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by brandon@uncommon.org | Jul 1, 2021 | Uncategorized

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CONTACT

buck@badrabbitstudio.co.zw

+263 772 573 151

jo@badrabbitstudio.co.zw

+263 776 638 790

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It’s the best day of the entire year. Today (21

It’s the best day of the entire year. Today (21 January) is Squirrel Appreciation Day. It’s an occasion to celebrate these amazing little guys 🐿❤️

Ash and Billy, what a great wedding at @fothergill

Ash and Billy, what a great wedding at @fothergillisland. Thank you for trusting Buck to photograph your wedding. Here’s to the two of you, your families and the years to come. Congratulations on your marriage 🥳

Today’s run in the Cape Point National Park is o

Today’s run in the Cape Point National Park is one of the more memorable runs we’ve done. 25 beautiful kms along the unspoiled Cape coastline is a day well spent if you ask us 👍

Fothergill has had new life breathed into it and g

Fothergill has had new life breathed into it and goodness does it look (and feel) good. Buck, lucky as he is, went up twice in one month to Fothergill and came back home each time yearning for the delicious meals (firstly), the massive, comfortable bed he slept in (secondly) and of course (most of all), the sound of Smith’s tree squirrels in their full throated, tailed flicking territorial claims. Fothergill is not only back, it could possibly be the best luxury experience available in Zim at the moment. If you can afford it, go.

Our childhoods were spent in the warm, temperate d

Our childhoods were spent in the warm, temperate district of Zimbabwe’s Mashonaland West, with the nearby bodies of free-flowing water still at that time holding the lurking threat of wild crocodiles, fang-toothed mermaids and the ever lingering bilharzia. Water, was a dare. You held your breath and scrunched your eyes tight as you jumped off the rich, loamy bank into the rippling ochre Angwa, Hunyani, Mukwadzi Rivers in my case, and the Mwami, Nyaodza and Rukomenchi in Buck’s. I distinctly remember my Dad loading his shotgun before telling me it was ‘safe to jump in’. I didn’t want to, but I did. You just did. The crocodiles may have been pushed into the last wild waters of the district, but the thrill of the threat never leaves you. This body of water, the swelling stormy Indian and Atlantic Oceans of Cape Town, with the biting cold that gnaws at the marrow of your bones, has an altogether different pull. The mystery is different. We came here for a change of scenery, to finish the editing of our film and to finish the collation of our book, to get some distance from the Miombo woodlands, deep soils and the amber, cinnamon waters of home. The mood of the Cape’s waters is more slivery, slate and argent, unpredictable, stormy and vast. Beside the cold, you have absolutely no idea of what its waters could hold. That’s good for us, good for this next phase of our project and good to get some space between the intensity of living every day of the last two years deep in one subject. This precious phase, like the Cape’s waters, is liminal. We’re grateful for that. For now, we’re running in these new fynbos and forested mountains, diving into the cold salt waters and breathing in the costal air until we’re washed into new waters, of a tone, quality and thrill as yet unknown. The trick is to close your eyes, take a deep breath and just jump in.

The adventures of Buck and Jo.

The adventures of Buck and Jo.

All hail Chendez the first, King of Guluji 🐿 ❤️

Follow the Pungwe River through its winding course

Follow the Pungwe River through its winding course in Honde Valley and you’ll find banana groves and homes of mud and thatch patrolled by glossy fussing chickens, scrawny dogs and an Ambuya, broom sweep in hand. You’ll count row upon row of cultivation along the Pungwe’s banks, some in established decades-old fields, some just recently burnt and hacked from the diminishing indigenous forest. Stay on the Pungwe’s clear quick course and you’ll find school children cooling off from the stifling 9am heat. Finished with classes for the day they left their school bags and uniforms on the bank, shrieking, splashing, laughing in the Pungwe’s respite. I don’t know what I was more in awe of - the heat, the drop in temperature under the remaining riverine forest, the resuscitating waters and the carefree play, or the short, short school day. At some point the Pungwe becomes the dividing line between Zimbabwe and Mozambique, a gentle watery line with untended and unending fires burning either side.

When I am old and bent double will the Pungwe’s waters still flow? Will we be capable of leaving the forest to regrow? Will the millions of children be followed by billions more? Will the Pungwe still flow?

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