You can listen to the voice recording, or read through the text below.
Unreachable for most humans, but gods roam here, and fairies, and the spirits of long-dead animals and trees, I like to believe.
I stare back down the trail. Creeper weeds and the odd tuft of grass have invaded the wheel ruts. My tracks, visible in the sandy patches, are the only ones.
Being alone here where everything has been pushed into silence and sky is to be exposed to impressions that totally consume the senses—to forces that, should they be unleashed, would be immensely more powerful than I could hope to survive. All that stands between me and catastrophe are my senses, my wits, and my ability to humbly apply them—and luck.
On my break I write: Africa bared consumes one. It overwhelms with its beauty and majesty and its dimensions of cruelty and kindness. I understand again, sitting here in my rickety bush chair behind the meagre sum total of my means of survival, what this infinite expanse of earth and sky is telling me. It is impersonal, brutal, powerful and unpredictable. It rolls on in ancient rhythms that circle back seamlessly into each other; day flowing into night, seasons from one to the other and life into death, oblivious of what I call Time. Time means nothing here. It is a mere human construct. Reality is an endless and repetitive ebb and flow in which we and our silly fabrications are absolutely irrelevant.