Cats on Safari – Botswana

I woke up really early on Day 2, just as the sun raised an eyebrow over the horizon. The premature start was initiated primarily by the fluttering cacophony of the high density residential real estate above our heads – weaver birds by the ton twittered, buzzed, flitted and chatted vociferously, getting their avian equivalent of 30 000 words in before breakfast. What a to-do, while Anushka stared lustfully up at the Paperbark Acacia canopy quivering with feathered residents. One day she’ll get her bird, but today is not the day.

Oh, yeah, and the truck stop next to Big Fig Tree Inn belched flatulently as the overnighters gunned their engines and pulled away on the next leg of their journey. A great pity to site such a pretty, tree-strewn campsite alongside.

It is an indisputable fact that neatly packed and stashed luggage will, once raided enroute, refuse to return to its departure state and here we are in that situation. Henry was looking rather shabby as in frustration, items were tossed onto the bed or lashed in the central space when they simply didn’t slot back neatly into their allotted niche. S and A hopped in willingly and snuggled down for stage 2. As usual, the turning of the engine prompted a cat travelling singsong but they soon settled and were perfectly composed (ok, snoozing deeply and absolutely oblivious to the goings on around them) as we navigated the border formalities.

Through Martin’s Drift border post and on we rolled, heading for Francistown. A long drive on a good road, straight as an arrow through countryside populated by goats and donkeys with no sign of human habitation, villages or even a little shop. After a couple of hours we stopped at one of the many roadside picnic spots and laid out the cat’s comfort accessories – food, water and litter tray, which they were ignoring in the car. Clipped on the leashes and persuaded them (with a touch of force!) to exit but try as we might, these hosses were NOT going to eat, drink or use the box.

Our original intention was to bunk up for the night in Francistown but to be frank, after a long drive through a landscape remarkably South African in nature, to be faced by what could be any South African town (every possible SA chain and franchise, bank, petrol station and so on) it lacked appeal so forward to Nata we forged. Proofing and editing Andy Tinker’s Guides to the region came in very handy at this point and his advice invaluable as we knew exactly what to expect both along the way, in Nata and at the dreaded Zambian border post. But I’ve run ahead too far, that’s tomorrow’s chapter.

In the meantime, we turned off the road without bend or end into Pelican Lodge just minutes before the approaching storm we’d been watching hit. Henry’s advantages were immediately apparent as we raced the bulging black clouds – stop, open the side door, roll out the side awning, set up the chairs, open the fridge and enjoy a cold one while spectating the Gautengers a few metres away desperately putting up their tent in the deluge then retreating to their car to sit the storm out.

The Pelican camp site had the cutest stone and thatch personal ablutions for each of the three sites, containing a shower, basin, toilet, mirror, beautiful handwoven grass lampshade all discreetly hidden behind a curtain. At the rear of the building, a kitchen sink and draining board made for convenient washing up. The silence and refreshing coolness after a really hot day and long drive made for a very good night’s sleep.