Instead of a diary of day to day events for this leg of the trip, I decided to
write an account of particular things that happened on this trip. Mostly of
course you will notice the zoological and behavioural observations that are
quite descriptive, as a collection of short ‘stories’ as it were, as I find
this the best way to describe something emotively.
I will start with an account of the hippo, a large
herbivorous mammal, eating only grass and living in freshwater lakes and
rivers, coming out onto land to munch on huge amounts of succulent grass at
night. Ironically though, it has one of the widest reputations for being the
most dangerous animal in Africa. This reputation derived from its ability to
attack and gore people with its powerful jaws and sheer blubbery bulk. Many
people have been attacked my hippos solely because they got between it and the
water (a hippo’s safe refuge) or too close for comfort when they hare calving.
A hippo can be extremely insecure out of the water and very protective in the
water. If we can respect their space, and give them a wide berth then perhaps
we can reduce the number of incidences that do occur in Africa due to our
stupidity. But tragedies out of the way, the hippo is a beautiful creature, and
so this account describes the impression they have made on me throughout this
trip…
I awoke to the sound of crickets chirping sleepily. It was 7am and
already the sun was streaming down into the balcony where were sleeping. Across
the river, a hippo gurgled and grumbled in the flowing water currents, blowing
large, squelching bubbles and grunting with a sound that is so distinctively
hippo-like, I cannot even begin to describe it. As a sign of territory marking
he yawned; throwing back his enormous jaws and thrusting his blotchy brown and
pink head out of the water. He propelled his jaws as wide open as they could
go, allowing the gape to open out to about 180 degrees of large, and
frightening teeth. He shook his head, teeth baring and glinting in the Zambezi
sun. He owned that space, and no rival would attempt to take it from him. What
strikes me most about these animals is their ability to completely change their
perception of themselves in our eyes.
When they are in the water, they are impressive but gentle giants;
showing off their huge jaws that are used solely for munching grass. With that
and their distinctive hippo grunts, it is no wonder why so many people find
them so frightening.
Then comes the moment when they heave themselves up onto the banks,
slipping and sliding on the wet mud. They cautiously stop, looking around for
danger, and then using their own personal mudslide, theyplod wearily to the
nearest patch of succulent grass. Heads down, they munch on, needing to fulfill
their enormous appetite and retain their blubbery insulative layer. In this situation
they are easily frightened. They pink stubby ears like the blotchy skin of an
albino swivel this way and that, their brown eyes watch intently for signs of
danger. Almost unnaturally disproportionate, their stumpy legs shuffle along,
heaving around their giant voluptuous backside, which gives them the impression
of a slightly self conscious and vulnerable overweight adolescent.
The lion is a fantastic and beautiful creature. In a place
like mana pools, seeing a lion or a pride of lions is a novelty, they are
around, but they are not common, not like a game park like Kruger or something
where they are everywhere… In mana the novelty of seeing lion never wears off,
the moment you see them, you get a shiver along your spine, fully appreciating
the chance of seeing such a beautifully wild creature, and being able to drive
past it with bated breath, constantly aware of the sheer strength of this wild
and enormous cat. We were lucky to come across five of them, a young male
pride, kicked out of their own home prides to begin the nomad lifestyle all
young male lions do in search of a new pride to win and dominate; the prize
being the ability to rule the pride and mate with as many females as they
choose. This is how it went…
We saw lion today. There were 5 males; one of which had a
mane and looked as if he owned the place. There were 3 cars pulled over next to
the road and all staring starry-eyed at the lions lying next to a large,
typically African termite mound. I watched the oldest male with interest as he
sat there gazing at us with his big and utterly beautiful pussy-cat eyes, as
big as golf balls and the colour of molten gold. After staring at us without a
care in the world, his piercing look making each and every one of us tremble,
he lazily began to stand up. He wasn’t a large male, his haunches were a little
bony, like the look of a cat who hasn’t had a meal in a few days… His coat was
scrabby, brown muddy stains from the African soil made his once-golden fur
patchy in places. Being an outcast of your own pride at such a young age
apparently had taken its toll on him. But still, as he raised himself off the
ground all these blemishes disappeared, and instead, a feeling of pure and
elegant strength overwhelmed us all as his saucer-like paws padded a few steps
towards the other males. Looking around, slightly picturesque with his back
towards us looking out over the alluvial plains and acacia trees, ( I will
admit it brought to mind so many scenes from the Lion King), he looked this way
and that, the clicks and flashes of cameras went off, and he knew he looked
good. He looked back over his shoulders at us gently now, as if to say, “Thank
you so much for coming, I do rather like this attention”, and promptly walked a
few more steps before sitting back down on his haunches and gazed at us
intently with those deep amber eyes. After a few minutes of what can only be
described as stardom, he got tired of the camera clicks and whispering tourists
and flopped spectacularly but somehow elegantly back down, resting his mane on
his paws. He gazed at me intently; it was like staring into a saucer of molten
lava, golden and glistening. He had air of mutual respect about him, a touch of
endearment flashed across his beautiful eyes. A hint of a smirk showed through
his mane suggesting he was wise for his youth; he had seen things we couldn’t
even dream about.
Six Legged Sleepy Ele
I was listening out for frogs, it was a stormy afternoon,
big ominous clouds rose up from the Zambian escarpment and flashes of white were followed by great
claps of thunder that shuddered windows and echoed around the Zambezi valley.
Out of the Vetiveria grass, also known as ‘Adrenalin Grass’ (named aptly for
the feeling you discover when a well hidden buffalo or lion appears suddenly
behind a clump of it) came a bull elephant. He wasn’t old, but neither was he
young, perhaps he was at the age where a mid-life crisis is about the only
exciting thing to happen to you. Half asleep, he plodded wearily down to the
river. After eventually deciding he did, in fact want a drink, eyes half closed
he plunged his trunk into the flowing river, sucking up water and lifting his
trunk, he let it run into his mouth, tilting his head back as if drinking
from a teacup, getting every last drop
of water, then sleepily letting his trunk flop unceremoniously back to the
water with a splash. The third time he did this, he dozed off, trunk still in
his mouth, eyes drooping, legs collapsing under his weight. His nose was
crinkled up in unnatural folds, bent awkwardly to the side, halfway to being
tied up in a knot, and yet he dozed on. Soon his front leg began to slip in the
mud on the bank, he jerked his head up, like a half-asleep commuter on a train
catching an uncomfortable nap, his trunk flopped back down landing with a
splosh in the water. His eyes opened wearily, then, looking around to see if
anything had changed, or if anyone had been observing this act of what can only
be described as a lazy loss of dignity, he sucked up some more water, and
dreamily drank his last. By this point he was so swelteringly hot under the
afternoon sin, he decided to go fro a swim. He ambled down to the river, trunk
curled skywards sucking in air till he reached the point where the current
swirled on his back coating his tough mud-caked hide in cool refreshing water
that absorbed the moisture greedily. He stood, swaying slightly trunk a snorkel
lazily held an inch above the water line, no doubt getting rater a lot of water
up, or rather down his nose. Satisfied and refreshed, he submerged his trunk,
blew a few bubbles and sloshed a trunk-load over his back, sending a sleepy and
unaware egret into the air with a flurry of white wings and alarm. Making his
way back to the back, he began to haul his weight out, leg by leg, stopping for
a 20 second shut eye between each. This was apparently far too exhausting for
him to manage, so when all his legs were finally on dry sand, he lent forward
and rested his trunk on the sand in an unnaturally bent L-shape. With the aid
of this fifth leg, he released his back leg, letting it drag out behind him,
and fell asleep. At this point an enormous and slightly pink sixth leg, (also
apparently unimpressed at the heat and this exhausting set of maneuvers),
flopped out unceremoniously to the ground, dragging slightly on the sand as he
swayed dreamily from side to side. Bum towards me, his skin was wrinkled up, 5
times too big for him, at an angle which I can positively say was not his best
by a long shot! All in all it was the most unattractive and inelegant pose I
had ever seen an elephant use, and for some inexplicable reason I was utterly
charmed by this undignified and modest behaviour and sincere inability to (figuratively,
and most likely also literally) give a sh*t.
