This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
Two small, beady eyes are watching me. I’m close enough to see light swirling around the green irises, the black pupils reduced to the thinnest of slivers. It’s a lazy, passive, even dismissive look that’s cast my way by a ruthless killer whose craft has been honed for millennia. I can’t help but feel like prey that’s just been evaluated and deemed unworthy, but I don’t believe it for a second. Instead, I watch back.
I take my time carefully examining each one of the pearly whites sticking out of the jaw. They’re used to tearing through skin, ripping apart flesh and breaking bone, just like the sharp claws resting next to them. This opportunist can wait days, even weeks for the perfect kill. Unmoved, unbothered, just poised in death-like stillness ready to strike.
I’m totally unprepared for when the head suddenly snaps in my direction and I jolt back from the edge of the boat. I’m meant to be watching it back, but instead I’ve been lulled into submission by a 13-foot Nile crocodile and now I have a front seat as it slithers into the fast waters of the Zambezi.
The encounter is a sign of what’s to come during my nine-day adventure, tracing the dips and curves of the Zambezi and traversing the world’s largest man-made body of water by volume, Lake Kariba, on CroisiEurope’s southern Africa safari cruise. And I soon find out, it’s not just the crocodiles watching.
Several pairs of eyes look at our quietly drifting boat suspiciously. A twitch of an ear, a puff through the nostrils. Heads dip below the water as if someone’s playing invisible whack-a-mole. The hippos are curious but shy and quite cautious; they also don’t have to come back up for air for another five minutes or so.
A land safari in Zimbabwe’s lakeside Matusadona National Park is a must for spotting local wildlife in its natural habitat. Photograph by Karlina Valeiko
“Keep looking,” my guide Tracy Otchoumou urges. “You’ll see some more.” It’s September, at the very tail end of the dry season in southern Africa. And because of recent subpar rainy seasons, the contrast between the lush green banks of the river and the barren landscape mere steps away is stark. It also compels the animals to congregate where water is still plentiful. This means that the next day — combining land and water safaris in Chobe National Park on the banks of the Chobe River, a tributary of the Zambezi in northern Botswana — brings a breathtaking array of animal sightings.
“Let the animals choose you. Whatever you’re meant to see, you’ll see,” Tracy had said earlier that morning. I’ve decided to obey — after all, it’s my first safari and a little luck wouldn’t hurt — so I leave all my expectations at the Sedudu Gate, through which we arrive as Tracy reminds us: “You must open your chakras and let the animals come to you.”
And, boy, do they come. I watch giraffes graze on acacia trees, young baboons play-fight and a crafty jackal follow impalas. In this moment, I’m also reminded of the realities of African wildlife when I spot lions snoozing after feasting on a baby elephant and vultures picking out what appear to be pieces of brain through a dead water buffalo’s eye socket.
Thousands of African elephants roam the diverse habitats of Chobe National Park in Botswana. Photograph by AWL Images
But it’s once we set out on water, exploring the riverbanks, that I get to see a different side of Africa. Yes, dry season paints the landscape with a desolate brush, but it’s also alive and thriving when you’re on or by water. I’m instantly mesmerised by a herd of elephants bathing, drinking and frolicking around in the mud. An older female gently guides a youngster, about three years old, through the art of mud baths at elephant spa.
“Their skin is extremely sensitive, so after bathing they have to kick up dirt or use mud to protect themselves from insect bites,” Tracy explains. I watch as these giants take care getting the dirt and mud into every skin fold and crevice. Observing their daily rituals feels more special than just watching them graze or lazily stomp across the land.
The boat sails on and we continue to cross paths with crocodiles, elephants again, water buffalos and more bird species than I can count. It’s just the hippos that continue to evade me throughout my time in Botswana.
The southern red-billed hornbill is a native bird species found in the drier bushlands in southern Africa and nests in natural tree cavities. Photograph by Robert Harding, Alamy Images
Rolling dung
Life on board the African Dream likes to flow in the slow lane. This eight-cabin luxury ship will be my home for half of the trip, sailing Lake Kariba on the Zimbabwe-Zambia border. Unhurried days are spent heading out on land and water safaris, docking at a new location each night. Following lectures on history and local life, conversations flow long into the night, when we’re treated to French-inspired three-course meals — a nod to the company’s roots — and an endless star-speckled sky.
The lake, akin to an inland sea covering around 2,000 square miles, was only created in 1959, after the completion of the Kariba Dam on the Zambezi River. It feels like stumbling upon the remains of a prehistoric landscape, with branches of petrified trees, once part of a forest that covered the valley floor, sticking out of the water; mountains at the eastern end tower over the lake. Apart from the odd fisherman, we barely encounter other humans during our time here. “It’s the variety that always surprises me,” says my guide in Zimbabwe, Thelma Chademana, who has worked in Lake Kariba for over a decade. “The water levels change, and I see a new tree stump or a new crossing for animals appear.”
“You think you know the lake but there’s always something new,” she continues. “Regardless, it feels like a safe haven.” But it hasn’t always been like that. More than 30,000 Tonga people were displaced by the building of the dam. This ethnic group from Zambia and Zimbabwe traditionally lived on the banks of the Zambezi, mainly making a living from fishing, and they found it difficult to settle elsewhere.
Displeasure with the dam was also said to be expressed by Nyami Nyami, the serpent-like local river god, who was separated from his wife by the dam. According to local legends, he’s responsible for the unprecedented floods that followed the construction.But many, including my guide, believe the dam has benefited the animals. “We think it’s changed the migratory patterns of animals,” Thelma says. “They know there’s a consistent source of water here even in the dry season.”
Petrified trees emerging from the water are the only reminder of the valley that was flooded to create Lake Kariba. Photograph by Gary Williams, Alamy Images
The flooding of the valley triggered one of the largest-ever animal rescue projects: Operation Noah saw over 6,000 animals relocated to safety over five years. Today, the fruits of this labour are on display in Matusadona National Park on the lake’s southeastern shore. And, although water levels are currently around 50 feet below where they should be for this time of year, there’s still enough to sustain large populations of animals, including the famous Big Five.
Here, there’s life everywhere you look. I’ve seen kudus graze in the distance while I eat breakfast, spotted crocodiles bask in the midday sun and watched elephants come down to the water for an evening aperitif while fish eagles screeched above.
“What does Matusadona mean?” I ask Thelma. “Oh, good question! It’s named after the abundance of the animals on the mountain slopes, if you know what I mean,” Thelma says with a smirk. “Matusa means dung and dona means rolling,” she continues. “Rolling dung.”
Lessons of the land
It’s the next day and I’ve been tossed around in a 4WD for an hour or so now. My back hurts, my arms are sore from having to hold on to my seat and my bottom is totally numb as we bounce, skid and slide through the backroads of Matusadona National Park. Although we’ve spotted some zebras grazing in the distance and witnessed warthogs trotting through tall grass, morale is low, the African sun relentless and the lack of any significant animal sightings has soured the mood.
I find myself dreaming of my plush king-size bed on board the African Dream, when suddenly our guide and driver for the day, Mathew Gotora, brings the car to an abrupt stop. He gets out of the vehicle — something we’ve all been repeatedly told not to do under any circumstances — and slowly walks towards a clearing in complete silence. He follows some animal tracks before looking up to the sky, inspecting the position of the sun and what appears to be the direction of the wind.
CroisiEurope’s African Dream sails Lake Kariba on the Zimbabwe-Zambia border. Photograph by Eric Vancleynenbreugel
“He looks like he knows what he’s doing,” I whisper as he quietly sets off towards a row of trees some 30 yards away. Mathew’s gait is stiff due to sciatica he got after sliding into an aardvark hole to hide from a chasing herd of buffalo. “Or pretends that he does,” one of my travel companions quips.
Mathew, who’s been a guide here for “too long” and knows every inch of the land, returns with a handful of leaves and some seeds in his palms that get distributed among us. “Break the shell,” he says. “Then get the seed out and smell it.” The group follows his instructions. “The mopane tree is a very smart tree,” Mathew continues while we all sniff at the seeds, inhaling a curious mix of cedar and aniseed. “It can close its leaves to conserve water during dry spells and each tree can communicate with others through the roots.” We all stare in disbelief as Mathew explains that the mopane can let other trees know if they’re being grazed on too much, so they can turn their leaves sour.
In the coming hours we learn that white-browed sparrow-weaver nests always point westward, see how termites build mud tubes around the bark to protect themselves from heat and predators, and inspect civet dung — the latter notoriously used to make expensive coffee from partially digested beans.
Later, when I set out for the last sunset tender ride, it finally clicks how seemingly disconnected and singular lessons about the lake and its flora and fauna have slowly knitted together a picture of this unique habitat, its creatures and their symbiotic relationships.
The setting sun paints the sky in strokes of blush pink to the east while vivid oranges and blazing reds set the surface of the lake on fire to the west. And that’s when I see them: a bloat of hippos stirring from their daily slumber. I watch a couple of them spread their jaws wide in a satisfying yawn. Upon the boat drifting closer, the ritual now all too familiar to me begins — nostrils flare, ears twitch and heads disappear beneath the surface one by one.
There’s just a single hippo left, its bloated form glistening in the evening sun. My eyes trace the scabs and cuts on its side, most likely from crocodile attacks and fighting with other hippos. I drink in every detail while I can — it’s the first one I’ve seen for more than a few seconds — and I expect it to vanish at any moment, just like the others. But it doesn’t. Instead, it watches me back.
Published in the Cruise guide, distributed with the Jan/Feb 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK).
To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
