By travel writer Anthea Rowan
The wildebeest migration is the largest and most spectacular wildlife phenomena on the planet: two million animals on the march along the same 1800 kilometre circuit every year in search of water and fresh grazing. They don’t move as one, there is no leader, it can look chaotic: straggling lines of lugubrious looking antelope, kicking up the dust, huffing, puffing, honking. Its not a tidy head-to-toe line; everybody’s all over the place. Some are going backwards as if they’ve lost their place in the line or their internal GPS is slightly off. But it’s a system that has sustained a species since the sixties.
Not many people know that. It isn’t millennia old, it is a strategy of survival forced by change: humans have played their part so have changing weather patterns.
Nor is it, as guide and Great Migration expert Richard Knocker says, “A continually forward motion. They go forward, back and to the sides, they mill around, they split up, they join forces, they walk in a line, they spread out, they hang around”.
But the general direction maintains as they make their way from Tanzania’s Serengeti – the Ndutu plains, the savannah that spills from the foothills of the Gol Mountains, through the Western Corridor and over the border into Kenya’s Masai Mara, accompanied by herds of zebra with whom they share an ancient partnership of symbiosis. The zebra’s keen vision, the wildebeest’s excellent hearing and better sense of smell mean that the two species literally look and listen out for each other. Just as well: the other groupies that tag along are predators who pick them off as they go: lions, cheetahs, hyenas.
January: The wildebeest move from the top of the Serengeti into the south around Ndutu.
But let’s start at the top of the year – and the beginning of this almighty circle of life: in January and February you’re likely to find this vast congregation of animals in the Southern Serengeti where, after the short rains, the plains are flush with the new green of fresh grass. This crowd need a lot of it: 4500 tons every day. The wildebeest are pickier eaters than zebra: they like new tender shoots. Zebra, on the other hand, aren’t nearly as fussy. They’ll eat the longer stuff and in ‘mowing’ it, give easier access to their travelling companions preferred menu.
February To March: It’s calving season, in anticipation of fresh grazing over the long rains which begin in April. Up to 10,000 young can join these herds every day.
And whilst they amble around these newly greened pastures of the southeastern Serengeti between January and March, grazing to their hearts’ content, almost half a million wildebeest calves are born. Everybody else has been at It too, so the calves are joined by baby zebra and impala, and the plains ring with the call of feckless wildebeest mothers who forgot where they saw their offspring last and the savannah wobbles on tiny newborn Bambi legs.The volcanic soils of these plains make for grass rich in minerals, which means nutritious milk for these hundreds of thousands of young.
April: As the rains start, the herds move slowly back up towards the north and west.
Through April the wildebeest could be untidily strung anywhere between the Moru Kopjes in the central Serengeti and that great dent in the earth that is the vast Ngorongoro Crater.
May: Well fed and fit – which means the rutting – or breeding – season is also well underway – the herds trail towards the central Serengeti in untidy lines that can stretch or miles.
From May, when the rain stops, with calves growing, the herds begin to move with new purpose. As the southern plains get drier, they head north and west where there’s better grazing and more water. Their annual march dictated by their next meal.
June and July: The wildebeest are amassing ready to cross the Grumeti River, one of two significant and dangerous obstacles in their path.
Whilst they all follow the same general route, they seem to be of the opinion that all roads lead to Rome, so some get there via the western corridor and the Grumeti River – where some of the biggest crocodiles in the world, up to 17 feet long, lie in wait for their annual wildebeest binge – before turning north. Others travel up through Loliondo, or via Seronera and Lobo.
If the urgency to find fresh grazing and water is whetted by drought, the wildebeest tend to travel faster and closer together. They mightn’t look like the brightest bunch, but research shows they possess something called ‘swarm intelligence’ where animals take an obstacle – the rivers – as one.
If conditions are good, in a year when the rains are generous, the herds spread out. There’s more to go around, everywhere, for everybody.
August: With the Grumeti behind them, these herds face the huge Mara river. Crossings are dramatic and often deadly.
In a dry year, the first thirsty wildebeest could reach the Mara River (which flows from the highlands in Kenya, through the grasslands of the Mara and the northern part of the Serengeti before it drains into Lake Victoria and is the only permanent water source in the whole ecosystem) in early July. But in a wet year, when they’ve been able to get a drink en route – the wildebeest mightn’t get there until mid August.
The Mara crossings are legendary. The wildebeest gather and deliberate, sometimes for days, milling about, grazing, pondering their next move as they regard the water with solemn stares as if they remember a hazard lurks but they can’t recall quite what.
But when whoever is charge of saying Go! gives the command, whole herds hurtle down steep banks cut with the tread of last year’s millions of hooves and plough through churning brown water with all their might to the other side.
Hundreds are taken by crocs, if you’re watching you might witness the tussle before the poor wildebeest, or zebra, sinks to a watery grave. Thousands more drown, dumping the equivalent of ten blue whales worth of meat into the river. Bloated carcasses gather on river bends and in bottlenecks and feed the fish and the crocs who can’t be bothered to catch their own fresh meat – a sort of macabre bush version of Deliveroo.
September feels peaceful after the torrid river crossings, herds gather mostly in the Mara. By October, grazing is getting thin, soon the wildebeest will be on the move again in search of greener pastures
Out on the other side, the wildebeest spend September and October on the grassy plains of the Mara in Kenya, regrouping and collecting themselves – there’s science to suggest glands in their hooves secrete pheromones which means herds can track one another – before they brave the journey back over the treacherous Mara River towards the southern Serengeti.
November: If the weather does what it’s meant to do – the welcome short rains begin and the Great Migration begins to track back into the northern Serengeti towards fresh grazing.
River crossings are as dramatic a wildlife spectacle as herds of newborn calves are a moving one: that’s the magic of the Wildebeest Migration: it writes a new story every step of the way, in a new part of the stunning wild spaces it troops through, ribboning the savannah with a tale that tells of a march of time. This annual pilgrimage is millennia old.
December: The end of the year sees the Wildebeest, females heavy now with unborn babies, heading back to where they started, towards the new tender new growth-grass in the south.
If the Great Migration were a race, it’d be about the charge to find food and water, survival of the fittest, not the fastest. It’s a relay, it goes round and round. A cycle of the species, the circle of life: birth, death and everything in between.
Where to stay to witness the drama:
In Kenya
In the Musiara area of the Mara slap bang between the Mara Triangle Conservancy and the Masai Mara National Reserve, and right on the edge of the Mara River, is little Roca River Camp. Family owned and hosted by seasoned safari vets, Ross and Caro (Ro + Ca – gettit?), Roca looks like the campaign safari camping days of old with big old khaki tents and camping basins to splash your the dust off your face, which makes you feel as if you’re an intrepid pioneer in these parts – quietly, careful not to leave a tread – but with all the bells and whistles that ring to comfort.
The camp is perfectly, perfectly situated – between the Mara River and the Musiara Plains – so whichever way you look, whatever you’re holding in your hand, coffee at breakfast time, an icy G&T as the sun goes down – you’ve got a view to enjoy. Hardest decision of the day: which one to watch? You’re in the middle of the wild action without feeling as if you’re being crowded out by the human kind. There’s a special kind of skill involved in this: keeping you central yet keep you separate: we only saw seven other cars when we were there.
And when you’re not out game driving, when you’re not quietly watching the view, there’s a heap of stuff to get stuck into to burn off calories (the grownups) and energy (the littlies): boule, badminton, archery, spear-throwing, board games and cards. Oh. And walks and cultural stuff. Nobody said they were bored. Not once. Not a single fractious small child. Not one grumpy husband.
In Central Mara, Offbeat Mara, in the Mara North Conservancy, MNC, where traffic to this popular wildlife space is restricted so you’ll often feel like you’ve got the bush to yourself, is the place to go. The MNC sprawls for a staggering 74,000 acres and is only open to member camps. It also has a very strict policy on game viewing etiquette. Not only will you feel as if you have got the bush to yourself, there’s none of the vehicular argy-bargy as a dozen landcruisiers try to jostle for best viewing position over a kill, say.
You are very close here to the Masai communities who call this part of Kenya home so you’ll get the chance to visit a real live Masai homestead, redolent with the tribe’s history, where colour tells a story: men’s skins daubed with red-for-bravery ochre and women strung with white-for-purity-and-peace beads.
If you fancy going – well – fancier, head to Offbeat Ndoto, just four tents. The newest in Offbeat’s portfolion, Ndoto is Glamping on steroids. Seriously luxey, seriously private. Gather your wits, watch the wild world and listen to the conversational burble of the Olare Orok River as it bubbles by.
In the South East of the park, if it’s Safari pedigree and five star lux you’re after, Cottars 1920s is the place to go. These guys have been here for generations – clue in the name – and they know their bush lore as well as how to host in the wild. This old dame of the safari world has had a little nip, tuck, tweak lately – but like the best sort of facelift, it’s been elegantly done: even more glamorous than it was before – yet still as quiet. That takes skill.
Something smaller? Head for Enkewa where the tents have been pitched to sync to the land’s magnetic field which will aid better sleep – don’t you love the attention to that particular somnolent detail? Not all camps are owner-hosted, Enkewa is. And Jose is perfect. A charming raconteur and an operator with a fine eye and a softly-softy tread. Solar powered, a kitchen the only uses organic ingredients and collaborative ties with their Masai neighbours – operators like these leave the shallowest footprint. Shout out to the Masai guiding team here – this is home for home for these guys, they know their stuff and – better still – they know this place like the back of their hands.
Then, right at the top of the Mara, is the award winning, super-glam, possibly the most-glam-in-the-Mara, Enonkishu Conservancy, a partnership between the Maasai families who own land in the area, way off the beaten track, The Wild Hill, a five room hideaway tucked onto the edge of the Kileleoni Hill, the highest point in the Maasai Mara, where the whole Mara spills at your feet. The living grass roof of this place is only the tip of an astonishing story of rejuvenation, regeneration and hope.
In Tanzania
Cherero Camp – part of the Kantabile Afrika collection – is in the mid-west of the Serengeti, where the herds head gently north with newborns. They speak to a camp that follows the herd – but without following the herd if you get my drift. The camp is tiny, just six tents, and takes it name from the colour little Fischer’s lovebirds which flit through the bush in north and central Tanzania. The camp takes inspiration from the great migration itself – mindful of its water consumption since, as they remind us, the search for precious water is the story of the Serengeti. Also – and I love this – no mini fridges in your room. Nothing to detract from the hum and buzz and whisper and song of Mother Nature outside. Listen out for those birds …
Alex Walker’s Serian’s Serengeti South is a mobile camp. From mid-December until after the rains in May, it pitches itself in the Ngorongoro Conseravtion area, near on the southernmost point of the Serengeti’s short grass plains, where those wildebeest babies are being born. It’s an incredible space of new birth and new green life. But it’s also incredible for the extraordinary-other glimpses of wildlife and wild living it gifts: you can hunt with the Hadabze here; you can see the Rift Valley tip into Lake Eyasi from a fly-camp high up on the Seketeti escarpment. You might catch sight of illusive painted dogs. But can I see the Wildebeeste Migration I hear you ask? Yes, of course: You’ll see it as it sets off on one of the greatest journeys on the planet. And you’ll see it as it ‘comes home’. And you can walk here! Oh the joy of stretching legs cramped in a Land Cruiser for hours: you can walk for miles whilst somebody shares the secret spells of this magical bush space.
Lamai Safari Camp is perched on the edge of the Kogakuria Kopje’s – one of the iconic rocky outcrops that punches its way out of the never-ending plains that spill as far as the eye can see hear – great waves of grassy seas. This part of the Serengeti, with its lush, rolling grassland and riverine forested watercourses, is the hub around which the wildebeest migration mills before it braves the Mara River just to the north, as if the animals were gathering wits and courage to face those huge crocs. I love this place, how it hunkers down politely so as not to steal’s the view’s thunder. I love the plump rock hyrax that scuttle around the nooks and crannies cast by stone to find the shade or a sunny spot depending on the time of day. I love that I can lie on my bed on a breathless afternoon and see nothing for miles except the bush and the sky.
