|
I am startled from a deep sleep by a strange noise – it sounds remarkably like someone passing gas. A lot of gas. Still groggy with jet lag, I prop myself up unsteadily on one elbow. There in the moonlight I see a large mangy-looking hyena crouched in front of the mesh door to my tent. There is that sound again. I can't help it, I laugh. The hyena turns his head to look at me, silver eyes glitter, and I swear, he twists his lips into a grin before he relieves himself right on the straw mat at the tent's entrance.
"Hey!" I yell and he lopes off into the darkness. It is not every night a hyena takes a you-know-what on your porch. I just hope the wind doesn't shift. Sometime before dawn, a member of the camp's staff cleans up the hyena's "welcome to Botswana" gift – only the memory remains.
I am in Botswana in search of the ultimate African safari. "I want to stay in remote places where animals walk right through the camp," I had said confidently to the booking agent. You must be careful what you wish for. It is a good thing I start out laughing, for there will be several nights I will lie frozen stiff in my cot, wondering why I am spending thousands of dollars to stay alone in a flimsy canvas tent in the wild African bush, sleep deprived and scared half out of my wits.
The Okavango Delta
When the sun goes down, the Okavanago Delta comes alive. A thunderous symphony of winged creatures, crawling critters, four-legged animals, and God knows what else surround-sound me. I toss, turn, and wish I had remembered my ear plugs. Getting up, I unzip the side windows in the big tent to get some air, and realize that only very thin mesh separates me from the night. I drift into an uneasy sleep. Suddenly I am aware of a rumbling noise -- first a gurgle, followed by a long, low rumble. Then the rustling of leaves. Rolling over, I peer out the window of the tent. Something large and dark fills the window. It is moving. A paralyzing fear creeps over me.
Although there are 12 other tents in Kukanaka Camp, I am alone and the tent next to me is empty. The other tents are a good distance away. Another rustle, and I jump at the sound of something hitting the roof of the tent.
Scarred white tusks gleam in the moonlight. Not more than ten feet from my tent is a huge elephant. It is calmly eating the fruit from the tall, scrawny marula tree next to the tent. The gurgles and rumbles are coming from the elephant's massive belly as its digests the sweet fruit. Having eaten all it can reach, the animal grabs the trunk of the tree and gives it a good shake. Marula berries cascade down on the roof of my tent and fall to the ground. The animal snorts, ears flapping, obviously very happy with the results. I, on the other hand, am traumatized.
Trying not to make a sound, I sink back in the comfy cot and wrack my brain: Can elephants smell fear? I desperately try to suppress mine so this elephant will not rip down my tent and trample me. I will later discover that elephants rarely destroy tents and don't bother people unless provoked, but at this point I am certain I will be killed by the animal before morning comes.
The elephant is there for what seems like hours, chomping, gurgling and snorting. Finally I hear him moving away, having eaten his fill. My head aches, I get up and take three Advil, wondering if I am crazy for coming to Africa alone.
The next sound I hear is Flo, the camp's manager, calling me to breakfast. I must have fallen asleep. It is still dark, although the stars are fading. I dress hurriedly as we are going to have a little coffee and bread before going out on a game drive -- my first one.
Five of us pile in the green 4 X 4. Our driver/guide is a local tribal kid from Maun, about 18. We head off around 6:30 down a sandy road to look for animals. We cover our laps with blankets -- it is that cold this morning. I smell whiffs of wet leaves, cut wood and wild sage. It is April. Fall in Botswana.
We see small herds of impala and red lchywe. Suddenly the driver spots something and lurches off toward a big flat rock. There, sunning itself, with a round full tummy, is a young male lion. He opens one gleaming yellow eye, looks at us for a moment, and closes his eye again. I am envious -- he can sleep.
On the drive we also see zebra, a mother and daughter giraffe, a waterbuck and finally the elephant. A large male, in musk, suddenly appears in the middle of the road. He is walking right toward us and is a terrifying sight. The vehicle stops. The elephant keeps coming. We are all clicking our cameras. The elephant obviously has the right of way; the guide backs up and pulls off the road. The elephant stalks by us with hardly a glance, torn ears flapping. We sit in the shade of some scrubby trees and laugh nervously. I check the tusks. Nope, not mine.
The evening game drive is very different. The terrain is flatter; we see hyenas, several giraffes, a lone male wildebeest, many hippos. Actually we mostly see an astonishing assortment of hippo ears and nostrils sticking out of the water.
The sun is sinking as we come to Dead Tree Island. Here we come upon an old lion sitting on a rock. He looks sleepily at us, his huge eyes the color of Russian amber. The slipping sunlight bathes him in an arch of golden light for a few minutes before dusk begins to settle. We drive back to camp in a light, plopping rain that cools off the fading day.
Stuffed from a gourmet dinner, I fall asleep listening to what last night seemed like a lot of noise; tonight it seems like night music.
An African symphony. And sometime in the middle of the night, when I hear the elephant munching on the marula tree next to my tent , I simply roll over and go back to sleep. Well, at least until the next elephant wanders by.
Savuti
Lloyd Wilmont is a legend in Botswana. If it's lions you want to see, up close, then Lloyd is the man. And so it is not by accident that I have picked Lloyd's Camp. I had heard that Lloyd's, on the dry-hot barren plains of Savuti, is the real Africa. I just didn't know I would spend four sleep-deprived nights there.
Night three. I am finally drifting off to sleep when I hear a moan -- it is a long, low, guttural moan. I have heard this sound before. At the moment it is coming from directly behind my tent. I lie still, not moving a muscle. Another moan follows. Maybe it is Lloyd teasing me, I think. He is out there making noises like the lions just to scare me. What a nut. I glance at my tiny silver travel clock. 1:30 am. What would Lloyd Wilmont be doing up at this hour?
The first roar paralyzes me. I cannot move even if I want to. Another roar. I know the two lions are right behind my tent. I also know that if I move a muscle, they will rip the tent to shreds and that will be the end of me. I can see my obit now: California woman mauled to death by two male lions in Savuti, Botswana.
We had seen the two lions earlier in the evening sitting in the game warden's rock garden. Two huge males. Lloyd made us get into the topless Rover and drive to the warden's quaint stone house, the only house in desolate Savuti.
"Those bad boys have been gone for a few months. We weren't sure where they were -- probably chasing females of another pride,"Lloyd says, shining a flashlight on them. "Now, look at them sitting big as life, right in the game warden's garden, back to claim their territory."
The two animals ignore us. To them we are nothing but a big noisy truck. "Anyone want to get out?" Lloyd asks. "Not on your life," whispers Lynn, the camp's only other guest. One of the lions stands up, makes a low moaning sound, shakes his big shaggy mane, and looks around. His enormous eyes glisten. Instantly I feel panic. Lynn and I huddle against each other; we hunch down in the seats trying not to be seen. We listen to the lions moan and we watch the stars. There are a million stars burning in the black skies of Savuti. I have never seen such stars. Then it is time to head back.
"What is to stop them from coming into camp?" I ask Lloyd, realizing they are less than two miles from us. "Nothing," he says, shutting off the engine. "But don't worry, they won't bother you inside the tent. Lions have no interest in tents."
There are about ten tents at Lloyd's. It is the old Africa style. Each tent has a mirror and basin outside the door. Toilets (flushable) are down a sandy path. Showers are just four bamboo walls. Taking a shower is very romantic -- we have to use candles. There is no electricity.
There are just the two of us in camp that night. Lynn, a well- traveled 77-year-old photographer from Manhattan, is sleeping in the middle of the camp. I am in what is called the edge tent. Nothing separates me from the road and the dry Savuti bush -- no fence, no bushes, no trees. The camp's staff sleeps a mile away in a group of small bungalows.
I continue to worry as we prepare to retire. "Yell, and I will bang on the chamberpot," laughs Lynn. “That should give them a good scare.” A 77-year-old woman banging on a pot is going to save me?
The night air is still and sultry, but I get into bed in khaki shorts and a t-shirt. I lie awake a long time listening to night sounds. An elephant lumbers by around midnight and breaks off some branches from a tree next to my tent then lumbers off.
Ninety minutes later, the lions begin to roar. It is the most terror-to-the-bone sound I have ever heard. Just a few hours earlier, I had their huge jaws, and sleek, chiseled haunches up close. So, I just lie there and wait for them to rip the tent to shreds. Never have I been so scared. I do not move a muscle until the suns turns the sky a dusty pink.
"How did you sleep"? Lloyd asks me the next morning with a sly smile. I shoot him a disgusted look through blood-shot eyes. "Guess those two old boys paid us a visit last night," he laughs. "I found their paw prints out behind your tent this morning. They were just letting everyone know they are back in Savuti."
Moremi Wildlife Reserve
The only way to get to Kuganga Island Lodge is by plane and then boat. At the tiny airstrip the friendly staff pick us up in a motorboat and we chug to the lodge, nestled within a shady forest full of wild ebony and garcinia trees and surrounded by a tranquil lagoon. As we land, a huge fish eagle, wings spread wide, swoops down over the boat.
The lodge's eight spacious rooms all stand high off the water on stilts. They are made of reeds, with huge screens for windows, and thatched roofs.
My room is full of wasps. There must be twenty of them. They hang heavy in the air when they fly. Most of them are clinging to the screens, but I find one in the closet and two above the mirror in the bathroom.
I hurry down the path in search of the manager. "There are ALL these big wasps in my room," I blurt out. He nods kindly: "We are having a wasp infestation. They won't hurt you if you leave them alone." Yeah, right.
"If they really bother you, I can try to get them out," he says. So he spends the next 30 minutes with a butterfly net catching the evil-looking creatures and putting them gently outside. I am somewhat relieved. However, when I go back to my room after dinner, at least 17 of them have found their way back.
I try not to think about wasps. But all I can think about is wasps on my pillows, wasps in my clothes, wasps in my hair. I find one in the shower. I try to sleep, but I am afraid they will light on my pillow and sting me awake. I try to sleep with one eye open. I dream of wasps.
The wasps are everywhere in camp: they drift over the open-air dining table in the center of camp and buzz noisily in the tiny gift center. The only time we escape them is when we leave camp for a relaxing daylong Mokoro canoe trip, a fishing and bird-watching excursion on the lagoon, and a late afternoon hike on a nearby island where we spot an elusive leopard.
And then a strange thing happens. I begin to realize that this is their habitat and I am just passing through. I become their guest. We inhabit the room together. We shower together. We rest together. We move in some kind of shared harmony. And I realize, as I am leaving the lush paradise of Kugana, that I have lost my fear of them.
I am a little grouchy by the time I get to Tsaro. Tsaro is supposed to be in elephant country, but this little camp with its own watering hole and swimming pool sits right on a winding river full of hippos.
I know for sure I will get some sleep here. The terra-cotta stucco bungalows have wooden doors. But I lie awake long into the night, listening to the hippos laugh. A soft little chuckle. Heh, heh, heh, heh.
Whole families live in the Khwai river: moms, dads, and babies. They stay away from the camp during the day, observing us with sharp little round black eyes, flared nostrils, and pointed ears that stick up just above the river's surface. At night they forage for food near the camp. Hippos are known for their nasty tempers and can be very dangerous so we have been warned to stay indoors at night. No problem. Heh, heh, heh, I hear as they knock over the patio chairs.
Chobe National Park
After I've been in the bush a couple of weeks, the famous Chobe Game Lodge is culture shock. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton once honeymooned here. Chobe is my last stop before heading home. I walk into a rambling hotel of lavish splendor. The sprawling lawns are perfectly manicured. A warthog skitters by looking pretty silly side-stepping the water sprinklers. At Chobe there is electricity. Phones. A fax machine. The gift shop is well stocked and full of other tourists buying postcards. And the much-touted sunset cruise on the Chobe River is romantic but contrived.
The game drives are crowded; reservations are needed. It all seems too staged, too perfect, like a movie. You can almost hear the director shout: cue the animals.
And the rooms? Solid Four Seasons decor. Unusual art. A huge bathroom with a real shower. Plenty of hot water. A comfortable king-size bed. A sunny patio overlooking the river and the Namibian plains. Here I can lock the doors, shut the windows, and no wild animal or winged creature can possibly get me.
I hated it. But I slept like a rock.
|
HOME
