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.
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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. 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. |
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