The Home Coming
Like an aggressive goony bird, the white and blue Air Rhodesia Viscount stood on the apron of Jan Smuts Airport, the bright sun glistening off silver wings. All manner of vehicles fussing to and fro loading ‘friendly’ cargo, passenger’s luggage and gallons of Jetfuel for the flight to Vic Falls. Sitting in the departure lounge in khaki shorts, shirt, boots and bush hat, I looked very much out of place amongst the businessmen in smart suits, ladies dressed in very smart skirts, stockings and high heels. Travel was a smart affair in those days.
The first boarding call finally came and eager to get back to Chinga, Molly, Hercules and yes even BA, I grabbed my grubby day back and hurried to the front of the cue. Gibson, having picked up the Landy in Kariba where it was garaged during our absence was already in Vic falls, I was looking forward to seeing my good friend again. The four engines spooled up one by one, their four bladed props creating blurred disks as the airhostesses went through their safety routines. The bush war had escalated in our absence and this time I paid attention to what they were saying.
Finally the great ‘bird’ lifts into the air, with a loud clunk, the undercarriage tucks away and we climb out northwards into the steely blue sky. This afternoon flight over the dry African savannah promises to be a bumpy one; with each bounce through turbulence one or two groans can be heard above the whine of the turbo props. As the earth drops away I am riveted to the window identifying roads, towns and rivers on our route, so much so that the airhostess has to tap me on the shoulder to take my order of a bitterly cold Castle. The topography and vegetation is constantly changing and I know we are close to our destination, butterflies of excitement tickle from the inside. The Captain calls over the intercom, pointing out the ‘smoke’ rising from the gorge below as millions of gallons of life giving water deluge over the falls. The water and I have something in common, we’re headed for the same place, Matusadona and Kariba.
It has been said that any landing that you walk away from is a good one and we walk through the stifling heat into the Vic Falls ‘terminal’, fans running at full speed only circulate hot air. This is “suicide month”, October in Rhodesia. Customs is a bit of a pain what with the war, but eventually I’m caught up in a bone crushing bear hug from behind....”iStulele, I see you”. I manage to break loose and grab Gibson around the neck, two old friends in a joyful greeting. The gramophone record has been switched on. Gibson is off at full tilt, trying to cram events and stories that should rightfully take days to deliver, into the 5 minutes that it takes us to get to the Landy. Just an observation...he must have been waiting since 06:00 this morning to have parked the Landy in the prime spot.
This is like a home coming as I slide behind the wheel, even the Landy feels like an old friend. I glance through the rear cab window to see the back piled high with equipment and supplies which Gibson has bought yesterday, a dusty brown tarpaulin concealing the contents from view. Within the next few days we will be back with our elephant family. Will they recognise us or will we have to go through weeks of re-introduction, are they all still alive?
I punch Gibson on the shoulder, I’m so excited and for once he just grins in understanding.
Some short Ellie stories*
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iNdlovu
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Re: Some short Ellie stories
We're Back
We head out of town in a south easterly direction on the highway to Bulawayo, but soon turn left onto the gravel road that heads for Kariba. This is a long and torturous drive, the road almost non-existent in places, but the Landy is in her element, the rougher the better, not so for our jarring bodies, this thing was certainly not built for comfort. The sun is almost on the horizon behind us and I push the mirrors out of the way in order not to be blinded by the reflection, as dark closes in we need to be focussed.
Our pace is down to about 30 kilometres per hour and Gibson spots lights in the distance, eventually we come over a rise and before us a Rhodesian army security check point. We are the first vehicle to pass in two days so it is somewhat of a festive occasion. We partake of a few of their cold bears from their paraffin fridge in camp and sit on the Landy’s bonnet and fenders chatting. On discovering our destination they insist that we put up our tents next to theirs and spend the night. It’s a wise suggestion and we are grateful for their hospitality. Gibson is showing signs of unease. He is not happy, a Matabele on public roads in Mashona territory, he can’t wait to get into the bush where he will be less conspicuous.
We’re up with the changing of the duty guards, grab a hot cup of coffee from the mess tent and hit the road about 2 hours before sun rise, Gibson insists on taking the wheel as I sit comfortably, feet up on the dashboard and doze. Soon after sunrise we pass the turn off to Binga, we’re getting close and I eagerly peer into the distance looking for the track we will take into Matusadona. Over the rickety bridge on the Ume river, and we’re about 8 kilometres from the turn-off. Finally I see it and point to it in case Gibson has missed it, he nods and keeps on driving straight passed. I sit up straight and politely ask if he is going to pick up a girlfriend or something, he just raises his eyebrows in response. I have learned over the years that Gibson always has a pretty good reason for doing things so I go with the flow although my curiosity is getting the better of me.
After 20 minutes or so, I see a lone man standing on the side of the road and Gibson starts to slow down and pulls to a halt in front of the man. Civil greetings are exchanged and a short discussion ensues about the weather, the crops and the families, then finally the reason for Gibson’s behaviour is revealed.
Gibson had ascertained that our herd had left Mana Pools days before he left for Kariba and on to Vic Falls, he immediately appointed this man, a resident of his village, to tag along behind the herd so that when we arrived he could give us their location and save us a lot of time finding them. The plan has worked like a charm, Chinga and her family are a mere 6 kilometres from our present position. I offer to pay the man for his troubles but he will not here of it, Gibson is a headman in the area and being able to do him a favour is reward enough. A polite greeting and he turns his back on us and walks off in the direction he has come, we stand and watch until he disappears over a rise in the road.
Our excitement bubbles over and we rush for the Landy, pile in amongst shouts of anticipation and turn off the road into the grass and bush of eastern Matusadona. To get around the Sinyati Gorge they have been forced inland where they have crossed the Sinyati River and are now making their slow methodical way to the same area as before, close to the shores of Kariba. Today we will be with the herd.
The binoculars glued to my eyes constantly, I scan the country ahead as Gibson squints into the haze , rocks and bushes deceive us in our anticipation as we jar and grind our way through the veld. There, far in the distance, is that them? I lower the binoculars and ask Gibson to stop. He jumps out and climbs onto the bonnet for a better view, I join him and raise the glasses again, this time I’m sure and hand them to him. “Yebo, iStulele, it is Chinga”.
We head out of town in a south easterly direction on the highway to Bulawayo, but soon turn left onto the gravel road that heads for Kariba. This is a long and torturous drive, the road almost non-existent in places, but the Landy is in her element, the rougher the better, not so for our jarring bodies, this thing was certainly not built for comfort. The sun is almost on the horizon behind us and I push the mirrors out of the way in order not to be blinded by the reflection, as dark closes in we need to be focussed.
Our pace is down to about 30 kilometres per hour and Gibson spots lights in the distance, eventually we come over a rise and before us a Rhodesian army security check point. We are the first vehicle to pass in two days so it is somewhat of a festive occasion. We partake of a few of their cold bears from their paraffin fridge in camp and sit on the Landy’s bonnet and fenders chatting. On discovering our destination they insist that we put up our tents next to theirs and spend the night. It’s a wise suggestion and we are grateful for their hospitality. Gibson is showing signs of unease. He is not happy, a Matabele on public roads in Mashona territory, he can’t wait to get into the bush where he will be less conspicuous.
We’re up with the changing of the duty guards, grab a hot cup of coffee from the mess tent and hit the road about 2 hours before sun rise, Gibson insists on taking the wheel as I sit comfortably, feet up on the dashboard and doze. Soon after sunrise we pass the turn off to Binga, we’re getting close and I eagerly peer into the distance looking for the track we will take into Matusadona. Over the rickety bridge on the Ume river, and we’re about 8 kilometres from the turn-off. Finally I see it and point to it in case Gibson has missed it, he nods and keeps on driving straight passed. I sit up straight and politely ask if he is going to pick up a girlfriend or something, he just raises his eyebrows in response. I have learned over the years that Gibson always has a pretty good reason for doing things so I go with the flow although my curiosity is getting the better of me.
After 20 minutes or so, I see a lone man standing on the side of the road and Gibson starts to slow down and pulls to a halt in front of the man. Civil greetings are exchanged and a short discussion ensues about the weather, the crops and the families, then finally the reason for Gibson’s behaviour is revealed.
Gibson had ascertained that our herd had left Mana Pools days before he left for Kariba and on to Vic Falls, he immediately appointed this man, a resident of his village, to tag along behind the herd so that when we arrived he could give us their location and save us a lot of time finding them. The plan has worked like a charm, Chinga and her family are a mere 6 kilometres from our present position. I offer to pay the man for his troubles but he will not here of it, Gibson is a headman in the area and being able to do him a favour is reward enough. A polite greeting and he turns his back on us and walks off in the direction he has come, we stand and watch until he disappears over a rise in the road.
Our excitement bubbles over and we rush for the Landy, pile in amongst shouts of anticipation and turn off the road into the grass and bush of eastern Matusadona. To get around the Sinyati Gorge they have been forced inland where they have crossed the Sinyati River and are now making their slow methodical way to the same area as before, close to the shores of Kariba. Today we will be with the herd.
The binoculars glued to my eyes constantly, I scan the country ahead as Gibson squints into the haze , rocks and bushes deceive us in our anticipation as we jar and grind our way through the veld. There, far in the distance, is that them? I lower the binoculars and ask Gibson to stop. He jumps out and climbs onto the bonnet for a better view, I join him and raise the glasses again, this time I’m sure and hand them to him. “Yebo, iStulele, it is Chinga”.
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iNdlovu
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Re: Some short Ellie stories
This is a very short episode, but out of all my experiences with Chinga's herd it is the one that still means the most to me to this day. My writing will never convey the emotions that ran rampant through me that day.
We jump back into the hot cab and continue to follow the herd without pushing them, but both of us are so eager to see the reaction we step up our speed and receive a battering for our troubles. After what seems like many hours of bumping through the veld, we are now within 500 metres of Chinga who has taken the rear of the procession just as she did before. There is no doubt that she is aware that someone is following them, subtle movements of her head, ears and trunk confirm it, we have seen these signs before when she gets slightly agitated.
We push a little harder and she suddenly wheels around, ears flapping and trunk upraised, she’s uncertain, but giving a warning for us to back off. My heart sinks and I glance at Gibson who doesn’t look any happier. He stops the vehicle, we don’t want to push our re-uniting and end up wrecking all our hard work. As Chinga stands there daring us to come closer I give it one last try before we turn around and start the whole process over, I climb out and onto the bonnet once again and call her by name. A massive swish of the ears, she has heard me. Holding my breath waiting anxiously as Gibson joins me. She continues to stare at us, every now and then her great ears give a big sweep of air, but she is showing less signs of anger.
I get down slowly and take a few steps towards her, calling her by name as I go. Suddenly her trunk drops to the ground and her ears remain still, slowly, one great step at I time she walks towards me. With her great strides the distance between us will be swallowed up quickly. I stop moving, but she continues, one slow step at a time. I move backwards until I’m just in front of the Landy as she walks on.
About 20 metres away, she stops and rumbles loudly, is this a greeting? In amazement I see the herd behind her turn and head in our direction until they have reached Chinga’s position. I do a quick mental roll call as they stand in front of us. There’s Molly, I call out to her and she steps forward and comes right up to me and gently extends her trunk to touch the side of my face. We stand like this for at least 5 minutes, the tears of joy pouring down my cheeks, we’re back amongst friends.
We jump back into the hot cab and continue to follow the herd without pushing them, but both of us are so eager to see the reaction we step up our speed and receive a battering for our troubles. After what seems like many hours of bumping through the veld, we are now within 500 metres of Chinga who has taken the rear of the procession just as she did before. There is no doubt that she is aware that someone is following them, subtle movements of her head, ears and trunk confirm it, we have seen these signs before when she gets slightly agitated.
We push a little harder and she suddenly wheels around, ears flapping and trunk upraised, she’s uncertain, but giving a warning for us to back off. My heart sinks and I glance at Gibson who doesn’t look any happier. He stops the vehicle, we don’t want to push our re-uniting and end up wrecking all our hard work. As Chinga stands there daring us to come closer I give it one last try before we turn around and start the whole process over, I climb out and onto the bonnet once again and call her by name. A massive swish of the ears, she has heard me. Holding my breath waiting anxiously as Gibson joins me. She continues to stare at us, every now and then her great ears give a big sweep of air, but she is showing less signs of anger.
I get down slowly and take a few steps towards her, calling her by name as I go. Suddenly her trunk drops to the ground and her ears remain still, slowly, one great step at I time she walks towards me. With her great strides the distance between us will be swallowed up quickly. I stop moving, but she continues, one slow step at a time. I move backwards until I’m just in front of the Landy as she walks on.
About 20 metres away, she stops and rumbles loudly, is this a greeting? In amazement I see the herd behind her turn and head in our direction until they have reached Chinga’s position. I do a quick mental roll call as they stand in front of us. There’s Molly, I call out to her and she steps forward and comes right up to me and gently extends her trunk to touch the side of my face. We stand like this for at least 5 minutes, the tears of joy pouring down my cheeks, we’re back amongst friends.
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iNdlovu
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Re: Some short Ellie stories
Discipline
A loud trumpet from the back of the herd breaks the spell, I step back and Gibson stiffens, this is a threatening sound. The elephant facing us become agitated and start moving around restlessly. Another shrill trumpet and I get worried for our safety, the herd parts and rushing towards us is BA. I’m about to dive for the protection of the Landy when he slides to a halt, grass and dust flying over us. He shakes his big head aggressively, his ears cracking against his shoulders. In an instant Chinga steps in front of him and lets loose the loudest trumpet I have ever heard, she turns and faces him, her right tusk pressed against his trunk. He takes a step back blowing great volumes of wind through his trunk as Chinga stares him down. Her back is arched, legs planted, her heavy trunk curled inwards, she is showing her disapproval and BA sheepishly, but not without his usual arrogance turns and walks back through the parted herd, calves seeking protection at his passing, behind mothers and nursemaids. Showing her matriarchal dominance Chinga follows closely behind him, her huge feet plodding in the dust. Is this the final stand-off, is it time for BA to leave the herd in order to continue his development amongst the older bulls? I have been holding my breath all through this incident and finally exhale with relief. Hands trembling, I reach into my shirt pocket to find a cigarette and pass one to Gibson who is visibly shaken. That was close.
The herd relaxes and they start to mill around us and our dust covered vehicle, rumbles emanating from the senior cows, some prodding the canvas covering our load, others simply looking at us through those warm eyes, long eyelashes enhancing the look of friendship. We stay with them until Chinga leads them off in the direction of our old camp site. We climb into the Landy and follow. BA is still with us, but walks a little to the side; he has been admonished by the leader and is possibly in disgrace.
Finally we emerge from amongst the koppies and the plain stretches before us to the water’s edge, the sun is sinking, half submerged behind the hills of Zambia on the far shore. Great flocks of birds fly overhead in formation seeking their night roosts as we pull up on the edge of our grove, the herd has stopped on the far side, perhaps they will spend our first night home close by. Tonight we will have a rudimentary camp and get fully organised in the morning. Soon we are seated next to our fire, coffee pot steaming, talking quietly about the events of the day, it has been a nerve wracking one and I can’t wait to relax in my sleeping bag, thrilled with the knowledge that we weren’t forgotten by our herd. I leave Gibson at the fire and crawl into my tent to lie and listen to the night sounds of Matusadona.
A loud trumpet from the back of the herd breaks the spell, I step back and Gibson stiffens, this is a threatening sound. The elephant facing us become agitated and start moving around restlessly. Another shrill trumpet and I get worried for our safety, the herd parts and rushing towards us is BA. I’m about to dive for the protection of the Landy when he slides to a halt, grass and dust flying over us. He shakes his big head aggressively, his ears cracking against his shoulders. In an instant Chinga steps in front of him and lets loose the loudest trumpet I have ever heard, she turns and faces him, her right tusk pressed against his trunk. He takes a step back blowing great volumes of wind through his trunk as Chinga stares him down. Her back is arched, legs planted, her heavy trunk curled inwards, she is showing her disapproval and BA sheepishly, but not without his usual arrogance turns and walks back through the parted herd, calves seeking protection at his passing, behind mothers and nursemaids. Showing her matriarchal dominance Chinga follows closely behind him, her huge feet plodding in the dust. Is this the final stand-off, is it time for BA to leave the herd in order to continue his development amongst the older bulls? I have been holding my breath all through this incident and finally exhale with relief. Hands trembling, I reach into my shirt pocket to find a cigarette and pass one to Gibson who is visibly shaken. That was close.
The herd relaxes and they start to mill around us and our dust covered vehicle, rumbles emanating from the senior cows, some prodding the canvas covering our load, others simply looking at us through those warm eyes, long eyelashes enhancing the look of friendship. We stay with them until Chinga leads them off in the direction of our old camp site. We climb into the Landy and follow. BA is still with us, but walks a little to the side; he has been admonished by the leader and is possibly in disgrace.
Finally we emerge from amongst the koppies and the plain stretches before us to the water’s edge, the sun is sinking, half submerged behind the hills of Zambia on the far shore. Great flocks of birds fly overhead in formation seeking their night roosts as we pull up on the edge of our grove, the herd has stopped on the far side, perhaps they will spend our first night home close by. Tonight we will have a rudimentary camp and get fully organised in the morning. Soon we are seated next to our fire, coffee pot steaming, talking quietly about the events of the day, it has been a nerve wracking one and I can’t wait to relax in my sleeping bag, thrilled with the knowledge that we weren’t forgotten by our herd. I leave Gibson at the fire and crawl into my tent to lie and listen to the night sounds of Matusadona.
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iNdlovu
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Re: Some short Ellie stories
The still of an African night
I lie awake on my camp stretcher for quite a while, getting my ‘bush legs’ back and my senses in tune again, my mind mulling over the events of the past few days since my arrival back in Rhodesia.
Things are looking pretty tough for the future and I’m concerned about the rapid escalation of the bush war. The guys back at the army check point, as well as Gibson, have given me news of what is actually happening on the ground and it’s not good. I force myself to think of where I am and concentrate on the many natural sounds coming from the darkness.
On the first few nights back in the wild I seem to hear everything. Noises, that after a while become so normal I won’t even notice them. There is the faint flicker of very low flames reflecting off the side of my tent, Gibson has banked the fire and dragged himself off to bed. A few mosquitoes wine around the outside of my net, in the darkness all is still other than a faint rustling now and again from a small field mouse or shrew foraging in the dry leaves and the odd little crackle from the fire. I start to focus on the minute sounds of night insects, almost like drilling down into ones sub-conscious, like trying to listen to the air.
I am focusing so hard that a series of whoops from some Hyenas miles away seem like they are in camp. A faint breeze picks up off the shores of Kariba, barely enough to flutter the leaves in the branches overhead, the constant smell of dust fills the air. I doze off only for a few minutes at a time, jarred awake as each new sound reaches my ears.
The night is hot as I lie on my back in my bush shorts, damp perspiration making my skin stick to the sleeping bag underneath me. A double flash of light outside the tent, what is Gibson looking for with his torch? That couldn’t have been him, I hear even, heavy breathing coming from his tent; he’s far away in dreamland. I close my eyes to concentrate on sound; I’m seeing with my ears.
The leaves overhead take on a more urgent rustle, the breeze picks up faintly. Another multiple flash briefly lights the darkness, followed very faintly by low a rumble, could it be vehicles moving in the distance? A lone lion calls from far away, his series of roars and grunts are answered by another, their conversation continues for quite some time, and then silence once more. I am feeling uneasy, maybe the stories and thoughts of bands of ZANU terrorists are getting to me. Lights continue to flash and flicker and I finally force myself up and stand in the doorway of my tent peering into the darkness of Africa.
The cool breeze feels good as I cross to the fire, I kick sand onto the coals to extinguish it completely, there’s no need to advertise our presence. As I turn around a trumpet breaks the silence, it’s Chinga, I know that call. Another elephant in the herd adds to the noise before Chinga’s call fades, something is disturbing them but judging by the sound they have moved off quite far away from our camp towards Kariba’s shores.
Another flash of light fills the sky and I chuckle at my stupidity, it is nothing but a good old African thunder storm moving towards us from over the lake. I grab my torch from the tent and quickly check our campsite for stuff that should be put away before the rain hits us and I pull the canvas tarpaulin over the back of the Landy, tying it down against the coming storm. A strong gust of wind kicks dust into my eyes as I work quickly and then the first splat of a large rain drop strikes me on my back. I feel the change brought on by the coming storm, everything is charged, the whole night has changed from hot, still lethargy to a tingling excitement. I move quickly back into my tent, pull up the camp stool and sit in the doorway watching as rain drops kick up puffs of dust. An arc of electricity instantly lights up everything around me, simultaneously the night is shattered by the crack of thunder, the individual drops of life giving rain becomes a steady downpour drumming on the canvas of my tent. In the lightning flashes, tree trunks are glistening with rain as small but swelling streams flow through the camp. The wind buffets the trees to illustrate the storm's power, the air acrid with sulphur, what a welcoming show for us.
I hear a belly laugh from Gibson’s tent between rolls of thunder, “iStulele, we are home, this is true Africa, welcome back my friend.” I grin a response into the darkness.
I lie awake on my camp stretcher for quite a while, getting my ‘bush legs’ back and my senses in tune again, my mind mulling over the events of the past few days since my arrival back in Rhodesia.
Things are looking pretty tough for the future and I’m concerned about the rapid escalation of the bush war. The guys back at the army check point, as well as Gibson, have given me news of what is actually happening on the ground and it’s not good. I force myself to think of where I am and concentrate on the many natural sounds coming from the darkness.
On the first few nights back in the wild I seem to hear everything. Noises, that after a while become so normal I won’t even notice them. There is the faint flicker of very low flames reflecting off the side of my tent, Gibson has banked the fire and dragged himself off to bed. A few mosquitoes wine around the outside of my net, in the darkness all is still other than a faint rustling now and again from a small field mouse or shrew foraging in the dry leaves and the odd little crackle from the fire. I start to focus on the minute sounds of night insects, almost like drilling down into ones sub-conscious, like trying to listen to the air.
I am focusing so hard that a series of whoops from some Hyenas miles away seem like they are in camp. A faint breeze picks up off the shores of Kariba, barely enough to flutter the leaves in the branches overhead, the constant smell of dust fills the air. I doze off only for a few minutes at a time, jarred awake as each new sound reaches my ears.
The night is hot as I lie on my back in my bush shorts, damp perspiration making my skin stick to the sleeping bag underneath me. A double flash of light outside the tent, what is Gibson looking for with his torch? That couldn’t have been him, I hear even, heavy breathing coming from his tent; he’s far away in dreamland. I close my eyes to concentrate on sound; I’m seeing with my ears.
The leaves overhead take on a more urgent rustle, the breeze picks up faintly. Another multiple flash briefly lights the darkness, followed very faintly by low a rumble, could it be vehicles moving in the distance? A lone lion calls from far away, his series of roars and grunts are answered by another, their conversation continues for quite some time, and then silence once more. I am feeling uneasy, maybe the stories and thoughts of bands of ZANU terrorists are getting to me. Lights continue to flash and flicker and I finally force myself up and stand in the doorway of my tent peering into the darkness of Africa.
The cool breeze feels good as I cross to the fire, I kick sand onto the coals to extinguish it completely, there’s no need to advertise our presence. As I turn around a trumpet breaks the silence, it’s Chinga, I know that call. Another elephant in the herd adds to the noise before Chinga’s call fades, something is disturbing them but judging by the sound they have moved off quite far away from our camp towards Kariba’s shores.
Another flash of light fills the sky and I chuckle at my stupidity, it is nothing but a good old African thunder storm moving towards us from over the lake. I grab my torch from the tent and quickly check our campsite for stuff that should be put away before the rain hits us and I pull the canvas tarpaulin over the back of the Landy, tying it down against the coming storm. A strong gust of wind kicks dust into my eyes as I work quickly and then the first splat of a large rain drop strikes me on my back. I feel the change brought on by the coming storm, everything is charged, the whole night has changed from hot, still lethargy to a tingling excitement. I move quickly back into my tent, pull up the camp stool and sit in the doorway watching as rain drops kick up puffs of dust. An arc of electricity instantly lights up everything around me, simultaneously the night is shattered by the crack of thunder, the individual drops of life giving rain becomes a steady downpour drumming on the canvas of my tent. In the lightning flashes, tree trunks are glistening with rain as small but swelling streams flow through the camp. The wind buffets the trees to illustrate the storm's power, the air acrid with sulphur, what a welcoming show for us.
I hear a belly laugh from Gibson’s tent between rolls of thunder, “iStulele, we are home, this is true Africa, welcome back my friend.” I grin a response into the darkness.
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iNdlovu
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Re: Some short Ellie stories
Life's hard Lessons
Hearing Gibson snapping twigs over his knee out there in the dark, it’s time to watch in anticipation as he tries to get a very wet fire with very wet wood going. I have saved up all kinds of smart comments to throw at him as he gets more and more frustrated. Two good friends that have shared many campfires get away with pushing the boundaries and I intend to push them all the way to the lake shore this morning. With a glint in my eye I feel around for my boots, clean socks & shirt and I’m ready to start the day with some fun at Gibson’s expense. I push the tent flap aside and step out onto the still wet earth, what the heck...there are some small flames flickering in the fire place. Gibson is filling the coffee pot from our fresh water supply, humming to himself with not a care in the world. Muttering to myself, I stumble over to the Landy to find my enamel mug and on throwing the canvas tarpaulin aside I see a pile of dry wood in the spot our tents were packed yesterday evening. This crafty old Matabele had anticipated the storm and collected enough wood for our morning fire. I make a mental note not to trust him in future and a second note to quickly become aware of my surroundings, and get the city habits out of the way. I soon realize that there is not much point in correcting him when he laughingly calls me a city slicker from the City of Gold and I take my ribbing in silence. Round 1 to Gibson.
The outline of the row of Koppies to the east is taking shape with a dull glow in the sky as their backdrop. The pink and purple dawn signals a bright, hot new day washed clean by last night’s storm as we sit at the fire staring into our coffee mugs. We discuss going out to meet the herd and decide to go on foot; yesterday’s meeting has given us a new confidence. A quick ‘birdbath’ with a pale of warm water in our canvas basin, a few minutes to secure the camp and we’re striding out through the veld, the wet grass drenching our legs and shorts. This is living and we can’t wait to be amongst our old friends again. In the distance we hear the crack of a large branch being snapped off like one would a match and head in that direction, our herd is feeding in a clump of trees about a kilometre away.
We approach with our usual morning caution in case some strangers have joined the herd during the night, but all seems at peace. A loud trumpet, BA is throwing his considerable weight around. His aggression is not directed at us, he just seems to be showing off as only BA can do, but we stand still just the same until Chinga becomes aware of our presence. She calmly flaps her great ears and lazily tugs pods from the trees overhead as if this is so normal and we have our signal from the great matriarch that we can proceed to join her herd.
We settle down on a fallen tree trunk and continue to observe as if there has been no break in our association with them. Molly sidles over, stops about 10 feet away and gives us the most perfect slow flutter of her long eyelashes as she quietly rumbles a welcome. I decide, rightly or wrongly, that as the one seemingly in charge of all the nursemaids and their charges, she has to be the softest, caring, placid creature on this earth. Her memory has a very warm spot in my heart to this day. Peering under her great belly, separated from us by her bulk, is little Amasahba. Like a very shy little girl sucking her thumb, she turns her trunk inwards and plays with her lip then touches Molly’s front leg at the knee gaining a sense of security from Molly as Gibson quietly makes soothing conversation with her. She coyly continues to hide behind Molly as her allocated nursemaids look on in silence. Molly drapes her trunk over her own near perfect tusk, Chinga’s herd is at peace.
Not wanting to disturb anything, we sit on our log for what seems like hours, watching the rest of the herd, framed by Molly’s legs and belly, they all go about their business quietly and calmly. Amongst numerous legs we get a glimpse of young Hercules, as he moves around from nursemaid to nursemaid. He has mastered the art of plucking leaves from trees with his difficult to control trunk, but has no idea what to do with them and certainly cannot control this appendage enough to stuff the leaves into his mouth, but there is much improvement in this area. Suddenly he breaks away from the protecting ring of nurses and runs over to stand beside little Amasahba, peering at us for a moment. This is enough to unsettle the little girl and send her squealing back to safety which in turn frightens Hercules enough to send him rushing back to the protecting legs. Gibson and I chuckle at the youngsters antics and the rest of the herd continue as if absolutely nothing has happened.
Slowly, ponderously the herd moves in the direction of the waterhole beyond our camp and we follow. On clearing the cool shade of the bush the harsh African light pierces our eyes and squinting into the distance we see the massive bulk of a lone bull making his way slowly down to the herd. It is time for us to give them some space and we angle off to follow about 200 metres alongside them. It is Mzilikazi (Gibson’s ancestor, or so he claims), the same bull who has visited on numerous occasions before. He plods to within 300 or 400 metres of the herd when Chinga calls the herd to a halt. We have learned that it is extremely disrespectful for cows or youngsters to encroach on a big bull’s intended path and Chinga will keep the herd still until she is sure of Mzilikazi’s movements. Typically BA pays no heed to Chinga’s instructions and huffs around, billowing dust in his wake and Chinga once again has to place her bulk threateningly in front of him, her trunk draped over his forehead. BA calms a little and Chinga steps aside. Mzilikazi walks calmly up to Chinga and greets her, his trunk caressing her shoulders. Moving on, he repeats this action with all the adult cows in the herd.
It seems this is not a social visit as he does not spend a lot of time with his greetings and soon turns his attentions on BA who is fidgeting uncomfortably on his own. He bestows a long withering gaze on BA as everyone seems to be holding their breath then purposefully strides up to face the younger bull head on. He entwines his trunk around BA’s for a moment then bows his proud head and pushes against BA, his massive tusks on either side. BA’s hind legs and feet find no purchase in the dust and he is forced backwards, no match for Mzilikazi and to his credit he shows absolute submission to the huge bull in front of him. Within moments Mzilikazi eases the pressure and steps back whilst Chinga and the herd look on in total silence He shakes his massive head once, ears crack like lightening with clouds of dust pluming into the hot air then turns and takes a few steps in the direction he came from. He emits one rumble, loud enough for Gibson and I to hear plainly from our vantage point and BA steps up beside him. Without a backward glance the two bulls walk away from the herd, side by side, as we all watch them eventually disappear between two koppies.
I look at Gibson with mixed feelings, thankful for what we have just witnessed but at the same time sad that BA will not be there to greet us in his own boisterous way tomorrow morning. Hopefully his continuing education will not be too rough on him.
Hearing Gibson snapping twigs over his knee out there in the dark, it’s time to watch in anticipation as he tries to get a very wet fire with very wet wood going. I have saved up all kinds of smart comments to throw at him as he gets more and more frustrated. Two good friends that have shared many campfires get away with pushing the boundaries and I intend to push them all the way to the lake shore this morning. With a glint in my eye I feel around for my boots, clean socks & shirt and I’m ready to start the day with some fun at Gibson’s expense. I push the tent flap aside and step out onto the still wet earth, what the heck...there are some small flames flickering in the fire place. Gibson is filling the coffee pot from our fresh water supply, humming to himself with not a care in the world. Muttering to myself, I stumble over to the Landy to find my enamel mug and on throwing the canvas tarpaulin aside I see a pile of dry wood in the spot our tents were packed yesterday evening. This crafty old Matabele had anticipated the storm and collected enough wood for our morning fire. I make a mental note not to trust him in future and a second note to quickly become aware of my surroundings, and get the city habits out of the way. I soon realize that there is not much point in correcting him when he laughingly calls me a city slicker from the City of Gold and I take my ribbing in silence. Round 1 to Gibson.
The outline of the row of Koppies to the east is taking shape with a dull glow in the sky as their backdrop. The pink and purple dawn signals a bright, hot new day washed clean by last night’s storm as we sit at the fire staring into our coffee mugs. We discuss going out to meet the herd and decide to go on foot; yesterday’s meeting has given us a new confidence. A quick ‘birdbath’ with a pale of warm water in our canvas basin, a few minutes to secure the camp and we’re striding out through the veld, the wet grass drenching our legs and shorts. This is living and we can’t wait to be amongst our old friends again. In the distance we hear the crack of a large branch being snapped off like one would a match and head in that direction, our herd is feeding in a clump of trees about a kilometre away.
We approach with our usual morning caution in case some strangers have joined the herd during the night, but all seems at peace. A loud trumpet, BA is throwing his considerable weight around. His aggression is not directed at us, he just seems to be showing off as only BA can do, but we stand still just the same until Chinga becomes aware of our presence. She calmly flaps her great ears and lazily tugs pods from the trees overhead as if this is so normal and we have our signal from the great matriarch that we can proceed to join her herd.
We settle down on a fallen tree trunk and continue to observe as if there has been no break in our association with them. Molly sidles over, stops about 10 feet away and gives us the most perfect slow flutter of her long eyelashes as she quietly rumbles a welcome. I decide, rightly or wrongly, that as the one seemingly in charge of all the nursemaids and their charges, she has to be the softest, caring, placid creature on this earth. Her memory has a very warm spot in my heart to this day. Peering under her great belly, separated from us by her bulk, is little Amasahba. Like a very shy little girl sucking her thumb, she turns her trunk inwards and plays with her lip then touches Molly’s front leg at the knee gaining a sense of security from Molly as Gibson quietly makes soothing conversation with her. She coyly continues to hide behind Molly as her allocated nursemaids look on in silence. Molly drapes her trunk over her own near perfect tusk, Chinga’s herd is at peace.
Not wanting to disturb anything, we sit on our log for what seems like hours, watching the rest of the herd, framed by Molly’s legs and belly, they all go about their business quietly and calmly. Amongst numerous legs we get a glimpse of young Hercules, as he moves around from nursemaid to nursemaid. He has mastered the art of plucking leaves from trees with his difficult to control trunk, but has no idea what to do with them and certainly cannot control this appendage enough to stuff the leaves into his mouth, but there is much improvement in this area. Suddenly he breaks away from the protecting ring of nurses and runs over to stand beside little Amasahba, peering at us for a moment. This is enough to unsettle the little girl and send her squealing back to safety which in turn frightens Hercules enough to send him rushing back to the protecting legs. Gibson and I chuckle at the youngsters antics and the rest of the herd continue as if absolutely nothing has happened.
Slowly, ponderously the herd moves in the direction of the waterhole beyond our camp and we follow. On clearing the cool shade of the bush the harsh African light pierces our eyes and squinting into the distance we see the massive bulk of a lone bull making his way slowly down to the herd. It is time for us to give them some space and we angle off to follow about 200 metres alongside them. It is Mzilikazi (Gibson’s ancestor, or so he claims), the same bull who has visited on numerous occasions before. He plods to within 300 or 400 metres of the herd when Chinga calls the herd to a halt. We have learned that it is extremely disrespectful for cows or youngsters to encroach on a big bull’s intended path and Chinga will keep the herd still until she is sure of Mzilikazi’s movements. Typically BA pays no heed to Chinga’s instructions and huffs around, billowing dust in his wake and Chinga once again has to place her bulk threateningly in front of him, her trunk draped over his forehead. BA calms a little and Chinga steps aside. Mzilikazi walks calmly up to Chinga and greets her, his trunk caressing her shoulders. Moving on, he repeats this action with all the adult cows in the herd.
It seems this is not a social visit as he does not spend a lot of time with his greetings and soon turns his attentions on BA who is fidgeting uncomfortably on his own. He bestows a long withering gaze on BA as everyone seems to be holding their breath then purposefully strides up to face the younger bull head on. He entwines his trunk around BA’s for a moment then bows his proud head and pushes against BA, his massive tusks on either side. BA’s hind legs and feet find no purchase in the dust and he is forced backwards, no match for Mzilikazi and to his credit he shows absolute submission to the huge bull in front of him. Within moments Mzilikazi eases the pressure and steps back whilst Chinga and the herd look on in total silence He shakes his massive head once, ears crack like lightening with clouds of dust pluming into the hot air then turns and takes a few steps in the direction he came from. He emits one rumble, loud enough for Gibson and I to hear plainly from our vantage point and BA steps up beside him. Without a backward glance the two bulls walk away from the herd, side by side, as we all watch them eventually disappear between two koppies.
I look at Gibson with mixed feelings, thankful for what we have just witnessed but at the same time sad that BA will not be there to greet us in his own boisterous way tomorrow morning. Hopefully his continuing education will not be too rough on him.
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iNdlovu
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Re: Some short Ellie stories
Hindsight is a marvelous thing
Days and nights in the African bush all seem to roll into one and before one realises it, weeks have passed, but on reflection there are always small incidents that make any chosen day differ from the rest. So much is happening constantly, whether it is daily events in Chinga’s herd or those surprises that hit you between the eyes, knocking you back on your heels.
Sitting quietly in a grove of trees, the herd going about their normal daily business, my mind tends to wander and I find myself pondering over things that I wouldn’t give a second thought in ‘civilization’. A blade of grass, a grain of sand, a thorn or leaf, ants, insects, the sound of the gentle breeze rustling the leaves. If one truly listens and absorbs, Africa is more hectic than the busiest street corner in Tokyo.
Today is such a day. In our Macro world there is peace as Gibson and I continue our time with Chinga and her family, even the little ones are calm, rumbling tummys and growling conversation no longer enter my brain. I have switched off and moved into the microcosmic world of Africa’s minute wild life. Ants rush to and fro, a blade of grass, previously trampled regains its stature springing upright, as if moved by an invisible hand. Gibson is also in his own world, the look on his face, pure contentment. The stifling heat is oppressive, causing rivulets of perspiration to trickle down the sides of my face and down the sides of my rib cage, the faintest of breezes moves leaves soundlessly in the uppermost branches of the trees, but nothing reaches us on the ground. I unscrew the lid of my water bottle and take a long pull on tepid water, the wetness is the only sensation of refreshment. The herd is moving ever so slowly in the direction of our camp which lies some five kilometres away on the other side of a ridge of koppies but understandably they are in no hurry to leave the shade of the grove. I break the silence suggesting to Gibson that we move on ahead of the herd and make our way back to camp, it seems that tonight will see another camp visit from our family.
Throwing note pads, pencils and almost empty water bottles into our day packs we stretch knotted muscles, pull bush hats down to shield our eyes from the glare and step into the bright sunshine, golden grass as high as our shoulders. This is going to be an uncomfortable walk. Within seconds the suns radiating heat burns our backs and shoulders through our shirts, I suck in a lungful of hot dusty air, oxygen seems scarce. The journey is a long one, but even in its plodding monotony we are spoiled by herds of Sable, Impala, the odd small group of Giraffe and even a jackal, predators are no doubt seeking refuge under distant trees or in dens.
My scanning of the terrain ahead has ceased and even Gibson has been lulled into a sense of complacency. A little way to our left I spot two vultures perched on a dead branch and give a low whistle to alert Gibson, we have almost stumbled onto a lion kill and the dozing perpetrators are no more than 30 meters away when we become aware of them, warned by a snarl from a watchful lioness. She springs to her feet, ears flattened and tail swishing from side to side. The pride male rises to his haunches, but the rest of the pride remain stretched on their backs or sides. Gibson grabs my arm and draws me close to his side as he removes his day pack and holds it in front of him, I immediately follow suit. Hopefully we are presenting a bigger image, joined together at the shoulder as we stare down the inevitable charge.
Thinking back, I had no thoughts at all at the time, my mind so focused on the danger and honed in on her slightest movement which would signal her commitment. The sudden tensing of hip muscles and I know she has made her decision. With another chilling snarl, she launches herself into a low frenetic charge, dust flies and we lean forward waiting for the impact. Our arms linked, we feed on each other’s will power not to turn and make the fatal mistake to flee before this terrifying, snarling hellcat. She braces her front legs whilst lowering her rump and slides to a stop 10 meters in front of us, gravel and sand bouncing off our chests, she shuffles backwards by half a meter, hissing and snarling through enormous fangs. Instantly we both step slowly backwards careful not to make any sudden movement in an attempt to widen the gap. The tension in her body is dissipating with each of our slow steps backwards and eventually she turns and nonchalantly strolls back to her place of shade. Gibson and I continue our slow purposeful movement careful not to let her see any signs of weakness and eventually are far enough away to realise that we will live another day.
A long slow exhaling of breath from both of us starts the inevitable weakening of the knees, my hands are trembling as I reach for a cigarette, lighting one for Gibson. Our pace picks up and after what seems like forever, we reach the top of a rise and look back on the stage where the near fatal experience took place. A line of flattened veld marks our path and the close proximity of the dozing pride starts the trembling all over again. Adrenalin still flows through our veins as we reach the relative safety of our camp. Flopping into my camp chair, I reflect on how we have been saved by a will far beyond our comprehension, all I can do is give thanks.
Days and nights in the African bush all seem to roll into one and before one realises it, weeks have passed, but on reflection there are always small incidents that make any chosen day differ from the rest. So much is happening constantly, whether it is daily events in Chinga’s herd or those surprises that hit you between the eyes, knocking you back on your heels.
Sitting quietly in a grove of trees, the herd going about their normal daily business, my mind tends to wander and I find myself pondering over things that I wouldn’t give a second thought in ‘civilization’. A blade of grass, a grain of sand, a thorn or leaf, ants, insects, the sound of the gentle breeze rustling the leaves. If one truly listens and absorbs, Africa is more hectic than the busiest street corner in Tokyo.
Today is such a day. In our Macro world there is peace as Gibson and I continue our time with Chinga and her family, even the little ones are calm, rumbling tummys and growling conversation no longer enter my brain. I have switched off and moved into the microcosmic world of Africa’s minute wild life. Ants rush to and fro, a blade of grass, previously trampled regains its stature springing upright, as if moved by an invisible hand. Gibson is also in his own world, the look on his face, pure contentment. The stifling heat is oppressive, causing rivulets of perspiration to trickle down the sides of my face and down the sides of my rib cage, the faintest of breezes moves leaves soundlessly in the uppermost branches of the trees, but nothing reaches us on the ground. I unscrew the lid of my water bottle and take a long pull on tepid water, the wetness is the only sensation of refreshment. The herd is moving ever so slowly in the direction of our camp which lies some five kilometres away on the other side of a ridge of koppies but understandably they are in no hurry to leave the shade of the grove. I break the silence suggesting to Gibson that we move on ahead of the herd and make our way back to camp, it seems that tonight will see another camp visit from our family.
Throwing note pads, pencils and almost empty water bottles into our day packs we stretch knotted muscles, pull bush hats down to shield our eyes from the glare and step into the bright sunshine, golden grass as high as our shoulders. This is going to be an uncomfortable walk. Within seconds the suns radiating heat burns our backs and shoulders through our shirts, I suck in a lungful of hot dusty air, oxygen seems scarce. The journey is a long one, but even in its plodding monotony we are spoiled by herds of Sable, Impala, the odd small group of Giraffe and even a jackal, predators are no doubt seeking refuge under distant trees or in dens.
My scanning of the terrain ahead has ceased and even Gibson has been lulled into a sense of complacency. A little way to our left I spot two vultures perched on a dead branch and give a low whistle to alert Gibson, we have almost stumbled onto a lion kill and the dozing perpetrators are no more than 30 meters away when we become aware of them, warned by a snarl from a watchful lioness. She springs to her feet, ears flattened and tail swishing from side to side. The pride male rises to his haunches, but the rest of the pride remain stretched on their backs or sides. Gibson grabs my arm and draws me close to his side as he removes his day pack and holds it in front of him, I immediately follow suit. Hopefully we are presenting a bigger image, joined together at the shoulder as we stare down the inevitable charge.
Thinking back, I had no thoughts at all at the time, my mind so focused on the danger and honed in on her slightest movement which would signal her commitment. The sudden tensing of hip muscles and I know she has made her decision. With another chilling snarl, she launches herself into a low frenetic charge, dust flies and we lean forward waiting for the impact. Our arms linked, we feed on each other’s will power not to turn and make the fatal mistake to flee before this terrifying, snarling hellcat. She braces her front legs whilst lowering her rump and slides to a stop 10 meters in front of us, gravel and sand bouncing off our chests, she shuffles backwards by half a meter, hissing and snarling through enormous fangs. Instantly we both step slowly backwards careful not to make any sudden movement in an attempt to widen the gap. The tension in her body is dissipating with each of our slow steps backwards and eventually she turns and nonchalantly strolls back to her place of shade. Gibson and I continue our slow purposeful movement careful not to let her see any signs of weakness and eventually are far enough away to realise that we will live another day.
A long slow exhaling of breath from both of us starts the inevitable weakening of the knees, my hands are trembling as I reach for a cigarette, lighting one for Gibson. Our pace picks up and after what seems like forever, we reach the top of a rise and look back on the stage where the near fatal experience took place. A line of flattened veld marks our path and the close proximity of the dozing pride starts the trembling all over again. Adrenalin still flows through our veins as we reach the relative safety of our camp. Flopping into my camp chair, I reflect on how we have been saved by a will far beyond our comprehension, all I can do is give thanks.