Enter Scene: A lone figure enters stage left, wearing a brown cowboy hat and muted, dusty clothing. Using his tool of choice – an old, dry stick – he beckons his cattle forward. The bells, attached to his keep, chime as the cattle move slowly forward, plucking up the few dry tufts of yellow grasses that remain rooted in the arid earth. The group moves sluggishly forward, slowed by the unforgiving African sun. They seek water or shelter as they graze, but here at the edge of the Kalahari Desert, both are difficult to find.
Botswana, as I’ve seen it thus far, reminds me of the American Wild West. I can practically hear the old western music in the background, as two handsome, rugged cowboys take ten paces back to back, preparing for a shootout. It is a merciless landscape – hot, dry sun pounds down on the land all day, robbing it of potential lushness; and at night, dropping to temperatures unfathomable, as the wind whips the sand in faces, eyes, and any other crevices it can find. This may not be the Sahara desert, with its endless golden sand dunes and landscape void of life, but it sure feels almost as harsh.
The Kalahari Desert officially eats up 80% of Botswana’s land, but its influence reaches further, leaving Botswana with only 0.7% arable land. No wonder that here, livestock is the farmer’s commodity of choice. As you drive through flat, barren land, wondering if you will ever encounter humanity again, you periodically stumble upon an unkempt, pieced-together home surrounded by a ragged wooden fence comes into view. Cattle, donkeys, goats, or horses dot the environs, depending on the wealth of the farmer – for here, one’s affluence and status is measured in livestock.Botswana may boast the largest inland river delta in the world – the Okavango Delta – but I haven’t seen evidence of that yet. On the contrary, what I have seen is the largest network of salt pans in the world, the Makgadikgadi Pans. Seemingly extending into infinity, these prehistoric lakes were once part of a ‘superlake’ which extended over 60,000 sq km into the Okavango and Chobe Rivers. Now, their waters have evaporated, leaving only mesmerizing, white, salt-encrusted mud. Save for during a short rainy season, no flora exists on these pans; thereby creating a barren, lunar landscape that makes you feel that you are the only living thing in the entire world.
Going here made me thirsty. In preparation for our trip to these pans, Bruno filled canisters and jugs with over 70 liters of water. I watched in wonderment at what I deemed to be his ‘over-preparation’ – especially as he had informed me that we were going to a place called KubuIsland, in the center of Sowa Pan. But as we drove further into this scorched landscape, I became more and more thankful for our water stores. For as I gazed onto these ethereal pans, mirages of lakes and rivers in the distance danced before my eyes, disorienting me. Why was my mouth so parched? Would I die of thirst today? Why, oh why, had I never before appreciated this precious, life-giving liquid? 
This is a sentiment I have felt several times during my week in Botswana. The panorama I see before me through the glass of Bruno’s Toyota is thirsty – the animals and people I see as I pass move so slowly it’s reminiscent of the infamous lone traveler lost in the desert, crawling on all-fours to an imagined oasis; the ground is so dehydrated that the only thing that seems to survive here are Baobab trees, with their powerful, winding roots reaching so deep into the ground in search for water that they fracture the rocky ground below them; and the dust that finds its way into every crevice of my body and being leaves me begging.for.water. God’s chosen Bostwanean color palate – dusty yellows, dusty greys, dusty browns and dusty blues – could surely use some water to wash off all the dust. Now, Bruno and I are parked at a campsite just east of Gweta, Botswana. Soon, we will head to Maun, at the mouth of the Okavango Delta. I am looking forward to quenching my interminable thirst.
