Zambia's Luangwa Valley; one of Africa's great wild places.
Life here experiences two seasons vastly different.
The wet and the dry.
And the dry season here is one of the toughest imaginable.
Almost seven months
with barely any rain and rising temperatures.
Animals have to cope with vanishing waterholes
and blistering heat.
This year is harsher than ever.
Global weather changes are disrupting seasons everywhere.
Creatures large and small
clash in competition for food and space.
Each day it gets harder to survive,
but there are winners too.
The dry season provides a bounty for those ready to exploit it.
25.000 hippos call the Luangwa River home.
The largest population of hippos anywhere in the world.
Groups, known as pods, spread out along the river.
It's still deep enough for them to comfortably submerge
and for now there's plenty of space
to stay out of each other's way.
They constantly communicate.
Honking calls set off a string of conversation,
called a chorus chain,
that travels all the way along the river.
It's a way of amicably letting other hippos know
who's who and where pod boundaries lie.
A dominant male, known as a beach master.
He's over 20-years-old
and controls a territory along 100 metres of this river.
His pod is made up of about 30 hippos, mostly females and young
and a few younger males who he tolerates
as long as they're no competition.
The youngest member of the pod is a month-old calf.
She weighed nearly 45 kilos at birth
and on her diet of rich milk she's growing fast.
But she's been born at a tough time of year.
The valley is drying, her river sanctuary shrinking.
It's mid-July.
It hasn't rained for two months.
The dry season has set in, but it's yet to take its iron grip.
Over 700kms long and 100kms wide, the Luangwa Valley
in Zambia is the tail end of Africa's Great Rift Valley.
What makes it so special is its patchwork of habitats.
Fertile grasslands are flanked by shady woodlands
and dotted with lush lagoons.
It's an intricate network of neighbourhoods,
providing homes for an incredible variety of life.
At the heart of it all is the Luangwa River,
one of the largest undammed rivers in all of Africa.
It's a lifeline in the valley.
At this time of year,
the river is already half its wet season size.
In a drying landscape it draws animals from miles around.
Hundreds of species depend on it for their survival.
Every dry season here is harsh.
It can be seven months from May to November
with practically no rain and soaring temperatures.
But this year the drought is even more extreme than usual,
it's an El Nino year.
This global weather phenomenon is triggered by changes
in warm water currents in the Pacific Ocean.
It's far-reaching effects span the planet,
and in Africa they can intensify dry conditions.
The Luangwa River meanders dramatically.
As it snakes through the valley, soft sand is eroded
from the outer edge of a bank and deposited on the inside.
Over time, these big bends get cut off leaving oxbow lakes,
an echo of the river's old course.
These lagoons are oases of life and one of the reasons
the Luangwa Valley has such an abundance of wildlife.
Some lagoons have already dried up,
but this one is big, nearly a kilometre long.
And there's still plenty of water here.
Nile Cabbage grows all over Africa's wetlands,
it's one of the most prolific water plants in the world.
It floats on the surface,
its roots dangling in the depths below.
It's a haven for aquatic insects.
Larvae live among the submerged roots and adult flea beetles
emerge in their thousands to feed on the succulent leaves.
They in turn feed hundreds of birds.
Jacanas have proportionally the longest toes
of any bird in the world.
Nearly 20cm tip-to-tip, front to back,
two-thirds of its body length.
They spread the bird's weight
as it tiptoes across the carpet of vegetation without sinking.
Jacanas cannot delve deep with their short beaks,
but they've learnt to take advantage
of another lagoon resident.
The hippo is a mobile feeding station,
vegetation lifted out of the water give Jacanas access
to invertebrates hidden in the root system
they otherwise couldn't reach.
And the hippo doesn't seem to mind having hitchhikers.
This hippo is an old bull.
He's living a quiet life away from the noise and commotion of
the main pods in the river, but his lagoon won't last forever.
It's the end of July and midday temperatures
are beginning to creep above 25 degrees C.
More water evaporates everyday.
Now it's still deep enough to submerge in
but the hippo will eventually be forced to move.
Many of the valley's plains are old, silted up lagoons
formed when the course of the river has changed.
They're a testament to the dynamic landscape.
The soil here is fertile; washed down from volcanic hills
in the north, and nutritious grass feeds hundreds of mouths.
Puku and impala have small mouths and flexible lips
that are perfectly suited to nibbling short grass.
But they don't have the plains to themselves.
Grass makes up half a baboon's diet,
but they feed very differently from antelope.
They use dexterous fingers to pick stems and pull up rhizomes.
Baboons and antelopes compete for resources,
but the extra eyes and ears make sharing worthwhile.
So many grazers attract hungry predators.
But baboons have excellent eyesight
and the ability to get a good vantage point up a tree,
and antelope have acute hearing and a strong sense of smell.
Between them they've got the bases covered.
All benefit from each other's alarm calls.
A lion on patrol has no hope of an ambush
once the bush telegraph begins.
(Monkeys calling)
Even Africa's giants make use of the fertile plains.
The tip of an elephant's trunk
is as sensitive as a human finger.
Picking grass a blade at a time is a slow way of
collecting the 130 kilos of food they'll need to eat in a day.
But in the dry season every little helps.
This calf is only two-years-old
but already he's walked hundreds of kilometres.
An elephant herd must keep moving, if they stay in
one place for too long they'll annihilate their food supply.
The valley's woodlands are made up of over 300 species of trees.
All with their own strategies
to survive the crippling dry season.
Groves of Ebony Trees are never far from the river;
their long roots tapping into the groundwater.
The small surface area of an Acacia Tree's tiny leaflets
helps minimize moisture loss
so they can grow further from water.
But the most striking adaption is found in a Mopane forest.
Every year it transforms into an autumnal wonderland.
It's the beginning of August, still early in the dry season.
But this woodland is several kilometres from the river,
water is scarce.
Each Mopane Tree cuts off the supply of moisture
and nutrients to its leaves.
Without the green pigment, chlorophyll, leaves turn golden
and drop just like a Northern Hemisphere fall.
The carpet of fallen leaves
creates a whole new habitat on the forest floor.
Patterns in the sand give their creator
the sweet, common name of doodle bug.
But there's nothing cute about them.
Less than half the size of your little fingernail these insects
are the larval form of a lacewing
and they are voracious predators.
Huge pincer-like jaws are vicious weapons
perfect for grabbing prey.
Their hunting prowess has given rise
to their other common name: antlions.
Each of these miniature killers digs a tiny pit
about five centimetres deep.
It's carefully constructed
so the sides are at a critical angle.
They'll collapse at the slightest disturbance.
All he needs to do now is wait.
Ants are found in every habitat in the world, except the poles.
And here in the tropics can make-up, by weight,
as much as 25% of all animal life.
There are plenty of them and they're ideal prey.
This ant's making a heroic bid for freedom.
But it's not easy to escape an antlion's cunning.
Flicking sand destabilizes the pit wall.
Injecting venom paralyzes its prey
and enzymes digest the ant from the inside out.
The antlion sucks its meal dry
as though drinking juice through a straw.
And when it's done, it throws the empty carton away.
But one man's trash is another man's treasure.
White-browed Sparrow-weavers hoover up anything
they can find in the leaf litter; from insects to seeds.
They forage together in flocks but at this time of year
food is harder to find and they're getting
increasingly intolerant of their neighbours.
Squabbles are short-lived.
These gregarious birds are a model of community living.
In fact, they have one of the most unusual social systems
in the bird world.
When it's time to breed in a few months,
an alpha pair will be the only birds in the group to lay eggs.
The rest of the flock will help to rear the brood.
It's a bit like a tiny wolf pack.
Each sparrow-weaver has its own nest for roosting in
but the whole gang helps build them all.
Nests may look messy but they're in a constant state of repair,
a home improvement project that is never quite finished.
All the nests are on the same side of a tree,
a carefully selected position so they get the right amount of
morning sun and are sufficiently sheltered from the wind.
A double entrance is a security feature,
in an emergency, you can always nip out the back door.
It's now the end of August.
Four months of unrelenting dry.
In the river, it's getting harder for the hippo pod
to find water deep enough to submerge.
Their exposed backs are too much for Oxpeckers to resist.
These little birds eat anything they can glean
from a host mammal: ticks, earwax, dead skin.
Having parasites removed does the hippos a favour,
but Oxpeckers don't stop there.
They intentionally keep wounds open, feeding on living flesh.
When the pecking gets too much
you have to master the art of a tail flick.
These pesky birds don't seem to mind taking a shower.
If all else fails,
a dunking dislodges even the most stubborn hangers-on.
No matter, there's always another hippo to hop onto.
And this time of year the dry season has really taken hold.
The hippos' irritation
is worsened by lowering water levels.
Less water means less room.
Neighbouring pods get squashed closer together.
Beach masters start to get twitchy about other males
cozying up to their harems.
Tensions are rising, and when rival male gets in his way
the dominant male loses his cool.
Mum must keep her baby close.
Three tonnes of angry hippo
could easily trample a tiny calf.
It's only a small disagreement, this time,
but it's a sure sign of fireworks to come.
The river will only get lower and the hippos will be squeezed
even more tightly together.
But for some, the shrinking river brings opportunity.
Exposed banks are the perfect nesting site
for White-fronted Bee-eaters.
Each colony is divided into several clans,
extended families that maintain close relationships.
Pairs mate for life and share the task
of incubating their eggs.
A single Bee-eater can eat 250 insects in a day.
And each brings food to their partner on nest duty.
But in this society, cooperation goes one step further.
Not all birds breed every year and those who don't have a brood
to raise act as helpers for those who do.
But there's always one who doesn't play by the rules.
Stealing someone else's catch
is an easy way to score a quick meal.
But it's a sure way to ruffle feathers.
Encroaching on a rival clan's territory can result in bouts
of beak-wrestling that lasts for several minutes.
But a bonus of clan-living is that there's always
someone around to break up a fight.
It's the beginning of September, rain is a distant memory,
and midday temperatures have started to rise above 30C.
The lagoons are shrinking fast.
The old bull stubbornly stays put, but time is running out.
He'll hang on as long as he can but he'll be forced to move
when the water vanishes completely.
Warthogs take advantage of the fresh mud.
Wallowing helps dislodge parasites but it is also one of
the most efficient ways to keep cool in rising temperatures.
Warthogs are distant relatives of the hippo
and like their cousins have no sweat glands.
Covering their bare skin in mud can lower their body temperature
by as much as two degrees.
This dwindling lagoon is one of only a few in the valley
still to hold water.
It's a magnet for wildlife.
Impala must drink daily in the dry season
when they get little moisture from their food.
They come to the lagoon at the hottest and safest part
of the day when most predators are lying up in the shade.
It's still a nerve-wracking time.
For the hefty buffalo, which can weigh up to a tonne,
the trek across the mud to water can be treacherous.
The mud is deep and sticky enough to trap them.
But the desperate desire to quench their thirst
drives them on.
A passel of catfish is already trapped.
The hippo has unwittingly cut off their escape.
The water is too shallow to cover them completely;
they struggle to keep their gills submerged.
Marabou storks have spotted the movement.
Known as undertaker birds, these bizarre-looking,
gangly storks are usually scavengers.
But they are always ready to exploit
any opportunity for a meal.
Their 30cm beaks aren't built to deal with prey like this,
however.
Their clumsy eating habits have attracted another opportunist.
A juvenile fish eagle.
This is a chance for him to practise a tactic that will
stand him in good stead for the future, stealing food.
Marabou storks are a metre and a half tall and have the
largest wingspan of any land bird in the world,
well over three metres.
They are formidable opponents.
But the fsh eagles are armed with razor-sharp talons
and they're getting good at using them.
There's no honour among thieves.
The eagle siblings each try to steal the other's stolen meals.
Fish eagles are pirates through and through.
Even a parent bird isn't above pinching food
from its own offspring.
It's a tough world out there and the sooner
that lesson is learnt, the better.
Out on the plains, the dry season is tightening its grip.
It's mid-September and the ground is baked hard.
The elephant family is on its way to the river.
Baby is still largely reliant on his mother's milk;
he'll suckle for at least another two years.
He needs to drink 12 litres a day, and as it gets drier,
his mom will be under huge pressure
to produce enough milk.
They've drunk at this stretch of the river many times before.
But this time, they're not alone.
On the other side of the river is a second herd.
They've been foraging far away on the escarpment
but there's nothing left there to drink.
In the wet season, the mighty Luangwa runs wide and deep,
a barrier separating the east bank from the west.
But now, there is only ankle-deep water between them.
The two families size each other up.
Elephant's trunks are packed with millions of
olfactory sensors, and they have five-times more
scent receptor genes than humans.
In fact, they have the best sense of smell
in the animal kingdom,
and can recognize individuals by their odour.
The new elephants are actually old friends.
They haven't seen each other for months
but as the old adage says 'elephants never forget'.
Touching trunks is like a handshake.
And resting your trunk on another
is an elephant's way of hugging.
Elephant friendships can last a lifetime.
At the White-fronted bee-eater colony,
newcomers are not so welcome.
Each year during the dry season, carmine bee-eaters
travel hundreds of kilometres from South Africa, The Congo
and Tanzania to gather in the Luangwa Valley to breed.
These are the vanguard, a few hundred birds.
But over the next month, thousands will arrive.
The little white fronts are outnumbered and outweighed;
but they're not taking this invasion lying down.
It's imperative that they defend their burrows
from these red devils.
At last, an uneasy truce is reached.
The Carmines can stay, but they must dig their own nest holes.
The sand is easy to excavate if you've got the right tools.
Their curved beaks work like pickaxes, and fused toes
and strong claws make their feet perfect for digging.
Stiff tail feathers brace against the cliff wall
as they dig, helping them keep their balance.
They'll tunnel two metres or more into the sand
to create a cool, safe place to lay eggs.
But the Carmines will have their work cut out for them;
gathering food at the hottest, harshest time of year.
It's the end of September; there's not been a drop of rain
for over five months
and temperatures peak at 37C each day.
This year, El Nino conditions in the Pacific have caused
a drought that is even more fierce than usual.
Waterholes have vanished almost a month earlier than last year.
At the last of the lagoons, thick mud is all that remains.
Butterflies gather to take in minerals
and suck the last of the moisture from the ground.
But behind them other winged-creatures arrive.
Vultures.
Their eyesight is so good they can spot a carcass
from several kilometres away.
The sticky mud has claimed a buffalo.
On the wing, vultures look out for signs
that others have found a meal.
One or two landing to feed
sets off a chain-reaction and dozens more arrive in minutes.
A large gaggle of vultures
can strip a carcass bare within an hour.
Swallowing nearly a kilo of meat each,
a fifth of their weight, in a sitting.
Their stomach acid is so corrosive it kills most
bacteria, making them immune to toxins in decaying flesh.
The hippo's lush lagoon home is gone.
There's nothing left but a muddy death-trap.
If he stays he could suffer the same fate as the buffalo.
He has no choice but to take his chances at the river where
confrontation with aggressive, dominant males is inevitable.
He'll have to fight or die.
The dry season is far from over.
It could be two months or more
before the valley sees rain again.
The young elephant will struggle to keep up with the herd as it
needs to travel further and further to find enough food.
But new opportunities will present themselves to some.
As animals congregate around the last of the resources;
it's good times for predators.
There are always winners and losers in the Luangwa Valley.