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I’d always found hippos kind of affable, amusing, soothing even – a bit like a fat and jolly uncle. Despite their reputation, I’d certainly never found them particularly threatening, though I maintained a healthy level of respect for them.
But this guy was different.
Though we’d only just arrived at the scene, he already didn’t like us. With a short sharp snort, he disappeared beneath the surface of the river. A small line of bubbles moved swiftly towards us. Our guide, “Guts”, jumped to, pushed the throttle to full tilt and we sped forward.
WATCH: Angry hippo chases after speed boat at incredible speed
The hippo breached about five metres behind us, exactly where our boat had been just a second before. We all laughed nervously as we moved off and the hippo slunk away again with another snort. If “Guts” had sunk as many sundowners as I already had that evening, I might not be here to tell this story. Even if the hippo hadn’t finished the job, I’m sure the crocs would have done.
This narrow escape in many ways epitomizes life on Botswana’s Chobe River, where the remarkable peacefulness and languid beauty of the river and its surrounds are constantly juxtaposed against the positively awe-inspiring wildlife action that springs to life with almost the same frequency, consistency and surety as the second hand on a clock.
With my girlfriend still nervously looking out for more angry hippos, I watched the sun set behind the trees and then we all headed back to camp before the mosquitos set in, the water shimmering shades of pink and purple beneath us, the night temperature balmy.
Back on dry land, we climbed into the minibus and drove through the town of Kasane towards our lodging for the night. Just beyond the town centre, we had to stop for a herd of elephants to cross the road. A few hundred metres later, it was a herd of buffalo taking their sweet time to get out of our way. As we waited, somewhere away to our left just on the other side of the river bank we heard hyena whooping. Just moments before, we’d been driving past supermarkets and fast food outlets. Kasane is a very surreal place.
On arrival at our base, we found another herd of elephants tending to the foliage (or what was left of it) in the front garden. “Look at that. How could you ever get bored of living here?” “Guts” says with a smile, before reprimanding the elephants for ruining his flower bed.
For many of the rural communities in the area though, Botswana’s ballooning elephant population is more than an entertaining nuisance and often poses a real threat to their livelihoods and even their lives. Botswana does not allow any hunting or culling of elephants, and with numbers in the Chobe area alone at around 120,000, human wildlife conflict is becoming an ever more pressing issue, one which some locals have had to find inventive ways to combat, such as coating trees and bushes in chilli. Apparently elephants are not too keen on spicy food.
But for safari goers, the elephant population remains one of Chobe’s highlights. Herds of up to 500 have been seen in the park, and at the right time of year there’s a good chance you’ll see these beautiful giants crossing the river to and from the many lush green islands that punctuate it, a much sought after sight for photographers.
Throw in the astonishing array of birdlife and the striking backdrop and Chobe River really is a photographer’s dream. Even if you’re an absolute amateur, Chobe will do most of the work for you. And “Guts” and his crew at Pangolin Photo Safaris, our hosts during our time in Chobe, will certainly take care of the rest.
Pangolin’s customized boats are fitted with chairs that swivel 360 degrees and have fixed arms to attach your camera to. Or if you haven’t got your own camera they can provide you with a high end Nikon and a lens the size of my thigh. Combined with the expertize and passion of “Guts” and his crew, you’ve certainly got a winning product, and Chobe is undoubtedly the right place to see it soar.
The next morning we were out on the river again, this time with a bit of a hangover in tow and a lot less traffic about on the water. Only the iconic call of the African Fish Eagle and the low humming of our motor interrupted the early morning stillness as we headed towards the park entrance.
Once inside the park, we’d soon ticked the elephants crossing the river box and also seen, within touching distance, an adult Malakite kingfisher feeding a fish to one of its young. “Guts” told us that a team from National Geographic had recently spent weeks trying and failing to get shots of this exact interaction. “Lucky bastards you guys,” he said. This was obviously too good to miss. “Guts” pulled out his camera too and it snapped away at the speed of a machine gun.
On day 3 we decided it was finally time to take a game drive in Pangolin’s customized and beautifully old school Land Rover, which, like the boats, came equipped with swivelling arms to mount our cameras on.
Our guide for the day was called Smarts. He hardly looked a day over 15 and was a man of very few words, but had the eyes of a hawk. Every so often he’d simply stop and point silently at something he’d somehow seen in the undergrowth or above us in the trees. It often took us minutes on end to figure out what the hell it was he’d seen, or how, or where.
I soon lost track of the number of elephants we encountered that morning. In fact, I was beginning to think I’d seen more elephants than people since we crossed the border into Botswana.
Just as the day was getting hot and we were contemplating retreating to our camp for breakfast, we stumbled across a huge herd of buffalo by the river banks. And there behind them at three strategic and hidden vantage points were three beautiful lionesses, all crouched and with their eyes on the prize. We noticed that they were downwind of the buffalo, who continued about their business fatally unawares.
The stage was set and we decided to sit and wait.
Some time passed, then the lionesses began to move stealthily towards the buffalo with obvious intent. We lost them for a few moments behind some bushes but we remained in position, sure that if and when they pounced we were in the right spot to get some special images.
Then suddenly it happened. One lioness sprung forward from the bushes and dug her claws into the back of a young buffalo on the fringes of the herd. The two of them rolled across the ground and kicked up huge clouds of dust as the buffalo cried out in a high-pitched wail. The herd began to disperse behind the cloud of dust.
Just when we thought it was over already, a mother buffalo re-emerged and charged the lioness, who backed quickly away from her young prey, then they were all consumed by the dust cloud. It had all happened so incredibly fast. In just a moment the dust had settled again, and there was nothing— no lionesses, no buffalo. The outcome was, for now, a mystery.
We drove back up onto the track above the river bank and headed in the direction we assumed the buffalo herd must have gone.
A little way on, all was revealed. We saw two of the lioness dragging the young buffalo through the bushes. It was still alive, but we all knew it wouldn’t be for much longer.
With adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I, on the other hand, was feeling very much alive, and strangely vulnerable at the same time. But it wasn’t really about me, or about any of us looking on from our safari vehicles for that matter. It was about something so much bigger, and so much more precious.
