CHASING
shadows
ring of fire
Is it a dragon, is it a wolf, or is it the severed
head of a demon? No, it’s just a perfectly
logical celestial occurrence. Scientists can
explain – calmly and rationally – how and
why eclipses occur, and even predict exactly
when they will occur. But what they can’t
explain is how they make people feel. That’s
magic. Or maybe it is a dragon or a wolf. But
I’m pretty sure it’s not a demon.
I was on a shallow ephemeral sandbank
island in the Zambezi, parking off on a comfy
deck chair with my feet in the river and a
cold beer in my hand. Wearing the funkiest
eclipse glasses, I’d glance at the sun every so
often, checking the progress of the moon,
and then take the glasses off and watch
birds, hippos or elephants on the far bank.
As the moon obscured more and more of
the sun, creeping closer and closer to the
moment of totality, I was concerned that,
really, it all seemed very ordinary. If I hadn’t
been looking at the sun, I wouldn’t have
noticed anything. And then it all changed
in an instant. The difference between 1%
coverage and 99% coverage was less than
the difference between 99% and total. It’s
not a matter of degree. A total eclipse is
nothing like a partial eclipse.
Within moments it went from bright
afternoon to dusk and a 360-degree sunset
glowed all round. The birds fell silent,
the hippos stopped grunting
and – it seemed – the world
had stopped in its tracks. I
took off the protective
glasses and stared
at the black disc in
the sky with a
wild halo of
light where
the solar
atmosphere
streamed off
into space.
Green and
pink dots glowed
on the edge of the
disc, and a deep sadness
overwhelmed me. I felt
insecure – aware of the fact
that the earth, which I’d previously
taken so for granted, was just a ball of rock
spinning in space. And even the island I
was sitting on was just a pile of sand in a
river, and it would be gone come next rainy
season. Now I understand why the Greeks
used the word “eclipse” to describe this
phenomenon. It means abandonment, or
downfall.