African Safari – Part Eight

The little guy, right, kept smacking himself in the face with the marsh grass.

We’d floated silently in canoes in a Linyati River marsh, a blissful ending to a magic-filled day. During the evening “sundowner” we’d watched a family of ellies teaching a baby how to feed itself. He’d been completely submerged, holding his trunk up like a periscope, while the older ones were wet only to their bellies.

Back on river’s edge, canoes pulled out by sunset, we were all hungry. Guide Russell took us back to camp where we ate under the stars with a full moon rising.

After dinner, we were served Amarula, a creamy liqueur made from the nuts of the marula tree. A favorite elephant snack, those nuts.  (I’ve recently seen “Marula” lotions in upscale catalogs, good for a lady’s complexion at only eighty-nine dollars. I’d rather drink the stuff and hope it works from the inside out.)  The giddying combination of liqueur and brilliant moon prompted hilarious chatter, including a tutorial  about the man in the moon. Safari coordinator Kate, usually a fount of knowledge, asked what that meant.

“It’s the ‘face’ in the moon,” someone said.

“But there is no face,” Kate argued, “there’s a rabbit.”  And so there is. In the southern hemisphere, the north’s man is, indeed, a rabbit!  If you live north of the equator, prove it to yourself at the next full moon. Bend over at the waist and look at the moon upside down. Better yet, take a picture and turn the picture upside down.

The things you learn wherever you go.

The hour was late and a contagion of yawns infected us, but no one wanted the night to end. Suddenly, Kate yelped, “Whoa, here come the ellies … Pauline, no!”  A small herd — perhaps those we’d watched at sundown — appeared silently around the side of the dining tent. The largest land mammals on earth are unbelievably quiet when they walk. Camp cook Pauline flapped her apron at them as if they were pesky chickens, but she jumped back as they paraded past and into the river a few feet beyond.

We had ringside seats at a water circus. Our uninvited guests performed as if trained to it.

Kate was on alert. “Russ, here she comes, she’s right behind you.” She tilted her head toward the matriarch stepping up to our table. He ignored both Kate and elephant.

Finally he turned and at the same time picked up an empty plastic water bottle. He held it aloft as if to hurl it. The matriarch was inches away. She explored the tablecloth with her trunk nonchalantly, as if to say, “I’m bigger than you and I’ll do what I want to, so there.”

After a few minutes, Russell said “HEH!” That’s it, just “Heh.”  Elephant and man looked each other in the eyes, respectfully, I thought.  Slowly, she backed up and the group of eight — mama, youngsters, and an infant — returned to their water play.

It was almost the witching hour, and Magic was working overtime.

Sometime after midnight the ellies left as suddenly and silently as they’d arrived. Russell and Max saw us to our tents. I sat awake in the dark, but my husband slept immediately. In the river outside I heard the kind of smacking a child makes in a puddle — splosh, splosh, stomp. The animal was in shadow, but “elephant” was my newly-educated guess.

A shape materialized in the waning moonlight — a juvenile male. He slurped at water’s edge for a bit, then meandered up the path right outside our tent, close enough to touch. He ran his trunk up and down the screen directly above Peter’s head.

But for the screen, my husband would have had an elephant caressing his face.

I was standing at the end of Peter’s cot and shook his foot gently. He needed to see this! “AWRRGGHH-H,” he growled. I let him be.

The animal continued snuffling, then stepped onto our porch to suck dust off the floor.  After several minutes he plodded away quietly. Only the snapping of small trees gave him away.

I couldn’t wait to tell Peter next morning. He scoffed. “You were dreaming!” he said. 

“Come outside. I’ll show you!”  And there was my proof: our night visitor’s footprints in the dust.

It was something to tell the grandchildren, and I have, many times.

To make following this series easier, I’ve added a new page. Click on “Contents” (above) to look back at earlier safari posts. 

African Safari – Part Eight

Call it juju or voodoo, call it witchcraft or magic.  Wherever we went in Botswana, there it was — Magic — weaving around us like silken thread, twining gently. Our first day in Linyati Camp, that feathery fiber became a three-ply twist waiting to be woven into something extra-special.

Fifteen hundred pounds of mean. (web clip)

At breakfast, Guide Russell rubbed his hands together excitedly. “We are going to see a Cape Buffalo stampede this morning,” he said. Safari coordinator Kate giggled. He made it sound as if she’d orchestrated a stampede for our entertainment. “Something spooked a large herd further along the river,” he said, “and they’re coming our way.” Whoa-a! Driving towards a large herd of what many consider the most dangerous animals in Africa made me want to linger over coffee.  But our guide was dauntless.

As always, Russell steered the Range Rover along a “road” only he could see. Suddenly, he turned the engine off, coasted to a stop, and held up his hand. What? Was the stampede upon us? Oddly, the only sound was…snoring?  He tipped his head to the left, his grin, wide, his eyebrows, question marks.

Three juvenile elephants lay on their sides, layered, like apple slices arranged on a plate. The first was propped against a small termite mound as if it were a pillow, the second used the first as its cushion, and the third rested against the second.  And, yes, they were snoring, loudly.  Unusual enough to see an elephant reclining — they lean against trees to sleep because their weight would crush their organs if they were to lie down — but these guys were piled like puppies.

Magic wove a blanket: the threesome never budged.

We continued towards the impending stampede. When Russell stopped abruptly again and motioned us to climb down and stand close. He pointed to the river. We were no more than a few giant steps away from three glaring hippos.

xxxxxxxxxxxThis wasn’t a children’s game, and they didn’t want to play.

Hippos, like Cape Buffalo, are among the most dangerous animals on the continent, well, apart from human animals! “How do we know they won’t stampede before the buffalo do?” I whispered.

“We’re safe,” Russell said, “they have poor eyesight. The brush hides us.” With that he checked his rifle and beckoned us to follow single file. Camp assistant and jokester Jinx, straight-faced for once, was at the rear.

Soon billows of dust annouced the buffalo. “Wow!” Russell said, “hundreds!”  He was as thrilled as if this were his first-ever sighting.

They were about fifty yards away when they suddenly veered hard right as if at a turn signal. Those black, fifteen-hundred pound bovines with their potentially lethal, yard-wide horns headed further inland.  We ate their dust as they thundered past.

xxxxWere they more frightened of us than we, them? My adrenal glands said “no.”

Russell started walking briskly, parallel to the animals’ path, in hopes we’d find them grazing.  We hadn’t gone far when he stopped suddenly and I, who adhered strictly to his close-single-file rule, ran right into him. The other six were dominos behind me.  Jinx cackled softly.  We were in a sandy clearing under a large spreading tree, and we were not alone. An enormous male hippo, maybe as weighty as three tons and eleven feet nose-to-tail, stood there, sound asleep.

Had Magic woven two nap-time blankies?

Hippos, like Cape Buffalo, rarely venture very far from water — this one was a mile away — nor do they sleep in the open, and certainly not in the heat of the day.  We watched for a while then tiptoed wide around him to continue stalking the buffalo.

We trudged five miles through deep gray sand and never found them, though we did find zebras milling nervously. Their “voice” is the bark of a yappy little dog, not what I expected, but their group name, “dazzle,” is perfect.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIt’s dizzying to watch a dazzle of zebras.

We were back at camp for a sumptuous lunch prepared by “Precious” Pauline, her one helper, and Kate.  Afterwards, we sat around the table a long time, digesting the day’s adventures. Hindsight told us the morning was relatively low key, but the potential for danger and the difficult walk through deep sand were exhausting.

Soon, Kate shooed all of us to our tents to nap, while Russell did what he did most afternoons: he went for a run with his rifle on his back and a cold towel around his neck.

For once, I slept.  Good thing, because the evening brought more excitement than I could have ever dreamed of.

~ • ~

…how sorry she felt for white people, who couldn’t do any of this (sit talking with friends and growing melons) and who were always dashing around and worrying themselves over things that were going to happen anyway. What use was it having all the money if you could never sit still or just watch your cattle, and yet they did not know it. Every so often you met a white person who understood, who realized how things really were; but these people were few and far between and the other white people often treated them with suspicion.”
—  Precious Ramotwse, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.

Use the left arrow above to read the lead-in to today’s post. In the first paragraph, you’ll see links to the first five in this series in case you’d like to read or re-read them.

African Safari – Part 6

xxxxxxxx       xElephants arrive for drinks. Our tent is the one in the middle.

Lions were the morning’s entertainment.

After lunch, our guide Russell told us, “When the animals rest in the heat of the day, we rest too.”  He promised the “thrill of a lifetime” later that afternoon, then sent us to our tents, wondering.

Husband Peter and I stretched out on our cots, but it was too stuffy for me to nap, plus the scene outside was too exciting to sleep through.  I plopped into a camp chair on our narrow deck, feet on the railing, cool, wet towel on my head!  Peter soon joined me; he couldn’t sleep either. We watched the smaller animals — baboons, dikdiks, zebra — come to drink with no elephants there to hassle them, nor lions waiting to pounce.  Again, I mused that this experience was like watching “Animal Planet” on a television as big as the horizon was wide, with authentic surround sound included. A simmering breeze carried the mysterious, earthy essence of the continent past our noses.

When we returned to the main tent for tea, Russell was antsy, anxious, ready to lead us to the thrill he promised.  We barely had time to drink a cuppa before he pointed to a haphazard pile of logs near the waterholes thirty yards away. “That’s where we’re going,” he said, smiling as if he’d just promised trips to the moon. “I’ll drive you right to the opening into the stockade and you’ll step inside quickly. We’ll watch the elephants for an hour or so.” Six of us — Arden and Charleen, Peter B, Bruce, Peter and I — were thrilled, but Marilyn gasped.  She’d never been close to a cow, much less an elephant.

That flimsy, higglety-piggelty pile of dead wood on the left is all that separated us from the elephants. We were inside that relative safety minutes before the elephants arrived.

Once in the stockade we realized any adult elephant could lift and move the logs if she wanted to. We were close enough to be sprinkled now and then, and we were, literally, surrounded by elephants. Russell said we were quite safe, but he did have his rifle on his shoulder.  “Would you actually shoot an elephant?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just a warning shot,” he said, adding, “I’ve never shot an animal.”

“If I say ‘stand down,’ I mean now!  Don’t move, don’t even whisper,” Russell warned. We obeyed.

xxxxxxxxxxPeter, stockaded. 

xxxxxxxJudy and friend.

Baby ellies are easy prey. This youngster’s trunk had been gnawed off, probably by a lion or hyena.

The little guy was encouraged to kneel, head turned sideways, in order to slurp water directly into his mouth.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWe watched them drink and splash, wallow and bathe.

That evening Russell did a slide show overview of what we would likely see in days to come. He educated us about the geography and geology of Botswana, as well as its political background. During dinner, he was wide-eyed and extremely nervous. Finally he told us he’d just found out he’d been picked, out of all the guides in the country, to speak to his peers from around the world at a conference in San Francisco three weeks hence. This big, brawny man who ran alone in the bush in the heat of the day, who camped there alone at night, was petrified at the thought of traveling all the way to America to make a presentation to a roomful of people.

* * *

When we stayed at Savuti Camp in 2005, the Channel, also known as “the vanishing river,” had been all but dry for some twenty years. In 2007, it reappeared and is now a clear waterway again.  Hippos, waterbirds, and aquatic life returned with the water. There’s even a bridge into the site!

I snipped this photo off the web. The tent we stayed in is just visible on the left. The view from the deck now would be far different from the dusty outlook we saw nine years ago. (Compare to photo at top.)

Memories of our magical fourteen days in Botswana are still fresh nearly nine years later. This post is the fifth in my “African Safari” series. If you missed the first four you can click here to read them: Always go…; Latitude attitude…; It takes more…; A leap, a kettle… .

African Safari – Part 5

It was our fourth day. When we rumbled into Savuti Camp we saw what turned out to be elephant-induced mayhem. Men were scrambling to reconnect pipes that lay scattered on the ground. Russell, our guide, jumped out of the Range Rover and ran to add his muscle.

Safari Coordinator Kate explained that water in the Savuti Channel was low — it was September, the end of winter —  and even though the camp’s well water was pumped to the watering hole beyond the compound, elephants would tromp between guests’ tents and yank pipes out of the ground when they weren’t happy with their supply.  The workers had shooed the animals away as if they were mosquitos, and would soon have the situation in hand.

The beaming camp director rushed up with a hearty hello. “This happens almost daily this time of year,” he said, laughing. Behind him, gentle voices sang and native women approached carrying tiny glasses of icy juice and cool washcloths so we could wipe our grimy faces.

What a welcome!

When we were shown to our tent husband Peter and I stopped in our tracks, agog at this scene in front of us. Wow! Hello-o, Botswana.

Elephants gather for their “sundowner.” The group in the center slurps at the now-bubbling outlet pipe, like children with straws.

vbvmbvmnbElephant mirrored.

Our tent had an en suite bathroom…outside! Three walls provided privacy from human eyes, but the fourth side was open for us to watch the animals, and they, us!

At dinner, we seven travelers plus Russell and Kate, chatted and joked as we’d done since the trip began. Mid-meal, Russell whispered to his side-kick. She nodded and together they expained that guides have a “third day” axiom.  If a group gets along well by then, they will have an excellent safari experience.

We already knew we were special. The magic that had trailed us from the start was like a pleasant scent. Wispy. Spicy.

We were in our tents by 10:30. Peter was asleep instantly. I was too excited to lie down so I sat and watched the spectacle outside.  The nearly full moon was as bright as a World War II searchlight. Ellies splashed and trumpeted while smaller animals —skittish zebra, springbok, giraffes — awaited their turns to drink. It was PBS’ “Nature” live!

I was startled out of a doze by stealthy footsteps along the narrow deck that collared our tent.  A German Shepherd-sized silhouette passed the open flap and headed towards our bathroom. The animal went back and forth twice more. Once I realized we wouldn’t be a midnight snack, I went to sleep.

In the morning I peeked out the screen door, not sure what might lurk outside. Nothing seemed amiss except for soap slivers on the shower floor and punctures in my plastic shampoo bottle.

Kate had warned us not to leave toiletries outside because baboons love soap and toothpaste. I’d remembered to bring the toothpaste in, but left soap and shampoo in the shower. Blast! At breakfast I told her what I’d seen and that I was sure the culprit was not a baboon.  “Probably just a hyena,” she said, “they have a taste for ‘bubbles’ too.”

Just a hyena, indeed!

After coffee and porridge around the campfire we headed out on our first game drive. It was 6:30.

We hadn’t gone far when Russell got a radio message about two lion pairs mating nearby.  Off we went, bouncing through the bush in our tank-like vehicle. When he found the first lions he whispered, “Don’t stand up or speak loudly. All they see is a non-threatening, rectangular shape unless you move.” We were as rigid as tin soldiers.

xcxcxcxcxcxcxcxcxcxxxxcxHe looked…spent, she, relieved.

Lions mate about every twenty minutes for two to three days, and that’s it!  When this duo ambled off into denser brush, Russell told us to hold onto our hats. He shifted down and barreled after them.  “We might get to see them ‘do it,’” he said. I was glad we didn’t.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThey didn’t want an audience!

xxxAnother male glared before stalking into the scrub.

We drove along the Savuti Channel until Russell found a suitable spot for morning coffee. Kate hauled out a hamper and set up thermoses, biscuits and juice. Nothing fancy, but it was absolutely blissful to have coffee with new friends while absorbing the vast African panorama.

Left: Russell’s geography lesson. (Namibia is just across the water.)

xxxStarbucks should have such ambiance.

Coffee finished, Russell and Kate  looked for outdoor “facilities” for us. This is it, Judy, I told myself.  There’s no “downhill” here!  

Later, Russell told us he’d guided one of President Bush’s daughters. He’d decided afterwards to call the spots where men and women travelers go, “George” and “Laura.”  We loved his joke, and use it still. I was relieved to make “Laura’s” acquaintance.

“Besides privacy,” I asked Kate, “what do you look for when you search out the best bushes?”

“Well,” she said, “lions sleep in the shade at this time of day…”

OH!

Dense fan palms are lions’ favorite places to nap; this one made do with a scrubby bush.

If you’re new to “Wherever you go, there you are” you might want to catch up by reading the first three installments of African Safari.  You can do that by clicking here, here, and here.

African Safari – Part 4

                                                 A bloat of hippos chilling in the Chobe River.

We were “knocked up” at 5:30 our third morning at The River Club.  (The innuendo refers to a knock on the door to wake you, rather than … whatever you were thinking).

After breakfast, we seven — Marilyn and Peter B, Arden and Charleen, Bruce, husband Peter and I — headed to Botswana. It was an hour’s drive to a point on the Zambezi River where we would be taken across by motor boat, our van, by ferry.  The crossing is notorious for hours-long lines to cross a relatively narrow stretch of river, all complicated by the politics of the four countries that touch there — Zambia, which we were leaving, Botswana, where we were going, non-confrontational Namibia, and unpredictable Zimbabwe. Each makes claims on the only place in the world where four countries meet, though even that “point” is argued. Read about the four corners “quadripoint” here.

The magic that began the day before in Simonga Village wafted along with us during a blissful several hours on the Chobe River near Kasane, Botswana. It was like moving through an exquisite, real-life, real-time diorama.  No Disneyland safari park, this!

Between them, our eagle-eyed guide Russell, and safari organizer and raconteur Kate, kept us enchanted with their encyclopedic knowledge and endless stories!

Russell spotted this well-camouflaged, four-foot long water monitor lizard stretched sinuously on a log.Later, we saw the same bloat of hippos munching on grass, even though they don’t normally eat in  daytime. Hippos don’t see well, but this one acted as if he had 20/20 vision.

Cape buffalo, said to be as dangerous as hippos, look as if they should have ferocious headaches from the massive horns that look like heavy-duty truck bumpers. We got a “smile” from a medium-sized crocodile as we passed. The rest of his bask lurked nearby. None of us will ever forget this memory of elephants at river’s edge, but the two dead

ellies we saw later were a terrible sight as well as a gag-inducing one.  We held our noses, all except Peter who can’t smell at all, not even several tons of dead elephant just beyond the bow.  Between Peter’s faulty nose and his sometimes enviable ability to sleep through anything, he missed many of the most memorable events on our trip.

Though Kate was the story-teller, the entertainer, Russell had a repertoire too. He told us that he’d guided one of President Bush’s daughters earlier that year, [2005] so the secluded spots he picked for his safari-goers to “go,” were now referred to as “George” or “Laura!”  We laughed at the symbolism of Russell’s “bathroom humor.”  He also confessed that his little daughter always begged him to play “Barbies” with her.  The idea of that big fearless outdoorsman fitting a Barbie doll into her minuscule clothes made us roar with laughter.

From Kasane we flew in two toy-like airplanes to a landing strip that wasn’t much longer than our driveway at home. This was the back of beyond! The “terminal” was a metal awning set on four poles, Kate handled the bags, and a hulking Land Rover awaited, keys in the ignition. Russell’s smile was set on high beam as he hopped into the driver’s seat. “Now our work begins,” he said.

Until then, none of us realized that we hadn’t been “on safari” yet. We’d enjoyed a well-orchestrated, gentle easing-in to the real adventure to come in the African bush.

That day we had seen a small zoo’s worth of animals, but it would be another twenty-four hours before we saw a dazzle.  And we never did see a leap.

* * *

More stories from our best trip ever will follow before too long, but for now I’m heading back to where I am  — here!

Some of the photos above were taken by Peter B.
We took the same shots, but he had the better camera and shared his results with me. 

You can re-read parts one and two of our safari saga here and here if you‘d like.

African Safari – Part 3

Our second full day began with a morning trip to Victoria Falls, one of the seven natural wonders of the world, but it was the afternoon that provided a stunning highlight to our trip. Our group of seven was taken to Simonga, the nearby native village sponsored by our host camp, The River Club.

As we drove into the village on a rutted track, children materialized out of the orange dust that poofed up behind us. They followed, shouting and laughing delightedly, so thrilled to see us. Their joy at our arrival made me wonder at the price we pay for our own children’s happiness.

The people live in tiny dirt-floored, reed and mud huts, with the barest necessities, the children’s playthings are broken hand-me-downs, and their clothes are CARE package cast-offs. Yet they mugged for our cameras and screamed with joy when they saw themselves in the viewfinders. They touched us gently, were unfailingly polite, and they spoke to us in near perfect English.

The taller girl below didn’t know who Jennifer Lopez was, but she loved the bright red shirt.  She peered into my eyes as she followed me around, then she finally whispered, so sweetly, “Please, Mma, may I have your bag?”  I hated to say no, but I needed my little waist-pack for my passport and money. I did give her a pack of gum, and I knew, when I got home, that I would send a parcel to the village, and my bag would be in it.  (She shared the gum but none of them knew it was just for chewing — they thought it was food and swallowed.)

The older boys showed off their soccer skills with a shredded ball, and the girls took us to their new concrete block, one-room schoolhouse.  They were so proud.

Sadly, the AIDS menace hovers over their lives. In the schoolyard, a hand-painted sign nailed to a tree, warned, “You either have AIDS or you know someone who does.” One young girl, her cheeks tear-streaked, had recently lost her mother, her father, the year before.  She and her little sister were forced to live alone, shunned by others because both parents had died of AIDS.  Village women shared their meager food, but nothing more.

When Peter and I went to bed that night we found hot water bottles tucked under the covers!  It had been quite cold the previous night — wintertime in the Southern hemisphere — so the extra warmth was welcome in our unheated three-walled hut. Yet we enjoyed relative luxury while just a mile away, women carried water several miles from the river to their village where there was no electricity, no plumbing, little food, less money.

Earlier, I had bathed, bubble-covered, in an old claw foot tub, yet the natives had no way to bathe properly, and only lumpy pallets laid on dirt floors on which to sleep.

We learned that everyone in our group was as moved as we were, by the children especially.  Russell told us he takes every group he guides to Simonga Village, but he’d never seen such excitement as he’d seen that afternoon. “It was a magical day,” he said. “There was a spark.”

* * *

Simonga Village is prosperous compared to most, because it is sponsored.  We all wanted to provide books and toys, school supplies and clothes, but we were cautioned not to send new things because it would upset the dynamic between the village elders and the sponsor.

One couple sent used library books, another, uninflated soccer balls and pumps, and Peter and I sent barely-used coloring books, slightly flattened crayons, and a rainbow of leftover wool yarn my dad used when he hooked rugs.  My little bag was in the box too.

* * *

I was just about to publish this post when I thought to Google “Simonga Village.”  Go here and here to read about thrilling changes that have taken place.  And be sure to look at the photo gallery on the “For the love of Africa” site. You’ll note one thing has not changed — the AIDS warning on the tree in the schoolyard.

 (The first and third photos above were taken by Peter B.)  

African Safari, Part One, “Always go downhill” provided the first glimpse of the Clarkes best trip ever. Here’s the next installment:

African Safari – Part 2

Eighteen hours in the air was a bum-numbing flight and that was just the trans-Atlantic leg of our journey. I’d struggled to get my head around the fact that even though there’s only a six-hour time difference between southwest Virginia and our final destination, a Rhode Island-sized corner of Texas-sized Botswana, there were still some twelve thousand miles to traverse from north of the Tropic of Cancer to south of the Tropic of Capricorn.

We had an overnight in Johannesburg, South Africa, then the following morning, an hour’s hop to Livingston, Zambia.  A tour group driver met us at the tiny airport to take us the few miles to the edge of the Zambezi River where we would meet our guide.

Tall, burly, sun-weathered Russell, with a smile as wide as the Zambezi, was, we were to find out, revered amongst guides in the region. That we were lucky enough to have him lead us was the first bit of magic that threaded through our trip. He wasted no time handing us into a rickety aluminum motorboat to ferry us downriver. As we putted along he pointed out crocodiles and hippos that I’d thought were large rocks in the water!

Though we stayed in four tented camps over fourteen days, we were eased into the safari proper with two nights at The River Club, a lush, flowery oasis that was totally unlike whatever it was I’d expected.  After a brief orientation on the terrace of the shabbily elegant Edwardian house — think “Out of Africa”— we were shown to our thatched hut. Walled on three sides with reeds and mud,  the fourth side was completely open to the river which was a protective arm curved around the property.

It doesn’t take long to settle in when you’ve only been allowed one duffel, one backpack. Before we returned to the main house to meet Kate, Russell’s fearless side-kick/safari coordinator, and our five fellow travelers, I had to try the plumbing.  I wanted to see for myself if water in the southern hemisphere really does go down the drain counterclockwise, opposite from the northern hemisphere.  It does!

At dinner I remarked on the unusually high chain-link spiked fence that encompassed three sides of the grounds, while at river’s edge the craggy perpendicular drop-off was an impenetrable barrier to any crocs lounging below. “Is the fence to keep animals out?” I asked.

“No,” Russell said, “Zimbabweans!” There was, and still is, a violent faction in Zimbabwe. The Zambezi is the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe and provides a natural defense. Even the most dangerous Zim militant wouldn’t brave those waters at night, and guards patrolled River Club’s fences until daylight. So, no worries, unless an agile hippo found a way to scale the cliff…!

At bedtime, I apologized to Peter for having been such a brat when he’d suggested a safari. “I  love it already,” I told him. “I want to come back.”  We’d been in Africa thirty-six hours. He nodded and smiled, relieved.

We’d wondered about traveling for two weeks with five people we didn’t know — in each other’s pockets as it were — but after the first evening the two of us agreed we were part of  a really compatible group. The dinner conversation was lively and laugh-filled, everyone, so interesting, and Russell and Kate were an engaging team.

It was going to be a great trip!

Arden, Arleen, Russell, me, Peter, Marilyn, Kate, Peter B, Bruce.

If you’ve been following “Wherever you go, there you are” you’ve probably read my “About.” page. In it I wrote that posts about our travels were on the horizon. “Always go downhill” is a first glimpse of our very best trip ever!

We were lucky enough to have had some amazing adventures. Our gallivanting ended a few years ago when husband Peter’s lapsing memory made going anywhere difficult. As he jokes now, “Wherever he goes, he gets lost!”

But, no complaints!  We’ve been able to go places and see things that most people only dream of. We did a lot — nine trips in six years, plus family trips to the beach. Unforgettable all, to me anyway. My photos help Peter to remember bits and pieces.