Bush Camping in the Okavango

Okavango Delta from Above.  Photo credit:  Albert Chan

The Okavango Delta is the kind of wilderness that refuses to be tamed. You can observe it from the comfort of a luxury lodge with hot showers or from a scenic flight like me when I took the above photo, but that is only scratching the surface. To feel it—really feel it—you need to strip everything away and sleep in the bush, expose to the sounds and rhythms of Africa at its rawest.  Bush camping in the Okavango is the purest test of nerves I have ever faced in Africa.

Getting there was half of the adventure.  We arrived by mokoros, the dugout canoes that slip silently through reed channels no wider than the boats themselves.  Our polers guided us across shallow waters thick with lilies, dragonflies hovering above like flecks of glass catching the light. By the afternoon, we reached our island camp: a patch of high ground in a sea of wetlands, our base for the nights to come.

Upon arriving, the sense of separation from the modern world was absolute.  The setup was simple—tents no sturdier than a rain jacket, a fire pit dug into the ground, and a pile of supplies carried in barrels. No fences. No generators. No internet.  Just the raw bush, where lions, elephants, and hippos moved freely.

An elephant in the Okavango Delta.  Photo credit:  Albert Chan

Daylight felt safe enough. We tracked zebra and antelope on foot, learning to read the ground for prints and dung. We saw giraffes browsing acacia trees, hippos submerged with only their eyes breaking the surface, and crocodiles sliding off sandbanks into the water. There was always tension in the air, a reminder that this was not a zoo. At any moment, the trail could lead us to something far larger, and far less tolerant of human intrusion.

After tracking in the morning, we relaxed at our campsite for lunch.  All of a sudden, two elephants tumbled from afar towards our site.  We watched closely and some nervously sitting beside the mokoros, getting ready to escape in anticipation of more elephants visiting us without invitation.  We were told that our tents were very safe as lazy wild animals treat them like big rocks and would not bother stepping on them; yet, we were all outside observing.  Nobody would feel safe hiding inside our tents.  Luckily, the elephants moved away and no emergency escape plan was needed.

Okavango Delta at Sunset. Photo credit:  Albert Chan

At night, campfires burned low beneath skies thick with stars. The bush spoke its ancient language: hippos grunting in their watery havens, the occasional rumble of elephants nearby, and the haunting roar of lions that carried for miles across the floodplain. Our tents were not barriers but invitations, placing us within the rhythms of a wilderness that has thrived for millennia without walls.

Bush camping in the Okavango is not just about seeing animals—it is about feeling the wild. You do not just observe the Delta; you live inside it, exposed to its sounds, moods, and silences. It is raw, humbling, and deeply grounding, a reminder that for most of human history, this was how we lived: close to the earth, vulnerable yet connected.