We are up long before the light.
4.15am.
Cockerels, dogs, and something unseen taking turns to make noise through the night. Sleep hasn’t been great, but it doesn’t really matter. There’s tea.
We climb into a big old battered flatbed truck. Benches screwed into the back. Step ladder to get in. Health and safety nightmare.
It’s still dark. The truck lights pick out just enough of the track ahead — and then even that disappears as we turn off into the savannah.
Wide open grassland. Yellow-green. Termite mounds everywhere, like small, pale sculptures. You keep expecting to see herds of something — antelope, cattle — but it’s the termites that are doing the grazing here.
We’re looking for anteaters.
After about forty minutes, we find one.
A juvenile, moving through the long grass. We climb down quietly and edge closer. They don’t see or hear very well.
It looks… odd. Almost back to front. Long pointed face, tongue slipping in and out. Big, straggly tail behind it.
We have time with it. Proper time. And then it’s gone — off on its knuckles, faster than you’d expect, disappearing into the trees.
As the light comes up, more starts to appear.
A white-tailed hawk. A savannah hawk.
Then the driver just stops and points. It takes a while to see them — tiny burrowing owls, almost lost against the ground. I edge a bit closer. They stay put. Watching.
Enchanting.
Back at Caiman House, everything slows down.
Breakfast — fruit, bread rolls, eggs, sausages. I decline the chilli sauce again. My father is much in my thoughts.
Then a hammock. Warm air. A proper, heavy sleep.
Later, we head out to the river.
We hear the otters before we see them — loud, almost like they’re arguing with us for being there. They slip under the water and pop up further away, watching from behind roots and branches.
The lily pond is enormous.
The leaves are huge. I have a memory of a small child standing on one — not sure if it’s real or not.
The flowers open white, trap scarab beetles, warm them. When they open again, they’re pink. Soft, but definite.
Somewhere in there are tiny frogs making an unbelievable amount of noise.
That night, we’re back on the river.
Pitch black. One boat following another. A big light sweeping the banks looking for caiman. They know we’re there. We only catch a small one — less than a metre long, about four years old. Measured, checked, released.
There’s talk of a jaguar.
We don’t see it.
The insects are louder than the engine. Stars above. The light moving slowly across the water.
That’s enough.
Next morning. Earlier again.
4am. Head torch on. Careful where you step. Tea.
Back into the truck. Still dark. Still warm — it never really cools.
No idea how the driver knows where he’s going.
We drive for nearly an hour. There’s a breeze — warm, but welcome. The air smells faintly sweet.
We stop at a slight rise to watch the sunrise.
It doesn’t happen. Cloud sitting right on the horizon.
Still… the light comes.
The middle of the day slows right down.
Reading. Hammocks. Heat.
Later, back to the lily pond. This time just to sit and watch.
The birds keep their distance. Blending into the lilies.
Walking back along the path with one of the guides, we surprise a herd of cattle. Or maybe they surprise us. They drink, hesitate, then wait for us to leave before moving on.
Some try to go around us and end up stuck in a small clearing. We leave them to it.
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