Delta cruise ... Chelsia Tongue and her guide, Culture, in their mokoro
Our grey Netjetter Chelsia is well into the second leg of her journey through the hot and cold wildernesses of the world. In her latest dispatch she has a close nocturnal encounter with a tree-ripping elephant in Botswana's Okavango delta
And then the wilderness turns watery: for 15,000 square kilometres the gentle Okavango river spills generously over its banks to create a giant wetland of its delta, meandering around hundreds of small islands, through the tall fronds of papyrus, clumps of brown bulrushes and red and green stalks of the common reed. The water is so clear that the cobalt blue sky is mirrored perfectly and the grains of the pale Kalahari sands below can be counted; after weeks of endless white desert sand, I am overwhelmed by the contrast.
A tiny four-seater plane, the only means of accessing the delta, deposits me on an island housing a permanent camp of stilted tents, the starting point for my trip into the wilds. From the look-out platform, suspended from three large buffalo thorn trees, I am lulled by the huge red African sun dipping into the diamond-spangled water, and the peaceful evensong of barbets, plovers and coucals. Suddenly the reverie is broken by a low, growling ho-ho-ho and a sharp snap: not five metres away are the open jaws of the three cavorting hippos!
Into these waters, Culture, my guide, launches the mokoro - a five-metre-long canoe dug out of a sausage tree - packed with tents, equipment and provisions for the trip. As I seat myself on a cushion on its bottom, I notice there are only a couple of inches of clearance between the river's surface and the mokoro's rim, but so competent a poler is Culture that I have no fear of the water splashing over it.
He poles past white day-lilies, pausing to allow a pair of jacanas to finish their race across the green and red lily pads before they take to the air, assuring me that the he knows the habits of the local crocodiles and no, they wouldn't be troubling us on our way to White Island. It is easy to believe anything in the peacefulness of these waters, the mokoro slipping along so noiselessly that the only sound is the shush-shush of the grasses parting gracefully to allow our passage.
If only the illusion would last! Night falls quickly and utterly black at our tiny island camp. The fire is glowing a warm, welcoming red. We watch the flames dart round the huge logs, waiting for the thick steaks to start sizzling, and Culture tells me a story about how the tortoise came to have a cracked shell. Suddenly he pauses mid-sentence, so alert that I can almost see the tension sparking from him.
We hear a ponderous splashing in the water just metres from out tents. Quick as a flash he throws more logs on the fire and dashes to the water's edge, clapping his hands loudly. I follow him, and he whispers "elephant!" The splashing stops, but he keeps up the clapping. Then, more slowly, the splashing resumes, but the sound is fading. "He's going away," Culture says - and the confidence in his voice is inspiring!
He resumes his story, and I take a good slurp of red wine before turning the steaks. My pulse has just about returned to normal when the splashing resumes, but at a distance. Culture jumps up, and returns a few minutes later. "He's crossing - but far away."
Another slurp of wine. We tuck into our steaks. The frogs have started their evening chorus and normality seems to be creeping back. Then there is a sudden crash of trees right behind Culture's tent. Instantly he resumes his clapping cacophony and stokes up some huge flames. The crashing stops. My mind flashes back to the scene yesterday when we watched, from the safe distance of the mokoro in mid-lagoon, as an elephant trapped an ilala palm between his tusks and shook it so vigorously to dislodge the nuts that we were sure the sound could have been heard in Maun. Could this be the same one?
For a few moments we hear nothing, then lumbering thumps tell us he is on the move, and when the splashes resume, we know he is heading out into the waters again. This time we see his silhouette as he sploshes off to an adjacent island, and, ten minutes later, we hear him crashing down the trees.
He has contented himself with supper next door for tonight. Sorry to have been so inhospitable, but there really wasn't enough steak for all of us!
