Seen from a mokoro at sunset: the dark bow of the boat pointing across still water scattered with lily pads, and beyond it a poler standing in silhouette against the sun as it reaches the reeds

Okavango Delta, Botswana

Okavango

Sit low, say nothing, and let it come to you.

A narrow boat, a man with a pole, and water that arrives when the rain has gone. By private arrangement.

From the mokoro at sunset, Okavango Delta

Season: June to October
Length: Around seven days
Party: Two to six, with your own guide and polers
Held in the arrangement: Two small camps on the water, the light aircraft between them, your own guide, every meal, and every hour on the channels

The place

A river that never reaches the sea, and a flood that comes in the dry.

The rain falls far to the north, in the highlands of Angola, in the first months of the year. It takes until the middle of the year to get here. By then the Kalahari around it has not seen a cloud for weeks, and the water simply walks out across the sand.

So the Delta is fullest when everything else is driest. Grass turns to channel. Islands appear. And every animal for a hundred miles knows the way.

From the air: a dark blue river looping back on itself through a wide flat plain of gold and green marsh, small islands of trees scattered to a level horizon — The Okavango River at Shakawe, on its way to the Delta

The days

Four empty dugout canoes drawn up side by side on a grassy bank, their bows in shallow water, tall green reeds and a pale blue sky behind — Mokoros drawn up on the bank

First morning

They are waiting for you at the edge of the grass.

A mokoro is as long as a room and no wider than your shoulders. You step into the middle, sit on the floor with your back against a rest, and find the water a hand's width below your elbow. Then somebody behind you leans on a pole, and the bank lets go.

The view forward from a mokoro: the weathered wooden bow pointing down a narrow channel of dark water covered in lily pads, tall reeds on both sides, blue sky above

On the water Eye level with the lilies. No engine, no wake, and nothing between you and the reeds. Push off, and be poled down one channel until dark From the bow of a mokoro, among water lilies

In the flood

At this height you see what the water sees.

A reed frog the size of a thumbnail, holding a stem. Lily pads sliding past your elbow. And once, when the pole stops for no reason you can find, a red lechwe standing to its knees in the flood, looking straight back at you.

A red lechwe, a russet antelope with long ridged horns, standing in shallow floodwater among grass and looking directly at the camera, its reflection beneath it — A red lechwe in the floodwater, Okavango Delta

Late afternoon It was their road before it was yours.

Two elephants shoulder deep in a channel in warm evening light, trunks reaching towards each other, seen from the level of the water, with palms and green islands behind

Elephants cross where they have always crossed. Your poler holds the boat off in the reeds, and you wait until they have finished.Elephants in the channel, Okavango Delta Hold off, and watch

If this is the one, tell us when

A leopard on a sandy track through long grass, seen from behind, its head turned to look over its shoulder in low sunlight — A leopard on the move, Okavango Delta

On the islands

Some days you get out and walk.

The boat noses into an island and a tracker steps ashore first. He reads the sand the way you read a page: who came down to drink, how long ago, and in what mood. What made the tracks is another matter.

Sundown

Then you stay out for the dark.

The sun goes into the reeds and the water turns to brass. Nobody starts an engine, because there is no engine. You come home by ear: the pole, the drip from it, the frogs beginning, and somewhere off in the channel a hippo breathing out.

Two mokoros in a reed channel just after sunset: a poler in a wide hat standing in silhouette with his pole, two passengers seated low in front of him, a last line of orange on the horizon — A poler at dusk, Okavango Delta

That is the shape of it: about seven days, two camps, and most of your waking hours within reach of the water. The plan is drawn with you, and the flood has the last word.

Plan your journey

The camp

Canvas, a lamp, and the water a few steps away.

You stay in small camps on islands in the flood: a handful of tents under old trees, raised on timber, open to the air on the side that faces the channel. They are chosen with you, for their water, their guides, and how few other people you will meet.

What you remember is the night. A fire, a table laid outside, and a dark so complete that you hear the Delta far better than you ever saw it.

Looked after by the people who grew up on it.

The man with the pole reads this water the way you read a street. He knows which pool the hippo keep, and goes round it without a word. Your guide knows what you came hoping for, and will not promise it. And somebody has the lamps lit before you are back.

A poler in silhouette standing in a mokoro among reeds, pole in hand, the sun low on the horizon — A poler at sunset, Okavango Delta

Field notesThe figures, for those who like them.

Daylight there today
Daylight in the middle of July
Okavango Delta: 19°14′S 023°03′E
The rain, in Angola: Roughly December to March
The flood, in the Delta: At its height roughly June to August

Choose your month Push off

A poler standing at the stern of a mokoro with two seated passengers, crossing open blue water in the Okavango Delta, another mokoro far ahead

Your invitation

How still can you sit?

June and July for the flood arriving across the Delta, and cold bright mornings. August to October for dry country, and the herds close to the water.

Plan your journey

Eight short questions, about two minutes. Then a letter in your own words.

Crossing by mokoro, Okavango Delta