovely Italian/ South African couple greeted us warmly at the airfield. They patiently waited for us to put the customary thorn branches around our tires to protect them from the laughing predators. This was Hyena country. Hyenas love chewing tyres. Even the cubs start salivating when they smell the warm rubber of any wheels, including our nifty Seneca's. We therefore never left our undercarriage unprotected when parking our trusted Piper in the wild bush overnight.
On the banks of the sandy Khwai River lay fat crocodiles, pretending to be oblivious to their surrounds. In the patches of green, young baboons were playing and the odd herd of antelope nervously took turns drinking. Their ears twitching in all directions, throwing their heads up skittishly every few seconds, they reminded me of the fact that we should be grateful of being an apex species...
The only stress I had had that day was to figure out where all the other pilots were compared to us. The Okavango Delta had little dirt strips seemingly everywhere. After listening to about 7 very quick transmissions from the resident operators in their Caravans and Airvans, I realised very quickly that I was at a loss as to where all of these other aircraft were, and where they were headed. I couldn't find most of the airstrips they mentioned so quickly on my map.
“Do you know where they all are?” I asked through the headsets.
“Some yes. Some no.”
Fearing a collision, I admitted on the radio: “I am unfamiliar to the area. I am routing from Maun to x at this altitude and have x nm to go. I have no cooking clue where all of you are, so please be aware.” Not the most professional radio call ever, but it got the job done. After my transmission, every other pilot for the next half hour mentioned the South African without a cooking clue from Maun to X in a laughing voice at the end of their broadcasts. Eish. But it did bring a few grins to my colleagues faces. Rather safe than sorry.
It was great to be back: the Okavango Delta is one of the greatest natural environments that our planet has to offer. Very cleverly, Botswana caters for high-end tourism, in order to keep numbers down and environmental protection up.
Our gracious hosts spoiled us with high tea, which they managed to magically produce with only one open fire in the dust. We settled down in the chairs and got to know each other. It turned out that the loving couple had 4 offspring under five years old!!!!
“So do you also have children?”
“Yes.” I answered. “But only two. We didn't breed every season.”
With that naughty comment the ice was broken as everyone erupted into raucous laughter.
Pretty soon our game ranger came out of his tent and joined us for some tea.
An elderly gentleman, still standing tall and slim, with very tanned legs at the top of his knees only, wearing very short khaki shorts. His hair was full and white grey, and he humbly took off his washed-out olive cricket hat as he greeted everyone in turn.
“Good afternoon, the name's John, a pleasure to meet you.”
He spoke in a beautiful Ex-Rhodesian accent. Piercing blue eyes shone out of a weather-beaten face. As he sat down, he asked us if we would like to drive along the river for the sunset game drive, as he had heard of Wild Dog sightings in a specific area that day.
We freshened up and soon clambered up the sides of the open topped Landy, cameras at the ready. As we made our way to the river, John turned around every once in a while, to tell us about the area and the River Bushmen villages and the general game we could expect to see on our game drives. The Zimbabwean accent was clipped and melodious at the same time.
We soon noticed however, that he never reacted to anything we asked or said. Odd. Almost rude. So naturally we talked louder at him. No response. Eventually I touched him on the shoulder and asked him a question. This time he was turned around in the driver's seat and looking straight at me.
“Ah, yes. The Impala ewes have all delayed the birthing of their young. It's been six months and no sign of a drop. The Bugakhwe (River Bushmen in the Khwai area) think the rains will set in late this year.” He returned his gaze to the bumpy track ahead of us.
“I think he's completely deaf.”
“Why are you whispering? He's as deaf as a blerrie post…”
“What's that?” John had noticed Stu's moving lips.
“Nothing, it's ok.”
“There they are. Can you see them?”
Gathering in the sand and long grass were a pack of Wild Dogs. They were quick on their feet and elegantly dashing towards each other, emitting strange little noises. Their white tail tips pointed to the sky and could be seen moving jerkily about in the grass. The next moment they had flushed some buck out of the grass and were taking turns biting chunks out of the struggling animal.
“The antelope won't feel a thing due to the high levels of adrenaline, don't worry.” John tried to make us feel better.
“Well, I suppose it's nature.”
“What's that?”
“Nature!” we shouted as quietly as we could.
“Indeed. Statistically, they are the most successful of all the hunters.”
The next thing some Spotted Hyena arrived on the dirt track sniffing the air. But they were no match for the numbers of the Painted Dogs. Some of the pack chased them off, while the others kept on eating.
The sun was starting to set and therefore we needed to find a suitable spot for our Gin&Tonics. We left all the action behind and John skilfully bounced us to an open area not far from camp.
“So how long have you been doing this?” Stu asked.
“Of course, you can relieve yourselves in front of the car. We'll all look away and I'll set up the table with the drinks and snacks at the rear of the vehicle.”
“Stop speaking in a Kiwi accent, you're confusing the man.”
“What's that?”
“I would like a single Gin&Tonic, please.”
“What's that?”
We all held up our hands. “Sorry, make that four Gin&Tonics please.” We all showed our right hand moving to our mouth, holding an imaginary glass.
“Certainly. Please help yourselves to some Biltong and nuts while I pour us the drinks.”
At this stage we had all begun wondering, how John had heard about the Wild Dog sightings.
After a few sips and a lull in the conversation, we suddenly heard a very loud lion's roar close by. Scrambling into the LandRover, John was suddenly the only one left on the ground.
“What's that? My apologies, but did you all hear something? Back in the Bush War there was an accident with a detonating Mini-Golf (general purpose bomb) in our Fire Force and I have trouble hearing since then. But if you speak to me while we look at each other, I can lipread.”
We explained that we would prefer watching the sunset in the car, due to nearby lions roaring. The sound of the lions accompanied us all through the night. Quite an experience when you're just in a temporarily pitched tent. John turned out to have a great talent to entertain us with his story telling. We were glued to his lips for a change, listening in wonderment at all the peril this kind man had escaped from. The funnier stories had us in stitches as it got later and colder. His sense of understated humour was much appreciated around the campfire. We only went to bed after two Hyena's had run through the camp between two of our chairs, giving us a huge fright.
This story is dedicated to the lovely people that we meet on our way, in our flying careers: but especially to the charming old storyteller, John and gentlemen like him.
