Chapter 2: The Safari | Day 8, A School of Elephants

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.