Sleep came in waves, broken by moments of concern. There was a fire raging outside in the night, across the plain in Hwange National Park. Chewing up the landscape, it rose in plumes of pink, purple and deep black smoke, seeming to bruise the sky.
That evening, and all throughout dinner on the veranda we had watched the fire creep south, relieved it was moving parallel to our camp. The horizon was dotted by its furious flames. When I retired to my tent for the night, I packed my bags and left them within reach – in case. I left the flaps open as well, to keep an eye on the horizon and to feel the direction of the wind. I must have started to doze – but snapped awake in a nervous moment. There was wind on my face – an east wind. The fire wind.
The men gathered and set off – it was late and there was much work to do. They strained all through the night, only returning at dawn. They were covered in soot but had fire in their eyes. In Hwange there isn’t much water so they had fought the fire the old fashioned way – with shovels and manpower, by digging a fire breaker and suffocating the flames with the earth. Luckily the wind gave us grace too, dying down as the hours clocked past.
Even so, the smoldering fire still lived on – holding its anger in its hot embers, but without the wind she was kept in her place. It seemed we were safe – for now.
After fighting the fire for four solid days, the fire at Hwange was eventually put out. The landscape, the flora and smaller animals like the slow-moving Leopard Tortoise suffered her wrath, but thankfully the losses were reduced as much as possible by the brave individuals that picked up their shovels.
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