First Light Over the Delta: My Introduction to Africa
Three days of light, instinct, and unfiltered wonder. A story of a luxury safari in Botswana.
I traveled to Africa this past December with one stubborn worry—the heat. I can’t sleep without air conditioning, and the idea of restless nights under an unforgiving sun lingered in the back of my mind. Spoiler: it was never an issue. What I should have worried about was sunscreen. I didn’t bring enough.
I booked my flights well in advance and found an excellent deal to Johannesburg via London, with a two-night stopover in each direction. I stayed at The NoMad London, my favorite spot for short visits: perfect location, rich in design, with thoughtful food and just the right price. A gentle re-entry and exit from Europe before stepping into something entirely new.
Upon arriving in Johannesburg, I was warmly assisted through migration and check-in for my onward flight to Maun, Botswana—the gateway to the Okavango Delta. The team from Wilderness Safaris met me on arrival, all smiles and seamless coordination. It was here that the journey shifted. They handed me a small slip of paper with the details of my next flight—a Cessna 208 Caravan bound for the Delta.
I’ve never been comfortable with small planes, and I’ll admit, I struggled. But something shifted the moment we landed. No buildings, no sirens, no light pollution. Just space, wind, and wildness. I was somewhere deeply still and deeply alive.
And I was also completely unprepared.
As a photographer, I’m never without a charged camera—except, apparently, on my first day in Africa. I thought I’d get settled at the lodge before powering up. But Botswana had other plans. The moment I stepped off the plane onto the private airstrip, a lioness appeared, her face marked by recent battle, a reminder of how fiercely life moves here. My guide, Water, shared her story like someone introducing a familiar neighbor.
We arrived at Vumbura Plains Lodge, a secluded, eight-suite luxury camp set on a serene lake. The only thing louder than the cicadas were the resident hippos, who made their presence known around 5:30am—no need for an alarm clock. Wilderness operates only in private concessions, meaning you share this vast land with only your fellow guests. No convoys. No crowds. Just you and the wild.
Days here follow a rhythm designed by the animals, not the guests.
5:30 am: Wake-up call (hippo-assisted)
6:00 am: A simple breakfast
6:30 am: Departure for safari
This is when the big cats move. When the air is still golden and cool. By 9:00 am, you’re usually deep into the bush, stopping for coffee and biscuits in a clearing so surreal your senses can barely keep up.
Around midday, we’d return to the lodge—dusted by the bush, exhilarated by sightings, and hungry for something comforting. The food at Vumbura Plains far surpassed my expectations for a camp this remote. I tasted Botswanan beeffor the first time—rich, clean, and deeply flavorful. It’s considered a national treasure, I was told. Carefully raised, seldom exported, and rarely experienced outside of Africa.
Afternoons were yours to shape.
No Wi-Fi, except in the rooms—though honestly, what could be more valuable than disconnecting from notifications to connect with the now? I found unexpected company in Ollie and Conor, two professional videographers from the UK working with Wilderness. We bonded over camera gear and swapped stories, and I quickly realized their footage was some of the most cinematic I’d seen in the travel space. Being surrounded by creative minds in the wild? Unexpectedly, one of my favorite parts of the trip.
The camp is quiet luxury at its best—an open bar, personalized meals, thoughtful design. But even with everything at hand, I refrained from drinking. I didn’t want to dull my senses. Not here. Not in a place where every crack of a branch might mean something unforgettable is about to appear.
By 4:00 pm, it was time for the afternoon drive. As the air cooled and the light stretched long across the plains, we’d stop for sundowners—an iced gin and tonic or a soft drink, shared in silence or laughter, in settings that looked like the background of a dream.
And if you wanted a gentler pace? There were mokoro rides—traditional dugout canoes gliding across shallow waters—or a massage in your suite with hippos murmuring nearby. But I always chose to go back into the bush. You might think game drives become repetitive. They don’t. The story of the land changes every time you step into it.
After three nights in the Okavango, I packed my bags for the next chapter: the Linyanti Concession, near the borders of Zambia, Angola, and Namibia.
I thought I’d seen it all by then.
But in Linyanti, I witnessed something so rare that even my guide—seasoned, calm, unshakable—was left in stunned silence.
