Open Writing

In the grey light, a lion roared, shaking the earth, splitting the sky in the east where the sun was rising. The sound was enough to terrify anyone, It seemed endless; and when it did end, the silence was complete. The world held its breath.

Then, the birds started calling, first a family of sparrows, chattering in the tree; a pair of bulbuls, singing and calling to each other; and the chirrrrrr of the crested barbet, sound of the African bush.

Leon and I were enjoying a magical break from our hectic city lives at a game lodge three hours’ drive north of Johannesburg, South Africa. The lodge, Ntwane, consists of five chalets under open thatch, each containing a spacious double bedroom, a deck overlooking the bush or the river, and a large bathroom. The main building, also under high open thatch, houses the large kitchen, open-plan dining-room, lounge and bar. Ntwane is part-owned by friends of ours, Roland and Marion, who invite us regularly to spend time with them and other musical guests at Ntwane, which is part of a private game reserve called Welgevonden.

Roland plays French horn, clarinet and bassoon, each with equal ease – though unfortunately not all at the same time! Marion is a marvelous pianist. They were thrilled to be “home” in the African bush, after living for the last few years in the northern hemisphere. Their home-base is Toronto, Canada.

Richard and Rebecca, a young couple on honeymoon, were also from Toronto. Rebecca plays French horn.

Mutual friends of ours and Roland’s and Marion’s, Clive and his wife Gill were with us. Clive is an oboist.

Brian, another mutual friend, plays clarinet. He brought his electric keyboard all the way from Johannesburg in his Daimler. The keyboard was transported from the gate of Welgevonden to Ntwane Lodge in the bumping trailer of the four-wheel-drive game-viewing vehicle.

Leon, my husband, is not an active musician, but he thoroughly enjoys good music. I’m a flute-player.

Another Canadian and non-musician, Tim, was the tenth member of our party.

To complete the population of Ntwane were Herbert and Stephina. They manage the lodge and take care of visitors to Ntwane. Herbert is Game Ranger, Guide and Teacher, Chef and Hotelier; Stephina, Herbert’s lovely wife, maintains the chalets and main building at five-star standards, ensuring that everyone is comfortable to the “Ntwane-eth” degree.

The musicians of the party – Clive, Brian, Rebecca, Roland and I – play all the instruments required for a wind quintet, a unique and lovely combination of sounds for which there is a huge repertoire of music as lovely to listen to as it is to play. Add concert pianist, Marion, into the mix and you have a sextet which produces even richer music for an audience’s delectation.

Every morning, after an early drive along the winding dirt roads in the game-viewing vehicle, we’d gather on the deck of the communal chalet for a lazy brunch. This would be spread on the huge table made of railway-sleepers. A kingfisher flashed blue and gold in the sunlight to catch a fish in the stream below, then return to his perch just a few metres away.

After the meal, the non-musicians cleared the table, then sat on the loungers, soaking up the sun, or retired to the pool for a swim, perhaps watched briefly by shy kudu bulls, with lovely twisted horns, and does with their huge brown eyes and sensitive ears twitching at every splash…

Meanwhile, the wind players, with joyful anticipation, moved into the cool, thatched-roof lounge. There, we assembled and tuned our instruments, and played quintets by composers such as Anton Reicha, Frans Danzi, and an unknown’s beautiful transcription of a Mozart violin sonata. Each member of the group was immersed in the music – the notes on the page translating from little black dots to glorious sounds; fingers flew, lungs breathed in and out with great control, tongues attacked reeds; and the magic happened: five individuals became the voice of the composers, the very voice of music. Marion joined us on the keyboard, and the glory of the music surrounded us, absorbed us all: the silver song of the flute, the plaintive sadness of the oboe, the burbling delight of the clarinet, the sonorous and sometimes pompous roundness of the French horn, the insistent, rich, deep jocularity of the bassoon, were joined by the majestic might of the piano… We played the Brahmsian Thuille wind-and-piano sextet; a superb arrangement of a Dvorak work. The music we made poured from the cool, dark chalet into the sun-drenched bushveld…

Outside, sunbirds the size of a thumb and the colours of brightly-polished jewels flashed through the trees, calling and twittering; monkeys leapt from the branches onto the deck where the table was now clear, except for a large bowl of fruit; and dainty antelope paused to drink from the river that flowed lazily past, lifting their heads now and then to look around with large and fearful dark eyes, wondering if they would be tomorrow morning’s meal for the roaring lions. The hillside opposite was dust-brown, with here and there a splash of brilliant green shouting that spring was imminent; and the sky was high and bleached almost white in the heat...

After two or three hours of music-making, we musicians shook ourselves, stretched and rolled aching shoulders, loosened tired lips by huffing through them as horses do; we laughed together for the sheer joy of creating and sharing such glorious sounds. Instruments were carefully cleaned and returned to their cases to await a later session.

Herbert arrived, and we climbed into the vehicle to trundle off over the steep and rocky roads, winding and grinding through bush that was dry, dusty and sun-burnt, wakening only slowly to the as yet unseen urging of spring. Cameras and binoculars were at the ready, talk was excited, but muted. Our eyes searched the landscape:

There! – a rhinoceros with her youngster, only three months old, a trundling miniature tank, quickly hidden by his mother’s huge boulder-body. We stopped to watch for a few minutes as the animals settled in our presence, and returned to cropping the yellowed grass with little tearing sounds…

Hush – a lioness in the clearing there – Herbert eased us closer, and closer. She looked up with yellow eyes, her afternoon nap disturbed, gave a toothy yawn, showing red tongue and gums; then turned away in disdain… About a mile further on down the dusty road were her cubs, the colour of the faded, sun-burnt grasses, there, camouflaged behind some taller tufts. Their little heads peered cautiously out of their hiding place, inquisitive.

A short distance further on, we approached a herd of elephant. When they were only a few yards away, Herbert stopped the vehicle, switched off the engine. We watched, hardly daring to breathe: The young were playful, throwing clumps of grass into the air – “playing with their food”! One youngster charged his sibling, trumpeting, clear and high, waking Roland, who had been dozing in the front seat. He looked around and said, “Look – ELEPHANT!” We laughed with him… A baby elephant – so tiny amongst his older siblings, cousins, his huge mother and aunts, threw his unruly trunk at a dove pecking nearby in the dust. The dove ignored Baby Elephant, who struggled to control the rubbery, unruly appendage, spread his ears and CHARGED the cheeky bird, trumpeting in a high squeaky voice. Cheeky Bird hopped and fluttered a few feet away, and began pecking again. Other young elephants watched awhile, then decided to join in the fun. We could have sat watching for hours.

Dust shimmered gold in our wake.

Over there – a leopard, hardly more than a tree-stump, sat between two trees, then regally deigned to stroll toward us, disappearing then materializing in the yellowed light and shade of grass and bush and dust and late-afternoon sun like a mirage…

As the sun sank behind a jagged hill in blazing pink, etching the blackened tree onto a gold-edged cloud, we heard the lonely cry of a fish-eagle mewing to its mate high above a lily pond. Nine pairs of eyes and nine pairs of binoculars turned upward to catch a glimpse of its red-brown and white majesty…

Later, in the dark, in the middle of a ford across a murmuring river, Herbert stopped the vehicle, switching off lights and engine. We looked up to the brightly-pricked heavens, deep, velvet-blue, strewn with stars, the Southern Cross blazing in the west… and looking down, saw a glory of fireflies, as if the skies were reflected in the stillest of waters. Suddenly, a loan bullfrog burped, then was joined by a chorus of frogs from basso profundo to sopranino, and every voice between… Marion commented dryly, “a ‘heard’ of frogs!”

Pausing to admire nightjars in the light of the headlamps, straining our eyes to see the tiny bush-babies leaping through the dark and twisted tree-trunks, we returned to the lodge for a candlelit feast. After dinner, we enjoyed another two hours of music, while our spouses and non-musician friends played a raucous, laughter-filled game of Balderdash in the lounge.

What a privilege to spend time in the wilds of the African bush while enjoying the luxury of Ntwane Lodge – and glorious, blissful music-making with the best of friends.

Ntwane – look out – we’ll be back!

Until next week, “here comes Treble!”

By Isabel Bradley

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