I had left John and the group to explore the Etosha, whilst I stayed outside with the bikes. Solitude. Finally!

I found a little spot in the bushes, under a beautiful tree, that had the remnants of a previous visitor: a spent fire, the ashes neatly  contained in a circle of stones.

Heaven.

 

I revel in the moment, by stripping off my bike gear, throwing off all the luggage and draping myself on my XT recliner. I swear, I could sleep like this: head resting on the handlebars, body stretched out along the bike - on my back, savouring a lazy smoke, whilst peering through the leaves at the impossibly blue sky above.

As soon as I settle down, the bike noise silenced, the bush starts breathing again: hundreds of crickets start chirring, a bird calls and rustles in the branches nearby and the mesmerising, hypnotising humm of bees and beetles starts.

I could lie like this, until I die.

But, the sun is low, and I need to get a fire going.

 As if on call, a local appears - walking home after a days work somewhere. "Sawobona!" after polite greetings, I ask whether he knows where some firewood can be found.

He grins broadly, puts down his pack and say: "I help you!"

I grin back and show him the "sharp! sharp!" salute.  He disappears in the tall thicket a few hundred yards away- and suddenly an almightly racket breaks loose.  Branches shake furiously and leaves fly everywhere.

Oh my god! He's felling a tree!  Either that, or he's being attacked.

Moments later, he emerges with an axe (where did that come from!) slung non-chalantly over his shoulder and an armful of wood - enough to burn for a week!
"Ke a Leboga, Baba!" I'm blown away, as always with the beautiful people "Come smoke with me!"

He lingers a while, we exhange pleasantries about family and home, smoking together whilst I build a fire. (Its a woman's work, so he lets me be.)
I send him off with a handful of coins and some cigarettes.  He leaves me with a night of warmth, light and magic.... I'm aware that I got the best part of the deal.

The fire springs into cracking flames without much coaxing. The wood is perfectly dry - and chopped to to size.

I notice the tree's arms outstretched - and one glance confirms it: this tree is for climbing!

Perching on a thick branch, at the very top, my legs swinging in the glow of the amber flames below - wood smoke rising fragrantly in the air, I think again: Can heaven be any heavenlier than this?

I have another slow, lingering smoke aloft my Princess Afrika seat, watching the sky turn form blue, to indigo and finally melt into a riot of of purple, cerise, amber and saffron.

As the sun bows her glimmering finale, the stars enter the stage: gently at first, almost demurely. Only when the moon rises, is it a cue for a showcase of shimmering sparkly fairydust to light up the black velvet sky.

To confirm that the stage now belong to the African Night, the last remnants of the day's heat is brushed from the air, almost at once.

A silver chill rises and cools my sunburnt arms, raising goosebumps: its time to prepare a place to sleep.

Halfway through unpacking my tent, I'm enchanted by the blaze of stars. To hell with a tent! I tie a mozzienet from the tree, and lie down in my heaven bed: the flickering glow of the fire next to me, the moonlight painting patterns on my body through the leaves above and a raucous chorus of frogs, beetles and animal calls, lull me to sleep.

Goodnight Africa. Thank you for another magical day.