Sitting around

Photo of the week: The cub locks eyes with Keith

Highlight of the week:  We stand in for Ellie and Crispin to hand out football kits to children. Their joy brings us to tears.

Lowlight of the week: Hot nights and a dripping air conditioner lead to sleep deprivation

Maximum temperature: 41 degrees Celsius

Rainfall: Cloudy skies. A muggy feeling. But alas no rain

Mr Attenborough makes it look easy. His dulcet tones play softly as the backing track to any safari feast for the eyes. But those feasts are in reality surrounded by famine. Hours or days of famine for each feast. And yet the offset is worth it. David can never quite compete with the real time experience. Patience pays dividends. And some.

Our lives now have rhythm. Routine. Balance. In previous years, we have driven into the park ourselves. Twice a week. In search of animals. And nature. Always on the lookout for predators. But happy with anything that moves. As long as it’s not a big grey creature with a trunk bearing down on us. We have always jumped at the slightest opportunity to jump on a proper game drive. To make the most of the unrivalled expertise of South Luangwa guides. To sit in an open game viewing vehicle. To be able to appreciate the sounds and smells of the bush. Heaven for us. Last year, we struggled to get professional drives. Somehow the Valley docs didn’t seem to get much quid pro quo. Belts tightening.

This year, our friendships with guides has paid dividends. With private drives most Sundays. Often shared with Ellie and Crispin, who are having an extended break out here. Now there is no fear of us ruining the trip with an emergency call. Our agenda is top of the bill. Or at least a close second behind the possibility of a sudden serious medical crisis in the Valley.

I will spare you the detail of how a drive in our park unfolds. I’ve waxed about this before. Occasionally it gets lyrical. Rituals  My blog tends to focus on the action. Skipping the hum drum.  Not mentioning the hours spent driving down dusty roads. Eating other cars’ dust. Being eaten by tsetse flies. Chainsaw mouth parts penetrating denim, elephant hide or armour plating. The expectation of working to a particular wish list counterproductive. We create luck through patience. Luck comes from hard work and application. The bottom line is that we focus on process not outcome. Each minute is mindful. We appreciate the peace, the noises. The smells, the stenches. The beauty, the horror. We marvel at the light, the wilderness. But an Attenborough grade sighting always rocks. And this is catalysed by all the waiting, watching, appreciating. Letting the wild world play out.

We switch things up this weekend. Rather than an early Sunday morning drive, we plump for Sunday evening. Setting off at 16:00. As the air cools. The sun low in the sky. Sleepy animals start to stir. Predators realise that they have to re-earn their repute. A gaping yawn. Bare teeth. Tongue smacks lips. Wide eyes view the plain. Check out the evening menu. Carnivore style.

The dream is to find apex predators mid-selection. Viewing the smorgasbord. Picking out a buffalo, an impala or a puku. Executing a stealthy approach. Clinically dispatching their choice. Carving up the freshest cuts. Bolting their dinner. Wanting the lion’s share. Regardless of their ilk. No desire to savour or share. Certainly unwilling to welcome competition.

Now is the golden hour. When the light is at its best. Lighting up the vegetarians as they too bolt their few last mouthfuls. Lighting up Valley docs as they toast the dying sun. Together with their expert guides. The contrasts make great copy for the blog. And now the night life is truly alive. Squinting baboons and puku send off alarm calls. Warning friends and colleagues that mischief is afoot. Summoning Keith and Ginny to chase the bad guys away.

Daniel, our guide, has a plan. Let’s look around Riverside drive. Head to Wamilombe. Aim to have sundowners by the river. We don’t want to tick boxes. We are happy for Daniel to set the agenda. An agenda that will be set by patience and whatever the bush wishes to offer.

We stop by the Mfuwe lagoon to check out the birds. Crocs. Grazers chancing their necks for a quick drink. Another vehicle approaches. Two guides exchange sightings in code. The bush telegraph in action. We know a few words in the local dialect of Kunda. We listen out for: Kaingo – Leopard; Nkalamu -  Lion; Mbwa - Wild dogs. Key elements tell of a deeper story. Our guides mix up Kunda, Nyanja and English. Preventing even Mr Turing from gaining full access. Yet it whets out appetites and keeps your average safari goer out of the loop.  It makes sense for the chatter to be unintelligible to the tourists. The guides don’t want tourists to have false hopes. And perhaps they also want the kudos of an apparently fresh find. Teamwork disguised. The bush talks to those who know how to listen.

I hear nkalamu. An earlier sighting. In Wafwa. The Dead river. An oxbow. In the opposite direction to our trajectory. As our guides sit talking, 3 vehicles go past. Heading to Wafwa. Daniel turns to us. To share the news. Do we want to go to see the lions? Keith and I glance at each other. An imperceptible shake of the head. We are far too discerning for that. Picky. Hard to please. Lions are incredible. Beautiful predators. But its 16:15. The sun is still high. We know they will be sleeping. Surrounded by safari vehicles. Jostling for position. So guests can get the best photos. Ticking off their lists. We like exclusivity. And if we are going to share, we like action. We tell Daniel to stick with the original plan. He smiles and looks relieved.

We wind our way towards Riverside drive. But branch off unexpectedly. We divert toward the now dry Mbangula lagoon. We pass a couple of cars coming in the opposite direction. Daniel knows something that we don’t know. As we round the corner, he tells us. There is a leopard over there. Lying in the grass. We fish out our binoculars. And gaze into the grasses. Fifty metres away we can just make out the shape of a sleeping leopard. There are already 4 other vehicles here. A big give away. Daniel positions us with the best view. We tell him we are set. Let’s just stay here. To see what happens.

We stay put. Cars come and go. Tourists get to see a distant leopard. Put a tick in the box. And then head off, in search of lions. We do not move. Our leopard stirs. Sits up. Looks around. Yawns. And goes back to sleep. We try to figure out which leopard it is. It’s not Lucy. It seems too small? Or perhaps it’s just far away? It has to be one of Lucy’s cubs.

The sun is going down. Keith suggests we have our sundowners in the car. Right here. Sundowner time catalyses cats into action. And our index feline needs a nudge. Keith reaches into the cool bag. Suddenly, there is action. We hear monkeys barking. Squirrels chirping. Have they just spotted the invisible spotted cat in the long grass? Could there another predator around? Perhaps Lucy is bringing an early supper. Or maybes the twin brother is on the prowl? We train our binoculars on the leopard. He gets up. Stretches. And moves 5 metres to his right. Only to settle down again. We look around hopefully. But the bush falls silent again. Monkeys and squirrels have short memories. They were squawking at our leopard. And have now forgotten that he is here.

To our left we hear the unmistakeable chatter of guinea fowl. My least favourite animal. Keith loves to tease me: He plans to get a flock for our Yorkshire home: Kwetu. During our Zanzibari adventure, all those years ago, we were surrounded by guinea fowl. Owned by one of our neighbours. Every morning without fail, they would wake up with the sun. And start their endless chatter. Outside our bedroom window. An immutable alarm clock. The noise mainlining into my limbic system. My brain automatically on edge. Inviting me to wring their necks.

Guinea fowl necks are made for wringing. Nick, our North Yorkshire neighbour, was unable to quell the urge last year. He kept 3 guinea fowl as pets. But their cock would pace up and down all night. Chattering. Squawking. Fretting. Nick’s sleep deprivation triggered a reflex fugue. The cock guinea fowl did not see the night out. Three became two.

The guinea fowl are noisily making their way towards the trees. To roost for the night. They have chosen a precarious path. Right past our leopard. Hearing their noisy chatter, he lifts his sleepy head. Ears twitching. Nose sniffing. Well camouflaged. Switching from off to on. He stays still. The first of the birds go on by. Reaching safety through good fortune. Oblivious to the predator in the grass. The second group approach. I direct them toward their executioner. With a virtual tractor beam. The birds have no choice. They gravitate towards a bloody end. But suddenly the quality of their chatter changes. From a mindless grating squawk to an insistent screaming noise. They have spotted our spotted cat. But they don’t run away. They go closer even to investigate. We are on edge. Binoculars glued. Could this be my wish come true? A really annoying bird killed by a cat with a penchant for bush chicken? But our leopard isn’t really interested. He is already worldly wise. Aware that wings can take his fast food away fast. He fails to be baited. The fowl remain foul.

Keith hypothesises that the only way to make our leopard move again is to get the drinks out. Barely has he got 2 cans of tonic out, and our leopard stretches and yawns again. One time. Two times. The magic three times. This is a sign that a leopard is really getting going. Our boy is taunting us. It takes another 15 minutes before he stands up and properly stretches. By now we have been waiting in the same spot for 90 minutes. Only one other car is with us. One other set of patient cat lovers. Here for the behaviour and the action. Not just the tick. Of course, the sun is now going down. We have missed the golden hour. The light rapidly fades. My camera barely records the moment. He saunters down the bank to a track. 30 metres away. We follow from across the dry pock-marked lagoon. Somehow, our Landcruiser lurches through the elephant and hippo holes. But courtesy dictates that we allow our fellow vehicle to precede us. Our leopard elusively beyond our gaze.

Soon the young feline tires of the chasing tyres and heads into the bush. And the other vehicle quickly loses interest and races off for a late sundowner drink. But Daniel reads the cub’s mind. We nudge back into the bush ahead of his trajectory. And wait. Our lights search out his eyes. Cat’s eyes betray him. Inquisitively, he follows this new tractor beam and almost jumps into Keith’s lap. Keith resists the instinct to stroke. Stroke prevention seems so sensible here. He has spent so much time in Zambia banging on about. He takes a swig of his own medicine. Stroke prevented!

Up close and personal we realise that our leopard is really quite small. Certainly one of Lucy’s cubs. A year old now. Eye contact makes the experience all the more personal. Our breath suspended. No hint of malice in these inquiring eyes. Our Landcruiser might have a spare seat for me he enquires. Instead, he decides to stroll on by foot. Moving more sitting less, he echoes our stroke programme chant. He leads we follow. Daniel’s vehicle capable and versatile. He gives us 15 minutes of fame. We are blown away. Our closest leopard encounter ever. Exclusive. Personal. Special. Magical.

Saint Daniel is beatified. The most patient of all saints. After the crescendo, our evening apparently complete, we start to wend our way back towards our own Doc car, parked at Mfuwe lodge. Mzungu also patient. Our minds’ eyes replay our magical encounter. Retinally persistent against the black night. The moonless night is otherwise broken only by Jaffet’s searchlight. But our virtual movie is now broken by our guides’ relentless talent at finding leopards. Lucy herself summoned by the Jaffet’s tractor beam.

Lucy crosses the road in front of us. From nowhere. With a flattened left ear. Unmistakable. She is on the hunt. Stalking a waterbuck. Out in the open. We watch her, spellbound. Our white searchlight is quickly swapped to a red light. Not interfering with the hunt. She settles in the grass and watches. With the patience of a leopard. A new superlative. Second only to the patience of a Daniel. We wait for an age. And then conclude that the waterbuck is too far away. And way too big for her. She seems to reach this same conclusion. At the same time. We feel the pull of the park gate curfew and head off. But so does Lucy. All of us see some distant impala. There are no crows flying there, but Lucy stalks. We place ourselves in front of the impala. Right in Lucy’s way.

Lights off. We sit tight. The park curfew badgering us. Other vehicles fail to spot us in stealth mode. They head off. But Daniel knows that we have a trump card. Our Doc status allows us to blag a little. We have a medical situation here of sorts. Someone is due to get hurt. Daniel’s instinct is to stay dark. To keep the encounter exclusive. To avoid breaking the magic spell. The deathly dance of predator versus prey. Ours. Alone.

The impala munch. Nearby elephants casually pull down tree branches. Eating succulent leaves. Our light flicks on Lucy in timelapse fashion. Nearing. Initially imperceptibly. On dramatic paws. Then Lucy runs right at Keith. Like son. Like mother. She launches herself towards our Landcruiser. And then she’s gone. At least from my view. Keith breathes again. Neck intact. Lucy has ducked underneath us. Daniel has her by his feet.

We look over the right side of the vehicle. Under our spare wheel. Lucy’s head pokes out. She is one with our car. Using us. Shameless. She is poised. The golden arches of an impala’s bum within easy reach. She has a meal ticket. Guaranteed.

And yet, somehow, our combined stealth coating is penetrated. By the snout of a lolloping hyena. Perhaps sensing our excitement. Or Keith’s slightly soiled underwear. The impatient hyena thwarts the hunt. No laughing matter that neither carnivore will eat tonight. Lucy hisses. She looks up at me. Her eyes meet my eyes. We share despair. Empty belly and lost opportunity. The two predators stand-off. Paces apart. Duel style. A snarl sees the hyena off. Lucy too angry to back away from the superior jaws of the foul mouthed beast.

The spell broken, we follow our breadcrumbs back to Mzungu at Mfuwe lodge. Close magical encounters leaves our previous rating system in tatters. Good. Excellent. Outstanding. Magical. Magical². Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky.

Webcam picture of the week: 

Remote cam photo of the week: F**k it, I'm going for a swim

Lucy and one of the boys greeting each other

Carnivore stand off