‘Dry, parched plains make it easier to find predators.’ This is true, but it also means the torpid cats are barely capable of raising languid paws before dusk envelopes them.
January has been wet, beautifully wet. This brooding backdrop changed rapidly from granite to Guinness sending other vehicles scuttling off to the sanitized sanctity of their lodges. To them it is alarming, to Kicheche it is alchemy.
This sort of light is palpable: a photographer’s nirvana, defeating both painter’s or Photoshop palettes. It is not bettered anywhere, particularly down South, but it is common here in the wetter months; months that provide scorching mid-day temperatures neutered by late thunderous storms that lance the plains, killing the dust and cleansing the Mara.
So often these skies provide canvases to a pair of anxious antelopes or a skittish scrub hare. This particular late afternoon it did more, much more. Sure it meant a slippery slalom back to camp, but a triumphant homecoming all the same.
Wet cats, wet tracks, wet guests, but smiling wet guests. This sort of high octane adventure is almost visceral, but not to everyone’s tastes. Good.
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