16. Matopos' Birth

I have not written about Matopos for a while - there were other things happening in my mind and heart. But I have been there many, many more times and have found myself thinking about the birth of Matopos. How was Matopos born? Did anyone witness that great event? It must have been a wild and torturous time for the earth to bring forth such a place, to nurse it through puberty and allow it to mature and cool down and settle here in the heart of Zimbabwe.

Of births, I have seen many. As a young child I sat watching my father’s fish tank, waiting the whole night for a guppy to give birth! (Yes, some fish do give birth to live fish/fingerlings.) I have disturbed many chickens, every few minutes, to see whether another chick has hatched. I even took an egg to school in my pocket once to make sure I didn't miss that wonderful moment when a wet lump of bloody down and pink flesh stands up to be a chick – proud and willing to take on the whole coop’s roosters! Similarly, I have watched and helped my dog, Tanya, give birth to a basketful of pups. I saw a giraffe being born once and even saw a shriveled little rhino taking its first steps in Zululand, still wet and unsure about this whole new world. I attended the births of two of my sons…much more dramatic and painful and filled with emotion, both of pain and suffering and ecstatic jubilance once we counted the toes and fingers and a nurse or pediatrician had given us the thumbs-up! 

All of these events have a component of time attached to them. For the rhino it must have been a long, long wait, while for Papa’s guppies it was almost as frequent as the lunar cycles but still, each time, caused a stir in the household. New life is precious. Always.

When I marvel over Matopos, I can only imagine the pain and suffering it required to bring a place like this into being. The clouds must have built up into a tremendous storm, with great winds sweeping the empty grassy plains, with not much to make a traveler pause his passage. Then, like the first cracks of my precious batch of ostrich eggs, but at a massive scale, the earth may have ruptured, and I imagine some watery, rich soils oozing from this first sign of new life. For days and days, like my baby ostrich, this new world may have been eking its way to the surface, slowly breaking through the inner layers of ancient earth forced from behind and below by the eagerness of lava desperate to reach the outside world; just like the first of Tanya’s pups, always the strongest, most inquisitive and proudest of the litter. (I always cried when the first pup was sold!)

I imagine the earth opening and the first of Matopos’s great and immense ghommos and dwalas emerging from the inner earth, wrapped in smoldering red blood that rolled off the sides into what we see today as the smaller boulders and rocks surrounding the base of these grandiose granite hills. Some would simply work their way out, sliding into a new place of existence with great ease and dignity, while the smaller ones would be voided into piles of rocks as if by some ghastly beast. Yet others would be flung by ancient pneumatic forces deep into the birth-night, brightening up the sky like fireworks announcing some great event. Cluttered rocks and the earth's rubble would be swept into unimaginable configurations in bursts of energy, anger and relief. The noise must have been incredible when the earth opened up and spat out Matopos. The whistling of earth's gaseous excrement must have pierced through the sky like a million steam trains, leaving great fires in their wake, ignited by sparks as rocks were hurled through the sky!

I would not be surprised if a few moons, smaller planets, meteors and other inquisitive extra terrestrial marvels came to witness it… because it must have been an event of great significance. It was certainly the birthplace of an international conservation significance! Perhaps the geomorphologists – physicists and geochemists or those who study the birth of geographic entities – may be able to put a time or period or even an epoch on this event, but I suspect it took a long, long time. It is, after all, a large place, perhaps not big in geological terms but, nevertheless, a milestone in the evolution of the earth.

Once those first cracks became evident the great herds most probably scattered, not to return for many, many generations. Or not until the place calmed down and it was cleaned up and sterilized like a theatre after the difficult birth of breached twins or a hasty caesarian to save the life of a newborn. Here the process had to take care of itself, over time. The universal healer, time. 

Last week a friend a pointed out an elephant shrew slowly making his way out into the last of the summer rays to heat himself before his rocky tavern cooled down. I can see in my mind how the larger herds, having not heard any further commotion beyond the horizon for many a decade, like our little shrew, slowly snuck back, like the animals of the veldt emerge after the thunder rolls away in the distance. They came back, followed by their hunters in little bands of prehistoric people who slowly wandered through this fledgling landscape like the first visitors to a newly-established museum. Here they settled, some demarcating their territories with song or dung piles, while our early brothers and sisters painted the inside of their caves with elegant figures of what they saw on the outside. The chaos subsided and Matopos grew into a boisterous infant, not unlike the clumsy pachyderms that frequent this place now, then into a young person blooming with her own young and fertile as the veldt itself. 

As is the way with nature, the landscape today resembles the peaceful scene I encountered one night when I could not resist the urge. I managed to sneak past a vigilant nurse, and took a glimpse of my tranquil wife nursing a newborn son. I remember the pain and angst of a new mother, but that scene of great tenderness, love, devotion and complete serenity will always persist. Like Matobo.

15. Matobo Time

Please visit the The Arts in Focus to obtain information about our 2014 Matopos Calendar - 

an initiative supporting rhino conservation in Zimbabwe.

Matobo Time

We sat high above Matopos on the warm granite with the cool breeze in our faces when Emile asked me how long I am going to be. “A lifetime...,” I answered. 

I watched him for a little while as the wind played in his hair. “The lifetime of the bacteria decaying this dung beetle or the lifetime of the big guy down there?” he asks as he sits up and points with a piece of grass to a white rhino down below in the valley. In my mind’s eye I suddenly see this place in a different dimension. I see Matobo made up, constructed of time, the make-up of life itself. At the smaller lever I “see” mitochondria buzzing around in cells and cells dividing and things growing and happening relatively fast at a microscopic level, as I did as a young zoologist. At the other end of the scale, under my hand I rubbed the fine dust off the granite rock, also at a microscopic level but at a temporal scale even my relatively intelligent mind struggles to fathom.  I wonder how long that took. As I gazed over the landscape surrounding me, instinctively the scientist in me started to divide the world around me into discrete groups of individuals, events and processes based on the relevant timescale during which it happens or lives. 

When you consider the whole, the entire ecosystem, the time scale is millennia or eons, the longer yardsticks of time. However, when you break the system down into an array of increasingly smaller sub-systems, smaller and more precise units of time are required. You could measure the lifecycle of a rhino in years, while months are more appropriate to measure the gestation period of his equally obnoxious wife, but the passage rate of the grass through his digestive system is more appropriately measured in days. Fertilization of his calf took place within a few seconds while oxygen exchange in his enormous lungs is probably measured in smaller fractions of time. Many measures of time are appropriate to discuss the lifecycle of our rhino, but for others the entire process is over in a few seconds or even less. 

The shortest of events and lifetimes

A gust of wind may sweep across a field of grass and a million grasses are pollinated, just like that. End of story. A significant event that took a few fleeting seconds, but its impact will be prominent when a million grass seeds germinate in a few months time after the rains. Some critical events take place over a very short period of time. Raindrops fall, and the soil is instantly wet, just as the water was a fluid one moment and the next it's a gas.  Some smaller species complete an entire lifecycle in a few days. Some mysterious flowers only open to be pollinated at night, and then only for a few nights, and then its all over. Many of the smaller critters and plants typically only live for one season, then their duties as denizens of their world is complete. For them seconds and hours and days are far more relevant. Months are towards the outer extreme of time measurement for them.

Some lower organisms, live for only a very short periods of time, those single cell organisms and smaller invertebrates in ephemeral ponds transcend dry seasons as spores.  Similarly, some lower plants, some fungi live for very short periods of time, and are highly opportunistic in their approach to life. These shorter life cycles are controlled and affected by the duration of shorter environmental cycles, like day and night, the seasons with wet and dry cycles, cold and warm periods, and even the ratios between light and day. 

The annuals

Some plants and animals live according to very strict annual cycles. One year is the limit for them. Their life-cycles are punctuated by the seasons, normally starting with the rains and ending with the winter. Then there is a period of rest, the dormant stage. Annual plants transcend this period as seeds. The plant itself is no longer there, but many seeds remain behind to initiate new cycles of life. The animal equivalent to annuals are the many insect species who live for only short periods of time and survive the harsh period as eggs. Butterflies are the most typical of these. The eggs hatch in spring and the caterpillars eat their way to adulthood, go through their incredible metamorphosis and emerge as butterflies, painting the landscape in small sections from flower to flower.

For most of these smaller creatures, the annual cycle is all they will live through and experience. No memories of last year, or the year of great floods or the drought of 1982. They just have now, as there is no real past, apart from yesterday and last week and if they are really lucky last month. There also is no real future, no next year or ‘one day’. Perhaps they don't miss it because they don't have it. Perhaps now is enough.

Those who live a little longer

Others have a past and a future. I watch the young impala play, learning about their futures.Their lives are measured in years rather than months. Other processes within them are measured in shorter yardsticks. Their gestation period is 7 months. They are affected by the annual cycles, breed highly seasonally so all the lambs are born in a very short time. Like the life cycles of the short lived species of Matobo, their lives are hugely controlled by the seasons, breeding cycles, times of abundance and shortages,  but the adults cross over into the next season and the next. For them, there must be more of a sense of the past and the future. Hence, the learning as youngsters, butting heads and chasing each other in mock predator prey plays. 

The barrier from the one season to the next, in Matobo, is winter, the dry season. I often think, in terms of evolutionary jumps/progress, crossing that invisible barrier must have been a great challenge and achievement. There are many ways in which to cross that bridge between being one and being two years old! Some plants do it by going dormant in the harsh part of the year. Some trees loose their leaves and sit out the winter. They just hang in there, expending as little energy and resources as possible. Others, like many reptiles will eat as much as they can before the winter and then find a cosy place to hibernate, allowing their body temperatures to drop. They use as little energy as possible to stay alive and then emerge pretty lean when spring arrives. Others are simply big enough, mobile enough and store enough reserves to carry them through winter. These are often the warm blooded part of the family, those who can collect and burn energy to stay with us on the surface during winter. These guys can often live for many many years. Think rhino and elephant. The cold blooded strategy also works well for crocodiles and pythons and tortoises. They live long because they use their energy sparingly and add up the years that way. For them the lifespan yardstick is very long... decades.

Leaving individual lives behind...

There are other timescales that are also relevant. Those which goes beyond the scale of individual lives. When we think about how the whole of the system evolves and develops, it essentially operates at a time scale way beyond the relevant measures of the oldest of individuals. The growth of, and the interactions between individuals within populations, allows for individual species to evolve into functional groups of communities, whether they are antelope communities, grasslands, forests or wetlands. At this level, shorter processes and limited lifespans merge into one another and all fuse to produce larger infinite timescales. The shorter timescales are still important, but they have merged into one another and like the different pieces of a mosaic they loose their individual relevance when looked at from a distance. Similarly, at least in my mind the cyclic nature of the smaller time intervals merge into processes of extended duration, creating the larger infinite temporal landscape. 

This is the scale at which the larger environmental processes are important. Cycles of dry and wet periods follow on each other, the result being the specific dynamics of forests and grasslands competing for area, predators and prey oscillate in numbers as some species increase and others crash.  All of this contributes to the overall variability within the larger system. These are experiences individual short-lived individuals and annuals species will never know about.

We watch the sun rapidly falling from the sky, announcing the end of another day, and we are forced down the hill to get to our vehicle before darkness turns Matobo into a stage for the nocturnal critters to play their role.

Emile walks down in silence, guiding us, and I think about circadian rhythms. It is the pulse of life,  while lunar cycles pace out the months, adding up into years, and years becoming decades and decades accumulate into longer and longer time periods, making up time itself and we are in there somewhere.

Please visit the The Arts in Focus to obtain information about our 2014 Matopos Calendar - an initiative supporting rhino conservation in Zimbabwe. 

14. Reflecting Matobo

Please visit the The Arts in Focus to obtain information about our 2014 Matopos Calendar - 

an initiative supporting rhino conservation in Zimbabwe.

I had a dog during a period of my life when I really needed a good friend. Although he died young, he helped me through the turbulent teenage phase, and he helped me well. Jack had an incredible and uncanny way to sense my mood. On those vibrant exuberant spring days so characteristic of the lowveld where I grew up, he would adjust his behavior either to complement or to accommodate mine. When I was happy Jack would bounce alongside me, panting in anticipation. When I was sad or lonely he would simply walk next to me, watching me, to be there for me, strong and powerful, the rock against which I could lean. When I sat at a waterhole watching a herd of impala drink, he would push his body right up against mine and lean his head on my shoulder with a wet nose in my neck, breathing gently onto my skin. That would have its magic effect on me and soon my mood would improve, and invariably Jack would run ahead in the footpath, towards home, happy with his personal achievement, wagging his tail because his master was in a better mood.

 Many years have past since I spent a real thought on Jack, that is until I got to know Matobo better. As with my dog, Matobo senses my moods and, more importantly, my needs. My mood is reflected in the atmosphere as I move through this incredible landscape. How is it possible that this place can easily mold itself around the emotional needs of a man, in fact of all the people there?

I go to Matobo as an escape from the sadness in me… and Matobo accepts me and reacts in a gentle way, offering me comfort and guiding me through the rough parts in my heart. He accepts me as I am without rejecting my negative emotions. Instead, he works with them and gently, gently makes me understand, accept and handle those emotions. Subtly, he shows me the blue sky and the new fresh leaves, a gust of wind may bring new smells and who can remain sad when you smell the first rain on dry soil?

I once went to Matobo to seek peace, cause I was angry at life, angry at what happened to my mother, angry that life is unfair and walked long and hard through the rocky landscape, and this time Matobo reflected my anger. Again my feelings were not rejected, simply accepted and dealt with. The thorns of the acacias ripped through my skin, bit into, and tore bits of leather from my shoes. The granite rocks, hot in the midday sun, reflected my own anger in heat, and where I had to lean against the rocks to regain my breath it burnt like the fury in me. The place was angry and he was not afraid to show me his anger. I sensed his immense anger and it shocked me into silence. I stopped to think. Was Matobo angry for my own reasons? Or was he angry because of his own reasons? Perhaps the grass that was burnt, the rhino that were poached or the gold panning in the rural areas, scarring its surface? No matter the reasons for his fury, I could feel it in the trees and rocks and boulders. I could hear it in his angry roars. The incessant cicadas were screaming it out in frequencies and decibels that befit the anger of the behemoth.

I thought about my own anger. I tried to justify it, fight it out, even screamed it out but my own human voice faded in the rocks and did not carry like the roar of a lion or the call of the fish eagle. It faded into insignificance and fell limp at my feet. I was defeated. Defeated by anger.

Matobo understood and allowed me space. Allow does not mean pamper. It does not mean he agreed and supported my anger. He only reflected it, showing me what it is, showing me the futility - the lion does not roar its anger, nor does the fish eagle call his anger over the echoing valleys. They communicate in peace and harmony, and therefore the valleys are prepared to perpetuate those good sounds, amplify them and echo them. But my anger was simply absorbed and muffled in the thick vegetation. There is no harmony in the voice of human anger!

Just as my dog many years ago coached me out of my anger, Matobo did it too. Once you vented your anger, fought the fury of it and the blood on your arms and legs dry up and can be scratched off, exposing the torn skin, then all you have from your blind fury is the burning sensation of thorns and nettles and abrasions from sharp unforgiving granite. The rage of fury at least brings some understanding, even if it is only the understanding of defeat.

Humbled by this experience I lay on my stomach amongst the ever-present lichens and let their brilliant colors permeate my heart and mind. Matobo, is like a great big mirror, a channel of vision straight into your heart and mind. In its wisdom it allows you to see yourself the way you are. It reflects the real you, and many times that is not what you want to see. For it is this image we have within us that we want to hide from the rest of the world.

Matobo however has a way to help you deal with it. At first it will show you who you are, what you look like, then it will allow you to go through your motions and tantrums… but slowly it will reel you in. You will walk out on top of a large rock/dwala, into the breeze. The anger will suddenly drain out of you, induced by the cool breeze in your face. You will breathe in deeply, perhaps for the first time today. Your mood will changes as you allow this place to guide you and mold you back into the shape you ought to be. Just allow it. Don’t fight it for longer than you need to. Bend your ways like the water bends the reflections of the reeds in the early morning. It will slowly bring you around the way the wind flows through the valleys, then it will show you the other side, the better side. The beauty within.

13. Matopos Symphony

Really good music is characterized by the story it tells and the depth of the story is often created by the punctuation - the silences between the important parts in which there is time for your imagination to color in the extra spaces. At first glance the boulders in Matopos seem to be randomly distributed but when you look carefully there is rhythm, rhythm in their distribution and placement. The huge stones provide the overall rhythm, while the smaller components, the clumps of trees and thicker vegetation along the drainage lines, provide the support music. Individual trees and grasses are the backstage singers and minor instruments and all of them contribute to an immense symphony…

Early morning, the orchestra members clean their instruments, gently tune them, and find their place on stage. When you wake up early, and perhaps go scratch amongst the embers to blow a little warmth into the fire, you hear them slowly, almost self consciously, initiating their role as young members of the cast. The other morning I was looking over the lake as the first light struck a chord on the still water. Almost at once a group of firefinches cleaned their tiny instruments and after a few haphazard attempts got their act together and were engaged in a predawn ensemble of soft melodious sounds, almost as soothing as the first warm coffee over my own hoarse voice. As their endeavors intensified and they became more bold, they seemed to trigger a series of other feathered musicians who either reluctantly started talking amongst each other like the guinea fowl or contributed more boldly like the early morning black colored barbet duet. And then the light on the black water reflects the sky and suddenly it is day and everybody contributes with great vigor.

It is an amazing time, when the orchestra is all settled and the conductor has that lovely expectant expression. He raises his hands and all is quiet. You know what is about to happen. The babblers have fallen from their midnight perches and drop to the ground in a great joyous chorus. The conductor’s hair fall over his face and he closes his eyes. On cue, a fish eagle calls and the trumpeters bring a earthly melancholy to the tune - this is the music of life! 

I walk down to the water and the mood changes. The sounds from the water birds are soft like the feathers of the cattle egret. The rhythmic wingbeats of some white-faced ducks sweep past in unison. They circle around as the conductor coordinates their flight and then a burst of whistles mixes with the sound of gently parting water as their aerial course transitions into the new medium. The music itself slowly changes. It becomes the gentle stuff you often hear in really good restaurants. Its there and it is good, but it does not penetrate the mind, only the heart.

Very little is out of place here. Even the barks of a distant troop of baboons are welcomed.  The piano man looks up and sensing the new mood produces a new gutsy rhythm and the young baboons climber over their rheumatism-ridden grandmothers who are searching for a spot of limelight to warm their old bony hips. An almost inaudible buzz draws my attention closer and a brightly dressed dragonfly warms his thorax muscles and prepares for his early morning aerial assault on some unsuspecting insect.

I realize my intense connection with this world. Each and every one of these sounds, like the love songs of our younger days, reminds me of an important phase or event of my life. The memories of a lifetime can be wrapped up in the sounds of a single day. The guinea fowl’s song belongs in the same place in my heart as my grandfather’s big hands, his smoky beard and the gentle laugh in his eyes as he used to guide me on my first hunts as a child. The rhapsody of frogs near the water takes me back to nighttime fishing with my father, quietly being together and satisfied with each other’s presence. The cattle egrets tell me of the not-so-distant Ndebele farmers, their cattle still safely in the wooden kraals. I see the steam being blown from their noses, their bells will begin to toll soon. Later today the cicadas will take me back to my days in the southern Kalahari, the incessantly hot and endless desert. I smiled deeply inside the first time a barking gecko announced its presence here in Matobo too. The high cry of the eagles takes me back to my days at university and my ornithologist friends with their falcons and eagles. Tonight the owls will take me back to my young boy-man days, alone in my own private outside room, a simple place with a corrugated iron roof, where I became a man listening to the owls and the nightjars, the air often punctuated with the calls of jackal or the lonely whoop of a hyena. That is the best part of my day, the night, when the large groups of musicians have gone to bed, and only the smaller quartet of owls and crickets play their chamber music while we sip deep red wine and let the stars keep score of the day’s events.