In a corruption of Du Maurier's Rebecca, last night I dreamt of Namibia...
Sheer rocks, scrambling upwards, creating handles as tumbling pebbles skitter down towards the water. A ledge in the shade. Dripping, we sit facing the pool, a glittering treasure in the desert-scape. I feel trickles of water snaking down my face, my neck and onto my chest. My trousers and vest are sodden, darkening with the spreading moisture. Stillness resumes after the frantic splashing across the water and the struggle up the rocks in the face of the oncoming herd. We wait, breathing slowing down. Birds whistle through the air, black streaks like bullets, whipping and dipping sharply into the water, extracting the fish who occasionally plop and bubble at the surface. All else is calm and quiet, our breathing hushed as though we sit on ceremony. Like us, everything else is tense, seemingly waiting for the entrance of the elephants, who we know to be behind the line of vegetation, gravitating towards the water like magnets. An empty stage, there is nothing to see but endless expanse of yellow-brown-red sand and gravel broken up by unexpectedly lush green bushes, who happily exploit the abundant water. A mountain-scape, shimmeringly surreal like an oasis, a dream, ghost mountains on a film-set. Close enough to walk to and as far away as another world.
Out of nowhere a young bull elephant materialises and slowly, gracefully, makes his way to the water's edge. Master of the landscape, nothing stands in his way. He is noiseless, as silent as a shadow, his large body blending into the environment like a grey ghost. Through raised binoculars, a tiny hole in his left ear, shaped like a penny. It suggests a bullet and the time-worn clash between man and elephant over scarce water. His beautiful head dips to the pool, the arc of his ears and the smooth roundness of his head creating an elegance that is timeless and evocative. An incredibly serene moment. This behemoth, this 'Dumbo' from the movies, possesses the grace of a ballerina. I am filled with something: a mixture of sadness and light, recognition and beauty, an overwhelming peace. Through the glasses I see his long dark eyelashes like thick threads, cover for his weathered eyes. Red dust on his wrinkled flanks, fine long tusks, a glaring intense white. They are like gleaming swords against his grey armour, their curve declares an other-wordly dignity and strength.
Slowly, one by one, they come to the water. They are a tight unit, thinking and acting as one, as a herd. As a silent spectator I am aware of a certain voyeurism, an intrusion on the herd's peace and their intrinsic bond with their environment. There is no room for man here. We try to count them, but they remain defiantly non-recordable, the calves blending into mothers' and sisters' legs, trunks fusing with tails, and all of them merging into the desert as one. They remain unaware of us, jostling together in apparent security. Splashing noises fill the air; an indignant bird wheels away screeching a warning. Their behaviour is remarkably different to the lone bull, who disappears back into the bush, as if affronted by the noise. It is a playground down there by the water. Rumbling noises as they communicate presumable happiness; waves of excitement radiate from them, up towards us on the rock. Secretion glands stream. I feel a mixture of pure joy at being witness to part of their everyday existence, but also a creeping feeling of invasion. This is their desert. We sit like monkeys, always watching, high from harm, as still as statues.
