As our van rolled to a stop, the setting sun painted the Botswana sky in hues of orange and purple. After hours of being confined in the cramped space, our legs ached for movement and our minds yearned for the comfort of proper accommodations. Little did we know that nature had other plans for our arrival.

Our host greeted us with an apologetic smile and unexpected news. A herd of elephants, desperate for water during the dry season, had rampaged through the property and destroyed the water system outside the main house. With a shrug that suggested this was merely another day in Botswana, he explained that we would be staying in huts scattered across the property, with dinner served in the main house.

"The elephants were here just this morning," he added casually as we gathered for our meal overlooking the damaged pool. Deep footprints and broken pipes offered silent testimony to the recent visitors.

The journey had left our group of friends thoroughly parched, and we settled into the bar while dinner was being brought out. Throughout our safari, we had developed a creative solution to quench our thirst – improvised cocktails we affectionately dubbed "Polokwanes”. The ritual began days earlier when we purchased liquor and sodas but realized we had no glasses for mixing drinks. Being innovative travelers, we drank some soda and then used a rolled-up information sheet from Polokwane Game Reserve as a funnel to pour in the liquor. These makeshift drinks had become a cherished ritual during our trip.

Before dinner, I settled into the main lodge's sitting area with my friend Eric, a tall Nebraska man with a cheerful smile. We commiserated with shared complaints about the bumpy roads. Suddenly, I noticed a large red spider on the seat beside him. I leaped over the sofa with a yelp – I absolutely hate spiders, especially large, hairy ones like this specimen.

Our guide, Anthony, approached with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to skittish tourists. "That's a Roman Spider," he explained with a hint of amusement. "In Afrikaans, they're known as 'haarskeerders' – 'hair cutters' – or 'baardskeerders' – 'beard cutters.' Local myths claim they cut your hair to use as bedding for their nests."

"Are they dangerous?" I asked from my safe distance.

"They're not actually spiders, and they can't bite," Anthony assured me. "Completely harmless."

Harmless or not, the creature gave me the willies, and I maintained a respectful distance until a staff member removed it.

When dinner was served, Eric and I navigated the modest buffet together, loading our plates with options that appeared safest after a day on the road.

"Not much of a salad person," I confessed to Eric as I reluctantly added a small portion of the sparse offerings – just lettuce, tomato, and onion – to my plate. "But when in Botswana..."

The barbecued chicken and meat, seasoned with local spices, proved surprisingly flavorful, while the curious potato salad added a creamy contrast to the meal.

As we settled in to eat, the warm night air carrying the distant trumpeting of elephants, Eric suddenly exclaimed with satisfaction, "I like these big olives!"

I glanced at his plate and couldn't help but chuckle. The "olive" on his salad glistened with an unmistakable iridescence no food should possess.

"Eric," I said gently, lowering my voice to spare him public embarrassment, "I think that 'olive' just flew in and landed on your salad."

The look of horror that washed over his face as he realized he was about to eat a beetle was priceless. His fork clattered against the plate as he pushed it away. The laughter around the table momentarily drowned out the night sounds of the bush.

"I need the bathroom," Eric muttered, still looking pale as he stood up abruptly.

When he returned a few minutes later, his expression had transformed from embarrassment to shock, his eyes wide with a different kind of surprise.

"You won't believe what just happened," he said, his voice slightly higher than normal. "I was walking back and ran straight into an electric fence. Got quite a shock!"

This triggered a memory from my childhood. "That reminds me of growing up," I told him. "I once convinced my cousin to pee on an electric fence. Poor lad jumped higher than you did just now." I patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry – if he survived that, you'll be fine."

After dinner, as the darkness deepened around us, our host gathered everyone for another announcement. His expression had grown more serious.

"The elephants' visit did more damage than we initially thought," he explained. "They've knocked out power to the huts as well. The beds are made and ready, but we'll need to escort you in groups." He paused for effect. "The elephants are still roaming the area."

A nervous murmur spread through our group. I imagined a burly guard with a rifle would be assigned to protect us – someone whose very presence would deter the massive creatures from approaching.

Instead, our escort turned out to be a diminutive, elderly woman, her weathered face creased with a lifetime of sun exposure, who must have been at least 80. Standing barely five feet tall, she carried only a small flashlight.

"Follow me, stay close, and do exactly as I say," she declared confidently, her voice surprisingly strong.

Exchanging dubious glances, we formed a tight group behind our unexpected guardian. As we made our way down the sandy dirt road, the beam of her flashlight seemed pitifully inadequate against the enveloping darkness. Occasionally, the light would catch the massive silhouettes of elephants moving through the trees, their huge forms appearing and disappearing like gray ghosts.

The only sounds were our footsteps on the dusty path, our collective breathing, and the occasional snap of branches in the distance – signs of the elephants' continuing presence. The air smelled of dust and vegetation, with an underlying muskiness that I would later learn was the distinctive scent of elephants.

Suddenly, an enormous shape appeared directly on the road ahead, blocking our path completely. The elephant's tusks gleamed faintly in the moonlight as it stood motionless, regarding us with what I imagined was the same curiosity with which we viewed it.

In that moment of both awe and panic, my instincts took over. I looked for cover and spotted what my frightened mind registered as a potential hiding place – a small, spindly mopane tree standing alone near the path. I ducked behind it, pressing my back against its inadequate trunk, fully aware even in my fear of how ridiculous I must have looked. The "tree" was barely five inches in diameter and perhaps eight feet tall, offering protection that was more psychological than physical.

Our tiny escort didn't hesitate. She fearlessly stepped forward, waving her arms and making a series of clicking sounds with her tongue. To our collective amazement, the elephant's ears flapped once, twice, and then it changed course, moving off the road with surprising delicacy for such a massive creature.

The elephants moved through the bush like living bulldozers, indifferent to the cracking limbs and falling saplings in their path. A young elephant paused to wrestle a mopane tree thicker than a fencepost, toppling it with a casual shove before ambling on, satisfied.

The absurdity of my choice amused our escort. She broke out in a smile that was wide enough and bright enough to be seen in the darkness.

Red-faced but relieved, I rejoined the group as nervous laughter replaced our former tension. The shared danger, and my comical response to it, would be one of our stories for ever more.

As we finally reached our huts, the adrenaline of our elephant encounter began to subside. Our escort bid us goodnight with the casual air of someone who had just guided us through a garden tour. "And don't worry about the elephants, " she said cheerfully.

Inside the simple hut, we lit the provided lantern and settled onto the surprisingly comfortable bed. Through the screened window came the sounds of the African night – chirping insects, distant calls of nocturnal birds, and the occasional deep rumble that could only be the elephants communicating with each other.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, the distant rumble of elephants served not as a warning but as a promise of the wild experiences that awaited us. Tomorrow would bring new challenges and wonders in this untamed corner of Botswana, but for now, even without running water or electricity, I felt strangely at home in the heart of the African bush.