South Luangwa is a stretch of rift valley in Zambia run by a single wandering river. The Luangwa keeps changing its course, and the bends it abandons stay behind as oxbow lagoons, which is where the animals collect. As the dry season shrinks the river, hippo pods pile onto the sandbars and into whatever water is left, dozens of them wedged into one bend, grunting and shoving, with crocodiles hauled out a few metres away. The high cut banks above make a natural grandstand for it. The valley also holds one of the densest leopard populations in Africa, and night drives are still legal here, so a red-filtered spotlight is the best chance you get anywhere of watching one move through the trees. By day the lion prides have grown up around open cars and pay them no attention at all, which is how you end up a few metres from lions at rest.
The walking safari was invented in this valley. An armed scout leads, a guide reads the ground, and you follow in single file, the way Norman Carr first took guests out in the 1950s — you cover very little distance and notice everything, tracks, dung, a leopard's kill hoisted into a sausage tree. Carr had form with this place. Before any of the walking began he hand-reared two orphaned lion cubs, taught them to hunt and released them back into the bush at about three years old. The giraffes browsing the same woodland are Thornicroft's, which live in this valley and nowhere else, and not one of them is in a zoo anywhere. From September thousands of southern carmine bee-eaters tunnel nest holes into the exposed clay banks of the river and stream past the hides below in a scarlet blur. What the animals have never accepted is a change of route. Each year a family of elephants files through the reception of a lodge near Mfuwe, because the building went up in 1998 straight across a path the herd had always walked.