There’s nothing like a close encounter with an elephant to bond unlikely friends. Although at the time, our focus was more on the elephant than our latent friendship.

It all started a couple of days earlier, when we arrived at Chobe River in the Zambezi region. The Zambezi, or the Caprivi as it’s more commonly known, is a delectable verdant strip along the top of Namibia. It reaches out like a long finger, pointing accusingly at the tip of Zimbabwe and dividing Botswana, Angola and Zambia.  After three weeks traversing Namibia’s spectacular savannah, salt pans, desert and mountains, we were ready for a little green.

The hour-long flight from Windhoek passes over the stark, dry, dusty, Kalahari towards the lush emerald banks of the noble, imposing, enchanting Zambezi river. We touch down at the diminutive Katima Mulilo airport under a hot, windy sky.

A driver from the tented camp that will be our home for the next few days pick us up from the airport. The B1 tarmac road out of Katima makes for a smooth and uneventful drive. We catch glimpses of the slow paced life going on around us as we pass by at 120 km an hour. Roadside vendors hawk fruits and vegetables. Women walk slowly under the weight of sacks, bags and assorted materials balanced skillfully on their heads. Wood smoke drifts from open braiis. Fragile fences made from long branches, spaced several inches apart, surround traditional Meru constructed homes and gardens, offering meager protection against peripatetic cows and assorted wildlife. Baboons scamper along the roadside looking for food and trouble.

An hour out of town, the countryside opens up and eventually we come to the turn off for the camp. The narrow road is not much more than a path, littered with deep ruts, ill-defined turns and tight passages. We pass several loosely defined villages – handfuls of Meru homes, fencing of various degrees of skill, chickens roaming aimlessly. The occasional dog peers up at us as our vehicle bumps and grinds along. No one pays us much attention, which makes me wonder if they consider us to be invaders they hope will go away, or visitors they tolerate.

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The unfenced camp stretches out along the Namibian side of the Chobe River. Elevated canvas tents line the riverbank facing Botswana’s flood plain wilderness on the other side.  Our tent is sheltered beneath a wide, drooping mopane tree. This turns out to be a double-edged sword. The shade keeps the tent from heating up in the mid-day sun, but several resident squirrels consider the tent to be an extension of their arboreal home. After unpacking we head out for a walk around the property and when we come back, one of the cheeky rodents has broken in, unraveled most of a roll of toilet paper and strewn it across the bathroom, up the wall and out onto the tent roof. It looks like a Halloween prank.

We sit on our deck, drinking sundowners and watching a parade of Botswanan wildlife – zebra, elephant, hippos, giraffe, springbok, waterbuck – graze peacefully among the tall grasses across the river where Botswana’s lush wetlands press up against the banks.

As the sun sets, the night creatures announce themselves and begin their evening symphony. African Open Bills settle onto branches of the mopane tree. There is a lot of jockeying for position, like avian musical chairs. It takes a while before everyone is happy with their perch and the arguments drift into slumber. Somewhere in the dark, an impala barks. Hyena and elephant respond in kind.

5:30 a.m. Morning on the Chobe. Magic hour. Creatures, human and wild, wake to their new day.

The air is fresh, damp, clean. Daybreak here is audible. The doves call insistently. The surface of the water ripples as fish poke up for flies near the surface. Cattle in the nearby villages moan to be released from their kralls. An oarsman passes, rowing his stand-up raft along the meandering river. A crocodile skims the water’s surface, a lethal moving mountain range.

The African Open Bills wake and, one by one, lift off from their respective branches. They fly with ease across the flood plains in search of a meal. We won’t see them again until tonight when the jockeying for best roost starts over again.

We leave our tent to the squirrels for the day and head off at 7 a.m. for a pot luck safari in Botswana’s Chobe Park. We’d reserved our spots the night before, anticipating a 3 or 4-hour drive, but the day unfolds differently. It’s a short five-minute drive to the Botswana border at Ngoma. There we meet Willie, tall and lanky, part tour guide, part driver, and we suspect, part time stand-up comedian. As he drives, he regales us, his captive audience, with well-worn jokes, and factoids about Botswana. We ask about the tour we’ll be going on, and he waves vaguely at the scene ahead of us, explaining, “You will come into the park and see many animals.”

“Great,” we reply hoping to learn more. “Where are we going now?” I ask. “Kasane, everyone meets at Kasane. And then you will board the boat.” Boat?

We have the tarmac ribbon practically to ourselves for the 90-minute drive to the Buzzadi Trading Café in Kasane.  And then we wait. In Botswana, only Botswana guides can take visitors on safari, so day-trippers from Zimbabwe and Namibia congregate at the café to combine into one safari. Today there are 20 of us. They arrive from Livingstone, Victoria Falls, Katima and beyond. It’s 10 a.m. by the time everyone has gathered, the guides are ready and we’re set to go.

First on the agenda is the surprise river cruise along the Zambezi between Botswana and Namibia. We board a boat that comfortably seats our entire group. Jon and I sit on the top deck, securing front row seats and avoiding as best we can, five crazy Polish women who are here on a ‘girls’ getaway’ (but we can’t ‘getaway’ from them). The ladies cackle and basically disrupt an otherwise peaceful ride. A young man is with them. We guess that he’s probably met up with them in Zimbabwe and the ladies have invited him to join them on safari for the day. He’s tall, fit and has a kind demeanor. He seems happy to take in the panorama and stay clear of the selfies and ‘gal-palling’ the ladies are obsessing with.

It’s not long before the payoff. A melting pot of wildlife presents itself. Elephants, big, serene and slow moving, make their way to the river to graze along the grassy banks. A small herd ambles across the river from one shore to another, stopping boat traffic like a pedestrian crossing. Crocodiles slither just under the water’s surface. Egrets and storks wade gingerly in the shallows, where the hippos wallow. Herds of Cape buffalo graze unchallenged in wide swaths along the shore, and warthog families root through the mud for their meal, keeping a safe distance from everyone. Majestic Fish eagles perch high on the surrounding acacias. The river is wide, serene, blissful and ancient. Africa.

The boat winds along the river and skirts Sedudu, the coveted Island embroiled in a territorial tug of war between Botswana and Namibia. The Cape buffalo on shore are exempt from the political wranglings; they graze peacefully and watch nonchalantly as we pass.

We return to the Buzzadi Café for lunch, then set out again in Land Rovers to safari through Chobe National Reserve. The group is split up in four vehicles, and Jon and I strategize to avoid the loud Polish ladies. But the fates do not cooperate, and the five of them and their friend board our vehicle. We brace ourselves.

The drive takes us along the narrow dirt track that runs parallel to the far shore, then we turn into the bush. We encounter something at every turn. And at every turn, one of the ladies is inspired to scream, either in fear or excitement, we’re not sure. But it’s annoying everyone, especially since her screams alert whatever is ahead of us and they take off at lightning speed (they are lucky, they can escape these women).

The driver gently reminds us all to please remain quiet and not disturb the wildlife. And sure enough, a minute later, we come across half a dozen kudu – those large antelopes with caramel coats and pale stripes around their backs– and the woman shouts out. I turn in my seat to look directly at her and hiss, “Can’t you keep quiet?” Jon chimes in with emphasis. He speaks loudly and slowly. “Shut…up!”.  The woman looks appropriately humbled. ‘Yes, she says, “sorry”. Everyone is a bit on edge now but the outburst has done the trick. She settles down and even their chatter is reduced to whispers.

We pass another safari vehicle on the trail and the drivers stop for a chat – they are speaking Setswana, the language of Botswana but it sounds like they are exchanging tips on where the wildlife sightings are.

While the drivers have their conversation, an elephant wanders out of the bush, pulling up scrub to eat as he goes. He eyes our vehicle then notices Jon’s camera and its long protruding lens. Jon is sitting in the front passenger seat and has a clear, close view of the ellie. We all get very still, wondering what’s going to happen next. The ellie ambles closer and curls his trunk slowly in air circles inches away from the camera (and Jon), investigating this strange object (the camera, not Jon). Jon, not wanting to startle the animal or show any aggression, keeps still as the elephant weaves his trunk closer. For a minute I think the ellie is going to wrap his trunk around the camera. Is he curious or agitated?

The elephant stands in touching distance, big gray ears waving slowly like fans. We’re holding one communal breath. And then, like a bored child, the ellie swings away and lumbers back into the bush. For the first time all day our group is in synch. Smiles and nervous laughter and whispers of ‘Oh my god, that was incredible”.

The spat from earlier on is forgotten and for now, we’re all good friends. As we drive on, we pass an assortment of Botswana wildlife, with no more drama from the animals or the humans.

It’s 5:50 p.m. by the time Willie rolls to a stop at the Ngoma border and drops us off. The border closes promptly at 6 p.m. but that crucial detail doesn’t deter Willie from stopping every few kilometers along the way to point out wildlife. We’re the last visitors to cross over for the day, and while we process our exit papers, Willie calls the camp for someone to pick us up. A few minutes later, Annie, the manager, arrives. As we settle into the van, she says with a note of relief, “I’m glad to see you both. We were worried all day about what happened to you.”

Like a couple of excited kids after a field trip, Jon and I take turns detailing the highlights of how our three-hour tour transformed into an 11-hour odyssey.

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The sky is a painter’s delight. We drift along towards the brilliant hues of pink and orange on the horizon and watch the sun bid its daily farewell. We are back on the Zambezi river. We left Chobe early this morning for the long drive to Victoria Falls, retracing our steps from yesterday through Ngoma and Kasane, then onward to Zimbabwe. The wide placid beauty of the Zambezi belies its thundering, deadly culmination as it tumbles hundreds of feet over the rocky precipice that David Livingstone christened Victoria Falls.

We are taking in the sunset on the Ra Ikane, a small cruise boat named for one of the guides who helped Livingstone complete his journey of discovery. The boat itself is a replica of the vessel Livingstone traveled on to reach the Falls.

The evening has been made even more special. As we walked down the gangplank to board the boat, the crew and captain greeted us. The captain beamed, “Well hello, so nice to see you again!” Jon and I exchanged glances. “I was on the safari in Chobe with you the other day. With the noisy Polish ladies.” And then we recognized him. But of course, a man in shorts and tee shirt looks different than a man in a crisp white shirt and captain’s epaulettes. We exchanged handshakes and names (his name is Abel) and reminisced about the safari and the close encounter with the curious elephant.

It feels like a reunion of old friends. But in fact, it is the beginning of a friendship – a connection unique to the random encounters of travelers that transcends distance and circumstance.

The boat lies low in the water, making the journey feel more intimate with the river. Twelve mahogany captain’s chairs sit between six small tables. Our group is an amicable mingling of nationalities, cultures and ages. Abel is an enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide, and he expertly helps us spot a menagerie of Zambezi wildlife.

Cocktails are served and we nibble on chevre, crostini, hummus, olives and sausage as we float along, passing yawning hippos silhouetted against the orange dusk.  The river is quiet, slow moving and timeless. I settle back to savour my gin and tonic and watch the last drops of paint disappear from the African sky.