inspiration
The shoes of so-called civilisation are left at the door to great places like the Delta. Tar roads turn to dirt, and then into wildlife trails that cross the landscape like tributaries. Each reminds us how many feet and hooves have walked this land, and for how long. There are older processes at play here, unconcerned with us, but still influenced by other forces. Each year, when the floods come, they reclaim our tyre tracks, and we must curb our ambitions to roam. Tall grasses sway in the wind, holding their secrets close, and placid waters — so clear you can see every cloud reflected in them — erupt without warning in bursts of mist, as hippos’ jaws open wide. The scent of wildlife and wild sage mingle in the air, and there’s scarcely a moment of silence between bird calls. Standing steadfast amongst this wild patchwork of change are towers of white, sun-
baked sand, some as tall as a minibus, some as broad as an oak tree. You might not think to look twice at a termite mound until it casts a shadow over your vehicle. But their ubiquitousness, shaping the landscape and behaviour of everything in it, forces you to acknowledge them. The Delta wouldn’t exist, nor could it endure, without them. Around 70% of its more than 150,000 islands began as termite mounds. Termites build upwards in dry floodplains, above the water table, so they don’t drown when the floods come. Instead, floods flow around the mounds, depositing layers of organic matter at their base and carving channels around their edges that persist long after the waters recede. Antelopes and baboons use the mounds as vantage points to scan the landscape for threats. Even leopards can be spotted atop them at dusk, surveying all that the last light
Previous spread These minute architects prove that size means nothing when we work together. Left Growing with age, termite mounds can rise from our ankles to well above our heads.
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