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.
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I have a number of fond memories of Manyeleti, and I think that in a lot of ways, those experiences were responsible for whittling away to the core of my love of the bush. On one afternoon, our band of grubby, barefooted teenagers managed to convince the teacher, Stuart Walls, to allow us to have a clay-lat fight in a muddy pan. We chose our weapons, de-branching bendy sticks which would be used to launch our muddy projectiles. In the centre of the pan, we stripped down to our shorts and lay siege against one another, flinging tightly packed mud bombs with not so accurate aim. When they hit home, we were rewarded by a precocious thud and a yelp from one of our friends. In the midst of our battle, we were interrupted by a herd of elephants that meandered to the shore. The teachers and ourselves were completely oblivious to their presence, so engrossed were we all in our muddy war. So when they arrived, it was too late to retreat to the game vehicle and instead we called a cease fire and lay down in the thick mud. Our bodies were coated in an oozing brown and only our eyes winked from the surface, peering at the elephants. I am certain they knew that we were there, but paid no attention to our presence and the herd walked deeper into the mud, squelching and sliding to a point which was a bit more watery and began their ritual of thrashing the liquid onto their backs and wallowing in its coolness. If you have ever seen an elephant play in the shallows of a dam, you will know the pleasure that the onlooker receives, and watching from our eye-level vantage point is something that I will never forget. The low rumbles from their stomachs and the joy that they displayed some twenty meters away from us was very special. It might have been the mixture of our fear and some sense of admiration, but either way, there was a definite connection. Every since that day, I have developed a love of these animals and their is an affinity between their humanness or our elephantness that speaks to the soul.
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 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. Night Sounds
It is 3:00 in the morning and I am inexplicably awake. The ivory half moon has disappeared beneath the horizon for the night to be replaced by incandescent stars. They seem to be able to own their identity a bit more willingly without the moon and I can easily pick out their mythological namesakes amongst the milky way. My primitive eyes search the darkness ineffectively and I decide to lie on my back and devote myself to the night sounds instead. The rhythmic idling of insects seem to have an infinite supply of energy as they wail through the night, stopping suddenly all at once. It is as if their livelihood has been suddenly threatened and they hope that silence will hide their location. Their is a scuffling near the dry riverbed which sounds like feathers and claws, but without a shriek of defeat or a growl of victory, I cannot be sure of their source. There seems to be stoic beauty to night in the wilderness where the circuitous ecosystem of eat or be eaten is ever present. A cool breeze playfully ruffles the leaves on the top of a Nyala Berry Tree that hangs over my bed. I strain my ears as the harmonica of leaves and twigs fades to nothing. Perhaps a kilometer away I can hear the mourn of lions. A new pride is being formed in the darkness, and the negotiations of territory and boundaries are being established while I try to sleep. There is no rest here. Closer, I hear a noise that erupts from deep in the belly of what I imagine must be a powerful black-maned lion. I can picture his authoritative arrogance, as his huge padded footprints are driven into the sand with the strain of each roar. His forelegs are twisted knots of muscle and his tarnished eyes are locked in defiance as he watches over his kingdom. Confidence, it seems, counts for so much out here. His calls collect a rasp of responses, and they eclipse every other night sound. The other lions seem to force out their cries over an over, reaching a cacophony of three or four final spent pants. Closer, I hear the rumble of an elephant that challenges the lions' tirade on the night, just to make sure that they know who is really in charge. My own voice is insignificant here and I feel like a intruder to a world that I do not fully understand and at which I can only marvel. The world reverts to silence, an intermission before the next performance, and I am glad that I am awake to bear witness to it. The open Land Cruiser bumbled and scraped through the rocky dirt road. We had been driving for about half an hour, it was dark and I could almost hear the collective rumble of stomaches that anticipated the bush dinner. The silver beam of a spotlight darted into the bush on either side of the vehicle, looking for cats. We saw none, but surprized some Kudu and a herd of Impala on the way.
I had spent the last week hosting staff and students from Canada and Australia on an authentic wilderness experience as a prelude to their Round Square Conference that was taking place in Cape Town. This was our last night, and I ruminated the adventure that we had experienced together in Tuli. As my mind wandered, I picked through a myriad of highlights, some captured by my camera and some locked away in my memories. I recalled spotting a leopard in the distance on top of a ridge and seeing it slowly disappear like a secret; the family of elephants digging for water in the sandy Motloutse River bed; listening to Scops Owls "krrup" at night from my tent; the two lionesses and their six cubs feeding off a fresh wildebeest carcass; laughing at a young cheetah bound around her mother; or scanning the valley beneath Eagle's Rock for game. I thought about the shard from an elephant tusk that I found along the Limpopo flood plain and the prehistoric puzzle we made from ancient elephant bones, holding the tibia, femur and pelvis into a tower above us. There were the countless Kori Busterds (called Bastard Birds by our group) and freshly baked vedkoek for brunch. We watched the awkward trot of a pair of giraffe that we startled while on foot and the pink ears of four kudus that listened intently to our every movement. I thought about the aardwolf that sprinted away from our vehicle as we came across her den: a once-in-a-lifetime sighting. We were captivated by the aerobatics of lilac-breasted rollers and the easy thermalling of the pair of black eagles. I remembered the hyena den and how inquisitive the pups were as they came close to the vehicle and then retreated back to the rest of the clan, their blackish bodies loping into the night, not yet painted by the spots of their elders. At night, I thought about the sounds that had put me to sleep. I remembered the crunching and trumpeting of elephants close to camp and the elongated roar of a lion in the distance. There was the whoop of a Spotted Hyena that felt as if it was right outside my tent. The repetitive whistle of Pearl-Spotted Owlets and the twirl of a Mozambique Nightjar sang my eyes shut. I thought about the contrast between dry, twisted Mopane scrub and the gargantuan Leadwood or Mashatu trees. The seeds of Weeping Boer-Beans that attracted orioles, starlings and bush shrikes were the source of constant chatter. I thought about the pairs of Namaqua Doves that were beautiful to watch as they flew or the undulating flocks of Red-Billed Quelias that made movements like water in the sky. I savoured the dust, the constant sounds, the conversations and laughter around a campfire and the elemental wildness of it all. My reverie was interrupted as the game vehicle slowed down and descended into some open veldt. The area was dotted with paraffin lanterns, a few open fires and a handful of decorated tables. We had arrived at our bush dinner: a sumptuous pop-up feast in the wilderness. The light was subtle, spectacular, and with the animals around us calling in the distance, the atmosphere was surreal. We filled up on tender stew and sipped red wine as stories from our adventure in Botswana made their way around the dinner table. The students soon moved off to make a circle around the campfire, and after a while they began to sing songs into the night. Our torches trailed to a spot behind them where a pair of hyena were squabbling over a bleached bone: unconcerned by our presence so close to them. I watched the animals tug and scrape and play with each other, singing voices filling the spaces between them. Tuli had been a place of wonder, introspection and a slice of authentic Africa for the oast few days. I was certain that Botswana had touched the hearts of each one of us, creating calm clarity, friendships, memories. It had certainly fed my soul and I felt enriched by being able to share this place with other people. It had truly been a remarkable experience... |
ContentSome thoughts about things, sometimes philosophical, sometimes just musings. The world through my eyes... Archives
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