“If we go down out here,” shouts the pilot, mischief in his voice, “you’ll be near the bottom of the food chain.” We swoop over swamplands and lagoons concealing half-submerged crocodiles and hippos, as the pilot whips the plane into a series of ever-steeper banks and turns. This makes the flight less like the scenic aerial cruise advertised and more like riding a crop duster through a storm, which, in many ways, proves a fitting introduction to my fortnight in northern Botswana.
Revived by recent rain showers, the Kalahari Desert’s shallow clay pools and braided waterways reflect the passing clouds as keenly as quicksilver; the palms and plains are electric-green. It’s a version of the Delta that few travellers see, as most safari guests choose the country’s arid months over this, the tail-end of the long rainy season. We fly lower.
Beneath one wing of the bobbing aircraft, a herd of giraffe ambles towards a vast watering hole; beneath the other, wildebeest sprint across emerald brushland. Feeding this oasis is the Okavango River, slicing southwards from Angola, quenching these thirsty lands with myriad tributaries destined to finally peter out and soak away into the sandy earth. En route, the water serves as lifeblood for a menagerie of African species that have earned this region a reputation as one of the richest wildlife enclaves left on Earth.
Despite the hypnotising tranquillity of the landscape from on high, the reality for conservationists at ground level is more fraught. All this beauty balances on a knife edge. Rising
