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Evening

A quiet time. A very special time. Peace, tranquillity, a sense of “all is well with the world”.

Two Egyptian geese, honking in perfect harmony, following the line of the almost dry river bed as they head for their evening roost. Rapid wing beats overhead, a small flock of brown headed parrots, not chattering now, but flying straight and true towards the tops of the giant sycamore fig trees lining the river banks. A lone cry from a hadeda ibis realising that his mates have gone and now he must leave. A snort, grunt and splash from one of the downstream pools, one of the many hippos just expressing himself in the inimitable way that hippos have, lord of the river and he knows it. The haunting last cry from a fish eagle perched high on the old jackelberry by the causeway. The bark of a baboon sentinal; now that his troop have secured their evening treetops he’s ready to proclaim posession.

River ? More of a slow trickle meandering along the 50 yard wide sand bed some 30 feet below the bush on each side, sometimes drifting lazily through a recent excavation, at other times disappearing to reappear another 20 metres further down. Footprints. Some, giant bowl shapes, others so delicate that they barely imprint the surface - a picture of what has gone before - how long ? When was this bed last a raging torrent stretching far beyond each bank ? Could have been last week, last month, last year ! Africa absorbs these events - they are just part of the continuously changing tapestry.

With great satisfaction Hannes interwove the great chains around the gate uprights and locked the massive padlock in place. His absolute fiefdom at that moment. The most important job and it had been his for the last 30 years. The massive gate timbers, treetrunks, as thick as a child’s body and nearly as tall as a man, reminiscent of a mediaeval castle entrance perhaps.

Was it all show ? Securing an island, a refuge, a place of safety. What would they really keep out ? A lion who could sail over the back of a buffalo and clear 15 metres in a single bound ? An elephant who regularly ran over small trees almost by accident and looked back with the expression of “What was that ? ” - Hardly !

The fence on each side would yield far more readily. The electric fence. Just another of Africa’s great mysteries - it ran, fully 4 strands of it leaning outwards from the top of the normal fence. Normal - uprights of old railway lines - horizontals of old mine hoist ropes and a net of thick wire mesh over all.
The large grid of the mesh allowing free passage for all small creatures.

At the main gate the electric fence just stopped on each side and was tied off to one of the uprights - no subtle hidden channel underneath ! Just a total break in the circuit ! Had it ever worked ? Hannes couldn’t remember when ! The vervet monkeys and baboons, always on the lookout for a freebee used the electric strands as some sort of super highway to avoid the stones and missiles which pursued them from irate campers and guards. The evening and night, though, was not a time for these thieves and scoundrels.

Hannes slowly mounted his trusty steed, well maintained in an African sort of way ! The pedals clicked gently with each leisurely turn and announced to the world that he was 5 minutes away from his last duty for the day.

The back gate was in stark contrast to the impregnable castle entrance. A simple metal frame made from galvanised tubing and covered with the mesh - somewhat akin to a farm gate: originally the only entrance but now in a different place. The gate still survives and brings back wonderful memories of more distant times.

Now the electric fence was channelled through the gate: a re-assurance ? Not really, because close examination revealed that it didn’t go through to the other side, again maybe symbolic of Africa !

This, though, was the important entrance. The front gate saw the “tourists” , sticking to the tar, and expecting to see the big five in the 3 km stretch between the main (and only) north - south road. The only real difference between this access road, which meandered lazily along the south bank of the river, and the main road was direction !

Now the back gate (not well advertised) allowed passage for the “locals”. Dust covered vehicles slowly returning after a full day out. Where ? Who cares - each one of them bringing back very special memories, sometimes sufficient for the evening conversations, at other times life changing and imprinted for ever ! Almost a game, drivers competing to be last in; a final fleeting experience denied to all others, perhaps a brief glimpse of a leopard moving from her day time “lie up”, or maybe the first of the hyenas bound for the hopeful feast outside the camp fence, or then again maybe nothing remarkable, just being there in some sort of brief isolation !

Hannes, fully aware of his own importance and authority over all, nevertheless waits patiently. These are his people - he knows many of them and they know him - many can greet him by name and they come back year after year, they are part of his family. He waits until he is certain that the last straggler is home and then finally drops the locking bar over the gate and fastens out the bush for the next 12 hours.

As Hannes leaves for his evening duty the rim of the sun is still a flaming firebrand just dipping behind the tips of the mopani and acacia to the West, but, as the last vehicles enter through the back gate their headlights are blazing and the camp is already in semi-darkness. Antother experience unique to these latitudes as we are a little way North of Capricorn !

Now comes the first and only rush, if it can be called that, of the day. Gate closing time is at 5.30 and the shop and garage close only 30 mins later. It’s worse! because Hannes is very particular to secure the front padlock at precisely 5.30. The back gate ? Now that doesn’t leave long for the male members of the family to secure the essentials of meat, beer and braai wood - those of course who haven’t had the foresight to plan well in advance - the mothers and daughters desperately running round trying to get the items that their partners consider totally un-necessary ! The shop Manager by the door closes at 6.00 pm precisely and only opens to allow those still inside to exit.

Outside is now dark. Lights and fires beginning to show through the trees and bushes.

And now another moment of magic ! A single strike on a bass drum !

In some places it’s a gong and in others a bell, in homes it’s a call ! Not so here - it demands and gets far more ! A team of 4, 5 or 6 drummers assembled in a semi-circle on the stoep in front of the restaurant start to weave their sounds, these are the chefs, waiters and labourers but maybe this is their real calling.

The rhythms are spine tingling, the subtle changes in tempo and pattern cause the hairs to rise ! The transfers of beats from one instrument to the next almost un-detectable. An aural feast. All conversations in the vicinity cease and, like the Pied Piper, the people are drawn to stand in an awe-struck semi-circle around the players. The drums range in size, all hand made and passed down through countless generations, a simple hollowed out branch, gourd or tree trunk, faced on the one end with the dried and cured skin of a long deceased buck, unaware of the huge contribution his death would produce. A new life to go for ever, or at least until the hide fails ! The sticks, - whatever! - a piece of hosepipe, a branch from some hardwood tree? Our team has won the drumming competition for the last 3 years - an annual event held between at least 9 teams from different camps ( a day when restaurant services are somewhat depleted ) and they play like it!

The sounds fade and grow and fade again, finally, after about 5 minutes, ascending to a peak, then just stopping - suddenly and dramatically, with no detectable sign from any of the drummers; they just know, buried deep in their sub-conscious, that this is the time. Like any of the great cathedrals the bush seems to have it’s own resonance - how can this be ? It happens and the sounds are still drifting around in the memory as the people walk slowly back to their evening fires.

Cathedral is a good analogy, a vaulted ceiling of crystal clear stars supported on a lattice framework of branches. Lights and fires now flickering everywhere - a truly spiritual experience. The occasional rustle overhead - only glossy starlings moving on their perch - the first distant chirp of Scops Owl - a signature of the evening bushveld.

The earlier, and perhaps wiser, returnees already had their fires well ablaze before sunset but now the latecomers are making their evening overtures. Some humour, because the occasional novice is looking in total puzzlement at this huge lump of leadwood which has emerged from what he thought was a bag of mixed pieces, perhaps it was the last bag ; who knows ? Some one will finally take pity and go and help him to light it, maybe even sharing their own fire or at least part of it to start the beast ! They may eat late tonight but ........... so what !

Conversations are kept low - the notices around the camp “No loud noises, radios or generators of any description to be used after sunset” could be responsible - but more likely the spiritual presence of the place demands it and all are willing to comply.

Those camped around the inside of the fence are now in their separate earthly Paradise ! As the fires die down and cooking starts other sounds become apparent - a sudden crack from not too far away - nothing serious, just a 6” branch that has been snapped as though it were a matchstick. They won’t come near, at least not yet !! What’s that? a very faint rustle just beyond the fence and then silence ... wait ....... a brief flick of a torch and 2 shining orbs glow from close to the ground ........ a little more light, carefully, to one side, and it is dimly revealed. How can such danger look so peaceful and attractive? The liquid eyes on an almost dog like head resting gently on the front paws seem to be crying for food, the braai will do, but so will anything else! Must be in the genes because no responsible visitor would dream of satisfying this particular demand ! The mate arrives, just as soundlessly and suddenly. How does an animal weighing 200 kg walk so silently over a floor carpeted with dead twigs and leaves and through the low hanging branches of the near acacia trees ? He starts to patrol the fence, no camper is left un-inspected, someone may weaken. A brief cackle from 200 metres away and they are gone - one moment there, the next just empty bush !

As the evening sounds in the camp fade completely and lights are extinguished an even deeper silence descends and the campers can settle back in their chairs - perhaps a hot drink to hand - listen and wait - occasional whispered conversation - perhaps a brief doze.

The crystal clear sky and un-countable stars reach down and anyone could reach up and touch them - a look through the binoculars reveals another view - where is the space between them - they are so thick that the watcher is awestuck. The mind-blowing magnificence of the Milky Way rotates slowly overhead.

Now the small rustles mean other things, perhaps one of the gennets, a spring hare ludicrously hopping and pretending to be a dwarf kangaroo, a porcupine or even, very very rarely, a cerval. Scops providing a steady beat that underpins the whole experience.

Now sleep calls at last.