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.