Tracking

Are full of discord and slaughter. The baboons live in a nightly cauldron of domestic violence. We hear the rigid shouts, more vocal claps than cries, of the males, the screech of the young baboons as their mothers are clawed into submission.

           The wife-battering of the baboons is joined by the thrashing and chewing of the impala, who are browsers and who strip the leaves of the trees around the tent with an outsize shear. When the elephant’s trumpeting comes the air is electric, anticipatory. They are feeding near the camp. The sound of the branches breaking under the assault from their trunks has the richochet crack of gunshot.

            At first we sleep badly, woken by any and all of these sounds. But by the end of the second week we sleep through them. Some of us hear sounds that others miss and vice versa. The two Shangaan women who work in the kitchen cannot bear the sound of the lion. Lion he keep me awake all night, Elisa tells me, grimacing. 

            Most creatures that are killed by other animals die in the night. The nights are long, twelve hours, and that is a long time to stay alive, I think, especially when the lion and leopard are also crepuscular hunters. So in total there are around 14 hours a day, perhaps 15, when prey animals cannot relax. When we cross paths in the early morning light I say to Steve, our camp's resident impala ram, glad you made it through another night.

Tracking is pursuit. We are stalkers, although disinterested. We are not hunting the animal. We seek only a glimpse of it, in all its lonely integrity, pinioned between thorn trees and the jaws of the eventual predator that will consume it. Even the apex predators have no gentle exit from this life; lions consume lions, wild dog will rip an injured pack member to shreds. We follow these animals to know only this: that they exist, and we, their shadows, also do, by association. For once the animal is more extant than us; we pursue it in order to confirm our unreality.

We came around a tree and nearly ran into his backside. The elephant was facing away from us. His ears billowed back and forth slowly as he grazed, using his trunk to tug up clods of grass and sod. These he inserted delicately, almost surgically, in his tent-shaped mouth.

            We sat down, unnoticed still, on the grass. We stayed there a long time. So long I had to adjust my posture twice to save my knees from seizing up – not easy to do when you have a rifle in one hand and you are not allowed to let the butt rest on the grass.

            The elephant came closer and closer until he had consumed everything in our field of vision. I wonder what will happen, I thought, as the elephant’s trunk edged toward us. He hadn’t seen us; it was twilight and their vision is particularly poor in these interstitial times of day.

            As the elephant’s forefoot came within five metres of us, my heat pounded out a single alarmed beat. I felt my hand tighten around the stock of my rifle.

            We will have to do something now, I thought. It’s only seconds before the elephant is upon us. I looked at Adam. His face would tell me what to do. He was framed in twilight. His eyes had deepened from blue to khaki green. His profile was etched, then, dark, certain and uncertain.

            He took off his hat and scratched it in the grass. The elephant stopped, one forefoot off the ground. He turned his head, to angle his vision better. He paused, his ears a slow breeze around his head. Adam continued scratching in the grass with his hat.

            The elephant turned elegantly, swinging on his hindquarters, and slowly walked away. He stopped on the other side of the umbrella thorn that had partly obscured us, and toyed with one of the branches.

            Pretending to feed, Adam whispered to us, his eyebrow raised. It was the first we had spoken in ten minutes.

            The bull carried on, swinging wide around us, and began to feed – this time for real – on a tree nearby.

            We moved in formation across the opening the bull had just vacated, and drew up to our vehicle. Wonder and delight moved through us. We had been so close and so easy with this giant creature, who towered even more convincingly over us as we crouched on the ground. We had held our nerve.

            ‘I let him know there was something there,’ Adam explained. ‘He thought it was a small animal, a warthog maybe. Enough to give him a sense that another animal was feeding, but not enough to frighten him.’

            The elephant growing and growing in front of us, like an exercise in visual perspective, the night shrinking behind him as darkness gathered and his bulk seemed to absorb the night, becoming full and dark and more dense. Adam’s profile, etched against this same night. The look in his eye so strange, an alloy of pleading and command. How I had thought his eyes were blue but saw now they were green, or vice versa. Suddenly he was more than I had taken him to be – braver, crazier, denser with knowledge. He has the mind of an animal or knows enough about the mind of an animal to be one himself, when needed. Through him I might be able to get somewhere. He could be the conduit. 

Some days embed themselves in your flesh. Acacia days, thorns of hours.

      Our days in the bush are decorated with event. But also the so much the same that time has lost its spatial dimension and no longer feels like time but a river.

        The red and yellow barbet, its military parade jacket colours. The sand grass, hollows of rough-leaved shepherds trees. We roll through these hours, they envelop us. We are not insistent anymore that time be meaningful, that it dispense anything to us. We dissolve into minutes where nothing happens, until it does. 

         A hyena loping through the long grass, we see only its head, surfacing like a buoy on a grass sea. Walking through its paths and corridors, the lion occulted in the long grass, the African fish eagle who watches us, measuring our consumability, as we pass beneath it. The bush bristles with alarm. The gutteral blare of baboons, nervous chatter of vervet monkeys. The threat assailing them can be parsed from their position in the trees – if it is a Verreaux’s eagle they fear they perch close to the trunk; if a snake, they go to the end of the branch, ready to swing to safety.

       Knowledge is a conscious effort, but also it is simply time spent. Every day we are learning, our minds are saturated with understanding. That is why we sleep so soundly at night. 

The war on the rhinoceros has changed our world. The bush has become militarised. The park rangers we meet wear flak jackets. We can’t call in rhino sightings on the concession VHF radio channel, even if we are lucky enough to see them. We are not even sure if the rhino are still here. They cannot be kept safe, with the Mozambican and Zimbabwe border so close; the reserve straddles both.

The rhino know they are under attack, that they might as well have a bulls-eye painted on their battleship flanks. I believe they deliberately evade us and that they sense the death of their companions even if they do not witness it. They sense we are involved. They know we have failed them.

Lala palm, Transvaal saffron, Baobab, Weeping boer-bean, Sandpaper raisin, Large fever berry, Flame Thorn, Sjambok Pod, Black bitterberry, False marula. Heartbreak names. The Leadwood which takes a thousand years to die, skeletal against the dawn and its cargo of white-backed vultures who perch there like Christmas baubles. Wild teak. The way Adam said it: wild teak. An automatic note in his voice, a teacher’s tone. Magic guarri, Common bride’s bush, White seringa.

‘Animals first entered the imagination as messengers and promises.’ John Berger writes, in an essay titled ‘Animals as Metaphors’. He argues that we share much with them - ‘Animals are born, are sentient, and are mortal. In these things they resemble man.’ The rampart between us is built of language. ‘The animal scrutinises [man] from across a narrow abyss of non-comprehension,’ Berger writes. There is no language. There is a lack of even the possibility of language. Only Orpheus, who could talk to animals in their own language, knew of their lives, their hopes, their fears. Animals are an intercession between man and our origin, they are our charges, our reprieve from the garrison of the human. 

Mint. Branches furling into a vein-like canopy. We walk in green-gold afternoons through slow explosions of butterflies called brown-veined whites and rest in pools of shade. Fever trees are not strong. They careen over in thunderstorms or under the pressure of a single wind. They grown quickly and die quickly. They are acacias, but lack the thorn-studded bushy aspect of most acacia trees. Their flimsy plasticity is part of their appeal. Unlike other trees, the fever tree has chlorophyll in its bark as well as its leaves. Fever of the body, fever of the mind. A clammy sweat coats my life. He says, ‘I am an African, I have lived here all my life, but I still feel a thrill when I hear the word ‘Africa’.’ The harsh thorn trees, the red earth. I feel it too, I have the sense I am only really alive here, and so I keep coming back, a continuous attempt at resurrection. 

Hills sunken purple coated with russets, yellow, pallid gold of late autumn. A sinking is happening in the land, but where. We intuit the presence of the deep gorge, the sluggish river serpentining through it, the impassability to the north, south, to the east, that cordons us off from the known world. We are in the wilderness and he is our guide. We trust him with the abandon generated by necessity. He is on his own with us, we are his charges. He is leading us toward knowledge, self-discovery, toward the green garrison of mopane that ensnares us.

          This land is enigmatic. It does not have a single version of itself to offer us, to project. It is not the desert or the savannah, a monochrome immensity which instantly commands our attention. It is furtive, sly, forgotten. Several life zones collide here an the vegetation and animals and birds are all in a confusion.

          We are tantalised by the rare sighting of a Palm-nut vulture. We tear off in search of him, binoculars balanced on the dash board. The Palm-nut vulture belongs in tropical coastal forests and we are 70 kilometres away from that. He is off-course in the off-season. He is lost. 

The life of animals consists of a series of traumatic shocks. Tracking is pursuit of their trauma. We are spies on the trail of the creature who does not know it is hurtling toward a brotherhood of the devoured.

           Tracking allows us to organise the confusions within ourselves. Without this we will never understand what happens in the world; coherence begins within. We must establish a sequence, a timeline along with the truth will unfurl.

           Game trails lead to water. Animals know what they are looking for, but they are also prone to confusion. You can see it in their eyes. They are protected though from knowledge of the black elision waiting for us all. I am making choices which feel half –intuition, half fate. I am not in control.

          Our fear is of experience, which we continually evade just as the animals occult themselves in cobalt shadows. They sense our presence on their tail, even though we are in their future.

          I am too reliant on emotional experience to be a success in this strict world of wilderness. I am just another female trails guide who is not up to the job. After our third try on the rifle range Max gave up on us, we were not going to cut it. But I am frustrated with myself less because my shooting is not yet up to it, but because I can discover or understand nothing other than emotionally. There has to be love. Without it life feels insubstantial, facts refuse to accrue meaning. This over-reliance on an emotional life is a deficiency in me, I can’t help feeling. I have lost the capacity to act. I am no longer an animal.