Guest Post by Alistair McGuinness author of Round The Bend

We at Readers' Muse thank the author and the tour organizers for giving us such a wonderful guest post with real pictures! Read on! - Team Readers' Muse.

My first visit to Africa was two decades ago and with the eagerness and budget restraints of youth, I decided to forego many luxuries in a quest to experience “the real Africa.” This is how I managed to find myself on an overland truck with backpackers from across the world, as it headed across east Africa in search of adventure.

On my arrival in the Serengeti National Park, our guide had warned us that lions were active in the area where we would camp that evening. I must have looked shocked, as he singled me out among the new arrivals and called out, “Don’t worry Bwana, you are too skinny for Tanzanian lions. Just stay in your tent all night and they will leave you alone.”

The lions did come. They waited for nightfall and prowled throughout the camp; their primal grunts waking every backpacker as they scavenged amongst the rows of dome tents. By dawn the only evidence of the nocturnal activity was a fresh set of lion paw prints embedded in the moist red earth.

I had only been in Africa for two days and was still in shock. Not by the lions stalking the campsite, but by the friendliness of the people, the big skies, stunning sunsets and chance encounters with wild game during our drives into the bush .

Africa is like that. It is different each day.

Whether you want the creature comforts of safari lodges, with poolside bars and air-conditioned rooms or are after a simple camping expedition on the plains of Africa, the choice is yours. Before leaving the Serengeti I took the decision to experience a dawn safari by hot air balloon. As we floated over the parched savannah, we discovered a herd of elephant following ancient game trails to distant lands in search of water. The magical sight of vast herds of migratory wildebeest on the horizon was a highlight of the short trip and once we had landed, porters were on hand to serve a champagne breakfast.

Years later I returned once more to Africa and found myself in a remote campsite called Ngepi, tucked deep into the heart of the Okavango Delta. It is here that I share my story.

“By late morning we were en route by speedboat to the edge of the delta. Traditional poler guides were waiting to transport us into the heart of the Okavango wilderness on traditional canoes (mokoros). The speedboat could not outrun a churning mass of black clouds, which hit us mid-way through an open lagoon. Lightning crashed into the bush, followed by trumpets of thunder and thick drops of rain that lashed against our small craft.

The storm retracted as we reached our destination, a brick building hidden behind reeds. Nestled neatly on the embankment sat a row of wooden mokoros. Our guide, “BT,” advised us that silence was key to appreciating the experience. With this valuable strategy he pushed off from the banks with a long wooden pole and transported us to paradise.

Papyrus reeds towered over us as we glided through clear waters. At each turn we discovered small lagoons, littered with speckled green lily pads, while the air hissed with dragonflies darting across the millpond. The afternoon was a sensual daze, interrupted by treks onto low-lying islands in search of distant game, which shimmered on the horizon. Open-billed storks churned through mud in search of fresh water mussels, ignoring chatter from white-faced ducks that nested nearby. Before dusk we made camp on a small island, cooking stew on an open fire and constructing a shelter of tarpaulins draped from branches. The sun dripped below the horizon, coating the lingering clouds in a velvety sheen, and our world turned to darkness.

We lay flat on our backs, gazing into the furthest corners of the universe. Orbiting satellites inched their way across the night sky, competing with shooting stars that streaked across the heart of Africa. Our guides called us back to the fire and served hot tea. One traveller suggested we sing traditional songs. Kiwis gave a passionate display of the “Haka,” followed by a belting rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” by the Australians. The British contingent managed a half-hearted attempt at “Old McDonald’s Farm.”

Our river guides disappeared into the bush, emerging to re-enact an ancient elephant hunt. One guide had tied a thorny branch into his short hair and crept behind the dwindling fire. His soft voice echoed across the embers as he mimicked a male elephant searching for food. A hunter emerged from the darkness armed with a spear, his lean features contorted by the snatching light of the flames. He crept towards the feasting elephant, stabbing at shadows. The elephant collapsed and the hunter danced in celebration, his arms thrust towards the stars, chanting for the spirit of the great beast to be released.

A dawn start was required to get back to Ngepi campsite. The rising sun carpeted the delta in a kaleidoscope of pink as we stood on the edge of the island. Our guides paddled into view, their dark silhouettes in stark contrast to the blaze of vibrant colour bursting across the waking horizon. No one wanted to leave, but we had to and by noon we bid farewell to our guides. We all agreed on one thing: one night in Okavango was not enough.”