A German in Maun

Posted on 18 January 2012

A sock, neatly ensconsed in a sandal, exited the plane door.

Induced by the sudden heat, the sock absorbed the perspiration from the German foot and, followed apprehensively by an identically dressed foot, it descended the airline stairs. Squelch, squelch.

Four days of this and only four pairs of socks. Scheiße. But they would blaze a trail in Africa, these feet, for, instead of climbing onto a little Cessna that would whisk them to a luxury camp in the wilds, the feet insisted on venturing into town first to find more socks for to uphold their German modesty.

And there they discovered Maun, the town at the foot of the wild and watery Okavango Delta. Ah so, their owner breathed as they squelched through the town observing the parade of people, most of them quite sockless. He wandered about the Pep store and came upon a desultory range of socks and, as his feet gasped for relief, the German had an epiphany and brazenly removed the unnecessary garments liberating his feet to wander about, sockless and carefree, in Maun.

He found the wildlife fascinating as he joined the errant goats crossing the busy road, the cars waiting respectfully for these prized creatures to disperse. A donkey stared down a taxi, and won, and cattle joined people under the shade of a tree. This was unlike the Africa in his brochure, and he liked it.

He was lured back on course by the scent of fine coffee and found himself at the strangely European Bon Arrivée café opposite the airport. He saw young pilots waiting there and he remembered his appointment with the Cessna. Suffering a moment of indecision he shuffled his feet this way and that, but on impulse they carried him back into town and, without him, the little Cessna bounced off the tarmac in the turbulent heat to the roar of vomiting and the German was left alone to discover something beyond the Discovery Channel.

He found the people fascinating. A man strummed a six string tune on a three string guitar and a barefoot woman sat on a cool, polished cement porch waiting for the strange roots she had collected to miraculously transform into cash. Women walked under the colourful shade of umbrellas and men sipped beer in a crumbling bar, their dark faces reflecting green walls. Voortrekkers, provisioning for their neo colonial foray into the wild, climbed in and out of fully kitted air-conditioned double cabs, aggravating the discomfort – cool then hot, cool then hot. He recognised the expats and locals by the fact that they simply kept their car windows open. He marvelled at the Herero women, defying the heat in flamboyant traditional dress. Then dark, sandaled feet strode out beneath the heavy folds of cloth – sockless and cool. Ah so.

Following the road, he ventured to the periphery of town. Strange signs marked homesteads and paths lead to houses created from the very dust between his toes. He met the people there. They beckoned him to enter their neatly swept compounds. Children shared a stool studying books beneath a tree. Parents fanned sticks into flame. Pots boiled. Chickens clucked nervously and fish flapped in bowls. Meals lead to slumber on blankets.

He was invited into their homes and drank sweet tea. He met a man who proudly displayed his professional guiding permit and others who stalked animals, punted mokoros or flipped steaks and bed sheets in lodges. He understood the benefit that his pale, foreign feet brought to them.

The sun touched the horizon. His stomach grumbled. His feet responded and he found himself at the Old Bridge Backpackers – reputedly the place in town.  A steak was flipped, a beer was downed and the night came on. Locals, campers, fly boys and legends descended on the bar; lines of tequila already awaited them. He was offered one. Then another. He fell into banter about famous patrons like a young English prince and a beauty queen who lost her pale, slender foot to a hippo. He won at pool and bought tequilas for the players, all roaring with delight. Wide-eyed backpackers arrived fresh off the plane and, scanning the bar, they decided he must be a local.

New friends invited him to swim under the old bridge. He learned of an enormous old croc that lurked there, but he was more feet than brains by that time and his feet carried him to the river where he stripped off his clothes and swam bare-assed, his pale feet flapping temptingly in the dark water. That night he fell asleep under canvas, the river mud still cool on his feet, and he dreamt of a beauty queen rolling a tanned stocking down a long pale leg to free her one remaining foot. Ah so.

A day late, he finally boarded a Cessna for his luxury lodge, grateful for the calm morning air that carried the plane smoothly and kept his hangover in check. He flew low over palm trees and water trails, elephant, giraffe and foot munching hippos. He spotted an enormous old croc lurking on the bank of a tiny island and he looked down at his feet, still crusted with river mud, and he realised that the place he has just left was as much a part of and just as fascinating as this Africa.






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