It’s way too early in the morning, somewhere in the Kruger National Park. Except for the “chirrup” of a cricket, which, by the sounds of it, must be somewhere in your tent, the intermittent coughs of the baboons sleeping in the fig tree overhead, and, of course, the snoring war going on between the tents either side of you (or perhaps your spouse in the bed next to you?), the silence of the bush is eerily deafening.
But the bush alarm is starting to sound. First, it’s the rude and raspy awakening of the Swainson’s Spurfowl, clearly unimpressed with this year’s winter chill. Then, the far-too-chatty Dark-capped Bulbuls scavenging from yesterday’s skottel. What about one of my favourites, the ascending then descending song of the White-browed Robin-chat?
Although, when it…
