Sitting in the back of a land cruiser in northeast Botswana, I’m holding a well-worn pocket notebook.
The pages are full of neatly written but seemingly random letters and numbers. Kwagga, my companion and guide, is talking fervently about these cryptic codes as if they hold the secrets to the spectacular Makgadikgadi Pans that surround us. In a way, they do.
“This,” Kwagga says, pointing at an entry, “is the cheetah sighting we had this morning.”
Flipping back a page, he adds, “This one is a fossilised cutting tool we found a few days ago.”
Each unique moment is condensed into a GPS location, date and time – an alphanumeric memory. Collectively, they help build a picture of this enormous private wildlife reserve; tiny pieces in a one million acre jigsaw.
“How many of these books do you have?” I ask.
“Lots,” he replies, “I keep them in fireproof trunks at my house.”
At the request of the owner of the legendary Jack’s Camp, where I am a guest, Kwagga is serving as a consultant, helping to discover more about the region and catalogue its undiscovered treasures. As a zoologist, palaeontologist, ethologist and wildlife guide, he could not be more at home. The Makgadikgadi Pans, part of the greater Kalahari Basin, is the bed of an ancient mega-lake in the middle of a region of endless shimmering plains, broken only by small palm islands, with views so broad and distant that the horizons seem to bend into infinity.
As we step out of our vehicle and onto the pans themselves, the salt crust crunches underfoot and the wind whistles around us. At first glance this appears to be a landscape distilled into just two elements: earth and sky. Kwagga, however, is on hand to add texture.
“All modern humans originated in this part of Botswana – not East Africa as we thought. This is humanity’s homeland.”
Each year, after the rains, new layers of clay and mud reveal yet more startling evidence of human settlements in the area, dating back 200,000 years. Primitive tools and fossils are discovered, catalogued and analysed, each one adding another valuable layer of understanding.
Part of the experience here, to ensure the link with our past is not forgotten, involves joining members of the Zu/’hoasi community. Their ancestors were the original inhabitants of this land but have faced violent ethnic discrimination over the years. Sensitively managed, on their terms, this experience is authentic and fascinating.
I learn where to find larvae that produce poison for hunting and how to use desert sage to stop bad dreams. Children often dare each other to search for scorpions, holding them in their hands (and occasionally mouths) as a sign of bravery. As fascinating as this is, the Zu/’hoasi approach to hunting proves the most intriguing. Before the hunt, they enter a trance-like state to try and merge with the mind of their prey. They believe this allows them to predict what it will do whilst being hunted, giving them the edge of predicting the future. The hunting party chases the animal to exhaustion, often over vast distances. Once killed, they pay their respects to the animals life spirit, or n|om, with a short prayer and ritual.
As best I could, I try to ask how difficult it is to maintain traditions and pass on knowledge such as this. The answer was surprising. The younger generation is at ease with balancing modernity and tradition, but the older generation struggles. I ask who in particular.
“The rainmakers” I’m told. This traditional skill falls victim to climate change, with rains arriving later each year.
But when they do come, the area is transformed into an unrecognisable wetland of grasses and lakes, attracting thousands of migrating animals from the Okavango Delta: dazzling flocks of flamingo and the second largest migration of zebra and wildebeest in Africa. Hungry predators follow in their wake including the famous black-maned lions of the Kalahari.
Incredibly, this migration was only first observed by researchers as recently as 2006, after the removal of vet fences in the area. Whether this is an ancient migration route held deep in their collective memory or just a keen sense of smell for the rains, the pans remain full of surprises.
For the rest of the year however, the landscape is unforgiving; dry, rough and arid. Many animals live shorter lives here than their northern relatives in the Delta, particularly elephants. Kwagga picks up one of the (many) bleached bones lying in the sand – an elephant’s jaw.
“See here. The tough vegetation wears down their teeth much faster. As their molars erode, they are unable to feed properly.”
Older elephants often succumb to starvation, their bodies unable to endure the harsher environment. For all of its treasures, this remains an unforgiving place.
Evening falls and the sun begins to set; the tall palms on the isolated islands cast enormous shadows across the plains. Kwagga, of course, brings them alive.
“These palm islands were actually formed by elephants and the seeds in their dung as they crossed the pans during historical migrations.”
Incredible that the legacy of their slower, deliberate journeys can be seen dotted across the landscape, still shaping the environment. At first, it seems like a trick of the dying light, but looking again, I see paths of these seemingly random oases align. Another piece of the jigsaw.
For me, this is the joy of exploring somewhere so unique. From psychic hunting, ancient paths in the sand to Kwagga’s little black book – the information is all around you in this profound landscape. It is how you read it that brings it alive.
This article is an excerpt from our new Steppes Traveller magazine – please get in touch with us to receive your free copy.
