South Africa's
If my wife Moira hadn't been ill and retired to our chalet on the day we arrived at South Africa’s Karoo National Park, she, too, would have experienced the most incredible afternoon game viewing. I admit I felt a little guilty as I laced up my sturdy hikers, gave Moira a peck on her burning, red cheek and shuffled out of the cool room. But heck! What was an outdoor junkie like me supposed to do?
So, here I am, in the pressure-cooker heat, pulling down the visor of my cap to avoid the glaring sun. I have about two hours before sunset. I've chosen one of the trails zig-zagging the slow-flowing stream up toward higher ground. The pure, liquid sounds of two bokmakieries perched in an Acacia thorn tree carry through the air. I pause to watch their exuberant display; heads thrown back, yellow- and black-collared chests puffed out. A fiscal shrike asserts his territory and the pair take flight, skimming low across the harsh terrain.
I step over a large, fissured log—hollowed out by white ants—and regain the narrow path. Water glistens as it flows into a shallow pool. I bend low to avoid the branch of an overhanging tree, and in that instant, three Cape mountain zebra—the smallest of the zebra species—crest the stream bank in a swirl of dust above me and descend clumsily to the water's edge. I am less than 30 feet away and I freeze. Snorting and sniffing the air for danger, they finally dip their heads and drink. But not all at the same time, for one invariably remains on the lookout, highly charged. I'm obscured by the foliage of the thorn tree and the breeze is working to my advantage.
I'm so close I can distinguish their reddish-brown noses and white bellies. A film of dust coats their black-and-white stripes, and fat, grey ticks are visible between their back legs. I can even hear the swish of their tails and sucking noises as they drink. I don't breathe. I don't blink. For a few minutes, I'm in Eden. Water. Sun. Earth. Animals. The lookout's ears prick up and he snorts aggressively. All three sense my presence at once and tense their bodies. Without warning, muscles ripple as the zebras explode across the pool and clamber, hooves clattering on loose stones, up the other side. Their gallop rumbles like distant thunder and quickly melts away. Silence. A wondrous silence lasting only a few seconds before I breathe again.
The path ahead shimmers in the dazzling sun. I sip from my water bottle and move on. Seeking shade, I cross the stream and walk between shadowed clumps of scraggy trees and bushes. With my head down, I scan the ground for spoor and am rewarded by the signs of water mongoose and common duiker. A pale chanting goshawk, its large grey wings seeming to beat silently in slow motion, lifts off a thornbush, wheels into the sun and, as if by magic, disappears. The footpath narrows and my way is blocked by a large yellowish-brown rock. Up close, I discover that the rock is actually an immense tortoise—its shell almost a metre high. A gnarled, angry face hisses at me and in an instant, head, arms and legs disappear from view. This is my path, buster, beat it! Without further ado, I carefully squeeze past and leave him to his patch of the park.
It's a glorious afternoon. Insects buzz and flit through soft, golden light, and the lilac-hazed mountains remind me of a Perneef painting. Without warning, two horns and a doleful face appear out of a leafy thicket 20 metres to my right. Another face reveals itself. I'm staring at a pair of Eland. Large, gentle creatures with light-brown hair and a dark-brown ridge running down the centre of their backs. Being shy and timid, they move off into thicker bush and within seconds are completely camouflaged. Once more, I wade across the stream—pausing to splash my face and neck—and regain the trail. The high-pitched “kreeee” of two raptors wheeling overhead stops me in my tracks. I find a rock in the shade to sit on and watch the tiny, black specks in the honey-coloured sky. They glide gently in ever-widening circles and in this vast, majestic landscape, I'm reminded of how small we really are.
The sun dips behind the mountain and I decide to head back to civilization. But my show is not quite over for, as the curtain of night descends, the air is abruptly filled with the sound of six Kudu nimbly racing down the hillside to the stream below. They slow to a walk as they near the life-giving water and pause, noses in the air, until assured that all is safe. Finally, they step gracefully down into the shallow pool and drink.
Returning to our chalet, shirt sticking to my body, I wake Moira with a kiss and a cup of tea. I strip off my clothes, pull on baggy trunks and head for the pool. I am alone. The water is cool on my skin. The mountains are now a dark, brooding silhouette and the first coruscating stars appear in the coal-black sky. I am content and my heart is full.