"Mike Resnick - Between the Sunlight and Thunder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

their own currency. So I very begrudgingly paid for my room for a second time, and made a mental
note to bill the travel agency. We had decided to begin our safari in Botswana (formerly
Bechuanaland)...but, because we would be flying around the country in 5-seaters with severe weight
limitations, we first flew to the Victoria Falls Hotel, where we left some of our luggage. The hotel
itself is an old colonial structure that reminded me of some of the better British hotels in the Brighton
area. We had seen a sign in the Victoria Falls airport telling us that we must report at least an hour
early for international flights or run the risk of having our seats sold. Our flight to Botswana was due
to leave at 2:30 in the afternoon, and the bus from the hotel didn't leave until 1:30. A number of
people who were taking the flight panicked, and began offering up to $100 to anyone who would
drive them to the airport and get them there by 1:30. Since the flight is scheduled three times a week,
we figured that the hotel hadn't received any complaints about it, and waited for the bus. It got us
there at about 2:00, and the Botswana plane didn't show up for another two hours (par for the
course, the flight attendant later admitted.) The flight to Maun, Botswana took perhaps an hour, and
shortly thereafter we were ensconced in Riley's Hotel, which has a long and colorful history from
colonial times, but has become a rather dull hostelry in the middle of a rather dull town.

September 1: When I stopped by the desk to hand in my voucher, they announced that they had no
record of a previous payment, and I would have to pay for the room. At this point I hit the roof,
FAXed the travel agency in York, and raised bloody hell. They assured me that we would have no
further problems with our vouchers, and they were right (which is not to say that we had no further
problems in other areas.) We went to the airport -- Maun consists of nothing but the airport, three
gift shops, a few houses, a few huts, and Riley's -- and took our chartered 5-seater to Jedibe Island
Camp, in the heart of the Okavango Delta, where, after more than 4 days, we finally stopped
traveling and started vacationing. Jedibe is a small island, with ten tents, two ablution blocks (a
euphemism for bathrooms, which consist of a toilet and a shower, surrounded by a rather shakey
reed fence and no roof), a bar, and a dining tent. It's run by Tony and Pam, a second- generation
Kenyan and Zambian, respectively, who migrated down to Okavango when their own countries got
too civilized, and there was only one other guest there when we arrived. If there is a better way to
decompress after a long trip than riding in a mokoro, I don't know what it is. The mokoro is a dugout
canoe, and while you sit up front and watch the Okavango go by, a strong young man stands at the
back and poles you along. We went out in mokoros in mid-morning, and stayed out until dinnertime.
Carol, the bird expert in the family, tells me it was the best single day of bird-watching she's ever
experienced. The Okavango Delta is some 1,600 square miles of swamp, with about 200,000 miles
of very narrow, winding channels. By the time we were twenty minutes out from camp, I figured that,
left to my own devices, I might, with luck, be able to find my way back in something less than eight
months...yet our polers always seemed to know exactly where they were, and you got the feeling you
could set them down anywhere in the Okavango and they'd be able to find their way home with no
problem. I remarked about that to Pam, who agreed that they were death and taxes in the
Okavango, but added that three of them went to Johannesburg for Christmas and got hopelessly lost
in half an hour.

September 2: We went out on a powerboat in order to see more of the swamp (mokoros are many
things, but fast isn't one of them), packed a box lunch which we ate on a totally uninhabited island,
and returned to camp in time to meet Franco and Masimo, a pair of Italians who work for
Mondedori, my Italian publisher, and were making a documentary film about the Okavango.
Masimo, a perfectionist, had wanted an overhead shot of the Delta, and refused to photograph it
through the window of the plane...so they opened the door and he and his camera hung out, upside
down, while Franco held onto his feet. The result: exceptional footage and an exceptional inner-ear
infection. They also wanted footage of a fish eagle swooping down and snaring a fish out of the
water. Tony had trained a local fish eagle to do just that when baited, and we went along while the