This entry “The Big Nothing” first appeared in a Dispatch, the updates sent to all Society members. You can join for free here.

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Impatiently, we wait.

For ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes we wait. The desert cold nips at our ears, the rising sun providing some promise of future warmth. The area is silent apart from the calling of some distant birds. To my untrained ear, they are all completely indistinguishable. To my untrained eyes, there is nothing here, only some stunted tufts of grass. There is also a lot of space, a lot of nothing. Which begs the question, “Why the hell am I here?”

This “here” is the Makgadikgadi Pans, or as my guide Super puts it, “The Big Nothing”. Sandwiched between the Okavango Delta and the Kalahari Desert in Botswana, it is an area the size of Switzerland. Unlike Switzerland, there is not much to see at first glance. There isn’t a single lederhosen, chocolate or mountain in sight, instead an endless horizon of salt, sand and sun.

I had luckily timed my visit after some rare rains which spurred the growth of fresh grass. It also meant a chance to see the salt pans with water in them, a sight very rarely seen in an area as dry as this. In fact, the name ‘Kalahari’ itself means “the great thirst” or “the waterless place” and it’s a pretty apt descriptor. Because of this lack of water, you don’t come to the Makgadikgadi for plains packed with animals, like in the Serengeti. Visitors here don’t come for a well-trodden tourist route. You come to the Makgadikgadi to get away from all that, for the peacefulness this isolation brings. You come to witness the lives of the Kalahari animals, a hardier version of their Serengeti counterparts. Above all that, you will come for the meerkats. Or in our case, you come and then wait in the freezing cold for them.

It’s only after another ten minutes that we see the first tiny head poke up. It surveys the surroundings, the scout for the group. The little head pops in and out, checking to make sure the immediate area is safe for the rest of the group. It casts its watchful and tiny eye out for jackals, eagles and other potential predators. There must be an all-clear signal, because a few minutes later the family makes an appearance, coming out in dribs and drabs. Our forty-minute wait isn’t too bad. It can be much longer if the morning is cold and they don’t feel like facing the day. It’s a feeling I’m sure a lot of us can relate to. Once the whole group is out, then we can slowly make our way into their company. We sit amongst them, the little meerkats cautious of the clumsy giants but not afraid. These meerkats are still wild but are habituated. It’s a process that takes at least six months of daily visits and, over time, they get used to our general presence. This habituation enables us to sit amongst them and share a morning with them. Always on the lookout for a better vantage point to spot predators, it also means that you might find them climbing on your lap, your shoulders or your head. From the perspective of a meerkat, humans are nothing but one big lookout tower.

There is something magical about this experience. It’s like the gorilla experience in East Africa, an intimate and natural moment with wild animals. It enables you to see them in their element and to be a spectator to the natural world. Except here, of course, in miniature. Within the morning of our visit, we see some of them digging new burrows and two youngsters play fighting. Another one struggles to stay awake in the comforting warmth of the morning sun. They stand on their hind legs and bask in as much early sun as possible, like some sort of furry solar panel. And then with a few squeaks, the adults are off looking for their breakfast.

We have our first breakfast laid out for us as well. It’s an incredible bush feast of cereals, yogurt, freshly-baked muffins, croissants and more coffee and tea. But, with no disrespect to the chef, nobody cares. Breakfast for us can wait. We are instead striding out into the great nothing with confidence, following our new little family as they hunt for insects. We walk across the Makgadikgadi like an emperor, leading a tiny army destroying all the insects in our path. The battle cry, a chorus of squeaks, rings out across the grass tufts. We walk alongside them as they dig up scorpions and beetles and devour them. We sit with them as they take a break and regroup. The youngsters remain back in the safety of the burrow, a single adult staying behind to babysit. This will rotate day to day to ensure that every member has a turn watching the young, and missing a meal. The rest of them eat voraciously, finding by squeaky little noses the juiciest of the bugs and beetles. After some time on their level, you can soon tell the personalities of each member of the family. There is the cranky old man, and the adventurous teenager. There is the whiny one, emitting a constant squeak to try and attract some sympathetic leftovers.

The meerkats always head out early in the morning for their feed, before the heat of the sun makes the thermals rise and the bird of prey begin to take off. When this happens, the meerkats are always within sight of a hiding spot or old squirrel hole they can use for safety. There is also safety in numbers. Together they make a formidable force, capable of harassing and scaring away all manner of deadly predators. Adding to their battalion is their personal Meerkat Man, a local tracker who spends his days ensconced in their company. From first light to last light (with a break for lunch when they escape the midday sun), he is out there in the Nothing keeping a watchful eye over his little charges. He walks when they walk, he stops when they stop. He is an ever-present witness to the lives of each member of their family. All day, every day, he is there. Well, almost all day. He does leave them when he spots a nearby lion. In this case, he might call for the backup of a vehicle from a nearby camp. Unlike his little family, he can’t fit down the meerkat holes. And there isn’t just one Meerkat Man. There are Meerkat Men, one for each habituated meerkat family. This means guests have a chance to interact with many families without bothering one family too much. It’s a system that has worked amazingly well. It only becomes a problem when the meerkat families fight with each other. In these moments, each caring Meerkat Man might suddenly find themselves at odds with another Meerkat Man and his family. For an animal this enchanting it can be very hard to separate the work from the pleasure.

After another hour or so we are reluctantly called back to the vehicle. We grumble and gush and eat some breakfast, stories spilling like muffin crumbs. After we are full, we begin to make our way back to our camp, a second breakfast awaiting us. The rest of the day is spent in awe and silence, relaxing under billowing tents and casting an eye over the vast space. We head out again to see more unique species before spending the evening around the fire, drinking an obligatory gin and tonic. Later that night the gas lanterns fire up and after a sumptuous dinner (and a few more drinks) we head back to our rooms. The sky is alive, the constellations and the colours of the cosmos on full display.

For a place calling itself “The Big Nothing”, it sure is something.