lion morning

The warm days of our Namibian winter turn our skin silky and dry. Our stay in Etosha National Park enters its second month, and John and I are trying to plan our moves a bit. We know our predictions will not materialize, for we are dealing with nature and its habit of ignoring human plans. Nevertheless, out of the old and rigid habit of trying to make some sense out of our short winter days, we attempt to control at least our moves. And since we are both photographers and no one is playing a second fiddle in our working union, we often start our days by asking: "Where do you want to go now?" and then turn the incoming ideas to and fro, looking for some vague promise of great animal dramas which will surely happen somewhere in the desert but are still unknowable.

This morning we are trying to catch the rising sun climbing above a nearby waterhole, as well as drinking giraffes and their elongated reflections in the crimson pond. The concept so described sounds awfully trite, but pulling it off well is not. Besides, when we arrive the banks of the waterhole are empty. We wait, watching the sun climbing mercilessly and stripping the crimson right off the water, then drive away, mildly disappointed. At the bottom of the slight hill we meet a family of giraffes and John rolls down his window: "Too late, guys. Maybe tomorrow?" he suggests pleasantly. I look around and see a bunch of animal shapes spilling on the gravel road ahead. A whole Rolodex of ideas suddenly explodes in my mind. Birds? Too big. Impalas? Too heavy. Zebras? Too long. What I sense -- rather than see -- is the softness. Not the staccato of tense little feet of most herbivores. Not the lumbering heavy duty shuffle of rhinos. Not the fleeting smudge of running jackals or a quick trot of warthogs.

Lions. A line of lions, going places. Look, I tell John, this is crazy: the whole road is full them, let's go!  But John turns our rig back and drives to the waterhole. He is right. The lions are already coming, their fur the color of dry African grass, their paws massive and soft, padding along the wide elephant trail one after another.  We count them as they crouch and slurp the water shining between the rocks: there are twelve. Twelve days of Christmas, so it may be a gift from Etosha. The lions are young, with several males just sprouting their adolescent manes, and their bodies are still unscarred, beautiful. They take their sweet time, drink, swat each other, stretch, yawn, and slowly depart. We exhale. Probably we got no pictures, we say, since the cats were terribly back-lit and as usual did not listen to our silent pleas not to overlap each other. But it was great to see them. So many!

We go for a slow and relaxing bush drive in the opposite direction from the one the lions took. Soon, a dik-dik. Tiny, all brown like a horse chestnut, the smallest antelope the size of a large hare with spindly little legs. The animal is resting in the sun, peaceful and sleepy. We photograph and admire. It is warm, cozy, companionable, and perfectly safe.

Then  -- a muted growl. Very low, subterranean, with a whoosh of great lungs exhaling; unmistakable and very close. Then another. And again. Our dik-dik is already on his feet, and my survival sense quickly informs me I am vulnerable: my window is rolled down, and my arm cradling the telephoto lens propped on its sill is not far from the ground. One good leap, and grab, and pull. Isn't it exactly how that young woman died in South Africa only two months ago? And how about two lions killing a tourist sleeping in his bag near a watering hole here in Etosha, in 1993? And the lioness who was shot and killed by the park's staff last year, after she entered our Etosha bush camp through a hole warthogs had dug under the fence surrounding the camp?

I bypass my fear and we reverse slowly, gluing our eyes to the bush where only moments ago we saw nothing at all. The growls keep coming, now more in unison. "Digestive sounds," whispers John, and he is right again: you do not growl this way while hunting or traveling.  And -- yes. A mere stone's throw back, close to the road and betrayed only by small openings in the exceptionally thick bush which are now filled with tawny fur, there are four more lions. Digesting. Growling softly. Sending their voices out in ripe, throaty belches of contentment and latent power, while we no longer feel safe. And suddenly we understand we never should. Not here. Not now. Not even for a blink.  ©Yva Momatiuk