Open Writing

Bright green grass grew where, four months earlier a fire had ravaged the veldt and woodland; fresh green leaves pushed their way through blackened bark where roasted orange leaves still clung to twisted branches.

Emulating ‘mad dogs and Englishmen’, animals were out in the midday-sun, seeking warmth as they foraged for food. It was winter in the African bush, with night-time temperatures below zero, and day-time temperatures only ten degrees warmer.
We slept late, our rooms, warmed at night by roaring fires, now cooling with soft embers glowing in the grate as the slowly-waking sun crept between rosy curtains. We ate late and lazy brunches; then took leisurely game-drives in the relative warmth of the winter sunshine.

Bundled up against the cool ambient temperature and the devastating wind-chill factor caused by the vehicle’s movement, we climbed up to our seats each day, cameras and binoculars at the ready.

White and pale,
A half-moon hung
In the blue-jelly sky.

On brown and dusty earth,
Lone brown hyena –
strandwolf –
prowled,
Pausing to look back at us,
Silvery mane gleaming.

The brown hyena, as well as inhabiting the plains, hills and forests of Southern Africa, forages on beaches; this is why he is known among coastal inhabitants as the ‘strandwolf’ or beach wolf.

Graceful gazelle –
Impala and kudu,
Tsessebee and red hartebeest –
Stood to stare at us,
Dark eyes glistening,
Then dropped their heads to graze,
Or disappeared
Into silver-green-russet woodlands.

Each time the vehicle stopped, the dust we’d stirred up overtook us. Sneezing explosively, Chris commented, “The dust of Africa – it gets into your blood. That’s why I couldn’t live anywhere else…”

I retorted, “It may be in our blood, but it would be good if we could keep it out of our sinuses!”

Warthog – favoured fast-food of lion –
out in their droves:
Kneeling to ‘prey’
on roots and truffles –
Or trotting away,
Tails pricked high in alarm.
‘MacDonalds’-M
marked the derrieres of dainty impala,
Flashing white as they fled
From roaring Landrover.

Chris, a great-hearted child of nearly sixty, was thrilled by every creature that deigned to stop and view this noisy, smelly beast that drove the dusty roads.

Secretary birds,
Elegant long legs and fancy hairdos,
Should stalk the veldt,
Darting at snakes to peck and rip;
These were nesting,
high in winter-bare, tangled tree,
stark against the lowering sun.

Dusty road reared up the hill ahead:
Road-coloured, regal,
Sleek backsides swaying,
Two lionesses
Led a procession of vehicles.
Each human hoped
For feline head-turn –
But no,
They ghosted,
Silent and disdainful,
Into dusty bush,
And disappeared…

It’s not easy to spot game in its natural habitat. Each animal’s method of camouflage is excellent, and everything imitates something else.

In this magical land,
bushes seem to be rhinos –
And rhinos look like rocks;
Logs lie waterside like crocodiles,
And the tips of lions’ ears are just the same
As the tufted grasses where they crouch;
Cliff-sized elephant
Mist away without a sound,
Vanish,
behind one lone tree…
Branches rear up like snakes,
While snakes slither, silent and unseen;
And tree-stumps loom out of the dark
Like eagles and owls
And prowling creatures…

As the sun sank in the west, Herbert turned our vehicle toward the lodge, where Alice had spent the day watching elephant, kudu and baboon from the deck. It was time to prepare dinner in the large but cosy kitchen; to sit around the vast, gleaming table and talk, or play silly word-games. Then, to crunch on gravelled pathways to our rooms; to fall asleep in sizzling fire-light and dream of all the creatures who’d come out in the sun to see us.

We humans have more in common with the wild animals than might be expected: we all enjoy good food and in the depths of winter, we’re all sun-worshippers!

Until next time, “here comes Treble!”

By Isabel Bradley
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