People often speak of the places that somehow resonate with something deep inside themselves. When they leave, there is this intense sadness, like saying goodbye to a best friend. Well, Tuli is like that for me.
I like awake in the early hours of the morning on our last day here and that feeling is rumbling inside me. Through my gauze tent flap, the moon illuminates the feathery silhouette of a Mashatu Tree next to the Mohave River bed. There is a rustle of dead mopane leaves behind me as a genet forages for food. I listen to the far-off calls of a pair of lions which are interrupted by the deep hoots of a Vereaux Eagle Owl. As a backdrop to all of this, there is the ringing of insects and crickets, but otherwise the bush is quiet. The night before it was more chaotic, with elephants trumpeting to each other and baboons handing out some very vocal discipline, but this morning everything seems softer. Appropriate, I suppose, since I am leaving soon. I think back on my week here. The contrasting experiences with elephants. Some that mock charged us in the vehicle, stopping very close to us in a shower of shaking heads, trumpets and dust. I think about the other elephants that crept through the river bed at Kgakala, two of which came within touching distance to gauge our scent. I think about the line of family units that expanded the dripping mud patch at Mohave, wallowing in the water. Being so close to these elephants without a fence was humblingly special to say the least. I think about the pair of female lionesses and their seven cubs that we saw eating off a fresh impala kill. I was amazed at the adult’s size. They were enormously impressive. Tracking them using the telemetry kit was also something special. Seeing them on our last day was a fitting end, as we watched them laze in the dappled orange mopane thickets. How our guide managed to find them defied belief, taking the old Land Rover over a rocky outcrop and through a mopane forest to spot a yellow shape in the distance, which was the paw of one single lion. Getting closer, one turned to ten, each incredibly well hidden. I remember the Tuli sunsets, each one deep red with the dust from a windy August. The moon risings were special as well, coloured with deep yellows, so bright that the trail of stars that preceded it would all but disappear. I remember Eagle’s rock, and seeing the black eagle chick, fluffy white in its youth, with the majestic adults soaring the thermals as a black silhouette overhead. Spotting kudu and elephants in the Malatse River beneath us is still one of my highlights of the trip. Walking down at dusk was also an adventure, having to make an alternation in our route in order to avoid the herd if elephants that had engulfed the vehicle. I also remember the little things. Kudu and impala framed by the most breath-taking landscape. Rocky outcrops where we scanned for leopards, vast Mopane thickets and the towering trees that lines the river banks. Maybe in a past life I was a tree, rooted in Tuli. This is a place of such beauty and it feels like my authentic home. The only thing missing is my family. If they were here, it would be perfect. I am so sorry to leave
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They arrive with eager, confident plods
Long strides towards a cool splash of mud. Their knuckled toes kick at stubborn patches Quenching a luxurious spa-mud-mix Their dextrous trunks: Long railway tracks of muscles Fist the mixture and hurl it upwards. Mud arches change grey backs to brown A deep, rich, bushveld brown. Sucking sound steps further into the water A rumble of contentment Reverberates through the group. Some collapse onto their haunches And then lie into a torrent of moisture. There is mud everywhere. Their amber eyes seem to smile As youngsters delight in the mess. A bushveld spa treatment Pachyderm style Being on foot in the bush is a privilege. It allows for a real immersion into the environment and feel more part if the ecosystem than a vehicle allows. We might not see as much larger game being on foot, but the intricacies of animal relationships is made far more real.
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 the autumn colours of mopane trees have changed to green leadwoods, mashatu trees and closer to the river huge rock figs. All manner of animals and birds make these trees their home. I look to the top of a Leadwood, shading my eyes from the sun and see a mesh of branches, each bigger than my thumb, with a Marshall Eagle perched on top. Husks of seeds are scattered beneath each one. The sand tells the story of the various animals that fed on them. 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 toes and three lobed pad are clear. They belong to a large male that lives in the area. We scan the trees for signs of a kill but find only birds. The leaves crunch with a sound like the bite of an apple under my feet and I look up to see an Apple Leave, the name given by that same sound. 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 into the branches of its neighbour. 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 kudu skull and I wonder what orchestrated its end. Could it be the leopard that lives in the drainage line with her two cubs? We have been searching every dappled, shady spot and scanning the thick branches of riverine trees without spotting them. I have learnt that if a leopard doesn’t want to be seen, it won’t be. The crunch of dried leaves underfoot takes us to a termite mound. It is gargantuan in size and the wet-looking near the top, indicative of it still being used. 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 if these insects, their queen that pushes out an egg every three seconds and the fungal gardens that they nurture deep inside. We get to the river which opens up in front of us. The pale trunk of a knotted fig tree welcome us to the Limpopo, a dry expanse of sand with few puddles to sustain the winter. A huddle of marabou storks watch a pair of mating hamerkops and in the distance we watch the regal movements of a pair of kudus. Searching the trees hopefully, we scan for the fabled owls from whom Pel’s Pools gained its name. We are not lucky this time. A mess of twigs makes up a hamerkop nest. 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. A snake perhaps. We move onward and 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 flocks of 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 face. Cheeky heads appearing 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. We make our way slowly back to camp, lighter in our steps. Food for the spirit. A shadow of grey breaks the line of dappled leaves.
It moves through the wilted orange leaves Of Mopane Trees gently, quietly. An outline emerges And I can make out an eye, a trunk, a tusk Between the branches. What was one elephant becomes two And then three and then more. A vast herd plods into the open Their fingerprint feet making circles in the sand. Mothers coax belly-high babies between them. A churning rumble from the matriarch Signals a stop. And they begin to feed. The elephants stretch and break branches Of trees that arch their way across the dry river. They search for green and strip bark into long sinews, Feeding slowly and certainly. They have been here before and know the best places. I sit with my back against an anthill And watch two youngsters with toothpick tusks come closer. The s of their trunks catch my smell As they move up the bank, and still closer. As they move to within reach of my hands, they stop. I watch amber eyes looking back at me. Both elephants stop and smell some more, Watching. I hold my breath, but feel no harm There is a calmness that relaxes the elephants That sniff the air once more And then move back to the herd. My smile left behind. They emerge from a sandy drainage line
Young green eyes betraying their nerves. They still need to control their fear, Which will fade with the blotches Of cub underbellies. Self assurance comes with their mother: A wizened lioness. As a puddle of yellow-grass-fur They pad back to the kill, A young impala That will not feed them for long. A cocky male cub Collared by a tassel of mane-stubble Claims a half-chewed leg. He swings it from his mouth Playing with his food Until mum squeezes a low growl From between her teeth. His pride yellowed, He moves to the other cubs. An obedient teenager now, But one day his mane will grow black And his chest will swell big enough To command his own pride. One day. In the deep bowels of night, a thundering roar echos through the dry riverbed. It starts with an elongated moan that starts in the belly of a male lion and then bursts like a giant bubble of sound. It is followed by a few rasping breaths and I can imagine the effort of throwing this sound into the distance as he plants his frying-pan paws into the sand and squeezes another roar through his ribcage.
He is very close now. I am certain that we will find his spoor a few meters from the entrance of the camp. And there are no fences between our camp, my flimsy tent, and him. The male’s name is Cheeky Boy, earning his nickname by the way he chances his luck by mock charging the game vehicles. He has been calling out for the two females and their cubs which we tracked earlier on in the day. His intentions do not seem good, and something about his roar betrays that menace. The darkness envelops one final roar, this time, a little bit further away. It doesn’t boom between the Mashatu and Leadwood Trees like before. I snuggle deeper into my sleeping bag and close my eyes. I wonder if he will catch up to the illusive females, who always seem one step ahead of him. I begin to drift off to sleep. I wonder if I will meet Cheeky Boy tomorrow. The bush grows quiet. Tomorrow. |
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