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An Ode to a Hippo

Published by TW

First published on Royal Chundu’s blog.

It was morning, becoming late morning quickly. As it does when your head is under the duvet, denying the intrusion of sunlight. And you, an early riser, always, you let me lie in. You didn’t make a sound. I would have heard; I was listening closely, waiting for you.

It was the last morning and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Perhaps you weren’t either. Perhaps that explained your silence. Words are never enough, are they? With soulmates we hope that mind-reading will suffice and in a way, at least for that moment, the head-under-the-covers moment, it did, even if I misread the signs, painted them with my own hopes.

What was I hoping for? I guess that you were sad too. I would never know; you didn’t even have the sleeves to wear your heart on. I hoped that you would miss me and that even though our homes were in separate parts of the world, our connection would remain. I hoped that part of you would stay with me wherever I went. And vice versa.

I knew that I would return and head-under-the-covers me hoped that you would remember our time together – the sunsets, the late night baths, those Autumn picnics, counting shooting stars after the seeming rest of the world had gone to sleep.

I hoped that you would greet me again with that mysterious gaze that I could never read – how I loved your mystery!

How nervous you made me always, even then… on the last morning.

Looking back, maybe it was merely lust. Perhaps that explains it all. A wanderlust. But a little bit of love too, I thought. I hoped.

Where the water tastes like wine

Published by TW

above: Simondium Country Lodge Vintage Market

Below: Vergenoegd Wine Estate

Where Angels Fear to Tread

Published by TW

Read the article on Royal Chundu’s blog here.

“Beyond the edge of the world there’s a space where emptiness and substance neatly overlap, where past and future form a continuous, endless loop. And, hovering about, there are signs no one has ever read, chords no one has ever heard.” ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

I had to see what lay at the edge of the Victoria Falls, from the view of the Angel. I had visited with the Devil before, taken up his challenge and swum to the outer limits. I had felt fear, but more importantly a deep desire to trust. To believe the guides when they told me that I would be ok. The water would not take me with it as it cascaded over the edge, into the fiery gorge below.

This time the same desire arose, as my guide’s hand led me along a plank (*pushes pirate ship references out of mind*) along the rocks of this shallow section of the Zambezi River, on Livingstone Island, into what is known as Angel’s Pool, a few metres from Devil’s Pool, along the same cliff face.

Trust is all you can focus on when you’re tip-toeing on the edge of the world’s largest waterfall, while you shimmy as close as possible to the verge to glimpse the rainbow painted across the white spray below. Trust in the slippery, submerged lip of rock that keeps you from tumbling over. Trust in the blue rope that hangs nearby, just in case you need to grab onto it. Trust in the guides, your fellow swimmers and yourself. Trust in the river.

Some people say that the Angel is more dangerous than the Devil, or at least scarier. I happen to agree, but perhaps that has more to do with the individual on that day. When I dived into Devil’s Pool the year before, I had friends by my side; I felt fear drop away much sooner than it did at Angel’s Pool, where I visited last month with people I didn’t know: a Brit, a Bloemfonteinian and a Canadian.

There’s a lesson in that. Braving something like the precipice of Victoria Falls will do that to you – make you search for lessons, reasons for why you undertook such a harrowing feat.

It’s easy to be brave in the security of the familiar, but true courage perhaps arises not only in unfamiliar terrain but in the presence of unfamiliar people, when there is no reassurance, no support.

Above: Our guide at Angel’s Pool, and below, Vasco, our guide from Royal Chundu

Nightswimming With Elephants

Published by TW

As published on Royal Chundu’s Blog.

“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.” – Vincent Van Gogh

The starry night without doubt transfixed the painter who once uttered the words above, and it captivates us no less. But even more enthralling, we think, is that time before the sun goes down. The truly alive, truly colourful time called dusk.

On the open Zambezi, dusk presents itself each night in the most beautiful of sunsets. Sunsets we never tire from photographing in their unique nightly manifestations.

It is during this cooler time of day that you can sometimes glimpse the odd herd of elephant down at the riverbank, engaged in a spot of skinny-dipping. They might have hoped that the dim light would shield them from us, but our camera lenses pulled it off and captured the nightswimmers in action from the sturdiness of our sunset cruise boat.

Before the sky completely turned from purple to black and left us with nothing but the moon to guide us home, we snapped these images below – they’re not the oil on canvas medium Van Gogh preferred and grainier than we’d like, but they are enduring illustrations of the antics of this quiet hour nonetheless.

Elephants are excellent swimmers and unlike humans and primates, it comes naturally to them. Their bulky bodies give them that beneficial buoyancy and while they use all four of their legs to paddle, their trunks help them to breathe while swimming, especially over long distances.

Elephants have a reputation for being particularly fond of swimming – a passion this gent above no doubt shared as he splashed about in the shallow waters for several minutes while the rest of the herd drank or ambled about in the bushes of the Zimbabwean side of the Zambezi River.

The Real Mystery of Wildlife Photography

Published by TW

Published here – Relais & Châteaux Africa

Wildlife photographers are the impalas of the human world. They are everywhere. As you leave the airport, en route to the safari lodge, on the lawn at lunch, under the trees and across the plains on just about every game drive.

Yes, many of these photographers are truly talented individuals with an impeccable eye, superb mastery of the machine, and, well, really good cameras.

Many of us are guilty of using these connoisseurs of the camera as an excuse to not try our own hand at the art. If someone else can do it better, why bother? Perhaps you’ve never thought this. Perhaps you just don’t see the attraction of photographing wildlife. But like other art forms, photography is about so much more than the product. The whole process awakens us to the little wonders and idiosyncrasies of life – its quirks that often go amiss otherwise …

Like the tight scrunch of a leopard’s nose. The twitch of a lion’s whiskers. The endless fly-eyes of the impala. The knees – or are they elbows – of the elephant’s front legs. What looks almost like a smile from the tiniest rhino in the crash. How the morning sun shoots through the clouds like Zeus’ lightning bolt.

There is such magic in the little details. No matter how many times I go on safari, no matter how many thousands of images I take of a leopard in a tree, each moment I fall in love with life a little more. The camera opens our eyes to the world, to life, and urges us to make better use of our senses, like a wild dog in the midst of an impala chase.

How lucky we are to have the opportunity to see more of life even in moments that aren’t necessarily new. Here are few details from Morukuru Family in the Madikwe Private Game Reserve that recently stood out to me.

Take time to detect the details. Pick up the camera. And discover more about Morukuru Family in our blogs:

The Ubuntu Birds

Published by TW

[Published here]

“I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance that I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn.” – Henry David Thoreau

To make up for not giving me siblings, my parents gave me pets. There was the Manx cat that slept in the tumble drier. The ginger tabby that trailed after us on walks around the neighbourhood. The dogs that let me dress them up in sunglasses and ties, that escorted me through the forest or along the beach. And then there were the birds.

While my father’s father bred show pigeons, my father bred everything: quails, lovebirds, finches, Cockatiels, budgies and, most recently, an owl mother and her fledgling.

On roadtrips, I might not have known the joy of sharing the backseat of the family car with anyone, but I knew my birds. I loved how they all seemed to have a place in the aviary that they shared – from the quails on the ground to the love birds in their messy nests, with their peach-coloured heads peeking out through the holes.

As I continue to move about in the world as an older only child, I notice how much our aviary was a microcosm of the greater world, a world where hummingbirds rub shoulders with white-eyes, swallows share the air with sparrows, and grouse and guinea-fowl run along the same paths.

It is a lesson in ubuntu… as Archbishop Desmond Tutu explained it, “Ubuntu speaks particularly about the fact that you can’t exist as a human being in isolation. It speaks about our interconnectedness… We think of ourselves far too frequently as just individuals, separated from one another, whereas you are connected and what you do affects the whole World. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity.”

Out in the wild places of Africa this is ever apparent. Looking at Bushmans Kloof, the wilderness reserve and wellness retreat in the Cederberg Mountains of South Africa’s Western Cape province, over 150 species of bird live together, happily. You’ll spot them on nature drives and walks or from the patio of your villa – whether the great African Fish Eagle or the jewel-like sunbird, the waterfowl around the dams or the striking Black Harrier.

How do they manage to share the open wilds in such harmony despite their many differences? Perhaps they’re more advanced than us humans. Perhaps they do make for better siblings, after all.

I took a moment to simply watch these little musicians of the air and to listen to their song on a recent trip to Bushmans Kloof, before lifting the camera to them…

Paying It Forward on the Zambezi

Published by TW

“You don’t make a photograph just with a camera. You bring to the act of photography all the pictures you have seen, the books you have read, the music you have heard, the people you have loved.” ― Ansel Adams

I had heard about Charlton long before I met him. I had seen the photographs of him, Royal Chundu’s handyman, out in the field, photographing the faces of the Zambezi.

I knew the story behind it all. A guest staying at Royal Chundu, a man working at Canon Inc., had noticed Charlton’s enthusiasm for photography and organised Canon sponsorship for him, donating a camera and on-site training to the budding Ansel Adams.

Charlton, who grew up in the city of Livingstone, Zambia, has been working as a handyman at Royal Chundu since the lodge opened. It is his home.

When I finally met him, I was a little taken aback. The thing about photography is that it is like a growing child. It needs constant attention and food, and quickly outgrows its clothes and toys.

We met up for a morning stroll through the village around Royal Chundu, stopping at the school, clinic and lodge veggie garden, to shoot and share tips and ideas. I arrived with my Canon DSLR and expected him to too, but was humbled by what I found – a point-and-shoot that had seen better days and an owner with more passion than a compact camera could handle.

We decided that it was time for bigger fish and spent the morning mastering the ins and outs of the single-lens reflex, a skill I learnt in a similar manner, under the guidance of other photographers. But our lesson didn’t end there. Most of photography is what happens in the moment between subject, artist and lens, but the afterlife of the shot is as rich. The photo editing tricks I took for granted Charlton still had to learn.

Mother of Royal Chundu, Tina Aponte recognised his passion a few years ago and donated a laptop to his cause. But time had passed and like us all, our cameraman needed a refresher course or two. Starting with how to turn the laptop on.

After a day of lessons on our couch beside the Zambezi, Charlton had conquered the craft – cropping, contrast, black and white, saturation, straightening, email…

I tell him, “It’s official now. You are the Royal Chundu Photographer. But you’ll need the right tool. I have a camera at home that I need to pass on. It’s yours if you like.”

We shake hands. It’s a deal. I tell him what someone once told me: “Photography is an art that must be passed on, not held onto. It goes beyond the aesthetic. It teaches a new way of seeing and it gives hope to he who knows how to see.”

He tells me, in that case, that he’ll have to pass his compact camera on to his eldest son. Pass the stick and continue the legacy.

Read the full article on Royal Chundu’s blog.

The Parrotfish Run

Published by TW

First published on Royal Chundu’s blog here.

Everyone has their own criteria for what makes an adventure. For me, it is often about my camera and the rare moments it manages to capture. The Parrotfish Run in Zambia, the Zambezi’s Great Migration, is one such moment.

After watching mokoro after mokoro glide past my deck at Royal Chundu‘s Island Lodge, I joined the fishermen on the Zambezi, with Royal Chundu Head Guide, Sililo, or “SK”. Our vehicle: an inflatable canoe.

The Parrotfish Run is a decades-old tradition. Each year, from around June to August, millions of these fish are pulled downstream by the main river current. The usually serene upper reaches of the Zambezi transform into a lively harbour with women and children on the sidelines and fishermen spread across the channels – often thigh-high in the water, sometimes even immersed up to their necks.

Hessah Silwebbe, manager at Royal Chundu, set on a private waterway between the two rapids where the fishing takes place, explains, “Once the fish hit the smaller rapids, they make for an easy catch for fishermen perched and waiting with their handwoven fishing baskets, made of reeds and palm tree leaves, ready to make their mark. Families set up camp along the riverbanks to take advantage of this annual event.”

The run is an essential part of the lives of the local communities. According to SK, most of the Parrotfish caught is sold at markets either along the riverbank or further inland, providing the families with an income.

There is method in the seeming madness of the flurry of fishermen, as each channel is demarcated to a specific family – unwritten territorial rights that determine who can fish where. In order for an outsider to fish on one of these channels, they must be hired by the family who owns it.

SK’s family is represented here too. We head out early one June morning at sunrise, when our fingers have yet to thaw. He takes me to his channel, where his half-brother, Richard, is at work.

There is a saying on the Zambezi… “Live by the river, die by the river.” This is the law of the land here. The river serves as both life provider and a reminder of life’s fragility. The same river that will provide SK’s family with sustenance for the year took their father years before. There is a reason the hippo is considered Africa’s most dangerous animal.

This is the Parrotfish Run.