The opening sentence in Botswana Time, the new book by Will Randall, the author of the much-praised Indian Summer, reads like a parody of travel writing &ldquoSliding slowly towards sleep, I closed eyes that stung with delicious heat-induced torpor.&rdquo By the bottom of that first page we have a tin roof that &ldquoclattered and crackled&rdquo, &ldquofat, warm raindrops&rdquo, &ldquothe African sun&mdashsurely the fiercest in the world&rdquo, a &ldquopercussive rumble of sound&rdquo, and &ldquohill ranges of black, potent clouds rumbling and rolling.&rdquo For all this exhaustive description&mdashand Randall is unable to pass an elephant without burbling about this &ldquocolossal, graceful beast&rdquo or its &ldquoluminously white tusks&rdquo&mdashthere is little perception at work here.