After a string of plane rides and a few too many ginger ales (to settle my stomach as much as my thirst), I step onto the almost melting tarmac in Maun, Botswana. There, in the Wilderness lounge, a converted 1982 Land Rover now moonlights as a bar — a symbol of how this conservation-driven safari brand reimagines its past to serve its purpose. That first vehicle once ferried early travellers into the Delta and Big Five territory; now, it pours local Okavango gin for newcomers like me, about to trace those same floodplains.
Botswana has quietly become Africa’s most forward-thinking safari destination — an antidote to the high-traffic parks of Kenya and Tanzania, where a single leopard sighting can attract 20 vehicles at once. Here, low-impact tourism is more than policy; it’s an ingrained philosophy. Wilderness operates just 17 camps across 2.3 million hectares of unfenced, unspoiled terrain, their model designed to sustain both wildlife and livelihoods. For every pula earned by shareholders, Botswana’s government receives five times as much, and 96% of Wilderness staff are citizens of the country. This is safari tourism as stewardship, not spectacle.
My week unfolds across three wildly different worlds —Chitabe’s predator-rich plains, Tubu Tree’s elevated floodplain forest, and Mokete’s raw, sun-baked frontier — each one a new vantage point on the Delta’s shifting moods.
Chitabe, Chitabe Concession
Following a 15-minute flight from Maun in a private Wilderness Air plane, we’re touching down on a landing strip shared only with zebras and giraffes. The Botswana heat is already unforgiving, prompting our guide Vasco to hand me a kikoy — a strip of East African cloth soaked in icy water and knotted around my neck. This form of “portable air-conditioning” would be my lifeline in the sweltering days to come.
On the edge of the Moremi Game Reserve, Chitabe sits within a private 28,000-hectare concession where the Okavango’s marshland blurs into Kalahari sand. The recently rebuilt camp overlooks a remnant lagoon — a mirror that attracts everything from elephants to the elusive painted dog. To reach camp, we’re thrust straight into an afternoon game drive, allowing for my first glimpse of the vastness I’d only ever seen in documentaries.
Within minutes, the Delta begins to teach me its language. Vasco plucks a sprig of sage from the roadside, crushing it between his palms. “Bushmen once rubbed themselves with this before hunting,” he explains, “to mask their scent — the same way wild dogs and other predators still roll in the bushes today.” We pass a red-billed hornbill fluttering from branch to branch — its yellow cousin nicknamed the “flying banana” by rangers, the red one the “flying chili.” A giraffe stretches elegantly for an acacia branch, which apparently tastes like chocolate. Overhead, sparrow-weavers have built their wind-savvy nests all facing west, a natural compass used by guides and trackers. The hoofprints of zebra crisscross the sandy road, joined by those of kudu, impala, and the quick-footed tsessebe (if your horse can outrun the “Ferrari of the safari”, you’d do well to enter it into the local derby). Baboons forage nearby, often in easy partnership with impala — the primates alerting the herd to predators from the treetops while the antelope’s sharp ears act as their ground-level alarm.
We pause for lunch under the wide branches of an African ebony tree, grazing on goat’s cheese crackers, homemade lemonade, and slices of cheesecake. A slender mongoose pops its head from a termite mound nearby in the hopes of catching some crumbs. By late afternoon, the light grows syrupy, and we follow a trail of sandgrouse to a shallow pan where elephants have recently drunk. “They always lead you to water,” Vasco says, nodding toward the fading footprints. A pair of male kudu stand back-to-back like mirror images, their spiral horns catching the amber light. Nearby, a steinbok — the smallest antelope in Africa — bounds through the grass, its mate never far behind (they pair for life).
As the sun sinks, a small herd of zebra silhouettes itself against the light, and the air takes on that faint metallic scent that precedes rain. In a few weeks, this arid landscape will turn green again, providing shade and water for newborn animals and their mothers. We drive back to camp as the air cools and the sky widens. During dinner, a hopeful hyena prowls beneath the deck — its bark ricocheting through the darkness for miles on end.
The next morning, pre-dawn honey-drizzled pancakes await before we rattle off into the pink light. A jackal’s cry leads us to a male and female leopard, both with bloodied faces after competing for an early kill. We follow as he drags his prize (likely stolen from the female) toward cover, only to be ambushed by two lionesses who claim the carcass for themselves.
Later, by the pool, coconut ice cream melts faster than I can eat it. The midday heat turns the rim of my drink can to metal too hot for lips. I retreat to my tented suite, past a handwoven basket bag and a water-saving laundry note that sparing 10 towel washes could mean drinking water for a local family for 60 days, and over six months’ worth for a cheetah. As if to hammer home the message, a herd of hot and parched elephants pootles right past my deck, also in search of shade and something cool to drink.
That night, a sharp crack wakes me like a gunshot in the dark. A heavy rustle and muffled chewing follow. When I pull back the canvas flap, I’m face to trunk with an elephant not-so-quietly demolishing the tree beside my deck. I quickly learn that the bush has no concept of ‘do not disturb.’
Tubu Tree, Jao Concession
A flurry of ostriches greets us as we land on Hunda Island, their feathered skirts catching the wind as they sprint across the plain. The air feels different here: greener, heavier with moisture. Tubu, I learn, means “dust” in the local language, but it’s a misnomer this season. The island feels alive with water, fringed by papyrus and palm.
The camp itself rises organically from the trees, a labyrinth of wooden walkways winding through wild fig branches and ebony trunks. Gnarled limbs twist through the main deck as though nature refused to step aside for architecture, and Wilderness wisely obliged. The living room shelves groan under the weight of wildlife handbooks and board games worn soft by years of travellers.
My tented suite, swathed entirely in canvas, feels airier and more open to the elements than Chitabe’s polished villa set-up. Earthy textures and reed mats offset by pops of terracotta and soft pink, and a dark stone bathtub practically crying out for a cool soak. My host warns that baboons have learned to slide the deck doors open, hence the special lock. It’s both charming and faintly alarming.
By late afternoon, the Delta beckons. We board a fibreglass mokoro, a lighter, more sustainable vessel than the traditional wooden canoes, which require cutting down trees that eventually rot. Paddling feels like cutting through glass. Water lilies bloom in their thousands, their delicate white faces opening toward the sinking sun. Our guide points out the tiny Angolan reed frog clinging to a stalk, “the best singer in the Delta,” he says. As we glide farther down the channel, hippos grunt from a lagoon just 400 metres away, their deep-bellied calls echoing across the water.
White egrets wade in the shallows, water lettuce drifts lazily by. As dusk falls, we’re met on the riverbank with Okavango gin and tonics, dried mango, and apricots waiting on the hood of the Land Rover. On the drive back, a mother elephant trumpets, mock-charging the car before melting into the dark. Back at camp, the night hums with frogs and fire crackles from the braai, where we eat grilled meats and maize bread under a lattice of stars, accompanied by the spirited voices of the staff choir.
At dawn, the air is crisp enough for ginger and honey tea to steam in my hands. A small herd of kudu emerges from the trees, their spiral horns catching the first light. A lone buffalo stands nearby that’s too old to keep up with the rest of the herd, but still strong enough to hold his ground. Our guide Gora stops to pick a handful of reeds and demonstrates how they’re woven into the skirts the local women wear for traditional dances, or used to thatch roofs for village homes. Beneath the palms, swollen trunks store water for the dry months ahead; in drought, elephants push them down to rehydrate on the go.
We follow a trail of tracks: hyena prints in the dust, then the faint drag marks of a lion’s tail. Gora pauses often, switching off the engine to listen for alarm calls. Somewhere in the thicket, a giant eagle owl hoots, deep and resonant. Overhead, a short-tailed eagle circles, hovering above the bush where scavengers often find their meals by following such cues. Breakfast is served from the hood of the car again: coffee, rusks, and the kind of eggs that taste better simply because they’re eaten outdoors.
By mid-morning, we find a “journey” of giraffes — a dozen of them ambling in single file through the long grass. The heat of the day drives me back to the pool. I set an alarm for a nap but wake instead to the braying of a zebra somewhere just beyond the deck. Giving up on resting my eyes, I seek out Kebo, the woman behind the baskets and woven placemats I’d admired in the camp boutique. She arrives carrying a coil of half-finished work, the reeds still damp and fragrant from the floodplain. To make one basket, she tells me, she must first walk miles to gather specific leaves, then boil and dye them with pigments from bark, roots, and berries — the soft ochres, browns, and greens mirroring the colours of the Delta itself. The process takes days; the result is light, strong, and endlessly intricate. Each piece in the shop is labelled with its maker’s name, and every pula earned goes directly back to them.
With high tea on the deck underway, Gora delves into the Delta’s origins. “All this water,” he gestures over a sun-stained map, “comes from the Angolan Highlands — travelling a thousand kilometres before it reaches here.” He explains how fallen leaves from overhanging trees stain the channels dark brown, something I’ll confirm later when my white bikini picks up its own sepia souvenir. (It was rescued, thankfully, by Tubu Tree’s same-day laundry service — a minor miracle in the bush.)
For our final evening at Tubu, we drive along a dry riverbed to a makeshift bar the staff have built beside the channel. Crocodiles slide noiselessly in the shadows just behind us; but we persist, because cocktails with crocodiles sure is something to write home about.
Mokete, Mababe Depression
The final leg of my journey is by helicopter — 50 minutes that feel like flying through an atlas of ecosystems. From above, I see the water channels carved by elephants, the low curve of the Mababe Depression, and the sinuous scars of hippo trails. Then the land turns ochre, the trees sparse and burnt, as if struck by lightning. This is Mababe: 50,000 hectares of raw, little-visited wilderness where Mokete stands alone.
Soon to be on full display during upcoming game drives, “mokete means feast,” Vasco tells me on arrival, handing around glasses of passion fruit lemonade. The camp runs entirely on solar power, and its roofs retract so you can sleep under the stars. Each tented suite has its own private plunge pool overlooking the open plain, often visited by elephants in the heat of the day. Inside, the rooms are pared-back yet tactile — ropes used as trim and handles, heavy canvas walls breathing softly in the wind. At turndown, my bed is cocooned in linen curtains, the air-conditioning unit positioned above it to create a pocket of cool air that collects under the canopy. It’s like sleeping inside a cloud, an engineered chill against the sky-high Mababe temperatures.
Within minutes of our first game drive, we spot two cheetahs drinking from a waterhole — likely a brother and sister who are attempting to outrun the rampant lion prides in this region. Not far beyond, a pack of wild dogs rolls joyfully in the sand, bellies round from a recent kill. It’s especially rare to sight these predators in lion territory. Moments later, we find one — the male they call Blondie — yawning his way into the sunset.
The next morning is nothing short of cinematic. We catch the Mokete pride — five lionesses and six cubs — stalking a buffalo herd. The buffalo form a defensive arrow, their dark eyes locked on the cats. Then, chaos. The lionesses break rank, isolate a calf, and within minutes the air is thick with dust and sound. It takes 45 minutes for the young buffalo to fall still, the lionesses’ cubs waiting patiently for their share. Nature’s feast isn’t always easy to watch.
At the camp’s sunken hide, I sit eye-level with elephants drinking — trunks curling like question marks with each long sip. After lunch beneath an acacia, zebras drift by, their stripes flickering through the grass like shuttered light. Even the air feels electric here; storms brew somewhere beyond the darkening horizon, and flocks of red-billed queleas — which have been absent here for some 20 years — fill the sky in a living spiral. The arrival of these tiny birds often signals that change is afoot; perhaps it’s the coming, much longed for, rain.
That afternoon, we drive to Vasco’s home village of Mababe, where modern brick houses stand alongside traditional grass-thatched huts. We visit one of the village elders, Idea Newa — a leatherworker, woodcarver, and herbalist — who tells stories of how the Bushmen once read the sky and the soil to survive here long before tourism arrived. He dresses me in a hunter’s skirt and handmade jewellery before demonstrating how to start a fire with nothing but friction drill sticks and breath. It’s part of Wilderness’s ongoing Impact initiative, inviting guests to meet the community custodians who manage this land alongside them. Soon, visitors will be able to join the Bushmen for herbal foraging walks, learning which roots heal, which leaves stain, which barks nourish.
On the drive back, we pass a lone hyena sprawled in the dust, waiting for the rain that will soften the discarded bones she’ll later crush between her jaws. Lunch is set up beneath a broad tree — artichoke salad and short-rib pasta — with zebras mowing the grass on the horizon.
That night, back at camp, the staff gather to sing around the fire, their harmonies rising into the open night. Glasses of Painted Wolf wine are sipped slowly — named for the wild dogs — and I promptly fall asleep with the roof open, the stars pouring in like water.
But later, the wind shifts. It begins as a whisper through the reeds, then builds to a steady roar, shaking the canvas walls and snapping at the awnings. The Delta’s tranquillity gives way to fury — gusts so strong they whip sand against the tent like rain. I lie awake watching the linen curtains billow and twist in the starlight, the roof partially retracted so I can still see the constellations flickering between the clouds. By morning, calm returns as if nothing had happened, the only trace of the storm a cool breeze moving gently through the ropes and canvas.
When dawn finally breaks, Blondie reappears, leading the Mokete lionesses to their newborn cubs. The mothers nuzzle the mewling bundles, their older cousins tumbling close by, keen to be introduced. It’s a tender, fleeting moment — one that reminds me that survival here isn’t just about endurance, but renewal.
Getting there
All three camps are reached via Wilderness Air, the company’s private bush airline that connects Botswana’s remote concessions with Maun and Kasane. From Maun, guests typically fly first into Chitabe or Tubu Tree on light aircraft that double as scenic flights over the Okavango Delta’s floodplains. Travel between camps is by charter hop or, in Mokete’s case, a spectacular helicopter transfer.
Wilderness rates are fully inclusive of all meals, beverages, and two guided game drives each day, as well as same-day laundry; transport between camps comes at an additional cost.
What to pack
Pack light, but thoughtfully. The small Wilderness Air bush planes have strict weight limits (20kg in soft-sided luggage only), and you’ll need less than you think. Days begin cool and end in heat, so think layers: neutral cotton or linen shirts, a light fleece or windbreaker, and a wide-brimmed hat or cap for the midday sun. Sunglasses, sunscreen, and insect repellent are essentials, as are closed-toe shoes for bush walks and slip-ons for camp.
For game drives, muted colours — khaki, olive, beige — help you blend with the landscape. Avoid white (it glares) and bright hues that attract insects. A swimsuit is a must for the plunge pools and midday heat; a scarf or kikoy doubles as shade cover or a cool wrap. Bring a camera with extra batteries or memory cards, and do some research into the best lenses for wildlife.
A small daypack, refillable water bottle, binoculars, and a torch or headlamp will serve you well. And if you forget something, don’t worry — Wilderness’s guides have a knack for improvisation and a fully stocked first-aid kit hidden somewhere between the spare tire and the sundowner cooler.
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