Annemarie:
It’s a hot sticky night. It’s only 9pm but I’m trying to sleep, knowing I need to be bright and breezy at 6:30 tomorrow, but I can’t. I peer out through the mosquito net, a bright moon is casting shadows across the clearing in the trees and then a waft of breeze and, strange, I could have sworn I could hear singing. Yes, rhythmic, singing, huge numbers of voices, louder now. One song finishes and another starts, this with more pauses caused by a change in the wind direction, almost as if a radio is being tuned in and out. In the pauses a dog barks, the electric fence buzzes then an owl joins in the syncopation. Wow, this is quite a treat; I lie there thinking of my Dad and his singing in a performance of Carmina Burana. They are still singing over an hour after I first noticed and gently, the rhythm of African voices rocks me to sleep. It’s a very gentle welcome back to camping, thank you Africa. Next day I learn it was singing for a funeral.