Kopje

Life distilled to two things for us that fortnight. Watching the horizon. And food.

We mimicked the cheetahs disinterested stalking of Thomson gazelle, the landrover quietly finding their pace. The hyena would cackle at our heels every night as we raced sunset out of the Serengeti.

We would be ravenous. John, the cook, was the centre of the universe every evening. He guarded his supplies jealously and beamed as he watched our faces light up at the meals he conjured.

On our last night a mango rolled off John’s tiny fold out table and he leapt after it. A vervet monkey was out of the overhanging branches to snatch up John’s huge tub of margarine before any of us could move. Tossing the lid, the monkey climbed back amongst its clan, grinning wildly down at John. It raised a long finger, held it theatrically, then scooped out a huge glob of the golden prize and plunged it into its mouth.

The monkey grimaced, roared, stood up with his arms thrown wide so that we might know his total disgust. He flung the tub to the ground before us and it collapsed into the dust.

John threw a disconsolate sandal at the tree. After a while, it came back.