ORCHESTRAL MANOEUVRES IN THE PARK
There was a shuffling sound. A twig snapped, branches crunched and soft footfalls faded in the distance as the smell of elephant wafted in on the breeze along with the discordant notes of violins warming up. The sun had set, and the wood of some of the instruments had compressed with the sudden coolness of the arriving night, changing the tone. The stars appeared in the night sky as if, like us, they had been summonsed, and we took our seats. This was the Bushveld Romance, the first of a trio of annual sunset serenade semiclassical concerts held in the Kruger Park to raise funds to combat poaching.
The second evening’s May music at Xanatseni in the Mopani rest camp held us spellbound listening to Vivaldi’s Winter Concerto.
The waterhole backdrop gently rippled to the sounds of the plucked harp from Pietro Domenico Paradisi’s Toccata, as the bushveld trees were silhouetted against the late afternoon sun.
The viola, flute and cello each played their own role against the fluttering, dancing leaves of the mopani trees that were turning silver in the dusk.
The third and final evening of music was held at the Tsendze river confluence — we were treated to Mozart’s Overture, Schubert’s Ave Maria and Puccini’s ever-beautiful Nessun Dorma aria from the opera Turandot.
All our senses are alive — our ears to the ethereal music, our skin to the kiss of cooling air, our eyes to the aureate African sunset, our noses to the acrid smells of the bush, hot and sharp and primal and sweet.
As the night folds the daylight into amber swirls, the cicadas come into harmony with the quintet — our own bushveld choir.
Their strident high pitch accompanies the soaring violins and adds a different dimension to the music.
All that is required is the trumpeting of elephants to create a Disneyesque quality.
I imagine I see some small woodland creatures creep quietly to the edge of the bush to sigh and listen, ears quivering and whiskers twitching, their little eyes glinting in the swiftly descending night.
Elephants huddle together at the other side of the waterhole, crocodiles slide below the surface in a gentle glissade. Impala stop drinking and turn their heads, and a lone leopard stands sentinel on a termite mound in the distance, its coat and spots melding into the russet backdrop.
And then it is over. The musicians bow and the audience applauds and rises. Chairs are scraped back against the sandy clearing and belongings are gathered.
Members of the audience are channelled out of the clearing with a phalanx of rangers, providing an escort to make sure we are safe from the potential perils of the bush.
And for a moment in the shadowed night — a very brief moment — I’m sure I spy a lone rhinoceros standing serenely to one side of the waterhole, close enough to hear but not to see.
His massive head is lowered, the ears upright and his small eyes lift and peer at me. He is unsure of himself, despite his size, but I get the feeling he knows we have all been there for him.
At least I hope he does.
Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photograph of yourself for publication with the column.