Catherine Nicolette
I WAS AWAY ON HOLIDAY AND STAYING IN THE AFRICAN BUSH. We had been warned of a local tribe of monkeys as we trailed, hot and sunburned, towards our chalets.
Loving animals as I do, and having lived in Zambia on the edge of a tropical forested area as a child, I was delighted at the possibility of meeting our primate neighbours.
Not so some of our group, who let out refined shrieks of dismay. One hatted lady, fanning her face with a handkerchief, went so far as to declare that if any of them came near the camp she would promptly return back home to civilisation.
Celestial event
Having a slightly nocturnal gene, I tended to venture out after dark when the other members of the group were in slumberland.
This meant I enjoyed the glories of night fireflies and watched the deep throats of the bullfrogs as they amorously croaked in the bullrushes. I rustled, free as a bird, through the overgrowth and trailing creepers of the bush.
Bats swooped gracefully, moths fluttered and - one night - I sat playing guitar miles from the camp.
As I sat on the inky river boulder, scarred with the grazes of many years, a meteorite shower rained gold all over the heavens towards the surface of the reflective murmuring water.
Hundreds of golden trails curved in the velvet African sky towards the eagerly awaiting water, their reflections arcing upwards from the water to meet in rapturous splendour.
Sometimes I would amble out at half past four in the morning to greet the sunrise.
One morning I made my way soundlessly on the carpet of leaves of the bush floor towards my favourite rock at the river. The footpath happened to pass behind the low fork of a tree.
Seated in the conjoining branches while looking out over the river was a little monkey toddler.
His tail hung contentedly down the bark behind him, and he leaned his head on one branch as he watched the sunrise.
I stood quietly watching the plump little form as he enjoyed the morning beauty.
He sat silhouetted as the night sky changed from velvet darkness to soft peach streaks in shimmering pink.
Eventually the sun came up in molten gold.
Whereupon the toddler sighed and turned in his perch, blinking.
As his gaze fell on me, he shrieked in surprise, and almost fell out of the tree.
Scrambling down, he ran away calling out - for his mom, I guess . . .
Encounter
A few days later everyone piled into jeeps to browse for food and souvenirs in the local village.
I piled in alongside them; then at the camp gates, I bailed out. I didn't feel like trawling around the shops, especially as I was broke. Anyhow, I felt like a nap.
Idly swinging a fallen branch I discovered en route, I strolled back to the camp. As I neared the rondawels, I heard shrieks and bangs.
I hastened around the last corner into the camp. Blocking my way was a monkey as tall as I was.
I don't know who looked more horrified - him or me.
He was directing operations as his clan were ransacking the rondawels. Excited chattering from the small houses assailed my ears as the master of the clan and I faced each other.
Deep intelligence in his eyes met mine. His gaze moved slightly towards the fields at my right, where labourers at work and armed with spades would come running at my call.
His gaze then flickered momentarily towards a female protectively carrying a young infant.
The look in his eyes turned resigned. He moved his body between his clan and myself and barked out an order - apparently for the clan to flee.
The monkeys froze in stances of fright; some clutching apples and others trailing curtains. They clearly did not want to leave him behind. He barked again, and took a fighting stance.
There was only one thing to do. I lowered my head submissively, dropped the branch, swung on my heels and left the camp.
If I called for help, things could turn very nasty, and there were babies and toddlers in the camp.
Anyhow, what were a few apples and edibles? The monkeys had to live too; especially as the local river had just been dammed, cutting off their water supply.
Parrot screeches
I stayed away for the afternoon enjoying scones, strawberries and cream with tea at the local farmhouse. Thereafter I inspected the drying river bed. After mourning the loss of the fish, water snakes and multi-coloured crabs the sight of which had afforded me so much delight over the years, I judged it time to return to the camp.
As I ambled back, I heard screeches of dismay erupting from the rondawels as my colleagues discovered missing items.
Oranges, bread rolls, boxes of biscuits, scarves, a skirt, shiny buttons from a workbox and a colourful Basotho blanket were listed among the missing.
Tellingly, the only rondawel which had been completely trashed was that of one lady who - upon seeing the monkeys from a distance one day - had thrown stones while shouting at them. She had almost hit one of the toddlers with the quartz-like pebbles. The clan had obviously not forgotten.
Every item of clothing had been dragged out of her wardrobe and strewn outside on the hard cracked earth where ants ran over them.
Suitcases, books and other sundries had been thrown around the rondawel floor. The flowers growing outside her window had been pulled up, petals torn off, and the resulting mess ground into the floor with water from a vase thrown over both the flowers and her bed.
Her cries rang through the air as I went to check on my rondawel. It was as quiet and peaceful as I had left it.
The lace curtain stirred idly in the African breeze;my book lay undisturbed on the bed.
My pristine rondawel was viewed with much chagrin by my colleagues; various dark mutterings and suspicious looks bent my way, fortunately allayed by witness account that I had been up at the farmhouse all afternoon.
The previously hatted lady who yearned for civilisation shouted that the monkeys must have been.
I nodded sagely, but forebore to go into detail.
Next day as I approached my rondawel door after breakfast, I found a bunch of freshly picked Barberton daisies - white, yellow and red - neatly arranged on the welcome mat.
I turned to find the kind benefactor of the lovely blooms. In the spinney of African trees near my rondawel, steady primate gaze met mine. Surely not . . .
Africa. The wild and ever beautiful.
Image by Catherine Nicolette
