Chapter 2: The Safari | Day 9, Friendship

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.