![]() We had moved to the northwestern cape of South Africa with nothing but a backpack each, high off the promise of handling the “big cat” species we dreamed of as children. We were wildlife field researchers, Ulysse and I. This was T2, and in the summer of 2015, it was my “home” every two weeks. Methodically, we unpacked the Land Cruiser, placing the cooler in its usual spot beneath the one large ridgetop shrub, piling up firewood brought from the field house, and unfolding our camp chairs around the fire ring. I walked back down the rocky path carved out by previous field technicians to where the car was parked, Ulysse following close behind. “I will try to start a fire,” Ulysse said in his thick French accent. Those were the unicorns of the wildlife world. We knew a person didn’t choose this field for the cushy lifestyle, the stellar pay, or the great benefits. We knew that to complain was to mark ourselves unfit for the job. We prayed to Mother Nature for favorable weather and cursed her when she delivered the opposite. We worked in shitty conditions and lived in even shittier conditions. We both knew there was nothing to discuss, no alternative plans to consider. I heard Ulysse sigh behind me, an indication of his acceptance of defeat. Ulysse, my coworker and close friend, who travelled from northern France to work on the project. “We might as well make dinner,” I said, making note of the sun that was slowly sinking behind the distant granite cliffs. I kicked a small rock and watched it roll off the cliff’s edge and into the desert far below. We were in for a long night in the field car. Between that and the strong winds that blew through each night, sleeping outside was not an option. Our campsite at T2.Īnd now, those anchors, saturated with a week’s worth of rain, were as heavy as the boulders that surrounded the tent. Two old, mouldy twin mattresses served as the only anchors inside the tent-beneath the ground’s sandy surface sat impenetrable granite that no stake could defeat. The tent’s poles were wrapped in duct tape in various spots-reminders of the more powerful wind storms that not even the boulders could guard against. The sun’s powerful rays had stripped away the weatherproofing on the tent’s walls long before I arrived in Namaqualand. The rain had finally relented, but our sad excuse for a field “house” was left even more battered than it already was from two years spent in the exact same spot. Large boulders surrounded the tent, guarding it against the strong winds that whipped through each night, but a dearth of trees left it otherwise unprotected. ![]() Now, it was our turn to trade the field house for the field tent, which sat in a sandy copse along a high ridgeline. We returned to our field house at the end of each day soaked through, and our gear would barely dry out overnight before we had to do it all again.Ĭompletely soaked through and muddy after another day of constant rain. We knew it was a futile effort, that our gear was not meant to withstand ten hours of assault. The rain had been unrelenting for nearly a week, and Ulysse and I had spent each morning layering up in rain pants, raincoats, and heavy muck boots. Ulysse groaned, knowing sitting upright in a car, cocooned in a sleeping bag, was a guarantee for a sleepless night. “Looks like it’s the Land Cruiser for the night,” I said to my field partner, a heavy sigh carrying my words away. ![]() There was at least an inch of standing water that had not been absorbed by the ratty twin mattresses that lived permanently inside. If you enjoy this article, please consider creating an account to support our journalism so we can keep going. Before you read, remember this: Independent editorial isn't free.
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