Another day we search through thick mopane forests, traversing shady, grass groves, in search of elephants. We find them in the most surprising of places: an isolated bull elephant in a grove of mokolwane palm trees, enjoying a snack of the tree’s shiny brown tennis ball-sized fruit. Further along is a mother and calf washing and drinking in a hippo pool, the hippo’s own bulbous eyes and nostrils surfacing mid-pool to betray his whereabouts.

None of them could care less about our presence, except a bull we find on the edge of a field. We approach slowly to about 20 yards, where we let our horses drop their heads to graze, a universal sign in animal-dom that all is well. This does nothing to assuage the bad temper of our bull. He’s unhappy, perhaps with life in general, perhaps just with us in particular. He spreads his ears wide and fans them, sign number one that he’s displeased.

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That afternoon we wind up on the opposite side of the river from camp. At first I’m relieved to see that a skiff manned by camp staff is there to help us. The question is, if we are rowed back to camp, what will the horses do? “The boat’s to bring your tack over. You swim with the horses.” Haven’t these people read their own brochure which says there are crocodiles in these here rivers? Besides, don’t they know that I don’t do bareback? No one cares to pay attention to me, and all the other guests seem to think this is a wonderful treat. Or are good at pretending so. There’s nothing for it but to strip off the saddles and swim the horses across. I remount bare back, having tied the reins to the horse’s bridle. “Just let the horse wade in, and when you feel him start to swim, let your legs float up.”

I have to bite my lip to stop from asking, “And will he be doing the crawl? Or the breast stroke?” I’ve never been on a swimming horse before and have no idea what one feels like.

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One morning we ride out before dawn, putting nothing but a cup of hot tea in our bellies, with promises of a bush breakfast awaiting us. After a couple hours we reach a broad short-grass plain with plenty of trees at one end for shade. There, the camp staff already have food ready.

I’m famished and not ashamed to be the first at the table. It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it and I always prefer that someone be me. There are platters mounded with crisply browned sausages, crackling bacon, steaming home-made bread, cheerful fried eggs whose orange yolks give the sun a run for its money, heaps of cool, sweet slices of melon and pineapple. Bowls of strawberry and apricot jam keep company to a simmering pot of gluey thick porridge, and its companion: a sweating pitcher of milk kept fresh in a bowl of ice.

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Mornings we’re awakened by a hushed voice outside the tent, gently advising that hot tea has been left on the table. In the freezing pre-dawn darkness I cup my hands around the mug’s burning sides to warm them. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon when we mount up and leave camp, in search of whatever we might see. Though the first day or two there are inevitable expectations of spying big, impressive animals, I quickly learn that the beauty, the magic of the day is in what appears, not in what’s expected. We skirt rain pans, following animals paths. A shy reedbuck springs from dense green cover on a wooded island. A herd of delicate lechwe, their extra-long hoofs and water-proof hair making them ideally suited to this environment, leap through a shallow pool. In a flash they’re gone, a spray of crystal droplets of water left by their mad dash, still hanging in the air.

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