That time I got attacked by a hippo 🦛
No, that's not clickbait. Or a metaphor.
Six years ago, I went to Zambia as part of my Master’s program. We were experimenting with using computer vision (AI) to identify malaria-carrying mosquitoes. (I was one of the early teams to work on VectorCam, recently profiled by Bill Gates).
But before we went to meet the entomologists, we had a weekend in the tourist capital of Zambia (Livingstone) to do as we pleased.
We were a group of five engineers plus a med student. And no offense to my teammates, but they were not the most adventurousome bunch. Out of all the activities offered by Jollyboys Backpackers Hostel, they didn’t want to go white water rafting or rock climbing or to devil falls.
They wanted to do the river canoe.
I am not exaggerating when I say the other hostel guests thought we were wimps.
“You come all the way to Zambia and you go float on a river?” the 21-year-old Irish gap year boys said. “That’s so boring.”
I agreed with this.
But I was outnumbered.
So we got to the river and immediately realized what they called “canoes” in the ad copy were more akin to life rafts.
Instant Kayaks at best — if you really want to make it sound bougie.
Our guides blew up the life rafts, grouped us into pairs, and gave us the promised extensive training on how to be safe in the river: “Stay in single-file and don’t stop paddling. You might think you’re sinking, but you’re not.”
Right. Extensive.
Regardless, I was excited. It was my first time visitng anywhere in Africa. I was enamored by the Ernest Hemmingway quote on our hostel’s wall.
I never knew of a Morning in Africa when I woke up and was not happy.
And I was desperate to feel like that, to experience what he loved so much. To wear the linen and the hat with the brim. To get stained with sand and dirt.
I wanted to see and do everything. I wanted a thrill. I wanted to bask in the different-ness of it all.
For god’s sakes, there were women on the side of the road with babies strapped to their backs using colourful wraps. On the drive to the river we’d seen babboons and zebra — just hanging out, close enough to touch. No bars between us.
More. I didn’t want to sip it in. I wanted to gulp.
So into the river we plopped, paddles in hand. We started downstream. I was with a guide, KL and S behind me, K and Z in front of me.
It turned out, river was a strong word.
The water didn’t ripple. The current was practically nonexistent.
So we paddled. Our guide pointed out extremely interesting things including the stick with the bird on it and the waterberry trees that appeared to have been CTRL-V’d at regular intervals along the bank.
That dryness at the roof of my mouth blossomed. I should’ve been thrilled. But the Irish boys were right, this was boring. We’d come all this way — and this experience was available on Lake Ontario, one hundred meters from where I grew up.
When we saw the first hippo, I felt relief more than anything else.
Little pairs of ears peaking out of the water: one pair, then two, then three.
Finally.
Fun Facts About Hippos that I did not know when I felt relief.
They can weigh up to 6000 pounds.
They have poor eyesight, but a strong sense of smell.
“Hippos have trampled or gored people who strayed too near, dragged them into lakes, tipped over their boats, and bitten off their heads.”1
Our guide occasionally smacked the surface of the water with his paddle and this made the hippo heads rise up like a whack-a-mole game.
I assumed this was for our viewing pleasure.
And then we reached a narrower part of the river. There were tiny hippo ears sticking out on both sides.
These hippo ears were adorable, by the way. Screw cat ear headbands. Hippo ears are where its at.
“Stay in single file,” our guide said as he led us forward.
We floated into the neck of the river. On my left, a hippo stood up in the shallow water, its full face visible. I could see the flies flitting around its head. I got that thrill of excitement, watching it.
And then: a roar. From in front of me.
From Z and K’s boat.
No, not boat.
Raft.
A giant hippo jaw emerged from the water.
My first thought — wildly — was no fair they’ve got such a good view.
And then I realized the hippo wasn’t just beside their raft. It was freaking on their raft.
Two massive teeth the size of Lady Macebth’s daggers.
K leaned forward. Z jumped back.
It growled — roared. Its mouth was impossibly wide. Twice the height of the blow-up raft’s side.
It slid over the edge of the kayak. Its teeth pierced the underside. And then it slunk back.
Their raft dipped to one side. Oh god. The hippo was tipping it over.
I made eye contact with S, who was in the boat to my right. Her eyes were huge.
And then the hippo disappeared.
I am told I was yelling. “Oh my god! Oh my god!”
And at the same time, K shouted, “Fuck! We’re sinking! We’re sinking! I promise, we’re really sinking!”
The lead guide went, "paddle! Paddle!”
To my right, KL and S became Olympic goddamn rowers and shot 30 meters ahead in half a second.
Z and K were fully lopsided, one side of the boat drooping into the river.
“Everyone keep moving!” my guide said. “Keep going!”
It occurred to me our raft was about to pass the exact spot of the hippo attack.
We had to float over the angry, angry hippo.
So I paddled.
I paddled the hell out of that river.
I also — allegedly — shouted, “oh my god! oh my god! oh my god!” for the next three minutes.
(Pure libel. I am great in a crisis.)
When we were (presumably) far enough away (K and Z had successfully paddled their sinking ship out of the danger zone), we paused. K was submerged in water up to her shoulders. Z perched on the back of what was left of the raft.
Our guide plucked K out by her life jacket and placed her in his boat. Z rescued his phone and climbed into mine.
The hippo’d managed to bite the perfect center of the raft; exactly where Z’s arm had been. He’d jumped back to dodge it, but his right wrist was banged up.
He said it was the teeth.
We think it might’ve been the hide.
But perhaps we’ll give him that one.
Now, naturally you’d expect that to be the end of the canoe trip. But they still made us paddle down the rest of the river! And we passed two other hippo herds.
Every time a pair of ears disappeared we said, “where did it go? Where did it go?”
It felt like Jurassic Park. Or Jaws.
Let’s go with Jaws.
“Faster!” We shouted at each other. “Paddle faster! Stay together!”
And we formed the straightest single file line known to man. Straighter than the Swiss Guard on parade.
As it turns out, we’d chosen to visit Livingstone in a drought. That day, the water level on the river was extremely low. Hence, the lack of current. It was also — surprise! — a very fertile time for the hippos, with lots of babies out swimming.
(These are facts, I’d like to add, that would’ve been useful in the ad copy).
“Does that happen often?” I asked the guide later, while we ate lunch on the riverbank (I know! The riverbank?! Hippos can walk!)
“Never,” he said. “That’s a real African experience.”
So apparently the universe decided to give me what I wanted after all.
On the bright side, this life-or-death event rescued my reputation as a badass non-wuss adventurer. Word of the hippo attack spread rapidly through the hostel and that night on the sunset cruise (the boat was decidedly not inflatable, don’t worry) I was vindicated in front of the 21-year-old Irish Gap Year Boys.
Moral of the story — if you decide to go paddling down a river populated by pachyderms, check the last six months of weather reports, investigate local breeding patterns and never ever — ever — entrust your life to a glorified pool floatie.
Updates from me!
Currently counting down the days to my Oxford creative writing program! So excited to share the experience and what I learn with you!
I published another writing post this week about the conventional storytelling rules Jurassic World: Rebirth breaks. It, in fact, inspired this post. (Pay attention to the scene with the life raft).
And finally — another querying vlog is out today, following up from the writing conference live pitch vlog. It’s chaos - but good chaos?
I would love to hear how your writing is going: drafting, editing, querying or otherwise!
Thank you for being here. <3
Keep writing and don’t die!
Xo,
Nicole
https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/hippo-haven-107453678/