It’s not glamorous. It’s not elegant. But it is perfect. Because in the world of safari, hippos are less an animal and more a lifestyle - loud, moody, territorial, and always ready to steal the show just when you thought things were getting peaceful.

Forget the cooing of wood pigeons or the gentle patter of rain. The real bush alarm clock comes courtesy of a half-submerged mammal with serious vocal range and zero regard for your sleep cycle. Hippos grunt, groan, honk and bray their way through the night like a baritone brass band in a particularly bad mood.

And yet, it’s oddly comforting. Because when you hear that nasal, chuffing laugh, it means you’re in the right place. Somewhere wild. Somewhere water-fed. Somewhere utterly untouched by the need to keep things quiet.

Despite their portly build and cartoonish yawn, hippos are nobody’s fool. They rule the waterways like they own the deeds, and in many ways, they do. By day, they loll about in pods, nostrils twitching above the surface, sun glinting off their mud-slicked backs. But come nightfall, they rise en masse and march inland, carving ancient paths from water to grazing grounds.

And when we say march, we mean it. Silently. Stealthily. Like squat little tanks moving through the wilderness. You’ll hear the odd twig snap, maybe a huff or a splash, but mostly they’re surprisingly graceful for an animal that weighs more than your average hatchback.

It’s only when they’re startled or feeling especially chatty that the vocals start up again. And yes, they do sound like a tractor gargling gravel. But that’s part of their charm.

Every safari has a soundscape. Lions roaring from three kilometres away. Hyenas whooping like drunk uncles. Nightjars trilling like they’re being paid by the note. But the hippo? The hippo is the base layer. The metronome. The one that ties it all together with a steady rhythm of amphibious complaint.

Their calls bounce off water like drumbeats. They echo through camp in the early hours, timed perfectly to interrupt your REM cycle. But no one ever seems to mind. Because to hear a hippo before you’ve even opened your tent flap is to know - deeply, gloriously - that you’re on safari.

Hippos are not rare. They’re not elusive. You’re practically guaranteed to see them at any decent water source. But that doesn’t mean they’re boring. Quite the opposite.

There’s something hypnotic about watching a pod do absolutely nothing for hours—just ears twitching, eyes blinking, water swirling slowly around them. They remind you to stop rushing. To be still (and also to never, EVER walk too close to the water’s edge. They may look sleepy, but they can outrun you with a head start.)

They’re prehistoric. Territorial. Comically ill-tempered. But they’re also part of the landscape, as vital to the ecosystem as they are to the traveller’s experience. They fertilise the floodplains, stir up nutrients, create channels with their pathways, and, frankly, deserve a bit more respect than they usually get.

People like to ask, “What’s the most dangerous animal in Africa?” and then wait smugly for the answer to NOT be lion. Cue shocked gasps when it’s revealed that hippos cause more human fatalities than any other mammal on the continent. But here’s the thing: that’s not the sum of our relationship with them. On safari, we watch them from the safety of boats and vehicles. We hear them as dusk falls and again before the kettle’s boiled. We learn to live alongside them, with deep respect and just the right amount of wariness.

So, if you haven’t woken up to a hippo yet... Have you really been on safari? Because it’s not just about ticking off the Big Five or catching the perfect golden-hour photo of a leopard in a tree. It’s about the bits in between... The calls in the dark, the rustles near the canvas, the joy of knowing there’s a grumpy, yawning, entirely unapologetic hippo just outside, reminding you that you’re a guest in their world.

And honestly? That’s what makes it magic.

Text: Sharon Gilbert-Rivett