I assisted with the Round Square Junior Conference this year, and was humbled to be asked to be a keynote speaker. I chose to talk on the wonder of eggs, using a turtle dove (live) that one of my students had given me for "show and tell" as well as twelve ostrich eggs which the student blew, painted and then ate as an interactive ending.
The natural world is full of different species that tell incredible stories. It is one of the reasons why we have chosen your baraza group names – each one tells a story of the origin of a name. To quote Dr Ian McCallum, a South African environmentalist who pioneered the idea of what is called ecological consciences, Have we forgotten That every creature is within us carried by tides of earthly blood and that we named them? We named the different creatures of the earth because we were inspired by them. Understanding the natural world created a sense of wonder. I want you to do me a favour to before I start this talk. Close your eyes. I want you to try and think back to when you were the youngest version of yourself. Now with that picture of you in your head, I want you to try and place yourself into the earliest memory you can conjure up of being inspired by nature. Maybe it was seeing a butterfly land on a flower in your garden. Maybe it was the feeling of freshly cut grass under your toes. Maybe it was the flapping of a bird that made you squint into the sky. You can open your eyes. For me, the furthest back that I can remember involved one of these little birds. I was fascinated by how something so small, could travel so far just to avoid a cold winter. I would trace my finger on an old globe that we had at home, marvelling at the endurance a bird weighing about 20 grams (that’s the same as about 4 grapes). Now it is common knowledge that Swallows are migratory birds, but even up until the 1900s, people were not entirely sure where they went. It was only in 1911 when a British doctor put a ring on the leg of a swallow that had for years frequented his barn in Staffordshire, England that the answer became apparent. He wrote on the ring “England: Aug 1911”. Happily, a South African farmer noticed the unusual ring on the swallow’s leg once it had completed its almost 9000 km migration for our summer and fashioned a similar ring: “South Africa March ‘12”. And why all that effort – for this: (show an egg) When David Attenborough was asked what is the most incredible of nature’s creations, he responded that “the egg is perhaps Life’s most perfect creation.” Which brings me to the title of this talk: The Wonder of Eggs. They come in all shapes, sizes and textures. The largest is the Ostrich egg weighing 1.5 kg, while the smallest in South Africa is he Cape Penduline Tit with an egg that weighs between 1 and 2 grams. The Emu egg is beautifully textured and or an egg that is simply beautiful from a bird as common as a crowned lapwing. Most of us take eggs for granted, they are something that we have alongside our breakfast, fried in a pan, folded into an omelette or scrambled into a yellow deliciousness on toast. Crack egg But eggs are far more complicated than just a shell, yolk and white. I mentioned David Attenborough earlier, and since he is simply a legend, let me play you a clip that gives you an idea of just how complicated the process of making an egg really is: So which end emerges first? I’m going to give you four clues which might provide the answer (it is not just a matter of physics). To understand this, you need to know a little more about why I think that eggs are a miracle creation: Let’s take a look at one of my favourite birds and an egg that I feel is simply a work of art. You have been watching it in the bottom corner of this presentation. African Jacanas (or lily-trotters as they are colloquially known) have these huge, long toes that help to spread their weight across the lily pads where they find their home. They nest among these pads as well, raising a clutch of chicks which they transport rather awkwardly under their wings as you can see here. Like many other water birds, Jacanas build nests which are flooded with water at least a few times during their incubation. So, the eggshell has a waterproof cover that protects the egg from water, but still allows it to breathe. However, there is bacteria that travels in the water, and this can be a real hazard for the young embryos as they do not have the immune system that the adults possess. The first takeaway from this is that yes, eggs breathe. The second is that eggs have a substance called SAM (shell accessory material) in their shells. This is an obvious protection to the outside world. There is another line of defence, and this is the albumen. The albumen is the clear white stuff that surrounds the yolk. It works as a physical and biological barrier. Think of it this way: if bacteria were to penetrate the shell, the albumen would be like a vast desert that prevents the microbe from getting to the yolk. There is nothing to sustain life. It does, however, have more than 100 microbial proteins (well those identified so far). And some of these are the building blocks for modern medicine. So, then, the albumen provides protection. The inside of an egg, therefore, looks something like this. And then we get to the third take-away: the yolk. This is essentially the food for the embryo. Large yolks provide more food, so the chicks that hatch from these are fully feathered and able to search for food themselves shortly after hatching (like chickens). Eggs with smaller yolks produce chicks that are weak and defenceless, their parents needing to spend a lot of energy to feed their offspring, like doves. And so here comes your fourth take-away. So then, which side is laid first? Well, it is the blunt end. This is because the embryo needs to have its head at the blunt end of the egg. And all of the processes in the embryo’s development ultimately led to that singular positioning. But how can an egg that is strong enough to protect a chick from the outside world, also be weak enough for the chick to break it? Although the egg looks the same from the outside, it actually gets thinner as the chick absorbs calcium from the inner shell to build its bones. The calcium also creates an egg tooth that allows the chick to break through the shell. As they some birds break out of their shell, they communicate with each other in order to motivate the clutch to break out of their own individual shells. I think that is all pretty miraculous. And there is more to it than that. I am sure that most of you have heard about cuckoos. These are birds that don’t raise their own chicks, but rather sneakily lay their egg in another birds nest, getting them to do the parenting for the cuckoo. Cuckoos are not the only ones who are these brood parasites – coucals, whydahs and indigobirds to the same thing. What is incredible, though, is that these dodgy birds are able to lay eggs that are incredibly similar to those of their host. And somehow, once the persistent chirping for food from their surrogate chick as forced them to experience a near “death by exhaustion” feeding regime, the adults don’t seem to notice that there is something amiss in their offspring. And then there is the shape of eggs. There are a whole range of different factors as to why some eggs are rounder than others, but the most fascinating story must come from the North American Murre. This bird roosts on the edge of cliffs - a very perilous place to try and incubate eggs into chicks. So, they have adapted to lay the most conical shaped eggs of all the birds, which means that instead of rolling off the nest, the eggs tend to rotate back to the centre of the nest. Ingenious. And then there is the timing of birds and when they lay their eggs. And this is where our eggs begin to tie into the theme of the conference. Many birds are to schedule the laying of their eggs with the arrival of their food supply. Many insectivorous birds, for instance, will ensure that their eggs hatch at the same time as caterpillars in their ecosystem also hatch so that there is an abundance of food available. I wonder how climate change will influence that sense of timing. Reptile eggs are equally susceptible to changes in temperatures. Warm unlike the chromosomic differences that determine male and female in in mammal offspring, the sex of turtle and crocodile egg are determined by temperature. For reptiles that bury their eggs into the sand, a difference in depth means a difference in temperature. If this crocodile egg was buried at a depth of a comfortable 32-33 degrees Celsius, it would hatch as a male. Anything more would create a female. The same is true for sea turtles. So, the increase in global temperature as a result of climate change can cause increased temperature in eggs. A 2022 study on American Green Turtle hatchlings of the same year concluded and ultra-biased towards female population. 99% of the most recent green turtle hatchlings were female. So, eggs are amazing. They seem to be like us humans, incredibly complicated. They are resilient, but fragile. Sensitive but tough. And to see what one of the most impressive eggs is like first hand, we are giving each baraza group an ostrich egg. You need to work out how to get it open, and you will be able to decorate the shell as an award for something in your group who has been simply amazing. Perhaps it will make you and them remember how, just like our planet, eggs have a hardcore fragility, but if we understand them, just like we understand how to look after our planet, they can bring life (or at the very least give us a good meal).
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I was asked to put pen to paper and present something around my experiences of running an English Department for the Independent Examination Board's English Conference. This is what I came up with (I hope it makes sense without the narrative):
This isn’t the sort of statement that one should be making lightly, and I am not, so hear me out.
In the past month we have experienced a plethora of breakages in our household. First it was the toaster, then the microwave and now the vacuum cleaner. Each have ended their short lives in a plume of burnt electrics, their mechanical spirits wafting off to wherever these things go after they are spent too soon (and after their warranty has lapsed). We purchased all three of these items at the same shop on the same day, and considering their time of death has been so close to each other, something is definitely amiss. I duly carted each of their corpses to my workshop in the vain hope that my toolbox would be able to resuscitate some life back into their circuit boards. This was where the first problem surfaced. I couldn’t even open them up. I found that most of my tools were not suited for the job, with the usual Phillips or flat screw heads being replaced with star designs that I would assume are standard issue on something like the Millennium Falcon. Non-plussed, I have managed to source the correct socket bits from the local Hardware Store, but then found that the placement of said screws are always in some place inaccessible with a conventional spanner. I have therefore managed to make adaptations to some of the tools on my Victorinox Multitool which are thin enough to find their way towards the screws that I need to undo. All the while, I have the distinct impression that someone is deliberately trying to force me not to take this thing apart. Anyway, I managed to get to the inner working of all three appliances. I was even able to find the fault with each one as well. But when it came to sourcing new parts and fixing it, I found that despite being only a few years old, none of them are still being manufactured as their current model. There parts are obsolete and no longer available. They are rubbish. Throw away. I never had this problem when I was a teenager taking apart my parents’ broken appliances and putting them back together (with the satisfaction of their working again by the way). And this got me thinking – how did we get to the point where quality and longevity are no longer the cornerstone of a sales pitch or a product. Things are no longer built to work. They are made to look flashy and sophisticated as they take up their space on a shelf in the kitchen, but not to last longer than a few years. And it is not that the technology has changed. The microwave is the same basic design that we had in my parents’ house some twenty years ago. The only things that have changed are instead of a plastic finish that always became grubby with fingerprints or an analogue dial, there is now a pseudo-aluminium finish with a digital interface. Oh, and the fact that my parents had their microwave for about fifteen years when mine has barely made it to five. And everything seems to be like that. I challenge anyone to show me a mobile phone which works for longer than five years, or even a car that is still running smoothly once it has passed the 100 000 km mark. A case in point is the BMW which my mother recently acquired that has been in and out of the dealership with some computer defect that tells the engine it is bust when in actual fact it is running smoothly. I made the mistake of opening up the bonnet once to see why it wouldn’t start and I was greeted with what looked like the back of my fridge, not the top of an internal combustion engine. At least her car was built to last longer than my microwave, vacuum cleaner and toaster. She should get ten years out of it. Twelve if she really looks after it (and this witchcraft computer issue somehow resolves itself). When, as people, did we settle for such mediocrity? It wasn’t always like this. My father has a car at home which has been in the family for years. It still runs and it was built in 1904. When one opens up the bonnet, one can see exactly how the whole thing works. Conventional tools are used to fix it when it needs repairs (which is not often), and with some wire, conventional screwdrivers and a shifting spanner, most problems can be solved. Actually, I could repair almost anything on that car with my Victorinox Multitool. Given, the car hasn’t got seats that can recline to any conceivable angle, automatic windscreen wipers in case I forget how to activate them myself or traction control in case the damp leaves of suburbia catch me off guard. And I understand that those things are vitally important not only in a car, but as a means of sustaining human life. I really do. But I digress…my apologies. Getting back on track, I know that things will break, but my frustration is that I am deliberately roadblocked in being able to fix them. Because they are not meant to be fixed. Instead they are meant to be thrown away, most probably into some God-forsaken landfill on the periphery of my own suburban bubble. And I don’t understand how we are so invested in clean energy, eating less read meat and stopping climate change, but we don’t seem too bothered by the piles of junk that are created by things that are built to break and then are thrown away. At least I have my Victorinox Multitool, I guess. It is still as sharp as a quick-witted comment and I have had it since I was in Matric. So I guess there is some hope… With eyes full of wonder, my daughter showed me a delicately deceased dragonfly which she had found at school. Somehow she managed to bring it back home, unbroken, using a Tupperware from her lunchbox. The dragonfly still had the metallic blue tint of complex eyes and we marveled at the complicated latticework of its wings. The first fossilized record of a dragonfly is estimated at 400 million years old, which makes these insects one of the earliest of organisms. Somehow, they have remained largely unchanged since then, so looking at a dragonfly is, in some ways, like glimpsing part of a prehistoric world, and yet new species of dragonfly are still being discovered. It’s amazing isn’t it! They are considered to be one of the deadliest predators, with a success rate of over 95% (according to a study done by the University of Turku in Finland, at least). When compared to lions which are able to make about 25% of their kills, it probably explains why dragonfly evolution hasn’t altered much. What I didn’t know, was that no dragonfly is alike, and the pattern of their wing is unique to each individual, just like fingerprints. The veins are formed as the wings stretch and develop, creating a complex set of geometry that tells the story of each dragonfly’s growth. What ends up is the intricate stained-glass windows of a wing. This got me thinking about other animals which are unique. I remembered a morning spent tracking Elephants with Stuart, as he explained how to point out the direction they were moving by the scuff of their toes. In the talcum-powder-fine dust, we compared the footprint fingerprints of the different Elephants, and how the lines in the sand told the story of each one’s identity. When we came across the herd some time later, they were drinking at a pool formed along the Limpopo. Stuart pointed out the difference between male and female by the shape of their forehead and the slope of their back. He also showed us the unique wearing of tusks and ears that could give each Elephant a first name. But elephants are not the only mammals where specific individuals can be picked out of a herd. The russet squares that cover a Giraffe like a map of ancient islands are also unique in their arrangement. The mascara-black stripes of Zebras are also unique to each individual. Individual Lions can be known by the patterns near their whiskers, or the more obvious wild mane hair for males. Leopards have identifiable rosettes, best recognised around their faces, and the same can be said by the spots on Cheetah. Even the proportions of yellows and reds and blacks on a Crested Barbet are distinctive. The small white polka dots of Guineafowl are also characteristic for each individual. All of this got me thinking further about how we seem to classify our world. When it comes to animals, we seem to feel the need to group them into some sort of a hierarchy – the big five, little five, ugly five. We give significance to some over others based on beauty or rarity. I wonder if things would be different if we perceived each animal as an individual, with their own stories. Dr Ian McCallum wrote about this in one of my favorite poems entitled Wilderness. It was dedicated to the memory of Dr Ian Player, one of those keystone voices of conservation. Part of it goes like this: By whose command were the animals Through groping fingers, One for each hand, Reduced to the big and little five? Have we forgotten That every creature is within us carried by tides of earthly blood and that we named them? I think that when we look to the wilderness as a collective rather than an ecosystem of individuals, the contribution by each and every organism is diminished. If we can appreciate every dragonfly, every guineafowl, every elephant, perhaps their vitality will resonate more. Perhaps seeing the unique faces of our wild spaces will make it more difficult for our world to inflict its terrors on our natural heritage. Perhaps it will enable a kinder outlook, and make the conservation of places like Tuli Wilderness more of a priority. For our own sake. One of my many favourite activities at Tuli is the possibility of spending time walking in the bush. Being on foot in the wild is a privilege. It allows for a real immersion into the environment and one feels more absorbed by the ecosystem than a vehicle allows. One might not see as much large game being on foot, but the intricacies of animal relationships is made far more tangible. As we step off into the Limpopo Floodplain, we find ourselves beneath giant knots of trees: each one hundreds of years old. The vegetation is different here, and somehow the Leadwoods, Mashatu Trees and Rock Figs have deceived the autumn colours by retaining their summer greenery. All manner of animals and birds make these trees their home. I look to the top of one such tree, shading my eyes from the sun and see a mesh of branches, with a Marshall Eagle perched at their crest. Life is not just in the trees, though, it is everywhere. The crisp sand beneath by feet is another pattern of activity. The sand tells the story of the various animals that fed on the husks of seeds scattered beneath these giant trees. We count the toes of starlings, guineafowl and red-eyed doves. Between them are the human-like handprints of monkeys and baboons, dotted amongst the heart-hooves of impala. We look at the scatter of talcum powder dust and wonder what frightened them off. Working further on, the culprit is clear as we find fresh leopard tracks. The four-toed-and-three-lobed pad are clear. We scan the trees for signs of a kill but find only birds. Maybe the impala had been lucky. We move onward and the leaves crunch underfoot with a sound that reminds me of biting into an apple. High up on the canopy a pearl-spotted owlet begins whistling for a mate and we track its frenetic flapping as it flies from the tree above us. The chatter of other birds fills the canopy and we identify other calls from grey louries, black-headed orioles and arrow-marked babblers. We amble past a bleached skull, partially hidden by some fallen leaves and I wonder what orchestrated its end. Could it be the same leopard that lives in the drainage line with her two cubs? We had consumed ourselves on morning game drive trying to spot the illusive cats; searching every dappled, shady spot and scanning the thick branches of riverine trees, without success. I have learnt that if a leopard doesn’t want to be seen, it won’t be. At least in the afternoon light, the tracks give evidence that they are here. We follow a well-used game trail towards a termite mound. It is gargantuan in size and wet-looking near the top, indicative of its continued use. A tree grows out of the side at an odd angle, fed by the warmth and nutrients inside the mound. We talk about the complex social structure of these insects: their queen that pushes out an egg every three seconds and the fungal gardens that are nurtured deep inside. Further on, the ground begins to drop in front of us, and we see the open expanse of the Limpopo. The pale trunk of a fig tree points us to the river, a dry expanse of sand this time of the year, with few puddles to sustain the winter. A huddle of marabou storks gaze towards the regal movements of a kudu bull. Searching the trees hopefully, we scan for the fabled owls from whom Pel’s Pools gained its name. There is a rush of russet feathers above us, and something flies to the other side of the river, but it avoids our sight by keeping among the shadows of the other trees and we cannot be sure what we have seen. I toy with the idea of claiming this as a Pel’s Fishing Owl, but instead decide to hope for a more obvious sighting. At the edge of one dark looking pool is another tree with another nest. It is a mess of twigs that seems to weigh down the branches, placed in chaotic order by a hamerkop. It seems out of proportion considering the bird’s size. Apparently a researcher with too much time on their hands discovered that there are an average of 15 000 sticks in each nest. It is easy to believe. I get distracted by the chatter of squirrels, their tails flicking in agitation. Something in the web of vines that are trying to strangle a rock fig is causing alarm. We walk closer to the tree, trying to find the source of the panic, but as soon as we get close, the noise stops and we are left to imagine what it could have been. A snake perhaps. Then the sun begins its arch towards the horizon. The light becomes more yellow-golden as we reach a wall of mud on the opposite side of the river. Hundreds of small holes have been chiselled into the sand and with the cooling afternoon emerald bee-eaters begin to flock home. Their kite-like wings perform aerobatics in the setting sun before landing in a flick of colour at their nests. They peer out briefly, three or four crammed into one hole. Their beaks are like black scimitars, contrast with the white and red of their faces. Cheeky heads appear briefly before cascading away from the wall and into flight. They chatter incessantly to each other, summing up their adventures at the close of the day. It is a beautifully fitting end to our walk. As we return to camp, we are lighter in our steps. Our spirits fed. When the new year begins, I always look forward to my next trip to the bush, and hopefully this means a visit to Tuli Wilderness. Somehow, I find that the business of life tries to eclipse my intended holidays, and so I came up with an idea a few years ago which has enabled some of my resolve to visit the wild places. This is my gift to you. At the start of the year, I create my own calendar with images that I have taken from Tuli. Each photograph represents a memory, and it is those pictures which remind me to save a bit each month, to carve out some holiday time, and make my aspirations of returning a reality. Therefore, I have included my 2022 calendar for you to use, and hopefully it will provide the same sustenance that I hope it will provide for me this year. My favourite photograph is on the August page. It is probably not the most impressive-looking picture, but it represents a moment that had a profound influence on me. We were sitting on the banks of a dry river bed, taking in the mid-afternoon winter sun, and imperceptibly, this herd of elephants began to appear. They meandered quietly over the soft sand, and began feeding off the lower branches of the towering Mopane Trees. Some stretched out with their trunks for a particularly appealing cluster of leaves, just like a child trying to steal a sweat jar from the top shelf of the pantry. There was a quietness about these giant animals; a gentleness which seemed in paradox with their strength. Some lay down on their side in the shade of the sand: behaviour I had never seen before. Others came closer to the bank where we were sitting, scenting us in the still air. One toothpick-tusked teenager came within a few feet of me. It lifted its trunk, smelling. If I had raised my hand, I could have touched the pink tip of its trunk. The elephant’s amber eyes stared at me with an innocence I have never seen before. It gave a soft rumble from its belly and then re-joined the rest of the group. He was with me for less than a minute. That moment has stayed with me forever. It was the first time I felt some sort of a thoughtful connection with a wild animal. I find it very difficult to encapsulate the moment into words as something moved within me, but I am still not quite sure what it was. In any case, that photograph is part of the tapestry of stories that have come from being in a truly wild place like Tuli. I will look to the pages of my calendar this year in the hopes of my next wilderness experience, and I hope this will enable you to do so as well.
As a blue ink night recedes
Into a morning star And the birth of sunshine, Birds warm their voices: a prelude to the Dawn Chorus. When will we begin our own dawn chorus? A celebration of ourselves, Of a new beginning A sunrise A start. There is a unity in birdsong Which crosses the barriers That we seem unable to navigate. An ownership of the volume of self Amidst the spontaneous melody Of others. The songs share the same branches. There is companionship instead of rivalry. The persistent ring of Crested Barbet, The babbling, watery call of Boubou and Coucal That feels like a warm drink. Oriole sounds like a sunshine yellow Water droplet hidden by green leaves. Even the rattling cackle of Guineafowl Is given its own sound space. There are the duets of Hornbill with wings outstretched And the whistle of Woodland Kingfisher As electric as the blue of its feathers. Black-collared Barbet only sings in pairs A melody in harmony with each other. The purr of Red-Eyed Dove is The shimmer of noontime bushveld heat, And Monotonous Larks bring on the Summer rain. The sound of Africa smiles clear as An iconic warble of Fish Eagle: Neck thrown back in an ecstasy of sound. Even the mournful pattering of Wood Dove Like wind over the throat of an open bottle. Is a note to the tapestry of Wilderness. The birds do not fear the night either, But sing through it instead: The twirl of Scops Owl Or “Good Lord Deliver Us” From Fiery Necked Nightjar. And the pierce of Pearl-Spotted Owlet. Why are we afraid of our own voices? Why do we retreat to silence Instead of embracing the volume of Our own presence. Courtney Watson Like the birds. There is a celebration to sound, A connection disconnected from us. The transition is quick. One moment a smattering of silver raindrops The next a torrent of water that obscures the sky. It comes in sheets with the wind: Fierce and violent. Trees attempt a retreat, flailing their limbs in distress. Leaves are gathered up like flotsam And tossed towards the clouds. The Mohave River: A dry sand-course that has been starved by the sun Begins a metamorphosis. A muddy tongue of rainwater Gathered through the rivulets that join the main channel Create a bow wave that crests But cannot fall. It is curls forwards with the force Of rushing water. The rumble of thunder Like the roar of a lioness Becomes a growl of muddy water. The river fills quickly with the assault of rain. Lightning creates yellow geometric patterns That strobe through the night sky. They illuminate a frozen moment of falling water Of twisting trees And a river beginning to flood. Water rises, eating into the river banks And sending them crashing in a wave of debris That sounds like a crumbling building. The river becomes animal A serpent eating everything in its path Devouring unanchored trees And swallowing elephantine logs whole. It rises in less than an hour Taller than the horn-tip of an old Kudu Bull. Everything is saturated with water. And then the storm quietens. Rain petering itself out. The storm retreats. Rushing water left behind. Rumbling. My first visit to Tuli Wilderness was in December 2014, some 7 years ago. I find it difficult to put into words the profound impact that the experience had on me without sounding corny with a phrase such as “it felt like home”. But it did feel like home. It was as if there was some part of me that had been asleep up until that point, and suddenly it had woken up. Stuart described Tuli as a land of giants, where nothing happens in small measures, and I suppose that was part of this awakening, but at the same time, the beauty of the wilderness made it seem as if I had stepped into a Garden of Eden. I have returned to Tuli every year since then, up until the Covid Pandemic. I missed my annual trip for almost two years until this past December when I returned with some friends. I had not realized how much I had missed Tuli. That old part of me woke up again, and once more, I felt like I had returned home. We stayed at Mohave for a few nights and my wife and I were in the furthermost chalet, shaded by a huge Mashatu Tree. Every morning we were woken up by a dawn chorus that celebrated the arrival of a new day. The sparrow weavers chattered beneath the leaves as they planned the next phase of their new nest build. Woodland Kingfishers pirouetted to each other with electric blue wings outstretched. A sunfire-yellow oriole burbled in the high branches amidst a plethora of other calls which I couldn’t pinpoint individually. I would lie on my back, listening to the birds and imagining their colours, excited for what we might see for the rest of the day. The night was filled with a similar range of sounds: from the strobe of tree frogs calling at the water’s edge to the xylophone of crickets hidden from sight. We heard the manic laughs of hyena and the cry of jackal. Late into the night there were the reverberating calls of lion that were staying in the area; on one occasion so close it felt like the strength of that awesome call was vibrating in my own ribcage.
The thing with Tuli, though, is that even though there are some amazing sightings like the first time we saw this small lion pride, the landscape is so beautiful that it impresses even without the animals. There are open plains, claustrophobic with the butterfly-leaves of mopane trees, where we saw so many elephant. With the rains that had been consistent throughout the summer, regular muddy pools had formed all around the bush. The herds had made use of these to besplat themselves, flinging mud and water with their trunks onto their backs, so that the elephants emerged a glistening brown. We watched as the calves which had been born that season hid between the legs of the adults. Some of the younger adults would shake the dust from their heads in false bravado, trying to show how tough they are. There was a playfulness in the mud as well, with elephants tightly packed together, broad shoulder to shoulder, squelching mud with their gargantuan feet.
We saw some incredible bird life as well, with the pink-red of carmine bee eaters that swung and twisted in the sky, catching food on the wing. Daily, we drove past a secretary bird nest, with the adult bird disappearing from sight as if on an elevator when it realized that it had been spotted. The blush of lilac-breasted rollers were everywhere and wherever we went we were accompanied by the sounds of spurfowls, coursers or guineafowl. At the start of one of our afternoon drives we were lucky to see an impressive-looking marshal eagle feeding off a long snake that it gripped in its talons. We had spotted a large variety of birds of prey, but this raptor was staggering in both its size and the killer’s glare from hooded eyes. The eagle seemed to exude a sense of might which we had not seen in the other raptors. I think it is the landscape of trees that I find most inspiring at Tuli, though. Jou, our guide, would meander the open game vehicle through the soft sand of riverbeds as we studied every dappled shadow in the hopes of seeing a leopard. The trees would dwarf everything else with names that matched their size like Tamboti, Mashatu and Leadwood. The more open areas were carpeted with yellow flowers, rather incongruously named devil thorns. We also drove along the uneven edges of rocky outcrops where kudu made silhouettes against the skyline. The most iconic feature of Tuli, Eagle’s Rock, could be seen from our camp, and when we drove down to the hill that descended towards this beautiful koppie, we were blocked by a heard of elephants that fed at the base of the rock. Our path thwarted, we watched the eles amble among the trees, twisting branches off at their leisure. They were in no hurry and so we were unable to get to Eagle’s Rock and see the view onto the Moloutse River. Watching the eles whilst on foot was reward enough. Instead, Jou took us to the bat-eared fox dens. Most of us had not seen these little creatures before and they were a delight to watch. The would lie close to the ground, flattening their large ears so they looked like an embodiment of a Star Wars Yoda or perhaps the inspiration for the Gremlins Films. The foxes were so endearing with cautious black eyes and disproportioned ears, that they became a firm favorite sighting with each of us. As we would drive back to camp in the late afternoon, a sunset that only Tuli can produce would stretch through the skies. There seems to be a richness to the reds and oranges and pinks of an end-of-day-sky here that is unmatched anywhere else. At the risk of offering up yet another cliché, it seems like God is showing off when he paints a sunset at Tuli. It seems to last longer as well, as we would celebrate the end of another good day with a beer in hand and the silhouettes of the bush as our company. The highlight for the trip, though, was our experience on New Year’s Eve. We were hoping to have a bush dinner to bring in 2022, but the weather had other ideas. We cut short our trip to the Limpopo when the clouds began to open up, and what was a smattering of rain turned into a deluge. By the time we got back to camp, it was raining hard, with a wind that was whipping even the largest branches of the biggest trees. The lightning was creating an impressive display along the clouds and the strength of the storm was of a might that I have never seen before. The Mohave River bed, which was dry enough for us to drive through that morning became mottled with rain. And then we heard it. A surge of water was scrumming along the river. We watched as a first bow wave tried to crest and break, but the strength of water behind prevented it from doing so. A once-in-a-lifetime experience was unfolding before us. The dry river was become a torrent and we were witnessing its first wave of water. The rain continued to bombard everything around us, and the water steadily rose along the river bank; a muddy brown swirl of water and sand and anything else that was not anchored down strongly enough. Trees and vegetation crashed along the river, and still, it kept rising. The island in the middle of the river slowly disappeared as the sound of the rain was replaced by the force of water, funneling through its banks. The river continued to rise for about an hour, reaching the second to top step of the huts and a few inches below the deck. We were simply in awe of this spectacle. The water began to erode the banks, and in the night we heard the crashing of trees that had become uprooted and the collapse of the river’s edge. It was the thud that sounded like buildings being demolished, creating a new surging wave that was transferred across the river. Jou had never seen the Mohave this high and Stuart estimated that we had seen around 50 mm of rain during the course of that hour. As the rain abated, the river slowly began to calm, and by the next morning, it was only a few feet deep at the far bank. Nothing happens in small measures at Tuli. So, Tuli remains the land of giants: a place which has and always will captivate me. I have missed this it more than I can articulate and leaving for home always feels like I am bidding farewell to a good friend. Tuli is incredibly special, and it holds a sacred place in my heart. It has been some twenty years since I visited the Kruger with my parents, and this last April, I decided to introduce my own young family to the magic of the park. We stayed at Tamboti Tented Camp, and our experiences over the few days that followed had me questioning why it had taken me so long to return. Every day was filled with a myriad of memories, and there was lots of nostalgia that brought me back to my own childhood. We used to spend most of our time in the Southern end of the park at Bergendal and Lower Sabie, sometimes heading to Satara. I remember having a picnic lunch at Orpen Dam when a boomslang fell from the rafters onto our table cloth causing a mass-evacuation from all of us. This was at the same time that a super pride of lions were resident near Satara and we were fortunate enough to see them feeding off three buffalo that they had killed. The chorus of other animals that were trying to steal off the various carcasses was incredible, and I remember clearly the snarling of lions as hyena tried to pilfer a morsel, as well as the multitude of vultures and bateleurs that waited in the trees close by. In the evenings we had a tradition of playing Uno while waiting for the fire to be ready for a braai; I recall fondly the laughter and stories we would share around the as night fell. As a family, we were always fascinated as much by the little things as we were with the bigger game. Catching insects to throw into an orb web spider’s nest, teasing antlions from their holes and spotting birds among the canopy were always fun ways to spend time around camp. I hope to instill these same values in my children: the understanding that it is not about seeing a leopard at all costs, it is about appreciating every element of the ecology. So, it was a real privilege to share some of these stories with my son and daughter as we explored the park. They had such wonder throughout the trip and it shows just what a resonating impact the Kruger has on everyone of all ages. It went as far as my daughter wanting to write something for the Kruger Magazine, as she hoped to share her experiences. She is nine, and I promised to pass on her unedited (she was very specific about that) diary for our few days at Tamboti: My first stay at the Kruger National Park This was my first time at the Kruger a National Park and we were staying at Tamboti which is a tented camp near Orpen Gate. These are my highlights. On the first night we heard some tip of crashing noise my dad woke me up because there were two honey badgers at the dustbin who had got hold of my three year old brother’s nappy! From our porch we saw an elephant eating grass in the river bed and we also saw two buffalo. It was night time while we were eating dinner we saw a baby python underneath the table. There were lots of cool night time sounds like the hyenas calling and the scops owls too. On one early evening we saw a hyena walking at the side of the dried up river as well. We also saw a huge elephant right next to the fence with big tusks. We had some amazing game drives these are some of them. We went to a dam and some giraffe walked slowly to the water. Two of them started drinking it was amazing to watch. Then we saw a troop of baboons playing in the trees next to a dried up river. There were two babies and one was older than the other one. The older one kept on biting all of the other baboons and the other little one stayed in its mother’s arms. On another day we were watching herd of Buffalo, there were probably 20 of them and they were wallowing in a big muddy dam. A few minutes later we saw a herd of elephants. There were probably 60 of them and they drank in a reservoir. Then they were probably going to go for a swim but no they started chasing the Buffalo. It was amazing! Then we drove to Sunset Dam and it was fantastic to see a heron surfing on a hippo. Slowly the hippo started to go beneath the water and then the heron started pecking the hippo until he flew away. We were going on a drive and we were heading towards a big fire. Hornbills and Rollers were swooping all over because the bugs were hopping out of the fire. It was brilliant! We were going to our next camp at Lower Sabie and ahead of us there was a crowd of cars so we went there. We asked a man in a white car what he had seen and he said that there was a leopard in a huge tree. I was so excited because this was my first time seeing a leopard in the wild and it was sleeping. It was amazing to spend some time with my brother and my dad in such a beautiful place. I can’t wait to go there again. Bella Watson Age 9 I think she puts it very well, and we will definitely be returning to the park again soon. As for me, I will cherish lots of ice-creams in the car, watching the shy bushbuck from our tent and seeing the honey badger pair waddle around the camp at night. There is the excitement of following a hyena meandering along the fence line or listening to the scops owls calling at night. There was the small python disrupting our supper by slithering beneath our table towards the river and the same big bull elephant foraging in front of our tent at mid-afternoon every day. I enjoyed watching two dagga boy buffalos finding shade in the riverbed and watching two woodland kingfishers call to each other. There are the communal chats with other guests whilst washing up and the leguaan beating a hasty retreat near the communal bathroom block. We also had a wonderful sighting of two tawny eagles feeding in a dead tree next to the road. My daughter saw her first leopard as it slept in the hook of a Marula tree. We watched a korhaan stalking a furry caterpillar and a Lilac-breasted Roller showing why they have their name, tumbling in mid-flight. We saw a pair of Bateleurs spiralling to the ground, talons locked and orb web spiderwebs catching the morning sun. There is something very special about the Kruger Park which many people try to put into words. I have tried penning a poem, which I hope is not too trite, in an attempt to express that deep-seeded feeling that I experienced there. My Wild Kruger Courtney Watson The bushveld celebrates another day With colour and voices and scents. Somehow everything here is vaster: The sky seems more endless, The sun a richer shade of orange, The Marula trees towering pillars. It is a place of no small measures. A tusk worn elephant ambles along the river bed, Foraging between fleshy fronds Of the grass that shares his name. The sun is silver on the fingerprints of his dusty skin, A last light dapples through the trees. I try to name what I hear As the earth moves from red to royal blue: A Scops Owls twirr, The rattling of Francolins, The boisterous banter of baboons And "Good-Lord-deliver-us." Further along the dry river Bee-Eater silhouettes are frantic in their flight, Kites of wings and delicate tail feathers Beat their iridescent bodies to catch The last unseen insects of dusk. The sinews of bark and leaves Become less definitive in the dwindling light As Venus appears to keep me company. And the sky becomes the colour of ink. The moon is a fallen eyelash And the stars hold their own more brightly Among the meandering Milky Way above. I have arrived home. |
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