The day dawns quietly in Khwai, the landscape stretching wide and open, unmarred by fences—only simple poles stand to mark where the yard begins and ends. The ground beneath is sandy, with tufts of grass swaying gently in the breeze. The crackling of the firewood fills the air, mingling with the soft sounds of morning, as I crouch beside the flames, stirring the pot for breakfast.
As I glance up, movement on the horizon catches my eye—two buffaloes, massive and serene, cross the yard at a distance. Their presence is both startling and mesmerizing; they move with the confidence of creatures who know this land intimately. I freeze, heart pounding, not out of fear but in awe, for in Maun, where I spend most of my time, such wild encounters are unheard of.
Others around me reach for their phones, capturing pictures of this unexpected visit. The buffaloes do not shy away; instead, they stare back at us with steady, intelligent eyes. In that silent exchange, I realize these animals are not afraid of us—they are simply passing through, undisturbed by our presence.
It is only after they have gone that I learn this is their usual path, a trail they have followed many times before. The knowledge adds a layer of wonder to the experience—how many mornings have they crossed here unnoticed? The beauty of the buffaloes lingers in my mind, their wild grace both captivating and intimidating.
Excitement bubbles as we share our thoughts, each person replaying the moment the buffaloes looked our way. Pictures are passed around, voices animated, and laughter rings through the yard. The experience connects us, a shared memory bound to this December morning.
The fire crackles on, breakfast forgotten for a while as I gaze out where the buffaloes vanished. Living in Khwai, with no fences to keep the wild at bay, feels like a gift—a reminder that beauty and danger often come hand in hand. Though the sight of buffaloes is now etched in my memory, each new day in Khwai promises another surprise, just beyond the poles.
