ED’S LETTER
Capetonians reckon they know about rain. I’m not so sure. It’s either absent or it’s a drizzle that softly soaks the senses to the point of irritation. During a storm, it comes at you in horizontal gusts, rendering umbrellas and awnings useless. You have to head north if you want to see proper rain: a thunderstorm, preferably in the Kruger National Park. A year ago, we crossed from Mozambique into South Africa at Giriyondo in the north-east of the Kruger, on our way to Letaba where we were going to spend the night. The bush was dry. At a cement dam fed by a borehole, elephants elbowed each other out of the way for a drink of water. But in the distance, huge white clouds were billowing, filled with the promise of relief. When we reached Letaba around lunchtime, the sun had disappeared. The air was so humid it felt like I was breathing vapour, and my skin felt like it had been moisturised all over with Estée Lauder. With more hope than wisdom, we lit our fire for a late-afternoon braai. By now we could hear distant rumbling, and fingers of lightning flashed in the rapidly approaching gloom. As the wind plucked at our fire, there was a frightening flash, followed almost instantaneously by a crack that exploded above our heads. The flashes and cracks came again and again in violent volleys; for a moment I thought what it must have been like to lie in a trench with your hands over your ears as hundreds of cannons fired at once. Then came the rain. Straight down, like a machine gun firing at the earth. Heavy, liquid bullets that struck the ground with menacing intent, almost as if Mother Nature was waging a war of its own. Now that’s rain! The next morning, before sunrise, I went for a walk and sat on one of the benches overlooking the Great Letaba River. The river was flowing after the storm, and giraffes were ambling towards their morning drink. A cheeky yellow-billed hornbill hopped around my feet, giving me an accusing glare because I hadn’t brought any breakfast with me. In two hours’ time, I knew I’d have to leave this place to head back to “civilisation”, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to stay for another week, another a month – as long as I could. The Kruger messes with your head. Read Esma Marnewick’s story on page 30 and you’ll understand why.