"Just wait till you experience it in person." Just wait. "Pictures can't do it justice." Botswana's For me, photos of the Taj Ma­ hal were better than reality. They were taken at times of day when the light brought out re­ splendent color in the mausole­ Great um's white marble, when tour guides weren't herding people eager to take the photos that could never do it justice. The one thing I couldn't feel at the Nothing Taj Mahal was awe. A certain spirit is slipping out The salt pan of the of our grasp, and I'm intent on not surrendering it. The ques­ Makgadikgadi, a vast and tion is, where on Earth can we still experience transcendent peculiar 6,000-square-mile wonder? Botswana seems the place to wedge of the Kalahari, is seek it. Exhilaration quickly takes among places in the world hold of me on the Makgadikgadi (meh-CAH-dee-CAH-dee). It that can still inspire awe. looks like the Great Nothing. In fact, this 6,000-square-mile By Todd Pitock wedge of the Kalahari - Earth's FOR THE INQUIRER fifth-largest desert - was an im­ HE MAKGADIKGADI PAN, Botswana - mense lake 10 million years ago. This vast salt pan must be what the planet According to DNA markers, our looked like before humanity appeared, human ancestors might have and what it will look like after we're gone. emerged here. The immensity of the Makgadikgadi, The great pan is not barren. deepT in this Texas-size nation in southern Africa, is Within it grow grasslands. Palm hard to take in. Here, horizon to horizon, lies an and baobab trees reach for the undifferentiated landscape, an ancient desiccated sky. An unexpected variety of an­ sea with no reference points but cloud-thrown imals roam, meerkats to big shadows. cats. The pan has two seasons: "Now you understand that no matter what any- dry and rainy. As the latter ends, one tells you, the world really is flat," says Ralph thousands of zebras migrate Bousfield, the guide who led me here. "It is com­ across the flats. pletely flat - an undeniable fact, as you can see." Awe isn't limited to land­ I travel to see places of epic scale and numinous scapes. It also is sparked by peo­ beauty, to leave the world I'm used to for the ple, especially those who con­ chance to look through the sclera of the everyday nect to the essence, the wisdom, and be reminded of much bigger things. But travel­ of a place. People of awe per­ ing for that feeling of wonder has become ever ceive shapes and stories in more elusive. stone mountains, hear animals Consider how travel has changed. When French speak, and gaze at stars for per­ writer Gustave Flaubert first glimpsed the Sphinx, sonal messages from their ances­ he was so overcome he trembled. If anyone trem- tors. See BOTSWANA on N5 The indigenous San, or Bush­ bles now, it's upon seeing the men, whose nomadic ancestors many purveyors of souvenirs crisscrossed the desert for mil­ and camel rides. We're dulled by lennia, are now mostly subsis­ curated experiences. We have ac­ tence farmers. One afternoon, cess to too many photos of the Bousfield introduces me to world's special places; we're some of them. overexposed before we arrive. The men wear beaded head­ On a visit to the Taj Mahallast bands, are girded in antelope year, I heard people exclaim, skins, and carry sticks. Bous- IDlp~ Jqtlabrlpqta 1Juqutrrr

field notes they don't always nority of that minority is still them. He is not tolerating pain; dress like this - the modern connected to life in the bush. he doesn't notice it. world has reached here - but Returning to the scorpion Suddenly, he bends to gather it's their heritage. The sticks, "house," Cobra digs out a dust­ dust, and wipes it on his face. used to clear paths and pull up covered creature as long as his Then he walks behind us, puts roots, seem also to keep them in palm with pincers and a tail his gritty hands on our heads, touch with their cultural roots. curled to strike. He subdues it, and recites an incantation. All I The elder, Kgamxoo Tixhao, then stuffs it into his mouth and can think is that here, awe - has a bulbous belly suspended works his jaws as if chewing. that blend of astonishment and over a thong. He speaks only He isn't eating the scorpion; he reverence - is the true quest. Taa, the Khoisan language of is rinsing it with his saliva so As I walk back to the camp, clicks, so a young woman named we can see it better. When he stars shoot through the black­ Xushe translates. I learn that pulls it out, the scorpion is ness. After the high energy of Kgamxoo doesn't know how old bright yellow, with black eyes the ceremony, everything seems he is because Bushmen don't on a tiny, eerily expressive absolutely silent. But as my sens­ mark time in years. He figures black face. es adjust, I realize the atmo­ he's pretty old, though his skin Cobra lets it pinch his finger. sphere is vibrating. It is a rising is smooth and the others still "Doesn't that hurt?" I ask. He hum of insects. Then, an awe­ admire his hunting prowess. shrugs as if to say, no, not really. some sound tears the curtain of We walk. Xushe grabs a plant One measure of a Bushman is the dark: a pride of lions roaring she believes is an aphrodisiac. his ability to take pain. It's into the night. "If you like a boy and want him through suffering that the ances­ The next day, we're deep in to like you, do this," she says, tors decide who is worthy of the Great Nothing. Bousfield playfully blowing the plant on a crossing into other worlds and and I navigate our quad bikes man named Cobra. He appears visiting them. Cobra is an elevat­ across horseshoe-shape dunes to be twice her age and speaks ed individual. He is also, I think, and past ancient riverbeds and English. a bit of a performer, despite be- lakes at the bottom of the Oka­ Cobra stops and points. ing dressed in ordinary work vango Rift, an incipient fault. We "House of a scorpion," he says. clothes, not bush skins. press on to a broad savanna. "It is sleeping now. We make a The sun sits on the edge of the Then, the salt pan begins. A fire, and it will come out." horizon, spraying saffron and light wind kicks up. In the dis­ "I think they want to stop and pink light before dropping us tance, little white cones of dust have a smoke," Bousfield says. into darkness. Tonight, the Bush­ are gathering into a big brown Kgamxoo - his brother men are preparing to visit their sandstorm that dims the watt­ starred in the award-winning ancestors. Piling up pieces of age of the sun. My head is swad­ 1980 comedy The Gods Must Be dry wood, they make a fire. The dled in a cotton kikoy, and I Crazy, about a tribal people's en­ women begin to clap and sing; I wear sunglasses, but sand in­ counter with a Coca-Cola bottle sit with the women. The men tie vades me anyway. I taste dirty - squats and twists a stick be­ rattles around their legs and salt; my eyes feel as if someone tween his palms over a nest of march in short, hard steps, is trying to strike a sulfur match twigs. In seconds, the nest is stomping the ground, circling on them. The storm sails over smoking. Not long ago, people the seated women. At first, the us. I want to close my eyes and gasped when the throw of a mood is lighthearted. Then the stop, but we need to get through switch lighted up a city. I have singing, clapping, stomping, and it, so I squint at the ground and the same reaction now as fire rattling rise in intensity, turning keep rolling, hot tears pouring comes into being in the way it into what sounds like a lamenta­ down my cheeks. has through most of human his­ tion. The fire's intensity also Finally, the storm is gone. tory. grows, the flames crackling in a Bousfield and I find our way to a Cobra picks up the smoking dance of their own. grove of baobab trees, their ele­ twigs and blows. Soon, hand­ Kgamxoo's body glistens with phantine trunks topped by rolled cigarettes are being light­ sweat. His face, etched and fur­ gnarled branches. Baobabs can ed. Smoking is one of the Bush­ rowed now like an ironwood live more than a thousand years. men's few pleasures. Their peo­ carving, has changed. His eyes After they die, they will leave no ple are poor - a reality that has appear distant and haunted. visible sign they were ever here, made them vulnerable to intru­ Maybe it's the exertion of the except a patch in the ground. sions of modern life, threatening dance or the heat. Whatever, We settle in to sleep among their ancient ways, animistic be­ Kgamxoo is here, yet not here. the trees. I look to my right, to liefs, and hunting skills. The He staggers forward, toward the my left. Everywhere, I see stars. Bushmen population of 55,000 is fire. It's not quite right to say he Bushmen say that when you die, a tiny fraction of Botswana's two walks on the burning embers, be­ you become part of the stars. million citizens. Only a slim mi- cause he moves so slowly, al­ When I awake, I gaze at a most as if he is standing on IDlp~ Jqilabrlpqia ]uquirrr

dawn sky. Maybe this is what Park, try Leroo La Tau . All the awe is: a portal to revelation, camps have a dining tent coming into landscapes peculiar (Camp Kalahari has a dining and vast, where the absence of lodge) and guides. external barriers breaks down .,.. First-time visitors should the internal ones, and we feel consider traveling with a something universal. Awe points safari outfitter, which us back into ourselves. organizes travel arrangements IF YOU GO and customizes itineraries. Visitors not traveling with an .,.. In Botswana's Makgadikgadi outfitter can rent vehicles in salt pans, four camps offer Maun, Kasane, and lodging: Jack's Camp, with 10 Francistown. guest tents; sister site San .,.. No airlines fly directly from Camp, 14 guest tents; nearby the U.S. to Botswana; a Camo Kalahari. 10 guest common route is via South tents; and the Meno A Kwena Africa. From there, Air Tented Camp, eight guest Botswana and South African tents. For lodging in Airways fly to Maun. Makgadikgadi Pans National

Cobra, a Bushman in Botswana, puts a scorpion in his mouth to rinse off the dirt and reveal the creature's bright yellow color. TODD PITOCK .:-~·- '.

The Ma kgadlkgadi salt pan of Botswana was an immense lake 10 million years ago. When its rainy season ends, thousands of zebras migrate across it. TODD PITOCK

A scorpion is handled by an indigenous San, or Bushman, named Cobra, who lets the creature pinch him. The Bushmen believe pa in is a test by spirits of a person's worthiness. The San, whose nomadic ancestors crisscrossed the desert for mi llennia, are now mostly subsistence farmers.