Snakes and squirrels and an unlikely hero.

Mr. Squirrel, peering out of his family residence in the Knobthorn at my front door.

I have a family of squirrels that have been living in a hollow in the big Knobthorn at my door for years. There was a time before I fixed the roof that they had access to the crown at the top as well as atop a wall in the kitchen and bathroom and I used to catch them raiding the kitchen from time to time but they were nowhere near the destructive force of the primates who live around me; baboons and vervets who can wreak untold havoc if given the chance.

The squirrels had two little ones this year and it is wonderfully entertaining to see them growing up and playing as well as being just being naughty adolescents.

One of the youngsters tackling a particularly resilient twig, a comical sight to see.

 Each year, at some time in the summer, usually at a time when the weavers are very busy with building nests, mating and raising chicks, a local Boomslang (a highly venomous tree snake) drops by to terrorise not only the weavers but also the squirrels and everyone else who flies or crawls in to refresh at one of the birdbaths.

This year, though, as a result of the drought and despite some very frenetic activity by the weavers at the beginning of the year, they have moved on and the few empty nests that were built are slowly disintegrating in the sun, wind and more recently, the rain.

The Boomslang arrives.

The Boomslang was no doubt a bit disappointed by the lack of fledglings to steal yet he still took up residence in the squirrels’ drey, much as he has done on previous visits. Usually, he moves on in a few days but this year he has been squatting longer than ever before, much to the consternation of all the local residents who use the area around the tree.

Every morning, as he emerges from the hole to first bask his face in sunshine before setting out to hunt, the birds and squirrels go berserk and alarm until I come out to once again see what their consternation is all about, at which point things quieten down a bit as they are satisfied that the human is dealing with the problem.

Bathing his face in morning sunshine.

What they don’t understand, is that a) I cant get anywhere near the hole to do anything about it and b) If I could get up there, what could I do anyway, a bungling, middle-aged terrestrial human against an agile arboreal serpent with perhaps the most venomous bite possible?

This is where the squirrels decided to up the ante and take the matter into their own hands. Those of us (I’m usually the only human) living here are acquainted with the Monitor Mensch, Monty, who lives under the pergola of the guest cottage. He has a reputation for being a bit of a brute and it was seems that his services had been acquired by the squirrel family as they enthusiastically watched him swagger up to the Knobthorn, their tails twitching in excitement as the intruder made his way up the tree to evict the Boomslang , the male squirrel even nipping the snake’s tail as he fled into the Euphorbia.

It sat a while in a dark shady alcove of the huge Euphorbia adjacent to the Knobthorn, watching and waiting for things to die down and then it crossed over into the Mopane canopy, only to disappear amongst the greening foliage beyond. Monty hung out for a while to make sure that the Boomslang didn’t return before climbing down to the birdbath and getting on with his day.  Needless to say, it didn’t take long for the squirrels to reclaim their prime real estate and the male has been seen chasing one of his rivals that had come to gawk at the proceedings.

Monty the bouncer and a Mensch of a Monitor.

As of now, whilst penning these words, the squirrels are once again in control and Monty makes a climb every now and then, just to keep his word that their domain stays relatively snake free. When the resident Sand Snake came by yesterday, not a word was said, nor an alarm uttered, Sand Snakes only climb bushes to mate but spend their days chasing dwarf geckos from the ground and wouldn’t bother with a hole so high in a tree. Or, maybe tangle with Monty.

Hangin' out! No-one messes with Monty.

In conclusion, for the Ladies out there, a flower! A semi-succulent that I have found only recently here on Mansimvula. It is known as Ystervark Wortel, which directly translates as Iron Pig Root. But then an Iron Pig is actually a porcupine so we can safely assume it is also known as porcupine root.

I know it as Tallinum caffrum.

Of Zebras and Family.

One day, after a magnificent fiery sunset, we were sitting in its afterglow on a ridge where two rhino were disappearing into the Mopane scrub, leaving a family of zebra grazing at the roadside. As darkness rendered the stripes a true monochrome, they grazed closer until the mare and foal crossed in front of us, onto the left edge of the road where greener grasses were sprouting after a little rain.

When the rhino were out of sight, the stallion stood erect, ears twitching and swiveling, listening to their receding sounds as a soft and warm breeze wafted in from the East, bringing with it Nature's chorus of nocturnal awakenings. The mare grazed closer and the foal turned to look our way as I made the stupid mistake of blowing an equine raspberry from my lips, in the mistaken belief that I thought I was communicating with them.

The stallion crossed to join his family in front of us and, as he reached the verge of green, he stopped and lifted his head calling the mare over to him. Perhaps it was my noise, perhaps something else, but what pulled at my heartstrings was the way she calmly walked over to him nuzzling his rear as she swished her tail and didn't have to utter a sound for the foal to fall in between them, to the safety of their vigilance and the security of her mother’s milk.

As he led them into the darkness out of sight, I was reminded of strong family values and the stability that comes with the strong bonds of kinship. And how much I miss not only my parents but my siblings too.

And this on the same day that we met a kudu cow who had just lost her calf to the elusive Ingwe that has been hanging around. She had been walking up and down in the vicinity, mourning her loss, her mammaries swollen for the baby that wouldn't be coming back to suckle.

The end.

Sort of....

                       ....for it would not be complete without a flower. 

Hibiscus micranthus

A flower for the ladies. However, in this particular instance, this flower is for my Mom. For more than half a century of nurturing and tolerance.

This is the Dwarf Hibiscus or sometimes known as the miniature white Hibiscus. The Mallow family. 

Whilst barely half an inch in diameter, these pretty little blooms start the day as a bright white break in the growing green that the rains have finally brought. As the day wears on and the sun begins to descend, they start to turn pink and then red, until they match the purple of the mountains at sunset.

Love ya lots!

An Ele, a scorpion and a magical moonrise.

The moon must've moved passed Jupiter somewhere in the Western Hemisphere recently because one day it was on one side of the moon and on this particular evening, a day later, another. I suspect there was an eclipse somewhere on the planet, of both Jupiter and our Sun. The Plane of the Ecliptic, our planetary equator, must have been in perfect alignment to produce some stellar sights elsewhere on the planet but for me, just to sit up on the deck with fading light, the rising moon dominating a clear summer sky over a couple of ele's browsing nearby, that was entertainment enough.

 
A scorpion was at the base of a Mopane as we descended from the deck after the magical ele moonrise. There was a low bank of cloud on the horizon in the East and as she rose, she slipped through the various layers of cloud wearing different shades of moonrise silk until finally, lifting from the cloud layer, like a yellow balloon, she shed her veils and shone as bright as ever.

Anyhow, I was talking about this scorpion we found as we came down from the deck. She was at the base of a medium size Mopane, one of the many here at Mopane grove. In the dryness of the current drought, there are a lot of antlions' conical depressions in the sand, where the larvae of these fairylike creatures lure unsuspecting prey, mostly ants that are foraging.

It was a Parabuthid, the most venomous of our scorpions although not a very large individual. Much like the hatchling puff adder we had found at the door earlier in the day, the venom is excruciating and is no less potent coming from a juvenile.

Black Thick-Tailed Scorpion (Parabuthus transvaalicus)

I soon noticed the most reMarcable behaviour. The scorpion was angled down into the depression of the antlion hole and my first impression was that it was playing ostrich – trying to hide in an  “I can't see you, you can't see me” type of scenario. But I noticed and felt at the same time, a different energy, something that had nothing to do with me or the light I was shining for the very purpose of looking out for scorpions and things so that I don’t stand on them. She was fishing - Antlion fishing.

Parabuthus Transvaalicus

She was teasing the sand at the bottom of the depression, trying to get a response from the insect. With no place to go, the larva had to give away its presence and as soon as the scorpion felt movement under the sand, she dug frantically, like a scene from Dune, scrabbling to get the cascading sand out the way to find her quarry.

(It was reminiscent of times I've played with a cat on top of the bed, moving fingers under the blanket, ever so quietly and the intense concentration of the cat to hear or see movement before pouncing.)

Eventually, she struck, swinging her powerful tail over her back and delivering the fatal sting, then grabbing the antlion in her jaws and making a hasty retreat. I tried to follow her, I wanted to know where she lives so that I have a chance at filming this amazing hunting behaviour. Clearly she didn't like being followed, which no doubt had a lot to do with the light because she took me in circles until I had to relent and let her be. I can only hope I find her again, out fishing for antlions like no scorpion I ever knew.

Antlions dig using their heads and powerful jaws to flick sand up and out of their excavations.

Antlions are very similar to dragonflies and damselflies in their adult form but differ in that they are able to flex their wings at rest and their wings are held alongside the body at rest. Dragonflies have set wings, which are held at right angles to the body and are unable to flex (flap) at rest. Damselflies, however, hold their wings at 45degrees to the body at rest. They belong to different families of insects.

Adult antlion aka an Owl fly, of the family Ascalaphidae, which does not dig as a larva

Most antlion larvae ( they have nymphs, much like the other two) are free ranging hunters that look like something out of a science fiction film, thus my reference to the Dune Trilogy but some of them are burrowers, living a fossorial life under soft sand. Some merely wait on tree bark or just under the soil surface for their prey but there are a few that dig these very impressive little cone-shaped depressions, which trap ground dwelling insects.

Antlion Larva

Antlion trap

As an insect falls into the trap, the antlion becomes active, flicking the cascading sand back up the sides with its shovel-shaped head and large mandibles, creating a continuous ‘conveyor belt’ of sand that ultimately brings the prey to the bottom of the cone, where the huge jaws of the antlion rise up through the sand to grab the prey in a vise-like grip.

Somewhere in the archives of the antlion observations and memories in my head is another story about some remarkable ant behaviour around an antlion hole. I’ll have to find the file path one of these days.

Lest I forget....

                                  ....a flower.....

                                                                              .........for the Ladies!

Pavetta sp (Bride's bush)

Love ya lots!

Mopane Grove ele visit

Gravity

Gravity

Some time ago, well actually a few months ago, I was heading out for a short morning drive to meet with an elephant friend of mine who had been around camp earlier in the morning. I suspected he had headed to the Ntsiri river bed and that facilitated a drive on to the main road at a time when there were quite a few shareholders around from neighbouring share blocks.

This usually means that I stay away from the main road as a lot of them drive up and down quite fast and very loud. They all have radio contact so that when an animal is spotted, there is a race to get there and the overwhelming number of vehicles, their short attention spans and the desire to be seen rather than to see the animal, means that I get very annoyed and I try to avoid such moments.

Since I do not have radio contact, I tend to just stumble upon a sighting and I usually turn around and go my own way.

On this particular day, I noticed a number of vehicles on the main road at the entrance to Mansimvula and soon realized that there was a leopard with a kill in a very prominent Knobthorn that designates the driveway to Mopane Grove. Putting aside prejudice and gifted with the chance to watch her on my own, away from the other vehicles on a small track that runs past the tree, I sat for a while and watched her, enthralled and proud to have such a sighting on home ground. However, She soon disappeared into the Mopane scrub and I returned home hoping she would be back later in the day.

What follows is something that I thumbed on the tiny keyboard of an iPhone as inspiration struck on my return later that day. I suspect I may have posted this somewhere before but now I want to add it to my Musings.

Sunset on the day

That night,

Or,

The next day,

Which was windy and cloudy

And even a little chilly

And hundreds of hues of grey,

The cat had had enough of

Giggling Brats,

Pressure from cars

And human things like that,

She moved her kill deeper into the bush,

Found a Marula and repositioned her stash.

I found her asleep in the late afternoon,

In the lee of a tree,

Her white tipped tail

Stuck up in the air,

Caught among branches;

She was asleep so why should she care.

The wind was unpleasant,

Penetrating even.

A little head popped up as the sun went down;

She had been off to find her cub.

Who had just woken up

And was beginning to frown.

The little one looked around,

Up into the tree,

At me watching her

and mom asleep in the lee.

With a leap and a bound

And a little miss-step,

She aimed up high and began to sup.

Whilst climbing the tree

I discovered it was a daughter,

Maybe eight months,

Plus or minus a quarter.

With vigour, she chomped 

And relish she chewed,

She pulled with her teeth 

And tugged with her claws.

But alas the kill slipped away

through the fork of the tree

To the drooling hyena below

And her expectant gaping jaws.

Such

Is the inevitability

Of gravity.

                     

As this was happening, I could see the whole thing unfold as the carcass slipped out of her grasp. Mom climbed the tree soon after and gave such a disapproving look before dropping back down and walking away in disgust. The cub had no choice but to follow and no doubt learned something from the experience. It takes a while for the little ones to learn how to eat and keep their meal in the tree.

Subsequently, that particular Marula tree is no longer. A breach in the bark from past elephant activity must have made it possible for the larvae of wood-boring beetles to weaken the trunk and, in a strong wind, a few weeks later, the tree snapped about six feet from the ground and it will not be the host to a leopard kill again. This highlights the uniqueness of every encounter we have out here. Nothing is ever repeated. 

Everything is random. 

And exciting!

Musings from Mopane Grove.

I met a Mamba today.

I was driving home after a short excursion to talk to an elephant.

It was right next to the road at the door of the Landie, six to eight feet of sleek, serpentine energy, with two feet of raised expectancy and flared readiness lifted off the ground in anticipation of a confrontation.

I am glad we had a mutual understanding of self-preservation and inter-specific respect.

After a brief moment of eye contact, I think we were both relieved to go our separate ways.