Fortunately I grew accustomed to the night chorus of the African bush and with the exception of having a tent mate who talked in her sleep, saying things in a low, grumbling voice like, "What is it?!", I learned to sleep through the night. (She scared the hell out of me on a few occasions) I began to have more vivid dreams, similar to those I'd have under the open sky in Patagonia. I also began the same routine of trying to stay awake so that I could hear as much as possible. I remember crawling in my bed and feeling the excitement I sometimes feel when I take my seat in the theater, anxiously awaiting the story that's about to unfold before me on the big screen. Though instead of a screen and actors the entertainment would come from a pack of black-backed jackals, squealing and whining as they communicated their hunt. Some nights it would be a troop of baboons, marked with the loud, low barks of the dominant male. Other nights it would be Blade, the huge male lion of the pride, calling out a long territorial roar, followed by four short grunts to call the pride back to him.
Every night was exciting because I never knew what it would hold or which sounds would stir me from my dreams.
(This is the view from my bed; it's a mesh window that looks out to the dry riverbed.)





These are fresh hyena tracks that we found early one morning after we woke to hyena calls. They were just outside the gates of camp.