The
day is oppressively hot, as many are in summer in Zululand. The thermometer is
pushing 40 degrees Celcius but the discomfort index reads “feels like 53”. It
would be almost comical, a number that high, if it didn’t actually feel like 53
degrees. Guests find respite in air-conditioned rooms before climbing into game
drive vehicles with beads of sweat rolling down their foreheads. Impalas stand
in small groups, huddled in the shade of acacia trees, moving as little as
possible to preserve the small amount of energy the sun has not already stolen
from them. Lions lie deep in shaded thickets, belly to the sky, exposing as
much skin as possible to the air, desperate for a breeze. Then Africa does the
only the only thing she can in response to a heat like this. As the sun begins
to wane she gathers the clouds and hangs them heavy in the sky above the
bushveld. The air becomes still and stifling and the heat continues
unrelentingly. Flashes of lightening dance in the distance and the deep
vibrations of thunder roll through the land as we climb into bed, grateful for
the air-conditioning.
At
eleven pm a deafening crack awakens us. The electricity dies. We rush to open
windows around the house, as the world is lit again and again and plunged back
into darkness each time. The thunder cracks loud and sure, sometimes settling
into a tremendous rumbling. The open
windows do nothing to ease the heat and the air is thick as molasses. Settled
back in bed, lightening strobes my closed eyes and thunder continues its
metallic roar. Slowly drops begin to fall. Larger drops splash on the
increasingly water-soaked ground. The drops build until there is an army of
them in full assault. Then the water pours down in sheets, as if suddenly Africa
can no longer bear the heaviness of the drops gathered in her clouds. The
electrical storm continues unabated, moving off into the distance as I drift
precipitously close to sleep only to be awakened by a crash that is too close
for the subconscious to tolerate. A slight breeze finally pushes through our
window, providing sweet relief from the heat. The storm’s pattern of retreat
and approach feels interminable but at some stage the rumbling makes its final
departure.
As
dawn arises the groggy feeling of interrupted sleep begins to clear, much like the
clouds which dissipate on the horizon. Our house has flooded in the night. The
air is even thicker than the day before, and I begin to feel I am wading
through it. In total 80 mls has fallen. Not the biggest storm this area has
seen by any stretch, but big enough. Zululand has been suffering from the worst
drought in living memory over the last few years. There was a point the past
winter where we questioned whether or not we would have any grass to recover
once the rains arrived.
To
escape the humidity, I take a drive with the windows open, beckoning in any
wind that is willing. I expect stillness in the bush in deference to the heat
but instead the bush is full of life. Impalas drink from puddles in the road.
Warthogs roll gleefully in muddy wallows. Giraffes use their dexterous charcoal
tongues to nibble at the green leaves on the tops of acacias. Frogs croak in
chorus from newly filled pans. Glossy-coloured starlings splash their ruffled
feathers in puddles that function as makeshift birdbaths. Crickets sing their
high-pitched calls. Waterbuck duck their furry heads as they stand under
acacias chasing the shade.
The
bushveld is an impossible shade of green. In winter, the reality of the sepia-toned
landscape pushes this colour of green into a black and white memory. It is only
after rain, that this deep emerald green emerges and one remembers. This colour
green is the visual representation of the nutrients that sustain the circle of
life.
In
Zululand, the summer can be harsh, hot and unrelenting. The heat summons the
storms, which fill the dams and the rivers and allow the grass, bushes and
trees to grow. The storms themselves can be inconvenient and sometimes
terrifying. A Zululand safari in summer can be an intimidating prospect, but I
promise that every second of discomfort is infinitely rewarded when one sees
the bushveld in all its glory, teeming with life.
