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Mombo Magic: A Typical Day in the Okavango

by Colleen Berlin-Timmons, April 1997

The rhythmic beat of African drums resounds through the darkness of night, gentle and captivating, but with authoritative persistence to wake me from sound sleep. The air is chilly; I do not want to relinquish my warm bed; but I recall the conversation around the campfire the evening before. A 5:30 a.m. wake up call has been promised. There is no telephone; no electricity. The drums... that must be it... our signal to rise.

Fumbling for the torch next to my pillow, I turn the darkness into an eerie fusion of shadows against the canvas walls of our tent. I shiver partly from the cool air; partly in reaction to the curious calls emanating from outside. Exotic calls, unfamiliar, intimidating, but enticing.

We are in Mombo Camp, situated in the Okavango Delta which fans out across the northwestern corner of Botswana. This remote and isolated wilderness within the Moremi Game Reserve offers some of the finest game viewing in all of Africa.

Today will be our first in the bush; our pre-dawn rising planned to assure maximum viewing opportunities during the cool early morning. I unzip the front of our tent and flash a torch towards the path leading to the central dining structure. Constellations, brilliant against the black sky, vaguely reveal a herd of some kind grazing just beyond the path. A chomping noise is audible. Whatever it is, it is close. I am reluctant to leave the security of our tent. Suddenly, another torch appears, accompanied by a softly spoken "good morning." A camp guide is waiting for us. He escorts us safely past the magnificent, horned cape buffalo.

A nippy but short walk brings us to a blazing campfire. A light breakfast is served before boarding one of two open, six-passenger transports. We meet Julius, our resident guide and driver, and discover that his extensive knowledge of the area and sense of animal behavioral patterns will greatly enhance our chances of observing the exciting aspects of wildlife.

We leave the campsite in darkness. Bouncing along an undefined dirt road, sounds of the approaching dawn can be heard from every direction. Julius stops the engine to provide full benefit. Redbilled francolin, mourning dove, gray lourie, each contributing his rendition; we sit in silence absorbing the magic. As darkness gives way to a pink horizon, each bird species seems to increase his volume of symphonic melody. Assembling all components necessary to orchestrate a magnificent dawn, Mother Nature yields the fruit of her efforts. The ball of orange sun bursts forth to banish the night.

It is now light enough to spot and follow tracks. Julius sights those of a lion. They lead us to a pride of eight, completing a feast of wart hog. The adults, their appetites satisfied, turn the meager remains over to two young males. The intensity of baritone grunts and growls rises and falls as each protects his share with great emotion. Suddenly, one of them looks up as though he has a better idea. Eyes fixed in our direction, he approaches the vehicle with a deliberate stride. I am convinced we are about to become part of the banquet. The chap stops short and begins to crawl under the vehicle. Julius is quick to determine our intrusion and masterfully backs away quietly and slowly. The morsel of meat we had inadvertently driven over is now readily accessible to the young lion. I think I heard a sigh of relief in "six-part harmony."

By 9:30 we have seen leopard, cheetah, hyena, bat eared fox, giraffe, kudu, impala, lechwe, baboon, vervet monkey and more bird species than I can count. Julius declares that it is time for tea. Conducting a reconnaissance of the chosen area to be sure it is clear of predators, he pulls the vehicle into a clearing. Tea and pastries are placed neatly on a linen cloth draped over the hood of our safari transport. We watch a large herd of zebra about one hundred yards off. They appear reasonably peaceful until two males begin to jostle one another. Soon they are on the ground biting and kicking in a haze of dust. The thought of enjoying a cup of tea in the wild, amidst a spat between two zebras, strikes me as a rather extraordinary experience.

Continuing on to a wetland area, we discover a hippo pool. A single male, about fifty yards from the others, looks to be a very unhappy hippo indeed. Pete contends that he has undoubtedly been ostracized from the pod by the dominant male. Not at any time does the distressed social outcast glance towards his former associates. His devastating expression of loneliness prompts the question of what prospects lie ahead for him. We are assured that someday he will regain social status.

We return to camp for 11:30 brunch, an impressive buffet of African and English dishes accompanied by homemade bread, muffins, jams and fruits. This being our third offering of food for the morning, I hesitate to think of what the future holds for my waistline. The early afternoon sun suggests an ideal time to rest. Lying on my bunk, I am lulled to sleep by the soft coo of turtle doves and the happy chatter of ground squirrels.

Refreshed and off for the afternoon game drive, we sight a female cheetah reclining regally on a termite mound. Beautiful and majestic, she maintains maternal vigilance over her two young cubs. Bounding with energy, the little ones test their mother's patience. Time passes. Mother cheetah becomes restless. She rises to a sitting position; attention focused on something in the distance. Sniffing the air, she is on her feet and begins to stroll nonchalantly in the direction of her interest. Julius moves the vehicle into a clearing. Now we can see a herd of impala grazing contentedly. The composure of the cheetah becomes purposeful. Her pace quickens. Our vehicle follows her quietly. As the cheetah approaches her intended destination, she assumes a determined stalking position. The mannerisms of the impala become notably altered. Their stance, previously relaxed, is now rigid: heads upright, ears alert with the suspicion of impending danger. The drama unfolds.

Within a hundred yards, the cheetah summons forth the strength and speed for which her breed is known. From the herd of impala an alarm cry pierces the air amidst the rush of pounding hooves. An incredible feeling of tension prevails as we stand by in observation. The cheetah trips an impala on the outside of the herd. The kill is achieved. Exhausted, the cheetah drags her prey across the deserted clearing. Chest heaving, she pauses frequently to replenish her oxygen debt. She must now attempt to hide her prey from the hyenas. Julius' voice breaks the silence. "She will take it over there, under the protection of the umbrella thorn tree." And so she does.

Sitting on her haunches, mouth half open, mother cheetah emits a sort of high-pitched "eeking" noise. The little ones trot obediently out from behind a clump of brush. Instead of feeding, the youngsters play with their food. Batting the ears and swatting the nose, they take their time tumbling about the fallen impala. Children "playing with food" rings a bell in the archives of my memory.

The sun begins to sink. An enormous yellow balloon suspends in the branches of the ubiquitous acacia tree, silhouetting the landscape against a fiery red horizon. In magnificent splendor our first day surrenders to night. I hear the howl of hyena in the darkness. Calls of night join together. Julius directs our vehicle towards camp.