This was how it was supposed to be. A slow pole up the Boro River as the sun rose behind us, bathing the reeds, trees and us in golden light. Fish eagles threw back their heads and greeted the dawn, a honeyguide offered to show us a hive, jacanas padded over lily leaves and herons pondered the shallows for unsuspecting frogs.
We beached – actually we drove up flattened reeds – then strolled through high-tree parkland then mopane woodland. There were soggy places where warthogs had been nose-shovelling, hundreds of aardvark holes, some clearly colonised by warthogs. The grass was nipple-high and of mammals we saw nothing.
‘I came to see animals,’ Torben grumbled.
‘The grass is too high,’ said Peter, ‘wait for Moremi.’
As the heat faded a call went out for a fishing trip with sundowners. But first the guests wanted to learn to pole. Soon they were wobbling across a hippo pool, kept upright by the knowledge that falling in would fascinate lurking crocs. By the time the sun was hovering over the flat horizon we were watching a poler hauling in tilapia one after another while everyone else just got their hooks tangled in reeds. So we fell to watching and quaffing red wine. Finally a huge, anvil-shaped cloud swallowed the sun and we headed back for supper.
