From the airstrip to camp, a line of wildebeests gallop across the dirt roadway we travel, halting our progress. These gangly beasts, and all animals, have the right of way in the park.
So, not to worry, right? But the galloping line keeps coming, mostly single file, sometimes by twos or threes. We sit and wait. When the line began, it didn’t occur to me to try to count how many go by, like cars on a freight train. I wish I had.
Spotting a small break in the herd, we leave the place where our paths intersect and make our way to camp. In my mind, I may have thought, “ah, so these are the wildebeests that we have come to photograph...“ How incomplete was my picture of the herds gathering near the banks of the Mara River.
Night Visitors
After dinner that night, my first at Sayari, I had the obligatory camp safety lecture which, unlike the airline spiel at the commencement of a flight, I always listen to. I received the usual caution to expect nighttime visitors. Likely ungulates grazing near camp but, where there are grazers, there are predators.
Night visitors for me, in the past, have run the gamut from hippos to centipedes. Elephant and leopard have graced the surrounds of my tent. A lion has roared RIGHT OUTSIDE and a genet and mice have visited me inside.
Hippos generally make the most noise, grunting and chortling as they munch their way through camp. Elephants can rank right up there as they pull down small trees to sate their appetites. The most thrilling night walker is the lion as the close up sound of his roar reverberates through your whole being; your heart stops and you wonder if it is okay to breath.
Bright yellow earplugs insure that I sleep through nighttime visitations; I rely on the kindness of my roommate to wake me for really exciting stuff. This night, clattering inside the tent and a strange lowing coming from outside brings me to consciousness. Tent poles shake on impact as something hits the side of the tent replicating the clatter that first wakened me. Lowing seems to come from all around. I creep from bed and stand by the thin curtain that covers the screened tent wall – all that is between me and whatever is out there. I hesitate before I pull back the curtain, uncertain of what I will see and more, of what might see me.
The tent shakes again and I draw back the curtain just a bit. Soft light from the almost full moon glistens off the shiny coats of the hundreds of wildebeests that surround our tent. Heads down and oblivious to the camp’s presence, they simply go where there is grass. They can’t eat the tent, so, except for the absent minded bumps while on their way to the next clump of grass, they leave us alone.
I watch as they mingle in the huge plain in front of our tent . Intermixed in the crowd, I see a zebra or two. The low mooing reminds me of a huge herd of cattle and the clattering effect of the occasional bumps to our tent replicates the sounds of cow bells. Finally, I lay back down falling asleep to their bass song. Will this group cross tomorrow? My alarm sounds at 5am and the silence tells me they have moved on in the night.
We are out early the next morning, stopping at times to photograph the sunrise, an impressive trail of safari ants, a Thompson’s gazelle. Totally involved in the gazelle, a familiar sound makes me look to the back, then to the sides.
I am surrounded by wildebeests and they cover the vista as far as I see. I begin to get a sense of the magnitude of what is to come.
Two groups that make up part of the one million migrating wildebeest are converging on the river at the same time. But they don’t just come to the river and cross. The Mara river runs swiftly and is strewn with rocks on which fat crocodiles await the weaker swimmers. Steep banks mean a long drop into the rapid currents. It is with great reluctance that they begin the crossing and, I am told, it sometimes takes several days of milling about, scouring the surrounding plains to be sure there is no source of food on this side of the river before the first wildebeest will cross which, in turn, spurs the rest of the herd to action.
A half million zebras and tommies (Thompson’s gazelles) accompany the wildebeests finding safety in the masses making this trek. Weakened by the dwindling food supply and the pressure to keep up with the herd, there are always a contingent of tired wildebeest that are prime targets for predators. What cheetah mother with hungry cubs to feed wouldn’t opt for a weak gnu rather than risk the perils of a serious chase with a gazelle?
We watch them mill about, moving this way or that, sometimes with purpose, sometimes aimlessly. The closer they get to the river, the more insistent, the more impatient their calls. Something spooks them and a large group stampedes away from the river.
I wonder how long we will have to wait for a crossing.
Gnu Nights II – The Sequel
My award for most annoying night visitor goes to the mouse whose sharp little toenails skitter against the canvas of our tent during the first night at Oliver’s Camp in Tarangire. He runs laps inside the perimeter of the tent all night until a badly thrown boot convinces him to find a way out. His teeth marks leave evidence of the object of his desire and a deal with the little devil is struck with the sacrifice of our daily ration of lemongrass soap. Each night, the offering is left in the open air bathroom part of the tent and I sleep peacefully for the remainder of my stay. Cartoon visions of mouse with extended belly and soap bubbles belching forth from his mouth continually plague my roommate for the remainder of the trip.
The second night in Sayari, very tired, I fall into bed and asleep without my earplugs. Gentle lowing wakes me and I creep to the tent opening to see wildebeest and zebra grazing on what I have come to think of as my front lawn. Many more than last night.
Too tired to watch, I am back in bed and begin to drift off . Suddenly, the lowing is drowned out by the sound of stampeding hooves. The tent shakes violently as the herd crashes into the tent with force that knocks water bottles, toothbrushes and tin cups to the floor. But, before I register fear in my narcoleptic stupor, it is over. The spooked herd has moved on. My heart's pounding slows,and as I fall back to sleep, I wonder what spooked them – a flush in the night?
The Crossing
There are two types of safaris – the drive, drive, drive type where you drive and hope you and animal action will intersect randomly. And the sit and wait type where you find a likely spot – a watering hole, a likely river crossing spot, a plain where cheetah are known to hunt, and you wait for the action to happen. Given the option, always choose the latter! We miss a couple of crossings by being on the drive, drive, drive cycle and finally, on our second to the last day, with the hope of seeing a crossing fading, we demand that we wait it out.
Two herds have come together from opposite directions both previously seeming to have a purpose, a plan. Now, milling together by the steep river banks, the lowing becomes more insistent, more frantic. The mooing softens. A small group breaks away and moves downstream, a few lay down, conserving energy. There is no way to tell where, when or if, they will cross today but we settle down to wait.
Vultures begin to gather. If there is a crossing, some wildebeests won’t survive.
Each movement in the jeep causes a rustle that breaks the silence we try to keep. Nothing to say – we have been together for 10 days shooting everything but the crossing we have come so far to see. We’re tired – the days have been long with pre-dawn wake up calls and sleep broken by our nightly visitors. But the wait is good; it is our chance. Finally, the radio crackles – from down the river, a call from another guide, waiting as we are. It has begun.
The jeep careens to a place on the steep bank downriver from the spot the wildebeest have chosen to cross.
We spill from the jeep. My camera cord is stuck on the seat and it takes a moment to free. The lowing is loud, frantic. The dust from the herd clouds the air. I can see the herd but I can’t see my guides. Along the top of the bank, I see another guide from camp – I move toward him and the herd. The lowing is louder and I see the first of the struggling animals reaching the other side. I follow the swimming line back to this bank and watch with utter amazement as one after another thousands of wildebeests jump into the swiftly running Mara River.
Some launch themselves forward over the backs of other crossers,
some seek to descend the steep bank before entering the water.
A large portion of the herd come toward us as they put off the inevitable and look for a better place to begin the crossing. There is none.
I am struck by the strength of instinct, of migratory drive, of the drive for survival. As I watch one particularly spectacular leap into the river, I wonder when an action is no longer an act of instinct but an act of courage.
Some swim out, then turn back.
Once in the river, they swim with purpose losing some ground to the current but making it to the landing place. At times, a sense of fear pervades my consciousness yet, I am not in danger.
All except one in this crossing seems to make it to the rocks on the other side. A calf, born in February of this year, is too weak to fight the current. I see, but I can't watch. I try to block out the sounds of the mother calling to her struggling offspring from the bank.
Rocks offer no purchase in the torturous climb out of the river and up the opposite bank. 
Once over the rocks, they swarm like ants up the far bank.
Legs wobble and shake with this final effort.
The exhaustion is visible as they pull themselves up the bank.
This three stage drama plays continuously for 40 minutes. Suddenly, the portion of the herd remaining on this side of the river stops and moves away from the bank. No more will cross for now; the herd will be split. The animals that crossed look back from the far bank expectantly, but after a few moments, move on to the yet ungrazed plains on the north side of the river.
We move on,too. I, as yet, am without the right words. Perhaps, without the right questions. I do know I am moved far beyond my expectations.
