Savanna Dry Quotes

Inside her head or out in the desert was the same, and the air inside her throat was very dry to keep from crying and her neck sore from forcing herself not to look down, not to look back.

Then, beginning about five million years ago, Panama rose from the sea, closing the gap between North and South America, disrupting the flows of warming currents between the Pacific and Atlantic, and changing patterns of precipitation across at least half the world. One consequence was a drying out of Africa, which caused apes to climb down out of trees and go looking for a new way of living on the emerging savannas.

In 1985, Wouter van Hoven was in his office in the zoology department at Pretoria University when he got an unusual call from a wildlife warden. In the last month, more than a thousand kudu, a particularly majestic species of antelope with elegant stripes and long, curling horns, had dropped dead on multiple game ranches in the nearby Transvaal region. The same thing had happened the winter before. In total some three thousand kudu had died. Nothing seemed wrong with them, no open wounds, no disease, though some looked a little thin. Could he come out as soon as possible? The ranch owners were beside themselves. Van Hoven was a wildlife nutrition zoologist who specialized in African ungulates. He should be able to figure this out, he thought. He’d be over right away. When Van Hoven got to the first game ranch, dead kudu were lying about as if a war had just been fought. But the first thing he noticed after the stench was that there were too many of them for a ranch that size. As a rule, there should not be more than three kudu per 100 hectares, and this ranch had about fifteen per 100. The same was true at the next few ranches he visited. Game-ranch hunting had exploded in popularity, and to cash in, ranchers were pushing the limits of their land. He opened up several kudu and saw stomachs full of crushed acacia leaves, undigested. He looked out at the giraffes, who were spread out along a swath of savanna, nibbling acacia trees and evidently not dying. After a few weeks a picture began to come together: when acacias begin to be eaten, they increase the bitter tannin in their leaves. Van Hoven already knew this. It’s a gentle defensive mechanism. At first, the tannin rises just a little. It’s not dangerous, but it tastes bad. Typically, that’s enough to deter a kudu. But both of the last two winters were extremely dry. All the grass was dead. Too many kudu, penned in by game fences, had nothing else to eat and nowhere else to go. He figured they had continued eating the acacia leaves, despite the bitter taste, because they had to. He pulled out a few clumps of chewed acacia leaves from a kudu gut and brought them to a lab. Kudu, Van Hoven knew, could handle about 4 percent tannin content in a leaf. Above that is trouble. The acacia, he figured, kept raising the level of tannin in the leaves, tit for tat. The kudu kept eating. And then, clearly, the acacias delivered a lethal dose. The undigested leaves Van Hoven tested from the kudu’s stomachs were 12 percent tannin.

The wind from the east over his shoulder carried the tang of drying murram grass and the scents of bitter pungent shrubs, of red earth and brown earth of old scat and stones heating in the midafternoon sun.

Landowners in the bone-dry southwest United States irrigate their properties to evoke the lush, grassy savanna. Gardeners in Japan prune their trees so that the boughs resemble the spreading branches of the trees of East Africa. Such choices reflect the brain’s very particular evolved history—the “ghosts of environments past,” in the phrase of biologist Gordon Orians. What we imagine to be aesthetic preferences are really survival instincts honed over millennia, instincts that helped us find promising places to forage and to rest. When, today, we turn to nature when we’re stressed or burned out—when we take a walk through the woods or gaze out at the ocean’s rolling waves—we are engaging in what one researcher calls “environmental self-regulation,” a process of psychological renewal that our brains cannot accomplish on their own.

The deepening chill that had started when mud buried the redwoods continues to the modern day. Like the Eocene’s climate, the temperature of the intervening years has staggered up and down. We owe the origin of our own species to this cooling trend. When Africa’s forests retreated in a particularly cold and dry spell, our prehumen ancestors strode into the emerging savannah and grasslands. Homo sapiens evolved from these apes of the open country, and all our species’ history has unfolded in relatively cold times. The calm that I feel as I survey the scenery around the Big Stump- open vistas of grasslands and tree copses, created by cool aridity- is perhaps a judgment of the landscape wired deep in my human mind. An affinity for savanna-like grasslands is one of the neurological quirks that we humans carried with us as we spread across the world. Another is the desire to collect curios, especially pieces of the past. We’re a storytelling species, so perhaps these artifacts are anchors and touchstones for the tales from which we find our reality.