Botswana Bound Part I: Windhoek to Kasane

There’s luxury travel.

There’s budget travel.

And then, there’s Peace Corps travel.

Sure, it’s lovely to do the first. And it takes skill to do the second. But for a select few there’s a two-year window that allows for the third.

It requires a bit of creativity and a lot of flexibility. But that may be why a group of us were so eager to celebrate our first six months in Africa the Peace Corps way: with a roundabout trip from Windhoek to Windhoek via Botswana.

It wasn’t direct. But it was scenic.

The adventure began after my week at GLOW. A handful of facilitators, one pop star and a team of Nam PCVs successfully illustrated the importance of teamwork, communication and leadership to a group of learners from all over Namibia. But a couple of scheduling mishaps, a few illnesses and 168 hours straight with 80 learners meant we were all ready for a bit of a break. So after a night in a hostel—the closest thing to privacy I’d had all week—we piled into a taxi and headed to the B1. Caprivi bound!

Now, I spent six years in New York. I’ve taken my fair share of cabs. And without a doubt, I’ve been taken for a ride. Probably more than once. But to ask a taxi in Windhoek to drop you at the B1 is a lot like asking a taxi in NYC to drop you on Broadway. They’re both big roads. The kind you’d expect a professional driver to at least be familiar with. So it came as a bit of a surprise to learn our guy, who had been running his taxi for six years, not only didn’t know where the B1 was, but also, didn’t know WHAT the B1 was.

Seven dollars and a few basic hand signals later we were at the B1. The four of us heading north divided into pairs and spread out along the highway. Since PCVs aren’t allowed to drive cars, and the cost of petrol has made kombis nearly unaffordable on our budgets, we opted to free hike as far as we could go.

Luckily for us, that meant all the way to Botswana.

Free rides usually mean committing to conversation, so Rachel and I traded off riding shotgun. I lucked out: A police officer from Windhoek who was worried about two girls standing on the side of the road alone, and an Afrikaner who worked or the Ministry of Agriculture and owned a farm outside of Khorixas.

Rachel—well—not so much. She spent the first leg of our journey feigning interest in a roadmaster who spouted random facts about the width of Namibian streets and the composition of tar on heavily versus rarely traveled roads. And the final five hours talking about an imaginary American boyfriend in an effort to fend of marriage proposals from a guy who claimed he wore his wedding ring “only for pleasure.” Not because he was married. (Right.)

Our hikes were hit or miss, but other friends heading north hit the jackpot when a woman who was not only heading to the Kavango (where we planned to overnight on straw mats at the home of a Nam 25er), but also onto Caprivi—our final Namibian destination. They convinced her—with the lure of a real bed after a long journey and a warm meaty meal—to stay in Rundu. So the next morning, by 5 a.m., we were comfortably seated in a new car heading to Katima.

No waiting.

No waving.

Glorious.

We met up with a few more PCVs in Katima, and after a traditional meal of porridge and fish, headed to the village (and mud huts) where we’d overnight before heading to the Botswana border. Another night on straw mats, before taking up our early morning stations on the side of the road. Despite a serious lack of vehicles we were on the road in under an hour.

A police officer dropped us off at the border post where we filled out some paperwork before walking across a bridge over the Chobe and Okavango rivers into Botswana. It was the first time I’d ever walked into another country, and the view was amazing.

We set down our packs, munched on some Trader Joe’s trail mix from America, and in less than an hour, were piled in the backseat of a four-door truck with an incredibly kind family from Zimbabwe. Not only did they rearrange their cargo to accommodate our bags, their teenage daughter offered to tuck herself in the bed of the truck to make room for the four of us up front.

The road to Kasane runs parallel to Chobe National Park. It’s home to the largest population of African Elephants in the world. Something like 120,000. We talked about Zimbabwe politics, the election, and the rejection of China’s arms but still kept our eyes trained on the bush. Minutes into the country and we were already desperate to see an elephant.

That didn’t take long.

Seeing these mammoth animals in their natural habitat quite literally took our breath away. Our ride humored us by stopping while we Ohhed and Ahhed the way some tourists do at the squirrels in Washington Square Park. (Now I kind of understand—although I’d like to think there’s something slightly more magical about a massive elephant than a tiny rodent.) They backed up their truck. Paused at the roadside. And in the end, probably got as big a kick from our reactions as we did from the elephants.

We said goodbye to our ride in Kasane and hello to two other volunteers. They’d traveled the day before us and arrived at our campsite early. We pitched our tents on the Chobe River, where we were lucky enough to hear hippos grazing on swamp grass every night. (We were, however, protected by an electric fence.)

The highlight of Kasane was not a fancy lodge—since we don’t have the clothes. Or an exotic game drive-since we didn’t have the money. Instead, it was a group boat ride on the Chobe hosted by our hostel. It proved to be not only one of the highlights of the town, but also of our trip.

In two hours I saw more wildlife in Botswana than I’d seen in six months in Khorixas. Elephants. TONS of elephants. Hippos. Giraffes. Kudu. Baboons. Water buffalo. Crocodile. And well—even just the water was something to see.

It’s amazing how months of desert and sand have a way of making even clear blue rivers a site to see.