Liuwa looms

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It hosts the world’s second largest wildebeest migration, has an astounding array of birdlife and healthy populations of zebra, hyena and various antelope species, and yet only 436 tourists visited last year. What in the world is holding Liuwa Plain National Park back? The answer? Nothing anymore. Follow Dale Morris into this remote jewel on a new self-drive guided safari. A shimmering silver haze, the handiwork of the midday sun, had created a series of oases across the pristine plain across which we were driving. There were a few small wooded hills and the occasional sausage and palm trees, but apart from these scant landmarks, the Liuwa Plain National Park appeared to me to be a completely featureless landscape. Flies buzzed in and out of the open window in search of sweat and sandwiches, while clouds of dust billowed through the cab, causing me to splutter like a coffee machine. I dug around furtively in my left nostril and eventually extracted something resembling a small meteorite. “I saw that,” said Frank Carlisle, my driver and proprietor of Bhejane 4x4 Adventures. “Horrible. But at least you didn’t drop that one on the seat this time.” “Unlike you then,” I retorted with good humour. Anyone who has travelled across Africa’s sandy roads with the windows down will understand that if one does not pick one’s nose regularly, one simply does not breathe. But at the end of the day, a perpetually blocked proboscis, a sweaty back and an entourage of insects are but small prices to pay for a genuine adventure across Zambia’s Liuwa Plain, a remote and virtually inaccessible national park on the great Zambezi floodplain. Many a seasoned traveller has heard about the vast grasslands of the upper Zambezi, a seasonally inundated region where rare birds amass in ridiculous numbers around flower rimmed pans. Stories of huge skies, brooding storms and wildebeest herds stretching from one curved horizon to the next are familiar, but very few of us will actually have been there. And that’s because the roads leading into the park traverse the Barotse floodplain, a difficult place to cross during the dry season – and an impossible place to navigate after the rains (unless you have a boat of course). When not a river, the road (if it can be called that) looks for all the world to have been hit by a tactical air strike – several times. There are sand stretches that could easily swallow a tractor, causeways that simply end in sheer walls, and potholes so immense that when full of water they could no doubt harbour the Loch Ness Monster. To attempt such a feat at the best of times still requires a sturdy 4WD and a qualified driver who possesses a bundle of nerves fashioned from steel. Doing this alone is never recommended – even doing it with two vehicles is seriously daunting if you don’t know the area. Thankfully there are two sanity-saving options: putting your faith in the legendary Robin Pope on one of his newly announced Liuwa safari itineraries, or joining a guided self-drive safari. The latter, which I am taking part in, allows you to team up with other people driving their own (or hired) 4WDs, and follow a professional guide in his vehicle through this natural minefield. You have the thrill of self-drive, but with a burly African guide who will take care of the compass, the flat tyres, the prowling predators and the problematic paperwork. No matter how you travel, this is not a route to be tackled with impatience – it defies time frames and schedules, but also forces you into a sedate and careful pace, which makes the world a safer place for guineafowl, and allows you to meet and greet the locals. And, oh, what friendly folk they are. “Care for a cat fish?” they will say, proffering up giant thick-lipped creatures impaled on their spears. The one I bought looked just like my grandpa – God rest his soul. The Liuwa Plain National Park is a unique place in many respects, for not only is it a fantastic wonderland for wildlife (rubber-lipped fish included), it’s also a culturally splendid place as well. Possibly one of the oldest conservation areas in Africa, the Barotse floodplain was originally declared a royal game reserve in the 19th century by the then king Lubosi Lewanika. He liked nothing more than to chuck spears at animals during the holiday season and also to do a bit of fishing, and in order to protect his hunting grounds from outsiders, he appointed the Lozi people as his gamekeepers. Each and every year, when the Zambezi inundates the lowlands, turning the spaces between the hills into waterways, the royal family have traditionally hopped aboard their big zebra-striped boat and paddled up to higher ground where one can at least walk rather than wade. The Kuomboka, an aptly named ceremony which roughly translates to ‘get out of the water and onto dry land’ is a flashy affair, involving lots of drums and sweaty men with big thrashing oars. Ever since they arrived in the region, the Lozi people have been deeply entwined with the ebb and flow of the great Zambezi River. They didn’t have a choice really – it was sink or swim. And like many Africans throughout the continent, they never attempted to learn how to do the latter. Instead, they became proficient boat builders and oarsmen. Lord only knows how they balance on their tiny canoes. I tried several times and fell off with a splash, finding the whole experience akin to standing on a floating pencil. The Lozi are also master spear fishermen and fish trap builders too, and since they spend half the year moving through a swamp chasing their prey, its not surprising to hear that they eat, on average, five times as many fish as most other African tribes. Unfortunately for me though, they don’t have chips – the ground is too soggy for potatoes. Today, the customs of the past are still very relevant to the Lozi people and the royal family are still very much in charge in the region. They oversee 20,000 people in some 432 villages that utilise the national park, an inundation that has historically had an impact on the local fauna. Although most of the lions are gone, there are still heaps of hyena patrolling the vast open plain, and there are serious numbers of birds such as wattled and crowned cranes. The park also still possesses its pièce de résistance – the second largest wildebeest migration on earth, which originates in Angola and runs through November and December. To subscribe or buy back issues, click here  And thanks to a royal decree and the committed efforts over the past five years of Africa Parks Network (APN), a private organisation which has taken on responsibility for protecting and developing the region, poaching has been drastically reduced, tourism has been actively promoted, and many species are being reintroduced or their populations replenished. Forty-nine eland – a species that has significant meaning to the Lozi – were reintroduced in 2007 and later this year lion and buffalo will be released. It’s a win-win situation for everyone as long as the communities, who are still allowed to live within the park, take responsibility for their wayward poachers, which is what is happening now. Financially, the locals and APN benefit from tourist revenue, as does the government, while the animals get a peaceful sanctuary. And the adventurous travellers are rewarded with a dynamic safari destination. The conservation scheme here is already paying huge dividends, with the numbers of wildebeest participating in the migration increasing from 15,000 in 2002 to over 33,000 in 2007. Wild dog are making a comeback and are expected to be numerous in the near future, and zebra numbers are also on a massive increase. All in all, it looks like the Liuwa Plain National Park will soon be back to what it should be – a seasonally dramatic plain teeming with wildlife. However, that isn’t to say that the park isn’t stunning right now. Wherever we drove, there were wildebeest grunting and mewing around us. Youngsters gambolled whilst their parents chewed the cud and observed our passing with doleful (and somewhat vacant) expressions on their faces. There were literally thousands of them at all compass directions, but so vast was the floodplain their presence didn’t dominate. They merely punctuated the flat open spaces like a sprinkling of pepper on a plate. As we trundled at a sedate pace across the open savannah, we passed flocks of beautiful crowned cranes patrolling the margins of perfectly circular waterholes, their ridiculous hairstyles wavering on the breeze. Pink-backed pelicans floated serenely like bath toys, grebes and ducks drifted here and there, and raptors soared overhead like circling paper kites. There were countless species of birds, many of which are endangered. If I were a serious birder (which I am not, as I don’t like the raincoats you have to wear), I would have undoubtedly been beside myself with excitement. But as it was, the birds were so elegant and beautiful, I found myself involuntarily reaching for the binoculars and bird book. “Ah, there goes a little bee eater. And over there a hammerkop. That must be a malachite kingfisher and ooooh… look, a flock of flamingos.” Tick tick tick went the pen across the pages – I was really getting into it. Frank, ever alert for something more interesting to look at than a heron, suddenly slammed on the breaks, bringing our convoy to a halt. He peered carefully through his binoculars before announcing over the two way radios that he had seen the ultimate Liuwa Plain predator.  “It’s hard to tell through the haze,” he told us. “But I think the hyenas are at home. Let’s go see, shall we.” And with that, we continued off road and in single file across the faceless plain. It was now November, the ‘official’ end to the dry season, and judging by the sombre-looking nimbus clouds heaped upon the horizon, the wet season was well and truly on its away. Thunder throbbed through my chest cavities, buzzed the back of my nose, and filled the air with the scent of impending rain. Cranes and storks cawed and croaked in harmony with Zeus up above, and wildebeest added their own voices to the cacophony with plaintive bleats and mewing sounds. “OK, we’re nearly there,” said Frank, slowing the convoy down to a snail’s pace. And that’s when we saw them – hyenas, Liuwa Plain’s apex predator, amassed and dozing in the shallows of a sparkling little waterhole. Some of them lifted their heads languidly, showing a vague interest at our approach, but the majority continued to snooze, the only signs of life being a twitch of an ear or a flutter of an eyelid due to the pestilent flies. I swatted one of the flies from my forehead and its lifeless body fell, unseen, into the packet of raisins. At the edge of the waterhole was another corpse, but this one was much bigger than the fly Frank had just eaten – really. Hooves were the only evidence that this smelly jumble of tendon and rib had once been a wildebeest.  Vultures had gathered at the table, and whilst the hyenas were resting the ugly looking birds squabbled over sinewy scraps. Judging by their distended bellies, the hyena had all dined heartily. And, according to Frank, their comatose conduct was probably due to the exhaustion of a lengthy hunt. The Liuwa Plain packs are solely hunters, as the small population of lions means that there are few, if any, opportunities for them to supplement their diet by scavenging the kills made by big cats, as is done by most hyenas elsewhere. While hunting, the hyena coalesce into effective clans, sometimes comprising of as many as 25 individuals. We stayed with this group for many hours that day, and as the afternoon sun lessened in intensity, they began to socialise, as they only know how: playing and bickering, and chasing the birds. They wrestled in the mud and snapped at flies before eventually taking an interest in us. Suddenly we were surrounded, and as they approached near, I could see the dribble on their lips and almost smell the evil stench of their breath. “Ok, time to go,” said Frank. “It’s starting to get late.” It was almost nightfall by the time we returned to camp, and after an evening ritual of beer and steaks roasted over a fire, I bade my convoy companions goodnight and retired to my tent to listen to the patter of rain upon the canvas. Lightning flashed and thunder bellowed, but above it all, sometime in the early hours, I heard the sound of those hyenas ‘giggling’. As the night wore on, there were intermittent sniffs at the zipper and a stench of very bad breath – needless to say, I didn’t sleep so well. But when the birds began their chorus and the hyenas had assuredly gone, I emerged from my tented fortress to the sight of cranes and wildebeest. Alas, after five days in the wilderness, the time to leave the Liuwa Plain was upon us. With the approaching rains, to linger would have been a serious folly. So we packed up camp, bid the buffalo and birds a fond farewell and then began the long, long journey home. One day I shall return to Liuwa Plain National Park, and, thanks to the royals and the continued hard work of APN, I know it’s going to be an even better experience than before. Flies, dust, bogeys and all. Dale Morris travelled with Bhejane 4x4 Adventures (www.behjane.com), a self-drive guided safari company.

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