“LET’S SEE WHAT the morning has for us,” said
Sylvester, as we rolled into the bush after breakfast. The
neighbors were everywhere. Flocks of Lilian’s lovebirds,
little green parrots with red-and-orange heads, whirred
through the bushes like jeweled sparks. Six lionesses
dozed under an ebony tree. In the branches skulked a
large and angry leopard whose impala kill the lionesses
had eaten.
“Th is is Lumabe,” sa id Sylvester. “He had to be da r ted
twice when he outgrew his collars, so he doesn’t like us.”
Sure enough, Lumabe r umbled at us dispa ra g ingly. I
had never been growled at by a leopard before, and found
the experience unsettling.
We went down to the river, where Rod pointed out
pied and malachite kingfishers, bee-eaters and a martial
eagle: “The lion of the sky!” he exclaimed.
On the banks of the Luangwa the words of the poet
Langston Hughes came to me. “I’ve known riversCLOCKWISE FROM BELOW: The dining area at Shoebill Island Camp,
an African Parks–run lodge in the Bangweulu Wetlands; fishermen
plying the fertile swamps of Bangweulu; a juvenile elephant, as
seen on a walking safari in South Luangwa National Park.