The water erupted just metres from our canoe. A massive grey head burst through the surface, spraying water in every direction. The hippo gave an explosive snort, opened his enormous jaws and lunged towards us.
"It's Mad Max!" Murray shouted. "Keep paddling!"
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Behind us, Dan and Cristina were frantically digging their paddles into the water. They hadn't yet mastered the art of steering a canoe and were going round in circles.
Then Mad Max disappeared beneath the surface.
We kept paddling, our eyes searching the water for any sign of him. Hippos have a fearsome reputation, and somewhere below us, a monstrous, angry hippopotamus was lurking. I knew they could run along the riverbed, and we had absolutely no idea where he might come up next.
Until that moment, we had considered ourselves spectators in the wilds of Africa, rather than intruders. We were nearing the end of a four-day canoe safari down Zimbabwe's Zambezi River, an 80km journey through spectacular wilderness.
Each morning, as we set off along the river, impala, waterbuck and kudu gathered to drink at the water's edge, while elephants and buffalo grazed on the grassy slopes above, seemingly unconcerned by our little procession of canoes. Fish eagles called overhead, colourful bee-eaters darted among the trees, and the blue, craggy Zambian Escarpment rose in the distance.
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As the sun climbed higher, the heat became oppressive. December on the Zambezi was fiercely hot and humid, with temperatures soaring above 40°C. Despite the threat of crocodiles, we abandoned ourselves to water fights in the shallows while our guides kept watch. Somehow, we never seriously imagined that one of these formidable creatures might attack us. Yet once, a huge crocodile slipped silently into the water just metres from where we'd pulled our canoes onto the bank.
We camped on islands in the river, where fiery sunsets gave way to black nights ablaze with stars. Across the muddy water, the African bush stirred with strange growls and unfamiliar rumbles. With nothing but a stretch of river separating us from the wildlife on the mainland, our flimsy tents and sleeping bags offered little protection against anything that might decide to swim across. The thought was exhilarating rather than frightening.
Our guide, Murray, a Zimbabwean with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the bush, seemed entirely at home in this untamed wilderness. He often sang quietly in Shona as we paddled past sprawling ebony trees, elephants bathing in the shallows and fishermen in dugout canoes. Now he shouted orders, urging us to paddle faster.
I gripped my paddle tightly, scanning the deceptively smooth water ahead, then twisted in the canoe, searching for the slightest ripple behind us. I recalled every campfire tale of boats flung into the air and paddlers snapped in half by powerful hippo jaws.
A few lengths away, another canoe was making a determined bid for safety, its occupants paddling furiously without once looking back. Dan and Cristina, meanwhile, were still going round in circles.
"You're paddling the wrong way!" Dan shouted, his wild strokes showering Cristina with water.
"I'm paddling the right way. It's you!" she snapped, impatiently brushing wet hair from her eyes.
Despite the danger, I couldn't help laughing as they argued their way around the Zambezi. Murray caught my eye and grinned.
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At last, they managed to point their canoe downstream, and our little flotilla made a hasty retreat. Mad Max never resurfaced. Perhaps he'd lost interest or simply decided we'd been sufficiently frightened.
That evening, safely camped on an island, we were still recounting our narrow escape, embellishing the story a little more with each retelling. It was our last night on the river, and we lingered beneath a brooding sky, watching storm clouds gather overhead. Thunder rolled across the river and a hyena laughed somewhere in the darkness. The rain never came, but lightning split the sky, briefly illuminating an enormous hippo waddling out of the water to graze.
Was it Mad Max? We laughed nervously at the thought.
We would never know, but our hair-raising encounter had shown us that we weren't merely spectators in this wild land. We were guests – and not necessarily welcome ones.
Top image: a hippo known as 'Mad Max' in the Zambezi River. Credit: Olivia Pozzan
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