Animal kingdom

Maun, Botswana
Sept. 19, 2008

(with photos of a lion visit to the game truck and Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania)

What’s the first animal tourists want to see when they come to Botswana?

In my experience, it is a lion. Oh, how the Italians yearn to see a “leee-o-neee,” followed closely by a “leeee-eh-pahhhh-doe,” and not just the tail, thank you very much; we paid too see the WHOLE leopard. (Made me giggle when those words were actually uttered.)

That’s why I gather so many of the guides I’ve met never pick the lion as their favorite animal. Lions laze around for hours. They hide out in the bush sleeping. And the more adamant guests are about finding them, the more often lions seem to take a holiday. The guides are left frantically following tracks and feeling the hot breath of exasperated guests on their necks: “Vee MUST find zee lion before vee fly away!!!”

Guides have their favorite animals, and they list a variety: impala, elephant, wild dogs, leopard, zebra. I haven’t met a guide yet who named a lion.

I’ve tried to identify my favorite, and I cannot do it to any lasting effect. One day it is the elephant, so close to me at the fence at Savute I could look into that soulful eye of his beneath the long eyelashes and imagine that he and I understood each other. Another day it is the zebra, a playful creature of brilliant markings that comprise solely its own calligraphic pattern. Against the pale green grass of Savute Marsh after the rains, a herd of zebra is artistically stunning. Of course, after my encounter with the leopard on my balcony, the leopard jumped to the top of my list. And there was the week in Savute when I had three encounters with wild dogs; that week they were my favorite.

But I am never without reverence for the other creatures I have seen, save the mosquito. One night a lodge manager aimed a torch on the path to the guest chalets. I peered into the dark and saw a shrub that was about knee-height. My glory. It wasn’t a shrub. It was a porcupine – a huge one. All these years I had thought porcupines were small, of hedgehog size. That enormous mass of needles from which a wary eye watched us was a heart-stopping sight.

On another day, the tiny Scops Owl that blended into the nook of a tree, its feathers camouflaged as bark, left me smiling on my way out of Savute.

One night I heard evil growling sounds from what seemed to be under my bed -- or at least under the floor of my chalet -- and the high-pitched shrieks of a dying animal. The sound of hell – truly the scariest sound I’ve ever heard from an animal – went on for the longest time. At daybreak I saw the broad-shouldered culprit muscle its way along the sandy path from my chalet: it was the honey badger. If Hollywood needs sound effects for its latest horror flicks, the honey badger, with its gut-ripping grunts and growls, is the animal for the job. When two honey badgers showed up at the door at dinner last month and looked as if they were going to walk right up to my chair, I instinctively lifted my legs straight in front of me, off the floor, and warned guest to look out! I don’t want to meet a honey badger up close anywhere. It will never make my favorites list, but it has earned my respect, and it has left me with the ability to mimic its horrifying sounds ,to the delight of friends and guests. I’ll entertain you with that newfound skill when I return to the States. (rrrr-eeek-eeek!)

I still like lions, too, despite all the hand-wringing hoopla from guests about ticking them off their game lists. (here's how to be sure to tick them off your list: Go to a zoo.)

I wrote recently about how I encountered lions while I was on foot. A few days later I was seeing lions again, at Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania. The game drive vehicle allowed us to stand up with our heads sticking outside the roof. That’s how we were standing when these three lions in the photos came calling. When the biggest of three walked straight toward the vehicle, it occurred to me she might leap onto the hood. I sat down in the blink of an eye, which told me I would have run if I had been on foot. Not the response you want around lions. Lucky for Kelly and me and our driver, the lions paraded past, with one hugging my side of the vehicle. The big one you see came so close that she stopped inches from the back tire and looked up at me. (I was standing up again by this time and leaning over the top of the vehicle.) The photo just missed that nanosecond when her face turned upward toward me. Look at her reflection in the window. She is close!

All this to say I remain fascinated by lions and all of the animals I have seen in Botswana and Tanzania, from hippos to crocodiles to bush babies. I don’t have a favorite. I guess I never will.

No reality show could beat this: Maun Life

Maun, Botswana
September 18, 2008
(with photos of a Maun sunset on an August boat cruise on the Boro River and of Audrey, who didn’t seem to mind Maun’s reputation when she visited from Texas last month. The boat driver is James Howard, a motorcross fanatic British fellow who can’t get enough of Maun.)

While Kelly swims the pristine waters of the Indian Ocean at Zanzibar, I am in hot, dusty Maun back into the swing of my volunteer work.

I am looking on the bright side of having left a tropical paradise a week ago.

Maun is an outpost from days gone by, quirky as can be, teeming with legends about “characters.” And the thing is, some of the characters are still alive and walking past the same goats and donkeys as I do most days.

I haven’t seen him myself, but my friends at Karibu Safari say you can pitch up (a South African term for show up) at the bar at the Okavango River Lodge and see the guy without the arm. A lion ate it. The former national beauty queen from South Africa might be there at the same time. She’s missing a good part of her calf, thanks to a hippo attack.

Last night a gristled, bearded man at River Lodge was sitting at the table where my friends were. Kirk, one of Karibu’s owners, told me that the guy has two master’s degrees and a Ph.D. from universities in Germany. He came to Maun and never left, making his living by running a marketing campaign for a safari company. It turns out that a woman I met a few months ago in Savute, a graceful slip of a gal who drives a huge truck and trailer filled with camping equipment for her husband’s private safari company, is a former French horn player in the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Her husband used to be the guide for Lloyd Wilmot, who set up the tented camp 30 years ago that eventually became Savute Safari Lodge. Lloyd is one of the many children of Bobby Wilmot, famed crocodile hunter who died in 1968 after a black mamba bit him in the face. (Lloyd’s sister was attacked by a crocodile that left teeth marks in her boat but not a scratch on her.)

Lloyd is still around somewhere in these parts, and he is known to be fearless. I saw it myself: He cut a hole in the wall of his Savute house beside his bed. He’d put food on a ledge there for the lions; from his bed he could turn his head to the right and see the lions inches away and take their photos.

Friday night I was at the Bridge at Backpackers, the place Prince Harry and Chelsea frequent, when friends pointed out an older bush pilot at the bar. Everyone thinks that’s Lord Lucan, they said, telling me: Go ahead; Google him. Which I haven’t done yet. They said years ago a wealthy British man who meant to kill his wife but killed the nanny instead disappeared before he was brought to justice. Within a few weeks a wealthy British man, very mysterious, pitched up in Maun, to stay. The locals looked at the photos, and they are convinced it is the same guy. And that doesn’t even touch on the CIA stories I’ve heard here, but those are for campfires back in the U.S.

If you go to www.jacanaent.com, you can see a truly grab-bag of a Web site. The businessman in town who sells tasers and Leathermen and sandals and embroidered safari wear for the lodges’ staff and my can of “Gettem” quick defence spray has compiled photos and the history of Maun, for all the world’s viewers.

He writes of Maun, population 94,698 in the 2001 census: “This magnet for rural people eager to find work has been described in many different ways, from being ‘a place too far from civilization,’ tsetse fly infested (in its early days but now eradicated) rumbustious, the last frontier and ‘a dreadful hole,’ to the far more delightful and appropriate, the ‘Place of the Reeds.’’’

You can see I fell short of selecting Tuscany for my sabbatical year. But I can guarantee you that in Tuscany there are no classified ads in the local newspaper proclaiming the need for herdgirls and -- should any of my embattled journalism friends need a career change -- crocodile skinners.

I like the word “rumbustious” to describe Maun. It fits the can-do attitude so prevalent here, the best example of which I found on the front page of The Ngami Times on Friday. “LEATHERMAN SAVES PILOTS: Four hour drama in the air.” A female pilot and her husband had been flying a Cessna 210 to Jao Camp in the Okavango Delta to deliver supplies when the right wheel locked. For four hours, they did everything they could think of to free the wheels, including dumping freight and making three dives from high in the sky to see if they could get the wheels to work. Nothing helped, despite all sorts of instructions from all sorts of people on the radio.

How appropriate that in Maun finally came the magic words from one of the flight company’s’ ground crew: “Do you have a Leatherman?”

When the man in the air said yes, he was instructed to cut a hole in the seat above the undercarriage and then into the floor of the plane. The guy told the newspaper he used the Leatherman “like a tin opener,” and reached through the hole in the floor to free the wheels.

“I was more concerned about saving the lives of my wife and myself than losing a hand,” he told the newspaper.

David and Cathy Kays took out a quarter-page ad in the newspaper thanking every last soul who helped them land the plane, including “To the people of Maun, friends and family for being behind us in spirit and prayers while we circled overhead and for their loud cheering when we made a safe landing.”

They wrapped up their ad with a tribute to Maun, “a very special place with a community spirit that is rare to find. It is thanks to the above that we were able to come out of a nasty predicament. You all gave us the strength to be calm and practical.”

In Botswana, that part about being “practical” means they had been instructed with those all-important, ubiquitous words, “Make a plan.” They did, with flying colors. And now they will be among Maun’s legends, not as quirky characters, but as the latest names on the roster of can-do Africans. Makes me proud to roam around this rumbustious place of reeds and heat the likes of which could melt your toenails.

"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.

Bright lights, big city of Maun!

Sunday
May 4, 2008
Maun

I'm at Bon Arrive, the flight-themed bar and restaurant across from the Maun Airport, having breakfast and waiting for the Internet cafe to open next door. I'll have 30 minutes before I fly into the bush -- this time for 2 months solid. Next stop is Camp Okavango in the Delta.

I got a quick trip into Maun for a couple of nights but hardly any Internet time. The shops close early on Saturday and few are open on Sunday, so I couldn't find time to prepare many proper dispatches, let alone post photos. I used by precious "city" time to do essentials shopping for such luxuries as toothpaste and to seek out my favorite girly-girl things -- a pedicure and massage. And one big bonus: Adrienne, head of HR for Desert and Delta Safaris, picked me up at the airport Friday afternoon and whisked me away to Katia's house so we could both have haircuts. Katia was a Belgian hairstylist of fancy training who suffered from "cocky fever," which is really "khaki fever," but "cocky" is how they say it in Maun. Adrienne told me everyone around here knows that means Katia came on holiday and fell in love with her guide. They now live in a house worthy of a magazine cover for European metropolitan homes with their tiny blond-haired boy, Ethan, who crawls around on the stained concrete floor while his mother cuts hair in an open room that serves as kitchen, dining room, child's playroom and living room. It's a truly beautiful place, and, oh happiness!, Katia can cut my hair.

I hated to leave Savute, though. What a place of enchantment. When I walked out every morning, I prepared to greet the elephants beside the watering hole, or the impala that butted antlers, or search the sky for the juvenile martial eagle that was always swooping down to harass the baby impala. I'll even miss the baby yellow-billed hornbills, one of whom moved in on my face, beak open, to steal the cake off my plate. He succeeded. I'll have to describe Savute in more detail later, but you can see 2 of my postings that arrived to hq by CD on the Desert and Delta blog (www.desertdelta.blogspot.com). Just know for now that this has been a dream come true -- with a few nightmarish moments.

I can now officially call my literary parody "Eek! Prey! Leap!" I was walking guests from bungalow 10 to 11 on Thursday when we rounded a crook in the path. The guy to my left jumped, and so did I.

"What was that?! I almost stepped on it and it was one meter away!" Those were the exclamations of the poor fellow from Switzerland as the people in 10 rushed to the balcony to see what was amiss.

I'm so proud of myself.

I didn't scream. I calmly looked over at the gray snake now slipping toward #10, paused, took a deep breath and said, "Well, I'm afraid that was a black mamba."

I figure it was about 4-5 feet long. I also am sad to say that I could recognize it because the camp has been dripping with poisonous snakes since my arrival 3 weeks ago. This is not the norm, just a major kerfuffle before winter sets in. When the birds start a maniacal chatter, those of us in the manager's office know what's up: SNAKES. We have gone outside to find boomslangs in trees, black mambas crossing paths (even one with its mouth pressed up against the pipe on the lawn used to connect water hoses), pythons and in one watering hole at a very safe distance a cobra. I think my nearly stepping on rattlesnakes in the U.S. prepared me for the African bush. The ridiculous part is how I still jump a mile in the air and squeal loudly if bugs fly at me.

As I mentioned to Mr.and Mrs. Scared out of their Wits Swiss people, I too am struggling to get used to the snakes but I have been assured by experienced guides that snakes want to get away from people and don't mean harm (except for the puff adders, known without affection as "ambush" snakes.) And so I was able to tell the Swiss couple, "You see. It's true what they say. We've witnessed it. That snake did want to get away from us!" Plus, I told them they would have a good story to tell when they got home.

Myself, I returned to the office and collapsed in a camp chair. My knees were no stronger than overcooked spaghetti.

That's all for now -- off to the Delta and once again, off the grid! Send snail mail to the address in the blog item from April 9-ish. It took 3 weeks for me to get something from the U.S., so it's doable!