I didn’t expect the silence to be the first thing I’d notice. As we crossed the ferry to the northern side of Murchison Falls National Park, the engines cut out and the boat drifted in still water. The river stretched wide, with papyrus along the banks and distant hills baked in late morning sun. A fish eagle called from somewhere behind us, but otherwise the park waited quietly. Then the ramp dropped, and we drove off the ferry into a world that felt entirely its own.
The game drive began on a dirt track lined with dry grass and acacia trees. Our guide, Moses, had grown up just outside the park and had been working here for over a decade. He didn’t talk much at first. He kept his eyes forward and his left hand resting on the side mirror. When he spoke, it was quick and certain.
“There’s a Jackson’s hartebeest up ahead. See the dark mark on the back? That’s how you know.”
I didn’t see it at first. Then the shape moved, and I saw a tall, slender, with a curved horn and a coat the color of dried clay. One hartebeest became three. They stood at the edge of a clearing, flicking their ears and watching us pass. I raised my camera, but the light was wrong and the photo didn’t catch the space between us. In that moment, I didn’t care.
A few kilometers later, we stopped again. Giraffes. At least six of them, moving slowly across the grass. Their heads bobbed above the treetops, legs stepping in slow motion. They were so quiet, it was hard to tell how they got from one place to the next. One male crossed the road in front of us. He turned his head slightly, paused, and then kept going. The pattern on his neck was pale and full of sharp edges, like bark or river lines. I hadn’t seen anything like it before.
By midday, the sun had pushed the animals into shade. We parked near a cluster of fig trees and watched a family of warthogs trot through the underbrush. A herd of elephants appeared on the horizon, then faded behind a line of bushes. We stayed there until the heat made the air shimmer above the road.
Later that afternoon, we took a boat upriver toward the falls. The boat was wide and flat, with benches along the sides and a roof to block the sun. The river narrowed as we moved upstream. The guide pointed out crocodiles sunning themselves on the banks and pods of hippos half-submerged in the water. Some opened their mouths wide as we passed, but most ignored us completely.
Buffalo came down to drink in slow, heavy movements. A herd of elephants was already there, two adults and a calf standing in the shallows. The guide turned off the engine and let us drift. We floated past in silence. The calf sprayed water with its trunk, then stepped backward in surprise. One of the adults moved forward, blocking its view of us, as if to say enough.
The falls appeared in the distance, a white slice cut through dark rock. As we got closer, the sound built slowly, a low rush that turned into a roar. The water forced itself through a gap no wider than a school hallway, then exploded into a wide basin below. Mist rose from the rocks and settled on our skin.
That night, we sat around a fire at the lodge. The sky was full of stars, and the air had cooled just enough to make the fire feel necessary. I thought about the giraffes and how they walked like the land already belonged to them. I thought about the quiet that had started the day and how it never fully went away. Even with lions rumored to be nearby, even with hippos grunting near the riverbank, the park never shouted. It just continued.
Murchison Falls didn’t rush to impress. It gave space. It gave enough time for you to look again. And when you finally saw what was in front of you, it stayed with you long after you left.
