Raining Cats
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Another day into the safari, our Masai guide spots something on the dense floor of the savanna — a perfectly camouflaged barn owl, who isn’t the least bit happy about his sleeping quarters being revealed and immediately takes off. Although I regret the (unintentional) intrusion, the flight shot comes handy in distinguishing the dark brown upper wing coverts and white outer tail, and identifying our friend as the African Grass Owl.
Owls are found in practically all regions of the Earth, and yet have such polar significance across cultures. For example, owls are attributed to wisdom and erudition in Greek mythology, but the Swahili in East Africa consider them omens of illness and bad luck, and the Kikuyu tribe of Kenya believes owls are harbingers of death. In the far west of Mesoamerica, the Aztecs considered it an evil omen associated closely with Mictlantecuhtli, the god of death, however the pre-Aztec civilization Teotihuacan considered owl the sacred animal of the rain god.
My musings come to a halt along with the engine, as I see Malaika presiding atop a knoll, the twins sitting next to her in the same exact perch, each shifted a little downward along the gradient of the mound. Visually, it is stunning. It’s not that there isn’t enough space off to the side, but seems this coalition of cheetahs is a fan of hierarchy. All three of them turn their head to see a hyena skulking about. There is no food at risk of being stolen, so the cheetahs ignore him until he disappears, clearly uncomfortable at the 3 to 1 ratio.
Something in the distance catches their attention. Malaika descends, and her boys follow. The three slender figures blend into the flavescent plains, and emerge on the horizon. Our eyes adjust, and we see a pair of antlers: a lone Thompson’s Gazelle is grazing away, unaware of the predator’s’ gaze.
My heart beats faster in anticipation of a hunt. But there is no change in cheetah’s’ body language. They don’t crouch, nor stalk — they simply watch and maintain their distance. Eventually, the sense of dramatic irony ceases, as the gazelle turns around and freezes at the sight of the trio. She leaps a few feet away and pauses cautiously, dead center of my viewfinder with a cheetah on either side, blurred yet their slender forms distinct enough to identify. The prey and the predators assess each other’s positions. Malaika knows that apart from her own kind, only the Thomson’s Gazelle comes anywhere near her top speed. She is clearly not interested in trying to outrun this one, because her meal could bolt in any direction, that too at 55 mph. The gazelle doesn’t take any chances though, and springs into flight, not stopping until she puts at least a couple of hundred yards between herself and the threat.
Maybe the owl isn’t the harbinger of death after all. With a sigh, I look out at the vast stretch of land that continues for hundreds of miles. And then I see the cascading sheets of grey amassed in the shadow of equally dark clouds. Lost in wonder, I don’t even realize that this phenomenon is rain! I have experienced rain in cities and forests, but watching the showers from miles afar on the uninterrupted savannas of Masai Mara, is like watching a curtain being drawn across the horizon. As it makes its way to us, we secure our cameras and lenses, ready to soak it all in. While Siddhartha and Guru experiment with shutter speeds to capture the essence of the rain, I decide to go for the 4K video. As if reading my mind, Malaika and her boys walk up toward us, and crystal-like droplets fall around them, enveloping their coats in a soft sheen. As the rain picks up, the three of them cozy up on the grass, licking and grooming one another, I and find myself smiling at the thought that maybe dear old owl has ushered in the rain god to our neck of the woods to create magic on the plains.