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.