From the broken bridge to the pink clinic is 2.89 kilometres, reads the directions. Keep driving past a Mopane tree forest and dried up rainwater pans. Watch out for elephants crossing the sand road. Getting to the Okavango Delta Music Festival feels more like a scavenger hunt than a straightforward foray, which is wholly appropriate given this is no mediocre event.
Botswana is famed as a wildlife destination, but we’re here to explore sounds and song rather than set out on safari. Packed tightly into a 4WD, crowded by a cluster of camping equipment, I’m taking two friends – sound engineer Carmen and music-loving Lauren – on an alternative Okavango adventure.
Our destination is as unusual as the directions. A small village roughly 45 minutes from the town of Maun, Tsutsubega has a San name meaning Place of the Emerald Spotted Dove. This gentle little bird frequents many a tree branch in these parts and is known in twitching circles as King of the Blues thanks to its mournful call. My grandmother, an avid birder, taught me how to remember its unmistakable song using this solemn rhyme: “My father’s dead, my mother’s dead, oh oh oh…” Although Tsutsubega village is named for the sombre ballad, it certainly contradicts its namesake on this particular weekend. Or maybe the doves sing a different rhyme – “Dancing ahead, dancing ahead, oh oh oh” – when, once a year, revellers are welcomed to this precious corner of the Okavango Delta.
Just beyond Tsutsubega village lies the forested oasis of Festival Island. It’s the end of August, when the Okavango Delta is flooded, so the island usually sits encircled by lily-laden waters. Drought, however, is visiting Botswana. Water levels at the UNESCO World Heritage Site are dependent on the annual rainfall received at the source, thousands of kilometres away in the central highlands of Angola.
Just like the would-be water, we’ve travelled a fair distance to be here – roughly 1,300 kilometres from our home city of Johannesburg in neighbouring South Africa. After checking in at the ticket office, which has been decked out with colourful skulls and handmade fabric bunting and is home to several sleeping pups, we cross one last stretch of sand to set up camp at the edge of Festival Island. It overlooks a dusty, rather than damp floodplain, but the dry conditions haven’t put anybody off.
Established in 2018, the Okavango Delta Music Festival is a three-day affair of live music and vibey DJ sets operating as sustainably as possible in this delicate wilderness area. In its first year, the festival entertained 500 guests, but in 2019 the ticket sales nearly doubled, hitting 900. With tents erected, we set our sights on the festival grounds to meet Jay Roode, one of the devoted organisers. “Last year was all about mokoro,” he says. “We had members of the community pole people across the floodplain to the island in a traditional dugout canoe, but this time we offer a different kind of local transport.” In this part of the country donkey carts provide daily mobility for many locals. Now freshly painted and embellished with flowers, the stylish carriages make for a memorable entrance. It’s just one of the ways this event was arranged to benefit its hosts.
After cooing over the doleful donkeys, I follow Jay to the dance floor. It’s a modest square covered with natural fibre rugs laid down in a bid to quell any dust being kicked up during dancing. The open-air stage is impressive and sits beneath towering leadwood, jackalberry and sausage trees. Bringing the speakers and sound equipment through all that sand from Maun was a logistical nightmare, Jay tells me, but it’s quickly forgotten as golden-hour light ushers in the first act.
The music selection for the festival is purposefully diverse. “We prefer our stars in the sky,” Jay says, smiling. This is not to say the artist line-up isn’t excellent. Quite the contrary; the performers are just not the regular headline acts. “We wanted to provide a platform to different artists, and stand by a strong African focus.” I recognise only one name from the line-up, South African Afro-folk favourite Bongeziwe Mabandla, but he’s not due to have his time in the spotlight until tomorrow. For now, I throw my arms up and find my feet a-flutter joining the audience in jamming to the playful beats and sanguine sounds of Zimbabwean musician So Kindly. (I also make a mental note to add their spice to my Spotify playlist once back home.)
Botswana is one of the least crowded countries in the world, with just 3.5 people per square kilometre, and it’s echoed here. There’s plenty of room on Festival Island. I look across the crowd. No matter race or age, everyone has breathing space. So much so that when the artists leave the stage, they join the party. Tomeletso Sereetsi, who hails from Botswana and performs as Sereetsi & the Natives, is one such merry-maker. “It’s awesome how the festival unites people from all over Southern Africa and beyond, both black and white,” he says. “That’s the often understated power of music and festivals.”
He’s right. There’s an intimacy to this event, and it’s further proved when I cross paths with another popular Botswana act on the dancefloor. Mpho Sebina describes her genre as ethereal soul, citing Sade, Bob Marley and Brenda Fassie as primary influences. She asks me to come watch her sing the next morning – “It’s an early slot, so I’m gathering a company” – although she really needn’t have worried. “I’ve already told my friends about this festival,” she continues.
“There are so many music acts from different parts of the continent, yoga, delicious drinks, and there is a spirit of oneness at the festival. Plus, the most scenic surroundings.”
Bands of children skip between us as we dance, invariably marching to their own drumbeat. Their beaming faces are coated with big-cat markings, painted by members of Cheetah Conservation Botswana. I laugh out loud when Mpho tells me her weirdest festival moment so far: “This guy was carrying his daughter – she must have been just five months – and she was stark naked, and it was beautiful how free she was. Then she pooped on her dad.” According to Freedom House, an NGO that researches and advocates political freedoms, there are just eight African countries that can be described as free. Botswana is one of them, and it feels especially present at the festival.
Sophie Dandridge and her husband Adrian are the festival directors, but their involvement is deeply rooted. They live nearby, within the Tsutsubega area. “Adrian and I have been involved with this community since he first moved here about 10 years ago,” Sophie tells me. The village is home to roughly 500 people, and almost half of the local community is trained then employed by the annual festival.
Even though it’s only for a weekend, through their ‘party-cipation’ all festival attendees help provide employment and encouragement to this remote outpost. After the first event in 2018, proceeds funded a reliable borehole and solar pump for Tsutsubega, providing drinking water for people and their livestock. With a large section of the delta enduring drought and floodwaters sitting scarily short of the normal range, it’s a crucial contribution.
It’s just the first day, but many of the new friends I make agree the Okavango Delta Music Festival is the antithesis of most commercial festivals. Sure, this event is about music (my feet sure feel the beat), but it’s also so much more. The festival and its intrepid organisers provide a much-needed alternative to Botswana’s mainstream safari sightseeing and bring tourism to marginal areas. I can’t help but think about the driving directions again, only this time they ring a lot more like life advice. When faced with a fork in the road, keep left.
Slightly north of the town of Dahab, you’ll come across this popular dive site in the Red Sea. Even if there wasn’t a cluster of buildings on the stretch of beach that meets the desert announcing you’d arrived, you’d still notice it on approach. Just metres off the shore and surrounded by a shallow reef, this is one patch of seriously royal blue.
The reason for the eye-catching change of colour is an underwater sinkhole more than a hundred metres deep. There’s an abundance of coral and marine life on the walls of the hole, making it a very inviting spot for divers and snorkellers. But don’t be fooled by the calm conditions if you’ve strapped a tank to your back. Plenty of divers have come unstuck here, trying to go far deeper than they should to find the underwater arch that leads to the open ocean.
Imagine wandering down to reception after a good night’s sleep in the African wilderness and crossing paths with an elephant on its way to pinch a couple of sweet mangoes from the surrounding trees. Well, if you join the Bushcamp’s South Luangwa Safari, run by Bench Africa, this could be your reality. As part of the six-day expedition through Zambia’s South Luangwa National Park you’ll move between two bush camps and the main Mfuwe Lodge, exploring the area with experienced local guides.
Tour numbers are kept small to allow for flexibility within the itinerary, and there are opportunities to stretch your legs on a walking safari, as well as head out on game drives in your search for wildlife. Our tip: for the best chance of an elephant encounter visit Mfuwe Lodge between late October and mid-December.
It doesn’t rate highly on any tourist hot lists, but fascinating Sudan is a forgotten paradise, home to ancient pyramids, royal temples and mysterious archaeological wonders. It’s also a place of great natural beauty, where sand dunes, palm trees and the colossal Nile River dominate the dramatic arid landscape. On this eye-opening 12-day voyage with MT Sobek, you’ll experience the history, culture and dazzling scenery firsthand, discovering a side to Sudan that often goes unreported.
Enthusiastic locals will welcome you to desert camps, knowledgeable guides will lead you through tombs and souks, and you’ll marvel at traditional whirling dervishes. There’s even a Nile River cruise that leads to the Nuri pyramids. This tour will redefine everything you believed about travelling to this rarely visited part of the world.
Five days, a relatively good level of fitness and a decent high altitude tolerance is all you’ll need to summit Morocco’s Mount Toubkal. Intimidated? Don’t be. The team at Flash Pack knows exactly how to guide you to the roof of North Africa. The trip begins in Marrakech, where you should make the most of your time to relax and refuel before heading into the foothills of the Atlas Mountains to tackle the apex. The daily 10-hour treks sound scary, but you’ll be rewarded with epic views of the Sahara, Atlantic Coast, Nfiss Valley and Siroua volcano.
The scenery will make every blister worth it, plus, you’ll be treated to a full-body exfoliation and steam bath when you’re done. Now there’s an incentive to reach the top!
Finding a designated driver for a vineyard crawl is always a drag. Even more so if you’re voted it. There’s no need to worry in this part of South Africa, located about 80 kilometres east of Cape Town, because here you can board the Franschhoek Wine Tram.
The vintage-style railway employs open-air trams and buses to ferry folks around the region, which boasts fine views and a 300-year history of winemaking. Choose from eight hop-on, hop-off lines taking in all the major estates. We think it’s hard to go past the Red Line, which stops at, among other places, glorious Mont Rochelle, where you can partake in wine and canape pairing. Make sure you get an early start if you want to get up close to a cheetah at Grande Provence or take the cellar tour at Rickety Bridge.
Saddle up on this horseback adventure that traverses what might well be the world’s oldest desert, the Namib in Southern Africa. This 10-night crusade across challenging terrain requires four to eight hours of riding each day, so only experienced horsemen and women need apply. Your route begins near the settlement of Solitaire, crosses the Naukluft Mountains then continues towards the Namib Desert.
It can be rough going and, at times, you’ll need to dismount to cover tricky territory. Of course, none of that will matter once you’re galloping, wind whipping your hair, past a tower of giraffes or a herd of springboks. By the time you reach the dunes of coastal Swakopmund, you’ll have clocked in almost 300 kilometres of riding, camping under the stars in between. If you’re up to the demands, there’s little chance this horseback desert voyage will disappoint. In hindsight maybe even your glutes will thank you.
My boots feel two sizes too small. Coarse sand invades my shoes, painfully constricting my feet. Fighting the urge to look up, I focus on stomping with each step to help with grip. Namib is not only the oldest desert in the world but it also has the highest dunes, and I’m halfway up Big Daddy, the highest dune in the Sossusvlei area. Standing at 325 metres tall, it towers over a sea of sand mountains and is deceptively hard to climb.
My laboured breathing is amplified in my ears, my strained calves burn and sweat stings my eyes. Each exhausting step sinks backwards, making progress slow. The footsteps of those who’ve gone before me imprint the ridgeline like vertebrae winding steeply up to the pinnacle.
Finally, at the top, I absorb the enormity of the endless rust-hued dunes. Climbers beginning the ascent far below are mere specks, like ants exploring a kids’ sandpit. The rising sun lights the front dune faces, while the opposite sides remain in shadow. The contrast accentuates the precise rims and curves, as if a ribbon has been frozen mid-twirl.
The area’s drawcard is Deadvlei, a lake bed of stark white clay dotted with fossilised 900-year-old camel thorn trees. Big Daddy looms over it, so we decide to take the shortcut in. My guide Richard and I giggle at each other’s slow-motion astronaut walk down the steep bowl of the dune. Our steps create lava-like momentum, pushing us down effortlessly. With its sticky combo of sand and sunscreen, my skin resembles a sugared donut. The dark forest sculptures are striking against the saturated hues of the red dunes, vivid blue sky and crackled white ground.
Kulala Desert Lodge is a 45-minute drive away, thanks mainly due to rough off-road terrain. A line of 23 kulalas (it means ‘place to sleep’ in Swahili) sits between the dunes and Naukluft Mountains. With moulded clay huts camouflaged in a barren landscape of rock and sand, the camp resembles the Flintstone village. By mid-morning the stifling desert heat coupled with a stiff breeze creates an atmosphere a little like the interior of a fan-forced oven.
The constant winds make flying in quite the adventure. Wilderness Safaris operates a fleet of small aircraft and they’re ferrying me to four camps across Namibia. I make it to the Kulala airstrip on a plane no bigger than a minivan. The turbulence is epic. I check my seatbelt for the fourth time, but each air pocket causes my butt and the seat to break contact. This is not a mode of transportation for the faint of heart, but the vast distances can only be conquered by air.
Leaving behind the ocean of scalloped dunes, I next fly to northwest Damaraland along a coastline cloaked by low-lying cloud. The tiny dirt airstrip is barely detectable as we weave down through peaks of the Etendeka Plateau, distinct because they look as though they’ve been lopped off by a chainsaw. The scenery, with the ground layered with rubble and boulders, resembles the surface of the moon.
Desert Rhino Camp has eight tents spread around a communal hub. Aside from the canvas walls, there is little else that resembles a typical canvas abode. A queen bed overlooks 270-degree views and the shower has a private outlook.
As its name suggests, this camp revolves around the critically endangered desert-adapted black rhino, with 90 per cent of the world’s remaining population living primarily in northwest Namibia. Opened as a joint venture between Wilderness Safaris and Save The Rhino Trust, the camp has an unfenced 300,000-hectare concession with 16 rhino regulars calling it home. On the black market, the species’ horn fetches a staggering US$60,000 a kilo, so each of the residents here has been dehorned for its own protection.
We’re up at 5.30am and the trackers get a head start detecting any morning activity, while we hang back in the jeep awaiting further instruction. Two trackers follow the riverbed on foot, assessing tracks and dung for recent visitors. They can expertly decipher fresh imprints and identify the sex from how the dung has been spread. Several hours pass before we get the signal to accompany them. Walking single file between the trackers, it’s a mission to keep up. My ankles bow painfully with each unstable step. It feels as if I’m clumsily navigating across a field of tomboller marbles.
We spot a skittish young female, called Nane12, trotting near a hillside. She pauses regularly to stare us down. Since she’s known to be a little cantankerous, we keep our distance. It feels instinctively wrong to stand, unarmed and far from a safety vehicle, exposed to an animal weighing a tonne. Later we have a lucky second encounter with Don’t Worry, a 28-year-old male who has certainly taken his name to heart. When we join him on the riverbed, he’s only 70 metres away. This prehistoric-looking creature seems cobbled together with leftover pieces from the animal production line. He carries a hippo frame, splayed elephant feet, pug-like excess skin folds, cute bear ears and a flimsy rat’s tail, all capped off with a face that weirdly resembles ET. He’s definitely seen us but continues to swagger along, seemingly content with our company.
In the morning, all the staff members gather to farewell me in song. The Damara click dialect is a poetic flow of foreign words punctuated by pops and clucks. I have no idea what they are singing, but I could listen to it all day. The collective strength of the voices makes for an emotional send-off, and I’m still thinking about it as we clear dung piles and shoo animals from the runway. This time we’re taking off on a three-flight skip to Hoanib Skeleton Coast Camp, my northernmost destination.
This oasis is a pinprick on the vast remote desert. The unique design of the camp – stretched sail roofs shaped into abstract waves – is visually striking against the apocalyptic setting. Within the tents, there’s a designer beach-house vibe, but I’m soon distracted from the luxe fit-out when a procession of six elephants approaches a waterhole right outside my window. Unpacking is abandoned as I watch them, their trunks curling and scooping refreshment into their mouths then spraying it over their backs. Light grey skin darkens and mottles before the elephants douse themselves with a cooling coat of dirt. The dexterity and capability of their trunks is mesmerising.
These are not the camp’s only four-legged visitors. Standard camp rules dictate you must be accompanied by a guide after dark, but, just as we’re about to head to dinner, I’m told we must instead jump in the jeep for what would be a 30-second walk. Headlights reflect eyes in the dark, quickly exposing two thirsty lionesses cutting through camp to the waterhole.
It’s a five-hour drive to the infamous Skeleton Coast, although expedition might be a more suitable description. The dry Hoanib River provides a natural highway snaking west, its towering banks of compacted sand resembling a rock canyon. The smooth ride ends as the tyres enter deep dirt troughs and thick saltbush. Driver Reagan swerves erratically through the tight course, noisily scraping the paintwork as we go. After a quick pit stop to let air out of the tyres, we hit the dunes. Kilometres of sand smother the mountains, with just a few peaks emerging. Reagan manhandles the steering to straighten up after the vehicle fishtails. As the jeep tilts on the steep, soft slopes it feels borderline reckless. Three attempts are needed to gain enough momentum to conquer one monster dune. During an insane vertical drop, Reagan cuts the engine and we simply slide down.
Our first sighting of Mowe Bay is a welcome one. The Skeleton Coast is famous for the shipwrecks buried along the shoreline, but most are much further south. Here, however, the desecrated carnage of the Suiderkus is strewn across the rocks, showing how savage this stretch of ocean can be.
Lunch is set right on the pebbled beach beside the pounding waves. This has to be rated as one of the world’s hardest-to-reach restaurants. Fortunately there is a shortcut home. A 10-minute scenic flight offers an unbeatable perspective of the tiny trail we’d earlier cut through the infinite landscape.
Heading inland, Ongava Tented Camp is my final destination. Ongava is a 30,000-hectare private reserve bordering the renowned Etosha National Park. After days of muted tones and few signs of life, the dense mopane scrub is a jolt to the senses. My guide, Shilongo, takes me out at sunrise, which is primetime for observing herds of zebra, impala and wildebeest grazing in the open. He brakes suddenly thanks to a telltale sign. The animals have stopped eating and are staring in the same direction. As we wait, anticipating a visitor, the congregation becomes increasingly agitated, snorting and huffing in alarm. Panic ensues as dozens of impala sprint out of the thicket. A minute later two lionesses saunter into the clearing and pad towards the animals. The snorting becomes frenzied as the predators get tantalisingly close. The prey scatters and the defeated lionesses turn to us as if questioning where the hunt went wrong.
Completely unfazed by human companionship, they let us trail only metres behind as they repeat this flawed but fascinating hunting exercise. These inexperienced youngsters clearly have no chance of breakfast. We cheer when they finally slink off in order to try an ambush. But they get sidetracked, tackling each other to the ground.
Playful growls escalate into an outburst of guttural grunts. We follow the lions into the bush to find a pride of 13 reuniting as if it’s Christmas Day. It’s an affectionate tangle of bodies rubbing and intertwining. With the temperature rising, lounge mode kicks in. Cubs knead mum’s belly as they guzzle milk, adolescents intently lick their paws, elders doze. These oversized felines display such familiar behaviour it’s easy to forget the threat that lies within patting distance.
Ongava means rhino in the Otjiherero language and, here, black rhinos are known to charge jeeps. Thankfully, you can instead walk with the much larger white rhino. Nearing sunset, we leave the vehicle behind to accompany a mother and baby. They see us but are seemingly unperturbed, although Mum constantly manoeuvres herself between us and the inquisitive youngster. Shilongo quietly sets up a sundowner picnic on the jeep bonnet. As I sip a Savanna cider, we’re joined by yet another pair. Four enormous rhinos are so close that each bite they take while grazing is audible as grass is ripped and chewed. You couldn’t ask for better company during a final Namibian sunset.
As you traverse the plains near Lake Eyasi in the Great Rift Valley of East Africa, you can almost hear the rhythmic footfalls and pulsating chanting of the Hadzabe people.
One of the last ancient tribes of hunter-gatherers on the planet, whose way of life has remained virtually unchanged for thousands of years, the Hadzabe live in harmony with nature, finding everything that they need to survive within the arresting landscapes they call home.
A stay at andBeyond Ngorongoro Crater Lodge in Tanzania offers the opportunity to meet the Hadzabe and immerse yourself in their way of life. Here, you’ll learn about their hunting methods and how to forage for tubers, honey and berries in the surrounding shrubbery. After a day of dancing, learning the intricacies of beadwork and listening to stories, you can unwind in your banana leaf-domed stilted suite, inspired by the Masai mud and stick manyatta and decorated with rich fabrics and African antiquities, reminiscing about your experience.
On this unique expedition into the Congo Basin you’ll get up close to the bonobo, humankind’s closest kin. Plunged into the world’s second largest forest system, you’ll visit rehabilitation and reintroduction sanctuaries for orphaned bonobos rescued from deforestation and the illegal bushmeat trade.
Travel the waters in a dugout canoe (the only way as there are no forest paths here) to spot them before making your way to Lomako-Yokokala Faunal Reserve, a protected research and conservation area. Trek through tangled jungle, observing the bonobos in their natural habitat while learning about the efforts to protect these apes. You black-and-white colobus, red tailed guenocs and Wolf’s mona monkeys black-and-white colobus, red tailed guenocs and Wolf’s mona monkeys
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