Flooded with life

I really hoped that I was awake; that this wasn’t some cruel manifestation that my mind had conjured up to taunt me. It was so beautiful that I was afraid to check if I was dreaming, worried that the reality was four walls of a hotel room and not the endless view of the cosmos before me.

Reluctantly, I rolled to my side to check my watch just as a cold gust of wind assured me that I was definitely awake. It was exactly 2:32 am and I was in the vast salt flat of Ntwetwe Pan, in northern Botswana, lying on just a mattress with only a duvet to protect me from the freezing temperature.

Above me, the sky was so packed with stars that it was like watching a TV channel when the regular programming ends and static fills the screen. I couldn’t even bring myself to blink, afraid that I might miss another shooting star. It struck me as ironic that in this desolate place – a place where things struggle to survive – I felt more alive than ever before.

I had arrived in Botswana nine days earlier, travelling with local safari company Desert & Delta. At a time when it feels like we humans are hell-bent on destroying the planet, its resources and ourselves, the company’s forward-thinking approach is reassuringly refreshing. In 2014 they introduced their first electric safari vehicle and boat at Chobe Game Lodge; eight years on, they now operate the largest fleet of electric safari vehicles in Africa.

Methale ‘Metal’ Mosheti, head of their guide training, who accompanied me on the trip explained: ‘When we first introduced the electric safari vehicles, we didn’t know how the animals would react to the quiet nature of them. We were worried that they might get spooked. But, from the first drive, the animals took to them and even got closer to the vehicles. They were almost telling us that this was the way forward.’

But Desert & Delta’s innovations encompass more than technology – even more impressive is the way that they have adopted the mantra of ‘empowering Botswana people’ by hiring, training and promoting locals to be guides and managers within the company. The wider safari industry remains male-dominated today; it’s more likely than not that if you’ve been on a safari anywhere in Africa, it’ll have been with a male guide.

But in 2004 Desert & Delta appointed one of the first-ever female guides in Botswana, Florence Kagiso. Today, almost twenty years on, their entire guiding team at their flagship Chobe Game Lodge is made up of ‘Angels’: a group of women who are not only trailblazers in Botswana but all of Africa.

‘When we appointed Florence, to our surprise it became big news,’ Andrew Flatt, Desert & Delta’s Marketing Manager, told me. ‘We couldn’t really understand why. After all, all we were doing was offering an opportunity for women to apply to become guides. Over time, more and more women joined to get us to this point.’

The thing is, it was a big deal – and it led to Desert & Delta beginning their concentrated effort of bridging the gender-equality gap in this industry. While some of the original ‘Chobe Angels’ have now gone on to other safari companies, many are still working at Chobe Game Lodge and other Desert & Delta safari camps.

This dedication to empowering Botswana people by employing and involving local communities might just be the best defence against the dangers to wildlife from human encroachment and poaching that stalk the delta.

My light aircraft seemed to touch down so effortlessly on the dry grass of the landing strip at Nxamaseri that I wondered if we had somehow lost power and glided in. I stumbled out of the metal hull of the plane with all the grace and elegance of a newborn giraffe and made my way toward the clearing among the bushes.

There were no tedious security checks, unfriendly immigration officers or baggage carousels here; instead a narrow, winding path led to a small aluminium motorboat to take me to Desert & Delta’s newest property, Nxamaseri Lodge.

This was my base for the next two nights while I explored the source of the Okavango and its panhandle – the 40-mile stretch of the river that feeds into and fans across the plains of the delta.

Fed by rainwater coming down from the mountains of Angola, the Okavango Delta is a permanently flooded marshland in the northwest of Botswana. This miraculous expanse is unique in being one of the few inland delta systems in the world that is completely landlocked.

This means that the floodwaters eventually evaporate in the scorching sun or drain away into the Kalahari Desert, rather than flowing out to sea.

During the dry season this perennial swamp doubles in size, ushering in hundreds of thousands of mammals, birds and amphibians, including some of the rarest species on earth.

I was here to explore the maze-like waterways of the panhandle. These papyrus-lined roads of nature run like veins – often intertwining – through the vast swampy marshland. On my first outing, I drifted slowly towards the Cubango River on an aluminium motorboat.

The calm that surrounded me was only broken by the chimes of the white-browed robin-chat and the occasional splash of a crocodile diving into the dark waters after being woken from its sleep. I dreaded to think how many of these ancient predators lay beneath us as we floated gently along.

Of course, like many visitors to Botswana – and elsewhere on the continent – I wanted to see the prized sightings. But despite the hippos and big cats staying out of sight during the relentless baking heat of the day, I still felt elation at my smaller wins, most notably the sight of a rainbow-coloured malachite kingfisher, perching momentarily on a branch.

With few roads, travelling around the delta by car can be long and arduous. To get to my next destination, Moremi Game Reserve, meant heading 102 miles southeast by another light-aircraft flight. Getting to the airstrip itself was an adventure involving a ride on a mokoro, or traditional dug-out canoe. Similar to a punt, the canoe is pushed along by a pole at the stern, which enables it to travel over shallower parts of the waterways.

We slowly made our way through flooded plains, over submerged common reeds, barely making a sound. Occasionally there would be a bump below when we scraped over sand dunes. Adam, our guide, would then exert a bit more effort to push us over the dune and we would return to effortlessly gliding along the narrow channels.

As we slalomed our way in between day and night waterlilies, so silent was our journey that even the reed cormorants and green-backed herons stayed put, barely noticing as we drifted past.

Up in the air, the vast spread of the Okavango Delta was revealed in full: the green marshland; the vein-like waterways shimmering in the unforgiving sun; and dried-out, water-starved patches of land, with small islands among pockets of water. From the canoe the waterways had seemed like pronounced rivers, but from here they were barely noticeable, like strands of straw drifting on a lake.

Back on solid ground – where we were greeted by a different kind of welcoming party: a small herd of elephants, walking in perfect unison across the runway – our safari truck sped across sandy tracks towards Moremi.

Animal heads popped up from the tall grass as we passed, ears cocked for danger: impala, red lechwe, kudu and baboons, all then disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.

Moremi Game Reserve covers much of the eastern and central areas of the Okavango Delta – roughly around 1,930 square miles (the entire delta ranges from 5,800 square miles during dry spells to 8,500 square miles in wetter periods).

Yet although this is a relatively small part of this wide region, its perfect blend of savannah, mopane woodland, acacia forests, floodplains and lagoons make it one of the most diverse areas in the world for fauna and wildlife viewing.

The numbers are quite staggering: the reserve is home to over 500 species of birds, over 1,000 plant species and, since the reintroduction of the critically endangered white rhino on Chief’s Island, the complete Big Five. It’s no wonder that this area is known as ‘the Garden of Eden’.

This, of course, was what I was here for. Less than 20 minutes into our afternoon game drive, our driver slowed down and reached for the radio. It was evident that excitement was building over the airways and I waited, breath baited, to hear what it was – a lion? A cheetah? Or perhaps even a kill?

Metal told me that some African wild dogs had been spotted, and we set off on our chase, swerving branches and driving faster and faster, one of a handful of safari vehicles rushing in the same direction, like predators being drawn to a kill.

Though not part of the Big Five, there was good reason to be excited by this sighting: African wild dogs are among the most endangered mammals in the world and are known for their endurance and speed, which can reach 44 miles per hour during a chase.

A pack of eight ambled along among the low savannah grass, their dark coats splattered with shades of black, brown and white, striking a contrast against the muted yellow of the grass.

They flanked the safari vehicle and, watching their mean, hard-set faces, I was utterly mesmerised. And then, like Olympic sprinters when the starting gun is fired, they exploded into action.

In the distance, an impala was making a break, one of the dogs hot on its heels; more and more dogs joined the chase and within seconds they disappeared into the distance. Metal gave a grim prediction for the impala, based on the efficiency of the wild dogs’ hunting skills.

Soon after we were face to face with a hoard of African buffaloes. Jet black in colour and with magnificent horns that resembled the comedy moustaches of cartoon villains, hundreds, maybe even thousands, of the beasts were stuffing themselves on the surrounding dry grass.

Occasionally one would look up to check that we weren’t overstepping our boundary – a relief for us as much as them: these grumpy animals might seem docile but are among the most aggressive and dangerous in Africa. I asked Metal what the best response would be if we were charged by one. ‘It’s the only time when I tell guests not to run faster than the guide,’ he joked.

By my final morning in Moremi, I had seen everything from hippos and crocodiles to giraffes and zebras, not to mention a glorious Pel’s fishing owl that calmly perched on a branch at the camp – though, alas, only two of the Big Five (elephants and buffaloes). I was desperate to see more: the previous night I’d had a fleeting look at two male cheetahs before they scurried into the tall grass – a tantalising but too-brief glimpse.

As the sun seeped over the horizon on that beautiful morning, I headed out on my final game drive, and there the two males were: lying almost perfectly camouflaged among the bushes. As we watched, the cheetahs playfully rolled over, a move familiar from their much smaller, domestic counterparts.

I was still euphoric about my earlier cheetah experience when I arrived at my next camp after another short flight to the southeast. Translated as ‘Lion’s Paw’, Leroo La Tau sits along the western bank of the Boteti River, which is the main outflow of the Okavango Delta.

The river is a lifeline for thousands of zebra and wildebeest who all migrate here from the delta at the end of winter, in search of water and fresh grazing in what is thought to be the second largest mammal migration in Africa.

The camp’s elevated position, looking south along the river, grants it an advantageous – in fact, you might say ostentatious – view over its surroundings. From my room’s balcony, adjacent to the river, looking to the right gave me a view of two male elephants bathing themselves in mud. In the other direction, another male elephant was knee-deep in the river, blowing a cascade of water over himself to cool down.

And directly in front of me were large herds of zebra, wildebeest and springbok grazing freely but keeping a careful distance from the numerous crocodiles warming themselves along the riverbank. It was like watching that famous scene from The Lion King when all the animals gather to see Simba held aloft by Rafiki.

It seemed strange, after so much life, to head on further southeast to the desolation of Ntwetwe Pan – what would have been an arduous five-hour 4×4 journey made infinitely more pleasurable by taking just a 25-minute helicopter flight, cruising above the vast salt flats.

The views at first continued what I had seen at Leroo La Tau – giraffes, wildebeest, zebra and elephants roaming below – before the animals, and the greenery that surrounded them, gave way to the gleaming white expanse of the pan. There was nothing but white as far as the eye could see – no single point of interest or other tone to break that vast colourlessness. 

We arrived at a temporary camp that had been set up just for us, touching down a fair distance away to avoid whipping up the salt and covering everything in white. Walking over to it, each step broke the thin upper part of the salt pan’s crust, creating a satisfying crunch akin to walking on fresh frost.

It was an incredibly simple but inviting camp: a series of mattresses in a vast circle on the ground, a blazing fire already topped with barbecued meats, and a cast-iron kettle whistling alongside that would provide warming drinks as the temperature dropped.

Out there in the nothingness of the flats, darkness descended quickly. I looked around me to try to make out any glimmer of light in the pitch black that engulfed the camp. But there was nothing but darkness.

I climbed under my duvet and looked to the heavens instead, where a blanket of stars and the mesmerising galactic core of the Milky Way awaited me.

Life in all its vivid complexity was here, too, even in this barren, other-worldly space, and despite that – or maybe because of it – I felt more a part of it than I had ever felt before.