Between Catastrophe and Calling
Overland Safaris promised raw, unfiltered adventure — the kind that threw you into the heart of southern Africa with nothing but a canvas flap between you and the wild. It wasn’t luxury, it wasn’t gentle. It was for the tough, the curious, the maybe-slightly-crazy. No porcelain-skinned tourists sipping sundowners here — this was dust-in-your-teeth, bump-in-your-back safari life. And it was affordable enough to lure dreamers like us.
Our journey began in a jerry-rigged truck: sixteen salvaged coach seats bolted into the back, with stiff suspension that shook your bones with every pothole. There were no windows, just grey flaps that flailed uselessly in the rain. Every bump sent a sharp jolt up my spine and through my skull, but complaints were pointless. If you couldn’t endure it, you didn’t belong.
We set off from Harare on the so-called “Grand Tour,” a loop through Zimbabwe, Botswana, and Namibia, with a finale at Victoria Falls.
The crew was a motley cast: a shaggy-haired driver, an expat from the Rhodesian days, still clinging to colonial echoes, with a wiry toughness who looked like he’d fallen out of a pirate movie; an American guide who had likely bluffed his way into the job with a few wildlife facts and good timing; the cook, a wide-eyed Irish girl who’d never cooked over an open flame in her life; and me — wedged between guest and staff, unpaid but indispensable. I was the translator. Half the group spoke German, half English, and I was the glue between them and this chaotic, under-prepared team.
We weren’t just disorganised. We were cursed from the start. Only later did I learn that the original guide — the owner — had died unexpectedly from malaria. His girlfriend, left reeling, scrambled to resurrect the tour with whoever was available. Now, here we were: grief-stricken leadership, a green crew, and 14 unwitting clients headed into the wilderness with barely a shovel between us.
The first stretch took us southwest to Bulawayo. It was a seven-hour haul through scorched farmland and scruffy bush, past clusters of thatched mud huts and overloaded donkey carts. At roadside stops, barefoot children chased us with wild grins, and rickety buses spewed passengers and chickens in equal measure. I’d ridden those buses before. Locals called them “the chicken run”. They weren’t joking.
At our first camp near Bulawayo, reality hit: no water containers. No shovel. No sand mats. No backup plan. I’d crossed the Congo only months before — a journey through axle-deep mud and rivers of rain. I knew what it meant to get stuck out here, to have a 10-ton truck swallowed whole by the earth. And yet, here we were, heading deeper into the bush with the bare minimum.
I quietly urged the team to buy some essentials — at least water storage. The next morning, the driver returned with a massive 60-liter plastic container. No sand mats, though. Apparently those weren’t a priority.
We rolled on into Botswana, across the ghost-white salt pans of the Makgadikgadi Basin — a dead sea turned desert, cracked and endless. The air shimmered. Life here seemed impossible, except after the rains, when flamingos and wildebeest returned and predators followed. But in the dry season? It was a place where even the shadows seemed thirsty.
Eventually, we reached Maun — a dusty frontier town buzzing with an unlikely mix of luxury 4x4s, skeletal Land Rovers, and donkey carts. From there, we boarded s light aircraft and flew into the Okavango Delta. For three days we vanished into a dreamscape of glistening water channels, papyrus reeds, and bird calls that echoed across the glassy silence.
There were no roads. Our local Bayei guides poled dugout mokoros through the flooded plains. Barefoot and wordless, they could read the land like scripture. They knew which predator had passed by our tents, what bird call meant danger, when to freeze and when to run. They had no rifles. No radios. Only ancient knowledge.
The Okavango was no swamp. It was a miracle — a river that never reached the sea, instead spilling into the thirsty Kalahari like an offering. It created an oasis the size of half of Switzerland, swarming with life. I was in awe.
And I was also growing more uneasy.
Our driver had begun throwing his weight around, barking orders, ignoring warnings. By the time we left the Delta and set course for the Namibian border, I was reaching my limit.
It was dusk when he decided to pull over and camp in a patch of Kalahari scrub. I knew instantly: this was a mistake. But I was just the translator. Nobody listened.
That night, disaster struck. While unloading the new water container, a guest slipped. The entire container hit the ground and cracked, spilling most of our supply into the sand. Eighteen people. Less than 20 liters left.
We rationed. We cooked without water. We didn’t wash. We prayed for a petrol station.
At dawn, I’d had enough. I told the guide I was going for a walk. I needed space, and I needed to cool the fury rising in my chest. I wasn’t afraid. I had walked alone in the Sahara, in the jungle of the Congo, and through parks in Kenya. I trusted the sun, the land, and my instincts.
But the road we were on didn’t go west. It went southwest.
Half an hour later, a mechanical groan cut the silence. A road grader — a metal beast the size of a house — slipped into view behind some bushes, so I walked towards it. The driver, a leathery old man, stared at me as if I’d just dropped from space. A white woman, alone, in the Kalahari? He waved me over, and I climbed into his cab.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“Windhoek,” I replied confidently.
He snorted. “This road don’t go to Windhoek. Goes to Gaborone.”
The bottom fell out of my stomach.
To picture it: imagine setting off from Paris for Brittany, and realising you’re on the road to Barcelona. Through desert. With no towns. No fuel. No water.
Back at camp, the truck was stuck. Spinning its wheels, digging deeper. No sand mats. No plan. Everyone drenched in sweat and panic.
A German boy’s hand had been crushed under a tyre — the driver had accelerated without warning. His parents were frantic. Blood soaked a towel. No one knew what to do.
I helped nurse the boy’s hand, wrapping it as best I could, and insisted we get him to a hospital. I stayed by his side, translating and reassuring him while we navigated the chaos.
The grader saved us. It pulled the truck out. It pointed us in the right direction. We backtracked, rehydrated, found the road to Namibia. In Windhoek, a hospital x-ray showed the boy’s hand wasn’t broken. Somehow, we had survived.
Looking back, I can only believe we had guardian angels. That old man and his grader saved our lives. Had I not gone for a walk.. not kept walking. Had I not met him…
I shudder to think.
The trip didn’t just limp to its end — it collapsed across the finish line. The mood had curdled. Tension crackled through every conversation. Guests snapped at each other. Small complaints turned into shouting matches. The heat, the exhaustion, the sheer absurdity of it all had worn everyone raw. I was emotionally drained, and deeply relieved when it was finally over.
But part of me still burned. The Okavango had lit a spark I couldn’t extinguish.
I didn’t want to just translate.
I wanted to lead.
I wanted to be the guide.
How the hell was I going to make that happen?
