The rumble, an almost imperceptible bassline accompanying the orchestra of nature’s many voices, starts slowly at first. Then, as the small, dark shapes appear on the horizon, the crescendo begins. The dots metamorphose into larger, definite forms as the leaders of the herd become visible to the naked eye. Minutes later, the deafening sound of four million hooves colliding with the ground is all that can be heard. The wildebeest dominate the landscape, occupying every patch of the parched ground. The Serengeti? Masai Mara? No. This is Botswana, but the year is 1900.

A century ago, this was the largest herbivore migration in Africa – up to a million wildebeest and zebra journeyed from the central Kalahari, some travelling to the Makgadikgadi Pans, others venturing even further to Hwange in Zimbabwe. Since then, a succession of droughts has slashed the numbers taking part. This reduction has only been compounded by hunting (19,000 wildebeest skins were sold in the nearby town of Nata in 1959 alone) and the introduction of permanent water in Hwange. Despite this, there were still 60,000 wildebeest and up to 50,000 zebra migrating from the west side of the Makgadikgadi Pans National Park to the salt pans east of the park in 1960. Thirty years later, the drying up of the Boteti River dealt another blow to the population, particularly the wildebeest, but the stubborn descendants of those huge herds have survived against the odds. Today, around 20,000 zebra and 5000 wildebeest still make the trek eastwards to the succulent grasses that sprout on the pans with the onset of the rains. In the rainy season, this spectacle is best witnessed on the salt pans themselves, although limited access means staying at one of the attractive camps (Jack’s Camp, Camp Kalahari or San Camp, which is opening in 2010) may be a more alluring prospect than constantly digging your 4WD out of the mud. The dry season offers more flexibility: camping or lodge accommodation based close to the little-known Khumaga.

If the Okavango Delta, with its unique habitat and unparalleled wildlife viewing, is Botswana’s jewel in the crown, then Khumaga is like an expensive ruby kept in a safe away from prying eyes. Most visitors to Botswana flock to the delta and to Chobe, with maybe a fraction venturing to the Makgadikgadi to experience the largest salt pans in the world. Yet, during the dry season, 100km west of the pans at Khumaga, thousands of zebra and wildebeest eke out an existence, relying solely on water holes pumped along the dry Boteti riverbed. It may sound artificial to the purist, but human population growth and geological changes have made this intervention the only viable course of action if the remnants of last century’s great herds are to survive.

When the Boteti stopped flowing, the conflict between humans and wildlife escalated, putting significant pressure on both predators and prey in the area. One of the most significant problems was the competition for grazing that the farmers’ cattle provoked. Combined with the scarcity of water, this pushed the zebra to new feats of endurance: going without water for seven days; and foraging up to 35km away from their water source – further than anywhere else recorded in Africa.

The government response to the conflict was bold but contentious. In 2004, just as the trend for dismantling fences to create larger transfrontier parks was at its peak, they erected a fence on the western side of the Makgadikgadi Pans National Park. The aims were threefold: to protect the cattle from the lions (and by extension, protect the lions from farmers); to support the zebra and wildebeest by reducing grazing competition; and, as a bonus, separating livestock from wildlife would limit the spread of disease (especially foot and mouth), thereby helping to support beef exports. The strategy seemed flawless.

“Well, it’s not quite that simple,” says Chris Brooks with a friendly grin. Sitting in his air-conditioned office in Maun, Botswana, he and I watch another Cessna taxiing to the runway of the bustling airport, transporting tourists north to one of the safari camps in the Okavango Delta. Having completed his PhD on the zebra in the Makgadikgadi Pans just before the fence was built, Chris is the undisputed resident expert, combining a jocular nature with an unbridled passion for his striped subjects. “The thing is,” he continues, “the zebra used to graze in the area that now sits west of the fence, so it has restricted their foraging ability. Consequently, the area around the few permanent waterholes quickly became overgrazed.”

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Chris recommended new waterholes to be built along the riverbed to reduce the distance from food to water, and these are now up and pumping. It’s four years since the construction of the west side of the fence (the eastern side is still yet to be built, due to funding issues), and Chris is now supervising another researcher, James Bradley, who hopes to provide some interesting comparisons into behavioural patterns before and after the fence. As should be expected, Chris is wary of drawing hasty conclusions before the data comes in. However, I’m keen to know what a visit to Khumaga ‘with a fence’ has to offer, so I decide to go see for myself.

Discreet it is not, but the need for the fence became abundantly clear as soon as I entered the Makgadikgadi Pans National Park. The fence (and barely a few metres of dry riverbed) is the only thing separating the village from the wildlife inside, and given the number of cattle, it seems amazing that the two managed to coexist at all without a man-made barrier. Despite its controversial inception, the success of the project seems indisputable – cattle mortality has been drastically cut, while the zebra have benefited from the diminished competition for food. However, nature is not always predictable, and at least one unanticipated impact of the metal boundary is hard to ignore: like motorway markers, carcasses line the fence at intermittent intervals, their glistening skeletons a testament to the efficiency of the park’s scavengers. The lions have learned quickly that chasing their prey into the fence is an easy meal ticket. This is perhaps compounded by the relative proximity of the fence to the waterholes in the riverbed. For the tourist, on the other hand, the lack of water makes for a spectacularly rich environment in terms of wildlife. An entire ecosystem is crammed into a splinter-thin valley, with zebra and wildebeest constantly queuing at the top of riverine cliffs, waiting their turn to descend to quench their thirst.

The scenery is dramatic – forbidding cliffs flank the sandy valley floor, boulders interspersed with the odd acacia, the only cover for the herds as they make their way down the steep slopes. I arrive late in the afternoon, my route above the riverbed constantly interrupted by thirsty zebra crossing the road in eager anticipation of a drink. Somewhat bizarrely, it reminds me of my old life in the city, where at five o’clock on a Friday night Londoners made a beeline for the pub, eager for that first beer. Grateful to be in Botswana rather than England, I make my way to the formal entry gate, which is actually inside the park (a new gate on the park boundary is being constructed). The wildlife scout tells me rhino have been spotted in the woodland south of the gate, so I retrace my steps, keen for a glimpse of something special. There are three rhino currently in the park, with the possibility of another being translocated in the near future. Soon the deep sandy track becomes so engulfed by nature that it is as if I am making my own road, ‘bush-bashing’ in true wilderness style. Elephant evidence abounds in the form of broken trees and dung, and sure enough, I spot a few lone bulls munching away to their hearts’ content. The rhino – the proverbial needle in a haystack – prove elusive, and I eventually return to the campsite where I’m based. It’s there that I find out how tantalisingly close I actually came to the rhino; the bush is simply that thick in areas that you’d almost have to trip over them to see them.

At 3am I awake to the calls of lions echoing around the valley, and spend much of the night’s remaining hours praying they would linger long enough for a decent sighting. Setting out before sunrise, I see the trees crammed full of sleeping vultures – there is clearly a large enough supply of carcasses to nourish a sizeable population. Less forbidding are the flocks of helmeted guineafowl on the riverbed floor, sifting through the sand  in search of food. Suddenly, with a mammoth slab of meat clenched in its jaws, a jackal emerges from the bush, sprinting furtively across the road. I hope he might be the most audacious jackal to have set foot in the Kalahari. Sadly, the more probable explanation will be that the lions have already retreated to the shade, leaving their kill for the scavengers. The probability of my spotting the felines is tumbling rapidly but, ever optimistic, I retrace the jackal’s footsteps up over the ridge. Before long, I spy a rapacious mob of lappet-faced and white-backed vultures squabbling over a half-eaten zebra. A couple more jackals arrive to contest the kill, and undoubtedly the deceased will soon just be another one of the many skeletons littering the valley.

But Khumaga is not just about those animals involved in the life cycles of zebra and wildebeest. Further up the riverbed, the aptly-named hippo pools is home to a small pod that allegedly were stranded here when the Boteti River dried up. They seem content enough, though, and the pools provide an ideal opportunity to get up close and personal with them. If hanging out with semi-aquatic two-tonne masses of flesh and blubber sufficiently tires you out, you can always continue following the fence north, where you’ll eventually find Meno-a-Kwena, a delightful, relaxed camp set on a stunning precipice. Alternatively, closer to the main gate lies Leroo-le-tau (the only other camp in the area), which has an equally dramatic vista. Both camps use pumps to fill their own waterholes, which provide essential hydration to the multitude of zebra and wildebeest.

As I’m already familiar with the petite pod, I turn south in the hope of witnessing one of the most underrated spectacles in Botswana. At the foot of one of the cliffs near my campsite lies an innocuous-looking waterhole. Substantial in size, it’s named Croc Pool due to its reptilian resident. Each morning, sometime between 10.30 and 11am, small families of red-billed quelea return from their morning excursions to perch in one of the creepers hanging above the water. As each group arrives, the others chirp sociable greetings while the newcomers find themselves a pew on one of the crowded branches. Every few minutes, impatience overcomes part of the flock, who will spontaneously take to the air in unison only to regroup on a nearby bush seconds later. Simultaneously, more quelea continually arrive, until every branch of every overhanging bush is packed sardine-style with tiny birds, each one chattering to his neighbour, creating a perpetual, raucous din. There is an undeniable, yet inexplicable sense of anticipation – imagine you are sitting in the stalls in a theatre waiting for the lights to go down and the show to begin, except here you are the only audience. Finally, the chattering abruptly stops and for a split-second the bush falls completely silent. Then, with no warning and seemingly with no leader, the entire quelea population erupts and the sound of thousands upon thousands of beating wings fills the valley. The birds swarm high into the air tracing shapes like a professionally choreographed ballet, before hovering over the water, as one by one they take turns to swoop down and satiate their thirst. It is an incredible natural sight, borne from self-preservation – safety in numbers – and is a true privilege to watch. If you are really lucky, you may even see tawny eagles, marabou storks or even a crocodile attempt to feast on one of the feathered unfortunates. It’s far from your typical Big Five sighting, but is perhaps even more thrilling – yet another facet of Khumaga, where a remarkably diverse, complex web of wildlife is connected by a common thirst.

Find out more

Getting there
There are no direct flights from Europe to Maun, the nearest international airport to Makgadikgadi Pans National Park, but Air Botswana (www.airbotswana.co.bw) has daily flights that link it with Johannesburg.

Visas
Tourist visas are available upon entry or at Botswana embassies abroad. They are free for most nationalities, and last 30 days (extensions up to 90 days are possible).

When to visit
The rainy season, which limits access to areas of the pans, runs from December to February. Flexibility of movement increases as the rains ease in March and April. Blue skies, moderate daytime temperatures and very chill nights rule May through August. September and October are also dry, but the mercury will regularly rise above 30 degrees Celsius during the day.

Books
Bradt’s Botswana (2nd edition, 2007) by Chris McIntyre and Lonely Planet’s Botswana & Namibia (1st edition, 2007) by Paula Hardy and Matthew D Firestone are both good guidebooks covering travels in this region.

Find out more from
Camp Kalahari (www.unchartedafrica.com)
Jack’s Camp (www.unchartedafrica.com)
Khumaga gov’t campsite ( )
Leroo-leu-tau Bush Camp (see UK/Botswana operators on page 98)
Meno-a-Kwena Tented Camp (see UK/Botswana operators on page 98)