Two things struck me as we descended into the blackness of the underground hide that was to be our home for the next 24 hours. The first was the acrid odour of bat urine – despite the concrete floor having been carefully swept the previous day. The second was the wave of heat and dust being blown across the naked earth around the waterhole, straight through the narrow horizontal observation window.
Eyes blinking to dislodge the dust and adjust to the darkness, we carefully positioned our gear for the game count. Fold-out mattresses and sleeping bags were placed at the back so that we could take turns watching and resting. Chairs were positioned arm-to-arm on the upper level, enabling a clear view of the pan through the lozenge-shaped viewing slot. Our well-stocked cooler box, close to hand, doubled as a table. Clipboard and datasheets were arranged, ensuring that the pencil was attached to the board with a string to avoid those irritating middle-of-the-night scrabbles when cold fingers inevitably dropped it. With binoculars hung around our necks and my camera tripod set up in the front corner of the hide, we settled into a gentle silence. Speech would be in murmurs and whispers, movement kept to a minimum and loo breaks (bring your own spade!) coordinated to limit disturbance around the hide.
The realities of a concrete box
Having volunteered to participate in these dry-season 24-hour waterhole counts several times before, we’d honed our comfort needs and learned little tricks to build efficiencies. Snacks, some card games and Kindles to read would help during the slow hours in the heat of the day. We knew that four of us – including two tweens – in an underground concrete box little more than 9 m2 in size, would require a fair amount of tolerance and good humour. This was not one of those sophisticated hides advertised in promotional tourist videos, with swivel chairs, coffee station, fridge, and adjacent loo. It was a utilitarian concrete version originally built for hunting, with the fundamental requirements being concealment and (daytime) temperature control. And being in a hunting area, the wildlife would be ever cautious, hence the need for quiet and stillness even if our scent eddies lingered. Whilst being cooped up in a dark box for 24 hours demanded commitment, the opportunity to see wildlife close-up and at eye level (and maybe even see something rare!) brought a tingle of anticipation and excitement.
Behind the Science: At this site in Nyamandhlovu, the counts are conducted annually, with volunteers recording wildlife visits to natural and artificial waterpoints to track trends in populations over time. Although it’s an imperfect system for estimating population size – some animals drink multiple times, some not at all and visitations depend on weather conditions – waterhole counts provide useful information on population trends, demographics and body condition. Linked with known climate data and local conditions over the previous seasons, this provides vital insights that guide habitat and population management.
Cameos on a thirsty afternoon
With most wildlife activity peaking in the cooler early morning and late afternoon hours, setting up at midday meant that fewer animals would be disturbed. Apart from a lone giraffe when we first arrived – which had since retreated into the treeline – the only movement at the pan was birds and insects. Knowing that the heat haze would make photography difficult, we settled down to just watch and appreciate the natural show in front of us. A long, warm, lazy afternoon stretched ahead of us.
Red-billed quelea, grey-headed sparrows and a smattering of violet-eared waxbills had taken up residence in a small shrub on the pan’s edge, chattering softly amongst themselves and preening the hot hours away. Doves – emerald spotted, laughing, Namaqua and Cape turtle – arrived in waves throughout the afternoon, the whistling of their wings and sudden flurries of take-offs punctuating the gentle rattling of the wind through dry mopane leaves. Every so often, a dust devil would be blown up and would skip across the ground, lifting dust and leaves and scattering them untidily in its wake.
Soon after midday, a melee of helmeted guineafowl entered the stage. Looking laterally flattened, as if they’d been forced through a narrow corridor, with heads painted gaudy red and blue, their erratic, clown-like movements entertained us as they zoomed around to gather morsels from the ground (or, preferably, from their flock-mates’ beaks). Panicky scattering ensued when the urgent alarm-calling by grey go-away-birds heralded a hunting African hawk eagle. The eagle missed its quarry but posed beautifully in the shade for a minute or two before finding a nearby perch from where, deaf to the continued alarm calls, it continued to harass unsuspecting prey.
Throughout the afternoon, the crescendoing tok-toking of red-billed hornbills marked the slow passage of time. But not everything was in siesta mode. At intervals, family groups of Swainson’s spurfowl would wander down for a drink: an adult pathfinder leading and a straggle of juveniles bringing up the rear. Having heard them muttering in the long grass beyond the pan, the authoritative march down to the water’s edge confirmed the toll that their hot and dusty foraging had taken. There was no messing about – gullets pulsing, they took long, deep sips of water, and trooped back out again.
As the day drew on, when the heat was whittled away and shadows lengthened, mammals and birds alike became more active. Doves now came down in droves, buntings found gaps in the rocks from which to drink and antelope slowly made their way down to the salt lick and water. Cautious, ear-twitching impala were joined by a tentative young kudu cow. After an age spent checking the wind and scanning for any movement, the kudu carefully tiptoed over the rounded rocks at the pan’s edge and lowered her head to the water. Every few large swallows would be followed by a jerky head lift to check for danger, water cascading from her muzzle and the movement startling doves into chaotic flight.
Later, a flash of movement to the south revealed a slender mongoose scurrying in for a quick drink. With little drama and tail tip upturned in characteristic fashion, it flowed over the boulders and daintily lapped at the shallows, before zigzagging off into the bush.
Twilight thuds: the special ops arrive!
And then, just after sunset as the colour was bleeding from the sky, we heard heavy thuds followed by the characteristic bubbling call of double-banded sandgrouse (which gives rise to its local onomatopoeic isiNdebele name “inkwalakwala”). I imagined them as special ops forces, scything through the twilight air and dive-rolling (they don’t, unfortunately) on landing. Milling around in small, vocal groups, they seemed to share sitreps before advancing to the water’s edge. Seeing wading males suggested their paternal purpose; famously, male sandgrouse dip their breast feathers in water and carry the precious load back to waiting chicks. With light fading and only vague movement visible, photography required manual focus, slow shutter speed, eyewatering ISO and a lot of hope that anything at all would be captured. Then, just as suddenly as they’d arrived, the sandgrouse left, the whirring of their wings their only farewell.
We were left in the gloaming, in the quiet pause between the retiring day shift and the emergence of the night creatures. So, we readied for the night in our Spartan cocoon – donning headlamps and extra layers and guzzling cold pizza – all the while scanning for moving shadows in the gathering dark.
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[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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