"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.