A shimmying haze, the handiwork of a midday African sun, had created a series of fake oases on the plain we were crossing. Annoying insects buzzed in and out of the open window in search of sweat and sandwiches, while dust billowed in by the bucketload. My shirt had turned brown and was stuck to my back, my upper lip had become a dance floor for the flies, and my arm, which had been hanging out the window taxi-driver style, had turned scarlet and would soon, no doubt, be flaking.

“Mustn’t grumble, though,” said my guide, Frank Carlisle. “This is, after all, the ”˜real’ Africa, and one must expect at least a few discomforts whilst travelling, as we are, through the great Zambezi floodplain. I bet Livingstone didn’t complain half as much as you”¦ And what’s more, he likely had malaria.”

Point taken”¦

Frank brought our Land Cruiser to a standstill and peered through his binoculars toward the quivering horizon.

“Got ’em!” he announced jubilantly. “The hyenas are at home. Let’s go and see.”

With that, our eight-car convoy continued off-road, single file across the faceless plain.

For much of the year, Liuwa Plain National Park, located in a remote and scarcely visited region in northwestern Zambia, is underwater—all 3,600 square kilometres of it. But this annual inundation is no cataclysmic event. In fact, it’s the lifeblood of a region where a continuing ebb and flow has shaped both the landscape and the animals, plants, and humans that call it home.

Each year, raging tropical storms centred over the Angolan highlands far to the north cause the great Zambezi River to rise and flood Liuwa Plain National Park. Come January, there are fish swimming where, just weeks before, antelope roamed on dry land. However, come May, these aquatic denizens are forced to retreat to the many permanent but shallow water holes that are left behind as the annual floods recede. This is when the Liuwa Plain becomes a birder’s paradise, teeming with cranes, storks, waterfowl, raptors, and kingfishers. It’s also a fisherman’s paradise—it’s not uncommon to see crowds of local tribesmen wading through water holes armed with traps, casting nets, and long wooden spears.

It was November when we visited, and although it was occasionally rainy, the land was still dry, allowing us to drive—rather than swim—past the flocks of beautiful cranes that patrolled the margins of ponds. Pink-backed pelicans floated by serenely like bath toys; grebes and ducks and things with long legs drifted here and there. Raptors soared above like kites.

Fortunately for us, the opening salvos of the wet season are usually mild and do not cause flooding—a blessing since there are no real roads on the floodplain. Should you get caught at the wrong time of year, nothing short of a helicopter will get you out.

But if you get the timing right (something Frank is an expert at), you can arrive safely on the plain to witness the first dramatic thunderstorms soak the land and change it from brown to green. That’s also when the wildebeests come, over 33,000 of them. They migrate down from somewhere in Angola to give birth upon the succulent new lawns. Wherever we drove, they were there, mewing and grunting and chewing their cud while their effervescent babies gambolled about like amateur firewalkers.

“We’re nearly there,” said Frank as we zigzagged slowly up a corridor of doleful-looking bovines. And that’s when I saw them: a clan of 10 spotted hyenas—the apex predators of the Zambezi floodplain.

Some of the listless hyenas lifted their heads languidly, showing only vague interest at our approach, but the majority continued to snooze in the shallows of a sparkling little water hole. The only signs they were alive were an ear twitch or an eyelid flutter.

I found it strange that the wildebeests, some of which were a mere stone’s throw from their nemesis, seemed relaxed and unconcerned. But then Frank pointed out the pile of smelly flesh and bones that lay not far away.

“They’ve eaten,” he told me. “And now they are of no threat to the wildebeest. Not for a while, at least.”

The predators lolled about. They snored and farted and sighed”¦ It was doubtful that they could have gotten up and run even if a meteorite had hit.

Obviously, it had been a very long and hard hunt.

“Unlike most hyenas elsewhere in Africa, the Liuwa Plain clans do not scavenge,” said Frank. “They have to kill for themselves because there are very few lions here from which they can steal their food. However, they have come up with a very good strategy. They form up into huge clans—sometimes numbering 25 members or more—and that makes for one extremely efficient hunting machine.”

We stayed with this clan for many hours that day. As the sun dipped, they woke from their stupor and played like puppies in the ruby-red dusk. Wildebeests scattered like chickens before a fox, but the hyenas, still not hungry, paid them no heed.

It was almost nightfall by the time we returned to camp, and after the evening ritual of beef and beer, I bid my convoy companions goodnight and went to my tent to sleep off my sunburn. Lightning flashed and thunder bellowed, but above it all, sometime in the early hours, I heard the sound of a giggling hyena.

There were intermittent sniffs at the zipper and the terrible smell of something with appalling halitosis at the foot of my bed. “Granny, is that you?” I mumbled to the dark, but the only reply I got was a grunt and a groan.

Needless to say, I slept poorly that night. But when the birds began their morning chorus and the hyenas were assuredly gone, I emerged from my nylon fortress once more to the sight of benign cranes and placid, dumb-looking wildebeests.

It was time to bid farewell to the Liuwa Plain, so we packed up camp, waved to the wildebeests and hyenas, and commenced the long journey home. For the next three days, we travelled convoy-style across sandy tracks and potholed roads, passing through villages and crossing the Zambezi several times on dodgy-looking ferries. And boy oh boy, it certainly was slow going.

But all too soon, I was back aboard a Boeing and heading for home. Once there, surrounded by the familiar sights of walls, malls, and traffic lights, I thought about the Liuwa Plain, missing that special wilderness feeling one can only find in Africa. The discomfort, the flies in my coffee, the sunburn, the heat”¦ And the snickering of beasts at the foot of my bed.

Access: It’s more or less impossible to get to the Liuwa Plain during the flood season. Floods begin in December/January and usually recede sometime around May. Do your research if travelling to Zambia independently. Two good places to start are www.zambia-travel-guide.com/ and www.zambiatourism.com/. For information on Liuwa Plain National Park, visit www.liuwaplain.com/ or www.africanparks-conservation.com/. The writer travelled as a guest of Bhejane Adventures (www.bhejane.com/), which specializes in African self-drive guided safaris to “difficult” places.