The Zambezi River stretched out peacefully before us, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. I paddled quietly with my guide, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the water and the distant call of birds. The water slid smoothly beneath the canoe, and everything seemed under control… until we suddenly came to a halt. The water level was too low; our boat had run aground on a sandbank. My guide immediately tried to free us, but despite his efforts, nothing worked.
That’s when I saw them: just a few metres away, a small group of hippopotamuses was watching us. Their massive heads barely broke the surface, but their eyes were fixed on us. Soon, a low grunt broke the silence. An ear twitched, a head shifted. You could feel the thin line between calm and danger. My guide, focused, kept his composure. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he eased us back. The water regained depth. The hippos didn’t move, but the Zambezi had just reminded me, without violence, who ruled here.