A safari in Hwange’s green season

All of which, you would think, should have woken me. But this sound is different. Closer. Heavier. Somewhat jarring against the otherwise sleepy bush serenade.

I slide from beneath the sheets and tiptoe carefully across the floorboards of my room. Slowly, I press my face against the mesh gauze of the tent.

And there he is.

A five-tonne bull elephant stands just centimetres away, playing tug-of-war with a branch of a young leadwood tree, a game which the elephant easily wins. Each time he pulls with his outstretched trunk, his broad flank scrapes the canvas beside me like sandpaper. I freeze, taking in the moment for as long as it will have me, suddenly very aware of my every breath. Do I usually exhale so loudly? Does my heart always beat in my ears?

Then, as silently as he arrived, he turns and walks away. Slosh, slosh, slosh, through the ankle-deep (in elephant terms) floodwater in front of camp, still a shadow in the pre-dawn darkness. 

I splash cold water on my face, pull on my veldskoens, and make my way towards the main area of the camp. The horizon has its first touch of pink, as Prince Dube, the waiter on early bird duty at Linkwasha, hands me a steaming coffee – a much-needed kick-start to the first morning of my green season safari in Hwange.

Not long after, I find myself winding through woodlands on a game drive, heading towards the famed Ngamo Plains, as the bush begins to glow with light and life.

The deep red rising sun peeks through the treeline setting the sky on fire, and turning the dirt road ahead burnt orange. A flock of red-billed queleas, the most numerous wild bird species in the world, drops onto the road simultaneously, their wings illuminated in the morning light, before rising again like a smoke cloud.

My guide, Casper Ngwenya slows the vehicle alongside fresh lion tracks pressed into the damp earth. ‘They came through last night or early this morning,’ he says, tracing the prints with his finger, showing how their spoor sits on top of yesterday’s tyre tracks.

They were heading in the same direction as we’re going. We follow. But a summer safari in Hwange has a way of distracting you.

A lilac-breasted roller warms itself on a dead branch beside the road, impossibly vivid against the green woodland around it. Its name may seem obvious, but it doesn’t do justice to its turquoise crown, emerald blue wings, teal tail streamers, and dusty orange cheeks.

Further ahead, we stop again, this time for dozens upon dozens of broad-bordered grass yellow butterflies seemingly stuck in the mud. Tiny flashes of bright lemon-yellow dance against the dark brown soil, as they rise and fall in restless waves.

We haven’t even reached Ngamo Plains yet, and already the bush is overwhelmingly alive – a small sign of the abundance to come. Around the next bend the Zambezi teak woodland, flush with its mauve blooms, opens, and my jaw drops.

The Ngamo Plains stretch out before us – vast, open grasslands transformed by the recent rains into a mosaic of floodwaters, fresh pastures and shades of green. I had heard good things about this promised land when in season, and it did not disappoint.

Everywhere you look, something is feasting, frolicking, or flying.

Elephants cover the plains in extraordinary numbers. Within minutes, I count hundreds with the naked eye, scattered across the emerald grasslands like massive boulders. Wildebeest and zebra graze shoulder to shoulder. Eland move ghost-like through the morning haze. Hippos grunt from temporary floodplains that just weeks ago were dry earth.

Overhead, crowned cranes glide above the water, spoonbills sweep the shallows below them, while sandpipers flit along the water’s edge. Blinding-white egrets contrast against muddy elephants. A greater painted-snipe feeds, uncharacteristically, in the open, while white-faced whistling ducks settle a territorial dispute with Egyptian geese nearby.

Evidently, wildlife from across the region flocks to these plains in summer, which, after a record rainy season, offer fresh nutrient-rich grazing, abundant surface water and open, safer spaces to raise their young. Life follows water here, and in Hwange’s green season, both are everywhere.

Then come the termites. A sudden irruption from the soil catches the morning light, and within seconds, the sky is filled with golden wings. We are not their only admirers.

Hundreds of southern carmine bee-eaters swoop and twist through the air in flashes of pink-red and turquoise, performing impressive aerobatics as they feast on the newly emerged alates.

We barely move 50 metres without stopping again, but that’s Ngamo Plains in summer for you.

After a couple of spellbound hours, our trance is broken by the bark of a male baboon from the treeline across the plains. Casper pauses immediately. Having spent 20 years with Wilderness in Hwange, he knows the difference between baboons disciplining their cheeky youngsters, general morning chatter and genuine alarm. ‘This is not a drill’, he says, unable to hide his excitement, and the mood, along with the vehicle, shifts gears.

We change direction at once, flirting with the floodplain on one side, and the forest fringe on the other. A kudu barks, and the urgency is palpable. Grey go-away-birds complain overhead. Puffbacks call from the thickets. Rollers chatter nervously from exposed branches.

‘What about that one?’, I ask, as another frantic call directs us deeper into the bush.

‘Squirrels,’ Casper says. ‘They’re not very reliable though. Sometimes they sound the alarm when the wind changes direction,’ he chuckles. Still, the woodland feels tense now. We creep slowly between wet and dry ground, scanning through the bush.

Then Casper spots it, thanks to a flick of its black-tipped, tawny tail underneath a sicklebush. The lions are on the far side of a flooded pan, partially hidden among the green leaves and pink-yellow blooms, also known as the Kalahari Christmas tree. It takes time to find a route around the wet ground, but eventually we settle at a respectful distance; far enough so as not to intrude, close enough for their amber eyes to stare into your soul.

As they move through the thick green grass, their location is revealed thanks to a fork-tailed drongo’s dive-bombing antics. Similarly, a crested francolin explodes from cover beneath a knobthorn tree in a burst of panic, likely trying to draw the lions’ attention away from its chicks, hidden nearby.

The predators, however, aren’t phased. They have bigger problems. ‘They look hungry,’ Casper says quietly. Last night’s full moon wouldn’t have helped. Out on the nearby plains, stalking their prey, which have sought relative safety in numbers, becomes harder. And these youngsters are still learning.

Watching them disappear back into the greenery, I realise they aren’t the only ones who have an appetite.  

By late morning, we are winding our way back towards Linkwasha for brunch. The floodplains around Wilderness’ private concession shimmer in the summer heat now. White foam nests, belonging to foam-nest frogs, hang suspended above the water’s edge. Common vlei crinums bloom in soft pinks among the marshes, and even the golden orb-web spiders have benefitted from the seasonal abundance, their intricate webs heavy with insects trapped in the golden threads.

At the waterhole in front of camp, the spectacle continues.

Woodland kingfishers flash electric blue between the trees. Glossy starlings hop nervously along the water’s edge, radiating shades of purple, green and midnight blue as the sunlight catches their iridescent feathers. An ostrich arrives for a midday drink, dressed smartly in black and white, while yellow-billed hornbills chatter noisily from the branches above. Tiny blue waxbills flutter down to the water’s edge. A Burchell’s coucal bubbles softly from the undergrowth beside the pool before emerging cautiously into view, its chestnut wings glowing against a glossy black head and crimson eye.

Then a familiar shape ambles into the shallows. A bull elephant.

‘He’s been hanging around all day,’ says Prince, offering me a refreshing passion fruit spritzer.

Perhaps it’s the same one that woke me at dawn. And I’m really glad he did.

They call it the green season for good reason. After months of dust, dryness, and sometimes drought, when Hwange’s wildlife becomes increasingly reliant on its pumped waterholes, the summer rains transform the landscape into a tapestry: vibrant floodplains, lush grasslands and flourishing woodland, bursting with life in all its forms. 

But as dragonflies glow crimson in the sunlight, yellow butterflies dance above dark mud, carmine bee-eaters dart across stormy skies, and every floodplain seems alive with movement and colour, it feels like an injustice to define this season by one colour alone.

Hwange in summer may be gorgeous and life-giving in its shades of green.

But, it is so much more.