16th October 2007

We have a sandbank, which stretches for about a kilometre along the river to the left of our house (as you face the river and the impressive Yatta Plateau rising up behind). The balcony, which runs 360º around the house, is the perfect vantage point to watch wild animals and birds coming to quench their thirst or graze on the riverine vegetation. The sandbank is like a wide beach when the water level in the river is low (as it is now), with glorious soft white sand, hugged by palm trees, fig trees, Tana River poplars, acacias, salt bush and reeds. At the water’s edge, the sand gives way to mud flats, which nurture lush green grass, much in demand from Impala, Dik-dik, Waterbuck, and even the Guinea Fowl, which congregate there in the early mornings to nibble the sweet new shoots. When the river floods, the whole scene is inundated by brown chocolate water, rushing and tumbling and carrying with it tons of soil from upstream erosion, fallen logs and various other bits of debris.

In the evenings, we often take a walk up the sandbank in the magical late light that drowns everything in gold for the hour before sunset. We saw Warthogs on the sandbank for the first time today, two “teenagers” and their impressive looking mother with her bristly mane and fearsome tusks. It was lovely to see them there, enjoying an evening drink and a good long munch on the green riverine grass. As soon as we saw them, we took a detour inland so as not to disturb them, returning to the beach once we were well past them. By leaving the Warthog family peaceful and unafraid today, they will soon learn they are safe here and come back more often. In time, they may even discover the area around our house where we’re watering the trees and grass to create an island of green in the dry bush country. (It may seem unbelievable, but the lushness of the riverine vegetation only stretches a few metres inland – 50 yards at the most - creating a green snake through the dry grey scrub.)

We’ve cleared an area to the right of our house (as you face the river), which we’re now watering to encourage the grass to grow. We call it our “Hippo Lawn” as we hope, once it has grassed over, that the hippos will come up there by night to graze. Already this area is attracting Dik-diks and a myriad of birds. I’ve also planted some “nursery patches” of river grass, from which I hope to take shoots to plant around the house to create a lawn-of-sorts.

We built a birdbath yesterday, up on the first floor balcony just along from where we sit to eat our meals, outside the living room. It will take some time before the birds realise it’s there and know it’s safe to come. We’ve incorporated a bird table for food next to the birdbat, so eventually we should have a colourful collection of avian visitors to our balcony. We’ve also planted a small Yellow Barked Acacia tree in the flowerbed, right by the birdbath, which we’ll prune so that it grows bushy and offers the birds some cover to dive into if an eagle flies overhead – this will make the birds feel more confident in coming to use the birdbath.

I’ve started compiling a Kulafumbi Bird List – not of the birds I know are found in this area, but of the ones which we’ve actually seen here. In a few days, I’ve already reached 103 different species, and those are just the ones I recognise or can easily identify. I should think there are actually twice this number here, especially when you include the migrant species that pass through at certain times of year.

On our walk down the sandbank today, we saw the Spur-winged Plovers had big chick, already fully fledged and foraging with the adults on the beach. The youngster hid in a small crack in the rocks as we went past, but we managed to get a good look at it. It was amazing how well-developed its plumage was, even though it was still only half the size of the parents. The colour of its feathers just appeared slightly more “grainy” or mottled, if you can imagine what I mean. I’ll have to try to get some photos of the Plovers; they are so perfectly designed, with striking black and white heads offset by soft beige wing coverts and beady, red-brown eyes. What clever parents! There we were, saying how silly the plovers were, trying to chase off every bird or animal daring to venture anywhere near them, acting as if they were defending a nest when, lo and behold, they were doing just that! Now who looks foolish?

The Dikkops (aka Water Thick-Knees) were mating today too, so it won’t be long before they too are laying their eggs, nesting (like the Plovers) on the ground.

Down at the far end of the sandbank, in the deep water just above the bend in the river, I counted 18 Hippos in the pod that always seems to spend the days there. We can tell by their tracks in the sand that they fan out at night and head off in many different directions in search of grass – in these dry times, I don’t know what they find to eat inland. We often see them munching the river reeds, and who can blame them, for there can’t be much grazing to be had elsewhere.

The rains are due any day now. We can see the storms passing by just on the other side of the Yatta Plateau that follows the Athi River on the opposite side from the house. The rain is so close, we can smell it on the air (do you know the smell of rain on parched earth? It is like nothing else, in its freshness and promise of rejuvenation) – but it just seems to be goading us. The days are sweltering hot; the air is heavy; the bush country is crackly and thirsty, and aching for the rain.

On our way back from our walk, we saw “our” mother and baby Hippo that live opposite our house, sheltering by day under the reeds in the deep channel of water on the far side of the river. The baby was half out the water – a fat round little lump of blubber – happily helping itself to a few mouthfuls of grass, with its mother waiting patiently in the water.

The mother has good reason to stay close. Just three days ago, from our balcony, we watched in equal measures of horror and fascination, as five massive Nile Crocodiles (and many smaller hangers-on) devoured a young hippo right before our eyes.

Whether they had killed the baby hippo or it had died of other causes, we don’t know, as by the time we saw it, it was already dead and the crocodiles were drifting downstream with the carcass, desperately trying to hold it against the flow of the river, to prevent it floating on downstream into someone else’s territory. Bull hippos often kill babies; hence mothers usually keep their young separate from the main pod until they are large enough to be out of danger. With the increasing pressure causing tension amongst the hippos as the river dries up and the available areas of deep water are diminishing, this may well be what happened to this hapless baby.

We always see a lot of small and medium sized crocodiles, even large ones, every day as they patrol the reed beds for fish, or pull their lazy reptilian bodies out of the water to bask in the sun on the rocks and sandbanks below our balcony – but where these monstrously huge crocodiles came from is a mystery, and where they have gone back to now, who knows? Crocodiles have an exceptionally keen sense of smell, and – like sharks – they can also detect blood in the water. As soon as they sense an animal in distress or smell blood, they converge like eerie prehistoric killing machines. After they’ve had their fill, they just melt away again, their obscenely gorged bodies sliding ominously beneath the surface and away, a brief ripple and then they’re gone.

I felt sad for the little hippo whose life was lost but I could not help feeling happy and relieved that it was not “our” little hippo, whom we saw today, still safe with its mother and regularly watched by us as we drink tea or eat lunch on our balcony. How fickle we humans can be in our emotional attachments.)

Add the other adult hippo we saw about to leave the river this evening, just below the house, and that’s 21 hippos we’ve seen on our property today…hurry up and sprout some grass, Hippo Lawn!