Leaving Francistown
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 1
The sun was already pushing its way above the horizon as we pulled out of Francistown, heading northwest. I had the wheel, Arthur riding shotgun, his left arm slung out the open window. We were soaking in the last easy breath of city life before we plunged into the wild. The company Land Cruiser rattled over the uneven pavement, protesting the weight of the gear we’d crammed into the back—camping supplies, survey equipment, and enough canned food to wait out a flood.
Francistown disappeared quickly in the rearview, its low-rise buildings and dusty lots swallowed by the sprawl of thornbush and dry grass. Ahead of us stretched the A3, a ribbon of cracked pavement slicing through a gold-and-amber expanse. Mopane trees lined the road like patient sentinels, their butterfly leaves fluttering in the morning breeze.
“Remind me again why we didn’t fly?” I asked, mostly to hear a voice besides my own.
Arthur chuckled and reached for a packet of dried mango between the seats. “Because flying is for tourists and soft-handed consultants. Besides, what would you do without all this character-building?”
I grunted, dodging a pothole that could’ve swallowed a small child. “Right. Nothing builds character like spinal compression.”
“All part of the adventure, mate.” He popped a mango slice in his mouth and gestured at the open landscape. “This is the part most people skip. They want the Delta, the elephants, the ‘Untouched Africa.’ But this—” he swept a hand toward the scrub and scattered cattle—”this is the rhythm. The real heartbeat.”
I nodded, letting the silence stretch between us for a few miles. He wasn’t wrong. There was something grounding about the way the land rolled on endlessly, unapologetic and dry. A few women in bright skirts walked the roadside with bundles of firewood balanced on their heads. Children waved as we passed. A herder guided a cluster of goats across the road without so much as a glance at our dust trail.
Arthur Pickens was a relatively new buddy of mine, but sometimes, it seemed like I’d known him for years. He’d come from Australia – the Brisbane area, to be precise. At thirty-three, he was two years my junior, but you’d never have guessed it. His pithy observations about life provided me with valuable counsel. His occasionally irreverent sense of humor kept me on my toes. He was full of stories. Some of them were actually true. And he was far more experienced in this line of work than I was.
“How long have you been in Africa now?” I asked him, eyes on the road. He’d probably told me before, but I’d forgotten.
“Going on six years, with a few breaks back home,” he said. “Namibia, Kenya, a stint in Zambia. Now here in Botswana. This continent gets under your skin, Ben. It’s messy, beautiful, impossible. Kind of like the women I used to date.”
I snorted. “Used to?”
He grinned. “Okay, still do. But I keep it simple. No strings. No promises. Just good stories and the occasional goodbye over breakfast.”
“That’s bleak,” I said, though I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Bleak is promising someone forever when you don’t believe in it,” he said, tone suddenly softer. “I figure honesty’s the kinder cruelty.”
I gripped the wheel tighter, eyes glancing at the side mirror. “Guess I learned that the hard way.”
Arthur gave me a side-eye but didn’t press. He was good like that—knew when to crack jokes and when to let silence do the talking. I hadn’t told him everything about the divorce. Just enough. That it was messy. That I wasn’t enough. That I came here to figure out who I was without her.
The road curved, dipping into a shallow valley where acacia trees cast shadows like ribs across the earth. Somewhere in the distance, a hornbill called out, its cry long and lonely.
“You’ll meet someone,” Arthur said eventually. “Maybe not here, maybe not soon. But it’ll happen. Just don’t go looking for her in the ruins of the last one.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just kept on driving.
We hit a stretch of gravel road where the pavement had surrendered entirely, and the tires kicked up a haze of dust that trailed us like a phantom. The trees thinned, giving way to wide, flat pans dotted with the odd termite mound. I spotted a warthog trotting through the brush, its tail a stiff vertical line, reminiscent of an exclamation point.
Arthur leaned back in his seat, propping a foot up on the dashboard. “What do you actually want out of this year, mate? Not the mission goals, not the reports. You. Personally.”
It was a good question. One I hadn’t answered, not even for myself.
“Clarity, maybe. Some peace. A reset.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Africa’s good for that. Forces you to slow down, face the silence.”
The silence. Yeah. That had been the hardest part the first few weeks—the absence of constant noise. No emails at midnight. No subway screeches. No tense dinners with silence thick as molasses. Just birds, and wind, and the occasional lion roar that made you question your place in the food chain.
“You ever think about settling down?” I asked.
Arthur laughed like I’d asked if he wanted to be a priest. He replied with typical Aussie directness. “Not built for it. Not fair to the other person, really. I like the chase. I like leaving.”
I glanced at him, really looked this time. The confidence was real, but so was the slightest tinge of something else. Regret, maybe. Or longing.
“Well,” I said, “maybe one of us will surprise himself.”
Arthur grinned and unwrapped another mango slice. “Wouldn’t that be something.”
We drove on.
By the time we rolled into camp, the sun hung low behind a veil of dust and light, turning the world gold and soft-edged. The bush seemed to breathe with heat, insects buzzing like power lines, and somewhere not far off, a baboon barked at the falling night. We’d made it to the edge of the Okavango Delta—one of those rare places on Earth that refuses to be tamed.
The camp itself was modest: a few canvas tents staked under the shade of jackal berry trees, a communal mess tent, and a small solar setup rigged beside a water tank. The river—not wide but alive with sound and purpose—curved gently past the northern perimeter, its banks muddied with the prints of waterbuck and the wide, splayed toes of hippos.
Arthur clapped me on the back as I cut the engine. “Well, mate. You made it.”
“Barely. My spine may never forgive me.”
He laughed and grabbed his duffel from the back. “You’ll thank me in a week. I’m heading out to meet the hydrology team near Shakawe—supposed to rendezvous before they head deeper in. I’ll be gone a few days. Try not to go mad without my charming presence.”
“I’ll manage,” I told him, though I already felt the weight of solitude tightening in my chest.
A tall woman in dusty fatigues approached from the mess tent, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Her skin was the warm brown of river silt, her eyes sharp and curious. “You’re the American?”
“Ben Carr. Wildlife and ecotourism liaison.”
“Thandiwe Dlamini,” she said, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “Camp manager and logistics coordinator for Delta Conservation Projects. We’ve got a basic tent for you. Meals are at dawn and dusk. Don’t leave food out unless you want a visit from the honey badgers.”
“Noted.”
As Arthur disappeared with a wave, I followed Thandiwe through camp. The smell of dry grass and sun-warmed canvas mingled with the faint scent of woodsmoke drifting from a distant fire. We passed a young local guy tending to a Land Rover, humming tunelessly as he checked the tires.
“That’s Joseph,” Thandiwe said. “One of our field techs. Smart, quiet. Keeps the trucks running, mostly.”
Joseph looked up and gave a nod. “Dumelang, rra.”
“Dumelang,” I replied, answering his “hello” with another one, my Setswana barely there but sincere.
My tent was simple but comfortable: a cot, a desk, a lantern hanging from a hook. The flaps opened toward the floodplain where tall grasses whispered in the breeze. I could see the water in the distance, glinting under the lowering sun, framed by reeds and the shadows of papyrus. Somewhere out there, elephants moved with the rhythm of the land, slow and ancient.
Later, I sat by the river with a cup of instant coffee and let the quiet take me. A fish eagle cried overhead, its call echoing off the trees like a question with no answer. The world here felt bigger than anything I’d known—vast enough to hold sorrow, regret, and the first tremors of healing.
Africa didn’t rush you. It let you sit with yourself, even when that self was raw and uncomfortable.
So, here I was in Botswana—a long way from Nashville, Tennessee. My mind drifted to Brianna, my ex-wife—not out of longing, exactly, but out of habit. The hurt wasn’t sharp anymore. It was quieter, like a stone at the bottom of a river, worn down by time and current. Here, the pain felt like something I could set down for a while. Maybe even forget.
As dusk gave way to night, the sounds shifted: frogs sang in percussive chorus, something large splashed in the shallows, and an owl hooted from the trees behind camp. I didn’t feel alone. Not exactly. Just ... small. And that, in its way, was a comfort.
Over the next few days, I fell into a rhythm. Up before the sun, mug of gritty coffee in hand, boots crunching the dew-slick ground as I joined the morning check-ins. Thandiwe ran a tight ship—efficient, no-nonsense—but I noticed how she always paused to listen when Joseph or the other staff spoke. There was respect in her stillness.
She started to include me in the logistics meetings, where we reviewed animal movement reports and supply inventories. I learned quickly that her calm exterior belied a mind that tracked a dozen moving parts at once. She even humored my suggestions about low-impact ecotourism routes, jotting them down with a nod and a raised brow.
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