Jump to content

Around the Northern Circuit.


Game Warden

Recommended Posts

  • Replies 64
  • Created
  • Last Reply

Top Posters In This Topic

  • Game Warden

    50

  • Atravelynn

    6

  • twaffle

    4

  • Jochen

    2

Part 26.

 

Elisabete is tired. I am tired and yet too manic to sleep. She goes to the tent. Brock and I switch on head lamps and go on this somewhat alcohol fuelled night patrol round the perimeter bushes passing his hip flask between us. The sun rises early out here for I’ve been awake and up almost everyday thus far to see it – likewise when the sun is gone it is dark and dark is not just black but all the other hues that make up real night, not the street light dark surrounding my home. What else is there to do out here bar sleep, get drunk, talk or walk like madmen through the bush? The park gates have all closed and night drives are not permitted. But up here at the lower edge of the campsite we walk somewhat scared but excited as hell. We are not in the Crater itself but centimetres from its boundary markers – and the wildlife doesn’t respect those anyway – the elephants are evidence of that. Brock smokes and his cigarette taints the warm night air, its tip glows bright with each pull back. If we see anything that scares us we’ll run like hell and hope to make it back before being eaten alive.

 

So we start out at the far end and walk upon the level grass: we are close to the last tents and this end seems to be more private, families, couples, the tents are next to the vehicles, small fires burning. Headlights beaming out into the darkness, snatched words of someone's conversation. We see nothing yet hear everything. Lions I think far down in the crater – these great deep throated grunts: a declaration of territory. Urrrrruh Urrrrruh – it’s the closest I can come to describing the sound. You have to be here to know. To hear it on TV is just some false impression of how low the frequency is, how rumbling that call can be. Those crashing trees – sharp beams from our head lamps pierce the undergrowth but nothing moves. Perhaps we are being watched.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 27.

 

We walk back in the direction of the toilet shacks, the dining area: two elephants are in the trees at the corner. An armed warden stands by watching them, acknowledges us but does not divert his attention once and we stand close by him for minutes just watching these two magnificent creatures shifting weight between feet and swinging their trunks and flapping ears. Swaying slightly. I have to wonder if they would threaten us for they seem so docile now and perhaps it is the presence of the gun which makes them so. I’ve heard it said that elephants possess a good memory – they have every right to fear the barrel of a rifle.

 

We finish the last of the wine and head back to the tents belching loudly: aware of great piles of dung like old cowpats in the fields close to my childhood home but these are double in size. Dry but I know that is just the outside crust and to inadvertently step on one would bring a bootful of stinking crap back to the tent. Dennis sticks his head out and speaks to us as we pass him by, his quarters nestle in the centre of us all. ‘Should you need to piss in the night,’ he goes, ‘then by the tents. If you need other,’ and he seems to have difficulty in expressing himself, ‘then use the toilets. But...’ and his pause is almost theatrical, ‘use your torch and before leaving the tent make sure there is nothing out there. All around look. Go a bit, use your torch. Go a bit use your torch.’ and I get his meaning. If anything out there shines in the light then don’t go anywhere. It’ll be eyes reflecting the beam. ‘I’ve told the rest, Elizzy knows.’ and that is what he calls my wife. Not Mama. Not Mama Lizzy, just Elizzy. Eee Lizzeee so it sounds. ‘You’ll be safe in the night. There are wardens with guns.’ and that we already know. I don’t need any reassurance. Don’t want any. I am in my wilderness. The centre of a dream, my feet mark the spot where everything else radiates from.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 28.

 

At some stage during the night am I awoken by this loud almost mechanical crunching, ggrrunch, ccrrunch, ggrrunch it goes, (as best as I can describe it) and something is outside. I wake Elisabete, ssshhh finger to pursed lips, ‘Something’s out there. Lets have a look.’ and she shakes her head and looks afraid in the torch light. But I don’t care and gently pull down the door zip, pull back the flap and stick my head into the night. Shine the torch straight out in front: Jesus I almost shout aloud, this bloody great African Cape buffalo is like a metre from my face eating the grass and that crunching sound is him pulling it up in his mouth. It is like a muscular tank, slab sided: like a torro on steroids some cartoon depiction of a devil bull. This huge skull cap of grey rough horn, solid, menacing. My torch shines into his eyes: they glint and shine. He stops eating. Raises his head, turns, looks at me looking at him as if to say ‘What?’ I turn the torch off. He resumes eating. I feel my wife crawl alongside, she sticks her head through the door. ‘What’s out there?’ she asks ‘So look.’ I reply flicking the torch back on and she almost screams is back inside swearing a lot. It’s not surprising – the buffalo kills more people per year on safari than lions. But I just laugh and follow her back: once more do I feel that confidence flowing inside of me, that knowledge of my fate: life won’t end here. Not now. I cannot sleep after this encounter and lie atop my sleeping bag thinking many things. Crunch goes the buffalo right outside. At least I know now it’s not elephant dung on the floor.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 29.

 

'If you need other,' and he seems to have difficulty in expressing himself, 'then use the toilets. But...' and his pause is almost theatrical, 'use your torch and before leaving the tent…' those words repeat in my head. I’ve tried to ignore the discomfort of my moving bowels. Tried to wait it out – surely the dawn can’t be too distant. But they are more forceful than my will and I have to get up and go and it’s the same as going in the night up on Kili except for the fact that my testicles won’t freeze. I wake my wife, 'I’m going out.' - 'Okay okay.' she responds and I don’t think she’s really aware of what I mean. I slip bare feet out into the mild air and put on my trainers. The buffalo has gone. I illuminate my path and nothing is out there. No shining eyes reflecting my torch light. The night. Cool breeze on my face. Maasai spirits walk the slick grass around me and thus I feel safe – determined steps upon this earth nothing can scare me now.

 

As I finish up this weird kind of howling, stuttering laughter like screeching, suddenly guttural, then high pitched and only a wooden door separates me from the hyenas. It makes me jump, their immediacy: I drop the toilet roll before I’ve had a chance to use it – it bounces once on the wet floor and then is gone down the hole and I’m left with a dirty butt that I’ll have to wipe clean in the tent. I pull up my tracksuit pants and stand awkwardly - the smell of the long drop, compared to those on Kili it is mild yet still it makes me feel a little sick especially since my stomach has not yet recovered from the diarrhoea which came on the night of the summit push. Thankfully we still have baby wipes in the rucksack and they have proved to be so much more efficient than paper. The bog roll which bounced into the abyss.

 

And so it continues: their noise – they know I’m here. I pull on the door keeping it closed: there is no lock and little separates me and that mocking sound from right outside. A hyena’s jaws are so strong they grind up large bones for the marrow inside and eat anything smelling remotely of flesh. They’d be done with me in seconds. Chew the whole of my face off in one violent attack. Scatter bits of my body in their frenzy. What can I do but wait it out? They could be a mile away – sounds blown in on the wind, they could be lurking just within the undergrowth outside. I open the door see the eyes aglow in the torchlight and that would be the last thing I’d realise. So I count down the minutes in my head and never before have I been so scared in a toilet; never before have I been trapped in with the smell of freshly fallen poo by a pack of hyenas which consider me dinner. My wife probably still sleeps and these damn things keep on: now I understand their nickname. It sounds like a party outside. Eventually they stop and I give it a few minutes before daring to make my exit. Fling the door open so if they lay in wait may I gain moments and make a head start on them. And then I run and my progress is marked by the bouncing beam of my torch. Don’t look back so I keep telling myself. Leaping over guide ropes, Brock’s tent is illuminated and as I pass he shouts out 'I was just organising a search party for you – those bloody hyenas!' and I laugh loud my heart pounding. Laughter was this great stress relief for me for my hands were shaking and still I run the tent door is open in my narrow arc of light and I’m home and free, my feet slam to the ground and then left foot hard down squashing sensation, sliding so I lose my balance and fall on my backside as my foot shoots forward and it is the smell of fresh cow dung but no cow laid this, the damn buffalo and in the end it got me somehow. As dangerous as they may be I’d never heard of injury caused by slipping in a pat, a buffalo crap as big as a serving platter and deep as a bucket.

 

I kick off my trainers – the stuff on them will dry I know but as I slide into the tent so what’s on on my trousers comes with me and ends up on sleeping bags and rucksacks, clothes bundled in the corner from the day before. Elisabete wakes up and still must I clean myself as I nudge up beside her: she is pleased I am back but groans at the smell: I cannot be bothered to explain – there’s still hours of darkness left and I want to use them. I want to sleep. I’ve had enough of nocturnal stimulation and now I want my senses deprived. I want to dream. But first those baby wipes… where the hell are they in this darkness?

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 30.

 

I am the first one up – who can sleep in this environment unless drunk or drugged? Not even the guides are awake for every tent bar mine is in darkness. I stand and breathe and the smell is that of the burnt countryside, of grass and manure – most is still smeared on my trousers. I kick Brock’s tent and draw his deep laughter – ‘Come on Sir, time to wake up.’ and he finds it amusing the way I call him sir. ‘I’ve been laying here for ages waiting for an excuse.’ and then we are standing together head lamp beams cutting sharp swathes through the night. I can still taste the Scotch and wine from hours ago. That midnight patrol.

 

Up above us this unbelievable starscape: we are surrounded on two sides by a tree line horizon but out in front of us the rim dips away down into the crater and the sky carries on – this huge star bright stellar vista until blending with the jagged line on the other side. Far in the distance. Shooting stars, fiery lines of white across the sky, momentary then fade and are gone. Another. I make a wish. Keep wishing. Brock and I stand there for ages just watching and wishing whilst those stars burn through the atmosphere. I point out the Southern Cross and it’s the first time he’s seen it, despite the time he’s already been in East Africa. He tells me of the Northern Lights, Aurora Borealis which he sees regularly in Canada and it’s a dream of mine to one day see that. To see everything that is magic in this world for magic to me brings optimism and hope for something better: there seems so little left in anyone’s lives and that just makes me sad – I only have to watch the news and am depressed. The stars and this moment. This African magic.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 31.

 

Steam puffs from my mouth and nostrils with every exhalation. It is cold but not freezing, not like the mountain. Not like a week ago. The grass is slick with dew which will only boil off immediately the sun strikes it. A gentle cushioned bounce now opposed to the resigned crunch of singed blades later. I like this time of day: I can fantasise that I am the only human being alive. Each breath is like the first. The air is untainted. Clean. Pure.

 

Slowly does everyone gather, it’s not surprising for the noise we make. ‘Jambo jambo.’ I say. ‘Come on Dutch, get the hell up I wanna get going.’ and he’s the last one to crawl out. We wander to the cook house, Elias and his aide prepare our breakfast. Charcoals glow red in the cooking pits, the air is smoky: there are numerous pots and pans, plates stacked up, jute sacks of food and bottled water. Different cooks for different groups. I know none bar Elias. ‘Elias!’ I call and he turns to give me the thumbs up. ‘Sleep well?’ he asks and where to begin… He prepares that familiar bowl of boiling water to wash in: I actually miss the diamox tingle in my fingertips which the contrasting temperatures provoked.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 32.

 

I get everyone laughing round the table, the hyenas and toilet roll that bounced into the black hole and I always tell a good anecdote. Breakfast is no different from before: porridge, scrambled eggs and thin sausages toast and peanut butter. Hot tea and coffee. Another day begins and I still can’t believe this is only our first night in the wild. Complete sensory overload. It can only get better from now.

 

In chipped enamel cups is bitter coffee – I swill the dregs, round and round they go before slopping them away to the ground: I am all ready. Pack over shoulder, glasses hanging round my neck and rim of my hat pulled down across my forehead: I feel warmer now than before and my North Face fleece is unzipped. Still does it have the faint odour of the cook house tent and greasy breakfasts frying on the mountain but too that reassuring comfort of soft man made fibres. A gentle breeze carries the smell of the crater up to my nose, too is it a damp smell which in the coming hours will dry away and the heat will burn my nostrils if I breathe in deep and hard. And it is the smell of charcoal burning and food cooking. We were the first to eat.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 33.

 

Slowly does the sky begin to change and with the pastel colours a steadily increasing warmth begins to crawl towards us: a slow line of gentle red as the sun rises somewhere behind the jagged horizon of hills in the distance. Dawn colours precede it and it’s something that I’ll never see again. When I leave. Back to my daily life. The grind. Who else gets up at four thirty in the morning other than shift workers or insomniacs? Madmen like me? Early rising is part of the safari scene. To the gates before they open. Everywhere is a description of death in the morning. Once the heat invades predators slink back to the shade with bloodied jaws pulling at the carcass: if I want my kill it has to be now. ‘Let’s go?’ and we clamber into the van with its cold seats from where the roof hatches were left open overnight.

 

We set out in advance of the other groups: our line of three vehicles snakes through the slowly rising sun. Head lights dance on the gravel as we lurch from side to side on the rough surface. The road to the gate follows the crater rim and on each side of the hardtop zebra stand like static models: we’d not yet taken Ibrahim’s mints and I joke he was out in the night with those damn cardboard cut outs – ‘Today you see everything. Magic mints. Yah magic mints.’ he goes and we are laughing already. To our left the ground slopes away and in a grass plain is a single Maasai boma. A fire smokes – I see goats and cattle corralled inside an acacia thorn fence: outside more zebra stand in groups watchful in the dawn. Small herds of Thomson’s Gazelle. There is safety in proximity to humans. To our right, up on the rise an acacia tree with its huge flat parasol of foliage. To one side a lonely Maasai stands silhouetted against the pastel sky – the sun has not yet risen over the crater but there is enough light for his outline to be defined. I can make out the colours of his red and purple Shuka though muted by the half-light. His hair tied back and he stands on one leg his staff up under his armpit and he uses it for support. Watchful in the dark, the approaching light: ever present in this timeless Tanzanian vista. He does not move, another of Ibrahim’s cutouts. We are moving too fast for me to photograph him despite having the Nikon ready to go. It is a defining African image, one of the many encountered thus far but lighting conditions are poor and unless the Land Cruiser stopped and I bean bagged up under the camera body and lens so then hand held would it only be blurred. But then perhaps it is not meant to be. The photograph is in my head, recorded in this perfect detail which is sharp, not a hint of grain or flare from the sun. How I see it now will I always see it – that is my vision in this Ngorongoro dawn. Bells clank from the neck of his goats.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Part 34.

 

We drop down the same road we took in yesterday; there is one entrance one exit. We stop by the checkpoint, Maasai warriors approach us and I get out to shake their calloused hands: the entrance gate is not yet open. I sit up on the lip of the roof hatch my feet locked against the opposite side of the hole, hands bracing me on the roof bars. My underwear still dries beside me and to Dutch it is as funny today as when I tied them up there yesterday. He takes a photo of me and my grey pants. That’s something rarely spotted on safari. My boots are on the seat and I wriggle my aching toes which are dirty; pick at gnarly toenails whilst we wait.

 

And as the first vehicle to descend so for a few minutes are we the only humans in this Garden of Eden. Should I compile a list of the world’s most beautiful locations, (at least that I have personally visited) then this would rank top. I don’t think anyone could ever fail to be impressed looking from the viewpoint as we did yesterday afternoon. And at any minute could you encounter any one of its inhabitants and so you stand up on the seats with your head through the roof looking and waiting. It is cold as we drive down the hill: within the bowl is a mist which rises from the lake centrally and still has the sun not burnt it through. Lake Magadi, we approach it and sit up for a few minutes and the sunrise is reflected upon the water’s surface. Reflecting the sunrise and forested crater walls in the background. A line of pink, the flamingos, was the water’s horizon. Small wading birds strode about in front of us digging down in the mud for breakfast. With the sun almost directly ahead it was difficult to look straight in front but our attention was with a small group of hyena sat at the water’s edge. Every now and then one would venture out towards the birds without learning that as they did so each time the nearest birds took flight. With such rich pickings elsewhere I wondered why they bothered. But Rebecca was saying that lions will steal a kill from the hyenas and perhaps they thought lions wouldn’t be interested in something so small. But every attempt was failure and this carried on I’m sure long after we left.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 1 year later...

I am embarrassed to say that I have only just found this trip report as I look for info on Tanzania. But it feels unfinished so where is the rest of the trip?

 

A very funny read although the toilet descriptions were perhaps too realistically depicted :P .

 

I can just see you sailing along, underwear floating in the breeze.

 

If your trip stopped at the crater, so be it. If you had further to go, I think you have had long enough to write the additional report. :D

Link to comment
Share on other sites

I just saw this too. The dates it was posted were ones I likely was gone. Maybe with some encouragement, the report can be concluded with either a detailed account of the remaining adventures or a quick couple sentence wrap up.

 

Now I have a report to read.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

I've gone through Part 20 so far. You're a pro Matt or is it Mad English? What a gripping safari tale! You describe your eagerness and enthusiasm as the safari gets underway in a manner we can all relate to because at one time that was us. I couldn't wait to descend into the crater with you. I was laughing and cheering you on all at the same time when you pursued the permits that went sailing away in the breeze. Your rhino viewing was more than just a sighting--such a beautiful and moving description.

 

I'm looking forward to reading the rest of your installments.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...
Game Warden

Twaffle, Atravelynn, you are both right of course. I need to transfer the rest of the manuscript from my laptop and upload it in chunks here. Watch this space as they say...

Link to comment
Share on other sites

I, too have been reading, G.W. and enjoying it so much. Do please continue.

 

Jan

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Game Warden

Actually, Around the Northern Circuit, and A Week Climbing Kilimanjaro (In a condensed form here on Safaritalk) predated this forum and were originally part of a book project which I intended to publish with all profit going to small grass root projects in Tanzania. However, unable to attract any interest from likely publishers I would have had to pay for it all myself and end up not making any money at all. So it was from this manuscript that the embreyonic plans for www.safaritalk.net were drawn up, and here we are a few years later, raising a few dollars for good causes - possibly moreso than any book would have ever made.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Atravelynn

That means I've got more parts to check out before the conclusion.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...
Game Warden

Part 35.

 

We follow a track which leads us to the opposite area of the crater: the grass is short, green, it has rained recently that much is obvious and a combined herd of wildebeest and zebra graze. They appear so used to the passing of vehicles that they don’t even bother to run from our approach. Some eat, some stay alert. We stop and watch them pulling up grass. There come familiar sounds braying and grunting from the wildebeest, it’s why they are known as the gnu for the sound they make. From this herd could others be made out far across the plains. There seemed a huge number of game no matter where you looked.

 

There was a deep riverbed through which the track led and we dropped down slowly into it. With no vehicles behind us we stopped a while and watched as both wildebeest and zebra crossed over. All the time I was scanning along the riverbed for crocodiles but none came. And I’m thinking this would be an excellent opportunity for an attack from the bushes, there was plenty of camouflage for lions, leopards but nothing came and there was no explosive charge from the undergrowth. There was no need. Wherever you looked was game.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Game Warden

Part 36.

 

Looking through the valley I could make out Maasai in the distance: just walking as I watched them through the binoculars. What were they doing? Where were they going? So many questions I had for them. Grass hillsides stretch to the horizon and the affects of recent rains is clearly visible in this lush verdant landscape. If we wish to piss then Ibrahim stops the van – he makes it clear we get out at our own risk and I make use of the time. Not to urinate which takes barely seconds but to walk for a while out behind the vehicle. Dutch keeps a look out but I am not scared. We saw three lions a moment ago but I am aware in the heat of the morning they are lazy and have already eaten: now they seek shade from the sun and I am safe. At least here. All I really desire is to wander alone amongst the magnificent scenery and whilst I look around Ibrahim talks to Rebacca in the front. Elisabete lazes on her bench with her feet sticking through the open window. Dutch and his girlfriend sit on the roof with my binoculars scanning. She looked whilst I pissed and I made a point of letting her see: the most dangerous snake out here I joked. It was the kind of relationship that had formed between us in two days: dusty conditions; this tight confinement in the heat, drinking and eating, farting and belching, dozing with wide open mouths that dribble – we were adventurers on a razor blade edge of existence.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Game Warden

Part 37.

 

I watched a warthog mother lead a line of juveniles into the undergrowth, the little ones with tails upright and an amusing jig of a walk: I wondered how many of them woud survive until adulthood. Zebras watched me from across the road their stripes somewhat uncamouflaged at this range: I watched how they stood head to tail a couple that look conjoined but it was their own lookout system. By standing thus they could see in two directions at once and with a flick of the head possessed almost a three hundred and sixty degree angle of view. Heat haze shimmered above the grass. The sun was hot on my face and so I climbed back up into the vehicle. Swigged on some water. It’s a mad world out there: back home would I be sat infront of the computer and yet here am I in a wilderness as old as the world: it was if I’d returned home to the place I deserved to be, such was the emotion I felt. How can you ever hope to describe this feeling to anyone else? To those who have never been on safari? It will change your life. It has mine. I think all of us feel it – I only have to look at the expression on Dutch’s face.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Thank you Matt for continuing.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Thankyou, G.W. I agree totally with the last three sentences. When I am out in the open, under a big sky, I just want

 

to stay there forever. One day, when the time comes, I will.

 

 

Jan

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Game Warden

Part 38.

 

We approach this fallen zebra, its corpse buzzes thick with flies. Once dead, upon its side it looks almost unreal, as if some taxidermist’s creation for we approach right up close and by leaning from the window it is but metres from my outstretched fingers – the motionless body looks bloated: I’m so used to seeing them skittering away already. In the trees surrounding it Maribu storks gather: African undertakers waiting for us to depart before descending. It has not been dead long for there would be large portions of its flanks missing. Flesh ripped from its neck: empty bloodied eye sockets. Bloodied bones. There would be hyenas in residence or lions lolling alongside. But there was no evidence of predation: the only thing visible was a trickle of blood leaking from its nose, coating its mouth and muzzle. A dark glistening ooze, that’s why it appeared so fresh almost like it had almost fallen just a second ago. Ibrahim stopped the engine and so came that silence again: we waited for something to happen. It was like a kill in waiting only that the prey was already dead and its odour drifted across the crater. Should we wait here all day we’d definitely see something, if only those damned hyenas who howled outside my toilet door in the night. But I was hoping for lion, leopard. The big hunters. We did not have the whole day. We would be leaving soon for the Serengeti plains. That was our destination this afternoon. A snake slithered across the track and we barely noticed it in our blood lust frenzy. Something so small insignificant: life at all levels.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Game Warden

Part 39.

 

For lunch we turn left and carry on up this track which rises to a small summit. Atop this hill we look down and a small lake marks a safe point from which to alight and sit in the sun. ‘Ngoitokitok Spring.’ Ibrahim states. At the end of the day nowhere is one hundred percent safe but with the vehicles behind us water in front thus was any possible angle of attack limited. As we drove down to the gravel carparking area I saw two rhinos in the distance highlighted upon a false horizon. Dutch pointed at the same time as I slapped the roof. Too distant for my Nikon and the digital compact so we just stood facing the same way, the four of us in the back, Rebecca on the passenger seat and I passed my bincoculars round no matter how much I wanted not to. No one mentioned the tear damped eyecups. I would stay here all day just watching them slowly moving if I could. Two of the remaining rhino and yet they appeared different to those which had made me cry yesterday. If I come back next year how many of these will still be alive? Money. Greed. Automatic weapons thousand rounds a minute – takatakatakatakatak and one more rhinoceros surrenders a life for its horn. I wish it were different: it never will be: Chinese and their herbal remedies, tiger penises and other endangered animal parts. Haven’t they ever heard of Viagra?

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now
×
×
  • Create New...

Important Information

Safaritalk uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience on our website. By using Safaritalk you agree to our use of cookies. If you wish to refuse the setting of cookies you can change settings on your browser to clear and block cookies. However, by doing so, Safaritalk may not work properly and you may not be able to access all areas. If you are happy to accept cookies and haven't adjusted browser settings to refuse cookies, Safaritalk will issue cookies when you log on to our site. Please also take a moment to read the Terms and Conditions and Privacy Policy: Terms of Use l Privacy Policy