A Mokoro ride in the Okavango Delta

                                                  

World renowned and heavily touristed by the wealthy, The Okavango Delta is the world’s largest inland delta. As rains fall in central Africa, they eventually route their way into waters flowing south out of Angola and into the northern reaches of Botswana. When these waters reach the vast Kalahari Desert and the fault lines which created this ancient lake bed, they form a massive fan of shallow waters interspersed with countless islands before disappearing into the hot sand. The Delta as it fills then drains from the seasonal northern rains attracts a vast array and number of wild animals and account for the phenomenal yearly wildebeest and zebra migrations across Botswana. 

                  

                  

We explored the northern regions of the Okavango last November when we self safaried there for 10 days, and I had no plans to return as work for the mission keeps us fully occupied. But when the assignment came to find a flat for missionaries who will reopen the village of Maun, and when we completed our assignment by finding a perfect flat a couple of days prior to the flight back to Gaborone, I took the opportunity to sign up for a mokoro ride. 

                                                                 

                     

Mokoro simply means boat in Setswana, but because this place is heavily managed by the government to control the high numbers of tourists who swarm here, I could not venture into the waters of the delta without a guide. As well, the narrow channels and vast lagoons interspersed by countless islands create a labyrinth which outsiders would quickly become disoriented and lost in.  That’s to say nothing of the hippo- and crocodile-infested waters one must navigate or the elephant and wildebeest crossings from island to island which require skill to safely ply, and…well, you see why this is not for the do-it-yourselfer like me.

                

So we hired a safari driver to take us deep into the Okavango where he turned us over to Koma the “poler.” Originally made of wood, todays mokoro are made of fiberglass in order to save the trees. And since the people of the Okavango discovered that tourists would pay outlandish prices to have someone “pole” them through these pristine yet convoluted waterways, there are more mokoros for rent than there are people to pole them. 

                 

Koma comes from a local village named Daunara. Honestly, I hadn’t yet seen true poverty and privation until we drove into Daunara. These people live between the dangerous waters of the Okavango and the empty arid Kalahri Desert in a tiny village devoid of any amenities. There’s no electricity, no trash removal, no water except what’s boiled off the delta; there’s nothing but decrepit mud and stick huts littered haphazardly amongst the trees. The “mud” of their homes is comprised of rock-hard termite mound scrapings mixed with cow dung which adds waterproofing and insecticidal qualities. But this only slightly so as eventually the rains wear the hut down to nothing. The villagers must travel 2 hours one way to buy any staples they need or to consult a doctor. As nobody owns a car, they mostly hitch hike from passing safari vehicles like ours; indeed we gave some a lift. They also send their children to boarding school in Maun to see them only on holidays. That is if they can find a ride. 

Koma was gentle and soft spoken and demonstrated how he hit the side of the mokoro when entering a lagoon. This causes the hippos to surface so he knew where not to pole us. Hippos are nasty vicious creatures and account for more human deaths than all other wild animal attacks put together. He showed us where the elephants cross from island to island and was ever on the lookout so as not to disturb any crossings underway. He told us that because everybody in the village wants a piece of the tourist action, the Daunara Village Trust keeps a roster and calls you when it’s your turn as tourists show up. His turn comes around only once or twice a month, so money is scarce. I could have known that just from looking at his totally emaciated frame which sees like protein and his threadbare torn clothing. Of course he brought no lunch, so we shared ours. I noticed most other tourists offering to share their lunches with their own guides as well. 

                          

                     

Koma demonstrated how his people collect winged terminates from the ubiquitous and hard-as-concrete termite mounds for the protein they provide in the diet. First you dig a hole near the base of the mound, then you shine a torch into the hole to attract the termites. One must be careful to catch the insects in a plastic bag alive because they are much more crispy when dropped into the frying pan still squirming. For a true delicacy, one can pound them into a paste which Kona swears tastes remarkably like peanut butter. Crunchy peanut butter since the heads don’t mash so well.  I’m sure he’s totally mistaken, and I wonder how he’d know what peanut butter tastes like anyway.

              

Koma poled us to a nearby island where he took us on a walk about in search of animals. We didn’t encounter too much other than a few Red Lechwe, a warthog den which we did most definitely not poke at, a massive bull elephant, and a lagoon full of prickly hippo.  After his safety debriefing of what we must do should we encounter hyena or lion or angry elephants, we were happy just to escape without having become lunch. 

                                                 

Would I recommend a mokoro ride while on your African adventure? Probably not as there are so many amazing safari encounters one can have without getting in line for  the typical expensive tourist gigs. But it was a lovely way to spend a day, we immensely enjoyed the time spent with both our driver and our poler, and it didn’t break the bank. I may have spent more on tips than I was charged by our guides, but in the face of such wicked poverty, it just feels good to make someone’s day and provide enough extra for a person who is perpetually hungry to get a good meal. Complete with protein. 

                  

                                                

The assignment to find a flat in Maun was successful! We met the most lovely and humble man in Branch President Russell. He owns absolutely nothing and lives on a dire shoestring, but he is one of the happiest men you’ll ever meet, and he is totally devoted to the Lord’s work on this earth. Born in Sierra Leon, he served a mission as a young man where he pioneered the church in Kenya. He then married and raised a son before losing his wife, whereupon he ended up in South Africa and met a lovely companion on Facebook from Botswana. The lovely wife works as a cook at a remote safari lodge deep in the Okavango. The lodge flies her in to work for 3 months at a time and then flies her home to her husband in Maun for 2 weeks, and then she repeats the cycle. As a poor uneducated immigrant, Pres Russell finds odd jobs where he can but mostly lives to build and support the church and see his wife on her rare times off. He found the perfect flat for our young men across the street from his own “home” which is nothing more than  a 12 x 12 room with a bed, a TV, and a toilet in the corner. How he eats I haven’t quite figured out. When we took him to lunch at a fast-food chicken place and to dinner at a mediocre sit-down joint, he took home half his food for the next meal. 

  

Aaron was about to give Pres Russell one of his white shirts after we noticed the frayed neckline, then decided to just take him shopping instead. With gracious gratitude, this happy man went home feeling especially spoiled with a new shirt, tie, and belt. We also hired him to be the vendor to provide garbage service, water, and yard care at the new missionary flat, and he was thrilled to finally have a small stipend with which he can now pay tithes. Such humility and devotion and complete goodness of heart in a man without guile blessed us to spend time with. If nothing else, my mission has shown me true sacrifice from faithful members in a way I never dreamed possible.

                   

Mother's Day in Botswana was celebrated at church by a charming Primary Choir as well as our men int he hallways passing roses to the mothers.  How I will miss these beautiful souls.