Do they understand?
There’s one incident I’ll never forget. A fellow guide had mentioned that cheetahs had been seen in the area a few days earlier. Now, Botswana is vast — about the size of France, but with barely two and a half million people. In the north, around the Okavango Delta, the land opens into national parks and wildlife reserves where animals roam free. No fences, no barriers. Only a handful of sandy tracks connect the lodges and official campsites, winding through woodlands, floodplains, and vleis.
There are no signposts — only nature’s own landmarks: a distinctive tree, a bend in a river, a certain termite mound. It’s a wilderness that only experienced guides can truly navigate. For visitors who hired their 4x4s in Namibia (since back then, none were available for rent in Botswana), it could be a maze — a vast, confusing labyrinth that tested patience and daylight.
One evening, as we were heading back to camp, a dusty 4×4 flagged us down. Inside were some weary travellers, their faces flushed with frustration. They asked if I knew the way to Third Bridge – the place where the third wooden bridge crosses the river, deep within the Moremi Game Reserve.
“Uff,” I sighed. “That’s still quite a distance — and the sun’s already sinking.”
I explained as best I could: “Follow this track until you reach a big Sausage Tree – you can’t miss it. At the tree, take the right fork and stay on the main track for about 8 kilometers. Don’t veer off, and you must hurry. Once it’s dark, you’ll have no chance of finding your way.”
They stared at me blankly for a moment, then admitted they’d been driving in circles all day! I was just about to hop into my vehicle to guide them when, as if on cue, a rare national park’s Land Rover came roaring past.
“That’s your chance!” I shouted. “Follow them! At this hour, they can only be heading to Third Bridge — there’s nowhere else to go!”
They didn’t need to be told twice. The engine roared, and off they went, chasing the Land Rover’s fading dust trail into the twilight.
I could only hope they’d make it before darkness swallowed the bush – but at least I was free to turn my own vehicle toward camp, my guests quiet with the afterglow of the day.
As I drove, my thoughts drifted back to the cheetahs. We hadn’t found them. We had been distracted by the lost self-drivers. Where could these swift hunters be in this vast labyrinth of wilderness? They move with the antelope, always on the trail of opportunity, and now they were probably miles away – somewhere deep in a completely inaccessible area.
Come on, I thought. Show yourselves. Show us your beauty – those elegant bodies, the silky fur, the delicate spots. Show my guests what magnificent creatures you are – so smart, so graceful. My mind babbled on as the sandy track stretched ahead of us… Come on, I love you, please show yourselves!
Back at camp, the rhythm of the evening took over – preparing dinner, settling the guests, checking supplies, tending to the small rituals that end each safari day. Soon, thoughts of cheetahs faded into the background.
The next morning, they returned briefly – just a flicker of memory as I packed the vehicle and greeted the day. But I let the thought go and turned my focus to the new adventure ahead.
Then, shortly after setting out, as we rounded a bend into an open vlei, there they were. Three cheetahs, resting in the golden light against a termite mound.
My breath caught.
They were exquisite – sleek and composed, their coats glistening in the morning sun, perfectly at ease in their realm. This was not a busy safari route; few vehicles passed this way. The cheetahs were not accustomed to being watched, yet they lay there, calm and unbothered – as if posing for our cameras.
“Thank you, beautiful animals,” I whispered. “Thank you for this gift. It’s so important that these people witness your grace and understand what it means – the urgency to preserve this wilderness, for you, for all creatures, and for ourselves.”
And as we watched them – motionless yet alive with presence – I felt it again: that invisible thread, an unconditional love for these creatures. A connection that binds us to the animals, to the land, and to something far greater and more mysterious than we can ever truly comprehend.
I suppose people call it telepathy. I did it all the time – instinctively, without even realising it.
