It was a misty morning, soon to be scorching, like every day in Niger, when we arrived at the riverbank. I was 17, living in the capital, Niamey, while my mother worked as a diplomat at the US embassy.
It was the Christmas holidays and my mother, keen for my sister and I to experience some wildlife on the outskirts of the city, was taking us on a hippo safari.
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I was a little reluctant. Two years before my family had arrived in Niger, a riverboat had been attacked by a hippo and capsized. Many of the passengers drowned.
When we arrived at our vessel, it did not put my mind at rest. It was not a sturdy riverboat but a canoe, and an absurdly fragile one at that, made of delicate planks. We had barely pushed off when my feet were ankle deep in water that came gushing through the seams.
Our captain, reclining by the engine, waved to his son, who began bailing out with a plastic bottle. The captain seemed unfazed, reeling off facts about local fishing while chewing on a small twig.
I raised my soggy feet and turned to watch the city of Niamey fade into the distance. Around us, the river environment was vibrant – red earth blanketed with dark grass, pale trees and aquatic plants. Small boats cast out nets, and veiled women washed clothes. My mother smiled at me.
By midday, the sun was white-hot. The river narrowed and the wall of vegetation grew thicker and taller. Suddenly, the water was shallow and coppery, and the river split into a delta. Then the engine stopped abruptly and the captain pointed ahead.
“They are not far,” he said in French, and we squinted into the approaching foliage. A booming baritone snort filled the air and we saw, to our right, a leathery hippopotamus on the riverbank, stuffing grass into its bristly mouth.
My jaw dropped and I leaned forward to take it all in. Aside from stubby ears and a stringy tail, the creature was immense. Each snort, grunt and burp reverberated across the water, making it feel as if the animal was a mere arm’s length away.
As it chewed, I could see the hippo’s enormous, yellowish tusk-like teeth. I gripped the side of the boat – fearful, but unable to look away.
We drifted on but noticed that the lone hippo had become a dozen or more. They were huddled in groups and alone, young and old, in the water and on the riverbank, far away and worryingly close.
The river narrowed again and the hippos became more fractious. I could see their brows furrowing and their nostrils flaring. The hippos got bolder in their movements.
My mother’s smile disappeared and she wrapped a protective arm around my sister. As we approached some shrubbery, a female hippo with calves at her rear flared her nostrils and threw a cantankerous grunt in our direction.
The captain just turned the boat, still seemingly unperturbed. Suddenly, the female plunged into the water. My stomach lurched as she drifted in our direction, only her pink, sweaty face visible – like a shark’s fin.
“Maybe we should head back,” I said, nervously. The female ducked beneath the surface and vanished.
I was examining the murky ripples when the boat tipped sharply to the left. She had swum beneath us and erupted on the other side in a violent plume of water. Droplets splattered across my face and I grabbed the railing to avoid falling in.
Our captain, the relaxed grin now gone from his face, yelled at his son to tug the cord to fire up the engine. He spun the boat round in a single manoeuvre, while the hippo thrashed her head about in the water then eyed us keenly as we fled.
Our trip back to Niamey was silent and I reflected on the risk we had taken. But, safely back on dry land, I decided I’d made the right choice to go along. It’s not often you get to encounter nature at its rawest.
