For some, the period of Kicheche abstinence is a few years, for others a few weeks, but when your first returning game drive delivers precious metal it is something close to witchcraft.
Three hundred metres from camp a cheetah (Nolari ‘rainy season’– Narasha’s daughter) indulged her very young charges then three Moniko sub-adults got into a classic leonine clinch.
Just when throats were screaming sundowners a male cheetah was seen in the dust with a swollen belly. Just on a hunch Charles positioned the car half a kilometre away by a lonely boscia tree. Hunches are a gamblers commodity: magnificent if they pay off, something to get over quickly if they do not. This one paid more than the entrance fee.
Despite the cheetah being fuller than a filthy FIFA pocket, he clambered up the tree just as the sunset bisected its hardwood branches. In deference to ‘Old Bighead, we too believe in miracles.’
Good to be back, no it’s more than that, because during the spotted arboreal antics, the wind was howling across the plains spinning a thousand different scents across our bows and the sky changed from slate to angry charcoal, the orange tear in the clouds just a matinee fugitive clinging to the hem of the storm’s brooding evening cloak.
Special afternoon, special place.
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