Of the Wild Places

Essay

Of The Wild Places

 

In the African wilderness the dawn comes with an audible sigh. At first you don’t hear it: neither a buzz nor a hiss, it is the sound of the essence of life, like a long perceptible drawing in of air. It is a soft and gentle symphony and the musicians that play are a myriad of creatures large, small and tiny, earthbound and aerial, tuning their wings and legs in concert with the luminous shimmering in the east.

 

It is the sound of the Earth itself arousing, contented as if awakening from a good night’s sleep.

something that once experienced is never forgotten �" primeval and eternally repeated, it refreshes the soul like nothing else can. It is a magnet that draws one back, over and over �" to wake in rhythm with the bushveld. Some might want to “wake up in a city that never sleeps”, but that is not for me. I want to be aroused by the gentle light that softly descends on the wild places of this contorted, beautiful land that has rested quietly through a star-filled night.

 

But this is a savage place and the light of dawn comes as a relief for some �" those gentle beings that are the prey of nocturnal killers. It is not for the faint-hearted. Savagery and violence is liable to be found around the next bend of the track, suddenly and explosively erupting to destroy the peace and seemingly idyllic beauty. Here the night cloaks the stealthy, deadly actions of those that have to kill to eat, to survive. The rising of the sun is the end of the night shift and the beginning of the day’s. Now the leopard will rest, but the cheetah must stretch and begin its patient prowl in the grasses of the plains where their food will be found.

 

On a much smaller scale there are nocturnal creatures that hunt on the savannah, in the desert and in the deep woodlands. They are equally efficient as predators �" and their prey is no less at risk than those much larger. Civets, bush babies and aardvarks together with a host of others are all active in pursuit of smaller mammals, birds, insects and reptiles. The killing fields teem with these ruthlessly dedicated but innocent animals.

 

Just as suddenly as it begins, the murderous teeth and claws will have done their work, the prey lies still, the dust settles and with death, life goes on. Even the survivors of the herd will know that the danger for them has passed and will stand in sight of their erstwhile enemy which are now feasting on one that moments before were alive amongst them. And peace slowly filters back as the herd drifts away to leave the flesh-eaters to their bloody meal.

 

Once darkness has given way to the fiery sun, the air changes as the cool of the night is exchanged for the dusty heat of a day in the African wild. Cicadas have begun their ceaseless buzz, accompanied by others with their tiny diaphanous wings moving so rapidly that they create a billion minutely noisy hurricanes. By now birds have long been singing their chorus of joyful melodies, and you might hear that sharp percussive crack that is the mighty elephant snapping a branch to get at a leafy morsel. It is something to revel in, a simply wonderful place to be where the only laws are those of Mother Nature and her different seasons in all their glory.

 

The wild things are everywhere; not only on the ground but in the trees and in the air.  The flash of electric blue of the under-wings of a Lilac-breasted roller, the brilliant Crimson-breasted shrike and all their not so brightly coloured cousins beguile us with their effortless beauty. Shibumi abounds here. Entomologists see other marvels as do botanists. We here in the far southern parts of this massive continent are blessed with a vast array of wild things which if we take the time to stop and observe, reveals an intricate and wonderfully woven tapestry to enthrall us with its grace and beauty. We can, without undue travail, lose ourselves in this treasure chest of multifaceted life.  

 

Along the Northern River Road that winds its quiet way beside the dry Luvuvhu with its towering and ancient fig trees, a lone nyala bull stands on the bed’s dry sand, its head alertly turned toward us, curiously and with innate awareness. It is a scene that evokes an underlying theme of the bush. I, a denizen of this hushed and magical place am here always, and you, humans, are here now. But I shall always be here with the dry river, in the silence and deep shade of the sycamore figs �" and in a moment you will be gone.

 

Perhaps, if you are fortunate, one day you might return.