Christmas from the rainsoaked bush.
Ah, Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. Or, as I like to call it, the annual exercise in festive lunacy, where people adorn their houses with enough lights to rival Abu Dhabi’s landing strip, and queue in traffic for hours to spend obscene amounts on presents destined to be forgotten by New Year’s Day.
And here I am, sitting in the middle of the bush, in the rain, on Christmas Day. Alone. While the rest of you are gorging yourselves on a Christmas buffet and pretending to like Aunt Maude’s stories about her knitting club, I’m staring at my umpteenth cup of instant coffee, contemplating the great mysteries of life. Namely, why humans think they’re so bloody special when, at the end of the day, we’re no different from the creatures I guide my guests to marvel at on safari.
Yes, you heard me. Humans and animals are exactly the same. Sure, we’ve got Netflix and Wi-Fi, but peel back the layers of civilization and what do you find? Instincts. Base, primal instincts driving everything we do. Allow me to explain.
Take the giraffe, for instance. Older males lose hair on their ossicones on top of their heads but sprout it in all sorts of inconvenient places. Sound familiar? Exactly. It’s the same reason middle-aged men in sports cars suddenly discover a penchant for Hawaiian shirts and Bluetooth earpieces. It’s not vanity—it’s nature. Hormonal shifts, desperate attempts to assert dominance, and perhaps, a quiet, panicked whisper of “Is this all there is?”
Then there’s the steenbok, that cute, monogamous little antelope everyone romanticizes. “They mate for life,” guides will coo. What they don’t tell you is that the moment one partner croaks, the other’s already swiping right for a replacement. Romantic? Hardly. Practical? Absolutely. It’s no different from the human widower who shows up at a funeral with a new “companion.” It’s not love; it’s survival.
And how about the impala? Every year, the males duke it out for mating rights, leaving the losers to sulk off into bachelor herds. If that doesn’t sound like a Friday night at your local watering hole, where a group of single rugby players is two brandies away from attempting to arm wrestle the bouncer because of a girl, I don’t know what does.
Let’s not kid ourselves, folks. We may dress in suits and tie bows on our pets, but our lives are ruled by instincts. The big one? Self-preservation. It’s why we lock our doors, fight for the last slice of pizza, and justify our bad behavior with phrases like “I had no choice.” It’s not your conscience calling the shots; it’s your lizard brain whispering, “Me first.”
And don’t even get me started on hormones. These sneaky little buggers cause more chaos than a toddler in a china shop. They make us fall in love, pick fights, and regret most of our life choices by the next morning. Hormones are the reason relationships implode, friendships fracture, and people make spectacularly bad decisions involving karaoke machines.
But here’s the kicker: despite all this primal chaos, you don’t have to be a selfish git. With a bit of effort, you can override your instincts. Imagine that! You can actually make someone smile without expecting a medal. You can let someone else take the last parking spot without muttering obscenities under your breath. You can be happy for others without secretly wishing their soufflé collapses. Revolutionary, isn’t it?
So here I sit, in my rain-soaked reserve, not wallowing in self-pity but marveling at the absurdity of it all. Sure, it would be nice to have someone to share this day with, but I’m not going to let it ruin my mood. Because selflessness doesn’t mean being a doormat. It means knowing when to care and when to draw the line. Or, as I like to call it, the art of not taking sh*t.
So, this Christmas, let’s embrace our inner steenbok and our hormonal impalas. Let’s strive to be better humans—or at least slightly less terrible ones. And above all, let’s remember we’re not so different from the monkey in the tree throwing poop at a lion. The only difference is, we call ours “tweets.”
Merry Christmas, you magnificent mammals. Don’t let your instincts drive you to eat that fifth piece of lamb. Or do. It’s your life.
Wildlife Beyond the Lens 