by Lauren Emerick from Michigan State University
“Do you feel at home, Nick?”
“Absolutely.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as I gazed out over the landscape in front of me, reflecting on the conversation that I had just overheard. Though the scene that lay before me was beyond picturesque, with the sunset casting a golden glow over the seemingly never-ending field of grasses and thornbushes, it felt entirely foreign from the mature, leafy forests that I call home back in southern Michigan. Truthfully, it felt foreign even compared to the landscapes that I had seen throughout my 6 weeks in Botswana; the flowing rivers, diversity of wildlife, and dense mopane forests that I had grown so accustomed to were nowhere in sight, and instead I was faced with dry grasses dancing in the evening breeze, interrupted only by the occasional group of cattle or a lone northern black korhaan erupting from a cluster of grasses, its distinct “kraa, kraa, kraa” growing quieter as it flew off into the distance. Yet, for my instructor Nick, who came from North Dakota, this landscape paralleled the open plains that he grew up in. I could hardly relate to calling this landscape “home”, yet I saw a certain beauty in it; though seemingly empty, this land was full of life. Each blade of grass seemed to host a new insect species, clinging onto the swaying blades to avoid being cast into the wind, and the bushes, though sparse, served as apartment complexes where lizards, spiders, and birds all decided to become neighborly and build nests side by side. Looking up from the earth proved to be just as fascinating; the lack of tall trees or towering buildings made it possible to see the sky for what feels like an eternity, and each second spent staring at the endless expanse of clouds brought about a new exclamation of what story the sky was telling (“That cloud looks like a whale!”, “No way, it looks like a mountain!” “That one looks like a duck- do you see it?”). I could have laid down in that rough grass and stared at the sky forever, had I not been snapped back to reality by a folder and pencil being handed to me. That’s right. We had a job to do.
Our trip to Rakops came with one key purpose; we were tasked with collecting trail cameras for a research project being conducted by Kaggie Orrick, a PhD candidate at Yale who has long history with Round River, having been a student and instructor herself in the past. Her study focuses on human-wildlife conflict in the Makgadikgadi/Nxai Pans region of Botswana, using trail cameras to assess movement of wildlife throughout the region. Learning about the intricacies of her project made me incredibly curious and sparked a million questions in my mind about the different aspects of human-wildlife conflict in the area, but more than anything it gave me the perspective to appreciate the long, intense workday that was about to come. After arriving at Rakops River Lodge the day prior, and spending the previous afternoon being taught about research protocol for the project by Cosmos, one of the Round River instructors, I found myself climbing into Cosmos’ car at 6:15 am, a mug of tea in hand to help fight off the chilliness of the early morning. I felt fortunate to be seated next to Cosmos; not only was he incredibly familiar with the project, which meant I was going to be able to spend the day picking his brain about the different components of the research, but it gave me and Hal (the classmate I was with) the opportunity to learn more about the wildlife, plant-life, and people in the area. And learn we did; every turn around a corner would be accompanied with Cosmos pointing at a new tree or bird soaring in the sky, proclaiming its species, and telling us about how it fit into the landscape. It became a game to pass the time as we drove from trail camera to trail camera to test ourselves on the species we observed, bickering over the differences between a Buffalo-Thorn and Umbrella- Thorn Acacia shrub. Before I knew it, the sun had begun to set, and our team had managed to collect 18 trail-cameras over the course of the day. As we emerged out of a dense stand of thorn bushes where we had just grabbed a camera (and where I may or may not have fallen into a thornbush and learned the valuable lesson of watching your footing when hiking through this type of environment), Hal and I were begging Cosmos to go grab just one more, but the darkness starting to overtake the sky meant that we had to return to camp. To our surprise when we returned, we as a group had managed to collect all but one trail camera out of an initial 40; a feat that was celebrated by cheers, high fives, and the signature exclamation of “Re ta fenya!” (“We will win!”) that Cosmos had taught all of us. That night at camp was a night of feeling appreciative; not just for the exciting days everyone had had, but for what was to come. Now that our work was done, it was officially the start of our “vacation”, a way to celebrate our half-way mark in the semester and the completion of our midterm exams.
The next few days at Rakops River Lodge proved to be nothing short of memorable. With only a few classes to be concerned with and having said goodbye to Cosmos after our efficient workday, we all began to embrace our time off and find new ways to fill the time. Grace’s salon opened for business and many of us received stylish new bush haircuts, we had a movie night making fun of the scientific shortcomings of Jurassic Park while eating popcorn that Nick had made for all of us, and we learned that bathrooms make phenomenal classrooms when a surprise storm interrupts class. The undisputed highlight, however, of the rest of our time at Rakops River Lodge, was Frank the camp cat. A cat of many names (Frank, Fred, Bread, Jeffery, Marvin), Frank appeared at our campsite one night and quickly became a fast friend. He sat in on our classes, played games with us, and even protected the camp from any mice or lizard that dare cross his path. The owners of the lodge informed us that they cared for him, which was a bit of a heartbreaking fact to face when it meant that we had to leave Frank behind when we left camp, but it is reassuring to know that Frank will continue to warm the hearts of future campers.
Though we were all sad to leave Rakops (and Frank, we all miss you buddy), the sadness was quickly replaced with excitement as we entered the Makgadikgadi Pans National Park, our next stop on our week-long vacation. Entering the park felt like entering a different universe; not only was the landscape an exaggerated version of the open grassland that we had experienced in Rakops, but we were able to see a new species that none of us had experienced before; oryx! To try and describe the appearance of an oryx (AKA gemsbok) is… difficult, at best. Noticeably larger than other ungulate species, with distinct black and white markings along the face and pair of massive, curved horns, oryx have an incredibly imposing presence, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel honored to watch these animals navigate the landscape. Watching them in herds was even more impressive; though so large, they were able to move with such grace through the dense grasses, moving as if they were one fluid unit, and I quickly realized that this species was growing to become one of my favorites that I had seen since arriving in Botswana. Fortunately for me, we continued to see oryx throughout the rest of the journey to our campsite, in addition to ostrich, zebra, wildebeest, steenbok, and the ever-common northern black korhaan. Finally arriving at camp (a site aptly named “Tree Island”, as it contained some of the only trees for kilometers), we were quick to set up tents and make ourselves at home, enjoying the sunset over the vast open landscape. Our enjoyment was cut short, however, as a thunderstorm quickly made its way to camp, and everyone retreated to the safety of our tents. That’s when the evening took a turn- at around 10:00 pm, from the darkness of my tent, I hear Grace announce, “the tent is leaking”. Quickly, the large tent housing 5 of us students devolved into chaos, figuring out how to mend the holes in the roof of the tent while also worrying about whether we were going to get struck by the approaching lightning, seeing as we were the tallest things for kilometers around us. After a brief session of lightning pose (where everyone squatted in the middle of the tent to ward away the lightning), we all settled back into bed for a less than restful night of sleep, kept awake by the rumbling of the earth and the illumination of the tent by the frequent lightning strikes. Though scary, I was able to find some sense of peace in the “pitter-patter” of rain drops against the side of the tent, and a sense of hesitant comfort in the low rumbling from the clashing storm clouds above us. Truthfully, I thought of the oryx, wishing them safety that night. Hopefully they found one of the few bushes in the park to stay dry under.
The next day brought about clear skies and a wet, yet happy Earth, as each plant and animal soaked up every drop of water that it could from the rains the night prior. It was an early morning for us as we had a long journey ahead, but we could not say goodbye to Makgadikgadi pans for the day without venturing out to the pans themselves. These vast, open depressions of bare, salty soil (yes, we licked the dirt to see if it was salty. It was.) painted an incredibly detailed picture of the wildlife community in the area due to the preservation of tracks; a mother zebra had led her child across the pans in a direct line, probably in fear of being spotted by predators, a spur-fowl had skirted the edges of the pan, likely looking for food along the grassy border, and a pair of small, unidentified feline tracks (African wild cat? Genet?) made a slow, yet methodical journey across the center of the pan. The stories told by these pans, I realized, would soon include our story; the 9 sets of sandal-tracks or bare footprints running through the open pan, stopping occasionally for photos or to look at an interesting animal track, reveling in the beauty of being surrounded by so little. We spent our time on the pan, reflecting, before loading into our trusty land cruisers and heading off to our next adventure: Planet Baobab.
To describe the feeling of first seeing a Baobab tree is to describe pure astonishment. Planet Baobab, a developed lodge and campsite near the town of Gweta, was ordinary in many ways when compared to other lodges in Botswana; it had beautifully maintained landscaping along the illuminated stone paths that guided guests from the lodge to their desired location, it had lively music softly playing through hidden speakers, and it had a lodge colorfully decorated with woven baskets, photos of life in Botswana, and depictions of local wildlife. But the thing that stood out about Planet Baobab was, well, the Baobabs: the towering, multi-thousand-year-old deciduous trees that are commonly referred to as the “upside-down trees”, due to their incredibly thick trunks and sprawling branches that appeared more root-like than branch-like. Looking at the trees puts into perspective your place as being on this Earth; these organisms have existed for thousands of years, and have grown to monstruous heights all from water and soil… how does my twenty-one years of life compare to that? What could I learn from these trees if they could speak? I suppose I will never know, but its an interesting thought none the less. With these thoughts looming in the back of my mind, I began to relax and enjoy “vacation”; Planet Baobab offered luxuries like a pool, showers, and a full restaurant, where Round River generously paid for all of us students to eat dinner (no more canned beans for me! Hurray!). The best part of Planet Baobab, however, wasn’t the luxuries, but a man by the name of Felir. Felir was a server in the restaurant, and on our first night at Planet Baobab we quickly discovered that he was deaf. It was at this time that we also discovered that Faerin, one of the students in our group, spoke incredible American Sign Language (ASL), and from there we were all able to form a certain connection with Felir. Our conversations were mostly brief, and heavily interpreted by Faerin (“Faerin, how do I say ‘Hello’ in ASL?”, “Faerin, what did he just say to you?”), but nonetheless impactful. None of us left conversations with Felir without a smile on our faces, and before we left Planet Baobab, we all made sure to learn how to sign “It was nice to meet you! Thank you!”. With a final goodbye to the Baobabs, Felir, and all of those at Planet Baobab who cared for us, we were off, back to Tree Island, and on to our final night of what had quickly become one of my favorite weeks thus far.
I have never felt confident taking pictures of myself, or having others take photos of me. Yet that evening, with the sunset turning the sky into a collage of pink, orange, red, and purple, and Grace and Faerin yelling words of encouragement and modeling directions at me as their cameras flashed, I felt comfortable. We had returned to Tree Island earlier that evening and had taken the opportunity to spend the sunset on the open pan, eating bowls of warm camp curry and running around taking as many beautiful (and silly) photos as we possibly could. It was a moment of so much and so little all at once; everyone was buzzing with joy from the beautiful evening, yet even over all the laughter and conversation, you could so easily tune out the noise and just focus on the sky. The bright, clear, beautiful sky. In that moment I remembered a conversation that some of us students had had with one of the escort guides from Kaziikini, XK. We had all been marveling at the stars on a beautifully clear evening, trying to determine what constellations were situated above us, and XK asked “Why are you always looking at the sky? What is special about the sky?”. It took us all aback for a minute; what is not special about the sky? What is not special about the billions of stars, planets, and galaxies that we can see from our tiny planet? What is not special about the colors that the sun casts over the Earth as it rises each morning and sets each evening? We all tried to explain our reasonings for loving the sky to XK, but truthfully, I am unsure if any of us explained it well. All I knew is that in that moment on the pan, surrounded by the blazing colors of the setting sun, is that I was incredibly happy to be looking at the sky.
The next, and final, morning of our vacation was bittersweet. Though we were all excited to get back to Maun and tell our families and friends about the experiences we had had over the past week, none of us wanted those experiences to end. Fortunately, our final day of vacation did not fall short on adventure; we left Makgadikgadi Pans National Park and immediately made our way to Nxai Pans National Park, where we visited a site called Baines’ Baobab, a cluster of Baobab trees in the southern portion of the park that is a popular attraction for tourists. Before getting to Baines’ Baobabs, however, we experienced a “Botswana roadblock”: a herd of hundreds of zebras crossing the road in front of our vehicles. Spending time with such an impressive number of animals was incredible; we were able to observe how different individuals interacted with one another, how they utilized the shallow, muddy pond that had formed in one of the dried pans, and how they would take “dust baths” by rolling in the dried portions of the pans. After marveling at, and eventually moving through, the herd of zebra, we arrived at Baines’ Baobab.
To say it was impressive was an understatement; in the middle of this bare, exposed landscape, we were welcomed by a stand of gigantic baobab trees, their broad canopies providing shade and shelter for other plant and animal species. It truly felt like we had arrived at some sort of oasis, and we all proceeded to spend time with the Baobabs, marveling in their impressive beauty in our own ways; some of us took photos, some of us inspected the fruits and flowers that littered the ground, and some of us simply found a cozy branch on the tree to lie in and take a brief nap. It was truly a perfect way to end the trip, and after an hour or so of spending time with the Baobabs, we decided to make our way back to Maun. During our long, dusty drive back to town, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss; this grassland, this “barren landscape” that I had previously felt so little connection to had begun to feel like a new sort of home, and now we were leaving it all in the review mirror. As the landscape changed from grassland, to shrubland, to the paved and busy streets of Maun, I found myself longing for the nothingness, for the simplicity of our past week. Once in Maun I began receiving texts from friends and family about midterm elections back in the United States, about the antics of my pets back home, and about the updates in my friends’ lives. With all of this I realized something; home is what you make it. Though my grassland home may differ from my home in Maun, which may differ from my home back in Michigan, they are all places where I feel comfort, belonging, and support. And that is what makes them special. My mindset shifted; instead of a longing for the homes I had left, I began to look forward to the next journey that we would all take, and the new home that I was about to find for myself.
