I spread my sarong underneath an umbrella thorn and its companions, excited for an hour’s rest all to myself. The grass is dying down, as it does this time of year, and I can feel its strong urge to survive; its pulling deep from the earth at odds with my own lazy surrender.
I am musing on this resistance in the face of the inevitable—winter brings the above-ground life of many grasses here to a pause, before they spring back after spring rains—when I hear a rustling behind me.
It is too quiet, really, to justify my small jump of alarm. Gathering my jitters, I turn my head slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse without drawing attention to myself.
A swerve in the grass suggests something small, borne by the ground.
Crested francolin? No.
Banded mongoose? Can’t be.
Definitely not them. Our resident gang of bold dustbin raiders is anything but quiet. (There’s a reason I call them The Bandits.)
And then a little head pops up: Oh! Banded mongoose.
“Well done,” I say. “You’re a proper little sentry.”
Sentry begins a chirrup-purr, like the soft idling of a small engine.
By this stage I am immensely uncomfortable. In my noble attempt to remain unseen, I’ve been sitting immobile, despite the stone wedged between my buttocks and the thorn lodged in the side of my foot. I straighten up, just a bit, to at least bring my neck back to its rightful place.
Well, you’d think I had declared war! Sentry’s chirrup-purr escalates into a horrified group debate and there is a sudden scattering of grass all about me.
Their response is absurd: overly theatrical, though very much in character. My cover blown, I get up with an exaggerated nonchalance, before inviting a sway into my hips… as you do when you know someone is watching you walk away.
This is part of a series of reflections on small things, big moments, and all the living that happens in between—with the bushveld as my companion. I share them randomly, and hope they’ll bring a smile.
PHOTO: Lars H. Knudsen/Pexels
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