"And the gold medal goes to...."

Aug. 18, 2008
Maun, Botswana

Alpha Kilo Kilo – radio-speak for the plane that brought me back to Maun yesterday afternoon – ferried a lone reluctant passenger. You know who….

Not so the rest of my Savute friends: guide Gwist, who kept checking his cell phone as if news from his mosadi (girlfriend) would pop up any minute, rooms ladies (that’s what they call housekeepers here) Maggie and Keba, groundsman and all-around fix-it guy Mocks and waiter Mbombo. They had worked their two months solid and were headed to Maun for their 11-day time-off. After tourists disembarked at Kwando, Matt the pilot reflected the staff’s mood by pumping a low-volume bit of rock and roll through the plane’s speakers.

From the co-pilot’s seat beside Matt with the bird’s eye view, I surveyed the dry scrub of Savuti, then the lush green of the Delta as we made our way west and south, and, yes, I wanted to turn around and go back. I love the bush. I exclaim it from the top of the morning until night swallows day: I absolutely love the bush. But this time I kept my mouth shut. I know those folks from Savute like me, but I would have sparked mutiny had we ventured anywhere short of Maun. Skydiving with no parachute would have been my fate. They were tired. They wanted to see their families, eat traditional food and go to the cattle post. No way, no how would a romantic makgowa (me) with stars in her eyes about Africa stop them.

Why do I love it? The bush reclaims my attention from distraction. I listen with new ears and see with new eyes, and I never cease to feel reverence for the wild.

Last week I was in one of the chalets getting ready for dinner. I had just had a shower. The bathroom sliding glass door was cracked open about a foot and a half. In the bedroom the sliding screen doors were all that separated my room #4 from the balcony overlooking the water hole where the elephants meet. It was 6:08 p.m. when I heard the quick rustle and the thud. I looked out from the bathroom and couldn’t believe it: On the railing of my chalet was an adolescent female leopard! She must have been chasing a guinea fowl, and it was this cat that had landed with the thump on my rounded timber railing just a few feet away.

Job one for me: Close the sliding glass doors in the bathroom quietly, hastily, with care.
Done.

I watched the leopard glide like a gymnast on a balance beam. Slow move. Quick step. Slow move forward again. The sun was setting, so she stood in contrast to the yellow and pink glow behind her. She walked the length of the railing, then jumped down onto the balcony to snoop around. No guinea fowl here. She leapt up on the big tree that leans into the balcony, crawled partway up and came down again. I was watching it all, eyes always on her, my body frozen except for my hands digging through my backpack to find my camera. I failed at retrieving it in time. No matter. I’ll never forget the scene: Her sleekness and elegance, the length of her tail. She jumped off my balcony, and I heard the crunch of leaves as she moved on. I exhaled. Time had been suspended. I wanted to dance with joy. I was shaking with the thrill of it all, though slightly annoyed that I didn’t have a photograph to commemorate those minutes. Of this I was certain: The leopard’s visit was etched in my memory in burnt-black detail. Rembrandt couldn’t have done better.

And then! There she was again! She was at the right-edge of my chalet, craning her neck around the corner to peek in at me through the sliding glass door. Her face was so like that of a house cat, it was uncanny. I glanced at my watch: 6:10 p.m. She sat there looking at me while I muttered something silly, “Hi there, kitty. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s ok. It’s ok.” We stared at each other in high alertness. We were in a sea of stillness. We studied each other intently. I held my breath through it all. Then she was gone.

When nature comes calling with such a creature carrying its calling card, no words can do such a visit justice, only gratitude. That I felt in all its fullness.

I finished dressing in a flash. It was 20 past 6:00 by then, probably safe for me to go from my chalet up to the lodge, but, well, maybe not. My sissy mode appropriately kicked into gear. I knew that the two lodge managers Kobus and Sanet liked to watch the sunset from the chairs near the fire pit when guests were on the afternoon game drive. I figured they were there, close by my chalet but out of sight because of the trees. “KOBUS! KOBUS! CAN YOU COME GET ME IN NUMBER 4?” I yelled. Without a bright flashlight, I figured this was my safest course at dusk, and indeed Kobus came running. He and Sanet had heard the thud and rustle. They had run toward #4 just after 6:00 but stopped short when they saw the “Do Not Disturb” sign stretched across the path. They thought guests had been cavorting. They forgot that was my room for the day, where I had been napping during my break.

I told them the leopard story, and, sharing my excitement, off they went to see if they could track her. My job was to meet the guests coming back from game drives to tell them what happened and how the hunt was on for the leopard. Kobus and Sanet came back to the front of the lodge a few minutes later. They hadn’t found her. Some guests had already gone to their rooms. Energy and Gwist were leading their guests to rooms near #4. It had been a hot afternoon, and the animals had “taken a holiday,” as we say in sympathy about game drives in which Italians in particular arrive back at the lodge disappointed by an absence of big cats. Well, the game activity wasn’t over. The leopard –my leopard visitor – was in a bush on the right side of my chalet. She hadn’t gone far after all. The guides shone their spotlights, and guests got close and shot their photos. Smiles all around. Alas, I still hadn’t dug my camera out from the pile in my backpack, but from disappointing experience I knew that it would have failed to capture the leopard during nighttime anyway.

So I am left with only this tale to tell you, and it is true and will stay with me always. What can be contained in three minutes of clock time? Reflected through nature, it is an alchemical blend of depth and stillness, exquisite, heretofore unknown to me, wherein clock time matters not at all.