My Botswana Photo Safari Wasn’t What I Expected — and That’s Why It Mattered
- Alyce Bender
- Jul 18
- 10 min read
Updated: Jul 19
Botswana Photo Safari: The Start
Botswana has held space in my imagination for as long as I can remember. Long before I picked up a camera, long before I could place the Okavango Delta on a map, I remember watching wildlife documentaries with wide eyes, completely spellbound by the vastness, the wildness, the rhythm of life on the floodplains.
Over the years, as my work in photography deepened and my connection to conservation storytelling evolved, that childhood fascination with Botswana never faded—it matured. The country became a kind of hazy dream, a place that tugged at me creatively and spiritually, though I never truly expected to find myself there. So when I finally stepped off the plane in Maun this past June, camera gear slung over one shoulder and dust already clinging to my boots, I wasn’t just arriving for another photographic assignment—I was stepping into something long imagined.
Like many photographers heading out on safari, I arrived with a well-rehearsed mental shot list: lions on a fresh kill, a cheetah mid-sprint, elephants bathed in golden light, reflections dancing in still water under dramatic skies. I envisioned intensity, movement, and moments of wild grandeur—those frame-filling images that grab attention and anchor portfolios.
My gear choices mirrored that mindset. Bush plane restrictions meant everything had to fit within 25 kilograms, no exceptions. That’s a tall order when juggling multiple focal lengths, protecting sensitive gear, and still managing to squeeze in a toothbrush. Thankfully, my Tamron lenses made the cut—both literally and creatively. Their lightweight versatility and stellar image quality let me pack smarter without compromising my reach or vision. The few ounces I saved? Well, let’s just say that was room for one or two small, hand-carved mementos.
And like most dreams, it didn’t unfold quite the way I expected..
The Delta: Where Stillness is the Story
I began my journey in the Moremi Game Reserve, based out of Okuti Camp, tucked into a lush corner of the Delta nestled beside the Maunachira River where water and woodland meet. From the moment I arrived, the abundance of wildlife was impossible to ignore—impala and kudu wove through the brush, herons stalked in the shallows, and baboons tried helping themselves to espresso as if they owned the place. All while Oscar, the hippo, grazed in the parking lot, dwarfing the camp vehicles parked for the afternoon.
Each morning, we were greeted by the song of coucals and the rustle of francolins in the underbrush.
As a photographer, my instinct was to move—scan, spot, shoot. On my very first full day of drives, I photographed four of the Big Five. A lone bull elephant moving with reverence through mopane. A couple cape buffalo casting long shadows across the road. A lioness quietly hunting in late afternoon light. And, in a quiet pocket of grasses under a snag on a old termite mound, a two-year old male leopard perched in mid-morning light, ears twitching ever so slightly and head on a slow swivel. It was the kind of start that fills a photographer’s mind with adrenaline—and a memory card with promise.
And yet, the most meaningful moment came not from a dramatic sighting, but from a small, narrow boat.
Late one afternoon at Okuti, I boarded a mokoro, the traditional dugout canoe used in the Delta’s shallows. My guide stood silently behind me, using a long pole to steer us along narrow channels flanked by papyrus and lily pads. It was quiet—so quiet that even the rustle of dragonfly wings seemed amplified. My camera rested in my lap, forgotten for long stretches as I simply observed and reflected on the moment and my small place in nature around me.
This was the moment the Delta taught me to slow down. To stop scanning for drama and start noticing the smaller stories—color, texture, behavior, light. As we glided past a cluster of reeds lit golden by the setting sun, I raised my camera not to capture a headline moment, but to honor the feeling of being there. That image still sits quietly in my personal portfolio: soft, subtle, full of personal meaning.
Of course, just minutes later—because the bush has a sense of humor—the stillness gave way to a bit of rare chaos as a family of African clawless otters burst from the reeds, tumbling and diving through the water like shadows with whiskers. My camera was up in a flash, heart pounding, grateful I’d already been ready in more ways than one.
From Okuti, I continued southwest by bush plane to Kanana Camp, where the Delta revealed a different face. The floodwaters had just begun to reach this region, transforming the landscape daily. What had been dry just two days prior now shimmered with fresh water, altering where wildlife moved and how the land responded. With each game drive, the terrain looked slightly different—greener, wetter, more alive.
The sense of change was everywhere. We tracked elephants navigating freshly formed pools, watched saddle-billed storks picking their way through new wetlands, and spotted leopard tracks pressed into still-damp mud that hadn’t existed the week before. The highlight, though, came one evening when we spent several golden hours with a pride of three lionesses and their nine three-month-old cubs—a boisterous, curious bundle of energy. As the adults lounged in the cooling air, the cubs tumbled over each other in mock battles, climbed half-fallen branches, and occasionally attempted to stalk anything that moved—including each other. The light was soft, the setting intimate, and the experience a photographer’s dream: not just for the images, but for the privilege of quietly witnessing a new generation learning its place in the wild.
Another evening brought us to a spotted hyena den, tucked discreetly along the edge of a rise in the bush. As we sat quietly nearby, heads began to emerge—one, then two, then more—until the clearing filled with activity. There were at least three generations represented: battle-scarred matriarchs, attentive subadults, and pups in various stages of chaos. Some were clearly older, already beginning to shed their soft black coats for the mottled fur of adolescence, while others were tiny—no more than three weeks old, still wide-eyed and unsteady on their feet.
Hyenas have a gestation period of about 110 days, and in communal dens like this one, it's not uncommon for multiple females to give birth at staggered times throughout the season. As a result, pups from different litters—ranging in age from a few weeks to a few months—share the same space. Watching them together was a study in contrast: the older cubs already vying for status and playfighting with enthusiasm, while the youngest stayed close to the den entrance, cautiously watching the world unfold.
Photographically, it was magic—especially as the light fell and their eyes caught the last shimmer of day. But more than that, it was a window into the layered social structure of one of Africa’s most misunderstood predators. In that moment, surrounded by shifting floodwaters and the pulse of new life, Kanana felt like the very heartbeat of the Delta—raw, resilient, and endlessly alive.
Chobe: Choosing Depth Over Drama
My time in Chobe began with the generous support of Pangolin Photo Safaris, who not only hosted me at the Pangolin Photo Hotel but also helped coordinate this entire Botswanan journey. From the moment I arrived, it was clear that Pangolin is more than just a photography-focused outfitter—they are deeply invested in the land, the wildlife, and the future of Botswana’s wilderness.
Pangolin’s approach is built around access, education, and impact. Their custom photography boats allow guests to shoot from low, stable angles while enjoying unparalleled views of the Chobe River’s daily drama.
But what impressed me most wasn’t just the photographic opportunity—it was the commitment to conservation woven into every aspect of their operation. A portion of every guest stay goes directly toward supporting environmental initiatives, from anti-poaching efforts to wildlife monitoring and community education programs. They collaborate closely with local guides and researchers, ensuring that tourism revenue contributes to long-term sustainability, not just short-term experiences.
Their philosophy aligns perfectly with my own: photography as a form of stewardship, not just collection.
Each day on the Chobe began and ended on the water, with photography sessions timed to the soft bookends of light that define this region. From the stability and low profile of the custom photo boats, we captured elephants crossing in single file, their reflections rippling beneath them, and watched lions observing buffalo herds with calculated stillness as the golden light burned low on the horizon. Hippos huffed in the shallows, crocodiles lingered like shadows, and birdlife—fish eagles, bee-eaters, kingfishers, and more—offered constant surprises. These sessions were immersive and dynamic, shaped by movement and light in equal measure, and underscored the beauty of working from water: a front-row seat to wildlife unfolding naturally along the river’s edge.
But even in this photographer’s paradise, I found myself confronting a familiar tension. One afternoon, just as the sun began its descent, our group caught wind of a potential lion sighting nearby, with a whisper of a leopard further off. Energy in the boat spiked—excitement rippled. But I had my eye on something else: a small tower of giraffes moving slowly along the ridge, backlit by a sun that had turned molten.
The guide turned to us. “Chase the cats?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Let’s stay with the giraffes.”
It wasn’t the popular choice. The group hesitated, understandably tempted by the allure of lions and leopards. But I explained what I saw unfolding—the light, the dust, the grace of their movement—and asked them to trust the vision. Reluctantly, they agreed.
We did. And I’m still grateful. I watched as the giraffes shifted and repositioned, the dust rising around them like smoke, their elongated forms etched in silhouette against the fiery glow of a classic African sunset. The resulting frames weren’t high drama—they were timeless: warm, graceful, and deeply evocative of the wild heart of Botswana.
Finding the Soul Between the Scenes
By the end of the trip, I had mentally unpacked the “shot list” I arrived with. The checklist had quietly dissolved somewhere between the dew-covered dragonfly of the Delta and the still gaze of that giraffe in the setting sun. Gone were the ideas of frames of high intensity predator-prey chases and shock value predator feeding fests.
What replaced it was a more nuanced narrative: a Swainson’s spurfowl calling into the dusk, jacana chicks wobbling across lily pads as they learned to forage, oxpeckers perched alert and sharp-eyed on the curve of a zebra's back, and yes, predators too—but not in mid-hunt. Instead, I found meaning in the moments of brotherhood between cheetah siblings, in the shared glances between mother and cub, in the quiet, enduring rituals that make up the vast majority of wild lives. These weren’t trophy shots—they were honest glimpses of life. And, ultimately, more lasting.
For those interested in the full visual story, I’ve curated a selection of images from this safari—moments both grand and quiet, captured across the Okavango Delta and Chobe River. You can view the complete collection here or explore individual highlights woven throughout the site.
As the days unfolded, I found myself letting go of technical rigidity and leaning into a more intuitive, story-driven way of seeing. I embraced negative space and let the light shape the frame rather than forcing subjects into a mold of perfection. It became less about capturing a checklist and more about honoring atmosphere, gesture, and quiet behavior.
This shift unlocked a different kind of creativity. I began to see not just animals, but mood. Not just moments, but meaning. In fact, I’ve created an entire black and white collection from this safari—images where color would have distracted from the emotion or the stark beauty of form and contrast. Stripped of hue, these frames carry weight in their stillness. They reveal texture, story, and subtlety that color might overshadow.
What emerged wasn’t just a portfolio—it was a portrait of a wilderness place. A beautifully diverse ecosystem filled with wildlife of all shapes and sizes. One built on stillness, surprise, and the small, soulful in-between.
Beyond the Frame
As the small plane lifted off from Kasane, the Chobe River winding beneath me in ribbons of gold and green, I looked out over the land I had just spent ten days immersed in—and realized I was leaving with far more than full memory cards. I was leaving with a quiet, powerful reminder of what truly matters in photography.
This journey taught me again that good storytelling isn’t about spectacle—it’s about sincerity. The images that stay with me aren’t always the ones filled with action or rarity. They’re the honest ones. A quiet glance between lion brothers. Jacana chicks learning to forage. Giraffes rearranging themselves in the dusty light of dusk. A photograph doesn’t need to shout to speak.
Spectacle may grab attention, but sincerity lingers—it invites the viewer to feel something, not just see it. And I was reminded, as I am time and again, that this truth extends beyond Botswana. Whether I’m photographing the desert Southwest or walking a familiar trail near home, the images that resonate most are those made when I slow down, pay attention, and let the story unfold without forcing it.
I came to Botswana expecting to capture beauty. I left having witnessed meaning. The experience deepened my sense of patience, presence, and responsibility—to the wildlife, to the land, and to the stories I choose to tell with my lens.
Whether it was the thoughtful conservation efforts of Pangolin Photo Safaris, the haunting quiet of a mokoro ride, or the changing floodwaters around Kanana, this trip offered something I hadn’t expected: an invitation to stop chasing and start listening.
If this approach to travel and photography resonates with you, I invite you to join me in 2027 for a small group photo safari back to these extraordinary corners of Botswana. We’ll slow down, look deeper, and photograph not just what we see—but what we feel.
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