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Behind The Lens: Face-To-Face with Albert, the Nile Crocodile – Photos and text by Amos Nachoum, Big Animals Global Expeditions
The Okavango River winds through the heart of the Botswana wilderness, slow and steady, its surface masking count- less stories. When we arrived at the camp, we heard one—a tale about a boy who had disappeared near the village. Fear swept through the community, suspicion falling on Fat Albert, a massive crocodile haunting the delta. A search party set out, and the boy was found unharmed. The hunt for Fat Albert continued until the villagers located
biting through our suits. The visibility was murky, no more than 15–20 feet. Shadows and debris became questions: Was that him? Brad had taught us what to look for: the pale, jagged teeth above a crocodile’s lower jaw. Crocodiles can’t see well un- derwater but rely on sensory pits along their jaws to detect vibrations from hundreds of feet away. Fat Albert knew we were there long before we’d see him. Minutes stretched like hours as we moved slowly, scanning shadows. Then I saw it—a flash of white among the branches. I signaled to Massimo to keep his distance. Slowly,
I inched closer. Fat Albert’s massive outline emerged. His snout was scarred, grooves and ridges marking his age. His dark, unblinking eyes seemed fixed on something beyond me. His jagged teeth caught the dim light, a reminder of whose domain this was. Nile crocodiles conserve energy masterfully. If unprovoked, they can hold their breath for two hours by
him. Their elder made a rare decision: relocate Albert far from the village, sparing both the crocodile and the people. Fat Albert became more than a crocodile—he became a legend. I knew I had to find him. The Search Begins: For a week, my Italian filmmaker companion, Massimo, and I searched the Oka- vango Delta’s labyrinth of channels,
Albert the Nile Crocodile
guided by Brad, a crocodile expert. We spent eight hours daily navigating the waterways. The river alternated between wide, glassy stretches and narrow, reed-choked tunnels. In dense tributaries, machetes cleared our path back to the main flow. The river teemed with life, keeping us on edge. Once, Brad spotted bubbles. “Hippos!” he yelled. Before I could react, a hippo surged beneath the boat, shaking our flimsy alu- minum craft violently. Back on shore, Brad inspected the hull and found a fresh scar—a silent warning of how little control we had in this wild place. On the fifth day, it happened. While resting on the river- bank during lunch, the tall grass behind us began to shake. At first, we thought it was another hippo. Then Fat Albert emerged, sliding into the river with deliberate grace, as though the water had been waiting for him. Brad nodded. “That’s your croc.” Into Fat Albert’s Domain: When Fat Albert entered the river, he swam downcurrent. We hurried back into the skiff, following him. Brad guided us 30 meters upstream, where we anchored. Massimo and I slipped into the water, the cold
slowing their heart rate to just a few beats per minute. I didn’t dare get closer than a few feet, knowing his strike would be faster than I could react. I raised my camera, framing the shot. Behind him, Mas- simo hovered like a ghost, his silhouette adding scale to the image. Fat Albert’s presence pressed down on the river like an ancient weight. A Keeper of the River: We surfaced slowly, the current carrying us back to the skiff. Fat Albert drifted downstream, fading into the murk. Back at camp, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Fat Albert wasn’t just a predator; he was the river’s mem- ory, shaped by decades of survival—through floods, droughts, and human interference. The photograph wasn’t just an image of a crocodile but a story about resilience and balance.
The wild humbles you, showing how small you are in its enormity. Meeting Fat Albert was- n’t just encountering a crocodile; it was step- ping into the river’s rhythm, even for a moment.
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