David Korte Photographs

a forest elephant bull, feeding in the coastal scrub near Sette Cama

It is late afternoon. I had just arrived with Mary, Alice and Francesca, boating across the lagoon to the Shell Hut in Sette Cama in preparation for a weekend of fishing and friends.  I thought perhaps I would take a walk on the beach while waiting for others to arrive, and midway through the coastal scrub, I am surprised to come face to face with a large bull elephant.  It is browsing on the date palms at the edge of a clearing.  The wind is in my favor, blowing in from the sea, and the hiss of surf covers the sound of my footsteps.  It picks up on my movement, but I quickly back to cover, and after a few minutes it resumes feeding.  Alerting Mary, Alice and Francesca, we sneak back for a view, and spend many minutes with this large bull before it suspects our presence, sending us scurrying back to the safety of Shell Hut.

The low tide is about to turn. The surf is confused, pools of thick water ebb and flow in the shallows. Dave and I have just arrived from the breakthrough, leaving the boat at the edge of the lagoon, walking the coast a final kilometre to where the outflowing lagoon mixes with incoming ocean surf.  It is a likely feeding location for carangue, tarpon, rouge, bar, capitaine, and barracuda, slipping in from the sea to hunt the schools of baitfish, crabs, shrimp, and other forms of protein that congregate in the shallows.  Working our way down a beach of pristine white sand, we find the edge of the tannin-stained waters of the lagoon where it turns to become engulfed by the frothing salted caps that break from the ocean swells.

We are casting dexter wedges out into the surf, 150 and 200 grams, perhaps 90 metres on a good cast, and pulling back steadily through the roiling waters as the tug of undertow and uplifting wavecrests send the lures to various depths.  They finally sweep in on tumbling surf that crashes at our feet, sometimes surprising us with a freak wave that explodes against our legs, knocking us backwards.  It is loud, we can’t converse without shouting and only when we are close.  Pointing and gestures solve most communication issues.  I am studying the water before me.  In my imagination, it is swimming with fish, and the palpable energy leaves me tensed with adrenaline.  Seventy metres out into the swirling waters a school of carangue break the surface.  Perhaps six or seven of the fish appear above the dark-stained waters in choreographed unison, narrow bulbous heads slicing forward through the agitated water like a herd of charging horses, the flags of erect dorsal fins slicing close behind.  Button-eyes focussed on hunting, their silvery sides glint through the black water as it washes alongside.  It is a chance sighting, for there is no telltale splash as they break the water’s surface; amid the crash and roar of the surf, they appear like a fragment in a silent movie, and then just as quickly they disappear, dorsal fins reduced to a v-trail in the black water.  I try casting over the top of the sighting, but I am not so accurate.  I hope there are more nearby.

Suddenly a strike zings line from reel.  As I pull the 4 metres of rod to vertical I see a silvery streak of fish, perhaps a small tarpon, leap writhing from the waves.  As soon as I connect the action to my strike, the fish throws the lure, the little flash of silver spinning off back into sea, and all goes slack.  Perhaps one second of exhilaration, and I am back searching the waves for clues.  Several more casts, I can see the school of carangue break across the same pools, they look to be eight, possibly ten kilograms apiece.  Suddenly another strike nearly pulls the rod from my hands, the accelerating zip of line heading straight out to sea.  Within seconds the line snaps, and I am left to pull in the slack 80-pound-test braided line, a frayed end with no sign of lure or leader.  I am astounded at the power of these fish, and as I tie on another leader and wedge, I look over to see Dave with similar strikes, but reeling in empty.

I am soon back casting over the same pools.  The surf is increasing in intensity as the tide returns.  Within minutes I hook into a carangue, its vertical pancake-like body slicing parallel to the plage, line buzzing from the reel until it turns to deeper water.  I can feel the pressure of the incoming surf and can collect a few revolutions of line when it rides near the surface of a wave, only to lose ground as it dives to the undertoe.  After several minutes of struggle, it shows sign of tiring and I can pull it closer to the beach.  Eventually, a breaker recedes and it is left to flop over on the exposed sand, and I back up to pull it to higher ground.  By this time, Dave has approached to help, and as I back the fish out of the surf, a final flipping frenzy throws the lure.  Dave rushes into the surf and scoops the fish out of the shallows. I am surprised at the spunk of this smallish three-kilogram fish.

A few moments later, Dave hooks a solid strike, and in little over a minute lands a four-kilogram barracuda, which also throws the lure on the edge of the surf as I run in to block its escape, careful to avoid the needle-sharp teeth of the thrashing pike-like fish.

The incoming tide has flooded the pools by now, and there is no further sign of feeding fish. Though they are likely present, they are dissipated into the incoming surf, and thereby harder to locate.  Dave and I return to the boat, with one carangue, one barracuda.  During the boatride back to Sette Cama, we try a little trolling, and after several strikes, Dave lands an additional barracuda.

author and Dave Alexander with carangue and 2 barracuda

Sunday March 18. Four giraffes towered above the scrub savanna as we approached the entrance to Phinda Reserve.  We were two hours northeast of Durban by car, not far from the coast of the Indian Ocean on the eastern edge of South Africa.

Lisa, Reception at Forest Lodge, Phinda

Struggling to stay awake, we had arrived in Durban, 9:30am after a 90 minute flight from Johannesburg, where we arrived following an overnight flight from Libreville, Gabon.  We dozed on and off during our shuttle from Durban to the reserve, passing immense fields of pineapple and groves of eucalyptus (fueling the paper industry), finally stepping out into the refreshing morning air at the doorstep of Phinda.  The first thing we noticed was we had left the overbearing humidity of Libreville behind us.

Impalas mix with nyalas where the forest transitions to savanna.

Phinda, “the return” in Zulu, is in the South African province of KwaZulu-Natal, located at the southern end of the Great East-African coastal plain. The Forest Lodge is part of a private game reserve featuring diverse habitat including sand forest, savanna mosaic and wetlands.  Many of the large mammals have been re-introduced from near extinction and are rebuilding populations in the reserve.  Together with &Beyond, an ecotourism enterprise, local community landlords have agreed to preserve this land as wildlife sanctuary into perpetuity.

Wayne, our guide, and Prince, tracker in the Land Cruiser, waiting for a few nyala to cross the track.

We saw impressive results on our first late afternoon game drive, when, after tea and biscuits, we were taken out in the popular Toyota Land Cruiser, customized with the addition of four bench seats and tracker’s seat off the bonnet.  Lisa and I took the rumble seat, a raised rear seat with excellent views all around, though we had to remain vigilant, ducking for low branches and the occasional spider web.

Nyala lamb concealed in tall grass cover, blending in with striped yellow-brown coat.

The most numerous ungulate on the reserve is the nyala, a medium- sized antelope looking somewhat like the sititunga of Gabon.  With white-striped flanks, the females and lambs wear ruddy brown coats.  Nyala rams wear heavier slate-gray coats with shaggy gray manes down their neck and across the back, fringed underbellies, yellowish legs, and heavy, laterally-ribbed spiraling horns.  Nyala were often in mixed herds with impala.  In the sand forest, shy red duikers pranced in the shadows on delicate pencil-thin legs, little antelope with short, back-curved horns, approximately one-third metre at the shoulder.  We came to a pan, a pond of water, where a pod of hippos kept their bubble-eyes on us while remaining submerged.

A pair of cheetahs walking the track in late afternoon.

Through two-way radio, we learned that a pair of female cheetahs were making their way along a boundary road.  As we were already nearby, we repositioned ourselves on a parallel roadway, and minutes later watched as the two cheetahs passed by, barely noticing our presence.  Elegantly sculpted, their sinewy, streamlined bodies were all black spots on tawny, a long swish of tail tipped in a puff of whipped cream.  Their bellies were full, evidence of a successful morning hunt.

Back in the sand forest, a troop of baboons cleared into the bush from the roadside with much barking and coughing, the little ones screaming bloody rebellion as they were disciplined into proper retreat.  Darkness began to fall as Wayne, our guide, together with our tracker, Prince, were now on the trail of a female leopard.

A leopard pauses near the track in the dark of night.

We were all surprised when she suddenly appeared in the illumination of Prince’s torch.  A little nervous, a little shy, she recently survived an illegal snare incident which required a rescue with sedation and the removal of several toes on a front paw.  This potentially disastrous incident was thwarted by careful observation and continual monitoring of wildlife by Phinda rangers.

By 7:30pm, we were headed back to the lodge, so we thought, until we were surprised by rows of lanterns welcoming us to an outdoor bush dinner in the forest.  Beef in a red-wine reduction, pork somehow, and fresh Kingklip, a deep sea fish resembling an eel, were served to perfection along with sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, pumpkin, fresh salad and mocha cake topped with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Yum!

Bush dinner in the forest at Phinda

A young bull blue wildebeest, sometimes called the brindled gnu.

Monday, March 19. The telephone rang at 5am, signaling the start of another day of game drives, so we meet for tea and biscotti before heading into the bush.  Through the forest and on to the savanna, we are looking to find two male cheetahs that have been seen earlier on the northern savannas.  The day looks to be brilliant.  Sunlight warming the cool morning air infuses the landscape with the scent of grasses and earth and maybe a little elephant dung.  Soon we locate the cheetahs, camped on an elevated termite mound with commanding views of the extensive savanna all around.  They are wary, always on the lookout to avoid conflict with the lion pride sharing their territory.  It becomes obvious that they are settling in for the day, so we observe them for perhaps a half-hour and then head off for the northern boundary of open scrub, passing herds of wildebeest and zebra, and an occasional nyala browsing beneath an acacia.  White rhinos graze off in the distant savanna, resembling boxcars plowing slowly through the grasses.  Several rhinos have a calf at their side, some only a few months old.

Black rhino cow and juvenile calf.

Among the families of white rhino, we locate the rare, endangered black rhino, this one with a juvenile calf.  We manage to get quite close, the curious disposition and poor eyesight of the rhino working to our advantage, and it approaches our vehicle to within metres.  A fatal behavioral trait, when unprotected, for this makes an easy target for poachers.  Phinda has put security measures in place to protect their rhino population.

It is approaching mid-morning, and we return for breakfast, along the way scouting for a herd of elephants passing through the sand forest.  We find tracks across the road, but are unable to locate them.

In sub-Saharan Africa, below and east of the equatorial rain forests, the measure of safari success is determined by locating and viewing the “big five”.  In some circles, it is defined by the degree of danger involved, in hunting for lions, leopards, Cape buffalo, rhinos and elephants.  Since our arrival, we have seen leopard and rhino, and our afternoon game plan will attempt to find lions and buffalo.  We find an afternoon nap during the heat of the day refreshing before our 4pm tea.  Wayne reports lion tracks discovered heading north along a sand track, so we head for the northern savanna.  Before the end of the forest, a flash of color darts through the canopy above, brilliant orange breast, iridescent green back.  A dove-sized Narina’s trogan alights above the cruiser, providing a rewarding glimpse of this secretive forest bird.  In the transition scrub between forest and savanna, we pick up the lion tracks, stopping to have a closer look at the paw-prints, as long as but wider than a human handprint.  Two large males are on the move.  Following the tracks out onto the savanna, Prince narrows the likely location of the two lions to a two-square kilometre mix of scrub and thick grass, so we leave the road and head into the tall grasses, scouting the shade under the acacias for sign of the cats.  After an hour or so of busting around, we pull out to a track and arrive at a fresh buffalo trail crossing into adjacent scrubland.

Cape buffalo, nearly hidden in the tall grass, eyes us warily.

Circling around to the opposite side of the scrub to narrow the location of the buffalo herd, we learn they are still in the scrubland between tracks.  Various trails cross the scrub through the dry meanders, so there we are, back in the bush, on the lookout for buffalo.  The sun sets quickly in the bush, and in the orange glow of twilight we locate the herd just up from their siesta, browsing in the grass, scratching up against the scrub acacia, sniffing the air, a few juveniles in jousting play.  As darkness arrives, we leave them to their thickets and find our way back to the track.  Returning to the sand forest, we begin a new quest to find a large male leopard rumored to be walking the tracks on territorial patrol.  Within 15 minutes, Prince has located the large cat, and we follow him, aided by a torch.

Leopard drinking from a pool in the forest.

Already halfway to the lodge, we divert to observe the leopard for a kilometre or so, waiting patiently while he stops to mark familiar bushes, sits to ponder a smell wafting through the trees, and stops for a cool drink at a pool in the forest.  We finally decide to leave him to his wander in the darkness of the sand forest, returning to Forest Lodge.

Tuesday, March 20. 5:30 am and we are back in the cruiser heading for the open savanna and scrub of the northern perimeter.  A red duiker darts nervously through the understory, a dapple of sunrise splashing across its plump red coat.  We pass elephant sign, both tracks and aroma; a small herd had entered the sand forest in the night and are somewhere close by.  We note several elephant crossings and plan a late morning return in hope of finding them at a forest pool.  The savanna glows in the morning sun, animated by herds of impala, wildebeest and zebra.

We spot another Phinda cruiser parked off the track, an indication that they have spotted something.  We learn that they have found the two male lions we were looking for yesterday, napping in a piece of shade, just metres from the scrub we were searching yesterday.  The two lions are brothers, six years old, and in prime condition.

A pair of lions rest in the shade during the heat of the day.

The rest of the pride, including cubs, are likely tucked away in the bush somewhere nearby, remarks Prince, the lionesses being shy about exposing their cubs.  We spend 40 minutes observing the lions as they define and redefine cat-napping before returning to the forest to check on the progress of the elephant herd.

We hear them before we see them, the loud crashing of limbs and snapping branches, and suddenly there they are, making a mess of the forest; pulling down lianas, bull-dozing small trees, crashing thickets without regard.  Larger than Gabon’s forest elephants, these savanna elephants stand half-again taller, carry heavier, curved tusks, and wear a wrinkled, dusky-brown hide in notable contrast to the smooth, blue-gray hide of forest elephants.  The wrinkling may be due to the lower humidity and less rainfall in this savanna-forest mosaic.  The herd of possibly six elephants were feeding slowly but noisily through this thickly overgrown patch of forest, lumbering in and out of thickets, eventually feeding away and out of view.  Impressive in size, it is surprising how quickly they can blend into the chaos of forest landscape.

We continued back to the Forest Lodge, settling into a relaxing breakfast and leisurely afternoon.

An elephant regards us with caution, and vice versa.

Our plan for late afternoon was shaping into a trek back to the lion site to reconnect as they began their evening hunt.  Passing the home of the resident ecologist, we notice a large bull elephant in the back garden, obviously helping himself to some greens.  We stop for a few moments, reminded of the close elephant encounters we left behind in Gabon.  Continuing along, we soon bump into a convoy of elephants moving along the track in a slow procession, finding ample opportunities to observe their behavior.  At one point, while stopped behind the procession, we discover more elephants breaking out of the bush behind us and sit quietly as they work their way around the cruiser, one choosing a detour through roadside thickets, while another nervously (for all) scuttles past with suspicion, only a few metres between us.

We leave them to their slow journey as the sun begins to set. Entering the savanna, we slow to allow a pair of rhino, mother and calf, to cross the road in the illumination of headlights, moving into scrub thickets for the night.  Within seconds of the crossing, six more rhino are caught in the headlights by the side of the track, their ghostly-gray jostle of confusion in the tall grasses looking more prehistoric than present.  They thunder off into the darkness of scrub, rising dust marking their retreat.

Crossing the savanna, we see another vehicle at the lion site.  In the darkness, illuminated by torchlight, we see the two male lions energized, moving about, testing the air, manes dancing in the twilight breeze.  Off in a distant clearing, perhaps 200 metres beyond, we hear the agitated barking of zebras, the bellowing of wildebeests.  A herd of impalas burst from the scrub, sailing over the track, the rumble of their mass fading into a distant copse of trees.  The two lions break rank, one crossing the track in front of us at a quick, determined gait, parallel to the flight of the impala herd, perhaps looking for a downwind advantage from which to approach.  Lion number two lingers for a minute or two, then strikes out on a similar course, crossing the track, a little slower but appearing alert to the possibly of any impala that might consider doubling back.  We follow lion number two for several hundred metres into the scrub, illuminating his movement with a red-filtered torch, until the lion steals through a thicket to disappear from view.  The outcome of their activities is left to our imaginations, thoroughly charged by the moments we spent in their presence.

Returning to Forest Lodge, the passing night landscape is punctuated by the eye-shine of zebras, wildebeests, impala and nyala.  We once again come across the procession of elephants; they are trekking off across the open savanna, single file, their slow-motion march fading into the black distance barely illuminated beneath the shimmering stars of the night sky.

Wednesday, March 21. We have lobbied for a look at the south region of the park.  It is hilly with narrow riverine forests and scrubby hilltop savannas.  The drive is slightly challenging as the roads are less traveled and more prone to eroded washouts on the steep hillsides.  Enormous spiders, some the size of a thumb with eight long legs, have stretched tightrope webs high over the track, some not so high overhead and so we learn to keep an eye open lest we get wrapped up in the unusually tough silk threads.  We pass nyala feeding in the open forest, and several families of greater kudu, the dominant males sporting towering spirals of horns.  They are the largest of the antelope in Phinda, standing 1.5 metres at the shoulder.  We find an open pool and stop for coffee and crunchies, and are surprised to see a rhino snoozing at the water’s edge.  Lying in a wallow partly submerged in water, it is unconcernedly blowing bubbles with each breath it exhales, a curious sight for such a behemoth.

A herd of impala ewes and lambs scramble across a track.

In the open hilltop savannas, large herds of impala prance out of our way.  Zebra, in groups of 15-20 animals, churn in dazzling, wide circles as we approach, perhaps a response that may confuse a predator.

A small zebra herd lingers in the track.

The views from hilltops across forested valleys are spectacular, and we can see several giraffes feeding along a public throughway a few hundred metres distant; unfortunately for us, the public road is off limits to Phinda cruisers, but by now we are in the thick of wildlife, and a small herd of nearby buffalo provides easy distraction.

Cape buffalo grazing on an open hillside.

We approach the herd as they graze peaceably near the track, and spend some time as they feed through, the older bulls regarding us with suspicion, or is it aggravation?

Closing the loop of our south-side tour, we arrive back at Forest Lodge a little earlier than usual, so that Lisa and I can visit a nearby village to meet one of the elders and gain insight into Zulu daily life, with an added visit to a Sangoma, a traditional healer.

Pila, our guide, drives us to the nearby communities of Mduku, Mnqobokazi and Nibela, where &Beyond has contributed to the schools and hospital, and helps to improve quality of life issues prevalent in many African communities.

A sister of the late village Chieftan welcomes us to the Grandmother's house, the traditional house for receptions and spiritual matters.

a Sangoma, a traditional Zulu healer, converses with the spirits.

We meet the sister of the previous chieftain of a community, and she demonstrates the greeting customs of welcoming guests into the community, how the the palm wine is prepared, how it is passed from host to guest, even how people sit in a room.  This, we did as guests, invited to sit in the “Grandmother’s house”, the spiritual center of a family compound that may contain many houses, some for living and some for sacred purpose.  She also demonstrated the clothing styles that are worn by girls and women as they grow to adulthood.  We passed through the community where Pila attended school, noting the changes since his days as a schoolchild, where his “classroom” was taught beneath the big trees still growing and much respected in the new school courtyard.  Our next visit was to a Sangoma, one of the traditional healers in the community.  We sat in the sacred house, where the Sangoma called upon all spirits in the house to be of good benefit and led a dance with chanting accompanied by apprentice Sangomas, to bring good health to those present.  Our last stop was to the Mbhedula Craft Market, to see the quality of the baskets, wood carvings, the handbags, and the jewelry made by the hand of local villagers.  It was an insightful look into village life and the positive impact and commitment to provide reciprocal value between the community and &Beyond.

Tracker, Prince, heads off into the savanna, hoping to locate fresh sign of the lion pride.

We returned to Forest Lodge in mid-afternoon, and after tea, were ready for our afternoon game drive.  Wayne brought us back to the northern savannas, looking for the lionesses and their cubs, who managed to remain elusive.

During our search, we found the pair of cheetahs we had seen in the savanna on our first morning drive, and were now comfortably reclined on a roadway overlooking a water pan, enjoying the evening breeze.  They were relaxed, in no rush to be off hunting, so we spent an enjoyable 40 minutes observing them as the sun set.  Our tracker, Prince, had left earlier in our drive to search for the lionesses on foot, and as the sun set, we felt an urgency to locate him, so we finally broke from our perch to track down our tracker, finding him a few kilometres away with no news on the lion pride.

An early evening break to stretch legs and enjoy cool drinks and snacks in the cooler evening air.

Coming upon a splendid view of the twilight sky across the savanna, we stopped for gin-tonics, beer, nuts and biltong, a cured, spiced meat originating in South Africa.  We surprised a few rhinos as they were crossing the track, and they thundered off into the dusky twilight.

A pair of cheetahs return to the savanna.

Our safari vacation was rejuvenating.  In spite of the early morning call to safari, we felt rested and rewarded with a new approach to wildlife encounters, much different from the challenges of the Gabonese rainforest.  The service and commitment to our well-being were impeccable.  The most difficult part of our stay at Phinda Forest Lodge was the morning of our departure, knowing our sojourn had come to an end.

Afternoon tea at Phinda Forest Lodge.

Friday, March 16      Lisa and and I are having dinner on the patio.  Leftover pad-thai from the night before with the remains of a bottle of wine.  It’s a late dinner, even for us, for we have spent the evening packing in preparation for our week in South Africa.  We have just returned from delivering our dog Elle to friends Teri and Lee, who live several houses away.  They have graciously agreed to watch over Elle while we are away.  The delivery has turned into a small ordeal when, while returning, Lisa’s bike developed a flat tire, pulling the tire from the rim and fouling the brake, requiring me to carry her bike the rest of the way home.

Home by 9pm, and it is very dark.  Our nearest neighbors have left for Sette Cama in the late afternoon, and the darkness and silence of the neighborhood permeates the screen of our patio, held at bay by three little tea candles.  We prefer to have dinner by candlelight.

Lisa hears a snuffle and crunch from outside, beyond the drive.  ”Sounds like an elephant”, Lisa remarks, and casually goes to look out the patio door.  A lone elephant stands at the end of the drive, 30 metres away, sorting bush from bamboo.  Bamboo is a favorite when the mangoes aren’t in season, and the new shoots don’t stand much of a chance when there are elephants around.  There is more snuffling across the road, and  another elephant comes into view, a silhouette passing in front of the distant street lamp.  She has a baby in tow, a barrel with restless trunk and flopping butterfly ears, tottering along on thick stumpy legs that don’t quite have the gravity thing worked out.  Crossing into our neighbor’s garden, they linger, and are soon joined by another two elephants.  We hurry to the back door for a better view and watch as the two additional elephants are joined by three more.  Suddenly there are elephants everywhere, in the neighbor’s garden, walking down the road, crossing the road, coming up the drive, heading for the patio.

And now, I think, we have left our dinner on the patio.  We are warned about leaving food on the patio.  The elephants will be hungry and will come to investigate.  Screens are no match for a hungry elephant.  I don’t know if they like pad-thai, but I tear through the house to the patio and jump out to gather the plates from the table, glancing up to see a herd of elephants rounding the car-port, approaching within metres of the patio; trunks, big ears, marching feet, the glint of soft candlelight reflecting from their eyes.  It is their bulk that is intimidating.  In the darkness, they give form to black, their dull-gray mass undulating between dark-black and way-black, momentarily blotting out the few windowlights of distant neighbors.  I back away slowly, unsure whether I am too late, and the nearest elephant approaches the door, its trunk swishing through the potted plant I have set alongside the entry.  At least I have put potted plants outside, in case their flavor appeals to elephants.  They can have their salad without tearing through the patio screen.  She is so close I can see the hairs on her trunk, the moisture at the tip of her nose.  I hear her sniffling as she examines the vegetation, see her watching that I don’t misbehave in front of her children.  By now I have backed out of the patio and close the door gently, so as not to offend our guests.  Our wine sits on the table, for the moment out of reach.  If she wants wine with her salad, she will have it.

But they are moving now, crossing the front of the patio to the side garden.  We count them as they turn the corner, ten elephants have come to visit, and they move through the darkness in near silence, moving from bush to bamboo, visible now only as dark shadows blotting out distant streetlamps, like ships crossing through a harbor in the night.   So why, we wonder, are we going on vacation?

March  3         I have spent another morning working on a new video for World Malaria Day, featuring Drs. Regine and Andrew of the Clinique Herve Morand here in Yenzi.  The video is an interview by Ghislain about precautionary measures for the local and expatriate community to reduce malaria exposure.  It is a new skill set for me and I am excited to learn film-making techniques and editing procedures.  But my desk sits beneath a picture window and the beautiful day unfolding proves irresistible and so by 12:30 I am bicycling back to the Ozouga forest to poke around in a new location I hiked  last Wednesday with Angelique, a friend from Holland visiting my neighbor Jasmine.

Angelique sets up a picture along the Ozouga trail

We had discovered a few large trees that would be a nice addition to my photographic adventure in the forest.  The Ozouga forest walk is becoming popular here in Gamba and members of the PhotoClub have been signing on for the walk.  By the time I reach the forest today, the sun is steaming hot and the near 100 percent humidity inside the forest soaks clothing and skin.  The forest is sleepy in the afternoon heat, occasionally disturbed by the distant coughing alarm of mangebeys and the lazy chirping of crickets.  The accumulation of leaves on the forest floor glisten like wet leather.  I move along the trail nearly silent in the muffling humidity, passing under a troop of putty-nose monkeys that, rather than hiding in alarm, move slowly overhead, pausing to watch my progress with curiosity.  By 4pm the clouds have returned and a distant rumble of thunder suggests an approaching storm.  The forest is now becoming too dark under the building clouds to consider more photographs, and so I work my way to the savanna and out into a refreshing breeze.  Two sets of recent buffalo tracks follow the forest edge, possibly from the night before.  I stop to make some photographs near a set of water pockets, finally returning to my bike by 5:30.

Back on the tarmac, I am biking through a forest pass and there is a sudden confusion of putty-nosed monkeys chipping and scuttling through the trees in the middle of which a palm-nut vulture lobs into the air space above the road, a striking mosaic of black and white plumage chopping heavy through the air.  Gathering speed, it gains distance ahead of me and eventually veers across the road to disappear through a forest opening.

As the day slides into evening, I pass a narrow savanna and pedal through another forest fragment, trees closing in on my left, the end of the quiet Gamba airstrip approaching on my distant right.  A rustling of leaves and snapping limbs captures my attention as I pass a stand of trees twenty-five metres to my left.  I see movement, leaves flashing along a limb flexing six metres above the forest floor, and now I make out a body of long, thick, grizzled-black hair traversing a horizontal limb.  I stop immediately for a better view, and see what looks like two animals moving in synchronicity.  Before my eyes the movements merge and I see the muscled haunches of a gorilla, its feet wrapped securely around a limb bending precariously under its weight.  A surprisingly long arm, dripping with shocks of hair reaches for the tree trunk, its large, vaulted head and penetrating eyes turn my way and in one fluid motion the gorilla swings from limb to trunk, descending the six metres in a fraction of  a second, eyes flashing and a snarl hurled my way to signal his displeasure that I have caught him out in such a visible location.  He crashes back into the shadows of the forest, stopping momentarily, the forest suddenly still as a photograph in the heavy evening air, then resumes his retreat as the crunching of limbs and leaves fade into the forest.  I’m left breathless, blinking in disbelief at such an incredibly fortunate sighting.

February 24     It is Friday afternoon, Lisa and I have arranged to spend the weekend with friends Emily, the SI intern,  and Catherine, Jennifer and Erin, US expats working in Libreville.  They have arrived in Gamba this morning and after a short tour of Gamba, we are loading the Shell boat on the lagoon, preparing for a 3:30 departure to Sette Cama.  Kassa, our guide for hiking in Loango, meets us at the jetty, and we are on our way.  A beautiful afternoon on the lagoon makes the two-hour trek easy and we arrive at the Shell hut after a stop in the village of Sette Cama to drop off Kassa for the night,  pick up our groundskeeper Sylvan, and register for Saturday’s hike.

Mangebeys scatter into the trees as we arrive at the hut, disrupting a flock of African grey parrots feeding on palm fruits.  Sylvan shows us the forest-side door of the hut, temporarily nailed back in place after being torn off by a curious elephant earlier in the week, tusk marks along the edge and adjacent window.  We have planned a bar-b-que dinner of steak, potatoes and stir-fry vegetables, and are joined by Yenzi friends Phillip, Andrew, Dave, and Joe, whose wives are temporarily back on the European continent.  They arrive by car, with roof-tents and tent for accommodation, and the evening social begins.  It is well after dark when dinner is ready and we fill the ocean-side patio with a tasty dinner, wine and conversation late into the night.

Phil, Dave and Andrew assist with the bar-b-que Friday night

Saturday morning arrives too quickly, but we manage to organize our day of hiking, boating in to the village to retrieve Kassa, and setting off for La Boucle trail.  Nearing the end of N’Dogo Lagoon, we notice a small furry head bobbing in the water and slow to investigate.  A mongoose has taken to the water and is apparently attempting to cross the lagoon.  About the size of an otter, it is dog-paddling when we approach and decides to turn back, perhaps a bit miffed with our curiosity.

We continue on to the end of the lagoon, past a flock of white pelicans fishing near the confluence with the sea and enter a small river.  A troop of mangebeys is foraging in open forest at the river’s edge hardly noticing our presence, and we see egrets, herons, a woolly-necked stork and palm-nut vultures lining the banks of the river.  Grey parrots circle above the trees, their whistles and croaks echoing along the riverbank.  A hippopotamus eases into the river channel as we approach, eyeing us suspiciously before disappearing under a boil of water.  A few kilometres of river travel lands us at the head of La Boucle trail, and we climb across a tangle of mangroves to the bank.

Catherine, Kassa, Emily, Erin, Jennifer and Lisa among the fins of a giant Ceiba tree

The forest trail climbs a few modest hills before dropping into a landscape of lowland forest habitat.  The trees tower overhead, some with spreading fins and buttresses 10 metres across. Lianas writhe along the ground before snaking into the treetops, some so massive and heavy they pull enormous branches from the canopy high above. Our trail reveals elephant tracks, gorilla tracks, and we are lucky to find the print of a leopard.  Winding some six or seven kilometres through the forest the trail connects the inland river where we moored the boat to the savanna fronting the sea.  A light rain whispers through the leaves when we are deep in the forest, and in the hushed silence we see an elephant along the trail before us, unaware of our presence.

the hush of light rain settles down on the lowland forest trail

We hold our position for a few minutes while it slowly feeds off out of view.  Early in the afternoon we step out into the savanna overlooking the coast, lush grasslands grazed by buffalo, traversed by elephants, and work our way down to the beach for a lunch break and rest before returning by way of sand beachfront.  Some of the women go for a swim, I take a siesta, and as Jennifer cools off at the water’s edge, a sea turtle pops its head out of the surf to have a closer look.  By mid-afternoon we begin our trek back to the boat, passing two elephants browsing in the thick forest growth along the savanna edge, and a herd of buffalo stop their grazing to watch us pass.

where rainforest meets the sea

Our trek along the beach is approximately four kilometres and we arrive at the lagoon breakthrough at 5pm.  Kassa and I ride with another guide back upriver to retrieve the Shell boat, then return for the rest of the group.  Motoring back down the lagoon to Sette Cama, we gather a dinner prepared for us by local families, a meal of fish, rice, a tomato-based sauce and eggplant stew.  Our guests from the previous evening were kind enough to stock the refrigerator with beer and we settle down to another delicious meal.  A game of dominoes and dessert of chocolate completes the evening and we are asleep by midnight.  Sometime during the night I am startled awake by moving shadows cast on the wall of the bedroom.  An elephant is walking between the security light on the jetty and the hut, and the shadows projected through the bedroom window are animated, looking like some animal about to crawl in our window.  I awaken with a start, jumping up, shouting, clapping my hands as if an animal were climbing in the window.  Once I realize the shadow-play, I settle back down as the elephant wanders back into the forest.  It is in the morning that we discover that this elephant has left footprints up to all the windows around the hut, smelling through the open windows for leftover food and has torn through the screen to the kitchen window to poke around by trunk, looking for anything tasty.

Once we determine the coast is clear, we put together a breakfast before boating back over to another trailhead for a short morning hike, finishing with a trip to the treehouse and lunch back at the hut before packing up for the boatride back to Gamba.

Sunday morning in a forest-savanna mosaic adjacent to N'Dogo lagoon with our guide Kassa

Saturday, February 18

skull of a mangabey, a large monkey common in Gamba, lies in savanna at the edge of the forest

In the savanna before the Ozouga forest, a skull stares silently to the sky.  In another life, it guided a mangabey as it scampered through the limbs of the towering Ozouga, peering down on elephants feeding below.  It kept a wary eye on the powerful eagle gliding past, called out to friends, warned of intruders, played among the lianas, and drank from forest pools.  It scolded the python, hid from the leopard, shared forest fruits with family.  The skull, weathered by sun and rain, lies glowing in the encroaching shadows, its spirit returned to the forest, wisdom gathered and channeled to the next generation of mangabeys.  They are watching from the Ozouga forest.

Sacoglottis gabonensis "Ozouga" in a rain forest landscape

The rains are slowly re-establishing a weather pattern.  Mostly after dark, they fluctuate with intensity, starting with a barely perceptible mist, progressing to a tin-roof pounding thunder, then backing to undulating sheets of varying intensity.  This means my garden doesn’t need daily watering with a hose, as it did in January.  We had our first (meager) harvest of cilantro, a little ahead of schedule, and the passion fruit vines are attaching to my trellis.  Peppers are growing steadily, as are collard greens, basil and ruccola.  I lost the pineapple top planted last week when an elephant ran off with it in the night, tipping my trellis in the act, reminding me to construct my soda-can fence.  The seeds from my feral melons have sprouted quickly, but I fear they will attract more elephants when the fruits are ripening.

Sunday we took Elle for a morning walk on the beach.  We got an early start, hoping to return late morning for crepes.  Approximately 11:15am we were driving back from Colas beach, and, while passing through the first gallery of forest along the roadway, we were surprised to see a gorilla, all knuckles and swing, ambling across the road.  It was a female, larger than I expected, with long, shaggy black and grizzled hair.  Lisa noticed a baby riding her back.  She took a backward glance at us midstride, before disappearing into the vegetation across the road.  We stopped the car immediately, as we thought it possible there might be more to follow, but shortly after stopping we could hear the screaming and hooting of the rest of the troop as they warned of our presence.  There have been several sightings of gorillas in this area over the past few months.  Hopefully my camera trap, a few kilometres up the road, will be ready when they pass through.

Monday afternoon I took my Hasselblad to the golf course to photograph some abstract details on an oxidized sign.  The afternoon was beautiful with high hazy clouds.  An occasional rumble of distant thunder spilled from a wall of stormclouds building inland, the encroaching storm pulling a cooling breeze over the trees from the sea.  Patches of sunlight crept across the fairways and out over the lake, spotlighting  an eagle as it circled overhead to gain altitude before slipping into the distant haze.

The golf course lies between Yenzi camp and Lake Yenzi, and the connecting road crosses a creek fed by Lake Yenzi overflow.  A swamp forest crowds one side of the creek and drier forest occupies a hillier landscape on the other.  Elephants, monkeys, and the occasional gorilla have been seen crossing the road between forests here, and today my eye caught the unmistakable contour of a snake basking in the sun along the edge of this forest.  It is five metres from the road, and lies in a patch of sand, glistening in the warm sunlight.  The beautiful two-metre snake has a rich blue-green back, brilliant yellow tail and yellow-green belly, its scales emphasized in black outline.  Stopping as quickly as I could, I have my camera nearly ready when it senses my presence, and, with raised head, glides quickly and effortlessly back into the forest, disappearing within seconds.  Upon returning home, I look up the identification in “Reptiles du Gabon”, and on page 183 learn that I have seen a Jameson’s mamba, Dendroaspis jamesoni jamesoni, another highly venomous snake of the cobra family.  It is mistakenly thought to attack without provocation, but in actuality, would rather flee to cover of the forest when surprised, as it so demonstrated, and will only attack if harassed or cornered.  It is fast and agile, at home in the trees as well as open ground.  I remember seeing a similar mamba one year ago (elephants at Sette Cama, 2011, Feb-03) and wrote about the experience, noting how quickly it slid to cover.   It is sometimes confused with or called a green mamba, which, I have since learned is not present in the Gamba region.

Ozouga trees dominate some forests, growing to 60 metres tall with trunks two metres in diameter.

Wednesday I spent the afternoon exploring a forest across a savanna from the road to Myanomi, about 10 kilometres from Yenzi.  I could see several tall Ozouga trees (Sacoglottis gabonensis) towering above the forest from the tarmac.  Their limbs spread over and through the forest canopy in massive arches.  Leathery leaves carpet the forest floor, smothering the understory to create an open zone beneath their crown. They can grow to be 60 metres tall, with furrowed, shaggy trunks more than two metres in diameter.  Ozouga trees produce small green fruits the size of plums that fall to the forest floor when ripe and are eaten by elephants.  The forest floor is a series of elephant trails winding from Ozouga to Ozouga; everywhere, elephant dung full of the fruit pits, left behind from the fruiting season in September-October.  A few minutes after entering the forest, I can hear rustling and scurrying in the treetops, and warning coughs and chirps of several species of monkeys cut through the constant buzzing of crickets.  Broken sunlight fractures down through the canopy,  creating a glow reminiscent of cathedral lighting.  The elephant trails follow ridges overlooking pockets in the landscape that are likely to fill with rainwater as the rains return.  It is a most interesting and accessible forest, one to which I will plan return visits.

years of accumulating Ozouga leaves smother the understory beneath Ozouga trees

7 February, 2012        I am looking for wildlife prints on a stretch of sand exposed by the receding water along the roadway south of Gamba airport. The forest closes in on the road here, the thick west side vegetation growing within a half-metre of the tarmac.  The east side, where I stand, has water in the sandy ditch, holding the encroaching forest at bay.  The forest here appears to be a corridor for wildlife, connecting the forests and savannas surrounding the airport and Vera Plaines region with the forests and lagoons fronting the sea.

Goldie's tree cobra struck south of Gamba airport

Two weekends ago, another cobra was struck by a car crossing between these forests.  A Goldie’s tree cobra, Pseudohaje goldii, lay twisted in the roadway, nearly two metres in length, the brilliant yellow scales of its underside edged in black.

Over my shoulder, I hear something shuffling through the understory of the west side, so I kneel behind a crop of grass, anticipating the possibility of seeing a monitor lizard or hornbill emerge through the understory.  The sound is getting closer, louder, I reconsider; perhaps a duiker or monkey in the undergrowth.  I can see the ginger stalks waving just to the other side of the ditch.  I hear footsteps, a shuffling, then a snapping and crunching of vegetation.  It is a gorilla feeding through, eating the fleshy pink fruits that grow close to the ground at the base of the wild ginger stalks.  The tangy, citrusy flesh and peppery black seeds of these herbs are part of a gorilla diet.  My camera is ready, excitement builds, then suddenly I hear the “pok-pok” of another gorilla 40 yards deeper in the forest, and all grows silent.  A few seconds later, “pok-pok” again, and the feeding gorilla shuffles away toward the other.  There is no element of alarm in their behavior.  No thrashing of tree limbs, no grunts or roars, no crashing off through the understory.  My guess is that the dominant male or female is communicating a direction of travel to the other members of the family group.  I am amazed that I was able to bicycle to this location, walk the ditch, and not alarm the feeding gorilla across the road.  The thickness of the understory here likely prevented either party from seeing the other, and the silence of bicycling once again proves beneficial for a close wildlife encounter. I continue to hear the “pok-pok” for several minutes, before I lose track of the pair.

lowland forest landscapes with open understory often border swamps and lagoons, and provide shelter for elephants, gorillas, monkeys and duikers.

Continuing along the roadway, I come to another thick forest where I plan to install a camera-trap. Gorillas have been seen crossing the roadway here recently.  Picking my way across a muddy ditch, I follow a savanna skirting the edge of this forest, heading for a point where it merges with another forest.

designed to hold prey, the backward-curving teeth set into a python's jaw

200 metres from the road, in thick savanna grass, I notice a few bleached bones, smallish, but then, as I look further, I realize that I am seeing a skeleton of a python, all vertebrae and ribs, twisted in the grasses, the total length of the snake I estimate to be at least four metres.  A jawbone lies exposed on a bit of sand, centimetre-long needle-sharp teeth lining the four-inch bone.  Remnants of reptilian scales held together by traces of skin organize a pattern of ribs. The python looks like it died within the past two or three months, with no indication as to how.  With this discovery, I feel an ominous sense of foreboding; not very scientific, but nonetheless, I pay close attention to the forest edge, watching carefully for ripples in the water pockets, stepping gingerly through the heavy grasses at my feet, half-expecting to meet the rest of the python family out for revenge.  400 metres from the road, the forests meet in a narrow corner bordered by lowland swamp.  A trail winds between the forests, rounds a pool choked with downfall trees, and meanders along the edge of the swamp.  As it is getting late, I search out a tree overlooking this trail and mount the camera two metres above ground, overlooking a thicket of ginger, peering out to the corner of savanna.  If I were  a gorilla, this would be my trail.

Feb 2, 2012       Several days past I was riding home from the terminal.  Beneath a cluster of large trees, I hear the rustling of monkeys overhead and stop to observe.  Something is fruiting in the canopy above and the monkeys are eating.  Shells and other bits of vegetation drop to the ground below as a dozen monkeys course through the branches, purring and chirping.  They are small, maybe Putty-nosed monkeys or Talapoins.  Extremely agile, the acrobats gallop along limbs, trapezing between branches to disappear into a flush of leaves.

From deep in the forest a sudden coughing alarm-bark of a troop of Red-capped Mangabeys freezes the action overhead.  The large, grey and white monkeys with the rusty cap send up supporting alarm-barks from individuals throughout the surrounding forest.  I spot a movement above, fractured through openings in the branches.  Soaring at the height of the canopy, a Crowned eagle surveys the forest below, its ragged crest catching puffs of air as it casts a penetrating gaze down into the forest.  Evidently it is hunting and has circled back, for the alarms resume once again.  With a wingspan approaching two meters, these large, powerful eagles would have no trouble plucking a monkey from its perch.

On a slightly smaller scale, I was riding down the tarmac in the direction of Colas beach late yesterday afternoon to look for a trail crossing the road as a possible location for a camera-trap.  The roadway bisects a section of forest adjoining a swamp where a gorilla has been spotted crossing between forests over the past few weeks.  I reach the forest objective, eight kilometres from Yenzi, and am watching silently by the roadside, annoyed by the high-pitched, jibbering chatter of a pair of Reichenbach’s sunbirds holding court from the top of several spikes of young Loganus trees.  Their iridescent blue heads and throats sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight, contrasting sharply with the olive-green backs and soft gray bellies that turn to pale yellow under a dark tail.  I come to understand their needling, for a few metres away, suspended from a fork in a shrub, their nest hangs perilously close to the ground, and they seem anxious to return.  This woven basket of grass and white papery bark has an awning incorporated over the tiny hole, possibly to conceal the contents from overhead predators, or provide shade from midday sun, or channel rainwater away from the opening.

Leaving the sunbirds to regain their territory, I peddle silently to the swamp side of the forest. Here I notice a red flicker of color in the vegetation fronting a pool of water.  A pair of Black-bellied seedcrackers materialize between leaves on a low bush.  A brilliant crimson head, breast, and tail accent the heavy, seed-crushing black beak, black wings, and black belly of the male; the female, with crimson head and tail softly morphing into an olive-brown body.   Picking among grass stems, chattering a muted, constant tak-tak-tak between them, they share the seeds from a head of grass, then follow each other deep into cover, finally poking through to take flight in tandem, disappearing into the evening sky.

Oh, and now, today, I am reminded not to forget the little Pin-tailed Whydah, as I see it fly from the roadside in Yenzi.  The male, like the North American chickadee in size and appearance, but with a heavy, orange, seed-cracking bill, sports a long, flowing tail, black, almost 20cm long.  It seems to struggle to pull it’s tail through the air, oversized for such a small bird, sounding an electric tzip-tzip, tzip-tzip, as it flutters on tiny wings into the Samanea tree.  I see them often in Yenzi, usually where there are fewer trees and taller grasses.

I would like to photograph these jewels of the forest and savanna, but it might require a powerful new camera, a 6000mm lens, tripod, and the patience of a saint.