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This is it. Check out time. Monday morning, 10am. Tara is looking through the glass display case in our hotel’s lobby, searching for a pair of earrings her sister might appreciate. Jamie watched our children for the bulk of our absence, surely deserving more than a dangling reminder of her sacrifice. Our children, I ponder, recalling that I have a life on another continent. One of them was sick last night. Which one again? Will I recognize her? Does she remember me? We just finished our last breakfast with our dear friends. I shared a journal entry for the last time, choking up as I read a passage about hungry school children. “Would you like me to read so you can eat, dear?” Tara asks tenderly. Her intention beyond helping me finish breakfast. “Was that the most impactful day for you on this trip?” Tricia asks. I nod. I’m back in the school yard. The clinic. The market. The Savanah in the waning light of a meaningful day. The Southern Cross. Now, I’m at my iPad again, staring down on the Zambezi river from our open-air lobby. We swam in that river yesterday. The dividing line between Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Namibia. An elephant walked through this yard after we finished our last African dinner. But you and I still have some catching up to do. Let’s return to that last day in the bush. You can help me live it again. —-- The morning light creeps in before any knocks on the door. Did we oversleep our hot water alarm clock? I sit up in bed, realizing that Stanley allowed us a later morning. 6:30 breakfast seems like a mid-afternoon meal at this point. We walk the short distance to the main lodge, but as we approach, I’m noticing my excitement is less driven by another venture into the bush, as it is to see our new friends. “Good morning, Charley!” I announce with a smile, my attempted British accent rolling awkwardly off the tongue. We hug, and I sit down next to he and Janie, who is already knee deep in conversation with the others. The friendship we’ve formed over the previous two days has been swift. Was it born at the carcass of the Cape Buffalo? Nurtured by the lioness or mother elephant? Nourished over a meal? I’m reflecting on last night’s dinner. Coming home in the dark, exhausted by the day, we run into our bush pilot, Barnaby. “What are you doing here?!” I inquire, with mock-surprise, shaking his hand with vigor. “I have guests to fly back to Vic Falls in the morning, so I’m staying the night.” He responds politely, with a smile. Given my time spent with Charley and Jane, I now can discern a Zimbabwean accent from its close cousin in Northern Europe. “Join us for dinner!” We announce, our party of 9 growing daily. I sit down to a long table illuminated by soft lanterns, under the Camel Thorn tree that sprouts from our lodge’s deck. Stanley sits to my left, Charlie to my right, Barnaby across. I am the American explorer, paired with my British counterpart. Our African guide alongside. There is the carefree, handsome young bush pilot. And beautiful, scholarly, adventurous women sprinkled throughout. We are the scene of a movie. Of Africa at the turn of the century. It’s 1900. Fate, exploration, danger brought us together. To this table. To this conversation. To this friendship. Am I Teddy Roosevelt, or Indiana Jones? “My father set fire to his farm when it was clear that the rebels were upon us.” Barnaby shares in the darkness, lantern light dancing off his face. “They had already taken a farm nearby, murdering the owner. I was born a few months later.” He was recalling the revolution that was taking place in this country 22 years ago. Rhodesia, the name of the country under British Colonial rule, had been home to many English settlers. Many of whom, like Barnaby’s parents, owned land, farms, businesses. His father ran 3,000 acres of tobacco land, employing dozens of locals. “He treated his field hands very well, and feared their mistreatment under rebel rule. He torched everything and fled with our family and few possessions to England. I was born there. We returned a few years later, and he started a construction company in Zimbabwe. He hated the UK. This is home.” Barnaby belongs to that minority of whites who emigrated from Brittain, or who were born in this country, and consider themselves Zimbabwean, no different than a black African raised in a countryside village. “I’ve flown over the farm in recent years.” Barnaby went on. “There is nothing there.” He reflects, looking longingly into the dark. A life he never knew. Barren land. Taken for nothing. “95% of Zimbabwe is unemployed.” Charlie volunteers. Corruption has torn the country apart. The freedom fighters that China backed in the East won the eventual election against the tribes in the West, who were backed by the United States and Brittain. The outcome resulted in a corrupt government that seized all of the major farming operations, owned by the whites in the East. “My family lost land as well,” Charlie shares. “These were the larger farms. Fortunately, my cousin in the West kept his farm. His son, my godson, is the wedding we are attending this weekend.” “China now has a foothold in this country.” Charlie continues. “They have bailed out the country from debt, but in exchange, they control all of the natural resources. Zimbabwe should be Africa’s bread basket.” He describes a coal mining plant north of us, run by the Chinese. “Doesn’t that create African jobs?” I ask. “No, the Chinese import their own workers.” Stanley interjects with quiet exasperation. “Our country is now at the mercy of the Chinese. There are roads that have been promised by them, and remain unbuilt.” “This is going to get a bit intimate, Barnaby, are you ready for this?” Tricia interjects from the other end of the table, interrupting our reverie and political discussion. “I’m not sure,” Barnaby replies unfazed. As only Tricia can do, there is an inquiry into the romantic happenings of this young bush pilot. My ears perk up, alert to the countless hearts he must be breaking out here. “I was in a 6-year relationship that just ended,” He shares with a touch of sadness. “We met during boarding school, back in the UK. But she is from Italy, and it’s just too difficult now.” A cross continental love affair. Life is so global on this little reserve. And after Barnaby excuses himself, his log books and morning responsibilities calling, the girls visibly swoon. Tricia vocalizes what we all are thinking: “He is such a catch.” I’ll be a bush pilot in my next life, I think to myself. My reflections on the previous evening are broken when I hear Janie mention her lessons with a beautiful Italian. “I met her in a hot tub in Iceland, while on holiday, and we chat once a week on the tele to practice my Italian.” Janie reveals as if describing how she takes her afternoon tea. “We mostly discuss her love life. I just adore her.” If I met a beautiful Italian in a hot tub while on holiday, there’s no way in hell Tara would allow me to “practice my Italian” on the tele once, let alone weekly. Good on you, Charlie. Perhaps you could have a conversation with my bride about my yearning to discover a new language. With a tummy full of flakes, toast, and egg, and a head full of linguistic fantasies, I board our chariot for the morning’s explorations. Our daily ritual ensues: Leave our enclosure via the electric gate, a quick pause for Stanley to get a reading on the animals from our security guard, and a left turn into the park. “Will we see a whale today, or a Velociraptor?” Scott inquires from the back. Stanley smiles, while jerking the wheel from left to right. His maneuver provides the wheels with traction and is the primary cause of our heeling vehicle. It’s also a good strategy to silence Scott and his incessant attention seeking. Power move, Stanley. You’re a phenomenal guide. We stop in front of one of the thousand termite hills decorating the African landscape. These three to eight foot cylindrical mounds of dirt were built by and house those same pesky insects that will eat your wood furniture, according to Janie. Earlier in the week, Stanley had ignored a termite-related question, announcing that he would teach us all about their existence at the appropriate time. Whale watching will have to wait, Scott. It’s termite time. “At the start of rainy season, in December or so, a winged female and male termite leave their colony like this one, and fly to another spot to mate and begin their own colony. The male digs a small little hole in the sand, and the female lays eggs that will hatch into the worker termites.” Stanley explains. “But rainy season also brings forth many creatures who have been in waiting.” He says that millions of these winged pairs leave termite colonies to lay eggs, but only a handful successfully survive. The eggs a tasty snack for many predators. Those worker termites, once hatched, will dig 20-30 meters into the ground to reach the water table. They will bring soft clay back to the surface and begin constructing the future colony’s hill. The female queen will lay eggs that hatch into soldiers, into more workers, into scouts. The little creatures remain underground their entire life. They hollow out the ground to build their fungi garden, a chamber for the queen and her endless egg laying, and of course a bar and strip club for all of those lonely soldiers. The extracted dirt and mud is continually added to the vertical growth of the town. The older the colony, the bigger the mound. “That one is likely 50 years old,” Stanley says, pointing to a nearby termite hill six feet tall. “Once a year, again at the start of rainy season, mushrooms will sprout up overnight, growing out of the termite’s underground fungus garden.” Stanley shares. “You can mark your calendar and return a year later to find mushrooms sprouting from that hill on that date. They are delicious, and if you are lucky enough to be at the right mound on the right day, you will be rewarded.” He reveals with a smile. As a child, he mentioned hunting for mushrooms at the start of the season. “The queen will reach the length of this stick when she matures” Stanley continues, displaying a branch from the ground nearly a foot in length. “Anteaters are their primary predator. They puncture a hole in the wall of the hill, press their long snout through the opening and await the termites to enter, attracted to the moist interior of its mouth. He will only eat his fill, knowing that this will be a future food source if he does not decimate the colony. The scouts will alert the queen to the breach, and she will lay an equal amount of eggs according to who was lost - workers, scouts, soldiers. All will be replaced in equal numbers to those killed.” A queen, living 40-50 years will lay millions of eggs. In her later years, she finally lays the egg of another female to be her successor. We stare in amazement at the little hill, realizing a very organized and sophisticated metropolis resides just below the surface. Glancing around, noticing dozens of these hills, I’m keenly aware of an entire world that had hitherto been unknown. We finish the morning safari, have lunch, and return to our respective villas. As has become my ritual, I take a cold plunge to wash off the grime from the ride. Today, rather than napping I opt to journal on the back patio while Tara receives an in-suite massage from the local villager, Alice. An hour after leaving Tara, massage table collapsed on her head, she returns to provide me with a treatment. I fall asleep mid-way, and wake to Alice’s soft African dialect telling me she’s finished. Rested, oiled, and ready to go, I hop back into my shorts and head to the lodge for high-tea. “My brother rowed for the British 8 in the Sydney Olympics, and they won the gold.” Janie shares as an aside, en route to our afternoon’s adventure. “They decided to get tattoos of the Olympic rings, but only my brother and one other teammate went through with it. He got the rings on his lower back, to hide the tattoo from my parents.” I stare at Janie. Rower for the British Olympic team? Gold medal? Lower back tattoo?! I don’t know where to begin. We had been discussing tattoos at lunch, Tara and I having recently acquired ink. In response, Janie reveals another earth-shattering detail in the most unassuming manner that the English have perfected over the millennia. From a tantalizing Italian nymph, to a decorated Olympic sibling, I’m utterly fascinated by what this woman will reveal next. And then, almost on cue, she lets slip that her grandmother sold the family island off the west coast of England to Richard Branson’s sister. “Those Branson’s sure like their islands.” She remarks with dismissal. I had just mentioned sailing by Richard Branson’s Necker Island in the BVI’s. Is this sassy little Brit one-upping me? Who cares. I love it. The afternoon finds us back at the watering Pan, observing more than two dozen elephants. “They are right or left handed, just like humans.” Stanley shares. “You can tell by the length of their tusks. The shorter tusk is on the side of their dominant ‘hand’”. Tara begins a game of identifying their dominant tusk. Shortly, we discover, with empirical evidence, that most pachyderms are Southpaws. Who knew? We spend some time looking for the baby cubs that the lioness hides in a bush each day for nap time. Eventually, Tara spots the small creatures, bundled together near the base of an overgrown plant. They are nearly invisible. We drive away and pass their mother before one of us notices and alerts Stanley. She is a few hundred meters away, in the open field. From here, Stanley explains, she can see any predators coming AND can fight them in the open, safely away from her children. “Why didn’t the lioness move from her spot when we discovered the bush, hiding her cubs?” Someone asked. “Because we are not a threat to her.” Stanley states, confidently. We park the truck, further away from the lioness, and open provisions for our last sundowner. Cocktail in hand, sun setting over the horizon, I realize this safari has been so much more than viewing animals in the wild. I may have seen an elephant, a giraffe, even a lion before. But I never truly SAW them. Who they are as a mother, a son, a friend. They are playful. They are ornery. They are organized, or they are aloof. They are just like us. We are just like them. Once again, we return in the dark. Our headlights a spotlight into the world we know by day. We plow through the sand, the glow from our vehicle illuminating the mangled trees of the elephant, the termite hills, the underbrush where the lions’ sleep. The moon shines. The stars twinkle. “The Safari is not yet over.” Stanley remarks as we park at the entrance to the lodge. And as I hop off the Land Rover, I am taken aback by the two white rhinos, barely visible in the darkness, walking along my same path to the lodge. Everyone pauses. No Cobras are in sight. I feel alone with these mystical creatures. The triceratops’ cousin. One of the brothers disappears, and I am following the other, making his way to the Camelthorn entrance. Will he be our dinner guest this evening? I reach for my iPhone and press record. I want to prove to the world, and myself, that this is real. My guide sniffs the welcome mat to our lobby, before taking it in his mouth and shaking it. Setting it back down, he tests his footing on our lobby floor. The clicking of his hoofs on the wood echo through the soundless night. I watch with disbelief as he walks right through the main lobby of the lodge, before descending on the other side and disappearing into the darkness. Was this all a dream? No, Stanley, the safari was not yet over. Until our two horned friends bid us farewell and goodnight.
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3:45. Saturday afternoon. It’s hot up here, in Victoria Falls. I’m on the deck, just outside our tent. I would suggest “luxury room on stilts” would be more suitable a description. I can hear the water splashing from Tara’s outdoor shower around the corner. My feet are propped up on a decorative log that doubles as a cocktail table. Next to me is our cold plunge pool that I just used to refresh after my nap. I’m gazing down on the Zambezi River from our room’s perch, 100 feet away. The crocodile that was silently hunting from the small eddy yesterday has moved on. He’s in search of Steenbok, the little deer that live throughout Southern Africa. We are at our last stop on an intracontinental exploration. And as you’ve come to expect, I’m days late on driving you through this African Safari. I believe I left you at sunset on Tuesday. Shall we continue? —-- Wake up call came at 5am. Day two of our safari, and the excitement of being out here has not waned. “I’m so excited about my outfit today! How do I look?” I ask Tara, half awake from another restless night. Something about sleeping in the wild, where any number of predators can murder us in our slumber, has her on edge. I can’t possibly understand her insomnia. “You look great dear.” She comments, though it’s hard to tell in the darkness whether an eye-roll accompanied her compliment. “Read the room.” She reminds me. My early morning enthusiasm can be a little much, I’ve been told. Repeatedly. I was a little chilly during yesterday’s dawn ride, so found it optimal timing to sport my all-khaki outfit. Dressing as my childhood hero, Indiana Jones, elicits feelings of being an early 20th century explorer, sent here from Brittain to find the source of the Nile. A fantasy of any normal young lad, I convince myself. Over another breakfast of flakes, toast, and an egg, Stanley reveals our itinerary for the day. After a quick loop through the Wildabeast area from yesterday, we will be attending the morning assembly for the local school, interacting with the children, before visiting the villagers’ market. “What do you call THAT many Wildabeast?” Tara had asked Stanley yesterday, when we stumbled upon a small herd. “A lotta Wildabeast.” Our omniscient, and now sassy guide replied. This morning, our group of six has expanded to eight. There is another couple sitting at the breakfast table when we arrive. Greg and Glenda are talking to Scott and Tricia. I catch a few remarks about Canada, oil and gas in the discussion. “Calgary?” I guess at the couples place of origin. “Edmonton.” Greg replies. “Ah. Big fan of McDavid.” I share confidently, proud of my Canadien sleuthing and hockey knowledge. He turns back to Scott, unamused by my arrogance. Glenda smiles. Unlike yesterday’s brilliant morning discoveries, we are unsuccessful on first pass through the reserve’s hot spots. It’s 6am, and unlike Tara, the animals weren’t forced out of bed. Stanley turns our vehicle back toward camp, rerouting us to the local school. Fifteen minutes from Camelthorn Lodge, we find ourselves driving between yards, fenced in by limbs of trees strung together and protruding from the ground. These enclose small huts. Some properties contain a handful of these structures, while others may only encircle one or two. The nicest building in town, which also appears to be the only commercial property, is the villagers’ watering hole. It must be a global tradition that every town needs a bar. We park in a dirt lot, and walk through the fence leading into a school yard. A handful of small children in maroon uniforms are hustling ahead of us toward the open parade field surrounded by 3 rectangular one-story buildings. Each building contains three, classrooms. The entire school, perhaps 300 children, is assembled in front of a man giving instructions. Behind him is a pole proudly flying Zimbabwe’s national flag. The 7 or 8 teachers stand in a line, facing the children, under the awning of one of the classroom buildings. They are dressed no different than any elementary school teacher in America. A few are checking their iPhones. They are all female, with the exception of one leather-jacketed male. As I look past the teachers, at the children, smiling and waving back at their white visitors from another planet, I am struck by the stark contrasts. There is a large blue plastic barrel on stilts, pipes protruding down to the ground, where the school must get their water. The corrugated metal roofs of the buildings. Rusted soccer goals decorate two ends of a dirt field, just beyond a small garden. The square windows of the classrooms are small, cloudy, cracked. There are upturned green plastic water bottles, filled with sand, forming the outlines of flower beds in a symmetrical pattern on the ground. Extreme poverty screams at us, and I shift in my discomfort, now keenly aware of my clothes, my whiteness, my staring. And yet, these well-dressed teachers. These happy, smiling children, singing proudly in the courtyard, perfectly behaved and seemingly grateful to be there. And so welcoming to us as visitors. I am ashamed of how I feel. My judgement of this place, given my background and my opportunities, and those of my children. These little black children, who have nothing. Some of whom walk up to 8 kilometers each way, daily, to attend school. They all seem so happy. After the children march to their respective classrooms, choreographed to their singing, the principal joins us. In a circle, we are all introduced to one another - the smiling and proud teachers sharing their names and sincere welcome while we do the same. The teachers are dismissed, and we follow our headmaster around the grounds of the school. He explains how children begin attending the school at age 4. From 4 to 6, they are in kindergarten. The focus at those ages is to acclimate the children to school, to discipline, to the principles of learning. Some of these kids have never left their village, or been around anyone outside of their family. The ground must be fertile, before the seed of learning is sown. “At age 6, they begin 1st grade.” He shares. “They will be at this school until grade 7, when they will sit for their examinations.” He explains. “Then they attend another school, 2 kilometers away, which finishes their education, unless they choose to, and are able to attend university.” “How is this school funded?” Somebody asks. He tells us that the government of Zimbabwe does nothing to help the schools here. Enrollment for the year is $75 per child. With 280 children, the annual cost to pay and house the teachers, manage curriculum, and run the school is $21,000. “What if the families cannot pay? $75 sounds like a lot of money for villagers who have no income.” One of us inquires. “We make do.” He simply says. The curriculum includes math, science, agriculture and language. He highlights that the children learn English from the start of school, though their native language in the villages is Ndebele. By 7th grade, they are fluent in the official language of Zimbabwe. “We teach them technology as well, but it’s much more difficult because we have no computers. The kids struggle to grasp what hardware or software is.” I think of my two middle-schoolers walking to the bus, a laptop in their backpack, an iPhone in their hand. “Do you feed the children lunch during the day?” We ask. “Some children can run home to be fed. Many come to school without food and struggle with losing focus and energy during the day, all on empty stomachs. We have some food that local parents prepare in our kitchen, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” He shares with a sigh. I’m practically in tears. I reach for Tara’s hand. I know she feels the same. She tells me later that she was calculating the numbers in her head. “Can’t we just write them a check, and fund the school year?” She asked. “Do something, so these kids don’t go hungry?” I had been thinking the same. As the tour finishes, we are escorted into a 7th grade classroom. These children, we are told, are preparing to sit for their examinations in the next few weeks. That will determine their academic future. “Please,” the teacher instructs us. “Feel free to walk around and speak with the children.” The 8 of us look out at the classroom of 20 children, staring back at us. Slowly, we fan out to mingle with the eager teenagers. A little boy in the front, who is wearing a pink shirt is smiling up at me. I’ve learned that there is a child or two in every classroom who is put in a leadership position, and wears pink rather than maroon. They help by managing the classroom and assisting the teachers. “Hello,” I say awkwardly, as I sit down. “Hello,” the boy says. “My name is Keith.” And I watch as he pulls out his pen and writes his name for me in perfect handwriting. “My name is Royce.” I respond and write, as he did, in his notebook. Thousands of questions cloud my head, but I filter down to those that a 7th grade boy can easily understand and respond to. I ask him about sports. What does he want to do when he grows up? What are his favorite subjects in school? “I like to play soccer.” He tells me, and I recall the dirt lot that serves as their pitch. “I like math. I want to be a micro biologist.” He shares, a perfect row of gleaming white teeth decorate his big smile. “That’s awesome,” I encourage. “Why?” “Because I want to be like you. To see the world.” I feel his leg brushing against my own on the cramped bench, his eyes searching mine for acceptance into a world beyond his own. I melt. 10 minutes fly by, and the principal returns, letting us know it’s time to leave. I linger, wanting to help Keith realize that he can become whatever he wants. The world is his to explore. I want to hide my doubts of him ever leaving this village. Hide my understanding that the cards are stacked against him. To hear Keith’s future dreams, knowing that my children are no different in their aspirations, yet realizing that in these conditions his may never come to be is heart wrenching. This little boy is no longer that malnourished child, looking with pleading eyes into a camera lens - the commercials I used to see on my TV screen as a child. He is Charley or Nora. My own kids, telling me about their dreams and desires for the future. I tell him good luck and give him my most encouraging smile as I stand and walk out of the classroom. Back into the blistering, unforgiving sun of Africa - this hostile environment of survival. —-- Next, we visit the village’s clinic. A two-room structure sits at the end of another beach. A man in torn clothing rakes the sand with what appears to be the branch of a tree. There is a pile of bricks, and a handful of half-built walls adjacent to the clinic. We are told this will be another wing of the medical center. Speaking to one of the two nurses that runs this clinic 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, we learn of the vaccination program that is a primary focus of the clinic. Graph paper, illustrating the time-table for inoculating the village decorates the cracking white walls. An open bottle of Ibuprofen sits on a table, next to a box of latex gloves. I notice a chart on the wall that walks through the questions to positively identify a newborn infant with HIV. She opens a door to the pharmacy, and we look into a closet filled with bottles of various descriptions. “We hope to deliver our first baby here soon.” She tells us with excitement. I stare at a small bed on a concrete floor, a discolored sink in the corner and shudder. She explains that the government now fines any villager one goat for choosing to deliver their baby at home. “The clinic is free to them. They can come before the baby arrives, and stay a few days after, to make sure mother and baby are ok.” The issue, we realize, is the villager’s misunderstanding or mistrust of what the clinic is. They are not accustomed to the practice of modern medicine. A punishment, to encourage them to shed their tradition of bringing a baby into this world in a thatched hut rather than a sterile medical clinic. We hop back in the truck and drive a couple minutes to the largest enclosed homestead we have yet seen. The gate is opened and we enter a small yard between two little one-bedroom houses. An open air structure with a half wall, covered by a thatched roof sits at the center of the property. “I’m Johnson!” A man announces, as we pile out of our Time Machine. Shaking each of our hands, this man is introduced as the Headman of this village. He welcomes us to sit in the round hut that shades us from the sun. Inside this cylindrical structure, the temperature is much cooler, despite the open sides. A bench runs around the interior, and I push one of the pillows aside to sit down. He pulls up a chair in front of a sewing machine, and sits down in the middle of our semi-circle. Over the next 20 minutes, he explains how his father and his father’s father were the previous Headmen. The job is passed down through the family, similar to a throne through the royal blood line. He acts as judge for minor offenses, allocator of village resources, and reports up to a district that oversees multiple headmen. “Does the position get handed only to the men?” One of us asks. “Traditionally, yes. But I would like to give the position to one of my daughters. It is long overdue that a woman is in charge.” We stare in awe at what must be a blasphemous statement according to his traditions. When encouraged to share where his progressive beliefs originated, he told us of his polygamous father who shunned Johnson’s mother, who he clearly no longer loved, in exchange for his new wife’s affection. He explained that polygamy is imbedded in African culture but has been all but eradicated in his village in this modern age. He grew up in a house where his mother had no power. A tradition he wants to end. We stare at this man, speaking near perfect English, in surroundings that date back thousands of years, educating us on a power shift that would illuminate the darkness of an entire planet. I notice his wife, nodding in agreement behind him, tending to her sewn handbags. Again, I can’t unsee the juxtaposition of this village. From a water tank to an iPhone, polygamy to women’s rights, abject poverty to enlightenment. Our final stop of the morning takes us to the farthest village in the district. We travel the same 8 kilometers some children walk daily to school, along a dirt road, passing small homesteads with their signature tree-branch fences, huts, plastic-bottle garden enclosures, and skinny farm animals. There are goats. We see a few cows, ribs protruding through dirty hides. I realize the only dog I’ve seen on this trip was the one lying in Johnson’s yard. Is food too scarce to support a family pet, or are they useless in defending the family’s food source against predators. We pull up to a makeshift flea market. Along the inside of a staked rectangular enclosure, two rows of village woman have laid out their wares on the ground. Some have small tables, displaying carved wooden animals from the bush, baskets, salad tongs. Hand bags hang colorfully on branches of the few trees within the market. On the lines strung between the perimeter stakes are draped table runners and scarves of bright designs. “Was this all set up just for us?” We ask Stanley, quickly calculating the math between the 4 couples somehow supporting an entire village. “Yes.” He replies. The villages rotate who hosts a market every couple days, so the money from safari guests is spread evenly. I look out from the truck at the eyes of some 25 women. One at the entrance to the market makes eye contact with me. Her eyes are pleading, as a bright eyed little boy suckles on her exposed breast. Another two of her presumed children stand next to her. The older son displays a watchful gaze - protecting his mother and his siblings against these strangers who are both a threat to their way of life, and their only lifeline. I pause at the entrance. Had we known this would be our destination, we would have prepared. Divided our money into $5s or $10s and gone to each booth, handing over the money, perhaps accepting a small item in return. But now, armed with large denominations, realizing each woman’s offerings were nearly identical to the next, it was up to our judgement to determine who would have money this month - who could afford their child’s tuition payment. Or the medication they might need. “You come back?” One would ask, as we picked up an item, reviewed it, and set it back down. “I, ah, just want to see everything before making a decision.” I mumbled, trying to avoid eye contact. I saw a pair of wooden salad tongs, an elephant decorating the ends, and reached down for them. As I turned them in my hand, I looked down the rows and found a similar or slightly different pair at each woman’s feet. “Do you like? $5.” An older woman, in a colorful shawl, asked me. All of the merchants were dressed in vibrant clothes. I realized this was all for the 8 of us. They brought in and assembled their merchandise. Dressed in their best attire, brought their children from home, or allowed them to skip school today…all in an effort to bring whatever American dollars were available to their meager coffers. “Take your time, Tara.” I said, handing her our dwindling cash. “I’ll wait in the truck.” We had purchased a bag to fill with as much as we could. In the end, we spent perhaps $100. The car ride back to camp was silent for the first time in two days. We all felt as though we could have done more. There’s never enough out here. Water. Education. Food. Money. —-- It was 12:30 when we reached the gate back to our lodge. Instead of turning onto the dirt entrance, Stanley kept going, heading back toward the reserve where all of our safari drives has begun. “What are we doing now?” Scott asked over the sound of the engine. His volume and tone echoed what we all felt. Exhaustion. Hunger. Dissapointment. The mid-day “reset” button needed to be pressed more this afternoon than the previous day. “I have one more surprise.” He calmly shared. “Would you like to see?” Pause. “Sure.” One of us acquiesced for the group. 10 minutes later, agitation arose again. If we don’t eat now, then when. How will we have time for an afternoon drive. Was this day wasted? The frustration brewed up from the helplessness we all felt. It had nothing to do with food, or safaris. And then we came to the clearing of a watering hole. Elephants splashed themselves at the water’s edge. And laid out under a shady tree, in perfect view of the Pan, was a table set for lunch. Once again, Stanley delivered. We need to stop questioning this wise bushman. As a couple cooks from our lodge grilled and prepared cheeseburgers, we sat down with a beer or wine and gazed out at the herd of elephants, cooling themselves or drinking from the water. “That was hard.” Someone shared. A simple acknowledgement of what we all felt broke the spell. Again there was laughing and jabbing, sharing and contemplating. The group had returned to its natural state. Isn’t that too, something of the bush? A place that endures daily hardship and yet endures. Surely, one of those families in the water has lost a sibling, or a parent to the unforgiving conditions. Disease. Starvation. Predators. And yet, here they are. Playing. Drinking. Surviving. We notice the baby elephant again. Has she learned to drink from her straw since our last encounter? As the lunch camp was broken down, Stanley drove us around the pan to a metal container that had been buried in the ground. Opening the lid, he revealed a stair case, leading down to a room where two rows of wooden benches allow viewing of the watering hole at ground level. “Vents” that run the length of the box, can be opened, and there is a two-foot high open window through which to observe. Standing on the floor, my elbows rested comfortably on the ledge of the vent. Not 15 feet away, unknowing elephants took long drinks from the source of this pan. One of the projects of the reserve is to drill for water and pump it to the surface, so these creatures don’t have to travel hundreds of kilometers away during the dry season for water. These smart pachyderms know that the freshest water in the Pan can be found where the water bubbles up from the deep. Right in front of the buried observation box. I snapped various pictures from my telephoto lens, before setting down my camera to patiently observe these animals. Tara smiled back at me as we watched two elephants twist their trunks together, waist deep in the water. Was that a sign of friendship or love? After bathing, we noticed how most of the elephants dug in the mud with their trunks and threw the soft clay over their bodies. Stanley explained that they do this to both cool down as well as to protect against parasites. They bathed. They drank. They pampered. They played. All in little family units. And we watched. This was not the zoo. WE were the ones in a cage. As we drove away, looking for a quiet place to enjoy another sun set, I reflected on the day. We were part of them now. The elephants. The villagers. The school children. This trip is so much more than checking a list of animals spotted. We bathed with the elephants. We learned with the children. We suffered with the Headman, and struggled with the villagers. We are a part of the bush now. Part of Africa. And if today was not already enough, parking in the golden brown grass at the top of an open field, we watched our two friends, Thuza and Kusasa, meander through the grass in the dwindling light, their Cobra protectors strolling in their wake. “The Southern Cross is there.” Stanley directs our eyes, when the sun has disappeared and stars began to emerge. “There is no North Star to be seen here. We find our way by the Cross.” I smile, as I reflect on the many nights I found my way at sea by Polaris. She doesn’t have a place in this world. But now I do.
 It’s just after 7am on Friday morning. Sadly, this is our day of departure. We were allowed to sleep in for the first time in nearly a week. But, as the sun rose over the Hwange Wilderness this morning, so did I. Living out here has synced my internal clock with the natives. The latest we have been up is 11pm, but it takes effort, and alcohol, once the sun goes down. The same is true when the sun rises. Am I the mongoose now? I’m enjoying a French press coffee on the deck. Tara is still asleep. She must be a night predator. My little lioness. Dreaming about her cubs back home. Rumby stopped by at our allotted wake up time and delivered a thermos of hot water to make coffee. This has been the tradition since arriving. A light wrap on the house, a delivery of hot water, boiled over an open fire. Today I met her out front, returning her smile and good morning blessings. I don’t want to leave here. But, as always, I’m jumping ahead. You just arrived. —-- “Good morning.” I hear from a soft voice through the open windows of our little villa. I’ve been lying in bed for 10 minutes, listening to the early morning critters and birds begin to stir. Our hot water had been delivered at 5:30. It’s now 5:45. It’s Tuesday morning. Our first day in the bush. Our first safari! As I turn on my headlamp to a soft blue light, I smile. Tara asked me while packing back in Denver why I would bring this. Allowing her to sleep a few extra minutes, while I prepare her coffee is reason enough. I throw on some shorts, a tee shirt and a puffy vest. All of my items had been laid out thoughtfully the night prior. This is my first day of school, and I want to look sharp for my old and perhaps new friends. Tara does the same, and we walk the 100 feet, through the sand, to the main open-air building where we are to have breakfast until 6:30. “My name is Charlie,” a jovial white gentleman shares as he shakes my hand in the dining room. His name and accent are a dead giveaway. ‘What part of London are you from’ I think to myself. “And this is my wife, Janie.” Scott and Tricia sit down, and I dig into my bowl of corn flakes, peanut butter toast, and boiled egg, none of which I would eat back home but all sounded so delicious, and safe, in our new habitat. “There has been a spotting of wild dogs. We leave in 3 minutes.” Stanley announces upon entering the room. We met our week’s guide last night at dinner. As we inquired about the animals we might see this week, wild dogs were lowest on the list. “There are only 1,000 left” he told us with a sad look. “In the reserve?” I asked. “In all of Africa.” He clarified. “We’d better go” Charlie announced to us all, three minutes later. Count on the person who lives in the shadow of Big Ben and ground zero for the globe’s time system to keep us on task. The drive to the gate that both encloses our encampment, and opens to the national reserve takes about 4 minutes. After stopping at the entry point to log our names on the park’s registry, Stanley throws the Land Rover into first gear and we begin crawling through the soft sand, following tire tracks as the vehicle rocks back and forth. We are a little boat on the water, the Hwange waves tossing us gently side to side. I’m in the first row with Tara and will learn later that sitting in the back exaggerates the movement - beware to any of you that have motion sickness, your safari would not last long. The Arthurs are in the middle seats, and our new English comrades have taken up the rear. After plying the seas for 15 minutes, we round a bend and notice a pack of dogs around something on the ground up ahead. Stanley slowly crawls forward until we could almost reach out and pet the colorful dogs. “What keeps the dogs from jumping into our vehicle?” I ask, the memory of my Rhino attack as fresh as the meat these savage canines are devouring. “They cannot see you.” Explains Stanley. “The animals look at the vehicle and only see a metal box. We are not a threat to them. But please keep your feet and arms inside the vehicle, or they will see you.” I inch a little further from the outside, imagining shaking loose a dog that has happily discovered some arm candy. We remain there for 30 minutes, quietly watching the 7 dogs rip apart a Cape Buffalo that had been killed the night prior, according to our guide. The bloody ribs highlighted an empty cavity that the lions had taken, but the dogs were clearly happy with the remains. Some were nuzzle-deep in the head of the carcass while others literally took up the rear. I was fascinated by their hungry attack on the animal, yet playful nature. Glancing at Tara, I wondered how the daughter of a veterinarian was enjoying the show. She was looking away. “Ok?” Stanley asked. His simple cue to keep going. ‘Ready’, we all said in unison. While we pulled away, I recalled seeing Stanley taking pictures on his phone as well and recalled last night’s conversation. ‘1,000 wild dogs in all of Africa’, he had said. We just saw 7 of them. Had this kill happened a few kilometers away, or 100 meters into the bush, we would have missed it. But right there on the road, in the light of the morning, we witnessed something only a fraction of a fraction of career guides had ever observed. Charlie, who has family in Zim and has been on dozens of safaris informed us that what we just saw was anything but normal. And, driving by a dazzle of Zebras, a few warthogs, and a lone Jackel, we again stopped in utter amazement. A lioness was walking slowly across the open sandy plains, being followed by three tiny lion cubs. Every few minutes, she would pause to let them play, or respond to their high-pitched meows. ‘Pick me up, mom’ they demanded. She would reach down and grab one by the back of the neck, continuing her slow walk as a cub dangled from her mouth like a piece of jewelry. A furry pendant, swinging with each step of her sleek body. “Ahem. This, too, is abnormal” Charlie informed us with a knowing grin. The tiny beeps of camera’s focusing, and the ‘click, click’ of shutters was the only sound. Unlike the yelps, tearing meat, and playful growls of the dog encounter, this observation is happening in near silence. Stanley starts the car again and moves forward, nearly cutting off the path of the lioness and her young family. Without a flinch, she walks in front of the vehicle and I realize how useless my telephoto lens is in this moment, unless I want to count the number of whiskers on her nose. Again, I check to make sure no limb of my body or any of my friends is protruding from the vehicle. “Stanley, can you show us an elephant giving birth now?” Scott requests after the lions have disappeared into the underbrush. Stanley smiles, we all laugh. What could possibly top the last hour, the first hour, of this morning’s safari? Do we go back, pack up, and fly home now, I wonder. —-- After a sit-down lunch under the massive Camelthorne tree that forms a shaded canopy over our lodge’s deck, Stanley announces we should be back here at 3pm to have high tea. “We will leave for our evening’s safari at 3:30”, he instructs. Though we sat for much of the 5-hour morning safari, we all remarked on how famished we were by lunchtime. And now that I had a full belly, I realized I could fall asleep in an instant. Tara and I walked back to our villa, and I shed my clothes, eager to try out our cold plunge on the roof. I jumped in, and water splashed over the side, off the deck, and showered the sandy front lawn below. A quick gasp, as the day’s heat gave way to an arctic bath. After a minute, I climbed out and stood naked in the African sun, refreshed. After an hour’s nap, we walked back to the common area and were met by tea and cake. We all opted for an afternoon cocktail or wine, and our guide playfully commented on our choice of beverages. He informed us that before going back into the park, we would be walking to visit the rhinos. Walk? I gulped, nearly choking on my vodka tonic. But I eagerly fell in beside our guide at the front. No more than a stone’s throw from the lodge, we come upon two white rhinos, calmly grazing on the tall brown grass surrounding our encampment. “This is Thuza and Kusasa” He reveals. Thuza means ‘to push’ and Kusasa indicates ‘tomorrow or the future’. He explains that the rhinos live within the fenced area of our lodge and the nearby village. The “Cobras” are the armed guards that are with them 24 hours a day to protect them against poachers. “Are their AR’s designed to kill an animal or a human?” I ask, finally realizing that unlike in Colorado, where a ranger might carry a gun to protect against bears, these guys are protecting the animals against humans. “They are here to shoot a poacher. Who”, he continues, “will have killed you first before taking down the rhino.” We learn that the Chinese grind up the horn of the rhino and ingest it, believing that it is a natural aphrodisiac. One horn’s black-market value can be as high as $2m. In a country where clean water is a luxury, it’s no surprise how poaching has wiped out the rhino population over the last 20 years. “There used to be thousands of rhinos in the Hwange.” Stanley informs us. “These are the only two, now”. And as we climb into our vehicle for this afternoon’s safari, I begin to understand the fragile balance of life out here. There is an economic chasm that is forcing Africans to eradicate their own backyard of a beloved creature, and risk their own life, only to survive. Once more, I am reminded of the continent’s plight against the forces of a planet that have long been taking her resources and casting her aside. —-- “Harris found my glasses!” Charlie informs all that afternoon. During the morning’s safari, his case disappeared on its own safari out of the back of our Land Rover. Rather than retrace our morning’s path, Stanley put a missing child’s alert out to the other guides. The black case, appropriately labeled in white lettering ‘Where Did I Put My Glasses?’ was discovered near the pack of wild dogs. Those English. Always good for a chuckle, and clearly in need of Sherlock’s services. “What a good omen this must be,” Charlie suggested. “Our good man Harris has saved the day. Let’s all hope Kamala does the same in this evening’s debate.” Tonight, presidential hopeful Kamala Harris will be squaring off against Donald Trump in the first, and potentially only, debate of the imminent election. ‘I hope you’re right, old boy’ I think to myself. The afternoon’s discoveries were less exhilarating, but equally enjoyable. We drove to a “pan”, which is the guide’s vernacular for a watering hole. There, we observed our first set of hippos, floating just below the pond’s surface. The hippo spends her entire day in the water, staying submerged for up to six minutes before surfacing up for a puff of air. I found it highly unsanitary that their water bowl doubles as a toilet bowl, and cringe as I notice the elephants drinking thirstily at the water’s edge. This same pan brings us face to face with Zimbabwe’s gigantic rodents, the majestic elephant. The population of elephants on the continent has multiplied dramaticly, wreaking havoc on the vegetation. They strip off the bark of trees to chew on the soft inner skin, which kills the source of their treat. This coupled with their main course of grass, which they mow at a rate of up to 100 kilos per day, explains the sandy desert of tree stumps. “They also dig for the roots of plants and grass,” Stanley explains, “So they are natural tillers of the land. When the rains come, this vast desert of sand will bloom with grass up to three feet tall.” None of us can imagine this beach transforming into a green oasis. Observing the elephants is mesmerizing. We watch a family approach the pan, and are drawn to the baby, no more than a month old, galloping playfully down to the water’s edge. The trunk of the newborn has not fully developed, and his appendage swings erratically with each nod of his head. Once at the shoreline, we laugh at the little guy’s attempt at utilizing his undeveloped straw. “It’s like watching one of our kids figure out a fork at 2,” Tara observes with a smile. The mother expertly draws water into her trunk, and curling it up to her mouth, takes a long drink. Several attempts of this confuse the baby and he resorts to splashing the water into his mouth. This too is a failure, and just as our baby’s would throw the fork and hungrily snatch their food with pudgy little fingers, he finally dunks his entire head below the surface to enjoy a drink. Eventually, as the African heat lamp begins to sink in the sky, Stanley drives us to a small open pasture where we can enjoy our first nightly “sundowner”. He pours a gin and tonic for the Englishman, white wine for the ladies, and a couple beers for the Americans, and we celebrate a successful day. We enjoy our cocktails, as we observe a journey of giraffes quietly forage for food in the tree branches nearby. The chaos of Cape Town can only now be appreciated fully, juxtaposed against this near silent moment on the savannah. “I am so relaxed,” Scott shares with me, in a soft voice that rarely accompanies him. “Me too, pal,” I agree, watching the sun dip below the horizon. Me too.
I’m dripping wet. The soft voices of the nearby guards echos over the sand, drifting on the same breeze that is cooling my skin. A few birds chirp. A fly is buzzing nearby. Otherwise, absolute silence. Everything seems to be asleep, or finding shade during the hottest part of the Zimbabwean afternoon. I just took my daily cold-water plunge in the small tub that sits on the outdoor balcony of our villa. I’m on the patio now, sitting at my pictures and this journal, overwhelmed. It’s 12:30, Thursday. I’m sorry, friends, but I’ve left you on a plane flight to Vic Falls, Monday morning. I’ve certainly lacked the time to attend to this duty. Up before the sun, safari, afternoon nap, safari, dinner, cocktails and bed. But I’ve also struggled to start, well aware of the task ahead. To say that these last three days have been eventful would be a terrible injustice. We’re on an entirely different trip now. In another world. A whole new cast of characters. South Africa is hiding in the corner of the attic of my memories, we’ve been transported so completely. I have learned of a country pillaged by greed. Of corruption, causing farms to be burned, people murdered. We have discovered rebirth. A pair of white rhinos that are changing the course of the villagers’ lives. Future doctors, trekking through the desert, daily, to break the cycle of poverty. There is survival. So much survival. The people. The animals. The termites. Life is so intertwined here. You will see it all. Hear the sounds. Taste. Smell. There’s so much to share. Even then, I’ll let you down. I’ll forget that playful baby elephant, learning to drink for the first time. That lion cub, swinging from her mother’s mouth. The pack of wild dogs, yelping and playing, in between mouthfuls of dead buffalo. Those colorful little birds, like brilliant gems, hidden among the branches of dead trees. The curious monkeys, sitting on our window sill. The skittish warthogs. The journey of giraffes, the Impala and his harem. But start I must. “The dogs are out, we must go now,” Stanley, our guide, has said. So let’s begin this next chapter, in the quiet bush, where you’ll find the Cameltohorn Lodge. —-- “That’s our plane,” I point out, as we follow our porter along the pavement of the Vic Falls’ tarmac. Smaller than a school bus, this would be the tiniest commercial flight I have ever been aboard. A Cessna Grand Caravan, according to our pilot. “Before we hop on, let me cover a few safety instructions,” our 22-year old blonde pilot alerts us in his Zimbabwean accent. “There are 20 liters of water and first-aid in the survival kit in back. Fire extinguishers can be found fore and aft. We’ll be making 4 stops. Arthurs and Zimmermans, sit up front. You’re last.” Survival kit? Fire extinguishers? 4 stops? “I’ll have the chicken for my in-flight meal,” I let Barnaby know, jokingly. He smiles. THIS is a bush plane. HE is a bush pilot. There won’t be any getting up and walking around, nor tray tables, oxygen masks, or sanitizing wipes. I’m instantly envious of this guy’s career choice, as Indiana Jones would be. “Can I sit up front?” Asks Scott. “Of course,” our pilot/stewardess/ground crew answers. Scott crawls up front, sitting shotgun for Barnaby, who audibly performs the last of his safety checks before turning his head to the side, flashing a smile and a thumbs up to the rest of us, asking, “Ready guys?” Fuck ya, I think to myself. Tara and Tricia look much less excited, and I wonder if those little bags in the seat back pocket in front of us will get some use. As soon as we are airborne, I’m surprised by the arid, brown, rough flat terrain below us. THIS is the home of the big five animals we are to see? Lions, Rhinos, Buffalo, Elephants and Leopards? After 30 minutes in the air, Barnaby banks hard to the right, circles around and begins descending toward a strip of land that is no more than a quarter mile of dirt. He touches down, circles back and stops. We are met by a black man in green fatigues, driving up in an open air Land Cruiser with 3 bench seats, each raised in succession front to back. I’ll discover that this is the vehicle of the Bush. Barnaby gets out, opens the “hood” of the plane, allowing the engine to cool before opening Scott’s door. We realize these simple procedures prevent the engine, and all of us from overheating. 10 minutes later, after dropping a few of the passengers, running through all of his safety checks, and starting the engine, we are taxiing back to the start of the runway, or dirt road, if we’re being accurate. “Ready guys?” He asks with his signature smile, thumb up, and cheerful demeanor. This guy must have his own harem, I think to myself. Our next couple stops are equally unique. We land on a 2-miles-long concrete runway, attached to a few outbuildings that Barnaby explains was built by NASA in the ‘60’s as a potential landing spot for the Shuttle. ‘Out here’, I think? Where are we? The third stop takes us over a herd of elephants congregating a dozen yards off the dirt runway. After landing, Barnaby steers the plane into an electric-fenced-in pen where the transport vehicle for the guests is waiting. Forget TSA and metal detectors, we have an electrified-barrier protecting us from the elephants…or Velociraptors. As the sun is nearly touching down on the Savanah, we touch down on land one more time. Locals near the runway wave at us as we taxi over to another waiting Land Cruiser. After two hours of un-anticipated adventure, we climb down from the Cessna, and take in our new surroundings. I’m struck by the terrain. Sparse trees, more bark than leaf, dot the area around the airstrip. Rugged underbrush covers much of the sandy ground. It feels like we’ve landed on a beach, with no accompanying ocean. A tiny lawn-mower of an airplane lands and a big guy in a button down shirt and shorts hops out and pushes his winged-vehicle near a tree. “Can I help?” I ask him, as he pulls out a couple tarps to cover his plane. “I’m Royce.” “Burt” he says with a silent ‘r’, and shakes my hand with a smile. “Thank you.” I learn that he has spent a couple days fixing this small observation plane that is used to scout the national reserve that abuts our lodge, looking for wildlife poachers. Barnaby let us know that poaching is an issue, and it’s much easier to keep watch in the air than by truck. And as the sun touches down, we all pile into the Cruiser and begin the 10-minute drive to our lodging. The vehicle rocks back and forth as we make our way through the sand for a couple miles. At another electrified gate, we are greeted by three armed guards in camouflage, carrying automatic rifles. A different level of fear than that experienced in a Jazz musician’s apartment from the previous night surfaces before we are informed that these men are here to protect the rhinos. Two white rhinos are on the inside of the fence, staring at our vehicle with moderate frustration. Apparently, these guys like to sleep at this gate, and we are interrupting their slumber. As we slowly crawl forward, I pull out my iPhone to capture this on video. Before hitting ‘record’, one of the rhinos makes a motion to charge, and I jump back, convinced he is going to jab me with his horn. He turns away, making it clear to me that I’m not welcome in his space, while reminding me to grab a middle seat next time I’m out on this open-aired death trap. Our driver, Pete, turns to me, grin ear to ear. “Welcome to safari.”
It’s 11am on Monday morning. I’m high above the clouds, sitting next to Tara, across the aisle from Scott and Tricia, all three asleep. We’re on a flight to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. Leaving Cape Town felt like abandoning a friend. And we did. Riano came early to work, so he wouldn’t miss bidding us farewell. While we make our way north, let’s pick up where we left off. But first can I ask, are you enjoying this adventure? I’m curious what impression Africa has left on you. Is it what you imagined? —-- I reach over and pick up my phone. 8am. Sunday morning. I was awake in the middle of the night. Again. I could blame the wine from yesterday, but I feel fine. No remnants of a hangover. Does it take 4 days for my body to adjust to this side of the planet? Who cares, I resolve, as I sit up in bed, somewhat refreshed. I hear our neighbor’s door open, so I stand up and open ours. Tricia is standing in her robe. “We’re headed down to breakfast in our jammies. Join us.” She invites, all smiles, despite her prior day’s shenanigans and similar late night. “We’ll be down in five.” I reply, excited to brush off the cobwebs and start our next African adventure. Tara and I sit down to breakfast minutes later in our sleep ware, and without preamble, Tricia poses the question she and Scott have been contemplating all morning. “Why do you think whites have done so much of the colonizing of this planet?” She asks, with eager curiosity. Jesus, Tricia, can I get a coffee first? But this has not been a trip, nor a relationship, of idle banter. Fuck the weather, let’s get down to how religion and the Enlightenment have wreaked havoc on civilizations over the millennia. How does Judaism differ from Christianity and when does a life begin? This is what I love most about these great friends. We question. We challenge. We contemplate. A safe place for curiosity without judgement. 30 minutes after breakfast, we are dressed in joggers, sweatshirts, puffy vests, light jackets. We fill a backpack with 4 waters and board the hotel’s van so Hamid can bring us to the trailhead of the most famous geographical feature of Cape Town - Table Mountain. She has been looming over us since arriving, blocking the sun, breaking up the clouds, watching over us. At nearly 4,000 feet above sea level, Table Mountain is the backdrop to every view in the city. “You must stick together, and please put your fastest climber in back. Be careful.” A trail guide warns us at the drop-off point. “That’s strange,” Tara remarks, “We’ve never been extended that advice before any hike in Colorado.” I have to look nearly vertical to see where we are going. The climb boasts 3,000 feet of elevation gain, and we’ve been instructed that the hike will take us two or more hours to complete. “Let’s get going, team!” I direct with excitement, leaping out in front, completely ignoring our guide’s grave warning. Each step is like walking up an uneven stone staircase. The sound of rushing water accompanies our ascent, as we pass small waterfalls along with a myriad of hikers. One guy scoots around us in bare feet. “It’s a great hike with no shoes,” he informs. “The rocks are so smooth.” For a few minutes, I imagine the benefits of doing the same. And then the rain begins. Accompanied by an increasing wind, and dropping temperatures, it dawns on us that we may have miscalculated the weather and our attire. Forget shoes, we need gloves, a beanie and a raincoat. As we pass through the key hole of the mountain’s peak an hour and a half later we find ourselves atop a flat promontory enveloped in a cloud, wind howling over the summit, taking our breath and any remnant of warmth with it. I take a quick picture before jamming my hands back into my now soaked puffy vest. Restoring feeling to my fingers is a slow and painful process. I consult a metal map bolted to the top of a rock pillar, looking for directions to the Funicular - South Africa’s version of a cable car. I choose a trail that disappears into the clouds. Looking back every 20 feet to make sure the rest of my party is with me, I walk blindly toward the transportation that will rescue and hopefully warm us from this mountain top. And then the “table clothe”, the local’s description of this cloud cover, is suddenly removed and we have a clear view of the ocean thousands of feet below. South Africa, would you please stop flaunting your beauty. We get it. You’re gorgeous. Cue oohs and awes. “Tricia! Get over here for a picture!” I shout over the wind, so the poor stranger I cornered to take our photo doesn’t lose a hand to hypothermia. With the parting of the clouds, we notice the brick structure boasting a coffee shop and cafe. I pop into the men’s room first and loiter at the hand dryer, trying to restore feeling back in my fingers, while ignoring the pleading stare of another patron whose hands are dripping wet. I’m now standing inside the cafe at the check out counter, ordering any item on the menu that will thaw our bodies. I can still see my breath in here, hopeful that the coffee, pizza, tea, and shepherds pie I ordered will restore my core temperature. We have to get off this mountain. “Please do not hold onto the handrails when the cable car is moving,” we are instructed as we begin our descent, staring through the glass of the funicular into the abyss below. “Did we hear that right?” One of us asks. What ride on planet earth has ever been preempted by the words, ‘please don’t hold on’. Then we realize our ignorance. This cylindrical vessel spins ever so slightly, allowing all of us to stay put and enjoy a 360 degree view over the three-minute descent back to civilization. I’m so glad I held my tongue on that one. “Would you like to purchase one of the pictures?” we are asked in the gift shop at the base of the Funicular. “No ma’am, we are just trying to thaw out under this heater.” I comment, as the four of us huddle under the portable furnace mounted above the store’s wares. “Does your room have a bathtub?” Tara asks Tricia. “No, does yours?!” Tricia responds with hopeful jealousy. It’s clear, we’re all miserably cold. “Hamid is here!” Scott announces and walks out of the store. As I’m leaving, I notice a small tin resembling cat food that has “Crocodile pâté” across the front. Checking the label, I confirm my salivating eyes. 42% crocodile. Next to that tin, I see another labeled Springbok pâté. ‘Try everything local’, I’ve been instructed. I mean, I can’t not eat the mascot of my recently adopted sport’s team. I quickly pay and catch up to the others, practically running to the van. “Crank up the heat!” We all direct Hamid in unison. “Do you mind if I show you Signal Hill? It’s on our way back to the lodge.” Hamid asks. After a brief descent, we are climbing once again. Looking out of my window, I see all of Cape Town laid out below us. The Stadium, where my green and gold were victorious the night prior, stands proudly along the waterfront. “What did you call this place, Hamid? Make out hill?” He and I share a laugh. “That’s what the locals call it.” Hamid responds, confirming my suspician. I smile again. Sorry, Gary. Hamid will always be my favorite. I don’t care how many off-color jokes you can tell. As soon as he parks, I leap from the van and sprint to the edge, hoping to snap a couple photos and get back to the warm interior before my body notices the cold again. As I turn from the view, another heart-stopping photo logged in my phone, I notice everyone has emerged from the van and is sitting around a picnic table. Hamid is handing out champaign flutes and opening a bottle. “I wanted to celebrate your visit, guys.” He shares with a genuine smile. We toast, take a sip, and speed walk back to the now cooling vehicle. “What would you have done if we didn’t get out of the car, Hamid?” Tricia asks. While I was out capturing the view, the other three turned down multiple requests by Hamid to leave the van and enjoy the view. He had his toast planned long before we dragged our wet, cold, whimpering bodies off the mountain. And rock beats scissors. Or driver beats rider. An hour later, I am thawing next to the fire in the lounge of our lodge. A warm shower and hot tea accompanied by crocodile and Springbok pate have put me in a foggy haze, and I doze off to the soft jazz and girls’ quiet discussion next to me. —-- “My name is Adiola. I am taking you on your Jazz Safari this evening” A smiley black man greets us outside of the hotel later that night. “Where are you taking us?” Someone asks, all of us curious to discover what this “safari” entails. He explains that we will start the evening in a suburb 20 minutes North of the city, as if we were on our way to Johannesburg. “Isn’t that 15 hours away?” Scott asks. “Yes, but we will only be going 20 minutes.” Adiola clarifies. “Ok. So we’re going to a suburb of Johannesburg.” Scott confirms in his smart ass humor. Ignoring Scott, Adiola turns his radio to jazz and drives half the speed of every car on the interstate to our destination. Half an hour later, wee pull up to a barbed wire-topped brick fence encircling a small house in a working class suburb of Cape Town. Should the trampoline in the yard ease our fears of being kidnapped and ransomed for money? We are greeted by a lighter skinned black man with eyeliner and a black cape. Are we on the set of the Empire Strikes Back? Inside, this older gentlemen named Hilton Schilder introduces us to his wife, Tesma. A feast of rice and chicken dishes decorate a small rectangular table. The living room has an electric piano, a 60 inch flat screen, a couple leather couches, and an 8x11 of Jesus keeping a watchful eye on everyone. Nothing else decorates the white walls in this simple house. Before we sit down to our curry, HIlton’s daughter emerges with twin girls about 2-years old, and a 9-year old son, Aiden. The kids are very cute. Aiden, though shy, responds with smiles at a handful of questions. As strange as this night feels all around, the fear of being murdered is slowly dissipating. After getting a short history of Hilton’s family, his jazz background, a glimpse into his drug explorations as a youth, we retire to the living room for the next phase of this odd evening. The Hilton Schilder You Tube Channel is at the ready, and as he stands next to his idle piano, TV remote in hand, my hopes of hearing live jazz music disappear. We watch 15 minutes of random videos as he explains that ‘this one came out in the 1980’s and was banned for political reasons’ or ‘this guy in my band produces his own acid’. He finally sits down at the piano and plays a few of his songs. “I was in the hospital, waking up from the morphine, when this melody came to my head.” He tells us in his sing song, reflective voice. “Listen for the sound of the heart rate monitor.” Getting back in Adiola’s car 30 minutes later, we are each in a confused state over what we just experienced. This sweet set of African grandparents just shared a meal with us and introduced their family to complete strangers. That was cool. But a jazz safari? And an eccentric musician? “Our next stop is at Hilton’s cousin’s house in the suburb south of the city.” Will he be in a cape and make up too, I wonder. And as we enter a one-bedroom, third-floor apartment, in another Cape Town suburb I have a feeling the night will not be ending in a crescendo of Jazz. “Treat yourselves to some food,” Eldrid invites us. I gaze at the bowls of potato chips and cheesy puffs decorating the kitchen table. “Would anyone like some wine?” He asks. Yes please, God, I say to myself as I grab the bottle and top off my water glass. Over the next hour, we explore the psychotic history of his family tree of musicians, are accused of having fake food in America, and get his unsolicited opinion on transgender children ruining our schools. ‘We, uh, just came for the live music’ I think to myself and look for the safest escape route. We can’t get out of there fast enough, but before pulling out of the apartment’s parking complex, Eldrid hands something through the window to Adiola and we witness a South African drug-deal. Ironically, that felt most authentic to a jazz safari. Well, Astrid, you can’t win them all. I think it’s time we move this adventure north. Thank you, South Africa for all of the memories. You did not disappoint. At the airport Tricia asked if we were ready to leave. Reflecting on the question, Cape Town could not have delivered more. She showed us her beauty in all the ways. The land, the sea, the people, the culture. She welcomed us. She nourished us. I can’t recall a 4-day trip that left a more lasting impression. And still, it was time to go. We were ready. Africa, in my imagination, was not this. The dream-like topography. The cleanliness. The adventure. The native’s affection for their country. Their spirit. Their food. The people. Ah, the people. Everyone so welcoming. So friendly. So open. I’ll miss South Africa for so many reasons. And yet, gazing through the hazy clouds, I can’t help but wonder what magic this continent below me has yet to reveal. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now going to spray the interior of the cabin with an insecticide. It is completely harmless, but if you choose to cover your eyes or mouth, please do so.” A minute later, a stewardess walks down the aisle with an open canister of something that is going to protect us against the rabid mosquitoes living aboard. Between that and the malaria pills we began ingesting two days ago, we should be safe from the blood borne disease those pesky little creatures carry. Well, friends, it seems we are now in Zimbabwe.
It’s Sunday evening, 5:30. We leave in an hour for a Jazz Safari. There are conflicting interpretations around what the means, but it seems we’ll be fed and entertained by a jazz musician at their home. Thus far our travel agent, Astrid, has earned perfect marks on this trip, so should we really be concerned over food poisoning, an errant trumpet honk or potential captivity? I’ve been warming by the fire in the bar area of our hotel for the last few hours. Riano, our closest friend on the hotel staff, served the Crocodile and Springbok (African deer) pâté I picked up at the Table Mountain gift shop, gave us a bit of tea, while Hamid added logs to the stove. Jazz plays in the background. We needed this warmth and relaxation after our wet, windy and cold trek up Table Mountain earlier in the day. But I’m 24 hours behind on the journal, so I’ll try to stoke the embers of my memory from yesterday’s vineyard tours. —-- You again, I think to myself as we approach the van waiting out front of our hotel. Gary is back for day two of adventures. “Good morning Royce.” “Gary.” I reply. Why has this guy not grown on me yet? Am I jealous over Scott’s attention? I crawl into the van and catch myself - give him a chance Royce, you’re being a dick. “Would you guys like to attach your Bluetooth and play music for today’s journey?” Gary asks. “On it.” I reply, linking my phone and allowing my unwarranted chill toward our jovial guide begin to thaw. “Our first stop will be in Stellenbosch. Next to Cape Town, it is the oldest community in South Africa.” Gary tells us. “It’s a Dutch town, houses a university with 40,000 students, and is home to around 150 wineries.” “Will we visit them all?” I inquire. A small smile creeps across Gary’s face. We’re both making breakthroughs this morning. The sun is reflecting off the corrugated roofs, as we head further away from the metropolis of Cape Town. It’s going to be a good day. “I‘ll drop you at the bottom of Church Street. Explore the town, and make your way up to the church at the end. I’ll meet you there in an hour.” Gary instructs us. “What are you going to do while you wait?” Scott asks. “I’m just going to chill, watch some videos. Have a smoke and a pancake.” He replies. We all laugh as the van doors open and we spill onto the sidewalk. Tara remarks that Stellenbosch reminds her of Europe. Narrow side streets are bordered by sidewalks, crowded with cafes. There are students at their studies, or shaking off the cobwebs of a Friday night. Adults are drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Tara spots a bookshop across the street and off we go. “Point me to something written by a South African,” I ask the woman tidying up the displays. “This one is quite popular,” she comments, as she reaches for a thick paperback in the historical fiction section. The cover is adorned with a sailboat. That was easy, I think to myself, as I walk it to the front counter. After checking out, we cross the street and find a table next to three boisterous women who just discovered that the cafe serves Espresso Martinis. “You look like you’re having fun.” I offer them as I sit at the neighboring table. “We haven’t seen each other for years, and it’s never too early to start drinking!” One of them shares with exuberance. Scott and Tricia join us, and while I go inside to place our orders, Scott launches into conversation with the one appearing to be their ringleader. “What do you think about Trump?” Scott asks her. “Well” Angela begins, as she pulls out a cigarette and brushes her long gray braid out of her face, theatrically. “After years of listening to American judgement over our country’s protests and corruption, it was quite humorous to observe your insurrection on January 6th! THAT, Scott, has not happened here.” She finishes, awaiting his reaction. Our table takes an instant liking to this woman and her unfiltered opinions. We learn that her husband is a journalist, and are shocked to discover her deep knowledge of our political system. How does she know the name of a Colorado congresswoman, I wonder in amazement. Angela complains of her country digging out from 10 years of rule by an absolute bozo, and hopes for our own sake that we don’t fall into the same political pitfall. This isn’t the first time Scott has posed the same question to a local. Apparently, the worldview of our previous president and current contender is not one of admiration. He only cares about his own country, and doesn’t think much of Africa, they share. One of the three women lives in Denver, and used to have her chiropractic office at the exit to our neighborhood. She’s visiting these two friends whom she’s known since her childhood in Johannesburg. They decided to skip their high school reunion further north, opting for a long weekend in wine country instead. Scott has visibly lost interest in Angela’s opinion, and abruptly informs them that we are now leaving to meet our guide. Love him to death, but we need to work on his transitions. As we depart the town, Gary lets us know that the wine industry began in this region in 1670. “The Dutch were responsible for bringing their wine making experience to South Africa. The cool and temperate sea, mixed with the warm southern weather make for an ideal grape-growing climate.” Though listening, I am mesmerized by the view. Yesterday’s ocean has been replaced by green land decorated with symmetrical grape vines criss-crossing the valley. Mountain peaks obstructing the sun cast massive shadows over the cultivated ocean below. We turn off the main road and are stopped at a rot-iron gate, beyond which a winding drive, adorned with flowers, leads up to the Graff wine estate. Vibrant green fields, divided by deep brown vines welcome us on one side. Climbing out of the van, I take in a view that somehow rivals those off the Cape. How South Africa continues to surprise us with her beauty is, well, surprising. She looks more beautiful with every wardrobe change. The next couple hours are spent on the veranda of this stunning property, gazing at the various vineyards filling the valley below, the massive sky, the towering mountain peaks. Puffy clouds float by on the breeze. Scott returns my smile. This is so nice, we say in unison “It must be hard dealing with these views every day” I joke with our sommelier. “It is these views that make me happy.” He shares with a smile. What these people lack in sarcasm, they sure as hell make up in genuine happiness. Inside, I walk up a ramp to the restroom and notice a narrow river cascading beside me. Through a glass window, I look in on hundreds of aging oak wine barrels. The other wall displays various paintings and my path ends at a tranquil pool of water, adorned by a sculpture. Tara remarks how the diamonds you can purchase here are not following the Rand. In short, the estate is dripping with modern luxery. I love it. “Scott, can you believe they’re still together after all that shit?” Gary asks, interrupting our reverie. “What?” Scott asks, confused. “Your butt cheeks!” Gary exclaims with a laugh. As we slip into inebriation, it seems that Gary has cast aside his proper English upbringing in favor of American vulgarity. He’s got us all rolling. We purchase some wine, pay our bill and take one last gaze before piling back into the Mystery Machine. “We’re off to Franschhoek!” Gary announces. We learn that the Huguenots, French Protestants in the 16th and 17th centuries, fled Catholic persecution and settled in this area of South Africa. And where you have Frenchman, you have wine. I press play on the hip hop playlist I just created, and Outkast begins blasting from the Volkswagen speakers. What the hell was in that wine, I wonder. “What do you call two lesbians in a cupboard? A lick-her cabinet.” Gary. He’s on a roll. Driving through the next village, we stop on another hill, overlooking another valley of breathtaking views, to open another bottle of unforgettable wine. Here, we sit for a light lunch, which Gary defines as two courses rather than 3. In a dinning room surrounded by glass walls, we gaze out at the scenery. I’m served smoked lake trout, followed by braised beef. The French cuisine is washed down by copious amounts of white wine, while we learn about Gary’s wife and two children. We’re friends now, and I’m drifting between his life story and the dreamy landscape. “I have one more surprise for you.” Gary announces as we climb back into the van. A few minutes later, he pulls into a long, tree-lined drive leading up to the oldest winery of Franschhoek, Grand Provance. Parking under a tall oak tree, we begin exploring the grounds, decorated by sculptures of various genres. I notice characters out of the Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe alongside two statues of naked women on pedestals, awaking from slumber. We’ve entered the garden of nymphs, it would appear. How drunk am I? Wine bottles are delivered, and Gary, with his newly discovered comfort asks: “Must all sexual encounters with my wife begin with muffing?” “Muffing?” I repeat, choking on my white wine. “You know, oral sex.” He clarifies. “Must?” I wonder audibly. “What seems to be the problem, Gary?” We spend 15 minutes unpacking the intimate goings on with Gary and his wife, our opinions, and any number of topics that would have seemed taboo 24 hours ago. “I learned never to bring up the topics of politics, sex, or religion on my tours.” He told us yesterday. And yet, here we are, having a verbal orgy around all three. Blame the wine, the garden nomes, or this welcoming country. Our friendship now sealed with both Gary and this rich valley, we climb back into the van open bottle and Dixie cups in hand, ready to return to the city. Walking into Black Heath Lodge an hour later, we are greeted by the warmth of a fire and the boisterous shouts “Let’s go Springboks!” The biggest Rugby game of the year is happening just down the street in the harbor stadium, and every TV in the country is tuned in to watch South Africa take on New Zealand. I drop into a chair, shout to Riano for a beer, and strike up a conversation with my neighbor, who is adorned in the green and gold rugby shirt of our home team - the South African Springboks. Scott’s gone up to bed, but Tricia has remained and is eager to meet our visibly excited friend as well. “Abundance is my Christian name. I am here on business, entertaining clients, who are at the game right now.” We learn between cheers for her team. She reveals a broad smile and glowing eyes while explaining that she is visiting from “Jo-Burg” (Johannesburg), and works for a private equity firm. The clients are financial advisors that bring client money into her firm. I tell her that I’m in the same line of work, and she insists on my meeting her boss tomorrow. Can I invest money in a South African equity fund, I wonder. It’s been 15 years since the Springboks have defeated New Zealand in Cape Town, so we turn back to the tv as the seconds wind down on the clock, the suspense palpable. Gary helped explain the rules of rugby earlier in the day and I find myself screaming alongside Abundance. She is in conversation with Tricia when I leap from my seat and yell out that we won! Tricia buys a round of drinks, and our new friend disappears to her room, returning with a brand new rugby jersey. “This is for you, Royce. We had an extra for our clients.” I look at her, smile, and then rip off my shirt and don the official sweater of my new home. It’s not lost on me that the South African Springboks sport the same colors as my Green Bay Packers. It’s now 9pm, and there is nothing left to accomplish. The day was filled with so much. Conversation. Adventure. Wine. Camaraderie. And above all, friendship. |
Previous Trip Posts:
September 2024
We're the Zimmerman Family!
Home Base | Denver, CO 
A family of six that
LOVES to sail! Follow our crew (Royce, Tara, Avery, Charley, Nora & Ruby) as we blog our sailing adventures Upcoming Trip:
9.4.2024 | South Africa Previous Trips: Set Sail 4.22.23 Las Palmas - Across the Atlantic - Island of Antigua Set Sail 9.22.21 Sweden - Germany - United Kingdom Set Sail 7.18.19 Newport, RI - Martha's Vineyard, MA - Nantucket, MA - & back! Thanks for reading ! |
