Lost in Botswana, Part 1

The man behind the counter had the longest pinkie nail I’d ever seen—I’d bet money it hit the two inch mark. His job was collecting the road tax all visitors entering Botswana in a car or truck had to pay and it was my turn to pay. My attention kept shooting back to that pinkie nail and I resisted the urge to ask if it had a particular purpose.

Wild Horses, Namib Desert

This far-flung border post in southern Botswana was a sleepy place that didn’t see a lot of traffic. My appearance in the camper truck might’ve been the show of the day. At least it seemed that way to me as my road tax man took his time filling out the form, using slow, deliberate lettering on each line. That is, when he didn’t inexplicably pause and stare out into some unseen distance as if pondering one of life’s vexing questions. He was clearly in no hurry because he probably didn’t get too many foolish white guys driving a camper truck into this part of Botswana.

Zebras, Namib Desert

Eventually, I paid the road tax, got my passport stamped and was on my way. I’d just crossed into Botswana from South Africa and was driving east along a road that more or less tracked the Molopo river.  The plan was to find a campsite for the night and sort out onward plans in the morning. After a couple hours I’d only seen one other car. The countryside was mostly savanna, grazing land I suspected, though I saw no cattle either.  On my left, the land rose up to what looked like a high plateau while on my right, the Molopo slinked along, hidden by heavy brush. At one point I stopped to help a leopard tortoise who’d decided to cross the road and was taking his time doing so.  

Namib Desert

As daylight started to fade I began to check the GPS for campsites. It had been reliable so far and had always found something. This time it came up short—there was nothing in this part of Botswana. The only camping sites it could locate were on the other side of the border in South Africa. Of course, I was a long way from any border crossing—especially one open 24 hours. An unappealing truth began to set in: I was going to have to find somewhere out here in the bush to camp for the night.

Now, normally such a proposition wouldn’t strike me as a big deal. But, this was Africa and the folks who’d rented me the camper truck had been pretty adamant about not free-camping just anywhere when out in the bush. The main guy gave me that head slightly tilted down look, like someone looking over the top of their glasses and said, ‘…you will be tempted to do it but don’t.’  He emphasized the ‘don’t’ as if it contained the implicit litany of dangers that were self-evident to any non-addled mind.

This was Africa, of course, and I took his meaning to heart. There were big carnivores out there, as well as other large mammals that roamed freely and might find you and your vehicle an annoying obstacle. The bush also had predators of the two-legged variety, poachers and other lawless. There was no calling the police or an ambulance or Triple A. Make a mistake out here and the consequences could be severe. 

Aardwolf Crossing, Namib Desert

These are all the sorts of things one knows or should know before engaging in this sort of a journey. But, hubris and its pal laziness set in and before you know it, you’ve over- or underestimated one thing or another and find yourself stuck in the middle of nowhere with darkness setting in. 

Hungry and exhausted from eight hours of driving, it was now either drive in the dark (also warned against by rental guy) or find a spot to park the truck and pop the rooftop tent out here in the bush. No choice at all, really—I had to find a place to stop. 

Part two: ‘What are you doing out here with all those dogs?’