The Wallet's Safari: Lost and Found in Botswana

In 2008, I was browsing a quirky Los Angeles shop, its walls a testament to Hollywood's bygone era, when I found it—a replica of Jules Winnfield's wallet from 'Pulp Fiction,' famously inscribed with 'Bad Mother F*'. I remember thinking it wasn't just a wallet; it was a statement. Little did I know, this wallet would go on to have more adventures than many could claim in a lifetime.

​

The first time it went missing was on the flight back from that LA trip to Belgium. It traveled without me for a month before we reunited, lighter in cash but with its contents otherwise intact. The second disappearance was in the hustle and bustle of Bangkok in 2012, vanishing from my hostel only to resurface while I was cycling through Japan. This time, inexplicably, not a single bill was missing when it was returned.

​

In 2015, after a somewhat underwhelming safari experience in Kenya, I found myself drawn to the wild allure of Botswana upon the recommendation of fellow travelers. They promised an affordable yet equally thrilling safari in Mokolodi Nature Reserve. A wildlife sanctuary only a stone's throw away from Gaborone, where rare and vulnerable species thrived, and one could witness the majesty of the southern white rhinoceros.

I snagged the rear seat on the safari truck, my eyes eagerly taking in the splendor of giraffes and zebras, the raw power of hippos, and the elusive grace of leopards. Yet, despite the visual feast, the rhinos shyly remained out of sight.

​

The day was waning when I returned to the city for a cup of the local coffee, a small reward after the dusty trails. It was then that the familiar feeling of loss washed over me—my wallet was gone. After a frantic search in the rental car revealed nothing, I was certain it must've been left at the park's ticket counter.

​

Back at Mokolodi, the reception was lukewarm at first, but my persistence stirred them into action. As I was contemplating the bothersome task of canceling cards and replacing documents, the tour guides returned from the last trail with no sign of the wallet.

​

I must've been a sight, with my forlorn expression and the slowly setting sun casting long shadows, for they offered me another tour—this time a private one. In my preoccupation with the wallet, the experience was bittersweet until a trio of rhinos appeared, magnificent and unfazed by our presence. Their sheer size and the gentle huffing sounds they made captured all of my attention; for a brief moment, the wallet didn't matter.

​

After leaving the rhinos behind, we entered an area known for its mischievous monkeys. "Perhaps they fancied your wallet," the driver half-joked. The very thought was enough to dampen my spirits further.

​

But then, as if by some miracle, there it was. In the middle of the dusty path lay my 'Bad Mother F*' wallet, looking a bit more worn but otherwise intact. The cheers from the guides were genuine; they seemed as invested in the return of the wallet as I was.

​

Back at the reserve entrance, gratitude overwhelmed me. The guides, humble and steadfast, refused any monetary reward. So, in lieu of payment, I asked for a photograph with them—a memento of the incredible kindness and the shared joy of a wallet that had journeyed more extensively than most could dream of.

​

The snapshot captured more than just smiling faces; it encapsulated the spirit of human connection, the beauty of Botswana's wildlife, and the unforgettable safari that reunited a traveler with his treasured possession once again.