Chapter 18

The latest convoy of vehicles kicked up a slow-moving cloud of dust as they rolled into camp late Monday morning. From my post near the vehicle shed, I could hear the buzz of excited chatter long before the first doors opened. Students. A whole new batch—wide-eyed, a little tired from the drive, trying to look like they weren’t nervous but failing in all the usual, endearing ways.

Bliss and Kele were already stationed by the welcome area with Joseph and Malebogo, clipboards in hand, ready to begin check-ins. Thandiwe stood nearby with Tiro, both of them in full “observing silently while somehow reading everyone’s soul” mode. I smiled to myself and strolled over, ready to help wherever I was needed.

The group this year was a good size. The program’s previous success had brought about expansion. There were about twenty students from various universities, most of them from Botswana and South Africa, a couple from Namibia and Zimbabwe, and even one American who looked like he was already questioning his life choices in the heat.

Bliss stepped forward with that calm confidence she’d been growing into more every week. “Welcome to the Okavango Delta Research Camp,” she said clearly. “We’re glad you’re here. We know it’s been a long trip, so we’ll try to keep this short—but we do have a few important things to cover.”

I watched her as she spoke. She was poised and smooth, warm without being saccharine. The students were already paying attention.

After Bliss’s welcome, Kele walked the group through the basic camp rules and safety protocols. Then it was Malebogo’s turn—her topic was field etiquette and environmental sensitivity, and she’d worked hard to make it engaging. I saw a few students nod along and even scribble notes, which is always a good sign.

Then it was my turn. I gave the logistics update, outlining the supply flow, the vehicle assignments, and the meal schedule. I kept it light, cracked a few dry jokes, and noticed a few smiles. I ended with a short reminder that while the Delta could be unpredictable, the staff was here to support them—and that learning would come both from the land and from each other.

Finally, Thandiwe stepped up, gave a brief but inspiring welcome, and introduced the week’s orientation activities. Arthur was out with a team setting up the tracking stations and would meet the students the following day for their first wildlife movement module.

Once we wrapped, students were shown to their tents and given time to unpack and rest before lunch. Some stayed back to ask questions, already curious about their surroundings. One asked me if we really heard lions at night.

“Sometimes,” I said, with a half-smile. “But they usually have better things to do than bother us.”

The student looked both reassured and slightly terrified, which seemed about right.

Later that afternoon, the energy around camp was electric—introductions were happening everywhere, boots were being broken in, binoculars adjusted. The camp felt alive in a new way, and even though I knew things would get messy and noisy and complicated in the coming weeks, I also knew it was worth it. Every time.

Back in the logistics tent, I caught a glimpse of Bliss passing by on her way to help with gear distribution. She caught my eye, smiled, and gave me a small nod. Just a little signal between us—it’s going well.

It was.

The first week of student field work is always a strange blend of chaos and discovery. By Monday night, the nervous energy had shifted to confusion—tents half-organized, gear misplaced, someone trying to figure out how a solar shower worked. But by Tuesday morning, the tide began to turn.

The students were divided into three teams, each rotating through modules on tracking, vegetation analysis, and water quality. Arthur took the lead on tracking. I overheard him telling a group of students that they had to “think like the antelope” while pacing around dramatically. Bliss, walking past with a clipboard, caught my eye and tried not to laugh. Kele ran the vegetation sessions with Joseph’s support, and Thandiwe oversaw the water analysis while coordinating everything from a thousand-foot view. I handled the logistics of equipment, site rotation, and—when it inevitably broke down—the Land Rover.

Bliss and I only saw each other in brief snatches. She was busy nearly every hour of the day, coordinating student movements, checking on supply inventories for the gear stations, working with Thandiwe. It was remarkable to watch her in her element—her voice steady and clear on the radios, her problem-solving quick and confident, even when a student nearly walked into a thornbush with a camera bag slung over both shoulders like a tourist.

Midweek, I caught her standing under a marula tree, notebook in hand, giving instructions to a group of students. She looked over at me for a moment—just an instant—and her face softened. We didn’t speak, but the look said it all: This is exactly where I’m meant to be.

By Thursday, the students had hit their stride. The questions were getting better, the mistakes less frequent, and the camp—despite its bustle—ran like a well-oiled machine. At one point that afternoon, I stepped into the mess tent for a breather and found Joseph and Kele there, both grinning.

“Did you see the student who tried to impress Arthur by identifying wildebeest tracks as hippo?” Joseph asked.

I chuckled. “I assume he got a lecture?”

“Arthur gave him a full TED Talk.”

Friday was the final day of orientation week, and the mood was upbeat. The students had their first round of assessments—light and informal, just enough to gauge their grasp of the material. Bliss and Kele had organized a small feedback session in the evening, where the students could share what they’d learned and what they hoped to experience in the coming weeks.

I sat in the back, watching as Bliss facilitated the discussion. One student stood and said, “I didn’t know what to expect when I came here. But now I feel like I’m part of something real.” That was followed by murmurs of agreement, a few more comments, and some heartfelt words from a girl from Maun who had never been this deep into the Delta before.

After dinner that night, as the fire crackled and stars stitched themselves across the sky, I sat beside Bliss just outside the main tent. She leaned against me, her head resting on my shoulder. No words were needed. The students laughed in the distance. Somewhere, someone tuned a guitar. The night was cool and wide and open.

By the time Friday night rolled around, we were all running on fumes—happy, satisfied fumes, but fumes nonetheless. Once the students had retreated to their tents for the night and the camp had gone quiet, a small group of us lingered near the fire pit, letting the last of the embers glow warm in the sand.