Wild life | 31 May 2018

Laikipia

I wake at 4 a.m. these days. At that time you might hear a lion or a braying zebra, but the birds and bullfrogs are quiet under the constellations. False dawn comes an hour later with the liquid song of sandgrouse and the bustards cackling as they angle into the first light. Just before sunrise the birdsong becomes a sound cloud rising from the valley up on to the plains. The cattle spill out of the boma bellowing and mooing and then later, at seven, comes the sound of men’s voices arriving at work, diesel engines warming up, chickens, dogs barking. My father used to rise at 5.30 a.m. — but he always had a siesta after lunch, wherever he was in the world. When I was youngI often saw the dawn only because I had not yet gone to sleep. For much of my working life in cities I thought six o’clock was quite early, and I felt jolly virtuous if I get up early enough to see sunrise. It was only whenI started farming 17 years ago that I began to understand that 6 a.m. was slothful. I tried five-thirty and then five, but I still felt weak when I compared myself with my neighbour Gilfrid, who always rose at four. I gradually managed four-thirty, but I struggled for some months to reach my final goal. Nowadays I feel I am being very lazy ifI am still in bed at four-thirty. There are many excellent reasons to wake at 4 a.m., at least if one lives near the equator. Here sunrise happens either side of sixty-thirty all year round, arriving with vast cloudscapes in golds and reds, and for me witnessing the crescendo of light growing for an hour before dawn as I sit at my desk or wander around the yards is the best time of the entire day.