THE OKAVANGA DELTA

Imagine that a continent’s major river, call it The Congo, starts at your shoulder (Angola).   As it descends your arm (“The Panhandle’) and spreads into your palm, its name changes to Kavanga (in Namibia) and finally Okavanga (in Botswana).   With no outlet to the sea, the river is swallowed by the sands of the Kalahari Desert as it branches out into your fingers, consumed by the thirsty air, and losing itself in a maze of lagoons, channels and islands.  That, in a non-pictorial nutshell, is the Okavanga Delta, the pride of landlocked Botswana, a nationally protected and uninhabited preserve and  major tourist Mecca for animal lovers, hunters, explorers, researchers and the otherwise just plain curious.

Roughly the size of Texas, Botswana is almost totally covered with scrub bush and savanna grasslands, which together facilitate vast migrations of wildlife rarely seen elsewhere on the continent. 

Botswana is also a political and economic success story, despite its notoriety as having the highest percentage (38%) of HIV infected population.  Shortly after gaining independence from colonial rule in 1966, one of the world’s three richest diamond-bearing formations was found here.   With the exception of South Africa, Botswana is the most economically and politically stable country in sub-Saharan Africa with high standards of education and health care.   But a frantic fight for alternative revenue is in high gear.   The mines are thought to contain only 35 years of diamond-supply. There is scant alternative mineral wealth and foreign investment is mostly limited to diamond mining.  Observers are worried about the country’s future.

Despite its standing as one of the best managed countries in Africa, it’s championship title compares it to a continent of misfits, madmen, kleptocrats and massive dysfunction.

Lest we forget, this is still Africa.

We headed west along the border where 4 countries – Angola, Zimbabwe, Namibia and Botswana meet and reached the river crossing that would take us to the tip of the Okavanga Delta’s Panhandle, to begin our descent into its heart.  It was the typical African ferry crossing.  Only one “ferry,” more like a cargo raft, makes the 5-minute crossing and is large enough for a single small bus and a jeep.   Passengers hung on to the ferry’s chains, the only barrier protecting them from the croc-infested water.  We landed with a clunk. The truck was either too high or the ferry too low.  The front fender and underbody slammed into the mound of dirt operating as an off-ramp.  No problem.  The Africans are ready for every eventuality that may happen on a regular basis.   The truck reversds onto the ferry, and two metal strips, purposely bent to imitate a dip, are placed by the passengers (one of whom burned his hand touching the metal which had been sitting in the sun for God-knows how long) in front of the truck, creating the height needed to exit the ferry.   We were on our way.

An hour later we reached our destination which was at the end of a sandy road in the middle of nowhere.  Waiting for us were our “Polers,” natives trained to steer the “mokoro”, a flat-bottomed dug-out that floats in as little as one foot of water.  We carried our considerable amount of stuff:  sleeping bags, cooking equipment, food, eating utensils, water jerrycans, etc., etc., etc., through the brush and sand, cow dung and cows, straining under the weight of our “essentials,” until we reached the water’s edge, where the mokoros were waiting – one for every two people.  Only one Poler and his long pole, a simple wood stick, pushed us along.  We were sitting low to the water.   There was only a thin sheet of wood that separated our bottoms from the water’s surface.  The 1 ½ hour boat voyage to our campsite was through a veritable wonderland of flora and fauna, void of the sound of human voice and punctuated intermittently by the  palpable grunt of hippos and singing birds. 

Despite its narrow and low –to- the- water construction, the mokoro was extremely stable, comfortable and dry.  Its pointy bow split the tall grasses before us effortlessly and silently, dividing reed and papyrus right down the middle as Moses parted the Red Sea, allowing us to gracefully glide forward.

Our campsite was a deserted island in the heart of the Delta.   Unfenced, at water’s edge, I was petrified to leave my tent to pee during the night.   Hippos, which have no sweat glands, remain in the water all day long, coming up for air every 5-7 minutes to breathe.  They graze on the river’s banks under cover of night.  If one gets between a hippo and the water he’s done for it.  Hippos are extremely aggressive in such situations and can charge with such ferocity and force that death to the interloper is almost certain.   I heard the hippos grunting all night.   Adding to the drama was the threat of hyenas lurking behind a bush and who knows what else.    I peed immediately behind our tent.

The next morning the mokoros took us further afield during a sunrise that lit the hundreds of white and lavendar lily pads and tall grasses with a glow of yellow and orange.  Suddenly I heard the telltale hippo grunt again – this time directly under the mokoro!    My heart stopped beating for a split second.   Will the nasty creature overturn our boat?  We were in only a very few feet of water.   I held on to my camera for dear life. Immediately we entered into an open lake-like area of the Delta where the hippos were cavorting.  The grunts I heard had traveled under water which had magnified the sound.  

We arrived at another island for a “nature walk.”  Our first sighting was an elephant.   Good thing our tracker/poler sighted him first.   He was agitated and not in a good mood. (the elephant, not our poler)  We backed off and crouched behind a bush until the elephant took off in the other direction.    The island was awash in zebra, monkey, oryx, warthog and other wildlife.   All of which we were able to observe fairly closely in full living color.

The trip back to “civilization,” in reverse, from isolated camp site to “big city,” was long – load our gear and ourselves off the island campsite and into the mokoros, and pole back to  middle of nowhere on the mainland, hike through the scrub and bush, loaded with stuff,  finally reaching the truck which was waiting for us in the same spot – under the shade of a lonely baobab tree. 

But the trip on the main road would prove to be even longer.

As we attempted to drive around a tree in the middle of the dirt road, we got bogged down in sand up to the middle of the back wheel.   The guys dug almost to the other side of the world to no avail.  Villagers appeared out of nowhere to watch the spectacle, as did some guy strolling down the road with a rifle laid horizontally across his shoulders, striding as if he owned the highway.   We flagged down a passing truck, and although it had no chain, it volunteered to wait as a villager ran back to get one.   He appeared, huffing and puffying some 15 minutes later with a rope – a rope!  A simple fiber cord. What was he thinking????  Another villager soon thereafter came to the rescue with a real, but flimsy metal chain.   After hooking the chain to the pulling truck, a passing army truck took its place in the back to push.   The cows were shooed away from the area, and with one giant heave - ho, a perfectly synchronized push from the back and pull from the front, the chain snapped.  Yosy took out his lucky thick nylon rope that he never leaves home without  - 5-star Paris hotel or an afternoon of cross-country skiing in the backyard - and, wrapping it around the broken chain and flimsy village cord, we tried again.   As the pushing truck and the pulling truck took their places, we counted down – 3-2-1.  One more heave-ho and we were out of the hole and on our way!  

Tomorrow we leave for Chobe, the second of Botswana’s major tourist havens, another animal preserve and home to a thousand elephants and other wildlife.   It will be the last 2 nights of camping before we finish the trip in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe and begin making our way back to New York.

I hope you’ll look at the photos which probably tell this story better than this entry.

TRAPPED IN THE GAMBIA!

Before I left the US, I obtained all the entry visas I knew I would need – Ghana, Mali and Burkina Faso.    Senegal does not require visas for US citizens and The Gambia was not on my radar.   It was added to the itinerary at the very last minute to compensate for the strong possibility that a large portion of Mali – the most important part of the trip – would be eliminated due to terrorism and kidnapping concerns.   I had no time to apply for the Gambia visa but knew that visas are routinely issued at border entries.   Everyone on the trip, I told myself, would need to get the visa in country.   We would all sink or swim together.  

I should have known better.   This is Africa.

The Gambia – and it is officially known as The Gambia, not the Gambia, or even Gambia, (and not to be confused with the Gambia River, which flows through it)- is the most bizarrely shaped country in Africa – perhaps in the world,   It  has peculiar road management policies and while its entry standards are quite relaxed, it is a stickler for the technically perfect exit, a conundrum for the traveler without a clue and a giant problem for someone in the undesirable position of having been unknowingly granted unauthorized entry who wants to get out.

Imagine a country as thin as a finger, beginning at Africa’s Atlantic coast and extending eastward, 2/3 through the center of another country – Senegal.   To get from northern to southern Senegal one must drive around the eastern edge of The Gambia, which slices Senegal almost in half.   The Gambia itself, only 25 miles wide, north to south, is composed mostly of the Gambia River, which dissects the narrow country in two, flowing eastward from the Atlantic.

I learned quickly enough that although Americans are required to have a visa to enter The Gambia, all of my travel companions, who hail from the UK, Australia, New Zealand and Holland, are exempt.   Only I would have to pray to the gods that the sentry on duty at the Gambia-Senegal border would grant me entry.  If he did not, I would have to leave the group and find a way to meet them at our final destination in Senegal. But where would I get a taxi?   The border is in the middle of nowhere with not even a donkey cart in sight. 

We arrived at the border just before closing – close to 5pm – a good time, we thought, to get waved through as the border guards surely were ready to close up shop and head home.  I nervously waited to know my fate.  After only a few minutes I got my entry stamp – good for 28 days.  We were in!   Because of its last minute addition to the itinerary, The Gambia was a new destination for the two group leaders.  They were as ignorant as we regarding its peculiarities.

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We made our way west across the entire length of the country to Banjul, The Gambia’s capital, which sits on the Atlantic Ocean, and enjoyed two days of beach, reliable internet, plentiful (but cold) showers and good food.

Getting out was not as easy.

We needed to go north, up to Senegal, to reach our final destination, Dakar, also on the Atlantic coast and only about 75 miles north Banjul. 

But we were south of the Gambia River and the Senegalese border was on it’s other side.  There are only two places in all of The Gambia where the river can be crossed – by ferry as there are no bridges.  One of those crossing was in Banjul, not far from where we were staying.   The Lonely Planet cautions that trucks are often held up at the Banjul ferry crossing for 3 weeks.   We got there  early – about 6:30 am, a full 1 ½ hours before the ferry opened for business but we were not the first one’s there.   We were promised that we would cross on the second ferry going out.   We waited patiently in our place on line for the 9 am ferry.   As soon as it pulled into port, there was mass chaos as trucks and other vehicles jockeyed for position and in the frenzy blocked all movement.  The ferry workers wanted us to pay for our passage, but we were reluctant to give them any money without a guarantee that we would actually board.   We pulled out of line and headed east, the direction from which we had arrived,  halfway across the country inland to the only other river crossing.   The nightmare was only beginning.

There is only 1 road in The Gambia.  The Trans-Gambia Highway  which runs the east-west length of the narrow country.   Although it is 4-lanes wide, the road is completely, 100% unpaved and is a broad, red dirt boulevard of potholes the size of small craters, donkey and cow crossings, and the most inept, inefficient system of immigration, traffic and military controls I have ever witnessed.    An immigration post is stationed approximately every 20 miles, the purpose of which was never made clear to us.  Some immigration officials waved us on, but most forced us to stop in order to inspect documents.  It didn’t matter really which documents we produced – the  vehicle’s registration papers, personal drivers’ licenses, trip brochures, engine operation manuals –  the officials seemed to simply be seeking something to do; some entertainment to pass their very long days.   Most of the officers boarded the bus to chat – “where are you from?, “where are you going?, how do you like The Gambia?”   They were thrilled to report the latest UK soccer scores or inspect the interior of the strange- looking truck that we are traveling in.   Some officials though, apparently needed more distraction from their boredom.  Quite a few asked to review each and every one of the 18 passports on board.  Passengers were matched up with their pictures and visas were inspected.  When we explained at each stop that just 20 miles back we had already been through immigration control, we were told that we were now in a different jurisdiction and that these officials had responsibility for the new area we had entered.   When we asked for a document from the inspecting officials to carry to the next stop that would attest to our legal entry, we were told that that would be impossible – the inspecting official has no authority to issue such paper.

As if this wasn’t torture enough, there was a military or police stop within feet of every second immigration control post.  They too, were curious and bent on fulfilling their job descriptions with gusto.   Somewhere near the 25^th traffic control, when our driver was asked for the 24th time where he was from, he responded, as he had before that he was from the UK.  The inspecting officer did not understand his response and he asked again.   Frustrated, tired, hot and pissed-off, the driver responded, that he was from “England, you know, your former colonial master.”  Lucky for us, the official laughed.  We were put through he same inspection and Q & A routine, stop after stop, time and again, every hour, and it quickly began to wear on our nerves.  Would we reach nirvana – the other side of the narrow river, so easily swimmable; so near, yet so far, - before twilight when driving is no longer an option for safety reasons?

We reached the second ferry crossing but were turned back so that the truck could get weighed.   We got through the weighing station, and along with other trucks, buses, pick-ups, and cars, we were squeezed, shoved  and rammed onto the overcrowded raft.   It took only 5 minutes to cross to the other side, but it took 11 hours to cover the 185 mile trip to the ferry, an average of 17 miles per hour.

Once we finally hit terra firma on the north side of the river, we pulled to the side of the road and pitched our campsite, exhausted and infuriated at the waste of time and human resources.  We were only 10 miles from the border with Senegal where we could finally leave The Gambia behind.

In the morning, we were the first to show up at the border.   Yet again, Immigration (with a capital “I” this time) inspected our passports, the last stop before we would finally pass through  border control.  My entry “visa” as it turns out, which Gambian border officials had stamped into my passport 5 days previous, was not really a visa, but a "tourist stamp" and, I was told,  had been in the country illegally.  There was nothing the Immigration Chief could do.    I would have to proceed to the border and pray.   As I was walking out the door, dejected and almost in tears, he called me back.    “Wait,” he said.   I can issue a backdated entry visa which would indicate a legal entry.  The cost?   A mere $40, which he put directly into his pocket. 

“Almost there”, I thought! 

 But, no, this is Africa.

No ink in the stamp pad.

No working pen with which to sign.

I thought I would explode.   Maybe I should have waited to hand over the $40.

Within moments,  ink and a pen appeared from somewhere, and I was on my way, heading over the border into Senegal.    I was never so happy to leave a country before!

 

ZIM OR ZAM?

The long overland journey has finally ended.  We made it over the border and  to our last destination – Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. 

One of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, Victoria Falls  are fed by the Zambezi River which, after falling over the largest waterfall drop in the world, eventually empties into the Indian Ocean.

Last year we visited the Falls, which straddle both Zimbabwe and Zambia.  The big debate is where the view is better – Zim or Zam?   I can say that each viewpoint has its advantages, although the spray is so strong that we were sopping wet, through to our underwear, in both countries.     I wrote last year about our departure from the Zimbabwe airport.   Robert Mugabe, one of the world’s worst despots, turned what was formerly known as Rhodesia, into one of Africa’s worst basket cases of dysfunction and poverty, and created hyperinflation that exceeded one million per cent.  He has robbed the mineral-rich country blind and has socked away BILLIONS in private foreign bank accounts.   The country recently stopped printing trillion dollar notes and switched to the US dollar as its official currency.    The difference the changeover has made in just a year is stark.  Whereas last year the airport was dismally and barely lit and had nothing – absolutely nothing – no food, no drink, nothing in the shops - this year the tiny terminal was bursting with tourists and nourishment was plentiful, as we waited patiently to check in for our flight to Johannesburg.   And, the electricity worked!


Johannesburg is enormous, sprawling over a huge geographic area.   We rented a car in this left -side driving country.   Not a great idea.  Yosy lost his license (er, "misplaced" it . . . somewhere in the world), so I had to handle the LIE-rush-hour-type traffic from the airport to the hotel with the manual drive rental.   Not only is driving on the left, so is the stick gear, as well as the blinkers and the windshield washers - all is reversed.   Yosy was screaming at me the whole way, to "shut off the window shield washers," and to stop hugging the left curb.   It wasn't fun

But back in Zim, we had high tea at the gorgeous Victoria Falls Hotel, housed in a 1904 colonial building that sits high on a hill overlooking the narrow gorge and the Falls. The Hotel was the setting for the movie The African Queen, with Bogie & Bacall.   For dinner we tried smoked crocodile appetizer and medium-rare warthog.   I can highly recommend both.

While Jozi is not as stunningly beautiful as Cape Town (in fact, its not pretty at all), there seems to be a much greater mixing of the races here.   With a thriving black middle class, blacks are patrons and not just the employees of the shops and restaurants.  This city is bustling and very alive.   It feels more cosmopolitan and sophisticated. 

We spent hours yesterday at the incredible Apartheid Museum, which I can write pages  about, but will spare you, since we are about to leave for an (escorted) bike tour through Soweto, the largest black township in the country.   No Township in the world has as much historical and politcal resonance as Soweto.  Created in 1904 to move non-whites out of the city but close enough to provide workers, it is the birthplace of the uprising against apartheid and former home of two Nobel Prize winners (Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu).   

Tomorrow we fly home.