Growing up in Harare’s suburbs, I was always desperate to live in the bush. Evenings were spent poring over the list of farms (preferably game ranches) in the newspaper’s “Classifieds”, in the vain hope that I could convince my parents to abscond the city.
We did go on bush holidays throughout my childhood, and since we had a caravan, many a happy weekend was spent exploring and fishing at Lake Chivero. But it wasn’t the same as being permanently immersed in the outdoors, as was my greatest wish.What did happen, however, was that I was forced to revise my
expectations, and I discovered a world of biodiversity quite literally on our
doorstep. In the absence of big-and-hairies, a closer investigation of the inconspicuous
was required to satisfy my nascent curiosity about the workings of the natural
world. Armed with our collection of Longman’s “Bundu Series” field guides (my
siblings and I eagerly awaited the Harare Agricultural Show each year, when we
had the opportunity to buy a new book!), a butterfly net gifted by my
grandparents and more enthusiasm than skill, I explored our yard.
One memorable afternoon was spent watching a spider-hunting
wasp prepare a hole for her prey. She would dig for a while – vibrating her
wings and body to loosen the soil, flailing at the hole with her forelegs and
then picking up individual grains of sand with her mandibles and piling them in
a neat cairn nearby. Following each of her
frequent airborne sorties, she would return and land next to the same small
stone landmark, then follow a predictable path back to her worksite, antennae tapping
the ground and ink-blue wings flicking like a construction vehicle’s warning
lights. After a final foray, she returned with a spider. With its legs neatly trimmed off, it was duly
deposited in the hole. She then turned and flung sand back into place with her
legs, before dancing over the site to tamp down the soil with her feet. And
then she was gone, perhaps to prepare and provision another nest for her
offspring, leaving no obvious sign that she had ever even been there.
In hindsight, I realise that experiences like this taught me
to pay attention to and appreciate what was in front of me. The need for
‘wilderness’ was just a crutch. It is normal to yearn for that next big trip to
an exotic location, where we’ll be treated to a visual feast of new creatures
and landscapes. We lust after the latest camera and lens combo that can resolve
the eyelashes of a rodent at 30 paces. We chase THE photo, or THE location, or
THE species, rushing from place to place and completely overlooking the fact
that sometimes the deepest satisfaction comes from finding something unexpected
in the familiar and mundane. Sometimes the memory of the experience is more
important than that compelling photo, or the imperfect documentary photo is
sufficient to reconnect you to the moment.
To abuse a cliché: next time you stop to smell the roses,
pause a little longer to watch an aphid‘s drop of honeydew swell, and take note
of the little sunbird waiting patiently for you to move along. It’s not a
cheetah hunting an impala - but a magical world surrounds us if we only take the time to look.
[Photos (c) The Rambling Zimbo. Camera body: OM System OM-5 Mk1; Lenses M.Zuiko 75-300 4.8-6.7 II and M.Zuiko 12-45 f/4 Pro. Post-processing in DXO PhotoLab 8].
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