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.

Elephants are my favorite animals. Not because they're so cute or intelligent, but simply because baby Envy was given an elephant plushy after she'd lost her teddy bear. Later on, I discovered elephants are cool for many, many reasons, but it all started with a plushy. I won't let any opportunity to see the real deal slide. And Botswana gave me more opportunities than I ever could have dreamed of.

Just 86 kilometers from the Victoria Falls lies Chobe National Park in Botswana. It's known for its enormous elephant population. In 2014, Botswana put a ban on elephant hunting. The country practically became one big elephant sanctuary, as all the surrounding countries didn't put a ban in place and elephants crossed the borders on all sides. Too many elephants, if you ask the Botswanan government, so the ban was lifted in 2019. But in my opinion, "too many elephants" isn't a thing. I not only wanted to do the game cruise through the park that was included in our tour, but also a game drive that would last almost all day and would cost a lot of dollars extra. But honestly, the alternative was to sit and wait by our stinky tents all day. So we went on a game drive through Chobe. It was the best decision we made that week.

Big jeeps with open sides picked us up from our campgrounds and brought us to Chobe. The ride was pleasant, the breeze was welcome, but it all changed when we entered the park. No more asphalt, no more roads, just soft sandy tracks. Although I didn't see any animals for a good twenty minutes, I loved the park already. The jeep shook from left to right, sometimes very nearly getting stuck in the sand. I was as excited as a little kid in the backseat of their parents' car pretending they're on a rollercoaster (which I honestly still did that day; growing up is overrated). Suddenly, the driver slammed the brakes. He'd spotted an antelope.


Granted, an antelope is not as exciting as an elephant, but it was the first antelope we saw and we collectively lost it. I'm pretty sure that antelope was the most photographed animal of the entire trip.
Our driver laughed. "Now you all take pictures of the antelope. End of the day, you won't even look at antelope anymore."
I couldn't believe that. The antelope was beautiful. It'd be a crime to ignore these creatures - unless an elephant showed up.

Our game drive continued. After a few minor freakouts over more antelope and guineafowl, we reached a hilltop from where we could see the Chobe river. That's when we spotted them. Elephants, way off in the distance, an entire family of them. I got goosebumps all over, felt like the luckiest girl alive. I didn't think my day could get any better, but it did. We drove down to the riverfront to get a closer look. And then they were everywhere. Elephants as far as the eye could see.


It was midday, which meant that the elephants of Chobe were all coming down to the river. Entire families were crossing it. I was so happy I almost cried. There were hippos, crocodiles, storks, kudus and a giraffe as well, but the elephants stole the show. They were literally everywhere, completely unbothered by our presence. I choked up. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected to see so many wild elephants in one place. I grabbed my camera, but after a dozen pictures, I put it down again. This was not something I wanted to experience through camera lenses and screens.


Ten meters from our jeep, an elephant family was resting in the shade of a tree. A tiny baby kept pointing at us with its trunk. When we drove on, another family rushed past us without batting an eye. They came so close to us that it felt like I could touch them if I just reached out (which you should only do if you want to risk your life, so don't). My emotions got the better of me when I spotted a tiny baby elephant running down a hill, panicking slightly as he spotted our jeep, then rushed to its mom. I will never forget the moment when we drove back to the entrance and the enormous head of a fully grown elephant, angry and spooked by our roaring jeep, emerged right next to us from the bush. We swerved, almost got stuck in the sand, but the elephant luckily left us alone.

All around us, elephants were on the move, but as long as we treated them with respect and kept our distance, they paid us no special attention. I felt so small and insignificant in my jeep next to these friendly giants. They gave me a newfound respect for nature. They made me realize what my place on this planet is and how I should be making sure that they have a future.


I was firmly on cloud nine when we left the national park, only to return half an hour later by boat, on a so-called game cruise. Most of the elephants had left the river banks already, so I spent my time photographing buffaloes and the sunset. It was a perfect calm ending to a perfect exciting day. I found myself still with tears in the corners of my eyes over the sight of elephants far off in the distance. That night, I went to bed happier than I'd been in ages. Botswana might not be happy with its elephants, but I was. The problem isn't that there are too many elephants in the country, the problem is that there aren't enough safe places in surrounding countries. Shooting, hunting, killing them won't help. But as I crawled into my sleeping bad that night, I didn't think too much about it. My head was too full of beautiful memories. And as I fell asleep to the sound of hippos grunting and wheezing in the Chobe river, I dreamed of all the elephants of Botswana.

If you'd asked nine-year-old me which African country would be the first I'd visit, my answer would've been clear: "South Africa!". I had a friend who was born there and I loved going over to her place to eat plaatkoekies and learn bits of Afrikaans. Her parents were often talking about Africa, so I soon learned one thing: South Africa good, Zimbabwe bad. That idea barely changed as I grew up. Zimbabwe seemed too far away, too dangerous, too unremarkable to visit. Even the documentaries about Zimbabwe's natural treasures were a bit dull. But to my own surprise, I ended up visiting Zimbabwe before South Africa last summer. The Victoria Falls, extreme inflation, tourism bubbles, I saw it all. And this is what I thought about it while I walked around in a country I thought I'd never see with my own eyes.

If only I'd known about the double visa for Zimbabwe and Zambia, I could've visited five African countries this summer...

This camping trip isn't a camping trip. This is full-on glamping. Electricity! Beds! A lamp in a tent!

Crocodile skewers are surprisingly tasty.

Feels like I'm back at uni with all these rich people spending money like it's nothing, while I'm bummed that even a visit to the Victoria Falls is already $30,-.

The Victoria Falls look so much better in real life than they do on tv!

A warthog! Pumbaa! Another one! Two Pumbaas!


Honestly, a walk along the edge of the gorge, with a view of the falls... that's just as good as any overpriced zipline.

Let me get this straight: If I cross this bridge, I am technically in Zambia.

Please leave me alone, I really don't want to buy any souvenirs while crossing a scary old bridge.

Technically speaking, I am in Zambia. Without a visa.

Zimbabwe looks nice from this side of the river.


My permit to cross the bridge would look so nice in my journal. Shame I'm not allowed to keep it.

I do not like the looks of that baboon. Not at all.

Seriously, even in a supermarket in Zimbabwe I can't escape Despacito?

I'm so hungry that even KFC next to a gas station sounds amazing.

Dozens of cars in line for a gas station that's closed. This country is indescribable...

If one more guy asks me if I want to buy souvenirs, I'm going to scream.

I'm not going to lie, Zimbabwe got on my nerves every now and then. You better leave your European expectations at the airport, or you're going to have a rough time. That is if you're brave enough to look further than the safety of your hotel, of course. But honestly, I don't regret a single thing about my time in Zimbabwe. I was set on not becoming a fan of the place solely because of some childhood memories, but Zimbabwe didn't give me the chance to think too negatively about Victoria Falls. The roar of those falls still rings in ears, the Victoria Falls bridge still makes my legs tremble and my short trip into Zambia still makes me smile from ear to ear. But apart from the street vendors that kept asking me to buy souvenirs, there was one thing that did bother me during my stay: the implication that Africa is for the rich, paradoxical as that may sound. Rich tourists hold the world in there hands in Zimbabwe, and it threw me and my tiny wallet off balance. I'd barely found my feet again when we piled into Madiba, the unreliable truck, and drive to Botswana. I'd been in Zimbabwe less than 72 hours, but it felt like a lifetime. And that was only the very beginning of the journey, with still three more weeks in Africa left.

"Dad?" I tapped my dad on the shoulder. We were waiting in line at the Victoria Falls airport to get our visa for Zimbabwe. It was supposed to be an easy process, but something had made it a little more complicated: "Did you know that getting a double visa for Zimbabwe and Zambia was an option?"
"What?"
I pointed at the banners and signs advertising the double visa. Chaos ensued. Would we need a double visa if we were to go rafting on the Zambezi, which functions as the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia? Would the Zimbabwean half of the visa expire if we went to Zambia only for an hour or two on the package deal? So many questions, so few answers. We decided to stick to the single visa for Zimbabwe, which was already quite expensive. Then, the minute we got through customs, we met our tour guide, who told us we'd just screwed up our only chance on this trip to go to Zambia.

I sulked for the rest of my first day in Zimbabwe. It was my fault that we couldn't go to Zambia, I had failed to find us the information we needed. Now I'd never see Zambia. It had never been part of the plan, but it still stung that I missed out on the opportunity to add another country to the list of places I've visited. I couldn't just let it go. I was confronted with my failure for the entirety of the next morning, when we went to the Victoria Falls. Looking at them meant looking at Zambia. But when I thought all hope was lost, one last loophole saved the day: I could cross the Victoria Falls Bridge into Zambia without a visa.


The Victoria Falls Bridge was built over a century ago. Construction started in 1904 as part of a plan to connect Cape Town to Cairo by railway. That railway idea was quickly abandoned, but the bridge was finished in 1905 and has been serving Zimbabwe and Zambia well ever since. Tourists staying in the town of Victoria Falls can cross the border to visit the bridge and the café on the other side, which is on Zambian territory. All is good as long as you don't follow the road into Zambia and go past the border post; Doing that means your Zimbabwean visa expires and you'll have to get a new one to get back to your hotel or camp.
My parents and I went up to the Zimbabwean border posts, where we spoke the magic words: "We want to visit the bridge." A government official gave us a white slip with a stamp on it and we were ready to visit the outermost edge of Zambia.

As soon as we left the border post behind us, I felt like we'd entered the real Africa. Victoria Falls tries its best to craft a comfortable illusion for its tourists, where poverty and politics are kept to a minimum. If you want to, you can stay inside the safe tourism bubble without seeing the mile-long line for the gas station, that only sells gas at night, or without noticing the kids running around in shoes that don't fit. That bubble bursts when you decide to visit and cross the bridge. The amount of white and Asian faces between the Zimbabwean and Zambian border posts is minimal. All of a sudden, you find yourself in the hustle and bustle of an actual border town, where import and export are managed and where locals are busy at work in transport and trade. People stand in line with their bicycles waiting to enter the other country. And here and there, you'll also see street vendors trying to sell their goods to the tourists who dare to leave their bubble, though most of these vendors stay on the actual bridge. They got on my nerves, to be honest, but apart from that, I enjoyed seeing normal people living their normal lives. I liked this small excursion. Until I set foot on the bridge.


Crossing the bridge is risky business when you have vertigo. Crossing a century-old bridge that shakes and trembles when any motorized vehicle crosses it is even worse. Let me just say that I wasn't the happiest of happy campers when I walked slowly towards Zambia. The view made the walk worthwhile, although I was fairly sure it might just be the last view I'd ever see.
Right in the middle of the bridge, a yellow sign let us know that we were "NOW ENTERING ZAMBIA". Without a visa, but with the magical slip that got us here.

Just after I'd set foot on the Zambian side of the bridge, another truck made the whole thing tremble. It made me nervous, so I picked up the pace more and more until my dad and I ended up in a race to become the first of the Fisher family to set foot on Zambian soil. I won.

There wasn't much to see when I took in my surroundings. A small hill blocked my view. While I waited for my mom to reach this end of the bridge, my dad went to have a look. He told us there wasn't much to see on the other side of the hill either, except for the road to the Zambian border post. It didn't matter. The fact that I'd actually made it to Zambia was enough.


We went to the small café right next to the bridge for a drink. For a few moments, I considered spending $45 there on the zipline that would take me across the gorge and back to Zimbabwe. It looked amazing, flying high over the Zambezi and crossing an international border in the process, but I couldn't justify spending the equivalent of seven hours of work in my current job on a minute of adrenaline. I settled for a bottle of coke and reminded myself that I was lucky to be here. Lucky to be in Africa, lucky to be in Zambia. I sat down at a table with a view of the bridge and Zimbabwe, where another family from our tour group was waiting for their lunch to arrive. Like us, they'd decided not to spend an entire month's worth of rent on rafting and bungee jumping. They were the only people in the group that didn't make me feel bad for being a working-class kid.

We sat there for a while, all seven of us, drinking, eating and taking pictures of the monkeys that had decided to come and steal some French fries. We enjoyed the calm, the quiet, the occasional rumble of a truck crossing the bridge. When the other family left to take a look at the Victoria Falls in the late afternoon light, we stayed a little longer. I was quiet, taking in the moment. I couldn't comprehend yet that I, a nobody from the Netherlands, was enjoying a coke in the faraway country of Zambia, despite all my mental issues, despite my mistakes with visa.
"Glad we came to the bridge?" my mom asked just before we went back to Zimbabwe.
I nodded.
"I'm sorry we couldn't do more in Zambia."
I smiled and raised my coke bottle. "Mom, this was exactly what I wanted from Zambia. Good company, a cold drink and a nice view of Zimbabwe. I couldn't wish for anything more."

I woke up to cold feet, sleepy voices and the sound of tent zippers. It was early in the morning of my first full day in Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe... I never thought I'd get this far away from home. As a kid, I heard stories of economic disasters and dictatorship in Zimbabwe, told by South African expats. So far though, the only negative thing Zimbabwe had brought me was a very cold night. I pulled my legs up and buried my face in my pillow. All around me, people from our tour group were getting ready to spend hundreds of US dollars on rafting, ziplining and bungee jumping. Those activities were far outside my price range. I tried to shut the excitement of the other out and fell asleep again.

When I woke up for the second time, I heard the typical sound of helicopters in the distance. The flights over the Victoria Falls had started for the day. Rich white people were spending a fortune on views I'd never see. But to be honest, I was not particularly interested in those views anyway. I'd seen the Victoria Falls on tv once, when I was watching a documentary with my mom. Helicopter shots showed the fast currents of the Zambezi, the camera rapidly approached the falls - then, the biggest cinematographic anticlimax ever. A small gorge, barely visible falls, some sad trees, bland colors. If Vic Falls hadn't been the starting point of this tour through southern Africa, I would've happily lived my life without ever seeing the Victoria Falls. But now I was here. and I was going to make the most out of this day with the limited funds I had.


After a small breakfast, my parents and I left the Shearwater Explorers Village behind to take a look at some of the most famous waterfalls in the world. We walked through Victoria Falls, the town, then followed the road to the falls. It was a short and safe walk. All the while, helicopters circled high above us. At night, we'd been able to hear the roar of the falls, but the helicopters drowned it out during the day. I felt like I was living in a weird bubble where anything was possible with some dollars, where money and status were more important than actually living in the moment. I tried not to think too much about it, but the helicopters were a constant reminder of the extreme inequality in Vic Falls, with rich tourists and poverty-stricken locals kept apart as far as possible.

We soon reached the entrance of Victoria Falls National Park, where we paid $30 per person for a ticket printed on receipt paper. It was still quite early in the morning, and the park was almost deserted. We had the paths almost completely to ourselves, apart from when a monkey decided to come down from the trees every now and then.
My parents and I decided to walk to the far end of the park first, then work our way towards the other end and the Victoria Falls Bridge. The vegetation changed as we came closer to the falls. The trees were greener, the shrubs less brittle. We passed a statue of Livingstone, looked out over the Zambezi, then went to the closest fall, nicknamed "the Devil's Cataract". On our way over, we spotted stairs leading down to a viewpoint. I quickly skipped down the steps, eager to see if the falls were better in real life than they'd been on tv. The roar of the Victoria Falls filled my ears. Spray suddenly fell over me, a fine mist of Zambezi water catapulted back into the air crashing into the gorge separating Zimbabwe from Zambia. My mind failed to catch in words what my eyes saw. Millions upon millions of liters of water fell into the gorge that showed itself to me in all its beauty. Hundreds of meters of waterfalls were at my feet. A sheet of mist rose from the depths of the gorge. I was speechless.


The sound of the crashing water was deafening. I could not stop looking at it. The spray of the Victoria Falls left tiny translucent pearls of water on my hair and camera. The place was nothing like it had been on tv, and I cursed myself for being stupid enough to judge the falls before I'd seen them with my own eyes. I couldn't get enough of them. Suddenly, I felt grateful for being too broke to go rafting. It was a blessing in disguise: Now I had all day to take in the beauty of the Victoria Falls.

My parents and I continued our way along the edge of the gorge. The views never got old. Every time I thought I was about to get bored, I saw something new. A rainbow, a bird, a ray of sunshine bouncing off the falls. We had it all almost entirely to ourselves that morning. The few tourists that were already there were mostly Chinese, and although most of them didn't speak English very well, my dad managed to become friends with a family from Shanghai. I became a legend among their tour group when I saw them taking pictures of my dad, who was helping an older lady get down a slippery bit of the path, and told them: "Pictures one dollar!". They found this hilarious and kept telling each other the story every time they spotted me.

As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, more people came to the park. I was glad we'd come so early, as we still had big chunks of the park almost to ourselves. I found myself smiling and joking and being passionate about the pictures I was taking. It felt weird; For the past two months, I hadn't felt that happy. I'd been wrapped up in university work, the loss of my grandma and the family issues that followed. My mind had been a dark and dreary place, but the African sun finally brought back the light. When I finally put my camera away after taking dozens of pictures of the waterfalls, the spray and mist enchanted me. They steadily fell on me, like the world's finest shower. I felt like they were washing me clean, clean from all the emotional baggage I'd carried all the way from Rotterdam to Victoria Falls. I let it happen. I needed it to happen.

I stepped forward and spread my arms. The fine droplets of Zambezi water engulfed me. I let it come over me, I let it wash away all the negative memories that I didn't want to take with me into the future. I briefly thought of my grandmother, and all the pain she'd caused me for most of my life. In my mind, I held those memories in my hands and released them, so the spray could take them away. I smiled, raised my head towards the sun as droplet continued to fall on me. Rebirth, renaissance, call it whatever you want. I had been looking for a fresh start for so long, and the Victoria Falls gave me one as I hummed a line from an old song.
"Let the rain wash away, all the pain of yesterday."

I spent my first hour in Zimbabwe in a seat so uncomfortably close to the seat in front of it that I would've turned noseless like Voldemort if the driver hit the brakes unexpectedly. The window next to my seat was half-covered up with a sticker. The best seats on the truck were occupied by a cooler and some luggage. It was my first ride on the truck that would bring me from Victoria Falls to Cape Town. By the end of that road trip, I would be fearing for my life every time I got on.

Our truck's name was Madiba. Most of the trucks that take tourists on a road trip through Southern Africa have a name, so you won't get into the wrong one because you forgot the numbers on the license plate; Names are much easier to remember. I won't forget the name Madiba for the rest of my life. Apparently, our truck was named after Nelson Mandela, who was nicknamed Madiba (I did not know this until I was on the plane back home). Mandela left us all years ago and the truck that was named after him seemed ready to do the same. We were barely on our way to Cape Town when Madiba started falling apart.

Madiba's seats were the first thing that betrayed the truck's approaching departure from this planet. Some people could feel the springs poke into their legs, others had reclined their seats and couldn't get them into an upright position anymore. I was lucky enough to claim seats that were fine. No one else wanted to sit there anyway, because the illogical seat plan meant that there was no legroom there, while other seats had legroom to spare. I was happy with my seat though. It didn't poke me in the butt, it didn't slam back at random moments, and the lack of legroom meant I was seen as a selfless saint for voluntarily sitting there almost every day.

We made it out of Zimbabwe without any issues. We got through Botswana just fine. But we did notice a crack in the floor before we reached Namibia. It was a warning for what was to come. Madiba was an old, tired truck and the Namibian roads ahead of us promised nothing but trouble.

Namibia and infrastructure have a weird relationship. There are very few asphalt roads. Namibia can afford asphalt roads, but won't spend money on them. One of the reasons, my tour guide told me, is that private businesses are in charge of construction and maintenance of the roads and the Namibian government "can't just take over these tasks". The second reason is that the government thinks that asphalt roads will damage the ecosystems of Namibia's deserts. As a result, every tourist visiting Namibia gets treated to an "African free massage": The rocky dirt roads full of potholes will shake you until your bones turn to jelly. Madiba, nearing the end of its life, was not fit for a challenge of this size.

It started in the north of Namibia. The crack in the floor grew. Madiba had to take us on a game drive through Etosha National Park, where every bit of the truck was under constant strain. The truck made so much noise, peeping, screeching, that I expected Madiba would move on to the afterlife right then and there. But Madiba's guardian angel was doing their job very well: The only thing that didn't make it out of Etosha was the door handle.

I wasn't too worried about Madiba when we arrived in Swakopmund. We'd made it to the halfway mark. We'd fixed the door handle (although it kept falling off and we almost lost it a couple of times). When it fell off again, our tour guide would just open the door from the outside. We were fine. Madiba was fine. Everything was fine.

Everything was far from fine less than two days after we left Swakopmund. The African free massage intensified. Madiba peeped and groaned every second of the trip now. And then it all went wrong on our way to the Sossusvlei. Bits and pieces broke off. Tanks started leaking. Dust filled the air inside the truck. We couldn't assess the full damage until we'd made it out of Namib-Naukluft National Park. When the dust settled, we saw we'd been lucky to make it out at all. The driver's windshield had cracked. The radiator was leaking. The small iron ladder under the door had broken off on one side. The chainlink of the cage that held our cooking supplies was gone. One of the diesel tanks was dripping fuel at an alarming rate...


We moved on as if nothing had happened. One family traveling in our group had brought duct tape for emergencies. Soon enough, Madiba was covered in duct tape bandaids. The shaking, creaking and groaning worsened. Blackish goo spread over the windows on Madiba's right side; The leaked diesel was sprayed all over the truck. Those windows had to remain closed, which was horrible in the middle of Namibia with no AC on board. And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the situation escalated.

A loud bang echoed through the truck. People shouted. A dark object flew past my window. Madiba abruptly skidded to a halt. The African free massage was suddenly over. Chaos reigned. People who'd sat in the front came rushing to the back. The windshield had cracked.
What had happened was absurd. The roof hatch on the driver's cabin had been locked shut with a tree branch. I am not joking. This branch had become so relaxed from all the African free massages that it slipped away, unlocking the hatch, which then flew off and crashed into our windshield. The window didn't shatter, thank god, or people would have been scarred for life, literally. Eyes could have been lost, brains could have been damaged. And our tour guide wanted to drive on as if nothing had happened. We protested, almost planned a mutiny. Then one of the other tourists undermined our position by saying: "He just wants to stick to his schedule. He has a schedule to follow today, you know!"
"Well, I have a schedule for my life," I said. "And dying at 23 doesn't fit into that schedule." That's the last thing that was said about the incident. The duct tape was pulled out, a mattress was taken out of the back of the truck, and Madiba was fixed up as far as that was possible in that situation.


After crossing the border into South Africa, Madiba's cracked windshield was covered up with cardboard. The diesel tank was fixed. We had no more African free massages ahead of us. Still, I didn't believe we'd make it to Cape Town - at least not with Madiba for transport. I didn't feel safe anymore. Everything hurt from sitting in a cramped, dusty space for days on end. Even on asphalt, Madiba didn't make a good impression anymore. I couldn't believe it when I finally saw Table Mountain on the horizon after three long weeks. I'd never experienced such a relief in my life.

The story still isn't over though. Madiba had to bring us to the airport after we'd spent some time in Cape Town. While we were still out and about, our tour guide got a phone call from Namibia: another truck had broken down. Madiba was needed to rescue the stranded tourists. This meant we were dropped off at the airport hours earlier than the original schedule had said. I couldn't help but laugh when I heard that these poor tourists in Namibia were waiting for Madiba to rescue them. It was so sad. On the way over to the airport, we lost the door handle again. One of the seats lost its headrest. Every meter was a challenge for this poor old truck, but that didn't matter apparently. In fact, Madiba is still out there now, road tripping with a bunch of tourists who are probably afraid for their lives. So if you ever find yourself in Southern Africa, ready to get on a truck with the name Madiba, I have one piece of advice for you: RUN.