The wind whispers “beware”

The evening is coming.  I walk through the dance floor, the sun retreating, sucked from the darkening corners, leeching itself from the dusty floor. Lunging and fleeing at the horror of the disco lights being switched on.

“Got your gloves on boys? I think we’ll have trouble.”

I step onto the street and light my cigarette, looking up the walk towards Guildhall. Save for two chavs trying to bum some cigarettes from a passer-by, the strip was dead…. for now.  A deep sigh and I start to prepare myself mentally, to stand on the door for another night in deep analogy. As a backpacker turned publican to support my travels, my shaking over the past few months is diminishing. I hope to god it is still only visible from the inside.

It may be a desolate evening on Guildhall Walk but it is still early and the wind rushing past the door is whispering “beware.”

“I just heard the Fleet haven’t got any security on tonight” Chandler comments, shaking his head as he lights his cigarette. “She must have forgotten the game was on or something? Maybe she’s closing up? Some of the other pubs in the street are, not worth the trauma.”

It was the calm before the storm. Portsmouth were playing Southampton in the local derby. I had bulked my security to six and told them to be extra vigilant on the door. That meant checking everybody’s ID. Not to ascertain age but to ensure that we were not letting any Scummers into the pub.

I had nothing against anyone from Southampton. In fact those that I knew were quite pleasant. But fitting in meant using terms like moosh, supporting Harry and Jim to take the Blue Army to the top of the league, and of course referring to everyone from Southampton as Scum. If we accidentally let some in, history has taught me they will inevitably make their city of origin apparent to everyone in the vicinity, provoking a mass brawl. A lapse on the front door would almost certainly result in carnage.

“Come on, lets duck around and see what’s going on, we’ll give her a radio to call us if she gets into trouble.”

****

I moved to position on the door through the sweaty grindings of an inebriated sea of dancing peroxide in strobe and coloured lights. Here I have somehow found my home, hopefully temporarily, inside the bottled and released actions of angry young men.

All under control, I thought as Chandler put in the call on the radio “Robbo, trouble at The Fleet. What do you want us to do?”

Shit, I spoke too soon. I press in my mic “Meet me out the back in the lane, keep two on the front door and one inside, bring the rest.”

The short cut across the lane allowed us to be at the front steps of the Fleet in seconds. It was kicking off well. At first glance there was two separate fights each consisting of about four or five punters. We split into twos and made short work of it. Barging into the middle of the fray we collared the main trouble, worked out who was fighting who and ushered one lot out into the lane.

The baddies on the street wanted to go on with it for a bit but having one publican with a mile of front and three security guards who didn’t need it, seemed to settle them down reluctantly until their supporters inside kicked off again with the same group of guys.

They were dealt the same apparent injustice as their comrades and were also relegated to the alleyway. All seemed to be calm inside with the antagonists now pacing the laneway between The Fleet and the back of my joint. After checking the manageress was ok I left Chandler and another guard on the door of The Fleet to ensure the bad guys didn’t get back in and start things off again. I needed to get back to my gaff to ensure it wasn’t suffering the same fate.

We were not in my bar twenty minutes when Chandler put another call through “Robbo receiving?”

“Go ahead”

“Ah Robbo, I think you had better get back over here…..and bring help.”

One of my bouncers heard the call and met me at the back door, we poked our heads out into the lane, the crowd had swollen to over fifty and Chandler was pushing some back onto the street.

“Crap, lets go” We jogged quickly along the fence line and onto the steps of the pub, joining our other two guards. The crowd had lathered themselves up into a frenzy. Shouting. All the bad words. The guys inside were just as bad, banging on the windows riling them up further with every jeer.

‘What the hell happened? They were calm?”
“As soon as you left these guys called in their mates, we’ve had our hands full keeping them outside and then these pricks in the bar started taunting them. We’ve got to shut the doors, we can’t take all of them.”

“Do it, close ‘em.”  It perhaps wasn’t my call but this was getting out of control. Adam grabs a door but the angry mob rush at us in an attempt to force their way past. We were four guys standing on the steps of the pub, pushing the crowd back. A bottle smashes above our heads and a fist glances my cheek. “Shut the door” I yell.

The onslaught was relentless though and none of us could remove ourselves long enough to unhinge the doors. Our pushes became punches to try and protect ourselves before the mob lunged as one, busting through us.

I am forced to the left of the door, my security all to the right and a sea of aggression divides us. The next few minutes was a free for all, like a medieval war scene, two opposing forces collided as the wave of baddies flooded the door. Terror sets in, your instinct to survive heightens prickly on your skin as you duck and throw haymakers in futile attempts to avoid the flurry of fists, boots and bottles.

A guy rushes me with his fist cocked, I throw one, hitting him worse than flush and then wrestle him past me against a pool table as another one follows him, punching me in the eye. The adrenaline pumping through my veins, a natural anaesthetic. I ward him off the best I can, my arms feel like they are restrained as we jostle, my punches ineffective.

We spin, someone has picked up a pool cue and swings it at me, he is just out of reach. I am punched in the back of the head. I fail to turn to see my new opponent, instead I palm the second guy in the face and launch myself at the snooker fan forcing him backwards onto the second table with his cue lost from his grip. One massive elbow across his head and he stumbles back off, hesitant to reengage.

I look up breathless, stricken with fright. The battle was lost. My shirt ripped, hair wet with sweat and beer. My bouncers each had their hands full, and were being pushed back towards the bar by the animalistic horde. Men were now leaning across the counter grappling at the terrified bar staff. I make my way through the frenzy of fists, lashing out at anyone and everyone in desperation for survival.

I see Chandler and grab his attention, pulling him back towards me “get the guys, protect the bar staff and let these idiots punch themselves out” I yell. He grabs the other two bouncers and we span the bar face, kicking and punching off anyone that came close, staff behind us in a mix of fear and excitement.

Someone ripped a radiator out and hurled it, a glass ash tray took a gash from someone’s head and pool cues were the weapon of choice at the far side near the tables. It was hard to see whether anyone knew which side they were on anymore or if they were just caught up in the exhilaration of the moment.

Fights however never last long, for starters I don’t think anyone really enjoys getting the daylights kicked out of them and it is a fact that kicking the daylights out of someone else is a very tiresome exercise. The fight began to peter out and we moved back in, grabbing the weary combatants and throwing them out onto the street one by one. This time their obnoxious stance of defiance was fleeting and they all walked away, no doubt to tidy themselves up to enter another pub somewhere to celebrate and retell tales of their gallant and bravery in battle.

We empty the bar, shut the doors and to the shaken thank yous of the manageress we ambled back to my pub…… no doubt to retell of our gallant and bravery in battle also.

The Cave

The movement of the water around me echoes the catacomb walls as my panicky hands grapple for the errant regulator caught on top of my tank. I duck below the water trying to loosen the hose but it remains caught. I resurface and call out to the others to wait but they have all started their descent and are already below the water. The cave darkens as I reach for my secondary regulator and deflate my BCD. The last of the torch light disappears under a ledge below me. I am now descending in complete darkness.

My fins hit the rocks on the cave floor as my eyes try to adjust to the irrational darkness. I can’t see the opening, I can’t see anything. I dare not attempt to follow. Even if I could feel my way to the entrance of the cave chamber, without a torch I’d most certainly get lost in the tunnels leading to the outside ocean. I sit there for a minute or two before resurfacing. Alone, floating in the darkness of the cave.

Minutes ago I bobbed in this spot. Rising and falling with the swell, watching the torch lights attach themselves to stalactites as divers scan the inside of the dome. In this pocket of air we were free to talk, to explore, to marvel at the water mirroring blue tinsel across the rocky cupola and casting its ripple of shadows.

I had no hesitation when one of the divers asked to lend my torch. Brad, my kiwi dive buddy left his torch on the boat by mistake and was keen to inspect a coconut crab scaling the rocky wall more closely. Obviously caught in the excitement he failed to bring it back. A point I could have lived with if my regulator hose had not become tangled.

They would be almost out of the tunnel by now; emerging from the mouth of the rocky cavern that swallowed them half an hour before. They would be passing schools of squirrel fish and sweeper fish, maybe even occasioning a banded sea snake. Between equalisations they would be hearing the sweet song of the Humpback whales, their eyes coin-like in wonder.

The tide fills and drops the level in the cave as I sit there in the water alone in the darkness. Entombed. I pull the regulator from my mouth. I need to save my air for when I finally get out of here. The sound of my heightened breathing is disconcerting as it amplifies off the blackened walls.

I wonder how often a group dives this cave? How long could I be trapped here?Hopefully the excitement of the dive does not overpower the Dive Master’s sensibilities that the boat is returning one short. Perhaps Brad will remember his buddy when he finds he has two torches on the boat.

Until someone returns I will wait here in the darkness. Waiting on a light to appear from somewhere below. Waiting and spinning sinister speculations on my fate.

The Pofadder

We start on our afternoon walking safari through the Okavango Delta, the sun still hanging high in the sky. A light breeze occasions our sweaty skin providing a momentary reprieve to the oppressive heat. The dry open fields of bush and savannah grassland framed by fingers of delta water carving through the dryness.

Ahead of us an unsuspecting Pofadder basks in the sun, camouflaging itself in the dryness of the grass. Bitis arietans, is a particularly aggressive biter and is answerable for more fatalities than any other snake in Africa. Preferring to bite rather than avoid confrontation it releases a cytotoxin venom, which in the remoteness of the Delta is likely to result in a best case scenario of the victim losing the limb this viper strikes.

We head out along a thin trail carved by animals through the savannah grass. Master, a member of the local Bayei Tribe and expert tracker in the Delta helping me lead the group. He has been training me to track animals through the bush, to decipher the subtle notes of broken twigs and tracks. I recall my many failed attempts when I started this training. At each track in the dirt he would point.

“Wildebeest?” I would look at him like a student eager to please his teacher

“No Robbo”

Hartebeast?”

“No”

A sounder of warthogs run by, tails in the air as a guide to the scurrying suckers following an impatient mum. The babble of the Delta waterways close by, keeping inconsistent time, occasioned by a stirring bush. The whisper of the breeze through the Mopani trees only interrupted by the coos of tourists spotting something big in the distance.

Our group stops momentarily to observe a cohort of zebra grazing across the expanse. No fences, no vehicles, in a line we pause to appreciate the wildness of it all before starting out again. We try to keep our footfall light on the dusty track, eyes keenly scanning the scene for hints of wild in the dry savannah.

The Pofadder ahead recoils, ready to strike.

Overhead the shrill and ominous cries of an African Fish Eagle, the sound of the African wild, signals the danger unfolding. The grass reaches up, slowing our steps, pulling us at our legs in an attempt to prevent our path to the wickedness ahead. But a sinister trap had already been laid and we were about to be under attack.

The Pofadder strikes. Silently, swiftly. I saw nothing, heard nothing, only the barking and high pitched braying of the zebra as two long fangs inject a venomous cocktail deep into the fleshy skin. The victim jumps back in a terrifying and futile panic. Kicking out as the Pofadder recoils, resets, pausing as the heavy feet of our group push up the trail.

Again the Pofadder strikes. A new victim now. Master and I turn to see the terror in her eyes as the serpents powerful thrust sends frantic and repeated blows to the ankle of one of my female passengers.

This second attack however was thwarted. The Pofadder’s mouth was still full of frog. Its first victim kicking, sheathing the viper’s fangs. The girl jumps away with a shriek and the Pofadder retreats back into obscurity in the grass.

Our hearts race frantic. We stand there all scanning the ground for further terror before composing ourselves to continue cautiously forward. A close escape. Fortunately for us, not so fortunate was the poor frog.

Want Power?

I follow the rope down. The blue slowly suffocates the light as I keep my eyes fixed on the braided cord.  Every few metres I lower my hand to my mask to equalize the pressure building on my face. Upside down. I follow the rope still. Down into the blue.

At twenty metres I grope for the weights at the bottom of the rope, my breath running low. I feel I’ve been underwater too long already. My chest tightens as I straighten and look back up towards the surface. Its too far and I first feel my lungs start to burn. A desire to swallow filling my mind to distraction I start my ascent. My diaphragm starts to tremble. Fighting to breathe I foolishly open my mouth, it floods with water causing me to cough.

“Calm yourself Robbo” I repeat in my mind, “you’ve trained for this.” My blood is still fully enriched with Oxygen. “You don’t need to breathe” I tell myself.

I close my eyes. I feel tired. I try and concentrate on my slow kicks to the surface, searching for the power to overcome the desperation in my lungs.

*****

“Something… want something?”  A murmur comes from a local boy as I pass. I’d have questioned whether he was even talking to me if there was anyone else remotely close. “Hey, you want something, want power?”

I continue walking down the dirt road to the centre of town, picking my way around puddles in the street and dodging a Shetland horse drawn cart. Wooden shop fronts with thatched roofs line the strip. Restaurants, bars, yoga studios, and dive shops. Purveyors of tours and Bintang and ice cream attempt to prise me from my path.

I had made it to Gili Trawangan in Indonesia to learn to free dive. The goal was to dive on one breath to a depth of 20 metres. Each day my instructor Victor refined my technique. Victor is the second best freediver in the Ukraine and he can dive to 85 metres. Mike who owns Gili Freedive is the British champion who reaches depths of 103 metres on a single breath. I am in awe of these guys. Baby steps.

After two days of exercises and training, breaking through the mental urge to breathe and the physical symptoms of CO2 build up I surfaced to the cheers of Victor and my fellow students. Mission accomplished. This evening I am out on the town ready to relax and celebrate over dinner.

Travellers pock the road. Their hair braided and skin deeply tanned. There are no cars on Gili Trawangan. Travellers walk, take a cart or ride a push bike. The horses were not well maintained and one had already bitten me on the hip as it passed, leaving a bruise and who knows what rabies type mad horse disease it might be carrying.

Another man sidles next to me on the road. “You want something, you want power?”

It is said some of the locals are on crystal meth and they will approach you trying to sell you drugs to support their habit. Some follow you into the toilets, they stand next to you while you are peeing and pull out a bag of weed. Others simply prop up next to you at a bar and pull out a little box with bags of cocaine, HDMA, crack and ice. They refer to drugs as power. “You want something?” they would ask.

I start out down the road and immediately am beckoned towards a pizza shop. I stopped to give courtesy to the tout, pointing out to him though that there was a mouse in the window walking on the toppings. He acknowledged that it was in fact a mouse. “Good eye, please come and sit.” I don’t.

I move further along to the town centre. Under a mish mash of tarps, strung across a square concrete football field, the smoke wafts from coal BBQs, the heat being fanned to cook fish, rays, crustaceans, and local chicken. Aromas swirling through the mugginess around cats on the ground, Christmas lights hanging early or really really late flashing in one corner, across seafood stalls, laden with today’s catch under melting ice blocks and the more than occasional fly.

Locals are choosing their dinner, the newer tourists with a little more care circling a couple of times before committing or moving to a more “western” restaurant.  Bintang and fresh juices adorn pink lino covered wooden bench tables. Travellers are picking through charred fish and their day’s adventures in tongues from across the world. The smoke thickens, the sweet clove smell of Gudang Guram cigarettes linger in the air, I feel totally in place.

After dinner my dive buddies and I find an outdoor bar with live music. Travellers walk past us on the street as we settle in for the evening.

A guy selling DVDs comes by intently trying to sell his wares, surely this is a diminishing business that once flourished in South East Asia.

A guy walks by intently trying to sell some portable Bintang speakers. I have seen this guy no less than 10 times in the last few days and every time he played Sultans of Swing. He must really like that song, or by now really hate it.

A guy walks by selling woven bracelets… intently.

As we talk a local man is grabbing at my arm. “Want power?” he mutters. His eyes look through me, his clothes dirty and torn, face shifty and world worn. I politely decline as he pulls up a stool directly behind us. He opens his box of drugs and puts his feet on the back of my chair. Again he grabs me with his rough hands “what you want? Again I politely fob him off.

He interrupts us again, now bragging about taking HDMA that morning. He looks left and right down the street. “The high very good, you want?”

“No mate I don’t”

His partner in crime hassling a couple nearby spun around, his pupils like saucers, pronounced aloud “I take crack. You want something?” He grabs a bag of HDMA and tosses it into my lap. I pick it up urgently and throw it back at him.

“Why you scared?” he demands.

“Im not scared, I’m tired and you are annoying me” I replied curtly

“Tired huh? You just need some power!”

London Calling

There is an appreciation of distance, of architecture, of scale when you ride a bike through London’s inner city suburbs. One that is not apparent when you take the tube.

Dean and I ride fast through the streets, across bike paths and down cobbled mews, pausing at sites of significance or at interesting buildings or to make comment of the street life as it occurs to us. Down past Hyde Park, past Marble Arch, through to the back of Westminster Abbey, the cool wind on my face giving my cheeks a ruddy glow and making my nostrils wet.

We stop in front of the Big Ben and I start to think of how many have stood in this place, admiring it’s iconic tower, capturing the sight like a Polaroid to take with them to reflect on. I wonder if this memory will stay with me, not only the vista, but the smells, the feeling of the weather against my skin and the feeling of being privileged to be here. I cast my eyes to the city streetlights who have witnessed a million of me struck by the magic of London but who cannot calculate what a moment like this is worth.

We set off again, gaining a new perspective on the city and a vibration that you can only feel from a place whose history dates back so many hundreds of years. Each monument, each building, wildly atmospheric in the foreground of low steely skies.

Eventually we must head home. Up onto the footpath we dodge the evening traffic. I accept a flyer from a small Asian man as I breeze by. It’s not until our next stop that Dean suggests this man was not actually handing out flyers, that it appears I had snatch the takeaway menu from some guy on his way home. When our laughter finally subsides and the stitch in our sides becomes bearable again, we continue on towards Paddington.

These streets give the city a human side. I feel compelled to learn, to understand the kaleidoscope of humans that have built this place, each with their own story, their own sense of London. I felt it in my bones, the heartbeat, the pulse of the city, it was telling me a story. A story of kings, war, fire, plagues and music. A story of poets ascending the highest heavens of invention, of famous murderers, sportsmen and designers.

On every corner history lives on and each step in the footsteps of those who created the story and made up the fabric of this great city. A woven thatch of culture akin to the underground map and the A to Z combined.

Faraday to Keats, Beckham to Bowie, Hitchcock to Chaplin….. Robbo?

A lo Cubano (The Cuban way)

You don’t walk through Havana, you stroll dreamily but with an excitement that really only grips you when you explore a new city. And when you do that in Havana it is as though everything you have known is forgotten and you are born again, learning a new world for the first time. The streets are alive, the musica heady and emanating from the corner of every old town bar. Street vendors sing for our attention and cats lazily watch on as we make our way towards our accommodation.

We rented an apartment in the old town for CUC40 per night. Options were scarce but our casa particulares was only the equivalent of AUS$30. The owner, like everyone else in Cuba, spoke no English. Usually this is no problem. In fact we revel in determining our way deep in another culture. However today two Nicoles booked to rent this apartment…. on the same day. This added a degree of difficulty to our interactions, as our Spanish had deteriorated to phrases used most regularly on Speedy Gonzales cartoons.

Our host confused, thought she had one guest named Nicole coming in on the evening flight and so didn’t pick us up at the airport in the morning. As travellers who always pack a healthy dose of patience and good humour, my Nicole and I made our own way into the city, unruffled. In fact we were delighted to do so, finding the incursion into new realms energising.

The building in which we were to reside for the next week had a dangerous look to it. There was no predatory vibe from the people, more from the broken staircase, the exposed nails and electrics, and the balconies that hung on the dirty facade out into the street. Hung sounds too secure, more dangle precariously than hung. Held by layers of peeling paint, remnants of a chore long since abandoned.

The doorbell didn’t work so we managed to follow someone in and meandered our way through the building, at times finding ourselves moving through people’s living rooms that had somehow over the years morphed into common walkways. They smiled and nodded, unphased as we passed by their tele.

There was no one home in our apartment but through an elaborate display of hand gestures and broken Spanish that may have looked like interpretive dance to the onlooking residents, a neighbour found what I guess were the communal keys to all apartments and let us in.

We somehow managed to sign out a need also for the owner’s phone number and after much referencing of our phrase book I managed to communicate to her that Nicole was aqui ….ahora. Here? Now? A squeal that seemed like a mix of delight and panic came down the line. Then click. Nicole asked if she was coming? I shrugged.

We spent the next 15 minutes taking in turns of walking onto the balcony and waving to the children on the opposite balconies, when our host burst into the room with a flurry of hugs and a niece in toe that could translate in broken English.

We worked out the apartment had been double booked and so a couple of phone calls later by our host and we were being led through the streets of the old town to our new apartment by the niece and her boyfriend who were eager to find out everything they could about Australia. The new accommodation was equally small, dated and tired but clean and our new host was lovely. So with that sorted we headed out into the city.

The streets of Havana are clean, save the rubble of abandoned building sites. The architecture captures perfectly time and place and still in places shows glimpses of their majesty in the 1950s. Now they are run down, their brightly coloured paint faded though to charming hues. Doors, walls and balconies maintained over the last 60 years only with bits of wire to keep them functional. The sides of some buildings possess the stigmata of stairways and rooms that were once in an adjacent building that didn’t survive the decay.

People sitting in corrugated iron doorways or on the footpath in front of their house watch on as we explore their streets. Their clothes dry in barred windows as they gather around a small television. Their doors all open to the street for ventilation. As we walk towards the centre of the old town we pass the faces of those who look worn and saddened by poverty, contrasted with those that laugh and dance in a carnival of energy and pizzazz. Vintage cars pass you in the streets and add to the scene which demands you to wander wide eyed. For a moment then, you are transferred to a world that looks like Las Vegas may have looked 70 years ago…. If nothing was ever maintained again. An intriguing and maybe a little sad product of the country’s politics.

A truck commercial on television in Australia 10 years ago was for a “one tonne Rodeo.” The commercial was set to the song Guantanamera. The country’s most noted patriotic song calls to us from every other bar. It has been slightly ruined for me now as I can’t get the damn commercial out of my head.

We head to La Floridita for my Daiquiri and La Bodeguita Del Medio for my Mojito. An old lady, craggy face, hat and long cigar, the Cuban portrait personified stares at me as we walk by and then bursts into a loud cackle throwing her head back in full body display. I think I missed the joke…..  or maybe it was me?

This was our first stop since leaving Mexico. Mexico was an easy lover. She provided brilliant food, breathtaking lodging and relatively easy travel. Cuba makes you work for her love. The food is not so great, you continuously encounter money situations and the accommodation is certainly questionable. But Cuba is a seductress. She has a rhythm, a vibe that is intoxicating, that takes you by the hand and draws you into a salsa dance curb side.

The smoke from fat Cohiba cigars drifts into the air around us, tantalising our cerveza cristal and 18 year old rum before catching the cool breeze and mixing with the music from the band. We sit back on our plastic chairs on the street corner, taking it all in as the humidity of the day lifts.  Glad we made it to Cuba before the western world arrives in droves, with their oversized red shoes and golden arches; putting a Starbucks and Hooters on every other corner.

I look across to Nicole enjoying the Cuban music and sing along….. “one tonne Rodeo, guajira, one tonne Rodeo.”

An African Morning

The shimmering mirage creating a river in front of us through the barren and alien landscape. Cruising through Kuisab Canyon, the sky is bright, the koppies familiar, plummeting into a maelstrom of ravines. A series of striated earthy colour surrounds us and creates a back drop in a study of browns. The wind is given form by the dust trailing our truck…. I know this road.

I had now been guiding in Africa for the best part of a year. We head north through Namibia and make our bush camp.

Sleeping in the bush can be confusing. The groans, gasps and cries in the night of animals I didn’t know initially disorientate years of conditioning. But now I am woken by a noise. It was a familiar sound and I lay there. Still. I feel the stony ground through my swag against my back. Breathing slowly and silently, terrified. Skin prickly, I hear the throaty exhalation of a male lion. Listening intently, trying to determine distance….. “huh….. huh….. huuuuhh”. It’s close, very close. I lift my head, ever so slowly and look into the darkness. There are no other points of reference. I can’t see anything. Slowly I release my arm from my swag, and ever so stealthily I reach behind me and grab hold of the side panel of the truck. Slowly I pull myself under the truck and peek out from under it.

Another low grumbling growl comes from the darkness. My hands tremble as I reach for my swag and pull it under with me. For the next hour, I keep a silent vigil. Eventually I fall asleep, satisfied the roar of the lion is now miles from me.

I wake up, as always just before dawn, crawl out from under the truck and kick the Black Backed Jackals away from the base of my swag. I wrap my maasai blanket around me, light my cigarette and move to tend the smouldering coals of last night’s campfire to life, grinning that Rod is also under the truck up the other end. He obviously faced his own midnight confrontations with the passing pride.

My Grandfather used to tell me pre-dawn was the best part of the day. It won’t be long until the older of the tourists stir but until then this is my time. The air is crisp and so still it can noticeably be disrupted by the turbulence of movement. The sky sand washed, dust cleansed, incrementally shading to blue. I stand there, the coldest part of the night. Watching the movement of elephant, of buck, of monkey as a side show to my focus on the horizon. Gripping the maasai blanket tight around my shoulders as I light another cigarette. Enjoying the cool against my face that barges past the fluttering edges of my blanket. And then the sun pokes up. The expanse providing room for awakening clouds to battle, tumble and streak away. Levitating herds grip the pinks and dissolve into the blues.

Sometimes a passenger gets up and tries to join me in conversation “Wait…..” I would say “listen, watch” and we stand there waiting for the brightness of the sun’s orange to force a squint upon us and the heat rush our faces. Then you notice the beating of wings. The birds darting through the tousled head of the tree tops, the hum of the insects keeping one pitch, then the whisper of the morning breeze through the acacia. I never believed my Grandfather until now.

Silently we stand, connecting. It’s a failure of the western world that it becomes an awkwardness when the silence lingers and inevitably nature’s magic is broken. I’m never the first to speak but when they do it is always in some blessing of the wild. It doesn’t matter. The troops are rising, back to the fire to get breakfast organised and to discuss the sounds everyone heard last night and their hypotheses on the creatures from which they emanated.