Botswana Page 2

  Passing the jeep, the man turned and glared at me and when our eyes met this crazy chill went shooting down my spine. How he could see anything out of that black eye, I have no idea, but he could see, that’s for sure. I could tell just by the way he stared at me. I looked away and picked up my pace, double-timing it to the airport without ever looking back. Maun was well worth a quick stop, but I’m definitely ready to get on with the safari.

  WYATT

  AUGUST 21, 7:34 PM

  KALAHARI DESERT, 21° 29’ S 21° 50’ E

  19° CELSIUS, 66° FAHRENHEIT

  ELEVATION: 3,780 FEET

  SKIES CLEAR

  We flew to camp in a Cessna 206, like I had hoped. After working so many years for the airlines, my mom should be comfortable on just about any type of plane, but she was as scared as a little kid on a rickety old roller coaster.

  When she first saw the plane, her eyes got really wide. “Is this our plane?” she asked. “Please tell me this is not our plane.” When she found out it was, in fact, our plane, she turned white as snow.

  Soon after the pilot started the engine, my mom began sniffing the air like a dog does when it’s looking for food. “Does anyone smell smoke?” she said. “I smell smoke. Something is burning!”

  No one else smelled smoke. I think it was all in her imagination.

  The Cessna 206 that flew us to the Kalahari

  As the plane lifted off, it was bounced around by a stiff wind. I really thought my mom might faint. My dad laughed out loud at the sight of my mom, who had her eyes closed and a white-knuckle grip on the armrests. Maybe it was the pilot, who looked like he was barely eighteen years old, or maybe it was the toylike size of the plane, or maybe it was a fear that flight regulations in Botswana aren’t as strict as they are in other parts of the world. Whatever it was, my mom was terrified.

  With four passengers plus baggage, the Cessna 206 was literally packed from floor to ceiling, but somehow we all managed to fit. Before we boarded I challenged Gannon to a game of rock-paper-scissors for the copilot’s seat.

  “Bring it on,” he said.

  “One, two, three,” I said, as we pounded our fists into our palms.

  I took Gannon the first two games—rock over scissors, paper over rock.

  “Could be a sweep,” I said.

  “Won’t happen,” Gannon said confidently.

  He was right. He came charging back and tied it up 2–2.

  “This is for the win,” he said. “So, I’m going to tell you straight up. I’m going with rock.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Typically, when Gannon tells me what he is going to throw, he sticks with it. It’s his way of messing with my head. Then, if he wins, he gets to say, “I told you what I was going to throw and I still beat you!”

  “One, two, three,” I said, and threw paper, expecting him to stick with rock, as he said. Of course, he threw scissors.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Gannon said, laughing.

  “Best out of seven?” I asked.

  “No thanks,” he said and climbed up front.

  I was totally bummed because sitting up front makes you feel like you are actually flying the plane. But even sitting in back with my backpack on my lap, I enjoyed the flight. According to the altimeter, we were cruising between 4,900 and 5,000 feet above sea level, which, given the elevation of the Kalahari, put us about 1,200 feet off the ground. Just low enough to get a great view of the desert.

  View of the Cessna dashboard

  During the flight, we passed over several brush fires. At times the air was so hazy you couldn’t even see the ground. The pilot told us that fires often start when lightning strikes the dry brush, but that lately poachers have been starting fires in order to trap animals and make it easier to hunt them.

  Poachers are people who illegally hunt animals for their valuable skins, furs, ivory tusks, horns, etc. Poachers pose a great threat to the wildlife, since the more animals they kill, the more money they make. I could only hope that the fires we saw were started by lightning.

  We landed on a small dirt airstrip in the western Kalahari. From the airstrip we were driven over bumpy dirt roads, kicking up huge clouds of dust as we weaved our way through the desert brush. Yellow flowers budded on thorny acacia bushes. The leaves of umbrella trees made circles of shade on the sand. We even saw a kudu peek its head out from behind a shrub. As we neared the camp, the sun was falling. The sky turned bright red and the air blowing through the jeep was cool.

  Edo’s Camp is a cluster of tents that will serve as our home for the next week. When we arrived, our guide, Chocs, and his daughter, Jubjub, greeted us. A native of Botswana, Chocs is tall and strong, with the most perfect white teeth I’ve ever seen. Chocs had gone to a university in England and earned a degree in environmental science and zoology. When he got back to Botswana, he started a safari business.

  Jubjub was born and raised in the bush. Because her father’s work kept them traveling back and forth between the Kalahari and the Okavango Delta, Jubjub was homeschooled just like us. Her mother, whom Chocs had met when they were both children, manages the family’s safari business.

  Jubjub seemed very confident and mature, which I guess is inevitable when you grow up in an environment as wild as this. When Gannon told her that he liked her name, she told us that Jubjub means “savior.”

  We all gathered around the fire pit underneath a sprawling camel thorn tree. A dozen or so wildebeest drank from the watering hole, along with a group of waterbuck and a big male kudu. As the last light faded, a million stars appeared in the desert sky.

  “I’d like to welcome you all to Botswana and the great Kalahari Desert,” Chocs said with a big smile. “There are only a handful of places left in the world where you can enjoy nature in its pristine state. The Kalahari Desert and Okavango Delta are two such places. While in Botswana, you will encounter all of the Big Five. Does anyone know what animals make up the Big Five?”

  Gannon raised his hand, and Chocs pointed to him.

  “Lions, elephants, leopards, Cape buffalo, and … uh … the hippo?”

  “Close,” Chocs said. “You were correct with the exception of the hippo. It’s the rhino, not the hippo, that is part of the Big Five. Speaking of rhinos, have a look.”

  Chocs pointed to the far end of the watering hole. A large white rhino was coming out of the brush. It walked slowly to the edge of the pond, lowered its head and took a drink.

  “Next to the elephant,” Chocs said, “the white rhino is the largest land-bound mammal on Earth.”

  “What a beautiful animal,” my father said. “They are so prehistoric. I can’t wait to get to work.”

  My father’s job while we’re in Botswana is to photograph and make paintings of the white rhino. When we return home he’s going to create a life-size sculpture of this rare animal for an art collector in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  “Does anyone have any questions before we move to the dining tent?” Chocs asked.

  “I do,” Gannon said.

  “Yes?”

  “Are there any spiders out here?” Gannon asked.

  “Yes, big ones,” Chocs replied with a wide grin on his face. “But we don’t make you pay extra for them.”

  Gannon looked at me and smiled, knowing how much I hate spiders. I took a deep breath and tried my best not to think about it.

  Jubjub walked down from the kitchen. “Excuse me,” she said. “The wildebeest stew is ready.”

  Was she serious? Wildebeest stew? Just the sound of it made my stomach feel uneasy. Then again, you never know whether or not you’ll like something until you try it. While traveling, I stick to the rationale that if the food is good enough for the locals, it’s good enough for me. That doesn’t always mean that I’ll like it, but at least I’ll give it a try.

  “If we can all follow Jubjub to the dining tent,” Chocs said, “we’ve prepared a wonderful African meal for
you. I hope you are all ready for an adventure, because an adventure is what we have in store.”

  GANNON

  AUGUST 22

  EARLY MORNING

  Last night, after a small bowl of wildebeest stew—it was okay, but a little too gamey for my taste—I walked back to our tent under a starlit sky and fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. I was so tired I don’t think I would have woken up if a rhino had walked up and licked my face.

  It’s still winter here in the southern hemisphere. I didn’t really think of Africa as being a place that got cold, especially the desert, but it actually gets super cold here in the Kalahari. So cold that Chocs gave each of us a hot water bottle to keep under our down blankets during the night, and thank goodness for that, because I left the window flap open and woke in the middle of the night to all this wind blowing inside the tent, but I was just too tired to get out of bed and zip it up and probably would have turned into a human popsicle if it hadn’t been for that warm water bottle. This morning I put on just about every piece of clothing I brought with me—long pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a fleece sweater, a winter jacket, and a wool beanie cap—and even bundled up in all these clothes, I can’t stop shivering. Wyatt’s thermometer reads 37 degrees Fahrenheit and factoring in the wind chill I’m guessing it’s way below freezing.

  I’ve already checked my equipment several times this morning to make quadruple sure my video camera is in good working order. There’s nothing more frustrating than getting out in the field and realizing your camera batteries are all dead. I’ve learned that the hard way. But no more bonehead mistakes from this kid. If I want to be a filmmaker when I get older I have to go about it like a professional, and right now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than make films that teach people about the world and how big and different it can be from place to place and at the same time how we’re all really similar in so many ways. That’s the ironic thing, I guess. No matter how different we seem to be, when you really break it down, we’re all very much alike. Sure, we may not look alike and we might speak different languages and have different customs and beliefs and live in different kinds of homes and do different things for work, but most of us share the same kinds of thoughts and hopes and dreams.

  It’ll be really interesting to learn more about the Bushmen. I mean, their culture is about as different from ours as you can get. Right after breakfast, Chocs and Jubjub will be taking us to their village. Jubjub told us that traditionally the Bushmen are hunter-gatherers, which means they hunt and gather food from the land. She said they’ve been living this way for tens of thousands of years, but as people buy up more and more land around them the areas where they can hunt get smaller, so most Bushmen have actually given up hunting and become farmers since that is the only way they can provide enough food for their families.

  What a privilege it will be to meet them. I mean, how many people get the chance to hang out with the Bushmen of the Kalahari? Forget breakfast, I’m ready to go now! Then again, I am a little numb from this frigid desert air. Maybe it’s a better idea to go warm up by the fire pit and let the sun burn off some of this cold before we go speeding off in a topless jeep. Yeah, definitely a better plan.

  Gannon, out.

  WYATT

  AUGUST 22, 11:22 AM

  KALAHARI DESERT

  16° CELSIUS, 60° FAHRENHEIT

  SKIES CLEAR

  When Chocs warned us that we had an adventure in store, I doubt he had what happened this morning in mind.

  On our way to the Bushmen village, my mom spotted something moving through the acacia trees about fifty yards from the road.

  “Stop the jeep!” she yelled, pointing. “I just saw something! And it was big!”

  Chocs stopped the jeep and looked through his binoculars. In the distance, he spotted a family of white rhinos casually walking through the bushes.

  “A male, a female, and two babies,” he said. “And they’re coming this way. I’m going to turn off the jeep so we don’t frighten them.”

  Jubjub took the binoculars from her father and looked at the rhinos.

  “That’s the pregnant mother we saw last month,” she said. “She had her babies. They can’t be more than a few weeks old.”

  The jeep didn’t have a roof, so we all stood up for a better look. Sure enough, a family of rhinos was coming right toward us. When they came within a hundred feet or so, they stopped, as if they had suddenly sensed that we were near.

  The female rhino at a safe distance, or so I thought

  “Rhinos have very poor eyesight,” Chocs whispered. “But they definitely know we’re here.”

  White rhinos aren’t actually white; they’re gray, with two horns on the bridge of their snout. The horn closest to their nostrils is about three times the size of the other horn. Their bodies are so massive it seems impossible that their small, stubby legs could carry them. Their eyes are like black pinballs, and their ears are twisted like conch shells.

  The rhino family stood very still for a while, as if they were confused about what to do next. Watching them in awe, I had a false sense of security, like I was watching them from behind a high cement wall at the zoo. But that sense of security vanished the instant one of the babies started trotting our way.

  Chocs immediately sprang to his feet, clapping his hands and yelling in an attempt to make the baby turn in a different direction. But the baby continued, jogging right up to the jeep like a puppy looking for a playmate. The second baby followed close behind.

  “No!” Chocs yelled. “Go back! Go!”

  “Turn around!” Jubjub yelled. “Go back to your mother and father!”

  The male and female rhinos were getting angry, jerking their heads around and huffing loudly. When one of the babies disappeared behind the jeep, the female rhino charged.

  Chocs dropped into the driver’s seat and tried to start the jeep, but the engine sputtered and stalled.

  “Everyone hold on tight!” Chocs yelled.

  I put my camera down and grabbed on to the roll bar. The ground rumbled, and we all braced for impact, as this giant of the Kalahari thundered toward us. Right up to the last second, I doubted the rhino would actually ram the jeep, assuming she somehow understood that doing so would hurt her more than it hurt the vehicle. Boy, was I wrong.

  There was a deafening sound, like two cars colliding at high speed, as the rhino slammed into the jeep. The vehicle tilted and almost rolled over on its side. My mom lost her grip and fell out the back, landing hard on the ground.

  “Mom!” Gannon yelled. He reached out to help her back into the jeep, but the female rhino cut her off before she could climb inside. My mom backed up facing the rhino, her eyes wide with fear. The rhino glared at her and lifted its sharp horn in quick jerks, as if warning my mom that she wasn’t afraid to use it. My dad jumped out of the jeep and ran to my mom. The male rhino soon joined the attack, swiping hard at the jeep with the side of his head while he circled around us. This constant ramming of the jeep startled the babies, and eventually they ran off into the bushes. The male rhino quickly followed. But the female stood her ground, facing off with my mom and dad. She looked like she was ready to charge at any moment.

  Chocs stepped from the jeep and moved slowly toward my parents.

  “Everyone talk loudly now!” he said. “Should the rhino charge, run behind that tree to your left! Do you see it?”

  “Yes,” my mom said, her voice shaking. “I see it.”

  “Okay, good!” Chocs said. “Now let’s everyone continue to talk loudly!”

  Everyone followed his instructions.

  “We’re all talking loudly to the rhinos!” Jubjub said.

  “Yes, we’re all talking loudly!” my dad echoed.

  “Talk loudly, Wyatt!” Gannon said.

  Everything was happening so fast, I hadn’t realized that I was just standing there, silent as a mouse.

  “Okay, Gannon! I’m talking loudly now! Talking loudly to the rhinos!” />
  All of the voices seemed to startle the rhino. She took a few steps back and looked around frantically, as if trying to spot her family.

  “That’s good!” Chocs continued. “She’s moving back! Everyone continue to talk loudly!”

  “We’re talking loudly!” I said. “Talking loudly! Talking loudly!”

  It felt awkward, all of us talking loudly to a rhino, but it worked. The female rhino eventually turned and ran off, disappearing into the bushes behind a billowing cloud of dust.

  My mother was so shaken she could hardly speak. Her entire body was trembling. Chocs and my dad helped her back into the truck. Once she was safely inside, Gannon and I hugged and kissed her as if we hadn’t seen her in years. She’d just cheated death, and it would have been a gruesome one. We knew it, and we were thankful beyond words that she had survived.

  “Have you ever had a scare like that?” my dad asked Chocs.

  “Not in all my years in Africa,” he said.

  “Do you ever carry a rifle?”

  “In the past, we have not. At least, not in the Kalahari. But after today, I may change that policy.”

  Chocs went on to explain that the rhinos’ aggressive behavior was due to their concern over the safety of their newborn babies. A baby rhino’s eyesight is even worse than an adult’s, so they couldn’t see us well enough to know to stay away. The parents, however, knew that their babies might be in danger, and that’s why they attacked.

  Despite the scare, my mom somehow managed to keep her sense of humor.

  “I know I’m the one who asked to stop,” she said, “but next time we see a rhino, I vote we keep driving.”