The Sighing of Dawn

Our ears have been alert all night for sounds of a hunt, a kill, but so far nothing – just the constant loud grunting, not-quite-roaring, in the sandy, dry riverbed. We stand outside on the veranda listening, secure inside the camp enclosure, but also insecure because we cannot see beyond the lights of our hut. Other than the ranger, we are alone in this bush camp, having deliberately isolated ourselves from the noisy tourists and shops of the other camps.

Now, standing here in the dark, listening to the lions conversing with other far-off members of the pride, we imagine the antelope out there, large ears pricked, picking out every sound, muscles tensed, ready for flight. We feel for the hunted, we feel for the hunters. Our muscles are also tensed. This is the way of nature, it’s cruel, it’s brutal, and it’s beautiful.

There’s a sudden movement in the thorn tree branches near us. Our hearts jump. But it’s only a little bushbaby. Huge saucer-like eyes reflect red in the torchlight. For a moment it is dazzled looking in our direction, then it turns and bounces off onto another branch and another, in search of nestling birds or some other tasty morsels.

An eerie, quivering, high-pitched wail starts up on the other side of camp. Closer still, a response. The hair on the back of our necks stands on end. It’s Black-backed Jackals, and they’re harmless.

We decide to walk to the hide to wait for the elephants that come to drink before daybreak, at the water tank. But in the pre-dawn darkness, making our way down the winding track through the thorn bushes seems a lot scarier and longer than it was in the bright light of yesterday. The mist has thickened, swirling all around us, making ghostly tree shapes appear and disappear. A nightjar sings into the dampened air. We cling to each other, hearts thumping, pumped full of adrenalin, doubting the wisdom of our decision. The lions are winding down now. Soon they are silent. Perhaps they have moved off – but perhaps they can see us! Suddenly the camp gate doesn’t seem all that adequate anymore. It’s only about a metre and a half high. Our torches are useless. They throw a blank, stark wall of light back at us, so we switch them off. The nightjar sings again. We’re about halfway to the hide where the water tank is. Returning to the hut now would be just as nerve-racking as continuing on to the hide. We continue.

In the gloomy light we make out the shape of the hide, and the camp gate near it. We nervously switch on the torches again to check for danger. Eyes watch us. Our throats feel dry. Our hearts stop. We laugh as we realise, with great relief, that it’s a herd of Kudu females. If they are there, so calmly staring at us, there are no hungry, large cats around!

We climb the stairs of the hide carefully, peep inside, ensuring there are no unwelcome visitors, cautiously tip-toe across the plank floor, sit on the narrow bench and peer out the viewing slot, only too aware of the open doorway behind us. The mist still swirls, thick and then thin, and the concrete water tank, 50 metres in front of us, is barely visible.

The jackals wail again.

Settling down to wait, we can hear frogs, or are they crickets? We don’t know. Our ears and eyes strain at the stirrings out there. The beautiful, plaintiff call of the Emerald-spotted Wood Dove pulls at our heartstrings. The mosquitoes find us. We try to quietly smack them from our ears.

With the sighing of dawn, the moist air turns a pale blue-grey. Visibility improves. Still no sight nor sound of elephants. From a tree top a baboon shakes his branch and shouts loudly to the morning, “Whahoo! Whahoo! Whahoo!” More shouting and squealing as the troop readies itself for the day. The dove continues its song of woe. The big baboon scolds again, his voice carrying far and wide, “Whahoo! Whahoo!”

Suddenly, from the right looms an enormous grey bulk. They are here. The elephants have arrived, stepping quietly, gently, as though on a bed of feathers. It’s a breeding herd! We watch, almost afraid to breathe. We let the mosquitoes bite us. We must remain dead quiet. The baby elephants play, wiggling their funny, uncoordinated trunks, slurping from the runoff around the tank. We are entranced. The adults simply dip their trunks over the top into the tank. They drink and squirt themselves. Having had her fill, one elephant leans against the tank, trunk draped lazily along the top of the concrete wall. She stays like this for a while, elephant-napping.

Gradually they lumber off into the thicket. A Yellow-billed Hornbill cocks its head and looks comically at us as if proud of this wonderful display of its world. In the long, yellow grass flocks of little brown birds settle and rise, settle elsewhere and rise….

As the last threads of the night-shroud are lifted and the sky turns orange, the African plain and its gazing herds are unveiled, released once more from the terrors of yet another night.

Word Count: 888

For this story I have created a digital image called Sighing of The Dawn

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Tags:

africa, animals, dawn, elation, elephants, fear, fog, lions, mist, roaring, sunrise and unleashed07