I wake in a tangled fluff of mosquito netting, the morning breeze blowing a soft hiss through the tall, dry grasses, the bleat of goats and the giggle of little girls play around the sides of the curtain, peeking through the window like the first rays of the sun, welcoming another new, unfamiliar, but exciting day in Africa. I lie there with a pressed-lip smile, trying to keep still so Andrew can sleep another minute or two, but the scuttle of something across my chest yanks me bolt upright as I slap it with an open palm—the motion stops, but I never find the corpse of that critter. It’s lost in the wad of gossamer that protected us from bloodsuckers during the night. Well, at least MOST of ‘em. Now EVER’body’s awake.
There’s a family at the ranger station with SIX daughters and an infant son, the youngest of the seven from what I can see, and the boy is LAVISHED in affection by his sisters. Though he can toddle around the porch relatively well, his feet rarely touch the ground. One of his sisters almost always has him, either scooped with the ease and grace of a caregiver or toted with the rough-and-tumble of the younger, smaller girls, arms barely reaching around his chest, his own chubby arms flailing about his ears. I feel he’d scream for help if his chin wasn’t wedged shut against a sister’s knobby elbow. Bless it. They’re gonna love that poor boy to DEATH.
My morning constitutional is performed around a potty built for squatty, a bucket of lime in the corner for hygiene and disinfection. I’ll be honest—I MARVEL at my aim, as I’ve seldom been required to employ such accuracy in this endeavor. A shot of sanitizer gel to the hands after a scoop of powder to the hole and I’m ready for whatever the day feels like bringin’. I find Andrew on the porch packing and repacking his equipment, trying to mask the anxiety he feels from the tardiness of our ride; our motorcycle taxi (boda boda) is now about 20 minutes late for pick-up. Of course we’re both fearing the worst: stolen car, stranded at the ranger station, throwing our itinerary WAY off course, eaten in the wilderness.
Then, in the distance, we hear Ranger Margaret holler: “hey! You want elephants?” Ranger Emanuel, doing calisthenics in his camouflage to prepare for his guard duty in the park, walks over and asks us if we’ve seen the elephants, if we’d heard Margaret calling.
We try to play it cool until we see the FIFTEEN PACHYDERMS STROLLING THROUGH THE SAVANNA *DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET.* Then we start to run full-tilt across the yard to get a better look. Andrew’s camera is glued to his face and I’m snuffling and wiping, attempting to keep my vision clear enough so that I don’t miss the elephant family lumbering across the grassland IN THE RANGERS’ FRONT YARD.
Just about the time the last wrinkled backside passes into the thicket, we hear the metallic whine of the boda boda come over the hill. EVERYTHING happens for a reason. Andrew’s a fantastic planner, but sometimes you’ve gotta live your business in the space between the bullet points on your itinerary. Many times that’s where the magic happens.