When it rains in Angola, the water flows through Namibia into Botswana and ends its journey in the Okavango Delta on the edge of the Kalahari Desert. The water brings life with it, fish and birds. And on a beautiful day in August, it brought one more thing into the Okavango: Me, sat in a mokoro with a heavy heart and a camera.

Thanks to my tour guide, who'd listed all the ways I could die just before we entered the delta, going into the Okavango wasn't my first choice of fun Botswana activities. But hey, it was part of the tour we'd booked, so I went. Luckily the picture of certain death that the tour guide had painted couldn't be further from the truth. I was surprised to find myself feeling at home in the 2 million hectares of Botswanan wilderness. I had to adjust to a whole new way of living. That temporary lifestyle change ended up changing me for good.


For three days, I called a tiny camp in the middle of nowhere my home. It had everything we needed: Trees to provide us shelter, tents to sleep in, a fireplace to cook and gather around at night, and a hole in the ground for a toilet. A shovel and a roll of toilet paper were our bathroom door and lock; If you couldn't find them anywhere, the bathroom was occupied. At night, if you had to go to the bathroom, we had to triple check with our flashlights for wild animals before leaving our tents. If we spotted any, we couldn't leave. I, for one, rather waited till daybreak than risk mooning a lion.

The camp and everything about it was intimidating at first. There was very little to do at the camp. Time stopped flying, skidded to a halt. It made me nervous. I did not belong there. I belonged in a nice comfortable home with a stable internet connection and a normal bathroom. I kept checking my phone, but of course I had no signal, nor anyone to text. All too soon, my battery died. In hindsight, that was exactly what I needed. With no screens to distract me, I set out to explore the delta.


My explorations never brought me very far in terms of physical distance. As long as I was by myself, I couldn't leave the camp unless I wanted to end up as a wild animal's meal. By myself, I could only go to the creek and stand atop a small termite mound to get a view of the hippos upstream. Usually, there'd be a few people from my tour group there, oohing and aahing at the hippos. Although the hippos provided us with enough entertainment, I never felt at ease watching them atop my termite mound. Despite their cuddly looks, they're the most dangerous animals on the continent, which didn't seem to bother my fellow tourists at all. At first, I felt silly when regarding the animals with suspicion while everyone else admired them. I lost myself so far in hippo related-worries that I barely noticed Vlinder next to me on the termite mound.
"You look at them?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the hippos.
"I don't trust them," I blurted out before I knew what I was doing.
"No," he said. "Neither do I."
I looked at him in surprise. This man, who knew the delta like the back of his hand, felt the same way about hippos as I did. Something clicked into place. A tension I'd held in my shoulders started to disappear. I strangely felt like I'd just passed an initiation rite. Like Vlinder had opened the door into the Okavango life for me.

I started to change after that moment on the termite mound. I started to adapt. With my phone as the main source of distraction gone, I decided to open my eyes to the sometimes scary delta around me and make it home. Most of my time was spent barefoot in a mokoro. Vlinder taught me about the animals I shared my temporary home with. Even the hole in the ground that was our bathroom wasn't so bad anymore. Time slowed down, and so did I. The chaos that had taken hold of my mind when my grandma passed away started to subside. My broken heart slowly started to heal.


After my first night in the Okavango, I finally felt like I'd left my problems in the past. The grief of losing my grandma had made place for a survival instinct and the muscle aches in my arms that came with preventing mokoro collisions. I started going on game walks, where I came eye to eye with angry elephants. I learned to read tracks and recognize different kinds of animal poop. In an open field, with zebras and wildebeest running around in the early morning light, I felt incredibly small, yet significant. I felt like a teeny tiny gear in the great big machinery of the Okavango Delta; I was overcome by a sense of belonging. For the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.

As I stood looking up at the sky each night, the usual whirlwind of thoughts that makes me so emotional didn't dare bother me. At home in the Netherlands, my life was all about deadlines, good grades, racing against the clock to achieve, achieve, achieve more and more every single day. Here, at home in the delta, none of that mattered. While some of the other tourists decided to exchange their malaria stories, I learned about giraffes and elephants. I spent ages just listening to the sounds of the delta. I listened to birds chirping, hippos grunting and elephants tearing trees apart. The laugh of a hyena startled me at night, while the quiet of midday and its blistering heat made me doze off in the shadow of a tree. I was a million miles away from running to catch trains, racing to make it to class, racking my brains to come up with something intelligent to say about Virginia Woolf. I was a million miles away from life as I knew it, and I loved every second of it. If only for a moment or two, I was an honorary delta dweller, with none of the worries of a university student. I didn't have to worry about finding a purpose in life anymore; In the Okavango Delta, all that mattered was that I was part of this life.

In three days that felt like a lifetime, I saw my life do a complete 180. Yet before the three days were over, I'd managed to adapt. On the last night of my stay, my efforts were rewarded by Vlinder; while every other tourist had to remain seated and move as little as possible while we were in our mokoros for a boat trip, I was allowed to stand up. Barefoot and with the last rays of sunshine warming my back, I stood up in my mokoro. While it seemed like a simple thing from the outside, it meant a much bigger thing between Vlinder and me: Acceptance as equals. At that moment, I felt like I'd accomplished more than I'd ever had at university.

I almost didn't want to leave the delta when our trip came to an end. I'd even made peace with the fact that a hole in the ground was my bathroom. I didn't mind elephants stomping around my bed at night. But like every tourist, I had to leave the Okavango behind. The night before our return to civilization, polers and tourists gathered around the campfire to sing and dance. Black and white, Botswanan and Dutch, we mixed until we were one group, singing and clapping and stomping to the beat. Our last song ended each verse about the beauty of the delta with the words "Never forget". And as the final notes faded into the dark night, I looked up at the stars and knew those weren't an empty promise. I'd never forget the Okavango Delta and all it taught me.

After my first night in the Okavango Delta, my phone died. What would have caused a panic attack at home in the Netherlands felt like a weight falling off my shoulders in Botswana. I didn't have a connection anyway, I didn't want to live my days through screens, and there was more to see in the world around me than I ever could have imagined. I put my phone in my camera bag. I had more important things to do in the delta. My top priority: Learning how to use a mokoro.

The canoe-like boats had been calling my name since I'd stepped into one, barefoot and with multiple water bottles in my arms. The locals used long wooden poles to get the mokoros into motion and somehow steered with the poles as well. The mokoros were very light, made from wood and synthetic materials. They were packed to the brim with tourists, supplies and tents when we went to our camp, but this did not seem like a problem for the polers. Still, being in charge of a mokoro seemed very difficult to me. I wanted to give it a try anyway. Stubborn or stupid, you decide. The mokoro ride had reminded me of my childhood and the rubber boat parades that the kids on my block and I would throw together on summer days in the early 2000s. I had to gain those mokoro skills to make past-me proud. And as it turned out, I'd have plenty of time to practice.


Upon arrival at our camp on our first day, we gathered around the fire pit for a briefing. We had six hours to kill at the camp before we'd go on the game walk that would bring me eye to eye with an angry elephant. In those six hours, we could swim in the creek, watch the hippos that stayed in the pool a couple of dozens of meters from our camp, have a siesta, read a book, go for a walk with one of the polers, or learn how to use a mokoro like a local. A bunch of boys in swimming trunks immediately charged the boats, but I, as the awkward introvert that I am, didn't have the courage to ask a Botswanan to teach me. I quietly followed my dad, who asked a guy to teach him. Before I knew it, he was halfway down the creek, rounding bends as if he'd been in mokoros all his life. People from our group gathered on the bank of the creek to see how my dad and the boys were doing. My dad looked like a professional. But just as the others went back to the camp, my dad's mokoro bumped against the creek's bank. My dad lost his balance and fell into the water with a loud splash.
I cheered and laughed. "Go dad!"
One of the older Botswanans next to me smiled. "Do you want to learn?" he asked me.
"Yes please!"

The man took me to his boat. "Stand at the back."
I went in. The mokoro immediately started rocking from left to right, even though it wasn't even fully on the water yet. It felt unstable. I felt unstable. I kicked my flipflops off and explored the back of my mokoro with my bare feet. Much better.
The man showed me how to hold the pole: Left hand above the right, the left never higher than my shoulder, the right just above my hip. I wasn't supposed to pull the boat forward, instead I gently had to push it forward. The pole had to remain close to the right side of the boat, in a straight line behind me once I'd pushed, or I'd unintentionally steer to the left or the right. It sounded fairly easy, if I didn't think too much about the fact that I had zero upper body strength to rely on. There was just one more thing I had to do before we could go. "Left foot in front. Right behind. One line. Don't step to side with left. One line. Keep balance."
I wanted to tell the man that balance was the least of my worries, because I'd once learned to ride a unicycle, but I thought those words wouldn't mean anything to a man who lived his life in a delta on the edge of the Kalahari desert. Instead, I just nodded. He pushed the mokoro into the water and off we were.


I immediately knew that I'd bitten off more than I could chew with this whole mokoro thing. When I wanted to go to the left, the mokoro went to the right. When I wanted to go straight ahead, the mokoro went to the right. When I wanted to go to the right, the mokoro went to the right! But usually so far to the right that I'd crash into the bank of the three meters wide creek. The Botswanan poler, sat at the very front of the mokoro, tried to help me out.
"Right."
"Left. Left. Straight."
"Back up. Pole right."
"Foot. Balance."
"Left. Other side."
He meant well, but I was stressing and struggling all the way. Not being able to tell the difference between left and right on command runs in my family, and it gets even more difficult in my second language. After what felt like my millionth crash, I wanted to throw my pole in the creek, jump ship and wade back to camp. Moving the mokoro upstream seemed impossible. My mentor must've felt my frustration; When we finally made it back to camp, he found me staring at the creek and the mokoros and said: "Don't worry. Tomorrow is a new day. You try again."

I did my best not to think too much about the mokoro fiasco that night. I was too busy being followed by warthogs, being almost trampled by an angry elephant. The night then brought me the most beautiful sky I'd seen in years. The mokoro and my failure were nothing more than distant memories already. Up until the next afternoon, I didn't even think about it. But then, after coming home from another game walk, we had another six hours to ourselves. I stayed at the camp for a while. I tried to read. The shouts and splashes that came from the creek kept distracting me though. Before long, I wandered out of the camp and towards the water again. The boys had claimed a couple of mokoros again, dragging themselves forward, legs spread wide. I shook my head at their technique, knowing mine might look more Botswanan, but was essentially useless when it came down to it. Part of me wanted to claim a mokoro too, but a bigger part of me didn't want to look like an idiot. The solution to my dilemma came in the form of Sophie, who wanted to gain some mokoro skills and asked if I wanted to come along in her boat.
I sat down in the front, like my mentor had done the day before. Sophie pushed off. She did quite well on the bendy creek. As we floated downstream, I gave her a little bit of advice on how to stand and how to hold the pole. Before we knew it, we'd reached the end of the safe practice area and had to turn around. But instead of turning around, we got stuck. Sophie did what she could, but we kept crashing into the bank at exactly the same spot.
"Which way? Which way do I push?" She asked. "You know how to do this, right?"
In theory, yes. In practice, no. But I couldn't tell that to this eleven-year-old girl. She trusted me. She believed I knew what to do and how to get back to camp. I didn't, but watching Sophie struggle made me realize she needed more help than just some advice on how to hold the pole. So we switched places. I was now in charge of getting us back to camp.


Okay, was the first thing I said to myself when I took over the position of poler. Left hand at shoulder height, right at the hip. Left foot in front of the right. Stand close to the right side of the mokoro. Pole right next to the mokoro. Okay. Go!
With a lot of effort, I pushed the mokoro into the middle of the creek. Then I made sure that the boat was pointing straight at the horizon, straight ahead, so the prow was the only part splitting the current that tried to push us downstream and away from the camp. Only when I was 100% sure that the mokoro was pointing in the direction I had in mind did I place the pole in the water next to me and push. The mokoro did what I wanted it to do. We moved, in a somewhat straight line even. Slowly, I pulled the pole out of the water to get ready for the next push. We needed to go a little bit to the right, so as I pushed, I let the pole waver to the left. Again, the mokoro did exactly what I asked. I pushed a little harder now, getting familiar with the boat and current. I did crash from time to time, but I also felt like I was in charge of the mokoro, not the water. The camp came closer and closer. People were waiting for us.
"Envy's become a pro!" one man said as he saw me use the pole as a helm to get the mokoro to the shore. The people there looked very impressed. I didn't have the heart to tell them it was all because of Sophie. Her blind faith in me was what helped me get to where I was. As soon as she left my boat and got her own, we went on another trip. Without her in my boat, steering was a lot more difficult, especially when trying to get upstream again. Sophie and I struggled our way up and down the creek for the rest of the afternoon, while Vlinder lept an eye on us from the shadows of our camp.

I left my mokoro only when it was time for dinner. The old man had been right: Today was a new day. I'd tried again and although I hadn't been perfect, I'd been better. When I stepped into Vlinder's mokoro for a twilight tour of the delta, it felt like I'd been living in these boats all my life. None of my initial fears about the Okavango Delta were with me anymore. I sat back and enjoyed the delta. The skies slowly started to turn yellow and orange when Vlinder spotted some elephants that were feeding on trees. He brought our mokoro closer, all the other mokoros stayed just behind ours. I took out my camera and started snapping away. Vlinder followed the elephants closely. Then he spoke a few short words to me that I'll never forget: "You can stand up to take pictures."
"Really?" I couldn't believe it. Just two days ago, I'd been told not to move at all in a mokoro. I looked around. All the other people from our group were still sitting down, already moving on to the next sight.
"You can," Vlinder said. I put my hands on the sides of the mokoro, slowly rising up so I wouldn't rock the boat. The delta was silent as I straightened my back and fully stood up. The last rays of sunlight fell on my back. I brought the camera to my eyes, not even seeing the elephants. I felt my body tingle as I stood there. It felt like all eyes were on me: The only white person in the delta who could stand up in a mokoro. I became a new person in that moment. I'd mastered the mokoro, but most important of all: I'd been accepted into the delta as an equal.

Time loses all meaning when you're in the Okavango Delta. I didn't know when I'd arrived at our camp, or how much time had passed since. I didn't have my watch, so I couldn't check the time; The day we'd left for Africa, I'd run out of the house to catch the bus, forgetting to put my watch on my wrist. There's only so many times that I can ask my dad the time without getting on his nerves. Besides, the numbers didn't mean much to me. Under the burning Botswanan sun, there was not much more I could do than try not to fall out of my mokoro and wait for our game walk to start.

When the sun finally started to set, I changed into a black shirt I'd bought in Maun just for this purpose. Game walks are literal safaris without the protection of a jeep or boat: You walk around, preferably in dark clothes, looking for animals. I was not a fan of this whole thing. It sounded like the kind of thing people with a deathwish do for fun. On the other hand, I'd enjoyed the game drive in Chobe National Park a lot and was hoping to see more elephants. So I obediently sat down in Vlinder's mokoro for a lift to the other side of the creek, where I tried to ignore the strategically placed buffalo skull that seemed like a bad omen.


Our tour group was split into smaller groups of about seven. My parents and I joined a family from Rotterdam. We just clicked, being from the same part of the country and all that. Soon, whenever we had to split into smaller groups, we'd say things like "Team Rotterdam, get over here! Rotterdam assemble!" and huddle together. That night, Team Rotterdam was joined by Vlinder, the poler who'd picked my mom and me as his tourists to guide that trip, and Mr. Fish, who guided the other family. While the others were still dividing themselves into two groups, we set off into the delta.

Vlinder took the lead, followed by my mom and Sophie. I was third in line, just a little taller than my mom and Sophie, a lot smaller than the others. We walked in a silent single file, whispering jokes, hoping to see a lot of animals. Sadly, the animals had no intentions of showing themselves, except for a family of warthogs that strangely followed us around. Just when we were about to call it a day, the bushes rustled, my heart stopped, and a kudu shot out. Too quick for me to take a picture. As my heart calmed down, I looked around. I hadn't noticed how quickly the sun was setting. The delta was fading into the night. I couldn't help but be a little disappointed that we'd barely seen any animals. We pointed our cameras at the sunset and the red skies above, grateful for the beautiful sights we did see and hoping to see more tomorrow.


Talking a little louder, we made our way back to the mokoros. We still had quite a way to go when we rounded a corner and saw the other two groups taking pictures of an elephant. My first reaction was one of jealousy. I've never said I was perfect. But then I realized this was my moment to take pictures too. Our group joined the others. Soon we saw another elephant. And another one. An entire parade was headed our way. That's when Vlinder urged us to start moving.

We were in an open area. Some 200 meters ahead, the mokoros and the camp were waiting for us. To our right was a small marshy lake. The grass was higher there, probably up to my thighs. On our left was a trail, bordered by trees. The elephants came from the direction of our camp. Some were marching right through the bushes and trees next to the trail, knocking several trees down in the process. Others chose to stick to the path, forcing us to walk through the grass. We had to keep moving, single file, Vlinder whispered. Despite his soft voice, this was clearly a demand.


The tension was rising. We walked on. The sound of breaking tree trunks and branches filled our ears. The elephants didn't seem to notice us, but more and more of them chose to walk down the path. Vlinder led us closer to the water. The ground beneath my feet became spongy, the grass made it more difficult to keep walking in a straight line. I remember thinking: Cross country practice starts early this year. Right ahead of me, a mother elephant broke away the line with her young. Every hair on my body stood up straight when I saw her move swiftly. We were completely trapped now. We couldn't veer left: More elephants were still walking there with their young. Straight ahead wasn't an option anymore either. To our right was nothing but water, possibly crocodiles. Shit, was my only thought. Then Vlinder told us to stop walking. Quietly, we turned to face the danger he'd spotted. The matriarch of the elephant family was approaching us.

I remembered enough from my 3rd-grade presentation on elephants to know that we were in deep, deep trouble. If this beautiful, enormous creature decided we were a danger to her family, she would not hesitate to attack. And that would probably be the end of us.
The matriarch faced us, mustered us. She started flapping her ears. A bad sign. Vlinder didn't look at us when he raised his hand, his palm parallel to the ground. "When I say DOWN," he calmly said, "you all go down."
There was no other option than to listen. My life was in his hands. To my own surprise, I noticed I wasn't as scared as I'd expected to be. In fact, I was calm. I trusted Vlinder. I was ready to drop down.
Around me, people were less calm. I could feel their fear in the air. Someone farted. At least one bladder released at least one drop of pee. Everyone stood stock still. The matriarch was still assessing us, now violently shaking her head while her family marched on endlessly behind her. I looked at Vlinder, convinced he'd tell us to drop down any second now. We only had 30 meters separating us from the matriarch. My mom grabbed my arm. I felt a waterfall of worries cascade down on me. I could drop down in the blink of an eye and stand up unscathed apart from a wet sweater and a scratch or two. My mom, however, couldn't. Her back is very weak, she'd damage it too badly if she had to bodycheck the ground. And with every moment that passed, this looked more and more like a scenario that would happen for sure. The elephant hadn't taken her eyes off us yet. Vlinder gave us a signal as the matriarch violently shook her head again. But it wasn't the sign I was expecting.
"Go."
My mom tightened her hold on my arm and started dragging me through the swamp. I twisted my ankle. Water crept right into my right shoe and drenched my sock. It was almost comical. I still didn't feel any fear. I had to bite my lips not to burst out laughing. My middle-aged mom, with her bad back and low stamina, was dragging me, the daughter who's supposedly in the prime of her life, through the Okavango Delta as if I were the one most likely not to make it.
After a few meters, I dared to look over my shoulder. My dad was somewhere down the line, still in the danger zone. I wanted to see if he'd made it past the matriarch safely. What I saw surprised me: The elephant, still flapping her ears, retreated. That was the moment the adrenaline and fear finally hit me.


None of the other elephants paid any attention to us. Unsteady on my feet and breathing haggardly, I crossed the creek back to the camp, where I broke out into a series of screams: "That was awesome! In a terrifying way!"
Over dinner we talked about the incident, already forgetting just how close to danger and death we'd been. My heart was still recovering from it all. Team Rotterdam agreed that it was a night we'd never forget, but one thing about the whole adventure didn't sit right with me: Why had Vlinder wanted us to drop down on the ground in front of an animal that would literally squash the life out of us if it decided to charge? It didn't make any sense to me. I stared at the stars that night, wondering what would have happened if Vlinder had given us the sign. Hesitantly, I approached the man and asked him the question that kept me from falling asleep.
"Wouldn't we get trampled? Stepped upon?" I asked, looking out over the Okavango delta.
Vlinder answered, his eyes fixed on the horizon as always: "If we disappear, the elephant get confused and walk away. If she don't attack, the others won't do anything."
I nodded, biting my lip. The delta started to make more sense to me with every hour that passed. I thanked the universe for bringing me there, for bringing me eye to eye with an elephant, and for all the thing the delta would undoubtedly bring me in the morning.

"If the poler ask you, Envy, please stand up. You stand up."
"If the poler say, sit here in the mokoro. You sit there."
"If you sit in the mokoro. You don't move. You move, and the mokoro flip over."
"If you see an animal. Don't shout and point. The mokoro could flip over."
"If a spider get in the mokoro. You tell the poler. He will come and take it out. You don't do it yourself. The spider is maybe dangerous."
"Don't put your hand in the water for a long time. A crocodile will come and bite you."
I swallowed a lump in my throat. Going off the grid for three days in Botswana's Okavango Delta had been advertised as one of the highlights of this trip, but now it sounded utterly terrifying. As my tour guide continued listing all the dangers of the delta, I could only think one thing: Can't I just stay here in Maun?

I could not stay in Maun. Early the next morning, we broke up our camp, loaded everything into two jeeps with open sides and set out for the deadly Okavango Delta. Getting there was already a challenge: just outside Maun, we left the asphalt roads behind and bumped and shook our way down a road of soft sand. Every few seconds, a scream of "TREE BRANCHES" could be heard from the front of the jeep. Every time we ducked before the dust-covered tree branches in question clanged against the open sides of our jeep. Soon, we also shouted other, more positive warnings.
"COWS!"
"Elephant poop!"
"More cows on the left!"
"ELEPHANTS!"
"*@&$€%! TREE BRANCHES AGAIN!"


Out of nowhere, the water appeared. One second we were in the middle of an arid landscape, hoping to see animals that we had definitely scared off with our "BRANCHES" yell, the next we were on the shore of one of the many bodies of water that make up the Okavango Delta. The place looked a bit like a tiny port, tourists being the cargo.
A group of Botswanan guides and polers welcomed us and introduced themselves. Their leader was a man who listened to the name Butterfly in whichever language you'd address him; we called him Vlinder. Vlinder told us the polers would pick two tourists each to guide in their boat. My mom immediately grabbed my arm and clung onto it for dear life as the polers scattered and picked their Europeans. Vlinder chose us. I didn't know it yet at that moment, but that decision of his was an honor for us and would make the whole trip amazing.

Vlinder brought my mom and me to his mokoro, a boat that's easiest described as a Southern African canoe. Most of our stuff, sleeping mats excluded, was already loaded onto other mokoros. My heart was beating painfully against my ribs as I walked barefoot to the spot in the middle of the mokoro that Vlinder had picked for me. All the warnings my tour guide had given me raced through my mind. I was sure I was going to make the mokoro flip over. I was sure I was going to die.
Vlinder picked up a long wooden pole and used it to push us off the shore. The boat glided across the water. We moved effortlessly, stable and safe as could be. My mind slowed down as Vlinder pointed out birds we saw along the way.
"You see that bird? We call it, Goliath heron," he told in a voice that was surprisingly low for a man of his small stature. "You see the one over there?"
I almost dozed off to Vlinder's calming voice. It was nice on the water, warm and quiet. I briefly dipped my fingers into the water. Nice and cold. As we went deeper and deeper into the delta, my smile brightened. The labyrinth of reeds, the small islands, the endless water... It looked like the polder in which I was born.
"Mom, if you half close your eyes, what does this place remind you of?" I asked her, dipping my hand into the calm waters again.
"Well?"
"Home." I laughed softly. "It reminds me of home."


The Okavango Delta had a mesmerizing effect on me. I could feel all the stress and sadness of the past couple of months leave my body. The soft splashes of the pole hitting the water lulled me into a half-sleep, until an unfamiliar burling sound brought me back to the present.
"What was that sound?" I asked Vlinder, my voice a little shaky.
"You hear it?"
"Yes! It's like... more than a hum. Almost like  a motor or something?"
"That's a hippo. But it's very far away."


We arrived at our camp accompanied by the sounds of hippos. An entire pod turned out to be swimming in a pond a couple of dozens of meters from our camp, which was right inside a small bit of forest close to a creek that connected the hippo pond to the main channel. We quickly pitched our tents, before assembling around the fire pitch for a briefing. That night we were going to do a game walk, a safari you do on foot. Until then, we'd stay at the camp, where we could swim in the creek, have a siesta, or learn to use a mokoro. And if we had to go to the bathroom... A shovel and a roll of toilet paper were put on a tree at the edge of camp.
"If the shovel is not there, the bathroom is locked!"
We were brought to a latrine, hidden away in the small piece of the forest where we were camping. I couldn't suppress a disgusted giggle.
"I'm not pooping in a hole!" most of the younger group members announced. But we all knew we were going to have to do that, no matter how uncomfortable it made us feel. Because this was our home for the next three days, I only fully realized as I walked out of the camp to stand atop a termite mount to look at the hippos upstream. This was home, I thought again, and to my own surprise, it did indeed feel that way.

"Where do you want to go?"
A year ago, I was sat in my hostel room in Belfast with Zana and Urska, two Slovenian girls with whom I'd traveled to Northern Ireland. Spread out between us was a map of the city. In no time, we'd made a list of places we wanted to see: the Titanic shipyard, Belfast Castle, Napoleon's Nose. That plan left us with one more day to fill, which coincidentally was Easter Sunday. With no other suggestions being brought to the table, I saw my chance and took it.
"There's only one place I want to add to the list," I said. "I want to see the art on the Peace Wall."


The idea had been planted in my head about ten months earlier. As I was sitting on the porch of my "apartment" in Wadi Rum, Jordan, an old man from the group I was traveling with came up to me to ask me about street art. He'd seen me jump ship on an excursion to some biblical site in Bethlehem so I could go to the West Bank Barrier. In hindsight, he regretted not joining me. I told him about my experiences and when he saw my face light up when talking about the intersection of art, history and politics, he told me I should go see Belfast's peace walls someday. I made a mental note of the location and promised him I'd go. My promise was sincere, but I thought of it as something for the distant future. Within a year, however, I found myself in Belfast with the old man's words ringing in my ears.


Granted, Easter 2019 was not the best of times for three to slightly naive university students to visit Nothern Ireland. Lyra McKee was murdered the day before we arrived. We received more than one text from worried parents, asking us about the situation and urging us to keep our eyes open, to stay safe. We were all a little tense when we read about what was going on not too far from us. But Belfast seemed calm and safe, so after a visit to St. George's Market, we went to the Peace Wall.


The easiest way to visit the Peace Wall that has capital letters and a listing on Trip Advisor is by booking a tour. You'll be picked up in a cab and a private tour guide will tell you all about the walls and their history. Us being broke students, we did not book such a tour. We decided to walk instead. It'd take us only half an hour to get there, the sun was shining, and we were oblivious to most of the city's recent history, so walking seemed like a great idea. But soon we found ourselves away from all main roads, in the middle of a residential area where tourists were a rare sight in the streets full of Irish flags. Some vague echo of a historical fact began to wriggle in the back of my mind. It took on the form of U2's song Sunday Bloody Sunday. That's when I realized we were visiting Belfast on days that had more than just a little bit of history attached to them.


I had mixed feelings when I saw the gate. At first, I just felt excited because it opened my eyes to the art I'd been blind to just moments earlier. Almost immediately after that, I felt awful for not fully understanding the history of the place I was visiting. These feelings kept fighting each other as Zana, Urska and I walked along the wall and interpreted some of the pieces. Like the West Bank Barrier, but to a lesser extent, this wall can be read as a newspaper. I lost all sense of time. The marker in my backpack called my name, so I took it out and found a blank spot on the wall. There, between the names of countless others, I wrote the message I'd taken to heart after my visit to the Palestinian Territories: "Make hummus, not walls".


When I left the Peace Wall behind, I was still plagued by mixed feelings. That situation hasn't changed much since then. I have a love-hate relationship with this type of walls, but I can't just not visit them. They prove that something beautiful can come out of a horrible situation, in the form of art. Nonetheless, walls like the Peace Wall in Belfast and the West Bank Barrier in Israel are scars on the face of humanity. They might be effective, but inhumane. Yet still I'll keep visiting them. There's a lot we can learn from ugly solutions, and maybe one day we'll sort our problems out without separating communities with walls. Make hummus, not walls.