Mabuasahube - The Pecking Order

At last, we were ready to enjoy ten days of doing absolutely nothing. That's what dreams are made of... a real holiday. The wonder of Mabuasahube. All we do is wonder what’s next. Shrug. Shake your head. Nothing. We wait and see. No expectations. But there is always the promise of a surprise. Small or large, in nature, we are always enthralled. This sense of anticipation aims to make the reader feel excited about the unknown and eager to experience similar moments.

Being informed about what we see makes game drives more interesting, and in our basket we always have the following books: Scatalog - a Quick ID Guide to Southern African animal droppings by Kevin Murray, Stuarts' Field Guide to The Larger Mammals of Africa by Chris & Mathilde Stuart, and Chamberlain's LBJ's by Faansie Peacock. On our smart devices, we have Sasol Birds and Robert's Birds. I also love my copy of Alan Levine's Serendipity of Collective Nouns and my Trees of Southern Africa. Using the book, we were able to identify leopard droppings at our campsite too. Sharing this knowledge invites the audience to feel connected and inspired to learn and observe more in their own travels.

[photo id= "43"] I was worried. What if she didn’t enjoy it? What if she’s bored? What if we had no exciting sightings? What if, what if? So while we were sitting in our Director’s chairs, fully focused on our crocheting, I spoke my mind. Every day would sort itself out, and something surprising would pop out of the woodwork. This vulnerability aims to reassure and connect the audience through shared doubts, encouraging them to embrace uncertainty in their own experiences.

We’d been on a game drive. Our tick list was largely blank; we’d seen a few birds, one or two gemsbok, and not much else. It was winter in the Kalahari, although rain had fallen a few months earlier and the grasses were still standing knee-high, stalks bent over with heavy seed pods; there was no water. The pans were dry. Far in the distance, we spotted wildebeest lying down, which was very unusual. There was no lion spoor on the road, and there were no “tip-offs” (when there’s some action in the park, vehicles collect in a flash. These pods of 4x4s were what we referred to as tip-offs).

My experience has always been that every day is unique, with something special marking each one. We waited for that something special. We cast our eyes on our immediate surroundings and noticed the little ground squirrels digging ferociously near us. Two of them. Skirrel (Neil, my grandson, calls them skirrels) and Ramaphosa (always busy but not achieving much, someone clever said). I captured a few close-up photographs of them digging, eating, playing, and even tussling. If you’re not there, you can’t capture it. On day one, I had them on my list.

The night was silent, except for a distant lion's call that grew closer, its growls deepening into mighty roars that filled us with awe and a sense of the wild's raw power, inviting readers to imagine the thrill of such moments.

The next morning, we nervously opened our doors and put our noses to the ground. They had been right there, all around our vehicles. In the road, we found where they’d lain down; the swish of their tails and paw prints were clearly visible. Huge ones, too. The pride of 5 left our campsite and marched off across the pan to find shade for the day. A dark moon that night would be excellent for hunting.

We watched, transfixed, as a weaver relentlessly chipped away at the vehicle's mirror for 7 days. His onslaught began as the sun peeped over the horizon and didn’t stop until sunset. He had none of this new invader, who looked like him, pecked like him, and was as determined to have his way. Covering the mirrors with bags only made him more determined, and then he found his nemesis in the silver strip along the bonnet! I am sure he must’ve had a concussion from all the pecking!

On a few occasions, we’d drive out to campsites with a tap to fill our water tanks, and on one such occasion we saw that previous campers had placed shallow pans in the ground as bird baths. There were literally hundreds of small LBJs who’d flock to the water. We decided to give it a try too, and I spent hours enjoying the birds, their social interactions, hierarchies and pecking order. We noticed that some birds spooked easily, while others became accustomed to the conditions and wouldn’t budge at all.

Early one morning, Butch and I went off to see what was around. Out of the blue, Butch spotted a cheetah; later we realised there were three: a female and two young ‘uns. They were returning from their nocturnal wanderings, looking for a comfortable spot to sleep it off for the day. Glorious they were. Beautiful, lithe and super relaxed around us. At sunset, when cats ready themselves for the evening's gallivanting, we’d return with Percy and Sue to watch from the roof of the truck as they groomed, stretched, sharpened their claws, and playfully bonded. When they were good and ready, they headed off for the night—a delightful show at sunset.

Even the disappearance of the lavatory paper from its container caused a stir. The half-chewed container was later found a few metres from the long drop; the paper left a trail into the scrub. The infamous Hyena had come calling during the night. A stark reminder that we must be vigilant at night and not leave without our headlamps on. Preferably chaperoned.

A picnic is always a highlight, and occasionally we’d pack up and head off to a waterhole or a spot with a good vantage point overlooking the pan. There we’d set out chairs and enjoy our brunch. We’d never be disappointed, even if our only visitors were the local meerkats or ground squirrels. Everyone was welcome, and we enjoyed them all. Observing animals in their natural environment is a rare treat.

An ostrich, a springbok, or even a lone Oryx is a thing of beauty when game is scarce, as it is in a dry region; they are so vulnerable, always skittish, with all their senses attuned to an impending attack from a predator. I love watching the antics of two bachelor boys sparring, with one male in the herd as the antagonist who seldom lets up in his bullying.

The Honey Badger is a temperamental girl with needs, and she demands attention. Occasionally, Butch would lie flat on his back under her, checking water pipes and pumps and changing flat tyres. Not to be outdone, his Tyre Pressure monitor beeped incessantly. He couldn’t reset it no matter what. Technology is a necessary evil.

There was never any pressure to do anything, and I enjoyed the moments when I didn't have to rush to get ready; I love being in pyjamas. My favourite routine is bed, book, a mug of coffee, my headphones, music and my crochet work. I could literally spend the day doing that.

Unfortunately, I had to be Nurse Betty because everyone went down with a cold. First came the sniffles, then serious bouts of sneezing, followed by sore throats, headaches and a full-on head cold. I am not a nurse. I find it incredibly frustrating to be all molly-coddly at the best of times. So I’d dole out whatever we had to hand, and at night before bed I’d make a hot toddy of ginger, brandy and lemon. God forbid the patient didn’t appreciate my ministrations, because that would be the end of any future nursing. My patients were excellent as gold, and utterances were few.

On one of my pyjama mornings, I was coaxed into a game drive and breakfast at a nearby pan. With promises that it would be okay to appear in my flannels, my arm was twisted. My mother would have an apoplexy, but I threw caution to the wind. There were no buses ready to flatten me, as my mother might’ve warned… clean underwear and all. That day, my Yeti (thermos coffee mug) and I didn’t get on at all; I dropped it, spilt coffee all over myself, and stained my already grotty pyjama bottoms.

All went swimmingly until we saw a group of vultures at the waterhole. We stopped to watch them, and eventually one or two took to the skies, searching for thermals to ride as they set their eyes on a kill. They circled to the east just as Sue and Percy stopped to tell us they’d spotted a tip-off.

Jumping to conclusions, 1+1=2, we set off. There must be a kill, and the vultures were off to scavenge. We were in the right place at the right time. Off we scooted. From a distance, we saw a laager of three vehicles. On closer inspection, we noticed a distinctive Land Cruiser registered CW13! We knew immediately who it was. A party of Worcesterites, all known to us, having a picnic lunch under a thorn tree. As one does, we were all smiles and overjoyed to see them. It wasn’t long before we were invited to sit, and drinks were poured. I did my best to put my best foot forward in my stained pyjamas.

The African Wild Dog experience (see a previous blog, Who Let The Dogs Out, for more) was certainly a highlight, but we had no expectations; we were there to enjoy the wildness and the peace, and to accept whatever else we experienced as a bonus.

Our meals were gourmet affairs, and we’d make the most of them, enjoying the sit-fire we’d light as the sun set. We’d look out for the black-backed jackal, who would tentatively appear at night, zigzagging up the road, pretending not to notice us. The night jar called bedtime, our signal to turn in. The distant whistle of the owl before he went hunting made us strain to catch his distinctive notes and identify him. Before bed, I’d pin up my latest Instax picture, a cool reminder of our wonderful time.

All too soon, our 10-day breakaway ended. It was time to return home. Reluctantly, we packed up and set off on our three-day journey home. Not yet. My heart wasn’t in it.