Family Camping Adventure in the Okavango Delta

10 April 2024

“There.” The whisper is urgent. The Land Cruiser stops. “What?” asks Rowan, looking up from his manga comic. “Lion,” says our guide Will Jones, his tone still hushed, pointing into the yellow grass ahead. “Where?” Rowan shouts. “Shhh,” says everyone in the vehicle, in unison.

A large male emerges from the waist-high grass with languid purpose and crosses our path on the sandy track we’ve been bouncing over – he’s no more than 30 feet in front of us. A large open wound is visible on his right flank. We’re silent as he passes. When the cat slinks back into the grass, my nine-year-old turns to me, a wide grin on his face. “Bragging rights,” he says.

I’ve brought Rowan to the Okavango Delta in northwest Botswana to see this – as well as whatever else the bush might offer up. I’ve carefully selected this remote adventure to ensure a unique experience for my city-slicker son, who’s never stepped foot on this continent before. Rather than stay in one of the posh permanent camps that Botswana is famous for, we’ve arrived at Kweene Trails, a mobile, seasonal camp in a secluded corner of the delta on a private concession. The camp can accommodate 10 visitors but hosts only one group at a time, ensuring an exclusive experience. Throughout our stay, we see no sign of other human life. This is highly supervised low safari in action, led by head guide Ace Gabanakitso and Kweene cofounder Botswana native Simon Byr.

“The privilege here is in the space and the personalized experience,” Jones tells me over sundowners under a leadwood tree while a bull elephant makes his way to a nearby seep for an evening drink. The air is clean with the smell of wild sage as two dozen baboons chase over the floodplain. A black-and-white fish eagle alights from the tree above while the orange sun drips toward the hazy horizon. Rowan perches on a large outcrop sipping a normally forbidden Coke. He looks up at the twisting funnel above him. “What’s this chimney thing?” he asks. “That’s a termite mound you’re on,” replies Byron. Rowan jumps up. “You know, I love nature, but this might be a little too much nature for me,” he says.

Later that night, we enjoy a succulent fillet steak cooked over an open fire as Byron points out the Southern Cross in a star-studded sky. When we zip into our fly tents, Rowan sums up his day. “This camp is crazy. This Africa is crazy.”

The next morning, the aroma of coffee fills the predawn air while two helicopters sit in the grass nearby. At first light, we’re racing low over the Okavango. It’s just at the beginning of the wet season; the annual flood hasn’t reached this area yet, but within weeks this golden-green savannah will be threaded with rivers and lakes, rewriting the landscape for several months. From above, we see a troop of giraffes casting improbably long silhouettes. “Look at their neck shadows,” says Rowan over the scratchy helicopter intercom. “Crazy.” Coming upon wildlife in the vehicle is “super-cool”; spotting a herd of elephants from above is “insane.”

Late afternoon, we follow Byron on foot along a game trail, a long rifle slung over his shoulder. The rewards here are more subtle: a fresh leopard print, a porcupine’s quill. A lone ostrich turns its head to watch us pass, then a herd of Cape buffalo, backlit by the late-day sun, turns heel upon detecting us, kicking up dust that shimmers like diamonds in the dying light.

Rowan turns to Byron, “Can I hold your gun?” “Probably not a great idea,” Byron replies. Rowan shakes his head. “I didn’t think so.”

The days fall into an easy pattern of early morning and late afternoon game drives. Chess matches and boules tournaments fill the quiet times when the heat is too intense. Sundowners at a different pristine spot each day announce the evenings.

One morning we’re tracking a leopard. The air is suddenly alive with screeching. “That’s a distress call,” Byron tells us. “The monkeys are alerting everyone that a predator is near.” He turns the Land Cruiser in their direction. Creeping through bush so dense no vehicle was made to traverse, we’re all silent, scanning.

“Leopard,” Jones whispers and points. The spine of the spotted animal is slinking through the long grass. The cat is difficult to detect, but in time we all see him, except Rowan. Disappointed, my son slumps back as the animal vanishes. Byron takes up the challenge. I become distracted by a nearby mother elephant and her calf. “Look at them, Rowie.” “We’re tracking a leopard, Dad. Come on, focus.” I’ve given up hope and Rowan is doing his best to shake the disappointment. Then comes the whisper, “There.” And gliding through dense bush, first one leopard and then a second makes their way. “Yes,” Rowan pumps his fist. “Bragging rights.” He climbs over the seats to high-five Byron.

On our last evening, Rowan is interested to see if we can find the wounded lion again. He’s not far from where we first encountered him, asleep in the shade. We park nearby and sit. The heat of the day loses its edge. The sun begins to sink. The lion wakes, yawns, and eyes us with indifferent interest. An elephant emerges from the nearby trees and glides the way elephants do, moving in what appears to be slow motion, yet covering huge tracts of land quickly. The sun drops and night begins to come on. The lion watches us watching him. In the gloaming, he rises and stretches. “He’s ready to hunt,” Byron whispers. The lion takes a few steps toward us, and I pull Rowan close. It’s almost too dark to see.

The shadow of the cat in the night veers off and strides through the long grass and we track him until blackness and bush become one. “Bragging rights?” I ask my son. “Way past bragging rights, Dad.”

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