The Map of my World “Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail”

“Wake”, she called my name in the darkness, rustling the material of my tent. I scrambled out of my cocoon, eyes struggling to adjust in the dimness of dawn.
Our mokoro bobbed by the shoreline, eagerly awaiting us. The air was light and fresh, so different from the oppressive humidity that had pervaded the past few weeks. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply; the pungent odour of fresh dung assaulted my nostrils on the slight breeze.

The mokoro glided through the shallows, effortlessly parting the tangled reeds with each propulsion of the pole. Only yesterday I had made futile attempts to steer the mokoro through the waters. My inability gave me a newfound appreciation for the ease with which our boat now moved. The boat halted as she crouched down, her teeth as white as stars.

She plucked a lily from the waters, threading and beading its plump, straight stem, droplets falling from the tip of the flower and dripping into the water. She tied her creation with expertise and slipped the necklace over my head. “Pretty, see”, she murmured. The stunted English was foreign on her tongue.
“Tanki”, I replied, rejecting my foreign language.

We sat in the canoe, gazing up at the nursery of the great Slaty Egrets that bordered the nearest island. The birds were just beginning to stir, another day of foraging ahead of them.

Slivers of light spread over the horizon, diffusing hues of orange and pink, a melted splendor that heralded the start of the day. We watched as the deep orange sun inched its way above the reedy shoreline, bathing the delta in its warm glow.

“When I was child”, she began, “mother take me here. She show me how to make lily necklace. I would bring one home for sister every day. We watch birds wake from their nests and sun rise over my land.”

She turned to me, grinning, her figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the Okavango. “This is my home”.