A seedy tale

Can you identify the mystery object? 

This is a 'gripe post'.
You know the sort: someone working in one of the world's most beautiful places rants about the ghastly field conditions they must endure daily.
It's all a front, of course, so you won't realise what a great time they're really having.

You may remember that - back in April - heavy rain brought on an explosion of wildflowers. Well, all those lovely flowers have now gone to seed. And all those unlovely seeds are enmeshed in my socks.

I know what you're thinking: a pathetic excuse for a gripe. You haven't seen my socks. Actually you can't see my socks. The fabric is totally obscured under a solid mat of plant progeny. After a morning in the field, my boot laces are two inches wide; a knobbly testament to the fecundity of the local flora.

I've nothing against seeds per se, the problem is their dispersal paraphernalia. Within my socks are seeds armed with barbs, thorns and spikes, seeds shaped like tiny harpoons, seeds fortified with spurs, claws and hooks and seeds whose long, twisted awns screw their needle-tips into the flesh. And then there are the burs so dire you can't touch them without drawing blood.

These horrific little seeds, only 2mm long, are the evil spawn of a prolific ground-cover. They're so tough and microscopically sharp they embed in anything, forming large spiky wads on the soles of boots and car tyres.

During my first year here, I optimistically set my socks aside, intending to remove the seeds before washing. But I never got around to it and the socks - stiffly ensnaring on one another - coalesced into a ghastly, impenetrable mass (this is more than you need to know, isn't it). Sandal-clad, I surreptitiously crept to the supermarket to replenish stocks. Since then, I've accepted the sad fact that I'll never have the diligence to pick out seeds, and I just toss the wretched things into the wash. The result of this - apart from the daily torment of forcing one's feet into wire-wool - is seed-studded underwear.

I was debating whether to illustrate this post with a picture of the offending socks (but who wants to look at socks?) when my dogs created the perfect photo opportunity. While I was at the mongooses, they got out (Magic shinnies up the wire-netting in a most un-doglike fashion and then incites Wizard to dig out). In the course of terrorizing the local cane rats, the pair transformed into a credible impersonation of my socks. If you haven't already guessed, the mystery object above is Magic's tail. And it's still in this deplorable state because I've no idea how to get the burs out.

But if seeds are a source of irritation for me (quite literally), at least they aren't lethal. This cannot be said for the local avifauna. Last week, when I was walking back to the car after a morning with Koppiekats, I was startled when a bird burst from a shrub at my feet. Only it didn't. That's to say it made all the right noises: the squawk of alarm and the panicked whirr of wings, but nothing emerged from the bush. Crouching down, I found a blue waxbill hanging upside down, madly flapping; its tail and rump were ensnared by the plant's sticky burs. Fortunately, I was able to set it free.

Blue waxbills (Uraeginthus angolensis) use plumes of seeding grass to court their lady love, performing a baton-twirling dance of bobbing, jumping and head-nodding. But if they tangle with the wrong seeds, the results can be fatal. Photo by Arno Meintjes and borrowed from here.

A few days ago I came across a second victim. I think it was a juvenile mannikin, but I was too busy trying to release it quickly to identify it properly (or to take in-focus photos!).

These small burs stick with great tenacity. You can see the young mannikin dangling upside down.

 

Burred in the hand. Lovely shot of my chewed fingernail.