trip to apoka

After all the snarling, growling and gnashing of teeth encountered on the ever eventful journey from Kampala to Entebbe airport, being in the back of an open game drive vehicle, chilled Tusker in hand, sandwiched between a 300, odd strong herd of restless buffalo and a pride of lion was a most welcome respite indeed…
Deliverance from the un-signposted diversions, the deeply mystifying arrogance or is it ignorance(?) of those drivers who choose to jump the queue and drive head-on into the oncoming traffic. Their impatience the source of the “jam”! The cops are just as bad, complicit and seemingly oblivious of the chaos that surrounds them.
To block my rage I visualize Judge Dredd striding through the traffic ripping law breakers from their vehicles, vaporising crooked coppers with his ray gun
“Be still citizen… I am the law…”
I raise my binoculars and all thoughts of the city, murder and mayhem ebb away. The sun sinks slowly into the west, dropping behind a range of ancient volcanic mountains that lie across the border in the Sudan, that mystical land ravaged by famine and war. Stark and savagely beautiful.
The lions we have been watching begin to stir, slowly awakening from their afternoon slumber. They have been whiling the afternoon away, lazing about in the baking equatorial sun, up on a rocky outcrop high above the rolling African plains, dreaming of plump succulent warthogs, chunky buffalo steaks, a buxom haunch of Zebra… or perhaps that’s just me! The inner chef… Manticore like… Devouring the bounty of the Narus river valley!
A group of Olive Baboon are beginning to get increasingly vocal about the lions presence on “their” rock. Their designs on bedding down for the night in the vicinity thwarted.
Two young lions, muscular, tawny, sculpted, their young beards just cheekily beginning to sprout in scraggly tufts and a sleek, svelte looking young lioness are becoming increasingly agitated by the baboons incessant barking. It’s more of an alarm call than anything else. Nothing compared to the abject panic say a leopard or a large snake would be causing…
One of the young males drops down onto a narrow ledge below, like a slinky spring, smooth and fluid, ears pricked forward, keen as mustard for a little action. The baboon, unperturbed, stands his ground. Fast and agile on the steep rocky faces the baboon would need to be really unlucky to be nabbed by a lion up here.
Frustration is written all over the young lions handsome face, he crouches, flexing half-heartedly, squaring up for an impotent pounce, tail switching wildly, then thinks the better of it. He lets out a half-baked strangled roar. Defeat does not come easy to the king of the beasts, well to a prince at any rate…
The “King”, meanwhile, has not moved a whisker. The huge pride male, scarred and battered. The warrior. His stillness suggestive of some deep, arcane knowledge. Patanjali perfecting an asana… Perfectly absorbed in the timelessness of the realms that lie within…
The herd of buffalo, that have been slowly drifting our way, seem suddenly aware of the presence of danger in the area, no doubt alerted by the ruckus and uproar being caused by the baboons.
The herd bulls have come together in a tight scrum formation and move forward, snorting and grunting, heads thrown back, sniffing the cooling air loudly.
The favourable evening breeze trickling down into the Narus valley is undoubtedly carrying the scent of the lion straight into their flared, receptive nostrils, and they don’t look pleased. I am sure I catch a glimpse of Os Durandt out there in the dusky, faded light, (perhaps I should slow down on the beers!) peeling off and rejoining the ruck… Big, mean and purposeful, a rolling maul with horns.
The big male lion is finally moved from his reverie, and casts an evaluative glance our way. He stands up and yawns. The gaggle of baboons that have been taunting him for the last half hour scatter…
“It’s good to be the king” He seems to think, as he saunters out of view…
Caught between a rock and a hard place… Indeed Mick, indeed.
We fire up the throaty six cylinder and decide to get the hell outta dodge.
Ahh, another rough day in Africa…