Chapter 2: The Safari | Day 6, The Bush

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.

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“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.”