My journey began with a cultural exchange programme in China, where I found myself under neon skies in Shanghai, the air electric with the hum of a thousand conversations. In Beijing, I wandered through centuries of history, tracing my fingers along the stone walls of the Forbidden City. Then came India, Delhi’s streets pulsed with energy, the air thick with spice, heat, and possibility. Love later carried me to the South of France, where I lived near Monaco, watching the Mediterranean turn silver under moonlight.

A Schengen visa became my golden key to Europe—Venice’s quiet canals, Paris’s rain-slicked boulevards, and Amsterdam’s gabled houses leaning over the water. Each place left its mark, feeding my hunger for adventure. I was chasing wonder across continents, unaware that the greatest wonder had been waiting for me at home all along.

The Okavango Delta had once been a name in my schoolbooks, a place I imagined in hazy shades of blue and green. Seeing it from the air, strapped into a rattling Cessna, I finally understood its true magnificence. Below me, a vast wilderness unfolded, rivers curling through emerald islands, water glistening in the sun, a perfect masterpiece crafted by nature.

I explored the delta the way the locals have for generations—gliding through its mirrored waters in a mokoro, a traditional dugout canoe. The air smelled of wild sage and damp earth, dragonflies skimmed the surface, and the calls of fish eagles echoed through the silence. A hippo surfaced nearby, releasing a deep, rumbling exhale, while elephants waded through the reeds, their enormous silhouettes painted against the setting sun.

As dusk fell, the sky became a firestorm of oranges and purples, reflected in the still water like an artist’s brushstroke. I sat by the shore, listening to the symphony of the wild: the croaking frogs, the distant roar of a lion, the whisper of the wind through the papyrus. It was breathtaking. It was humbling. And it was home.

Chobe National Park is a place where elephants rule. Nowhere else on Earth can you witness them in such numbers—thousands of them moving through the land, their footsteps stirring the dust, their tusks gleaming like ivory crescents in the golden light.

From a boat on the Chobe River, I watched herds gather at the water’s edge, drinking deeply, their trunks curling and uncurling like the hands of ancient gods. Calves splashed playfully, nudging each other with awkward grace, while matriarchs stood watch, their wisdom carried in the deep lines of their weathered skin. Across the riverbanks, crocodiles basked, motionless but menacing, while fish leapt from the water, flashing silver in the fading sun.

Seeing Chobe through the eyes of a traveller, I finally understood why it’s considered one of Africa’s last great sanctuaries. Unlike so many places where wildlife has been pushed to the margins, here, nature still holds dominion. Botswana’s conservation efforts aren’t just a policy; they’re a promise, ensuring that future generations will stand where I stood and marvel at the same, unbroken wilderness.