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.
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ContentSome thoughts about things, sometimes philosophical, sometimes just musings. The world through my eyes... Archives
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