Mud, mud, glorious mud

Photo of the week: Hippo mania

Highlight of the week: We receive a warm welcome from our colleagues and friends at Kakumbi Rural Health Centre.

Lowlight of the week: Our Sunday afternoon peace is shattered by an emergency call. South Luangwa is not a holiday for us, despite rumours to the contrary.

Maximum temperature: 29 degrees Celsius

Rainfall: Nil

Choose your metaphor. Your name is mud. Sling mud. Mud sticks. Never a compliment. Humans seem to have an aversion to mud.

I’m watching a male bushbuck rubbing his horns in mud. Cooling. Therapeutic. Even allegedly borderline erotic. No sign of negativity here in the broader natural world. Mud is the word. Flanders and Swann echo this. There’s nothing quite like it….

But the consistency of mud is key. Too wet and mud becomes simple, dirty water. Too dry, and it loses its animal appeal. Unable to cool, or to trap parasites. Too dry, and it becomes a potential death trap for unwary buffalo. And then it dries further, to become solid unyielding earth.

2025 is breaking all sorts of records. But not the sort we crave. The hottest, the coldest, the wettest, the driest….. none of them remotely desirable. It starts as early as spring. The warmest spring on record. Followed quickly by the hottest June on record. Oh, and it’s already the driest start to the year for the past 100 years. But what effect does this have on us?

In England we are rather good at whining. Previously, wine has not been our forte. Yet 2025 will be a bumper year for the vineyards. A vintage year perhaps? Still, most farmers are now worried about their livestock and crops. Food prices are likely to reflect this. We are not allowed to water our gardens. Or to wash our cars with hoses. The UK weather is sadly grabbing the wrong headlines. Global warming constantly occupies our thoughts. And whilst the grapes flourish, we all gripe about the heat. Whine about wine weather.  And even consider getting air conditioning. But our weather, in all probability, will soon turn on its head. Become cool and over-wet again. All this doom mongering may be forgotten. We may even look back on this year with fond memories. À la 1976. The year of the drought.

We jump 10,500 km south. To the heart of Africa. Zambia. A country being severely affected by climate change. Here, we are in the second year of drought. But the rainfall patterns are not linear. It seems to be all or nothing! Some parts of the country actually had good rains this year. The rains started well in our Valley. At the expected time. November and December. The ground soaked up the moisture. The farmers planted their crops. Even rice was sown. And then the rain stopped. For 4 weeks - nothing. Dry cracked earth. Crops ruined. Yet all was not lost. There was a second bite at the cherry. More rain came. Planting resumed. But the hard ground needed hand drilling. Less seed in. Lower crop yields. The rice harvested in June was half the usual. Pretty impressive from the paltry land planted. 598 mm of rain graced South Luangwa. Not far from our average rainfall. Just at the wrong times and in the wrong places.

But our current problem really lies in a different place. The Luangwa river is filled by the hills and mountains to our north. An area still in drought. The water levels rose a little during the rains. And then quickly fell. All the water in the park comes from rivers. Direct rainfall makes no impression. Standing water is hard to come by. Lagoons are drying out way too fast. Our own lagoon by Kapani can no longer even be called a dambo. Dambos are seasonally waterlogged wetlands. Our wetland is rapidly drying. Now should be a time of plenty. Winter of a sort. But summer is coming. Temperatures are rising. No rain is expected for months. What could possibly go wrong?

South Luangwa is home to more hippos than any other river valley in the world. They lounge around in the water in family groups. Cooling off during the day with mud baths. They muddle along together. Fights break out as males try to sneak into the group. On the lookout for unsuspecting females. Babies and juveniles wallow around blithely unaware of the testosterone driven tensions. At night, the hippos leave the confines of the river. In search of food. Often walking huge distances to find some ungrazed Eden. At daybreak, the river level seems to rise as cartesian forces displace thousands of tonnes of water. A day of sloth might usually beckon. But as the water levels recede, the hippos are forced into ever smaller pools. Squeezed together all day long. Superficially like piles of boulders, until they move. Water no longer visible between them. Pods of up to one thousand in some regions. No longer are their conversations good natured, cheerful banter and laughter. The noise levels increase exponentially. Hormones too closely packed. Fight club without rules.

This year, the hippos will suffer. The parched land is providing little fodder. Their catering is woefully inadequate. Their daytime digs are scandalously overcrowded. Their leaders are constantly bad tempered. Battles between hippos have more losers than winners. The losers are cast out from the pods and the river. The losers have no pools, no home, no future. They dig deeper into dry mud. Kicking up dust. The dust deadly. Holding anthrax spores for digestion and inhalation. Losers die and share their loss with the greater community.

Anthrax in many minds, equates with biological warfare. Anthrax was a worthy candidate to investigate during the war. Desperate times. Desperate measures. In 1941 Gruinard Island in Scotland, was used as a testing station for potential germ warfare by our Porton Down boffins. In the end, anthrax proved unsuitable. There would have been too much collateral damage. Forty five years later, in 1986, 280 tons of formaldehyde and 2000 tons of seawater were launched at Gruinard. Yet the island is still off limits.

Anthrax spores sit dormant in the soil. Awaiting their next victim. Most deadly if inhaled. But still toxic via gut or skin. Hippos inhale or ingest the pathogens. Desperate for nutrition they crop what remains of vegetation way too low. Imagine a mis-set lawnmower gouging into your lawn. And removing the roots and topsoil to boot. Hungry hippos going too far. The dry earth releases spores. Only too easy to breathe in, as the portly creatures pant and grunt through the bush at night.

Anthrax has an attitude. These bad bugs aren’t fussy. They don’t discriminate. They will get up any snout, or into any gut, big or small. They are only too happy to exist. And to thrive. In fact anthrax is so happy to exist, that it is considered to be one the hardest bugs to kill. With immune defences or with antibiotics. Given a choice between the plague and anthrax, I would take the plague any day of the week.

Unsuspecting hippo number one, becomes the index case. And then in short order he becomes the first corpse. Ruthless and rapid. And then the serious business starts. That carcass becomes a new opportunity for the bugs. Not just a reservoir. But a node. A superspreading opportunity. Unsuspecting scavengers chew up the carcass, and before long they become carcasses themselves! Most predators will not turn down an apparently free lunch. They trudge around for a while and they then lose their mortal coil. A new free lunch deposits itself elsewhere. And as if by magic you find the carnivore gene pool empties rapidly. Lion are quite partial to hippo meat. As are hyena. But at least hyena have the most noxious stomach juices in the animal kingdom. Giving them a fighting chance against the master bugs.

Worse still is that hungry villagers may find it hard to resist the opportunity of some free bush meat. The dominos keep falling.

As water abates everywhere, the remainder is in ever greater demand. As a rule the dry season is the best time to visit a safari destination. There is little need to search for animals. If you can find water: sit tight and wait. The zoo will come to you. Replace our expected cool summer with a drought: and Hey Presto, South Luangwa comes up thick and fast with magical safari moments.

Let’s rewind to last week. We witness a feast for the eyes. We are working at Tafika camp. Way up north. It’s been a long day. Up at 5 to start work at 6. We see more than 30 people in the day. By 15:30 we are whacked. An executive decision is taken to send us out on a game drive. All work and no play and all that I guess. We are certainly game. We hop on to the back of an open game viewing vehicle with Jill. Jill desperately wants to see lion. Game on. Our guide Mukupa takes us on a journey of discovery. Teasing us with the possibilities. He talks about the roaring lions, that we all heard the night before. Distant contact calls. We inspect carnivore tracks. Hyena this time. Mukupa stops the engine at intervals. We listen. Inviting the larger community to use their eyes to spot predators. Baboons choose to stay quiet for once. Mukupa even invites us to challenge our sense of smell. But tonight there are no rotting carcasses nor fetid-mouthed hyena to lead the way.

The lions elude us for 2 hours. We park up on the expansive banks of the Luangwa as the sun threatens to set. A huge croc slides off into the shallow murk. Looking to lurk in the murk. Playing the long game. Off to hunt – perhaps with lions on his mind. Jimmy, our spotter, hands out the G&Ts. We are all transfixed by a crimson setting sun competing for canvas space with a storm front. Of course the storm fails to offer any real precipitation. And either the gin, or the stunning sunset, casts a calming spell on us. We all forget about the lion hunt. For a few moments. But the croc hasn’t forgotten….

We drain the last of our mopane gins. Sway back into the Landcruiser. And switch back into hunting mode. The yang of the sun is replaced by the yin of the full moon. Light becomes dark. Yet we can still just about make out the landscape and the features of the creatures.

The full moon doesn’t bode well for predators. They are more likely to fill their bellies on a moonless night. A lone lion roars. Bemoaning this poor fortune. Calling for contact with distant relatives and warning off potential foes. She seems far off, but our searchlight quickly finds the summoned relatives. They prowl on the far bank of the Luangwa. Three mature females and a juvenile male. Seeking the safest place to cross. We share their anxieties. The dark waters are jewelled with crocodile eyes. Our search light makes them glitter. Our monster croc lies barely 20 yards from us. Two eyes amongst dozens.

Four pairs of cats’ eyes line the opposite bank. Four pairs of front paws teeter at the edge of a crocodile infested waterway. We question their sanity. And then we realise that instinct alone is making them consider this suicidal crossing. The distant contact call from minutes earlier now issues again, just below me and to my left. It could easily have been Keith whispering sweet nothings in my ear. It was that close. But this contact call is subtle. Muted. The lioness close enough for me to stroke. She stares across at the spellbound pride-mates. And blackmails them into crossing.

The 4 mesmerised felines vex. Resistance to the summons is futile, yet they seek a safer route to cross. Upstream might work, but it is wider. Downstream the water narrows but there it seems deeper. The river slap bang next to our vehicle seems to have the highest density of crocodile eyes. A traction beam seems illogically to bring the lions back to this point. The soft alpha female call now more insistent. By hook or by crook they must cross this writhing crocodile pit of a river. Sensing the impending crossing a pod of hippos volunteer their support. They mock charge the crocs and force them to part, just enough for the adventurous cats to break their inertia. They pad carefully through the shallows. A sand bank offers a temporary safe haven. Jill suggests that we drive away to avoid us witnessing their massacre. She feels that the odds of a safe crossing are too poor.

Yet we stay. Unwilling to miss the potential demise of our intrepid foursome. Willing them to run the gauntlet. Nobody backs the crocs. Another night without food is immaterial to creatures who have survived since the Late Triassic period. The lions need our support. We cheer each mini victory. The lead lioness strikes forth and lashes out at crocs that threaten to bar her progress. Her huge paws unguarded. Water gashed apart by unsheathed claws. Crocs dodge their lethal arcs. The deeper narrow channel is crossed with a couple of bounds. She has no need to swim. She reaches our bank and turns to lash an underwater adversary. The croc retreats hastily.

The more cautious 3 decide that there are too many crocs directly to their front. They commit to deep water downstream. Swimming frantically toward a fallen tree. The tree offers respite for 2 of the stranglers. But the new lead lion swims strongly, straight past the incoming assailants. Out pointing claws defend her swimming lane. We cheer again as the second lioness finds terra firma on the broad beach beneath us.

Two panting lions find themselves running out of options. Crocs surround them. The juvenile male seems to be destined to be carved up by endless teeth. Deep water means that swimming is their only recourse. After an age, they change their positions on the precarious branch. This pair demonstrate a synchronised launch that impresses us as judges. 10 out of 10 for synchronisation. Zero for style. Yet the only score that counts is execution. Nobody is executed today. Crocodiles snap. But not a bite to be had. The crocs are denied access to the younger lion by a tight formation, and a perfect exit. We breathe again. We cheer again.

Four lions safely across pay homage to their boss. Mum feigns distain. Chiding the four for such a foolhardy crossing. But her relief is palpable. The 4 exhausted, yet exultant travellers, dance together briefly. They then slip into default lion mode. Recumbent and prostrate. Drying slowly on the parched dambo (flood plain). This whole drama is now indelibly etched on our retinas. Accompanied by David Attenborough’s voiceover. A virtual tour de force. The lack of infrared cinematography inconsequential.

Our planet spirals hopelessly off axis. Climate is denied a presidential time slot. Yet the natural world adapts and reels. Drought will affect those least able to cope. We continue to bear witness. To describe with the hope that ears will hear and eyes will see. Perchance to respond.

Web cam photo of the week: Baboon bravado.

Evening game drive with Jill. Sunset over the Luangwa

Ground hornbill .... up a tree

Lucy hiding from the baboons. Well camouflaged.