Wildlife Beyond the Lens

Of Stars, Balance, and the Bloody Nonsense of Being Human

Today’s ramblings come to you from suburbia in Pretoria — that awkward no-man’s-land between the bush and the Woolworths fruit aisle. A place where the Wi-Fi is fast, but the soul feels like it’s buffering. I’ve got some time in Black Rhino coming up this weekend, which means soon I’ll trade car alarms for francolins and traffic lights for elephant dung. Until then, I thought I’d reflect — not on lions or leopards for once, but on something a bit more spiritual. Not religious — good heavens, no — but spiritual.

You see, I’ve always believed there are a few invisible forces that make us who we are. Not the kind you burn incense for, but the quiet, stubborn laws that keep life from descending into total chaos. Things like karma, for example. Or that unspoken rule that you shouldn’t try to fix a Wi-Fi router when you’re angry — the results are always tragic.

But today’s reflection isn’t about routers. It’s about instincts, balance, and the nonsense we use to make sense of ourselves — namely, astrology.

Now, I don’t for a bloody second believe that because a few stars were having a staff meeting the day I was born, I’m doomed to be indecisive and fond of scented candles. The idea that Mars being in retrograde has anything to do with why your car won’t start is exactly the kind of pseudoscientific twaddle that makes me want to walk into the bush and stay there.

And yet… there’s a sliver of truth buried somewhere under the nonsense. You see, every sign comes with its own set of “traits.” Libras are diplomatic, Scorpios are passionate, Virgos are insufferable perfectionists, and so on. A psychologist would call it projection; I call it the placebo effect — a mirror we hold up to make sense of the chaos.

Now, as a Libra myself, apparently I’m “balanced, charming, and prone to indecision.” Which, if you’ve ever seen me choose between two bottles of red wine, is absolutely accurate. I like balance. There should be a reward for hard work, a consequence for laziness, and an afternoon nap for surviving the first two. I can be diplomatic — I can sit through a difficult conversation without setting the house on fire — but I also reserve the right to tell someone to f#@k right off when the scales tip too far. Balance, you see.

But here’s where astrology falls apart. My brother is also a Libra. And if he’s “charming,” then I’m an ostrich. He’s got all the charisma of a damp dishcloth and dresses like a Buddhist monk who’s given up. So, if the stars supposedly made us both the same, someone up there clearly spilled their coffee over the birth chart.

And yet… maybe there’s still something to it. Not the cosmic nonsense — the human part. The psychology. Think about it: a kid born in January has a solid nine-month head start in physical and emotional development over one born in September. By the time they’re both ten, that difference is enormous. The early-year kid’s the confident one, the leader, the athlete. The late-year one learns to adapt, to observe, to compensate — maybe they become more creative, more socially aware, or just better at pretending to be both.

So no, I don’t think the stars dictate our personalities. But I do think timing does. Context does. Life does. In other words — instinct. The quiet driving force behind every decision we make.

Now, while I don’t consult horoscopes, I do have a deep respect for the stars themselves. I spend a lot of time under them — mostly because the bush has terrible cell reception — and I find a strange sort of peace in their consistency. Civilisations have told stories about them since before language had grammar. And in their myths, I think they understood something we’ve forgotten: the sky isn’t there to predict your future — it’s there to remind you to look up.

Take Orion, for example — the hunter. In Greek mythology, he’s a hero blinded by pride. In African stories, he’s the one who brings the rain, a symbol of renewal. Every night he marches across the heavens, chasing something he’ll never catch. The symbolism’s almost too on the nose: ambition, restlessness, the inability to just sit still and enjoy the bloody sunset.

Then there’s the Southern Cross — small, steady, unbothered. It doesn’t chase anything. It just hangs there, marking south, quietly reminding every wanderer that no matter how far they drift, home has coordinates. It’s the cosmic equivalent of that one sensible friend who tells you when you’re being an idiot.

And Scorpius — well, that’s the universe’s middle finger to arrogance. The scorpion that killed Orion. Passion and peril bundled into one constellation. It doesn’t move quickly; it waits. It knows its worth. It’s beauty with bite — which, frankly, describes half the wildlife I’ve ever photographed.

These stories, though ancient, are strangely human. They remind us that everything — from ambition to stillness — has its place. That for every hunter there’s a compass. For every chase, a reckoning. For every sunset, a sunrise somewhere else. Balance.

That’s the thing about belief systems — they don’t have to be true to be useful. They just have to give you a reason to pause and reflect. When I look up at Orion, I don’t see destiny. I see a reminder that some pursuits never end, and that’s alright. When I look at the Southern Cross, I see direction. When I see Scorpius, I see consequence.

And maybe that’s all spirituality really is — finding meaning in the madness, and trying, against all odds, not to cock it up completely.

So yes, I believe in karma. I believe that the sun rises for everyone, and that you get what you put out. I believe that if you do good, good tends to find its way back — though usually a bit late and in a slightly inconvenient form. And I believe, most of all, in balance. Because whether you’re a lion chasing a buffalo, a photographer chasing light, or a human chasing purpose — the stars don’t care. They’ll shine either way. The least we can do is try to shine back, even if only for a while.