Dear
all,
In
September, Carol and I went wandering off into Hwange. (See what I did there.)
Seriously, we spent a week in Zimbabwe, in Hwange National Park and then in
Mana Pools National Park with wonderful people and magnificent wildlife. A
couple of fabulous experiences follow...
We began at Little Makalolo Camp in Hwange – a sunny,
simple, friendly dusty place – the latter because it is the end of the dry
season and boy, has it been dry… Its waterhole is a magnet for some of the 30
000 elephants that roam the Park. To say nothing of everything else
– what a pile of animals we saw! After two glorious days at “Little Mak” we set
off for Linkwasha Camp, an opulent opposite to Little Mak, with large tents,
and clean lines.
But throughout the time we were there, it was the elephants
that ruled…
We were off to watch the elephants come down to drink at the
pan just outside Little Makalolo – at
the camp’s famous logpile hide.
What's a logpile hide, I hear you ask?
At the edge of the pan, a pile of logs are placed surrounding
a few safari chairs set out in a row, ready for the show. You have to get there
before the stars arrive – which we did, with a couple of minutes to spare. The
humans sit inside the hide (I guess that depends on your point of view) at
ground level and get to look up and out at the enormous grey bulks as they ponderously
get closer and closer – sort of a shark cage diving thing – only without the
sharks. Or the cage. Or the… never mind. It’s just you, and
the rest of nature out there, separated by a few logs.
So we sat in a row, keeping quiet obediently as per our
guide’s instructions. We’re the outsiders here but we’re not safely behind steel
bars or on a large heavy vehicle, but out in the open, so best we obey the
rules and be polite. After all, as at all the best tea parties, there are things that Are Done and
things that Are Not Done.
After a couple of minutes, there they came, deceptively slow
yet astonishingly fast – it seems that one minute they were grey blobs in the
dusty distance and the next they were looming over us as they splashed
purposefully across the shallow water. Thirty great grey bodies moved into the
middle of the pan, some heading straight for us, and then wading across our
field of vision to settle in to drink. As they walked past, one eye would stare
at us from a truly almost unbelievable height and I found myself crouching down
a little, feeling the need to say “sorry, sorry,” and they, supremely aware
that they’d won that conversation, turned and waded past – as the cameras
clicked and whirred.
Finally the whole herd was in the water – most of which is currently just knee high. An elephant knee high that is. Wading around with enthusiasm, they
began sucking water up those trunks then sloshing it into their mouths, or
slapping it onto their sides until each grey bulk was bright-wet and glistening
brown. The babies moved their little legs madly (I use the term ‘little’
advisedly), splishing water up and around, rolling over with their legs in the
air and completely disappearing into the slightly deeper sections; one Disapparated
with a gloop noise into a hole, only
his trunk showing.
This whole cavorting, playing, wallowing event, you’d think,
would come complete with squealing, shouting and general noise – just like kids
in a pool. But instead, there wasn’t a sound from them. The only sounds
were those of very large splashes and almost frenzied slapping of water on
skin, but surreally, no other noise at all could be heard from such enormous
animals. Except for the occasional plop of… well, let’s just say that I wanted
to call this “the pachyderm poo party” but while the alliteration works, and
it’s true, I thought it might be a bit rude.
I was just admiring the grace with which they were
conducting themselves, (poo notwithstanding), when this elephantine idyll was
interrupted by another herd coming down to drink – and everything changed.
It seems that my anthropomorphic assumptions were wide of
the mark – like humans, ellies sometimes don’t like to share.
The smaller herd of ten arrived at the edge of the pan and, with an unexpected surge of spray, a few members of the larger herd wheeled
around and headed towards them. They moved fast and aggressively, shouldering
up to the interlopers and blocking them from entering, indeed moving forwards
so that the unwanted visitors were pushed backwards. Right next to me, on the other
side of a few very flimsy logs, one tried to push back – trumpets sounded and
it seemed that an international incident might take place - and not six feet from me (did I mention that?). We all held our breath – as did all creation it seemed –
and then the smaller herd backed off and the others turned around and resumed
whatever they had been doing before in ‘their’ water. Play resumed amongst the
youngsters, but it did seem a little deflated after that display (although
again, that could be my anthropomorphic ruminations).
However, all was well that ended well. The ten just walked
behind us (neck-prickling stuff I must tell you) to the other side of the water
which, apparently, the herd of thirty didn’t feel so possessive about, and
drank. They did however do it quickly and with none of the verve and splashing
that one would assume was required – then turned and left. The thirty continued
their vigorous yet silent splashing, sliding and rolling off one another,
babies ‘diving’ or rather falling head first into the murk with such exuberant joy. On one side, an
enormous bull stood contentedly slurping water at the point it was emerging
from the pipe, flanked on either side by two youngsters.
At a hidden signal, it was over and they all turned and
sploshed their way out. Glistening baggy bums disappeared, as rapidly as they
had arrived, into the distant woodland. We were left bereft in the sudden
silence, with only the gusty, dusty wind for company.
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