Botswana safaris are often overshadowed by the likes of Maasai Mara in the public eye, but that just meant we had front row seats and a private tour away from the crowds for an equally spectacular journey.
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"Hang on, I think I just spotted something you might want to see up close." Our jeep was cruising down the otherwise quiet highway at about 80 km per hour on its way to Chobe national park. We had our eyes peeled the whole way, expecting a giraffe or elephant to mosey across the road. At least, our guide said we had a good chance of seeing something like it. Our brains weren't yet wired to spot wildlife in this alien landscape so we turned our heads often but saw little in return.
Our guide eased the jeep to a halt and turned us around. After backtracking about a hundred meters he took us a few meters into the forest. We were ready for anything - leopards, lions, baboons... it was our first day on safari after all. "Do you see them now?" asked our guide. Nope. We didn't even know what we should be looking for.
After a few more seconds of pointing and gesturing we finally saw them - the very rare painted dogs of Africa. A small pack of half a dozen members were resting under the trees to avoid the hot noonday sun. Their coloring was superb - they managed to hide out five meters in front of us without us noticing. I might have stepped on one had I been hiking. I still have no idea how our guide, driving down the highway at the time, could have possibly spotted these things off the side of the road.
Dogs have always been my favorite animals, and I always cheer for the wolves or foxes or equivalent when I see them. This was a great start and we hadn't even reached the national park yet.
I still have no idea how our guide, driving down the highway at the time, could have possibly spotted these things off the side of the road.
My mother sighed from her seat. She liked dogs too, but she really came all the way down here for one thing: elephants. We had chosen Chobe for her. It promised up-close encounters with giant herds, all coming to drink along the Chobe River. I reassured her that we would see elephants soon enough, and she gave me a knowing smile. "I want to see Joe," she said impatiently. Joe is, of course, a baby elephant that she believed would come to her when she whistled. It would pick her up and carry her off in its trunk. Who was I to say that wasn't realistic?
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Our jeep struggled across the soft sand dunes between barely foliaged trees. We came at the end of the dry season for this reason - it would be easier to see animals through thinner vegetation, and since they would have to hang out near watering holes and rivers, we would have a good chance of spotting even some of the rarer species if we just stuck around near the river banks.
Just as I was about to compliment the driver for his skill navigating the sand without getting stuck, we came to an abrupt stop. This was a particularly sandy area on the path - it could not be called a road - where putting your foot down meant sinking in the sand up to your shins. Our driver started looking around for sticks to wedge under the tires but climbed back into the jeep as we spotted some elephants coming our way. It looked like a herd was coming right for us!
Several elephants walked around the jeep coming within a couple of meters of us. They were all on their way to the river on our right. One large male made a show of stomping past us heavily. They look gentle, but I wouldn't want to be between one and some delicious grasses. We were all too excited to be worried, and we completely forgot we were stuck in the sand.
As the rest of the herd passed by, I took a glance at my mother. I don't think I had ever seen her happier. Where else would she get a chance to be surrounded by a wild African elephant herd? We hadn't yet seen Joe - these were all older elephants - but now she was getting really excited. This was going to be a great trip.
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"Oh, there's Joe, hiding under his mother!" Baby elephants like to drink from between their mothers' legs to stay safe from crocodiles, according to our guide. Our solar-powered boat was able to get pretty close to the bank of the river, which meant we were basically standing face to face with herds of ungulates as they quenched their thirst. Despite my mother's best efforts at whistling, Joe would not swim over to the boat to pick her up.
The boat stopped and started backing up. "I'm not sure where those hippos went," fretted our guide, "so we're going back." Perhaps surprisingly, the most dangerous animal out on the river is the hippopotamus. They can weigh one and a half tons and move surprisingly quickly, especially in the water. Many have lost their lives after having their boats flipped by aggressive hippos. Most of the time, though, they yawn and sleep in the river, waiting for the cooler temperatures of the night to forage. I managed to steady my lens on the rail of the boat to get some shots of its friends yawning in the distance as we backed up, so not all was lost.
Many have lost their lives after having their boats flipped by aggressive hippos.
The boat turned upriver once again and slowly worked its way back towards the camp. It was a good time for me to sit and reflect on where we were and what we were seeing. We were in the wildest parts of Africa, seeing the world as it was before mankind touched it. All the primal fears and needs were out on display, and for the first time I felt like I was becoming a part of Africa. I imagined what it would be like to live here, as part of a small village perhaps, struggling to survive alongside these animals. We were close to the camp now, and another one of Botswana's fantastic sunsets lit the way to our cabin.
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Our electric jeep ground to a halt again, this time at the top of a small hill. That was odd - the road didn't seem particularly sandy, at least not as sandy as the dunes I was used to seeing them cross over the last couple of days. The engine growled a bit and went silent. After a few attempts our guide declared the battery dead. Such a shame - just up ahead we were promised our best chances of seeing a lion.
Our guide called in for a replacement jeep, but we had to sit tight until it arrived. "Not to worry, we are fully equipped," she joked. She pulled out some tall glasses and several small bottles of gin and a couple of cans of tonic. Gin and tonic is known as "antimalarial" there, but I couldn't tell if it was a joke or if they really believed it after having told so many tourists the same thing.
Gin and tonic is known as "antimalarial" in Botswana.
As we sipped our drinks a few giraffe stopped by a nearby watering hole. As it turned out, we had a great view of them right where we broke down. I had really wanted a picture of a giraffe drinking - they look so comical! We had a good laugh and agreed that breaking down here wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to us after all.
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Our guide hung up the radio. "It sounds like one of the other jeeps has found a pride of lions. Should we go over there too?" Was that a joke? I stared at him. He got the message and turned us around, sending us careening over the bumpy dirt road.
We had seen a lion earlier, but never a whole pride. Finding them can be tricky. While there are thousands of every other animal, there are but a couple of lion prides in the area. And the Okavango Delta, the next stop on our trip, is quite big.
The pride ended up consisting of a couple of females and some cubs. We got really close and the cats didn't seem to mind. Our guide explained that, to the lions, the jeep and its contents were all one big animal, and unless we got out or stood up individually they would not be able to distinguish us from an animal that was too big to hunt. I made sure to keep still in my seat.
They look like big balls of muscle covered with a little bit of fur.
The power and presence these animals exude is incredible. They look like big balls of muscle covered with a little bit of fur. I got some great shots of the cats lazing around avoiding the midday heat. The more I looked at them, the more they reminded me of overgrown house-cats. They were just as lazy, playful, and gave that sense of disinterest I had always observed in my own cats as a kid. They were the owners of this territory and they showed it.
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Our guide informed us that a pride of lions had managed a kill late in the day as we sat down for dinner. We could probably find them still in the morning, so we set out early the next day and made a beeline for the spot. It was easy to find - vultures lurked overhead and the carcass itself was rather large. A couple of males lazed around nearby, presumably having taken their fill first.
It was a giraffe, and a fully grown one at that. This was an impressive kill - the giraffe was probably six times the mass of a male lion, around a metric ton, and it had some very long legs with hard hooves on the ends. I tried to imagine the struggle: the ambush that the lionesses set up, the ensuing chase, the powerful male leaping onto the animal, and their combined weight dragging the giraffe down. All the while, the giraffe must have been sprinting and kicking, swinging its neck and braying for help. One of the lionesses didn't make it out of the way quickly enough - the giraffe landed on her, killing her instantly. Her corpse lay just off to the side. Lions would not eat their own, but hyenas would swing by soon enough.
...the ambush that the lionesses set up, the ensuing chase, the powerful male leaping onto the animal...
It was a grisly scene, but one that stuck with me. These animals live every day with the fear of being hunted down and eaten alive, or from the lions' perspective, the fear of not getting anything to eat for dinner. We were in a different world, a biome with its own rules. The animals understood those rules well - their very lives depended on it. How distanced had I become from that life by living in a cozy city? And how important were my daily struggles, really?
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I was a little nervous about riding around in a mokoro when they first suggested it. Imagine a dug-out tree trunk (only somewhat straight) pushed along the surface of the wetlands using a long stick in much the way you would propel a punt. That's not so bad. Oh, and they are very vulnerable to hippo attacks, and we would be going through parts that might have crocodiles. Of course, we live for danger, so we were sold.
This was one of our favorite parts of the trip, and we ended up asking for a second tour the next day. It was our best chance to get up close to a lot of wildlife. Our perspective shifted - rather than looking down on things from the back of a very high jeep, we were looking at wildlife through tall grasses just inches from the water.
The boats were quite stable as long as you didn't lean over too far like I did.
The vegetation smacks you in the face as you pass some of the denser parts of the wetlands and birds fly low close to you as they go about their fishing. While I had initially thought I would need to be really careful to not fall out and get the camera wet, I found that the boats were quite stable as long as you didn't lean over too far the way I did when I wanted to get a closeup of a kingfisher or the water lilies that dotted the pond. "Oops," I muttered as my guide dug his stick deep into the mud to stabilize us once more. He just smiled, and we both knew I would lean over too far again before it was all over.
I didn't realize how late it was getting. The sun was setting and we could hear the baboons calling each other in the trees near the pond. A female and two youngsters were setting up for some rest and we saw their silhouettes against the sunset climbing through the trees.
I quickly asked my guide to take us in for a better angle where I could get their silhouettes against the sun. We didn't have much time before the monkeys would settle, so there was a frantic moment full of "Stop! Back up a bit... there! Now left a little..." The guides on these trips had been great, really trying to deliver what we needed in the face of frustration and nitpicking. I wondered what they thought of us, so fascinated by the sights they took for granted every day.
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"What's that hideous noise?" At first I thought it was a hyena, whose braying laughter can really haunt you in the dark. It sounded like it was right outside our cabin. Another one came, as if in answer, on the other side and a little bit louder, as if that were possible. It was still dark outside and I couldn't make out any movement. Our cabin's walls were actually quite thin and the "windows" were just thick clear plastic sheet, so although I felt fairly safe I still had that pit in my stomach telling me I was in danger.
A hairy face peered right at me and then disappeared into the darkness.
I slid out of bed as quietly as I could and crept to the window. Keeping to its side and slowly moving my head to take a peek, I caught a sudden flash of movement low to the ground. A hairy face peered right at me and then disappeared into the darkness. It was a baboon, and when I looked out I could see an entire troop stalking through the camp. They must have been checking out what we had in our cabin that might be tasty. My heart rate went back to normal and I crawled back into the bed, laughing at myself.
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Our last day in Africa was swiftly approaching. We had still not found a leopard, one of the cats we had a decent shot at seeing but just didn't have any luck, so we asked our guide to take us leopard-seeing. He swore he would find us one and we set out once again down the dusty road.
We probably covered half of the park that day. We passed by so many things, so many animals we had already become quite intimate with. Elephants, herds of buffalo, hippos, zebras, baboons, "pumbas" (warthogs), seemingly millions of impala, and the vast assortment of birds that squawked and flew away when we got too close. We were looking for something new but reflecting on all of the things we saw daily made me realize how rich this place really was.
I tried once more to get a picture of the lilac breasted roller taking off from its perch. They have a magnificent coloration as they fly around that is obscured when they stand still. These things are notorious, however - they stay put (in your viewfinder) until you rest your camera grip for one second, then disappear instantly. Of course, this was another one of those times. I groaned and signaled that we could move on. Our guide was used to this by now and gave a slight chuckle as he put the jeep back in gear.
Then we saw it - a big dark blob on the horizon. It looked like an elephant, but closer to the ground. Our guide got excited. This was certainly not a leopard, but it was even rarer and definitely worth chasing down. It was a rhino, and possibly a black one, of which there are 50 in all of Botswana.
It took us the rest of the afternoon to track this animal down. It was sneaky, having stomped through the undergrowth to stay out of our sight and made a couple of zigzags. We found some fresh scat, but still no sign of the beast itself. It was getting late and we were starting to tire. We stopped at a large pond for a happy hour break with our daily antimalarial.
It was a rhino, and possibly a black one, of which there are 50 in all of Botswana
"There it is!" Our guide pointed across the water at a shape moving through the grassland. Yes, it was definitely a rhino - I could see its horn now. I nearly choked on my gin as we jumped back into the jeep and took off at full speed. We wouldn't have much time to see it in good light.
"Mary" came hesitantly out of the brush to our right and our guide slammed on the breaks. When you have so few of a large animal like this one, you can start to identify and name them pretty easily I suppose. We knew she would be skittish, so we kept still and whispered. Fortunately we were downwind of her so she was unlikely to smell us, and from what our guide told us she probably couldn't see a jeep even if it was thirty meters in front of her due to rhinos' poor eyesight.
She stopped and looked around just a couple of meters from the brush. She had her head high in the air and was turning back and forth, presumably trying to smell for anything that might be near her. For a moment I thought she had detected us and would start charging back into the bushes, but she put her head down again and walked out into the fading sun.
What a terrific way to end our trip.
