Bohts-wah-nah lies between the Orange River on its southern border and the Zam-bay-zee in the north. It is 2.4 times larger than the United Kingdom and covers an area of about 582,000 square kilometres. About seventy per cent of the country is made up of the Kah-lah-hah-ree Desert, which continues to slowly creep across its borders into Nah-mib-ee-ah to the west and Zim-bah-bweh to the east.
It is one of the most sparsely populated countries in the world, with over twelve per cent of its population living in its capital, Hah-bo-roh-neh.
Bohts-wah-nah is a very wealthy country, primarily because of its enormous diamond reserves and a thriving tourism industry. Moreover, northern Bohts-wah-nah is a wildlife paradise that in many respects surpasses the Masai Mara and Serengeti wildernesses of East Africa with its incredible diversity.
The immense power of the Cho-bee River and the UNESCO World Heritage Site spectacle of the Oh-kah-vung-go Delta combine to provide a vital corridor for the many thousands of elephants that tread ancient paths between north-eastern Zim-bah-bweh and southern Angola. The region is one of the seven natural wonders of Africa.
During the first quarter of the 21st century, Ann and I, together with our good friends, Ken and Inge Symmons, decided to take to the road on a tour of this exciting land.
In those days we drove a 3.2 litre, 4x4 Pajero and towed an Explorer off-road caravan. This combination was widely regarded as state-of-the-art bush camping kit, equipped with everything one would need to traverse the sand, bush, and wetlands of Africa with the least amount of risk of becoming stuck.
I should have mentioned at the start that in those days the standard yarn in off-road circles was that Pajero and Toyota toolkits were in fact carried in order to provide assistance to all the Land Rovers one would find broken down along the road.
Ken and Inge, on the other hand, drove a two-wheel drive Mercedes Discoverer. It was a camping car which I had some serious doubts about due to its (lack of) rough road capabilities. Notwithstanding, we went ahead and meticulously planned our journey and, in the process, decided that where the terrain dictated, we would park the camping car and travel together in the Pajero.
The first part of the journey took us through Hah-bo-roh-neh to Francistown where we camped at a camp site in the manicured grounds of the Francistown (now Cresta Marang) Hotel. The camp had been cleverly designed for caravans and their vehicles to park along an outside circle, making access and egress easy. The middle of the camp site was cordoned off with a line of logs balanced on low cross-log posts. The area had a nice lawn and was shady, and it was deliberately reserved for tents and similar light equipment.
The timing of our outward bound journey coincided with the end of a school holiday and we found ourselves having to contend with an unusually busy overnight stay as a result of an influx of South African campers who were on their way back home from various locations in the north.
We had pitched camp earlier in the afternoon and were quietly enjoying a sundowner when the vehicles started to arrive, and it wasn’t long before the camp was almost full. We sat bemused at the goings on when in drove a Toyota Land Cruiser with a massive caravan and stopped in front of us.
A pretty large, sun-tanned chap jumped out of the driver’s seat and proceeded to lift one of the poles off its mountings and move it to one side, whereupon he drove his rig onto the manicured lawn. The total disregard of its designated purpose and the fact that he seemed quite evidently, somewhat harassed, combined with the fact that he walked around with the kind of swagger of a man who wanted all to know that he was ‘the man’, or ‘I’m a proper bushman!’ intrigued me.
I stood up and walked across to introduce myself and perhaps offer some guidance. Once we made our brief acquaintance, and as he rubbed his forearm across his perspiring forehead, he boasted with an air of exasperation, that he had driven over seven hundred kilometres on off-service terrain that day and was really stuffed!
His presentation and general demeanour instantly inspired my evil sense of humour and I said innocently, Good heavens man, why on earth did you not use the tarred roads?
He didn’t see the funny side and I chose to keep any further guidance to myself.
Roughly halfway between Francistown and Kah-sah-neh lies the little village of Nah-tah and the famous Nah-tah Lodge, where we had planned to stay for a couple of days before travelling further north along the ‘elephant highway’.
Nah-tah lies on the edge of the Mah-gah-dee-gah-dee Pan salt pans, which are the largest salt pans in the world, and are in fact the last remains of Africa’s largest inland sea which, tens of thousands of years ago, made up an area larger than Switzerland. Recent studies suggest that Homo Sapiens first evolved here over two hundred thousand years ago.
The main water supply is the Nah-tah River, whose source lies in Zim-bah-bweh, and during the rainy season large shallow waters appear on the flat salt pans where thousands of water birds descend en route from where and to where, nobody entirely understands.
These salt pans cover over sixteen thousand square kilometres and are an amazing sight to behold.
The only problem was that I was aware that the camping sites adjacent to the lodge are located among Moh-kohl-wah-neh palms and soft desert sand that is generally not suitable for two-wheel drive vehicles. With this in mind, I called a briefing.
Inge was in the driving seat at the time and was gung-ho to throw caution to the wind and tackle the soft sand despite my obvious and informed concerns. Under the circumstances, I moved to plan ‘B’ and recommended that she take the camper van and lead us into the camp site and that I would follow with my 4x4 fully engaged.
But, I emphasised with as much authority as I could muster, please do not stop, under any circumstances. Identify your preferred site and drive straight in. If you stop, your van will sink into the sand and it will take forever to get you out.
With this stern warning still ringing in her ears, Inge jumped into the camper van with Ken and set off down the sandy track into the oasis. Satisfied in my own mind that the message had been received, we followed suit not two vehicle lengths behind.
The convoy travelled steadily but quite slowly over the soft sand and all went well as our momentum allowed the wheels to glide over the surface with little resistance. This continued smoothly until the track swung to the left. Inge took the corner, then drove up fifty metres before eyeing a perfectly shady spot to her left and stopped!
I had no choice but to bring my rig’s combined weight of close on five thousand kilograms to a halt to avoid driving into the back of the camper van. The Pajero and Explorer sank into the sand!
As if to rub salt into the wound, Inge then engaged first gear and swung her camper van deftly under the palms of her chosen site.
Ann and I however spent at least thirty minutes in forty-degree heat, and used every trick in the book to get out of the sand. To no avail. It grieves me greatly to have to finally admit what happened next, but eventually I had to seek assistance from the lodge manager who graciously and promptly agreed to tow us out.
Ten minutes later, the lodge manager arrived in his old beaten up (wait for it!) Land Rover, hitched my Pajero with the Explorer in tow and pulled us out of the sand without a second glance back.
It’s an embarrassment I have never been able to live down to this very day!